The Whole Enchilada (27 page)

Marla looked around. “Uh, are we done here?”

Neil Unger turned on Bob Rushwood. “You knew she had done this, that she hired an attorney.”

Bob snapped, “I did not. All I knew was she'd been acting strange lately. I thought she was, you know, expecting. And then this guy”—he waved a hand at Brewster—“showed up at the house. That's why I called you. I figured maybe she was seeing him behind my back, ever since I saw Goldy here bring the two of them together yesterday.” He glanced toward me. “But then Ophelia told us he was just a fashion consultant, and you wanted us to get ready for this idiotic party. Your daughter has been lying to both of us all this time, so there's no point in getting mad at me about it. Lying seems to run in your family.”

Neil jabbed a finger at my face. “You did this!”

“Me?”
I asked.

“Goldy?”
Julian and Marla echoed.

“You were behind this,” Neil said, his voice suddenly sounding assured. “You're always meddling in other people's business. Everyone knows that.”

Chills ran down my arms. Meddling, huh? Had Holly meddled in Neil's attempt to trick his daughter out of her inheritance, and then used her knowledge to blackmail him? Had Neil decided that I was involved in Holly's scheme and attacked me the previous night? He was certainly strong enough to have done it.

“Bob saw you.” He kept pointing, and it reminded me of the Jerk's old pattern of point, accuse, slap. “He saw you with Ophelia and this . . . this . . .”—he faltered, wagging his spare hand at Brewster—“ . . . this lawyer. It's all your fault!”

“Easy, now,” said Boyd, his voice barely audible.

Probably wondering where her family had disappeared to, Francie entered the kitchen at that moment. She took in the enraged faces of our little tableau and, for once, said nothing.

Bob turned his attention back to Ophelia. “After all I did for you, after all the opportunities I gave you, after all the people I introduced you to—”

“I learned you only do things for yourself,” Ophelia stated calmly. “My life doesn't have anything to do with you now, so you might as well shut up.”

“I will not shut up,” he said. “I've wasted a year of my life trying to help you. I've tried to take care of you—”

“By being possessive?” Ophelia interrupted. “Obsessing over whether I was pregnant? That's not love. Keep the Mercedes, Bob, it'll be ample pay for services rendered. I just thank God I don't have to finance a life of leisure for you.” She nodded in her father's direction. “Or for you.”

“How dare you—” Neil Unger now lunged at his daughter.

But she was too quick for him. Picking up one of the gold-edged dessert plates, she held it in front of her father's face. He charged head-on; the plate broke. Neil staggered backward, clutching his suddenly blood-streaked forehead.

“This ends now,” Boyd said, his tone authoritative. He planted his substantial body between Ophelia and her father.

“She attacked me!” Neil cried.

“She acted in self-defense,” Boyd replied, “to which I will testify. Mrs. Unger?”

Ophelia's stepmother, looking dazed, didn't seem to realize that Boyd was addressing her. She recovered long enough to say, “Yes?”

“Please make Ophelia's excuses to your guests. Brewster? Ophelia? It's time for you to leave.”

Brewster said, “Mr. Unger, my firm will be drawing up papers to file a civil suit against you.”

“For
what
?” Neil Unger was pressing a kitchen towel onto his bleeding face.

“We'll start with breach of trust by a trustee and go from there.”

Brewster snapped his case shut while Ophelia allowed Julian to hand her the suitcases. She thanked him and me, and over her shoulder said that Brewster was going to drive her to a car dealership so she could buy one of her own.

And then they were gone. Boyd put a restraining hand on Bob's shoulder and told him he had to wait until we all heard Brewster's car leave. Bob sulked, but obeyed. As soon as the BMW roared away, he bolted for the front door.

Francie fled back to the porch. Neil stood next to me and snarled, “I've paid you for this party, and you are going to wrap up that cake for us by God, or I'll take you to court. As soon as my guests leave, pack up your team and your stuff and get out.”

When he left the kitchen, Marla quipped, “Dang. If only I'd used my cell-phone camera! I could have filmed the goings-on here to use as the pilot for a new reality show:
Killer Catering Careers
.”

“I
knew
I recognized Ophelia from someplace,” Julian mused. “She's a regular at the Boulder Goodwill Thrift Store! That's where she got her outdated clothes and saved money for CU tuition. Pretty smart.”

I nodded, too exhausted to speak. Marla disappeared to the porch, ostensibly to start picking up the entrée plates. Really, I suspected, it was to hear the way the contretemps in the kitchen was being reported to the rest of the guests.

Julian whisked around the kitchen, first wrapping the birthday cake for the Ungers. Somehow, I doubted they would be enthusiastic about consuming it. Boyd and I began packing up boxes.

I worked as if by rote, my mind teeming with unanswered questions. I wondered just how far Neil Unger might have been willing to go to conceal the truth about his daughter's money. I wondered if knowledge about him had been one of Holly's secrets. In an evening of surprises, though, one stood out most.

Bob Rushwood could only have seen me introduce Brewster to Ophelia if he'd been watching the meadow below St. Luke's on Sunday morning. Had he been following Ophelia then, spying on her for her father? I hadn't caught sight of him, nor, apparently, had the squad processing the crime scene of the attacks on Kathie Beliar and Father Pete. If he was spying, why didn't he tell Neil earlier about what Ophelia was doing?

What else had Bob Rushwood seen that he hadn't told anyone?

21

I
'm going to have to give up a cherished pastime,” Marla lamented on the way back to our house.

Following in Ophelia and Brewster's cloud of dust, Violet and the guests had hastily departed. Julian, Boyd, Marla, and I packed the boxes into our vehicles.

“Give up a cherished pastime?” I said to Marla. “Is this more reality-show stuff?”

Marla tapped her hand on the dashboard. “I don't really watch those. But I used to love scary movies. Still, why
should
I watch them, when catering is the real deal?” I felt her eyes on me. “No
wonder
you insist on being paid in full before the party even starts.”

“I did not expect all that to happen tonight.”

“How could you? One thing's for sure, though.” Marla sighed. “You won't be doing any more catering for Neil Unger.”

I drove with grim determination. As I navigated the hairpin turns on the route back from the Ungers' place, Brewster called. He was at a Lexus place in Denver, waiting for Ophelia to finish up buying a vehicle.

He said, “I forgot to tell you all one provision of the trust. If anything happened to Ophelia before she inherited her mother's money, the funds would go to the Shakespeare Festival at the University of Colorado.”

“Makes me think Athena didn't exactly trust Neil.”

“I had the same thought,” said Brewster. “Don't worry; I told Boyd. The very best thing for Neil would have been if Ophelia married Bob, never got an education, then had a kid. That way he could keep collecting his fees for managing the trust as long as he lived.”

“Or until Quentin Laird died. And as long as Ophelia never found anything out.”

“Exactly.”

He signed off. I speculated about the idea of Neil being the one who had poisoned Holly, stabbed Father Pete and Kathie Beliar, and attacked me—all to keep his management fees. I wondered, too, if Brewster would actually act on his threat to file a civil suit against Neil Unger. I had no idea what kind of evidence you would need to justify such a suit, much less win a case. Still, I bet Brewster could and would help in any way he could legally do so.

Onward and upward. The following day we had no catered events. I sent up a brief silent prayer of gratitude. But Marla and I, with Boyd, were going to visit the gift shop at Holly's former Roman Catholic parish in Denver. After that, I wanted to stop at Clarkson Shipping, to see if the owner or his help remembered any details about the person who'd sent the box to Holly's house.

I felt as if I were grasping at the thinnest of straws. Still, I had to persevere. Holly and Kathie Beliar had been killed. Father Pete had been stabbed. And someone had sabotaged Holly's deck, probably in an attempt to kill Drew.

That last part bothered me deeply. If Holly had been blackmailing someone, like Neil or Warren Broome, why would that person also want to kill Drew? Because they thought he knew the information Holly was using to extort money? George certainly wouldn't have wanted Drew dead, even if he was chafing at having to pay child support for a son who was not biologically his own. He loved Drew. Lena clearly had wanted to hurt Holly, but she seemed devoted to George, and going into cahoots with someone to kill Drew would have hurt George too much.

Then there was this artist, Yurbin, with whom Holly had been fighting. She'd shrugged off the idea of his being her current romantic partner. But what if he'd been one in the past? He wasn't her usual type, but he was attractive in a bullish sort of way, and he was, after all, an artist. Could
he
be Drew's biological father? And even if their dispute had nothing to do with her son, why would Yurbin target Drew? To frighten Holly? Then why try to kill her first with the antibiotic at the party? That envelope on the deck with Drew's name on it was like a puzzle piece that had been cut wrong, and wouldn't fit into the puzzle.

In front of our house, Marla wished me good night. When she got back to her place, she said cheerily, she would make some phone calls to her country-club pals, to relate the story of the blowup at Ophelia's. It wasn't, after all, confidential, and the phone lines of the guests who'd been witnesses were probably already buzzing as they called everyone they knew. Marla also wanted to see if any of her friends had any inkling about this money of Ophelia's.

“You can rely on one thing,” she said, before climbing into her Mercedes, “the top priority in discussions at Aspen Meadow Country Club is money.”

“What's the second priority?” I asked, smiling. “Golf?”

“Oh, hell no,” she said, and winked. “That would be sex.”

Tom was eating a sandwich in the kitchen when Julian, Boyd, and I traipsed in. I suddenly regretted not being able to bring him any leftovers. Come to think of it,
I
hadn't had any dinner.

“Sit down, the three of you,” Tom ordered. We did. Tom's miss-nothing eyes moved from one of us to the other. “You're home early. And you all look like hell.”

“Somebody make this man an investigator,” Julian observed drily.

Tom's mouth turned in a half grin. “I'm assuming the party at Ophelia's was not, after all, a surprise?”

“Oh, it was a surprise, all right,” I replied. “Ophelia made it one.”

“Everybody stay seated,” said Tom. “I want to hear this.”

Julian, Boyd, and I took turns telling him about the fiasco. Meanwhile, Tom carefully sliced a loaf of Dad's Bread, a bunch of fresh tomatoes, most of a boiled Danish ham, and large chunks of roast turkey and Havarti cheese. He filled an enormous bowl with baby field greens, and smaller ones with mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, and chutney. My mouth watered.

Tom tilted his head thoughtfully as he placed his offerings before us. “It wasn't a total failure. Ophelia is lucky to be rich, now, and away from her controlling father and fiancé. And Brewster's people might be able to sting Neil with a huge civil lawsuit.”

“Okay,” I said. But something was bothering me. “Look, I'm just going to say what I'm thinking.”

Tom shrugged. “Have I ever stopped you?”

“Holly knew Neil Unger. I don't know how well. But he was at the medical conference in Boulder, and could be Drew's father. Holly was blackmailing somebody, right? And Neil showed up here at the house when Julian and I were cooking the meal for the boys' birthday party. A pair of tortas, uncooked, were on the counter. He sent Julian outside on a fool's errand, then insisted that I check to see if my computer had been hacked. Which I did, while he moved all around the kitchen. If Holly knew about Neil's finagling with the trust, if he knew about her S-T interval problem, that could have given him a motive to sprinkle crushed Loquin into the tortas to kill her.”

“It's a long shot, Goldy. We think they were just the barest of acquaintances. But we can keep an eye out as we follow leads.”

“Also, Bob was spying on Ophelia when she asked me for help with a lawyer. He saw me introduce her to Brewster. He might know something else, maybe something about Neil or Holly.”

“That's another very long shot. And we certainly don't have enough to pull Bob in for questioning. We've already talked to him about the boys' birthday party, how he knew Holly, that kind of thing. After the party tonight, I very much doubt that he would talk to us without being fully lawyered up. Not only that, but since you helped Ophelia get her hands on her money, I think you should steer clear of Bob Rushwood for a while. He's big and he's strong and he's pissed.”

“Okay.” I smiled at him. “I just wanted to think aloud.”

“And I appreciate it, as ever.”

Somewhat cheered, we put together our sandwiches and dug into them. While we ate, Tom told us that unfortunately, the crime-scene techs had not come up with anything usable from our backyard. Whoever had come through our gate—and made it look as if a bear had broken in—had worn gloves, had stayed on the gravel, the grass, or the deck, and had not had his clothing snagged on a helpful nail. With our recent dry weather, there were no footprints conveniently etched into mud.

“That's the second trap we've dealt with in the past four days,” he concluded gloomily.

“Second?” I echoed.

“The first was the deck at Holly's house.”

I shook my head and had almost finished my turkey-and-Havarti sandwich when Tom said the department had finally been able to find Kathie Beliar's one living relative, an uncle. He would be flying in the following week, and was taking over the arrangements with the funeral home and our local Methodist church.

I put down the unfinished bit of sandwich and asked Tom if they'd gotten any other leads on who could have killed Holly and Kathie. The attacker's DNA, from the skin Father Pete had managed to snag under his fingernails, had yet to be analyzed, despite the effort to speed things up. Even if the analysis had been done, the attacker might not be in the state's DNA database.

Gloomily, he said the department wasn't even sure of a motive for the attacks. They thought they might be tied to this paternity-of-Drew situation, but were by no means sure. Warren Broome had refused to take a DNA test to determine if he was Drew's biological father. The only thing they'd been able to find out about Yurbin was that he was actually named Andrei Yurbin, and he'd been Holly's teacher when she went back to art school after her divorce. The one bit of personal information they'd been able to extract was actually a slip on the part of the art school secretary, who said he was diabetic.

“Diabetic?” I said. “Why in the world would she tell you that?”

“The man loves sweets,” Tom announced. “When she saw us, she thought, and I quote, that ‘he'd been naughty again,' and was in diabetic shock. She seemed disappointed that we weren't there to tell her he was sick. And by the way? He hasn't taught there for six years. But at least we got an address. And then Yurbin lawyered up.”

“May I have Yurbin's address?” I asked.

“Miss G. The man has hired an attorney. I don't want you to track him down and harass him. Then he could sue the department.”

“Did you ask him if he was doing the collages Holly was selling?”

Tom gave me a look. “Is that what you think?”

I said, “It makes sense. The styles of their work are eerily similar. Holly has no studio that we can find. She lied to her own son about having one in Cherry Creek. You can't find scraps from the collages. And unless you're using solid gold, no one charges twenty-five-thousand dollars for framing.” I paused. “My bet is that they were fighting over money. Say she got the commission, and provided the basic outline of what she wanted. He charged a few thousand for a work, she marked it up, and made just enough to get by. Then he wanted more, so he showed up at the boys' party. Did you ask him any of this?”

“Goldy, he wouldn't answer any of our questions.”

I exhaled. “If I find Yurbin on my own, and Boyd comes with me, may Marla and I just have a teensy-weensy visit with him? On the q.t.?”

Tom said, “Teensy-weensy. And I'll talk to Boyd about staying with you the whole time. And you know I'll have to disavow knowledge of you going down there. I'm telling you, it's a long shot.”

“I know.”

Discouraged, I asked if there had been any word on Father Pete's condition. Tom shook his head grimly. There was no good cause for optimism in that situation, except to hope that our priest didn't die.

T
he following day, Tuesday, dawned clear, bright, and cool. A cloud of pollen still hung in the air above the mountains. Even with the windows closed, I sneezed as I sat up in bed. Tom had already departed, but he'd left a note with an iced cappuccino on my night table, and included the term
teensy-weensy
. I sipped the luscious coffee and prayed for Father Pete, then moved through my yoga routine. My thigh still ached, and my shoulder tingled with pain. The bathroom mirror revealed that the bruises on my neck had diminished only slightly. I didn't bother with concealing makeup but I
did
allow myself an extra shot of caffeine to compensate.

Arch called the house line early. He, Gus, and Sergeant Jones were on their way out to the Pails for Trails site, but he'd forgotten to tell me that Bob Rushwood was going to take pictures of the guys—the trail builders—that day, to make into the annual school-year calendar the charity sold. Was that okay? He was supposed to get a permission slip signed, but had forgotten about it. He was wondering if Gus's grandparents could sign his.

“Could you put Sergeant Jones on the line, please?”

“Mom.”
But he handed the phone over.

“Jones,” came the clipped voice.

“Sergeant,” I said carefully, “I don't want my son to know what we're actually talking about.”

“Should I call you from my car?”

“Don't think that's necessary. Just act as if I'm giving you permission to sign that slip Arch has.”

“Go ahead.”

“Last night, I catered a party where Bob Rushwood was a guest. It didn't end well.”

“I'm listening,” she said, her voice deadpan.

I gave her a quick rundown on Bob and Ophelia's breakup. I told her about Bob's spying on Ophelia and his seeing me introduce her to Brewster Motley.

“The main thing I'm worried about,” I concluded, “is that Bob was apoplectic with rage last night, and so I was hoping you would keep Arch as close to you as possible today. This is just in case Bob does indeed blame me, and he extends that blame to my son.”

“Done,” she said. “Anything else?”

“That's plenty. Thank you.”

I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the note Tom had left for me, sweetly warning me again not to harass Yurbin. If I had Boyd and Marla with me, though, how dangerous could Yurbin be? It didn't matter that he had a lawyer. Did it?