I pressed my lips together. I hated Andy Fuller.
Tom dropped the receiver to his side and muttered, "One thing I won't regret is when that dummy finally runs for Colorado Attorney General and quits this new tactic of his, trying to turn every case into a TV show."
Too late, I saw his finger was still pressing the radio button. I grabbed Tom's wrist with my bloodied palm. He cursed silently and shook his head.
Down at the guest house, the other deputy read my old friend Cameron Burr his rights. Cameron's face was wan under the tan, his wide shoulders slumped. His eyes roved frantically, like a startled wild animal's, as he was cuffed. Then he was led to the first police cruiser. Andy Fuller, his back to us, talked to the uniformed cops. One cop was holding a plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag was... a book? Something from the Homestead Museum robbery? I shuddered to think how Hanna Klapper would frown over the cops' handling of the museum's precious historic items, even if it wasn't her job to do that frowning anymore.
At the van, Dr. Sheila O'Connor joined us. In a low, crisp voice, she asked Tom, "Can you talk?" Tom glanced at me, then nodded. Both moved away from the van door.
Left alone, I frowned at the cop with the bag. Plastic bags mean the evidence is dry. Paper bags are used when evidence is wet. So Cameron Burr, a historian, masked his murder by stealing a valuable book from the museum and then putting it into his garbage? But he was careful enough not to get it soiled or wet? If you stole something to cover up a murder, why wouldn't you throw the evidence out onto the road? Nothing about what was going on here felt right to me.
One of the uniformed officers approached me. Andy Fuller turned to watch.
"Mrs. Schulz? I'm Sergeant Chambers." The officer' was very young, with orange hair, a pie-shaped face, and a complexion like dough. His pale, nail-bitten fingers clutched a notebook and department-issue ballpoint. "I need to question you - " His voice cracked. Questioning the wife of the county's champion investigator was apparently somewhat daunting. Chambers cleared his throat, clicked his pen, and eyed my bloody hand, still wrapped in Tom's handkerchief "Briefly. If you're up to it."
"May I run some cold water over my hand, while we talk?"
"This won't take long." Chambers' tone was apologetic. "We can't go into the house because it's a crime scene. Just tell me why you're here, when you arrived, and what you saw." He clicked his pen again.
I told him the purpose of my visit and politely added that he could look at the basket of food on the kitchenette counter if he didn't believe me. I told him Burr was asleep in his clothes when I arrived at two o'clock.
"How did he act?"
"Exhausted. As if I'd just awakened him from a very deep sleep. When he went to take a shower, I offered to fix him coffee. He said his percolator was out in his unfinished sun room." I pointed with my unwrapped hand. "When I got there, Gerald Eliot's body was... hanging between the studs. But I didn't see it there right away. If I didn't see Gerald Eliot's body, how could a hiker have seen him?"
Andy Fuller sidled up beside Chambers. "Just answer the questions, Mrs. Schulz. All right?" His expression was arrogant, defensive.
I said, "If Cameron had murdered Gerald Eliot, he would hardly have sent me straight out to where he'd hung up the body, would he? What kind of sense does that make?" I Fuller raised an eyebrow at Chambers, as in Don't let this pushy woman take over the interview. Then, without responding to my questions, he turned on his heel and headed back to the patrol car in which Cameron now sat, cuffed and accused of murder.
Chambers held up a soft, plump hand. "Please, Mrs. Schulz. Did Burr mention anything about Eliot when you got here today?" I shook my head. "What do you know about their relationship?"
I exhaled in exasperation. "Gerald Eliot had promised to finish the Burrs' sun room four months ago. He pulled out the wall between the addition and the house, did a subfloor and some framing, and put in three windows. Then he took off for parts unknown." Chambers glanced over at Andy Fuller, whose expression as he stood next to the first cruiser was stone-faced. I hurried along: "At night, it's cold up here at eighty-five hundred feet. Even in the summer. Barbara Burr got pneumonia from the chilly air in the house. She's on a ventilator down at Lutheran." Impatience crawled under my skin. "This is common knowledge, Sergeant."
Chambers nodded in a way that told me if it was common knowledge, it wasn't common to him. "Just tell me what else you saw, Mrs. Schultz."
This I did, up to the time of the arrival of law enforcement. Meanwhile, Sheila O'Connor talked on to Tom. Finally he turned his handsome face and nodded at me. I felt a wash of relief followed by the deep urge to leave, to get my hand cleaned and bandaged, to find a way to help Cameron. Get me out of here, I pleaded silently to my husband. Unfortunately, not only did my telepathic message not connect, but Andy Fuller chose that moment to sashay up to the van.
He pointedly eyed my wrapped hand. "Did you do anything to try to help Burr? I mean, in his smear campaign against Gerald Eliot, general contractor? Just curious.
Tom lumbered up to Fuller's side. He said, "Leave her alone. She's a witness. She needs a victim advocate."
Andy Fuller whirled to face him. "Oh, really? Why can't you follow my orders, you slob? What's going on here, Schulz?"
Tom's face froze in a bitten, narrow-eyed look that made my heart sink. Fuller shifted his weight, took an angry breath, then leaned in close to Tom.
"Schulz! What did you think I was going to do that I was going to regret? You don't think I can hear you when your radio's on? Are you trying to threaten me?"
"What?" Fuller's fury seemed to baffle Tom. "How dare you threaten me in front of fellow officers!" stormed Fuller.
"I'm not sure I did," replied Tom evenly. "Goldy, get in the car." My skin iced; I couldn't move. Tom didn't seem to notice. His deep voice rumbled softly. "What are you saying, Fuller?"
"I'm saying you compromised this case!" Fuller shrieked.
"What?" snarled Tom. Fuller took one look at Tom's face, then stepped back. I glanced around helplessly: The uniforms were in the first car; Dr. O'Connor was walking back to the sun room, presumably to Eliot's corpse.
"My wife's been hurt," Tom pressed Fuller. "I don't have time for your stupid theatrics."
Andy Fuller took a step in Tom's direction. Tom slammed the van door shut. At that moment, even though he was two feet from Tom, Fuller staggered.
"You're incompetent, Schulz," Fuller crowed once he'd recovered. "How many times have we gone over this?"
"Are you saying I can't do my job?" Tom replied, undeterred.
Fuller hunched his shoulders, as if he were gathering himself into a cannonball. "I'm saying what I've said lots of times before, that I'm your boss. You just don't seem to be able to accept it. Maybe it's time you did." Tom glared at him.
"Stop, please stop," I cried. I looked frantically down at the first car. The Windows were up. The motor was running. There was no way the other cops would hear me if I called for them to come intervene. "There's no reason to - "
"Shut up!" Fuller barked at me. I I'd heard about their arguments before: Tom had told me how vicious and unreasonable Fuller could be. But, I'd never witnessed one of their conflicts. And this one was getting out of control. God forbid that Fuller would lay a finger on Tom. If Fuller were that foolish, my husband would manhandle him so quickly that Fuller would wish he'd bypassed law enforcement altogether.
"Fuller," said Tom, "get into your car. Get the hell away from this crime scene."
"You are intent on ruining this case for me!" Fuller's indignant voice howled. His hands were clenched into tight fists.
"No," I whispered. "Don't - "
"Aren't you?" Fuller cried, lunging toward Tom.
Without thinking, I jumped between them.
"No!"
But Tom's warning came too late. I lost my balance. Andy Fuller and I slammed against my van, then hit the ground. Beneath me, Andy Fuller struggled weakly. "Help," he gasped. "I've been assaulted!"
"Goldy, Goldy, oh, Goldy," Tom murmured as he gently lifted me off the assistant district attorney. "What have you done?"
I don't remember much from our trip home. Just leave, Fuller had told us, red-faced and indignant. Watching from their car, the other cops had seen Fuller come at Tom first, had seen me stupidly try to intervene. Still, Tom was very angry. With me.
"Don't you think I can take care of myself, Goldy? Don't you think I've spent enough time in police work to sidestep some five-foot-tall creep? What on earth were you thinking?"
"I wasn't thinking anything," I answered honestly. "Tom, I'm really sorry. I just - "
"Why didn't you get in the van, the way I told you?" I pressed the handkerchief into my oozing palm and didn't respond. After all, what could I say?
When we arrived at our house, bedraggled, tense, and silent, we found Arch on the phone with his friend Todd Druckman. The two fourteen-year-olds were avidly discussing telephone encryption: whether they needed it, how much it would cost, whether girls would be able to decode their conversations. Still short for his age, Arch was dressed in an oversized burgundy T -shirt and sweatpants. He shook the straight brown hair off his forehead. "It would be worth it if you thought a girl was tapping your phone," he observed. "You know how those girls in our class can be."
I washed my hand and bandaged it, then asked Arch to hang up. He pushed his smeared tortoiseshell glasses up his freckled nose and sighed. To Todd, he said, "Later."
Ordinarily, our family has heart-to-heart conversations in our kitchen. But in the rosy light of early evening, the plastic-draped hole where the window had once been gave the space the discomfiting feel of an abandoned stage set. The kitchen was no longer the heart of our home, thanks to the late Gerald Eliot. Since we weren't able to retrieve the leftovers from Cameron Burr's guest house - the cops were going through it - Tom and I set the living room coffee table with bowls of cheese, cold chicken, sliced hard rolls, romaine leaves, chutney, and mayonnaise.
"Julian called," Arch announced morosely. "He didn't sound very good. I guess he's not coming." My son threw himself down on the couch and surveyed the spread. "He really wants to talk to you, Mom. Anyway, he said he was going to call Marla."
"Was he in New York?" Tom asked. Arch shook his head and mumbled something about Julian's being on the road.
"I'm sorry, Arch," I said, then asked, "Did Andre call? Is he doing all right?"
"He left a message," Arch said uncertainly. "He's okay, I guess. Says he's not going to make enough on the shoot to pay the cost of caring for his wife if some guy wrecks all the food. What's the matter with his wife?"
"She has macular degeneration, which is a problem with the eyes. She's virtually blind, and needs a full-time nurse. It's expensive -"
"Who wrecked the food?"
"Just some guy on our job today. Is Andre's message still on the tape?"
"Sorry. I erased it because Todd and I were doing some experimenting with dialing. You're just supposed to call him back. What's the matter, Mom? You said your hand was just scratched."
"Remember the guy who made the mess in our kitchen?"
Arch smeared mayonnaise on half a roll. "Gerald Eliot? The builder scratched your hand?"
"No, hon. He's dead." Tom added, "They found his body out at Cameron Burr's place."
"No kidding?" asked Arch, incredulous. He put down his roll. "What happened to him?"
"We don't know yet," I replied, then hesitated. "Anyway, while we were all out there, I... had a somewhat... physical argument with the assistant district attorney. I... sort of lost it when they arrested Cameron," I added.
Arch bombarded us with questions. How did Eliot die? Mr. Burr didn't kill Gerald, did he? I said I couldn't imagine that he would have. Was Mr. Burr okay? Probably, I replied. Did Mrs. Burr know Mr. Burr had been arrested? It was possible Barbara was too sick to be informed of this news,.I told him; it might just make her worse. Arch loved the Burrs. He couldn't process what this would mean for them. Instead, he decided to focus on my altercation with the assistant district attorney.
Arch's father, Dr. John Richard Korman - dubbed The Jerk by Marla and me - was currently in jail for assault. Would he now have two parents in jail? Arch asked. Jail time for me was unlikely, I assured my anxious son, after I'd made us steaming cups of hot chocolate and brought them out to the living room. The other deputies had seen Andy Fuller come at Tom first.
"So who's in trouble?" Arch asked pragmatically. It was hard to tell, Tom and I told him.
The phone rang: Tom held it up so we both could hear.
"Hey!" came a hearty voice. "You should have knocked Fuller out with one of your frying pans!"
