Fatally Flaky (12 page)

Then somebody had traipsed down into that ravine, and killed the old doctor.

I said, “I’d better call Tom.”

T
om still wasn’t answering his cell phone, but a helpful person at the sheriff’s department informed me he’d just left to run some errands. After that, he’d said, he was going to come home for a few hours.

I looked at the clock. It was just after two. If Tom was only coming home for a little bit, that meant he and his team were going to be working late, very late, and he wanted to give me the bad news in person. Or maybe it was something else; I didn’t know. Still. Usually when there was a fresh homicide, Tom worked the case almost continually for at least forty-eight hours.

“You haven’t heard the rest of my news,” Marla said, pouting.

“Ah yes, this is something juicy about the wedding I’m doing tomorrow?”

“Juice is my middle name, girl. Given the food connotation, maybe it should be yours, I don’t know. But it’s mine. Your middle name can be Coffee.”

I gave her an exasperated look and began to chop the celery for the sauce gribiche. Then I drained the capers. A pungent, fresh scent filled the kitchen.

“All right, getting to this wedding you’re catering tomorrow. Ever heard of an old-fashioned dowry?”

“Of course I have, silly.” I paused. “Don’t tell me Billie Attenborough has a big old dowry.”

Marla waved a dismissive hand. “Not exactly, honey bunch. But you’re close. Anyway, they don’t call it a dowry these days. They call it making a marriage contract that involves a lot of money.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” I had to be careful that I didn’t slice my hand open with the knife. But Marla’s revelations were messing with my head. The information she had gleaned sounded distinctly fishy, and made me think the sheriff’s department should attend more church fund-raisers. I put the knife down and faced her. “Is there a prenuptial agreement between Billie Attenborough and Craig Miller that involves lots of dough?”

“Ah, my dear, not between Craig and Billie. Between Craig and
Charlotte.
”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “And who was your source of information this time?”

“Same drunken one as before. I told you Paula Carmichael, Lucas’s ex, did those kinds of contracts, right? After the whole story about the alimony that isn’t going to end because Jack won’t give Lucas money, Paula said I couldn’t imagine how boring her work was. I murmured sympathies and poured her some more vodka. This time, she waved away the vermouth and olives and asked if I had a bigger glass. So I gave her a big tumbler, with a few ice cubes thrown in.”

Thank God for the car service, I thought. I would hate to think what could have happened if Paula Carmichael had downed that much liquor and then gotten behind the wheel. Reflecting on Arch driving while drunk drivers were wreaking havoc on the roadways was almost more than I could bear.

“Are you telling me that Paula Carmichael got so smashed she just happened to spill the details of a prenuptial agreement?” I picked up my knife and moved on to the smooth, pale cloves of garlic, which I began to crush.

“It wasn’t that easy,” Marla huffed. “I had to dig for it, darling. Lucky for me, it was after Charlotte Attenborough had left.”

“Lucky for you?”

“Wait for it. What happened was that I said to Paula, ‘Always boring? What about prenuptial agreements between really, really rich people? Can’t they be pretty exciting?’ She said, ‘No, they’re depressing, because they always remind me of what I should have done before marrying Lucas.’ Then she got all pensive, as if she was thinking hard about whether to tell me something, but she was so comprehensively inebriated, I could have gotten anything out of her, I think. She was slumping precariously on my sofa, and I had to prop her up with one hand. Finally she said, ‘I did do a contract, not prenuptial. It wasn’t like anything I’d done before. But it did involve a marriage, or it will when the wedding takes place.’”

“She made sense like that?”

“Not really, I’m interpreting. But after a while, Paula said, ‘Okay, picture this: a woman has a loudmouthed brat for a daughter, and that daughter has just turned thirty-six, with no marital prospects in sight. I mean, who would want to marry a monster?’”

“Try catering for her.”

“Then Paula says, ‘So this mother goes to her doctor for bunions. The doctor is a cute young thing, age twenty-eight. And he complains to Charlotte about his medical school loans, and how he’s never going to get out from under the debt load, never be able to afford a house, never be able to raise a family, et cetera, et cetera.’”

“You know,” I said, folding the ingredients into the sauce base, “it just breaks my heart how doctors can’t make ends meet in this country.”

“Cry me a river,” Marla agreed. “Lawyers can’t make any money either, according to Paula, but that’s only when they’re stupid enough to have to pay spousal support ad infinitum.”

“So,” I said, trying to hurry Marla along, “Charlotte’s left your party, so Paula can spill this dirt, although she doesn’t say the person she’s talking about is Charlotte. But anyway, there’s Charlotte with her doctor—did Paula ever tell you it was Charlotte when she told you this story?”

Marla raised her eyebrow. “Give me a little credit, Goldy. I figured that part out. See, hanging out with you and Tom has really sharpened my deductive skills—”

I gave her an absolutely sour look, and pulled out my long knife, plus the cutting board.

“You don’t need to threaten me with sharp instruments,” Marla said in mock horror. “Anyway, back to this doctor. Charlotte, hereinafter known as the client—”

“Marla!”

“Okay, okay. Charlotte described the doctor to Paula as very attractive, just without money. And there Charlotte is, with lots of money and an unattractive, unwed daughter. This daughter has no job, a fluffy education at a second-rate school, where she got Cs, and no skills apart from spending money. Up until that moment, Charlotte must have been thinking she was never going to be able to catapult Billie out of the family homestead. So after Craig moaned and groaned about his financial situation, Charlotte said, ‘I have a lovely daughter I’d like you to meet. I mean, you’ve been such a great doctor to me, taking you out to dinner would make this old lady so happy.’”

I stopped slicing. “Charlotte called herself an old lady?”

Marla nodded, grinning broadly. “I guess she wanted Craig to feel sorry for her. You know, with her bunions and all.”

“So they had dinner, and Craig and Billie fell in love—”

“Ha! You’re such a romantic, Goldy. Billie might have fallen in love, but Craig would have to be living in the next solar system to think Billie is someone he’d want to spend the rest of his life with.”

“Try the next galaxy.”

“So after this dinner,” Marla continued, “which went okay, apparently, Charlotte found out from her boyfriend Jack about his ex-daughter-in-law, Paula, who does prenuptial agreements. Charlotte called Paula for clarification on how to set things up. Then Charlotte called Craig with a proposition. ‘I want to do a contract with you,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’s not a prenuptial contract, because that’s just between a bride and a groom. This is a regular old contract. Marry my daughter, stay married to her for at least five years, and I’ll give you four million dollars on signing and another million a year after the five are up.’” Marla crossed her arms in triumph.

“Jeez!” I exclaimed. “I’ve heard of the cost of free agency in baseball, but this is ridiculous!”

Marla raised an eyebrow. “Do you think? Paula still hadn’t told me who the doctor and the lady with the problematic daughter were, but at the end of the story, she said, ‘I did the contract. And the doctor and the lady’s daughter are getting married this Sunday, right here in Aspen Meadow.’ So that’s when I fired up Ye Olde Deductive Reasoning again and concluded, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that the couple she was talking about consisted of Billie Attenborough and Craig Miller.”

I carefully blended the crab cake ingredients in an enormous bowl, then began forming and rolling. As Marla ran water over her dishes, I remembered earlier in the day, when Craig had circled Jack’s Mercedes. At the time, I’d wondered why I couldn’t decipher the motivations of love. A cute late-twenties doctor bonding with a difficult midthirties woman? I think I finally had the answer to the motivation, and love had nothing to do with it.

M
ARLA LEFT NOT
long after relating all her gossip. I called Yolanda through the main switchboard at the spa, and asked her if she’d had a chance to look at the menus and arrangements. She said yes, and that all would be well. She apologized for yelling at Billie, but I told her to forget it.

After I’d finished forming the final batch of crab cakes, I hopped up the stairs to check on Arch and his pals. There were murmurings going on behind the door, so I knocked. When Arch opened up, I noticed that the boys were stuffing their backpacks with M&M’s, granola, salmon eggs, hooks, and other hiking and fishing essentials.

“Going on an expedition?” I asked. “It’s a mite late in the day to be starting out.”

“Time is relative, Mom.” Arch frowned, his brown eyes serious. “These days? The sun doesn’t set until after eight. Todd is going to Montana on Monday, and we’re trying to take advantage of the last days of summer.”

I took a deep breath. “So, where are you going?”

“Up into the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. Don’t worry,” he said, smiling, “we’ll be back in time for a late supper. We’re hoping to snag a few trout that we can grill.”

“Take rain gear,” I advised. “You never know. And cell phones, you know how I worry.”

Once Arch and his pals had roared off in the Passat, I finished the gribiche and took a shower. By the time I was out and getting dressed, Tom had arrived home. Incredibly enough, I didn’t have any more cooking to do for Billie Attenborough’s wedding, as Julian was doing the extra food, including the rest of the rolls, which he could get from a marvelous Boulder bakery, the green beans vinaigrette, and the cake. The first batch of rolls was made and frozen. Perhaps before the boys got home with our fish to grill, Tom and I would have a chance to kick back, have some fun together—

One look at Tom’s face, exhausted and slack with worry, made me cancel the have-some-fun idea. Even though it was only four o’clock, he sat at the kitchen table with a glass of scotch in front of him.

“Tom?”

I knew better than to ask whether he was all right. Clearly, he wasn’t. He was a veteran; he’d headed hundreds of death investigations. I didn’t know how he could do what he did, but he kept on, claiming he loved the work. He spoke for the dead, he said. He championed them. But the work took its toll, and I was looking at it.

“Tom, what can I do for you? Is there something I can get for you?”

He looked up and gave me a rueful smile. “Nothing except yourself, Miss G. Come sit down with me.”

First I poured myself a glass of water, then I sat next to him and sipped my water. Mindful of the story Marla had just told me about overimbibing, I didn’t want to be tempted to overindulge. Anyway, I knew that after Tom told me what was going on—which was his way to unburden himself—I was going to want to cook. Not have to cook. Want to cook.

I put my glass on the table, sat down, and scooted my chair over by Tom’s. Then I gave my husband a long, wordless hug. He embraced me back, holding tight.

When he let go, he looked around the kitchen as if registering his surroundings for the first time. “Don’t you have prep to do for the wedding tomorrow?”

“It’s done. I did extra crab cakes and gribiche, just in case. Julian offered to do the rest of the extra cooking for the added guests. Arch and his pals are here, though, or at least, they’re in the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve, ostensibly fishing for dinner. We’ll see. Maybe I should get out some steaks.”

“Good idea. If the boys bring home trout, great, I’ll throw it on the grill.” His expression turned pensive. “I can eat here, but then I have to go back. To night.” He smiled thinly. “Got any salad to go with grilled trout?”

“Tom, I’ve got enough fancy balsamic vinegar to make a salad to serve the entire armed services—army, navy, air force, coast guard. The Attenborough wedding reception will only consume enough for an army, I think. Plus, with it being held at Gold Gulch Spa, maybe the guests will feel guilty and not touch the potato salad. They’ll see all that exercise equipment and figure they should be losing weight instead of stuffing themselves.”

“Gold Gulch Spa, eh?” Tom was perusing the contents of the walk-in. “That’s where the reception is?”

“Tom, I told you, remember? Bridezilla decided she was having an extra fifty people, and moved the whole show out to where she was trying to lose weight to fit into her wedding gown. She just neglected to tell me until yesterday.”

Tom shook his head, lost in thought. “Yeah, I remember, and that’s why Jack picked you up this morning. Listen, I want Boyd to go with you.”

I thought, but did not say, Oh, brother, here we go. But Tom was right in being suspicious, I supposed, as some of the people who’d apparently disliked Doc Finn were going to be at the wedding, making it a volatile situation.

Tom smiled at me. “Why don’t you fix that salad now? I don’t remember having any lunch. I’ll cook after I’ve had some of your good food, how’s that?”

I returned his smile, wrapped a baguette in foil, and put it in the oven. Then I melted a knob of butter in my sauté pan, cracked in three organic eggs, salted and peppered them, and made a quick salad of frisée and arugula, which I drizzled with a freshly made balsamic vinaigrette. I brought out the baguette, which was steaming, put it on one side of the plate, then arranged the frisée on the other side. Finally I slid the luscious-looking eggs on top of the frisée.

“Wow, Miss G. I wasn’t expecting all this.”

“Do you want to talk about the case?”

He nodded, and talked as he ate. “It ticks me off when people kill other people, but I especially get ticked off when someone kills a child or an older person. Especially a nice older person like Doc Finn, whom almost everybody seemed to love.”