Double Shot (17 page)

“I made brioche yesterday and was just heating some up,” Holly said, her friendly, sun-aged face smiling. Her petite frame was clad in a gray sweatsuit that matched her short, bouncy gray hair. “Are you hungry? I never eat before class and am always famished afterward. I was jut make a late lunch.”
“Sounds divine.”
I followed Holly as her tiny gym shoes bounced forward over plush, burgundy-patterned wool rugs. She and Albert had “picked some up in Saudi Arabia,” she’d told me offhandedly the last time I’d visited. After the inheritance came through, it seemed Albert and Holly had made numerous jaunts throughout the Middle East, picking up “stuff,” as Holly called it. The “stuff” had been in boxes when I’d visited before, but now it was everywhere. And I do mean everywhere.
Tapestries and artwork bedecked the wood-and-rock walls. Holly had arrayed ivory and wooden knickknacks over a dizzying number of wooden shelves. Afghans and coverlets spilled off leather couches, leather chairs, even leather ottomans that traversed the huge living room like a line of tugboats. The artwork, I noticed as Holly began banging around in the kitchen, consisted mainly of nineteenth-century prints, hammered gold-and-pearl jewelry, and antique china plates. Holly had shown me one of her own craft pieces on my first visit, an intricate weaving involving silk knots, pearls, and gold beads. I’d never seen anything like it in any macramé class, that was certain. Now there were at least a dozen of these bejeweled masterpieces hanging on the walls. Holly had told me that without kids or work, she’d had lots of time for craft work. No kidding.
After a mile hike on an empty stomach, I didn’t want to look at artwork. I joined Holly in her pale yellow kitchen, where high walls, maple cabinets, and gold-streaked granite counters were mercifully free of ornament. While Holly prepared plates of warmed brioche rolls, shrimp salad, and tomatoes vinaigrette — ah, how I loved it when somebody else prepared food for me! — I washed my hands.
“Marla hired a driver to bring me up here,” I said, accepting a towel from Holly. “Any chance I could take him some food?”
“Of course.”
“And something else,” I said as I placed an envelope on her counter. “Here’s your check back from yesterday. I’m not cashing it, since we didn’t have the menu you ordered.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Holly exclaimed. “Now eat your salad!”
I shrugged and dug into the salad she placed in front of me. It featured fat, succulent shrimp combined with fresh dill, diced celery, scallions, and artichoke hearts, all wrapped in a velvety homemade mayonnaise, salmonella be damned. The light, feathery brioche rolls, their centers folded around a smear of orange marmalade, were a perfect accompaniment. After I’d polished off a second helping of salad, two more rolls, and several glasses of iced tea with embarrassing quickness, Holly cleared our plates and waved away my thanks. She disappeared from the kitchen, then returned with a clipped packet of papers, which she handed to me.
“Here are the copies of the guest-book pages. Most of the people I invited were folks from Albert’s doctoring days, when he and Ted Vikarios were co-department heads at Southwest Hospital. I was surprised by how many people came, really.”
I nodded. How could I ask her about a long-ago falling-out between Albert and Ted without seeming rude? “You were able to get in touch with a lot of people,” I commented.
Holly smiled. “When you have nothing to do in a hot Arab country where you can’t even go out, you do tend to write a lot of letters. You remember the old hierarchy in teaching hospitals, Goldy. Department heads, attending physicians, fellows, residents, interns. And of course there were the charge nurses, any students I had addresses for, plus some of Albert’s patients who’ve kept in touch over the years. I invited them all.”
I frowned at the sheets. There were Lana Della Robbia, Courtney MacEwan, Ted and Ginger Vikarios. Nan Watkins, R.M., Dr. John Richard Korman, Marla Korman. No Bobby Calhoun. Had I registered an Elvis impersonator lurking at the edges of the lunch? I didn’t remember.
I riffled through the pages. If the key to who had killed John Richard was there, it was not readily apparent. I folded the papers, tucked them into my bag, and resolved to look at them when my head was clear.
“Before you leave, Goldy, I want to show you something. You’re doing Nan Watkins’s retirement picnic tomorrow afternoon, right?”
If I can mange, I thought, but said only, “Yes. You’re coming aren’t you?”
“Nan was always a great help to Albert. I found an album you might like to borrow. It has some photos you might enjoy. Med wives never throw anything away, right?” She disappeared for a moment, then returned with a thick volume sporting a faded, hand-quilted cover. “Have a look.”
I flipped open to an early page. “You weren’t just a med wife, were you? In his eulogy, Ted mentioned that you were a nurse.”
She stopped beside one of the tables and gave me a bright smile. “Not a real nurse. Albert was an only child. His parents were disappointed, since they’d wanted lots of kids to help with the farm. They were also Christian Scientists. Remember what John Richard used to say?” Holly managed a tight smile. “Christian Science was neither Christian nor scientific.”
I closed my eyes. The Jerk and his insults. May he not rest in peace.
“And so you nursed him?” I asked.
“You could say that.” Holly opened a cupboard and pulled out a plate containing, to my surprise, half of one of the flourless chocolate cakes from the previous day’s funeral lunch. “According to your friend Julian, this was all that was left after the guests departed. Care for a piece?” I again thought guiltily of my driver. “Don’t worry,” Holly said brightly, “I’ll pack some for your driver.”
“Great. Thanks.”
She cut each of slices, then sat back down. “The Kerrs didn’t get immunizations, wouldn’t see a doctor. One time when they came into town for supplies, they caught a harsh influenza virus. Albert’s parents were both dead within a month.”
“That’s terrible.” I flicked a glance around the kitchen, hoping for a coffee machine. “How old was he?”
Holly turned to a page of photos. “Thirteen. Here he is when he came to live with our family.” I looked at a tall, earnest-looking boy clad in farm clothes. “He had to come to school with me, and he immediately got sick.” She pointed to another picture, this one of Albert sitting up in bed, smiling, with spots covering his face.
“He got chicken pox and roseola,” Holly said. “Measles. Mumps. He would have died, he used to say, if I hadn’t taken care of him. It was a story he loved to tell,” Holly said, a quiver in her voice.
“You probably saved his life.”
She lifted her chin. “I brought homework and homemade chicken soup and we fell in love along the way. He had money from the sale of his farm, plus loans and scholarships, to get him through college and medical school.” She closed the book. “Payback to his parents, I guess you’d say. Albert became a medical doctor and an Episcopalian, and got a flu shot every year.”
I tried to reach for a cliché about things coming full circle, or something along those lines, but what I really wanted was to delve into the conflict between her and her husband and her the Vikarioses. Could the food sabotage and resulting assault on me have been a product of that feud? I had gotten in the way, and so, somehow, John Richard had, too? I wondered. I was worried about my limo driver, but I needed, somehow, to keep Holly talking. I said, “I didn’t know him, Albert, too well when he turned to religion.”
“You were busy with Arch. He was just a newborn, and John Richard was at the hospital all the time, along with Albert and . . . and Ted.” Her voice caught. “Oh, Goldy!” Pressing her lips together, she turned away. I moved quickly to her side and folded her in a hug. Maybe it had been a bad idea to come over here for something as trivial as a guest list. And there was no way I’d hear about any conflict between Albert and Ted Vikarios now, with Holly getting upset so easily. I felt like a complete heel.
“I’m sorry,” I soothed. “I apologize for coming over, truly. Dear Holly.”
“No, it’s all right.” She cleared her throat. “Going through the photographs for Nan’s retirement brought it all back.” Her blue eyes were full of tenderness. “Imagine Ginger’s and my surprise to see Arch all grown up! And so handsome, just like his fa — Oh God.” Her voice cracked, but she held on. “He must need, you must need . . . “
“I’m fine, Holly, really.” Ginger’s and my surprise? So whatever conflict they’d had had been patched up, and now they were pals, talking about Arch and the old times? I hesitated. “Do you want me to call someone from the church to come over here to be with you?”
“No, thanks. I’m all right. You’re very dear to stay with me for a bit and share a meal.” She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. “I suppose I’m just not looking forward to talking to the detectives.”
That made two of us. If the cops saw me, they’d want to know the reason for my visit. Still, I was reluctant to leave Holly when she was not doing well emotionally.
“Let me fix that food for your driver,” she said, suddenly decisive. Clearly, she didn’t want me to feel sorry for her. She organized plastic containers and filled them. “Be sure to check the photos in there from Southwest Hospital. There are some from when Arch was born. Don’t you remember, when John Richard passed out bubblegum cigars? You were both so happy.”
“I’ll . . . look at them.” I struggled for more words, but couldn’t find any.
Within five minutes, I was toting a bag bulging with containers of shrimp salad, rolls, and cake. I thanked Holly and promised we’d chat more at Nana’s picnic. I did not add, If I’m not arrested first. She reminded me that she’d be seeing me at the tree-planting fundraising breakfast the next morning. The committee had surprised her with an invitation to join! She seemed happy about this, and didn’t seem to realize that fund-raising groups almost always beg wealthy folks to be a part of their efforts. Still, mention of the committee breakfast only reminded me of how much work I still had to do. I forced a smile to match hers and hightailed it out of there.
The chauffeur was puffing on a cigarette, stomping from foot to foot, and hollering into a cell phone that it was three hours past his lunch break and he was out in the middle of the wilderness and he was so starved he was ready to shoot an elk and eat it raw! At that very moment, apparently, his connection was lost, and he hurled the phone into the forest. Fortunately, there were no elk passing by that he could have hit. I sidled up to him and handed him the food. Then I settled myself in the backseat while he dug in, grunted, chewed and moaned until he’d polished off the whole thing.
Within moments, the limo was banging and shuddering back down the dirt road. I felt a sudden wave of exhaustion. I remembered being on the Jersey shore as a kid, when the occasional huge breaker would knock me over and grind my face in the sand. I blinked at my watch: Could it really be 1:30? I had two events to prep, a list of guests to investigate, and a body still aching from the assault. I closed my eyes. But not for long.
My fingers were inexorably drawn to Holly’s photo album. I had to see the pictures. I had to face those memories before going through them with Arch.
I came to a page labeled “Arrival of Archibald Korman!” Eight photos were arranged on facing pages. There was John Richard, as handsome as ever, and youthful looking, too, without the strain that had crept into his face over the years. And me! Had I even been that young? My face did look weary, but my hair fifteen years ago had been quite a bit bouncier and, alas, blonder. Arch, a tiny bundle, was being held up to the camera by a pretty, uniformed girl, who was also beaming. Was she a candy stripper? Oh yes, wait. She was Talitha Vikarios, daughter of Ted and Ginger. I barely remembered her.
John Richard, clutching a fistful of blue bubblegum cigars, wore a T-shirt given to him by Drs. Kerr and Vikarios. In capital letters, the T-shirt screamed “PROUD PAPA.” Albert Kerr and Ted Vikarios, beaming in the background, looked as happy as if they, too had just had little boys.
Arch, with his little wizened face and tiny wrapped body, seemed to be giving a puzzled look to the camera. I held the photo closer. Pretty Talitha Vikarios, her candy-strip uniform setting off her rosy cheeks, clutched the sides of Arch’s baby blanket. I opened my eyes and took in John Richard’s tanned face and arms, how they contrasted with the white T-shirt. I looked closely at Arch. His eyes had been blue then, before they’d turned brown and needed glasses. Was I just reading a look of intense worry on my son’s infant face, of had he seen disaster coming?
I shifted on the leather seat, trying to get comfortable. Spending an hour with Holly Kerr had been too much. The bumps in the road, the shrimp salad and cake, the bleeding bald guy outside the strip club, the strip club itself; they had all been too much. And now these photos. Our beautiful family. Right.
I looked at the last snapshot. Arch, John Richard, yours truly.
What’s wrong with this picture?
I closed the photo album. I shut my eyes, lay my head back on the seat, and let the tears slide down.
<12>
Half an hour later, the long silver car slid slowly down Main Street. I looked out the window and tried to pull myself together. The plastic flowers in their hanging baskets shook in the fresh, dusty breeze. Tourists bunched and drifted along the sidewalks. The licked ice-cream cones, chewed taffy, and munched on popcorn from paper bags. Out of nostalgic habit, I glanced at Town Taffy, where Arch had pressed his nose against the glass on many a summer afternoon. The subject of his fascination had been the taffy machine’s arms as they stretched and pulled impossibly long strands of bright pink, green, blue, and white candy.
And there he was. Arch was once again standing in front of Town Taffy, his eyes fixed on the mechanical arms moving around and around with their thick ribbons of candy.
What was the matter with me? How bad a bump on the head had I gotten at the Roundhouse?
“Mister!” I called to my driver, regretting that I didn’t know his name. “Do you see a kid, there, a kid!” Unable to describe what I was sure was a phantom, I pressed down the window button. “Hey, Arch!” I screamed. “Arch, over here, in the limo!”
“Lady, do you want me to pull over?”
I watched as the kid, Arch, or whoever he was, moseyed off down the sidewalk, where he met up with an older, dark-haired man whom I could see only from the back. They were absorbed into a group of tourists who were heading up toward the lake.