The Whole Enchilada (13 page)

Marla slumped against the exposed rock of the church's exterior wall. “I suppose,” she whispered, “we wanted to confront her. Kathie, I mean.”

“And you two and Boyd found this scene.”

“I'm sorry, Tom,” I said.

“Don't be,” he replied, as he turned to a new page in his notebook. He looked me over carefully, and I was aware for the first time that I had Kathie Beliar's and Father Pete's blood on my clothes and skin. “You probably saved Pete's life. All right, now, tell me why you think someone might attack this woman and our priest.”

Without prompting, Marla went through the story again with Tom. This time he wrote down everything. I glanced at my watch: almost three. Without warning, I began to cry. I'd loved Holly. I hadn't known Kathie Beliar, and now that she was dead, I felt guilty and small. But I adored Father Pete. He couldn't,
couldn't
die.

“Goldy, in just a little bit here, you're going to go home, shower, and rest,” Tom said, pocketing his notebook and pulling out tissues.

“Right.” This actually made me laugh. I pressed my hands onto my closed eyes. I thought ruefully back to the doctor last night telling me I should take a week to recuperate.

A team of victim advocates showed up in a van. They cleaned off our skin and gave us fresh sweat suits to change into in their van. Then they wrapped us in handmade quilts. Our relief at receiving comfort in the form of a quilt was tempered by the sight of the coroner's van pulling up to the church.

It was for Kathie Beliar.

“I'm sorry, Miss G.,” Tom said. “I want you to be able to leave, but I need your story while it's fresh.” He pulled his notebook back out and lifted his chin in my direction. “Start with when I left this morning. I know Boyd went a couple of places with you. But I want to hear the whole thing from you.”

“Okay.” I told him about Marla coming over, that she'd had terrible nightmares, just like the Smythes and Patsie Boatfield. I remembered I'd stuck the piece of paper into my pocket that had the list of what everyone who'd had nightmares had eaten. I handed it over to Tom. “Have you found anything in Holly's bloodstream?” I asked.

“I'll get to that. Keep going.”

I told him about our trip to the country club, where muscle-bound Bob had been training an uninterested but very studious Ophelia. She'd appeared bored with us, but intent on her book. Tom wanted to know what she'd been reading, and I told him.

“Architectural Planning
?” Tom repeated incredulously. “Not exactly bedside-table reading material.”

“Not exactly. What do you suppose it means?”

“I don't know. Why did you want to go to the club in the first place?”

I told him that Holly's having financial problems had made us wonder when, exactly, she had quit the club. We also wanted to find out if Bob knew something about Holly's medical history. Bob told us, as he had the sheriff's department, that yes, Holly had been a member of the club, and she had worked out in the new fitness facility. But she kept her own progress charts, which had been tossed by the club when they cleaned out the lockers. Tom nodded, but wrote nothing. Also, I added hastily, to show I was not a complete buffoon in helping figure out what had happened to my friend, Neil Unger said he had known Holly.

“He knew her?” Tom prompted.

“He didn't offer any details. The main thing was, he wanted to find out if Holly's dying would upset his party plans.”

“After the country club, where did you go?”

“To Edith Ingleby's house,” Marla said. “What a
bitch
!”

“The Inglebys' house?” Tom asked me. “We did question them, Miss G.”

“I know.” I stopped. “I took Edith some muffins that I remembered she liked. And Boyd was with us the whole time. Remember, you told me we could go out and talk to people. That's why you put Boyd with us in the first place.”

“I know, I know,” he said, his tone softer. “I just worry about you.”

“We were still trying to find out more about Holly's financial situation, why she moved Drew from EPP to CBHS, why she lost her house, why she didn't seem to have any—”

“You thought the Inglebys would share that information?” Tom asked.

“Well, they didn't,” I said flatly, and left Marla to tell the tale of Mustang Sally the maid, of Edith's cheap mugs and even cheaper coffee, and her inability to get along with anyone. She also told him about George appearing overcome with despair, and Lena acting alternately protective and angry.

“But you didn't get any information on Holly,” Tom concluded.

“Oh, but we did,” Marla said, her eyes lighting up. “Lena virtually spat out the news that Holly had an affair with Warren Broome. She didn't say when this happened. But back at your place, I called my pals who might know. They said that indeed, they'd heard that Holly and Warren had had, you know, a
moment
. But they thought it was long over and done with.”

Tom said, “Anything else?”

I started sobbing again when I told him about the recorded call from Father Pete. Tom calmly asked what it was about, and I told him that once again, Kathie Beliar was pressuring our priest to let her help cater the dinner the following night. Marla called him back and left a message saying no deal. At this, Tom pulled aside one of his team and said to go to our house, to see if anyone there had actually talked to Father Pete.

“Good idea,” I said. But wouldn't Julian have mentioned it if he had? Tom nodded to me to continue. “The second message on our machine,” I went on, “was the one from Patsie.”

“Warren Broome's new wife,” Tom said. “To tell you about her nightmares? You called her, or vice versa?”

“She called me. But I got Warren twice, before Patsie called me back.” I told him about Warren crying in the bathroom.

“Any other details?” Tom asked.

My brain seemed to fill with fog. I fought to clear it. “Remember, Patsie called
me
. We had the information from Lena, which we didn't trust, and some second- and third-hand gossip from Marla's pals. So after Patsie told me about Warren sobbing in the bathroom, I asked if she thought whether Warren actually knew Holly.”

“You might have let us do that. But I know, I know, I
told
you you could talk to people.” He inhaled. “So what did Patsie say?”

“She said Warren met Holly at a doctors' meeting in Boulder.”

Tom noted this. “When?”

“Don't know, but I figured it was the one from eighteen years ago.”

“You said you talked to Warren Broome twice?”

“When I was trying to return Patsie's call, I phoned their house. Warren answered, and he was awful. He . . . he . . . doesn't like Father Pete,” I blurted out.

“He doesn't?” Tom's voice was sharp. “Why not?”

“He wouldn't say,” I replied.

Again Tom motioned to a team member, and talked to him in a low voice. “All right,” Tom said to me. “Was that the first call to Warren, or the second?”

“The second. He was so rude! But remember, we had that tidbit from Lena Ingleby, which nobody had confirmed yet,” I replied. “And . . . I wanted to get more information out of him, so I told him Holly had left a piece of news for him, that I was supposed to relate to him, and that I would do so at the fund-raiser tomorrow night.”

“What
news?” Tom said, his voice disbelieving.

“Oh, well,” I said, feeling foolish, “there wasn't any. Isn't any. I just wanted to know why he was gaping at Holly at the party, and if what Lena said was true. I thought I should sort of, you know, question him in person.”

Tom shook his head. “Okay, Miss G., that was going too far. We are dealing with a murderer here. Even if Boyd accompanies you all over the Rocky Mountains, you
do not
set up meetings with people who were at the party, especially by using misinformation.”

“Okay.
But I was only trying to call Patsie back!”

“When was all this?”

“Oh, about an hour before Arch came home with the news that a van looking like mine was down at the church.”

Tom pressed his lips together, thinking. “Miss G. I do appreciate your insights. I know you like to talk to people who are friends, or acquaintances, or former clients, or parishioners, or . . . whatever. And it's helpful when you and Marla get folks to volunteer information to you. That's different from interrogating people the way a cop does, okay? It certainly differs from telling someone you have information about his relationship to a crime victim that you really don't have.”

“Okay,” I said. “You're right. Sorry.”

“Now there's something I'm sorry to tell you.” Tom took my hands in his. “Since the van Kathie was driving looked like yours, and since she'd made her appearance like yours, we have to consider that someone was trying to harm, or kill, you.”

The bristle of activity around us momentarily dulled. I was left with the questions:
Who would want to kill Father Pete? What could possibly be in the church files that a killer would want?

Was someone after me
,
too? If so
,
why?

13

E
ven though Tom had said we could leave soon, he wanted me to take him through our entire morning yet again. My bruised leg was beginning to throb, and I desperately wanted to rest it. I asked if we could sit beside the stand of blue spruce that had been planted around a statue of Saint Francis, just above the church parking lot. The flow of cops and crime-scene techs in and out of the church continued unabated. I wanted to put my back to that.

“Sorry, Miss G. Of course. I should have thought.”

When we'd settled by the evergreens, I pulled the quilt around the much-washed sweat suit I had just been given and willed myself to relax. As I did so, I remembered to tell Tom what we'd learned from the Amour Anonymous notes: that Holly had received a quarter of a million dollars as a settlement from George when they divorced, and she was supposed to get two hundred thousand-plus bucks in child support, in addition to private school and college tuition. He whistled. I asked if his team had managed to dig up anything on her financial situation.

“Yes,” Tom said. He eyed Marla warily. She folded her legs beneath her and shrugged.

“Tell Goldy what you want,” she said, tossing her head and raking her tawny hair with bejeweled fingers. “Leave me out of it, go ahead. But there's that driving thing. Julian has a license; so does Arch. What the heck, Boyd can drive her.
Maybe
. But while you're working on this case, you want to be
sure
somebody can chauffeur your wife around, right? Even if Boyd is with us on our way to Timbuktu? You also need to be confident of
my
help, yes? I, a longtime friend, fellow country-club member, and shopping pal of Holly's, am also a parishioner at St. Luke's, and know Father Pete well. And I'll bet I can get you more good scoop on Kathie Beliar and Warren Broome than your department can find in a week. So you'd better not give me that chilly shoulder of yours, Tom Schulz.”

Tom sighed. “Holly stowed her financial files in her desk, but they were only for December to now. She'd only made six deposits in her bank account since the beginning of December. Nothing from George. The deposits were for amounts between four and six thousand bucks, for a total of thirty-one thou. The deposits matched receipts for collages she'd delivered. We talked to the buyers of the collages, and the amounts matched. CBHS allowed her to pay tuition on a monthly plan. Now get this.
Some
of that she paid in cash.”

I said, “Cash?”

Tom nodded. “She filed for an extension on her taxes, and we have no idea what her income was for last year. We figured the rest of the income from this year went for rent, groceries, gas, and so on.”

“If you're getting two hundred thousand-plus a year, thirty-one thousand on top of that is still pretty darn good—” I began.

Tom held up a hand. “As I said, we saw no trace of any two hundred-plus thousand. And she had credit-card debt in the thousands. But more interestingly, the people she did collages for provided clothing, toys, photographs, and so on. Holly told them it had to be stuff they were willing to part with and not see again.” Intrigued, I didn't interrupt him this time. “They all said this. But we couldn't find a trace of clothing, toys, or photographs. There was no studio in her rental. There were no receipts anywhere in Holly's desk for studio rental or framing. Drew told you—and our guys, too, when we questioned him—that Holly rented studio space in Cherry Creek. But no, he said, he had never been there. And no, our guy thought to ask him, he had no idea what happened to all the
stuff
Holly got from clients to make the collages. Drew just said when a big cardboard container came, Holly said it was from the framers.”

“And the twenty-five-K typed note inside the box with the collage?” I asked. “What was that about?”

Tom shook his head. “We have no idea.”

I said, “Anything else?”

Tom took a deep breath. “Holly had sold the Audis belonging to her and her son in the past six months. We found the receipts. She used the money to hire a lawyer. She was suing George for back child support.”

“I knew it,” Marla said.

“Marla,” Tom said, “I swear to God, if I hear one inkling of any of this from any source whatsoever, I'm going to—”

“Bash in the roof of my Mercedes? With me in it?” Marla said, opening her eyes wide. “How would that look? And just where do you get off threatening a civilian?”

Tom exhaled, then apologized. “All right, back to Holly's death. The crime lab is backed up, so we won't have the full toxicology report for a couple of weeks. The medical examiner can't start on the autopsy until Tuesday. So I asked the lab to do a preliminary screen on Holly's blood. Something weird popped.” He lowered his voice, although there was no one near us. “They called me when I was on my way up here. Loquin, heard of it?”

“It's an antibiotic,” I said automatically. “I thought the FDA pulled that sucker from the market.”

“Loquin got a black-box warning.” Marla's voice was authoritative. “It can cause vivid nightmares, hallucinations, tendon tears, and God knows what else.”

Tom shifted his weight on the grass, then looked first at me, then at Marla. “Neither one of you is still married to a doctor, but you're still current on Med Wives 101? I'm impressed. Anyway, Loquin doesn't come in liquid form. It's in pills only. And it was in Holly's system. From the reports we're getting about nightmares, it was probably in everyone else's system, too.”

I asked, “So . . . if it doesn't come in liquid form, are you thinking Loquin was in the
food
from last night? Could an antibiotic kill Holly?”

“No idea,” said Tom. “I don't suppose we have any of the leftovers that we could test.”

Marla shook her head. “People took their own serving dishes home. There wasn't much food left, really. I put a lot down the disposal. Patsie Boatfield and I washed the plates and flatware, and tossed the plastic cups. Even doing all that took forever. I mean, you all could check my trash . . .”

“We will.” Tom gave me a questioning look.

I said, “I didn't pack up any leftovers, remember? I was falling through Holly's deck.”

Tom pressed his fingers into his temples. “Goldy, do you have a list of who was supposed to bring what last night?”

“In my computer,” I said. “But you know everyone, and I do mean
everyone,
was in and out of Marla's kitchen, including that weird artist guy nobody seemed to know. I don't suppose anything about
him
popped, as in a cell-phone photo?”

Tom said, “Nope. Anybody else around the food? Someone who wasn't at the party?”

I thought back. “Neil Unger made an unannounced visit Thursday, when Julian and I were working on the party prep. He sent Julian out to give his driver something to eat, while he insisted my computer had a virus, and I had to check it that minute.”

“Was there food out? Food you weren't watching while you did a virus scan?”

I closed my eyes. “Yes. Julian had made the second batch of chile relleno tortas, but hadn't put them in the oven. Neil was ranging around the kitchen, opening and shutting cabinets. I just thought he was nervous.” I shook my head.

“Nothing came up concerning that message on Holly's phone, either. Even though it was from an untraceable cell, our guys are working with the phone company now, trying to pinpoint where the call came from. They should be able to tell within a two-block area.”

“Oh, technology,” I said. “I don't suppose George or anyone else mentioned sending a text?”

Tom shook his head. “We're still working on the carton the collage came in. So far, we've only established that it was mailed from a nonchain shipping store in Capitol Hill. Our guys got the owner out of bed in the wee hours. The place doesn't have a security camera. We showed the owner the box with his mailing tag. He checked in his computer, and he said he had no idea who had sent it, because the customer paid in cash.”

“Did you get a description of the customer? Male? Female?”

Tom said, “Nope. We don't know anything about who shipped the carton.”

“Where is this place?”

“Clarkson Shipping, down near the cathedral. We talked to the owner
at length.
He has ten temporary employees. Our team is trying to locate any of them who would have seen someone mail an oversize box. So far, nothing.” He eyed me knowingly. “Miss G., Marla needs to take you home so you can get some rest. And by that I mean
rest, in bed,
without going anywhere outside the house. Boyd will follow.”

“But what about Father Pete?” I asked.

“I promise I'll call you once we know something.” When I pursed my lips, he said, “I swear.”

Tom took my hands and helped get me upright. I didn't want to leave St. Luke's. But under the circumstances, I didn't want to stay, either.

At home, Arch and Gus rushed down the stairs when Marla and I walked through the front door. Julian, who'd been working in the kitchen, came out to greet us.

“Father Pete, Father Pete,” Arch said in a rush. “How is he?”

“One of Tom's people came to the house, asking questions,” Gus supplied. With toast-brown hair, dark brown eyes, and the ghost of freckles, Gus looked so much like Arch—or at least, like Arch before he'd shaved his head—it always made me do a double take.

“He told us Father Pete had been hurt,” Julian explained. “Hurt
badly
. But he didn't say what happened. He just wanted to know if any of us had talked to Father Pete when he called this morning, if it sounded as if he was with anybody, if his voice showed stress, that kind of thing.” Julian shook his head. “But when I saw the call was from the church, I didn't pick up.”

“Hurt badly
how
?” Arch asked breathlessly. “Is he going to make it?”

Marla raced to the first-floor bathroom, slammed the door, and began crying. The boys gaped at me, stricken. I said, “Somebody attacked Father Pete. We think he's going to make it. We hope.”

“
Attacked
him?” Julian pressed. “Father Pete was a boxer—”

I made my voice very quiet. “Listen, you cannot tell anyone this.” When all three of them nodded, I said, “Somebody stabbed him. He was breathing when we got there, but just barely. Whoever knifed him also killed Kathie Beliar. She was the one driving the van that looked like mine.”

For a moment, we stood in the hallway. We were trying to take it in. Marla, snuffling, came out of the bathroom.

“Boss,” Julian said gently, “you look as if you're in a lot of pain. Please go lie down.” When I hesitated, he said, “I'm making vegetarian lasagna for us tonight. Plus salad and bread. There's going to be plenty for all of us.” He cocked his head. “Please go up.”

So I went. Marla joined Julian in the kitchen, while Gus and Arch said they would be in Arch's room. They promised not to get onto the Internet. I knew they would want to talk about who could have been able to get the drop on Father Pete. I was so tired, and in such exquisite pain, that I couldn't run my mind back over Marla's and my discovery and make much out of it.

I didn't think I'd fall asleep, but I did. When I awoke, the luscious scent of cooking food was wafting up the stairs. But what all the psychologists say about insights coming when you're relaxed had happened. I'd thought of something. Or rather, I'd realized it.

The man at the party, the uninvited guest. The artist in the odd clothes. When I'd started out in catering, I'd done a party for him, or rather, I'd done an event where he'd been present. I remembered him now, standing in the corner, looking forlorn.

The party had been at a gallery, and very few people had shown up. The artist whose work was being exhibited had been such a severe introvert, he hadn't been out chatting with patrons, or with anyone, for that matter. Whatever the opposite of charismatic was, that man was
it
.

I'd realized something else. That man, that artist, did work sort of similar to Holly's. Where her portrait-collages were intimate, comprehensible, and commercial, this man had decorated his pieces with slashes and drips of paint, as well as scribbles of calligraphy. At his own show, he'd looked miserable.

And I knew his name: Yurbin.

I put in a call to Tom's cell and left a message. I felt frustrated that there wasn't more I could do, but I'd been warned to do nothing, at least for now. I sighed.

In the kitchen, I asked if anyone had heard anything about Father Pete. He was in a coma, Marla said. The sheriff's department was keeping a tight lid on all other information about his condition. We would know more later. I called up to Arch and Gus that if they wanted to shower, now was the time. I couldn't stand around doing nothing, so I laid the table. Marla poured Cabernet Sauvignon for Julian, me, and herself. Maybe the wine would take the edge off my pain, both physical and psychological.

I hadn't had a chance to ask Marla about Yurbin, had barely had a chance to sip the wine, when the phone rang. It was a woman from the diocese, saying she'd been called about Father Pete. She'd talked to our senior warden, and the diocese was sending a supply priest for the next day's service. She was calling me because the warden had said that I was catering and organizing some kind of fund-raiser for St. Luke's that night. The diocesan calendar said that even though we were slated to be grilling outside, the main part of the dinner was supposed to take place
inside
the church. Shouldn't the whole thing be canceled?

“It should
not
be canceled,” I said firmly.

“I'm sorry,” she said politely, “but the sheriff's department has said we cannot plan anything to be held inside St. Luke's itself until they have finished with their investigation. The service is going to be held outside, in the meadow near the church. But that won't work for the dinner. We simply cannot defy—”