Tom held up his hand. “You’re going to have to explain all of this to me, and then maybe I can send a detective to go talk to the Ellises. Okay?”
“Sure. Now tell me your news.”
“We have a line on a guy, but not the guy himself, who tried to mow down Vic. You know how crooks are always the worst rats?” When I nodded, he went on: “Seems a guy we’d had a forgery warrant out on got himself arrested. First thing he tries to do is deal. Seems he has a friend named Jason Gurdley—” I shook my head. “Hey, his mother named him, not me. Anyway, Jason bragged about being paid a thousand bucks just to run over anyone bringing any stuff out of the Routts’ house.”
“ What?”
“Apparently, someone was afraid of what Dusty had.”
“This is where you tell me that you found Jason, and he gave up the name of whoever paid him to try the rundown.”
Tom smiled at me. “Hey, you can’t have everything. Jason Gurdley has skipped to parts unknown. We’ve left messages all over saying we need to talk to him pursuant to a murder investigation, but that might cause him to stay hidden, wherever he is. Still, now we know someone was behind the attempt to kill Dusty’s computer.”
“And Vic.”
“Yeah; him, too.” His eyes gleamed. “Our guys did arrest someone else, though.”
“When were you going to tell me this?”
“Well, you had me chauffeuring you around with your paintings—”
“Who, dammit?”
“Somebody tried to pawn that opal-and-diamond bracelet in Denver, just this afternoon. The pawnshop owner had gotten our fax of your drawing and called the department. The detectives drove down and showed him photographs of Vic and everyone who worked at the law firm. He picked out the person who attempted to pawn the bracelet. So our guys got the fastest search warrant on earth, and found something extremely interesting in the Dumpster outside the apartment of our would-be bracelet seller.” Tom paused for effect. “Try a sledge hammer covered with some dark red car paint and glass fragments.”
“Oh Lord.”
“Our guys just picked up Louise Upton.”
“What? Maybe the bracelet was Louise’s, and she loaned it to Dusty—”
“Or maybe Dusty gave Louise a sledgehammer in exchange for the bracelet. Do you think?”
“But what motive would Louise have to kill Dusty?”
“Goldy, I don’t know. She saw the bracelet and thought she could pawn it for needed cash. She struggled with Dusty and ended up strangling her. I’m telling you, that woman, Louise Upton, is as hard as granite. She didn’t even protest when they arrested her. She just said she wanted an attorney. Look, I’m going to call the guys at the department, have them come get this evidence.”
“Just wait a sec, okay? Tell me why you think Louise would have used a sledgehammer on Dusty’s car.”
Tom held the phone loose in his hand. He said patiently, “Crime of passion? Say a guy is going to kill his ex-girlfriend and trash her car, too. We find slashed tires, broken windshields, garbage dumped all over a lawn? We know somebody’s been hurt real bad. Hurt in the heart. Problem is, this behavior is well known, ’cuz stories about it are in the paper all the time. Now, a perp wants to make it look as if he’s killed out of passion, instead of just trying to shut somebody up, say? He’ll get out the hammer and go after his victim’s stuff.”
I still was doubtful. Louise Upton under arrest for Dusty’s murder? Okay, Louise was desperate for money. Had she stolen something besides the bracelet—say, a painting or two—and been discovered by Dusty? But if Dusty had discovered Louise was involved in nefarious doings, Louise wouldn’t have been stupid enough to kill Dusty and leave her corpse inside the office of the firm she said she was married to, would she?
Then again, my brain yelled back at me, Louise might have left Dusty’s body if she’d killed Dusty in a burst of panic. So it was possible.
“Tom,” I said tentatively while he was dialing, “may I just look through Dusty’s things for a couple of minutes?”
Tom’s shoulders slumped. “All right, go get some of those surgical gloves your favorite health inspector says you have to use when you handle poultry.”
I responded with alacrity, which was one of Arch’s vocab words that I particularly liked. It meant that you got your butt in gear with enthusiasm and speed.
Five minutes later, I was wearing a pair of my surgical gloves and sifting through the papers attached to the inventory forms. It was becoming increasingly difficult to see what exactly about the law it was that Dusty found attractive. I didn’t understand why the forms couldn’t merely state: “Attach a list of the dead guy’s stuff.” But in the last analysis, I guessed that wouldn’t work.
After a few moments, I finally got the bright idea to compare the two lists, page by page, side by side. After straining my eyes for what felt like an eon—Julian even came out of the kitchen to see what was going on—I saw the discrepancy. Or thought I did. On one page listing miscellaneous assets, someone—Dusty?—had typed “45 paintings.” On the page that matched it from the other inventory, the same listing indicated “9 paintings.”
So, could I make the deduction that there were thirty-six Charlie Baker paintings out there, all missing one ingredient, that someone had stolen and was trying to sell? I thought so. And Nora Ellis, who had plenty of money but no cooking ability, wouldn’t have known a recipe for Journey Cake from one for beef stew, right?
But where had she gotten the painting? From Richard, who supposedly had been in charge of getting new keys and locks made for Charlie Baker’s house? From Louise, or from Wink, either of whom might have been actually ordered to get those new keys and locks made? From Vic, ever hard up for money and, until recently, Dusty’s boyfriend? He could have borrowed the keys from Dusty, stolen the paintings, and returned them without her knowing, couldn’t he? But would Vic be able to change the inventory sheets? That would indicate someone in the law firm. What about Alonzo Claggett, who was Dusty’s workout buddy . . . might he have snagged and copied the keys? I had no idea.
I told Tom my theory, but lack of a clear suspect, when he got off the phone.
“You think somebody killed Dusty because he, or she, wanted to steal some paintings?”
“Yeah, maybe. And then that person—maybe Louise, okay— started selling the paintings to people with lots of dough who want a genuine Charlie Baker.”
Tom considered this for a moment. “How’s Julian doing on your cooking tomorrow?”
“I can check. Why?”
“Be a good idea if you typed up everything you’ve figured out about the paintings. We can give it to the guys when they come up.”
Alacrity was getting to be my middle name. I hopped up and headed for the computer in the kitchen. There, Julian had finished the Asparagus Quiches, which were rising in the oven and giving off an enticing scent. Now he was peeling apples.
Apples? “What are you making?” I asked. “We don’t have anything on the menu tomorrow that includes apples.”
Julian peered down at the prep sheets. “Prosciutto Bites—prep is done, but they have to be finished at the last minute. Asparagus Quiches—done. Fruit Salad—ditto with the last-minute thing. So . . . there I was looking around in your walk-in, and what do I find but a bunch of apples? Time for an apple pie. Or a couple of apple pies, so I can take one over to the Routts if they aren’t too burned out on apples after your Apple Betty. I’m going to use Charlie’s recipe for All-American Apple Pie. What do you think?”
“Who can say no to apple pie?” I smiled and said, “I think you’re great.” Then I stared at the computer screen and skipped over to the file I’d opened regarding the investigation. It didn’t take long to write up my analysis, or theory, really, about the paintings that Dusty had cleverly hidden by putting them in her blind grandfather’s room. The cops who’d searched the Routts’ house wouldn’t have known they were significant; how could they have? But they were. Or at least I believed they were. And the attached inventories, I added, might indicate that something was up with accounting for Charlie Baker’s assets, assets that needed to be reported to the probate court. When I was done, I printed out the sheets for Tom, who thanked me and said he would wait in the living room for the department guys to show up.
Well, I hoped my ideas would be some help, I mused as I started a big pot of water boiling for the potatoes that would go into the sausage casserole. While I was peeling the potatoes, I told Julian about the most recent developments in the Dusty case. Julian shook his head and rolled out the pie dough. I dropped the potatoes into the water and then began earnestly chopping onions. After a few moments, I wiped tears away. The hard place behind my heart, the place that was still holding on to Dusty, wasn’t softening.
I washed and trimmed the mushrooms, squeezed them to release their liquid, and melted a big hunk of butter in a large sauté pan. I tossed in the chopped onions and mushrooms, and soon the kitchen was filled with the delectable scent of onions and mushrooms sautéing in butter. Perhaps drawn by the sound of the sizzle in the pan, or maybe by the fragrance wafting upstairs, Arch and Gus came clomping down.
Gus pushed through the kitchen door first. “Man, what are we having?”
I had cut off the casings of the sausages and added them to the sputtering onions and mushrooms. Gus watched in fascination. I told him about the sausage casserole, and he beamed.
“Uh-oh, pie!” Arch yelled, when he saw Julian carefully spooning a mound of spice-laced apple slices into a waiting crust. “Is that for us, or is it for a job?”
Julian lifted his chin and winked at Arch. “Hey, would we make apple pies for clients, and not make one for the family?”
“Yes,” Arch said, his tone accusatory.
“One’s for us,” Julian said. “And one’s for the Routts.”
There was an awkward moment when Gus and Arch looked at each other, as if trying to think of something to say. Teenagers have a hard time talking about the death of someone they know. I worried about Arch. Maybe the death of Dusty was bothering him more than he was letting on. As usual, my son was pretty hard to read.
“Let’s go throw the Frisbee for Jake,” Gus said finally, and the two boys raced out of the room.
“I think Arch is having a difficult time,” I told Julian. “When death strikes this close, all that comes up is fear for the people he loves.”
Julian nodded as he concentrated on the apples. Not so long ago, he had lost a young woman he loved in another murder; this had changed him, made him a little more serious. I suppose kids in their twenties have the same fears.
Once the pies were baked and cooling, we had a jolly dinner. Julian indulged in a small quiche made from leftovers, while the rest of us dug into the rich, juicy casserole, with its layers of potatoes, mixture of mild and hot Italian sausages, and creamy binder of eggs, half-and-half, and Gruyère cheese. I thought back to when a critic asked if I was cooking for the National Cholesterol Institute. There was actually no such thing, place, or restaurant. But if there were, this recipe would certainly be on their menu.
When we finished eating, Tom insisted on doing the dishes so that the boys could watch a movie and Julian and I could plan upcoming events. We didn’t have another scheduled affair until Monday, when I was supposed to do breakfast for Hanrahan & Jule. I wasn’t so sure how I felt about going back to the H&J offices where I’d found Dusty, but I was still under contract to the law firm, and the place would probably be cleaned and open for business by then. We decided on a frittata made with fresh chopped scallions and Tom’s cherry tomatoes. That night, we’d be doing a dinner for ten big donors and a few others involved in buying the land and designing the Mountain Pastoral Center. The funding to build and operate the center would be coming from Charlie Baker’s bequest, once the will finished wending its way through probate. Our catering client was the Episcopal Diocese of Colorado itself. The meal would be simple: Chicken Piccata, steamed asparagus, and wild rice. Julian frowned and asked about possible vegetarians. I said I didn’t know of any who might be coming, but if he wanted to think about a possible dish, that would be great. For dessert, the events coordinator had said they just wanted “something spectacular.”
Julian snorted. “Chicken and ‘something spectacular.’ What is this, an amusement park?”
I sighed. Every now and then, Julian was showing signs of becoming a chef. “We can invent whatever we want, to go with the vegetarian dish you’ve yet to come up with.”
“Thanks, boss,” Julian replied, with an enormous smile.
Julian went off to watch the movie with the boys. Tom and I were left sitting in the kitchen. For some reason, I felt totally wired, and said so.
“Couldn’t be those sixteen shots of espresso you had this morning, could it?” Tom asked mildly.
I gave him a sour look. “Have you told Sally and John Routt about the arrest?”
“That’s not my job. But they’ll be informed soon.”
I blew out air. I had done so much talking to people in the past two days, made so many attempts at investigating Dusty’s bizarre death, tried so hard to fulfill my promise to Sally Routt . . . and what had it come to? Nothing. Well, a bit more than nothing. The inventory for Charlie’s assets had some discrepancies. And I had lots of suspects in mind for the person who could have stolen the paintings and manufactured a fake inventory.
Tom’s phone beeped. When he got off, he said, “Hmm.”
“That’s not very enlightening.”