"Tom - " I began.
He straightened and put his arm around me. "Don't say no. You've been wanting a new kitchen for a long time. You deserve one. Let me give it to you."
"No."
"And I took out a loan on my cabin." He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Line of equity, actually. If I start the kitchen today, I should be done by the time they let me go back to work."
"Tom, I have three bookings in the next week. I have to have a place to cook. What you're talking about is too expensive and too much hassle. Please. Don't do it."
He kissed my cheek and gave me a wide grin. "Don't worry, Miss G. I thought of your cooking needs already. I'm going to drape everything with plastic, set you up in the dining room, no sweat."
I sank into a kitchen chair. "Please, Tom, what you're talking about is a remodeling, not a repair. I would have to close. If the county health inspector came by, which he could at any time night or day, I'd be dead."
"Don't worry, I've already taken out a building permit! If the county health inspector can't be bothered to stop by, that's his problem!" Tom said with mock huffiness. "Besides, I've ordered everything. You wouldn't believe how fast some people will move for a cop. The only thing you need to pick out is a window treatment for your bay window and back windows."
"Tom! What back windows? For that matter, what bay window? Eliot was supposed to put one in. I paid for it but never got it."
"Tha-a-t's why you're married to somebody in law enforcement!" Tom said jovially. "Boyd has all Eliot's paperwork. I may not know about his love life, but I know Eliot ordered your window from The Window Warehouse in north Denver. They've got your bay window sitting on their dock. Unpaid for, of course, but we didn't really think Eliot was going to be that considerate, did we?"
I tried one more time. "Please don't do this - "
Tom winked at me. I hadn't seen him so happy since before his suspension four days ago. "You'll love it, Miss G. Promise."
Not long after, Arch and I made our way to the jail. There, another shock awaited us: John Richard Korman had been in a fight. He walked into his side of the three-foot-by-three-foot concrete cubicle and seemed reluctant to face us through the pane of glass. Once I saw him, I knew why. His left eye was purple. There was an ugly cut on his forehead and a slash over his right cheek. His blond hair, always expensively cared for, had been ruthlessly shorn by the prison barber. The orange jump-suit emphasized the fact that he had lost most of his tan, even though he'd only been incarcerated two weeks. John Richard Korman had always been a handsome guy, but it was clear jail did not agree with him.
"Gosh, Dad, what happened to you?" Arch spoke into the telephone, trying hard not to sound worried and stunned.
"Guy wanted to know why his head hurt all the time." John Richard's voice spiraled loudly out of the phone. He gave me a sour look. "I told him an empty brain echoes. He punched me."
Arch murmured that that was too bad, then launched into his recitation of all the things that had happened to him since the last jail visit. I had asked him not to tell John Richard about Tom's suspension. So, Arch's news covered the fray resulting from Jake leaping on Craig Litchfield. Predictably, John Richard interrupted him.
"Your bloodhound attacked somebody?" John Richard's voice crackled. "You could get us sued!"
"But Dad - "
"I can't afford to be sued," he announced. "Put your mother on."
"Oh, that reminds me," I said as I took the phone. "How does Arch's tuition get paid? It's due now."
"Ask Leland." His tone was curt, dismissive.
"Leland? Leland who? What happened to your accountant?"
"Hugh Leland's my all-purpose guy now. Lawyer, accountant, the works. He's in the phone book. Need money? Have a heart-to-heart with Leland." He smirked.
Needless to say, John Richard had not jumped right in with an offer to authorize payment for Arch's tuition, which a judge had ordered him to pay in full. In the interest of keeping the peace on what was only our third jail visit, I nodded. But I made a mental note to call my own attorney, if the money was not forthcoming. I tried not to think of what my attorney might charge to pull the tuition out of The Jerk. That's the price for alienation in our day: You have to compensate other people to fight for you.
Arch asked for the phone and I gladly handed it over. "Julian's back," he told his father, who could not possibly have cared less. But Arch talked on, undaunted, about summer vacation, playing with Todd, things he and Jake had done. Finally I relieved him of the phone; we were at twenty-eight minutes, thank God.
"See you next week," I began. "How's Marla holding up?" John Richard demanded, his face again flattened with a smirk.
I was noncommittal. The Jerk could use information in twisted and cruel ways, I had learned. "Fine. Why do you ask?"
He only laughed and hung up the phone. Before leaving, I asked if I could see Cameron Burr. The desk sergeant told me Burr had just started a visit with his lawyer, and was unavailable. I scribbled a note to be delivered to Cameron, with our phone number and begging him to call. But I knew he wouldn't. Suspended or no, Tom represented the forces that had put Cameron behind bars; Cameron's lawyer would tell him not to contact us.
When we started back up the mountain, the air was warm, the sky increasingly hazy. I rolled down the window. John Richard's manner at the end of our visit still rankled.
"Does your dad know that Marla is being audited?" I asked my son.
Arch looked out the window. "I guess."
I had heard the entire content of John Richard's last two visits with Arch; no mention had been made of Marla's troubles with the IRS. As John Richard's new factotum, Hugh Leland might be aware of what was going on. But how then would Arch know that his father was aware of the audit?
"What do you mean, you guess? Dad told you he knew Marla was going through this IRS thing?" He hesitated. "Well, don't tell Marla I told you, okay?"
I sighed. "He didn't do anything illegal, did he?"
"Oh, no. But when Dad was having financial problems last spring, the HMO's not paying him his money and stuff, he had this idea of how to make money. I don't think he knows that I know. I was supposed to be watching TV in his condo, but there was nothing on. When I turned it off, I overheard Dad telling one of his friends about the IRS paying a big reward to whoever turns in a tax cheater. Dad told his friend that Marla was the richest person he knew, and he was going to squeal on her to the IRS. I just thought it was a joke." He shook his head. "I feel bad telling you, because he's my dad and all. But I love Marla. I know it's been awfully hard on her. Sometimes I just think Dad gets sort of like, carried away."
I didn't say what I was thinking. It would have ex- posed Arch to very bad language.
The next morning, Julian, Tom, Arch, and I went to the early service at St. Luke's Episcopal Church. I called Marla to see if she wanted us to come pick her up; she said she was having severe IRS-produced indigestion and couldn't move from her bed. Given the circumstances, I decided against telling her about The Jerk's hand in her current troubles. Julian had made some hazelnut-caramel rolls - Maria's favorite - that he was eager to offer for tasting at the coffee hour. I didn't tell her about them, either.
As the congregation began to read the Forty-sixth Psalm - God is my refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble - I realized that I craved very present help in a very big way. A friend of ours was in jail; Tom had been suspended; my business was in danger. Compounding these problems were the facts that our living-space was in an uproar and we were teetering on the brink of insolvency.
The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our stronghold. I prayed for Cameron and Barbara Burr. Without warning, I felt the weight of my ongoing resentment of our dead kitchen contractor. When people hurt you, it's hard to let them go, no matter how they end up. But as my Sunday School class often reminded me, God will always take somebody in, even when they're dead. Right, Mrs. Schulz?
I conjured up the bloated face of Gerald Eliot hanging between the sun room studs, and silently let him go.
"I'm sorry to put you through all this," I told Tom that night as I pulled two loaves of homemade sandwich bread out of the oven. At my request, and in view of my continuing inability to talk to Cameron, Tom had spent an hour trying to find out about the evidence collected at Burr's home. No one was available to chat about missing cookbooks, so Tom had vowed to go ask Boyd some questions the next day, suspension or no.
Instead of banging about in the wreckage we called our kitchen, Tom had thoughtfully spent the afternoon working on his plans in the basement so we could prepare for the morgue lunch the next day. With Julian's help, I'd stewed a chicken, seared a London broil - both would go into the following days' salads - made vichyssoise and a huge salad of barely steamed vegetables that would chill overnight and be lightly dressed with a raspberry vinaigrette the next morning. Tom received a test bowl of the delectable, chive-scented vichyssoise and pronounced it superb.
Before going to bed, I tried to check in with Andr‚. Pru's caregiver said Andr‚ had done a great deal of cooking this evening and was already asleep. She promised to ask him to call.
Monday morning dawned bright and cool. I chopped tarragon, celery, and pecans to combine with the moist, flavorful chicken pieces, then sliced the beef into thin wedges and mixed it with a spicy vinaigrette. At seven, Julian joined me and mixed flour with yeast and buttermilk to make hot rolls to go with the salads. Arch took off for another walk with Jake. Tom announced he was going for his breakfast with Boyd, where he hoped to hear about the latest Andy Fuller shenanigans. Julian and I were happily engaged in our work until just past ten o'clock, when the phone rang. I scooped it up and gave my business greeting.
"This is Dr. Sheila O'Connor, the coroner. Goldy - " Her voice cracked.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," I replied calmly. At the last minute, clients often fear the caterer will forget to show up. "Don't panic. I'm just putting it all together."
She cleared her throat. "We have a body with only a tentative identification."
I made wrapping motions to Julian and pointed to the salads on the counter. "So do you want me later - "
"This... man had no driver's license, performed no military service," Sheila said. After wrapping the salads, Julian pointed to the cardboard boxes; I nodded. "We don't have any fingerprints. There aren't any dental records." I exhaled and watched Julian fold in the cardboard flaps. Sheila continued, "And his next of kin can't do the ID we need. On the body, I mean. This man's wife - widow - is blind."
The floor under my feet shifted. I stumbled toward a chair and sat down. I whispered, "What?"
"Goldy, we need you here at the morgue. To identify the body," Sheila repeated. "We believe the dead man's your teacher, Andr‚ Hibbard."
11
"Pru." I was clutching the phone so hard my fingers hurt. "His wife. Where is she?"
"She felt she had to come down here, and she's on her way. Her nurse is bringing her." Sheila's voice had become businesslike. "Goldy, I'm terribly sorry to have to ask you to help us. Nobody here seemed to know who else to call."
"You're not sure it's Andr‚."
"We're pretty sure." No hesitation. "The arriving crew found him in the Merciful Migrations cabin kitchen this morning. Looks as if he had a massive coronary."
"A heart attack," I said dully. "We won't know until the autopsy is done. But we can't do what we need to do until a family member or someone who knew him well identifies the body." She paused. "Please forgive me. Usually we use fingerprints or dental records or a relative, but none of those are available. His wife said to call you, that you lived nearby and used to work for him."
"I'm sure there's been a mistake. When I get there, I can clear it up."
Sheila hesitated. "Is Tom there?"
"No. Just this... a young man who works for us." Sheila said, "Please come, Goldy. I can explain what we know once you get here."
"Jeez, Goldy, what's wrong?" Julian wanted to know. "You look terrible. Has something happened to Arch? Has the booking been canceled?"
"No, I... no."
His dark eyes searched my face. "Look, Goldy, if the booking fell through, I can take this food to Aspen Meadow Christian Outreach. We'll find some more jobs. Come on." He ran water into a glass and set it on the table in front of me. "Come on. Drink this. I'm going to call Tom."
"He's... having breakfast. With Boyd."
"No, no, actually he isn't. That's just where he wants you to think he is." Julian hesitated. "Look, don't get mad at him, okay? He's having a polygraph today. About the conflict he's having with that assistant district attorney who thinks he knows everything."
