The Whole Enchilada (12 page)

“So, no lawyers yet.”

“Nope. But I'll tell you this: I've never seen so many visits to doctors in my life.”

“We were keeping tabs on each other!” I said defensively. “Wasn't that worth mentioning? Also, we're trying to find out if Holly mentioned having any medical problems, especially with her heart.”

“I suppose,” she mumbled. “I had no idea investigative work was so tedious.” She sipped her latte and seemed to revive. “Let's try calling the Boatfields again.”

But when she punched in the number, we got Warren once more. Marla shook her head and pointed at me. I cursed silently, because I hadn't thought of what to say if he answered. “Um, is Patsie there?” I asked, trying to sound innocent.

If possible, he was even ruder than he'd been the first time. “Why do you keep calling?” he said, his voice impatient. “I'll tell her to call you when she gets back. Who is this, anyway?”

“Goldy the caterer,” I reminded him. I thought fleetingly of Kathie Beliar, but didn't figure the distinction was worth noting to Warren, who didn't seem to give a fig salad about who I was. Anyway, it was Patsie who had called me.

“Yes, yes, all
right
,” Warren barked. Marla shook her head and pantomimed a corkscrew-next-to-the-ear motion.

“Actually,” I hazarded, “there's something else you can help me with, Warren. It has to do with Holly Ingleby. She, Holly . . . gave me a piece of information,” I added, “for you.”

There was a long pause. “What was it?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft.

I said, “Uh, uh,” while Marla scribbled rapidly on a piece of paper:
Not over the phone! Tell him you want to give it to him in person!

“This phone is not secure,” I lied breezily. “And anyway, I was only supposed to give this information to you face-to-face,” I said. And then, in what I thought was a stroke of brilliance, I said, “You'll be at the church fund-raiser tomorrow night?”

“Yes, yes, Patsie insisted we should go,” he said. “Although I think Father Pete is . . .”

“What?” I said, genuinely surprised.
Everyone
liked Father Pete.

“I'll tell you when you give me this information,” he said smugly, like we were doing a drug deal.

This time it was my turn to hang up. Fifteen minutes later, we found some information
we'd
been looking for.

“Two hundred fifty thousand dollars as a settlement,” I crowed to Marla. “And an additional two hundred twenty-four thou a year, with cost-of-living increases, for child support. And nine years ago, too! George also was on the hook to pay private school and college tuition, wherever Drew got in. Holy moly! The Jerk was a doctor, and I didn't get close to that kind of money. I
had
to work.”

“The Jerk didn't have access to inherited funds,” Marla said matter-of-factly. “
George
did.”

“I see your point,” I replied as the phone rang. I peered at the caller ID.
Boatfield.

“Apparently, Warren can't wait until tomorrow night to get his gossip fix,” Marla said.

But it was not Warren. It was Patsie Boatfield, who sounded out of breath. I dutifully put the phone on speaker.

We exchanged mournful greetings. We both said how awful the previous evening had been, and how terrible it had been that Holly died. I thanked her for being so kind and helpful.

After a moment, she asked, “Has anyone reported to you that they were sick after the birthday party last night?”

“Well,” I said, “not exactly sick. Why?”

“Oh, I just had horrific nightmares,” she replied. “The worst I've had in my life. I thought it was because of Holly dying, but then I thought, ‘This just isn't normal.' ”

“I'm sorry.” I grabbed a clean piece of paper. “What did you have to eat and drink?”

“Let's see. Chips and guac, arroz con pollo, salad, the torta, and cake. Plus a beer. It seems to go so well with Mexican food. Do you think there was something in the food? Did other people have problems?”

“Yes, some guests had nightmares,” I said. I finished scribbling the list, tore off the sheet, and stuffed it into my pocket. “Um, what about Warren?”

“What about him?”

“Did he . . . have nightmares?”

“Not that he told me.”

“He sounded upset when I called you back. Did he . . . know Holly?” I asked, while Marla made slashing motions across her throat. She was writing furiously on a new piece of paper.

“Well, I think he
did,
but that was a long time ago.”

“How long ago, do you know? We're trying to piece together her medical history.”

“I honestly don't know. The way I heard it, they were at a convention together over in Boulder. Some doctor thing.”

“Some doctor thing?” I repeated. I was trying to get her to say more, but Marla was flapping the paper in front of me. I finally read what she thrust under my nose:
No! No! We want WARREN to tell us what was going on! Patsie won't know anything, and this will just give him advance warning that we're onto him, so he'll shut
was all she had written.

“So Warren and Holly were at a doctor thing in Boulder,” I said. I wondered if it was the same conference that the Jerk and I had attended. Holly and George had been there, too. Since I'd never seen Holly at a subsequent conference, it sounded as if Warren might also have been there. “But you don't know exactly when this conference was. Can you ask him?”

“I would,” said Patsie, sounding perplexed, “but he's in the bathroom and won't come out.”

“Is he . . . sick?”

She paused so long I thought she might have hung up. I peered down at the phone. We were still connected.

“No,” Patsie Boatfield said. “He's crying.”

12

I
'm really sorry,” I said again. “Everyone is just so upset about what happened last night.”

“That's true.”

There was a long silence between us while I tried to think of what to say in the present moment while I endeavored to call up the past.
A doctors' meeting in Boulder.
Eighteen years ago, Holly and I had accompanied our spouses to a doctors' conference in Boulder. We hadn't actually met each other there, though, which we'd always found to be funny. Our first meeting had been the one where we were cooing to our sons outside the hospital nursery, months later. Holly hadn't been very interested in the medical convention, no surprise.

Patsie couldn't mean the same one from all those years ago, could she?

“I suppose I should go knock on the bathroom door,” Patsie said.

I said, “Wait, Patsie. Apart from meeting Holly at a doctors' conference, did Warren, you know, have any medical knowledge about Holly Ingleby?”

“I don't
think
so. I mean, he never mentioned her apart from that one encounter. Should I ask him?”

“I have no idea,” I said truthfully. “I mean, do you know if she was . . . a patient of his? I mean,” I rushed on, “I know there's doctor-patient confidentiality, even after death. But the department is desperate to learn Holly's medical history, and her physician is in Hawaii, out of cell-phone range. And I was providing most of the food last night, so I'm trying to see if she had a medical problem that may have caused what happened to her.” I tried to say this casually, sympathetically even. I did not want to appear to be asking,
Was she one of the female clients that he was having sex with?
Which, of course, was precisely what I was getting at.

“I don't know if she was a patient of his,” Patsie replied. “I do know that she was
not
the one who reported him to the Colorado Board of Medical Examiners. She is
not
the reason he lost his license for six months.”

“Sorry, Patsie, I was just trying to come up with a theory for why Holly collapsed.”

“I'm sorry, Goldy. People have such prurient interests,” Patsie said, her tone apologetic.

“I don't,” I said.

“All right, okay, I'm just sensitive. You wouldn't believe the number of people who want
all
the ghastly details about Warren and
all
of his supposed indiscretions. He told me, and I believe him, that he made
one
mistake, with a very needy woman. You know, I want to say to these nosy people, ‘If you're so interested, go to the library and read the newspaper accounts!' ”

“I am not one of those people,” I replied. I did not add,
Lena Ingleby said they were having an affair. I just want information that will help me figure out what happened to my friend.

“See you tomorrow night, then,” she said, again apologetic. “It's just that your question hit a nerve.”

“I didn't mean to.”

“You know, I mentioned to a friend that we were thinking about having a midsummer's eve party? And yesterday, Kathie Beliar called me. Do you know her?”

I bit the inside of my cheeks and tried not to imagine steam coming out of my ears. “I know her,” I said stiffly.

“Well, she wanted to cater it! She said if I hired her, she would only charge half of what you were asking.”

“And what did you say?”

Patsie laughed. “I told her I was just thinking of doing hamburgers and hot dogs, and I would be doing all the cooking myself! But I thought you should know.”

“Thanks. And again, I'm grateful you were so helpful last night.” When we signed off, Marla and I exchanged a rueful look.

She said, “I heard.”

“Damn Kathie Beliar.”

“Indeed.”

“Plus, I do feel sorry for Patsie. Being married to Warren, I mean.”

“So do I. What she had to say was not what you'd call illuminating,” Marla said. “Adding to our problems, you may have shut Warren up forever.”

I waved this away. “Trust me. These things progress in stages.”

“Stages? Like the first act and the second act? And by the way, you're looking piqued.”

I shook my head. Talk about
hitting a nerve
.

“What have you decided to do about Kathie Beliar and Goldy's Catering?”

I felt myself flush with anger. “I don't know.”

An hour later, I said I had to take a break.

“A cooking break,” Marla replied, “if I know you.”

“Is that so terrible?”

“No, go.”

In the kitchen, I noticed that Julian had thawed and drained some frozen chopped spinach. I decided that even though I'd told Tom I wouldn't be cooking for the business that day, I would feel better if I did a little experimentation. Say with a hot spinach dip? Marla could deal with a few carbs, couldn't she? After Julian said he'd thawed the spinach to make a dip recipe he'd found for me on the Internet, I stared at what he'd printed out and decided to make a few changes. First I minced garlic and grated fontina and Parmigiano-Reggiano. Once the garlic was sizzling slowly in melted butter, I snagged cream cheese and Alfredo sauce from the walk-in. This was not going to be a low-fat recipe, but clients never liked those, anyway.

“Looks good,” said Julian. “May I have a taste?”

“Sure.” I handed him a cracker loaded with the hot dip, and he nodded his approval. “Think you've got a winner here, Goldy. What are you going to call it?”

I reflected for a moment. “Not-So-Skinny Spinach Dip.”

“Good idea. Now why don't you let me take some dip plus a sandwich out to Boyd, and then I'll bring you all high-protein salad lunches?”

“Sounds great. Thanks.”

To my great satisfaction, Marla cooed happily over the dip. Julian brought us Niçoise salads a short time later. After we reluctantly put our dishes away, we started in again on the notes, looking for medical information. My eyes were beginning to cross when we were interrupted by Arch, of all people.

“Mom?” he called down the stairs. “Are you here?”

“Yes, and I even remembered you were bringing Gus over.”

“Mom? It's . . . something else.” He clomped down the stairs. His face was sweaty, and his toast-colored eyebrows hooked with worry as he regarded me anxiously.

Fear raced down my spine. “Is everything all right?”

“I don't know.” He swallowed.

“What's up? You're scaring me.”

“When I drove Gus back here?” Arch continued in the typical teenager's interrogatory. “Past the church? Your van was there. I mean, it
looked
like your van. I thought the painting on the side said, you know, ‘Goldy's Catering.' But those aren't the exact words on your van, are they?” When I muttered in the negative, Arch rushed on. “Well anyway, I didn't really think about it. I just figured you must have gone down to St. Luke's to set up for the dinner tomorrow night. But then I got home, and Julian said your van was in the garage. He said when you came back from being out with Marla, you'd stayed
here
. So, what's going on? Did you buy another van and have it painted . . . ?”

“No, I did not.” When I enunciated each word, Arch stepped back as if stung. “It's not you, hon. Kathie Beliar is what's going on. Let's check it out,” I said to Marla.

So the straw had officially broken the camel's back. Adrenaline fueled my somewhat faster limp back up the stairs. In the deep recesses of my brain, I knew you weren't supposed to act on anger. I was aware that reacting to irritation by becoming aggressive was not the answer. All this zipped through my mind as I hobbled across the newly emerging grass. Technically Boyd could have taken me, but Marla was revving her Mercedes. Julian followed me out the door and helped me into the passenger seat.

“Why is Boyd still here?” he asked.

“Just tell him we're going to St. Luke's, will you? Kathie Beliar is there, trying to manipulate Father Pete.”

But Boyd was already beside Marla's window. She told him we had to go to the church.

Julian begged, “Please don't get into what's going to be a fruitless argument.”

“I thought fruitless was a type of salad,” I said.

Julian shook his head and said he would keep the boys inside. Boyd told him to set the security system. I gripped the armrest while Marla, her face locked, raced toward the church. When Boyd flashed his lights at us, she slowed down a bit.

“What do you think is going on?” Marla asked.

“I don't have a clue. But it's about time I found out.”

In the lot, a van that looked almost precisely like mine, with the words
GOLDY'S CATERING
on the side, was parked outside St. Luke's. Father Pete's battered old green Chevy was also there. I found this odd, as he had not answered the church line when Marla called. If Audrey Millard, Father Pete's devoted secretary, had gone home—which would be normal for a Saturday—and Father Pete was the only one at the church, our dear rector
always
picked up the phone. Father Pete tried to expect the best, and usually got the worst. Had he deemed his meeting with Kathie Beliar too important to answer the phone?
That just isn't like him
, I thought stubbornly.
That damn Kathie Beliar
.

Marla heaved open one of the unlocked solid wood doors. Right behind her, Boyd said, “Wait. I'm going in front of you.”

It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the darkness of the sanctuary. Light from the sacramental candle shuddered. The air felt disturbed.

“I hear something,” I said. We listened. After a moment, a faint groan coiled down the hallway to our left.

“Dammit,” said Marla. “Let's get—”

“Stop,” Boyd ordered, pulling out his weapon. “Let me go first.”

But Marla ignored him and ran down the hall toward Father Pete's office. Slowed by my injured leg, I shambled behind a hustling Boyd, past the locked doors to the Sunday School rooms.

Marla screamed. When I hobbled up beside Boyd and her, my stomach turned over.

There were two bodies sprawled on the stone floor. Kathie Beliar, whom I recognized from her website photo, lay next to Father Pete. Blood slowly swirled out of both of them. An explosion of paper, hundreds of documents, along with scattered gray church files, lay littered on the floor. Some of them were sopping up blood. The back door to the church stood open.

“Call 911,” Boyd ordered Marla. He held up his weapon. “Get behind me, both of you. Hey!” he called. “Police! Anyone here?”

When there was no response, I dropped painfully to my knees. Marla was on her cell with emergency services. I asked Boyd if I could touch Kathie Beliar.

He said sharply, “Wrist only.”

Kathie Beliar had no pulse. If she was breathing, I couldn't tell. Father Pete was alive, but barely. His eyelids fluttered. Another weak groan issued from his lips.

Both of them had been stabbed. Whoever did this, I thought slowly, also broke into Audrey's office and found the key to the file cabinets. The drawers had been dumped out; the contents lay strewn everywhere. Whoever had attacked Kathie and Father Pete had then stepped around, and partially through, the pools of blood, in order to get out the back door.

I averted my eyes to keep from being sick. There were scarlet smears on the wall. If there was a weapon nearby, I couldn't see it.

Kathie's wounds were so deep, and there was so much blood, I could not tell exactly where she had been cut. I asked Boyd if I could check on Father Pete. When he nodded, I pulled up Father Pete's black clerical shirt, wiped away blood, and located two stab wounds on his abdomen. Without thinking, I tore off my sweater and pressed it into the cuts to stop the bleeding.

Marla, when she wasn't giving details to the emergency operator, could not stop saying, “I've never seen so much blood,” alternating with, “Do you think Father Pete's going to make it? Oh, please, Goldy, tell me he's going to be all right,” and “Yes, operator, I'm still here, yes, St. Luke's Episcopal Church in Aspen Meadow . . . yes, two people. Sergeant Boyd is here.”

We'd learned a lot of things in Med Wives 101, but whether someone was going to make it after so much blood loss was not one of them.

It wasn't long before two pairs of EMTs raced into the church. Then, although there was no fire, came engines from the Aspen Meadow Volunteer Fire Department. The four EMTs told us to back off and let them do their job. Boyd moved efficiently out of the way, but Marla and I had a harder time allowing our priest to be out of our sight. The two techs assigned to Kathie were quickly able to tell she was dead. But I also knew their protocol was to keep working on her until they sent telemetry down to Denver to have their diagnosis confirmed.

I couldn't see what the two medics ministering to Father Pete were doing, because they'd told us to go back down the hall and stay out of the way. Marla and I retreated to the church kitchen. Eventually the two techs who'd been working on Father Pete raced past us, with our priest on a stretcher.

Finally, Tom came, along with more sheriff's department cars. He conferred quickly with Boyd. Then he gave me that look of his, a mixture of relief and worry. “While our crime-scene guys are working on this, we're going outside. You, me, Marla. You're going to tell me exactly why you came here, and what you were doing.”

As we walked back through the vestibule, Marla insisted on telling the story, from Father Pete's message to me, to her calling him back, to Arch relaying the news that some other van with the name Goldy's Catering was parked at the church. We'd come down to St. Luke's, Marla said, to, to, to . . .

“To?” Tom prompted. We'd arrived in front of the church and were standing beside one of the tall, shaggy hemlocks.