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  “Tom,” I said tentatively while he was dialing, “may I just look through Dusty’s things for a couple of minutes?”

  Tom’s shoulders slumped. “All right, go get some of those surgical gloves your favorite health inspector says you have to use when you handle poultry.”

  I responded with alacrity, which was one of Arch’s vocab words that I particularly liked. It meant that you got your butt in gear with enthusiasm and speed.

  Five minutes later, I was wearing a pair of my surgical gloves and sifting through the papers attached to the inventory forms. It was becoming increasingly difficult to see what exactly about the law it was that Dusty found attractive. I didn’t understand why the forms couldn’t merely state: “Attach a list of the dead guy’s stuff.” But in the last analysis, I guessed that wouldn’t work.

  After a few moments, I finally got the bright idea to compare the two lists, page by page, side by side. After straining my eyes for what felt like an eon—Julian even came out of the kitchen to see what was going on—I saw the discrepancy. Or thought I did. On one page listing miscellaneous assets, someone—Dusty?—had typed “45 paintings.” On the page that matched it from the other inventory, the same listing indicated “9 paintings.”

  So, could I make the deduction that there were thirty-six Charlie Baker paintings out there, all missing one ingredient, that someone had stolen and was trying to sell? I thought so. And Nora Ellis, who had plenty of money but no cooking ability, wouldn’t have known a recipe for Journey Cake from one for beef stew, right?

  But where had she gotten the painting? From Richard, who supposedly had been in charge of getting new keys and locks made for Charlie Baker’s house? From Louise, or from Wink, either of whom might have been actually ordered to get those new keys and locks made? From Vic, ever hard up for money and, until recently, Dusty’s boyfriend? He could have borrowed the keys from Dusty, stolen the paintings, and returned them without her knowing, couldn’t he? But would Vic be able to change the inventory sheets? That would indicate someone in the law firm. What about Alonzo Claggett, who was Dusty’s workout buddy…might he have snagged and copied the keys? I had no idea.

  I told Tom my theory, but lack of a clear suspect, when he got off the phone.

  “You think somebody killed Dusty because he, or she, wanted to steal some paintings?”

  “Yeah, maybe. And then that person—maybe Louise, okay—started selling the paintings to people with lots of dough who want a genuine Charlie Baker.”

  Tom considered this for a moment. “How’s Julian doing on your cooking tomorrow?”

  “I can check. Why?”

  “Be a good idea if you typed up everything you’ve figured out about the paintings. We can give it to the guys when they come up.”

  Alacrity was getting to be my middle name. I hopped up and headed for the computer in the kitchen. There, Julian had finished the Asparagus Quiches, which were rising in the oven and giving off an enticing scent. Now he was peeling apples.

  Apples? “What are you making?” I asked. “We don’t have anything on the menu tomorrow that includes apples.”

  Julian peered down at the prep sheets. “Prosciutto Bites—prep is done, but they have to be finished at the last minute. Asparagus Quiches—done. Fruit Salad—ditto with the last-minute thing. So…there I was looking around in your walk-in, and what do I find but a bunch of apples? Time for an apple pie. Or a couple of apple pies, so I can take one over to the Routts if they aren’t too burned out on apples after your Apple Betty. I’m going to use Charlie’s recipe for All-American Apple Pie. What do you think?”

  “Who can say no to apple pie?” I smiled and said, “I think you’re great.” Then I stared at the computer screen and skipped over to the file I’d opened regarding the investigation. It didn’t take long to write up my analysis, or theory, really, about the paintings that Dusty had cleverly hidden by putting them in her blind grandfather’s room. The cops who’d searched the Routts’ house wouldn’t have known they were significant; how could they have? But they were. Or at least I believed they were. And the attached inventories, I added, might indicate that something was up with accounting for Charlie Baker’s assets, assets that needed to be reported to the probate court. When I was done, I printed out the sheets for Tom, who thanked me and said he would wait in the living room for the department guys to show up.

  Well, I hoped my ideas would be some help, I mused as I started a big pot of water boiling for the potatoes that would go into the sausage casserole. While I was peeling the potatoes, I told Julian about the most recent developments in the Dusty case. Julian shook his head and rolled out the pie dough. I dropped the potatoes into the water and then began earnestly chopping onions. After a few moments, I wiped tears away. The hard place behind my heart, the place that was still holding on to Dusty, wasn’t softening.

  I washed and trimmed the mushrooms, squeezed them to release their liquid, and melted a big hunk of butter in a large sauté pan. I tossed in the chopped onions and mushrooms, and soon the kitchen was filled with the delectable scent of onions and mushrooms sautéing in butter. Perhaps drawn by the sound of the sizzle in the pan, or maybe by the fragrance wafting upstairs, Arch and Gus came clomping down.

  Gus pushed through the kitchen door first. “Man, what are we having?”

  I had cut off the casings of the sausages and added them to the sputtering onions and mushrooms. Gus watched in fascination. I told him about the sausage casserole, and he beamed.

  “Uh-oh, pie!” Arch yelled, when he saw Julian carefully spooning a mound of spice-laced apple slices into a waiting crust. “Is that for us, or is it for a job?”

  Julian lifted his chin and winked at Arch. “Hey, would we make apple pies for clients, and not make one for the family?”

  “Yes,” Arch said, his tone accusatory.

  “One’s for us,” Julian said. “And one’s for the Routts.”

  There was an awkward moment when Gus and Arch looked at each other, as if trying to think of something to say. Teenagers have a hard time talking about the death of someone they know. I worried about Arch. Maybe the death of Dusty was bothering him more than he was letting on. As usual, my son was pretty hard to read.

  “Let’s go throw the Frisbee for Jake,” Gus said finally, and the two boys raced out of the room.

  “I think Arch is having a difficult time,” I told Julian. “When death strikes this close, all that comes up is fear for the people he loves.”

  Julian nodded as he concentrated on the apples. Not so long ago, he had lost a young woman he loved in another murder; this had changed him, made him a little more serious. I suppose kids in their twenties have the same fears.

  Once the pies were baked and cooling, we had a jolly dinner. Julian indulged in a small quiche made from leftovers, while the rest of us dug into the rich, juicy casserole, with its layers of potatoes, mixture of mild and hot Italian sausages, and creamy binder of eggs, half-and-half, and Gruyère cheese. I thought back to when a critic asked if I was cooking for the National Cholesterol Institute. There was actually no such thing, place, or restaurant. But if there were, this recipe would certainly be on their menu.

  When we finished eating, Tom insisted on doing the dishes so that the boys could watch a movie and Julian and I could plan upcoming events. We didn’t have another scheduled affair until Monday, when I was supposed to do breakfast for Hanrahan & Jule. I wasn’t so sure how I felt about going back to the H&J offices where I’d found Dusty, but I was still under contract to the law firm, and the place would probably be cleaned and open for business by then. We decided on a frittata made with fresh chopped scallions and Tom’s cherry tomatoes. That night, we’d be doing a dinner for ten big donors and a few others involved in buying the land and designing the Mountain Pastoral Center. The funding to build and operate the center would be coming from Charlie Baker’s bequest, once the will finished wending its way through probate. Our catering client was the Episcopal Diocese of C
olorado itself. The meal would be simple: Chicken Piccata, steamed asparagus, and wild rice. Julian frowned and asked about possible vegetarians. I said I didn’t know of any who might be coming, but if he wanted to think about a possible dish, that would be great. For dessert, the events coordinator had said they just wanted “something spectacular.”

  Julian snorted. “Chicken and ‘something spectacular.’ What is this, an amusement park?”

  I sighed. Every now and then, Julian was showing signs of becoming a chef. “We can invent whatever we want, to go with the vegetarian dish you’ve yet to come up with.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Julian replied, with an enormous smile.

  Julian went off to watch the movie with the boys. Tom and I were left sitting in the kitchen. For some reason, I felt totally wired, and said so.

  “Couldn’t be those sixteen shots of espresso you had this morning, could it?” Tom asked mildly.

  I gave him a sour look. “Have you told Sally and John Routt about the arrest?”

  “That’s not my job. But they’ll be informed soon.”

  I blew out air. I had done so much talking to people in the past two days, made so many attempts at investigating Dusty’s bizarre death, tried so hard to fulfill my promise to Sally Routt…and what had it come to? Nothing. Well, a bit more than nothing. The inventory for Charlie’s assets had some discrepancies. And I had lots of suspects in mind for the person who could have stolen the paintings and manufactured a fake inventory.

  Tom’s phone beeped. When he got off, he said, “Hmm.”

  “That’s not very enlightening.”

  “Louise Upton and her lawyer say she found the bracelet in her car. As far as the sledgehammer goes, she has no idea whose it is. She’s never even handled a sledgehammer, she insists, and we weren’t going to find her fingerprints on the thing. And get this—she and her lawyer invited the cops to search her house, see if any of her shoes or clothing had any glass on ’em.”

  “She invited them?”

  Tom cocked his head. “She must be pretty sure of her innocence.” He chuckled. “She told the cops they weren’t to make a mess in her house.”

  At that, I actually laughed. Then the same buzzing sound in my brain, the crazed energy that I’d been feeling ever since I’d come home from the Routts’ house with the paintings, took over. I zipped around the house, putting stuff away, tossing trash, and leaving each room spotless. What else could I do? Well, I could finish reading Dusty’s journal. And…

  Maybe I could prevail on K. D. Chenault to come over to the house tonight. I simply couldn’t wait until the next morning to hear what she had to say, not with Louise Upton behind bars and so many questions unanswered.

  I put in a call to K.D.’s separate line at the Chenault home. I know that it’s time-consuming and expensive to find lovely housing, and I’d heard of more than one Aspen Meadow divorce ending up with a physical splitting of the big mansion, but goodness! I never could have lived with my soon-to-be ex under the same roof, once I had decided the marriage was over. But people were different. Maybe divorce was friendlier these days. Somehow, I doubted that.

  K.D. answered on the third ring, sounding as if I had awakened her. Feeling like a heel, I identified myself and apologized for calling at eight on a Saturday night. She said it was no problem, she just tried to sleep when she could, since late Saturday night and the wee hours of Sunday morning were prime times for ER activity, and she could be called in at any minute. I explained that I would love to hear what she had to tell me, if she was up to it. And, I would dearly like to listen to her story tonight, because the police had arrested Louise Upton for Dusty’s murder.

  Her predictable shock propelled her out of bed. “I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. You still live right off Main Street?”

  I told her that we did. She said she’d be right over.

  Tom, Julian, Arch, and Gus decided to watch yet another movie, and I was left with a clean house and a bundle of energy the size of a nuclear reactor. The sheaf of unread pages from Dusty’s journal still beckoned.

  I scanned through April, May, June, and July, all still with references to “New O.,” and how much she loved him, and how he said he felt as if he had just been born. Apparently their lovemaking was quite athletic, with her saying, “I just can’t keep up with him! Does that sound dirty?”

  No, I thought, you poor girl. It just sounds as if you’re in love. But I was still left with the question: Who was this New O.? And if he loved Dusty so much, why wasn’t he over at the Routts’ house offering condolences? I reminded myself that with all I’d had to do at the Routts’ house—bathing and changing Colin, cleaning out the refrigerator, making a meal, taking down the paintings—I’d forgotten to ask about the funeral. St. Luke’s would be absorbing the expense, no doubt, but I had no idea when it was going to be. Maybe I’d see the mysterious Mr. O. then.

  Even though it was after eight at night, I must have been daydreaming, because my attention suddenly snapped back. I reread an entry made this month. “October 6: Somebody is taking stuff. I don’t know who. But I am going to FIND OUT.”

  Well, what do you know. I raced up the stairs and handed the page to Tom so as not to interrupt Clint Eastwood dispatching about half a dozen bad guys. Then the doorbell rang: K. D. Chenault.

  She was dressed for work, in a camel-hair coat covering a sensible brown tweed skirt and white silk blouse. I knew that she, like the other docs, kept a locker down at Southwest Hospital, because the last thing anyone wanted was to bring home blood-spattered scrubs to do in the home laundry. With her chestnut hair pinned up in a twist and her expertly applied makeup, she might have been going off to work at an expensive women’s clothing store or to manage an upscale bank. You never would have guessed that she was about to go attend to folks with gunshot and stab wounds, to horribly mangled car-accident victims, or to kids who had just opened a four-inch gash in their foreheads, slipping in the bathtub.

  “Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger,” she said, once she was settled in the kitchen and sipping a soft drink. “It’s just that Richard listens in on my calls, which drives me nuts. And since this involves hospital business, I didn’t want him to have anything to hang on my head at the next meeting with our attorneys. ‘My wife doesn’t guard the confidentiality of her patients,’ that kind of thing. I wouldn’t put anything past that man.”

  I wouldn’t put anything past anyone, I thought, but said nothing. I didn’t care about patients’ records and wondered if this had anything to do with Dusty Routt.

  K.D. licked her lips. “Actually, the patient in question is dead.” When she shook her head, a few strands came loose from her French twist. “Let me begin at the beginning.” She inhaled. “Last March, Flight for Life brought an elderly woman into the Southwest ER after she’d been struck by a car. She was a pedestrian up here in Aspen Meadow.”

  “I remember, I think. Wasn’t she the lady who was run down on the street outside of Charlie Baker’s last exhibit? I did the catering and she attended the event. I even saw her talking to Charlie for a while. Then we heard the sirens and found out there had been an accident.”

  “Yes, that sounds right. The highway patrol came to question the woman at the hospital. But she had already died, so they wanted to talk to me, to see who she was, and if she’d said anything. They said there were no witnesses to this woman being hit. And no skid marks on the pavement.”

  An icicle plunged down my back. I asked, “So who was she?”

  “Her name was Althea Mannheim, and she was from Utah. I talked to her cousin at length later. Her only relative, living in Boulder now.” K.D.’s voice turned impatient. “The thing is, when they brought Ms. Mannheim in, she was conscious, but hysterical. She was basically talking a bunch of nonsense. Or at least, I thought it was nonsense. She was absolutely covered with blood, plus we were sure she had internal injuries, and she kept saying, ‘Steals. Steals. That’s why I’m here.’ I thought she was just suff
ering from shock, delirium, that kind of thing. We needed to get her stabilized, and I kept asking her to calm down while the painkiller took effect. She kept saying, ‘Nobody else will tell them so I’m telling them. That bitch your eye steals.’”

  “‘Bitch your eye’?”

  “I thought maybe she was referring to a woman named Yoreye, as in that bitch, Yoreye. Or something like that. She kept saying, ‘That’s why I’m here. To tell people. That bitch your eye stole our pattern.’”

  “‘Bitch your eye stole our pattern,’” I repeated. I wanted to make sure I was hearing this right.

  “Then today, you introduced me to Bishop Uriah, from southern Utah.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yes. But a pattern? What pattern? I mean, how many men do you know who sew?”

  I nodded, but not because I knew any men who did sewing. My mind was going along different lines: liturgical ones. I was also remembering what Meg had told me, that when she’d driven Charlie home from the party, he’d been agitated, and wanted to hire a private detective. And then there was what I’d just read in Dusty’s journal: that someone was stealing paintings from Charlie’s house. And now I was convinced that in fact someone had tampered with my van so I’d be late the night Dusty was killed. And all of this—all of it—could be related to why and how Dusty had been killed, and by whom.

  On the other hand, it could have nothing at all to do with Dusty, or even Uriah Sutherland. It might simply be a coincidence that Althea Mannheim was visiting from Utah, went to Charlie’s exhibit, and was killed in an accident nearby. She indeed might have been mumbling nonsense that K.D. had misinterpreted when she heard the unusual title and name, Bishop Uriah. Uriah certainly seemed an unlikely possibility for a painting thief, especially from a man who was an old and cherished friend. Richard Chenault, it had to be said, was a better possibility as someone who had access to the paintings and the inventories of Charlie’s estate.

  “Wait, K.D.” I was thinking how to ask her if she’d seen any of Charlie Baker’s paintings somewhere in that big house that she and Richard still shared. “Do you know anything about Richard’s dealings with Charlie Baker?”