Double Shot (23 page)

I almost choked on a biscuit. “Don’t tell me you got through to the coroner.”
“Yup, and not only her. It wasn’t a busy week, and the autopsy’s done. John Richard was killed between one and three P.M. He was shot two times at close range. In the chest and in the genitals.”
The espresso, biscuit, and bacon made a sudden turn in my stomach.
“Strange thing is,” Tom went one, “whoever killed him cut off a big chunk of his hair. Like a scalping.”
“A scalping?”
Tom chewed thoughtfully. “Well, not exactly. More like, I want a chunk of this blond hair as a souvenir.”
Deep breaths, I told myself. I looked outside, where bright sunlight was coaxing dandelion pods to release their seeds. As if on cue, thousands of tiny white fluffs floated toward the sky. They’re like aliens, Arch used to say when he was little, all being launched at once. Another time, he’d said, It’s snowing up. But the tiny, featherlike seeds always eventually floated back down, a gentle precipitation that accumulated in roads, piled up in ditches, and rolled like dustballs down our dry hills.
“Miss G.?” Tom’s voice seemed far away. “Do you not want me to talk about the autopsy anymore? I mean, not at breakfast?”
I met his green eyes. “I’m not sure. Thanks for the delicious food, though. It’ll help me survive my events today.”
“You know,” Tom said as he rinsed the dishes and gave me sidelong glances, wanting to make sure I was all right, “they do have good people working on this case.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s their job, Goldy. They’re not in it for the right or wrong of it. The morality part. All they do is law enforcement. Catch a killer and preserve evidence so that justice can be done — that is, so that a conviction of murder will hold up.”
“Yes, yes, I understand.”
”Okay. That guy you and Marla discovered on her hood? He’s fine. Had a bloody nose, a few bruises. They nabbed that guy Bobby Calhoun, and asked him a bunch of questions, but he denies everything. They can’t make him get his Elvis getup on for a lineup.”
“That figures.”
Tom shrugged. “They had to let him go. He’s a volunteer fireman, and the Aspen Meadow Fire Department is fighting a new fire in Black Mountain Canyon, right next to the preserve. They beeped him several times while he was being questioned. Meanwhile, the bald guy we think he beat up has been released from the hospital and is home with a big bandage on his nose.”
“Thanks for the update. Do you know what they found out about Courtney MacEwan? Did she have an alibi for the time John Richard was shot?”
Tom tilted his head thoughtfully. “Supposedly, around one she was unloading cupcakes for that bake sale. She was in and out until three, according to the lady manning the cash box, who admitted she was too busy to be able to account for Courtney’s every minute.”
“Hmm. Think I could or should talk to her?”
“No, Goldy. I believe if you say a single word to Courtney MacEwan, those hostile detectives will try to get the two of you on conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Come on.”
“Conspiracy after the fact, then.”
“Oh, wonderful.”
Tom finished the dishes in silence and announced that he was going up to get Arch moving. I nodded and brought up my “Nan Watkins Retirement Picnic Prep” file. First I put water on to boil for the pasta that would form the base for the picnic salad. The salad, light and delicate on the tongue, had to be freshly made. Next I hauled out a mountain of cherry tomatoes, rinsed and dried them, and began slicing them in half. When was the last time I’d had my knives sharpened? I tried to remember. Careful, I told myself be very careful. It was important for caterers to keep all their knives extremely sharp. It was the dull ones that were dangerous.
Dull knives, sharp knives. Neither one had shorn John Richard’s hair. But who had, and why?
The juicy, ripe tomatoes fell into neat halves as I sliced. I didn’t know who or why, but I could guess as to when. Whoever had stolen the thirty-eight from my van had also nabbed the kitchen shears. Within the next couple of hours, the thief had shot John Richard in the heart and the groin and used
 
my scissors to lop off a chunk of his blond hair. And of course, I’d seen something out of place on John Richard’s scalp, I just had not registered it. Something had been strange about his dead body, and the butchered hair was it.
Cherry tomato, slice in half. Tomato, slice. Tomato, slice.
Okay, why? Why would a killer keep a chunk of hair as a souvenir? Had the FBI profiled hair-collecting killers? I knew fans and friends of Beethoven had surreptitiously lopped off chunks of his hair after he died. But presumably, that was because they admired him.
Upstairs, shower water began running. Would Arch find out this horrid detail? I certainly hoped not. I sighed and kept on working.
John Richard had always been very proud of his hair. In fact, the way he felt about his hair brought to mind that biblical term vain-glorious, a particular favorite of my Sunday-school class. What did it mean to be vainglorious about your hair? Well, you could use it to great advantage when seducing members of the opposite sex. (Of course, I didn’t talk to the Sunday-school class about that. But they’d guessed what Jezebel was up to.)
I wished Tom had told me exactly where on John Richard’s head this chunk of hair had been cut. Maybe our killer just wanted him to look unattractive in death. Closed casket, that kind of thing.
I shook my head and finished the tomatoes. Then I rinsed the cilantro, patted it dry, and spread it out on the cutting board where it looked like green strands of . . .
John Richard had always demanded that his gorgeous blond hair be cut just so: He’d have the stylist snip and rework his bangs until they were perfectly cantilevered over his forehead. While leaning toward a woman to ask, “So are you new to this hospital, “ or to offer some confidential endearment, he would run one or both hands through his blond hair. The women had swooned.
I had to stop thinking about this. My knife guillotined the cilantro. Soon I’d made a deliciously scented piled of teensy-weensy green bits. I drained the pasta and set it aside to cool, then chopped fragrant scallions and crunchy daikon. I popped one of the leftover cherry tomatoes into my mouth, and was rewarded with sweet juice, firm texture, and eye-rolling lusciousness. I whisked together fruity olive oil, tangy red-wine vinegar, and Dijon mustard, then set all the salad ingredients aside to wait for the pasta to cool.
I switched gears to the committee breakfast and began packing up those boxes. Because Sergeant Boyd would be there to guard me as well as help. I had told Liz to take the morning off. Julian was going to be with Arch. My two staffers would be working the picnic, though, and for that I was grateful.
The pasta was finally cool, so I gently mixed the salad together and set the whole thing in the walk-in. It was almost seven o’clock. Time to pack up the van and get cracking. After I loaded the last box, I took four ibuprofen. Then I waved to Julian, who was chugging up our street in his inherited Range Rover. I was so glad he would be with Arch and Tom today. I revved the van and headed toward the lake, where I passed a trio of boys casting their lines into the sparkling water. I wished I was with them. In fact, I’d rather be anywhere than catering to the most forbidding group of women in Aspen Meadow.
   
* * *
A transformation had taken place at the Roundhouse. To my great surprise, a team of workers from Front Range Rental had already shown up, and was putting up the large tent that would be the site for Nan Watkins’s retirement picnic. And I felt secure from early morning attackers, because Sergeant Boyd had already arrived, and he would stay with me to help as well as guard me. The enormous mirrored sidelights of Boyd’s dark sedan shone like beacons in the early morning sunlight. Those lights, and the ominous low-slung sedan itself, seemed to holler Back off! I’m an unmarked police car. And as if that wasn’t enough to deter any would-be assailant, a deputy in a sheriff’s department black-and-white had pulled up next to Boyd, in that way cops do when they’re having an important conference on the highway. Even I was intimidated, and I was just the caterer.
Boyd stopped conversing long enough to hand me the keys to my newly secured domain. I walked around to the side of the Roundhouse. The security cage Tom had had installed around the compressors was truly impressive: A cub of chain-link fencing, secured by a large padlock, gleamed in the sunshine. The awe-inspiring new back door, made of solid oak and sporting two locks, looked equally impregnable. My sore body, two days after the attack, was healing; my soul was thankful for such a great husband.
“See you, Boyd,” called the deputy before he roared off.
“Let’s rock!” I said to Boyd. And we took off for the club.
We parked near the service entry and hopped out of our vehicles. Not far away, the plonk-plonk of tennis balls had already started up. Ambitious Colorado players lost no time getting to outdoor courts, once the snow melted. I wondered if I would see Courtney.
To my dismay, a white Furman County van occupied a space near ours. Not Roger Mannis, I prayed. But I couldn’t be too careful.
“Sergeant,” I murmured to Boyd. “There’s a certain man I’m trying to avoid . . .” I described Mannis and his secretive tactics, and how much I needed him not to be allowed into the committee meeting.
Ever amiable. Boyd used his carrotlike fingers to smooth the wrinkles out of his white polo shirt and black trousers. “I’ve got it covered, Goldy. Any guy tries to get into the women’s meeting, I’ll demand ID. I turn up a guy named Mannis, I’ll pull rank on him and send him packing.” He nodded emphatically, and I gave him a quick hug. Boyd looked and felt as if he’d gained about twenty pounds since the last time I’d seen him. As I flung open the van doors, I wondered if he could still pass the rigorous physical regimen that was part of the department’s yearly accreditation program. Still, he looked extremely pleased with himself, weight gain or no.
“Tell me what you need me to do, Madame Caterer!”
I smiled and handed him a box. I automatically headed for the kitchen entry, with the sergeant at my heels. By seven-fifteen, and with no sign of Mannis, we had carried in all our boxes. The club didn’t serve breakfast, so we had the kitchen to ourselves. In the wood-paneled private dining room, Boyd and I pushed together two tables to make one long one for twelve.
“Now,” Boyd announced, “I have a couple of surprises for you from Tom.”
“What?”
“This is why we’re called undercover cops,” Boyd announced as he pulled a wrapped package from beneath his shirt. No wonder he’d looked heavier, he’d been hiding a bulky something . . . . The bundle contained, joy of joys, a new white Battenberg lace tablecloth. We unfurled it across the dark tables. It looked stunning.
Without the hidden tablecloth to slow him down, a greatly slimmed Boyd could move much more quickly. He trotted to his sedan and returned, holding a breathtaking floral centerpiece. There was simply no way that the wealthy-but-penny-pinching ladies of the tree-planting committee had ordered this fanciful arrangement, an abundance of spring flowers ingeniously set into the length of an aspen log. This second gift from tom, Boyd explained, was meant to add a thematic touch to the breakfast.
“He knew you had some flowers at the house, but he thought you needed another arrangement,” Boyd commented in his usual laconic way as he carefully placed the flower-filled log in the center of the table. “Silverware next.” He about-faced and headed for the kitchen. I stared at the table.
Tom. I pulled out a chair and sat down. Oh, God, Tom.
Back when John Richard and I were engaged, and my mother finally met the ultrahandsome, ultracharming doctor-to-be, she’d trembled with excitement. She’d asked, “What does he see in you?” I hadn’t quite known how to respond to this query, so I hadn’t. My mother had shaken her head, eyed John Richard, and cooed, “Ooh, Goldy! You are so lucky! You must have done something fabulous to deserve such a wonderful man.”
Bulldozing all irony into one of AMCC’s gold course sand traps, I now wondered, truly, what I’d ever done to deserve Tom. Maybe the Hindus were right, after all, and there was some kind of karmic balance to the universe, the goof stuff following the bad. My understanding of this theory was that the worse the bad stuff was, the better your good stuff would be. This theory would be harshly criticized by the old guard at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, I reflected, as I quickstepped to the kitchen to finish setting up for the breakfast. I hesitated, glanced back at Tom’s gorgeous tablecloth and flowers, and thought, To hell with the old guard.
An hour later, when the first ten members of the committee arrived and started berating me, I had to remind myself that I didn’t care about the old guard. They were in fine fettle, I had to say. While I offered trays of mimosas and coffee, the women eyed each other’s casual summer outfits — de rigueur silk and cotton suits — and jewelry — single gold strands, double rows of pearls, and a few tiny gems — and settled into earnest bickering.
They ranged in age from thirty to sixty. I knew most of them from catering events or committee work at St. Luke’s. The church meetings had been much harder than the parties, as parish youth-group parents or Sunday-school teachers or even vestry members often ended up stalking off. Behind their backs, each set of enemies claimed their adversaries weren’t good Christians.
I took a deep breath. It could be a long morning.
Marla, looking gorgeous in a turquoise wrinkled-silk pantsuit adorned with turquoise feathers, came bustling up to me. My friend glowed with good health; tiny turquoise barrettes glimmered in her hair as she bent close to my ear. “The Jerk raped a young girl? How long have you know about this?”
“Look, I don’t know if it’s true. Have you dug up anything? A name, a date?”
“No,” Marla replied, “but I’ve got my spies trolling the hills. Okay, I do have news about Courtney MacEwan. I just saw her downstairs, by the way. She’s on her way up here for the meeting.”
Oh joy. I concentrated on making Marla on alcohol-free mimosa. “Can you come over to the Roundhouse with me when this is over?”
Marla chugged her drink. “Sure. I could even talk to you here when there’s a break in the action. I’d rather turn my back on a firing squad than give these women the chance to talk about me when I’m not in the room.”
I nodded and moved efficiently around the table distributing the parfaits. The glittering crystal glasses filled with alternating layers of the creamy yogurt mixture and the rainbow of juicy fresh fruit made the flower-bedecked, lace-covered table worthy of a Bon Appétit centerfold. When I was done, Marla held up her glass as if she needed a refill. I sidled up to her.