much attention to her either. I felt like a one-woman listening team, saying “uh-huh” and “I know what you mean,” and wishing I could get her into a residential treatment program for alcoholics. But she had never told me much about anything personal. Her diatribes were against people in the church she didn’t like, or what was wrong with the school system, the highway department, or the Republican party.
“Vonette,” I said, “do you know who put that stuff into Fritz’s coffee?”
She turned away and opened the freezer door of the refrigerator. “Nope,” she said without looking at me. “Just like I told that cop.” She brought out a can of frozen limeade and started to peel off the plastic tab.
“But you must know who his enemies are,” I persisted. “You must know who at the funeral didn’t like him.”
She dug hard into the frozen concentrate with a metal spoon and said, “Enemies? C’mon, honey. What do you think this is, a war?”
“What about his patients? Please, Vonette,” I begged, “help me with this. I can’t make enough money to support Arch and myself without the catering business, and the police have shut me down hard. You must know something.”
Finally she turned to face me. “Goldy,” she said, “I don’t. Well, leastwise not that much. And after all that’s happened—”
She shrugged and began to run water to dilute the lime concentrate. She said, “I don’t really want to know.”
“After all
She threw the can of water against the side of the sink. “Goddamn but I’ve got a headache. If you want to see Fritz, Goldy honey, just go on back. You need money, call me later. But I gotta go lie down now.” And she tottered out of the kitchen before I had a chance to say anything.
Great. Something had happened. Thinking about it gave Vonette a headache. And now I had to face Fritz alone. I picked up my basket.
“Well hello, Goldy,” said Fritz after I had knocked and been admitted to their enormous bedroom suite done in pink, green, and white. “Or should I say Little Red Riding Hood?”
I didn’t know where Vonette had gone to lie down. Fritz was propped up with at least half a dozen pillows behind him. His almost-bald head shone like a baby’s bum in the gray light from the television, which had a picture but no volume. The newspaper, a tray with dishes and cups, and the remote control for the television were spread out around his lap. He was wearing pale blue pajamas covered with tiny dark blue fleurs de lis. A French king in repose, sans wig.
I stared at him. He was a good-looking man. There are people who age badly and people like Fritz, who age beautifully. The silver chest hair peeking out from the V of his pajama top matched the silver hair above his ears. His face was radiant with the fine-boned handsomeness that had been inherited by the man I had loved for eight years.
“Just pull up a chair,” he said, “and look, you’ve brought me something. Now John Richard would say I shouldn’t eat anything you bring me.” He winked after I had settled stiffly on the side of a chaise longue. “You know what I said to him? I said, Son, don’t you worry about it. Goldy and I get along just great. Don’t we?”
I nodded, described the various things in the basket, and told him about the cake in the refrigerator. He thanked me and then there was a pause while soap opera characters ranted silently on the flickering screen.
“Well,” I lied, “Patty Sue says hello.”
“Does she?” His eyes sparkled. “Great gal. Marvelous patient. She must be such a help for you.”
I didn’t want to appear difficult and disagree. “Well,” I said finally. “Well, well.” I had to get out of here. I was beginning to have a headache myself, and I was meeting Schulz shortly. I smiled at Fritz and said, “So John Richard still thinks I did this to you?”
Fritz sat up straight in bed and screwed up his face into a menacing grimace. He shook his head. His eyebrows formed a bushy line just above his nose, and his mouth was set downward over the clean-cut jaw.
“Don’t you worry about this, Goldy, you hear?”
“Okay,” I said, moving my knees back and forth. The wool was making them itch. “I really am sorry this happened to you. I still do think of us as being sort of related.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “Maybe I’d better go.” I stood up to leave. “Hope you feel better,” I said as I opened the bedroom door.
“Don’t fret about John Richard,” Fritz said with a smile, full of charm. I nodded, speechless again. Fritz’s face relaxed suddenly, and he gave a slight laugh. “After all, son,’ I told him, ‘you’re the only one standing to gain if I go.’ ” He laughed again, somewhat wildly.
“Well, bye now,” I said as I started down the hall.
“I said, ‘Son, look here!’ ” he yelled after me. “ ‘Get Goldy out of your mind, will you? If I die, she doesn’t inherit the practice. You do!’ ”
CHAPTER 8
Despite its name, the Dragon’s Breath Chinese Restaurant was not strictly Szechuan. In a small town a food place could not afford to alienate those with milder tastes, so the proprietor offered Cantonese dishes in addition to those made with vinegar and mustard and red pepper. This was good, since my own feeling was that spicy cooking was better left to the Mexicans. Whether Tom Schulz had mild tastes I did not know. Asking me out to dinner indicated something to the contrary.
The restaurant’s entrance was carved in the shape of a dragon’s head. Coming through the mouth-door with its solid inverted-pyramid teeth, I always had a feeling of sympathy for Jonah. During the restaurant’s remodeling, so the story went, a local sculptor had created this monstrosity in exchange for a year’s free Chinese food. Poor man, I always thought, he must have been terribly hungry.
Inside, sparkling polygonal lights flashed and winked off ornately framed mirrors, pots of glass flowers, and shiny red plastic booths. From the kitchen came the beckoning sizzle of stir-fried meat. The Dragon’s Breath, I remembered while threading through the tables, also served wonderful shrimp-stuffed egg rolls and homemade almond cookies. Two years ago I had begged for the almond cookie recipe and received it once the smiling cook understood my question. Then I had pressed candied cherries in the centers instead of almonds and served them to clients at Christmas.
Christmas parties, perish the thought. Much work, more income. And it was in the power of Investigator Tom Schulz to say whether I would be able to start planning for them.
“You’re frowning,” he said when I slid into the booth opposite him. He smiled with irrepressible pleasure, and did a respectful half stand. Seated again, he sighed.
“Mad already,” he said. “That’s a bad sign. What’s making Miss Goldy irritable now?”
I couldn’t help noticing how his gray houndstooth jacket hugged his shoulders, how deftly he moved his bulk around. There was something comforting about his large presence. He unfurled an enormous white napkin to cover a nubby burgundy sweater. It was, I reflected, an unexpectedly attractive outfit for a cop.
“Thinking about the Christmas parties I may not be giving,” I said while he poured tea. “Unless you, we, get this poisoning incident cleared up. Maybe you can pinpoint my ex-husband.” I told him about the inheritance configuration.
“Don’t you think if a doctor really wanted to poison somebody, he’d do it right? And not in front of a bunch of people?” He went on, still grinning. “Tell me about your Christmas parties, so I can work up an appetite. Maybe talking about food will cheer you up.”
I described the almond-turned-cherry cookies as well as the fragrant gingerbread houses I modeled after the hostess’s own home. I told him I made a lot of money on these affairs, money that I needed.
He said, “I have never seen a woman so worried about her livelihood.” Ordinarily I would have taken offense at such a statement, but his green eyes were soft and kind, the tilt of his head sympathetic.
“I have to support Arch and me,” I said. “My ex-husband’s willingness to pay child support on time is tenuous at best. I need to give parties to survive.” I fingered the thick jade-colored glass leaves of the table’s centerpiece. “There’s something else, though.”
“Something else.”
“Well.” I felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if I were offering an explanation when none was needed. “I love my job. It fills a hole. It’s hard to have it taken away. It’s like the hole’s ripped open.”
