The Whole Enchilada (9 page)

“What?” I said, panting.

“That was Doreen Smythe. She told me she and her husband had terrible nightmares. More like hallucinations. They ate chips and guacamole, tamale pie, torta, enchiladas, and cake. They drank wine. Their son ate chips and guacamole, then arroz con pollo, and cake. He had no problems.” I shook my head, confused. Tom jotted in his notebook, then observed me trying to get dressed. “Miss G.,” he said, “let me help you with that.” He gingerly pulled up the right leg of my biggest sweatpants, then my bandaged left leg. “Since their son didn't have any trouble, Doreen thinks their drinks at the party might have been spiked with a hallucinogen.”

“We had beer, wine, and soft drinks.”

“Doesn't mean it couldn't happen. People can pour stuff into plastic cups just as easily as anything else.”

I thought about this, and envisioned the line of plastic cups in Marla's kitchen. The reason she hadn't wanted anyone to go outside with bottles was in case one broke and a barefoot kid stepped on the glass. I already knew why she hadn't bought canned beer: she thought it tasted funny.

Tom told me his guys had completed the canvass of Marla's neighborhood, with nothing to report. Now they were at work over near Holly's rental, to see if anyone had noticed somebody sawing out a load-bearing beam under the deck. So far, two people had reported observing what looked like a tallish person, a man, they thought, wearing a uniform and a cap. He was working under the big deck the previous day. They'd guessed the guy was a window washer.

“With a saw.”

“What are you planning on doing today?” Tom asked, a note of warning in his voice.

“Tom, it's just past six o'clock, and I have a bum leg. I have no idea what I'm doing today.”

“No cooking,” he warned.

“Okay! No cooking! I'll talk on the telephone and see if I can find those Amour Anonymous notes, how about that?”

He eyed me warily. “Listen to me. If the department is treating this as a homicide, then that means there is a killer out there. Do you understand what I'm saying?” When I nodded, he went on: “When you talk to people? You reveal nothing, no matter how much you trust that person.”

“Marla?”

“Okay, you can talk to Marla. Make sure she knows to keep her mouth shut, though. Ditto Julian.”

“All
right,
” I said. I wished Tom luck. Breaks in a case usually came fast right after a crime, and Tom had a crack team.

But if I couldn't reveal anything, and had a bum leg to boot, what could
I
do?

I desperately wanted to find out what had happened to my dear old friend. I also needed to know why I'd taken that plunge into the lake.

Okay, I would talk on the telephone. I would scour the Amour Anonymous notes. But, somehow . . .

“Miss G.?” Tom asked mildly. “Holly was your friend, and no matter what I say, now you want to go talk to people, right?”

I sighed. “I suppose so.”

“You can go places, and you can talk. You can ask questions of people you know. I figured you would want to, but Sergeant Boyd is going to accompany you on every venture out of this house. I know you so well, I already called him. He agreed, and now he's outside waiting.”

“I don't want his presence to intimidate people—” I began.

“Oh, no?” Tom replied, his eyebrows raised. “I don't want you dead. You can get Marla to drive you. But Boyd is accompanying you, wherever it is you plan to go. Got it?”

9

I
let out a resigned sigh and agreed. I didn't even know exactly what I was going to do yet, but I knew that the only way to lift the psychic pain from my shoulders was to do
something
. Anything. Tom took off. I did as many yoga stretches as my banged-up body would allow, then limped down to the kitchen. Julian was already there, dousing his espresso with sugar.

“I suppose that phone call woke you up,” he said, his voice full of sympathy. “Me, too.”

“Arch?”

“Slumbering deeply,” Julian replied. “Which is good. I know he was worried sick about you.”

“I'm glad he's asleep.” I went to the front door and waved to Boyd, who signaled back. Apparently, he didn't want to leave his patrol car, which was running. Back in front of my espresso machine, I asked Julian, “Did you have any weird dreams? The woman who called said she and her husband did, and they were like hallucinations.”

He frowned. “Hmm. No. Did you? I mean, if you did, it would be only natural . . .” He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he drained his coffee, fired up the countertop computer, and scrolled through screens until he brought up the menu for the church dinner. He perused it, then set off for the walk-in.

I said, “You can't be serious about cooking now.”

“I'm totally serious. I'm awake, aren't I? We have an event tomorrow night, don't we? My boss has a banged-up leg, doesn't she? No time like the present to get going with prep.” He pulled out bags of frozen jumbo shrimp.

“That's
prep
?”

“I'm going to change your menu a little bit.”

I groaned. “Father Pete wants people to give to the church. Please don't make anything weird.”

Julian gave me a blank look. “Forget it. I'm making Weird Shrimp.” He paused, then said, “Just kidding.”

I shook my head, put together my own quadruple espresso with cream, plunked in ice cubes, and snagged my cell. On our front porch, I waved again to Boyd, who nodded.

Cool, sweet early morning mountain air moved languidly through the brilliant pink blossoms of my hanging ivy geranium. I drank some of the iced coffee and stared at the cell phone. Would Marla mind if I called so early? Probably not, if the call contained gossip.

“Oh, dear,” Marla said. “My poor dishwater hands can barely pick up this phone. And my best friend, who promised to call me back last night, neglected to make said call, even though she
knew
I would need to talk to her. So I am not in a wonderful mood.”

“This early in the morning? You're never in a wonderful mood. If you promise you'll keep this confidential—”

“Oh, you take out all the fun.”

“—then I can tell you what happened last night.”

“All
right
.”

“I was lured off the deck at Holly's rental.”

“Lured?” Marla's voice was suddenly sharp. “Okay, I'm getting up. Wait a minute. After what happened here, with Holly?” She paused to blow her nose. “Oh, man, this pollen . . . I keep thinking about . . . you were
lured
? What is going on?”

“Somebody set a trap by removing the supports to the upper deck at her rental. There was a message at the far end of the deck. I think it was meant for Drew, but it could have been intended for Holly, if the first chance at killing her didn't succeed.”

“So Tom is thinking homicide?” Marla said, disbelief audible in her voice.

“First of all, have you heard anything, even the tiniest murmur, about Holly and Drew fighting recently?”

“Well,” she said tentatively, “I
did
hear that they were having disagreements, but only typical teen issues, especially when there's been a divorce. ‘I need money and you're not giving it to me.' Also, I heard he wanted to spend more time with George, and Holly was opposed.”

“And you gleaned this information where?”

There was a silence. “From Warren Broome,” she said finally. “I think. At the party? He came over and asked me a question about the enchiladas. I think I told him to go ask you. Did he?”

“No.”

“I'm so tired, Goldy, and the whole thing with Holly . . . I just don't recall. But tell me why they think Holly was killed, as opposed to having a heart attack.”

“Wait. First, do you have leftovers from the dinner? The sheriff's department might want them, to analyze.”

“No,” she wailed. “I ground up everything in the disposal.”

“Don't worry about it,” I said, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. “I'll give you all the pertinent facts when you come get me. I got scraped up when I hit the lake bottom,” I explained. “I don't trust myself to drive. Also, we're going to have a police escort, wherever we go.”

“Don't tell me. Boyd.”

“You got it.”

“So Tom doesn't trust you.”

“Nope.”

“Oh, what else is new?” She added, “Maybe he's trying to keep you safe.”

“Yeah, yeah, that's what he said.”

“I'll be there ASAP. But you better make me some of that iced coffee with cream. I know what you're drinking. And oh, do I need it. I had the worst nightmares last night.”

“Wait. You had nightmares?”

“Yeah. The kind that are vivid, horrible, and in full color.”

“What did you have to eat and drink last night?”

“Um . . . why?”

“Because you're not alone. The Smythes also had hallucination-type nightmares.”

“Okay, let's see . . . I had guacamole, no chips, pollo, no arroz, one teensy-weensy enchilada, and chile relleno torta.”

I swallowed. “Did you see anyone tinkering with the drinks or food?”

“Goldy,
everyone
was tinkering with the drinks and food. But I don't remember anything suspicious. If something occurs to me, I'll tell you when I get there.”

I thanked her and signed off. I drank my coffee and thought again of the plastic cups lined up on Marla's island the night before. I had not seen anything already poured into the cups. Still, I went inside and started a new file on the computer. So far, three people had reported having nightmares: Marla and the Smythe parents.

When Marla pulled up twenty minutes later—a record—she was driving her new white Mercedes SUV. She'd said she'd bought the car because she wanted to plow through our big snowstorms in style. I had asked Boyd if he wanted anything to eat or drink, and he told me he was fine. When I informed him a bit later that we'd be heading out soon, and where we were going, he said that was fine, too.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, handing Marla the iced coffee. “I brought you fontina,” I added, and placed wrapped pieces of cheese between us. “I didn't think you'd have time to eat.”

“Thanks. No, I didn't. You're the best.” She glanced at her dashboard clock. “But where do you want to go at this hour, on a Saturday?”

I'd been thinking about this. “I want to tell you where I want to go second before where I want to go first.”

Marla bit into the fontina. “I'm listening.”

“All right, then, the second people I want to talk to are the Inglebys. Things didn't end well last night with them.” I patted a basket I'd brought into the car. “Edith loves my blueberry muffins, and I had some frozen. While we're talking to Bob and Ophelia, they can be thawing.”

“Bob and Ophelia?”

“You remember that Bob Rushwood is the trainer at Aspen Meadow Country Club? After I talked to you, I called over to their new fitness facility. Boyd is going to follow us there.”

Marla revved the big car's engine and screeched away from the curb. “Go on.”

“Bob has one client at this hour: Ophelia. She didn't seem like the athletic type, so I doubt she'll mind us interrupting her. Anyway, Bob was doing CPR on Holly right after she collapsed. I want to know how she seemed. Was she conscious? Was she having a hallucination? That kind of thing.”

Marla raised her eyebrows. “You don't think Tom's guys have already talked to him?”

“I'm sure they did. But they didn't have clients calling early this morning saying they had nightmares and hallucinations after ingesting something questionable.”

“Ah.”

“Okay. Now a question for you: did you ever see Holly at Aspen Meadow Country Club?”

“Yes. But not recently. That doesn't mean anything.”

I ignored this. “Holly was a fitness fanatic who, according to Drew, hated doctors. I've never seen her at the rec, or that much more downscale place, Aspen Meadow Fitness.
And
Holly belonged to the country club, or she used to, back when she had money. So . . . did she work out there, do you think?”

Marla said, “Goldy, I am the last person who would know this. Even after losing all this weight, I wouldn't be caught dead in the club's new fitness facility.” She shuddered. “Skinny people with money, working out with their headphones on? How am I supposed to get gossip from
them
? I have a treadmill at home. Also hand weights, which I look at from time to time.”

“Okay, but I was thinking—”

“Always a dangerous undertaking.”

“Holly's doctor is in Hawaii somewhere, out of cell-phone range. So if anyone would be likely to know whether she had
other
health issues, wouldn't it be Bob Rushwood? Or somebody else there at the club? You'll have to get Boyd and me in, though.”

“Goldy, I don't
want
to. Those jocks at the club will
judge
me.”

“You've never been
in
their new fitness facility. And you've just lost a bunch of weight! How can the athletes criticize you, if they don't recognize you?”

“Oh, all right. Plus, maybe one of them will be cute.”

On the way to AMCC, I filled Marla in on my visit to Holly's, along with Tom's investigation so far. I reminded her everything had to be secret, and that we were to reveal nothing and trust nobody. I'd remembered the uninvited stranger was an artist. Had he not looked familiar to her? I asked. She said no.

“My sources did come up with something,” she said as she zoomed along. “Ophelia's father, Neil Unger? He won't pay for her to go to college. He's only given her money for clothes shopping for the past two years. No money for tuition.”

I thought of über-wealthy Neil Unger banging around my kitchen on Thursday, and trying to clean up America through his organization, The Guild. Now, back in medieval and Renaissance days, guilds had been good things, bringing together carpenters and stone masons and other folks engaged in the same professions. Guilds were the precursors of unions, and I'd often wondered if there was a caterers' guild.

But those weren't the kind of organizations Neil Unger had in mind. This spring, he had paid me to do a dinner for The Guild at my conference center. Even though I'd been well compensated, even though it had led Neil to contract me for Ophelia's party, his speech after the dinner had left me feeling queasy. He spoke disarmingly to an enthusiastic, all-white, all-male group about what he called “those people.” And who were those people, exactly? By the end of the evening, I had concluded only that they were crooks. What they were doing or stealing was never clear to me.

Marla said, “Goldy? Hello?”

I said, “Sorry. My train of thought derailed. Why won't Neil pay for Ophelia's college tuition? He thinks college professors are crooks?”

“No, my sources say he's punishing her. It had something to do with the former fiancé being a crook.”

“Neil is big on crooks.”

Marla waved this away. “At the country club, he announced on numerous occasions that if his daughter couldn't figure out the man she was going to marry was a thief, then clearly she wasn't college material. According to Neil, his daughter concurs in the not-being-smart-enough assessment.”

I said, “But you're not sure she actually agrees with him?”

“Does Ophelia seem like the stupid sort to you?”

“No,” I admitted. “But actually, I've never heard her say much. She averts her eyes whenever she sees me. And maybe she's not the intellectual sort, but with all that money for clothes her father gives her, you'd think she could dress like she wasn't an escapee from the fifties. Clearly, her father's mind-set is stuck back there.”

“Overbearing men with money,” Marla said. “I think they're in every decade.”

But speaking of the fifties, I was pretty sure that was when Aspen Meadow Country Club had been built. Never updated, its main building, with its stone-and-wood façade, always put me more in mind of a deluxe Holiday Inn than a country club. There was a neon-green golf course, kept pristine in our arid climate by sprinklers that were now swishing arcs of water in rhythmic circles. Only a few cars dotted the parking lot, which was no surprise. Who wanted to jump out of bed early on a gorgeous Colorado Saturday morning, and hightail it to an
indoor
place to run?

Five people, to be exact. When we entered the dungeonlike facility, Bob was working with Ophelia on what looked like a Tower of London torture machine. There were only three other people in the gym, two of whom were white-haired gents who looked as if they were retired. Those two, who were nearest to us, raised their eyes admiringly to Marla. She ignored them. The men were walking on treadmills, which, like the early-Saturday workout phenomenon, was another thing I didn't understand. Okay, Marla walked on a treadmill, but her neighborhood was hilly, and she had had a heart attack. With our state so lovely and leafy in summertime, why would these men walk on treadmills in a windowless, neon-lit, mirrored room that still smelled like its newly installed carpet?

As Boyd, Marla, and I paced carefully toward Bob and Ophelia, I reflected that there were a lot of things about Colorado's health obsession that I didn't understand. That was why it was the fittest state in the nation, and I was the one supplying the butter and cream.