“It’s all going to work out. But you’re probably thinking we should have something slightly fruity. You’ve got lots and lots of strawberries and bananas. Do you have a recipe for molded fruit salad, to balance with the savory stuff?” I nodded. Julian said anxiously, “How does it sound so far?”
I swallowed. “Perfect.”
Julian went on, “We’ll have butter on all the tables—”
Tom said, “No. The butter comes out with the rest of the food. You slice the bread in the kitchen, and it gets served by you all with tongs.”
Julian rolled his eyes, but said, “Okay, that’ll give us a chance to warm up the bread. Then we’ll bring out the plated-up food when we serve the bread and butter. We’ll follow this with vanilla ice cream and your chocolate cookies. You or I can make a dark fudge sauce to go on the ice cream, if you think we need it. What do you think?”
“It sounds great.” I smiled and did not say, It actually sounds like a ton of work.
“Yeah, super,” Tom echoed. “Now you two, I have to take off. Sorry to be so difficult about the food.” I told him not to worry. He nodded to Julian and kissed my cheek. “Boyd’s coming with you to church this morning,” he added. “He and his partner—and before you ask, yes, it’s still Armstrong—are going to be here around half past seven. They’ll be with you at church and while you set up. Then Armstrong goes off duty. Boyd and Jones will be with you tonight at the conference center. Just like yesterday, except you’ll have a double escort. You’re not going anywhere without at least one of them. Got it?”
“Yes,” I said. When Tom gave me a warning look, I added “Yes! I heard you. We have so much work to do, I couldn’t go running around asking questions, even if I wanted to.”
“And you?” Tom pointed at Julian. “You shop? You take Armstrong. You work in the kitchen? Armstrong is at your side.”
“Yes, boss’s husband!” Julian said with enthusiasm.
I sighed and checked in with myself. My leg still hurt, but it did feel better. I looked around the kitchen. Summer mornings in the mountains brought early light the color of nickel. So although it felt like eight o’clock, I was unsurprised that it was not quite half past six. There had been no rumblings from Arch and Gus, but when they did get up, they’d be hungry. Since St. Luke’s had gone over to its summer schedule, the service in the meadow wouldn’t begin until nine. I chugged the last of my cappuccino and typed up a plan for the cooking into my computer. Julian brought the containers of stock out to the counter to begin thawing, then started in on the long task of peeling potatoes for the soup.
Thinking the boys would drive us batty if they had to wait long for breakfast, I buttered a large pan and lined it with thick slices of thawed bread. Then I beat eggs with cream, added vanilla and nutmeg, and poured this mixture over the bread, to make a baked French toast. Once Arch and Gus were up, I would slide the dish into the oven.
I checked my favorite recipe for molded strawberry salad, and as it turned out, not only did we have plenty of fresh bananas and strawberries, but our pantry yielded up numerous cans of crushed pineapple. I got to work straining the pineapple and then measuring the juice to mix with the gelatin. But as I stared into the pot and waited for the juice to boil, I thought that even if the meal was going to be plated up individually, I did not want to put cafeteria-style squares of molded salad on each dish. Besides that, getting large sheet pans filled with gelatin to actually gel was a lot more difficult than getting small molds to do the same work. No doubt this had to do with some esoteric law of chemistry that I did not care about. What I did care about was the question of where we could get one hundred ten molds.
I shared my dilemma with Julian, who said he was sure he had that many individual china cups out in his boxes in our garage.
“You have china cups in your storage cartons?” I repeated.
“They’re mismatched, but it doesn’t matter. People think they’re getting something special if it’s in a china cup. Any china cup. Trust me.”
“I do trust you.” If I poured a judicious amount of the concoction into individual portions, all I would have to do was find space in the walk-in to put them all. I knew that would not be a problem. The molded salads would all gel, and best of all, there would be no need to unmold anything. We could just place one china-cup-filled salad on each plate, next to the shrimp or hens, dressed beans, and romaine salad. Et voilà! They would even look pretty.
Mindful of Tom’s warning, I called Boyd on my cell. He was waiting out in his prowler, and promised to help us retrieve what we needed from the garage.
I watched Boyd lumber heavily up the driveway, and my heart constricted. He rubbed his crew cut, which was going from black to gray. After the trying events of the past twenty-four hours, he looked exhausted. But he was, as ever, stoic.
Although it was clear neither Boyd nor I relished the prospect of digging through Julian’s storage containers—and early in the morning, no less—it wasn’t a hassle. Julian had done an excellent job labeling each box. It took the three of us only ten minutes, first, to find and move the huge box containing Julian’s cookbooks, and second, to lay our hands on the carton underneath, labeled only Serving Dishes and Other Bits of China. Boyd and Julian hoisted that box into our kitchen.
As we carefully unwrapped the mismatched pieces, I checked the bottoms of the cups and saucers, as Tom had taught me to do. They were all either French porcelain or English bone china. I asked, “How in the world did you find all this?”
“You know Maplewood?” he asked in return.
“Yes.” To Boyd, I said, “It’s an area of old homes in Boulder—”
“I know it,” Boyd said.
Julian smiled. “I think the woman who died was a hoarder. Her heirs didn’t like old stuff, and there were crates of dishes at the sale. Man.” He held up a gilt-edged cup to the light. “They sure don’t make dishes the way they used to. But one thing you taught me, Goldy? People think they’re getting something special if it’s plated up on the real deal. Which this definitely is.”
I shook my head at Julian’s memory of tricks of the trade. Once we’d counted out a hundred and fourteen cups—adding four for good measure—Boyd offered to wash his hands and all the cups. I thanked him, cleaned myself up, and went back to the fruit salad itself. I finished slicing the juicy strawberries and firm bananas, and folded it all into the liquid gelatin. Up to his elbows in suds, Boyd said he would rinse and dry the cups, then ladle out the mixture before placing everything into the walk-in. Julian and I thanked him again. Boyd hated culinary duties, so our profusely expressed gratitude actually made him grin.
I went back to Julian’s recipe for vichyssoise. For one-hundred-ten-plus-four-for-good-measure people, we were going to need many piles of chopped leeks and onions. I retrieved one of my professional knives and got to work.
Just before seven, I started melting unsalted butter into golden pools in my stockpots. Julian tossed in the leeks and onions, and told me to go rest my leg. He would stir everything and make the fudge sauce at the same time.
“Better to have just one person standing in front of the stove,” he said. “Fix yourself another espresso and put your feet up.” He glanced at the ceiling. “When I hear the boys, I’ll shoot the French toast into the oven.”
I agreed, then offered espresso to Boyd.
He said, “Thanks, but I only drink real coffee.”
“I can make that for you,” I said quickly.
“I’m good.”
I knew he meant that he was doing all right. He was also good. I sloshed whipping cream into a chilled glass, then pulled two shots of regular espresso and two of decaf on top.
I sat down, grateful for the rest. Try as I might, though, my mind would not stay still. I thought of Audrey Millard, the church secretary. Was it too early to call her, to make sure she was okay? What if she’d been up all night worrying, or been upset by the policewoman at her house? What if she’d only gotten to sleep this m
orning? In good conscience, I could not bother her. I also knew she would come to the service in the meadow, no matter how tired she was. She would need her community around her.
I wondered if there was any connection to St. Luke’s that I was missing, apart from the fact that two homicides, Holly and Kathie, and an attempted homicide—Father Pete—had occurred so close in time. This was a small town, and Holly had only been coming back to St. Luke’s for a while. Plus, she just hadn’t seemed that involved, not the way she had been before, anyway.
I imagined the aftermath of someone attacking Father Pete and killing Kathie Beliar. That same someone had broken into Audrey’s office and gone through the files. Why? What could possibly be in the church files that someone would want so badly? I wondered what files had been taken, if any.
As if in answer to my questions, a text from Tom buzzed through. Church sec’y says only file missing is Counseling.
I stared at this missive. Father Pete was the essence of discretion. Wasn’t he? There really was no way he would have kept the names, dates, and particulars of problems, much less sins, preying on parishioners’ minds. Would he?
Episcopalians weren’t that big on confession. But they loved counseling. People were always saying they needed to talk to Father Pete “about a pastoral issue.” Was it possible there had been details in some counseling files? I texted Tom back: How does Audrey know that?
I had almost finished my iced latte when Tom replied: Counseling drawer contents gone. AM didn’t know what notes Fr P kept.
Would Father Pete have disguised people’s names? I wondered if Audrey would even be aware of who Father Pete was counseling. No doubt, Tom and his team were trying to find that out right now.
Anybody around church see anything suspicious? I typed.
No, Tom texted right back. Back entry shielded by trees.
I shook my head. My thigh began to throb. Worse, my heart felt as if it were in a vise. Unbidden, my mind conjured up Holly’s happy face. We’ll get together soon, and talk . . .
I felt sorry for Kathie Beliar, but I hadn’t known her. I had faith that Father Pete would get better. But Holly, dear Holly, had been my friend. Someone had killed her. I was willing to bet that same someone had booby-trapped her deck, maybe to hurt her, maybe to hurt Drew.
It also seemed clear—to me, anyway—that George and Holly had been struggling over child support. But why?
I texted Tom, Did Drew say anything about Holly’s $ issues?
I didn’t hear back from him right away, which told me he’d gone into a meeting. Unfortunately, this meant my mind started spinning again.
Holly was barely making enough on the collages to keep herself and Drew going. Was that why she had turned to asking someone for money? Who could have sent that text back to her?
A collage client?
George, Edith, or Lena Ingleby? They were among the only people who knew Holly whom I could think of who actually had big money. Edith had not been present at the birthday party, but George and Lena had. Lena hated Holly . . . Was this normal aversion-to-the-first-wife, or was there something else going on?
Plus, if Holly needed money and was asking someone for it, why not take the cash Marla had offered her? Because she’d been too proud.
Did Warren Broome have access to big money? Would he tell me about his liaison with Holly? Somehow, I doubted it.
Had there been a connection none of us had uncovered between Holly and Neil Unger? He certainly had lots of money, and his showing up so unexpectedly the day before the party—and having access to the food while I ran a virus scan—made me nervous.
And how in the world did a reclusive artist named Yurbin fit into this?
I shook my head. Despite Tom’s and my delightful lovemaking in the shower the previous night, I felt my mood sinking. Okay, I trusted Father Pete would be all right—he was a fighter in every sense—but I wished someone would call me and say he’d come out of his coma. I wished I could figure out what had happened to Holly.
Most of all, I wished Holly were still alive.
Boyd answered the door when Sergeant Armstrong arrived. I knew Tom was being extra protective. He’d been right, of course: Kathie Beliar had painted her van to look like mine, and had altered her appearance to look like mine . . . so perhaps he thought I was the target. But what made me the target? I’d unwittingly fallen through Holly’s deck. And I didn’t know anything. Did I?
When I greeted Armstrong, I noted his wispy reddish hair had thinned. Boyd and Armstrong seemed to have accepted the assignment of guarding their superior’s wife with aplomb. I thanked Armstrong for coming, then carefully offered them both regular coffee. I knew I had my old drip machine in the basement.
Once I’d located the machine, I traipsed back upstairs, where the two cops were sitting, looking uncomfortable, while Julian set the table. I noted that he’d finished simmering the leeks, onions, and potatoes for the soup. He’d cooked and drained the haricots verts, which were cooling. So was the fudge sauce. Never one to claim credit, Julian proudly announced that Boyd had finished all the molded salads.
Armstrong smirked at Boyd. Boyd quickly said, “Okay, smart guy. Next time you do it.”
Sensing he’d said something amiss, Julian asked Boyd and Armstrong if they would like cheese omelets with salsa. The two cops were so pathetically grateful that I wished I’d thought of offering them eggs myself. Instead, I assembled the drip coffee machine, dropped in fresh grounds, and pressed the buttons. As there was still no sound from Arch and Gus, I wondered once more if what would help me out of my funk was trying to figure out what had happened to Holly. So I again descended to the basement.
It was time to renew my struggle with the Amour Anonymous notes. Marla and I had barely had time to go through the first few notebooks. I wanted to take a detailed look at what I had. I didn’t know if it would do any good, but just sitting around with my banged-up leg elevated while Julian cooked for Boyd and Armstrong wasn’t going to do a thing for my mood.
I got out a fresh pad of paper. I wanted to make a time line of Holly’s relationship to the rest of us, plus take any notes that seemed significant.
Our sons had been born on the same day, in Lutheran Hospital. I wrote that down. Who had her doctor been? I did not know. Marla said there were all kinds of mentions of doctor visits in the Amour notes. But that was because we were a support group, emphasis on the support. Divorced women were not only at risk from their former partners, they had a heightened susceptibility to disease, accidents, and all manner of untoward events. So we made it a habit to check in with each other on our current stress levels. We held each other accountable for going to the doctor when we were ill, making sure we were current with physicals, and generally checking in on each other’s health.
Tom had said it looked as if Holly had had a fatal heart attack. She and apparently all the other guests had ingested Loquin, which had only given the other guests at the party nightmares. Why? Was the Loquin related or unrelated? I clicked on Tom’s basement computer and searched the Internet for side effects of Loquin. Of course, there were the usual warnings, which I doubted anyone read: May cause nausea, vomiting, dizziness, hallucinations, vivid dreams, and, in rare cases, cardiac arrest leading to death.
In rare cases, cardiac arrest leading to death?
Okay, what were the rare cases? I clicked through to see what those infrequent interactions might be, but could find nothing. Probably some advanced piece of medical software, not available to members of Med Wives 101, would have it. I resolved to tell Tom about what I’d found anyway. Law enforcement wasn’t sure Holly had died from a heart attack. But they suspected it. For the investigators, it would be better to ferret out the interactions from an actual medical doctor, preferably one who knew Holly. For the fortieth time, I wished I knew more about Holly’s medical situation at the time of her death.
But still . . . even if a killer had that information, how could he be sure he was giving enough Loqui
n to someone so that he or she would definitely die?
Maybe you couldn’t be sure. In that case, you’d have to booby-trap her deck.
I went back to my time line. Holly and I had both attended a doctors-and-spouses conference in Boulder. She was a former Roman Catholic who embraced astrology and joined St. Luke’s. I wrote down all the basics that I could recall about Montessori, about Drew at Elk Park Prep, about their move to Denver and Holly returning to art school.
She and Drew moved back to Aspen Meadow, where she joined Amour Anonymous, and kept us all laughing. Somewhere along the way—according to Lena Ingleby and some of Marla’s pals—Warren Broome had been her lover.
She worked out religiously, was a member of the country club, and engaged in other sports, with unnamed guys usually accompanying her.
In the last year, something, I knew not what yet, had caused her finances to go south. She lost her house, withdrew Drew from Elk Park Prep and put him into the Christian Brothers High School. She quit the club, sold their cars, and was suing George for back child support.
She’d wanted to talk to me at the joint birthday party for Drew and Arch about a “relationship mess.”
She’d died, despite being the picture of health, of what had appeared to be cardiac arrest, from what may or may not have been a big dose of Loquin.
I shook my head. After a few minutes, I went back to the set of notes I’d been reading. I wasn’t expecting to have my heart squeeze when I read about how I’d told the group a story from when I was married to the Jerk: I’d made a tomato aspic to go with a poulet bonne femme. He’d taken the aspic, glazed ceramic mold and all, and violently tossed it into the trash, where it had shattered. He’d slapped me hard across the face. He asked if next time, could I remember that he was allergic to tomatoes? I’d cried, but then believed him when he apologized.
Silly me.
Holly countered that on one of her few forays into cooking, she’d used a newly purchased vegetarian cookbook to try to make an aspic for George and Edith. It had taken her all day to make the vegetarian consommé from scratch. While it simmered, she’d hard-cooked eggs, then chopped them before chopping celery, boiled potatoes, poached carrots, artichoke hearts—at this point, Marla had been doubled over with laughter, I’d noted, because Holly hated to cook.
The Whole Enchilada Page 16