The Best of Sisters in Crime (51 page)

Father O. came
up and put his hands on my shoulders. He gave me his Serious Pastoral Look. “Goldy,”
he said, “I’ve been so concerned for you.”

“So have I,” I
said ruefully, with a sideways glance at George Pettigrew, who shrank back in
the presence of clerical authority.

I turned my
attention back to Father Olson. Maria might want to reconsider. An
ecclesiastical career suited Father O., who had come of age in the sixties. He
had sincere brown eyes, dark skin and a beard, a cross between Moses and Ravi
Shankar.

“. . . feel
terrible about what’s happened to Edith,” he was saying, “of course. How can
this possibly . . . Oh, you probably don’t want to talk about it . . . .”

I said, “You’re
right.”

Fancy cars were
pulling into the church parking lot. George Pettigrew unobtrusively withdrew
just as a group of women disentangled themselves from their Cadillacs and
Mercedes.

“Listen,” I
said, “I have to split. Can you take care of these women who haven’t gotten the
bad news? I have a dinner party tonight that I simply can’t cancel.”

I almost didn’t
make it. Cries of
Oh here she is; I wonder what she’s
fixed
erupted like birdcalls. Father Olson gave
me the Pastoral Nod. I sidled past the women, hopped back in the van, and
managed to get out of the church parking lot without getting into a single
conversation.

To my surprise,
the maid Maria had sent over had done a superb job cleaning my kitchen. It
positively sparkled. Unfortunately, right around the comer was the plywood
nailed over the back-door opening: a grim reminder of last night’s events.

I set about
thawing and marinating more steaks, then got out two dozen frozen Scout’s
Brownies, my patented contribution to the chocoholics of the world. I had first
developed the recipe under the watchful eye of the cat, so I’d named them after
him. Maria adored them.

Edith Blanton
came to mind as I again got out my recipe for Waldorf salad. Someone, dressed
presumably as a bear, had taken the time to cut the phone wires and break in.
Why? Had that person been following Edith, meaning to kill her at his first
opportunity? Or had Edith surprised a robber? Had he killed her intentionally
or accidentally?

I knew one thing
for sure. Homicide Investigator Tom Schulz was my friend—well, more than a
friend—and he often talked to me about cases up in Aspen Meadow. This would not
be true with the current investigator working the Edith Blanton case, no
question about it. If I was going to find out what happened, I was on my own.

While washing
and cutting celery into julienne sticks, I conjured up a picture of Edith
Blanton with her immaculately coiffed head of silver hair, dark green skirt,
and Loden jacket. Despite being an energetic busybody, Edith had been a lady.
She never would have broken into my house.

I held my breath
and opened my refrigerator door. All clean. I reached for a bag of nuts.
Although classic Waldorfs called for walnuts, I was partial to fresh, sweet
pecans that I mail-ordered from Texas. I chopped a cupful and then softened
some raisins in hot water. The bear-person had been in my refrigerator. Why? If
you’re going to steal food, why wear a disguise?

Because if I had
caught him, stealing food or attacking Edith Blanton, I would have recognized
him.

So it was
someone I knew? Probably.

I went back into
the refrigerator. Although only a quarter cup of mayonnaise was required for
the Waldorf, it was imperative to use
homemade
mayonnaise, which I would make with a nice fresh raw egg. I would
mix the mayonnaise with a little lemon juice, sugar, and heavy cream. . . .
Wait a minute.

Two days ago my
supplier had brought me eggs from a salmonella-free source in eastern Colorado.
I was sure they were brown. So why was I staring at a half dozen nice white eggs?

I picked one up
and looked at it. It was an egg, all right. I brought it out into the kitchen
and called Alicia, my supplier. The answering service said she was out on a
delivery.

“Well, do you
happen to know what color eggs she delivered on her run two days ago?”

There was a long
pause. The operator finally said, “Is this some kind of
yolk?”

Oh, hilarious. I
hung up. So funny I forgot to laugh.

I would have
called a neighbor and borrowed an egg, but I didn’t have any guarantees about
hers, either. Many locals bought their eggs from a farm outside of town where
they
had
found salmonella,
and hers might be tainted too.

I felt so
frustrated I thawed a brownie in the microwave. This would be my one dessert of
the day. Oh, and was it wonderful—thick and dark and chewy. Fireworks of good
feeling sparked through my veins.

Okay, I said
firmly to my inner self, yesterday when you came into this refrigerator you
found a body. There is no way you could possibly remember the color of eggs or
anything else that Alicia delivered two days ago. So make the mayo and quit
bellyaching.

With this happy
thought, I started the food processor whirring and filched another brownie. Mm,
mm. When the mayonnaise was done, I finished the Waldorf salad, put it in the
refrigerator, and then concentrated on shelling and cooking fat prawns for the
shrimp cocktail. When I put the shrimp in to chill, I stared at the
refrigerator floor. I still had not answered the first question. Why had Edith
been at my house in the first place?

She had been
carrying a petition. A
blank
petition. So?

My copy had had
a few names on it. Edith was carrying a blank petition because I had said I
didn’t know where my copy was. She came over with a new one.

So? That still
didn’t explain how she got in.

When she got
here, she didn’t get any answer at the front door. But she saw the light
filtering from the kitchen, and being the busybody she was, she went around
back. The door was open, and she surprised the bear in mid-heist. . . .

Well. Go figure.
I packed up all the food and hustled off to Maria’s.

“Oh darling,
enfin!
Maria cried when she swung open her heavy
front door. She was wearing a multilayered yellow-and-red chiffon dress that
looked like sewn-together scarves. Maria always dressed to match the season,
and I was pretty sure I was looking at the designer version of Autumn.

“You don’t need
to be so dramatic,” I said as I trudged past her with the first box.

“Oh! I thought
you were Tony.” She giggled. “Just kidding.”

To my relief she
had already set her cherry dining room table with her latest haul from Europe:
Limoges china and Baccarat crystal. I started boiling potatoes for the souffle
and washed the beans.

“I want to
taste!” Maria cried as she got out a spoon to attack the Waldorf.

“Not on your
life!” I said as I snatched the covered bowl away from her. “If we get started
eating and chatting there’ll be nothing left for your guests.”

To my relief the
front doorbell rang. Disconsolate, Maria slapped the silver spoon down on the
counter and left. From the front hall came the cry “Oh darling,
enfin!
” Tony Kaplan, would-be bookstore
proprietor.

The evening was
warm, which was a good thing, as Maria and I had decided to risk an outdoor
fire on her small barbecue. There were six T-bones—one for each guest and two
extra for big appetites. I looked at my watch: six o’clock. Maria had said to
serve at seven. The coals would take a bit longer after the sun went down, but
since we were near the solstice, that wouldn’t be until half past six. The
things a caterer has to know.

Tony Kaplan
meandered out to the kitchen. Maria was welcoming the other couple. He needed
ice for his drink, he said with a laugh. He was a tall, sharp-featured man who
hunched his shoulders over when he walked, as if his height bothered him. I
introduced myself. He laughed. “Is that your real name?” I told him there was a
silver ice bucket in the living room. He just might not have recognized it, as
it was in the shape of a sundae. You had to lift up the ice cream part to get
to the ice. “Oh, I get it!” There was another explosive laugh, his third. He
may have been rich, but his personality left a lot to be desired.

When the coals
were going and I had put the souffle in the oven, my mind turned again to
Edith. Who could have possibly wanted to break into my refrigerator? Why not
steal the computer I had right there on the counter to keep track of menus?

“We’re ready for
the shrimp cocktail,” Maria stage-whispered into the kitchen.

“Already? But I
thought you said—”

“Tony’s driving
me crazy. If I give him some shrimp, maybe he’ll stop chuckling at everything I
have to say.”

While Maria and
her guests were bathing their shrimp with cocktail sauce, I hustled out to
check on the coals. To my surprise, a nice coat of white ash had developed.
Sometimes things do work. The steaks sizzled enticingly when I placed them on
the grill. I ran back inside and got out the salad and started the beans. When
I came back out to turn the T-bones, the sun had slid behind the mountains and
the air had turned cool.

“Come on, let’s
go,” I ordered the steaks. After a long five minutes the first four were done.
I slapped them down on the platter, put the last two on the grill, and came in.
In a crystal bowl, I made a basket of lettuce and then spooned the Waldorf
salad on top. This I put on a tray along with the butter and rolls. The souffle
had puffed and browned; I whisked it out to the dining room. While I was
putting the beans in a china casserole dish, I remembered that I had neglected
to get the last two steaks off the fire.

Cancel the
things working
idea, I thought. I ferried the
rest of the dishes out to Maria’s sideboard, invited the guests to serve
themselves buffet-style, and made a beeline back to the kitchen.

I looked out the
window: around the steaks the charcoal fire was merrily sending up foot-high
flames and clouds of smoke. Bad news. At this dry time of year, sparks were
anathema. There was no fire extinguisher in Maria’s kitchen. Why should there
be? She never cooked. I grabbed a crystal pitcher, started water spurting into
it, looked back out the window to check the fire again.

Judas priest.
A bear was lurching from one bush in Maria’s backyard to the next.
In the darkening twilight, I could not tell if it was the same one that had
been in my backyard. All I could see was him stopping and then holding his
hands as if he were cheering.

I sidestepped to
get beside one of Maria’s cabinets, then peeked outside. I knew bravery was in
order; I just didn’t know what that was going to look like. Too bad Scout had
never made it as an attack-cat.

The bear-person
shows up at my house. The bear-person shows up at Maria’s. Why?

Oh damn. The
eggs.

“Maria!” I
shrieked. I ran out to the dining room. “Don’t eat the Waldorf salad! There’s a
bear in your backyard . . . but I just know it’s not a real one. . . . Somebody
needs to call the cops! Quick! Tony, could you please go grab this person? It’s
not a real bear, just somebody in a bear suit. I’m sure he killed Edith
Blanton.”

For once, Tony
did not laugh. He said, “You’ve got a killer dressed as a bear in the backyard.
You want me to go grab him with my bare hands?”

“Yes,” I said, “of
course! Hurry up!”

“This is a weird
dinner party,” said Tony.

“Oh, I’ll do it!”
I shrieked.

I sprinted to
the kitchen and vaulted full tilt out Maria’s back door. Maybe it
was
a real bear. Then I’d be in trouble for
sure. I started running down through the tall grass toward the bush where the
bear was hidden. The bear stood up. He made his cheering motion again. But . .
.

Ordinary black
bears have bad eyesight.

Ordinary black
bears don’t grow over five feet tall.

This guy was six
feet if he was an inch, and his eyes told him I was coming after him.

He turned and
trundled off in the opposite direction. I sped up, hampered only by tall grass
and occasional rocks. Behind me I could hear shouts—Maria, Tony, whoever. I was
not going to turn around. I was bent on my prey.

The bear howled:
a gargled human howl. Soon he was at the end of Maria’s property, where an
enormous rock formation was the only thing between us and the road. The bear
ran up on the rocks. Then, unsure of what to do, he jumped down the other side.
Within a few seconds I had scrambled up to where he had stood. The bear had
landed in the center of the road.

I launched
myself. When I landed on his right shoulder, he crumpled. Amazing. The last
time I’d seen a bear successfully tackled was when Randy Gradishar had thrown
Walter Payton for a six-yard loss in the Chicago backfield.