The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I looked around. Brewster, his blond hair brushed back, was talking to Armstrong. He was wearing khaki pants, a pink oxford-cloth shirt, and tassel loafers with no socks. Unlike Ophelia, Brewster was an actual style maven. To most folks in Aspen Meadow, “dressing casually” usually involved torn jeans, T-shirts or tank tops, and—invariably—cowboy boots. Brewster had his hands in his pockets, and was telling a long story that was making Armstrong chuckle. He occasionally glanced at the water rushing downstream, as if he longed to ride it on a white-water raft.

  I asked Ophelia if she knew Brewster, and she said she didn’t know anyone in our parish. “My father expects me to go to his megachurch. I hate it. The pastor there said it was absolutely right for my former fiancé to be in prison. My father said he wouldn’t allow his little girl to be married to a man with low morals. Then we went to that stupid shrink, Warren Broome, who echoed what the pastor had said.” She snorted. “Do you know what my former fiancé did? He offered to sell some of my mother’s jewelry for me, to pay for my education. At least, that’s what he told me. He took the jewels, which, again, I am sure had been left to me, to a fence. The fence turned in my former fiancé as part of a plea deal. My father insisted to the D.A. that the jewelry was his, and that his little girl had been duped by a con artist.”

  “Are you trying to get justice for him?”

  Ophelia firmly shook her head. “He had quite a few shady dealings going on, which is how he knew the fence.” She laughed harshly. “I guess I’m not a very good judge of character. Anyway, the D.A. charged my former fiancé with fifteen counts of armed robbery. After a plea deal, he was sent to prison, and wrote me a long letter of apology. He wanted me to wait for him to get out. He said I should try to get a scholarship, though. Like he knows about that kind of thing! I wrote back wishing him well, and that was that.”

  I couldn’t tell Ophelia yet again that I was sorry, but it seemed that this particular poor little rich girl had had her share of troubles in her first twenty years. “I don’t know the D.A., but Tom—”

  “No, don’t worry about it. I’ve told myself a thousand times that I don’t care. The worst part was, my father said I never should have had the jewelry in the first place. My mother had only let me ‘play’ with it. He said my mother left it to him. So when he got it back from the cops, he gave it to the woman who became my stepmother. Okay, end of sad story. Can you introduce me to your friend?”

  “He’s a criminal attorney,” I warned, as we walked over.

  “I don’t care if he does tax law,” Ophelia replied. “I just want someone who can help me find out if I have my own money, and if so, where it is.”

  So I introduced Ophelia Unger to Brewster Motley. I said Ophelia was a potential client who needed to speak to him in confidence. I did not say that she was a cipher to me, but Brewster was a big boy, and he could size people up pretty well. His face relaxed, he said it would be better if he and Ophelia talked in his car. She dutifully followed him to his BMW. I was curious about that conversation. But there were limits even to my nosiness.

  I turned and walked over to Audrey Millard, the church secretary. Standing alone, having comforted everyone who’d come up to her, she now looked bereft. Audrey seemed to shrink into her navy dress with its rows of white buttons. This morning, her gray-blond hair was parted on the side and pulled into tight curls around her forehead and ears. She had once told me she thought hair dye was strictly for movie stars, or for people who wanted to be thought of as movie stars. But today her face held none of that staunch rectitude. Her face looked gray with grief.

  “Oh, Goldy, I’m so glad you came—” She stopped, clutched a handkerchief, and pressed her lips together. Her cool hand grasped my forearm, and I pulled her into an embrace. Some people lingering by their cars stopped to watch us, but Marla, who stood about twenty feet away, marched up to the parking lot and fiercely ordered the Nosy Nellies to mind their own beeswax.

  “Tell me Father Pete is going to be all right,” Audrey said, once she had pulled away from me. She sniffed. Her voice wavered and caught. “Please. Tell me.”

  “He’ll . . . he’ll be fine.”

  Her eyebrows knit in sudden fury. “I wanted him to start locking both entrances to the church. I told him it would keep the wrong element from coming into the building. But he said, ‘Absolutely not. The people who make up the wrong element are the ones who need the church.’ ” Audrey’s imitation of Father Pete was dead-on. She shook her head. “Then he said I should not use phrases like ‘the wrong element.’ And now just look at what’s happened—”

  “He is going to be fine,” I said, assuming as reassuring a tone as I could fake. “You know how strong he is.”

  “But . . . but . . . he’s in a coma.” She used the handkerchief to dab her eyes. “What if he doesn’t wake up?”

  “He will.”

  “Do you have any updates? I mean besides the vague one we got from the senior warden.”

  “No, sorry.” Something occurred to me. Would Audrey know what the wrong element was looking for? “Yesterday. You talked to the sheriff’s department?”

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “First I talked to two investigators, then a policewoman spent the night at my house, a Sergeant Xavier. ‘What was in the counseling file?’ the investigators wanted to know. I told them I didn’t know the contents of that file, that’s why the drawer was kept locked. ‘What people was he counseling?’ they asked. Couples? Individuals? Well, I didn’t know everyone. The sheriff’s department took the church calendar, so they could look up Father Pete’s appointments. But sometimes people would just drop in, you know, when they had a problem. And with the church being unlocked—”

  “Audrey,” I said, more sharply than I intended. “It’s okay.” I looked at her intently. “Did you have more visitors than usual this week? Any weird folks dropping in?”

  She looked surprised. “No. I don’t know about Saturday, when that poor woman, Kathie, was meeting with Father Pete. I do know that Holly Ingleby came to the church on Friday. The investigators didn’t ask that, but I told them anyway. She had appointments. For confession. Father Pete never kept notes on confessions, of course, which I also told the investigators.” Audrey’s tone betrayed a bit of impatience. “She made her confession once a quarter—”

  “Once a quarter?” I asked. “Why once a quarter?”

  Audrey drew in her chin. My every question seemed to mystify her. “It’s just what she did.”

  “But why?” If Episcopalians made confession at all, it was usually during Lent, and we were way past that.

  Audrey exhaled. “Well, I don’t know. I think it was a hangover from when she was a Catholic.” Her thin-skinned forehead crinkled. “You were her friend. Did you not know she used to be a Roman Catholic? I mean, before she became an Episcopalian?”

  “Yes, yes, I knew.”

  “Her confession . . . it was her habit, is what she told me. You know, Holly always made me laugh. She said, ‘You know what a habit is, Audrey?’ And when I said it had to do with customary behavior, she said, ‘I have some new habits and some old habits, but you’ll never get me into a nun’s habit!’ ” Audrey’s eyes searched my face. “You knew she was a jokester? You knew she was an artist? You knew she also believed in all that astrology mumbo jumbo?” She was questioning me as if I hadn’t really known Holly.

  “I knew she had her chart done. But that was a long time ago.”

  Audrey sighed. “I think that might have been what she was confessing. That she naughtily kept track of all that.”

  “Audrey, it doesn’t matter now.” My heart squeezed again. But then I had a thought. “When she transferred to St. Luke’s, where did she come from? I mean, what Catholic parish, do you remember?”

  Audrey pressed her lips together as she thought. “My memory is pretty good, unlike poor Father Pete, having to keep those counseling notes.” She said crisply, “Holly’s previous parish was called
Our Lady of Perpetual Grace.” Her face turned even more pale. “I feel so bad about Holly. And to think poor Drew . . .”

  “To think poor Drew what?”

  “Well, I don’t know. That he will be left motherless.”

  Audrey seemed to grow even more fragile. I had the feeling that this conversation was draining her. I looked away. Cars were moving slowly out of the church parking lot. Brewster’s BMW sat alone near the law enforcement vehicles. I glanced at Boyd and Armstrong, who still stood at the edge of the meadow. With no one around them, their attempt to look nonchalant was fading. Once a semblance of silence enveloped Audrey and me, I asked, “When Holly moved down to Denver after she divorced George, did she go back to Our Lady of . . . what was it called?”

  Audrey shook her head sadly. “Perpetual Grace. No. I mean, she told me she tried. But it’s a very conservative parish. They said she was a divorced person, and she couldn’t receive Communion. So she still came up to see Father Pete, even though she didn’t attend the services. She did not want to run into George. I told her, ‘George never shows his face here.’ I mean, he didn’t attend services after the divorce. Faithfully, though, for all those years, Father Pete did the sacrament of confession with Holly. He knew why she didn’t come to the Eucharist, I mean, he knew she didn’t want to see George. So he would give her some of the reserve sacrament.” Audrey suddenly looked embarrassed. “That may not be . . . allowed. Don’t tell the bishop.”

  “Not a word,” I promised, as if the bishop and I were good buds, which of course we weren’t.

  “Sometimes I would have to warn Holly, you know. I mean, if there was going to be a committee meeting at the church. She didn’t even want to see . . . Edith.” She fairly spat out the name of Holly’s ex-mother-in-law.

  “George and Edith didn’t come today,” I noted.

  “Oh, no, of course not.” Audrey fluttered a hand. “Edith says having Communion in the meadow is barbaric. She gets too hot in the sun. And her heels sink down in the mud. And she can’t hear the priest. And, and, and. I don’t know how Father Pete puts, put—oh, dear—puts up with her. I shouldn’t be talking like this.” She touched her hair and searched my face. “I suppose Edith will be at the dinner tonight. No way around it.”

  “Don’t worry.” I reassured her the way I used to do Holly. “I won’t let her near you.”

  Audrey looked away nervously. What was she not telling me?

  “Audrey? What is it?”

  “There’s something I’ve never told anyone, except for Father Pete. I’m afraid it’s what got him stabbed.”

  I waited a moment, then said, “Do you want to tell me? Do you want to tell Tom, or someone else from the sheriff’s department?”

  “I don’t want it in the newspapers,” she said, this time fluttering both hands.

  I didn’t dare signal Boyd and Armstrong, because it had taken this entire conversation for Audrey to get to this point. I stood motionless, not encouraging, not discouraging. When she finally looked at me again, she pressed her lips together, then rushed forward. “I’m another woman.”

  “Another woman?” I prompted, thoroughly confused.

  She gave me a determined look. “I was a victim of Warren Broome, M.D., I was in therapy with him. He said he’d fallen in love with me. He said we should have sex. I thought I was in love. Silly me. He used his position of power and trust. He used me. His first victim went public, and got called a whore and who knew what all. So I just kept my mouth firmly closed—”

  “Oh, dear God, Audrey, you have to tell law enforcement. I mean, you say Father Pete knew. Maybe Warren thought Father Pete might turn him in. Did Warren and Father Pete talk? Did they argue? Do you know?”

  When Audrey just shook her head, I thought back to the events, the conversations, of the previous day. Warren Broome had been angry on the phone. He did not like Father Pete. He’d hung up on me. When Patsie had called me back, Warren had been sobbing in the bathroom. Then at least an hour had gone by, while Marla and I went through the Amour notes and had lunch. Arch had come home and told me about the van that had been at the church, the one that looked like mine. An hour would be plenty of time to race down to the church, stab Father Pete and Kathie Beliar, and break into the church office to get the counseling file.

  I said, “Was there anything in the church files about you and Warren Broome?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.” She exhaled. “Father Pete gave me a second chance in life. He gave me a job. He gave me confidence. I was a wreck. Afraid to go out, afraid to be seen. That’s why I wanted the doors of the church locked. And now I’m so afraid he’s going to die—” Audrey collapsed against me, sobbing.

  I raised one hand toward Armstrong, beckoning him over. I murmured to Audrey that I was turning her over to one of Tom’s most trusted associates, and please, please, could she tell him what she’d just told me. Audrey clutched Armstrong’s elbow, and allowed herself to be led away.

  I saw Arch standing, dejected, farther up the creek bank, near the parking lot. I walked toward him. He’d been hurt by the events of the last couple of days as much as anyone else. What could I do to help him, without being a Helicopter Mom?

  “Arch, hon,” I said, when I was beside him. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I wish Drew were here,” he said, staring at the water.

  “Well,” I said cautiously, “could you and Gus do something for Drew?”

  “Mom, don’t. I don’t have his address, and it’s not like I’m going to buy him, you know, a sympathy card. Just . . . let me—”

  At that point, Gus came up. To Arch, he said simply, “Didn’t Drew do that trail building last summer?”

  Arch turned to him. “Yeah. I suppose.”

  “Well,” said Gus, “we signed up for it, didn’t we? We could build a special trail and put a sign up, if Bob would let us. ‘Drew’s Trail,’ we could call it.”

  “Or ‘Holly’s Trail,’ ” said Arch.

  “We could hike up there today,” said Gus. “Up into the Aspen Meadow. See where they’re working.”

  I swallowed. I had wanted Arch to do something, but now that Gus had hit on an idea, I was worried. After all that had happened, I didn’t want him out of my sight.

  Audrey Millard had gone off with Armstrong. Would Sergeant Jones be available for a bit of distance babysitting?

  “Will you take Sergeant Jones with you?” I asked Arch.

  “Oh, Mom, don’t.”

  “It’s what Tom would want. And besides, Gus is right. You hike the trails up there, it’ll get your mind off all the awful stuff that’s been going on.”

  When he reluctantly agreed to the escort, we walked over to Sergeant Jones, who nodded once in agreement. She seemed to sense Arch’s displeasure. So she said casually that she knew the wildlife preserve well, and that once they parked out there, she bet him five bucks she could beat Gus and him up to the trailhead.

  “Wait,” I said, as Arch began to bolt for his car. “Please don’t forget the church dinner tonight.”

  “Do I have to come?”

  “No, Arch. You do not have to come.”

  Arch heaved a sigh, checked with Gus and Sergeant Jones, and said they would arrive together. Yes, he and Gus would help with the serving. What would have happened if I’d said he had to attend? Arch and Gus trotted off to the Passat. Since the weather was glorious but cool, I called after them to have a good time, and I bit my tongue trying not to remind him to take a rain jacket.

  At home, I called Tom and left a message about Warren Broome, and how he’d taken advantage of Audrey Millard, church secretary. Audrey had told Father Pete, who may or may not have kept notes about her problems in the church files. I didn’t have the dates, I added, and wasn’t aware of any of the particulars.

  But I did want to know more about Warren Broome, M.D. I looked him up on Google, and found the name of the previous woman who’d gone public about his exploits. Mary Zwingen went not only
to the Colorado Board of Medical Examiners with her story, along with supporting evidence that Broome could not refute, but also to the Denver papers. Broome had had his license suspended for six months and had had to undergo remediation through therapy and classes; he also denied having sex with other female clients. Mary had been adamant that there were other victims, but had not been forthcoming with details. Broome had threatened a libel suit, and she had shut up. Unfortunately, Mary had died of breast cancer the year before, so there was no way anyone could question her.

  I offered Boyd more coffee, which he politely declined. I fixed myself an espresso with cream—damn the doctor, anyway—and whisked together a vinaigrette for another lunch salad. It was summer, after all. Julian announced he was going to hard-cook some eggs. Between chopping up leftover bacon—to be omitted from Julian’s plate—and tomatoes, celery, and scallions, I tried to make sense of what I knew. I looked up the website for Our Lady of Perpetual Grace.

  According to the map that popped up, the church was not far from our own Episcopal cathedral, St. John’s. Hmm.

  I stared at the map. If I was going down to Denver to talk to the people at Clarkson Shipping—and I was, never mind that Tom’s people had already been there—then I could visit Holly’s former parish. I made a mental note to run the expedition past Tom. He would probably okay it, but would insist that Boyd come with me.

  Poor Boyd.

  I doubted that any official person at Our Lady of P.G. would talk to me about Holly. But the website said the church gift shop was next door. The elderly women who ran those shops might talk to me about a former parishioner. Emphasis on the might.

  Beside me, Julian sautéed some wild mushrooms and efficiently laid out beds of arugula, which he dotted with slices of mushroom, egg, two kinds of cheese, and all the vegetables I’d chopped. For the first time since getting up much too early, I realized that my stomach was growling. We were facing an exhausting evening, I told myself, so better to put lots of goodies on the salads for myself, Boyd, and Armstrong. Better yet, I thought, we needed thick slices of homemade bread spread with unsalted butter—yum!—otherwise we might get hungry later.