“Vic,” I said, feeling dreadful, “we need to move back over to the sidewalk.”
“Tell me the worst isn’t true. What did you find?”
“It looked as if she’d been attacked.”
He began to sob. I murmured comforting words and guided him back to the staircase.
The moon had risen and lightened the darkness. I finally thought to look at my watch, which said it was half past twelve. Had it really been two hours since I’d showed up at the law firm? It felt like nothing; it felt like forever. A solitary cop approached us.
“Which one of you called the department?” he asked, his voice matter-of-fact.
“I did,” I replied. For the first time, my own voice cracked. “I found her.”
The cop eyed me, his gaze impenetrable. He was short and stockily built, and he wore a sheriff’s department leather jacket that made him look even wider than he was. He had dark, close-set eyes and equally dark eyebrows. His frown was formidable.
“I’m Officer Nelson,” he began. “You went into that office first?”
“Yes,” I said. Nearby, Vic tried to stifle his weeping.
“I’m going to need to see some ID from you.”
“I’m Investigator Tom Schulz’s wife,” I said. Officer Nelson flinched. Why? I wondered. Was he intimidated by Tom’s reputation? “In terms of ID, my purse and driver’s license are locked in my van, which is in back of this office building. My cell phone’s in there, too. I dropped my van keys when I . . . when I made the discovery.”
“I remember you. The caterer, right?” When I nodded, he went on: “Where did you go after you left here?”
I paused as Vic shuffled up. The cop regarded him without curiosity. “She came to our place. Art, Music, and Copies. It’s right over there.” Vic pointed across the street.
“Sir,” the cop said to Vic, “would you please move back across the street, back to your place of business? Someone will be over shortly to take your statement.” Nelson turned his attention back to me. “Was anyone else around? People who could have seen someone leave this office?”
“Not that I know of.”
“We had another call to the department from someone who said she was outside the grocery store.”
I wormed my frigid hands up inside the sleeves of Vic’s sweatshirt. “Officer Nelson, as far as I know, I was the only one over on this side of the street when I . . . made the discovery.”
“Let’s go back to my car, okay?”
Feeling queasy, I followed Officer Nelson to his car. Furman County is one of the biggest counties in Colorado, and their sheriff’s department is impressively large. This cop knew me, but I didn’t know him. That made me even more nervous as I tried to formulate the words to describe what I’d done, and why.
When we slid into the black-and-white, the cop handed me a sher-iff’s department blanket. “So you’re Schulz’s wife. How ’bout that.” I nodded, feeling only slightly less ill at ease. It wasn’t as if Nelson was offering to shake my hand. Instead, he pulled out a clipboard. “When and how did you find this woman?”
“Is she—?” I demanded. “Did she—”
The cop shook his head, then continued with his questions. What was the woman’s full name, where did she live? Why did she happen to be here, and why did I? He wrote everything down, then told me not to go anywhere. He stepped out of the patrol car, shut the door, and motioned for Vic Zaruski, who hadn’t moved, to come over. I turned in the seat to watch them. Vic seemed to be explaining that his place of employment was not where he should be headed. After dispersing the waiting-to-see-what-was-going-on crowd, Nelson led Vic to another police car.
The sheriff’s department’s white criminalistics van pulled into the lot and parked beside the Beemers. Armed with cameras, the crime-scene technicians descended on the office building. I focused my eyes far away.
Almost four miles distant, the portion of Aspen Meadow Lake that hadn’t yet frozen shimmered in the moonlight. What was the cop asking Vic? I shivered, even though the motor was running and metallic-smelling heat blasted out of the dashboard fans. Actually, I did know what Officer Nelson was demanding of Vic Zaruski. How do you know this woman, Goldy Schulz? When this Mrs. Schulz came into your store to report the crime, how did she act? Did she seem upset? What did she say, exactly? He was asking those questions because I was the one who’d found Dusty, and therefore was automatically the first person whom law enforcement would suspect. This was another thing I wasn’t quite ready to face.
Sudden shouting startled me. A moment later, a very upset Richard Chenault, his face set in frustration, his cashmere coat billowing around behind him, loped ungracefully down the steps from the building’s upper level. Alonzo Claggett and Donald Ellis, unsure of anything except that they probably were supposed to follow, hurried fast on Richard’s heels. Louise Upton maneuvered down after them, then immediately marched purposefully over to the nearest policeman, who happened to be standing on the sidewalk directing the crime-scene techs. Louise raised her voice so high I caught every word, unfortunately.
“Mr. Chenault is a very well-respected member of this community,” Louise cried, shaking her finger in the unsuspecting cop’s face. “It’s his office, and he deserves to know what is going on in there! Now, did someone break in? Is his niece dead? We need to know these things! Also, we have many valuable items and irreplaceable files inside—”
The cop interrupted her, speaking words I couldn’t make out. Louise Upton promptly stopped talking, pressed her lips together, and stepped back a pace. The cop leaned in toward her and raised his forefinger, talking all the while. Louise ducked her chin, pressed her lips together, and listened, looking humbled, for once. I thought, Oh, man, if only I had a camera.
Donald Ellis and Alonzo Claggett, meanwhile, shook their heads as they spoke to two other policemen. Richard Chenault, his voice subdued and his face stricken, talked to a third cop.
Two more cops were leaning in to stare at the area in front of Dusty’s old Honda. I squinted at the Civic. Dusty had been fond of telling me that she left her car, a donation from a St. Luke’s parishioner, as far from the office building as possible, to get a bit of extra exercise walking to the law firm. Once summer was over, she’d started working out at the rec center with Alonzo. Then they’d drive separately over to H&J. At the office, she changed into whatever suit she was wearing at the office that day. I sighed.
So, what was going on with Dusty’s Civic? It was parked right under a streetlight. Dusty had been as meticulous about the appearance of that little car as she was of her own person. But the paint job was a wreck, and the rear lights had been . . . what? Smashed? I got out of the patrol car, motioned to a nearby cop, and pointed to the car. In a garbled voice, I informed him it was Dusty’s, and that it had been vandalized.
He nodded, then looked at me sympathetically. “She was a friend of yours, this girl?” I nodded. “For long?”
“A few years.”
The cop closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows, as in, Too bad. He told me the detectives would want to talk to me after a bit, and I shouldn’t go anywhere. Then he walked away.
I swallowed and watched him. Why hadn’t he asked more about Dusty? I knew what questions I’d face once the detectives arrived. The same ones I’d gotten from Officer Nelson. And then there were the questions that were important to me, questions the cops were very unlikely to ask.
Why was Dusty so special to you? Because I still thought of her as a high-school kid. Because she and her low-income family lived in a Habitat for Humanity house, just down the street from us, and people in town still made fun of them. Because until her uncle Richard, who didn’t believe in handouts, had agreed to pay off her student loans for community college, foot the bill for her paralegal training, and hire her, she’d never seemed to have a bit of luck.
She’d been a scholarship student at Elk Park Prep. Julian Teller, my part-time assistant and our occasional boarder, had been a classmate of Dusty’s at EPP. He, too, had been a scholarship student, and he and Dusty had been boyfriend-girlfriend for a while. He said Dusty had been smart . . . not just bright, but brilliant. And then she’d been expelled from Elk Park Prep because she’d become pregnant . . . not by Julian.
That spring, I’d been dealing full-time with the Jerk, who, even though we were divorced, managed to make my life miserable. I had taken meals over when Dusty had miscarried, but the Routts hadn’t offered any details of the misbegotten pregnancy. Nor had I asked any. I did know that Dusty had managed to get her GED after the Elk Park Prep meltdown. The next time I’d come in close contact with her, she’d been working at a cosmetics counter at a department store.
“Those bastard Routt children,” the mean-spirited had snorted. “We wonder if Dusty is selling those free samples she gets.”
Dusty had taken everything in stride. She’d worked her way up to being a highly compensated cosmetics associate before being lured away to a full-service spa. When the spa had gone belly-up, she’d enrolled in community college. Sometime later, she’d told me about her uncle, previously unknown to the family, getting altitude sickness on his way back from an attorneys’ conference in Vail. Dusty’s mother, Sally Routt, may not have known about Richard, but he had known about her, and he’d called his sister-in-law and begged for help, having just vomited all over his rental car. Not sure of the cause of Richard’s distress, Sally and Dusty had rushed him down to the Southwest Hospital ER, where he’d ended up mewling and puking in his doctor’s arms, and that doctor had been K.D.
Richard’s recovery had been near miraculous, and he had proceeded to sweep K.D. off her feet. He’d sold his partnership in a Los Angeles firm and opened his own office in Aspen Meadow. A year ago, he and K.D. had bought their big place in Flicker Ridge, and Richard had offered to pay off Dusty’s loans, give her a job, and pay for her training.
Maybe Richard had seen it as an investment in having his very own paralegal, with on-the-job training in estate law, to boot. Perhaps his guilt at having so much in the material-goods department had finally begun gnawing at him. I had no way of knowing, because between a polite, solicitous manner with clients and staff, occasional bursts of regal temper, and showing a nutty tendency to pull practical jokes, King Richard was pretty hard to read. Dusty hadn’t complained about him to me, in any event. Nor had she lauded him. She’d only laughed her wonderful tinkling giggle and called her uncle “the King.”
In any event, Dusty had confided to me that now she was working to build a career, a real life, as she put it. She was going to push to quit her humble surroundings. She was moving, moving, moving, as she put it, moving up in the world!
I stared at the bustling parking lot. Cops were turning away bystanders. Other law enforcement folks began to unroll yellow crime-scene tape around the imposing stone-and-wood entry to Hanrahan & Jule. Donald and Alonzo appeared to be pestering the cops with questions, but their curiosity was met with a grim silence. Was I imagining it, or was the officer in charge wearing a happy smirk as he asserted his authority over the attorneys? I did not have time to contemplate this question, because a detective ordered a sergeant to whisk me down to the department for questioning.
The detective, who identified himself as Britt, handed me my car keys. I’d actually dropped them between two of the steps going up to the law firm. He also gave me my office keys, which K.D. had apparently asked to be returned to me.
As the coroner’s van pulled up, Britt drove me around the back of the law office, where I jumped out and grabbed my coat and purse from my own van. We took off just as another pair of cars from the Furman County Sheriff’s Department showed up. The H&J crew were scattered along the sidewalk outside where the cops were now finishing unrolling the crime-scene tape. Donald and Alonzo still stood together, their heads bowed in conversation. Richard Chenault, looking stricken, sat alone on the curb. There was no sign of K.D. or Louise Upton.
The glaze of frost that had whitened the streets was beginning to melt, and a breeze moved through the stiff brown grass that bordered the road to the interstate. I asked the detective if I could please call my husband. He seemed to know who Tom was, and nodded. After fishing my cell phone from the bottom of my purse, I punched in Tom’s cell number.
“Thank God you called,” Tom’s gruff voice announced, before the first ring had finished. “Where are you? Did your van die again? I’m dressed and ready to go.”
“Oh, Tom. I’m at, well, I was at H&J. Dusty Routt . . . well, it looks as if Dusty is dead,” I blurted out. My voice cracked.
There was shuffling in the background. “I’m writing Arch a note.” A moment later, I could hear a door closing. “Wait. I’m on my way to my car.” I imagined Tom’s tall, muscular body, of which I knew every groove, even the old scar from a bullet wound. I saw his handsome face drawn into a frown as he folded himself into his car, turned on the engine, and pulled out his trusty spiral notebook that went everywhere with him. “Okay, start over,” he said in that commanding voice that made subordinates smile and suspects cower.
“I was supposed to give Dusty her last cooking lesson tonight, the way we’ve been doing for the last five weeks. We were working on bread baking and she said she wanted to talk to me about something, too. But I fell over her in the reception area . . .” A sob erupted from my throat. “I’m on my way to the department now with a fellow named Britt.”
“I’ll meet you down there.”
“But I want to tell you how I tried to do CPR—”