Dark Tort (37 page)

Julian cheerfully offered to help me with the scrubbing. Marla, who had had a sore throat—all that gossiping, Julian teased her— since the party Saturday afternoon, had missed the christening and was therefore “starved,” as she put it, for news. She would go to the grocery store and buy ammonia, buckets, and brushes, she promised, and might even help us do the work, she promised further, if we would fill her in on what she’d missed over the past—well, let’s see—day.

We said we’d take all the help we could get.

The actual mess at the Roundhouse would have been colossally depressing if I had not had Julian and Marla to help clean up. Marla, dressed in sequined orange jeans and silk T-shirt with matching headband, proved true to her word and immediately began wiping down the tables in the Roundhouse’s hexagonal dining room. Julian had claimed the kitchen, with at least half an inch of dried mud covering most of the wood floor, as his special province to get into working order.

“You two will want to visit anyway,” he said by way of dismissal. “And I’ve heard all the latest gossip from Goldy already.”

So I told Marla everything as we worked for six hours cleaning the Roundhouse. I told her about the paintings and inventories Dusty had hidden in her blind grandfather’s room, the arrest of Louise Upton (“I never trusted her” was Marla’s comment), my visits with K. D. Chenault and Grace Mannheim, and Bishop Uriah Sutherland’s stealing of valuable antiques. And then there was Charlie Baker’s changed will, the contents of which I doubted Richard Chenault would give up without a fight over a client’s right to confidentiality. Oh, confidentiality! Is it ever enforced?

“And it may not matter to Richard,” I commented bitterly, “since Charlie’s dead.”

“Charlie is indeed dead,” Marla replied. “But Uriah or no Uriah, once Charlie’s will is done slogging its way through probate, this Mountain Pastoral Center will get built, and Charlie will live through an institution that will do good things for clergy. Needed things.” She looked around the dining room as she stretched her back. “Listen, girlfriend, I’m officially wiped out. I’m supposed to be going to this ribbon cutting, and coming back here for the dinner, since I’m one of the ones who put up additional money so that the center could be started before Charlie’s estate was settled.”

“Oho,” I said, “so that’s how they got the construction going so early.”

“It is indeed,” said Marla. “But Meg Blatchford will be coming, too, to both the ribbon cutting and the dinner. So the evening won’t be totally without the possibility of fun. Meg,” she added, “was a great believer in Charlie and his work, too.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

Marla said she was too sweaty to give me a hug, but would give me a huge one once she returned for the dinner.

Julian had wrought a miracle in the kitchen, every surface of which sparkled. This was a good thing, as it was already four o’clock. At five, the guests were having champagne—paid for by an anonymous donor, the events coordinator had assured me when she dropped off the ice cream—up by the construction site. I chuckled and shook my head. Marla had probably heard the diocese wasn’t planning to serve booze at the ribbon cutting and had immediately rectified that situation.

At twenty to five, when I had almost worked my way through the necessary pounding of the chicken breasts, my cell rang. Aspen Meadow Imports? I was sure it was a wrong number, but I answered it anyway.

“This is Gary over at A-M Imports,” came an insistent, hoarse male voice. “You the lady tore the door off the Rover?”

“Um, well, sort of.”

“Well, is you or isn’t you?” More impatient this time.

“I am! I am! Have you found a replacement door already?”

“No, but what I do got is a bear coming down every night, getting into our garbage! Had to put it inside, lock the doors, you unnerstand?”

“Yes, but I’ve got a dinner—”

“Just listen, will ya? You got garbage in this damn Rover! And it stinks! Bear comes down every night, starts pawing at the garage door, he can’t get in, so last night he broke one of the garage windows—”

“Okay, okay,” I said, feverishly imagining the guests at the ribbon cutting swilling their champagne and commenting to one another about how hungry they were getting. “Tell me what you need.”

“What I need? What I need is for you to come get your trash, lady! We’re on Highway 203, near the innerstate. Close at five. You don’t come get this garbage, I’m rolling the Rover into the street.”

“No, don’t do that—”

But he was gone.

“Julian,” I said desperately, “we’ve got a problem.” I explained to him about the garbage situation, and how it was my fault.

He stopped working on the wild rice. “Oh my, I forgot all about that trash.”

“So did I. It was back when I first suspected Bishop Uriah was up to something. He was listening too intently to some of the conversations at the party, and I just thought . . . oh, never mind. It was a long shot. But if I don’t go get the garbage, Ghastly Grammar Gary is going to roll the Rover into the street—”

“You want me to go get the trash bags?” asked Julian, eyeing his watch. “Or are you asking if you should . . . wait. You go. I’ve been working in a restaurant, I can get these dishes out in a hurry. I know what I’m doing, Goldy. You’ll be back by the time we serve.”

Unfortunately, I wasn’t. Because the snow we’d had the previous evening had turned to ice with the setting of the sun, it took my catering van with its nearly bald tires almost forty minutes to get to Gary’s, well past closing time. Gary, who’d stayed late, was none too happy. But then he saw my van with its logo, and he hit me with a barrage of questions about the best way to cook brats. Unfortunately, I couldn’t ignore this interrogation because Gary still had the Rover locked inside his garage with its bear-broken window. I didn’t ask him why he hadn’t moved the car out into the street as he’d threatened, because at that point I was ready to roll Gary out into the highway myself.

“Just cook the brats in beer!” I cried, exasperated. This, like “Drink me,” was the magic word that opened the door, and Gary explained that that was exactly how he’d told his wife to cook ’em, but she wouldn’t listen.

“I wonder why,” I muttered under my breath, as I grabbed the Ellises’ garbage bag, heaved it over my shoulder, and raced to the van. Gary was still calling questions to me, this time about whether you should put mashed potatoes into taco filling. But I ignored him.

Back at the Roundhouse, Uriah was addressing the group of assembled big donors. Judging from the glazed looks in the guests’ eyes, if they had the chance to do it all over, they would give their money to the library.

“Gosh, boss,” Julian reprimanded me. “What the hell! Did you have to pay him for that trash?”

“Pretty much,” I said, without elaboration.

Julian, as usual, had managed magnificently. Everyone, he reported, had flipped for the Chicken Piccata, with its tart, creamy sauce of lemon, white wine, and butter. The Artichoke-Brie Pie had gone over well with the vegetarians. Even the wild rice and green beans had been hits.

“Thank you so very, very much,” I kept repeating. “What’s happening?”

“They’ve had their torte and chocolate-dipped fruits. Richard Chenault introduced his dear friend Nora Ellis, or at least that’s what he called her. Nora Ellis introduced her father, Uriah, Charlie’s dear friend, and so forth.”

I eyed the stacks of plates. “Can we start on the dishes?”

“Nope. Donald Ellis squirted back here a few minutes ago and said his father-in-law had asked for quiet while he’s talking.”

I sighed. Marla slipped into the kitchen, holding her throat in a gagging motion.

“Tell me how I can give this guy the hook,” she said to me.

“I don’t know,” I said. I was frustrated, too. We had a ton of dishwashing still to do, and it was getting late. “Create a disturbance. Oh, wait. Raise your hand, and ask about the provisions of Charlie’s will. Then ask if he knew if Charlie had planned to change parts of his will.”

“All right,” said Marla.

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” I called after her, but she was gone.

Well, she did it. And the question provided such an excruciatingly awkward moment, followed by several more awkward moments, that Richard Chenault ended up jumping from his seat and thanking everyone for coming. He said they’d be getting a formal notification when Charlie’s will was settled, and more work could be done on the site, blah, blah, blah.

Meg Blatchford, her hands loaded with a stack of plates, followed Marla into the kitchen. “You’ve got guts, Marla,” Meg said admiringly. “I’ll give you that. Do you think you’d ever like to play senior softball?”

“No, no,” Marla replied, but she giggled at the thought.

“You better go dump that garbage,” Julian said to me, as he began loading dishes into the Roundhouse dishwasher.

“What garbage?” Meg asked, puzzled. “Won’t the bears get it if you dump spoiled food at night—”

I didn’t stay to hear the rest, because I couldn’t go through the same story twice in one day.

I lugged the bag over to the sidewalk. Inside the Roundhouse, I could make out Meg and Marla, alternating telling Julian stories about how things used to be in Aspen Meadow, how we used to have Aspen Meadow Taxi, one guy with one old car that used to be a hearse, how we used to have a bona fide art-film theater, and it was a regular theater, not a multiplex . . .

I stared at the Ellises’ trash and thought about my earlier assessment of going through it being a long shot. What was I looking for? Communications from Utah about Uriah’s illicit past? Evidence of stolen paintings or legal skullduggery? A copy of Charlie’s altered will, unsigned, that Donald might have tossed away? Or maybe a receipt for an opal-and-diamond bracelet . . .

I really wasn’t convinced I wanted to go through somebody’s sure-to-be-spoiled trash. But I tore open the sack anyway . . . and was rewarded with a stinking spill of coffee grounds.

Okay, I thought as I removed wads of wet, crumpled-up paper. I had resolved to look for some of Bishop Uriah’s correspondence, or notes, or something. Or maybe I was looking for something else. I just didn’t know what.

Had Nora known that somebody was selling her a stolen painting? I wondered as I began to smooth out the first wad of papers. Had she suspected? Maybe there was a bill of sale in here? And why did the Ellises have to crumple all their paper trash into teensy-weensy balls that were impossible to open? I’d have to go back and check my psych books, see if that was a sign of anal— Wait a minute.

I was looking at a very wrinkled piece of yellow legal-pad paper that had been completely covered with what looked like shading, done with the side of a pencil tip, not with the point. Whoever had done the shading had revealed writing on a note that had been done on top of it. Well, for goodness’ sake. I didn’t know people did this anymore. Kids, yes. Grown-ups, no.

I was tired. My body hurt and I knew I didn’t smell very good. But now I was consumed with curiosity. Meg, Marla, and Julian were still merrily conversing inside the Roundhouse as they clattered clean dishes back into the cupboards. Meg was doing most of the talking, it seemed to me, but that was okay. Marla isn’t a particularly good listener unless she’s really concentrating, but maybe that was precisely what she was doing. Julian, on the other hand, is a very good listener and can make anyone feel treasured.

I needed better light. I eased under one of the outside security lamps I’d had installed, and suddenly the writing was as clear as if it had been written in white ink.

I swallowed, and all my senses were suddenly alert. The date was October 18, the day before Dusty had been killed.

Michael, You know I’m a generalist and don’t really handle this kind of thing. I need to talk to you in a professional capacity and don’t want to risk e-mail or telephone. I am seeking a divorce—

But that was as far as I got in Donald Ellis’s note to divorce attorney Michael Radford. Because suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I gasped. There was a thin rope around my neck, and it was pulled tight. I tried to cough but couldn’t. I simply could not bring any air at all into my lungs. Black spots appeared before my eyes.

“Our trash goes out on Monday,” Nora Ellis whispered in my ear. “Imagine my surprise when we hardly had any, especially since we’d just had a party over the weekend. Now walk.”

No, I was not going to walk. I thrust my hands back, trying to get some purchase on her. I clawed, shoved backward, and tried to slam her with my head. Then I fell to my knees, refusing to budge.

But I had underestimated Nora and her strong, squash-playing body. She yanked on the rope and deftly moved in front of me, pulling my body away from the Roundhouse with its security lights . . . and into the shadows. I coughed and choked and tried to get my fingers under the rope, to no avail. Instead, Nora was tugging me into the darkness, toward the lake. The lake, that was already beginning to freeze. If I wasn’t dead by the time I got there, she could push me in and I’d die of hypothermia.

I couldn’t get my legs to move. I was stumbling forward, unable to see, unable to breathe, across the uneven ground between us and the lake.

You know I’m a generalist.

You know, I think she loved Mr. Ogden.

You know . . .

How was she keeping that rope so tight? I wondered even as I felt my consciousness bleeding away. She must have had some kind of knot on it. She was holding the rope with both hands and pulling hard. Was there any way I could get her to lighten up on her grip? My mind groped for answers, but my ability to think was fading, fading...