The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Then,” Holly had dramatically told us, “I folded the five tons of chopped ingredients into the broth and gelatin. I refrigerated the thing for six hours.” But when she’d served it, Edith had picked up the mold, dumped the salad into the sink, and ground every last bit of it in the disposal. That was when Holly decided George could take his vegetarianism and stick it where the sun didn’t shine.

  Julian called down, “The guys are awake. I’m putting the French toast in the oven. You coming up?”

  “Be right there!”

  My cell phone buzzed with a text from Tom. Neighbor says Drew & Holly not fighting.

  Puzzled, I tapped back, With attack on Fr Pete, Drew still a suspect?

  No. Just following up.

  What about anonymous message?

  Tom wrote, I called Drew. He said H had been arguing with someone on phone. Not him.

  I pecked out, Are you sure?

  No. But I believe Drew. He says Holly shouted, “You bastard! I’ve got you! People know! There’s a record!”

  I stared at this and typed, Don’t understand.

  Tom wrote, According to D, H yelled, “It’s in the notes!” H got off the phone, but wouldn’t explain herself.

  I thought about this for a moment, then typed, Loquin can cause deadly interaction, including heart attack. Possible Holly had condition or was on meds we don’t know about? Your medical people checking this?

  Don’t know; will ask. Don’t know what we’re dealing with yet.

  I stared at that last message for a long time.

  I thought about deadly interactions.

  I reflected on Kathie Beliar, who’d gotten in the way. And of course there was Father Pete, who’d had a counseling file, which had been stolen. The file, presumably, had had notes in it. Had something incriminating been in them?

  Drew had said that Holly was taking out an insurance policy. Yet she had not taken one out, or at least, not one that the cops had been able to find. She had unpacked some boxes. Was that where the incriminating notes were?

  Once again, I cast my mind back over what I knew about Holly, but from more recently.

  She and George were fighting over child support. Probably in retaliation, Holly had not invited George and Lena to the birthday party. This had upset George and Lena, and not a little bit, either. I wondered if the financial motive was enough to make you want to kill someone by sabotaging their deck. But if George had wanted Holly to have an accident, why label that envelope on the deck for Drew, who might have been caught in the trap instead? Could George have other secrets which had caused the dispute over child support, secrets that Father Pete had also known about? Holly was asking someone for money, which she received. But then she wanted more, and had received an angry no more in a text message. Had the message come from George? Why would George use an untraceable cell phone, though, to talk to the mother of his child?

  Holly’s art materials had not surfaced, and she was avoiding Yurbin, an odd artist who had shown up at Marla’s place the night of the party. Holly had no studio that anyone knew about. This didn’t mean it didn’t exist, it only meant no one knew where it was, and she’d lied to Drew by telling him it was in Cherry Creek.

  Holly had said she was “in a relationship mess.” With whom?

  She slept at least once with Warren Broome, maybe more than once. He’d been staring at her at Marla’s, even though he was now married to Patsie. Why?

  Tom had just found out that Holly had been arguing, loudly, with someone on the phone. She’d said, You bastard! I’ve got you! There’s a record! It’s in the notes! And then her house had been broken into, and a file cabinet destroyed.

  I took a deep breath. Was it possible that kind, generous Holly wasn’t just asking someone for money . . . but demanding it? Could she have been blackmailing someone? If so, about what?

  Was it possible there was a connection between Father Pete and Holly that I had not known—specifically, that he had been counseling Holly?

  Had she told him she had been blackmailing someone?

  I wondered.

  15

  There were no more texts from Tom. I was startled when Julian called me again, so I stumbled up the stairs too quickly, then squawked as I tripped and my injured leg hit a step. When I finally arrived in the kitchen, Julian looked at me with concern. He apologized for summoning me and asked if I was okay.

  “I’m fine. Just clumsy.”

  “The boys are showering,” he said.

  “Again?”

  “Teenagers,” he said, as if this explained everything. “Maybe they’re figuring there will be girls at church. Anyway, I didn’t think you would want to miss seeing them.”

  “I don’t. Thanks for hollering.”

  Boyd and Armstrong were at the sink washing their dishes. They lauded Julian’s omelets and said they didn’t know you could make your own picante sauce.

  Julian, embarrassed by the praise, interrupted them. “Boss? Why do you keep going to the basement? What’s down there? Or, I mean,” he quickly amended, “can you say?”

  “Sure. I’m just checking to see if Holly told the group that she had medical problems.”

  “You look awful,” Julian said. “Really tired. Please. Sit down.”

  A sudden, unwanted memory of Kathie Beliar and Father Pete’s bodies gushing blood onto the church floor made me dizzy. I followed Julian’s direction.

  The perp had broken into Audrey’s office and stolen the counseling file. If your main target was the priest and the counseling file, why go after Kathie Beliar, and kill her?

  Because she’d seen his face.

  Boyd and Armstrong had finished washing and drying. While Julian stowed the dishes and pans, the two cops sat at our kitchen table. Their eyes hooded, they watched me.

  “Something wrong, Goldy?” Boyd finally ventured.

  “I’m just . . . thinking.” Father Pete had been stabbed in the heat of the moment.

  “About what?” Armstrong asked.

  Kathie Beliar had to have been knifed less than a minute later. More heat-of-the-moment stuff. I said, “Nothing, really.” I certainly didn’t want to share what I was pondering. But I wanted desperately to know what in the world Holly had meant when she’d said, You bastard! Which bastard would that be? I’ve got you! People know. Who knew? There’s a record. A record where? It’s in the notes. What notes?

  Okay, I needed to clear my head and think. Usually what worked best for that was cooking. Unfortunately, at the moment I didn’t have time to prepare anything challenging. As it was, Julian and I would have plenty of culinary work to do this afternoon. I groaned inwardly at the prospect of prepping all the lettuce, or worse, the shrimp. Better now just to content myself with laying out strips of bacon and zapping them in the microwave for Gus and Arch. No insights about bastards, people who knew, a record, or notes, presented themselves, with one possible exception: in general, people didn’t call women bastards. Unless I’d missed the memo, they called men bastards. If they didn’t like a woman, they called her a bitch. Holly hadn’t said, You bitch! I’ve got you! She’d said, You bastard!

  Plus, the person who’d sabotaged the deck had looked like a man, according to people who saw that person from far away.

  If Holly had been blackmailing a man, what had it been about?

  Gus and Arch pounded downstairs. Gus’s freshly shampooed hair was wet and tousled. Arch’s scalp gleamed. Their clothes were wrinkled but clean. I longed to gather them both in for a hug. But if I did that, Arch would blow worse than Vesuvius.

  “You guys look great,” said Julian, flashing them his cool smile.

  I didn’t say anything flattering, because when dealing with teenage boys, whatever words flitted toward my mouth were invariably the wrong ones. I only invited the guys to the table, then put out the butter and maple syrup. When the French toast emerged, puffed and golden, Julian invited Boyd and Armstrong to have some. The two cops exchanged a glance and allowed as how mayb
e they did have a bit of room in their stomachs for a second breakfast.

  I found myself smiling, for the first time in a while.

  The June beauty of the church meadow startled me. My throat clogged up when I thought of how much Father Pete would have loved to have been there. Shimmering-white wild daisies speckled the banks of Cottonwood Creek. Volunteers, obviously called by the senior warden, were setting out folding chairs on a flat area of just-mown grass. The supply priest, a thin, bald fellow I did not know, was already in his long robes. He moved jerkily around the makeshift altar. He seemed disoriented. Welcome to the club.

  The priest glanced uneasily among the parishioners arriving in the parking lot, and the teams of investigators and crime-scene techs still traipsing in and out of the church building. At one point, the priest stood still, immobilized. I even thought I could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  I whispered to Boyd that it might be a good idea to let the priest know he should perhaps acknowledge law enforcement in the prayers, then ignore them. Boyd said Sergeant Jones would be there, too, since she was helping with the investigation.

  “All the more reason to let the priest know what’s going on,” I said.

  Boyd gave me a knowing look and moved off. The priest flinched when Boyd began talking. But Boyd must have reassured him, because after a brief chat, the cleric seemed to ease into his tasks. He talked in low tones to members of the altar guild, gave directions to the ushers, and marked the places in the Bible for the readings.

  Although June, July, and August were prime months for people to take a holiday from church, the rows of chairs quickly filled to overflowing. Numerous parishioners seated themselves on the grass as someone rang a small bell. When everyone was quiet, the senior warden announced that Father Pete was still in a coma. He was sure our rector would appreciate our prayers. We also needed to pray for law enforcement to do its job.

  Many in the crowd of about a hundred quietly wept. Even Brewster Motley, a criminal attorney who’d moved to Aspen Meadow a couple of years ago, had come. Brewster didn’t often make it to church, because the Furman County Jail had longer visiting hours on Sunday. Yet this morning he’d come to St. Luke’s, and now pressed a handkerchief to his eyes.

  Marla scooted in next to me and quickly squeezed my hand. At the Intercessions, the whole congregation fervently prayed for Father Pete. Some people began sobbing. This was so unlike Episcopalians that I just blinked. Next to me, Marla shook, and I hugged her. The supply priest also prayed for the souls of Kathie Beliar and Holly.

  I scanned the crowd. I noted with surprise that Patsie Boatfield and Warren Broome were not in attendance. But then I remembered that Patsie and Warren had both told me they would see me that night, not in the morning.

  Then I saw Audrey Millard. Fortyish and pretty, the church secretary had thick gray-blond hair and a petite, slender figure. I motioned to her questioningly: May I talk to you? She held up her hand to indicate five minutes, or at least I thought that was what she was saying. Like math, sign language was not one of my long suits.

  Boyd, Armstrong, and Sergeant Jones remained behind when the service ended. Why? I wondered. Did they think Kathie’s killer, the person who had attacked Father Pete, might be there? I had no idea. I only knew the three sergeants were taking in every move made by those still in the meadow. I wondered how many years in the sheriff’s department it would take to become so unobtrusively watchful.

  “Think I should stay?” Marla asked. “You probably want to speak to Audrey alone. I might frighten her off.” Marla was aware of how intimidating her presence could be.

  I said, “Better hop, then. If she says anything of interest, I’ll let you know.”

  People filed away to their cars. Audrey Millard was still visiting with people, hugging them, reassuring them. The altar guild was helping the priest pack up.

  To my surprise, Ophelia Unger approached me. She was not a member of our church. Also to my surprise, she was alone. There was no Bob Rushwood brushing his dreads out of his face, telling her how to lift weights. There was no overbearing father. My heart raced. Had Ophelia heard about her surprise party, as her father had feared? All the food had already been delivered to our house. I pressed my fingers into my temples.

  “Goldy?” Ophelia asked. “May we talk for a minute? Just the two of us.” Her voice was so low I could barely make it out. Or maybe I did need that hearing test Tom had urged me to have.

  I said, “Sure.”

  We moved in the direction of the creek bank. Boyd gave me a questioning look. I nodded: Everything’s okay.

  “First of all,” Ophelia began, “I want to say how sorry I am that your friend died. I’m afraid I was rude at the club. Bob was driving me crazy, but that’s no excuse. I apologize.”

  “Thanks.”

  She shook her head. “He’d been ranting and raving the night before, how the cops were bothering him with their questions. Bob can be such a pill.”

  That was exactly the description I would have used to describe Ophelia’s behavior, but never mind. She was set to marry Bob the Pill. Yet she’d never seemed really to like him. I suppressed the desire to scream, Get out while you can! Instead, I followed her to the stack of folded chairs.

  “I’m looking for a lawyer,” Ophelia said, once we were sitting between the chairs and the tall daisies in the unmowed area of field grass. Well, maybe Get out while you can was what she had in mind. Still, one didn’t need a lawyer to break an engagement. The breeze made a swishing sound as it moved around us and bent the grass. I watched Ophelia carefully. Why did I have the feeling she wanted the chairs, the flowers, and the grass for cover?

  “A lawyer,” I repeated. Again my mind returned to the Unger wealth. If you had money, why ask your friendly neighborhood caterer for a legal referral? But I continued, without missing a beat: “You want me to find you a lawyer.”

  Ophelia’s deep blue eyes held me. “Look, I know about my so-called surprise party tomorrow night. You don’t need to worry about that.”

  “I’m not. But you need legal help because . . . ?” I prompted.

  Ophelia lowered her voice still more. “I think my mother left me some money before she died of cancer. She tried to tell me about my own special piggy bank. But I was so upset by her illness, I screamed at her that she could never die. I was eight when she got sick and nine when she passed away. I was devastated. It took me years to recover.” Ophelia’s expression was suddenly dejected. Speech eluded her, and I wondered if she really had dealt with her loss.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” She resolutely shook off the memory. “Unfortunately, my mother’s lawyer had a stroke, and his practice dissolved a while ago. He has mild dementia, and now is in a residential facility. My father remarried. A few years after my mother passed away, I thought to ask about my special piggy bank. My father said that my mother had been hallucinating toward the end of her illness, and there was no special fund.” She pressed her lips together. “My mother was not hallucinating, Goldy. But every time I ask about the money, my father and my endlessly critical stepmother say I’m wrong. Still, one thing happened. Three years ago.” Her sapphire eyes turned fierce. “It was my eighteenth birthday. We were at the country club. The step-monster had too much to drink, and said, ‘I don’t know why your mother ever thought you could go to a university, and—’ My father interrupted her, and quickly shut her up. He later told me I wasn’t college material. So he wasn’t going to pay for me to go.” Ophelia again appeared to be struggling for emotional control. “Over the past three years, since that terrible birthday, all my father has given me is an allowance for clothes shopping.”

  I took a deep breath, but did not say, And we see how well that’s worked out, don’t we?

  “My father said he wasn’t even going to discuss my education. He said he’d paid for me to go to an expensive prep school, and I was finished. I think he sent me to that place because he thought I’
d find a nice husband, preferably one who belonged to the country club. I swear, the man’s mind is stuck in the Eisenhower era. But you know what? I started taking advanced courses when I was in ninth grade. And I had twelve hours of AP credit! But Dad said I was done, and needed to get married, as my own mother had.”

  I shook my head in sympathy.

  Ophelia’s face, framed by the ragged dark hair, turned solemn. She said, “I’ve been studying trusts online. Not only do I think the money my mother left me exists, I think I might actually be able to get it when I turn twenty-one. But I don’t know where some of the important papers are. After the birthday-party fiasco, I went to see my mother’s old lawyer. He was coherent enough to point me toward some files in his old house, where his wife still lives.” She hesitated. “I do not want my father, or Bob, or anyone else, to know about this, okay?”

  “But,” I said, still confused, “doesn’t your father already know about this money?”

  Ophelia sighed and glanced down at the rushing water. “Of course he knows. He just doesn’t think I have suspicions. And remember, my father doesn’t think I’m very smart. I’ve done all I can on my own. I have some documents, just not all of them. So I’m at the point where I need a lawyer to help me. I’ll use any kind of lawyer who isn’t associated with my father. And don’t worry, I won’t tell my father or the step-monster that you gave me a name, if you do give me one. I just thought, with your reputation and contacts . . .”

  I took a deep breath. In fact, one of the few lawyers I knew was less than twenty yards away. Brewster Motley had helped me out of a jam once. Had Ophelia only come to our church service because she wanted to talk to me about a lawyer? Apparently so.