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  “He insists he’s going.” I slugged my coffee decisively, again rinsed the cup, and made my own foray into the walk-in. Staring at the shelves, I couldn’t remember why I’d come into the cooled space, or what I was seeking. Without thinking, I pulled a large bag of Granny Smith apples off the shelf. Apple Betty, I thought. Apple Betty with ice cream was the ultimate comfort food and it was easy to prepare. I slammed the door too hard behind me, and it shuddered. “Arch wants to support Gus. He wants to be a part of the significant events in his half brother’s life. Can you blame him? Arch figures if he lies low, no one will mention the fact that he’s taken a sabbatical from the ecclesiastical experience.”

  For the first time since he’d arrived, Julian smiled. “Is Meg Blatchford going to be there?” he asked.

  “You bet.” At seventy-nine, Meg Blatchford was the oldest Episcopalian in Aspen Meadow. After a person was baptized at St. Luke’s, Meg was the one who took the baby or stood beside the child or adult and said, “You may welcome the newly baptized.” Liturgically speaking, it wasn’t strictly kosher for Meg to ask this question, as the celebrant was supposed to do it. Still, it had been such a long-standing tradition in our parish that no one objected. It added a nice touch, the oldest Christian in the place welcoming the newest.

  Julian shrugged. “I hope I can be as strong as she is when I’m in my seventies. I’ve been taking her pastries every week for over a year. Last time I was there, she was pitching a softball so hard into that little basket she uses for practice, you know what I’m talking about? Anyway, I thought she was going to break the basket.”

  I nodded. “She’s pretty amazing.”

  Julian slurped down the last of his coffee. After clattering our cups into our big commercial dishwasher, he methodically began to rinse a bunch of scallions.

  “You got some blue cheese? I’ve changed my mind on what I’m going to make. I’m going to wrap up this Brie and use it for something else, and instead, I want to make that pie you and Dusty…Oh, Christ.” At the mention of Dusty’s name, tears unexpectedly spilled out of Julian’s eyes. He walked quickly into the ground-floor bathroom, where he started running the faucet. A wave of sadness engulfed me. I turned on my computer, told myself to buck up, and printed out the Blue Cheesecake recipe.

  When Julian returned to the kitchen, he didn’t mention the incident. Instead, he said, “Um, I need some tomatoes to make a salad. I didn’t see any in the walk-in.”

  “I’ll go downstairs to look for some.”

  “Downstairs?”

  “Just trust me, okay?” I said as I traipsed down the steps to the basement. Our brief mountain growing season had not deterred Tom from planting a dozen cherry-tomato plants in June. When a September frost had threatened to ruin his crop—then only masses of chartreuse nuggets—he’d grumbled and pulled the plants up by the roots. After stringing a dozen meat hooks across our laundry-room ceiling, he’d hung entire plants—including roots with dirt still clinging to them—upside down, and declared the fruit would ripen by Halloween. Great, I’d replied, as I surveyed the grit covering the concrete floor. Tom, abashed, had swept up the mess. But we were still treated to a fresh shower of dirt every time someone picked some of his crop.

  To my surprise, I was able to find a couple dozen good-looking cherry tomatoes from Tom’s batlike plants. I placed them on the washing machine, swept up the dirt, and brought my haul upstairs. My sauté pan held chopped shallots that were sizzling in a golden puddle of melted butter. Julian was busy beating cream cheese, so I turned my attention to the apples. They were just ripe, and I’d planned to take a pie into the firm…Oh, Dusty, I thought suddenly, I’m so sorry. A blade of sorrow stabbed my chest.

  Just cook, my inner voice commanded. Get on with things.

  So I did, with Julian at my side. While we were working, Arch came in with Tom. Arch looked spiffy in his new wire-rim glasses and de rigueur Abercrombie clothing: rumpled white shirt and baggy gray trousers. His toast-colored hair was dark and wet after his shower.

  “Dusty?” Arch began, pushing his glasses up his nose. He looked from me to Tom to Julian. “Dusty from across the street? Tom said you tried to help her?”

  I faced him and held my arms out. Too old for a hug, Arch stayed in place. “Yes, hon,” I said, “I did try to help her.”

  “There’re a bunch of police cars parked in front of the Routts’. Why? Why not just the coroner’s van?”

  Sometimes I wished my son did not know quite so much about police procedure.

  “Our guys are helping Mrs. Routt,” Tom supplied.

  “Dusty was killed, wasn’t she?” Arch blurted out, his voice accusing. His narrowed eyes took in Tom, Julian, and me. Then he dropped his backpack and stalked out of the kitchen.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get him,” Tom offered.

  Julian slumped in a kitchen chair, the savory blue cheesecake and tomato salad momentarily forgotten. “What’s Tom going to say?”

  “He’ll tell him the truth. You want more coffee?”

  “What the hell, why not.”

  Within five minutes Julian had finished his third espresso and we were again working side by side at the counter. Unspoken but understood between us was the knowledge that our energy came from the fact that we were making food for Dusty’s family.

  Not much later, Arch shuffled back into the kitchen. He stared at the floor as he asked, “Julian, are you coming to pick Gus and me up from school today?”

  “Can’t, bud. Sorry. I promised Marla I’d go to her place tonight. But,” he said suddenly, “I’ll be back to help your mom tomorrow. Want me to spend the night after we do that party?”

  “Sure,” Arch said, his voice low. That would be great, thanks.” I felt bad that Arch was feeling sad about Dusty. But clearly, he didn’t want to discuss it at the moment. He heaved up his backpack and turned to me. “Tom canceled my car-pool ride. He’s taking me out for breakfast on the way to the Vikarioses’ house. After that, the Vikarioses are going to drive Gus and me down to school.” I lifted my eyebrows at Tom, who shrugged. Arch went on: “And Gus is coming over today after school. Is that okay? And for dinner, too. Tom just talked to them. Then they want me to go over there to spend the night.” He looked at Julian, his brow furrowed. “Wait a sec. Want me to stay home, Julian?”

  “I’m going to be coming back here anyway after I see Marla,” Julian said, as if he hadn’t doubted it for a moment. “So whether you decide to go to Gus’s or not, I’ll be around.”

  Cheered that he could stay home with Julian if he needed to, Arch smiled. “Thanks.”

  In addition to phoning the car pool and the Vikarioses, Tom had called one of his friends in the department, to see if it would be okay for us to go over to the Routts’ house. We’d been given the go-ahead. Tom had also phoned the Routts themselves, to ask if we could come over sometime in the next couple of hours. When he got the green light on that one, too, he gave me the news, a promise that he’d be back as soon as he dropped Arch off, and a kiss. Then he and Arch were gone.

  Julian and I got back to work. Within ninety minutes, Julian had pulled puffed cheesecake out of the oven and arranged sourdough rolls and butter in a covered basket. Tom, meanwhile, had returned and shaken up a fresh garlic vinaigrette for the tomatoes, which he arranged on a bed of romaine and Bibb lettuce and sprinkled with scallions. I carefully pulled the Apple Betty out of the oven. It oozed spicy, lusciously scented juices out from under its crumb crust. At five past nine, Marla rang the doorbell. I went to greet her.

  My best friend had swathed her wide figure in a black silk pantsuit. Her curly brown hair, usually held marginally in place by jeweled barrettes, was pulled back from her pretty face by a black velvet headband. Her large brown eyes were puffed and bloodshot.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said, handing me a plastic grocery bag with a pack of eggs inside.

  “Thanks,” I said. “And no, we can’t believe it either.”

  I stowed the e
ggs, and the four of us packed up the food. Finally, we began our slow trek across the street to the Routts’ house. The sheriff’s department cars had pulled away. Tom had told us that it had been Sally’s father, Dusty’s grandfather John, who had choked and said yes, he’d be happy to have us come over, since Father Pete hadn’t been able to stay long. Tom also said Dusty’s little brother, three-year-old Colin, had been screaming inconsolably in the background.

  I surveyed our offerings: Julian’s steaming, golden-crusted savory pie, Tom’s precisely arranged tomato salad, the breadbasket with its pats of butter, my spicy apple Betty with its crumbly crust. Without realizing it, we’d all created concoctions that demanded the precise cutting of vegetables and fruit, as if organizing food could somehow order experience and make life neat. Like most folks, we believed that performing that small ritual of comfort, bringing nourishing gifts, could make life after a sudden death more bearable.

  Which, of course, was doubtful.

  I pressed my lips together and led the way as we walked toward the door of the Routts’ small house.

  CHAPTER 5

  When we arrived, Marla marched up the cement steps and rang the bell. Tom, Julian, and I followed her to the small red-painted landing. When no one came to the door, Marla pressed the buzzer again. Still there was no answer. She turned around and frowned at us, then tried again.

  “Go away!” a voice shrieked: Sally Routt. She couldn’t have been more than six feet from what I knew was a thin door. Yet we had heard no movement from within. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore! I haven’t got a lawyer, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.”

  Marla raised her hands: Now what? Tom lifted his eyebrows at Julian.

  I walked up next to the door. “Sally, it’s us,” I said in a low voice. “Goldy and Tom from across the street. And our friends Marla, from the church, and Julian Teller. We’ve brought some food for you. You can just take it, or you could let us in, if you like.” After a beat I said, “Your father said it was okay for us to come over.”

  The stained, hollow door opened a crack. “Your husband, Tom, is a cop,” Sally, still unseen, announced in a high, frightened voice. “I don’t want any more cops in here. Suggesting my baby deserved to die.” She erupted in a sob.

  Suggesting what?

  “Mrs. Routt, it’s Julian Teller.” Julian nodded confidently at me. “You know we loved Dusty.” He hesitated respectfully. “But if you don’t want us just yet, we can leave our trays here, then come back later for them. Or you could, you know, come over to Goldy’s place—”

  The door creaked open and Sally appeared. Short and slender, she was dressed in a graying sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. Her thin, frizzy light brown hair looked like a frayed broom. Her slender face, usually quite pale, was pink from crying. Her eyes were so swollen I didn’t know how she could see out of them.

  Without looking at our little party, she said, “I’m never leaving this house again. There’s nothing out there for me.”

  With that, she departed, but she swung the door all the way open, which I took as an invitation. She could always tell us to leave, I reasoned, as we pushed our way into the small living room, with its bedspread-covered couch, flimsy coffee table, and mismatched chairs. I’d only been inside the Routts’ place a few times, but it invariably depressed me. The church might have helped build and pay for the house, but they hadn’t provided much in the furniture department.

  Sally slumped on the couch and gazed at the floor. Julian placed his tray on the battered coffee table. I followed suit.

  “Kitchen must be back here somewhere,” Tom muttered. He swung past us around a short corner. There was a clattering of wood hitting counter—presumably Tom’s suddenly putting the tray down—and then a guttural sobbing emanated from the same direction. But I knew this voice, too: it was John Routt.

  Tom’s comforting voice interspersed the deep groans and sobs. I felt confident Tom could handle Mr. Routt; it just would take a while. Meanwhile, Sally began to rock back and forth and wail. Before I could turn my attention to her, though, someone started banging on the front door. Sally rolled sideways on the couch and buried her face in a folded, incongruously cheery red-and-white-patterned quilt, no doubt brought by the deputies. After rubbing her cheeks and eyes with the quilt, she stopped crying momentarily. The pounding on the front door started up again, more loudly and insistently than before.

  “I can’t…take any more,” Sally whispered to me. As she lay on the couch, her puffy eyes sought out mine. “Get rid of whoever that is, would you please, Goldy?”

  I nodded. Marla and Julian, eager to be helpful, had been building blocks with Colin on the far side of the room. But the knocking had scared him, and he began to cry. He toddled over to his mother’s side and threw himself on top of her legs. Sally reached out a limp arm and patted Colin’s head.

  What were neighbors supposed to do to be helpful in times like this? Just work on getting your friends through the next hour, an inner voice said. Failing that, attend to the next fifteen minutes.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised to see Vic Zaruski at the door. His face, like Sally’s, was blotched, his expression stricken.

  “What’s going on?” he asked me. The humidity from the previous night’s fog had made his head of straw-colored curls wild. “Why are you here?”

  “Vic, you know we live across the street,” I said gently. Behind me, Colin raised his crying a notch. “Look, it would help if you didn’t bang on the door.”

  He looked in over my shoulder. “Where is everybody? Mrs. Routt? Her father? Colin?”

  Get rid of them, Sally had said to me. But surely she would want to see her daughter’s ex-boyfriend? Would it help to have him here? I hesitated. Julian appeared from behind me.

  “The little guy hasn’t had any breakfast,” he announced. “I checked their refrigerator, and they don’t have any eggs, juice, bread, butter, stuff like that. Mind if I get some goodies from your place? I’m not sure the kid would like that quiche, so I thought I’d make him French toast. I’ve got my own keys.”

  “Sure,” I said, then turned my attention back to Vic. He had been so kind and helpful to me after I’d found Dusty. Still, I was uncertain about how to proceed. What if Sally, in the way of mothers of teenage daughters from the beginning of time, had not actually liked her daughter’s boyfriend?

  Stepping agilely around Vic, Julian trotted down the stairs. “Oh yeah, Goldy,” he tossed over his shoulder. “You’d better check on Sally, see what she wants to do about…visitors.”

  “Stay here,” I ordered Vic. I walked quickly back to Sally, who still lay on the couch, with a steadily weeping Colin leaning against her knees. “Vic’s here,” I said softly. “Do you want to see him, or should I tell him to come back later?”

  Sally closed her eyes and shook her head. “He’s a nice boy, but I’m not ready to see him.”

  Great. I leaned in to Colin. “Will you come into my arms, Colin?” I crooned. Colin shook his head steadfastly and gripped his mother’s legs.

  “Seems to me,” Marla called from the opposite side of the room, “that Colin’s auntie Marla has some chocolate candy deep in her purse!” She picked up her voluminous Louis Vuitton bag and began to rummage through it. Then she stopped and stared into it. “I know that candy bar is in here somewhere. If only I had Colin to help me look for it!”

  Colin, suddenly alert, but still wary from not quite comprehending the source of the chaos around him, nevertheless unclasped his mother’s legs. He ran toward Marla as fast as his short legs would take him. So much for a nutritious breakfast.

  I turned and wiggled through the barely open front door, which I shut behind me. “Vic, look, you were so great and helpful last night. Could you come back later? They’re all a mess in there—”

  “I’m a mess.” His voice was fierce. He turned away, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and stared at his white Sebring convertible, its top still down in defiance o
f the gathering clouds and the cooling days. “I just…I can’t…” He twisted his head and lifted his pointed chin. “So do the cops have any idea who did this?”

  I exhaled. “I don’t know, Vic. They just left here a short while ago. I had to go down to the department to answer their questions, just as you did. Did you see Dusty last night?”

  He sank down on the red concrete landing and put his head in his hands. “No, no. I…hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks.” He paused. Then his words came out in a sudden rush. “We were supposed to have lunch together today. She said she had something important to tell me. It’s her birthday, too. But she told me not to get her anything.” He ran his fingers through his wild hair. “Oh, God. If she just would have talked to me.”

  I ran my right sneaker across the Routts’ dusty gray doormat, with its inscribed “Welcome” worn down to nubs. “Talked to you about what?”

  He shook his head, despairing. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”

  “Did she get along with the people at the law firm?” I asked mildly, my voice low.

  Vic jerked his head around and stared up at me. “Now what do you think, Goldy? I mean, look what’s happened. It’s just like at that stupid school. Elk Park Prep. Everybody else screws up, and Dusty gets blamed.”

  Everybody else screws up? I knew Dusty had become pregnant; I knew she’d been expelled. But who had screwed up? I asked calmly, “What are you talking about? Someone made a mistake and Dusty got blamed for what?”

  Vic jumped up, dusted off the seat of his jeans, and pulled his keys out of one of his pockets. “I’m out of here. You want to know the details of Dusty’s history, maybe Julian will tell you.” He jumped down the stairs two at a time. “Nobody wants me here, right? ‘Could you come back later?’” He mimicked my voice so cannily that chills scurried down my back.

  “Wait, Vic,” I pleaded. “Why don’t you go across the street to our house and wait for us? We’ll be over in a little while. Julian just needs to get some supplies, and after he does some cooking, he can stay with you—”