"Not the whole week she wasn't. Anyway, after the arrest, Suz Craig didn't press charges. But Ms. Craig did get a restraining order against Patricia, who agreed to undergo psychological evaluation. She also agreed to enter grief therapy for people who've lost their babies before delivery, as soon as she re- turned from a planned trip to Keystone." Frances slapped her notebook shut with a triumphant thwack."Except for the flagstone story, did you get all this from Patricia?" I asked."Of course I did," Frances responded hotly."What the hell kind of reporter do you think I am? And I had to give Tyler all the candy corn I usually keep in my purse to keep him from crawling all over me."Marla said, "Candy corn? Is that the best you could do?"Tina Corey tsked. To Tina's brother I said, "How come ACHMO doesn't recommend hospitalization for placenta previa?""I don't make the rules, Goldy. Some MBA does. What ACHMO did wasn't illegal, unfortunately."I turned back to Frances. "But if Patricia is suing, isn't there some kind of gag order on her talking to you?""Gag order? Are you kidding?" Frances pulled out another cigarette and lit it with the end of the one she was finishing. "That woman is dying to have her story published in the most incendiary manner possible. The only reason she talked to me was that the Denver Post and Rocky Mountain News weren't interested. And coupled with what I know about ACHMO swooping into the Jerk's office to search for notes on the case... well." She inhaled in a satisfied manner. "ACHMO is going down." She smirked at me.I had the sudden feeling I needed to get home and check that Arch had survived his jail visit. "Well, we'll see. Marla, are you ready?'" Without waiting for a reply I said, "We need to fly, Frances.""Hold on, you haven't told me anything yet about Suz's murder. I don't want to talk to you just about Patricia McCracken." Frances began to rummage in her purse again while Marla popped a last bite of pie in her mouth. "Look, I've got a few things to show you.""Frances, I can't tell you anything. You must be able to understand that - "Her nicotine-stained fingers held out three newspaper clippings. Reluctantly, I took them. Marla peered over my shoulder. Frances swiped the hair out of her left eye and demanded curtly, "Tell me if either of you know either of these guys in the first one."Two smiling men held up glasses of wine to the camera. MERITMED HMO CELEBRATES NEBRASKA SUCCESS. Well, bully for them, and I hoped they were quaffing an Omaha vintage. But there was no doubt that I knew one of the two men. In fact, I had seen him yesterday, up close and personal. The caption read: "Ralph Shelton, M.D., and Mark McCreary, Chief Executive Officer, MeritMed, observed the company's success in the Cornhusker State." I checked the date: May 14.I tapped the blurry images. "Ralph Shelton used to work for ACHMO, now he works for MeritMed. So what?"Frances blew smoke in a steady stream off the patio. "MeritMed has an office in Denver." She squinted at me; I shook my head. "In March Ralph Shelton was fired from AstuteCare by Suz Craig."I looked at Chris. "You want to tell us a little more about those problems with firings?"He shrugged. Marla demanded, "Do either of you know why Ralph was fired?"Chris shook his head. "Not yet." While Marla read the first article, I perused the second piece. It was much shorter, with no accompanying photograph. It was an announcement from a paper in Vail.Dr. John R. Konnan will address the Colorado Association of Obstetricians tonight at 8 P.M. on "Postpartum Use of Antibiotics." Summit Stag Hotel, across from Vail Valley Medical Center.The article was older than the first, dated in early January."Frances," I asked, perplexed, "why are you showing us this? I don't know John Richard's schedule. He goes to these conventions if it means he can ski and whoop it up. The only times I know what he's up to is when we have to change our visitation arrangements with Arch."Airily, Frances waved this off. "Do you know your ex-husband's relationship with a drug company named Bailey Products?""Yes," interjected Marla, her voice sour. "John Richard travels around, or he used to travel around, touting their product. Something called Biocess. How do you know about it?" When Frances glanced at Chris, Marla pressed, "Do you know what happened to the Biocess endorsement money?"Frances nodded. "Yeah, I found out from Ralph Shelton, who also used the stuff in his practice. Ralph's old buddy John Richard Korman pushed Biocess from Portland, Oregon, to Portland, Maine. At least until recently. Check this out."I took the article Frances now proffered, and again Marla read over my shoulder. This was from a newspaper in Omaha, and like the first clipping, was also dated May 14. The headline ran: MEDICAL CONFERENCE ATTENDEES WARNED OF ANTIBIOTIC'S POSSIBLY LETHAL SIDE EFFECTS. I skimmed this one, too, which basically said that an HMO executive was warning his colleagues in other HMOs that in the course of their standard audits, his organization had found that Biocess had been linked to one death from liver failure, and several cases of negative side effects, plus higher costs postpartum. I skipped to the end of the article, where a Bailey Products spokesperson said that an Adverse Event Form had been filed with the FDA and that Bailey had put the use of Biocess on hold until they could do more studies of the antibiotic."Hmm," I said noncommittally, and handed the article back to Frances.She took it and said, "So Biocess, Korman's much-loved designer antibiotic, was discovered to cause liver damage. And the cornucopia of goodies from Bailey Products available to John Richard Korman was suddenly empty.""There's your answer to what caused that blip in income," I told Marla.Frances went on. "Now you two, of all people, should know Korman's financial situation had become really, really bad. In fact, everything was about to come crashing down on his head. And think how much worse it would become if Suz Craig denied him a big fat bonus. Which she did."I said to Chris, "Why did Suz deny the bonus? Why would she?""Legitimately?" he asked with a frown. "We send out questionnaires to a sampling of a doctor's patients. If we get even one serious complaint, the bonus is automatically denied. Or if a doctor refers patients to specialists too much, or if he refers too little, the bonus is denied. If he hasn't seen enough patients or cut costs over the past year, the bonus is denied.""Now that's what I call both a carrot and a stick," Marla murmured.I said, "Look, Frances, we both knew he was having money problems." But truly, neither Marla nor I had known the full extent of the problems."Yeah, yeah," Frances was saying. "And now ACHMO is going to raid him. And you know they'll make him the fall guy for the McCracken mess if they find one scrap of paper they can use to blame !him for the whole thing."I asked Chris, "You mentioned that you'd be looking for what you called 'personal notes' that: John Richard might have made when you go in tomorrow. What kind of notes?"Frances eagerly interjected: "They're looking for anything John Richard might have written to cover himself, like 'I told Patricia that my recommendation was for her to go into the hospital. But then I had to tell her that the HMO vetoed it.' Or like 'Told P. McCracken today that HMO had denied her hospital stay because they're penny-pinchers. Cheap sons of bitches!'" she finished with a flourish. : I addressed Chris Corey. "Do you think there were such notes? And exactly who is going in looking besides you and the Medical Management lady?Somebody who represents Suz's interests in protecting ACHMO?"Chris leaned forward. "Korman and ACHMO are not exactly on the same side on these suits, you know. If Korman kept notes to try to cover himself, ACHMO wants those notes very, very badly. If Korman criticized the HMO to a patient, he violated the terms of his contract with us. Worse for AstuteCare, if the HMO recommended bedrest at home while Dr. Korman claims he recommended a hospital stay or she'd lose that baby... Well, you can see what would happen to the malpractice suit, and how bad ACHMO would look. ACHMO needs to know what he's thinking, what he's done." He shook his head glumly."Something else," Frances said. "Chris tells me ACHMO was considering putting Korman on probation as a provider, just for being sued for malpractice."Marla erupted in a gale of laughter. As Frances lit yet another cigarette, I wondered how ACHMO was reacting to the Jerk being accused of murder.Frances exhaled and went on. "Plus, if Korman was saying one thing to Patricia McCracken and another to ACHMO, then ACHMO claims they can put him out the door. And, believe me, if Korman got kicked off the ACHMO provider list, he'd have nothing, since he sold his practice to them. And the person deciding about his probation is Suz Craig. Or should I say was Suz Craig?" she concluded gleefully."Why don't you talk to the police?" I asked with a glance at Chris. He shook his head sadly. "Why tell me?"Frances quirked her bushy black eyebrows and, true to form, ignored my questions. Of course I already knew the answer: Because she wanted a story. "Listen," she demanded, "did Korman give either you or Marla anything to keep? Like any files or packages or notes on the McCracken case? I won't be able to nab ACHMO without something concrete."Again Marla burst out laughing. "He gives me any files, he knows I'm going to shred them. Goldy might smoke them in her barbecue.""Are you kidding?" I protested. "I'd put them through the vegetable shredder."Frances shook her head. "Okay, okay, it was worth a try. But think. You probably heard the story about Suz and John Richard arguing at the club Friday night. After what I just told you, wouldn't it make sense that they argued about money? He says he needs his bonus, she says he'll be lucky not to be cut off by ACHMO completely. Goldy, does Tom know yet what they were fighting about?""I'd like to stay married, thanks, Frances." I'd had enough. "Okay, Marla, I really need to get, home. I'm worried about Arch.""I'm with you," she said heartily, and took a last sip of coffee. We shook hands with Chris and Tina, thanked them for treating us to dessert, and started to leave."Hey! Hold on!" Frances cried as she nipped along behind us. "I need to know what Korman called about from jail!"I finally managed to get Frances to let go of the Mercedes door handle by promising to call her if there were any momentous developments in the case of John Richard. "Momentous developments" to me meant anything the Furman County Sheriff's Department public information officer was about to announce to all the newspapers, but I did not make this clarification to her.Frances's black coat billowed out behind her and the smoke from her cigarette whipped away as she strode back to the cafe for another Jolt cola. I would call her if I wanted to know something. But next time I'd be careful not even to mention Arch.16At home Macguire announced he was having trouble swallowing. His fever had abated somewhat, but he still would not eat a morsel. I made him some soft-serve strawberry Jell-O. After three bites he announced he needed to go back to sleep. Well, great.I perused the contracts for the doll-show meals that Gail Rodine and I had worked out. Babsie-doll collectors were apparently as paranoid about getting mayonnaise on those itsy-bitsy plastic high heels as they were about having their dolls taken out of their original boxes. So the Babsie-bash organizers, despite the fact that they were expecting over two hundred people per day at the show, had only sold tickets for forty box lunches on Tuesday. Then on Wednesday a sit-down breakfast for the executive committee and helpers - twenty people - would be followed that evening by a concluding barbecue, for which the show organizers had sold sixty tickets. All the meals would be served on the LakeCenter patio picnic tables. A guard would be stationed at the back door so that not a smear of barbecue sauce could touch a single doll's ponytail. Best of all was that Gail Rodine's down payment would provide the first installment of Arch's fall tuition at Elk Park Prep, an expense John Richard was supposed to cover. The likelihood of that happening was now as slender as spaghettini.Arch, Tom, and I had takeout Chinese food that Tom had insisted on bringing home. I was both curious and apprehensive to hear the details of their afternoon. How did your father look in an orange suit..? Was he handcuffed.? And most important: Did he say he did it? But Arch mumbled that he didn't want to talk about it. I was bothered that he was so very subdued. While we were doing the dishes, I brought Tom up to date on all I had learned from Frances and Chris Corey. He placed the last serving spoon in the dishwasher, washed his hands, and took some notes that he said he'd pass on to the D.A.'s investigator. Then he set his notebook aside and told me that Arch hadn't uttered a word all the way home."Did you see John Richard, too?" I asked him.Tom shook his head. "Miss Goldy, you'd better prepare yourself. This is a classic lose-lose situation. Tomorrow John Richard may get out on bail. It's a long shot, but... The county judge who's coming up on rotation? Name's Scott Taryton. Taryton's stated publicly that he's tired of all the mollycoddling women are getting these days. For mollycoddling, read rights.""Oh, don't - "Tom held up a fleshy palm. "Listen. A female judge down in Denver let a first-degree murder suspect out on thirty thousand dollars' bond last summer. The woman had shot her husband, alleging abuse. Taryton blew a gasket when that judge granted bond. We've been waiting for some kind of retaliation from him. Setting bond for a man implicated in a murder - especially one stemming from a domestic dispute - would be just his cup of tea. John Richard could be it.""But isn't there a law about not letting murder suspects out?"Tom scowled. "Oh, sure. Murder suspects, according to state law, need to be held without bond until a hearing on the evidence. But after bail was granted last summer for that other suspect, the upholding of that particular state law has become fuzzy. Fuzzy enough for Taryton to do exactly what he wants.""God help us.""Taryton's no friend to women," Tom concluded grimly.It was no wonder that I once again had trouble sleeping. The insomnia came despite an expert shoulder massage from Tom and a late-night phone check from Marla - did I want help from her for any of the doll-club events? I thanked her and said I would be fine; I needed the work to keep my mind occupied.I fell asleep dreaming of dolls bearing trays of grilled burgers. At two I awoke with my heart hammering. Ram, ham, ham, John Richard used to hit me. He'd shake me and then strike my face with his fist I'd try to get away or fight back. No use. Ram. One leg, the other leg, my back. He was a great believer in symmetry.I shuddered and crept out of bed. Then I took a shower to relieve my cramping muscles. I toweled off and listened for noise in the house. Had I awakened anyone this time? Apparently not. I dressed silently - sleep was now impossible - and suddenly remembered Arch's advice: You should go out for a drive. That's what you used to do when I was little. When I couldn't sleep.... Should I? Well, why not. I found my keys and purse and tiptoed out onto the back deck. Overhead, shreds of cloud drifted across a river of stars. The air was warm. A sudden bleat! bleat! accompanied a rustling of leaves. A wave of panic swept over me. Then I saw a dozen elk moving slowly under the pine trees. It was a one-in-ten year for the big animals.I sat in the van and wondered how long a drive I needed to make to get tired enough to go back to sleep. I didn't have anyplace to go. But even as I turned the key in the ignition I knew where I was headed.My van engine sounded loud on Main Street. All the stores, of course, were dark, from Darlene's Antiques & Collectibles to the Doughnut Shop. A breeze washed through the aspen trees lining the street. Cottonwood Creek splashed and rumbled, while a cloth sign advertising Aspen Meadow Barbecue flapped like a forgotten flag. Gone were the rows of motorcycles ordinarily parked at acute angles in front of the Grizzly Bear Saloon on summer evenings. They had roared off into the night hours earlier, and the saloon was engulfed in darkness.The van chugged past the spotlight trained on the waterfall emptying out of Aspen Meadow Lake. The cormorants had abandoned their perch, and I wondered fleetingly where the birds spent their nights. The LakeCenter roof twinkled with a string of Christmas lights that our recreation district board had insisted would give the place a festive look year-round. They'd been right.The small shopping center housing one of our two grocery stores was also dark, except for the Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop, where, I was sure, the ever-industrious Mickey Yuille was making cinnamon rolls for his Monday-morning customers. Perhaps Brandon was there keeping him company.At the entrance to the country club, a dark car sat under the streetlight. Its door read MOUNTAIN SECURITY, but no one was inside. Perhaps the fellow had succumbed to sleep and was lying across the front seat. I was tempted to find out how ticked off he would be if I blasted him with my horn.I turned onto Jacobean and glanced at the clock on my dashboard. Eleven minutes from our house to Suz's, no traffic. The streetlights cast a neon glow on the asphalt and all the mown lawns. The yards were perfect except for Suz's. There, mounds of topsoil lay untouched, and yellow police ribbons were pulled taut around the crime scene and the house. Even though it was only one day after the murder, the sheriff's department could not afford to put deputies in front of the house. I pulled up slowly by the ditch and glanced again at my dashboard clock. Thirty-two minutes after two. John Richard's place onto Kells Way was three blocks in one direction, then another two around a curvy road that cut a circle through the club's residential area, then two more blocks in the direction of the golf course. His house was on the downhill side of the road leading to the course. I wondered if there were police ribbons around it, too.When my van accelerated noisily down Jacobean, I saw a curtain being drawn back in the Tollifers' front room. A yellow trapezoid of light framed a figure peering out. Apparently, I wasn't the only one with insomnia tonight.A scant six minutes later I turned onto Kells Way. Here the streetlights were tucked into the tops of lodgepole pines. The light that fell on the asphalt shifted and swayed with the movement of the trees. Six minutes to the street sign-but how long to his driveway? I let the van drift down to the curb in front of the mammoth mock-Tudor residence that John Richard occupied all by himself. It took only a few seconds. I cut the engine and rolled down the window. Was I feeling tired? Not even remotely. So much for Arch's prescription for insomnia.The wind picked up. Wind chimes on a nearby deck swirled and tinkled. The sound filtered through the rush of clicking aspen leaves. I breathed in the sweet summer air and wondered if John Richard had a window in his cell.Okay, now, think. If John Richard had left Suz's house around one A.M., as he claimed, then he could have been back at his place before one-ten. Say he I went inside. Had a few more drinks. Decided to go back and finish their argument. This was a possible reconstruction of events, but not a likely one, given his violent way of finishing things once he'd started them.My neck stiffened and I tried to get comfortable. The pain in my shoulders had subsided to a mild ache. I reached for a tablecloth I kept stored in a plastic bag behind the passenger seat. I shoved aside the earphones and wires of Macguire's Walkman and pulled out the damask cloth. Tucking it around me, I tried to envision another way of timing-Friday night's events.No matter how much other people may not have liked Suz, John Richard was the one who'd been with her, arguing with her at the club, possibly about his terrible financial situation. Say he'd fought with Suz at her home, left her dead or near dead, then had gone back to his house around three or three-thirty A.M. This, I thought, was a more likely scenario. It fit the way he acted. Once he was enraged, it could have taken him several hours to work his way through it. What had Tom said? Near as they can figure, Suz Craig died between three and five... Rigor hadn't set in when the medics arrived. If John Richard left Suz sometime after three A.M., then everything fell into place.The breeze died; the rustle of leaves and pine needles stopped. In the distance a car rumbled around the club's circle. A wide swath of light swept the end of Kells Way. Then there was sudden quiet.Say John Richard's fight with Suz had gone on and on. She screamed and contradicted him. The argument became violent, with pots and pans being used for weapons. Then Suz finally got the usual bam bam bam. Then more arguing and maybe an- other horrible whack. Then he left in a huff, with her hurt and screaming. She would have cried for him not to leave her in such a state. Then she stumbled outside for help, fell into the ditch, and died. All this would explain why rigor hadn't set in until just after seven A.M.There was a noise on the street that was not from a tree, a car, a herd of elk, a sprinkler system, or a set of wind chimes. My heart stopped. Someone whispered with loud insistence."Hey, man! Aren't you done yet?" My spinal column turned to ice. The voice was about fifty feet away, on the same side of the street where I sat in my van. Whoever this was, he or she or they must have come along after I'd parked my vehicle, during that ten minutes when I'd been sitting deep in thought.I cut my eyes both ways, without moving, but could make out nothing. Kids sneaking home after hours? Car thieves? Burglars? If a couple of guys were going to rob a private residence, I didn't care. I just didn't want them to add assault of caterer to their list of crimes."No, man, I'm not done!" came the urgent whispered reply. "This fluorescent stuff is dripping all over the damn place! Plus, I'm almost out! So hand me another can and shut up!"There was grunting and clinking. "I'm tired of doing a good deed, man!" was the bitter response. "That security guy comes this way right on the hour!""I told you to shut your mouth, or the neighbors will get him here even earlier!""But it's almost three!" his partner insisted. "He's going to be here any second! We need to split! Just leave it!"My dashboard clock said 2:52. Eight minutes until the security guy showed up... if he did. Ever so slowly, inch by inch, I leaned forward to look out the windshield. If I could see them, I could figure out how to drive off without incident. Kells Way was a dead end. If these two guys - whoever they were, whatever their intentions - were in front of me, I could rev the ignition, throw the van into reverse, and zip backward up the street. If they were behind me on Kells, I could make a U-turn and accelerate across someone's driveway to get past them.Spotlights shone down on the homes, driveways, and lawns on each side of the street. John Richard's house boasted spotlights above the garage that did not quite illuminate the two darkened stories of the rambling, beamed structure. Nothing out of place appeared on his blacktop. Then I noticed several cans that looked as if they'd been discarded to one side of the driveway. Farther over, almost to the stone entryway that was topped by an expansive burgundy awning, I could see the bottom of a ladder. Why would John Richard have left a ladder out? He hated doing home repairs.Inching forward slowly in my seat, I strained my eyes to see more. A figure was moving through the trees. Then I made out someone on the ladder. A car door slammed, and the movement under the trees abruptly stopped."Hurry up, man! What're you doing, getting high on fumes?"This whisper came from high on the ladder. From the same direction as the car door, a motor started up. Someone was going somewhere. The guy under the trees scrambled up the ladder rungs, and I heard the unmistakable hiss-s-s of a spray-paint can.It was the country-club vandals.The car that had started around the circle above Kells revved and moved. Was it the security man? I couldn't tell. Headlights coursed along the left side of the street, the dead end, then John Richard's house.One of the vandals was at the bottom of the ladder. The other was at the top. Young men, lean and tall, dressed in dark colors. In the approaching headlights a dripping, crooked word painted in brilliant yellow appeared above them.KILLER 17I shivered again. Perspiration sprouted on my fore- head and palms. The vandals who had caused so much property damage in the club area were spray-painting their verdict on John Richard's house. Or maybe it was something they'd seen. Well, I'd forgotten the cellular phone and couldn't call the cops. So these guys would have to make their point to law enforcement on their own. I was getting out of here.I pumped the accelerator, turned the car key. The motor strained, didn't turn over, died. I'd flooded the engine. I turned the key again, didn't pump the gas. This time the engine whined and died again. Footsteps thudded across John Richard's lawn. Dammit all, anyway.Frantically, I rolled up my window. But I couldn't reach across in time to close the one on the passenger side. A lanky figure in a black ski mask pulled up the lock, wrenched open the door, and scrambled in. I could smell the sweat on his body. They're kids, I told myself. Don't panic. Behind the black mask the vandal's eyes glared menacingly at me. He grabbed my upper right arm."Get out of the car," he hissed angrily. "And shut up.""Let go," I said evenly, tugging away from him. "I was just sitting here because I went out for a drive - "His fingers bit into my arm. "Shut up and get out.""Stop pulling on me and I will," I replied in a quiet, nonthreatening voice that I hoped didn't betray how furiously my heart was hammering. To my astonishment, the figure in black loosened his grip slightly. I shed the tablecloth and hopped awkwardly onto the street."Watch her," Vandal One ordered Vandal Two. In the streetlight I could see Vandal Two was brandishing a tire iron. "I gotta check her van," the first guy said. "See if she's got some kind a weapon or night-vision camera in there.""That's ridiculous, of course I don't," I snapped. "I'm just a caterer." I strained to see up the street. The passing car had disappeared without turning down Kells Way. Where was the security man?"Oh, yeah?" said Vandal Two, a smirk in his voice. He twirled the tire iron inexpertly. "Kinda early for fixin' breakfast, wouldn't you say?""Listen, guys. The man who lives here, the guy who was arrested? He's my ex-husband.""Really," said Vandal One. He spat. "What, this guy's in jail, you've got an old key, you figure you'll go in and pick up a few things while he's not around?""No. That's not why I'm here."Vandal One leered ominously. "Then why are you here?"When in doubt, tell the truth. "I couldn't sleep. I went out for a drive."Vandal Two's eyes sparked behind the mask. He raised the tire iron. "You'll sleep if I knock you over the head."The words were out of my mouth before I could pull them back. "Hey, tough guy! I thought you were so worried about the security man driving up!" This warning earned me a rude shove on the shoulder. I stepped back and said, "Why're you, here?"Vandal Two stabbed a finger at the house. "Can't you read? We know he did it."In the darkness it was almost impossible to see the ugly yellow word. "Ah. Killer. How do you know that?""Wouldn't you like to know. We see lots of things."I shrugged. But if these two knew anything about the attack on Suz... "How - ""Wait a minute," exclaimed Vandal One, "you said you're a caterer? I read about you."I said mildly, "And you are... ?" When he didn't answer, I went on. "So why are you so certain my ex-husband killed her?""You think we have time to tell you anything?" , erupted Vandal Two. To his compatriot he urged, "Come on, let's get out of here.""I'm married to a cop," I announced hastily. "If he catches you, he'll ream both of you out so bad i you'll get a life sentence for shoplifting when this is over. Both of you," I added, stalling for time. Where in the world was that security guy, anyway? "But if you'll talk to me about why you think my ex-husband is guilty - "The guy with the tire iron waggled it in my face. "I know why you're here. Insomnia, my ass. That doc goes down, I'll bet you inherit this house. You're too shy to gloat over your loot in the daylight, but you just couldn't sleep until you got a good look at your new place."I was tempted to ask: Just how much of that paint did you inhale, anyway? But there was no telling these two anything. No telling them that, come those circumstances, Arch would inherit. Not that my son would want this enormous place. Not that my son would want anything besides having his parents alive and well and out of jail. But I needed to know if they had seen something Friday night. And where was the security man? Why did no neighbors seem to hear me out here arguing with vandals?I made a decision. The vandals probably wouldn't hurt me, despite the pop Vandal Two had given my shoulder. These two were cowards, which was why they defaced other people's property at night. Still, they were angry young cowards, so I would have to be careful.I took a tentative step toward my van. "I want to go home. Are you going to tell me why you think my ex-husband murdered that woman? Or do you want the cops swarming all over here tomorrow with their fingerprint equipment? Actually," I said off- handedly, "they'll probably do that, anyway. A murder investigation is a whole different ball game from cleaning up graffiti, guys."Vandal Two lifted his chin mockingly. "You're just dying to know, aren't you?""Yeah. I am." Vandal One pressed forward. "We saw him," he said, his mouth so suddenly close to mine, I trembled in spite of myself. His breath smelled of potato chips. "The Korman guy left that night in a white Jeep. He's gone two minutes and then comes back in the Jeep, only slower this time.""What time did he do this leaving and returning? Where were you when you saw all this?""Oh, bitch, what do you think I am - Rodney King with a video camera?""Rodney King didn't videotape - ""Shut up," growled Vandal One. "The doc leaves in his Jeep. About ten minutes later he drives up again, but the lights are off.""What do you mean, the lights are off? And was it two minutes or ten minutes? Are you sure it was Korman? Was it a white Jeep or a silver one? He has one of each.""Look, it was a white Jeep. And it happened.He drove away fast and came back slowly, with no.I lights. He knocked on the side door and what's-her-name yelled at him a little bit. Then she let him in."Vandal Two hissed, "Suck it up, man, somebody's coming! We gotta split!"The tire iron clanged to the pavement. The: boys bolted. I peered up Kells Way into the glare of headlights. The approaching car was not the security car. The driver stopped, opened a mailbox, and stuffed in a newspaper. This person didn't bring security; he brought the news. He would be no help. Spooked by some ambushes in Denver, the newspaper delivery folks now wouldn't stop if you were bleeding your guts out in six feet of snow. But I didn't need this person's assistance.I whirled and peered into the shifting light of the yards. The vandals had vanished. They had found a magical way of disappearing through people's property. From what vantage point had they watched Suz Craig's house the night she died? The two guys hadn't seen me drive down Kells Way. Perhaps they'd been vandalizing the club road signs on an adjoining block when I'd parked.The metallic slap of mailboxes being opened and closed punctuated the night air. There was no sign of the security man and no sound of a pickup truck or some other vehicle being driven away. Where had the vandals gone? I had no idea.It was time to boogie. By the time I drove past the security car with its still-dozing watchman and arrived home, the dashboard clock read three-forty-five. Time flies when you're avoiding insomnia. I shivered my way into pajamas, eased into bed, and slid my arms around Tom's warm body. No use waking him. A reasonable morning hour would be a better time to tell him all that had happened.But I'd awakened him anyway. He turned over and mumbled, "Where in the world have you been, Miss G.?" I shushed him gently and curled in closer. But he took my cold hands in his warm ones. "I went downstairs looking for you... then I saw the van was gone. Honestly, I've been a wreck."I wove my cold legs through his deliciously warm ones. "I couldn't sleep, so I went for a drive. I wanted to... to time the driving distances over by Suz Craig's. How long from Suz's house to John Richard's, you know. But" - I hugged him tight - "I ended up interrupting a pair of vandals spray-painting John Richard's house. You're not going to believe it, but these guys were painting the word 'Killer.' So I talked to them - ""What?" Tom extricated himself from my embrace, threw off the sheets, and turned on the lamp. Soon he was dressed in a terry robe and had one of our zillion leaky Biocess pens poised over his trusty spiral notebook. He said, "Would you care to make a quick statement, Mrs. Schulz?"I sighed, then told him all about the vandals on Kells Way. I included their rude shove and their nonvideotaped account of how they'd seen John Richard drive away from Suz's house in his Jeep that night and then return very slowly, lights out. "They thought I was in front of John Richard's tonight so that I could steal something from inside the house. Or to gloat over inheriting the place."Tom tapped his notebook. "You didn't hear them drive away? But yet you say they were afraid of the country-club security man. Who never showed up.""Maybe they hid in their car or their truck," I offered.He scowled. "Maybe. More likely, they're teenagers who live right there somewhere. They probably took off on foot or on bike, figuring they could come back later for their paint and ladder." After a moment of pondering, he turned off the light and pulled me close.I murmured, "I'm sorry I worried you." His breath brushed my ear. "Please don't do any more middle-of-the-night neighborhood prowling, okay? Can we get you a prescription for sleeping pills? It'd be safer.""No, thanks." I hesitated. "Tom. It takes almost ten minutes to get back to John Richard's house. These guys couldn't tell me if it was ten minutes or two minutes between when he roared off and when he returned. And why would he drive back so soon? He never recovers from a fit of temper that fast.""Haven't a clue. I'm going back to sleep. But I want a promise from you. A couple of promises, actually.""Name them." "Miss G. You seem determined to poke your nose into this. Maybe you doubt Korman killed the woman. Maybe you're trying to help Arch. But you're snooping around. Don't disagree." When I nodded, he went on. "Okay, promise me: You won't go down to that ACHMO office. You won't break into John Richard's office and go through his files. You won't break into Suz Craig's house or John Richard's house. We - Official law enforcement - will go to the offices and interview the people. We will go through the files, search the houses, all that. Okay?""What can I do?""Do what you always do. Talk to people. Feed them your great food. And try to stay out of trouble. Promise?"I sighed. "You drive a hard bargain, cop." He sighed too. "Let's just say I love my wife. And I want to keep her alive."The next morning, Monday, I was sleeping so deeply when Tom left that he didn't bring me coffee. I didn't even hear Arch go out, although he left me a note taped to the computer saying he'd be back from his friend Todd's house by dinnertime. I banged around the kitchen making espresso and toasting homemade bread. I started a sponge for the brioche I would use for the doll people's box-lunch sandwiches. No other catering assignments loomed, so I checked that I had the right smoked meats and cheeses, plus some almonds, lemons, and seedless raspberry jam. I wanted to start experimentation to make my own Linzer tarts. I reread the last line in Arch's note: You promised to help Dad, Mom.Right. Help him without visiting the ACHMO office, without breaking into Suz's or the Jerk's house, without sneaking into the Jerk's office to go through files. How about this: I could visit John Richard's office and not poke into files. Couldn't I?I put in a call to Tom's phone and got his ma- chine. Any leads on the vandals? I wanted to know. Or on anything else? Call me back. After I finished breakfast - crunchy toasted Anadama bread thickly slathered with butter and apple butter - I checked on Macguire. He was sleeping. I felt his forehead. The fever seemed to have broken.His yellow-flecked brown eyes opened wide when I withdrew my hand and he groaned. "What's up?""Not much. I just wanted to check on you. Any chance you'd want to walk over to John Richard's office with me in a little bit? ReeAnn will probably be there."It's amazing how energizing infatuation can be. With much groaning, Macguire roused himself, showered, shaved, and dressed. When he shuffled into the kitchen, his white cotton T-shirt and dark jeans hung so limply on his emaciated frame that I found myself begging. After all, it's my profession to feed people."Please, Macguire. Please eat something. Let me fix you some juice and toast. People love my homemade bread and - ""No. Thanks." He surveyed the kitchen dispiritedly, then looked at my anxious face and relented. "Okay. I'll have a little glass of juice and a piece of bread. Don't toast it, though. Toast is too crusty. Hurts my throat."He swallowed less than a quarter-cup of juice and nibbled a third of a slice of crustless homemade bread. At least it was something.When we walked through the door of John Richard's spacious, all-beige office fifteen minutes later, ReeAnn Collins was in a state, and it wasn't a good one. Holding the lengthy phone cord in front of the marble counter, she paced across the deep- pile carpet, complained into the receiver, and gestured furiously with her free hand. Her buxom figure was shown off to splendid advantage by a size-too-small white T -shin and clinging black biking shorts. Her curly black ponytail and long, pouffed bangs bobbed as she bent from time to time to whack at magazines that spilled from the beige-painted tables."First Judy calls in sick. She's a nurse, but she can't tell me what kind of sickness she has. So here I am, left to do everything, and then the sheriff's depanment calls and says don't touch anything. They're on their way." She nodded us distractedly toward the waiting-area chairs. "Then ACHMO calls," she continued into the phone, "and says don't give anything to the sheriff's department." I sat down and wondered, as I always did, how hugely pregnant women could ever extract themselves from these deep, soft couches once their appointment time arrived. ReeAnn stormed on. "ACHMO says the files belong to them, and if I give the sheriff's department anything, I'm in deep yogurt. So then they say they}re on their way." She set her heart-shape, usually quite pretty face into a pout as she listened to the advice from the other end of the line. She examined her black-and-purple-painted nails and sighed. "'Okay. Bring your bike rack. Noon." She slammed the phone down and examined us bitterly. "What do you want?"Macguire tucked his chin into his neck and gabbled something unintelligible. Poor kid. Aside from ReeAnn's plentiful figure and pretty face, I couldn't figure the attraction. Maybe it was the black-and-purple nails."ReeAnn," I reassured her, "we're here to help you. You see, I talked to somebody from ACHM after church yesterday, and after what happened to Ms. Craig - "She stabbed a dark fingernail at Macguire. "Are you the one who told the cops I didn't like Ms. Craig? Because they came to my place yesterday, you know.""Er, I, no - " Macguire stammered. "I guess I - "Before he could continue his feeble protests, ReeAnn pointed the fingernail at me. "Uh-huh. And you, Mrs. Ex-Korman Number One, exactly how're you going to help me? My boss is behind bars and the cops think I hated his girlfriend? What're you going to do, hire a temporary nurse to come in and help out? Call all the expectant women and recommend other doctors to them? You going to loan me some money from your catering biz when I don't get paid this week?""ReeAnn, you're upset. Please call me Mrs. Schulz. Or Goldy.""I know," she said spitefully. "You're here about money. That's what Mrs. Ex-Korman Number Two is always calling about."I replied calmly, "I'm not interested in money, or at least only marginally. Listen, do you know why the ACHMO people are coming today?"She sighed dramatically and looked away. "I never know. One week it's 'Let's see how you're billing ultrasounds.' Then they pull out ten records of women who've had ultrasounds. If one of the patients happened to say, 'Oh, my, I'd like to have an ultrasound because I'm worried about the baby,' and the doc writes that in the woman's file, you can kiss your reimbursement good-bye."I said, "Hmm." Chris Corey had explained that the HMO came in to the doctors' offices to check billing, but I still didn't know the reason. "Why does what the patient says about the ultrasound matter?""Be-cause," she supplied impatiently, "if you want to be sure ACHMO is going to pay for the ultrasound, there has to be a medical reason for the test. And the ultrasound has to be the doctor's idea, understand? Even if it's the patient's idea, we have to dress it up like the doctor figured her life was in danger if she didn't have an ultrasound. Otherwise, ACHMO doesn't fork over the money for the ultrasound. Understand? Welcome to the world of managed care, Mrs. Ex-Korman Number One."This was going to be fun, I could tell. The phone rang. ReeAnn dealt with the problem - a woman seeking an appointment - by referring her to another doctor. Then she turned back to us."So what do you two want, anyway? To talk about ACHMO coming? I don't have time."I said bluntly, "Do you think my ex-husband killed Ms. Craig?"My question seemed to surprise her. She pursed her lips and opened her eyes wide. Macguire watched her in enamored awe. Then she reached back to twirl her ponytail while she considered. "He could have," she replied noncommittally.When she didn't say more, I prodded, "How about Patricia McCracken? Do you think she could have lost her temper with Suz Craig?"ReeAnn snorted. "That's just as likely." The phone rang again. "Listen, I'm sorry, I really don't have time to chat - " I waved to her to answer the phone. ReeAnn disposed of this caller by advising her to give the pharmacy a ring."Where's Patricia McCracken's file?" I asked as soon as the secretary was not-so-ready to chat again.Her laugh was derisive. "You gotta be kidding if you think I'm going to show you a patient file.""I don't want you to show me anything," I replied patiently. "What you might want to do is try to find something. It's what the ACHMO people are going to be here looking for. It could be a letter, a note, something about the McCracken suit. If John Richard wrote a few lines to himself about Patricia McCracken's care and the ACHMO people take them, it will adversely affect me and my son. John Richard could be found at fault in the malpractice suit and we'll lose financial support. Actually, what I really wanted was for Patricia to win her suit."ReeAnn shook her head vigorously; the ponytail bobbed. "You've already lost financial support," she said scathingly. "He was thinking you were making so much money from your food business, he didn't have to pay anymore. And then when Bailey Products dumped Biocess... It's been awful. And he works so hard," she whined. "And what'll happen to me if they try him for killing her?"I took a deep breath. I'd always suspected that ReeAnn and John Richard were cut from the same self-centered cloth. Now I was sure of it. But had ReeAnn and the Jerk been romantically involved in the few months she had been working for him? Could ReeAnn have been jealous of Suz Craig? Jealous enough to kill?"My son," I said with a smile, "is extremely upset about his dad being in jail. So I promised him I'd ask around to see if there was anything to clear him, okay?""Uh, ReeAnn, remember?" Macguire interjected feebly. "Remember when you mentioned you were involved in a project with the HMO? Some- thing to do with Ms. Craig? Remember, you called her Ms. Crank? That's probably why the police came to visit you.""That woman was a first-class bitch," ReeAnn spat. "And that's exactly what I told those cops. I did call her Ms. Crank. And you know what Ms. Crank's favorite saying was, don't you?" Macguire and I looked at her expectantly. She raised her voice and trilled, " 'I don't do - I delegate.' ""Oh, yes," I mumbled, remembering that that was precisely what Suz had said to me regarding the preparation of food for her business lunch. "I guess I did know that. But she did help me with the dishes when I worked for her, and she could have delegated that - ""Cheap!" ReeAnn fumed. "I finally told her, 'Don't tell me to do another thing, okay? Delegate somewhere else! I don't work for you!' ""What exactly did she want you to - "I was interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Brandon Yuille. Today he wore a loose blue oxford-cloth shirt with no tie, navy pants, and Top-Siders."Hey-ho, we're here!" Brandon's cheery greeting was more along the lines of How soon will Christmas dinner be ready than This is Eliot Ness, get up against the wall. "Hey, Goldy! What're you doing' here? I forgot to ask you yesterday, did you try that Thai sauce I gave you?" His whole attitude was much brighter than when I'd seen him after church. Behind him, however, Chris Corey appeared even glummer than he had the day before."Ah, no," I replied, "not yet.""Well, then, why're you here?" Brandon asked again, still smiling."I'm just looking for some of Arch's, er, homework papers.""In August? Isn't school out?""They've been missing for a long time."ReeAnn slapped a pile of files down on the counter and shot me a knowing look of exasperation. "Well, boys, here's a batch of D & Cs for you to ; look through. Did I guess right?""Nah, we need C-sections," Brandon announced brightly. "They've been missing even longer than homework papers." His laugh was infectious, and I found myself smiling in spite of myself. To ReeAnn he said, "Should we start in there?" He motioned down the hall to the filing office."That sounds just great." ReeAnn didn't do sarcasm well. "As if I had some choice, right? I've got to stay here and do the phones.""Here's the list of the files we'll be looking for," Chris said meekly as he squeezed his pudgy body behind the counter and consulted a clipboard. He waited a moment until Brandon was out of earshot. I nipped over to the counter. "Did you do a dummy duplicate of Patricia McCracken's file?" Chris asked ReeAnn urgently."Yes," she whispered back. "Just the way you told me. I've got the original up here." She pointed to a shelf. The phone rang; she snatched it."What?" she squawked. "It's your turn to bring lunch! You think I can handle one more thing today? Forget it! Tuna sandwiches!" Then she slammed down the phone. It didn't sound as if she got along very well with whoever it was.I said, "Chris! I thought you wanted ACHMO to be caught trying to take the file!"He harumphed and readjusted his capacious belt. "If Brandon takes the dummy with Mc- Cracken's name on it before the police get here," he whispered impatiently, "then they'll still be commit- ting an illegal act. And with ReeAnn keeping the real file, your husband's lawyer can still have the information he needs.""He's my ex-husband, okay?" I hissed fiercely. "And I thought you said it would be a Medical Management lady coming here today. What has Human Resources got to do with checking billing? Does Brandon ever do that?"Chris shrugged grandly. "They're scared." And then, balanced precariously on his cast, he lumbered off after Brandon."Don't remove anything, fellas!" I called after them. "My husband's a cop and I'll tell on you!" To ReeAnn I said softly, "The sheriff's department is on its way?""Supposedly." She eyed the telephone on the marble counter, as if debating which friend she should complain to next."Uh, I guess we'll be going," Macguire announced. His face was as sallow as I'd seen it since he'd been living with us. Despite his words, however, he didn't seem to have the energy or the will to move."ReeAnn," I whispered as I scooped up the back copies of Architectural Digest she'd spewed on the floor during her first manic phone call. "Can we please talk for a few minutes? It's for Arch.""I don't know where his homework is.""Please.""I have to answer the phone." "I know you were romantically involved with my ex-husband," I improvised. When I said this, ReeAnn shot Macguire a withering look. "It's okay," I added."I'm involved with somebody else right now, not an old geezer. And I was with him all Friday night. My new boyfriend can vouch for me, and I told the cops that, too.""Fine." I tried to think. "Just tell me - What was Suz Craig working on that she was trying to delegate? Delegate to you, I mean? It seems odd she'd ask you to do work for her, when she had a whole army of secretaries to choose from at ACHMO."ReeAnn snorted again, her trademark. "I'm not a secretary, I'm an assistant. And the stuff Ms. Crank had me do was penny-ante. 'Make our dinner reservations.' 'Call Aspen Meadow Nursery. Get them to come out and fix my steps.' "When she seemed reluctant to go on, I prompted, "That's it?""Well. Not exactly." She bit the inside of her cheek, then confided, "It's what John Richard told me she tried to delegate to him that was really weird, if you want to know the truth.""The truth would be great." She leaned close. "She wanted him to put some stuff - I guess it was papers or something - in a safe place, somewhere the ACHMO people couldn't find them.""What stuff? How do you know it was papers? The kind of papers they're trying to find now?" Suddenly I remembered what John Richard had said to me on the phone: Suz had some kind of delicate material.... What material? I'd thought it related to Ralph Shelton, but was that wrong? "Are you sure it was papers?"She shrugged indifferently. "Who knows?" The phone rang. ReeAnn answered it and started to redirect another patient. To my surprise Brandon Yuille suddenly appeared at my side. He flashed me his movie-star smile."Goldy? May I talk to you for a minute?""More Thai sauce?" I said brightly. "Please. Just right outside the front door. Just for a sec, if you don't mind."I walked outside with him. I'd tell him what he wanted to know - maybe - if he'd answer a couple of questions, too. I made my voice pleasant. "Brandon, I was wondering... Was Suz Craig as hard to work for as some people say?"His fine-featured face bloomed pink. "Some people thought she was... difficult." His tone grew guarded."So, what people are we talking about?" He brushed my question away. "Goldy, there's something important I need to ask you, but it's... delicate." Man, they all loved that word, like they had to rinse out some lingerie. "You know how folks going through a divorce will sometimes hide assets from each other? Like money?"I laughed. "Of course I do. Who's getting the divorce?"He squirmed. "I... can't say. But you know about hiding assets?""Sure. One person in a marriage hides assets, the other gets to hire a forensic accountant, as I had to do, to go through the books of the person doing the hiding. Sometimes you find the stash and sometimes you don't. Lucky for me, I did."Brandon's eyes, ordinarily deep brown, turned almost black. His voice became painfully earnest. "I promise, Goldy, if John Richard has given you anything to hide... we... I... need to know."I almost laughed again. I imagined a list of intimate - make that delicate - questions: Have you had cosmetic surgery? Do you dye your hair? How much do you weigh? which could develop into How much money do you make? Now, apparently, to that invasive list I could add: Has your abusive ex-husband given you anything incriminating to hide?"Brandon," I said with equal earnestness as the phone pealed again inside, "if my ex-husband had given me a bald eagle that he had shot and stuffed, I wouldn't tell the ACHMO honchos."Brandon Yuille, my foodie buddy, turned on his heel and strode away. I immediately felt bad. I liked Brandon; I didn't want to alienate him. From inside the office ReeAnn said, "What? Who? Yeah, she's here. Goldy!"When I went back into the office, Chris Corey had not reappeared and Macguire was still slumped in one of the chairs looking catatonic. As soon as Brandon found out the call wasn't for him, he brushed past ReeAnn on his way back into the file rooms."Man!" ReeAnn exclaimed, gesturing with the phone. "What is his problem? Anyway, the phone's for you."I sighed and walked back to the counter. "Yes?" I said tentatively into the receiver."Miss G." Tom's warm, calm, reassuring voice. "I had a feeling you'd be over there. Bad news, I'm afraid.""Go ahead." "I warned you. The judge did it. John Richard made bail. He'll be out in two hours, probably back up in Aspen Meadow by noon.""No.""Yes. Now listen, you're a witness in this matter. He's been warned not to talk to any witnesses, but you know how poorly this guy follows directions. If he shows up at the house, or does anything to try to contact you, you ignore him, understand? Call us. We don't want this case ruined before it even starts.""Okay." My voice was on novocaine."Goldy? Don't want to press a point here, but you're in danger. You found the body. You saw him drive up with the flowers. You're the main person who can testify about his physical abusiveness. He's in some kind of mental state, and he may just want to rid himself of you altogether. Is Macguire there? I thought we agreed you weren't going to go poking around through files.""I'm just here at the office for a few minutes. And I'm not doing any poking through files. The people poking are the ACHMO folks. Are your people on their way? ReeAnn said they were.""They should be there in five minutes. Be sure you're in your kitchen in two hours, okay? I'm warning you, Goldy. I don't want you hurt. Okay, please put me on with that secretary so I can get her to kick those ACHMO guys out until our people get there."I handed ReeAnn the phone, then told her that Macguire and I had to go. She tossed her ponytail in a suit-yourself gesture. But Macguire and I were not going straight home. We had someone else to warn.18As we drove away from the office, I waited for a barrage of questions from Macguire. Ordinarily, the teenager took great interest in criminal cases. But he regarded me dully when I said we had one further stop to make."You don't want to go right home?" he asked. "You're always talking about how dangerous the Jerk is.""I promised Arch I'd ask a few questions." He shrugged and was silent. When we rounded the lake, spumes of dust were rising from the LakeCenter parking lot. The doll-show organizers had arrived. Without enthusiasm, I realized I needed to talk to them, too, before I went home, so that made two stops. I pulled into the lot of the sleek wood-paneled Lakeview Shopping Center, a two-story, L-shaped constellation of boutiques and offices that had recently been constructed on the old site of a gaudy saloon. Before the saloon went bankrupt, it had boasted a Vegas-style light display arranged in the shape of a covered wagon that appeared to roll from one end of the building toward the lake. But drunk wannabe cowboys exiting the saloon frequently thought the neon wagon was going to rollover them. Numerous car accidents had ensued. The sheriff's department had ordered the light display turned off, and that had been curtains for the saloon.I parked in front of Sam's Soups, which had a For Lease sign in its darkened window. Food service in Aspen Meadow is always a touchy business, and Sam's alternately gluey and thin soups had not been a local hit. Next door to Sam's, Aspen Meadow Health Foods had held on, but only by going through a number of permutations. Up until a few months ago, my friend Elizabeth Miller had offered everything from twenty-pound bags of millet to gallon jugs of soy milk. Elizabeth had sold the store to Amy Bartholomew, R.N., late of the AstuteCare HMO and new purveyor of homeopathic remedies.Only she wasn't purveying at the moment. Amy's paper clock sign indicated that she opened at eleven. It was barely ten. Not only that but Amy had scribbled "Most Days" on the clock's center. Great. I glanced across the road at the LakeCenter."Mind if we drop by over there?" I asked Macguire, pointing at the LakeCenter. "I just want to see how they need me to set up for the breakfast Wednesday.""Sure." He gave me a weary smile. "I'm not ready to go back to bed yet. I feel as if I spend my life between the sheets." His face was cadaverous. Poor guy. I felt terrible that ReeAnn Collins had treated him so offhandedly. It's difficult to take cruel treatment from a member of the opposite sex, especially from someone you care about. At nineteen, I'd been some kind of basket case myself when it came to relationships, and I hadn't been struggling with mononucleosis and a flaky, egotistical father in the bargain."We'll come back over here when the proprietor opens," I promised. "You want to rest for a minute before we go talk to the Babsie Bash ladies?""Whatever," Macguire repeated, apparently too tired to think of anything new to say. He stared glumly at the lake, a meadow of sparkles broken up by paddle- and sailboats. I wondered how Tom thought I'd be protected from the Jerk with poor, listless Macguire accompanying me. He's out. I shivered. But I shook this off, the same way I always tried to rid myself of thoughts that included the Jerk.Soon we were back in the van, rocking over din potholes, past the boundary of the municipal golf course, and into the wildflower-rimmed lot of the LakeCenter. After I parked, the two of us walked toward the large log building, where men and women with plastic-coated badges that said DEALER were carting boxes of wares inside."Gail?" I said when we approached.Gail Rodine, in conversation with a uniformed man, lifted her chin in acknowledgment. Actually, her chin was about all I could see of Gail's face. She sported a floppy-brimmed hat that sprouted feathers in every direction and might, I reflected, serve well as a centerpiece for the annual Audubon banquet.Her mid-thigh-length dress was a glittering black-and-white-striped affair. Where did this woman get the money for her hobby? The LakeCenter was not a cheap space to rent, and I was not a cheap caterer to hire. The local Babsie club must get a cut of the profit made from the sale of dolls, and that percentage must be considerable."I'll be with you in a moment," she announced, and continued her low murmur with an older man in a gray security uniform that hugged his belly like a sausage casing. The man's complexion was splotched, his nose was bright red, and his silver-gray hair lay in flat, greasy curls against his head. He punctuated every few sentences of Mrs. Rodine's with a hiccup. He was not the sort of security guard to inspire confidence. Still, I stopped a respectful distance away from their conversation. Despite the fact that Arch had spent the night at the Rodines' house, Gail and I did not move in the same social circles, as we both well knew. Wealthy folks are very conscious of service-sector people who are intrusive. Macguire held back another ten feet behind me. I think the memory of the women chasing him to the end of the dock two days before made him less anxious to be sociable.Gail Rodine motioned me forward as she announced crisply to the guard: "And this is our caterer. She'll be here to set up the box lunches tomorrow, and our breakfast on Wednesday just before nine o'clock." She cocked an eyebrow at me, as if daring me to contradict her agenda. Actually, I needed to get in closer to eight on Wednesday. But before I could utter a word, Gail noticed Macguire. Her face stiffened with anger.I tried to sound reassuring. "Gail, we're just here today to check that the ovens are working and to see where you want the buffet to be. Plus, day after tomorrow, I need to get in closer to eight or eight-fifteen. Would that be okay?"She lifted her chin, and I had a glimpse of a hooked nose and an auburn-lipsticked mouth with a cruel slant. "Eight will be fine. You said 'we.' Is this... person... your assistant? If so, you may come in now, he may not," she proclaimed imperiously. "That boy has already made our lives quite difficult here. And we're preparing to take our morning tea break. The break will be held in the same place as the brunch.""Okay," I managed to choke. "Well, then." She bristled impatiently. "Come and see what I'm talking about."Gail marched ahead of me down the path. Ordinarily, I adore my clients. They're happy to book me. They enjoy planning the menu. They rave about the food I lovingly prepare. Ordinarily, things end happily, with future bookings in sight. But sometimes you can sense when things are going to go badly. Gail had been cruel to the kids at Arch's slumber party; she'd been mean to Macguire when he'd merely tried to help. I'd just seen her give the security guy hell and I could feel that I was next in line, right before the tea break. I tried to wipe from my mind a sudden vision of Gail Rodine bobbing in a lake of Orange Pekoe, with her Babsie dolls tied around her neck. I suppressed a groan. Behind me, Macguire turned and shuffled back to the van.I followed Gail past the bored-looking, slightly ripe-smelling guard - after all, what kind of drinking stories could he get from protecting dolls? - and into the kitchen. The large and serviceable space was as I remembered it: two ovens set against one wall, a sink overlooking the parking lot. Two lengthy counters separated the kitchen from the ballroom. These counters doubled as a snack bar in the winter months, during skating season, but would serve for me as a prep area. I checked that the ovens worked and looked briefly into the ballroom, where dealers were cracking open long tables and setting up tiers of empty shelves for their displays."In the morning," Gail explained grandly over the bustle of dealers, "I want all the food out back. Nothing can touch the doll displays, remember. You can wheel the food trays out through here."She swished toward the wall beside the kitchen, then expertly opened a door in what looked like a solid block of logs. The door - actually a rectangle of sawed logs that snugged into the wall - gave out on the flagstone patio on the side of the structure. Gail moved outside. She briskly pointed out the grill for Wednesday's final meal, the picnic tables on the deck overlooking the lake where dining would take place, and the tall doors between the ballroom and the deck."No dolls beyond this point, unless they have been purchased," she said firmly. I smiled, nodded, and wondered how Macguire was doing. After promising Gail that I'd be back the next day with the box lunches, I zipped back to my van.Macguire, chin in the air, mouth open, had fallen asleep with his head cocked against the neck rest. There was no way he could have been comfortable.When the van jolted out of the dirt lot, he was stanled awake. He blinked, then muttered, "Uh, I'm ready to go home.""Just one more quick stop. I promised this nurse I'd be in to see her today. Plus I want to warn her about my ex-husband being released from custody. He mentioned her on the phone from jail. I should let her know he might show up.""Then I'd better go in with you," Macguire said wearily. "If your ex has already gotten up here, you'll need backup."We bumped back over the potholes, pulled into the Lakeview lot, and parked in front of the health-food store next to a Harley-Davidson. An Indian cowbell attached to the door gonged as we entered. Inside, ruffled green gingham curtains framed the windows. The pinewood-paneled walls were hung with pictures of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and other dignitaries of the vegetarian world. The distinctive smell of exotic herbs and incense that permeates most health-food stores enveloped us.Even though the store had only been open ten minutes, two people had preceded us. One was Patricia McCracken, whose pear-shaped body was stuffed into a white tennis dress that contrasted with the more exotic surroundings. She sat at a table with Amy Bartholomew. Amy sported a green-flowered Indian dress embedded with spangles. The other person in the store, a black-leather-clad burly man with shoulder-length, curly black hair, studied two shelves stacked with brown bottles. An array of silver rings spilling down his left ear flashed in the sunlight whenever he leaned forward to study a label."Even in disguise," Macguire whispered, "I don't think Korman could look like that.""You're right," I whispered back. At their table Patricia and Amy were in intimate communication. Patricia's voice cracked with pain; Amy's voice exuded its liquid warmth. After nodding briefly to acknowledge our arrival, Amy directed Patricia to hold a bottle to her heart with her left-hand. With her right hand Patricia was told to press her forefinger and thumb together in an okay sign. Then Amy asked a question and gently pried apart the fingers of Patricia's right hand. "Six a day?" Amy murmured, and pulled. The okay sign opened. "Eight a day?" It opened again. At twelve a day Patricia's fingers wouldn't budge. Amy wrote on a yellow pad while Patricia wrote a check. A novel approach to prescription, this.Patricia gave me an apologetic glance as she exited. "Do you still hurt from Saturday?""I'm fine," I told her, not quite truthfully. "But listen. John Richard's out on bail. I don't think he'd come after you, but when he loses his temper with women... Well. Be careful."Patricia's face tightened and she swore under her breath. Then she shook her head and moved away from me without asking another question.Amy was already eyeing Macguire by the time the cowbell rang behind Patricia. After an appraising squint, she moved to Macguire's side. The thin teenager towered over her."'You're not well," she murmured."Yeah, lady. Really.""I'll be with you in a sec." Macguire nodded without interest. He stopped in front of a rack of magazines. Amy slipped over to the shelves, where she seemed to know exactly what the Earring King wanted. I watched her hand him a large cellophane bag filled with lots of small cellophane bags, each of which was crammed with multicolored capsules. I could imagine Frances Markasian's loud headline: COP'S WIFE ARRESTED IN HEALTH STORE DRUG BUST.The Earring King glared at me. "What're you staring at, woman?" he demanded."I'm sorry," I stammered. My mouth had gone dry."Edgar, you need to transform that anger," Amy gently reprimanded the man. "It's blocking you."Emanating hostility that showed no sign of being transformed, Edgar slapped down some dollar bills for his cellophane bags, mumbled that he didn't want the change, and clanged through the door. A moment later a motorcycle engine split the silence. Amy shook her head of red hair."Cancer," she said sadly. I didn't know if she meant the disease or the astrological sign, and wasn't about to ask. She looked at me and said, "How's that shoulder?""Fair.""Let me treat your friend and then you. How's that?""Well..." How was I supposed to say this? My ex-husband called from jail. He suspects you of killing his girlfriend. Or he wants to pin the murder on you. Now he's on the loose and may come looking for you, Amy. Better pack up your alfalfa sprouts and hit the trail. "I need to talk to you without interruption," I said somewhat lamely."No problem," Amy replied brightly, and blithely turned the door's paper clock to CLOSED.Amy beckoned to Macguire. He shuffled behind us as she led the way to the back of the shop, where small tables were sandwiched between two refrigerated cases that held plastic bottles of chlorophyll and other substances I wouldn't want to ingest. Next to the bottles were plastic bags of adzuki, black, and pinto beans, a few tired-looking carrots, and a small selection of packaged grains. Macguire flopped into a chair and I sat next to him. Amy clasped one of Macguire's hands in hers; he immediately withdrew it. I had the same discomfiting sense I'd had in the McCrackens' bathroom - that Amy was way ahead of me, and I wasn't sure I wanted to catch up."Perhaps you should just treat me," I told her. "I don't really have any authority to - "But Amy was absorbed with Macguire's eyes. He turned his face away from her and rubbed his temples. She said, "What do the M.D.s say?""The... Oh," I faltered, "well, Macguire has mononucleosis, and he... what worries me is that he doesn't have any appetite. The doctor has said he should be getting better, but... Anyway, he's staying with me until his father gets home later in the month, and I'm not sure his father would approve of - " I was yakking away. Why did this woman always make me yak?"Macguire?" Amy asked in her kind, melted-milk-chocolate voice. "Do you want to be healed?"Macguire tilted his head skeptically, glanced swiftly at Amy, then stared at the floor. "I guess.""Okay. Just relax." She had him remove his watch. Then he touched his head with first one hand, then the other."What are you doing?" I blurted out.She replied without looking at me. "I'm reading his aura."Oh, that! I reflected. Of course. Marla and I would have to offer it in Med Wives 101.Amy took a small flashlight from her pocket, then opened and smoothed out what looked like a paper diagram or chart of some kind. "Look at me." This Macguire did, and for the next five minutes Amy shone the flashlight in his eyes and consulted her chart. When she'd made a few notes, she rose arid briskly began to gather supplies. A bottle of chlorophyll. Five brown bottles of pills. Cellophane bags similar to the ones the Earring King had purchased. Then she commenced the same drill she had with Patricia: Macguire held the medicines to his heart, and Amy asked questions and tested the response by pulling apart his fingers pressed in the okay sign. I kept an eye on the door, in the remote case the Jerk showed up.Finally Amy seemed happy with a combination of three bottles of pills, two cellophane bags, and the chlorophyll. She asked Macguire if he wanted her to run through putting together his twice-a-day regimen. As usual, he replied dully in the affirmative."You'd better watch this, too," she told me, and then showed us the sheet. He was to take ten capsules twice a day, plus a teaspoon of chlorophyll dissolved in a cup of cold water. Yum-my!I pointed at the capsules. "What's in these?""Shark cartilage," she replied, "pau d'arco bark, essiac tea, rosehips - "A vision of Macbeth's witches rose before me. "Okey-doke," I interrupted her, before we could get to eye of newt."Are you ready for me to take a look at you?" she asked."Sure," I said enthusiastically. What did I have to lose?While Macguire dutifully swallowed his capsules with a glass of springwater spiked with chlorophyll, I got the same flashlight-in-the-eye treatment he'd received. Again Amy consulted her chart."Hmm," she said. Then the beautiful brown eyes and faded-freckled face regarded me sadly. She bit the inside of her lip and then made her pronouncement: "You're depressed."Great, I thought, got herbs for it? Prozac bark..? Instead I said, "Since it's truth-telling time, Amy, there's something I really need to talk to you about. ""Your ex-husband. Dr. Korman.""How did you know?"She smiled. "I may run a health-food store, but I don't live in the next galaxy. Suz Craig and I didn't get along, as you said you knew, when I helped you out at the McCrackens' house. What, you think Dr. Korman is going to come gunning for me? I was a victim of Suz's nastiness, so now I'm a suspect in her murder? Is Dr. Korman trying to say I killed her?"Without warning, I felt infinitely dejected. Maybe it was Amy's suggestion that I was depressed; maybe it was my acknowledgment of the truth. A woman was dead. If my ex-husband had killed her, he would pay. But so would my teenage son, who: would pay a long-lasting price in emotional pain. If John Richard had not killed Suz, then finding out who did would be left to the D.A.'s investigator, I. Donny Saunders. Saunders, who, last time we'd met, had informed me radicchio was the name of a mobster. No wonder my spirits were low."Let's get you some herbs for that depression," Amy said decisively. She moved to the same area of the same shelf where she'd pulled down the bottle for Patricia McCracken. Hmm.And then I, too, went through the drill of holding the herbs to my heart and having my fingers pried open. Within five minutes I, too, was swallowing mammoth capsules whose ingredient list included only three things I recognized: bamboo sap, ginger rhizome, and licorice root. It didn't sound like a mixture I'd use in a cookie."So is Patricia McCracken depressed, too?" I asked Amy. "About losing her baby?"Amy lifted her eyebrows. "Wouldn't you be?""Depressed enough to get really angry with Suz Craig?""Who knows? Suz distressed a lot of people.""Including you." When she gave a single nod, I swallowed, then said, "Why'd she fire you?"Amy smiled placidly. "Is that what Suz said, that she fired me? No. That's what she always said when people couldn't get along with her... that she fired them, as if they were the incompetent ones." She shook her head gently. "I quit ACHMO. My payout from the pension plan helped buy this shop.""Why'd you quit?""Why'd you divorce Dr. Korman?""Because he abused me.""Aha! Same here. Only Suz Craig didn't abuse people physically. She beat them up mentally." Amy said it as if it were a disease. "When I left, I thought, now why did that take me so long?""Meaning.... ?"She frowned and pondered my question. For a long minute she was silent. Then she answered, "AstuteCare has been in Colorado for eight years. I was with them from the beginning, moved up to Medical Management. There was a group of department heads, including Brandon Yuille and Chris Corey, who also lived in Aspen Meadow. We worked as a team. Suz joined ACHMO two years ago. It was the beginning of hell."Hell. Interesting. "Why? What did she do to change things?""We used to have a weekly meeting to discuss problems we were having. What we needed in the new Provider Relations Manual, that kind of thing. Suz would scream and yell. 'What's the matter with you people?' was her favorite. And then she'd viciously attack every person in the room for being stupid, lazy, incompetent. Or, in the case of Chris, fat. 'How's a tub of lard supposed to set a model for health?' Suz used to yell at him. You get the idea. Brandon Yuille's father, who'd just lost his wife, was remodeling and reopening the pastry shop. Suz was on Brandon's case constantly about being there on the weekends instead of working overtime for her. She claimed Brandon came in too tired to be of any use, because he was up all night baby-sitting his father, on and on. It was none of her business that 1 Brandon's father was a widower and alone and desperately needed his company. But she mode it her business. She made his life miserable."Aha, more hell. "Wasn't there anybody you could complain to?"She shrugged. "It was coming to that. A group of them was trying to go over her head.""And did they? And to whom?""They talked about it. But I'd had enough. Her cruelty was unbearable. I couldn't stand it anymore. The last - no, let's see, the next-to-last - straw for me came about five months ago when I was negotiating to buy this store. I saw the store as a long- term project for my retirement. Originally I was planning just to have it open on the weekends, until I could build up the clientele over about a ten- or fifteen-year period, when I retired from ACHMO. But Suz never wanted you to be in charge of your own destiny. She wanted to be in charge of your destiny.""She knew you wanted to open this store?"Amy smiled sadly. "Suz made it her business to know personal details about the people who worked for her." She shook her head. "Anyway. One of the ACHMO doctors had a gambling problem. Suz asked me - privately, mind you - to follow the guy to the casinos in Central City, see what he was up to, and try to talk to him. See if he'd go into some kind of self-help group, therapy, whatever. If I did, she said, she promised to co-sign one of my loan applications. I didn't feel good about it" - she shrugged - "but if one of our providers had an addiction that would negatively affect the care he gave, I believed I should help find that out. So, I agreed to follow him."So you don't gamble?"She laughed softly. "No. I followed this provider of ours to Central City and found him playing slots. I watched him for two hours, then confronted him. He convinced me to dance with the one-armed bandit for a while so I could see how much fun it was. I dropped eighteen dollars in quarters into two slot machines and never made more than a dollar.Then I convinced this guy-a pediatrician, if you can believe it-to have some coffee, to talk to me. Over coffee he said he wasn't going to quit gambling. I was wasting my time. Suz got rid of that doctor and now he's in Utah, leading rock-climbing expeditions. Different kind of gamble, I guess. Then Suz spread it around that had the gambling problem. At that time people were bidding for this store space and I was working feverishly on loan applications. Because I hadn't succeeded in rehabilitating the pediatrician, Suz refused to co-sign for me, and I didn't get my loan. When I confronted her about trying to destroy all my plans for the future - to destroy me - she claimed I was paranoid.""And so you quit." Amy looked away for a moment. Then she said, "Well, not just then. You know how it is with institutions you're involved with. Institution of marriage, institution of the job, institution of the church. At first you're doing work you love and everybody's nice. Then maybe the work gets boring but you like the people so much you don't want to leave. Then some of the good people leave and you think, well, it's not as good as it used to be but it's better than going out there looking for something new."I looked over at Macguire, who was perusing a magazine on nudist colonies."Pretty soon," Amy went on, "there are only a handful of people you like, or a handful of things you like, about the institution. Then bad things begin to happen. In our case at ACHMO, we got Suz Craig, a female vice-president we didn't like. She came in and made us all miserable. And although we got a great deal of camaraderie out of talking about her behind her back, it was scant comfort.""I still don't understand why someone didn't complain."She sighed. "There was talk of it, but you know, who was going to bell the cat? Human Resources? Brandon Yuille is so terrified of losing his job that he wouldn't even join in on our gossip. Poor guy, he had enough to deal with with his mother dying.""Was she covered by ACHMO?""Don't know," Amy replied. "Brandon talks a blue streak about food and always brought us goodies, but about his personal life he was extremely-closemouthed.""How about Chris Corey? Did he hate Suz Craig, too?""We all hated her, Goldy. She tormented Chris for being overweight and for being late on his deadlines. She used to say that this wasn't a waiting room where he could be an hour late for all his appointments. And so on and so on. She was cruel and spiteful and manipulative. Plus she was ruining the HMO with the way she was handling cases like Patricia's. She wanted us to find din on the people suing, without realizing how that kind of activity could backfire. An HMO can't survive bad publicity. People just won't sign on.""So if you didn't leave when she refused to cosign your loan, why did you finally leave?""You know, I never could figure out if Suz wanted me to leave or wanted me to stay. If she wanted me to leave, why didn't she just let me buy my store? If she wanted me to stay, why did she threaten to use the gambling issue in a way that would hurt me? I'm telling you, the woman was just mean." She sighed. "The very last straw for me was when we had a team meeting and in front of all my colleagues, Suz told me I was over the hill, didn't know the first thing about healing people. She even said I didn't dress like a professional."I couldn't help it. I eyed Amy's shapeless, spangled dress - that- could - double - as - a - nightgown. She laughed."Don't worry, Goldy, I didn't wear this kind of thing to work. But I wasn't going to wear short wool suits that came up to my behind and didn't even keep my legs warm in a Colorado winter.""So you..." "I went home after the public dressing-down Suz gave me and I looked in the mirror, hard. I asked myself, 'Are you happy?' And the answer was such a resounding 'No' that I went in the next day.] and quit. Then she threw a fit about my quitting. J She swore she'd tell anyplace I applied that I had gambling problems and couldn't hold down a steady job. 'Who am I going to hire in your place?' she wanted to know, after screaming at us for weeks that we were expendable. I just listened and kept telling myself, 'In eight hours, Amy, you will never have to listen to this tyrant again.' Because that's what Suz was - a tyrant.""And so you just walked out.""Yup. Cleaned out my desk, took my two weeks of vacation as my notice, and that was it. I never looked back. I had some savings to tide me over, used my pension payout to buy the store instead of getting a loan, and now I'm doing what I love." She smiled. "By next year I may even be showing a profit. I'll start some new pension savings."I looked at the brightly decorated store, the sparsely filled shelves of herb capsules and poorly stocked freezer, the "health" magazines that included the soft-porn rag Macguire was finding so entrancing. But the place, like Amy, had... well... the place had an aura. And the aura was one of happiness. Aura! Yikes! Listen to me!"You know what I'm talking about," she in- sisted. There was a slightly accusatory tone in her voice. "You opened your catering business after being married to Or. Gorgeous. You must be ecstatic to be free of him.""It's... well..." From the wall, the Maharishi beamed down at me. "It's nirvana," I admitted."Then you know what I'm talking about.""I do. But now Or. Gorge - John Richard has been charged with Suz Craig's murder and my son is suffering like you wouldn't believe. For my son's sake, I need to find out if his father really killed her."Amy considered the green gingham curtains at the front of the store for a long time without replying. Then she said softly, "I believe in the forces of the universe, Goldy. He who has sinned will sin again. The truth will all come out. You need to trust.""I do trust, Amy. But to everyone's astonishment, John Richard Korman is out on bail. He may come looking for you, want to ask questions, and then lose his temper. It's the control freak in him. Very predictable. Anyway, I'd feel better if you weren't alone. Can you get somebody to work in the store with you? At the very least, keep the phone handy in case you have to dial 911." I reached out for her hand. "John Richard called me from jail. He wanted me to come over and investigate you."Amy pulled her hand away from mine. Her voice grew chill. "Is that why you're here?""Amy, please. I know this man. I'm here to warn you. He was involved with ACHMO, you were involved with ACHMO, and most certainly you didn't get along with Suz." I paused. "John Richard thinks you might have killed her, and that you've set him up to take the fall for you. Believe me, he's not a person you want to have gunning for you."She shook her head as she ran her fingers through her shiny red hair. "These people," she muttered sadly. "I swear."19Jake's earsplitting howls greeted Macguire and me before the van turned into our driveway. The cause for this canine distress was the arrival of Donny Saunders. The investigator for the Furman County district attorney sat on the top step of our front porch. Well, well, it was about time.Donny boasted slicked brown hair, a prominent nose and forehead, and an arrogant, horse-toothed smile he displayed whenever he stole the credit for a major bust. The closest Donny Saunders usually came to an arrest was sending seized material to a lab. Most recently, a uniformed officer had discovered twenty-five kilos of cocaine during a speeding stop. Donny Saunders had filed the report and then brayed endlessly afterward about making the biggest drug seizure in the history of the county.At the sight of him, I took a deep breath. A good investigator would have been at my door no later than Saturday afternoon, right after I'd discovered the body of Suz Craig and been questioned by Sergeant Beiner and her assistant. Two days had now gone by. The fact that Donny was finally paying me a call was not a good sign that the crime was being efficiently investigated."Hey, Goldy, how you doing!" he greeted me. "Got anything to eat? I'm starving! And you better do something 'bout that dog!"I struggled to appear friendly even as I gagged at Donny's Vegas-style suit of shiny blue fabric that shimmered and glinted as he swaggered toward us. I introduced Macguire, identifying him only as a houseguest."I'll need to talk to you alone," said Donny with his usual smug self-importance as I opened the front door. What a hospitable statement."Gosh," murmured Macguire in a hurt tone, "that's the third time today people haven't wanted me around when Goldy Schulz talks to them. Do I have b.o. or something? Guess I'll just go sit by myself. Wait till it's time to take ten more herb capsules." Before I could soothe his feelings, however, he plodded to the backyard to reassure Jake. After a moment the howls ceased. Unfortunately, my torment was just beginning."I've got a lot of cooking to do," I warned Donny. "I'm doing a big event tomorrow."The enormous shoulder pads inside Donny's sapphire suit rose ominously when he shrugged. "Not to worry! How would I bother you? Cook away, little lady! A woman's place is in the kitchen! Ha! Ha!" His good-ole-boy tone made me grit my teeth. "But say," he bulldozed on, "you got anything good to eat that's, you know, ready?"I closed my eyes, tried to count to ten but only got to four. I remembered my promises to Arch on the one hand and to Tom on the other. Maybe I could actually learn something from Donny. But I doubted it.I suggested a cheese sandwich and Donny eagerly accepted. He quickly added that bread kind of stuck in his craw and he'd need three or four beers to wash the crumbs down. My hopes for our conversation sank to a subterranean level unavailable to geologists. But since the brioche had completed its first rising, I removed it from the refrigerator along with a six-pack of Dos Equis. I punched down the cold, silky mass of dough, set it aside for its second rising, and proceeded to make Donny a sandwich of thickly sliced homemade bread, pesto, fresh tomato, and chŠvre. He asked for his second beer when I placed the sandwich in front of him. I handed him the cold bottle with the hope that it might loosen his tongue to share information I hadn't heard yet. I dreaded to think, though, what my husband would say about my plying an investigator with brewskis in the middle of the day."Say, this is pretty good!" Donny mumbled, mouth full. He took another enormous bite and munched thoughtfully. "Whaddaya call this white cheesy scum""ChŠvre." His horsey teeth pulled into a wide grin. "Nah, Goldy, that's a truck."I forced a smile. "What do you want to talk about, Donny?""Okay," he said seriously, wiping his mouth and then using his napkin to blow his nose. "Few things." He swigged the beer. "Suz Craig. You found her.""Yep." I decided I'd better cook. Otherwise the temptation to lose my temper might be too great. "I sure did find her." I took out a cutting board and a zester and ran the tool down the side of a lemon. Zest strands curled outward, sending a fine, pungent mist of lemon oil onto the board. "I saw her in a ditch as I was driving down the road just before seven last Saturday.""And she was your ex-husband's girlfriend." "She was, indeed." I minced the zest, then retrieved a coffee grinder that I used exclusively for pulverizing fruit zest and nuts. "Haven't you read my statement?"He gestured with the now-empty beer bottle and unsuccessfully repressed a belch. "I took a look at it. Now, what we need to establish here is John Richard Korman's prior patterns. You know, his similar activity. How he used to beat you up. How he almost killed you. That's the way I'll build my case." He eyed the Dos Equis carton longingly, but I ignored him. "Goldy," he continued, gushing with sincerity, "I've seen lots of criminals like this before. Once they do it, they get a taste for it. They keep doing it. Until they kill somebody.""Wait, Donny. What about the autopsy results?""Coroner's office should have 'em at the sheriff's department by the time I get back to the office. But don't you worry your pretty little head about that. So, when was the last time John Richard Korman clobbered you?"I took a shaky breath, remembering. "Seven years ago. He broke this thumb" - I gestured - "in three places not too long before we divorced.""Okay, I'll have to check what the pathologist says about Suz Craig's hand, if there're any contusions there. If we're lucky, maybe he broke her finger, too. How would Korman attack you? You don't mind me asking?""He'd grab my arms, shake me very hard. He liked to punch me in the face, even though most high-income abusers are devious enough to avoid the face. I usually ended up with a black eye.""Which eye?" He was not writing. "The right. Which was the black eye on her, too, I noticed.""You're correct there, little woman. Okay, now when he clobbered you, would he knock you out right away? Or would the fight go on for hours?"I gripped the knife. Recalling these events never became less painful. "It depended on how angry he was," I said softly. "But, Donny," I couldn't help interjecting, "what about the facts of this case? Since I never pressed charges, a judge may not allow all this. Have you talked to anyone down at Suz Craig's office? At ACHMO?""Oh, yeah. I was down in Denver talkin' to some execs at the HMO this morning - ""Which execs?" The only ACHMO executives in town had been busy raiding John Richard's office in Aspen Meadow. Had the rest of the department heads returned from the San Diego conference?"Well... talking to Suz Craig's secretary, actually, 'cuz most of the rest of the guys are off on some trip. But you can learn more that way. Those gals really know what's cooking, if you know what I mean." He winked."Ah." I put down the knife and zapped the lemon zest in the grinder. Then I pulverized the blanched slivered almonds and piled them into a pale mound. "So. What did Suz's secretary have to say?""Well..." He reached for another beer, pried off the top, and took a long swig. "I really shouldn't say.""Why not? Maybe I could help you. Fill in the blanks."He harumphed, popped the last of the sandwich into a corner of his mouth, chewed, and licked his fingers. Sometimes I wondered if the only decent food Donny ever got was when Goldilocks' Catering got mired in one of his investigations. "I'm telling you, Goldy, nobody likes Korman. But nobody liked that Craig woman, either. I mean, nobody. You know, you'd think people wouldn't speak ill of the dead.But get right down to it, I'm surprised nobody did her right there in the office. Course, they didn't have, the pattern, like our Doc Korman."I beat unsalted butter with sugar, egg yolks, vanilla, and lemon zest; measured out flour and the other dry ingredients, and then mixed them with the creamed mixture to make a nutty, buttery, heavenly-smelling dough. "Have you been looking at any other facts of the case, Donny?""Tha-a-a-at's why I'm here, right?"I wondered briefly if I could nip out for one of j the tranquilizers Marla had given me. Maybe Amy's! herb capsules had sedative powers. But no - there was a chance Donny's boastfulness would win out' and he'd tell me what Suz's secretary had had to say. If I didn't appear too eager, that is. So I concentrated on the question of how to provide a high ratio of tart raspberry jam to cookie dough. Scooping the dough into cupcake pans and then topping them with spoonfuls of jam would work. I ignored Donny and set about buttering a pan.He continued eagerly. "You listening? You wouldn't have believed how much that secretary, name of Luella Downing, hated Ms. Craig. Luella. was in some kind of state this morning."I tsked, but continued assiduously spraying a pan. "See," he persisted, "this Luella resented Ms. Craig 'cuz Ms. Craig had made it her business to know some money details of Luella's divorce." I looked up from the pan and raised my eyebrows. Donny smirked triumphantly. "I told Luella I wouldn't prosecute or nothing." I hid my exasperation and nodded knowingly. He went on. "Come to find out that Ms. Craig knew Luella had liquidated her IRA and put the money into her parents' account so's Luella's ex wouldn't find it. Our Ms. Craig used that info to get Luella to shut up about the taping."I dropped the pan on the counter. "Taping of what?"He held up a hand. "I'm getting there. And don't worry, I checked to see where Ms. Luella was over the weekend, just in case she'd gotten it into her head to off her boss over the IRA stuff. Luella was organizing a rummage sale for her parents' church in Aurora. The story checks out - Beiner went to the church and interviewed the parents."A minute amount of admiration for Donny wormed its way into my brain. "So... what was Luella taping?""Luella wasn't taping. Suz Craig was. Any meeting in her office." He lowered his voice. "Like the frigging White House, you asked me. See, nobody but Ms. Craig and Luella knew. Luella says if she'd dropped the dime on her boss, she would have lost her job and possibly her IRA bucks.""Does Luella know what was on the tapes? Did she transcribe them?""No, oh, no. Luella just happened to discover Ms. Craig loading a fresh tape into the machine built into her desk. See, one time Luella walked in on Ms. Craig without knocking, checking on some correspondence or something, and saw her fiddling with this machine. Luella says, 'What in the world are you doing?' That's when Ms. Craig says, 'You tell anybody about this and I'll fire you and tell your ex where your IRA dough is.' The one thing Ms. Craig told Luella was never to touch the machine. The boss lady told Luella she taped the meetings to cover herself. She also labeled the tapes and put them in a locked cabinet.""Good Lord. So what happened? How were they discovered?""When Ms. Craig turned up blue in a ditch, somebody called Luella. Turns out Luella was already home from the rummage sale. Soon as Luella heard her boss was dead, she called corporate HQ. Somebody was there even though it was Saturday. Luella hollered, 'You guys need to know about these tapes and go get' em before the press gets hold of 'em. Old Suz Craig was such a bitch, there's no telling what's on those tapes.' Corporate HQ has a cow and sends two guys to Denver Saturday night. They're scrambling like mad to break open her locked cabinets when somebody tips off the sheriff's department. They show up with a search warrant and seize the tapes they've found, plus use Ms. Craig's keys from her house to search all the office cabinets for more.""You learned all this from Sergeant Beiner? Or from Luella Downing?" I asked suspiciously."Little of both. My job, you gotta put everything together.""And why do you suppose Luella is spilling her guts to you?"His eyebrows lifted. "Hey, Goldy! Ace caterer amateur detective! Wake up! Luella shouldn't have called Minneapolis first, she should have told the cops about the tapes first. This morning Luella's suddenly got a big case of remorse, ooh, ooh, she meant to tell us, but she didn't want to lose her job, see, is what she's saying. Meanwhile, our department takes an inventory. Looks like one day's tapes are missing, and the people at ACHMO swear they don't have a clue where they are. So, bit later in the morning, the sheriff sends a team back up to Suz's house. They turn up nothing.""Sheesh.""So I'm thinking about your ex-husband, see. I'm thinking, why did he and Suz Craig have that catfight on Friday night? And then I think, the missing tapes, of course! John Richard probably has them.What? I pressed my lips together and turned away. I had to think. Delicate material, John Richard had said. I nudged soft scoops of dough into each cup. And what had ReeAnn said? She wanted him to put some stuff... in a safe place, somewhere the AstuteCare people couldn't find them. I ladled tart, inky jam on top of each dough disc. At John Richard's office this morning, Brandon Yuille had asked me the same question: If John Richard has given you anything to hide... I popped the cupcake pan into the hot oven."What could be on the tapes?" I asked, perplexed. "And who could have them?""Well, now, those are the questions, aren't they? The execs are scrambling like crazy. Where're the tapes, these powers-that-be want to know. And, believe me, this morning? All the ACHMO secretaries were pulling up the wall-to-wall trying to find the damn things. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, since Suz Craig's house has turned up nothing, the duty judge gives our guys a search warrant for Korman's house. No tapes, but somebody messed up his house bad with paint - ""One day's tapes... What day? What folks met with Suz Craig that day?" I interrupted."Luella's trying to reconstruct that." He shook his head and burped. "Korman doesn't have anyplace he hides things, does he?""He's compulsively neat. And he's just sold his place in Keystone." I chewed the inside of my lip. "He hasn't been to his condo in Hawaii since June. I guess he could have stashed the tapes there. But if they're in Hawaii, what would happen if Suz wanted [hem back?""Man, would I love it if the department sprang for a trip to the islands! Damn! You got another beer?""Donny. Are you driving?" He pulled his chin into his neck. "Well, yeah, but you don't need to worry about a coupla beers, Goldy, I can handle it. And don't worry, I'll callout to Hawaii for a search warrant. Now, how 'bout - ""Let me fix you some coffee. You know my husband's a cop. I wouldn't want you having an accident after drinking beer at our house. It'd look bad.""Okay," he said reluctantly, eyeing the espresso machine on my counter. "Only don't give me any of that cappuccino crap or I'll barf."I fixed Donny plain black coffee, which he slurped noisily. The nut-scented Linzer tarts resembled circular stained-glass windows when I removed them from the oven. Since they would go in the doll- show box lunches, I decided to call them Babsie's Tarts. While I was placing them on a rack to cool, I asked Donny if there were any suspects besides John Richard. He said not since Luella's alibi had checked out. I asked him if they'd caught the vandals who'd defaced John Richard's house, and he said, "Oh, do they think it was vandals?" Finally I asked him if he knew about the bonus John Richard was supposed to get, but didn't.Babsie's Tarts1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened_ cup sugar2 egg yolks1 teaspoon vanilla extract2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest (see Note)1 « cups bleached all-purpose flour (add one tablespoon in high altitudes)1 teaspoon ground cinnamon¬ teaspoon ground cloves¬ teaspoon salt1 teaspoon baking powder1 ¬ cups blanched slivered almonds, ground (see Note)1 to 1 ¬ cups best-quality seedless red raspberry jamBeat butter until creamy. Add sugar and beat until thoroughly incorporated. Beat egg yolks slightly with vanilla and lemon zest. Add to creamed mixture, stirring thoroughly. Sift dry ingredients together, then stir into creamed mixture. Stir in almonds.Preheat oven to 350. Spray two non-stick cupcake pans with vegetable oil spray. Using a 2-tablespoon scoop (or measuring out in 2 tablespoon increments), place one scoop of batter into each cupcake pan. Pat the batter gently to cover the bottom of each cup. Do not indent the dough or the jam that is to be cooked in the center will leak through. Place 2 teaspoons of jam in the center of each tart.Bake for about 15 minutes, until the batter has risen and turned golden brown around the jam. After the pans have been removed from the oven, use a sharp knife to loosen the edges of each tart. Allow the tarts to cool in the pan until cool to the touch, at least 1 hour. Using a kitchen knife, gently lever the tarts out onto cookie racks and allow to cool completely. You may serve them plain, or sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve with a scoop of best-quality vanilla ice cream. Makes 2 dozen.Note: Citrus zests and nuts are easily ground in a clean coffee grinder."Yeah, yeah. That's part of my theory. The Craig lady didn't approve the usual bonus for Korman, so he didn't have any money, and so he wouldn't give her the tapes he'd hidden, and so they argued and he killed her." He turned the corners of his lips down, shook his head. "It was his pattern," he concluded smugly. "Say, those smell awful good."I put a warm, crumbly Babsie's Tart on a small I plate and handed it to him. "Ah... did you find out why exactly Suz didn't give him his bonus? Did Luella clue you in on that?"He placed the small tart in his mouth, lounged back in the chair, and held up one finger as he chewed. "Billing," he said finally. "He didn't bill right. I'm going to really grill Korman's secretary about that. You know, about whether Korman and Ms. Craig ever argued about bills. Plus there's a malpractice suit outstanding against him. The HMO didn't like that, or the fact that they were being sued by the same patient. So our doc was in hot, hot water. Boiling. More reason to kill Ms. Craig." He glanced at his watch. "Talk about billing! I need to see a couple more people today or the department will have a fit over the hours I submit.""How come?""Well, usually I bill by the hour, but they've been saying I'm too thorough with each person and spend too much time investigating. Whoo-ie! Now I bill by the people I talk to. Plus, even though I have a photographic memory, I have to write up a report on each interview. And believe me, those reports can be a bear, you're typing 'em up the middle of the night.""I'm sure you can manage it," I said reassuringly as I escorted him to the door."I wouldn't mind the typing so much," he said disconsolately, "if only I didn't get so hungry."So I gave him another tart. Donny Saunders may be a pig, but I can never resist a hungry soul.To my surprise, Arch called and asked if Todd could spend the night. I said yes, and was further pleased when Arch asked for his favorite dinner, baked potatoes with a variety of toppings. I was hopeful that fixing the potatoes would help me reflect on Donny Saunders's visit. Tapes? What tapes? And where were the missing ones? I'd learned just enough to be frustrated. If Frances Markasian ever did a story on the waste of taxpayer money, I'd point her in the direction of old Donny.I filled a wide frying pan with extrathick bacon slices, and for some reason thought of the composer Schoenberg. Schoenberg had been quoted as saying that his music contained all his secrets. His composi tions held the key to unlocking the inner workings of his soul. You just had to know how to listen. Somehow, all the information before me might contain enough data to unlock the secret of what had happened in the early hours of Saturday morning. I just didn't know how to decipher it.The phone rang. It was the therapist's office calling to say I'd be getting a call later in the day about scheduling Arch. Apparently there was no way the temporary secretary could do anything now. I sighed and said I'd be waiting for her call.I trimmed crisp green broccoli for one of the potato-toppings and thought of Arch. He and Todd were planning an extended "jam" tonight. Jamming, I'd learned, was not about food, but about music. Fine with me. I wanted Arch to have a regular social life instead of fretting about his father. Truth to tell, though, it pained me that I couldn't relate to the music that today's fourteen-year-olds liked. I'd faulted my parents for finding the Rolling Stones, execrable. But the Rolling Stones made music. What Arch and Todd listened to was just noise. Well, I thought with a sigh, Schoenberg's mother probably had trouble with her son's music. Come to think of it, I thought as I retrieved a dozen fat Idaho potatoes from my pantry, Schoenberg's music pretty much sounded like noise to me, too.As I washed and pricked the potatoes, I remembered to call the town veterinarian. I was still wondering about the scratches on Ralph Shelton's face and if they'd truly come from his feline. The veterinarian's receptionist said that under no circumstances could she tell me anything about the care of Ralph Shelton's animals. Patient confidentiality seemed alive and well these days, if you were a cat. Well, maybe Tom would know.I placed the potatoes in the oven, then kneaded the brioche dough gently, divided it, and set it into loaf pans for its third and final rising. By the time Arch, Todd, and Tom arrived home, I'd put the loaves in the oven and finished making the dinner. Todd Druckman, who was baby-faced and slightly pudgy, and had hair that was even browner and straighter than Arch's, pronounced ours the best-smelling kitchen he'd ever visited. A pile of baked potatoes invited slashing and filling. I pointed to where the boys could choose from a vat of creamy cheese sauce bubbling on the stove, broccoli florets heaped in a steaming pile, and a mountain of hot, crispy bacon that beckoned with its mouthwatering scent. The real surprise occurred, however, when Arch, Todd, Tom, and I were bustling around setting the table. We didn't even notice Macguire entering the kitchen."Hey!" he said. "What smells so great?"For a moment we were all speechless. Macguire, hungry? Then Tom winked at me. "What is it Cinderella's godmother says? Sometimes miracles take some time?"I looked at my watch. "Yeah. Six hours. That's when we left the health-food store. Amazing." Macguire still shuffled and his body was achingly thin. But healthy color infused his cheeks for the first time in a month, and he wanted something to eat! Both were momentous developments. I offered a silent prayer of thanks.The potatoes were indeed out of this world: each flaky bite was robed in golden cheese sauce and melded stupendously with the tender broccoli and crunchy bacon. Macguire, to my amazement, slowly ate two potatoes slathered with toppings, then laughingly pronounced himself so full his stomach ached. Tom, Todd, and Arch cleaned every last bite from their plates. Our meal was full of companionship, good food, and laughter. I never once thought of the corpse I'd found in the ditch.Arch broke the spell of family life. He said suddenly, "I wonder what they're having at the jail tonight.""Hon," I replied gently, "your dad's out on bail. This morning we - ""You found out this morning that he got out? And you didn't call me at Todd's?""I thought... if your dad wanted to call, he would -""And you probably wouldn't let me talk to him!" He looked accusingly from me to Tom. "And I'll bet you haven't done anything today to help him, either!""Excuse me, young man, but I have too done something - "But before I could finish my sentence, Arch threw down his fork and ran out of the room.Tom shook his head. Todd looked bewildered. I silently put a half-dozen Babsie's Tarts on a plate, handed Todd a six-pack of soft drinks, and told him to go on up and see what he could do. Todd took the plate along with the pop cans and gratefully excused himself."Maybe I should go, too," Macguire announced in a guilty tone, and left. Minutes later I saw the light on the phone flash red, indicating that Arch was making an outgoing call from upstairs. The call did not last long. Probably Arch had called John Richard's number and left a message on his machine. My mind immediately leaped to a fresh question: If the Jerk wasn't home to answer his phone, where was he?Tom said, "Let me do the dishes, Miss G.""You do everything," I said, disconsolate. "Bring home take-out. Do the dishes. Put up with us. Put up with me.""You make a great dinner," he countered as he started hot water running in the sink. "And you're the one who tries to do everything. You can't make everything go smoothly.""At least I'd be a better investigator than Donny Saunders."Tom chuckled. "Sorry, Miss G., but that's not saying much."While he was doing the dishes, I asked him about the tapes from Suz Craig's office. He said the department was listening to the tapes they had found and making an inventory of them. I told him about the discussions I'd had with Amy Bartholomew and ReeAnn Collins. He nodded and didn't take notes, indicating he'd already heard similar information at his office. Then he punched buttons on the espresso machine. A few moments later he placed a demitasse of crema-laden espresso in front of me and sat down across the table.I sighed. "If I drink this, I'm going to be up all night.""Aw, drink it. You're going to be up all night anyway. You're going to be up every night until this is over. And trust me, Goldy, these things always come to an end. One way or another."I closed my eyes and sipped the rich, satisfying espresso. When Tom placed the last dish in the dish- washer, I slid the golden-brown brioche loaves out of the oven and placed them on racks to cool. Their rich, homey scent bathed the kitchen.Tom said, "Let's take some cookies out on the deck: I want to talk to you about the autopsy, but I want to be somewhere the boys won't hear us.""Chocolate, coffee, and death. Dark topics all." We stretched out on one of my fancy deck-furniture couches that had been in disuse for so long. The night air was sweet, mellow, and filled with the buzz of unseen insects. Just above the mountains' dark silhouette, Venus glowed like an ice crystal.We savored the Chocolate Comfort Cookies in silence, curled together in each other's arms. The! cookies were chock-full of fat chocolate chips and crunchy toasted hazelnuts. The sun-dried cranberries gave a delicious, tart chewiness to each bite.I asked Tom if the cops had called Shelton's veterinarian and he said yes. The scratches on Ralph Shelton's face had been inflicted by his cat but were minor. Then Tom sighed. He asked, "Did you also know Suz Craig had a cat?""Yes, a shy calico one named Tippy. Saturday morning, right after you went to talk to the deputies, that cat jumped into my arms. I know Tippy was part of the crime scene, but I was afraid she'd get trampled if I abandoned her. I left her with Tina Corey. Why?"He didn't answer right away. I snuggled in close and just enjoyed his warmth."Here's what we found out today," Tom said at length as he massaged my back. "Suz Craig's security system was turned off. Also, Suz Craig didn't die from falling into the ditch. She died of a subdural hematoma. No blood, because she was hit with her cat's scratching post. It's a solid metal cylinder covered with carpeting. You know what a subdural - ""Yes. A blow causes bleeding into the brain. The bleeding brings on death.""Right. It takes eight hours for lividity to fix, and she'd only been in the ditch two, maybe three hours before you found her. It's very unlikely she could have gotten the fatal blow there. So somebody put her outside. Why, we don't know. We're still waiting for the drug screen to come back; that'll take a few days.""Yes, I remember."Tom continued thoughtfully. "Here's the odd thing. She definitely has the same pattern of bruises that you used to have when John Richard attacked you. If he'd beaten her up and killed her immediately, the bruises wouldn't have shown up on the corpse. Bruises take about three or four hours, minimum, to develop, unless the victim's one of those rare people who show a bruise within an hour. So what happened between the time Suz Craig got beaten up and the time she died of a blow from the cat's scratching post? And how did she get into that ditch?""The vandals say John Richard left that night and then came back. Or somebody in a Jeep just like one of his, no lights, came there.""Yeah." Tom sighed wearily. "I know what they said. We're checking to see if any white Jeeps were rented anywhere in the Denver area. And we've got the drug screen to wait for. Plus the skin under her nails has been sent to a crime lab. So we'll know more by the end of the week. If it's Korman's skin, at least we'll have him for assault."But not necessarily for murder. Would he walk? I didn't want to think about it.As Tom had predicted, I did not sleep well. At one point I crept down to the kitchen and typed into the computer my own notes on what ReeAnn Collins, Amy Bartholomew, Donny Saunders, and Tom had told me. I didn't nave a photographic memory. But then, after what I'd been through when I lived' with the Jerk, I'd prayed never to have a photographic memory.20Despite the fact that Tuesday morning dawned with a bright sun and jewel-bright humming-birds whirring past my downstairs windows, I did not feel the least bit cheered. Tom had left early. I went through my yoga routine trying to empty my mind - not easy. Today, among all the other crises, I was set to begin catering to the doll people. I'd read recently about the necessity of going into a zone of enjoyment when doing your work, especially if you expected to derive pleasure from your career over the course of a lifetime. I tried to see the zone and imagine Gail Rodine not in it.I sliced the cooled brioche loaves and then began making the box lunches. Each lunch would contain four sandwich triangles: cucumber, smoked salmon, Swiss cheese, and the pesto-tomato-chŠvre combination that Donny Saunders had gobbled up so ravenously. I shuddered and fixed myself an iced latte. Something Donny had said kept swimming up just below my consciousness as I smoothed cool mayonnaise over the bread slices and laid out the sandwich fillings.When I finished wrapping the sandwiches, I tucked a miniature bottle of white wine, wrapped cheese straws, a cup of plum, orange, and banana fruit salad, and a plastic bag with a Babsie's Tart and a chocolate cookie in each box. As I closed the last cardboard box, my eye fell on the computer. Computer, disks, tapes. Tapes. If Luella had told anyone about the taping, she would have lost her job. How significant were these meetings that Suz had taped? I didn't know, and I'd promised Tom I wouldn't go nosing around at ACHMO. I put in a call to Brandon Yuille's office. I would apologize for snapping at him at John Richard's office, then pump him for info. When his assistant asked suspiciously who was calling and I told her, I had to wait two minutes for her cold response that Mr. Yuille was unavailable. I asked if I could call back at a more convenient time. She responded icily that there just was no convenient time. Fine. I hung up and called Chris Corey's office.His secretary put me right through. "Goldy!" His deep, rumbly voice sounded surprised. "What's going on? Korman hasn't come over to bother you, has he?""He wouldn't dare. Listen, Chris, something one of the investigators said has been bothering me." I hesitated, remembering I'd promised not to mention that Luella was the one who had spilled the beans to Donny. "It relates to what we were talking to Frances about Sunday at the cafe. You said ACHMO was going into John Richard's office looking for notes about the McCrackens' suit.""Well... yes.""It's just that I heard there were some missing tapes, too."Chris grunted. "Don't remind me."I persisted innocently, "What's going on? Why would Suz keep tapes of meetings in her office?"He lowered his voice. "Look, Goldy, it's a huge crisis. Everybody's upset about it. Nobody seems to know why she was taping in her office. Secretly taping. Makes it much worse.""You say that as if there were other taping systems.""Yeah, sure. The microphones in our main meeting room are sound-activated, and everybody knows that everything there gets taped, then transcribed so we have accurate minutes for each meeting. It could have been Suz was afraid of industrial spying, and that's why she did some kind of backup taping in her office. Maybe she kept the tapes locked up there and took them from her office to her home or wherever because some threat had appeared.""Did she know about your work with Frances?""Not unless Frances told her, and that's unlikely.""Who could be doing spying that would make Suz worried?""Look. Our meetings are confidential, Goldy, and if another HMO like MeritMed is trying to find out the details of our expansion plans, there could be hell to pay. And with legal action outstanding against us, the thought of having tapes of other in-house meetings floating around where anybody might get their hands on them is causing mass paranoia in corporate headquarters, believe me.""Are you sure Suz had them?""No! What sends shivers up the bowels of HQ is that somebody Suz fired might have them. If anyone besides Luella knew Suz was taping, there could have been motivation to get in and steal them, especially if they might prove something against ACHMO. Plus," he added darkly, "they're panicked that Patricia McCracken might have them somehow. That woman's gone a little bonkers. It wouldn't surprise anybody here if she'd managed to steal the key to that cabinet, break into the office, and swipe the tapes from one of the days when Suz met with our lawyers about the McCracken case.""So you don't even know what day's meetings are missing?"He groaned with frustration. "We're trying to reconstruct, but it's a huge mess. We should know today. We're supposed to have security, but you know how that goes. Anyway, Goldy, speaking of meetings, I've got to go to one now. Damage control. Good luck with whatever it is you're working on.""I'm not really working on anything, Chris. It's just that my son is very upset. I promised him I'd try to help his dad, much as I dislike the man."I hung up and packed the lunches between freezer bags guaranteed to keep food cold. When I was almost done, Macguire came down to breakfast His transformation was remarkable. His cheeks were genuinely pink. There was a spring to his only slightly wobbly step, and he had a broad smile on his face that made me laugh."Let me fix you some toast," I offered. "And some eggs, maybe?""Sounds great." While the frying eggs sizzled in the pan, Macguire dutifully washed down his ten herb capsules with water turned a science-fiction green by the chlorophyll. "Todd and Arch are still asleep," he announced. "I'll wake them up at ten. They listened to music until three A.M. I'll fix 'em breakfast, too. Toast, probably." His grin warmed my heart.I thanked him for tending to Arch and Todd, declined his offer to help load my supplies, and hauled the first cardboard box out to my van. When I came back into the kitchen, my phone was ringing. "Goldy, my God, I'm so glad I got you." Ralph Shelton's voice sounded exhausted and strained. "Look, I'm terribly sorry about running into you at the McCrackens' party. I just got out of control on those blades. Are you all right?""Sure, Ralph." No use troubling him with a litany of my lingering aches. "Thanks for calling."He hesitated. "I just need to talk to you for a minute. Remember when you were over here asking how to get to the McCrackens' place?""Yes. What's the matter?""Well. I was supposed to drive to Omaha this morning, but they got word that... Oh, God, I need to know if you know anything about these tapes that Suz Craig was making. Please tell me, Goldy, I'm leveling with you. As an old friend."I took a deep breath. "Why do you care about them?"His voice wavered, as if he were about to cry. "Because I went in to see her last month, on the fourteenth to be exact, and... I just can't let anyone know what we talked about. Please, Goldy, help me. Suz was trying to destroy me. Do you have the tapes? Does John Richard? Are they at his office? Or his house? I've already driven past Suz's house and there's that damn yellow tape all around it - ""Ralph, calm down. First tell me - exactly why were you fired from ACHMO?"For a moment I thought he wouldn't answer. But then he sighed. "Patient complaints. No sexual misconduct or anything like that. It's just that I have a terrible bedside manner. I always have. You can imagine how that can kill you in ob-gyn. So. I was offered an administrative job with MeritMed. I took it."I recalled Suz's secretary, whom Suz had kept in line with threats. "Was Suz threatening you in any way?"He hesitated. "You've learned a lot, haven't you? She did threaten people. Yes, I was one of them. But it was all... exaggeration. I left before she could ruin me," he concluded darkly. "But if someone gets hold of those tapes... Oh, God," he moaned."Did you... were you... did you do something to Suz Craig?""Of course not, what the hell do you think I am?"Well, that was what we didn't know, wasn't it? "I honestly don't know where the tapes are, Ralph. And John Richard's out on bail. You could give him or his office a call. But his secretary is frantic with the mess, and there's no telling what kind of emotional state John Richard is in. If I were you, I'd stay away from both of them.""Yeah, well, you're not me."At the LakeCenter the Babsie-doll show was in full swing. The security guard, even more hung over today than before, grunted a question about whether my assistant would be helping me, because he had strict orders not to let "that young fellow" near the dolls. I kept my patience and told him my assistant would not be accompanying me today. The armed guard escorted me past the display tables, where shiny arrays of statuesque, ultraslender, elaborately coiffed Babsies in lacy, sequined gowns elicited choruses of oohs and aahs from the crush of excited visitors. Even I was impressed, especially when I saw the price tags.At the appointed time, I passed out box lunches on the patio to women clutching blue lunch tickets. While they ate, I indulged in a more detailed tour of the show. One table was dedicated solely to Holiday Babsies from 1990 to the present. All the dolls belonged to Gail Rodine. All were marked "Not for Sale." The costumes were festive and fantastic: tiny rhinestones glistened above shimmery red and green taffeta gowns; white furs set off dark velvet evening dresses. Another table featured Babsie as astronaut, Babsie as veterinarian, Babsie as a prima ballerina, Babsie horseback riding, Babsie walking her poodle on the Champs-Elysees, even Babsie as President. All that was missing was Babsie as Elvis. A long aisle was devoted to Babsie accessories. I looked with awe at teensy-weensy toreador pants; high heels; sequined leotards; compartmentalized Babsie suitcases; flip-curled wigs in blond, black, brunette, and red hair; and sexy lingerie that befit the Babsie Massage Parlor. As Donny Saunders would say, Whoo-ie!The few attendees not indulging in box lunches were cooing over a table on the far side of the ballroom. When I joined them, I realized their drooling wasn't from craving my cucumber-brioche sandwiches. Their eyes were greedily fixed on a display of a single Babsie. I stared at the display: Babsie in a "Japanese exclusive" gown. I didn't know if that meant the gown was made or sold in Japan or both. No matter. I was transfixed by the miniature image of a fashion plate.Babsie's blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and bow-shaped mouth were demure, and her long, perfect blond coif did not reveal a single flyaway strand. The bodice and skirt of the tiny full-length gown were made of snowy white satin, and the toes of itsy-bitsy pink high heels peeked out at the hem. A hot-pink embroidered chiffon overskirt pouffed and swirled above the white satin. A miniature stole of the same pink fabric hugged the doll's shoulders, while a choker of minuscule pink pearls decorated her neck. Very nice, I thought appreciatively, the sort of thing you'd wear to an inaugural ball or a royal wedding. Then I looked at this Babsie's price tag: three thousand dollars. When the woman next to me asked if I didn't think it was just unbelievable, I said, "Yes, incredible beyond words." Never let it be said that I was a caterer who couldn't appreciate her clients' hobbies.The first woman said, "The dealer said to me, 'How can you refuse this adorable doll?' Now I feel as if this poor doll is a refugee who will starve if I don't buy her!" A tear slid down one of her cheeks.A second woman whispered, "I've got a spy in France. You should see my phone bills. But when the French Babsies come out - you know, the ones we can't get? - I have my spy get it. She airmails it in a plain brown wrapper. For security. It costs me, but it's worth it."John le Carre, eat your heart out. I tore myself away from the dolls and returned to the patio. In a large plastic garbage bag I collected dirty cups, wrappers, used plastic spoons, and empty miniature wine bottles. Suddenly the cormorants near the shore rose in a frenzied flutter, and I was dimly aware of a distant wap wap wap wap wap.I sat on one of the patio benches and squinted at the sky. Wap wap wap, louder and louder. In the summer, this was the most dreaded sound in Aspen Meadow. It was the Flight-for-Life helicopter. Usually the only time you heard it was when someone, frequently a child, had drowned, fallen while rock climbing, or been lost for hours after straying from a wilderness hike.I trotted to the Dumpster near the lake and lofted in the trash bag. The helicopter circled near Main Street. That was odd. The copter appeared to be hovering over Cottonwood Creek, not too far from our house. I reached into my apron pocket for the portable cellular phone I took to events and shakily punched in our number, reminding myself that not all disasters in Aspen Meadow had to involve me.One second, two seconds, three... then the phone connected and Arch answered on the first ring. "I'm okay, Mom.""How did you - ?""Are you kidding? All you do is worry about me. I heard the helicopter a minute ago and called Marla to make sure she wasn't having another heart attack. She'd already found out what was going on. Somebody was in an explosion. A grill at the park blew up. They think some mountain moths built a nest in the vent. Then when the person lit the propane, the grill exploded, just like Frances Markasian wrote about in the paper. Oh, wait, there's the other line. Maybe it's Marla again."I watched the slow sweep of the second hand on my watch while I waited for Arch to come back on the line. As usual, I tried to reconstruct where Tom was -"Oh, Mom," Arch said, his voice subdued. "Marla says that, you know, she survived the explosion, but she's burned and bloody - ""Who survived, Arch?" I was frantic. "Marla?""Oh, no, Mom. The person trying to light the grill... the person who got hurt.... It was ReeAnn."21I asked Arch how Macguire was doing. He was asleep. I asked if Arch had heard from his father. He said no. I told him to make sure that all the windows were closed and that the security system was armed. And stay inside, I said. It wasn't a logical order, it was an emotional one, a fact my son hotly pointed out. I told him I'd be home in less than an hour. Then I disconnected and called Tom.He wasn't at his office. I checked my watch: two o'clock. Rather than leave a message, I redialed the department and asked to speak with Sergeant Beiner. When she answered, I identified myself and told her what had happened."Hold on," she said. In the background she rustled paper. "This ReeAnn? Korman's secretary, right?" I insisted that this accident involving ReeAnn had to be related somehow to Suz Craig's murder.Calmly, Sergeant Beiner said, "How?"I bit the inside of my cheek and watched the cormorants land back on the lake. A hummingbird soared and then dipped to sip the nectar from a nearby poppy. "How," I repeated not so patiently to Sergeant Beiner, "could an accident involving ReeAnn Collins relate to Suz Craig? John Richard might have thought she killed Suz and decided to punish her. Aah... maybe somebody thinks ReeAnn has possession of something incriminating.""Hmm," said Sergeant Beiner, clearly unconvinced.I told her I knew about Suz secretly taping meetings. I added that Donny Saunders and Chris Corey had reported that some tapes were missing. Maybe somebody thought ReeAnn had them. Maybe Patricia McCracken or Ralph Shelton or somebody was so desperate for the missing tapes that they had tried to blow ReeAnn up. Sergeant Beiner said that these people had all known ReeAnn for some time, why do something to her now?"I don't know," I replied persistently. "Maybe because of the tapes. But there is a connection, I'm certain of it.""Goldy," advised Sergeant Beiner, "take a breather.""Please help me," I begged her. "I know you usually keep the families of those affected apprised of the progress of an investigation... Can't you please help us, just so we'll stay informed and my son won't have so much anxiety?"For a moment she was silent. Then she said tersely, "Patricia McCracken I don't know about. She called this morning to get an update on the criminal investigation so she can decide what to do about her civil suits. I just called her back an hour ago. Now" - there was a rustle of pages and I knew she was consulting her notes - " Amy Bartholomew was interviewed by Donny Saunders this morning. Ms. Bartholomew told him she was leaving to go camping alone for a few days in the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve, and that you were the one who told her to get away for a while. Maybe she didn't go, but I don't think that she had any grudge against ReeAnn Collins that was life-threatening. Do you?""I guess not." "As for Dr. Korman, he's out on bail, as you no doubt are aware. You might want to put your efforts into recalling that judge in the next election." She paused. "I don't know about Ralph Shelton. We'll have somebody go up and talk to him. But I have to tell you, it's going to be a while.""Okay." I felt defeated, not because I wanted Amy or Patricia or Ralph or somebody at ACHMO or even John Richard to have hurt ReeAnn, but because I was completely confused. I mumbled an apology to Sergeant Beiner for bothering her and hung up.I raced back to the LakeCenter and finished cleaning up the box lunches. Occasionally, I reflected as I stooped to pick up the last of the trash the visitors had left, I have a great culinary idea that fails. But before I know things aren't going to work out, the inspiration stokes my energy and makes my brain fire on all cylinders. Blue cheese pizza was the product of such thinking. Coffeecake swirled with frozen pitted Bing cherries was another, as was sausages baked with apples and hominy. They were all failures. I'd gagged on the too-salty pizza. The coffeecake turned first inky, then mushy, then inedible. And when Arch had had two bites of the sausage concoction, he'd asked if we could go to Burger King for breakfast.Most of my food ideas and experiments succeed. But it's hard to bear that in mind when the failures occur. And instead of responding to these setbacks with an optimistic, Thomas Edison-style, now-l-know-what-doesn't-work attitude, I usually feel frustrated and angry that I spent time and money on ingredients yielding such disasters. Worse, the anguish accompanying the failures always plunges me into a psychological well of uncertitude. Questions like Are you really in the right line of work? and Who do you think you are, anyway? taunt me. Eventually, of course, I always pull myself together, toss the messes in the garbage, and go on to the next concoction.It was that pulling-together time that I now longed for. Poor ReeAnn.When I pressed the buttons on our security system and entered our home, the warmth inside brought a small lift in my spirits. It's not so bad, I told myself. ReeAnn was alive, if injured. I was upholding my promise to Arch. I was trying to find out what really had happened to Suz Craig. I didn't want to clear the Jerk, I didn't even care if anything ever exonerated him. But I did want to know what had happened, and why, so that when they hauled John Richard off for an extended prison stay, I could tell Arch with a clear conscience that I had done my darnedest.I called Lutheran Hospital and asked to check on the condition of ReeAnn Collins. Since I was not family, I was told, the information could not be divulged. Upstairs, Arch and Macguire were listening to what could advisedly be called music. Macguire showed me a huge box of imported chocolates that Marla had brought over. She'd told the boys she was going down to Lutheran Hospital to check on ReeAnn personally, and she'd call me later. I knew she'd get the info. When Marla told people she was a family member, they rarely argued.The boys offered me a wrapped Mozartkgel and I took it. It was somewhat ironic that the only way these two would acknowledge the classical masters of music was through candy. Within moments I more chocolate bulged in their cheeks and noise blared down our street. I thought again of Schoen- berg's mother and retreated hastily to my kitchen.I booted up my computer and went through the file I'd opened on the circumstances surrounding Suz Craig's death. What significance could ReeAnn have to the murder of Suz Craig? What was the link? I couldn't see any, apart from the fact that ReeAnn had known all about the Jerk's affairs, and probably a great deal about Suz's as well.I scrolled back through my computer file and reread an early entry, where I summarized the catering job I'd done at Suz's house in July. It had been a clear, sunlit day, with clouds piling up over the mountains to the west and birds flitting among the blue campanula and columbine. Suz had been nervous about the appearance of her yard with its unfinished landscaping. She'd fretted about the weather, since she hadn't wanted the ACHMO honchos to be soaked by an unexpected mountain shower. She'd shown little interest in the food preparation and presentation. To me this said: Career woman whose postcollege path did not detour through the kitchen. Which was just fine. That kind of client uncritically appreciates my work, even thinks of it as a kind of magic. Suz had appeared cheerful, but she had not really enjoyed the food. And when Chris Corey had fallen down the steps, she'd been distraught.All of this begged the question I'd never thought to ask in the first place: Why had the Minneapolis people been visiting in July? The people at the party had certainly made no mention of an annual review, audit, or meeting. In retrospect, that seemed strange. When I'd asked one visiting staff member what had brought him out to Denver, I'd received a noncommittal response along the lines of "Fighting fires." Exactly what kind of fire? Suz's guests had all been from Human Resources at ACHMO headquarters, that much I knew. I did have a foodie buddy in the Denver ACHMO HR office. But the last time I'd seen Brandon Yuille, at John Richard's office, he had been upset with me for not telling him where the Jerk would hide something. Now I realized he'd probably been referring to the missing meeting tapes, as well as notes about the malpractice and negligence suits. I felt guilty all over again for snapping at him, and resolved to be reconciled before asking him more about Suz.To keep my promise to Tom, I knew I couldn't pay Brandon a visit at the ACHMO office itself. Not that they'd let the ex-wife of the man accused of murdering their vice-president through the doors. So instead I phoned Brandon's office and again identified myself: Goldy Schulz, the caterer, the friend of Brandon's. Once more Brandon's secretary was either well-trained or just her usual wary self. She asked the nature of my call."I need to apologize to him for a misunderstanding we had. Also, I'd like to talk to him about a lunch I catered a while ago," I replied. I avoided mentioning the name of Suz Craig. "We talked about Thai food and fudge, remind him of that. I have a couple of questions about the event itself."There was a pause. "Aah," the secretary said finally, with mock regretfulness, "it looks as if Mr. Yuille will be in a meeting for the next three days.""Don't they ever take breaks?" I asked good-naturedly. "This won't take long."She didn't respond immediately. I had the feeling she was looking straight at Brandon, who was vigorously shaking his head. At length she stiffly announced, "I can connect you with Mr. Yuille's voice mail, if you'd like."I assented and briefly told the recorded voice that I was trying to help my son deal with his father being arrested by keeping him informed about the murder investigation. Could Brandon forgive me for being short with him at Korman's office? And could he satisfy my curiosity, tell me why the Minneapolis HR team at Suz's house had come to Denver in the first place? Finally, did he happen to know if anyone had it in for John Richard's secretary, ReeAnn Collins, who'd just been badly injured in a barbecue incident?Well, I thought as I hung up, that ought to either ruin our friendship or take it to a whole new level. I had the disconcerting feeling that I'd been too pushy. Moreover, whether any useful information would come out of my requests was, it seemed at this point, extremely questionable.I wanted to cook. But my growling stomach announced I was too hungry to concentrate. I'd had nothing to eat in the last eight hours except a piece of toast, coffee, and a Mozartkgel. Looking around, I dove into the container of Chocolate Comfort Cookies like a madwoman. Although I've read accounts of how addicts heighten their drug experiences, in my opinion nothing beats a large mouthful of dark, velvety chocolate on an empty stomach. I closed my eyes, bit into the cookie, and waited for the rush. An ecstasy of shivers began in the small of my back. I sighed with chocoholic contentment Now I was ready to face whatever the rest of the day cared to deliver.According to my catering calendar, the following morning - Wednesday - Gail Rodine's doll-club board of directors wanted a fancy breakfast by the lake. I'd promised her baked scrambled eggs with cream cheese and shrimp, fruit kebabs, honey-cured ham, and an assortment of breads. My supplier had delivered the meat last Friday. I heaved the plump, bone-in ham onto the counter to check if it had been spiral-cut as I'd ordered. It was, and would only need heating in the morning. The eggs and shrimp I would assemble at the LakeCenter, but the breads needed to be organized today.I had two large loaves of the brioche left over from the box lunches, plus several dozen dark pumpernickel rolls that I'd made and frozen particularly' for this event. But one more bread was needed to round things out. Experimenting to put together a delectable new bread for an upscale breakfast? Please don't throw me in the briar patch. Thomas Edison, here I come. I knew I could do it. I scanned the walk-in pensively.In the use-up-stray-ingredients economy that good caterers invariably subscribe to, I noted egg whites left over from making the Babsie Tarts, a couple of oranges that I'd ordered along with the lemons, and several unopened jars of poppy seeds. I pounced on these ingredients. I'd assemble a cake-like orange poppy-seed bread. Or die in the attempt.As always, cooking lifted me from the doldrums. While the egg whites were whipped into a froth, I measured the dry ingredients and then delighted in the fine spray of citrus oil that slicked my fingers when I scraped the zest from the oranges. I Outside, the sun shone brilliantly in a deep blue sky and a warm breeze swished through the aspens. I opened the window over the sink. The boys' music reverberated along the street. Out back Jake howled an accompaniment. I smiled. If the music made the boys happy, I wasn't going to say a thing.I was folding the poppy seeds into the batter when John Richard Korman jumped in front of the window. I screamed and dropped the bowl in the sink. The bowl shattered. Jake howled. Locked out back, the dog couldn't help me. I'd disarmed the security system. I hadn't turned it back on. Oh, God.