Double Shot (5 page)

Julian darted around me with sudden quickness, planting himself face-to-face with John Richard and folding his arms. Although the Jerk was a couple of inches taller than Julian, the Jerk’s prison-induced softness was no match for Julian’s compact, muscled, twenty-one-year-old body. John Richard backed up to the Audi.
I felt the old panic well up. A lump the size of Pikes Peak formed in my throat. When I glanced over my shoulder, it was as I expected. More than a dozen faces peered at us from the Roundhouse windows.
“Get out!” Julian yelled. “Drive away now, or we’ll call the cops for the second time today!”
John Richard stood staring at us for a long moment, then got into his car. He strapped himself into the TT beside Sandee with two es and roared off. He didn’t look back.
<4>
“Whoa!” Marla patted Julian on the back. “Good work, kiddo!” Julian beamed, nodded, and walked wordlessly in the direction of the kitchen. Marla asked me, “So are you going to take Arch over?”
“I have to. At this very moment, John Richard is probably calling his lawyer on his cell. He’ll complain about Julian and about how uncooperative I am.”
“Want company on the drop-off?” Marla wanted to know. “I could duck out of PosteriTREE’s bake sale. By the way, you’re going to bring me something to make up for my loss of cakes, aren’t you?”
“Sure, sure. I’ve got brownies in the freezer. And I’ll be fine dropping off Arch, thanks.” I stared at the dust settling in the parking lot after the Audi’s departure. “Arch might have other plans. Do you think that ever occurred to el Jerk-o? This is so typical of him, I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it.”
In back of Marla, people streamed from the Roundhouse. I hugged my friend, tanked her, and limped back to the kitchen. From the dining room, the scrape of chairs, shuffle of footsteps, and gurgle of relieved voice announced the end of an event. Was I imagining it, or were people calling to each other in exultation: Ted Vikarios has left the podium, at last, at last! I glanced around for Ted and Ginger Vikarios, eager to find out what had precipitated Ted’s fury. But the Vikarioses had already left.
In the kitchen, Julian and Liz were loading the commercial dishwashers. What would I do without my two masterly assistants?”
Julian stopped loading. “You okay, boss?”
“No, but never mind.”
“We heard John Richard yelling.” Liz’s large eyes were filled with sympathy. “Sorry he’s back to ruin your life.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Boss?” Julian again. “You’re going to have a problem, I think. When Arch left with the Druckmans, he said he wasn’t sure if you knew his schedule. He said he’d write you a note when he got home.” I groaned. Great. “Look,” Julian went on, “why don’t you let Liz and me finish up here? It’s no big deal. We can board up the back door, too. We’ve already figured out how to do it.”
“First I need to know how much the two of you spent on cheeses, meats, and salad ingredients. This function never would have happened without you. I’m not leaving until I get your receipts.
Before they could reply, my cell phone rang again. Oh, great, a call from John Richard’s lawyer, already. Mrs. Schulz, you promised to accommodate your ex-husband with requested visitations. . . .
It was not a lawyer. It was Tom. Finally.
“I’ve been in a meeting with the sheriff and just got your message,” he said, his voice subdued. “Are you all right?”
At the sound of Tom’s voice, something twisted inside my chest. No, I was not even close to all right. I wanted Tom here with me, wanted his handsome face, his green eyes the color of the ocean, his big body surrounding mine.
“Um — “ I said, faltering.
“Goldy? Why did you call me?” The distant tone that I’d come to know in the past month crept into his voice. In May, Tom had lost a case, and guilty defendant had gone free. The shock felt in the department had been profound. Tom had gone into such a deep depression that he seemed to be a new man, not the jovial, affectionate one I’d married.
“I had a problem here at the center.” The places where I’d been hit ached deeply. Somehow, thought. I didn’t feel able just then to tell Tom what had happened.
“I’m reading a report here of shots fired. Down near you, about eight this morning?”
“That was me. I fired my gun.” I wanted to elaborate, but somehow felt unable to. Ordinarily, he was able to return my calls right away, sheriff or no sheriff. And he usually greeted me so enthusiastically, Miss G. what are you up to now? Miss Goldy, everything all right? As silence lengthened between us, I had to remind myself again that his behavior was not owing to anything I had done. Tom had turned all his anger at losing that case inward, and I was going to have to gut it out.
Finally Tom said, “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Oh. Tom. Somebody broke into the Roundhouse. I surprised him when he was still here. He . . . shoved me out of the way and whacked the back of my neck so hard that I passed out — “
“Wait, wait. Do you need me to come up there? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Really. I called the department and they sent a patrolman who took a report. You should know, thought, the prowler had sabotaged me. he must have thrown the switches on the fridge and freezer compressors last night, so all the food was spoiled. Then this morning, he broke down the back door and left a string of trout in the refrigerator and bags of mice on the floor. I didn’t see a face.”
“But you tried to shoot the guy?”
“No. I was so startled by the mice that I shot the gun by accident. I made a hole in the floor, but — “
“Goldy. Who do you think could have done this?”
“John Richard? Some enemy I don’t know about? I can’t imagine. Listen, I’ll be okay. Julian and Liz have offered to clean up. And get this, John Richard was at the Kerr lunch. Demanding loudly that I bring Arch over at four to play gold.”
“Let me meet you at his house. Please?”
“Marla’s already offered. I turned her down. I promise, Tom, I’m staying in the van while Arch hauls his clubs to the Jerk’s door.”
He sighed and said he’s see me that night. I clapped the phone shut and consulted my watch: 1:15. My aching body pined for a shower and a nap. Unfortunately, I had miles to go before I slept. . . .not to mention returning home to a husband who was on an entirely different emotional path from mine.
I wrote checks to Liz and Julian. A short while alter, my van pulled out of the Roundhouse parking lot. Had my assailant been watching for me very early this morning, perhaps from the trees on the far side of the creek? Who would want to ruin a caterer’s food? And most problematic: Would this person strike — and strike me — again?
I piloted the van around the lake and down Main Street. The severe drought and ensuing watering restrictions had given Aspen Meadow the dusty look of an Old West village. Still, the merchants had bravely put out a proliferation of artificial flowers. Fake geraniums poked from window boxes outside Aspen Meadow Jewelry. Plastic ivy twined around lampposts the length of Main Street, from the Grizzly Bear Saloon to Darlene’s Antiques and Collectibles. Local kids and tourists vied for the best viewing spot in front of Town Taffy’s big window, where mechanized silver arms pulled and stretched shiny ribbons of candy. Aspen Meadow depended on tourists and locals alike to spend large amounts of money during the summer months, and the store owners were determined to don their usual festive look. I’d even heard that members of our Chamber of Commerce had pestered CNN to quit reporting on Colorado forest fires. Those newscasts were ruining business!
When I pulled up in front of our own drying dying lawn, I tried to ignore it, along with the flowers, now struggling, that Tom had so lovingly nurtured through the last two summers. The Alpine rose-bushes, chokecherries, and lilacs, even the aspens and pines, all drooped with thirst. But I was powerless to help them, as exterior watering had been banned.
Inside, Jake the bloodhound bounded up and covered my face with kisses. Scout, our long-haired brown-and-white cat, watched reproachfully from the top of the stairs. The feline would never lower himself to ask for affection. In the way of cats everywhere, he would wait until people needed him.
After feeding and watering the animals, I checked the phone messages. There was always the possibility that Arch had called to say something helpful, like that he’d be back by three. No luck.
Out of habit, I booted up my computer to check upcoming events. Alas, nothing magical had appeared on the culinary horizon, as gigs had dried up along with the mountain grasses. This week held only two other assignments. Day after tomorrow, I was doing breakfast at the Aspen Meadow Country Club for Marla’s garden-club splinter group. PosteriTREE. Presumably, they’d be discussing how much money they’d made on today’s bake sale. That same afternoon, Julian, Liz, and I were doing a picnic under a rented tent, paid for by the Southwest Hospital Women’s Auxiliary. They were hosting a retirement party for Nan Watkins, who’d been a longtime nurse at the facility. At least the free day before the picnic would give me time to have the Roundhouse back door replaced, install some kind of fence around the compressors, and bring in a class-A fumigator. . . .
There was a scribbled message from Arch on the counter.
I forgot some stuff. It was just hockey gear (that’s hwy I’m home writing you this). Todd’s mom is taking us down to the rink in Lakewood to play with some other kids from Christian Brothers. We’ll call when we’re done, so don’t worry. I thought your lunch thing was good. Hope it’s okay that I didn’t stay to help with the dishes. I’ll do them next time. A.K.
It was a nice note. Lakewood, just west of Denver, was forty-five minutes away. But I had to convince Arch to leave, get him cleaned up and golf-ready, and probably take Todd home, too. How was I going to deliver Arch to the Jerk’s by four, given that it was now one-thirty? And how come my ex-husband was always able to screw up my life?
I dug around in my freezer, snagged four bags of frozen brownies, and walked back to the van as quickly as my bruised knees would allow. As I zipped down the interstate, I called Eileen Druckman and asked her if I could pick up the boys. She said yes, thank goodness. When I pulled up in front of the Summit Rink Forty minutes later, even the van was panting.
Once inside the rink area — I never could imagine how much it cost to keep this place so freezing cold — I found it hard to make out Arch and Todd. The kids playing a makeshift hockey game were wearing masks and a ton of padding. Of course, I knew better than to call out my introvert son’s name — oh, did I ever. When he was nine, Arch hadn’t spoken to me for a week after I’d had him paged in a grocery store.
Finally I picked out a possible candidate and watched him carefully. Yes, that had to be Arch. I signaled to him three times until finally he got the message and wearily skated over to the gate.
“Mom! What’s going on?” He lifted his mask, revealing a flushed face streaming with sweat. Another teenager skated up and tilted back his face gear: Todd, his face as red and wet as Arch’s.
“I’ve got to take you to play golf with your father.”
“Oh, Mom. Not now. Please!” Arch pulled down his mask and pushed off from the gate. I was impressed by how well he was learning to skate backward, anyway. “When does Dad want me?” he demanded through the mask.
“ASAP. Sorry.”
Arch’s shoulders lumped. “We’re in the middle of a scrimmage.”
Todd called, “Aw, c’mon, Arch. Play golf with your dad. He just got out of jail.”
At these words, a few players hockey-stopped nearby. Somebody’s dad was in jail? His ked might be a really good hockey player! The opposing team used the sudden break to send the puck whizzing into the goal, and the eavesdroppers squawked. If I could have disappeared, I would have.
Meanwhile, Arch was skating back to the gate. I was thankful. In the Elk Park Prep days, we would have had a long argument — which I would have lost.
“Just pretend the golf balls’ a hockey puck and really slam it,” Todd called to him. “That’s what the pros do.”
Arch, the mask again tilted on his brow, shook his head. But at least both boys tramped off the ice.
My guilt at pulling them from the scrimmage prompted me to buy a king’s ransom of soft drinks, chips, and candy bars, for which they were noisily thankful. The van chugged back up the mountain to the sound of ripping wrappers and braking chips. By three o’clock, I had gotten Arch home and convinced him to take a very quick shower, while Todd played video games. After some searching, I laid my hands on a passably clean polo shirt and a pair of khakis. When I hauled out the golf clubs John Richard had bought for Arch, I marveled that they were immaculate, anyway, without a speck of mud or grass on them. By three-fifteen, we were off.
I dropped Todd at his house and thanked him for his patience. At half-past three, Arch and I toted the bags of almost-thawed brownies through the service entrance of the Aspen Meadow Country Club. Or as Marla and I referred to it, the so-called country club. If Aspen Meadow didn’t have inbred high society, and it didn’t, it also had nothing to rival the magnificent colonial clubs of the East. But AMCC’s big motel-like main building had just undergone an expensive remodeling, with new locker rooms, gold and tennis shops, a weight room, and a meeting room, where PosteriTREE, as the garden-club splinter group called itself, was having its bake sale from three to five.
Marla stood with some pals behind one of the three buffet tables girdling the crowded room. She bustled toward me. She was wearing her third lovely outfit of the day, this one a casual suit in a printed jungle-motif fabric.
“Cecelia is here,” she muttered, and I felt my eyes drawn to the Mountain Journal’s gossip columnist. Cecelia, her large pear shape not enhanced by a shapeless white man’s shirt and baggy black pants, was thrusting her bespectacled, shovel-shaped face into the middle of a conversation between Ginger Vikarios and Courtney MacEwan. Ginger immediately put her head down, turned on her heel, and walked away, while tall, gorgeous Courtney looked down her nose at Cecelia and said nothing.
“Oops, maybe Cecelia just insulted Ginger,” Marla said mildly. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Look, here are your brownies,” I said quickly. Arch had handed me the bags and scuttled off. He was in the process f admiring the cakes, cookies, and muffins being proffered by the women. If I didn’t get him out of there, he was sure to drop dollops of lemon curd onto his gold shirt.
But I was prevented from leaving by Cecelia Brisbane, who sidled up and pinched my elbow. Her bulging eyes were greatly magnified by her glasses’ thick lenses.