Double Shot

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Tom sighed. “Goldy, don’t.”

  “Please. They suspect me. And I’m very worried about how Arch will react to that.” To my embarrassment, my stomach growled with hunger. My early-morning latte and toast was a distant memory.

  Tom let go of me and walked over to the refrigerator. “I want the guys to look closely at that assault on you. I also want them to investigate the folks attending that funeral lunch. Somebody didn’t want the event to be a success, and might even have been setting you up…although how or why isn’t clear.” He pulled out a covered plate, unwrapped it, and sliced off a corner of grilled steak. He stabbed this with a fork and held it up to my mouth. He said, “You need to eat.”

  I obeyed. The grill-flavored meat was succulent and tender. “Thanks.” I finished my morsel and crossed my arms. “Why look at people from the lunch? Because somebody whacked me and sabotaged my food? Because my gun was stolen there?”

  “Yes and yes. I wish you wouldn’t start probing this just yet. You’re not only in pain, you’re exhausted.” I shrugged. Tom went on, “Then again, maybe someone was waiting here at the house for you. At some point, our perp searched your van for something. Maybe he or she was looking for that same money that the skeleton-faced man wanted, and found your gun instead. If the gun was stolen while your van was here at the house, that wouldn’t have given the killer a whole lot of time to haul over to John Richard’s house and kill him. But it might have been enough.” He sliced off another piece of steak. Like an obedient baby bird, I gobbled it down. “That theory wouldn’t quite fit with the half-open garage door and your ex in his Audi.”

  I swallowed. “Why not?”

  “John Richard had to be just coming in or just going out, right? And the killer trapped him in his garage.” I gave Tom a confused look. “It’s a matter of trying to figure out a chronology. The department will know more when they get the autopsy report. Plus, the neighbors might have seen or heard something. Hopefully, our guys will be able to pin down the time of death as just when you arrived at the rink in Lakewood.”

  I undid myself from the quilt and retrieved the first almost-frozen cookie roll. “I hope Boyd can find out a lot.”

  While the oven heated, we worked together slicing the silky dough. As soon as a sheet went into the oven, the phone rang. The caller ID indicated that it was Marla.

  “Uh-oh,” said Tom. “You were supposed to call her the minute you walked in the door. Better answer it. I don’t want her to bite my head off.”

  Now there was something. I’d never seen Tom afraid of anyone. I languidly picked up the phone and cried, “Girlfriend!”

  “Dammit, Goldy,” Marla’s husky voice gasped, as if she’d walked up several flights of stairs. “I just talked to Brewster, and he said he dropped you off an hour ago! I want to hear all about it, plus I have stuff to tell you—”

  Don’t talk about the case on the phone. It was probably best to follow Brewster’s expensive advice.

  “Marla, I’ve gotta go! The timer’s going off and a whole batch of cookies is about to come out of the oven!”

  “Baloney! That never stopped you before. Just take them out of the oven! Now listen, John Richard and—”

  “Omigod! Smoke!” I squealed. “The cookies are burning! Quick, Tom, get the fire extinguisher!”

  In reality, I pulled a perfect batch of fragrant, golden cookies from the oven. Confused but prepared, Tom huddled next to me with the fire extinguisher poised to blast the cookies. I put the sheet down on the cooling rack and covered the phone with one hand.

  “Don’t you dare,” I whispered.

  “What’s going on?” he whispered back.

  “Goldy!” Marla screamed from the receiver.

  “I’ll call you back in ten minutes, Marla. Promise.”

  As I was putting the phone back in its holder, I heard Marla’s diminished voice say, “If my phone still had a cord, I would use it to wring your neck! Don’t hang up on me—”

  Ah, silence. I eased the cookies off the sheet, nabbed a piece of foil, and piled it with ten hot ones—they were small, I told myself—then invited Tom to have the rest.

  “I’ll finish the other rolls later,” I said hastily as I grabbed my jacket.

  “Goldy, for crying out loud! It’s past eight o’clock. Where are you going?”

  “To a pay phone to call Marla back.” He began to pull on his “Furman County Sheriff’s Department Softball” sweatshirt. I said, “No, please. Don’t. Stay here with Arch. I won’t be long.”

  “Forget it. You were assaulted this morning, and you’re not going anywhere alone. Besides, what pay phone are you going to use?”

  “The one at the Grizzly Bear Saloon.” I eased the front door open.

  “You’re kidding!” he protested. He wrote a quick note to Arch, then hustled out behind me. “The Grizzly has at least one drunken brawl a night.”

  “Don’t worry. The guys usually fight with each other, not some caterer who just wants to use the phone. At least, that’s what I hope.”

  8

  As Tom and I made our way down the street, smoke suddenly filled our nostrils. I coughed, then took shallow breaths. This was no barbecue smoke. Moreover, the night was warm, the sun had just set, and I doubted anyone needed a fire for warmth. I hadn’t heard a report of a wildfire, and neither had Tom. If there was any news, the Grizzly was sure to have it.

  A sign hanging from the buckled eave read: “Never Out of Service Since 1870.” Never redecorated, either, I thought as we pushed through arched, louvered half doors and shuffled across a genuine sawdust-covered floor. I registered the presence of at least six dozen bankers, electricians, lawyers, plus assorted ne’er-do-wells. Of course, they were all sporting cowboy hats, vests, and boots. That hadn’t changed since 1870, either.

  On the stage, a band was playing “Jailhouse Rock.” A short but otherwise fairly convincing Elvis impersonator—upswept dark hair, skintight sequined suit, energetic hips—was bellowing, “Uh-uh-UH!” A glittery sign beside the band announced that they were “Nashville Bobby and the Boys,” and they were going to be in Aspen Meadow for four more days. Then they moved on to Steamboat Springs, where they’d be playing at the Lonely Hearts Café for two days, before returning to Aspen Meadow the following week. They did seem to take themselves seriously. I took a deep breath and again started coughing.

  “Does anybody know where that smoke smell is coming from?” Tom asked the crowd.

  “New forest fire,” a wiry fellow piped up. He wore fringed leather pants, a ten-gallon hat, and a shirt sewn with his name on it: “Tex.” Tex took a long pull of beer. “Up in the preserve. Fifteen miles away. Thousand acres, sixty percent contained.”

  “Hey!” A very blond, very pudgy woman hipped me to one side, and I fell onto the back of a chair. Around us, everyone laughed.

  “Do you mind?” I yelled at the woman, rubbing my ribs that were already bruised enough, thank you very much. Tom tried to hide his smile.

  She was probably ten years my senior. She wore fringed beige leather that sparkled with…was there such a thing as fake rhinestones? I didn’t have time to think about it, because I found myself staring at how the rhinestones were also scrolled into a name: “Blondie.”

  “Hey!” she yelled again, poking my chest with a long, scarlet fingernail. I stared at her. Her thick pancake makeup glittered under the saloon’s electric-torch chandeliers. I stared at her scarlet-lipsticked mouth as it formed the words “Gitcher own boyfriend!” This time it was the stench of bourbon that made me reel back. Blondie thrust her double chin in my direction. “Ja hear me?” her drunken breath demanded. “Get lost. Tex is mine.”

  I teetered backward over two more chairs. “I’ve got a husband, thanks,” I mumbled as more folks laughed.

  Tex, immensely pleased to be apparently desired by two short, blond women, tipped his beer and gave me a sly look. I turned to Tom, who winked at me. Tex cleared his throat loudly.

  “The fire shou
ld be out by mornin’,” he said. Then he lifted his chin and raised one eyebrow. I don’t care about a husband! You interested in me?

  I shook my head in an emphatic negative. As I stumbled away, Nashville Bobby and the Boys started howling at the crowd about being nothing but a hound dog. I didn’t care about Tex; I cared even less about Nashville Bobby and his boys. What did worry me was the new fire, since the Roundhouse was situated a mere eight miles from the preserve. How close was the nearest hydrant? If necessary, could the firemen pump water from the lake? Thousand acres, sixty percent contained. We’d become so accustomed to the wildfires that we just cited each one’s statistics—where it was, how much under control, when the firefighters expected complete containment—and moved on with our lives. This was what I needed to do, I thought, then jumped as Nashville Bobby turned up the volume a notch.

  Through the cigarette smoke, I could barely make out the stage. Colorado was most emphatically not California, so everyone smoked indoors, sometimes two cigarettes at a time. Nashville Bobby warbled, shook his hips, and finished his song with a bow. To raucous applause, Bobby then announced that the band was going to debut their new song, “Trash.” Sad guitar-string plinking was followed by Bobby crooning:

  “I’m just garbage under your sink,

  You threw me in here and didn’t think!

  Now I’m gettin’ old, ’n startin’ to stink

  You don’t check the bag; you don’t even wink.”

  Tom asked if I wanted anything, like a beer, but I said no. I pushed my way through the crowd until I finally arrived at the dimly lit phone, which was a grimy beige house phone with a stretched-out cord. It was perched at a slight angle between the heavy doors of the saloon’s two restrooms. A stern admonition posted on the wall forbade long-distance calls and asked for coins to be left in a wooden honor box. I dropped in quarters, lifted the receiver, and pressed buttons. When Marla answered, our connection was rough and full of static.

  “Marla? It’s me. Marla?”

  “ ‘Trash!’ ” sang the band. “ ‘Trash! That’s all I am.’ ”

  “Goldy?”

  “Marla!”

  “ ‘Trash!’ ”

  “Goldy, where the hell are you calling from?”

  “ ‘Trash!’ ”

  “I can’t talk about the case over my home phone!” I hollered. Three cowboys turned a baleful eye in my direction. Embarrassed, I turned toward the wall, where my nose scraped a map of the immense Aspen Meadow Wildfire Preserve. Raccoon Creek, Cherokee Pass, Cowboy Cliff: These were just a few of the landmarks connected by fire roads and hiking trails. Things could be worse, I realized. I could be out fighting that fire.

  I realized I was still wearing my apron, the pocket of which bulged with still-warm cookies. Most of them had probably broken in my journey through the crowd. But at least I had an emergency sugar-carb supply.

  “For crying out loud, Goldy!” Marla screeched. “Tell me what happened at the sheriff’s department! Do they know who killed the Jerk? Was it the same person who assaulted you?”

  “I don’t know anything—”

  “You’re holding out on me!”

  I pulled the phone’s cord so I could get the receiver inside the swinging wooden door to the ladies’ room. A massive cement column separated the two stalls. The wood-paneled interior, dimly lit by a solitary hanging lightbulb, also revealed two stained sinks, a large cracked mirror, and an enormous black garbage can.

  “Don’t start, Marla!” I warned her. “This has been one of the worst days of my life!” I tried to get comfortable. This was difficult since I had to grip the phone while my knuckles were getting flayed on the rough paneling. I softened my tone. “Listen, thanks for sending Brewster. He was great.”

  “So tell me about it, would you? I’m dying over here without any information. Tom wouldn’t breathe a word and neither would Brewster, damn him.”

  “Oh, Marla, I can’t go into detail. The bottom line is that I don’t know anything new. I can’t talk because Arch is at home and he’s a wreck.” But she insisted, so I gave her the shortest possible précis of the day’s events, including the cops finding my gun not far from John Richard’s body. “At the lunch, you didn’t happen to see any suspicious folks around my van, did you?”

  “No,” she said. “Sorry. But I did find out something that might be significant.” My heart leaped. Or was it my stomach growling again? Hard to tell. Marla went on: “Sandee with two e s does not work at the golf shop. She never did. She’s a stripper at the Rainbow Men’s Club in Denver.”

  “What? How did John Richard meet her?”

  “As they say, ‘One can only presume.’ But I didn’t. Presume, that is. I asked Courtney. John Richard met Sandee at the Rainbow. That is how low the Jerk had sunk. Picking up girls at strip clubs!”

  “You called Courtney? But she’s…”

  Words failed as my stomach howled again. I didn’t care about Courtney; I didn’t care if the Jerk had sunk to hell. Despite the bites of steak, I was ravenous. I groped in my apron pocket, pulled out a warm cookie, and popped it into my mouth. The crunch of toasted almonds and the pure, buttery flavor made my head spin. I stuffed in another two.

  “Of course I called Courtney,” Marla retorted. “And whatever you’re eating, I want some as compensation for my legal bills. Goldy?”

  “Mmf.” My mouth was full. I didn’t really feel guilty, but what was going on here? I’d been attacked; my food had been sabotaged; renegade rodents had caused me to fire my gun. I stuffed two more cookies into my mouth and didn’t answer Marla. Our ex-husband had been murdered. At this point, I was the prime suspect in his murder. I shoved in a few more cookies and realized I was beginning to feel a bit better. Well! This was how low I had sunk: crammed into a stinking saloon toilet, I was discussing strippers on a grimy phone while stuffing myself with nut cookies. Close by, Bobby and his boys launched into “I’m Just Roadkill on the Highway of Love.”

  “The main reason I called Courtney,” Marla went on, “was to tell her the Jerk was dead. Wanted to see what kind of reaction I’d get.”

  I finished the cookies. “Brewster says we can’t call our ex the Jerk anymore. Even in death.”

  I guess I couldn’t really blame Marla for rapping her fancy phone against her tiled kitchen wall. But it did hurt my ear.

  “Goldy? Brewster takes orders from me, not vice versa. And are you listening to my story here? Courtney was stunned to hear about the Jerk. It was either total disbelief or a great acting job. She exploded. We’re talking nuclear. We’re talking nova. She screamed that you’d prevented them from getting married, because of some custody problem. Plus, she’d loaned John Richard a hundred thousand dollars at the beginning of May, and two weeks later he dumped her for Sandee with two e s. How’s she supposed to get her money back now? she screamed. So! The Jerk owed her money, the same way he owed the man at his house,” Marla concluded triumphantly.

  “Wait a minute. Courtney loaned him that much money? How stupid is she?”

  “You got me.”

  “And the gent at John Richard’s house didn’t look as if he could have loaned John Richard anything—”

  “Let’s go down to the strip club tomorrow!” Marla squealed. “We can question Sandee, just the two of us.”

  I slumped against the rough wall. “I can’t. I have your PosteriTREE meeting and Nan’s retirement picnic to prep, and the cops and Brewster told me to stay away—”

  She rapped the phone again. “Girlfriend! Tom is not working this case. Without him, the sheriff’s department will never find out who shot the Jerk. They need us! So I’ll pick you up at eleven. Then we—”

  Without warning, pain racked my wrist as Blondie barged through the restroom door. The phone cord sprang away like a bow-string. I grabbed for it, but ended up seizing Blondie instead. Her warm, drunk breath said, “Erf?,” while she struggled mightily for balance. I tried to hold her up, snag the phone, and reach for the swinging restro
om door all at once. I failed on all counts.

  Blondie had not been expecting a sudden embrace. Her high-heeled boots clattered backward. Her leather-fringed arms wind-milled away from me as she tried to get her balance on the slick floor. The phone cord wrapped around the wire suspending the lightbulb and boomeranged in a high arc toward the ceiling. I gargled for help as Blondie’s cowgirl-skirted butt crashed into the cement post separating the two stalls. Marla’s distant voice shrieked, “Goldy?” Unfortunately, the laws of physics were already sending Blondie catapulting into the yawning trash can, where she promptly threw up. Following the same laws of physics, the returning restroom door smacked me in the face just as the phone cord finished its downward trajectory and Marla’s screaming voice splashed into the toilet.

  I grabbed my nose, sure that blood was streaming out of it. Black spots clouded my vision. I groped with my free hand in the direction of what I hoped was the saloon. I bumped into a body, a man’s body, and prayed it was not a catering client.

  “Sandee Blue is my girlfriend,” the man’s voice whispered in my ear as he swung me around and clutched my shoulders. “And don’t you forget it.”

  “Okay, okay,” I mumbled, suddenly fearful. Was this the person who’d beaten me up that morning? “Who are you?” I struggled against his viselike hold. “Could you please let go of me?”

  “Go on, get out of here,” he said, pushing me roughly away. I fell onto the filthy floor. By the time I could turn around, he was gone.

  I blinked and steadied myself until I could see the red exit sign. Cursing under my breath, I lurched in the direction of Tom’s table.

  “Goldy!” It was Tom’s calming voice. “Are you all right? What happened to your nose? There’s blood everywhere.” A rough paper napkin was pushed into my hand, and I pressed it to my nostrils. I gasped and begged Tom to take me out for air. Some tourists told the bartender to call a cab. He replied that there were no cab companies in Aspen Meadow.