The Whole Enchilada (20 page)

“What was that about?” Marla demanded, in true sotto voce.

Arch sighed. “Mom? Just give me the cord.” He plugged in the boom box.

I exhaled. “Clearly, I shouldn't have promised Warren Broome information I didn't have.” I ripped through the various plastic barriers that makers of compact discs seem to think are necessary. “Can you glance casually over at Patsie Boatfield and see if she's looking this way?”

“I don't do anything casually,” said Marla. “But I'll try. Yup, she's giving you a puzzled stare.”

“Arch?” I said, after he had taken the CD from me, unwrapped it, and slotted the disc into the player. “Could you go ask Patsie Boatfield to come into the kitchen?”

“Sure,” my son solemnly replied, and marched to the other side of the dining room. Outside the French doors, Warren Broome was arguing with Sergeant Jones. Everyone strained to hear what was being said. Nobody was having any success.

Finally,
finally,
the upbeat strains of alto saxophone music threaded through the air. Arch had convinced Patsie to follow him, so I joined the rest of the team in the kitchen. Julian was oh-so-quietly rinsing out the soup bowls. We would wash them thoroughly once everyone left.

“Goldy?” whispered Patsie Boatfield, once she was through the swinging doors. She wore a shimmery silver dress that set off her blue eyes and pale complexion. “Where's this thing that you told my husband Holly had left for him?”

“Actually,” I lied effortlessly, “the cops have it.”

“But what was it?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Is that why my husband is such an emotional mess?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that.”

“Why did that policewoman drag him off?” Patsie asked, growing agitated.

“Because your husband grabbed me and demanded information.”

All the air seemed to go out of her. “Oh, God. Please forgive him. I don't know what you had for him from Holly. But he's a real sack of nerves. He's just gotten his license back, and he was all set to start practicing again. He should be happy, but since the birthday party at Marla's house Friday night he's done nothing but fidget, cry, get angry, give me the silent treatment, or race off in his car without telling me where he's going. The only thing I told him was that you had asked about him, and if he had ever known Holly.”

I said, “Then what?”

“He—”

We were interrupted by the door suddenly swinging open. Warren Broome pushed inside, his face livid. Sergeant Jones was at his side.

“We're leaving,” Warren announced curtly to Patsie. He did not look at me. “We're
leaving,
” he said, more authoritatively this time.

Patsie, now confused in addition to being dejected, meekly followed her new husband out of the kitchen. I'd give that marriage a year, tops.

“What happened?” I asked Jones.

“Nothing,” she said. “Sergeant Boyd and I were assigned to protect you, your crew, and the guests at this event. He grabbed you and threatened you, so I talked to him.” Her expression gave away nothing. “He'll probably be making a complaint to the department. But his own previous misbehavior is a matter of public record, so I don't think anyone will pay any attention.”

“Goldy?” asked Julian, startling me. “We need to clear.”

Which we did. Because of the china cups, picking up the entrée plates proved more challenging than dealing with the soup bowls. Marla decided to place all of the cups on one side of her tray, then pile the plates on the other. The resulting imbalance caused the tray to teeter in her hands, first one way, then the other, until it finally crashed to the floor.

“Sorry, so sorry,” Marla cried meekly, as I rushed to her side.

“Don't say anything,” I ordered her. “We'll have this cleaned up in two minutes.” Which we did. The less fuss you make over something going wrong at a catered event, the less likely it is that people will remember it. But so far we'd had the supply priest addressing the crowd adequately, while Edith Ingleby and the music director had made a hash of things. Boyd had done his routine, which had turned the mood around somewhat. Then we'd suffered through the imbroglio with Warren Broome and Sergeant Jones.

And now we had twenty broken cups and dishes.

I told myself to put it out of my head. Once I'd shoved all the shards into a heavy-duty paper bag—not plastic, as broken china can tear right through it—Arch appeared with a wet mop. He knew the drill.

In the kitchen, Julian waved away Marla's apologies. “I have
plenty
more cups. Don't even think about it.”

After Marla scooped ice cream into bowls, Tom ladled fudge sauce judiciously over each sundae. Arch and Gus tucked cookies beside the ice cream, and Julian sprinkled berries on top. I started to clear the last tray of entrée dishes, from the Inglebys' table. Edith hadn't eaten a single shrimp. George hadn't touched his molded salad.

Lena said in a high, shrill voice, “That entire meal was disgusting.”

I kept a straight face and removed her plate. Fund-raising dinners weren't supposed to be gourmet meals. Every single one I'd attended in my predivorce years had featured a salad, very dry baked chicken, lukewarm rice, and a cookie. Compared to those dinners and lunches, this meal was Escoffier.

I said none of this, of course, but merely attempted a brave smile. “Thank you for supporting the church.” At that point, everyone but Carl at the Ingleby table made a great clattering noise as they unceremoniously stood and began a loud exit.

In the kitchen, though, I felt the full sting of Warren Broome's fury and Lena Ingleby's denigrating remark. Sometimes just one cruel comment can ruin an evening; in this case, virtually the entire night had been a disaster. I knew how to deal with broken plates. But in my years as a caterer, I'd had less luck learning how to deal with snarky people. I took a deep breath and told myself to buckle down and get through the cleanup.

Which I did. While Julian and I were washing the dishes, Marla eagerly counted the checks. “Well, maybe it was a good thing that Edith asked for extra contributions,” she announced triumphantly. “The meal plus extra checks brought in five thou, so that puts us at fifteen thousand bucks for Father Pete's columbarium. Pretty darn good. And now,” she went on, rummaging in her purse, “we have the tips for the staff.”

“Marla,” I protested, “you've already done enough. The gratuity is part of the contract, as I am sure you know—”

“Hush,” she said gravely, and proceeded to give Julian, Arch, and Gus crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Still clutching her wallet, she called to Boyd and Jones, “Hey, law enforcement! What can I—”

“Nothing,” Tom said firmly, as he snatched her wallet away from her. “You want to write out a check to our widows' and widowers' fund, you can. It's a bona fide 501(c)(3) organization, with an A from Charity
Navigator.org. Your gift is tax deductible.” He handed her a card. She sighed dramatically and tucked the card into the wallet he handed back to her.

The guests all pulled out of the parking lot, leaving only the two police cars. Julian packed up the leftovers and put them in a cooler for Gus's grandparents. The dishes done, we swabbed the kitchen and dining room floors. Boyd, Arch, and Gus took out the trash. Then the boys announced they were taking off for Gus's house. Sergeant Jones agreed to accompany them, bless her. Gus and Arch were eagerly chatting about what they were going to do with their hundred-dollar bills.

“Boyd?” said Tom. “Can you walk Marla to her car?”

“I am perfectly capable—” Marla began huffily.

Julian put his arm around Marla's shoulders. “Go with Boyd, Auntie. I've found it's better not to argue with Tom.”

Once Tom, Boyd, Julian, and I had all finally arrived home, Tom said Boyd wanted to have a shower before he settled down for the night. Would that be okay? Tom asked. He knew I was exhausted and would be desperate to kick back. I told him to tell Boyd to go home.

“He wants to stay,” Tom said. “He feels guilty that he didn't sense Broome was about to grab you. He's doing this on his own time, not the department's. Says he owes it to you.”

I, too, knew when it was better not to argue. I said sure, he could go ahead. Julian should shower, too, if he wanted to. Then Tom could see if there was any hot water left. I'd go last, I said, and no doubt have a quick, cold shower.

“You sure?” Tom asked.

“You know how I'm always wound up after a dinner. Especially a dinner that didn't go particularly well.”

Tom gathered me into his arms. “It went great. The food was delicious, and at least Boyd and Jones told me how much they appreciated the soup. Don't be so hard on yourself.”

“This feels good,” I murmured into his shoulder. “I feel myself getting the Dreaded Second Wind. Think I'll take half an hour to go through some more of the Amour Anonymous notes. I really want to try to remember as much as I can about Holly. We did find that cardiologist tidbit in there. Plus, there might be more about Warren Broome. Something we haven't found yet.”

“I'll wait for you, but please don't stay up late. You've got that dinner for Ophelia tomorrow night.”

“I promise not to be later than eleven. And maybe I'll come join you getting washed up.”

“I'll tell the guys to take extremely short showers,” he said, chuckling.

First I made myself some decaf espresso. Then I headed to the basement, where I tried to remember where I'd been when Marla and I had last looked at the notes. Once I found that spot, I would have to check carefully to see if Holly had ever mentioned going to a psychiatrist, Warren Broome in particular. Maybe she hadn't just had a fling with Warren Broome. Maybe it had been something more serious. If that was the case, her heart problems could have been part of their pillow talk. I didn't remember ever seeing or hearing Warren's name before reading about him in the papers. But if Holly had been arguing with someone, and said,
It's in the notes,
then by damn, I was going to check
our
notes, to see if anything was there.

Say Holly had
not
had a fling with Warren. What if she'd been another female client he'd victimized? Say, then, that her financial predicament had erupted, and she'd started blackmailing him, that she'd shouted that the information was in the notes, notes he took of their sessions that she'd gotten hold of, maybe during their affair. Or perhaps Holly had acquired information about other female patients Warren slept with, like Audrey. He could have paid her for a while. But maybe he saw no end in sight. Then he got his license back, broke into her rental, and rifled through her files, but found nothing. If Holly had kept up her threats, maybe Warren tried to figure out another way to deal with her. Hence the text on Holly's phone. Then, maybe Holly issued a final threat:
Pay up, or I'm going to the Colorado Board of Medical Examiners.
He could just imagine his license being handed back to him, only to see the entire grievance/possible-suspension drama starting all over again. He could have seen killing Holly as a quick way out of his troubles. And then perhaps he'd felt remorse, hence all the weeping in the bathroom.

I
had
seen Holly staring into Marla's backyard the night of the birthday party. I hadn't seen the person she'd been glaring at. But I
had
caught Warren watching Holly with . . . what? His eyes had not looked as if they were filled with unbridled hatred, I reflected.

No. He'd looked like he was in love. With Holly. I wondered if there was any chance that she'd been a client, he'd fallen in love with her, they'd had a fling, and then . . . and then
what
? I had no idea.

But there was one other bit to this hypothesis: Warren Broome had gratuitously given me his opinion of Father Pete, and it was negative. Marla had said she'd heard Father Pete had refused to perform the marriage ceremony for Patsie and Warren. If true, could this be the source of his bitterness? More seriously, could Holly have confessed the affair to Father Pete, and Broome had sensed yet more disapproval coming from our rector? Priests were now legally bound to report people in positions of authority and trust who'd exploited their position. Maybe Father Pete had done that.

This theory would explain why Father Pete had acted so strangely—drinking too much, not being like his usual pastoral self—after Holly died.

I slugged down the espresso and began reading the notes again. After a few minutes, it was clear my body was having a second wind, but my mind was not. The words danced around on the page, and the only thing I gleaned from this reading was that when she was at a dinner with others present, Holly did not like to eat when others did. Instead, she would have a few bites just as everyone was finishing up. That was precisely what had happened at the birthday party, but I didn't know if it was important.

The air in the basement was stuffy. Upstairs, Jake was whining to be let out. Scout the cat, meanwhile, had disappeared. Since I'd been in the cellar, I had no idea if the cat was inside or out. “Okay, okay,” I said aloud to Jake. I took my cup to the kitchen and placed it in the dishwasher.

I opened our kitchen's back door, and Jake shot out, barking madly. Since it was almost midnight, I ordered him to be quiet. As usual, he paid me no heed.

Our backyard runs along an alley. To prevent Jake from getting out, Tom had erected a stockade fence along it. So far, the fence had not prevented the elk from hopping through and depositing their usual waste products. This summer, we hadn't seen the usual number of elk, but we'd certainly had our share of bears, whose scat Arch had identified for us. The bears, likewise, were not deterred by the fence. They'd even figured out a way to push open the gate, to be spared the trouble of climbing over the fence. Tom had promised to fix the latch, but had been so swamped with work that he hadn't had a chance.