Double Shot Page 8

  7

  As we walked down the department’s echoing metal steps, dizziness assaulted me. I grabbed the metal railing, which was shockingly cold. Or was it really hot? Hard to tell.

  I told myself that grabbing something hot should remind me of…a delectable dish, something hot from the oven, its crumbly crust steaming, its fruit filling sizzling…. I stopped and closed my eyes.

  The last time I’d burned my fingers had been when a pot holder had slipped, and I’d inadvertently grabbed the copper side of a hot tarte tatin mold. Straight from the oven, the tarte’s luscious, bronzed apple slices had bubbled and popped around the edges of a circle of buttery, impossibly flaky pastry. To compound the injury to my burned finger, a few drops of scalding caramelized juice had oozed out of the pan onto my palm and I’d yelped. To comfort myself, I’d wrapped my hand in an ice pack; with my free hand, I’d scooped out a large helping of the tarte and heaped it with frosty globes of cinnamon ice cream….

  “Goldy?”

  I opened my eyes and stared up at the wavy-glassed four-story bank of windows. The glass caught and magnified the sunlight. I blinked in the glare.

  What had I been thinking about? Oh, yes, caramelized apples….

  Brewster, seeing that I was no longer descending, turned and gave me a questioning look. “Need help?” he asked.

  “Thanks, I’m fine,” I replied, and started back down the ringing metal steps. Then I stopped again. I had no way to get home. The detectives had brought me down in a department car. Tom was either at the Druckmans’ house or at home—in either case, he was with Arch and I didn’t want to bother him.

  “Actually, there is something you can do for me, Brewster. If you wouldn’t mind.” I told him I needed a ride back to my van, which was at the scene of the crime. If the crime-scene guys had finished with it, then I’d be able to pick it up and drive home.

  “That’s absolutely no problem,” he replied cheerily. “I have a few more questions for you, anyway. Might save you an office visit.”

  Oh great, I thought dully as Brewster disappeared outside to retrieve his car. More questions. I’d already had what, three hours of interrogation at John Richard’s house and here at the department? I just couldn’t wait.

  When Brewster pulled up in his gold Mercedes—a sleek, shiny sedan not unlike Marla’s—I smiled at the unlawyerlike stickers on his rear window. On the right was “Burton,” a brand of snowboard; on the left, bless my intuition, “Hobie Surfboards.” I didn’t care what kind of dude he was as long as he was a good attorney. And so far, he’d seemed more than competent.

  The bright light and dusty wind momentarily blinded me as I made my way to the passenger door. Once I was settled into the plush leather seat, though, Brewster smoothly maneuvered the Benz out of the parking lot. No question: This was not like driving with Marla. There, every item of conversation was punctuated with my friend either braking, accelerating, or cursing.

  “By the way,” Brewster began, as if reading my mind, “your pal Marla is paying for all my time. So don’t worry about costs, and don’t hesitate to call with questions.”

  “That’s super. She’s great.” Then I tensed. “That’s not a conflict of interest for you, is it? I mean, those detectives were acting as if she was a suspect, too.”

  “If Marla needs a lawyer, she can get her own. You’re my client.” Brewster whizzed onto the interstate. “Goldy,” he said, “could you give me a quick history of your marriage to, and divorce from, Dr. Korman?”

  And so I did. There was this glamorous, charismatic medical student, the story always began, and yours truly, spellbound at nineteen, hadn’t been a very good judge of character. Yes, I said bitterly, the sheriff’s department still had my complaints on file. Not that my pleas for help had done any good, since in those days a spouse had to agree to press charges, something I was reluctant to do. Even after we were divorced, John Richard had continued his brash and brutal ways with women, until he’d finally been thrown in jail. A prison sentence actually, that he’d been serving in the Furman County Jail because the penitentiary at Cañon City was overcrowded. But being incarcerated hadn’t ended his ability to attract women.

  “How long has he known Courtney MacEwan?”

  “He’s probably known her for eight or nine years. The way I heard it, as soon as he got out, he called her to go out for coffee, which became lunch, which became a tennis game, which became a whirlwind affair.”

  Brewster nodded. “I know the firm that handled her husband’s will. She got about twenty million.”

  “And don’t think John Richard wasn’t aware of that.” I recounted all I’d learned from Marla, how John Richard had promised Courtney they’d get married as soon as possible. But then he’d balked—because of Arch, he claimed. How Marla and I suspected, but weren’t sure, that Courtney had been bankrolling John Richard’s reentry into society. Until he dumped her, that is. Then we thought he might have started borrowing money. And Courtney had been pissed.

  “I read about it in Cecelia Brisbane’s gossip column in the Journal,” Brewster mused.

  I groaned. As soon as I’d seen Cecelia’s cruel column from Friday, the fifth of May, I’d snatched the newspaper and stuffed it in the garbage before Arch could see it. The column had read, “What cute doctor is back out on the golf course, wearing plus fours over his prison suit? And what well-moneyed tennis-playing widow is getting to know him (in the biblical sense, dear readers!) when the two of them leave the club and zip over to their love nest?”

  How could people get away with this kind of stuff? I’d wondered. And is this what Cecelia had meant today, when she’d said John Richard was up to his old tricks? I did not know. Arch, studying for his final exams, had either not seen the “cute doctor” column or not cared. I doubted the latter.

  “So when did he break up with Courtney?” Brewster asked.

  “Arch called one Saturday and asked me to come get him at John Richard’s house. His dad was busy packing boxes, he said. The next thing I knew, Courtney was out and a new girlfriend had been installed.”

  “His new girlfriend? You mentioned her to the cops.”

  “Sandee with two e s, as she calls herself. Her last name is Blue. Supposedly, John Richard met her in the country-club golf shop, but she doesn’t look like any lady golfer I’ve ever seen.” Brewster gave me a questioning look. “They’re usually svelte and trim. Long and lean. Sandee’s short and buxom, and dresses, if you could call it that, to show off her figure. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.”

  Brewster grunted. “And then Courtney showed up at the lunch today. And John Richard was there. With Sandee?”

  “Yup.”

  “Any chance that John Richard could have just dumped Sandee? Or that Sandee might have another boyfriend?”

  “Very unlikely that he just dumped her. I don’t know if Sandee has any other love interest. But I do know this: John Richard and Sandee were smooching and snuggling very openly at the funeral lunch, all under the jealous eye of Courtney.” Had I seen anyone else eyeing them? I wasn’t sure. Had anyone been taking photographs at the lunch? I thought I remembered a flashbulb or two, but couldn’t recall who’d been taking pictures, or when. But I did remember something else. “Brewster, when Courtney came into the kitchen, she said, ‘He owes me.’ I thought she meant in a general sense, but maybe that means Marla is right, and she was bankrolling him.”

  Brewster nodded. We crested the apex of the interstate and shot beneath the Ooh-Ah Bridge, so named because of its panoramic view of the Continental Divide. In this year of drought, only tiny snowcaps clung to the dull brown peaks. Possible good news, weather wise, was rising from the west: A steep bank of clouds moving our way might bring real rain, and not the dreaded virga. Virga, as the meteorologists were always telling us, was distinguishable as a dark, vertical band descending from storm clouds, but not reaching the ground. The rain fell, but evaporated in midair.

  “Okay,” Brewster said.
“Now just a couple of quick questions. Who’s this Vikarios fellow?”

  I told him about Ted Vikarios, former co–department head at Southwest Hospital. He and his peer, Albert Kerr, had both left doctoring to pursue a calling to be…well, what would you call it? “More religious,” I said finally. “Albert became a priest, and Ted made tapes.”

  “Victory over Sin?” Brewster asked. “I remember those. He was down in Colorado Springs, wasn’t he? I heard he made a mint, then lost it all because of some scandal.”

  “That he did. But John Richard only went to the Springs on rare occasions, and as far as I know, they hadn’t seen each other in thirteen, fourteen years.”

  Brewster nodded. “They’ll be looking at all of Korman’s known associates, including the guys he hung out with at the jail. Okay. So what’s this about there being a problem that Arch wasn’t with you when you discovered Dr. Korman’s body?”

  I explained my inadvertent use of the word let’s, as in, “Let’s try one more time.” Then I’d impulsively told Arch to wait while I went to check the garage. I’d related all this to the detectives, back at John Richard’s house. Now they were acting as if I’d killed my ex-husband and realized I had to spare my son the sight of his dead father.

  Brewster grinned again but kept his eyes on the road. “Speaking of names. You and Marla need to quit using that moniker, the Jerk. Try to stop even thinking it, ’cuz you really don’t want it to slip out inadvertently.”

  I sighed. “What happens next?

  Brewster chewed his bottom lip. “Do you have any ideas who might have attacked you this morning? Besides your ex-husband. Did he have enemies in jail? Or friends?”

  “I don’t know. He pretty much defined me as his main enemy, the one who’d ruined his life. He…threatened to try to get full custody of Arch, but he always did that. He just didn’t like to pay child support. I’ve come to think he just liked to argue.”

  “Did he fight with everybody?”

  “Eventually.”

  “This morning…when you made your report to the police? After the attack?” When I nodded, Brewster went on: “How about this. Someone wants to frame you for Korman’s death. So they attack you and sabotage your food. You’re going to think it’s Korman, and be furious and suspicious. He’s going to be as mean as he usually is, so when the two of you see each other at the lunch, there are more than the predictable fireworks. And then the killer somehow manages to get your gun and shoots Korman, knowing that you’ll be bringing Arch over. The person who finds the body usually is the prime suspect.”

  “I know, I know.” I looked out the window and thought. “What happens when they trace the gun to me?”

  “They might come up to your house, bully you, threaten you some more. Before you say a word, call me. Then wait for me to show up.” A blast of dust hit the Mercedes. “You know, they’re going to be doing ballistics tests on the bullets they take out of your ex-husband. They’ll also be checking with Dr. Korman’s neighbors about shots being fired. What did they see and hear, and when? And don’t forget the fellow who wanted his money. They need to check on everything to build any kind of case, trust me.”

  “All right.”

  Brewster concentrated on the road for a bit, then asked, “Is there anyone who can vouch for your being at the Summit rink in Lakewood at two o’clock?”

  “Arch’s friend Todd Druckman. We took him home. A lot of folks must have seen me, in the parking lot, or buying candy from the vending machines.” I chewed the inside of my cheek. “You know, getting back to the assault. Cecelia Brisbane knew about it soon after it happened. She confronted me at the bake sale.”

  Brewster nodded knowingly. “Don’t get paranoid, but she may have rigged up a way to listen in on your phone conversations. It might be good not to talk about this case on the phone, just until I can get your lines checked by our security guy.”

  “Oh, great. What if Marla calls me with all the latest gossip?”

  “Tell her you’ll call her right back. Then use a pay phone. Just tonight.” Brewster gave me his patented grin. “Goldy, this is a big case. The cops are going to put a lot of people on it, and so will the papers, especially since you’ve been involved with homicide investigations already. It’s important that you watch your step.”

  “Okay.” I took a calming breath. “Anything else?”

  Brewster shook his head. Another gust of wind rained dust on the interstate. The big SUVs in the neighboring lanes rocked precipitously, but Brewster and his Benz were unfazed. When we zoomed down the exit for Aspen Meadow Parkway, he asked me where exactly my van, and John Richard’s house, were located.

  “Stoneberry, number 4402, I’ll direct you once we get past the entrance to the country-club area.”

  “When we get there,” Brewster advised, “the cops will be everywhere on the property. Somebody should tell you it’s all right to take your vehicle. Or they won’t, and I’ll take you home. Just don’t get into a conversation and don’t linger. Once you get the okay, hop into your vehicle and take off. Got it?”

  “Yes, fine, sure.” I felt unbelievably weary. Every part of my body ached, and the swollen bruises throbbed. My legs tingled, as they always did in the aftermath of a demanding event. Even my brain felt as if it was closing down from overuse. I wanted to be home. Tears bit the back of my eyes. I couldn’t hold them in, but at least I didn’t sob. I bent over to my purse, fished around for a tissue, and carefully wiped my face. Brewster pretended not to notice.

  At John Richard’s house, the wind was blowing dust everywhere: into the driveway, onto the crime-scene tape, onto all the cops and investigators moving to and fro. In a couple of places, the tape had broken free of its moorings and fluttered in the breeze like bright party ribbons. I was about to leap from Brewster’s Benz when he turned to me.

  “Our security guy will check your phones, then I’ll call you if there are any developments. You have to promise me you’ll phone me if you hear anything.”

  I did. I also thanked him. A cop called out that they were done with my van and I could take it. Within moments I was back in the driver’s seat, revving the engine and chugging away from John Richard’s house. I didn’t look back.

  Tom’s Chrysler, covered with grit, sat in the driveway. That was a relief. On the street, there was another vehicle I recognized, but couldn’t quite place. It sported a bumper sticker that read: “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You.” Somebody was here from St. Luke’s. For this, too, I was thankful.

  When I came through the door, Tom was right there. He folded me into a long, comforting hug.

  “Where’s Arch?” I asked, my voice muffled.

  “Upstairs with Father Pete. I called the church from Eileen’s. He was here when we arrived.” I burrowed into Tom’s shoulder, unable to think. “What do you want to do now?” Tom murmured. “Are you hungry? I barbecued some steaks for Arch and Father Pete. I made one for you, too, and saved it. It’s good cold.”

  “Did Arch eat anything?”

  “Not much. A few bites. And you’ve already got women phoning from the church. I’m sure you’re not in any mood to return calls.”

  “You’ve got that right.” I pulled away from him. “You know what I really want to do? Cook. More than anything, that’ll soothe my nerves.”

  “No way.” Tom assessed my bruised arms and legs. “You’ve got to be in pain.”

  “I promise to move slowly.”

  I washed my hands and put on an apron. I didn’t have the apples to make tarte tatin, so I just took out unsalted butter, eggs, and slivered almonds. I placed them on the counter and stared at them. I felt a stab of worry for Arch. I grabbed the counter to steady myself, then tiptoed out of the kitchen and glanced up the stairs. With Arch’s door closed, I could barely hear Father Pete’s deep voice. I couldn’t make out Arch’s voice at all.

  Back in the kitchen, I washed my hands again and told Tom to relax. He settled at our oak kitchen table and kept a watchful,
dubious eye on me. Moving slowly, I gathered up flour, sugar, vanilla, and other ingredients I thought would make a delicate, crunchy cookie. As I toasted the almonds, I gave Tom a report of all that had taken place at the department and with my new lawyer. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. His only comment was that, as he’d suspected, they’d taken him off the case. Formally, he was out of the loop. Sergeant Boyd, an old friend of his, had promised to keep him informed of anything he could pick up.

  I smiled as I measured flour. I could just imagine Sergeant Boyd, his dark hair clipped in an unfashionable crew cut, his barrel-shaped body, his short, carrotlike fingers. Like Tom, he was no-nonsense when it came to police work. If there was anyone who could bully information out of someone on the investigative team, it was Boyd.

  I went back to stirring the warming almonds until they gave off an intoxicating, nutty scent, then I dumped them out to cool on paper towels. As I sifted the flour, checked the softening butter, and measured a judicious amount of sparkling sugar, I wondered what I would call this creation. How about Goldy’s Nuthouse Cookies? I beat the butter until it was creamy, then blended in the sugar until the mélange looked like spun gold. After stirring in the other ingredients, I rolled the mixture into logs and set them in the freezer.

  I couldn’t stand it any longer: I had to see how Arch was. I crept up the stairs and listened outside the door of his bedroom, the room he had shared with Julian before Julian left for college. Arch’s strained, occasionally sobbing voice alternated with Father Pete’s low rumble. Probably not the best moment to interrupt, I decided, and tiptoed back down the stairs.

  Tom and I cleaned the kitchen. Then I asked Tom to sit down with me. He took a moment to retrieve my new quilt. Then he wrapped me up in it and scooted his chair beside mine. He put his arms around me and pulled me close.

  He murmured, “Maybe you shouldn’t try to talk.”

  “I have to.” My voice caught. In spite of the quilt, I was shaking violently. Then the words rushed out of me. “Tell me. Tell me who you think killed John Richard.”