Double Shot gbcm-12 Read online

  Double Shot

  ( Goldy Bear Culinary Mysteries - 12 )

  Diane Mott Davidson

  New York Timesbestselling author Diane Mott Davidson has taken readers by storm with clever mysteries filled with tantalizing plots and mouthwatering recipes. In her twelfth novel -- her tastiest tale yet -- the ingenious storyteller whips up a rich souffl[HTML_REMOVED] of murder and mischief.

  The governor of Colorado has commuted the prison sentence of Goldy Schulz's ultra-handsome, ultra-charming, ultra-wealthy, ultra-venal ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman, otherwise known to Goldy as the Jerk. He's released, and soon afterward Goldy becomes the victim of threats, rumors, and violence.

  Then there's a murder and suspicion centers on Goldy. Suddenly, she is faced with the challenge of running her successful catering business while fending off two persistent detectives.

  Caught in a web of secrets and lies that could tear her family apart, Goldy must use all of her considerable powers of detection to find the real killer before she herself becomes a target.

  DOUBLE

  SHOT

  Diane Mott Davidson

  TO JASMINE CRESSWELL

  A brilliant writer and unfailing friend

  But if any one has caused pain, he has caused it not to me, but in some measure…to you all.

  —II Corinthians 2:5, RSV

  If you sit by the river long enough, the bodies of all your enemies will float by.

  —Chinese proverb

  Prologue

  You think you know people.

  You see a snapshot from the old days—from fifteen, sixteen years ago. The memories swim up. You think, Ah yes, those people from long ago. There were folks who were kind. Some who weren’t. And then there were some you barely knew. You stare at the photograph. Do I really remember these people?

  Define remember.

  Then you hear about a sacrificial gift, a private kindness pitched your way. Oddly, the gift was given so you’d be kept in the dark. Is it always helpful to be the recipient of good deeds?

  Define good.

  Say the snapshot does not reveal another reality—a hidden darkness, a nefariousness. A sin, as we Sunday-school teachers say. At the time of the photograph, a bullet was fired from far away. Not a real bullet, mind you, but a metaphorical one. An evil was done; a cruelty committed; a line crossed over. But it was hushed up. Denied. Forgotten.

  Define forgotten.

  Because, see, some people never forget.

  They’re called victims.

  Celebration of the Life of Albert Kerr, M.D.

  THE ROUNDHOUSE

  TUESDAY, JUNE THE 7TH

  TWELVE O’CLOCK NOON

  Chilled Asparagus Soup

  Radiatore Pasta Salad

  Arugula, Watercress, and Hearts of Palm Salad, Champagne Vinaigrette

  Herb-Crusted Grilled and Chilled Salmon

  Potatoes Anna

  Spinach Soufflé

  Mini-baguettes

  Tennessee Chess Tartlets

  Fresh Peach Pies

  Homemade Vanilla Bean Ice Cream

  1

  It’s a funny thing about being hit in the head. Afterward, you’re never quite sure what happened. You only know that something did.

  At five in the morning on June the seventh, I was pushing my dessert-laden old pie wagon up the walk to the Roundhouse, a failed restaurant I’d leased and was converting into a catering-events center.

  At half-past five, I was lying in the grass, wondering what I was doing there and why I was in so much pain.

  Reconstruct, I ordered myself, as I wiped gravel from my mouth. I hadn’t fainted. But I had been knocked out. My head throbbed, my knees stung, and the back of my neck felt as if it had been guillotined with a dull blade. I groaned, tried to move my legs, and was rewarded with a wave of nausea. I rubbed my eyes and tried to think, but the memory remained out of reach.

  My husband, a cop, often tells witnesses to begin their story at daybreak on the day they see a crime. This gives folks a chance to talk about how normal everything was before events went haywire.

  So that’s what I did.

  I closed my eyes and recalled rising at four, when mountain chickadees, Steller’s jays, and all manner of avian creatures begin their summer-in-the-Rockies concert. I showered, did my yoga, and kissed Tom, to whom I’d been married for two years, good-bye. He mumbled that he’d be in his office at the sheriff’s department later in the day.

  When I checked on my son, Arch, he was slumbering deeply inside his cocoon of dark blue sheets. I knew Arch would wait until the last possible moment before getting dressed to assist with that day’s catered event. But at least he was helping out, which was more than most fifteen-year-olds would be willing to do at the start of summer vacation. I loaded the last of the event’s foodstuffs into my catering van, made the short drive up Aspen Meadow’s Main Street, and rounded the lake. A quarter mile along Upper Cottonwood Creek Drive, I turned into the paved Roundhouse lot, where I’d parked and unloaded.

  So far so good. I remembered merrily wheeling my cart up the gravel path toward the back door of my newly remodeled commercial kitchen. Peach pie slices glistened between lattices of flaky crust. A hundred smooth, golden, Tennessee chess tartlets bobbled in their packing. Threads of early morning sunlight shimmered on the surface of Aspen Meadow Lake, two hundred yards away. In the distance, a flock of ducks took off from the lake, quacking, flapping their wings, and ruffling the water.

  Recalling all this made the area behind my eyes sting. But when I tried to turn over, pain ran up my side and I gasped. The desserts, the lake, the ducks. Then what?

  As I’d steered the wagon toward the ramp to the back entry, I’d noticed something odd about the Roundhouse kitchen door. It was slightly ajar.

  A thread of fear had raced up my neck. My body turned cold and I stopped the cart, whose creaky wheels had been filling the morning silence. A thump echoed from out of the kitchen. Then a crack. As I reeled back on the path, someone leaped out of the kitchen door.

  A man? A woman? Whoever it was wore a black top, black pants, and a ski mask. The intruder lunged down the ramp. Wrenching the pie wagon backward, I teetered, then backpedaled furiously. He—was it a man?—shoved the cart out of the way. It toppled over. Pastries spewed onto the grass. The prowler loomed, then hand-chopped the back of my neck. The force of the blow made me cry out.

  With silver spots clouding my eyes, I’d registered crumpling, then falling. I’d bitten my tongue and tasted blood. Then there had been the terrible pain, and the darkness.

  Okay, so that was what had happened. But why had someone wearing a mask been in my kitchen in the first place? I did not know. What I did know was that lumps of granite and sharp blades of drought-ravaged scrub grass were piercing my chest. Again I tried to lift myself, but a current of pain ran down my body. When I thought, You have an event to cater in six hours, tears popped out of my eyes. Who could have done this to me? Why today, of all days? My business, Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right!, was set to put on only our second event since I’d leased the Roundhouse. It was a big lunch following a funeral—a funeral that might as well have been mine.

  Water burbled nearby: Cottonwood Creek, a foot below its normal flow. A car rumbled past—the beginning of the morning commuter traffic from the stone and stucco mini-mansions that ranged along the upper part of the creek. Positioned as I was on the far side of the Roundhouse, it was unlikely that any of the lawyers, accountants, or doctors making their way down to Denver would see me and call for help. With enormous effort, I pushed up to my elbows, fought queasiness, and got to my feet. The overturned pie cart lay a few feet away. Crusts and fruit slices littered t
he sparse grass. Tart-let filling oozed into the dust.

  I almost thought, Peachy!, but stopped myself.

  I limped to the van and climbed inside. Then I locked the doors, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out the thirty-eight I’d started keeping in there since the twenty-second of April. That was when my ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman, had had his prison sentence commuted by the governor of Colorado.

  He had been serving four years for aggravated assault and probation violation. Although he’d beaten me up plenty of times before I’d kicked him out seven years ago, the assault he’d been convicted for—finally—had been his attack on a subsequent girlfriend. Unfortunately, he’d been behind bars for less than a year.

  I sighed and peered through the windshield, alert to any movement that might indicate a prowler. Could John Richard Korman have done this? For the Jerk, which was what his other ex-wife and I called him, nothing was impossible. Still, this attack was a departure from his usual MO, which meant letting you know in no uncertain terms that he was the one with the power. Besides, he was coming to the funeral, since he’d worked with the doctor who’d passed away. The doc’s widow had apologetically asked if that was all right. I’d said yes. In front of others, the Jerk was unfailingly charming. It was when he got you alone that you had to worry.

  With the ominous gray weapon lying on the dashboard, I assessed myself. In the physical department, it no longer hurt to breathe. My neck ached, my knees were bleeding, and my support hose—I called them “the caterer’s friend”—were ruined. Still, I no longer felt dizzy or disoriented, and my Med Wives 101 knowledge assured me I hadn’t had a concussion. I opened my trusty first-aid kit with one hand and pressed the automatic dial for Tom’s cell with the other. He must have been out of range, so I left him a message. I then pressed the numbers of the sheriff’s department.

  Tom wasn’t at his desk yet, either. I gave another brief account to his voice mail, then toggled over to the department’s operator and explained what had happened. Yes, I needed a patrol car to come up. No, I did not feel I was in any immediate danger. No, I did not think anyone was still in the Roundhouse, and no, I did not know what this attacker was doing in the kitchen or if my business had sustained any damage. Did I have any idea who this prowler was? she asked.

  “Not really,” I answered truthfully. “You’ve got files on my ex-husband. But he’s never gone to the trouble of wearing a mask. I have competitors, but most of them are in Denver.” I took a deep breath, eager to be off the phone.

  The operator assured me an officer would be up within forty-five minutes. Was that all right? she wanted to know. I told her the sooner the better. I had work to do.

  I opened a bottle of water, took four ibuprofen, and had the comforting thought that my body did not hurt as much as it would in a few hours. I wrenched off the torn stockings, dabbed blood from my knees, and smeared on antiseptic. Once I’d smoothed a pair of large bandages into place, I winced as I slipped on a new pair of hose. Then I changed into a clean catering uniform—black pants, white shirt—and checked my watch. Just past six. Time to hustle.

  First things first. I’d done the right thing by calling the cops. But I was determined to follow through with the funeral lunch. Nevertheless, with the tartlets and pies ruined, we would need a new dessert.

  I put away the first-aid kit and punched in more numbers, this time for Marla Korman, the Jerk’s other ex-wife and my best friend. I was still keeping a close eye on the Roundhouse—in case anyone was lurking about or my prowler decided to return.

  Marla’s phone rang ten times before I got her machine. I tried two more times and again was connected to her recorded voice. I knew she was home. She just wasn’t picking up, which figured at six o’clock in the morning. Resigned, I kept calling until the phone was whacked off its cradle and I heard distant groaning.

  “This better be good,” Marla announced, her voice even huskier than usual.

  “It’s me. I need you to come to the Roundhouse. Please.”

  “It’s not even…the Roundhouse? Goldy? They don’t even serve coffee!” She yawned. “Oh, yeah, you took over there. Hold on.” Shuffling noises engulfed the receiver, and I could imagine ultrawealthy Marla rearranging her Delft-blue chintz-covered comforter and mound of feather pillows on her cherry four-poster bed.

  “I’m sorry to call so early.” Tears again slid out of my eyes, but I whacked them away. “I…can’t reach Tom. Something bad has happened.”

  “What’s the matter?” Marla’s suddenly sharp voice demanded.

  “I’ve been hit. Attacked. I didn’t see who it was.”

  “You have to call 911.”

  “I did. A sheriff’s car is en route. Tom’s not at his desk, and whoever did this is gone. Could you please come over here, Marla? And I’d appreciate it if you could bring those cakes I made for your garden-club splinter-group bake sale. My dessert for the Kerr reception was wrecked.”

  “You’ve been beaten up and you want me to bring you some cakes, for God’s sake?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Marla cursed, said she’d be right over, and hung up.

  Runners and walkers were beginning their morning circuit of the lake. On the far side of the water, a few kids with rods and reels had started casting for lake trout and tiger muskies. It had been almost an hour since I’d been knocked out, and there’d been no sign of the marauder coming back to finish me off.

  Only slightly reassured, I hobbled from the van back to where I’d been hit. Unfortunately, there were no telltale shoe prints or conveniently dropped clues as to the identity of my attacker. I glanced at the broken back door. There was no way I was going inside without Marla. Still, I had sixty guests arriving in just five and a half hours, and the mess outside had to be cleaned up. Moving cautiously, I set the cart upright, loaded it with broken crusts and pieces of peach, and transported the debris to the Dumpster at the edge of the lot.

  Fifteen minutes later, horn blaring, auxiliary lights flashing, Marla roared into the parking lot. Hefting a large canvas bag, she lunged from her new gold Mercedes sedan.

  “You know he did this,” she cried when she caught up with me.

  “Let’s talk in the van.”

  She flung her sack onto the passenger-side floor, then climbed in beside me. Voluptuously pretty, she wore a hot-pink silk caftan shot through with gold. Gleaming barrettes of pink diamonds and tiny cultured pearls held her brown curls in place. She looked like a sunrise.

  I said, “You didn’t put any of my chocolate cakes in that bag, did you?”

  “Don’t start. They’re in my trunk.” Marla dug into the bag. “Here, have this.” She handed me one of her special drinks, a Mason jar filled with ice cubes, espresso, and whipping cream. I thought of it as “Heart Attack on the Rocks,” but took it gratefully.

  Marla snarled, “I’m sure this was the work of el Jerk-o. The governor might as well have said, ‘Get out of jail free! Go be naughty, we don’t care.’ ”

  “I don’t know who it was, I just know that I hurt.” I sipped the luscious, creamy drink. “This is from heaven, though. Thanks.”

  “I’d still like to know where our ex was this morning.”

  I was back to peering out the windshield. “How about, rolling around in bed with Sandee Blue?”

  “Girlfriend almost half his age,” Marla shot back. “It’s a wonder he didn’t have a heart attack, instead of me. Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I can see Cecelia’s headline now: ‘What Prominent Local Doctor, a Convicted Felon, Died of Coronary Arrest While Bonking His Fifty-fourth Conquest?’ ”

  I smiled. Cecelia Brisbane was our town’s ruthless gossip columnist. In Aspen Meadow, Cecelia’s weekly feature in the Mountain Journal was more feared, and more quickly devoured, than any national tabloid.

  “Wait a minute,” Marla said. “How about ‘Fart’s Heart Departs’?”

  “Too obscure. And what makes you so sure Sandee was his fifty-fourth?” Marla’s
hobby of obsessively tracking John Richard’s girlfriends, finances, and legal troubles gave her life meaning.

  “Put it this way, I’m fairly certain Sandee’s fifty-four. Courtney MacEwan was fifty-three. Ruby Drake was fifty-two. And then there was Val,” she mused, “fifty-one. You don’t suppose one of his old flames could have attacked you, do you?”

  I shrugged. “A slightly plump, mid-thirties ex-wife, with a fifteen-year-old son and a husband who’s a cop? Doesn’t sound like a target to me.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But there’s something else I’d like to know. Now that the Jerk is out of jail, where do you think he’s getting his money? You can’t keep a young girlfriend and rent a house in the country club area on your good looks.” She eyed me. “Speaking of appearance, you look like hell. No doubt about it, Goldy needs a chocolate-filled croissant.” She burrowed back in her bag.

  I declined the croissant and slugged down the last of the latte. “Listen, could you help me set up? I don’t want to be alone in the Roundhouse.”

  “Absolutely. But bring the gun.” She pushed open the passenger door and yelled, “If you’re in Goldy’s kitchen, she’ll shoot you in the nuts!”

  “I don’t want to bring the gun.”

  She gave me a wicked look. “If the Jerk’s in there, you could pop him off.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Then give the gun to me. I’ll protect us.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Goldy, if you don’t take that weapon, and then the cops arrive, they’ll say, ‘What the hell were you doing going into that place unarmed?’ ”

  I sighed, handed Marla the entrance key—I thought the cops might want to photograph the kitchen door—and got out of the van. Then I snagged the thirty-eight and pointed it down, safety on, as we approached the Roundhouse’s French doors. But another nasty surprise awaited us.