I wondered what Sean thought of that.
A mirror in the living room reflected back to me how unappealing I appeared, even with Yolanda’s expert bandaging job. Part of the supernova of champagne had landed on my arms, hair, and face, and the expensive slick was hardening like splattered glass. I forced myself to glance away, then quietly took the tray out to the porch. I asked Father Pete—who looked at me with concern—if he would please pour the champagne. He nodded. I didn’t make eye contact with any of the other guests.
I walked quickly back to the kitchen and began opening the Riesling. Boyd was faster at the job than I was, so I cut slits in the lamb chops, stuffed in minced garlic, and popped them into the oven. Yolanda asked me to heat up the taco meat while she worked on the fry bread. With the pots and pans gone, though, she had nothing in which to actually fry the bread. But Rorry or Etta had left an old-fashioned electric skillet on the counter by the sink, so Yolanda poured the oil into that.
She said, “Do you want to serve the tacos along with the lamb chops?”
“Sure, right after the salads. It’ll work,” I said, reassuring her. “Thanks for thinking of that.”
“I should be thanking you,” said Yolanda as she turned up the heat on the oil. “I’m going to have to dump this oil when I’m done . . . do you suppose Rorry has an empty coffee can around somewhere?”
“I couldn’t find something in this kitchen if it was right in front of me,” I replied.
“I’ll find a can,” Boyd said as he handed me the bottles of Riesling. “And don’t worry about the salads,” he said to me. “I know how to make one, so I can make sixteen. Yolanda’s already done the dressing, so all I need to do is give it a quick shake.”
I thanked him, too, then hustled out to the porch to set my Riesling-and-cheese trap. The guests were speaking in a bit of a forced tone, which I’d noticed is the way it often is at parties where people don’t really know one another from work, or golf, or whatever. Marla gave me a helpless look: Clearly, she’d been unable to change the subject to puppy breeding. Maybe more booze was in order. The champagne bottles were empty, but there were four open bottles of red wine. Rorry was right; they needed the Riesling.
I began to circle the table, asking people if they preferred red or white wine. I couldn’t help but notice something odd, though, and it had nothing to do with Kris. What conversation there was was dominated by Donna Lamar, who, in addition to being the church treasurer, had clearly had way too much to drink. Not only that, but she was dressed in a manner that would have made my mother and her set back in New Jersey cringe: a way-too-low-cut bright red dress that revealed to what extent her cups were running over. She’d changed the place cards around so that she was sitting across from Humberto, at whom she aimed her cleavage and her voice, which had turned high and flirtatious. I looked at Odette, who was arching an eyebrow at her presumptive rival.
“Oh, Humberto,” Donna was saying, as if he were the only one at the table, “you should have been there.” She placed her hand suggestively on his forearm. “I wowed them. I told the teachers that they should aim to have three-fourths of their math students above the school median.”
“That’s not possible,” Odette said coolly.
“Oh,” said Donna, her voice huffy with indignation. “I suppose you are the one who was asked by the teachers to come give a motivational talk. Well,” she said, directing her comments and her boobs at Humberto, “then I spoke to the science teachers, and goodness knows, they need a pick-me-up, with all the budget-cutting that’s going on. They just loved me—”
“If you see eleven sunspots one day,” interjected Odette, “and eight the next, and then three the next, what do you think the median will be? Eight,” said Odette. “It’s not possible to have—”
“What’s not possible,” shrilled Donna, “is to get rid of sunspots so quickly, dummy! You have to use makeup or concealer—”
She was interrupted by a laughing Odette. Everyone else looked dumbfounded except for Donna, who was furious. Her face was flushed with that horrible mixture of rage and booze that I’d seen on far too many wealthy clients’ faces.
“Odette!” Donna squealed. “What in hell do they teach you at that escort service of yours?”
“I’m just correcting a common misperception,” said Odette, unmoved by Donna’s insult. Odette, still sheathed in her silver unitard, sent a twinkly smile at Humberto. Much to Donna’s dismay, the entirety of the guests were now staring openmouthed at Odette.
“My dear little smart girl,” said Humberto, patting her knee.
Marla said, “Remind me to give you a call, Odette, when I’m doing my taxes.”
Donna’s tone turned snarky. “Perhaps you’d like to take over as church treasurer, Odette. I mean, if that’s your real name.”
Father Pete murmured, “My dear Donna, no one could replace you.”
Donna Lamar’s eyes flashed in Odette’s direction. For my part, I was still getting that I-know-you-from-somewhere feeling from this young woman in the shiny unitard. I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and took a quick picture of her. I’d already known she was brilliant, but how did I know? I also knew she lived in Aspen Meadow, no matter what escort service she was working for. I slid my cell back into my pocket, frustrated that I could not pull the context of my acquaintance with this young woman from the recesses of my mind.
“Well, you’re right about that, Father Pete,” said Donna. “I have worked hard on the church budget, and that, Odette, takes considerable math skill.”
Odette said drily, “Really? Then how’d you get the job?”
Humberto again patted Odette’s knee, but this smart girl wasn’t finished.
“And hey, computer guy?” she said, addressing Kris. “If you’ve spent most of your life in California, how come you have a Minnesota accent?”
Kris blushed deeply, right to the roots of his pale hair. “Well, I—”
“Let me ask you something about computers, then,” said Odette, patting the top of her blond curls as she gave Kris a penetrating stare. “I want to upgrade my laptop so that I can plug in my external hard drive, a printer, a separate scanner, a custom keyboard, and a microphone. How could I expand my number of USB ports?”
Kris, dumbfounded for once, gaped at her. “That wasn’t my area—”
“How ’bout this, then,” Odette said, continuing. “Right now, I’ve got a dual-core processor, and—”
“Stop this!” squealed Donna. “You’re boring!”
Kris, his cheeks still flushed maroon, had definitely not expected a technical interrogation at a church fund-raising dinner, from a young woman who was clearly a prostitute.
“Sweet one?” said Humberto, once again patting Odette’s knee. “Back off a bit.”
“I am not boring,” said Odette in protest. “And anyway, I was wondering if Donna, when she was talking to the science teachers, talked about medical isotopes—”
“Isotope?” said Donna loudly. “I know that’s some kind of frozen dessert. You can’t use it in medicine.”
“Actually,” interjected Kris, still smarting from his lack of computer knowledge, “medical isotopes are used for—” But just as quickly as he’d started speaking, he stopped.
Donna sniffed proudly and glanced around the table. It was clear she was looking for a new topic of conversation, something that wouldn’t make her appear quite as drunk or stupid as she already did. When her eyes lit on me, my stomach turned over. I couldn’t remember the difference between the median and the average, but I had heard that sunspots were related to business cycles. Had they predicted the current recession?
Donna raised her brows and pointed a red-painted fingernail in my direction. “Aha, Goldy! Maybe you can bring us up-to-date on the investigation into the murder of our dear fellow Aspen Meadow resident Ernest McLeod! I’ll bet Odette doesn’t know anything about that.”
Odette exhaled and looked down. Father Pete turned redder than Donn
a’s nails. But he was not one to tell people to back off.
“Oh my goodness,” I said. To cover my embarrassment, I picked up the wines and began circling the table again. “I, well, I don’t know anything. Uh, Tom doesn’t tell me that much. Tom Schulz is my husband,” I said to Norman and Isabella Juarez, who so far had seemed completely at sea over the entire conversation. “He’s an investigator at the sheriff’s department?” I said with a stern look at Norman. Please don’t indicate we’ve talked about Ernest. He seemed to get it.
“Goldy’s a real detective,” said Donna, wagging her finger at me.
That reminded me. I stared at the cheese platter. It was about half-denuded, but at that moment, I saw both Sean and Brie Quarles exchange a look. He reached for the Gouda. First he cut her a slice, placed it on a cracker and a napkin, then handed it across the table. Then he cut himself a wedge. With their eyes locked, they put the cheese into their mouths simultaneously. And Brie, I noticed, was wearing a lilac silk outfit and mauve lipstick. I thought, Well well well. Is this a gotcha moment? I glanced over at Tony Ramos, who, in typical Calvin Coolidge style, hadn’t said anything during the dinner. What did he think of Brie and Sean’s locked eyes? The last time I’d seen him, Brie had been showering her attentions on him.
“Are you going to pour Brie some of that Riesling, Goldy,” Kris asked, “or are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, and poured the Riesling—the adulterers’ Riesling, their favorite—into her glass. Again simultaneously, they picked up their glasses and made just the slightest movement, a silent toast to each other. Yup. Gotcha.
“Oh, yes,” Donna said in a loud, querulous voice. “I know all about Goldy’s detecting skills. In fact, I sent her on a mission! And it had to do with illicit sex!”
Father Pete choked on his cracker. Venla Strothmeyer’s cheeks turned pink. But the rest of the table turned toward Donna. She preened. I thought, Doggone. She didn’t want me to talk to the paper, and now she’s making a public announcement.
“Do tell,” said Marla. Showing remarkable forbearance, she did not look at me.
“So here’s the scoop,” Donna hissed conspiratorially. “People wanting to have sex have been sneaking into my rentals. It’s a couple, always the same couple, judging by the glimpses from neighbors. Except now they might be using disguises. At least, that’s what my assistant says. Anyway, these two are always looking for places without security systems. In remote areas. It just pisses me off! Oh, sorry.” She glanced at Father Pete, who was trying to wash down the aberrant cracker with some red wine. “Anyway, one day, a neighbor who lives not far from one of the places—out by the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve?—called to alert me. Then she shouted at them that the cops were coming, which wasn’t true, unfortunately,” Donna said, continuing breathlessly. She slugged down some wine. “But the pair had to skedaddle. They left behind their sleeping bags, wine bottle, cheese wrappers, and other trash. So I just handed it all over to Goldy. I suppose she wanted to help, since her husband works for the sheriff’s department, and they won’t do jack to help me. I said, ‘You get ’em, girl!’ ” This was not what she’d said, but I knew by now that Donna was in the embellishment business. “So,” she said to me expectantly, “did you figure out who they were? Did that stuff I gave you yield any clues, Sherlock?”
I was painfully aware of all eyes turning to me. Sean’s and Brie’s mouths dropped open. Brie blinked, turned away, and moved her wineglass several inches from her place setting. Sean gave me a malevolent, accusing stare.
“I didn’t find anything,” I lied. “I have no idea who they are. Between getting ready for this party and all my other work, I didn’t really have time to investigate.”
“But you went out there, to the cabin,” Donna said, protesting. “What kind of detective are you?”
“Not a very good one, apparently,” said Kris Nielsen, who up to then had said nothing. “Why, just yesterday, Goldy barged into my house, on false pretenses, mind you—”
Whatever it was he was going to say got lost as an unearthly series of screams issued from the kitchen.
16
I whacked the wine bottles onto the porch table and raced back to the kitchen. Rorry trotted along behind me, muttering worriedly about what other thing could have happened now. The rest of the guests were clearly curious, but I heard Father Pete, bless him, tell everyone to just stay put and let Goldy and Rorry handle this, whatever it was.
Rorry and I ran into Boyd, who was carrying a shrieking, flailing Yolanda. “Bathtub!” he yelled at Rorry. “I need a bathtub and ice cubes! I’ve called nine-one-one.”
“Upstairs, first door on the right,” said Rorry, her voice cracking. She wanted to lead Boyd, but he was too quick for her. He dashed up the spiral staircase, his arms tight around Yolanda. Rorry stumbled up behind him. I ran into the kitchen to get ice cubes.
The place was a mess. Several pieces of cooked fry bread had scattered across the floor, next to parts of the electric skillet. The handle was upside down under the island, while the skillet itself had slid underneath the kitchen table. A thick, shiny layer of oil lay all over everything. What had happened?
I shimmied around the oil slick, mercifully found a large glass bowl in one of the cupboards, and filled it with ice cubes from Rorry’s side-by-side refrigerator. Holding one hand over the top of the bowl and the other underneath, I moved as quickly as I could up the stairs.
Boyd’s low voice and Rorry’s high-pitched one led me to an opulent bathroom done in blue tiles and brass fixtures. Yolanda sat in a deep tub. She was sobbing inconsolably as Boyd ran cold water over her legs. She still wore her catering uniform. I handed Boyd the bowl. He upended the ice over Yolanda’s thighs.
Rorry, kneeling beside the tub, took Yolanda’s free hand. She murmured reassurances to Yolanda, whose sobs had turned to whimpers. Tears still flowed freely down my friend’s face.
I said, “Can someone tell me what happened?”
“She was moving the frying pan,” Boyd said. “I was right there.” He shook his head. “I was holding a coffee can for her to pour the boiling oil into. The handle to the electric skillet just, it just, came off. The hot oil poured all over her.”
“Oh, God, Yolanda,” I said, my heart constricting. “I’m so sorry.” I swallowed. “I just, I don’t . . .” I didn’t know what to say. “Boyd?” I asked finally. “Did any of the oil get on you?”
“Not that you’d notice,” he replied, keeping his attention on Yolanda. “I’m going to need somebody to get me more ice.”
“I’ll do it,” Rorry said. She grasped the bowl and stood up. Then she stopped. “It was an electric skillet?” asked Rorry, puzzled. “I thought Etta said we didn’t have one after all.”
Neither Boyd nor Yolanda answered. As Rorry and I walked back to the kitchen, I found myself transfixed by a trio of gold-framed photographs on the wall beside the stairs. They were of baskets of beagle puppies.
“Rorry?” I asked. “Where did you get these?”
Rorry looked up. “Those are pictures Sean took. They were supposed to be part of his professional portfolio, as he insisted on calling it. I said he should advertise as Fun, Furry Photos! He didn’t find that amusing. So I framed his little doggy prints and put them in the bathroom. He didn’t like that, either, so I put them in this hallway. We should get that ice.”
I asked, “Do you know where he found the beagle pups to photograph?”
Rorry shook her head. “I don’t. There was a guy outside of town who was breeding. Sean took the pictures with the agreement that they were going to be used in advertisements for the breeder, but then he and Sean had a falling-out, which is what usually happens between Sean and other people.”
Outside, a siren blared. That was quick, I thought. Maybe emergency services responded more speedily if a cop called.
“Rorry,” Boyd called, “could you let them in? Goldy, can you get us more ice?”
&n
bsp; Rorry opened the front door. I filled the bowl with ice and sprinted back up the steps. Yolanda had stopped crying. As gently as possible, I sprinkled the cubes over her legs.
“Goldy,” Boyd said sternly, “listen.” He took his keys out of his pocket. “Get some latex gloves out of your van and put that skillet and the handle into a paper bag. Then put it into my car next to the bag of stuff from the pot hanger. Got it?”
“Of course.”
“Then call Tom stat and tell him to get over here, to be with you.”
“I’m fine,” I said in protest. “I don’t need—”
“I didn’t ask your opinion,” Boyd said harshly. “Just do it!”
Within moments two paramedics were at the bathroom door. They told Boyd to move but keep the cold water going. Once they were beside the tub, they checked Yolanda’s vitals and commanded Boyd to get more ice. I said I would do it and raced to the kitchen, cursing inwardly.
After delivering the new batch of ice, I ran back to the kitchen, did as Boyd had directed with the pan and its handle, and locked it inside his car. When I returned, the paramedics were bringing Yolanda expertly down the stairs. Boyd clomped purposefully behind them. He wordlessly took his keys from me.
I went out the front door and pulled out my cell as the ambulance and Boyd’s car rolled down the driveway. I called Tom and gave an executive summary to his voice mail as to what had happened.
Back in the kitchen, I noticed Rorry had grabbed a pile of terry-cloth bath towels. On her knees, working on the oil mess, she told me she’d announced to the guests that there had been a kitchen accident and that dinner would be slightly delayed. Together, we swabbed the kitchen floor with her towels, which I noticed were monogrammed. I felt guilty about the broken china; the fallen pot ring; the fancy towels, now ruined; the dinner . . . but most of all, I was worried about Yolanda, who was in excruciating pain from burns. . . .
Sean’s face floated into view overhead. He asked if he could help.
Crunch Time Page 29