“I’m going to kill whoever—” Marla began, starting for the front door.
“You are going to do nothing except stay right here,” Sergeant Jones said calmly. She’d moved quickly to the back door to lock it, then nodded at Boyd.
“Goldy Schulz!” screamed the man. He banged on the front door.
Boyd, his weapon drawn, moved down the hall’s right side. Sergeant Jones also had her gun out, and was moving down the left side of the hall. Marla, Arch, Julian, and I clustered around the kitchen door. In the distance, a siren wailed.
“Who’s there?” Boyd barked through the door.
“It’s Warren Broome. Who the hell are you? Send that damned meddling bitch out here. I have some questions for her. She talked to my wife and now Patsie thinks I’m keeping secrets from her, which I’m not. I’m putting my life back together, and now Goldy Schulz is tearing it apart!”
The siren was squawling. Boop boop boop. The prowler stopped in front of our house.
“Let me talk to him,” I said.
Sergeant Jones warned me with a look. “Forget it.”
Boyd was speaking into a walkie-talkie. A harsh, low male shout greeted Broome, who had the temerity to yell back, “Oh yeah? Why don’t you come up here and make me?”
A moment later, Boyd holstered his weapon and nodded to Jones, then to us. Marla, Arch, Julian, and I raced down the hall and into the living room. We made it just in time to see Warren Broome, M.D., being led down our sidewalk in handcuffs, accompanied by a policeman. When they got to his prowler, the cop put one hand up on the doctor’s blond scalp and gently guided him into the backseat.
“Aw,” said Marla, “you should have jammed that big old head into the roof of the car. I mean, after last night, doesn’t the guy ever learn?”
I wondered. But there was something else bothering me. Warren Broome had insulted me. Fat ass and bitch I could probably handle. But I was left wondering.
Like other people who insulted people, did Broome fit Marla’s pop-psych analysis and have something to hide? Did he, in fact, have secrets? Say he had a piece of information that I did not yet know. It could be along the lines of You caused a fight between Patsie and me. I attacked you last night, and watch me try to attack you today. In the middle of the day, with neighbors who could hear? Maybe. How about this: I had sex with Holly Ingleby at the doctors’ conference in Boulder and am the biological father of Drew; Holly was blackmailing me and I killed her.
Setting aside the attack on me and what we still didn’t know about Holly’s secrets . . . what questions did this psychiatrist, who disliked Father Pete and had known Holly, perhaps intimately, have for me? Did they start with Audrey Millard and end with Holly Ingleby? Maybe, maybe not. I’d told him I had a message from Holly for him, and I hadn’t delivered it. Oh, dear, I felt guilty for that lie. And now the shrink was losing it.
“Okay, crisis over,” Boyd announced. He nodded in my direction. “Just do what you would normally do now.”
“What did Broome want?” I asked.
Boyd lifted his chin. “I didn’t wait to find out. He’s on his way down to the department, where he’ll sit and wait a bit. Maybe our guys will throw some charges at him, like disorderly conduct or threatening and intimidation. See what he has to say.” He turned a kindly eye to my son. “Arch, Sergeant Jones is going to accompany you to the tire place now.”
Arch gave me a concerned look. “Mom? Are you okay?” When I said I was fine, he said, “Gus has invited me to spend another night. Is that all right? Sergeant Jones can come again. I think Gus’s grandparents liked her. We’ll go together to the trail-building site tomorrow.”
“If it’s okay with Sergeant Jones,” I replied, “it’s fine with me.”
“I’ll go get some clean clothes.” Arch regarded Marla and me with skepticism. “I hope there aren’t any bears at Gus’s place.”
“There won’t be,” Marla assured him. “And just look at it this way, Arch. At least you don’t have to help cater Ophelia’s birthday party tonight. We could see a fistfight between Bob Rushwood the trainer and Brewster Motley the attorney.”
“That might actually be kind of cool,” said Arch.
I packed up the Julian-made sandwiches for Arch and Sergeant Jones. After seeing the two of them off, I put the marinating kebab ingredients into the box, then stared inside. What was I forgetting? The skewers! I placed them in doubled plastic bags and packed them. Julian, meanwhile, fluffed the cooled saffron rice and spooned the cucumber-and-yogurt salad into a plastic container. Marla gently wrapped the birthday cake.
While snapping on lids, Julian said, “Did I ever tell you what happened that one time I worked for Neil Unger?”
“Remind me,” I said. “How was it?”
“Awful. Guy is a control freak and a cheapskate. I was ready to strangle him by the time I skedaddled out of there.”
Everyone thought Julian was just cute and easygoing. But like most caterers, he missed nothing. “What was the problem?” I asked.
“Neil and his wife, Francie—Ophelia’s stepmother—stayed out in the kitchen the entire time I was trying to work. At first I thought they were afraid I was going to steal their stuff. Let me tell you, by the time I finished, I was ready to pull out a cleaver and break all their damn stuff.”
“Easy there, boy,” Marla said.
But Julian was having none of it. “Neil asked me a bunch of leading questions about politics. In my apron, do I look political? I answered his questions as mildly as I could, but forget it. Neil disagreed with me, point by point. Meanwhile, I was trying to manage a dinner for eight, using two ovens, heating twice-baked potatoes and making lemon vinaigrette for the salads, flipping fillets, and trying to figure out when to put in the baked Alaska. The whole time, Neil’s giving me his views. I mean, the guy’s a bully. Acts like he knows everything about running any type of business—”
“That’s rich,” said Marla as she placed the cake and candles into their own box. “Neil inherited his uniform-making business from his father. He doesn’t know the first thing about business, except how to send jobs overseas.”
I said, “Does he only make medical uniforms, like for the conference in Boulder all those years ago?”
“No, they make any kind of uniform,” said Marla as she rolled out plastic wrap for the candles and matches. “Maids’ uniforms, mechanics’ uniforms, you name it. The only thing Neil Unger has ever done is go to Mexico and the Philippines to build sweatshops where underpaid workers make uniforms day and night. Do you not know this? It was all over the country club.”
“I rely on you for country-club news.”
“All right, then, I’ll tell you,” Marla said, taping up the box. “Neil Unger was indicted for bribing foreign officials.”
“Indicted?” I asked dumbly.
“Charges dismissed,” Marla said with an exaggerated shrug. She was relishing her role as deliverer of bad news. “And of course then everyone was wondering what U.S. official he’d bribed to make that happen.”
I said, “He can’t outsource catering.”
“What a relief,” Marla said. “Now, what else do we need?”
Neil Unger’s maid had told me the Ungers had their own silverware, china, and crystal. The maid had also told me that Mr. Unger had ordered all the floral arrangements for “his little girl.” Like Julian, I picked up on vibes. The maid didn’t like Neil Unger any more than Julian had. And Ophelia believed her father was hiding money that belonged to her . . . and she was having Brewster help her find it.
Marla asked if my leg was healed enough for me to drive my van. I told her it was, and she said she would keep me company. “The better to figure out a strategy for when the you-know-what hits the fan tonight,” she said lightheartedly, once we’d shoved the last box into Julian’s Range Rover.
“Just give me a minute,” I replied. A quick phone call to Arch confirmed that he and Sergeant Jones had arrived at Goodyear. The cop was waiting patient
ly with him, and would accompany him to Gus’s place.
“Does Sergeant Jones have to be with me tomorrow?” Arch whispered. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m afraid the other kids will laugh at me.”
“Tom says yes. Sorry. She knows how to be unobtrusive.”
Arch had not yet started AP English, but I was sure he knew the meaning of unobtrusive, especially since he had a mother who was decidedly the opposite.
Before Marla and I could chat, the cell rang: Tom.
“Are you all right?” he wanted to know. I assured him that I was fine. Boyd was with us on our way to the Unger mansion. Tom’s tone turned resigned. “Our crime-scene guys are reporting to me in a little while.”
“We’ll be okay,” I said. “Anything on George Ingleby?”
“He was in surgery. Then he lawyered up. I’m trying to think of a way to get his medical records, to see about this sterility business.” Frustration made Tom sound uncharacteristically anxious. “I’m just worried about you, Miss G.”
“I keep telling you, we’ll be fine. Boyd’s with us. And remember, Neil Unger is the fiercest gun-rights advocate in the county. He probably has a conceal-carry permit. If anybody tries to hurt someone at the party for his little girl, I’m sure he’ll pull out a twenty-two. Maybe something bigger.”
Tom said, “That does not make me feel better.”
“I’m trying,” I said, and we signed off.
20
On the winding, seven-mile drive to the home where Ophelia lived with her father and stepmother, Marla gave me the background on the house, which I had visited only once, to see how we would set things up. The Unger place had been built fifteen years before. Craning her neck as we began our climb, she said the expansive stucco manse, from the Taco Bell School of Architecture, was only occasionally visible from the road. But it wasn’t long before I could afford no glimpses upward; I was just trying to manage the dirt road.
“So,” Marla said, “you’ve seen the place already?”
“Just briefly, because Ophelia was due home from one of her clothes-shopping expeditions. We signed the contract. Neil gave me a check and ushered me out. Remember, this is, or was, supposed to be a surprise, so he didn’t want me hanging around. But Neil thought she found out about the party, then figured it was still a go. Nevertheless, Ophelia told me at church that she knew the party was happening. She didn’t seem to care much.”
“So you’ve never had to deal with Neil Unger before?”
“Just once, but not at his house. He paid me well, but didn’t want to tip, which was what Julian discovered.”
Marla whistled. “He is a cheapskate. When I called to say I was helping you tonight, instead of being a guest, I made sure to say that I was volunteering.”
The switchbacks became acute. We were climbing an extra two thousand feet above Aspen Meadow to arrive at what old-timers simply dubbed The Peak. Tourist operators in the forties had christened the mountain Sunset Peak, because of the three-hundred-sixty-degree vista from the summit. Since the blazing sunsets were reputedly spectacular, busloads of tourists had started trekking up from Denver. But the mountainous road was perilous. No guardrails bordered its sides.
A bus was lost over the mountainside in the sixties, with thirty-two lives lost. The road was closed for years. There had been only muted local opposition to Neil Unger’s acquisition of the top third of the mountain. The purchase had coincided with the death by cancer of Ophelia’s mother and perhaps with Neil Unger making a killing in foreign-made uniforms. And—maybe with a bribe or two in place, I now surmised as the van’s tires threw dust each time we made a hairpin turn—Neil had convinced some government department that it was much too dangerous for buses ever again to mount the road to the peak. With the advent of gambling in two historic Colorado towns, the tourists had taken their shekels elsewhere. Sunset Peak was renamed The Peak.
We finally arrived in a cloud of sun-glittered dust at a carved wooden sign, its background painted red, the letters white. It read PRIVATE ROAD NO ENTRY. The switchbacks had been emotionally draining, so I stopped to rest, then looked toward the Continental Divide. The sun slid toward the mountains between pink layers of cloud. I could just make out Aspen Meadow Lake, a tiny patch of silver far away. My cell phone buzzed: Julian.
“You all right, Goldy?” Boyd’s voice.
“Fine. Traumatized by that drive, but fine.”
“Julian wants to know if you’re aware of how to get to the service entrance.”
“Uh, no.”
“Let him take the lead, then. The Ungers’ paved driveway starts a little ways up, and you can follow him to where we need to be.”
Julian overtook me. We wended our way carefully upward until we landed on pavement. I found myself breathing a bit easier. Eventually we came to the beige stucco residence, which looked more like a hotel than a house. It boasted a three-story, windowed main section flanked by two-story wings. Red-tile roofs and ornately carved double doors completed the imposing sight.
Two vehicles were parked in front. Brewster Motley’s silver-gray BMW I knew. The other car was a silver Mercedes convertible. When we were ten yards from the Mercedes, Bob Rushwood got out, leaned against the hood, and crossed his arms. He’d showered and changed into a somber gray suit. Unfortunately he looked completely ticked off. He held out an arm. Julian ignored him and kept on driving. I stopped and buzzed my window down.
“Yes, Bob?”
“She still won’t see me.”
Marla leaned across the space between the seats. “Do we look like advice columnists?”
“Could you take me around back and let me in through the kitchen?”
“No,” said Marla. “Do you have any idea how much trouble we would get into if we—”
“All right, never mind.” He shook his head. “I’ve already called Ophelia’s father. He’s on his way. I was supposed to keep Ophelia away from the house until the party, but I guess her father will have to convince her to come out.”
“Bob,” Marla said sagely, “if you’re already relying on the father of your prospective bride to bring her into line, it might be a good time to rethink the whole marriage thing.” Before he could reply, she said to me, “Step on it, Goldy.”
Which I did, a bit too forcefully. We lurched forward and eventually came around to the back of the house, where Julian and Boyd were standing by a plain red door. Julian was speaking into an intercom. He shook his head at me, exasperated. Whoever was inside wanted our driver’s licenses slid through a mail slot. I hadn’t met the maid, only talked to her on the phone. Apparently, she was being very careful with the caterers her boss had hired.
Boyd, Julian, Marla, and I all extracted licenses and pushed them through. It must have been Boyd’s sheriff’s department ID that got the door quickly opened.
The gray-haired maid waiting for us was unsmiling. “I’m Violet. Mr. Unger is not going to be happy,” she warned.
“About what?” I shot back. “Us showing up on time? Us showing up at all?”
“He wanted the party to be a surprise,” she replied.
“I didn’t spill the beans,” I replied. After that drive up the mountain to get here, I was not going to be intimidated.
Talk about being surprised, though: Ophelia Unger, dressed in a dazzling, bead-embroidered, lime silk dress that actually fit her perfectly, shimmied down the hall. She apologized for the delay. “Don’t be upset with us. I just don’t want to see Bob yet.”
“Good plan,” said Marla as she slid past Ophelia. “Have you thought about not seeing him ever?”
“Actually—” Ophelia began, but then she stopped. By this time our team had arrived in a large kitchen where gleaming white-and-blue tiles covered the counters and backsplash beneath maple cabinets. Ophelia glanced nervously into one corner of this vast space. Brewster Motley stood leaning against the counter. He was totally relaxed, as usual. Dressed in a pink oxford-cloth shirt, madras cut-offs, and boat shoes, he shook
his head at Ophelia.
“Wait until your father gets here,” he said calmly.
“Nice dress,” I said to Ophelia. “It looks new.”
“I just bought it.” Ophelia beamed. Then I noticed that her usually straggly dark hair had been fashionably highlighted and cut. Her face was impeccably made up. Tiny diamonds glittered in her ears.
“Turning twenty-one suits you,” I said. Maybe Ophelia was happy because Brewster had found her money. But she was glowing, and in my vast experience of catering to wealthy people, money usually didn’t make you glow. I briefly wondered if what Bob had worried about was true: that Ophelia had taken up with Brewster Motley. Wasn’t sleeping with clients what had gotten Warren Broome into such trouble?
Ophelia giggled nervously and put a shy hand over her mouth. I realized it was the first time I’d ever seen her smile, or, for that matter, express happiness of any kind. The metamorphosis was astonishing.
“Okay, Brewster, spill it,” Marla ordered as she whacked the cake box onto the center island, next to a neat pile of gold-edged plates. “What are you doing for our dear Ophelia here? I mean, now that she’s reached her majority, are you taking advantage, and making her happy, in the process?”
Brewster allowed a small Cheshire-cat grin. “You know I would never do that. And aren’t you supposed to be a guest at this party, not a caterer?”
“Light is both wave and particle,” Marla replied serenely. “I can be both guest and server. But I already called Neil and told him I was just helping Goldy.”
Ophelia giggled again. Violet cleared her throat.
“Uh, everybody?” Julian interrupted. “As cool and teen-slumber-partyish as this all feels? We have to know which refrigerators to use, and to see the table, the grill, the wine, the crystal, and everything else. Please,” he added.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Ophelia, back to her usual solemn self. “We just have the one refrigerator.” The maid opened the door to it, and we got busy.
Over the next half hour, we were periodically interrupted by the sound of Bob ringing the doorbell or talking through the intercom. “Please, dear Ophelia,” he said. It was clear he was trying to sound calm and cool. “Please let me take you out for a drink. One drink. Then we can come back. This is supposed to be a surprise party.”
The Whole Enchilada Page 25