He started to yell, and I held the phone away from my ear. It was only seven o’clock, but John Richard and I were both early risers. The first year of our marriage this had meant lovemaking and fresh sweet rolls as strokes of sunlight swept the walls of the house. Later the fights merely started earlier; accusations came at sunrise followed by the recriminations and my learning to dodge the frying pan full of hot bacon and grease.
In fact, I thought as I looked around the kitchen while still holding the screeching voice at arm’s length, the first thing I had redecorated after he moved out was this room where I now made my living. I slid my foot against the slick black and white tile that had replaced the brick-colored vinyl flooring. The walls and curtains now glowed with a muted red and white checked print. Think of something else, I told myself as John Richard continued to shriek. Breakfast.
“You there?” the Jerk was saying.
“If you’re not going to tell me how Fritz is, then I need to fix breakfast,” I said dryly. “Tell me something else, though. Why don’t you ever blow up like this in public? Then people would know why we got divorced. Look. You called me. What do you want, anyway?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Not a damn thing.” He hung up.
I rubbed my temples, removed rolls, bacon, and coffee beans from the freezer, and put my mind on the day ahead. Probably the best thing was that the Broncos were due to play Green Bay, which promised to be an easy win. It was good to have the regular season underway. I disliked the preseason, with its mandatory shrinkage of team size. Getting cut was probably a lot like getting divorced.
During the time before kickoff, I needed to make calls canceling parties and food supplies on order. Talking to the Jerk was like waking up and not being able to shake a nightmare. Even worse, I realized as a sharp pain grabbed my chest, was that the more recent nightmare had come true: my business and I were separated.
I needed to think. Get things in perspective. For openers, there was figuring out what it was the flower sender thought Fritz deserved. Was the flower sender the rat poisoner? The impending questioning from Schulz was another dark cloud on the day’s emotional horizon. If the Broncos didn’t win, the day would be a complete loss.
First things first. Patty Sue and Arch were still asleep. I steeled myself to make the first call. It would largely determine the tone of the day.
“Vonette,” I said brightly to her foggy greeting, “Goldy. Tell me how Fritz is doing.”
“Just fine, honey. My God, what time is it?” She groped and muttered. “Yeah, Fritz. Can’t imagine what happened to him.”
I was sorry to awaken her, but it was the only way I could be sure to catch her sober. I said, “How was the hospital? Did they give him anything?”
“Oh yeah, something. He put up a fuss, good heavens. Don’t know what it was he drank after that funeral. Like D-Kon, they said. Does the same thing, or whatever.”
“Does what same thing?”
She yawned. “Causes internal bleeding or such like that. But don’t worry, he’s not bleeding anymore. That stuff hit his ulcer and made him hurt, but he’s fine now. You’re bigger than any old rodent, I told him. It won’t kill you. Goldy, let me call you right back. I need to go make some coffee.”
I hung up, ground espresso beans, and filled the cappuccino maker. Vonette’s tone was strange. Maybe she was just tired. The machine steamed and gasped. When I was sipping the result, she called back.
I said, “Is he still sick? Is he upset?”
“Aw,” she said with a yawn, “he’ll stay home today, watch the game, you know, maybe rest for a couple more days. They wanted him to take it easy for a week and I laughed. Lord, I laughed. You know how important that practice is to him, I told those guys down at Lutheran. No way he’s going to stay in bed for a week. Doctors can be stubborn, I said.”
“Arch was saying something about how you all had known Laura.”
“Little Arch,” she said. I could feel her smile come over the phone. “I told Fritz to be sure and speak to him but I don’t think he did. And then all hell broke loose.”
“Did you and Fritz know Laura Smiley for a long time?”
A pause. She said, “A long time ago, we knew her.”
“How?”
“Oh,” she said, “she kind of worked for us one time. She was a … teacher and then a … a … what do they call it these days? Like a nanny one time. When we went on a vacation.”
“When was that?”
There was a longer silence. “You know, Goldy,” Vonette said, suddenly perplexed, “I don’t want to talk any more right now. I do feel one powerful headache coming on.”
This was bad news. The effects of chronic headaches on Vonette had led her past aspirin through Darvon, Valium, Librium, and whatever was the latest miracle cure. She occasionally had such pain, she had told me, that Fritz gave her shots of Demerol. This was in addition to the substantial amounts of alcohol she put away on a daily basis. Why she had not died from these combinations long ago was beyond me; I figured she possessed an incredible tolerance for drugs. I heard her gulp something down, and I knew our conversation about Laura was finished, at least for the moment.
“Let me help out,” I offered. “Let me bring your meals over. I mean,” I added hastily, “if you want.”
“I would, honey,” she said in a lower tone, “but you know John Richard is just in such a state about that food from yesterday. Lord! What does Goldy have against Fritz, I asked him. Exactly nothing, that’s what.” Another yawn. “I said to John Richard, Well, you know, son, there’s lots of women thought your daddy was a rat.” She giggled. The painkiller was taking effect.
“Vonette,” I said before the conversation degenerated further, “I’m coming over on Tuesday, and I’m going to bring Fritz some things to eat I know he likes. Okay?”
She giggled again.
“You can even test them,” I said, “and I want to visit with you, anyway. Make sure there are no hard feelings with old Fritz.”
Vonette inhaled. She said, “Goldy, honey. Thanks. That would be sweet. I’ll taste them if you want. Hell, nobody cares if
Did I ever. Maybe I should have adopted Marla’s attitude and actively avoided John Richard. My life might have been a lot easier. It would be good to have the son out of the way when I chatted with the mother. Though I hated to use Vonette, I needed information she might have. I didn’t know what in the world was going on. I had to start somewhere.
“Guess what?” I said. “Those cops are going to close down my operation until this is all cleared up. Maybe you can help me out a little.”
“Oh, honey,” she said, “I’ll give you all the cash you need. It’ll just be our little secret.”
“No no no. I mean, thanks, really, but I don’t mean money. All I want to do is talk to you, about some of the possibilities. Of who could have done this to Fritz.”
“Goldy honey, I keep telling you. Fritz is fine, Just let the police handle it.” She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “Do you know what? Maybe nobody did it to him. Maybe somebody did it so’s your catering business would be busted. Ever think of that?”
As a matter of fact, I had not. Besides John Richard, who hated me? The flowers from yesterday seemed to indicate I was not the target. No need to confuse Vonette with that, however.
I promised to see her in two days, rang off, and phoned Marla.
“You’ll never guess what happened to Fritz Korman,” I began.
“Pfft!” she answered. “Old news, sweetie pie. The way I hear it, you’re the one tried to do it.”
Wait a minute.
“Well,
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Marla. “I wasn’t even there, for God’s sake.” She began to chew something. “Trixie said the guy from the sheriff’s department was good-looking in an oversized mountain-man sort of way. That skinny bitch. She thinks anyone who doesn’t look as if they just came out of a refugee camp is overweight.” More chewing.
