Trixie.
“Glad you’re back,” said Marla to Trixie.
“Oh,” Trixie said loftily, “I’ve been back for a couple of weeks.”
“In fighting shape,” I said as we all settled in the dark room with its swirls of steam.
Trixie said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Not a damn thing,” I said. “What’s the matter?”
“Not a damn thing,” she said. After a moment she sniffed.
I said, “Did I say something wrong?”
Trixie nipped over. She said, “Just shut up, Goldy.”
I said, “What are you so angry about?”
Trixie said, “Since when are you a shrink?”
“Be cool, girls, be cool,” said Marla.
I let a silence go by. Then I said, “Would somebody please tell me what is going on?”
“Not now,” said Trixie.
There was another uncomfortable silence, in which Patty Sue cleared her throat several times.
“I’ve been thinking, Trixie,” Marla said finally. “Maybe you’d like to come to our group. Tell her about it, Goldy.”
I did, but I didn’t know why I was doing it. I explained that we ate dessert and talked. If she was having some problems, I said delicately, it sometimes helped to talk them out.
“I’ll think about it,” said Trixie. “When do you meet?”
“We’re meeting on Thursday the twenty-second,” I said. “Then we’ll meet again on Friday night the thirtieth.”
“Um,” said Patty Sue, “can I come too?”
“Sure,” I said. “Trix?”
“I teach Thursday nights and Saturday mornings,” she said, “so maybe the one near Halloween. Martin’s going out of town at the end of the month—it’s a possibility.” She was quiet for a minute. “I’ll think about it.”
“Such enthusiasm,” said Marla. To me she said, “I’m glad the last one’s near Halloween. I’ll need a heavy sugar fix right before all the little neighborhood goblins arrive and I actually have to give candy
After dressing I hunted for and found Hal. We stood in back of the desk to talk while he continued to dispense keys. I told him we were desperate for money to pay our dues, and that I had spent some time doing cleaning in addition to cooking, so I was qualified to do both. And he couldn’t beat my prices.
“Tell you what,” Hal said as he reached down for a key under its tag, “we usually have a Halloween party the thirty-first and just get all the food from a grocery store. Chocolate cookies, pumpkin cake, same old stuff every year. And one of the problems this year is that our cleaning crew comes in only on Sunday when we’re closed. Halloween falls on a Saturday, so we need someone, who I thought was going to be me, to clean up after we close on Friday. If you can do the munchies and punch and decoration, plus clean up beforehand, then that’ll take care of your dues for October and November.”
I told him the county had forbidden me to do catering. For a while.
“Hey,” said Hal, as he screwed his tanned face into indignation, “who cares what the county thinks? You’re doing this for me. And I’m doing something for you. Ever since I burned my draft card, I haven’t worried about the law.”
“Just don’t advertise the fact that I’m doing it, or I’ll catch hell.”
“It’s a favor,” he said. “Don’t worry so much! It’s bad for your heart.”
I did feel sick, but put it down to too many abdominal exercises. We settled on how many people and what kind of food he would like to have—mild Chinese, hot Mexican, and sweet American.
“Sounds like three girls,” he said.
I told him the cash flow problem was severe. He trundled off to get me fifty dollars from the cash register for my supplies.
While I waited for him I glanced down at the board with its rows of glistening keys. Keys to lockers were like keys to inner selves, solutions to outer and inner mysteries. But the one enigma in my current life—who had poisoned Fritz?—was not dangling on the board. Or if it was, I couldn’t see it. Whoever did hold the key to the pellets also determined my business future. Why had someone done it? I noticed Fritz’s key and my ex-husband’s hanging under the K. Why poison someone after a funeral? Especially after the funeral of a suicide?
What had Arch said? That Laura hadn’t gotten along with Fritz and Vonette. Carolton, Illinois, the paper had said.
Carolton, Illinois. John Richard and I had driven by that town once on a summer trip. The highway was near where his father had had a practice a long time ago.
I looked around for Hal. He was caught in conversation with a person carrying some weights.
What about Laura and the Kormans’ lives before Aspen Meadow? Who knew? Unless …
Unless the attempted poisoning of Korman had had something to do with Laura’s death. Which would explain why someone would go to the lengths of trying to do him in at her house, after her funeral, with her spirit or whatever there.
And what about Laura’s death, anyway? How indisputable was the determination by the coroner’s office, I wondered. With no note, what made them say it was suicide?
This wasn’t even a theory. This was an insane idea. The police were looking into the coffee poisoning. They had already decided about Laura Smiley’s death by her own hand.
But the police would still get their salaries whether or not they were right about a woman’s death, whether or not they figured out who was playing pellets-in-the-coffee. The solution to that question directly affected my livelihood. Was I ready to trust Arch’s and my income to someone else’s intelligence and perseverance?
I was not. Sweat dimpled my scalp. My fingers shivered.
Hal was still talking to the guy with the weights. I would not be able to follow up on this inclination right away. I would have to wait. Wait until the club was silent, empty. Still, it would be a start.
With one swift movement I reached down to the keys marked S, and removed one from its hook: Laura Smiley’s.
CHAPTER 7
At home that night I stared at the key and wondered if I’d committed a crime. So far, detection was neither enjoyable nor productive. The Grand Marnier I usually saved for cheesecakes gurgled when I poured some into one of my grandmother’s liqueur glasses. The taste like smoke and oranges burned all the way down.
I picked up the key and felt its edges bite into my hand. Think. I would have to wait to search Laura’s locker, wait for a time when the athletic club was deserted. It would raise more questions than it was worth to be caught pilfering the goods of a dead woman. This was Monday. The best bet would be Saturday, five days away. Given the choice, most folks would rather shop than sweat on a Saturday morning.
The liqueur did nothing to prevent another fitful night. Like most insomniacs, I fell into a deathlike sleep just as the sun was coming up. To my chagrin two interruptions shattered what could have been restful slumber.
The first was a barely remembered encounter with Arch. Before the bus came he had been banging around the house looking for some seeds for … milk? That was what had been confusing, what had sent me back to bed. He’d said he needed it for a potion for unbelievers, which seemed even more incredible.
The second rude awakening was from the phone.
“What is it?” I demanded into the receiver.
“Oh-ho, it’s the good-natured caterer, I see,” said Tom Schulz. “Resting up for housecleaning somewhere? Or do you have time to talk?”
“What can you possibly want at this hour?”
“It’s nine o’clock, Goldy. I could want a lot of things.”
I sat up in bed, feeling groggy and uncomfortably warm. Either this guy was flirting with me or my paranoia was taking a turn toward the delusional.
“Listen,” he was going on, “I was thinking about something your son said. Funny thing about your kid. He
