"I should go back to bed," he said after another guttural moan. "I'm so tired. Can you do this bash without me?" When I told him I could, he turned to Arch. "Buddy? Thanks for the walk. Sorry we couldn't get over to your dad's office. I'm trashed now, need to hit the sack."Arch nodded and poured himself a glass of pink lemonade."Macguire," I attempted, "please, can I fix you a little something to eat - "He waved this away and put his head in his hands again, apparently too weary to climb the stairs to his room. I placed the first tuna fillets in a glass pan. Unfortunately, at that moment Murphy's law of telephones kicked in and my business line rang. I begged Arch to answer it so I wouldn't slime the receiver with fish juice. He gave me a world-weary look that immediately changed to one of concern when he realized who was on the other end of the line."Oh! Dad! How are you doing? Can I come see you?"I swallowed hard. Macguire blinked and then blinked again, his expression turning quickly from fatigue to interest. I patted the fillets dry, then washed my hands, trying to decide what to do. Grab the phone from Arch? Write him a note to let me talk? Did I really want to speak to the Jerk? I viciously ground pepper over the fish. But it was too early to marinate the fillets. I dithered, stamped from foot to foot while trying to catch Arch's eye, then snapped plastic wrap over the fish."Oh, Dad, I'm so glad you called me. Wow, I'm sorry you have to... Oh, that sounds awful! Gosh, I can't believe..."Saturday, just past noon-less than five hours since the arrest. John Richard had been processed; was he calling me or his son? Had he talked to his lawyer? Why call here? Unfortunately, despite my feelings on the subject, I could not prevent Arch from talking to his father."Where's Tom?" Macguire whispered as I forced myself to turn my back on Arch and glare at the menu. I was not going to listen to the conversation. No matter what the Jerk was up to, I still had to ; finish my next catering task.I said, "Tom's asleep."Still the earnest whisper from Macguire. "You should wake him up. He should know - ""Macguire. If John Richard Korman wants to talk to me, he would have demanded to do so. That's the way he is. But he called our son. They have a right to talk. And as a witness, I can't talk to him."Still, when I sneaked a glance at Arch's freckled face, I was shocked. My son's cheeks, previously flushed with color from his walk with Macguire and Jake, were now translucently pale. A scowl set his face in an expression of worry so deep that I hared John Richard more than ever. How could the man drag our son into this? Arch held out the phone.He said eagerly, "Mom, Dad wants to talk to you."Well, great. I shook my head vigorously at the proffered phone. Arch's eyes flared wide behind the tortoiseshell glasses. "Yes, yes, you have to!" he whispered fiercely.. I reached for a kitchen towel and grabbed the receiver. "What is it?" I asked in a clipped tone. "I'm not supposed to be talking to you. You must know that. I'm a witness, remember?""Witness to what?" His voice grated through the wire. I was sorely tempted to hang up. No matter how hard I tried to put this man out of my life, he always insisted on reappearing, full of menace. At that moment I didn't care what kind of trouble he was in. I didn't want to hear about it. I didn't want to be a part of it.Arch leaned toward me and whispered earnestly, "You need to help Dad, Mom. Please!" Behind Arch, Macguire opened his eyes wide. He had perked up considerably since the phone call began. Macguire was thinking about getting involved with criminals again, I'd have the kid thrown into jail myself."I'm listening," I said brusquely into the receiver. "But you're jeopardizing your case by talking me.""I'll take that chance.""I have a lot of work to do.""Well, excuse me for interrupting your cooking schedule," John Richard snarled. "I just need to discuss this mess that you got me into. Understand? I'm a life-threatening situation here. I'm sitting in the jaiI, I don't know what's going on, and I need you to something for me. If you hadn't been cruising by Suz's house at that hour - ""I told you," I said through clenched teeth. Just like the man to make Suz Craig's murder my fauIt, just because I'd had the bad luck to discover her body. "I didn't want Arch to get to your place with nobody home - ""Shut up and listen for once, Goldy, will you? There's a whole line of thugs waiting to use this one. I just... I can't... nobody will tell me anything. It's driving me nuts. I need to know what the police have found out about when Suz died."More than ever, his supreme arrogance astonished me. "Even if I knew that" - which of course I did - "I couldn't tell you. Look, I don't think we shouuld be - ""When she died is important - ""Why do you think I - ""Well, I'll find out soon enough," he fumed. "If you want our son to suffer from this escapade, because that's all it is, then just be difficult."I said nothing. I'd learned this lesson the hard way. You talk, you give him something to criticize. You say nothing, you may eventually get out of the conversation. Without getting hurt."Goldy? Are you listening to me? Goldy? Or are you holding the phone away from your ear?"I smiled at Arch and Macguire, who were both staring at me in consternation. "I'm listening," I replied evenly.John Richard resumed his fake-earnest tone. "Look. It's just that if I could know the time of death right now, instead of having to wait for the damn lawyers to jaw about it, a lot of things could get cleared up. My attorney is hiring his own investigator, and he thinks if we get the right judge there's a chance I'll be able to get out of here on Monday - "Dream on, I thought. Actually, as I'd told Arch, one in a million chance. I'd heard of it exactly once. So in our state that would make it one in four million point... What was our state's population?"Did you hear what I said?" my ex-husband yelled."Monday," I repeated. I glanced at the tuna fillets and the menu with lists of dishes I still had to prepare for this evening. Actually, I was running a bit ahead of schedule. No way I was telling him that, though."Okay, now listen up," the Jerk continued, undaunted, "I want you to use that morbid curiosity of yours to check on a few things. First, there's this nurse named Amy Bartholomew. Suz fired her. Now she's doing something with the new health-food store, I think. Also, Suz had an unpleasant visit in July from Ralph Shelton. Do you remember him? She fired him, too. Plus, Suz had some kind of delicate material - ""Hey! Stop!" I interrupted him. Goosebumps ran over my skin. "I can't do any of that. Even you must recognize how inappropriate it would be for me to go poking around - ""No, I don't recognize that - ""It is hard for me to believe that your self-centeredness extends this far," I snapped. "You cannot possibly think that the wife of a police officer, who happens to be your badly treated ex-wife, should go snooping around - ""Mom!" Arch's eyes blazed. "Stop it!" he hissed. "You have to help him!""My self-centeredness!" John Richard was shrieking. "My self-centeredness!"This time I did hold the phone away from my ear. Arch pressed his fingers against his eyes and shook his head. The tormented expression on his face made my heart ache. With a ragged breath I said: "John Richard, I need to get off the phone."His icy tone chilled my blood. "I did not kill Suz Craig. I loved her." He paused, then continued very deliberately, "It's time for you to set aside your own self-centeredness. For. the sake of our son and his mental health, you need to help me prove that I'm being set up for this damn murder. Do you understand?"I covered the phone with my hand. "Arch?" I asked with as much calmness as I could muster. My son gave me a defiant look, scowled, and crossed his arms. He was silent. "Would you please go upstairs for a few minutes and let me finish this phone call?" After a fractional hesitation he turned and hurtled out of the kitchen. Macguire made no move to go anywhere except to shuffle toward the walk-in, muttering about needing a Pepsi. "Macguire," I pleaded, "just give me a minute here, okay?""I'm not going to bother you," Macguire said innocently. "I just need a pop. Maybe I'll see something in there that will make me hungry. You never know.""Goldy," John Richard raged, "could you let go of domestic life for a minute and listen to me? I did not commit this crime. I left Suz's house at one A.M. When I left, she was fine.""If you left her house at one and she was fine," I repeated calmly, "then tell that to your investigator. If you have done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to worry about." Then I hung up."What's going on?" asked Macguire solicitously. He held a soft-drink can in one hand and the parfait glass of chocolate pudding in the other-the same one he'd turned up his nose at earlier.I cleared my throat. "Apart from the fact that my ex-husband has been arrested for homicide and my son believes I should try to get him off?" I sighed. My head ached. I sat down, rubbing my temples. "Let's see, the only other things going on are that I've got a big party to cater tonight. Oh, yes, and my son is absolutely furious with me. Apart from that, not much.""Bummer," said Macguire. He set the pudding aside, untouched, poured the soft drink into a glass, then slurped fizz from the top. "Know what? I don't need a nap, I think. I'll see if Arch wants to talk or listen to music. We'll be quiet, though. We won't bother you, I promise."I murmured a grateful thanks and stared at the ingredients for a second batch of biscuits. As usual when dealing with John Richard, a sense of unreality closed in. Was I crazy, or was he? He was crazy. No question. A crazy liar, always had been. But then - and this had always puzzled me - how could he be so successful in the rest of his life, the part of his life that did not involve me? He had a fantastic job, lots of money, and a steady stream of girlfriends. People liked him. Was it his looks? Well, that was part of it. And he was intelligent. No genius, but he could sound good and fake his way through the situations he knew nothing about. Add to that his great ability to talk and charm his way into people's hearts. And so far he'd been able to lie and cheat his way out of the many, many messes he'd made. And he'd been able to keep the messes quiet.I did not kill Suz Craig. Yeah, sure. I again measured flour, baking powder, and salt into my food processor, scooped in smooth white vegetable shortening, and let the blade slice the mixture into tiny bits. Then why were you bringing flowers over this morning? Why did she have a death grasp on your ID bracelet? Why are you trying to find out the time of death? So you can change your story? I shuddered. I was not going to help him. No matter how manipulative he managed to be. No matter how much he dragged Arch into this.Poor Arch. I pulsed the processor and watched the blade bite through the ingredients. He wantedGoalies' Grilled Tuna4 (6 to 8 ounces each) fresh boneless tuna steaksSalt and freshly ground black pepper¬ cup sherry vinaigrette (see Exhibition Salad with Meringue-Baked Pecans, page)Rinse the tuna steaks and pat them dry. Place them in a glass pan, season with salt and pepper, and pour the vinaigrette over them. Cover with plastic wrap and marinate for 30 minutes to 1 hour.Preheat the grill. Grill the steaks for 2 to 3 minutes per side for rare, 5 minutes per side for well done.Serves 4 so much for me to help his father. But I couldn't. The man was evil. I dribbled in buttermilk until the dough clung together in a ball. I wanted to tell Arch that trying to follow one of his father's lies to get to the truth was futile. You get involved with John Richard, you get sucked into a vortex just like old Captain Ahab, and end up at the bottom of the ocean. As I scooped the silky dough out of the processor, my mind reverted to one of its common themes: How come the evil people in your life don't just die? How come the evil people in your life are able to kill smart, promising women like Suz Craig?Well, the rain falls on the just and the unjust. Then again, had Suz been so smart and promising? Had there perhaps been an evil side to Suz Craig, too? I thought of the rumors Marla had gathered about the dead woman. No, no, no, I chided myself. Don't get into this. So what if she fired Amy Bartholomew, the nurse who supposedly had gambling problems? So what if she fired Ralph Shelton? I preheated the oven and rolled out the biscuit dough into a soft, rectangular pillow.Suz, after all, was a boss-type person, and a boss-type person sometimes had to fire people. As sole proprietor of my business, I was thankful I'd never had to perform that particular function myself. I brandished the puck-size biscuit cutter I'd finally found at a baking supply store and cut the dough into circles. Then I arrayed them carefully on a cookie sheet.I was not going to get dragged into this. Suz had an unpleasant visit in July from Ralph Shelton. Do you remember him? John Richard's sarcastic voice echoed in my thoughts. Of course I remembered Ralph Shelton the doctor, the hockey fan extraordinaire. We used to be friends. Like John Richard, Ralph had specialized in ob-gyn at the University of Colorado Medical School. Another buddy of theirs had been Patricia McCracken's ex-husband, Skip. Skip had moved to Colorado Springs, and I hadn't seen him in years.Ralph Shelton. What was his history? I set the timer for the biscuits and thought back. Ralph had divorced his first wife, a petite, very erudite teacher, and over her pained objections, obtained sole custody of their daughter, Jill, who was Arch's age. Problem was, Ralph hadn't been able to take care of Jill when he'd gone on business trips, had late meetings, or had to deliver a baby. So he'd turned to me to take care of his daughter, over and over and over. Meanwhile, Jill's own mother was desperate to have the girl down in her new place in Albuquerque. With mounting problems in my own marriage and young Arch unable to shake a string of ear infections, I'd finally told Ralph I couldn't take care of his daughter three or four times a week. Combined with my separation from John Richard, this had meant the end of the friendship with Ralph Shelton, unfortunately. The worst part was that Ralph had finally sent his daughter to live with her mother in New Mexico. Arch and I had missed Jill terribly. She'd been a fun-loving child with such an infectious laugh that our house had felt empty for weeks after she moved away.The timer beeped. I slapped the cookie sheet out of the oven with an overenthusiastic bang, then rolled and cut out another batch of biscuits. I stared at the cutter in my hand. I'd been so proud of myself for finding the cutter. When the biscuits were baked, they were the exact dimensions of a hockey puck. Perfect for tonight's party.Ralph's a big hockey fan, Marla had told me. No kidding. Back in the medical-school days, the only way Ralph Shelton could relieve his academic anxiety was to go to hockey games at McNichols Arena, where he'd bought lifetime season tickets for our ill-fated first NHL team, the Colorado Rockies. I had never understood how Ralph could vent his frustration by cheering for such a poorly performing team. Glumly reporting their losses whenever we got together, Ralph's face had been ruddy and lined. What little hair he had had turned prematurely gray around a widening bald spot. Whether the hair loss resulted from the pain of being a Rockies hockey fan or the prospect of practicing medicine, I knew not...When the franchise had moved on, Ralph had been disconsolate. Whether his enthusiasms had subsequently shifted to baseball, when the new team named the Rockies were swinging bats and setting homerun and attendance records at newly built Coors Field, I knew not. By then, Ralph Shelton had passed out of my orbit. And I'd had my hands too full with the divorce from John Richard to care.Wait a minute. Sometimes a girlfriend will dye.J her hair, and become virtually unrecognizable. I. watched my oven timer ticking down the seconds until this batch of biscuits would be done. I remembered Ralph Shelton; I'd seen him quite recently. I just hadn't recognized him out of context and with a new look. His bald head had been covered by a billed cap. He'd exchanged his sports-fan garb for gardening clothes. He'd grown a mustache that was prematurely white. I watched my clock. What else? He'd been eager to see what the paramedics were doing. This morning, my oId friend Ralph Shelton had been one of the gawking neighbors on Jacobean Drive.10The food, I scolded myself. Work! I perused my recipe for Vietnamese slaw. Napa cabbage, carrots, very lightly steamed snow peas-all these needed to be julienned. When my hand became tired from slicing, I decided to stop and check the phone book. Ralph and Fay Shelton lived on Chaucer Drive, one street over from Suz Craig's street. So what had Ralph been doing up so early this morning? Taking a stroll around the neighborhood? I couldn't wait for Tom to wake up.The phone rang. Patricia McCracken's voice zinged across the wire. "I can't cancel this party," she wailed."You'd better not," I exclaimed as I stared at the mountains of colorful vegetables I'd already cut into uniform thin slices."The police have been here, Goldy. I was so nervous about seeing everybody at this party, my first public appearance since I filed the suits, that I took a sleeping pill last night. I don't remember a thing." She took a deep breath and added defiantly, "I didn't kill that HMO lady.""Oh-kay," I said as I searched my shelves for rice wine vinegar."Do you think John Richard killed her?" "I don't know.""See you at five then." She didn't wait for me to say good-bye.What an odd call. I whisked sesame oil with the rice wine vinegar and thought back to the wet spring we'd just come through. I had seen Patricia and her son, Tyler, once, at the library. It had been a momentous spring for our town library, but not because the incessant rain had brought any heightened demand for books. The cause for sensation had been the foxes that had made their den in the rocky hill-side behind the windowed reading room. When a litter of five cubs was produced, the births became big-time small-town news. Soon the fox cubs were claiming the early-evening hours to cavort, tumble, and prance through the quartz and granite spillway in full view of an audience of excited children of all ages. Never mind that reading in the high-windowed room became impossible. Any visitor to or from the library was greeted with the same query: "Seen the foxes?"Paying a visit to the reading room, Arch and I had encountered Patricia dragging a recalcitrant, whining Tyler with one hand and balancing an armload of Dr. Seuss books with the other."Did you see the foxes, Tyler?" I'd asked her son happily. "Are they out tonight?"Tyler had given me a grumpy stare and let out a wail. Patricia had snarled, "We're not interested in a family of foxes. Not now. Not ever."Startled, I'd pulled open the massive door to the library for Arch. When he passed by me, he'd mumbled, "What - does she raise chickens or something?"Not even close, I realized now as I folded the sweet-sour dressing into the slaw ingredients. Struggling with the recent loss of her baby, Patricia hadn't wanted to see the fox cubs playing. The notion of a big, happy family had been slipping from her grasp. I covered the enormous bowl with plastic wrap and popped it into the walk-in refrigerator."If you're making so-good food noises, I want some," Tom announced cheerfully as he strode into the room. "Oh, man." He took in a greedy breath. "More biscuits?"I nodded and removed the last cookie sheet of the golden, puffed rounds, then silently split one, slathered it with butter and blackberry jam, and handed the plate with it to Tom. When he finished, I'd tell him about seeing Ralph Shelton.While he sat down and began to eat, I put in another batch of biscuits. I iced the dark chocolate cupcakes, which would surround a centerpiece hockey-rink-shaped cake provided by Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop. I placed the cupcakes in covered plastic containers. I wasn't going to brood anymore. I was in my wonderful kitchen, filled with marvelous scents, and feeding the man I loved most in the world. Then I realized he was watching me."Tom? What is it?""Final batch of biscuits about to come out?""In a little bit."He paused, then glanced at the clock. "How's your time going? When do you have to leave?""In about an hour. Why?"His face grew wary. "I'm worried about Arch.""So am I. But what makes you mention it? Did he tell you about the phone call?" Doggone John Richard, anyway.Tom shook his head. "No, he didn't. He didn't say a word. When I went by his room, he was sitting ramrod stiff in his desk chair, staring at nothing. I asked him if he wanted to talk, and he said 'Not to you, I don't.' "My spirits, briefly raised by my productive work, fell flat. I guessed Macguire had not been successful trying to entice Arch into listening to music. I grabbed a chair and sat. "Tom. Arch wants me to help John Richard. He's desperate for me to prove his father's innocence."Tom groaned. "Goldy, you can't. I told you I'd keep you informed. But this isn't like that time you found the body in the woods by Elk Park Prep. This time the prime suspect showed up at the scene, started raising Cain, and was arrested. You can't get involved in this: you're a witness. Listen, let's get Arch down here to talk - "I held up a hand to stop him. "John Richard called here about a half hour ago.""He called here? Wanting to talk to you? Do you know how illegal that is?""I told him. He claimed he called to talk to Arch. But then he told Arch to put me on. Even from jail he was his usual manipulative self, whining to Arch and demanding to know from me what time Suz died so that he could use his medical knowledge of rigor mortis to prove he's not the murderer."Tom chuckled cynically. "That guy. Maybe he was trying to reconstruct his timetable." He frowned. His sandy eyebrows drew into a furry, uneven line. "You didn't tell him anything, did you?"I shot him an exasperated look. "Of course not.""I can just tell," he said resignedly, "that this is going to be one holy mess.""Listen, Tom, remember when I told you about a doctor Suz had supposedly fired, one named Ralph Shelton? What I didn't tell you was about John Richard's and my history with him." Briefly, I summarized how we'd all known one another years ago, when Arch was small. "Anyway," I said, "Ralph's a tall bald fellow with a white mustache. I know he was one of those guys I shooed away from, the ditch this morning. I didn't recognize him because he looked so different with a cap on his head. Plus, his hair used to be gray, not white, and he didn't have a mustache."Tom narrowed his eyes. "You're kidding." "I'm not. Ralph was there, trying to see what the paramedics were doing. He was wearing gardening clothes and a baseball cap. Your guys must have talked to him in their neighborhood canvass." I thought back to the fashionable camouflage-print pants, wide suspenders, dark billed cap, and hand-spun collarless shirt Ralph had been wearing that morning. In retrospect, it was perhaps too studied an outfit to have donned so early in the morning. But something else nagged at my memory. What was it? Something about Ralph hadn't looked quite right. What? But my tired brain refused to yield any details."I'll check on Shelton," said Tom curtly. "But I do think you need to go talk to Arch. I'll pack this stuff up.""The last time you packed my stuff I had to make risotto from scratch for a Fourth of July parry. As I recall, you thought it would be funny to substitute ingredients on me, so I wouldn't go snooping around in a suspect's house."He stood and rinsed his dish. "I thought," he said without missing a beat, "that I would be keeping you out of trouble by making you do extra work that time, Miss G. Besides, I apologized and you forgave me. No fair hassling me about it now." He reached into the pantry for several of the large cardboard boxes I used for carting food.I walked up the stairs, thinking. Shower, change, call Marla - all these I had to do before leaving. Plus talk to Arch, get him smoothed out on his father being thrown into jail under suspicion of committing a brutal murder. Sure.My son sat slumped in his desk chair. His lank brown hair was uncombed. His glasses perched half-way down his nose. Julian's cast-off T-shirt hung on his motionless body. I longed to hug him tightly, the way I had when he was small and I'd always been able to comfort him."Arch. Hon, please. Let's talk.""About what?" His voice was toneless."May I come in?"His eyes didn't leave the pile of magazines on his desk. He shrugged. "I thought you had a parry to do.""Arch, please, I'm worried about you.""Yeah, well, I'm worried about Dad" He whirled and faced me, his brown eyes ablaze. "You just don't care, do you?"I sat on the bed. Honesty was the best policy. "You know how when you leave your homework in your room? I don't snatch it up and go running to school to bail you out. It's called being responsible for your actions - ""Oh, Mom!" he yelled, his tone disgusted. He glared at me. "Don't treat me like a baby! Just don't start, okay?""No, then," I said frankly, "I don't care about your father. I only care about you.""If you cared about me," he shot back fiercely, "you'd be willing to at least think about whether he did this murder or not. Dad isn't lying.""Did he tell you that he hit Suz the way he used to hit me? He admitted that to Tom and me, you know. That was one of the reasons Tom arrested him this morning. I'm just telling you the truth here, Arch. I'm sorry if the facts are so painful. I don't mean to hurt you."He pushed abruptly out of his chair. "I need to go. I need to go check some things out.""What things?""There's a nurse who runs a health-food store - ""Don't you even think about doing your father's investigative errands, young man. His lawyer will hire an investigator on Monday.""So now you're going to say I can't go to the health-food store?""What are you planning on doing there?""I don't know yet." He stood in front of the mirror and frowned at himself. Apparently going to the health-food store did not warrant clothes changing or hair combing. "Don't worry, Mom." His voice carried a hint of conciliation. "I'll get Macguire to go with me.""He's asleep," I said, hoping this was true. I hadn't heard a peep out of Macguire since he'd shuffled out of the kitchen carrying his soft drink."I'll wake him up! It'll be good for him to walk again, anyway.""He'll pass out.""Mom!" Once again I got the angry, indignant stare. "Will you stop bugging me? Why won't you at least admit Dad might be down there in jail for no reason? Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?"I rose from the bed, walked to the door, and assumed a quiet tone. "I love you, Arch. I just don't want to see you getting involved in your dad's problems."He pushed past me. It was an unconscious, but more gentle, imitation of his father's shove by me that morning. "Sorry, Mom. I already am involved. I wish you would help him. He really needs you."Well, great. I quietly made my way to Tom's and my room to get ready for the evening party. My heart ached.Fifteen minutes later I'd showered, changed, and punched in a call to Marla's answering machine. When I went out the door, luminescent gray clouds billowed just at the edge of the western horizon. Even this early in August, snow would be falling each morning on the highest peaks to the west. When the afternoon sun warmed and wilted that ephemeral white blanket, the mountain towns on the Front Range would get a brief, deliciously cooling rain. But first the moisture would build into luxuriant cumulus towers that resembled fantastic, brilliant mushrooms. Once these clouds completely filled the western sky, they would spill eastward over the hillsides.Tom had loaded my supplies and announced that he was going to the hardware store, one of his favorite Saturday-afternoon occupations. He seldom came home with more than a dollar's worth of washers, screws, and nails. Sometimes Arch accompanied him. But I found these excursions deadly boring. Guy stuff. Not surprisingly, Arch had declined accompanying Tom, and my husband had rumbled off alone in his dark sedan.Arch!. I revved the van and backed out of the driveway. It was early, a good thing since I needed to drive around a little bit to think. At the end of our street, I turned and headed along the creek. When I passed Aspen Meadow Nursery on the left and Aspen Meadow Barbecue on the right, I chewed the inside of my cheek. Arch couldn't forsake his father. I didn't really want him to. Despite John Richard's coldly selfish behavior, Arch clung fiercely to the hope of getting love from his other parent. And John Richard spoiled Arch enough with material things - usually when he felt guilty over reneging on a promise - that Arch's longing for a relationship remained like a sharp hunger, seldom fed.I made a U-turn, drove back through town, and headed up toward the lake. Perched on the edge of the waterfall between the lake and lower Cottonwood Creek, a gaggle of shiny black cormorants arched their backs and eyed the water beneath for fish. Arch used to love to go down to the lake when he was little and feed the waterfowl, now strictly prohibited, as human feeding messed up the birds' willingness to migrate. Arch had known distress back then: the pain of the playground, the agony of his parents' divorce. Then as now, I had tried to soothe and protect him. But his distress this time didn't change the fact that Dr. John Richard Korman, batterer of women, had finally been caught. And then, in front of a street full of nosy neighbors, he'd resisted arrest. I dreaded Arch hearing about that scene.What was painfully inevitable, I knew, was that John Richard would maintain his innocence to his son and anyone else who would listen until the proverbial bovines came home. No matter what he did or what folks he hurt, John Richard would insist to the end that he was not responsible for his actions. Well, we would just see about that.I passed the lake. In the near distance cars sent up a nimbus of dust as women from the Aspen Meadow Babsie Club drove into the LakeCenter parking lot on their way to set up for the doll show. What Arch couldn't see was that this crime - this event with Suz Craig - was going to change everything. The publicity surrounding the arrest, the breadth of the investigation, the preliminary hearing, the trial, the conviction, the sentencing-these would alter his relationship with his father forever. Perhaps it was this coming change that Arch sensed. So he'd plunged into denial. Who wouldn't?I passed a solitary rower at the edge of the lake and turned the van in the direction of the country club. Since I was still a bit early, did I dare swing by Aspen Meadow Health Foods, to see if Amy Bartholomew, the nurse-without-a-poker-face, was in? No, I'd had enough crime for one day. Besides, Arch and Macguire might be headed over there. If my son thought I was checking up on him, he would have a fit.Dread made my heart heavy, the way your chest hurts when an election is going to the wrong people and all you can do is watch the numbers mount. I swung through the entryway to the residential part of the country club, where a crew dressed in white overalls and white billed caps was busy at work eradicating the vandals' painted handiwork from the stone walls. I shook my head. I felt helpless watching Arch's dilemma, which was sure to end worse than any election. The best I could hope for was that it would all be over soon.It was this idea of expediting things that made me turn onto Jacobean and from there chug left on Sheridan, then on to Chaucer, where I eased up in front of the Shelton place. The house was a massive, out-of-proportion two-story neo-Georgian. White-painted brick contrasted with shiny black shutters and window boxes lush with bright red geraniums and artfully dripping variegated cream-and-green ivy.What exactly was I doing here? Trying to disprove John Richard's theory, whatever it was, about, Ralph Shelton? Trying to remember what it was I had seen this morning? I didn't know. I parked behind the Sheltons' van and hopped out of my own. I knew the rules: Anybody who might testify in a case is a witness. Not only had I witnessed all that had I transpired between John Richard and Tom, I'd see or thought I'd seen, Ralph Shelton this morning. If I ever had to testify, I didn't want to think about how I could be challenged because of the contact I was now making with Ralph. I also tried not to think about how upset Tom would be with me for making this little sleuthing side trip.Apart from this morning, how long had it been since I'd talked to Ralph? Too long. I'd last seen his daughter as a four-year-old. Now Jill was a teenager, like Arch. I rapped hard on the elaborate, gleaming brass knocker. Of course, Ralph probably wouldn't even be home. Saturday afternoon on a gorgeous Colorado summer day? He was probably out playing golf.But he was not on the fairway. Even before the doorbell stopped donging "Three Blind Mice," tall, white-mustached Ralph answered the door. He had changed from the gardening clothes to a collarless navy shirt and faded blue jeans - Calvin Klein at Home."What is it?" He stared at me with eyes that seemed to be made of yellow glass."Ralph!" I exclaimed brightly. "Ralph, don't you remember me? I used to take care of Jill, about ten years ago."He pulled himself up. "I am Dr. Shelton." Always. Is your first nome Doctor? I smiled. "Ralph, it's Goldy Korman. Now Goldy Schulz. Don't you remember me from all those years ago? I'm a caterer now."He squinted and cleared his throat. "Goldy?""We... saw each other in front of Suz Craig's house, when the police were there. This morning. Don't you recall? Over on Jacobean. I didn't recognize you, either. And then I remembered. And after all we'd been through together way back when..."But I couldn't come up with a last-minute lie to push myself into a conversation with this man. Instead, I stared mutely at the right side of his face, where there was a square, expertly cut gauze bandage. I saw again what I'd seen this morning. Just at the upper end of the bandage, under the clear tape, were the beginnings, just the very beginnings, of four vertical gash marks. The kind of scratches that could be made by a woman's nails, when she was fighting you off.11Forgive me, it's been such a trying day." Ralph's unctuous tone made me even more uneasy. "I never would have known... and this morning when you were ordering people around, you seemed so distraught...." He tilted his bald head and closed his amber eyes, as if struggling to recall the events. Then he shook his head. "Terrible tragedy. The police even questioned me, since I was out on my walk when..." He paused. "But why are you here now? I mean, if you want to catch up on old times, then give me a call and we can set up a lunch or something.... I'll bring some pictures of Jill, she's playing soccer down in New Mexico...." His voice trailed off. A country-club doctor choosing to have lunch with a caterer who was married to a cop? Not likely, regardless of our history. But Ralph pressed on, with an eagerness that seemed almost sad. "Actually, I've missed all of my old friends lately, things have been going so badly... and now this has happened. Should we set up a lunch right now?" His hand went nervously to the top button of his shin. "That would be a terrific idea.""Oh! Well, actually, I can't make any appointments now, I'm looking for the McCrackens' house." It was lame, but it had to do. "Do you know Clark and Patricia McCracken? Remember, Patricia used to be married to Skip all those years ago...." He squinted skeptically and I rushed on. "I'm ca- tering a Stanley Cup celebration there tonight, at the McCrackens', and I just can't remember exactly where they live, and then I remembered you were such a big hockey fan..."But he had already held up a hand for me to wait. I fell silent as his tall form disappeared down a hallway whose walls were bathed in a vertigo-inducing print of floating cabbage roses. Beyond, I glimpsed a country kitchen with frilly curtains and gleaming copper. I wondered if Ralph had found another job after being fired by ACHMO. If he had not, I doubted he'd be able to keep up life in his old income bracket."Twenty-two Markham," he said pleasantly as he returned, waving an engraved invitation. Then he regarded me.."I'm going over there in just a little bit myself. We've remained friends, in spite of every- thing. It's amazing that she... Well. The guests are all going to skate, get another dose of Cup fever. Sound good? But how can you cater at a house you haven't visited?"I was ready for this one. "Do it all the time. Actually, I thought I knew where the McCrackens' place was. But after this morning my life seems to have turned upside down." I stared helplessly into his yellow eyes, so much like those of a cat. "It's just been a nightmare."He grinned sympathetically. "Yes, well, I'll just see you over at the McCrackens' place - "I leaned against the doorframe. "Ralph, can you just show me how to get to Markham? Please? I'm feeling extremely disoriented."With obvious reluctance, he walked outside and gestured at Chaucer, where, as I well knew, I needed to take two rights and then a left to get to the McCrackens' place. He turned and again squinted. My forlorn expression must have finally ignited a spark of curiosity, for before going into his house, he hesitated."How did you happen to come upon... Suz Craig... er, in the ditch?" he asked abruptly. "I mean, did you drive over it or something?""I was on my way to the Rodines' place to pick up my son and take him to his father. I just saw her there... in front of her house. Uh... how about you?""Oh, I was out for my walk." I sighed. "I'm sorry for ordering you around this morning. Did you say the police questioned you? I seem to remember them wanting to talk to everybody, you know?""Yes, well." He cleared his throat. "You wouldn't believe what they wanted to know from me." He rubbed his bandaged cheek. I felt my own face heat up. "How had I scratched myself, they asked. So I told them what I'm telling you." I didn't like the tone of his voice. Did it mask hostility, or was I imagining things? "Our cat doesn't like to go to the veterinarian's. She scratched me when I tried to put her into the cage."I nodded sympathetically and thought that Sergeant Beiner was probably on the phone with the veterinarian right now, finding out if in fact Ralph Shelton had just brought a female cat in for a visit. I thanked him for helping me, then backed away. Time to grill fish for the McCrackens."So," Ralph said slowly, "the police suspect my oId friend, John Richard Korman?" His fingers brushed the top of his shirt, then went to his bandage again. Suddenly, he didn't seem to want me to leave.I shrugged as convincingly as possible. "Who knows? I try to keep up with that guy as little as I possible." I turned toward my van. "Thanks for your help, Ralph.""Wait," he called. "I'm sorry. Of course you have as little to do with him as possible. I... I remember how he treated you." I turned back and waited for him to speak. Finally he said, "It's just that I've had such a horrible morning." I pressed my lips together. "I knew her, you know," he said bluntly. Was his voice wistful? Hard to tell. "I knew Suz Craig.""Really?" I asked. "Oh, right, the HMO. And you're a doc. I hardly know anyone in the medical business anymore. Do you practice in Denver?""I did. Our group was affiliated with ACHMO. Still is, actually, I'm just not a part of it." He heaved a sigh. "I'll see you at the party later. Sure you know where you're going?" Before I could answer, how- ever, he said, "Good-bye." Then he closed the door.Well, doggone. Ralph was in some kind of pain, no question, and it wasn't just from cat scratches. I gave the brass knocker one last glance and walked back to my vehicle - in case he was watching through a window - and hightailed it over to the McCrackens' place. Within five minutes I'd eased up to the curb in front of a tall wooden house that had been stained a bilious purple, with shutters painted a dull maroon. They should have photographed this place for a National Hockey League advertisement. Avalanche flags hung from the lampposts along the walk. Oversize Avalanche banners were draped from each upstairs window. The place looked like a sporting-goods store.When I drove into the McCrackens' driveway, though, I was prevented from pulling up to the back entrance. A rope had been put up around a large, rectangular paved area that had been marked with bright white lines to resemble a hockey rink. I couldn't imagine what my tires would do to all those brilliant chalky lines if I drove over them. I dreaded contemplating how I was going to unload, much less serve.Clark McCracken, a long-legged fellow with a thin, sweating red face and lots of sweat-streaked brown hair, flapped his arms maniacally as he came loping down the drive toward me. He was wearing a maroon Avalanche jersey, shiny maroon shorts, and stiff, bulky kneepads that made his gait resemble the canter of a crippled race-horse. No question - this man was ready for the end-of-the-driveway game. There was also no question that he wasn't ready for my van to ruin all his chalk marks. I sighed. Unloading a hundred pounds of supplies anywhere near the shortest route to the kitchen was going to be impossible. I rolled down the window and re- solved to stay pleasant."Need you... to park..." Out of breath, Clark wobbled, stiltlike. I certainly hoped he wasn't participating for more than five minutes in today's face-off or whatever the hockey equivalent of a scrimmage is. "Park behind the line," he blurted out as he pointed to the closest chalk stripe. He pressed his hair against the sides of his head and gasped. "Then... you can walk down with the beer and food to where we'll be playing, with a tray or something.""Clark," I began patiently. "There is no way - ""Back up then," Clark interrupted, waving dismissively toward the front of his house. "It'll be okay, the cake's going to come in that way, too. Back to the sidewalk. Open your doors and..." He took another deep, agonizing breath and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'll help."Oh, sure, I thought as I gunned the van in re- verse. And within ten minutes of you trying to help me, ['II be trying to remember the CPR course I took right after Marla had her heart attack. The van sputtered. I braked a little too hard at the beginning of the sidewalk, a herringbone-brick path that led back to the garishly decorated house.It was not my place to tell Clark McCracken that he should not be tugging two fully loaded dollies up his sidewalk so soon before his party. But Clark seemed determined to be as physically involved with the setup for his hockey celebration as possible. I knew what he would do next-splash ice water on his face, comb back his sopping hair, and leap down the stairs to be the official greeter. Then, with an enormous sense of justification, our host would slug down a speedy half-dozen beers before beginning the roller hockey derby in his driveway, which would be followed by a lot more brewskis, a minimal amount of food, and passing out on a piece of patio furniture before I'd finished serving the entree. That is, if he didn't hurt himself with all the activity first.On second thought, maybe I should summon an ambulance. Just in case."Okay," he said, still panting heavily. "What goes in first?"Twenty minutes later I was set up in the kitchen. Clark, wheezing from his exertions, made a martyrlike declaration that he was going to light his gas grill - ever a man's job, even if no actual starting of fires was involved."Clark," I cautioned politely, "please be careful. There was just a big article in the Mountain Journal about how those grills need to be checked - "Again I got the dismissive wave. "Don't quote Frances Markasian to me, please. I've never heard of mountain moths building nests in propane grills! What will that woman think of next?" He rolled his eyes. "I don't believe a word that crazy woman writes. She's not a reporter, she's a viper looking for a cause. Explosions from moths, give me a break! But don't worry, I'm going to clean the vents. It's my job.""Just be careful," I repeated gently.I unwrapped the appetizers for the party: an enormous oval basket of fresh vegetables meant to resemble, as did the rest of tonight's food, a hockey rink. In the place of the goals were baskets of chips, and in the center of the rink-basket I gently lowered a huge crystal bowl of Mexican dip, my own concoction of thick layers of guacamole, cubed tomatoes, smooth sour cream, shredded crisp lettuce, chili beans mashed with picante sauce, sliced black olives, and an ample blanket of golden grated cheddar cheese."Ooh, may I taste?" Patricia McCracken cooed as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Her tousle of streaked curls was held back with a twisted headband printed with tiny Avalanche logos. But her fine-featured face was haggard. She wore an oversize Avalanche jersey that reached almost to her knees. She looked like a coed who'd spent the night in a fraternity house, complete with borrowed pajamas and bags under her eyes.Despite my best intentions to cater this event, I couldn't help but ask what was on my mind. "Patricia, are you sure you want to go through with this? You look exhausted.""Yes," she said, "I do. Tyler's already over at some body's house. Besides, what am I going to do, call everyone and say, 'Sorry! Murder in the neighborhood! Gotta cancel!' Oh, gosh, that reminds me, the centerpiece cake's not here yet. Could you call the bakery and find out if Mickey is going to send somebody over with it?""No problem." Patricia extended an index finger to scoop up a bit of dip. I punched in the buttons for the Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop and handed Patricia a small plastic bowl of dip that I had set aside for sampling. She wrinkled her nose and whined, "Is this the same?""Patricia, please. Of course." I removed the plastic wrap from the Grilled Slapshot Salad."Well, it doesn't look the same." She shoveled a pile of dip onto one chip and popped it into her mouth."Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop," announced Mickey Yuille in the sad, gruff voice I recognized so well."Mickey, hi, it's Goldy Schulz. I'm over at the McCrackens' place and she's waiting for her cake. Can I tell her it's on the way?"Mickey sighed. "Brandon always insists on helping out with my Saturday deliveries. But now they've had some kind of crisis down at his office, and my other guy is sick, so all the Saturday-afternoon deliveries have been delayed."I held my breath. Brandon Yuille, head of Human Resources at ACHMO, was already being questioned? By whom? The police? His Minneapolis head office? "We really need somebody to bring the cake over," I implored."Yeah, yeah, okay. That's what I was going to tell you. Brandon came in late. He's out on his rounds now and should be there any minute. And say! Great fudge, Goldy. Brandon brought me some made from your recipe. Come by and see me sometime. I want you to try out my new cinnamon rolls. They're bigger than the other guy used to make them."I thanked him, hung up, and unwrapped the biscuits. To Patricia I said, "The cake's on its way."Using two chips, Patricia scooped up another precariously balanced load of dip from the plastic bowl. "Mm-mm," she exclaimed as she delicately wiped an errant glop of sour cream from the side of her mouth. My words registered and she gave me a puzzled look. "The cake is on its way? So are my guests! We're starting the hockey game earlier than we'd planned, in case we need overtime!" Her voice was full of panic."Patricia! Are you sure you're okay?""No, I'm not okay, thank you very much. Am I ever going to see John Richard in civil court now, do you think? Unlikely. I sold my car to pay my lawyer's retainer. Your ex-husband is sucking me down a drain." She sounded very bitter.Captain Ahab, I thought again, and cocked an ear toward the hallway. "I think either the cake or some of your guests might be arriving." I loved catering. Occasionally, though, while placating a nervous hostess, I ended up burning the butter or committing some other faux pas culinaire. I wanted her to leave the kitchen, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings."Clark can greet the guests," she rejoined excitedly. "I want to talk about what happened this morning. What did you see? Were you in on the - "Mercifully, she was interrupted by dark-haired, handsome Brandon Yuille. Banging through the kitchen door, Brandon balanced an enormous white box on his outstretched arms. The cake. I motioned to the kitchen island and he expertly slid the box to safety. With his eyes twinkling, Brandon swept his long hair off his forehead. Of medium height and slightly - but appealingly -chubby, he wore a loose yellow oxford-cloth shin with no tie, khaki pants, and loosely tied brown leather boat shoes. He was good-looking and single, although somewhat too young for Marla, much to her chagrin. With a flourish, he opened the top of the cardboard box."Oh, Brandon, it's super," I said admiringly.The rink-shaped cake was actually made of two thick layers of ice cream topped with a thin layer of yellow cake. Mickey had icing-painted all the right red and blue lines and the Avalanche logo. He'd even placed tiny plastic hockey players at various places and miniature goals at each end. "The cupcakes will look perfect surrounding it. Let's get it into the freezer." Patricia was staring at Brandon. "Don't you work for ACHMO?" she demanded suspiciously.He reddened. "Yes, I... I'm just helping my father...." His look grew puzzled. "Wait a minute. You're the one who's suing... Oh, I'm sorry, - I know you've had a hard time -""You all are spying on me," Patricia responded hotly. "Don't think I don't know about all the records you've been trying to get your hands on or have destroyed. You can leave my home now.""I apologize for coming," Brandon mumbled as he slid the cake into the freezer."Patricia, please," I soothed. "Mickey Yuille is the new proprietor of the pastry shop. Brandon works for ACHMO during the week and helps his father on the weekends. Brandon, I'm sorry about this - "But Brandon's leather shoes were already making squeaking noises as he hastened out of the kitchen. So much for asking him any questions about ACHMO's response to the recent demise of their vice-president.Patricia sniffed. "If I'd known the pastry shop guy was related to an ACHMO guy, I would have had you make the centerpiece cake." She made it sound as if that was the last thing on earth she wanted.One of the guests, a slender, energetic woman with curly black hair, crashed into the kitchen. Her blue eyes shone with anticipation as she hurtled toward us. "Listen, Goldy, what's the real dirt on your husband?" Two more women crowded in behind her, whispering and staring at me avidly.Oh, brother. Every bone in my jaw ached from being clenched. I leaned against the refrigerator and glanced longingly at the fish fillets. Should I pretend I didn't know what was going on? With my husband?Actually, ladies, my husband is a cop who spent the afternoon running errands. That is, after he arrested my ex-husband"Out, out, out," Patricia commanded with surprising authority. To my relief, her noisy friends backed out of the kitchen. "And it's her ex-husband!"I could hear a muffled whine: "But we want to hear about..." The door closed on them."Your poor son," Patricia said, suddenly remorseful. "He must be in agony. And how embarrassing it'll be when his friends start talking about all this. I'm so glad Tyler's not here. I certainly don't want him asking questions. Keep right on with your work, Goldy. I'm staying with you until Clark starts the hockey game. You need protection from those busybodies."Of course, she was right. So was Marla. I should have worn a shirt that said I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING."It's ACHMO." Patricia said it dismissively as I steadfastly organized my supplies. She munched another dip-loaded chip reflectively. "You ever try to talk to somebody on the phone there? ACHMO re minds me of a church I went to once. Everybody hates everybody. The institution doesn't function and it's everybody else's fault. The more you try to replace people, the worse it gets. Better to just burn the place down and start over.""What do you mean?""You know what they did to me," she said. Actually, I had never asked for the litany of volleys in Patricia's negligence lawsuit against ACHMO. I knew she had lost her baby. I was not so interested that I had to hear all the details of the legal battle. Nor did I want to. "You heard ACHMO canned Ralph, of course," she continued conspiratorially. "He'll be here tonight, poor thing.""I did hear he had been fired." I could sound as sympathetic as the next person. "Did Ralph find a new job?"She nodded. "He was lucky to get something with another HMO, but it's in administration. I'm sure there are many, many people Suz Craig fired," she stated in the same offhand tone. "But two in Aspen Meadow? Please. We should get federal funds." She lifted another chip as she raised an eyebrow."The other person she fired is Amy Bartholomew?""So you know about Amy. Yes. The woman's a real healer, Goldy. Amy's the one who told me to have this parry. Suz lost a gem in her. But Amy sees people at her health-food store now. I don't believe she ever supported six slot machines in Central City, the way they said."I placed the biscuits on a buttered cookie sheet and covered them with foil to reheat later. "Well," I said hopefully, "the police are bound to sort it out. Maybe you'd like to check on your guests... ?"Unfortunately, Patricia still seemed to be in no hurry to leave. "So are they... going to put your husband on the case? The investigator? That would be something, wouldn't it? I can't imagine - ""No, Patricia." I peered out the window that overlooked the driveway. The male guests had divided themselves into two teams: one wearing T-shirts, the other not. A half-dozen men sat on the wooden retaining wall strapping on in-line skates, while another three-helmeted, padded, bare-chested - were taking tentative gliding turns around the drive. Their faces were hostile and they appeared to be yelling. Hurling insults at each other already? "Uh, do you have a doctor around? I mean, just in case there's a problem with the hockey game outside?"Alarmed, Patricia stepped up to the window beside me. "Oh, for crying out loud, they've started? Uh-oh, there's Drew Herbert. He's got the logo of the Detroit Red Wings tattooed on his chest." She rapped on the glass. No one outside paid the slightest attention. "Who is..." One of the skaters took a spill and Patricia yelped. "Oh, Clark's going to get us sued!" With this, she rushed out of the room.Two nets abutted opposite ends of the driveway. One goal stood by the paved edge that gave way to the sloped front lawn and Tyler's swing set, the other had been pushed up against a high retaining wall made of four-by-fours. Transfixed, I watched from the window until all twelve men were skating at a dizzying speed. Wielding lethal-looking hockey sticks, they bunched and raced, bunched and raced, all the time weaving past one another in furious pursuit of a bright purple tennis-size ball.The score seesawed between the Shirts and the Chests, with the Shirts leading in high-fives and the Chests in sweat-production. About ten spectators, including the three women who had barged in on me, gathered on the driveway sidelines, hollering and laughing and swilling what looked like large gin-and-tonics in what I hoped were plastic - not glass - cups. What had happened to the beer? Had Clark brought it down to the end of the driveway?When the score was two to one, a fight broke out over whether one of the Chests had skated out-of-bounds. First two, then four, guys started jostling one another. Unfriendly shoulder shoves accompanied open-mouthed braying.Squawking, Patricia dashed into the fray. We were still twenty minutes from when I was supposed to bring out the first batch of appetizers for two dozen people. But if this squabble heated up much more, I'd have fewer mouths to feed than I'd planned.The men argued and gestured with their hockey sticks. Here! they seemed to be saying. No, the ball went out over there! Two more women, apparently mindless of their own physical safety, rushed in from the sidelines to try to break up the conflict. Patricia stabbed a finger accusingly in her husband's face, while another woman decided her husband needed to have his red face sloshed with gin-and-tonic. When Clark pushed Patricia aside, she turned and stomped back up toward the house. The conflict continued unabated.Two men popped each other on opposite shoulders while skating sideways and trying to keep their balance. Then one of the Shirts unstrapped his helmet and snapped it upward, smacking it into the nose of his opponent in the melee. The man flailed backward, then did a belly flop forward on the blacktop. The battle ceased briefly while the injured man lay flapping his arms and legs. His squeals for help were muted-probably he had landed on his diaphragm.Patricia McCracken, her face red and her voice shrill, rushed back into the kitchen. "Beer! Dammit, Goldy! What are you standing there for? Beer! Don't wait for halftime! Take them some beer now!"I mumbled something about a medic being a better idea than a bartender but scrambled obediently around the kitchen, where I quickly filled a Styrofoam cooler with three six-packs and a shower of ice. Beer didn't seem a very good idea to me, especially on top of all those gin-and-tonics. Still, my contract did not include ground cleanup, if it came to that. I marched carefully down the walk to Clark McCracken, who gestured grandly toward his cement-hockey game."Take it down to them! Take it down!" he hollered, his face scarlet with exhaustion and what I suspected was pain. "Throw the cans at them if you have to!"Without Clark, the players had resumed their game, which I found incredible. The Shirts and the Chests were skating around one another with even more alacrity and daring than before. One helmeted player thwacked the ball toward the goal and barely missed the net. Instead, the ball bounced off the retaining wall and smacked one of the female spectators in the knee. Her shrill squawk of pain went utterly unheeded as the skaters bent and swerved around one another to pass a newly produced ball."Beer break!" I called as the cans chinked against one another with what I hoped was an inviting sound. But the players could not hear me or the cans as they pushed, grunted, and jostled for position. Clark, somehow revived, whooshed past and waved me down to the sideline. I sighed, heaved the Styrofoam chest above my rib cage, and clink-clomped closer to the players, keeping a wary eye on the game.Clark bellowed enthusiastically to his fellow skaters: "Hey, guys! A beer break would - "But I never heard him finish. From the chalked line where I stood, I was suddenly aware of a shift in the game. Like a tornado that had changed direction without warning, a gaggle of sweating skaters loomed. Charging out of the crowd came Ralph Shelton, hell-bent in my direction. I dropped the beers. The Styrofoam chest landed on my feet. Spilling ice filled the air as Ralph Shelton slammed into my stationary, unhelmeted, unpadded body. As he hit me, the look on his bandaged face was a determined, angry grimace, as if he had every intention of killing me.12There was, apparently, a shortage of doctors. In any event, no one stepped up to offer me help. I lay on the pavement one second, two seconds, three. My eyes felt permanently crossed. As far as I could determine, everyone seemed to be clustered around Ralph Shelton.I gasped but couldn't bring any air in; the wind was gone from my body. Blood dripped from my forehead. Finally some people moved toward me. Their mouths chattered incomprehensibly. Move, I told myself. Get up. But I didn't. I couldn't.I groaned and lifted one shoulder. Pain pierced my stomach and shot up my legs. My calves had been gashed by Ralph's in-line skates. Even more agonizing was my head, which throbbed unremittingly.As I speechlessly eyed the gaggle now gawking down at me, I was convinced that the cement had cracked my skull. Perhaps I had a concussion. Perhaps my brains were leaking out. Well, I had agreed to cater to a group of hockey fans. I probably didn't have any brains left to leak."Goldy?" A strange woman's voice accused me from faraway. "Why did you drop the beer?"I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I was sitting in a gleaming blue-and-white bathroom. I had a vague recollection of someone lifting me and then placing me into this space. I studied my surroundings. Thinly striped blue porcelain tiles covered the floor, ran up the walls, surrounded the tub. Someone had wiped off my legs, arms, and face. The room swam. This was a nightmare, and I was dinner on a Staffordshire plate."I won't be much longer," came a comforting voice from the vicinity of the sink. Water was running. I risked eyeing the sink area.The plump woman who stood beside me was of medium height. Her strawberry-blond hair shone. In the mirror I could see she had a kindly face. Actually, two kindly faces. I groaned and closed my eyes.An impatient, distressed voice spoke from the doorway. "Lucky you're coming around, Goldy." My heart sank: Patricia. This was a bad dream. "We're starting on that vegetable basket you put out. Are you all right now? My husband can't put the fish on the grill until you're ready.""Ready for what?" I muttered as the kindly red-haired lady smeared a gold-colored jelly on my forehead. The jelly looked like Vaseline and smelled like something you'd get in a Navajo gift shop. "What are you doing?" I asked uneasily, even as the comforting warmth of the salve magically removed the throbbing in my head. "Do I know you?""Shh, shh." The woman smoothed more salve on my right arm. "Now smear some of this on your other arm." I obeyed. More water spurted from the faucet. The red-haired Florence Nightingale handed me a glassful. "Can you drink some of this and then put this under your tongue?" When I nodded mutely, she shook out a speckled beige tablet from a wide brown bottle that hadn't come from any pharmacy."I'm not taking any drugs," I said firmly. Or at least I think I did.Her laugh rippled off the porcelain walls. "This is about as far from drugs as you can get," she assured me."Goldy, did you hear me?" pleaded Patricia, my former friend, my former pleasant client. "We're going to start on your appetizers. Clark's putting on a video of one of the Cup games and I want dinner to be served in forty minutes. If you're still going to cater this party, you'd better pull yourself together."I clasped the tablet. It was still difficult to bring Patricia into focus. "Ah, do all the skates have their guests off?" I managed. Dyslexic sentence. Still couldn't think right. No wonder press conferences after hockey games were so uninformative. "Ah..." I tried again. "Guests have their skates off?""Of course they do," Patricia retorted. "You've been in here for almost a quarter of an hour. I'm worried that the grill's going to run out of propane. When that last buzzer sounds, I want these guests to have grilled fish on their plates. Please hurry!" Then she turned on her heel and stomped away. I hoped Clark had put on a video of the last game of the 1996 Stanley Cup. Then we would have dinner in five hours, and I would have the last laugh."Don't mind her," said the red-haired woman. "And by the way, I'm a nurse. Put that pill under your tongue. It's a homeopathic treatment for shock and pain.""What... ?"But I was in too much pain to argue. I obediently slipped the pill under my tongue and got a smile as a reward from my new guardian angel. Dog- gone if this woman didn't have an aura. On the other hand, maybe my head injury was even worse than I feared.She said softly, "It's called arnica, from a flower of the same name.""Who're you?" I managed."Ralph Shelton called me," she replied in that mellifluous voice that reminded me of stirred custard. "I live close by." She concentrated her warm brown eyes on mine. "Ralph and I used to work together. He was so worried about you. He told me l you were an old friend of his." She added gently, "My name's Amy Bartholomew."I gagged on the second tablet as Amy patted more of the salve on my right shin. "I thought you..." What did I think she was going to look like, Kenny Rogers fresh from singing "The Gambler"? "What's that you're putting on me?" There was a taste of grass clippings in my mouth from the pills. "This stuff in my mouth tastes funny.""The salve contains goldenseal, olive oil, comfrey, yarrow, white oak bark, and all kinds of other healing herbs. Beginning to feel any better?"I nodded, then waited for the pain in my head to pulse in punishment for my unwise move. To my astonishment, it didn't. I looked down at my legs: my stockings were torn; bloody scratches crisscrossed my knees. I wished I had a change of clothes, but of course I did not. Amy continued to dab salve on the cuts. When she finished, she told me to hold out my hand. I did, and she shook a handful of the tablets into my palm."Take two more now, then another four in half an hour. Then four more every hour until you go to bed. Okay?""Okay." I was still trying to calm the chaos in my head. "Do you have a card or something? I mean, so I can pay you? I doubt the McCrackens will cough up the money for your time and supplies."Amy shook her head and chuckled. "Don't worry about it. Patricia is a customer of mine. Come see me, though, on... say, Monday or Tuesday. At the store. I want to take a look at your eyes. You know where I am? By the lake?"I nodded again. Hesitantly I said, "Do you... did you hear about Suz Craig?"Her face darkened. "Don't bring up negativity now. You can't digest it. You need to get better. Focus on healing."I sighed deeply. Focus on healing. I'd discovered the corpse of a murdered woman, my violent ex-husband was screaming threats from his jail cell, my I son was furious with me, I'd been hit in a roller hockey derby, the party I was catering was going down the tubes, and my scratched and bloodied body would be covered with bruises for weeks. Focus on healing? No problem.After Amy left, I ordered myself to stand up. Then I checked in the mirror. Not as bad as I would have thought. There were three separate but relatively small cuts on my face and neck. My right eye was already pink and beginning to swell. My right shoulder hurt. The headache still echoed darkly in the back of my skull. I popped in a couple more arnica tablets and tried to concentrate on setting up the salads.The guests were fully engaged in watching one of the playoff games between the Avalanche and the Chicago Blackhawks. I scanned the room for Ralph Shelton. Apparently he'd gone home. But questions nagged. Had he deliberately run into me? Had he meant to hurt me? Or was it just difficult to stop on in-line skates? I refused to ponder these questions until I was safely at home. First, I had a dinner to serve.I tiptoed past the noisy living room to the security of the kitchen and spooned the salads into their bowls. My spirits began to revive as I poured the marinade over the tuna and heated the Mexican eggrolls I'd made the day before. The smell of hot south-of-the-border food was marvelous. I sliced one of the eggrolls to make sure it was suitably hot and crispy, then dipped it into an avocado-lime mixture and took a bite. The eggroll skin crackled around the chile-laden stuffing of chicken, black beans, cumin, and melted cheese. Yum. I was feeling so much better it was amazing. Now alI needed was a Dos Equis, a hot shower, and a leap into bed. Fat chance.I slipped the biscuits and potato rolls into the oven, passed around the eggrolls, and received a gratifying chorus of oohs and ahs and I'll have another one of thoses. No one commented on my bruised and battered face. I put the fish on the grill and checked on the heating biscuits. Frowning, Patricia devoured half an eggroll. Her face softened. Could she be feeling remorse for scolding me after I'd been slammed nearly senseless by one of her guests? I wondered. Maybe she'd realized I could sue her. Maybe she just liked Mexican food. I tested a corner of the grilled fish: flaky and deliciously flavored with the marinade. Apparently I could still do my job correctly.The guests, some still wearing in-line skating attire, others clad in Avalanche gear, boisterously tumbled out to the buffet line after the buzzer sounded in the Blackhawks game. One or two eyed me curiously, but no one bothered to ask how I was. At this party, they expected injuries. Nor did they ask me what the story was on the Jerk's arrest. Okay by me: the invincible caterer had work to do.Soon the guests had munched their way through the main course and I put on coffee to brew. Eventually, the guests were drinking their coffee and eating Stanley Cupcakes topped with slices of ice-cream rink, while lamenting that the beginning of the NHL season was over a month away. I glanced at the clock over the kitchen window. Ten to eight. The sun slid slowly behind the mountains. Just above the jagged, deeply shadowed horizon, thin striations of gray cloud lay in perfect, straight lines. It's a giant comb, Arch and I would have said, back when he was little. I ran hot water into the sink and put in the first batch of dishes to be rinsed. I couldn't wait to finish this job.Just after nine o'clock I heaved the first of my heavy boxes across my deck. Tom was waiting. As soon as he saw my face, he shook his head. He opened the back door, came out, and took the box from me. A huge dark green apron swathed his body. He'd been cooking, as usual, because he knew I would not have had time to eat."Miss G!" His face furrowed with worry. "What happened to you?""Don't ask. It's not that big a deal, anyway."He sighed. "You get into more scrapes in a day than I do in a year. And I'm the one with the dangerous job.""You've never catered to hockey fans," I muttered glumly."True." He set the box on the counter and chuckled as I flopped into a chair. He stooped to give me a kiss, then eyed my cut cheek. Instead he kissed the top of my head.Later, when we'd brought all the supplies inside, I asked, "Where is the rest of this family?"He smiled and started the food processor grating potatoes. "Upstairs. Macguire's had quite a day, his most active in the last month. He's had a long shower. But I think he may be running a bit of a fever. Arch took the dog and the cat into his room and the four of them are laughing over dolI-collecting magazines.""What?"Tom deftly beat an egg, dipped in a flour-dusted fish fillet, then rolled it in shreds of potato. I suddenly realized I was starving. "Don't worry," he went on, "I gave Macguire some ibuprofen. He had an incident over at the lake with Arch. Oh, and Arch isn't going to the Druckmans' tonight, he wanted to stay here and make sure Macguire was okay.""Back up. What incident? Why were the boys at the lake?"Tom took a deep breath, not a good sign. "Apparently the health-food store was closed. Macguire was too tired to walk any farther, so the two of them, went over to the LakeCenter looking for someone to give them a ride home. One lady - what's her name, Rodine? - said she would if the two boys could bring in some tables. Do you believe that? Why wouldn't she just give the kids a ride home?"I sighed. "Because she's a gold-plated bitch, that's why.""Of course Macguire was too weak to lift a table, and Arch was too small, so they asked if they could do something else to earn their ride. So Mrs. Rodine had them carry in some cartons full of boxed dolls. They hauled a crate up on one of the stands inside the LakeCenter while Mrs. Rodine and her pals were yelling directions to some other underlings outside. So Arch and Macguire, trying to be helpful, started to take the doll boxes out of the crate. Once they had them all out, Arch got worried about Macguire, so he went to a soft-drink machine to get the two of them some pops. Meanwhile, Macguire started to take the dolls out of the boxes - ""Oh, no. No, no, no. The collectors don't want the dolls out of the boxes. The collectors want them NRFB. Never Removed From Box. It makes a huge" difference - "Tom held up a hand. "When Arch came in with the drinks, he tried to warn Macguire, but it was too late."I repeated, "Too late. Oh, God."Tom seemed resigned to telling this tale of human folly. Yet his green eyes were merry as he drizzled olive oil on the griddle. "Three women screamed and chased Arch and Macguire out of the LakeCenter. Then a guy, one of the helper-husbands, called the sheriff's department on his cellular phone - "I moaned. Tom slid the potato-crusted fillets on the hot griddle, where their sizzling sound made my mouth water. "Since I was on my way home from the hardware store, I was the closest." Another smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "So I answered the call. I've done a lot of strange duties in my day. But trying to convince a hysterical trio of women that removing a 1994 Holiday Babsie from its original box is not a chargeable offense-now that was perhaps the most challenging job I've had yet." He chuckled.I moaned again. "These women didn't actually. do anything to Arch and Macguire, did they? Why does Macguire have a fever?"Tom pursed his lips and flipped the fish. "The Babsie ladies chased our boys to the end of the old pier, where unfortunately Macguire lost his balance and fell into the water. A woman in a shell rowed over and held on to him until someone from the LakeCenter could throw out a life preserver." Tom carefully scooped the golden-brown fish pieces into a buttered pan and eased the whole thing into the oven. I rubbed my aching skull. "I... know that doll collecting is a bona fide hobby. Son of like be- ing a hockey fan. But I just don't understand why these pastimes become manias." "I asked the same question. I might as well have asked the ladies' Bible study to describe the Rapture. One woman told me very seriously that doll collecting was like the best sex you ever had, times " ten. I let that pass. While the fish was baking, I moved-slowly, painfully-up the stairs to check on Macguire and Arch, who both immediately de- manded to know why I looked so awful. I stalled and took Macguire's temperature. It was one hundred degrees even, not enough to call his doctor, he main- tained. Then I told the boys I'd gotten hit by a hockey fan. The fan had been wearing blades, I ex- plained, and I had not. "Dude, Mrs. Schulz," said Macguire admiringly. "You're brave." "No, just dumb enough to be in his way." Apparently being with Macguire had worked the kind of effect on Arch Marla had predicted it would. My son did not seem preoccupied with his father and the events of the morning. He didn't even appear to be angry with me. At least not at the moment. He pointed to the magazine in his lap. "Check this out, Mom." I bent to look at the page. After a second I moved in closer. I wanted to make sure my eyes weren't deceiving me. A Never-Removed-From-Box Duchess Bride Babsie was selling for twelve hundred dollars. Another one that had been taken out of the box sold for six hundred dollars. The dolls had sold for less than twenty dollars originally, and I remembered my little childhood friend in New Jersey who had taken such delight in playing with her Babsies. In the catalog, I saw one that looked familiar from my friend's collection. It was an MIB-Mint-In-Box-Number One Blond Ponytail Babsie. The doll had just gone at auction for six thousand dollars. I felt faint."Mom, are you all right?" Arch asked anxiously."I'm fine," I assured him. "I've already seen a nurse, and she gave me a homeopathic remedy.""Homeopathic?" Macguire grumbled. "What is that?""It means natural," I explained. "Please don't stay up too late. I don't need both of you to get sick." Arch gave me an exasperated look and I closed the door before I could offend him further. Ten minutes later I was scrubbed, robed, and more ravenous than ever. In honor of my service to hockey fans, Tom had named his creation Power Play Potatoes and Fish. He served them with a fine julienne of carrot, steamed baby peas, a small green salad, and southern spoon bread topped with pats of butter. I took a greedy bite of the fish: Tom's pairing of a crunchy potato crust with the delicate texture and rich taste of Chilean sea bass was divine, and I told him so. He smiled and told me the recipe was now taped to my computer screen. Then he frowned.Power Play Potatoes and Fish4 (6 to 8 ounces each) fresh Chilean seabass fillets« cup flour2 eggs4 large russet potatoes2 tablespoons olive oilSalt and freshly ground black pepperPreheat oven to 400ø. Butter a 9- by 13-inch baking dish. Rinse off the fillets and pat dry with paper towels. Sprinkle the flour on a plate. Beat the eggs in a shallow bowl. Peel the potatoes. Grate them onto a large, clean kitchen towel that can be stained. Roll the potatoes up in the towel and wring to remove moisture. (It is best to do this over the sink.) Divide the potatoes into four piles.In a wide skillet, heat the olive oil. Working quickly, dip each fillet first in the flour, then in the egg. Pat half of each potato pile on the top and bottom of each fillet (the equivalent of one grated potato per fillet). Bring the skillet up to medium-high heat. Place the potato-covered fillets in the hot oil, salt and pepper them, and brown quickly on each side. When all the fillets are browned, put them in the buttered pan and bake about 10 minutes, or until they are cooked through. Do not over- cook the fish.Serves 4"What was the name of the guy you said hit you?""Dr. Ralph Shelton," I mumbled, mouth full of succulent fish. "Remember? I told you about him earlier today. He's an old friend of ours. Used to be with ACHMO, but according to town gossip he was fired by Suz Craig.""Right. And I was going to check on him, which I did. Which I actually told Donny Saunders to do, more accurately. By the way, did the gossip say why this Dr. Shelton was fired?"I indicated a negative and took a bite of the carrots and peas, celestially fresh, sweet vegetables. The spoon bread was as rich and tender as anything Scarlett O'Hara had ever put into her mouth. I made "mm-mm" noises and Tom nodded in acknowledgment."Brandon Yuille, you know him?" he asked, his mind still on work."He's the head of Human Resources for ACHMO. He's also the son of a baker in town. He was at Suz's house when I catered over there. I saw him today, but briefly. Why? Have you talked to him?""Yeah, a whole team went out to talk to the ACHMO department heads, but most of them are in San Diego at a conference. Medical Management, Member Services, Health Services, Quality Management - four of the six people who had to deal with Suz Craig on a daily basis are gone for the week, although they're coming back early. The only department heads left in town were Human Resources and Provider Relations." He took a breath. "John Richard Korman is absolutely insistent he's innocent. The cops who're questioning him? They're getting real tired of hearing about Suz Craig doing this to make enemies, Suz Craig doing that."I hope they're ignoring him. John Richard Korman is probably the worst enemy Suz Craig ever made. The most dangerous, certainly."Tom shrugged. "He's the prime suspect, so the department is concentrating on him. But Donny Saunders has asked me to help him out. I agreed.""So where does Brandon Yuille come in?""Korman insists that Yuille and Suz Craig were having some kind of feud. Yuille claims he was with his father at his bakery from midnight to five last night, so he couldn't have killed Ms. Craig.""You called Brandon?""Caught him unawares. He'll probably never talk to me again without a lawyer present. And he's not the most talkative man in the county," Tom observed. "Anyway, he was awfully vague when I wanted to know why Ralph Shelton left ACHMO.""You asked him that? Brandon was vague or he l didn't know?"Tom's face was unreadable. "Your ex-husband maintains that Ralph Shelton hated Suz, too. I'm wondering if his firing had anything to do with Patricia McCracken's lawsuit against ACHMO.""What are you talking about? I mean, I know Ralph is an obstetrician, but..." I felt muddled. It had been too long a day.Tom stood and picked up my whisker-clean plate. He ran water into the sink, then said, "What I did get out of Brandon Yuille was this: Ralph Shelton used to be associated with an ob-gyn practice down in Denver. Shelton was on call at St. Philip's Hospital when Clark McCracken brought his wife, Patricia, in the night she lost their baby. There she is, losing blood and disoriented and Shelton tells her he's with ACHMO. Even though they're old friends, our Patricia McCracken hauls off and slaps the guy across the face. He fell, and it knocked the wind out of him. That woman's unbelievably strong, even when she's sick.""But," I protested, "we all used to be close. Besides, Ralph Shelton wasn't the problem. John Richard and ACHMO were.""That night Patricia McCracken sure saw Ralph Shelton as the problem. Then the chain of events goes like this. She files one suit against Korman; she files another against ACHMO. Ralph leaves his practice under a cloud. Our investigation is very preliminary at this point, but it looks as if after that Shelton took an administrative job with another HMO. One named MeritMed."I said reflectively, "But Ralph and the McCrackens seem to have buried the hatchet. I mean, he was invited to their hockey party tonight."Tom grinned. "Yeah, after their little tussle in the hospital Patricia apologized all over the place to Shelton. Maybe she's trying to be sweet to him these days, so that he'll tell her some inside stuff on ACHMO that she can use against them in her suit. I mean, now that he's persona non grata there.""Ralph seems to stick together with another persona non grata," I commented as I poured two dessert sherries. I told Tom about being tended to by Amy Bartholomew, nurse lately of ACHMO. "She's involved with natural remedies now." That reminded me. I sought out my last four arnica tablets and washed them down with the glass of cream sherry. It may not have been what the homeopaths would have recommended, but I thought it was wonderful.Tom pulled me into his lap. "Tell me we're going to have a break from talking about this case tomorrow, Miss G. This guy gets arrested first thing in the morning, and it ends up ruining our entire weekend."It could ruin a lot more than our weekend, I thought glumly, but didn't say so. "You're always telling me how if a case isn't solved in the first forty-eight hours, it's unlikely it'll be solved at all.""Wait. One more thing. Suz Craig did deny Korman his bonus. Late last week."I sighed. "That's what Marla was afraid of.""You still don't think this case is solved?""I think this case is far from over. But we won't mention a word of it tomorrow. Besides," I teased, "I want to talk some more about the joys of doll collecting. I'm not sure I believe their claims. I mean, best sex times ten?""You do have to wonder," he replied, deadpan, then led me upstairs.13You'd think after all I'd been through, I would have slept without a break for twelve hours. Not me. I slept for two. I awoke at midnight damp with sweat, wrenched from sleep by a nightmare starring John Richard. I'd been jolted awake believing I was Suz Craig, and I was being beaten to death. Perhaps my muscles had cramped after my collision with Ralph Shelton. Whatever the reason, sleep was impossible.I tiptoed to the kitchen, where I made myself a hot chocolate and topped it with a fat dollop of marshmallow cream. Nothing like chocolate and marshmallow to soothe the nerves. When I was eleven and had failed a social studies test, I'd headed straight to the drugstore and ordered chocolate ice cream slathered with spoonfuls of creamed marshmallow. Did they even make that kind of sundae anymore? I wondered.I sipped the chocolate, booted up my computer, and started a new file: JRK ARRES7: I remembered Arch's words: He really needs you. Well, I didn't care about what John Richard Korman needed. But I was interested in the truth. And I needed Arch to believe I cared about him.It had been a tempestuous day. I had promised Tom we wouldn't talk about the case on Sunday. Still, the information about the crime now bubbling up reminded me of the schools of minnows that can occasionally be seen at Aspen Meadow Lake. If you don't get out your net right away, you're going to lose them.I began by listing everything I knew about the people involved. Suz Craig had run the Denver office of the AstuteCare Health Maintenance Organization. John Richard Korman, one of the ACHMO providers, had been dating Suz for the past seven months. On the home front, Suz had bought a luxurious house in Aspen Meadow, where she'd been doing an expensive landscape project. On the business front, she had reportedly fired employees without remorse, and refused those she didn't fire their bonuses. And she had presumably enforced the rules of the HMO, which could have had some implications for Patricia McCracken's case. Patricia sure thought so. Maybe I had to find out the details of her case, after all.QUESTION, I typed. Why exactly is Patricia suing both JRK and ACHMO?QUESTION: Did Suz Craig fire Dr. Ralph Shelton? If so, why?QUESTION: Was gambling really enough of a reason for Suz to fire Amy Bartholomew, R.N.?QUESTION: What did JRK and Suz Craig argue about at the country club.?I sighed. How would I get the answers to these l questions? And why should I? I saved my file, shut down the computer, and sipped the steamy hot chocolate. The marshmallow had melted into a creamy layer on the chocolate surface. I licked it off carefully, the way a child would. Outside my kitchen window, elk bleated. I did not feel the remotest bit tired. I needed to get some sleep. How on earth could I face church in a state of exhaustion? Then inspiration struck.Cook! That'll relax you. Put all these people and all these questions out of your head for a while and whip something up. I fingered the containers of Dutch-processed cocoa and the jar of marshmallow cream I'd left on the counter. Why couldn't you put these together in a cookie? Surely there could be nothing like chocolate and marshmallow in a cookie to soothe the nerves?I put some hazelnuts in the oven to toast, then melted a jagged brick of unsweetened chocolate in the top of our double boiler. I combined sun-dried cranberries and oversize morsels of semisweet chocolate in a bowl, then scattered the hazelnuts to cool on a plate. I began to feel better. By the time I was beating unsalted butter with sugar and cream cheese, I was humming, and this was a mistake. Jake came bounding into the room on his long blood- hound legs, followed closely by a sleepy-eyed Arch clad in rumpled pajamas. Arch fumbled with his glasses and stared in puzzlement at the bowls, the butter wrappers, and the whirling beater.Chocolate Comfort Cookies1 cup chopped hazelnuts2 cups (1 11 « - ounce package) extra-large semisweet chocolate chips (Nestle's mega-morsels)« cup sun-dried cranberries1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened1 cup granulated sugar1 3-ounce package cream cheese, softened1 egg2 tablespoons milk2 ounces best-quality unsweetened chocolate, melted1 « teaspoons vanilla2 cups plus 2 tablespoons all- purpose flour (high altitude: add 2 more tablespoons, for a total of 2 « cups)« teaspoon baking powder« teaspoon salt¬ cup Dutch-processed cocoa1 cup commercially prepared marshmallow creamPreheat oven to 325ø. Spread nuts on an ungreased cookie sheet and roast for 7 to 12 minutes, or until they are lightly browned and some skins have loosened. Set aside to cool.Butter 2 cookie sheets. In a large bowl, combine the chocolate chips, cranberries, and cooled nuts; set aside. In another large bowl, beat together the butter, sugar, cream cheese, and egg until very creamy and smooth. Beat in milk, melted chocolate, and vanilla. Sift together the flour, baking powder, salt, and cocoa, then add to the butter mixture. Blend in the marshmallow cream, stirring until thoroughly combined. Add the chips, cranberries, and nuts. Stir until well mixed. Batter will be thick.Using a ¬ - cup or a 4-tablespoon ice cream scoop, measure out batter and place 2 inches apart on cookie sheets, putting no more than 6 cookies per sheet. Bake 13 to 17 minutes, until puffed an cooked through. Cool on sheet 1 minute; transfer to wire racks to cool completely.Makes 2 dozen."Gosh, Mom! What are you doing? Did you forget something? Do you have to take cookies to church?""Sorry, honey, I just couldn't sleep. How about some hot chocolate with marshmallow? That's what I used to have when I was your age and flunked a test. Or when I was your age and couldn't sleep. It always worked, despite what they now say about the caffeine in chocolate.""Well, I could have slept if you hadn't awakened Jake," my son grumbled crossly. He shuffled to the back door and opened it, but the elk had stopped bugling and Jake wasn't the least bit interested in a midnight run. Resigned, Arch closed the door and flopped into a chair. "Sure, I'll have some cocoa, thanks." Immediately he was up, offering Jake one of Tom's homemade dog biscuits. "Yeah, boy, there you go! Don't worry, I'm not going to have a treat unless you do!" The large, tawny dog wagged his tail, licked Arch's face, and whined with canine contentment.I heated more milk and stirred it into a smooth, thick paste of cocoa, sugar, and cream. In his corner, Jake crunched appreciatively. His dark eyes favored my son and me with loving glances. Arch gave him two more dog biscuits, then watched while I generously glopped marshmallow cream on top of his drink. When I put the steaming mug in front of him, I expected him to pounce on the rich treat as expectantly as I had. Instead, he blew tentatively on the foamy top, then sipped."Mom. There's something I need to talk to you about." He put his mug down. "It's about Dad." When my face fell, he quickly said, "Go ahead, make your cookies, it's not important." He added earnestly, "I really mean it, Mom. I don't want to disturb you. Cook, if it'll help you go back to sleep. I just have a couple of questions...."He had questions, I had questions, everybody had all kinds of questions. My headache returned with a vengeance. I beat the egg and milk into the batter, then added the melted chocolate and vanilla. Once the oven was preheated and the cookie sheets buttered, I measured out what I thought would be a judicious balance of dry ingredients and began to mix them into the batter. These cookies promised to be terrific. But apprehension had drained the joy from cooking experimentation.Arch said, "So. When was the last time there was an execution in Colorado?""Arch!""No, really, just tell me. And... was it by lethal injection?"I sighed and scooped the batter onto the cookie sheets. "No, the last execution used the electric chair. And it was over thirty years ago, I think. Law enforcement in Colorado has switched over to lethal injection. But they've never used it.""The death penalty" - his voice cracked - "is for first-degree murder, right?"I slid the cookie sheets into the oven and turned. "Arch - ""Just tell me.""Yes, for first-degree murder. But - ""Are you going to help Dad?" he demanded. His question stung. I set the timer and tried to think of what to say. Finally I asked, "What would you like me to do?""Oh, you know," he replied earnestly, "that stuff you do sometimes, go around asking questions, like that. Try to help with the investigation the way you do with Tom.""Tom's off this case, and I'm a witness. Which is supposed to mean that I don't go around talking to people connected with the case.""You did when you found that guy's body out at Elk Park Prep and when that lady was killed in the parking garage.""Those were different. I didn't see any suspects, and I certainly didn't witness an arrest for homicide. And besides, those things happened when I was pretty ignorant about law enforcement."His thin body sagged. "So that means no." His tone turned morose. "If Dad does get out of jail on Monday the way he thinks he will, I think I should go live with him. Until the trial. I mean, it might be the last time I would see him."I couldn't believe we were having this conversation, in the middle of the night, in the warm security of our home, here in our warm kitchen. In the extremely unlikely event that John Richard got out of jail anytime before his preliminary hearing, I couldn't imagine that he would want Arch to live with him. Whatever punishment I had envisioned for the Jerk during all these years, it hadn't looked like this. It hadn't looked like losing my son."Arch," I said quietly, "are you threatening me with moving out? 'Cause that's what it sounds like.""Mom! Of course not! I'm just trying to do what's right here. He is my father."I struggled for clear thoughts and the right words. "Okay, look. If I can talk to some people... and those conversations would help lead to justice... Justice, I'm talking, Arch, not 'getting somebody off.' There's a difference.""Yeah, yeah, truth, justice, and the American way. Courtesy of SuperMom.""Arch!""Okay, okay.""If I could talk to some people but not jeopardize my position as a witness, would you stay here at home? Your dad's really not... set up to take care of you. And I would worry about you."He nodded, whispered "Okay," and drank his cocoa in silence. Then he sniffed, mumbled, "Be right back," and left the room. Jake, ever faithful, scrambled after him. I took the cookies out of the oven and set them on racks to cool.When Arch returned, he clutched a wadded-up tissue. I couldn't tell if he'd been crying. "I was just thinking, Mom." He'd changed his tone, a clear indication that he wanted to discuss a new topic. "You said you were having a cup of hot chocolate to drink right now, because you couldn't sleep? But when you can't sleep, you should go out for a drive. Don't you remember? That's what you used to do when I was little. When I couldn't sleep, you took me out for a drive, and you said it made you sleepy, too.""Oh, hon - ""You probably don't remember, but you used to say that driving me around was like having hot chocolate when you were little. The rhythm of the car put me to sleep the way the hot chocolate did you. Even if it was the middle of the night, if I was fussy, you would take me. I don't remember the drives, I just remember you telling me we used to go."I nodded and checked the cookies; they were almost cool. i remembered the drives, all right. And I hadn't taken them just because Arch was fussy. Time and again, I'd gripped that steering wheel the way fear had clutched me. Rocking over bumpy mountain roads, I'd been desperately trying to figure out a way to escape from my life, from John Richard Korman's abuse, and a marriage I just couldn't hold together anymore. I had been lost in the worst way, and it had taken years to get my life on the right road.Now I packed up the cookies, stacked all the dirty dishes in the sink, and threw away the ingredient debris."A drive sounds like a great idea," I told my son. "But what do you say we get some sleep first?"Arch agreed. For once, he wasn't in the mood to taste my new cookies, and neither was I.14I begged the Almighty to help me rest up before church began the next morning. Finally I fell into a restless slumber at dawn. Tom woke me, bearing a cup of steaming espresso."If you want to make it to the late service," he advised gently, "we need to get a move on." As I struggled upright and promptly winced, Tom added with concern, "Sure you don't want to just stay in bed this morning?"I assured him I was just stiff. Plus I'd been up during the night cooking. He shook his head and began to massage my aching shoulders. My lower back was still in spasm, and my right ankle throbbed. After drinking the espresso, I checked the ankle. It was ominously blue-black. I limped into the bathroom to take a hot shower, dabbed bits of makeup over the scratches on my face, and finally felt ready to get spiritual succor. While Arch rummaged through the clean laundry for a pair of pants, I tip-toed into Macguire's room. His forehead felt hot, but he moaned a refusal when I suggested his seeing a doctor. I begged him to take a couple more ibuprofen, which he did. By the time I closed his door, he was asleep. Damn Gail Rodine for making Macguire fall into the lake over her damn silly dolls.When Tom, Arch, and I arrived at the massive oak entryway to St. Luke's Episcopal Church, the two men in my life held the doors ajar chivalrously. I hobbled through. When the sea of faces turned to appraise my entrance, I immediately realized we'd have done better asking for communion to be brought to the house. For the infirm, having the sacrament delivered was a common enough practice. But it wasn't a very common practice for a caterer who'd been trampled by an inebriated hockey player the same day her ex-husband was arrested for murder. So I hadn't thought of it.Still, I should have known what kind of spectacle, and fuel for gossip, my bruised self would pre- sent. The ripple of whispers rose to a wave. Marla, wearing a lilac-print designer sundress, bolero jacket, matching purple earrings and high heels, immediately bustled over."I don't think they're staring because they want to book a buffet brunch," she confided."Gosh, Marla. Thanks for the news flash." The choir shuffled into the vestibule. I took advantage of their arrival to whisper to Marla, "I told Arch I'd ask around about John Richard."Her taupe-and-lilac-shadowed eyes widened at my confession. "Bad move, Goldy Schulz."Tom guided us to a pew at the back and the four of us squeezed in. Marla hugged Arch and palmed him two Cad bury bars, which he stuffed into his pants pocket. MarIa's cardiologist ever X-rayed her Louis Vuitton handbag and discovered the bulges were chocolate bars and cream-filled cupcakes, he'd probably have cardiac arrest himself. She leaned close to me."Check out who's visiting. I'm an Episcopalian, so I can't point."It took me a few seconds of scanning the pews to locate Chris Corey, his sister, the cat-loving Tina, and Brandon Yuille, sitting together on the opposite side of the nave. Tina had already told me she was a parishioner. Brandon attended occasionally. I'd never seen Chris at St. Luke's before."Probably here to plan Suz's memorial after coffee hour," Marla whispered. "Anyway. As long as you're poking around, have you heard anything new? And what happened, did you lose a fight with your blender?"I glanced quickly at Arch. My son always made a good, but not perfect, pretense of not listening to adult conversations."No and no," I whispered back to her. She opened her mouth, probably to ask another question. Mercifully, the opening bars of the processional hymn rang out. "I'll tell you all about it later."As much as I tried to concentrate, my eyes wandered back across the nave where Tina and Chris sat with Brandon. As the Old Testament lesson was read, I tried to recall when I'd seen Tina attending church, if ever.To my horror, I giggled. Stress. I gulped and caught a glimpse of Marla's puzzled face, as well as the sudden confused looks from the two Coreys and Brandon Yuille. Well, great.As we rose for the reading from Luke, I thought of what Marla had said about why two ACHMO department heads would be in church this morning: all the other department heads were away in San Diego. Chris and Brandon were indeed probably here to make funeral arrangements for Suz Craig. Suz had no relatives to perform this task, and Arch had told me that Suz was a nominal Episcopalian. Arch had also reported that Suz had accompanied John Richard on his rare appearances at St. Luke's. Of course, John Richard did not go to church so much to worship as he did to brag about or show off whatever new possession he had, be it car, condo, or concubine.Stop. In any event, our priest, now delivering his homily, liked to think of St. Luke's as a happy, if not always harmonious, family. Supposedly only family members could use the church building, even if they were dead. You couldn't be baptized, married, or dispensed to the Hereafter unless both you and the people making the arrangements were churchmembers. So it looked as if Suz belonged to St. Luke's, albeit posthumously.Man, what was the matter with me? I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on the intercessions. A woman prayed for the repose of the soul of her neighbor, Suz. By the time I opened my eyes, the woman's prayer had ended. I had not seen who it was. Brandon quietly echoed the supplication for Suz, then offered a plea for his father, who spent many hours alone. My mind took off again. Brandon had been at the bakery with his father from mid- night to five? Sounded like a weird explanation of your whereabouts, even if your father was a lonely widower. The idea of spending many hours alone made me think of John Richard, who, I was willing to bet, was not attending chapel this morning in the Furman County Jail.During the offertory, two visiting bagpipe players sounded the mournful notes of "Amazing Grace." While one of the choir sopranos sang the lyrics, my brain reverted to Ralph Shelton. Why had I had the strong feeling Ralph was hiding something when I went to his house? He'd been so hesitant, as if he wanted to talk to me but was afraid to. At the words, "I once was lost, but now am found," I glanced over at Arch. Tears slipped out of his eyes. My heart twisted in my chest.Forget hugging him. Forget asking what was wrong. I knew better than to treat a fourteen-year-old boy in a way that would embarrass him. Still, it had been years since I'd seen Arch weep openly. I rummaged through my handbag, found a paper napkin, and wordlessly handed it to him. Without acknowledging me, he snatched the napkin. Tom patted my shoulder. Marla shook her head.During the final hymn, Arch decamped to the men's room. As soon as he left the pew, Marla leaned over. "We should skedaddle before the horde descends on us during the coffee hour. Let's see if Brandon Yuille or the Coreys will talk to us. As ex-wives of the accused, we can say we have the right to know why he might have killed their boss.""I don't want to leave Arch...." Marla said, "Arch'll be better off with Tom than with you right now. Think about it. Tom should take him down to the jail for visiting hours." She addressed Tom: "Can the Jerk see Arch today?"Tom ignored the perplexed glances we were receiving from the people in the pew in front of us and nodded. "Let me take him down to see his father, Miss G. It'll be okay," he reassured me.My sore shoulders slumped in defeat. Arch returned. The four of us bowed as the cross went by. Then we waited endlessly for the choir, bagpipe players, and priest to process out. When I finally told Arch that Tom would take him to see his dad while Marla and I ran a few errands, he brightened. I was surprised. I'd have thought he'd have responded with apprehension. It seemed I was past knowing what my son needed.Marla pinched me and I scooted out of the pew, ignoring my aching body. I was feeling every hour of my age today. Once we were outside, she used her sixth sense - the one that fed on gossip - to locate Brandon Yuille and Chris and Tina Corey, who were standing by a pine tree at the edge of the parking lot."Yoohoo!" Marla called. "Need to chat for a sec!"Brandon waved unenthusiastically while Chris, his ankle still in a cast, shifted the weight of his cumbersome body and forced a smile. Brandon, ever sharp, wore khaki pants and a military-style khaki shirt. Tall and heavy, Chris Corey had an enormous potbelly and pale hair and beard. He looked like a young blond Buddha, or rather a young blond Buddha who wore a white dress shirt and gray slacks, and limped. What I'd liked best about Chris when I first met him was that he didn't insist anyone call him doctor. His rumbly baritone had reminded me of a physician from our family's distant past. But when I'd asked him if he'd ever treated us - a pediatrician who'd treated Arch, maybe? - he'd said no. Maybe Chris reminded me less of Buddha than of Santa Claus. When he smiled, his blue eyes crinkled. Apparently, Tina, a female version of her portly brother, hadn't been able to find a Babsie-goes-to- church outfit. She wore a severe black cotton suit, and her hair was twisted back in a tight bun."I know you two probably don't want to talk right now," Marla gasped to the men, out of breath from her brief but determined trek across the gravel- covered lot. "Actually, we don't either." She feigned a sadness as fake as squirt butter. "It's just that we have to....""It's okay," Chris replied amiably, tugging on his blond beard. "It's a tough situation. But we can't visit for long. We're here to plan the funeral.""We can't talk very much at all," Brandon added, his voice tight. He flipped his long, dark bangs out of his eyes. "The priest just has to finish talking to the coffee-drinkers."I nodded. The coffee hour was always the time when our pastor had to field questions that fell under the general rubric of pastoral theology. In actuality, coffee-hour questions rivaled anything Ann Landers had ever had to face. Is God punishing my neighbor with cancer? My son baptized his anole lizard and then the lizard died. Can you give it a Christian burial.? For our spiritual leader, discussing Suz's memorial service might prove to be something of a relief.Marla plunged right in. "If our ex-husband goes down for murdering his boss, it's going to be bad for us, you know. Much as we don't mind the Jerk suffering, we'd like to know why he killed Suz Craig."Chris, Brandon, and Tina stared at Marla, open-mouthed."That's not..." Chris began. "You can't expect us to discuss - ""Oh, yes, we can," Marla continued brazenly. "You guys are department heads with a big corporation. You need to be responsive to the public, or at least to the ex-wives of the guy who's been charged with murdering your boss. So what we've heard is... there were problems with firing at that HMO. Were there problems in the Human Re- sources department, Brandon? Did everybody hate her?" When he gaped blankly at her, she turned to Chris. "Can you answer our questions? Please?"I was embarrassed. This wasn't asking a few questions. This was grilling, with no hot dogs in sight."Ah." I leaned in for a few confidential, light- hearted words with Tina Corey. "That doesn't look like a Babsie outfit that I recognize. Let's see... could it be... Babsie-as-a-Choir-Director?"Tina's face became rigid. "I don't know what you're talking about.""Goldy, please," interjected Chris, "could you not - ""Babsie-as-Altar-Guild-Director?" I attempted, undeterred."Be quiet," said Tina. Startled by her harsh tone, I pulled back. Apparently, Babsie wasn't a churchgoer. "Sorry," I muttered. "Er, how's the cat?" I Tina's face remained stonelike. She said nothing. Maybe the cat had run away, and she blamed me. I wished I'd kept my mouth shut. Some people just can't shoot the breeze when they're about to plan a funeral. I shot Marla a pleading can-we-leave glance.Chris squinted over Marla's shoulder and waved to the priest, who was heading our way with a worried look on his face."We don't want to cause a ruckus," Chris said soothingly."Then answer my questions," Marla insisted."Yes," Chris said softly. "There were problems at ACHMO. It was not a happy place to work.""You all look so solemn. People are wondering what the five of you are discussing out here," our priest said, joining us."Nothing," Marla said gaily. She always sought gossip but rarely shared it when there was no hope of reciprocal din. She tugged me away and I muttered good-byes to the two men and Tina. Marla pulled open the door to her Mercedes. I got in on the passenger side. After the van, sitting in the low-slung four-wheel-drive Mercedes always made me feel like an astronaut en route to Uranus."I can ask Brandon Yuille and Chris Corey a few questions if I want," Marla said defiantly as she slammed her door and prepared to blast off."Yeah, right. You can see how well it went.""Tough tacks." She revved the car and zoomed out of the lot, then slowed behind a van crammed with tourists from Kansas. "So who should we be talking to if you're going to help Arch? And what are we supposed to say? Or haven't you figured that out yet? 'Hi, we're the two ex-wives of the doctor who's been busted for murder! Can we come in for tea and a little interrogation?' "Chris, Brandon, and Tina stared at Marla, open-mouthed."That's not..." Chris began. "You can't expect us to discuss - ""Oh, yes, we can," Marla continued brazenly. "You guys are department heads with a big corporation. You need to be responsive to the public, or at least to the ex-wives of the guy who's been charged with murdering your boss. So what we've heard is... there were problems with firing at that HMO. Were there problems in the Human Re- sources department, Brandon? Did everybody hate her?" When he gaped blankly at her, she turned to Chris. "Can you answer our questions? Please?"I was embarrassed. This wasn't asking a few questions. This was grilling, with no hot dogs in sight."Ah." I leaned in for a few confidential, light- hearted words with Tina Corey. "That doesn't look like a Babsie outfit that I recognize. Let's see... could it be... Babsie-as-a-Choir-Director?"Tina's face became rigid. "I don't know what you're talking about.""Goldy, please," interjected Chris, "could you not - ""Babsie-as-AItar-Guild-Director?" I attempted, undeterred."Be quiet," said Tina.Startled by her harsh tone, I pulled back. Apparently, Babsie wasn't a churchgoer. "Sorry," I muttered. "Er, how's the cat?"Tina's face remained stonelike. She said nothing. Maybe the cat had run away, and she blamed me. I wished I'd kept my mouth shut. Some people just can't shoot the breeze when they're about to plan a funeral. I shot Marla a pleading can-we-leave glance.Chris squinted over Marla's shoulder and waved to the priest, who was heading our way with a worried look on his face."We don't want to cause a ruckus," Chris said soothingly."Then answer my questions," Marla insisted."Yes," Chris said softly. "There were problems at ACHMO. It was not a happy place to work.""You all look so solemn. People are wondering what the five of you are discussing out here," our priest said, joining us."Nothing," Marla said gaily. She always sought gossip but rarely shared it when there was no hope of reciprocal din. She tugged me away and I muttered good-byes to the two men and Tina. Marla pulled open the door to her Mercedes. I got in on the passenger side. After the van, sitting in the low-slung four-wheel-drive Mercedes always made me feel like an astronaut en route to Uranus."I can ask Brandon Yuille and Chris Corey a few questions if I want," Marla said defiantly as she slammed her door and prepared to blast off."Yeah, right. You can see how well it went.""Tough tacks." She revved the car and zoomed out of the lot, then slowed behind a van crammed with tourists from Kansas. "So who should we be talking to if you're going to help Arch? And what are we supposed to say? Or haven't you figured that out yet? 'Hi, we're the two ex-wives of the doctor who's been busted for murder! Can we come in for tea and a little interrogation?' "I sighed. "Let's go talk to Frances Markasian. You said she came to visit you, why didn't she come to visit me? I think she lives in the Spruce apartments."Marla pressed the accelerator. "Now there's an upscale address."The Spruce apartment building was a four-story stucco edifice that had probably been constructed when Aspen Meadow was rapidly expanding in the sixties. Spruce up was just what the building owners had not done, unfortunately. The seventies had seen the apartment house, which sat perched on a hill overlooking Main Street, painted a blinding yellow. I was willing to wager there'd been no repainting since. Warped and rotted cedar-shake shingles curled on the roof or lay helter-skelter between the crab-grass and the drooping lodgepole pines that flanked the building. Marla pulled the Mercedes next to a wall of yellow cinder blocks that marked off the front parking area. I didn't see Frances's Subaru, but knew there was another cracked-asphalt blacktop behind the building where the residents kept overflow cars."Tell me again why we're here," Marla said doubtfully."All this happened to John Richard yesterday," I reminded her. "You know Frances Markasian. She's a fast and efficient snooper. If somebody knows anything, she will.""All I know is that she's also covering the doll show at the lake," Marla grumbled. "Maybe she's doing a story on Coroner Babsies."The elevator was out of order. We walked up the stairs to apartment 349, the Markasian residence, and knocked. No one home. An elderly man came out into the third-floor foyer and unabashedly watched us as Marla rapped harder. The elderly man cleared his throat."Hey, you girls!" he snarled. His white hair had been brutally shaved in a crewcut, and his deeply lined face looked malevolent. "What do you want? You're not more of them, are you?"I held my index finger up to Marla: Let me handle this. To the elderly gent I said pleasantly, "More of whom?" He made an impatient gesture. "Parade of people all day. That woman's not a reporter, she's a bureaucracy. Get out of here, you're ruining the place."I felt my cheeks redden. :: But Marla wasn't merely blushing. She was purple with rage. "Cool your jets, fella! If we want to look for somebody, we'll look, you got it? We'll knock on every door in the place if we want to. Ever heard of freedom of the press? Do you know where we can find Frances Markasian?""Look, you two!" he cackled. "You want stories on your dolls? Grow up! Dolls for grown women," he spat. "You want Frances Markasian, go down to the lake and find her!"I was ready to retreat, but Marla insisted on having the last word, as usual. She wagged a lilac- painted nail at the man."Watch your mouth, please! Collecting is a venerable hobby. And it's a smart investment! Not only that, but you're rude!""I may be rude, but I'm not crazy!" he cackled before disappearing into 350.Marla shot after him and I had to limp along behind her to catch up. Fortunately, the man's apartment door slammed before Marla could force her way in for a confrontation. Marla rapped hard and repeatedly on his door. Squeals of "Shut up!" and "Go away or I'll call the cops!" issued from other apartments. But our white-haired, unpleasant critic did not reappear.11In the afternoon sun Aspen Meadow Lake shimmered like sugar on ice. Several dozen cars in the dirt parking area made me wonder if there was a waiting line for skiffs and paddle boats. We got out of the Mercedes and approached the LakeCenter's front door.The LakeCenter was a jewel of that architectural species known as "mountain contemporary." Constructed of row upon row of massive blond logs, wide, soaring trapezoids of glass, polished plank flooring within, aprons of flagstone without, and topped with a phenomenally expensive all-weather shingle roof, the structure was the glory of the Aspen Meadow Recreation District. The interior consisted of a huge space, fancifully called "the Ballroom," and a more intimate-adjoining space known as "the Octagon." Both rooms provided unequaled views of the lake. There was a kitchen, too. I would be working there when I catered to the Babsie people. Alas, the kitchen afforded no scenic vista.Unfortunately, the LakeCenter was locked up tight. We rounded the building, looking for Frances Markasian and any evidence of the doll show. The cormorants paddled furiously along the lake's edge. When they dove for fish, they would stay underwater for so long it seemed impossible that a land-based animal would not drown. But then, miraculously, the sleek black birds would pop back up, triumphantly clasping tiny, slithering fish in their beaks.When we came up on the boat-rental shop, we found that it was indeed open. Thirty or so people waited for skiffs."A land-office business," Marla commented, "despite the fact that it's on the water.""But no Frances," I pointed out."Think we should go talk to those other people John Richard mentioned, Ralph Shelton and Amy Bartholomew? And how'd you get messed up, anyway?""I'd rather not see either of them just yet. Ralph Shelton banged into me yesterday at the McCrackens' party. Literally. Amy Bartholomew patched me up. Before Ralph used me for a landing pad, I tried to ask him some questions about Suz. He didn't have much to say. Ditto with Amy, except I got some New Age gobbledygook about Suz Craig's negative karma. I don't want to ask them any more questions until we know better what we're looking for.""What exactly are we looking for?" Marla said as she va-voomed the Mercedes."I wish I knew.""Speak for yourself," she shot back. "We know the Jerk did it. I'm looking for lunch.""Hold on a minute," I replied. "Frances hates to cook. She's a cheapskate, but every now and then she shows up at the Aspen Meadow Cafe, especially if she's doing an interview and the paper is springing for the meal. With any luck, we could run into her there."We trekked over to the cafe, but Frances Markasian was again nowhere in evidence. So Marla insisted on treating me. With the Jerk finally in jail where he belonged, she claimed, we should have every manner of salads to celebrate. Using her best queenly manner, she waved at the waitress and announced: "Bring 'em all." Soon platter after platter arrived: roast beef salad, pasta salad, corn and pepper salad, fruit salad, and an arugula salad with toasted walnuts that I went wild for. I knew from experience that I'd never get the recipe from the cafe chef, so I made a mental note to reinvent it in my own kitchen, using some meringue-baked pecans I had frozen. Not one to neglect balance, Marla ordered a bottle of champagne and hot popovers to go with our salads.I laughed at her indulgence. Really, I'm extremely fortunate that I have both Marla and Tom to be sure that I'm regularly fed as well as loved and fussed over. For someone in the food business, such care is a rare treat.Marla claimed to want none of the leftovers. When our waitress handed me the bulging bags of goodies, I observed, "Our family will have enough here for a week.""That's the idea," Marla replied happily. "Besides, dealing with the Jerk, you're going to need all the help you can get."When she was signing her credit-card slip, a newly arrived group of diners caught my eye. I grabbed Marla's arm. "Hey, check it out."She followed my gaze. We watched Frances Markasian trying to decide which of the outside patio tables would suit. With her were Chris Corey and his sister, Tina. Tina had changed into some kind of costume. This time, I was sure it was a Babsie outfit."Do you know why Tina changed into that getup?" I asked Marla, who made it her business to know as much as possible about the lives of Aspen Meadow residents."The costume? Who knows. Tina is an aide at Aspen Meadow Preschool. She's the head Babsie-club organizer, too, so it might have something to do with the show starting. Maybe Frances is interviewing her."Tina now sported the same long blond pigtails she had at Gail Rodine's house yesterday. She wore a frilly lace blouse and a royal-blue vest with matching skirt, both covered with a lace-edged, snow-white apron.I said, "For the doll show I've mainly been dealing with Gail Rodine. She's in charge of hospitality and security." Marla made a face. I pushed my chair back. "I promised Arch I would help him. Let's go crash their lunch.""Mah-velous," she said. "I love crashing anything."Frances was peering into the cafe for a waitress. As she did so, she impatiently tapped one foot. The foot was encased in a duct-rape-wrapped sneaker. Her black trench coat was, of course, unnecessary in the August heat. But Frances was (or fancied herself) a high-powered investigative reporter temporarily trapped in Aspen Meadow, Colorado. With long, wildly frizzy black hair, skin of an unhealthy pallor, thrift-shop clothes, and a chain-smoking habit that would undoubtedly blacken her lungs within a decade, she at least knew how to dress the part.Frances's ambition in the county was legendary. She went after every crime and disaster story like a starving wildcat pouncing on its prey. Her headlines were certainly creative. In May we'd had I-70 DRIVER SHOOTS ROADSIDE BUFFALO IN COLD BLOOD! June had seen EXPLOSION IN MOTH-INFESTED PROPANE GRILL SAILS PRESIDENT OF KIWANIS INTO CREEK! Readership of our town paper had tripled since Frances had come on staff two years ago."Hey, Goldy," she said amiably as we neared her table. She pushed the black frizz from her forehead. "I've already been by to see you today, but you weren't home. Do you know the Coreys? Chris is head of Provider Relations with ACHMO-the AstuteCare Health Maintenance Organization in Denver. And this is his sister, Tina. She works at Aspen Meadow Preschool and presides over the local Babsie doll club.""Good to see you, Frances. And I know both Coreys," I replied. "In fact, we've already chatted this morning."Chris brought his unwieldy bulk to a standing position, balancing awkwardly on his cast. His pale beard bobbed as he greeted us."We're sorry to disturb you," Marla lied in a breathy gush.Frances rumbled a laugh and lit a cigarette."No, you're not sorry. Anyway, this is great. I'm absolutely desperate to talk to Goldy. Sit."Tina nodded at us. Her cold manner had changed completely from her behavior at church. She blushed. If I'd been wearing her outfit, I'd have blushed, too.Gaping at Tina, Marla said, "Well, Heidi, where'd you leave your sheep?"Chris smiled indulgently, but the color deepened painfully on Tina's neck and cheeks. She lowered her head and smoothed the frilly apron. I knew better than to ask about the cat again. Frances scowled in the awkward silence. This was not a good way to start a lunch-crashing, no doubt about it."Wait a minute," I said enthusiastically. "I know that outfit, Tina! It's the Icelandic Babsie!" Tina raised her head, grasped a blond pigtail, and gave me a shy smile. "I'm catering the doll show," I reminded her, since she seemed not to have remembered me at church. "Do you remember me from the Rodines' place yesterday?" I shook Tina's limp, fleshy hand. "Do you remember me?"Tina regained her composure. "Of course. You I gave me my new kitty."Finally, we were on solid ground. Maybe she just didn't discuss dolls or cats at church. "That cat sure took to you," I said warmly. Tina beamed.Under her breath Marla muttered, "Gosh, Goldy, run for office, why don't you?"Our waitress reappeared, and Chris announced that he was treating everyone, what would we like? Chris, his sister, and Frances ordered sandwiches. Marla, suddenly the picture of charm, said she'd love some fudge meringue pie. I went for Linzertorte and iced coffee, trying to think of how to ask Frances my questions about John Richard. What have you dug up? Are you on to something? Exactly why did you want to see me this morning? Lucky for me, Frances pried so blatantly that we were spared subtle inquisition. Instead, she plunged right in."Hey, ladies, think your mutual ex-husband will grant me an interview from behind bars?" Her slightly yellow teeth flashed in a wide, crooked smile."I don't know," I answered sincerely. Marla said, "I'll pay for you to do the interview, if you get a photo of him in an orange suit that you publish in the paper.""Has it been hard, or are you two just loving this?" Frances wanted to know, with her usual sensitivity.Marla shrugged. "I wouldn't say I'm loving it," I told Frances tartly. "A woman is dead. Plus my son's suffering pretty badly, especially after his father called from jail yesterday. Arch is down there visiting him right now."Too late, I realized I should have kept my mouth shut. Frances and I were friends, but nothing came before a scoop. She dug frantically in her voluminous black handbag, yanked out a pen and a grimy pad of paper, and began to scribble. "What did Korman say in this phone call that upset Arch?""Nothing! Please, stop taking notes. For crying out loud, Frances, this is personal."Chris mumbled, "Maybe we should talk about something else, Frances. I don't think - "She gestured imperiously. "It's always personal for somebody, Goldy.""Don't give me that low-brow journalistic jive. Please. If you want me to stay here and visit, promise not to print anything about my son."She kept on scribbling, pursed her lips, and pushed her hair out of her eyes. "Okay, I won't if you'll let me run some stuff by you. Besides, I'm sure you'll want to hear all I've learned about this Craig business. Chris here" - she flapped a casual hand in his direction - "is an insider. There's all kinds of scuttlebutt. You know this town. Once something happens, it's like a..." She closed her eyes and sought the perfect simile. "Like a... volcanic energy erupts around the desire to know what's going on."Chris took a deep breath and shifted his weight uncomfortably. Tina sipped some water. Marla, of course, was all ears. But Mount Saint Frances calmly lit a cigarette. My attempt to ask Frances a few delicate questions was going awry pretty quickly."Run some stuff by me?" I echoed. "Such as?''"Okay, this is top secret. If somebody comes up to the table here and wants to know what we're talking about, we say I'm interviewing Tina for the doll show.""So what are you running by me?""ACHMO is planning a raid," she informed me blithely, her tone a shade lower. "On John Richard Korman's office. Tomorrow morning."Marla shrieked with glee. I said, "A raid? Frances, what on earth are you talking about?"Our food arrived and I was thankful for the momentary distraction. A raid? What were they looking for? And why would ACHMO raid anyone's office? This could not be true. I assumed an expression of polite interest and, because the waitress hovered over us, attempted to change the subject."How's your ankle coming along?" I asked Chris. "I should have asked after church."He smiled shyly. "I'll be kicking field goals in no time."Frances took three bites of her sandwich; pushed it away, and relit the half-finished cigarette she had carefully squashed out when the food arrived. "So. You want to hear about the raid or not?""Yes, yes, yes," urged Marla, eyes sparkling. "Why don't you just tell the police about it?" I asked. The Linzertorte was delicious, a crunchy crust covered with jewel-colored raspberry jam. "A raid by the HMO has got to be illegal, Frances.""But it isn't." Chris's surprisingly powerful baritone commanded attention. "We do it all the time. Usually we call first, which is what we'll do tomorrow. We come in to check information in the files.""What?" Marla exclaimed. "What about patient confidentiality?"Chris readjusted his ankle and went on. "Marla. Goldy. May I call you by your first names?" Frances nodded, I noticed, before we had the chance. "It's in our contract," he continued. "We can visit any practice we own. A nurse, a doctor, someone with medical training who's working for the HMO, comes in. It's not really a raid" He grinned indulgently at Frances, who was lighting her second cigarette. "We just want to check how certain procedures get billed, and we do it by going through individual files. The provider's office has to let us have what we want."Well, my curiosity was piqued, no question. John Richard in jail and ACHMO was going to crash into his office to go through his files. Small wonder that Frances was interested, too."What are you going to be looking for tomorrow morning? Something related to Suz Craig?" I asked mildly."And may I come?" demanded Marla.Chris's reply was matter-of-fact. "No, oh, no. And actually, Suz is - was - -the one who ordered this visit. It's been planned for a while, but we were C waiting until Korman was called out on a delivery. Now we've got a perfect opportunity to go in. And it's not what the Medical Management person will say she wants that matters. Or what I say, as head of Provider Relations. Since she's a nurse and I'm a doctor, that's how ACHMO gets around the patient confidentiality issue. But in this case what we say we want and what we'll actually be after are two entirely different things.""What is it you'll actually be after?" I inquired innocently. "And why are you telling us this?"Chris tugged on his beard. "What we'll be looking for are personal notes from Korman about the McCrackens' suit. At least, that's what Suz, and now the chief honchos at ACHMO, want us to be looking for. And those would be illegal for ACHMO to lift. The corporation is trying to cover itself, and it's taking the opportunity of Korman being out of the way to be thorough. Frances will tell you about it. She's going to write an article exposing the whole thing.""Frances is going to write an expose?" I said, wide-eyed."Imagine that," commented Marla. "And will this expose help or hurt the no-good doctor in jail for murder?"Frances scowled as she crushed out her ciga- rette and lit another. She muttered, "The timing could be a little better. The angle I'm going to be looking for is: Did Korman have a clue that Suz Craig had this raid on his records planned?""What do you get out of this, Chris?" I asked. "Don't you still work for ACHMO? Won't this article get you into trouble with them?""I want people to know what the HMO is up to," he answered darkly. "You shouldn't be able to just go through people's files whenever you want. And Frances is going to keep my identity a secret. I can't afford to lose my job.""But ACHMO wouldn't have killed one of their own, would they?"A pained expression wrinkled the heavy folds of his face at my question. "I don't think so. Neither does anyone I've talked to. You can imagine, Goldy, all of our phones have been ringing off their hooks ever since the captain down at the Furman County Sheriff's Department called ACHMO's chief honcho in Minneapolis yesterday. One of my higher-ups at corporate called and said now was the time to go through Korman's records, the way Suz planned. So that's why they're sending me in tomorrow - to find any personal notes Korman might have left in his office." He paused and blinked at me. His eyelashes were so pale, they were invisible. "Everyone at ACHMO is convinced your husband beat Suz to death.""He's my ex-husband," I said quietly. Why did no one seem to remember this?"My ex-husband, too," said Marla defiantly. "So get your facts straight before you go off insulting us."Frances leaned affectionately toward Chris and whispered something in his ear. Tina fluffed the lace on her Icelandic Babsie blouse. And I sat back and thought that now I had one more thing for the sheriff's department to ask John Richard: Know anything about Suz's dirty little scheme to betray you?"Look, Goldy," Frances said, "there are two things we want to talk to you about. First of all, Patricia McCracken. Seen her lately?""As a matter of fact, I catered a party for her last night.""Is that where you got banged up?" I nodded and pretended not to notice the way the two Coreys stared at my face. I concentrated instead on the sky, where layers of pink cloud were again gathering in the west.Frances persisted. "Now we all know Patricia got dumped by a doctor, then married a dentist. She doesn't have the kind of money she used to, since there are at least fifty dentists in Aspen Meadow. Back in the old days she had a way of displaying the three things she bought with her divorce-from-the-doc settlement: a too-large diamond ring, a sapphire bracelet removed and perpetually left behind in exercise class, and an always-filthy white Triumph whose leather seats her son, Tyler, had smeared with fingerpaints when he was a toddler.""She just sold the Triumph to pay her lawyer's retainer," Marla interjected. "Everybody in town knows that.""Have you met Tyler?" Frances asked, unfazed. "He's a five-year-old monster.""I know him," Marla said. "He's a brat.""Oh, no," said Tina. They were her first words in a while. "He's extremely creative. He used to help me with the hamsters. He just has a lot of energy, that's all."Frances raised an eyebrow at me. "Yes, I've met Tyler," I replied. "Arch baby-sat him a couple of times when Tyler was younger. But the kid was so hyper that Arch said he'd never go again, no matter how broke he was. Last night the McCrackens took Tyler over to a friend's house rather than risk him wrecking their parry, which got wrecked anyway," I muttered, thinking of the hockey free-for-all and my aching bones."Uh-huh," replied Frances, bored. She fished in her purse again, pulled out a can of Jolt cola, and popped the top. She was never without several cans, and given its triple-caffeine hit, I doubted she ever slept at all. Now she took a long swig, then dragged on the cig. I wondered if her doing an article on HMOs would have any influence on her unhealthful habits. Somehow, I doubted it. The cigarette dangled from her mouth as she handed Chris the Jolt and pawed again through her purse for another note- book. She retrieved it, flipped a few torn and curled pages, and announced: "Okay, here it is. Our Patricia begged Dr. John Richard Korman to stick her in the hospital when the placenta previa was causing problems in the pregnancy. But ACHMO wouldn't cover it. ACHMO said Patricia should rest right in her own snug little bed until she was ready to deliver. With all of the McCrackens' money tied up in their heavily mortgaged house and Clark's mostly off-again dentistry practice, the prospect of an open-ended hospital stay was enough to conjure up bankruptcy. So Patricia peddled her jewelry," Frances added with relish. "The diamond ring and sapphire bracelet paid for a one-month hospital stay that ACHMO wouldn't spring for plus babysitting for Tyler. She couldn't sell the Triumph because she would have had to buy a new car when she had the baby, and the Triumph had depreciated too much even to give her a down payment. And little Tyler's fingerpainting on the white seats didn't exactly add to its value."Frances looked at me as if expecting praise. I looked back at her in silence. Marla rolled her eyes.Frances sighed. "So she sold the jewelry and stayed in the hospital until she ran out of money. Then she checked into a low-cost suite near the hospital, you know about those? She put that on her credit card." Frances raised her eyebrows, pressed her lips into a grim line, and flipped another page of her notes. "But it wasn't enough. She lost the baby' at seven months. Talk about bitter-that woman's saliva could pickle a turkey.""Frances," I chided. "You don't have children. You can't imagine the loss - ""Yeah, yeah, yeah. So Patricia McCracken went nova. She sued Korman. She sued ACHMO. Her lawyers accepted the cases on contingency. Patricia took out a second mortgage on their Keystone condo and sold the Triumph after all, to pay the other legal fees. She didn't care what she spent, as long as she brought John Richard Korman and ACHMO to their knees. You can't sue an HMO for malpractice. So she's trying to sock them with negligence, for even having Korman as a provider. What Patricia didn't tell me, but I was able to find out from another source, is that our very same Mrs. P. McCracken was arrested last week for smashing flagstones in Suz Craig's driveway."I sat up straight. "What?"Marla murmured, "For heaven's sake, Goldy, what good is it to have you married to a cop if he doesn't even keep us supplied with news of local crimes?""Ah," said Frances. "Marla and Goldy are finally interested. You know how angry that woman was? I'll tell you. She was screaming about how if she couldn't have her baby, some conniving coldhearted childless bitch' " - she glanced at her notes, "and I quote, 'isn't going to entertain with a big patio paid for with blood. With BLOOD!' ""But Patricia McCracken was in Keystone last week," I pointed out.