Fatally Flaky

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Maybe he had a shower out there.”

  “He didn’t, we checked. Plus, the towel was behind the seats. Who takes a shower and then puts the towel in the very back of his SUV?”

  “Nobody I know.”

  “Exactly. And guess what else we found in his car? Not with the towel, mind you, but on the floor of the front seat. A pair of women’s shoes.”

  The hail was hammering on the roof now. “No name inside, I suppose.”

  “No, but when we went to talk to Billie Attenborough, we took the shoes, and asked her about them. She recognized them, no question, but she wouldn’t say whose they were. Then her mother walked into the living room, and said, ‘Oh, there are my silver pumps. Did you borrow them, Billie?’”

  “They were Charlotte’s shoes? So, did Billie borrow them?”

  “Who knows? ’Cuz just at that moment, Billie said, ‘Don’t say or do anything, Mom.’”

  “Jeez, Tom.”

  “I know.”

  I said, “I certainly hope their house gets broken into, so the sheriff’s department can answer their call with, ‘We can’t say or do anything.’ Is there anything else you found out?”

  Tom said, “Out at Doc Finn’s house? There was a vial in the trash can out back. We also found a note to himself that said, ‘Have analyzed.’”

  “What was in the vial?”

  “Don’t know yet. We’re trying to see if there are traces of anything in there that we can send off for analysis. We also don’t know if the note goes with the vial.”

  “Hmm. That’s it?”

  “So far.”

  “All right, well, listen.” I told him about Jack charging around in the Smoothie Cabin, apparently looking for something.

  “I don’t suppose he told you what he was looking for.”

  “Nope, but I’ll bet you it’s related to whatever was in that vial in Doc Finn’s trash. Do you think Victor’s hiding drugs out there? That he’s some kind of dealer?”

  Tom said, “Hmm. So we’ve got a faked call from a hospital, a dented car, an argument at Gold Gulch Spa, a pair of shoes, a towel, a vial, a cryptic note, and Jack rummaging around in the Smoothie Cabin. All very strange.”

  I removed the cocoa-butter mixture from the stove to cool, then measured out oats, baking powder, and salt. “And none of it adds up,” I said as I began beating an egg in our mixer, “at least not yet. But listen, I have some things to tell you.”

  I wasn’t five words into what Marla had learned at her fund-raiser when Tom pulled out his notebook and began to write down what I was saying. When I got to the monetary details of the contract between Billie’s mother and Craig Miller, Tom whistled.

  “Have you ever heard of such a thing?” I asked.

  “Nope. Jack’s son’s ex-wife, Paula, the drunk lawyer with the big mouth? Did Paula mention if she’d shared this information about the four million with anyone else, specifically, Billie Attenborough?”

  “She didn’t say. Why?”

  Tom tilted his chin. “I was just wondering how Billie would have reacted. I mean, how would you have felt if your mother had paid John Richard to marry you?”

  “I’d have gone ballistic.”

  “What do you think it would have told you?”

  “That my mother didn’t have any confidence that I could attract anyone on my own.”

  “Uh-huh. Now I’m wondering if Doc Finn could have gotten wind of the contract somehow, and told Billie about it. That could have made her go ballistic.” Tom rubbed his forehead. “But if Billie wouldn’t even let her mother talk about a pair of shoes, she sure as hell isn’t going to tell us what she and Doc Finn really talked about.”

  I looked at all the ingredients I’d assembled, unsure of exactly what kind of cookie I was going to make for Tom, Arch, and the boys.

  “You had something else to tell me?” Tom asked. “’Cuz I’d like to go have a shower before I get called upon for grilling duties.”

  “Do you know anything about Doc Finn’s will?”

  Tom seemed surprised. “We’ve had a preliminary talk with his lawyer. Doc Finn left everything to Duke University Medical School.”

  “Right. Well, according to Lucas, or rather, according to his inebriated ex-wife, Paula, Lucas was upset that Doc Finn was trying to get Jack to change his will to leave everything he has to Duke, too.”

  “What?”

  I spooned some flour into the cookie batter. “Yup. And Lucas was very put out about it, because if Jack did that, it meant Lucas would never get out from under depending on Paula for spousal support. Which isn’t that great for the old ego.”

  “Yeah, why rely on spousal support when you can inherit money? Sounds as if Lucas might have had a reason to hate Doc Finn.” Tom stood up and reached for the phone.

  “I thought you were going to take a shower! Who are you calling?”

  “Southwest Hospital. I’m going to find out if Lucas was on duty Thursday night.”

  12

  No, Lucas Carmichael had not been on duty. Interestingly, though, the nurse to whom Tom identified himself mentioned that she had seen Lucas in the cafeteria around ten Thursday night. She was sure of the time, because her nephew had called her during her dinner break, which began at a quarter to ten. She’d been in the cafeteria drinking coffee, asking herself if it was ever going to stop raining, when her cell phone had buzzed.

  Lucas had been there, too, the nurse remembered. He’d been alone, looking out the dark window. Before her cell phone beeped, she’d been thinking that Lucas, too, might have been wondering if the rain was going to go on forever.

  How long had Lucas stayed there? Tom asked. The nurse didn’t know. She’d gone outside, under a porch roof, to get better reception on her cell; also, the hospital didn’t like people to use cell phones in the building. When she came back, Lucas was gone.

  Tom promised to follow up, then called his office to get someone to go over to Southwest Hospital, to talk to the nurse, to other medical personnel, to anyone who could have seen Lucas Carmichael using the phone in a specific maternity-ward room on the fourth floor. It was from that room that the call had come to Doc Finn’s home phone just after ten Thursday night. The maternity ward, incidentally, was not far from the cafeteria entrance. Then he directed one of his investigators to go talk to Lucas Carmichael, to feel him out, get his alibi, and see if he acted guilty, defensive, or both.

  “Thursday night it was pouring like nobody’s business,” I observed. “I don’t suppose you found any usable footprint in the ravine.”

  “No, that’s part of the problem.” He rapped his fingers on the counter. Then he put in another call to the department, and asked the fellow on duty about Finn’s impounded car. Had the computer on board the Cayenne yielded any more information? If so, he needed to know ASAP, he said.

  “That might help,” Tom concluded after hanging up the phone. “We work out times and who was where when, we might have something.”

  I’d decided to make chocolate lace cookies for the boys, then sandwich ice cream between them for a very special dessert. To Tom, I said, “Charlotte? Billie? Lucas? You looking at anyone else who might not have liked Doc Finn?”

  Tom shook his head. “According to the elderly receptionist who still works for Spruce Medical Group, everyone loved him. Former patients, church friends, you name it. And before you ask, no, nobody from Duke University Medical School has shown up on our radar.”

  “Hey, Tom, take it easy. You’re always telling me you have to look for the person due to benefit from someone’s death.” I hesitated. “I just can’t believe that Lucas is a murderer. That he would have killed Doc Finn. I just can’t.” And, I wondered, if he would kill Doc Finn to keep him from convincing Jack to bequeath these questionable millions to Duke, was Jack safe? I shook my head. No, I didn’t believe it.

  Tom tilted his head. “How’s Jack doing?”

  I thought back to Jack’s antics that morning. “Would you say rummaging aro
und in the spa’s Smoothie Cabin, then smooching a much younger woman was normal behavior for someone grieving?”

  Tom cocked an eyebrow at me. “Normal for Jack, I’d say.”

  “Yeah, well, by the time I’d driven Jack and Charlotte home, they’d made up. And get this: the Smoothie Cabin has a one-way mirror, with security cameras pointed inside and out, just to make sure nobody steals the vitamin C.”

  “Hmm. Not enough for a search warrant, I’d say, but enough to go ask Victor Lane some more questions.”

  “Did you ask Victor Lane about the vial you found at Finn’s place?”

  “Miss G., we don’t even know if the vial came from Victor, and so far, we don’t know what was inside it.”

  I reflected for a moment, remembering Jack and Isabelle’s frantic search through the drawers and cupboards of the Smoothie Cabin. “What do you suppose Jack and Isabelle were really looking for?” I asked.

  Tom shook his head. “Maybe something to do with Doc Finn, maybe not. Maybe something that makes you lose weight. Maybe drugs. Unfortunately, knowing Jack, I’d say, first guess?” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Booze.”

  BY THE TIME Tom returned to the kitchen, showered and wearing clean khakis and an open-necked white shirt, I had made and refrigerated a tomato salad with fresh basil and chopped garlic, Brie, and balsamic vinaigrette. I’d baked the first batch of cookies. Once they’d cooled, I reasoned, they would taste deliciously crunchy and flaky with either the ice cream I’d planned, or frosting as the cookie sandwich “filling.” Or at least, I hoped so. As I was putting the second sheet of goodies into the oven, Arch, Gus, and Todd traipsed onto the deck. Gus triumphantly held up a line of brown trout.

  Predictably, Jake and Scout made a sudden appearance. They then began their own chorus of howling and meowing. We weren’t the only ones who were going to get fish, they insisted.

  “Yeah, yeah, down, boy,” Arch called to Jake, who would have devoured every fish on the line if allowed to do so.

  “Okay, boys,” said Tom, “who wants to learn how to clean fish?”

  “Oh, man, I need a shower,” said Arch.

  “Me, too,” Todd and Gus chimed in. Soon the three of them were clomping madly up the stairs. Anything to avoid fish guts, apparently.

  “Do not clean those fish with your lovely clean clothes on,” I told Tom. “You start the fire, and I’ll do the fish.”

  “Forget it,” said Tom. “Make some more cookies, will you, please? I’ll start the fire and then find my rubber apron that I keep expressly for this purpose.”

  I sighed but started filling the next batch of cookies with ice cream, then freezing them. As I rummaged around for the tomato salad, I figured one of us had put the covered glass salad bowl as deep in the dad-blasted walk-in as his rubber apron must be in the garage. When I finally located the bowl, I tasted a few tomato slices, deemed the concoction exceedingly wonderful, and spooned the whole thing onto a bed of lightly dressed field greens circling a crystal platter. By the time I’d set the table for five, Tom had made the fire and cleaned the fish. The man was a marvel.

  The boys appeared looking freshly scrubbed, if a bit sheepish for skipping out on fish-gutting duty. They promised to do the dishes, to which I added a mental uh-huh, but said nothing. I didn’t want them to have to clean up, as it was almost the end of summer. Todd was leaving on Monday for the Montana trip. Gus’s grandparents had fussily informed me that they were planning to spend the last couple of weeks before classes buying Gus back-to-school supplies, a task to which I never devoted more than a single evening. And anyway, now that Arch could drive, I figured I would give him some cash and he could buy his own supplies. There were some benefits to having a teenage driver in the family, after all.

  The dinner was fabulous. I shoved the steaks back in the refrigerator so the boys would never know we’d doubted their fishing abilities. Tom’s grilled trout was succulent, with crisp skin and lusciously moist flesh. The boys scarfed it down faster than you could say, “Freshly caught and grilled fish taste remarkable!” Gus, ever the diplomat, said the tomato salad was so delicious, he just knew his grandmother would love the recipe, which Tom promised to print out. Todd said he was going to save room for dessert.

  As soon as we finished, I shooed the boys upstairs and told them I would do the dishes, no sweat. They hustled off before I had a chance to change my mind.

  “You sure you’re all right cleaning up all this?” Tom asked as we cleared the table. “I promised the guys at the department I’d be back by eight.”

  “I am absolutely fine,” I assured him. “The prep for Billie’s wedding is done. Go down to the department and find out what happened to Doc Finn.”

  “Remember, Boyd is working with you tomorrow,” Tom warned.

  “That really isn’t necessary,” I protested.

  “I’ll decide what’s necessary,” Tom said quietly. “And you’ll have a free pair of hands to help you with the serving and whatnot.”

  Well, I wasn’t going to argue with him. Still, having Boyd underfoot in the small Gold Gulch Spa kitchen wouldn’t be quite as wonderful as Tom envisioned. Like allowing Arch and his pals to do the dishes, sometimes having an extra person to help with the work was more trouble than it was worth.

  After Tom left, I took the boys a plate of ice-cream-filled cookies to share while they watched television. Then I put in a call to Julian to make sure all was set for the next day.

  “You bet, boss. Just think, tomorrow night at this time, we’ll have Billie Attenborough out of our hair, forever.”

  “Maybe I’ll shave my head, to commemorate the occasion.”

  Julian waited for me to tell him I was kidding, which I finally did. We promised to meet at the spa at noon, even though the wedding wasn’t until six.

  “Tomorrow at this time,” Julian repeated.

  “Bring a razor.”

  Immediately after I hung up, the phone rang. With dread, I checked the caller ID. But it was not Billie; it was Marla.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Have you learned anything about this prenuptial agreement?”

  “You mean the four mil? I thought you said it wasn’t technically a prenuptial—”

  “All right, all right, this contract,” she conceded.

  “How can I find out anything when you’re the source of my information?” I pointed out.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, can’t Tom get a subpoena or something?”

  “Marla,” I explained patiently as I boxed up the leftover cookies, “in order to get a subpoena, you have to have a reason—”

  “Stop right there,” she interjected. “Legal terminology gives me a headache. So … what are you serving at the wedding tomorrow?”

  Although the last thing I wanted to do was discuss yet again the menu for Billie Attenborough’s dinner, I did it anyway. Marla loved to anticipate food.

  “Omigod, it sounds yummy,” she said when I finished. “I’d better wear a dress that’s a size too big.”

  “You know you can have any of this you want, anytime. You don’t have to wait for a wedding!”

  “Yeah, yeah. I don’t even have a date for this thing. Date? Listen to me. My invitation said ‘Marla Korman and Escort,’ like I was going to hire a male prostitute.”

  “Oh, Marla, come on. By the way, Sergeant Boyd will be there. He’s supposed to be helping me in the kitchen, but I’d just love it if you asked him to dance with you.”

  “Really?” she said cautiously. “He is cute.”

  “Oh, Lord, if you could take care of him, that would take an enormous load off my mind.”

  “But won’t he be wearing a caterer’s uniform?” she said dubiously. “Black pants, white shirt? And oh man, I can just imagine what Charlotte would say if I started waltzing around the spa dining room with a cop wearing an apron.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll have him remove his apron. He’ll look smashing, and if anyone threatens to disrupt the proceedings, say, like Billie herself,
well, we’ll have a built-in cop, which is what Tom wanted anyway.”

  “If you’re sure it’s no trouble,” Marla said plaintively, and I realized then, painfully, how much Marla wanted to have male company for the wedding, and how unwilling she was to ask for it.

  “No trouble at all,” I assured her.

  “It’s just that Victor Lane made me feel so damn insecure the last time I was out there,” she blurted out.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Like all the rest of society, he’s nice to the slender women, and mean and judgmental to the overweight ones. And to think he owns a damn spa! He told me if I exercised and lost some weight, I’d have a much better social life. I asked him how did he know I didn’t have a smashing social life, thank you very much?”

  I shook my head. “He’s a son of a bitch. Always has been, always will be.”

  “I resolved never to go out there again. I mean, if I want abuse, I don’t have to look any farther than talk radio.”

  “I’m so sorry, Marla.” Then, mischievously, I added, “Maybe in the not-too-distant future, I’ll be catering a wedding for you.”

  She made exaggerated choking noises. “No way, I’m done with being married. Once is enough. Oh, but wait! I thought of something I meant to tell you!” She inhaled for dramatic effect. “There I was out at Aspen Meadow Country Club today, resolved to do some laps at the pool but indulging in a lobster roll instead, and you’ll never guess what I heard through the grapevine.”

  I couldn’t imagine. Marla’s grapevine stretched and twined through every layer of Aspen Meadow society.

  “Charlotte Attenborough told her bridge club that she expects to get married soon, maybe next year!”

  “What? Get married to whom?”

  “Why, your dear godfather, Jack, that’s to whom.”

  I glanced around the kitchen and shook my head. “I don’t think so. Furthermore, Charlotte’s aware of Jack’s stance on this. Jack is as confirmed in his determination to remain single as you are.”

  Marla raised her voice to a singsong. “That’s what Charlotte said.”