Goldy Schulz 01 Catering to Nobody (8 page)

"Miss Goldy," he began, "why don't you start by telling me about your husband? About this allegation of his?"

"My ex-husband," I said, suddenly angry, "is a-" I stopped and looked at my hands. "John Richard Korman," I began again, "is an abusive man. He frightens me. I was trying to give him mushrooms instead of tomatoes, to which he is allergic." I looked at Schulz. "Believe me," I said, "I don't have that much interest in Fritz Korman. He's just an old charmer whose wife is an alc-" I paused. I said, "Not under my jurisdiction, as you cops would say."

Schulz pulled his mouth into a small o. He leaned toward me and raised the tentlike eyebrows.

He said, "Just calm down." He leaned back again. "Let's start over. You can begin by offering me a nice cup of espresso and some of those rolls they're eating out in the kitchen. I don't ordinarily take refreshment at a suspect's house, but I'm going to make a large exception, since it smells so good in here."

I complied. Somehow the fact that he was hungry for something I had fixed, and that he trusted something I would fix, was encouraging.

He smiled at me between sips and bites. "This is really nice, this place," he said. "I like this old neighborhood. Has a lot of charm. So do some of the residents." He gave what appeared to be either a judicious wink or a left-eye tic.

What in the world was going on? After a moment I said, "Are you going to ask me some questions or not?"

"Okeydoke." He laboriously wiped each of his fingers on the napkin I had given him. "Just take it easy, okay?"

I nodded.

He said, "Did you put a foreign substance into Fritz Korman's food to make him sick or kill him?"

I looked Investigator Schulz square in his X-ray vision eyes.

"No," I said. "I did not."

"Did you put a foreign substance into John Richard Korman's food to make him sick or kill him?"

I said, "I did not. It would harm my business, which is my sole source of income-"

Schulz chuckled. "It has already harmed your business. It may be the end of your business. Please assure me they weren't funny mushrooms."

"They were the regular kind."

"Good. Health Department report'll be in tomorrow or the day after. That spread sure looked good, too, hated to waste it. Poached salmon. Strawberry shortcake." He took a deep breath and leaned back to hike up his belt. "I've never been to a party you've catered."

"So?"

"Now Miss Goldy, I'm just saying you seem to be a good cook. You've got a reputation to protect."

I said, "The way you say it, it sounds like soliciting."

"There you go again." He closed his eyes, then opened them to look around the room. He stopped to gaze at a bright orange All Saints' Day drawing Arch had done at the beginning of Sunday school class, the one I'd taught. Since Arch did not at that point know about any actual saints, his picture was a cluster of Mom, Dad, Vonette, Fritz, and Mother Teresa. I explained all this to Schulz when he asked about it.

"Interesting," he said. "Now look. You don't need to get uptight. About your business. I'm just saying a good cook is hard to find. You make great cinnamon rolls."

He stopped and worked his jaw for a few moments. "Now tell me why a good unmarried cook with a reputation to protect would get so upset talking to a cop who's trying to help her out?"

I shook my head. I said, "Sorry. Talking about my ex-husband gets me upset." I took a deep breath. "That's what our argument was about, anyway. The Jerk and no tomatoes. That son of a bitch. Nothing even happened to him."

"Something happened, though."

I looked at Schulz. "I didn't do anything to John Richard. I thought it was inappropriate for him to bring a new girlfriend, his fianceé, mind you, to a reception after the funeral of one of his son's teachers. Plus he walked over and insulted me. Then we fought over the dish with the mushrooms. But that's it."

Schulz swung his body around to the side and crossed his legs. He was wearing tan corduroy slacks and a gray sweater and tie: preppy clothes over his mountain- man body. He lifted his eyebrows and shoulders, opened his hands in question.

I said, "The guys down at the Health Department aren't going to find anything in that trash bag."

"Let's hope not."

I was suddenly exhausted. Worse, I did not like the way Investigator Tom Schulz was making me feel. He made me want to trust him, which did not come easily. I said, "So am I going to jailor what?"

He shook his head and smiled. "No. But the other incident is something else. We have a policy about attempted I poisoning. Sorry, your business will have to stay closed down. For a while. Until we find out about the rodent poison, who did it and why. That's it."

"Please don't do that to me," I begged. My eyes sought I his. "My busy season is

coming up. Arch and I depend on the November and December income to make it through the next year. The longer I'm closed down, the worse things will get for us financially. I can't make it on housecleaning alone."

He shrugged. "Have to, sorry. At least until this mess with Fritz Korman is cleared up."

"How long will that take?"

"That depends."

I leaned forward. "I can help you. Really. I'm already going over there day after tomorrow to talk to Vonette."

Schulz lifted an eyebrow, tilted his head.

He said, "To talk to Vonette. Listen. When I want help on this case, I'll ask for it."

It was my turn to shrug.

He said, "Okay, Goldy. Do you know who didn't get along with Doctor Korman? Sounds as if you know a lot of people."

"Oh, well," I began. I felt a wave of sympathy for Vonette. How could I be disloyal to her? What could I say? I shook my head.

"Look," I said, "everyone in this town knows Fritz. Most of the people under twenty were delivered by him, for God's sake."

"Know anybody who thought he wasn't a good doctor? Anybody at the party?"

"No."

"Were any of his patients there yesterday?"

I thought. "I think Trixie Jackson is one of his patients. The aerobics instructor."

"Yeah," said Schulz. "I used to see her over at the athletic club. She married?"

"Yes," I said, "she is, I think. I remember seeing her in the Kormans' office. But that was a long while ago, when I was still married." I frowned. A guilty knot tied itself in my stomach. It wasn't up to me to give Trixie's ob-gyn history to Schulz. After the divorce I'd changed doctors; I now went to a female gynecologist in Denver. I didn't keep up with the Kormans' practice.

Schulz said, "Who else?"

"Why don't you just subpoena his records or whatever it's called?" I could hear the exasperation in my voice. A minute ago I had offered to help him. Now I just wanted him to leave.

"Okay," I went on wearily, "Patty Sue Williams. My roommate. He's treating her for amenorrhea. It's in the dictionary. Anyway, her doctor from eastern Colorado sent her out here to be treated by Fritz." I switched to a lower tone. "Believe me," I said, "Fritz might as well be the governor, the way Patty Sue looks up to him. She'd have an anxiety attack before she'd put poison in his coffee."

He tapped his fingers on the mahogany coffee table. "What about the wife?" He looked at the ceiling as if he were turning things over in his mind. "Vonette."

"Look," I said, "you can check all this in your files somewhere. Vonette's an alcoholic. Fritz got her tossed into detox a few nights ago. It happens now and then. But that doesn't mean she tried to do anything to him." I paused. "She doesn't operate that way. When she's upset with Fritz she takes it out on herself. She drinks."

"I'll do the interpreting around here, if you don't mind." He smiled. "What about

this Laura person? What's this your son said about her not liking Korman?"

"I'm going to see what Vonette knows about that," I replied. “I know about Laura is from our teacher-parent conferences last year and two years before, when she was Arch's teacher."

"How did your son feel about Ms. Smiley?"

"They were very close. They used to tell each other jokes, write letters." I paused. "He's very upset about her killing herself. At least, he seems that way."

Schulz cleared his throat. "I've read about those fantasy games," he said. "Some kids can get awfully involved in them. Think they're real."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Your son was in charge of the coffee and whatnot. He was friends with Ms. Smiley and for some reason thought Fritz Korman was her enemy. He's having trouble dealing with her death, but puts great stock in fantasy games where they use potions and the like. Any chance that could spell trouble for his grandfather?"

I stared at Schulz with my mouth open. I said, "My son is not a liar."

"He didn't tell me he didn't do it."

"You didn't ask." I felt my ears burning. "Arch!" I called toward the kitchen door. "Arch, the policeman wants to ask you another question!"

Arch stuck his head into the living room. "What?" he said.

Schulz said nothing. He only looked benevolently at Arch.

"Hon," I said gently, "did you put anything into Fritz's coffee?"

"Huh?"

"Did you" - I began again and opened my eyes wide at him - "put something into Fritz's coffee to make him sick?"

Arch reddened. "No," he replied. "Why? Do you think I did?"

"No," I said in relief, and glanced back at Schulz, who was studying Arch's face. "You can go. Unless Mr. Schulz here has any more questions."

He shook his head. Arch left, and I stood up.

Tom Schulz gave me a long look. This time I felt that the X-ray vision was not directed to seeing what was in my mind. I felt he was looking for something else, but I couldn't quite figure out what.

He said, "Let's keep in touch."

-6- Monday morning arrived gray and chilly. From my bedroom window a nimbus of fog was just visible shrouding the far mountains. Gray fingers of cloud drifted down to caress the yellowed treetops of the Wildlife Preserve. The wooden window stuck in its track when I pulled; eventually it shuddered open and let in a flood of air as cold and sweet as the cherry cider

Colorado farmers sell off the backs of their trucks this time of year.

Arch was out of school because it was Columbus Day. Since Fritz was home recovering, Patty Sue would not see him until Wednesday. As the sole person awake, I did not want to have to face the

possibility of another first-strike telephone call from John Richard. I closed the window and slipped into a turtleneck and jeans before heading out for the warmth of Aspen Meadow's pastry shop.

The fresh air hit my face like a slap. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to spend money on someone else's cooking, I reflected as my boots crunched over the frosted gravel of the driveway. I headed down Main Street past the Grizzly Bear Restaurant and Darlene's Antiques and , Collectibles. But the lure of hot rolls and coffee won out.

The walk took twenty minutes. To my relief the small shop held no one I knew.

"Sorry about your business," was the mournful greeting from Murray, the master baker.

I said, "I love living in a small town."

Murray looked puzzled. "Listen," he said defensively, "it's gonna hurt me, too. Somebody kills that doctor, I'll lose half my customers."

I nodded. The shop was on the first floor of a long two-story wood-paneled building. Upstairs, Fritz and John Richard practiced obstetrics and gynecology. It would be a couple of hours before John Richard came in. But within fifteen minutes of his opening, the pastry shop would begin to fill with pregnant women. I knew the pattern: they would eat nothing before weighing in for their appointment. After seeing the doctor they'd waddle down the wooden staircase outside the building and burst into the pastry shop, starved. I often wondered if that was why Murray had located his bakery-haven in this particular spot.

"Don't worry," I said before ordering, "he's going to be just fine, and so is your business."

Soon I was dipping one finger of that western oversized baked good, the Bear Claw, into coffee and reading in last week's Mountain Journal of Laura Smiley's death. The new issue would not be out until later in the week, and it would undoubtedly cover the postfuneral fiasco. That was something I could wait for. Now I read of Laura Smiley, the much beloved teacher at Furman Elementary, who had been born in Denver and raised in Aspen Meadow until she went to the University of Illinois. After that she had become an elementary teacher in Carolton, also in Illinois.

There was something familiar about that name, that place. After Laura's parents were killed in a drunk driving accident on Highway 285 near Conifer, she had moved back to the family home, and had been a teacher at Furman Elementary ever since.

I stared at the picture. Between the black dots of newsprint, Laura was caught in a sunny grin. Suddenly, the dots clouded.

You're depressed, I told myself. Drink some coffee. I looked up at Murray, who gave me his best version of a sympathetic wink. I held the paper in front of my face. Ms. Smiley, the Journal went on to say, was found by fellow teacher Janet Heath, autopsy ordered, new deputy coroner performing. Funeral Saturday, in lieu of flowers, donations to Pacifists United or the National Organization for Women. But some people had sent flowers anyway. And not only to her.

The rest of the article was what I already knew. But the words "came as a great surprise to her students and those who had known her" were difficult to handle. I thought once again of the cheerful punning magnets and paintings of serene landscapes in Laura's small home.

Out the pastry shop's picture window old wooden storefronts broke the cloudy view of distant snow-capped peaks. Most people moved to the mountains for this vista and for the slower pace. Now Homestead Drive and Main Street were silent. The only noises were the gentle gushing of Cottonwood Creek and the occasional ding-ding of cars announcing their presence at a nearby gas station.

Maybe Laura had been looking for serenity when she stayed in Aspen Meadow after her parents' death. She had taught third grade at Furman Elementary. Arch had been in the class; it was the first time I felt a teacher had appreciated him. The beginning of their friendship, she had related at the first parent conference, had come from a " technological advance.