Chopping Spree Read online

  Both his old classic Mercedes and his rarely used BMW racing car had boasted leather coffee-compartment caddies that fit over the hump between the front seats. Dear old Honey the Hound had presided over our outings, her mournful eyes regarding us from the rear seat. When we’d met the previous week, Barry had said that Honey had passed away, but that he still loved bassets and had just gotten a new one. He’d been so full of enthusiasm for canines, I’d told him about our own hound, Jake. He’d laughed and wanted to know more. Did he howl? His new dog did.

  Who was taking care of his new dog now? The cops? The pound?

  I veered away from that thought and forced myself to concentrate.

  Love interests, I typed. Let’s see. He’d gone out with all kinds of girls at school, but wasn’t as enthusiastic about them as he was about dogs, coffee, or cars. I knew he’d been seeing Ellie McNeely, and that she had recommended my catering company to him. Possibly, he’d also been seeing Pam Disharoon. I’d suspected he’d been seeing Liz, but realized now that their familiarity was probably based on Liz’s nervousness about catering for a fellow who’d barred her son from the mall. The rest was a blank.

  Find out what BD was up to with women, I typed. Jealousy there?

  My head throbbed and I pulled another espresso. Did I dare to take another couple of aspirin? No. Tom’s words came back to me: Did they give you a prescription for painkillers? My apron, I thought. What was in that prescription bottle?

  I sprinted up the stairs. My head felt as if I were balancing a pine log on top of my cranium. Balancing a large pine log. Balancing a large pine log with a guy teetering on each end.

  I groped in my apron pocket and pulled out a brown bottle from Westside Pharmacy. March 22, the tidy label read. Rx No. 2880. Dr. Louis Maxwell. Barry Dean. Take 1 as needed for headache. Vicodin ES tablet.

  How on earth had the bottle gotten into my apron pocket? It had to have fallen out of Barry’s pocket, I reasoned. When I scooted forward to check his pulse, I must have inadvertently picked it up.

  Vicodin was a narcotic painkiller. Barry had to have had some monster headaches. Was something worrying Barry to cause him crippling headaches? I typed a new question into the file: What caused BD’s headaches?

  OK, let’s see… there were a few more random facts I knew about Barry. He’d just bought an older house far out Upper Cottonwood Creek, an Austrian-chalet-style dwelling with gingerbread trim à la Hansel and Gretel. A detached garage held his cars—I thought he’d told me that at one point he’d had three vehicles—the old BMW racing car, a new white Audi, and the classic Mercedes, which had been wrecked, only to be replaced by the new Saab. Behind the garage, there was a large paved area where he kept his pontoon boat. Without kids and a wife to support, Barry could afford expensive toys.

  I fingered the prescription bottle. Would the cops allow me inside Barry’s house? Probably not. I need to help Julian, I thought. I need to find out what Barry was up to. I need to discover what whoever killed Barry was up to. Back in the dark divorce days, I’d become an expert at ferreting out incriminating evidence. It’s important to use your talents, right?

  Speaking of John Richard, for better or worse, he had been temporarily moved to a less crowded jail in Colorado Springs. We made the two-and-a-half-hour trip on a weekly basis, so Arch could visit his father. But at least The Jerk would not be in the Furman County lockup to hassle or intimidate Julian.

  Julian. My heart ached. He’d been a part of our family for only a few years, but it felt like forever. He worried incessantly about Arch and me. He helped Arch with homework and visits to museums; he even corrected Arch’s drafts of English papers, something I was forbidden upon pain of death to do. Julian brought over his signature chocolate croissants whenever he visited. And he always, always helped me out at catered events when I needed him.

  If I told Tom about Barry’s pills, he’d make me turn them over to the cops. So I was tampering with evidence. But I wasn’t ready to give up Barry’s prescription bottle just yet, at least not until I ferreted out the reason for the painkillers. After frowning at the little brown bottle for a minute, I wrapped it in plastic, opened the freezer side of the walk-in, and stashed it in a place I doubted Tom or Arch would ever look: a plastic tub half full of frozen clarified butter.

  I was going to help Julian, I resolved. He possessed a keen intelligence, a great willingness to help out, a love for our family, and unfortunately, a quick temper. And now his desire to help others had landed him in a load of trouble.

  So, Tom had relieved me of my catering assignments for that day. Until I could gather more supplies, there was little I could do to work on other events for later in the week. Meanwhile, my psyche needed to cook.

  I washed my hands, tore the leftover bacon into bits, then washed my hands again. My whisk clicked the side of the bowl as I violently beat together a salad dressing. Finally, I washed and dried head after head of tender baby lettuces.

  Despite my frenzied activity, my mind kept circling back to Julian. I’d introduced him to Liz, who had introduced him to her son Teddy, whose plight had touched Julian. His sense of justice had propelled him to confront Barry Dean. Julian always tried to do the right thing. Of course, this had also included trying to pull the knife out of Barry’s stomach.

  I quickly stored all the food. Even if Hulsey forbade me, I was going to go down to the jail. I was going to demand that Julian Teller be released.

  Fat chance of that, I thought. I groped again in the freezer, tried to avoid the tub of butter (the hidden prescription seemed to scream at me), and clattered ice cubes into a glass. I poured heavy cream into the glass, then put that into the freezer while I searched the refrigerator side of the walk-in for something luscious. Aha—a last piece of flourless chocolate cake topped with raspberries and strawberries. I whipped some more of the cream, ladled it on top of the cake, then pulled four shots of espresso and poured it into the glass over the chilled cream and ice cubes. I took a delicate mouthful of the chocolate cake, then sipped the creamy coffee. The dark, rich chocolate melted in my mouth and sent a flash of pleasure up my back. Forget aspirin—this was a real painkiller! Then I allowed the luscious coffee to roll over my tongue. My brain felt sharper, no question.

  I frowned at my computer’s blank screen, then looked outside. The sky was turning. The brilliant white clouds had darkened, which promised more snow. I turned my back on that particular gloomy prospect, took another large bite of chocolate, cream, and berries, and washed it down with the rich coffee. Think, I ordered myself, as I surveyed the kitchen and my cooking equipment.

  Which reminded me. What about my missing knife? Somehow, one of my new Henckels knives had ended up in Barry Dean’s gut.

  I set aside my snack and typed, Who stole the knife? How? When?

  But I knew the answer almost as soon as I typed it. Anyone could have slipped into the kitchenette while Julian, Liz, and I were busy with the crowd. Sneaking in through the service entrance, once the main doors were opened, shouldn’t have been too hard either, because at that point the security guards were inside the lounge.

  There ought to be some way to determine…Wait. The lounge had boasted a multitude of cameras, all poised on the party. Cameras on the walls; cameras overhead. Plus, there’d been that videographer. Surely, one of those cameras had captured the knife thief sneaking into or out of the kitchen. Or had the knife made it to the buffet, say on one of the platters, and been snitched from there? When I visited the jail, I’d have to ask Julian if he’d spotted anything suspicious. And getting back to cameras, there should have been some hidden ones focused on the Prince & Grogan shoe department, right? Wouldn’t those videos show how Barry had died?

  I finished the cake and put in a quick call to Tom. Hopefully, he’d sniffed out news of the investigation. Did being off the case mean being excluded from the progress of the investigation?

  “Tom,” I said to his voice mail, “could you see if the cops got hold of the security-c
amera videos from the lounge, and from the P and G shoe department? Oh, and if you find out anything else about Julian’s case, would you please call?”

  As soon as I hung up, the phone rang. I pounced on it. It was Marla.

  “Goldy, what the hell is going on? Julian didn’t even know Barry Dean. I say the hell with waiting for another polygraph. I told Hulsey to get his investigators on this right away. I’m not pleased that Hulsey’s not dealing with Julian himself. He should have given you to Jackson.”

  “I—”

  “And what is it with you and Julian, guzzling all that caffeine? Don’t you know better than to drink so much of it?”

  “Well, I’ll have to remember that,” I replied huffily, “the next time I cater a buffet for fifty on less than five hours of sleep, and can peer into one of my crystal balls to see that Julian will face a polygraph for a murder investigation that very day. Oh, and since you didn’t ask, I’m feeling just fine after being hit over the head.”

  Marla rattled ice cubes, then gulped down something. It wasn’t even noon yet. I hoped whatever she was drinking was nonalcoholic.

  She took a deep breath. “Sorry I yelled at you. You know how fond I am of Julian—I’m just scared, that’s all. Tell me what they’ve got on him, would you please?”

  So I told her the little I did know, much of which she probably already had weaseled out of Julian or his lawyer. In addition to failing the polygraph, Julian had no alibi for the time Barry was murdered. He had also been accused—by whom, I still did not know—of being behind the wheel of the truck that had very nearly mowed Barry and me down. And worst of all, his fingerprints would no doubt show up on the murder weapon.

  “No alibi? I’ll say I was with him.”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m sure he was loading supplies and dirty dishes into my van, the way he said he would.” And speaking of vehicles, I wondered, where were Barry’s Saab and Julian’s Range Rover? Had the police impounded both vehicles?

  “But,” Marla protested, “if I say he was with me, will they let him out of jail?”

  “Funny thing about cops, girlfriend. They’re interested in the truth.”

  “But we ought to be able to do something!”

  “You could call Detective Sawyer, to see if they’ve impounded Julian’s car or Barry’s Saab. If not, get a couple of friends to take you to Westside, then find the Rover and drive it up to your place. Could you do that? Do you have keys to the Rover?”

  “Absolutely. It was my sister’s car, remember? And I never throw anything away. How about Tom? Can he help?”

  I retrieved a pie crust from the freezer side of the walk-in. I needed to keep cooking if I was going to stay even remotely rational. “They’ve taken Tom off the case, because there’s family involvement. Look, Marla, I’m going to look into this—”

  “Well, thank God for something!”

  “—but you can’t tell anyone what I’m doing. You can’t spill any details to your pals. If you do, Hulsey, the cops, and Tom will all have a fit. Now, tell me everything you know about Barry’s social life. Was there a Significant Other in the picture?”

  She blew out air. “Of course. Barry was seeing Ellie McNeely, didn’t I tell you? Ellie hooked up with him the second she got that bank job. I heard it had become très, très serious. But Ellie had this suspicion that Barry was seeing somebody else on the side. According to her, Barry would go places and not tell her where he’d been. He wouldn’t show up when he promised. She’d see him at the doctor’s when he said he was skiing. She spotted him at the bank when he’d said he had an all-day meeting in Vail. And he skipped a dinner they were supposed to attend, claiming he’d been caught in a traffic jam west of the Eisenhower Tunnel. So I told her to hire a private investigator—”

  “You did what?” Sometimes Marla’s meddling knew no bounds.

  “Not too long ago, Ellie’s purse was stolen at the mall. Louis Vuitton, of course. It had her car keys in it. In her wallet, there was a picture of Ellie’s daughter, Cameron, standing beside the rear of their silver Lexus. The photo included the Lexus license plate, sorry to say. The thief found the car in the mall parking lot and tried to steal it, but instead rammed it into Barry Dean’s gorgeous old Mercedes. Totaled it, too. The Mercedes, not the Lexus.”

  “What?”

  “Is there an echo on this phone line? Didn’t Barry tell you why he had to buy that new Saab?”

  “Not really,” I mumbled. Barry had mentioned his beloved old Mercedes had been wrecked. That was all. And I considered Ellie a friend. Why hadn’t I heard about all this? But I knew the answer, as usual. I’d been too busy catering. Finally, I said, “Sorry to be so skeptical, but if Ellie was mad enough to hire a private investigator to follow Barry because she suspected him of dallying, isn’t it possible that she faked the theft and drove her Lexus into his Mercedes herself?”

  “Well,” Marla shot back, in the tone she used when the gossip became especially juicy, “there’s all kinds of speculation, of course. Maybe her bag was never stolen, but I wouldn’t sacrifice a Louis Vuitton anything to fake a theft. I’d claim someone had stolen some tote I got free with a perfume purchase. But the most prevalent theory is that that brat Teddy Fury swiped Ellie’s bag. Everyone knows that kid’s a klepto. The cops didn’t find Ellie’s LV purse when they discovered what was left of his stash of stolen goodies, though.”

  “How do you know all these things?” I demanded, exasperated.

  “Well, unlike you, I’m not spending all my time cooking. I’m eating lunch out and hearing all the latest. Or I’m hustling out for a bite after the midweek church service, where people go when they just can’t wait until Sunday for news. I go to the athletic club every day and wave my arms around, so I can please my cardiologist and catch up on more news that I missed at lunch or church. And when I’m not on the phone with you, I’m on with someone else, finding out stuff to share with you.”

  I didn’t reply. I was still recovering from Marla’s revelations.

  “So did Ellie’s P.I. find out damaging stuff?”

  “Goldy, all I did was recommend that she hire someone. After all, Ellie’s older than Barry is… was. Since she finally got her divorce settlement, she has money, lots and lots more than Barry. So she had to find out if he was getting serious so he could get his hands on her money. She also wanted to know why he was lying to her about being in Vail and whatnot.” She paused and crunched on something, probably a cookie. “So. You want to call Rufus Investigations?”

  After I jotted down the number, I signed off. I washed my hands and reflected a bit, then fluted, pricked, and baked the pie crust. I would make a quiche, I decided, and use up this morning’s leftover bacon. The pie would be rich, creamy, and soothing, and would go perfectly with a field green salad dressed with raspberry vinaigrette and defrosted homemade baguettes. Goodness, but I was glad Liz was doing that wedding reception this afternoon.

  No one can recover from a head injury—much less investigate—on an empty stomach, I reminded myself. I would have a salad, baguette, and slice of quiche before donating the rest to the neighbors, since it wouldn’t keep for Tom and Arch. The neighbors would be thrilled.

  Quiche Me Quick

  7 pieces thick-sliced bacon

  4 ounces Gruyère cheese, grated

  8-inch baked pie shell (a baked9-inch shallow frozen pie crust is fine)

  3 large eggs

  ⅞ cup whipping cream

  2 tablespoons milk

  ¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

  Cook the bacon until crisp, drain thoroughly, and pat with paper towels. Cut each slice of bacon into 4 equal pieces. Evenly distribute first the bacon, then the cheese, over the pastry crust. Set aside.

  Preheat the oven to 350°F.

  In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs until they are thoroughly combined. Beat in the cream and milk, then sprinkle on the nutmeg and stir until combined. Pour over the bacon and cheese, and set carefully in the preheated oven.


  Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the quiche has puffed and browned slightly and is set in the middle. (Check with a spoon to make sure there is no uncooked liquid in the center of the quiche.)

  Serve immediately.

  Makes 6 servings

  I tucked the phone beneath my ear, started grating Gruyère, and put in a call to Rufus Investigations. I was told that John Rufus had left that morning for Africa, on an extended assignment. I swallowed hard and begged his secretary to look up something about a client of theirs. Ellie McNeely had hired Mr. Rufus to have somebody surveilled, and now that person has been murdered. The secretary let out an exasperated breath.

  “Let me have the name of the victim, then,” she said, as if my call were ruining her day. Which it probably was.

  I gave her Barry’s name, then testily explained that a young friend of mine had been arrested for the murder, and whatever Mr. Rufus had discovered would help this innocent young man get out of jail…. At that point, the secretary interrupted me and brusquely read the tenets of Rufus Investigations’ confidentiality policy. When law enforcement contacts us, we will be sharing information with them and them only—

  I thanked her and said good-bye before slamming the phone down. Then I cracked three eggs, whacked on my big mixer, and beat the eggs with almost a cup of whipping cream. Whipping cream, so aptly named. In cooking, you could take out your frustrations by whipping, folding, beating, and smothering.

  And here folks thought the home cook was so docile.

  I piled the chopped bacon and grated Gruyère into the cooled crust, sloshed the eggs and cream over all, then artfully grated nutmeg on top. After sliding the luxurious concoction into the oven, I phoned Ellie McNeely.

  “It’s Goldy,” I began. “Please don’t hang up. I really need to talk to you—”

  “I can’t talk.” She was whispering. “There are two men here from the sheriff’s department, and they want me to come in for questioning. You see, this private investigator I hired called them from the airport when he saw the headlines this morning. The headlines about Barry.” Her voice trembled. “That bastard private eye, Rufus, told the cops I was having Barry followed. He told them all about Barry and me, and why I was having him tailed, and now Barry, the man I thought was going to marry me, has been killed—”