“There you go again.” He closed his eyes, then opened them to look around the room. He stopped to gaze at a bright orange All Saints’ Day drawing Arch had done at the beginning of Sunday school class, the one I’d taught. Since Arch did not at that point know about any actual saints, his picture was a cluster of Mom, Dad, Vonette, Fritz, and Mother Teresa. I explained all this to Schulz when he asked about it.

“Interesting,” he said. “Now look. You don’t need to get uptight. About your business. I’m just saying a good cook is hard to find. You make great cinnamon rolls.”

He stopped and worked his jaw for a few moments.

“Now tell me why a good unmarried cook with a reputation to protect would get so upset talking to a cop who’s trying to help her out?”

I shook my head. I said, “Sorry. Talking about my ex-husband gets me upset.” I took a deep breath. “That’s what our argument was about, anyway. The Jerk and no tomatoes. That son of a bitch. Nothing even happened to him.”

“Something happened, though.”

I looked at Schulz. “I didn’t do anything to John Richard. I thought it was inappropriate for him to bring a new girlfriend, his fiancee, mind you, to a reception after the funeral of one of his son’s teachers. Plus he walked over and insulted me. Then we fought over the dish with the mushrooms. But that’s it.”

Schulz swung his body around to the side and crossed his legs. He was wearing tan corduroy slacks and a gray sweater and tie: preppy clothes over his mountain-man body. He lifted his eyebrows and shoulders, opened his hands in question.

I said, “The guys down at the Health Department aren’t going to find anything in that trash bag.”

“Let’s hope not.”

I was suddenly exhausted. Worse, I did not like the way Investigator Tom Schulz was making me feel. He made me want to trust him, which did not come easily.

I said, “So am I going to jail or what?”

He shook his head and smiled. “No. But the other incident is something else. We have a policy about attempted poisoning. Sorry, your business will have to stay closed down. For a while. Until we find out about the rodent poison, who did it and why. That’s it.”

“Please don’t do that to me,” I begged. My eyes sought his. “My busy season is coming up. Arch and I depend on the November and December income to make it through the next year. The longer I’m closed down, the worse things will get for us financially. I can’t make it on housecleaning alone.”

He shrugged. “Have to, sorry. At least until this mess with Fritz Korman is cleared up.”

“How long will that take?”

“That depends.”

I leaned forward. “I can help you. Really. I’m already going over there day after tomorrow to talk to Vonette.”

Schulz lifted an eyebrow, tilted his head.

He said, “To talk to Vonette. Listen. When I want help on this case, I’ll ask for it.”

It was my turn to shrug.

He said, “Okay, Goldy. Do you know who didn’t get along with Doctor Korman? Sounds as if you know a lot of people.”

“Oh, well,” I began. I felt a wave of sympathy for Vonette. How could I be disloyal to her? What could I say? I shook my head.

“Look,” I said, “everyone in this town knows Fritz. Most of the people under twenty were delivered by him, for God’s sake.”

“Know anybody who thought he wasn’t a good doctor? Anybody at the party?”

“No.”

“Were any of his patients there yesterday?”

I thought. “I think Trixie Jackson is one of his patients. The aerobics instructor.”

“Yeah,” said Schulz. “I used to see her over at the athletic club. She married?”

“Yes,” I said, “she is, I think. I remember seeing her in the Kormans’ office. But that was a long while ago, when I was still married.” I frowned. A guilty knot tied itself in my stomach. It wasn’t up to me to give Trixie’s ob- gyn history to Schulz. After the divorce I’d changed doctors; I now went to a female gynecologist in Denver. I didn’t keep up with the Kormans’ practice.

Schulz said, “Who else?”

“Why don’t you just subpoena his records or whatever it’s called?” I could hear the exasperation in my voice. A minute ago I had offered to help him. Now I just wanted him to leave.

“Okay,” I went on wearily, “Patty Sue Williams. My roommate. He’s treating her for amenorrhea. It’s in the dictionary. Anyway, her doctor from eastern Colorado sent her out here to be treated by Fritz.” I switched to a lower tone. “Believe me,” I said, “Fritz might as well be the governor, the way Patty Sue looks up to him. She’d have an anxiety attack before she’d put poison in his coffee.”

He tapped his fingers on the mahogany coffee table. “What about the wife?” He looked at the ceiling as if he-were turning things over in his mind. “Vonette.”

“Look,” I said, “you can check all this in your files somewhere. Vonette’s an alcoholic. Fritz got her tossed into detox a few nights ago. It happens now and then. But that doesn’t mean she tried to do anything to him.” I paused. “She doesn’t operate that way. When she’s upset with Fritz she takes it out on herself. She drinks.”

“I’ll do the interpreting around here, if you don’t mind.” He smiled. “What about this Laura person? What’s this your son said about her not liking Korman?”

“I’m going to see what Vonette knows about that,” I replied. “All I know about Laura is from our teacher- parent conferences last year and two years before, when she was Arch’s teacher.”

“How did your son feel about Ms. Smiley?”

“They were very close. They used to tell each other jokes, write letters.” I paused. “He’s very upset about her killing herself. At least, he seems that way.”

Schulz cleared his throat. “I’ve read about those fantasy games,” he said. “Some kids can get awfully involved in them. Think they’re real.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Your son was in charge of the coffee and whatnot. He was friends with Ms. Smiley and for some reason thought Fritz Korman was her enemy. He’s having trouble dealing with her death, but puts great stock in fantasy games where they use potions and the like. Any chance that could spell trouble for his grandfather?”

I stared at Schulz with my mouth open.

I said, “My son is not a liar.”

“He didn’t tell me he didn’t do it.”

“You didn’t ask.” I felt my ears burning. “Arch!” I called toward the kitchen door. “Arch, the policeman wants to ask you another question!”

Arch stuck his head into the living room.

“What?” he said.

Schulz said nothing. He only looked benevolently at Arch.

“Hon,” I said gently, “did you put anything into Fritz’s coffee?”

“Huh?”

“Did you”—I began again and opened my eyes wide at him—“put something into Fritz’s coffee to make him sick?”

Arch reddened. “No,” he replied. “Why? Do you think I did?”

“No,” I said in relief, and glanced back at Schulz, who was studying Arch’s face. “You can go. Unless Mr. Schulz here has any more questions.”

He shook his head. Arch left, and I stood up.

Tom Schulz gave me a long look. This time I felt that the X-ray vision was not directed to seeing what was in my mind. I felt he was looking for something else, but I couldn’t quite figure out what.

He said, “Let’s keep in touch.”

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