The Whole Enchilada (31 page)

“Lies?”
I asked, incredulous.

Tom shrugged. “Drew's paternity is just one issue. You have George and Lena. They were fighting with Holly. You have Yurbin in a conflict with her over money. You have Warren, sort of, and Neil Unger, maybe. Plenty of suspects to go around. We just don't have that missing piece, or several missing pieces, that would tell us more about Holly.”

“How about Drew?” I asked quickly. “Arch and Gus are on their way back home for dinner. I want to hear what you know about him before they arrive.”

“Drew has been great,” Tom admitted. “He's answered all our questions. The trooper who's keeping an eye on him says Drew stays up after his aunt and uncle are in bed.” He stopped. “Then the kid goes out on the back porch of the cabin, the one facing the water. And cries.”

“Oh, Lord,” I muttered.

Boyd asked if he could take off; Yolanda, his girlfriend, was waiting for him. Tom told him absolutely, that he hadn't even needed to spend the previous night with us. He tipped his head and said he'd wanted to be here for our family. We all thanked him for his help. He was so good-natured, not to mention long-suffering, that I wanted to give him some wine or food to take home. But he said that Yolanda and her aunt, Ferdinanda, were making
cubanos
for their supper. He'd promised to come home hungry.

Arch and Gus arrived not long after Boyd left. From their day building trails, they were both red from sunburn, not to mention covered with dirt and dust. They promised to shower and change quickly. And yes, they'd use more sunscreen next time. Bob had been in a bad mood all day, Arch said. That might explain why he had forgotten the tube of sunscreen he usually brought.

“Huh,” said Marla, with exaggerated innocence, “I wonder why Bob Rushwood could be in a bad mood.”

Tom gave her another one of his hooded looks, and she didn't pursue it. The boys clomped upstairs.

Once everyone was showered and seated, we gave thanks for the food, and again prayed for Father Pete and for Drew. I added a silent request that we could figure out what had happened to Holly, as I'm sure Tom did, too. We dug into the rich, thick chowder, and swooned. Whoever thought fresh corn could impart such sweet, creamy loveliness to a soup? The chef salads were made with luscious, sweet tomatoes, sliced hard-cooked eggs, chopped celery, dollops of smooth chèvre, chopped pecans and dates, chunks of ripe avocado, and buttery homemade croutons, all arranged over plates of baby field greens. Julian said the dates gave the salads an exotic quality. The homemade lemon vinaigrette was perfect, and didn't clash with the wine. And as if all that weren't enough, there were platters of grilled chicken and focaccia in the middle of the table.

To my surprise, the mood of Arch and Gus was much more glum than it had been at the fund-raising dinner. I gently asked them what was going on. They said their work out in the Preserve had been fine, but they were tired. And sunburned. And . . .

“And what?” I prompted.

“And we're putting money together for Drew,” Arch said. “Each kid on the fencing team has committed to putting in, or raising, a hundred dollars over the summer. We want to give him over a thousand bucks in the fall, in case he needs it for clothes, or whatever. I mean, okay, George Ingleby is rich, but who knows whether Lena will be nice to Drew? We're also making a card for him.” He stared at the table. “It's just depressing. You know, Holly was such a happy person. She was always having fun, helping other people make stuff, you know. This is just . . . wrong.”

“You got that right.” I looked at my son. “I remember when Holly was your art teacher at Montessori. I'd be there sometimes, making the snacks, and I saw you all gathered in a circle around her.” I hesitated. “Do you remember when Holly and I helped your class make papier-mâché breakfast foods?”

“Sort of,” Arch said.

“Do you recall some of the other projects you did with her?”

“Mom, are you kidding? You want me to try to remember some stuff from, like, a million years ago?”

“If you can,” I said mildly. “Sometimes recalling something good from the past helps a person deal with a loss in the present.”

Arch exhaled loudly.
“Mom.”

Tom said, “Please, Arch? I'd like to hear it.”

There was a long pause while Arch stared at the kitchen wall. “Okay,” he said finally, “by the time we were five, it wasn't like she only did art projects with us.”

Marla said, “It wasn't? What did she do with you?”

“She wanted us to be more creative, or to show us that being creative was fun. She had this big canvas bag that she called her Fun Sack.”

“Oh, wait,” I said. “I remember that bag.”

Arch said, “She'd bring in things—”

“What kind of things?” Tom asked, endeavoring to sound only mildly interested.

Arch's brow wrinkled in frustration. “Okay,” he said after a moment, “like a toy, say. Or a dish. I only remember a couple of these, you know.”

Tom made his voice encouraging. “Just tell us what you recall.”

Arch scratched the back of his head. “Every year, she brought in a dish with a picture of a horse on it. We guys in the class thought it was lame”—I pictured five-year-old boys pretending to gag—“but she said, ‘This horse is trapped near a castle. Make a picture. Tell a story with what you paint.' So we'd do that. Then she would say, ‘Okay, now I'm going to turn this exercise around. What else could “pony” mean?' And we were like, ‘What?' And she said, ‘You pony up money, or goods, like in a store. You can do a dance called the Pony.' And then she put on some music and did this dance that was called the Pony. We thought that was pretty cool, actually, and so kids did pictures of horses, and people dancing, and shoppers handing over money. Like that.”

After a pause, I said, “Anything else you can think of from the Fun Sack?”

Arch pointed his chin to the ceiling as he thought. He was not enjoying this. But I wanted to know every single thing about Holly that was in anyone's memory, the better to reconstruct the case. And I really did think it would help Arch if he could fish up some pleasant recollections of Holly. What he was dealing with now, what we were all dealing with, was recalling her sprawled on the pavement outside Marla's house, all that life and energy gone out of her.

“No,” said Arch. “Mom, these memories are
not
all great.”

“Sorry,” I said.

Arch reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “It's okay. I know you're trying to help. Gosh, Mom,
don't
.”

It wasn't until then that I realized tears were streaming down my cheeks. Later, after we'd done the dishes, Marla had departed, and Gus and Arch had unrolled sleeping bags, I thought of Drew.

Arch was right: these memories were not all great.

W
ednesday morning arrived very early, or rather the sunlight associated with the coming solstice did. Once again, Tom was up first, moving silently around the bedroom so as not to disturb me.

“How's your leg, Miss G.?” he whispered.

“Throbbing. But not as bad as the past few days.”

“I made your iced coffee last night,” he said. “Didn't want to wake up Arch and Gus with the espresso maker. I thought they were going to sleep in the living room. But Arch convinced Julian to sleep on one of his beds, and Gus curled up on the other. Arch slept on the floor of his room.” Tom paused. “Arch told me last night that he felt really bad, making you cry.”

“He didn't bring on my case of the weepies. The memory of Holly did that.”

“I told him.” He checked his watch. “So, where are you going today?”

I said we were off to the Flatirons Conference Center, to see if they had any records or photographs from the long-ago docs' convention archived, or if they had staff still there who would remember Holly. “Someone might remember her, recall who she'd been hanging out with. There could be notes there about what activities she did, and who she did them with, like, I don't know, who she hiked with, or played tennis with, or whatever.”

“Oh, Miss G.,” said Tom, resigned. “From eighteen years ago? That is such a long shot.”

“Tom, being there might jog my own memory.” When he groaned, I said, “But first, I'm going to try to visit with a woman named Wendy Williams. She's a hair colorist who works in Boulder now,” I rushed on. “She used to do Holly's highlights. The day Holly took me down to Cherry Creek, Holly chatted away with her about her love life. As far as we all know, Holly still went to Wendy. She could have told her about issues we haven't fully uncovered, such as, who was the guy in Denver she loved so much? What were her past romances? She might even have told Wendy about the fight with George about child support.”

Tom shook his head. “Goldy . . .”

“You always said you trusted my instincts.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I do. In fact, since I gave Boyd the day off, I'll come with you today.”

“Really?”

“There's not much I can do until the medical examiner gets back to me with the full autopsy results.”

“What else is going on?” I asked, unable to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

He reared back in mock astonishment. “What, am I not allowed to accompany you on your fact-finding missions?”

“No, no, of course you are,” I said hastily. “Besides, you're right, poor Boyd needs a break.”

He told me Sergeant Jones had volunteered to accompany Arch again that day, and would be at the house at half-past seven. I made mental notes to thank, and give baked goods and anything else I could think of, to both Sergeant Boyd and Sergeant Jones.

While Tom left to make phone calls, rearranging his schedule for that day, I moved through my yoga routine. My leg was doing a bit better, and had gone from being black-and-blue to being mostly purple. I supposed this was improvement. Then I showered, dressed, and sipped the coffee Tom had left for me, a chilled latte laced with whipping cream. I walked downstairs carefully, so as not to wake the boys. Tom, meanwhile, had disappeared into the dining room, where he was asking someone to check on something.

It was quarter to seven. Arch and Gus would be leaving at quarter to eight, and we were set to take off soon after that. But the boys would need breakfast. The walk-in revealed—miracle of miracles—a package of Arch's favorite Canadian bacon. That would do for the protein, but what else would the boys like?

Back in the dark ages—when I was a scholarship student at a Virginia boarding school—I'd fallen in love with a particular breakfast: cinnamon toast and applesauce. Just like the early evening gelato, the cinnamon toast wouldn't meet any of Julian's preferred nutritional guidelines. But I figured, what the heck.

“Cooking, boss?” Julian's voice from the kitchen doorway made me jump. “We don't have an event today.”

“This is breakfast.”

“A salty meat?” he said. “I knew I should have stayed in bed.”

Tom entered the kitchen and pocketed his cell phone. He washed up and said he and Julian could set the table.

The cinnamon toast took some thought. It had not been the version people usually eat, which comes from toasting bread slices, spreading butter on them, then sprinkling cinnamon sugar on top. No, the southern kind I remembered had a crunchy, buttery texture, as if the cinnamon sugar had baked into a crust on top of the bread. How would I achieve that?

I stared at a loaf of plain white bread that we had thawed the night before, just in case there wasn't enough focaccia, which there had been. After some thought, I preheated the oven and sliced the bread. While a stick of unsalted butter slowly melted and swirled into a golden pool on the stove, I made the cinnamon sugar. I toasted the bread slices lightly on one side in the oven, flipped them, brushed them with melted butter, and sprinkled a thick layer of cinnamon sugar on top.

“Well,” said Tom over my shoulder, “if the boys need a sugar rush to get started on their trail building, they'll have it.”

“Can you check to see if we have applesauce in the pantry?”

“We do. I'll put some out in a bowl.”

Arch and Gus's thrashing around upstairs was my signal to put the toast into the oven, along with the sliced Canadian bacon. Julian, Tom, and I quickly poured the juice. When the doorbell rang, Tom said, “Don't let anybody but Jones in.”

It was indeed Sergeant Jones, who'd come in her own prowler. I made her regular drip coffee—I'd learned my lesson about coffee-for-cops—then pulled shots of espresso and poured cream on top for Marla, who arrived at half-past seven, complaining that it was too early for anyone to be up. She sported a bright green top, blue pants, sapphire barrettes in her hair, and green flats.

“I wanted to wake myself up with color,” she said by way of explanation. I handed her her iced latte and noticed her eyes were twinkling. “But I didn't even need my outfit to cheer me up, because I checked my voice mail. A country-club friend left a message for me last night. You'll never guess.” When I didn't, she went on, “Ophelia Unger has hired an attorney from Brewster's firm to go after her dear old dad for fraud.”

Tom chuckled. I shook my head. I certainly hoped at least
one
financial criminal in this nation was going to be held accountable for his actions.

I said, “I wonder if somebody in law enforcement could demand a DNA sample from Neil. It's still possible he's Drew's biological father, and that Holly threatened him and tried to get money out of him, and that he tried to get rid of both her and Drew.”

“Because,” Marla said triumphantly, “that might really get him into boiling water with The Guild.”

Tom sighed but said nothing.

The cinnamon toast emerged crusty and perfect, and everyone except Marla agreed it was the best. She held up her hand in a gesture of forbearance and said simply, “Carbs. No can do.”