Catering to Nobody (Goldy Schulz Series)

“So tell me about this guy.”

“What guy?”

“The cop.”

“Marla,” I said in a voice full of vinegar, “tell me why you called me sweetie pie.”

“I don’t know. Does it bother you? Think I’m sweet on you? I just asked you about a policeman. Schulz, she said his name was.”

I gave her a brief description of the investigating officer and then told her about the flowers and their message, with its “sweetie pie.”

“Weird,” she said.

“Is that all you can think of to say? My whole life’s falling apart, for God’s sake!”

“Well, I didn’t send them,” she protested. “Did John Richard ever send you flowers?”

“Only when he felt guilty about some fling he was having,” I said. “You?”

“No, not after I served him edible nasturtiums.”

I said, “Could the Jerk possibly have sent them? I mean, is this guy cracking up or what?” I told her about the tomato allergy, about my innocent substitution of the mushrooms. “When Fritz got sick John Richard had a fit and blamed me. Because of the mushrooms, if you can believe it.”

Marla said, “Okay, okay. You are still my good buddy and I am still yours. Everything is going to be all right. Let’s think.” She stopped to drink something. “The Jerk is pissed off with you. So what else is new? But look at it this way. Maybe he did it. He blames you, makes it look like you, raises a stink. So nobody says, Well now, who spends the most time hanging around Daddy? Catch my drift?”

Another new angle. Everyone had a theory. I couldn’t wait to try them out on Schulz. On second thought, I could wait.

“Get him sent to jail, will you?” Marla begged. “I’m getting tired of avoiding him.”

After hanging up I considered. Would Schulz have thought of these possibilities? Perhaps not yet.

I spent the remainder of the morning calling the clients whose parties I was supposed to cater in the next month. Canceling felt like pouring money down the drain. Worse, and to my surprise, my clients were all eager to try Denver caterers. Bad news traveled fast. Then I balanced the checkbook. Three hundred ninety dollars. More bad news, even if the November child support payment came on time, which was unlikely. I calculated what it would take to make the next house payment and pay the bills.

I should have majored in math, I’d decided within a week of being single again. The degree in psychology had not only provided the depressing evidence that I had married a violent egotistical narcissist, it had also failed to help in making money.

My fallback during dry periods with the catering business was housecleaning, which paid a reliable eight bucks an hour. If I could book the jobs, Patty Sue and I each were going to have to do three houses a week just to make the November house payment and buy groceries. Luckily, finding needy clients whose houses were a mess was never difficult.

The only questionable debt was monthly dues for the athletic club. Missing this payment meant starting over with the four-hundred-dollar initiation fee, and I certainly didn’t want to do that. But the club was a place I needed to get away from the kitchen. Arch enjoyed the pool in summer. I called and got, of all people, Trixie Jackson.

“Oh Trix,” I said casually, “I need to speak to Hal.”

Hal owned the club; I knew he was the only one in a position to let me barter for the dues.

“He’s gone down to the game,” she replied. And then, “I can’t get over that mess yesterday. Fritz writhing on the floor like a woman in labor. Makes him know what it’s like,”

To the best of my knowledge, Trixie had no children. How did she know what it was like? “Just tell me when Hal will be back,” I said.

“Oh, not until tomorrow. Why? You have a problem with something?”

“Look, Trix,” I said, “tell him I want to do something for him to take care of my dues this month. Clean or whatever. Just see what he says.”

She agreed. We decided to talk more the next day at the morning aerobics class, which she had taken over from another instructor. After that I called Alicia and canceled all my food for the upcoming month. Arch and Patty Sue began to wander into the kitchen and litter it with cinnamon roll crumbs, cereal boxes, and grease-soaked paper towels from draining the bacon. At one o’clock the doorbell rang.

Investigator Tom Schulz.

He sauntered in. Sensing his first question, I took him silently into the kitchen to look around. He smiled politely at Patty Sue and Arch, nodded at the pots and pans, walls and floors, cabinets and counters, said “Mm- hmm” and “It sure smells good in here,” and scanned everything with those green eyes. Next I led him out to the living room, which I had redecorated postdivorce in a riot of yellows and oranges. The eucalyptus in the mysterious dried flower arrangement perfumed the room.

“Nice arrangement,” he said.

“A bizarre arrangement,” I said, and told him of its sudden appearance and anonymous message. He asked to see the card. I gave it to him and he pocketed it. Then he made a silent visual check of the entire room before settling himself on the lemon-colored couch.

“Miss Goldy,” he began, “why don’t you start by telling me about your husband? About this allegation of his?”

“My ex-husband,” I said, suddenly angry, “is a—” I stopped and looked at my hands. “John Richard Korman,” I began again, “is an abusive man. He frightens me. I was trying to give him mushrooms instead of tomatoes, to which he is allergic.” I looked at Schulz. “Believe me,” I said, “I don’t have that much interest in Fritz Korman. He’s just an old charmer whose wife is an ale—” I paused. I said, “Not under my jurisdiction, as you cops would say.”

Schulz pulled his mouth into a small o. He leaned toward me and raised the tentlike eyebrows.

He said, “Just calm down.” He leaned back again. “Let’s start over. You can begin by offering me a nice cup of espresso and some of those rolls they’re eating out in the kitchen. I don’t ordinarily take refreshment at a suspect’s house, but I’m going to make a large exception, since it smells so good in here.”

I complied. Somehow the fact that he was hungry for something I had fixed, and that he trusted something I would fix, was encouraging.

He smiled at me between sips and bites.

“This is really nice, this place,” he said. “I like this old neighborhood. Has a lot of charm. So do some of the residents.” He gave what appeared to be either a judicious wink or a left-eye tic.

What in the world was going on? After a moment I said, “Are you going to ask me some questions or not?”

“Okeydoke.” He laboriously wiped each of his fingers on the napkin I had given him. “Just take it easy, okay?”

I nodded.

He said, “Did you put a foreign substance into Fritz Korman’s food to make him sick or kill him?”

I looked Investigator Schulz square in his X-ray vision eyes.

“No,” I said. “I did not.”

“Did you put a foreign substance into John Richard Korman’s food to make him sick or kill him?”

I said, “I did not. It would harm my business, which is my sole source of income—”

Schulz chuckled. “It has already harmed your business. It may be the end of your business. Please assure me they weren’t funny mushrooms.”

“They were the regular kind.”

“Good. Health Department report’ll be in tomorrow or the day after. That spread sure looked good, too, hated to waste it. Poached salmon. Strawberry shortcake.” He took a deep breath and leaned back to hike up his belt. “I’ve never been to a party you’ve catered.”

“So?”

“Now Miss Goldy, I’m just saying you seem to be a good cook. You’ve got a reputation to protect.”

I said, “The way you say it, it sounds like soliciting.”