Dark Tort (8 page)

“Goldy, go get in bed.” Tom’s voice was tender. Down on one knee, he was carefully laying pine logs on top of kindling he’d meticulously stacked. The sound of the match igniting startled me.

“Miss G. Please.”

“All right, all right.” I moved up the stairs, dropped my clothes spattered with bread sponge into the hamper, and eventually found my way into the shower. I let steaming water run over my aching face and body and tried not to think. Moments later, I was in bed. Oddly, I slept a profound, dreamless sleep until twenty after six. I dressed quickly, came downstairs, and found Tom lying, eyes half open, on the living-room couch.

“Is Arch up?” I asked as I sat down next to him.

“Not yet. Friend of mine brought back your van with your supplies. I unloaded everything.”

“You’re the best.” I stared at the fire.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Couple of hours. Enough.”

I hesitated. “I should be doing something. For the Routts, I mean.”

Tom sat up and ran his large hands through his wavy brown hair. The doorbell startled both of us. Tom sighed, then got up to answer it.

“Who could that be?” I wondered aloud. “If it’s a reporter, get out your gun and use it.”

But it was not a reporter, and the commingled voices in our hallway indicated the new arrival was Julian, my assistant. Of course, Julian would have wanted to be here. So despite the wee hour, Tom had undoubtedly called Julian’s apartment in Boulder and asked him to make the drive to Aspen Meadow to be with us. As they exchanged murmured greetings, I wondered if it would be good for Julian to come with me when I finally did go over to check on Sally. Julian had been close to Dusty for a time. Oh God, I thought as I laid my head on the couch cushion. This was all too much.

Julian’s voice asked: “Goldy? Where are you?”

I heaved myself up on my elbow and turned around. Julian, compact and muscled, stood not quite six feet. His dark hair was tousled; his jeans, wrinkled oxford-cloth shirt, and secondhand leather jacket clearly had been donned in haste. His handsome face was splotched from crying. He shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for me to answer him. With his awkward stance and clenched fists, he looked more shook up than I’d seen him in a long time. I mumbled, “Thanks for coming.”

“Dusty?” His voice was incredulous.

“Who would want to hurt Dusty?” He moved into the living room and sat heavily on one of our chairs. He uttered an expletive and stared at the floor. The three of us were quiet for what seemed like a very long time.

At length, Julian asked, “Are you going over there?”

“Tom says we can’t while the cops are still inside the house. Then he’s going to call the department to see if we’re allowed to go over.”

“You found her?”

When I nodded, he said, “Was it bad?”

“I tried to revive her.” I shook my head.

“Yeah, it was bad.”

“Do they have any idea who . . .” But he let the question dangle.

“Not yet,” Tom said.

“But we will.” Silence filled the living room again. Julian stared at the fire.

“When we go over, will we be able to take them some food?”

“Sure,” I said. “I guess ...I guess we’d both feel better if we hit the kitchen.” He was right. I needed to clear my brain, and the way I did that was by cooking. At the moment, that was also the only thing I could do for Sally Routt.

“Okay,” Tom said, “I’m going to go check on Arch and wake him up in twenty. I’ll make sure he’s got his backpack and, uh, learner’s permit.”

“Tom,” I said, “don’t even think about—”

“Just kidding!”

“Have you got anything going today?” Julian asked as he walked slowly down the hallway toward the kitchen. Once there, he flipped on the espresso machine and began hunting through our cupboards for the sugar. Julian never took fewer than four teaspoons of the sweet stuff in his caffeine jolts. The memory of accidentally sipping a titanically sweet, Julian-fixed demitasse popped me out of my stupor. I didn’t want that to happen again. Opening my eyes wide, I clattered two cups under the machine’s spout.

“In the catering department, I haven’t got anything until tomorrow,” I told him. “That’s when I cater Donald Ellis’s thirty-fifth birthday party. I can’t imagine Nora will go forward with it, after what happened to Dusty.” I sighed. “Then on Sunday, Nora’s father is baptizing Gus. Nora’s father is a bishop named Sutherland.”

Julian sat in one of our kitchen chairs, his expression confused. “Sutherland? That name’s familiar.”

“You remember Father Pete had a mild coronary in July?” When Julian nodded, I went on: “Sutherland’s been taking over his liturgical and administrative duties, even some pastoral ones, since then. He was the bishop of the diocese of southern Utah until the end of last year, when he developed heart problems. He took early retirement and moved in with Nora and Donald. Your hometown’s in southern Utah, even though it’s in a different diocese. Think that might be why you recognize the name?”

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “That’s it. He came around to do confirmations in Bluff one year, when the bishop of Navajoland was sick. Bishop Sutherland’s not a very good preacher.”

“Then let’s hope for a brief sermon on Sunday. Why don’t you see what you can find in the walk-in? Pick out ingredients that look good to you. We’ll pull together something nice for the Routts.”

Julian’s sneakers squeaked as he moved across our wooden floor to the walk-in. After what seemed like an age, he emerged loaded down with unsalted butter, several bags of vegetables, fruit, fresh herbs, and huge wrapped packages of Brie, Fontina, Gruyère, and Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. Once Julian had arranged his load on the counter, I pressed the button on the espresso machine and watched the dark, syrupy liquid twine into our cups. Overhead, I could hear Tom walking around in that authoritative way he had. I felt strangely comforted. Julian sat down, ladled sugar into his cup, took a sip, then stared at the calendar on the computer screen. “You’re doing a party for Nora Ellis? I’ve encountered her, too. She wasn’t the easiest person I’ve ever had to work for. Typical very wealthy lady, wants the best-quality stuff, but only at a steep discount.”

I smiled at him. “So you don’t like Bishop Sutherland, and you don’t like his daughter, Nora Ellis. One is a bad preacher and one isn’t easy to work for, is that it?” I sipped my coffee. “Have to tell you, big J., Nora’s been perfectly nice to me.”

Julian set his coffee aside and slowly unwrapped the cheeses. “Okay, let me think. I did a dinner party over in Boulder, a charity thing? It was when I was working for Doc’s Bistro, and Doc really believed in this organization that Nora was involved with to help underprivileged kids. It was called Up and Coming. Anyway, Doc couldn’t do the dinner, so I filled in. Nora Ellis kept sending people into the kitchen to see how I was doing. I had the feeling she was having them check that I was using real cream, real butter, and Parmesan that didn’t come out of a tube with holes in the top.”

I finished my coffee, rinsed my cup, and began grating my own real Parmesan, unsure even what we were going to do with it. But still, I was focusing on Julian’s story, because it was getting my mind off the vision of Dusty lying on the H&J floor. I said, “It would drive me nuts if a client kept bugging me like that. What was her problem?”

“Oh, everything,” Julian said as he disappeared into the walk-in, then reappeared with a jar of homemade pesto. “You know how clients can be.”

Golden strands of cheese fell in front of the grater as I worked. “She was probably just freaking out over the event going well.”

“Charity events are the worst,” Julian said bitterly.

I suddenly felt queasy about working with Nora Ellis. Then again, maybe I was just feeling queasy, period. As I was rewrapping the cheese, Tom walked into the kitchen.

“Arch is getting ready,” he announced. “I told him about Dusty, so he wouldn’t be upset by the police cars. But I just said she was in an accident.” He moved toward the phone. “Anyway, I’m calling Marla. Asking her to come over, too.”

“You’ll wake her up,” I warned him.

“She’ll live.”

Julian slowly moved his cutting board piled with perfect slices of Brie to the far end of the marble counter. “You’re calling Marla?” he said, his voice quavering. “Could you ask her to bring a dozen more eggs?” Julian looked at me as if he was going to say something, then shook his head. I fixed us both second cups of espresso while Tom dialed Marla.

“Is Arch going to attend the baptism?” Julian asked as he spooned sugar into his cup. He glanced warily at Tom, who had reached Marla and appeared to be arguing with her. In a very low voice, Julian said, “I thought you told me Arch had stopped going to church.”

“He insists he’s going.” I slugged my coffee decisively, again rinsed the cup, and made my own foray into the walk-in. Staring at the shelves, I couldn’t remember why I’d come into the cooled space, or what I was seeking. Without thinking, I pulled a large bag of Granny Smith apples off the shelf. Apple Betty, I thought. Apple Betty with ice cream was the ultimate comfort food and it was easy to prepare. I slammed the door too hard behind me, and it shuddered. “Arch wants to support Gus. He wants to be a part of the significant events in his half brother’s life. Can you blame him? Arch figures if he lies low, no one will mention the fact that he’s taken a sabbatical from the ecclesiastical experience.”

For the first time since he’d arrived, Julian smiled. “Is Meg Blatchford going to be there?” he asked.

“You bet.” At seventy-nine, Meg Blatchford was the oldest Episcopalian in Aspen Meadow. After a person was baptized at St. Luke’s, Meg was the one who took the baby or stood beside the child or adult and said, “You may welcome the newly baptized.” Liturgically speaking, it wasn’t strictly kosher for Meg to ask this question, as the celebrant was supposed to do it. Still, it had been such a long-standing tradition in our parish that no one objected. It added a nice touch, the oldest Christian in the place welcoming the newest.

Julian shrugged. “I hope I can be as strong as she is when I’m in my seventies. I’ve been taking her pastries every week for over a year.

Last time I was there, she was pitching a softball so hard into that little basket she uses for practice, you know what I’m talking about? Anyway, I thought she was going to break the basket.”

I nodded. “She’s pretty amazing.”

Julian slurped down the last of his coffee. After clattering our cups into our big commercial dishwasher, he methodically began to rinse a bunch of scallions.

“You got some blue cheese? I’ve changed my mind on what I’m going to make. I’m going to wrap up this Brie and use it for something else, and instead, I want to make that pie you and Dusty . . . Oh, Christ.” At the mention of Dusty’s name, tears unexpectedly spilled out of Julian’s eyes. He walked quickly into the ground-floor bathroom, where he started running the faucet. A wave of sadness engulfed me. I turned on my computer, told myself to buck up, and printed out the Blue Cheesecake recipe.

When Julian returned to the kitchen, he didn’t mention the incident. Instead, he said, “Um, I need some tomatoes to make a salad. I didn’t see any in the walk-in.”

“I’ll go downstairs to look for some.”

“Downstairs?”

“Just trust me, okay?” I said as I traipsed down the steps to the basement. Our brief mountain growing season had not deterred Tom from planting a dozen cherry-tomato plants in June. When a September frost had threatened to ruin his crop—then only masses of chartreuse nuggets—he’d grumbled and pulled the plants up by the roots. After stringing a dozen meat hooks across our laundry-room ceiling, he’d hung entire plants—including roots with dirt still clinging to them—upside down, and declared the fruit would ripen by Halloween. Great, I’d replied, as I surveyed the grit covering the concrete floor. Tom, abashed, had swept up the mess. But we were still treated to a fresh shower of dirt every time someone picked some of his crop.

To my surprise, I was able to find a couple dozen good-looking cherry tomatoes from Tom’s batlike plants. I placed them on the washing machine, swept up the dirt, and brought my haul upstairs.

My sauté pan held chopped shallots that were sizzling in a golden puddle of melted butter. Julian was busy beating cream cheese, so I turned my attention to the apples. They were just ripe, and I’d planned to take a pie into the firm . . . Oh, Dusty, I thought suddenly, I’m so sorry. A blade of sorrow stabbed my chest.

Just cook, my inner voice commanded. Get on with things.

So I did, with Julian at my side. While we were working, Arch came in with Tom. Arch looked spiffy in his new wire-rim glasses and de rigueur Abercrombie clothing: rumpled white shirt and baggy gray trousers. His toast-colored hair was dark and wet after his shower.

“Dusty?” Arch began, pushing his glasses up his nose. He looked from me to Tom to Julian. “Dusty from across the street? Tom said you tried to help her?”

I faced him and held my arms out. Too old for a hug, Arch stayed in place. “Yes, hon,” I said, “I did try to help her.”

“There’re a bunch of police cars parked in front of the Routts’. Why? Why not just the coroner’s van?”

Sometimes I wished my son did not know quite so much about police procedure.

“Our guys are helping Mrs. Routt,” Tom supplied.

“Dusty was killed, wasn’t she?” Arch blurted out, his voice accusing. His narrowed eyes took in Tom, Julian, and me. Then he dropped his backpack and stalked out of the kitchen.