Goldy Schulz 01 Catering to Nobody (7 page)

Even our dinner that night was a problem. I reminded Patty Sue and Arch of

this as we pulled into our driveway. After a job, we usually feasted on leftovers and odds and ends. Now the leftovers were being analyzed down at the Department of Health.

Arch offered to heat chili in the microwave. I didn't think things could get a whole lot worse until he pointed to an enormous bouquet of dried flowers on our deck. Damn. One of the arrangements for the funeral or reception had been delivered here by mistake.

But no. The envelope was addressed to me. Inside was an unsigned message.

"Don't worry about Fritz, sweetie pie. He deserves it."

-5- How'd you do it?" my ex-husband demanded over the phone the next morning, Sunday. "Get your dumbass roommate to drop the stuff in? You tell her

they were sweetening capsules?"

"Oh stop," I said. "Just tell me how Fritz is."

"Not until you answer my question."

"My roommate is a patient of your father's," I reminded him, "and she is living here at your mother's request. She's a lovely girl who respects your father, and does not deserve to be maligned by you."

He started to yell, and I held the phone away from my ear. It was only seven o'clock, but John Richard and I were both early risers. The first year of our marriage this had meant lovemaking and fresh sweet rolls as strokes of sunlight swept the walls of the house. Later the fights merely started earlier; accusations came at sunrise followed by the recriminations and my learning to dodge the frying pan: full of hot bacon and grease.

In fact, I thought as I looked around the kitchen while I still holding the screeching voice at arm's length, the first thing I had redecorated after he moved out was this room where I now made my living. I slid my foot against the slick black and white tile that had replaced the brick-colored vinyl flooring. The walls and curtains now glowed with a muted red and white checked print. Think of something else, I told myself as John Richard continued to shriek. Breakfast.

"You there?" the Jerk was saying.

"If you're not going to tell me how Fritz is, then I need to fix breakfast," I said dryly. "Tell me something else, though. Why don't you ever blow up like this in public? Then people would know why we got divorced. Look. You called me. What do you want, anyway?"

"Nothing," he said. "Not a damn thing."

He hung up. I rubbed my temples, removed rolls, bacon, and coffee beans from the freezer, and put my mind on the day ahead. Probably the best thing was that the Broncos were due to play Green Bay, which promised to be an easy win. It was good to have the regular season underway. I disliked the preseason, with its mandatory shrinkage of team size. Getting cut was probably a lot like getting divorced.

During the time before kickoff, I needed to make calls canceling parties and food supplies on order. Talking to the Jerk was like waking up and not being able to shake a nightmare. Even worse, I realized as a sharp pain grabbed my chest, was that the more recent nightmare had come true: my business and I were separated.

I needed to think. Get things in perspective. For openers, there was figuring out what it was the flower sender thought Fritz deserved. Was the flower sender the rat poisoner? The impending questioning from Schulz was another dark cloud on the day's emotional horizon. If the Broncos didn't win, the day would be a complete loss.

First things first. Patty Sue and Arch were still asleep. I steeled myself to make the first call. It would largely determine the tone of the day.

"Vonette," I said brightly to her foggy greeting, "Goldy. Tell me how Fritz is doing."

"Just fine, honey. My God, what time is it?" She groped and muttered. "Yeah, Fritz. Can't imagine what happened to him."

I was sorry to awaken her, but it was the only way I could be sure to catch her sober. I said, "How was the hospital? Did they give him anything?"

"Oh yeah, something. He put up a fuss, good heavens. Don't know what it was he drank after that funeral. Like D-Kon, they said. Does the same thing, or whatever."

"Does what same thing?" She yawned. "Causes internal bleeding or such like that. But don't worry, he's not bleeding anymore. That stuff hit his ulcer and made him hurt, but he's fine now. You're bigger than any old rodent, I told him. It won't kill you. Goldy, let me call you right back. I need to go make some coffee."

I hung up, ground espresso beans, and filled the cappuccino maker. Vonette's tone was strange. Maybe she was just tired. The machine steamed and gasped. When I was sipping the result, she called back. I said, "Is he still sick? Is he upset?"

"Aw," she said with a yawn, "he'll stay home today, watch the game, you know, maybe rest for a couple more days. They wanted him to take it easy for a week and I laughed. Lord, I laughed. You know how important that practice is to him, I told those guys down at Lutheran. No way he's going to stay in bed for a week. Doctors can be stubborn, I said."

"Arch was saying something about how you all had known Laura."

"Little Arch," she said. I could feel her smile come over the phone. "I told Fritz to be sure and speak to him but I don't think he did. And then all hell broke loose."

"Did you and Fritz know Laura Smiley for a long time?"

A pause. She said, "A long time ago, we knew her."

"How?"

"Oh," she said, "she kind of worked for us one time. She was a . . . teacher and then a . . . a . . . what do they call it these days? Like a nanny one time. When we went on a vacation."

"When was that?"

There was a longer silence. "You know, Goldy," Vonette said, suddenly perplexed, "I don't want to talk any more right now. I do feel one powerful headache coming on."

This was bad news. The effects of chronic headaches on Vonette had led her past aspirin through Darvon, Valium, Librium, and whatever was the latest miracle cure. She occasionally had such pain, she had told me, that Fritz gave her shots of Demerol. This was in addition to the substantial amounts of alcohol she put away on a daily basis. Why she had not died from these combinations long ago was beyond me; I figured she possessed an incredible tolerance for drugs. I heard her gulp something down, and I knew our conversation about Laura was finished, at least for the moment.

"Let me help out," I offered. "Let me bring your meals over. I mean," I added hastily, "if you want."

"I would, honey," she said in a lower tone, "but you know John Richard is just in such a state about that food from

yesterday. Lord! What does Goldy have against Fritz, I asked him. Exactly nothing, that's what." Another yawn. "I said to John Richard, Well, you know, son, there's lots of women thought your daddy was a rat." She giggled. The painkiller was taking effect.

"Vonette," I said before the conversation degenerated further, "I'm coming over on Tuesday, and I'm going to bring Fritz some things to eat I know he likes. Okay?"

She giggled again. "You can even test them," I said, "and I want to visit with you, anyway. Make sure there are no hard feelings with old Fritz."

Vonette inhaled. She said, “Goldy, honey. Thanks. That would be sweet. I'll taste them if you want. Hell, nobody cares if I die. Just kidding, of course. Laura Smiley had that kind of attitude and it did her in, didn't it? Well, who knows. And you know what else? John Richard will be taking over the whole practice for Fritz for a couple of days anyway, so he won't be around to bother you. You know."

Did I ever. Maybe I should have adopted Marla's attitude and actively avoided John Richard. My life might have been a lot easier. It would be good to have the son out of the way when I chatted with the mother. Though I hated to use Vonette, I needed information she might have. I didn't know what in the world was going on. I had to start somewhere.

"Guess what?" I said. "Those cops are going to close down my operation until this is all cleared up. Maybe you can help me out a little."

"Oh, honey," she said, "I'll give you all the cash you need. It'll just be our little secret."

"No no no. I mean, thanks, really, but I don't mean money. All I want to do is talk to you, about some of the possibilities. Of who could have done this to Fritz."

"Goldy honey, I keep telling you. Fritz is fine. Just let the police handle it." She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, "Do you know what? Maybe nobody did it to him. Maybe somebody did it so's your catering business would be busted. Ever think of that?"

As a matter of fact, I had not. Besides John Richard, who hated me? The flowers from yesterday seemed to indicate I was not the target. No need to confuse Vonette with that, however.

I promised to see her in two days, rang off, and phoned Marla.

"You'll never guess what happened to Fritz Korman," I began.

"Pfft!" she answered. "Old news, sweetie pie. The way I hear it, you're the one tried to do it."

Wait a minute.

"Well, sweetie pie," I said, "as a matter of fact, I was wondering if you had anything to do with it."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Marla. "I wasn't even there, for God's sake." She began to chew something. "Trixie said the guy from the sheriff's department was good-looking in an oversized mountain- man sort of way. That skinny bitch. She thinks anyone who doesn't look as if they just came out of a refugee camp is overweight." More chewing. "So tell me about this guy."

"What guy?"

"The cop."

"Marla," I said in a voice full of vinegar, "tell me why you called me sweetie pie."

"I don't know. Does it bother you? Think I'm sweet on you? I just asked you about a policeman. Schulz, she said his name was."

I gave her a brief description of the investigating officer and then told her about the flowers and their message, with its "sweetie pie."

"Weird," she said. "Is that all you can think of to say? My whole life's falling apart, for God's sake!"

"Well, I didn't send them," she protested. "Did John Richard ever send you flowers?"

"Only when he felt guilty about some fling he was having," I said. "You?"

"No, not after I served him edible nasturtiums." I said, "Could the Jerk possibly have sent them? I mean, is this guy cracking up or what?" I told her about the tomato allergy, about my innocent substitution of the mushrooms. "When Fritz got sick John Richard had a fit and blamed me. Because of the mushrooms, if you can believe it."

Marla said, "Okay, okay. You are still my good buddy and I am still yours. Everything is going to be all right. Let's think." She stopped to drink something. "The Jerk is pissed off with you. So what else is new? But look at it this way. Maybe he did it. He blames you, makes it look like you, raises a stink. So nobody says, Well now, who spends the most time hanging around Daddy? Catch my drift?"

Another new angle. Everyone had a theory. I couldn't wait to try them out on Schulz. On second thought, I could wait.

"Get him sent to jail, will you?" Marla begged. "I'm getting tired of avoiding him."

After hanging up I considered. Would Schulz have thought of these possibilities? Perhaps not yet.

I spent the remainder of the morning calling the clients whose parties I was supposed to cater in the next month. Canceling felt like pouring money down the drain. Worse, and to my surprise, my clients were all eager to try Denver caterers. Bad news traveled fast. Then I balanced the checkbook. Three hundred ninety dollars. More bad news, even if the November child support payment came on time, which was unlikely. I calculated what it would take to make the next house payment and pay the bills.

I should have majored in math, I'd decided within a week of being single again. The degree in psychology had not only provided the depressing evidence that I had married a violent egotistical narcissist, it had also failed to help in making money.

My fallback during dry periods with the catering business was housecleaning, which paid a reliable eight bucks an hour. If I could book the jobs, Patty Sue and I each were going to have to do three houses a week just to make the November house payment and buy groceries. Luckily, finding needy clients whose houses were a mess was never difficult.

The only questionable debt was monthly dues for the athletic club. Missing this payment meant starting over with the four- hundred-dollar initiation fee, and I certainly didn't want to do that. But the club was a place I needed to get away from the kitchen. Arch enjoyed the pool in summer. I called and got, of all people, Trixie Jackson. "Oh Trix," I said casually, "I need to speak to Hal." Hal owned the club; I knew he was the only one in a position to let me barter for the dues.

"He's gone down to the game," she replied. And then, "I can't get over that mess yesterday. Fritz writhing on the floor like a woman in labor. Makes him know what it's like."

To the best of my knowledge, Trixie had no children. How did she know what it was like? "Just tell me when Hal will be back," I said.

“Oh, not until tomorrow. Why? You have a problem with something?"

"Look, Trix," I said, "tell him I want to do something for him to take care of my dues this month. Clean or whatever. Just see what he says."

She agreed. We decided to talk more the next day at the morning aerobics class, which she had taken over from another instructor. After that I called Alicia and canceled all my food for the upcoming month. Arch and Patty Sue began to wander into the kitchen and litter it with cinnamon roll crumbs, cereal boxes, and grease-soaked paper towels from draining the bacon. At one o'clock the doorbell rang.

Investigator Tom Schulz. He sauntered in. Sensing his first question, I took him silently into the kitchen to look around. He smiled politely at Patty Sue and Arch, nodded at the pots and pans, walls and floors, cabinets and counters, said "Mm- hmm" and "It sure smells good in here," and scanned everything with those green eyes. Next I led him out to the living room,

which I had redecorated postdivorce in a riot of yellows and oranges. The eucalyptus in the mysterious dried flower arrangement perfumed the room.

"Nice arrangement," he said.

"A bizarre arrangement," I said, and told him of its sudden appearance and anonymous message. He asked to see the card. I gave it to him and he pocketed it. Then he made a silent visual check of the entire room before settling himself on the lemon-colored couch.