The Whole Enchilada (11 page)

“Oh, please don't,” George interrupted. His voice shook, and his brown eyes filled with tears. “I loved her. I did.” He pressed his hands over his eyes and sobbed. “I love Drew. I bleed for my boy. I don't know how this could have happened to his mother.”

“Nor do we,” I said gently. “We're only trying to find out about Holly's . . . situation.” I paused. Could I bluff? I wondered. “I kept the notes from a support group we were all in, and I know the details of your, er—”

George looked up abruptly. No, I could not bluff. We should not have come.

“The details of what?” he prompted, rubbing his mustache. When I didn't reply, he said, “Why did your husband send my son off to Alaska so quickly?”

“That's not what happened,” Boyd interjected. “Drew had permission from you to go to Alaska.” He did not want to tell them about the department's investigation, of course, or that Drew himself had not wanted to stay with George and Lena. He certainly didn't mention that Tom was considering Drew as a person of interest in the case. “Our department has a policy about minors traveling after the death of a parent, and we adhered to it—”

“But I'm his parent, too!” George cried.

Boyd held up his hand. “The victim's sister flew into Denver this morning. They departed together. We just wanted to keep Drew safe until he had packed and taken off. That's all.”

At this point, Lena pushed through the front door. Apparently, she didn't want to be left out of anything. She put a protective arm around George.

“We have a policy, and we adhered to it,” Boyd repeated.

George said, “I tried to call him, but only got voice mail. The police were
here
”—he pointed at the big house—“so I didn't have a chance to call him more than once.”

I said, “I'm sorry this has happened. I'm sorry you couldn't reach Drew when the police were here.”

Lena said, “You didn't know the police were here when George was trying to reach Drew? Goldy, I thought you were privy to
all
the investigations of the sheriff's department. Isn't that the rumor around town?”

“Ex-
cuse
me?” said Boyd.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Marla warned Lena, singsong fashion, wagging a finger in Lena's face. “Don't you go listening to rumors.”

“Says the town's most notorious gossip,” Lena replied acidly.

“Well,” said Marla, “I think I've had enough insults for one day. How 'bout you, Goldy? Sergeant Boyd?”

I said, “We shouldn't have come. Let's go.”

Boyd said something under his breath that sounded a lot like “Thank God.”

I waved to Lena as we climbed into Marla's Mercedes. “You all can keep the basket.”

“Holly screwed Warren Broome!” Lena hollered after us. “I'll give you that gossip for free, Marla!”

11

I
nteresting,” said Marla. She was zooming toward the open gates, whose doors began juddering closed before Boyd was even through. Someone had been watching to make sure we actually left—and didn't come back. “Did you know that about Holly and Warren Broome?” Marla asked.

I thought back to Warren Broome's forlornness at the birthday party. He had seemed to be feeling uncomfortable, as if everyone there knew his sordid history. But more important, he had stared, unblinking, at Holly.

“Yes, okay, maybe he appeared lovesick. I wasn't aware of any affair between Holly and Warren. You know I depend on
you
to keep me up on these things. Warren
was
gaping at Holly at the party last night.”

“Was she gaping back?”

“Not really,” I said. “She seemed to be avoiding him.”

“Patsie Boatfield's son goes to Christian Brothers High School,” Marla protested. “How come you don't know about this?”

“I'm a full-time caterer—”

“When you're not nosing into investigations.”

“Thanks. That, too. But there's no way I could or even would be aware of what goes on between the thousand-plus sets of CBHS parents.”

“Well, what
do
you know?”

“Not much. Patsie is one of those parent-type friends whom you see at your children's activities but don't really see outside of them. I'm figuring she and Warren married quietly, probably because they didn't want to alert the press. Warren and Patsie can't have been married that long. And anyway, how come
you
haven't heard about this supposed affair between Holly and Warren? Patsie's house is in Flicker Ridge. What do we know about Warren Broome, anyway?”

“Not a whole lot,” said Marla, “apart from the fact that he was only temporarily disbarred or whatever it's called when a shrink can't shrink people for a while. But when we get back to your place, I'll make some calls. What were you going to ask George?” Marla asked. “Details about the child support?”

“Yes. But apparently even
I
have qualms when it comes to digging for information.”

“But if I know you,” Marla said, “you have the details of Holly's settlement and child support situation somewhere, because you took the Amour Anonymous notes, and have kept them all these years.”

“I did indeed.” I thought of George's face as it crumpled in grief. “Poor George,” I said.

“Oh, dammit. Damn
this
,” said Marla. A cry escaped from her lips, and she signaled to pull over. When her tires crunched on the dirt, she turned to me. “Holly's dead, isn't she? She's never coming back—”

I held my friend as she cried. Boyd hustled up.

“What's wrong?” he asked through the open window.

“We're just mourning our friend,” I said, and then Marla and I cried together.

Once we reached home, Boyd said he would stay in his car. We were to call him if we wanted to go out again.

In the kitchen, Julian was grating a block of cheddar so orange it had to be for Arch. My son didn't like the sharp, white variety. An omelet pan, butter, and beaten eggs stood at the ready. Arch was sitting upright at the kitchen table, his face drawn. It had been a hard twelve hours for him, too. A pristinely laid place—Julian's doing, no doubt—was in front of him. Arch wore a rumpled navy sweatsuit that I suspected he'd grabbed from the hamper.

“Clothes are clean, Mom,” he said, to my unasked question. He sighed deeply. “How's your leg?”

“Hurts,” I said as I propped my left foot on a chair. “How about you? Are you all right?” I asked.

“No, Mom. I am not all right.”

“Well,” I began, “what can I—” I stopped myself. It might be okay to question other people on their states of mind; it was definitely not okay to interrogate Arch, much less to see if he wanted a hug, or anything else.

“Should I add another couple of eggs to this omelet?” Julian asked us. He plopped a chunk of butter into the pan. It hissed as it slid sideways.

“Oh, yes, please,” said Marla brightly.

Arch groaned. “I'm starving here.”

“All right, never mind, I'll make a separate one for you and Goldy,” Julian said to me, winking at Marla. “Need to feed Mr. Starving here. How about Sergeant Boyd? Should I ask him in to have food?”

“He said he wants to stay in his prowler.”

Arch gave me a puzzled look. “Where have you been?”

“Just . . . over to see George.”

“Drew's dad? Why?”

I shook my head as my throat closed up. I rubbed my forehead. “Trying to figure out what happened to Holly. He . . . couldn't help.” Remembering Lena's parting shot, I weighed whether to ask Arch if he knew anything about Warren Broome, the stepfather of Alexander Boatfield, his teammate. My son might not want to talk about his own emotional state, but would he know anything about the Boatfields? Probably not. Arch was generally clueless on these matters, and even if he were
not
clueless, he would say he was.

While Arch ate—forking up huge mouthfuls, so he must have truly been hungry—I checked our voice mail, which showed I had two messages. The first was an anxious one from Father Pete: Had I thought about working with Kathie Beliar on the church dinner? Did I really think she could bring a dozen more people to the dinner . . . and the church? Miss Beliar had called him again, he said. St. Luke's
so
needed new parishioners, he added apologetically, and we could use the extra money for the columbarium. Did I, Father Pete tentatively asked, possess the advertising resources that Kathie Beliar claimed to have? She'd said I did
not
have advertising resources.

I shook my head. Poor, naive Father Pete.

When Marla announced she would put the kibosh on the co-catering bit, I hit pause on my machine. Marla called Father Pete as I washed my hands and set two more places. Once Marla was connected to the church's voice mail, she said that no, Kathie Beliar could not co-cater the church dinner the next night, because she, Marla, was paying for the meal, and if Father Pete was going to hire another caterer besides her friend Goldy, then the church could pay for it.

“That ought to take care of Miss Beliar,” she said, pressing her phone's power button. She watched Julian mince scallions, grate Gruyère, whisk eggs, and melt more butter. Arch, meanwhile, washed his dishes and made himself scarce. “Go ahead,” Marla said, satisfied, once our omelet was cooking. She nodded at our message machine. “What else have you got on there?”

Julian and I smiled at Marla's nosiness, but she was doing the driving, paying for the church dinner, and most important, helping gather information on what might have happened to Holly. We—I—owed her.

On my machine, Patsie Boatfield asked if I could call her.

“My, my,” said Marla as she washed her hands. “Maybe she heard the gossip about her hubby, too.”

“What gossip and what hubby would that be?” Julian said, sliding a heavenly scented omelet onto a platter between us.

“Oh, nothing,” Marla said, uncharacteristically closemouthed for once. She picked up the platter and made for the door to our basement. “Girls' Club meeting in the basement! Julian? Could you please bring down plates, napkins, and flatware?”

“Thanks, Julian, really,” I said as he gathered up what we needed onto a tray, then added glasses of water.

With genuine concern, he asked, “What's the matter with Marla?”

“Oh, Lena and Edith Ingleby were mean to her.”

“People have been mean to Marla forever.” He heaved the tray onto his shoulder with the professionalism of the restaurant-trained. “It never upset her before.”

“It did this time,” I said firmly, then followed him down the stairs.

As I limped carefully toward our cellar, I remembered when Tom had moved from his cabin outside Aspen Meadow into our house. He'd lived with us a few months before tentatively asking if we could take on some home-improvement projects. He promised we would have to agree on everything before he started.

At first, I suspected he wanted to toss all our old furniture and replace it with his lovingly maintained antiques. But as it turned out, the antiques had found pride of place in the house, and I was more than willing to donate the furniture that Tom's pieces had displaced. Our first big project had been cleaning out the garage so Tom could store his tools. Luckily, we'd ended up with so much extra space that when Julian moved in with us, he had been able to store his few boxes next to Tom's shelves.

After the garage project, Tom and I started on the basement, with the idea that we would make room for his computer and files. Since that meant sorting through much accumulated stuff, I agreed, albeit reluctantly. The garage had been a piece of cake, so to speak. The basement was a whole bakery's worth of issues.

Over Tom's ensuing days off, though, we filled dozens of bags with discarded toys, outgrown clothes, and assorted gewgaws. We saved what I was desperate to hang on to—all the notes and files I'd had forever—then donated what was usable, closed my eyes, and tossed the rest. Nevertheless, I'd looked with despair at the new space. It seemed dingy and barren until Tom suggested we paint it white, which we did. Then we put up bright red-, yellow-, and blue-striped curtains in the half windows above the washer and dryer, his desk, and our combined bookshelves and file cabinets. In the end, it seemed like a whole new room. I'd been grateful, and still was.

Once Julian clopped back up the stairs, Marla and I divided the omelet, which was creamy, tangy, and utterly delicious. Then we portioned out the tasks. We would call Patsie together. She had been a great help when Holly collapsed. And we both felt sorry for her for marrying Womanizing Warren. So we would put my phone on speaker, we decided, then judge if our reactions to what she said were in sync.

When I phoned the Boatfields' place, Warren Broome answered, and I was very glad I'd put the phone on speaker. After I identified myself he barked, “What do
you
want?”

“I just, well”—should I call him Warren or Dr. Broome?—“your wife called me.”

“Why did she do that?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

“You live in the same house as she does,” I said, suddenly fatigued by how cantankerous everyone was this morning. “Why don't you ask her?”

He hung up.

“Weird,” said Marla. “Okay, let's give Patsie some time. Maybe she'll phone you back. If she doesn't, I'll try to call her.” She eyed the wall of file cabinets. “Please tell me you have this organized.”

“More or less,” I said, trying not to sound lame.

“I'll take our dishes to the kitchen,” she offered. “While I'm there, I'll go into your dining room, to call a couple of people to see if anyone knows anything about this supposed affair between Warren and Holly. You see if you can find what we're looking for in the money department.”

So I did. I kept the file for Amour Anonymous next to one with the curriculum for teaching Sunday School with Holly. We'd hardly ever needed the church school curriculum, and as Tom had kindly pointed out, I'd kept both files for close to ten years. But I was adamant. I might need my meeting notes someday. This morning, I had not commented to Tom that we were now seeing proof of this philosophy.

I extracted the file, and remembered why the Amour Anonymous members had started the whole note-taking enterprise in the first place. Even though we were anonymous to the outside world, we recognized early on that some of us were having great insights. We wanted to keep track of them. Since no one else had wanted to be secretary, I volunteered. At the end of each year, we had a big party where we celebrated each other's progress, and I read out our best insights.

I was dismayed to see that the edges of the pages of the spiral notebooks were now brown and curling, and was glad I'd labeled the notebooks by year. Luckily, I'd also written down who was present at each meeting. Holly had only been a member for two years. But as I looked at my notes, it seemed as if I'd spilled coffee or that my ink had run on at least half the pages. Even I had trouble making out what I'd written.

When Marla returned, she said gloomily that all of her regular sources said yes, they'd heard Holly and Warren had had something going, but they all thought it had ended a long time ago.

“Give me something to do,” she said.

I gave her one year's worth of notes. She flipped through the pages and made a face. “What am I looking for in this run-together chicken scratch, Sherlock?”

I felt embarrassed that I hadn't at least typed up the notes when the group had ended, but back then, there hadn't seemed to be any point. “What we should search for at this point is Holly's settlement with George.”

Marla shook her head. “All right, I'll try to look for numbers.”

Half an hour later, neither one of us had been able to find the details of Holly's financial situation. But I was
sure
they'd been in the notes. Marla, convinced I might have written out the numbers in longhand, was taking longer to read my handwriting than I was. I offered to make coffee.

“It better not be Frank's finest,” Marla said, peering close at a page, “or I'm going to have a fit.”

When I brought iced lattes downstairs a few minutes later, she was puzzling over another page. “Now I know why lawyers make so much money.” Marla was an expert on the law, at least when it pertained to money.

“There's something in there about attorneys?” I asked.

“Not yet. But they have to go through boxes and boxes of documents. They want to be paid for being forced to concentrate on what is excruciatingly boring, like details of divorces, wills, trusts, taxes, and lots of parties of the first part and parties of the second part.”