Double Shot (31 page)

A rock was forming in my chest. No wonder; indeed.
At home, though, Tom was whistling in the kitchen as he prepared dinner for the three of us: a giant submarine sandwich that was an elaborate affair put together with ingredients from his recent mammoth shopping trip. He’d scooped bread out of a large baguette, filled the center with a heavenly mixture of three Italian cheeses, sausages, salami, sliced garden tomatoes, and arugula, then topped the whole thing with his own garlic dressing. By the time we tumbled into the kitchen to see what he was up to, he was wrapping the sandwich before starting its weighing-down time in the refrigerator, which would help meld all the flavors. In a couple of hours, we would have a feast. No one eats dinner early in the summertime, anyway.
“How are you doing, Tom?” Arch asked, his voice full of concern.
Tom’s head shot up at the unusual question from Arch. I could still see the pain in Tom’s eyes, the heavy weight that seemed to have settled permanently on his shoulders. But I also could tell that he didn’t want Arch to be worrying about him.
“I’m doing well, thank you, Arch.” Tom pulled out two chilled soft drinks and placed them on the kitchen table for us. “You guys look whipped, though. How’d it go at your dad’s house?”
Arch took a long swig of pop before recounting an abbreviated version of the trip to Stoneberry Lane.
“So,” Tom mused, “a safety-deposit box, eh? What do you suppose is in there?”
“Bones,” Arch said without irony, before announcing he was going upstairs to call Todd. At the kitchen door, he stopped and cast a long look at Tom. “I’m really sorry about your lost case, Tom.”
Again startled by this sudden interest in his well-being, Tom gaped at Arch. Quickly recovering his composure, Tom replied, “Thanks for the concern, buddy. I’m sorry for your loss, too.”
“I know.” Arch spun slowly and retreated.
Tom’s green eyes questioned me and I shrugged. He muttered something about wonders not ceasing as he placed the sandwich between cookie sheets, laid two stones on top, and put the whole thing in to chill.
“All right, Miss G. You still testing pies?”
“I am. So?”
“After you start on a new pie, I’ve got a story to tell you.”
“Why not just tell me now?”
“Because I want it to be a story for you, not a call to action.”
“Great.” But I booted up the computer and printed out the recipes I’d been working on: crust made with butter and toasted filberts, crust made with butter-flavored shortening, crust made with lard, crust made with a combination of butter and lard.
“And for the filling?” Tom asked.
“I ordered many, many pounds of strawberries from Alicia. My dear supplier said they were the best she’d ever tasted. Plus, this time I’m going to omit the cream filling and just concentrate on the strawberries.” I paused. “What are you doing?”
Tom chuckled as he foraged in the cupboard. “I think we need a chocolate treat.” If I’d ever doubted my maxim that cooking was good therapy, Tom’s first laugh in six weeks was proof enough.
“Are you going to tell me this story?” I asked, once I was rinsing fat, juicy strawberries.
Tom began, “You know how the rain washed out some dirt roads the other night?” I Nodded. “It also washed things into the street — in this case, a dumped item that was found not far from Stoneberry. Our guys are thinking this thing rolled down Korman’s driveway and into the street, or else our killer tossed it from the getaway car. So you have the dirt from the street, plus all that dust from Tuesday’s big wind. After that, we had a hailstorm, and after that, a dog got hold of it, took it home, and chewed on it.” I stopped slicing and stared at him. “but as it turned out, the dog’s owner was giving a barbecue last night, and when he was picking up his yard, he found it and figure out some of the mess on it was from his dog’s teeth and the rest was from . . . something else.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The reason Korman’s neighbors didn’t hear the gun going boom was that it had a homemade silencer on it. A pink tennis ball.” He stopped sifting ingredients and opened an envelope. He handed me a Polaroid of something smashed, dirty, and perhaps a bit pink.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Boyd. Our guys went out looking for Bobby Calhoun this afternoon, but he’s up fighting the fire, and can’t be reached. Then they got the call about the tennis ball. A judge signed a quick warrant to search Courtney’s country-club locker. Didn’t find anything. But in the tennis shop? Where the players keep their balls in cubbies with their names on them, sort of like kindergartners? Courtney’s cubby had three cans of tennis balls. Two were closed and one was open. The open can had two tennis balls in it. Who opens a can and just takes out one ball? Our guys are talking to Courtney now.”
I shook my head. Back to the Courtney theory. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Means? Bobby Calhoun wasn’t the only one who could own a Ruger. If Courtney had hired a professional hit man, then that guy might be the one who’d committed the murder in Denver all those months ago.
I measured the strawberries, then mixed together a judicious amount of flour, cornstarch, and sugar. I said, “So did you find out who was killed with the Ruger in Denver?”
From the envelope, Tom retrieved two more items. One was a poor-quality copy of what looked like an employee-of-the-month photo. The man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, had thick glasses and a thin, handsome face. The other photo was of even worse quality, and showed a couple. The woman was young and pretty, with lots of curly hair. They looked as if they were at a party. “The guy, Quentin Drake, was killed in broad daylight on a street in Denver. Quentin and his wife, Ruby, lived in a trailer in Golden.”
“Ruby Drake?” That name was familiar. “Can you find out any more about them? About him?” I stared at the picture of the couple. “I’ve seen this woman somewhere.”
“Preheat the oven to three-fifty for me, would you please, wife? You’re not going hauling down to Golden to interview the widow.”
I snapped the oven thermostat for him and slipped the pictures back in the envelope. Then I rolled out my newest dough experiment and fit it into a pie pan. “So, what do you know about this victim? Any points of comparison with the Jerk?”
“Quentin Drake was a computer geek for an engineering company before he got laid off. I don’t know about her. You’re not going after this guy’s killer, Goldy.”
I carefully stirred the strawberries into the sugar mixture and tried to sound nonchalant. “I know, I know. I’m just looking for a link.”
We worked in companionable silence for a while. I carefully placed the pie in the oven, taking care not to jiggle Tom’s brownie pan. He was washing the bespattered bowl and beaters and I was wiping the counters when Arch made one of his noiseless entries into the kitchen.
“I have something else to tell you,” he began. When Arch had Tom’s and my attention, he crossed his arms and looked at the floor. “I just don’t want to get this guy into trouble. I mean, he’s old. I can’t imagine he would hurt anyone. I don’t think he would want to hurt me.”
Tom used his best interrogation technique when a suspect began to talk: Say nothing. Reluctantly, I followed his lead.
Arch let out a deep breath. “Todd and I figured out who’s been following me. We tag-teamed our watch at Todd’s house. The car was there, with the guy inside. I used Todd’s telescope to see who it was.” Arch’s brow furrowed above his glasses. “Why would Ted Vikarios be stalking me?”
“Ted Vikarios?” I repeated. I pictured Ted standing, tall and charismatic, at the microphone in the Roundhouse.
“Ted Vikarios?” Tom repeated. “You mean the guy you said gave the long-winded speech at the lunch? Who had the argument with Korman? The one whose wife got ridiculed by the mean women? What’s his background?”
“He’s a former preacher. And a medical doctor.” I recounted the history of Albert and Ted being co-department heads for ob-gyn at Southwest, and how they’d gotten religion. They’d gone their separate ways: the Kerrs to England for seminary and then Qatar for missionary work, the Vikarioses to fame, fortune, and, ultimately, ruin.
“Ruin?” Tom asked.
They’d . . . had a scandal, I said, with a meaningful look at Tom that said sex.
“Wait,” interjected Arch. “Excuse me, didn’t mean to interrupt. But I’m supposed to call Todd about this birthday party on Saturday. So . . . does something smell like brownies?”
Tom smiled. “If it looks like chocolate and smells like chocolate, then there’s a pretty good chance that it is chocolate. Thirty minutes’ cooking time. Two hours to cook if we’re being sticklers. Which we aren’t.”
“Great!” Arch headed toward the kitchen door, his conscience clear, his appetite set. “Call me if you figure out what’s going on!”
“Tom,” I said softly, after Arch was gone. “I may be beginning to see something.” If it looks like a payoff and smells like a payoff, Nan had said, maybe it is a payoff. “Remember I was telling you about the Vikarioses’ ruin?”
He nodded, and I gave him a brief account of the scandal concerning Talitha Vikarios and her out-of-wedlock child by Albert Kerr. The papers had gorged on the fact that Ted Vikarios, a man who made boxed tape sets called Victory over Sin, had a daughter who’d been living in a commune. And then Nan Watkins had told me Talitha was dead.
“If Ted Vikarios and John Richard weren’t arguing about money after the funeral lunch, what were they arguing about?” I wondered aloud. “And most puzzling of all, why would Ted be stalking Arch?”
Tom’s face was understanding as he reached for a squeegee and began scrubbing. “Sometimes if I just rejuggle all the pieces in a homicide, I come up with an answer.”
But the words were not even out of his mouth before I knew. I said, “Albert Kerr had mumps when he was a teenager.
“And that’s important because . . . “
I felt so low, all of a sudden. I couldn’t even say the words. The kitchen spun around, and Tom’s soapy hands grabbed me.”
“Miss Goldy! What’s wrong?” He eased me into a kitchen chair, then nabbed a cotton towel and filled it with ice. With great gentleness, he held it to my forehead. He whispered, “Don’t try to talk.”
“It’s okay.” In my mind’s eye, I saw the photo of that dear, sweet candy striper as she hugged Arch and held him close. I remembered Talitha Vikarios even better than I had before. She’d been wonderfully attentive, she’d doted on the infant Arch. You’re so lucky, Mrs. Korman! I want to have a family someday, too! If I had a family, I wouldn’t let anything destroy it!
Talitha Vikarios had had one other person she’d adored, though. And she’ been weepy, too, as she held Arch. Inexplicably weepy.
I gazed into Tom’s green eyes. “When a teenage male gets the mumps, it usually renders him sterile. Which explains why Albert and Holly Kerr didn’t have any children. When Talitha Vikarios told her parents that Albert Kerr was the father of her child, she was lying.”
“Whoa. Back up. So Talitha took off to have the child in some commune?”
“Yes. My bet is that when she was discovered by the media, she told what she thought was a white lie. Albert Kerr was far away, and couldn’t be affected. Plus, while the Kerr were overseas, there would been no way for Ted and Ginger to know that Albert had had the mumps when he was a kid. Holly told me about it when she was reminiscing.”
Tom said, “So Albert Kerr had had the mumps and was sterile. But the Vikarioses, Talitha included, didn’t know. Right? Why would she assign paternity to some guy who was sterile, and out of the country to boot?”
“Maybe I’m doing a quantum leap here, but I think she was protecting me. And Arch. Our family.”
“So . . . are you saying you think the father of her child was John Richard Korman?”
“I am. I think he seduced her the way he did most pretty young nurses. I think she made the disastrous mistake of falling in love with him. They had an affair, and she got pregnant. She left to have the child, rather than abort.”
“Oh, Miss G.”
And then I moaned. Tom gave me a quizzical look. I said, “Before the Kerr memorial lunch, Ted Vikarios came into the kitchen looking for something. He yelled, ‘Jesus God Almighty!’ and startled us. But he wasn’t calling on a supreme being, Tom. He was looking at Arch.” I clutched the table. “Arch must look a lot like his grandson.”
Tom groaned, but I held up my hand. I was thinking, trying to put it all together . . . or as much of it as I could guess at.
I went on. “Right then, when Ted saw Arch, I’ll bet he figured it out. No doubt he and Ginger had been puzzling over this for a long time.” I paused. “Let’s say, after the discovery of Talitha’s child, they believed Talitha’s story that Albert was the father. The Kerrs, long gone, probably denied it from afar, in a flurry of correspondence. But let’s say Talitha stuck to her story . . . and it looks as if she stayed in the Utah commune, too. So the Vikarioses had no relationship with their child or their grandchild, no money because their tape empire had failed, and no more friendship with the Kerrs.”
Tom said, “I’m following you. But how do the Vikarioses end up in a country-club condo in Aspen Meadow?”
I said, “Holly Kerr’s husband was terminally ill with cancer. She’d just inherited millions, but the money couldn’t help her husband. So maybe she forgave the Vikarioses for suspecting Albert. She hated the stories she heard from friends, about how the Vikarioses were suffering. And the wanted to reconcile with them before her husband died. So she started sending them a stipend. The Vikarioses were grateful, but they were still left with the mystery of who had fathered their grandchild and ruined their lives — “
Wait a minute. My kitchen shears had been stolen, and John Richard’s hair had been clipped after he was dead. So Arch thought Ted Vikarios was an old man who wouldn’t harm anybody? Had Ted demanded the truth from John Richard outside the Roundhouse? Had he said, “Are you the man who impregnated my unmarried daughter? Are you the man who ruined our lives?”
I said softly, “Ted Vikarios could have killed the Jerk and then cut a swatch of hair for a paternity test.”
“Now, Goldy, that is reaching — “
“I need to make a call.” I tapped keys to pull up the address book on my computer and scrolled to Priscilla Throckbottom’s number. What do you know, she had given me both her home and cell-phone numbers. It was only half-past eight, so with any luck . . .
“Priscilla?” I said breathlessly when she answered her cell. “It’s Goldy Schulz.”
“I’m at the country club,” Priscilla announced excitedly. “We’re all still here, all still talking about Courtney MacEwan’s arrest!”