Sticks & Scones (9 page)

“Goldy,” he murmured. He hugged me, but knew better than to ask some clichéd question about how I was doing. “They have a good team here.”

“Okay.”

Gray-haired, hawk-faced Captain Lambert was a tall, heavy man whose bones creaked when he sat in a plastic chair. The row of brown buttons on his tan uniform stretched to capacity across his Buddha-like belly. He smelled of Old Spice and gave the impression of a benevolent giant trying hard to be comforting. I sat down next to him, grateful to have someone with me.

“Where’s Tom now?” I asked. “Have you seen him?”

“No, but I know the procedure.” His voice was kindly and reassuring. “The flight team gives their report to the ER doc. Tom’s age, how many shots fired, how much blood loss, that kind of thing. The ER doc assesses and then acts.”

We said nothing for a few minutes. I looked around. Sitting in the waiting room felt like floating near the bottom of a deep well. Sunlight filtered through blue-tinted
frosted glass and illuminated pale blue walls, dark turquoise chairs, navy blue couches opposite a wall of windows looking out on a busy hospital hallway. For the first time, I noticed that the room appeared to be full of women: women staring, women sobbing quietly, women listening with frozen faces to jammy-clad doctors giving them the news.

“They unloaded him hot,” I told Lambert, just to be talking. “That means—” My throat shut.

The captain’s expression and tone did not change. “They gave him blood while they were assessing him.”

I could just imagine the ER team swarming around my husband: putting in IV’s that contained blood and glucose, taking blood pressure and pulse, hooking up the heart monitor, checking for respiration and mentation, that is, assessing how cogent the patient is.

How cogently was Tom thinking when he told me he didn’t love her?

“They do X rays,” the captain continued in that maddeningly soothing voice. “Once they know what they’re dealing with and have their surgical team together, they’ll put him right in—”

The doctor appeared, a short, slender man with gray hair, pale eyes, and a greenish tint to his skin that might have been the effect of the neon lights. He introduced himself as Dr. Larry Saslow and asked if I was Mrs. Schulz.

“Your husband’s wound,” the doctor began, “is not as bad as it could have been. The bullet missed bone, but nicked a major blood vessel. The subclavian, heard of it?” When I nodded mutely, he went on: “A vascular surgeon is working on him now. He should be out of surgery in a couple of hours.”

I wanted to hold on to this man.
I want reassurances!
But I could do nothing but nod.

“Thanks. Good. Very good,” replied Captain Lambert
before the doctor walked away. When I continued to say nothing, Captain Lambert mumbled he’d be back in a minute. Moments later, he lumbered back with two plastic cups of coffee that looked like recycled motor oil.

“It’s better than nothing,” he said apologetically.

Mechanically, I took a sip and instantly burned my tongue. “It’s great, thanks.” My voice sounded faraway.

“This is good news, Goldy. What the doc said. They’ll keep Tom in ICU overnight. A couple of our deputies can stay to check on him every hour, if you need to go home—”

“I am
not
going home,” I said fiercely. My hand trembled and coffee slopped onto my knee. I knew I needed to make calls, but I wasn’t ready.

“Okay, okay. Stay here, then.”

I was being unreasonable and shrill, and I didn’t want to respond to the graciousness of Captain Lambert this way. Still, I didn’t know how to act. So I just sat, prayed, and drank bad coffee. Finally, I asked the captain if he knew about a phone I could use. He said the waiting-room phone was ten feet away. Did I want him to walk over there with me? No, thanks.

First I called Saint Luke’s Episcopal Church in Aspen Meadow. Into the priest’s voice mail I crisply stated our news, adding that I was at Southwest Hospital and would be for the next twenty-four hours. I asked that Tom’s name go out immediately on the prayer chain. Then I called Marla’s cell.
Please pick up Arch from Elk Park Prep and call me at the following number
, I said numbly into her messaging system.
Better yet, please bring Arch to Southwest Hospital, as I need to be with both of you. Tom’s been shot
, I explained, my voice quavering.

Then I called the Hydes. With them, I was relieved to get a machine. Briefly, I announced what had happened, and where I was.
We’ll have to postpone the luncheon until
later in the week, since the area is now a crime scene. I’m sure the donors will understand….

Finally I went back to my plastic chair. I felt numb.

“Goldy?” Captain Lambert asked. “I’ve been wondering, I’m just curious … of course, you’ll be talking to a detective later, but … what happened?”

And so I told my tale: how the window at our house had been shot out, how Sergeant Boyd had politely ordered my son and me to get out until Tom returned. We’d schlepped to Hyde Castle, just above Cottonwood Creek and Hyde Chapel, where I was supposed to cater a luncheon today…. And then I’d found Andy Balachek’s body in the creek, and Tom had been shot…. “And there’s something else you should know.” I told him about my ex-husband’s early release from prison.

“We’re trying to find Korman now,” the captain replied. “We think he’s at his old country club home in Aspen Meadow. At least, that’s where he told his parole officer he was headed—”

“Wait,” I interrupted him. My attention veered to the far side of the waiting room.

At the window that looked out on the hall, a woman’s face—porcelain skin, fine features, ink-black hair—appeared, then vanished. Goose bumps chilled my skin.

What was Chardé Lauderdale doing at Southwest Hospital?

I
jumped up, raced to the waiting-room door, and checked the hall. It was a noisy place. The intercom blared litanies of names and messages; orderlies rattled past pushing patient-loaded gurneys; families, nurses, and doctors chattered and strode, fast and slow, along the squeaky linoleum.

And there was Chardé Lauderdale, walking quickly away. Her black hair was swept up in a French twist held with a gleaming barrette. Her red and black suit hugged her athletic figure as her high heels clickety-clicked into the distance. Maybe she was here to have her little daughter Patty examined again, to determine if there were any long-term effects from the shaking Buddy had given her. Chardé turned and glanced at me, then trotted around the corner.

I rubbed my dry, cracked hands together. Curse of the caterer: too many washings, too little lotion. I stared at the hallway, as if daring Chardé Lauderdale to reappear. Had Tom ever mentioned someone trying to intimidate him?
Was someone trying to intimidate
me?
Could the Lauder-dales and their thirst for revenge be behind all that was happening? I walked back inside the waiting room.

“Captain Lambert, I need to tell you about some people named Lauderdale.” My mouth filled with bile even as I said their name. Briefly, I told Lambert of the New Year’s Eve party and its aftermath.

“I read the article,” Captain Lambert mused. “Read the report, too. We’re following up on the Lauderdales. And on your ex-husband. And on the hijackers Tom’s investigating. At this point, the suspects in the shooting of Tom are the same ones we’re considering for shooting at your house. First thing, we have to look at Balachek.”

“What exactly
was
going on with Andy Balachek?” I asked. “Tom only told me a few details.”

The captain pursed his lips. “Tom didn’t tell you we used to call Ray Wolff the Stinky Beef Boy?”

My mind swam. “He never mentioned bad-smelling meat. I would have remembered that.”

“A while back, Wolff stole a truckload of what he thought was prime-grade steaks. Turned out it was beef
rectums.
” Lambert chuckled. “The rectums were unsalable to restaurants, naturally. So he abandoned the truck. Smelled up six city blocks before Denver P.D. figured out what it was. Witnesses gave a physical description of Wolff, whom law enforcement already knew about.”

“So then Wolff got a couple of partners, one of whom was Andy Balachek?”

Lambert cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not going to go chasing after them, are you?”

My reputation for poking around in unsolved crimes again reared its busybody head. I reddened. “Of course not.” Lambert’s look was skeptical. No doubt the captain knew all about my sleuthing.

“All right,” Lambert continued after a moment. “The three-million-dollar stamp heist. The Stamp Fox is an
unusual place. It’s high-class and very specialized. This country doesn’t have many fancy stamp stores, not the way they do in London or Zurich. George Renard, the owner, tried to get publicity for his store by getting articles in the local papers about Tucson’s big philatelic show. Renard wanted the world to know the value of the stamps he’d be exhibiting, and wouldn’t his boutique be a cool place to shop?” Lambert rubbed his large forehead, sighing over the store owner’s stupidity. “Problem was, the article also said Renard was flying to Tucson and shipping the collection. So your smart thief will watch the store. How many days to the stamp show? What courier does the store use? How often does the courier come? That’s how he figures out that when a FedEx truck shows up three days before the show opens, he can hit it and cash in.”

“How many valuable stamps were taken?”

“Three of them were from Mauritius. Each of those was valued at half a million
pounds
, which is about eight hundred thousand dollars per stamp, at today’s exchange rates. Know anything about old stamps from Mauritius? Do you even know where Mauritius is? I had to look it up.”

My laugh sounded hollow, somehow. Every amateur stamp-collector quickly learns the location of small countries that produce important stamps. “Mauritius is an island country off the coast of Africa. East of Madagascar. Their old stamps are extremely rare,” I said. “First issue was in … ah … 1850, or thereabouts? Has a picture of Queen Victoria?”

“Very good. 1847.” Lambert sounded impressed.

I thought for a minute. “But … aren’t those stamps going to be hard to fence?”

“Maybe in this country, where using pawnshops would be stupid. But if you’ve got contacts in the Far East, according to Renard, you can fence anything. Before you know it, the stolen stamps, now with huge price
tags, show up in European shows. Watch it, though, Goldy. We haven’t published any pictures of the stolen stamps, or even a list of the inventory. Got it? That’s a key to our investigation. No one must know.”

“Right, okay, thanks for telling me.” The keys to a case were secret, and closely guarded by the authorities. Without willing it, I mentally placed The Stamp Fox in Furman East Shopping Center. The luxury strip mall was a mile from Lauderdale Luxury Imports. It was also, as I recalled, not far from The Huntsman, the euphemistically named gun shop for which the Jerk’s new girlfriend, Viv Martini, worked as a sales rep. The Huntsman was a free-standing store, since mall developers didn’t favor firearm retailers.

I felt dazed. “Where does shooting Tom come in?”

He shook his head. “We figure the thieves haven’t fenced the stamps yet. But we also believe Balachek was getting antsy. The FedEx driver was killed in the robbery, and Balachek could face murder or complicity charges. Plus, he had stolen his father’s truck last year, sold it for gambling money he lost, and then never paid him back. Now his dad’s in coronary care. Andy wanted his share of the robbery money so he could make things right with his dad before he died. At least, that’s what he told Tom. At first, Andy strung Tom along as to the location of the stamps. Andy told Tom when Wolff would be at Furman County Storage and Tom arrested Wolff there. It was a great collar. But our team found no stamps on Ray Wolff. Our theory is that Andy knew the location of the stamps, but wanted to trade that knowledge for a better plea deal. It’s very tentative, but we’re figuring Wolff’s gang killed Andy to keep his mouth shut. And maybe they’re after Tom because they figure Andy
did
tell him where the loot was.” He gave me an apologetic look. “It’s all really speculative,” he repeated.

“And the other people in the gang?”

“We just have Wolff and Balachek as suspects at this point. But witnesses to the hijacking are very clear about seeing three people. Balachek refused to tell Tom the name of the other hijacker, or if there were more people involved. That kid was
scared.”

I nodded numbly. I was thankful the captain had shared his theory with me. He’d also given me more information than cops usually gave civilians. But he knew Tom talked to me about his cases. He also knew that I’d proved helpful—if a tad meddlesome—in the past. I didn’t feel particularly helpful now, though. All I could think of was Tom slumping against a boulder as his blood ran down the granite.

I asked, “The other hijacker, could it be a woman?”

Cops have a way of hearing questions. The captain’s tone became guarded. “We don’t know the exact number of people involved in the heist, or their gender. Why?”

I shrugged. Why?
I don’t love her.
Had she pointed a loaded gun at our window in the wee hours, then shot Tom this morning, as he walked toward me? Was she, like the Jerk, the jealous type? Is there any way my husband would have become emotionally involved with a member of a theft ring?

Lambert shrugged, as if he’d made a decision. “Until recently, Ray Wolff had a girlfriend. Possibly she hooked up with Andy Balachek, too.” The captain added carefully, “But … I would have thought you’d know about her. Tom ever mention Viv Martini?”

I choked. “Viv Martini? She’s involved with these crooks?” Why had Tom not told me this? “Viv is my
ex-
husband’s girlfriend.”

“Yeah, so we heard. The woman gets around. Our most recent information was that Martini was involved with Ray Wolff. Last month, we thought we spotted her at a Denver hotel, either alone or with Andy Balachek.
Then we heard she was interested in John Richard Korman.”

She gets around? That seemed an understatement. To my way of thinking, the Furman County Jail sounded postively incestuous. I remembered Arch’s words:
Dad stole the girlfriend of one of the convicts. The guy was pretty pissed off and yelled at Dad that he’d get back at him. But Dad and Viv are doing okay. Viv told me she’s happier with someone finishing a prison stint than with someone who’s just getting started on one. She likes it that Dad has money. He told her he was buying her something nice, a Mercedes or maybe a trip to Rio.

I felt as if I were inside the washing machine with all the Jerk’s dirty laundry, past and future. Let’s see: The Jerk stole the hijacker’s girlfriend. This past Friday, the Department of Corrections released the Jerk. Very early today, Monday morning, someone blasted out our front window. Two hours ago, Tom, who arrested the hijacker, was shot, right next to where the corpse of the hijacker’s murdered young partner, the man Tom had been seeking in Atlantic City, had been dumped.

Even a paranoid has real enemies.

The captain’s pager beeped. “I’ve gotta go make this call from my car,” Lambert informed me, and left.

I used the waiting-room desk phone to call Marla again. My watch said half past nine. While I was waiting to be switched to my friend’s voice mail, I ate one of the two emergency chocolate truffles I keep in my purse, then tore into a cellophane-wrapped package of crackers left for waiting-room families. Feeling slightly better, I told Marla’s messaging that Tom was now in with a vascular surgeon.

“Please call the hospital’s main number and see if they’ll page me,” I added. “I’m still hoping you can bring Arch to the hospital so we can decide what to do. I’ll be
spending the night here. Oh, and I’m desperate for some clean clothes, if you can scrounge anything up. Thanks, friend.”

Captain Lambert trundled back into the waiting room. “Okay,” he began without preamble, “our guys on the hill just called in a preliminary report. What they think are the shooter’s footprints start by a picnic table in Cottonwood Park, then go down to a spot across from the creek, then back up to the table. At the point across the creek, a tech found a spent shell. There are some tire tracks by the picnic table. So someone was watching from above, then came back down to do the shooting, then went back up to his vehicle. Was the person waiting for
Tom?
Was the shooter waiting for the person who found Balachek’s body? But that was you, right? Would the perp have waited all day to shoot at a cop? We can’t tell yet.”

Waiting for Tom? Waiting for any cop?
My thoughts whirled. If you’d murdered Andy Balachek, why not just leave?
Why stay?

The captain continued, “The investigative team has begun detection around the body. Rigor’s already set in, so he’d been dead for a while. Which makes even less sense. How long had the perp been waiting up in the pines? Hours? Oh, and by the way, all this is for your ears only, Goldy,” he warned.

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.” As if I was going to ask some stranger how to make sense out of all this.

“Okay, regarding your house,” the captain said, switching back to his reassuring tone. “Since your security system’s down from the shooting, your neighbor Trudy volunteered to watch your house. Another thing you should be aware of: I’ve assigned two of Tom’s men to investigate this case. Officers Boyd and Armstrong. Boyd will be lead investigator.”

I felt relief. The captain also had a long message from
Marla, who had called the sheriff’s department. She’d pulled Arch from school, Lambert reported. She and Arch were going to Boulder to find someone named Julian. Then the three of them were coming here to the hospital. Lambert talked on about how the policemen’s wives had wanted to organize meals to be sent to the castle, where he assumed Arch and I would want to stay, but they weren’t sure if I’d want them, with me being a caterer and all. I smiled involuntarily at the image of historic-food buff Eliot Hyde peering into a tuna noodle casserole. I thanked the captain and assured him meals would not be necessary.

While Lambert sat patiently, I paced for another hour. Finally a young, grim-faced doctor in surgical clothes came into the room. “Mrs. Schulz?” He nodded at Lambert. A pins-and-needles anxiety swept over me.

Dr. Dan Spier, vascular surgeon, was concise. His small fingers indicated on his own chest the bullet’s point of entry. It had indeed gone through soft tissue only. He talked about the surgery his team had undertaken, and told me that Tom’s shoulder would have to be immobilized for about a month, although he could start moving around as soon as he felt up to it. Tom was lucky, Spier continued dryly, that no bone had been hit, lucky that the weapon had not been an automatic, lucky that there had been only one bullet. And he was particularly lucky, Spier added with a pinched smile, that I’d had the presence of mind to compress the wound.

Lucky.
I turned the word over in my mind.

Spier concluded by saying I would receive discharge instructions on changing the bandage and on bringing Tom back in to be examined. As long as all went well during a night in ICU, Tom could go home in the morning.

“That seems early,” I protested. How could we go home, until the cops had a better sense of who the
shooter was? And if we didn’t go home, how would the Hydes take to having a wounded cop recuperating at their place?

Spier shook his head. “It’s not really early. All you have to do is keep an eye on the wound and get the patient to rest.” I thanked Spier. He nodded impassively and left.

Finally, finally, I was allowed to see Tom. His skin was yellow. With an IV in his arm and oxygen tubes up his nose, he appeared utterly helpless. The bedsheet rose and fell as he slept. I closed his hand in mine. His eyelids flickered but did not open.
I love you
, I told him silently.
I love you now and forever and ever. No matter what.