I stared at the water glass. A polygraph. Tom didn't think he could tell me.
"Andr‚... my teacher. He's dead, Julian. He had a heart attack. They need me to come down to the morgue." I gripped my old oak table. This was just a mistake. A stupid error.
Julian snagged the cellular phone from its charger, I stuffed it into his pocket, and assumed a calm, pastoral tone. "I'll pack the Rover and then honk from the driveway."
When he beeped not long afterward, I numbly walked outside. This is just a stupid error, I kept telling myself. It's not Andr‚. There's been an awful mistake.
Less than an hour later, I took a deep breath and prayed for strength as Dr. O'Connor led frail, bent Pru Hibbard, her nurse, and me down the hall to the morgue's work area. Pru wore a faded pink cashmere sweater and matching skirt, along with a strand of pearls that matched her hair. Her caregiver, a waxy-skinned, thin-lipped older woman with broad shoulders and short, dark hair, nodded at me.
"I'm Wanda Cooney." Her voice was clear but low. "We can talk more later."
The four of us walked through the door toward where I was to do the ID. Dr. O'Connor drew back a curtain on metal rings.
I swallowed. There hadn't been a mistake. Andr‚'s body was covered to the shoulders with a sheet. His cheeks were no longer pink, but gray. The small portion of his white shirt that showed was cruddy with dust. His silvery hair was matted.
"Yes." My voice sounded like someone else's. "It is Andr‚ Hibbard." I turned to Pru. "Are you all right?"
Pru's watery blue eyes wandered around the makeshift cubicle. Her lower lip trembled. She said, "I want to go." Without waiting for me to respond, Wanda slowly guided Pru away.
I turned back to look at Andre's immobile face, then at Sheila. "Can't you tell me anything more about what happened?"
"We needed the ID first." She moved away from the gurney. "You should go back to the other room."
"Not yet. Please, tell me something, Sheila. What was he doing when he had the attack? Was he alone?"
"Rufus Driggle called us," Sheila murmured. "Andre had phoned to see if he could come early to do some prep work. Driggle opened the gate for the taxi at seven. Driggle didn't stay because he had to go into Denver for film. When he came back at nine, he found Andr‚ on the kitchen floor. When he couldn't rouse him, he phoned the sheriff's department."
I touched the sheet. "How did Andr‚ get so dirty? His clothes? His apron?"
"From falling on a floor, Goldy." She cocked her head. "Mrs. Hibbard confirms he had a history of heart problems, that that's why he quit the restaurant. He was on Lanoxin, to amplify his heartbeat. We'll get his medical file, see if his condition has been worsening lately."
Andr‚. I swallowed. "This past Friday he had some symptoms while he was at the Homestead, where he was catering. The paramedics came out and gave him a clean bill of health. Andr‚ swore to me that he was fine." I shook my head; I should have insisted on catering with him today instead of taking the morgue lunch booking. "He was sixty-five. Vigorous, but - " I stopped, transfixed by something I hadn't seen earlier. I pointed toward Andr‚'s hand. "What's this?"
Sheila leaned in closer. "A burn?"
"No. No way."
Sheila peered at the curved, inch-long mark on the back of Andre's left hand. "Yeah, it's a burn. Recent." Her eyes pleaded with me. "Time to go, Goldy."
I stared at the mark on Andr‚'s hand. "But," I protested, "there's nothing out at that cabin that he could have burned himself on. I mean, not that looked like that."
Sheila sighed. I stared at Andr‚'s right hand, motionless on the gurney. "What's this?"
Sheila O'Connor reached into her pocket, retrieved a pair of surgical gloves, and snapped them on. She picked up the hand I was pointing to. On the side of the other hand, there was another, smaller dark spot.
"Another burn, looks like. He was a cook, Goldy. You have to trust us. We haven't started to do our work here yet.... He could have burned himself just before or while he was having the attack. People lose control during a coronary."
I was having trouble breathing. "Sheila - "
"The department is already doing a sweep of the cabin."
"Can you give me the autopsy results?" She snorted. "You must be joking."
"He was my teacher, Sheila."
"Let's go." Her voice was increasingly chilly, and I wondered if she was afraid I was going to get hysterical on her.
"I need to go help Pru," I replied. "Andr‚ would want me to be with her. But I'm not going anywhere until you promise to call me."
She tsked. "Have Tom give me a ring in a couple of days." She took my arm. "Right now, you and I are going to the lunchroom."
We came through the opaque glass door to the brightly wallpapered lunchroom. A sudden noisy wash of people engaged in conversation made me reel back. Sheila murmured something about going to her office and left my side.
My mind seemed to splinter; I observed that Julian had done a superb job serving lunch. The salad platters were littered with shreds of lettuce and crushed cherry tomatoes; the roll baskets were forlornly empty. The morgue staff was digging into their dessert. Julian was chatting with two older women. When he saw me, he left them and walked quietly to my side.
"Well?" When I nodded that yes, it was Andr‚, he said, "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
"I don't know. You did a nice job here. But... I need to help Pru now."
"I called Tom at the department. He offered to pick me up with all the equipment. I thought... you might want my car. But now I'm worried about you driving."
"I just need some coffee, please, Julian. And maybe a glass of water. I have to help Pru," I repeated, as if giving that help would structure my next few hours and make things clear. How could Andr‚ - so full of life and mischief - be gone?
Julian brought me water and coffee and handed me his keys. I mumbled a thanks. "Goldy. Are you sure you can drive?"
I sipped the dark coffee; it tasted like ashes. "Yes, I think so. Where did the rest of them - Pru, Sheila - where did they go?"
He rummaged in one of the boxes, pulled out my purse, and handed it to me. "They're talking in the office. The Rover's on the far east side of the parking lot, remember? I'll meet you back at home."
I waved at the detritus on the lunchroom table. "But - "
"Go."
In the office waiting area, Sheila O'Connor talked quietly with Wanda Cooney. Another morgue staff person was shuffling papers and asking Pru questions. Pru, seated next to the desk, mumbled answers. The gist of their conversation had to do with Pru not being able to see and therefore not being able to sign the necessary papers. The papers were being sent on to an attorney. Wanda acknowledged my arrival with a nod, then walked over to attend Pru.
Sheila O'Connor told us: "We'll release the body for burial in three or four days. There's a committee at St. Stephen's Roman Catholic Church in Aspen Meadow that helps with a memorial service or funeral arrangements when the spouse or family can't."
Pru's voice rose, tremulous. "Goldy? Are you there? You were his favorite."
I went over to Pru's side and leaned down to embrace her. "Let's go back to your place. You should be home."
Sheila motioned me over for a last message. "Tom called. He wanted to know if you'd prefer to wait for him." When I bit the inside of my lip and didn't reply, Sheila added, "I promised I'd call him back, if you want to leave right away."
"Tell him I'll meet him at home in a couple of hours. Tell him I'll be fine - not to worry."
I headed west in Julian's black Range Rover behind Wanda Cooney's dull green Suburban. Overhead, the sun shone briefly between mushrooming gray clouds. One of our summer thunderstorms was brewing. The half of my brain still operating logically recalled that the drive to the Blue Spruce condo would take forty-five minutes. Time to focus on Pru, whom I barely knew, despite my long friendship with Andr‚.
But I could not. I ground the gears and felt my mind shift from rationality to despair. Andr‚ dead. It wasn't possible.
Raindrops spattered across the windshield. The wipers scraped noisily over the glass as the van crested the interstate; the Continental Divide, thickly shrouded in mist, came into view. A heart attack. Two burns.
Tongues of lightning flicked above the near mountains as we turned into Aspen Meadow. At the turnoff to Blue Spruce, I glanced down Main Street. Stupid, unexpected worries about the tasting party the following day loomed. How would I gather supplies? When would I manage to finish the cooking? How could the packing and serving get pulled together? Julian will do it, I told myself. Thank God for Julian.
Water splatted on the glass and I turned on my lights. Beside the road, Cottonwood Creek gushed and foamed. A memory of Andr‚ trying dinner menus appeared from nowhere. He would always offer the cooking staff dishes laden with possibilities: cranberry-glazed pork with sweet potato pudding; seared steak Hong Kong with creamy risotto; poached Dover sole nestled in steamed artichokes and hollandaise. He would concentrate intently as he drizzled blackberry sauce over a spill of crepes, then have me taste as he meticulously wrote out times for prepping and cooking. He would cap his pen and say, "Now, Goldy. All is well?"
No. All is not well. I needed information. I needed to know what had happened to him. How it could have happened to him. I picked up my cellular phone and punched in the number for information. When the operator answered I asked for the number for Mountain Taxi. Yes, I replied to the operator's query; I would like her to connect me.
The taxicab dispatcher's voice crackled. I identified myself as a cook who worked with Andr‚ Hibbard, and could I speak with the driver who brought Mr. Hibbard to work this morning? The dispatcher put me on hold. It was unlikely that the police would have questioned the driver already, I figured. If for some reason the sheriff's department didn't want me to talk to the driver, then I would have to come up with another strategy.
The line filled with static and then cleared. "Yeah, this is Mike. I took the chef this morning. I've been driving him out to that job site. Who're you again?"
"It's Goldy Schulz, the caterer. I used to work with Andr‚."
"Yeah, well, I've been taking him to work lately. The old guy couldn't drive. I gotta call here, whaddaya need to know?"
I asked about his schedule this morning. Mike had picked Andr‚ up at six-thirty, an hour earlier than usual. When I asked why so early, Mike replied, "I don't know. I ast the chef: What you cooking out there this time of the morning? You already got two big boxes of food. Ain't you done yet? And he got all huffy, the way he does, you know, and said, Yeah, he was done with the cooking, but that he still had work to do. That was it. Told me he'd call when he was done, the way he usually does, only he didn't. Did you take him back?"
"No." I wasn't going to tell Mike that Andr‚ was dead; he'd find out soon enough. I forced myself to concentrate on my driving. The Rover hurtled along a winding paved road bordered by a steeply cut cliff. I glanced at the creek and meadow on the right and said, "Was anyone else there? Anyone at all?"
"Nope. The gate was open, and that was what I was worried about, but Andr‚ had called ahead about that. No cars. I helped him carry the boxes across the creek the way I usually do, then I left."
"And what was in the boxes?"
"His food and his beaters and whatnot. Why? Somethin' wrong?"
"What food? Did he tell you?"
"He told me, but now I can't remember. Wait... individual custards, he told me. People love 'em, he said."
"No fruit to slice, no coffee cake to make?"
"Nope. He'd made muffins to go with the custards. He even gave me one, had orange peel in it. It was good."
I took a deep breath. "Did you notice his hands? Had he been burned? Did he complain that he'd been burned?"
"I didn't notice anything wrong with his hands, and he didn't mention them. What is this about?"
I told Mike it was nothing, thanked him, and signed off. When I'd replaced the cell I gripped the wheel. Andr‚ had made custards and muffins ahead of time, gone to work early to do unknown extra work, burned himself before or during a coronary attack, and died. Made perfect sense. I wrenched the wheel to the right and turned into the Blue Spruce Retirement Village.
Wanda had Pru settled in her small blue-and-white sitting room. I offered to make tea. The condo was a tribute to Pru's love of teapots. Every available table, shelf, and cupboard in the sitting room and kitchen was crowded with teapots: fat and gold-rimmed, slender and blue, pink and detailed, new and antique. I'd been in their home only once before, when Pru and Andr‚ had first moved in and I'd brought over a loaf of oatmeal bread. I veered away from that memory as I found cups, bags of Pru and Andr‚'s favorite English Breakfast tea, spoons, lemon slices, sugar, cream, and arranged them on a tray with a plain ivory pot.
