appeared with the doctor, and there were shots of fishing buddies. There was no sign of the strange girl.
“Fritz.” I eyed him solemnly. “You know I didn’t put that stuff in your coffee. But the cops have closed down my business until they figure out what’s going on. You’d think that would be simple, but it isn’t.” I told him that I was looking into the histories of some of his former patients who might have something against him.
He said, “So if the catering doesn’t work out, you’re considering a career with the cops?” Another wide smile. “You know I can’t tell you anything about patients. I heard John Richard out there screaming at you for going through the files.” He leaned toward me. “They’re confidential, Goldy.”
“Did Trixie Jackson ever threaten you?” I demanded. “She was real upset about her stillbirth.”
He cocked his head and looked at me as if he were dealing with a thick-headed child. “It’s a very difficult thing for a prospective mother to take. It’s also hard on the doctor.”
I gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sure.” I cleared my throat. “How about Laura?”
His face lost expression. “Laura who?”
“Laura Smiley,” I said, astonished. Did he really have so many patients with that first name? I said, “Laura whose funeral you attended nine days ago. Who, a long time ago, also lived in Carolton, Illinois.” I took a breath. “Who had an appointment with you the day she died.”
He shook his head. “You’re confused, Goldy, in more ways than one.” He stood up, a signal our interview was over. “Do you think Laura Smiley messed with my coffee? She couldn’t have put pellets in someone’s drink if she was dead, could she? And I told you patient dealings are not open to your misguided prying. Now why don’t you go home and cook and let the police do the investigating?”
I stood up but pressed on. “How come there’s no file out there on her, if she was a patient?” Fritz shrugged. I said, “Why can’t you tell me if or why she was here the day she died? I mean if you or John Richard told her she had cancer or something, then the cops should know.”
He stopped by the door I had come in. He said, “She killed herself. That’s what the police know. If they want more they can come and ask me themselves. Now it’s time for you to go.”
“But what about in Illinois? I’ve found photographs of a girl, a teenager, and then I found an article about you—”
He held the door open.
He said, “Goodbye, Goldy.”
CHAPTER 13
I hadn’t received any clarification about the torn article in Laura’s locker. Not that Fritz would have told me about a mistrial or anything else. He had his reasons for not divulging information. I didn’t know what they were, but I doubted confidentiality of files was uppermost in his mind. As I swept and scrubbed and scoured other people’s houses that week, I decided my financial rationale for getting information was more important than any of his reasons. Let Fritz clean houses for a while, see how it felt. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what my investigation methods were going to be. Yet.
Schulz was no help. In addition to the two homicides he was working on, he’d had another crisis. Some late- season rock climbers had found the body of a biker down Cottonwood Creek Canyon. So he was momentarily tied up sorting out the politics of rival gangs. The department clerk said he’d call me as soon as he could.
_____
The Thursday evening meeting of Amour Anonymous, postponed because of a funeral, was similarly funereal itself, complete with surprise ending.
After cleaning two houses, Patty Sue said she was too tired to attend, but that she’d make the next meeting. Two other women who were occasional attendees called and backed out, so it was just Marla and myself. I made cream puffs and coffee and put out a bottle of dessert sherry.
“I’ll eat anything you cook,” Marla said when she walked in. “The hell with the health department.”
The sight of Marla, grinning broadly and wearing an orange and black jumper—she always dressed in seasonal colors—made my heart soften. She looked like a giant pumpkin. I hugged her.
“I asked for food, not love,” her muffled voice said into my shoulder. “We can eat the former and talk about the latter.” I let go of her and she held up a package, grinning. “Where’s your little guy? I’ve brought him something.”
I called Arch from the nether regions of the house and poured coffee into two cups.
“A whole pack of Hershey bars?” Arch’s delighted voice said behind my back. “Gosh, Marla, thanks.”
I was about to scold Marla for ruining Arch’s teeth when I got a look at his face. It was painted a shiny black.
“What’s with the disguise?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
“It’s part of some work I’m doing,” he said seriously. The whites of his eyes shone as he opened them wide. “I’m trying to make our house safer.”
“By doing what?” I demanded, but he was gone.
Marla shook her head. “What’s with him?”
“Not sure,” I said. “But I think he’s still pretty spooked about Laura’s death.”
“Well, who isn’t,” said Marla. She swallowed the last of her first cream puff and started on another. “And it doesn’t help that the dear teacher was a little nutty, either.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “What makes you say that? I mean, I’m beginning to think the same thing. But you get around so much more than I do.”
“Oh, you know,” she said.
“Marla,” I said firmly, “I don’t. And every time I try to ask anybody about Laura, the person either starts crying or kicks me off the premises.”
“I’d like to see someone try to kick you off any premises.”
“Just tell me why you think she was wacko. I really want to know.”
“Well, chill out. Good Lord,” said Marla. “She would get this bee in her bonnet, I don’t know.” She sucked the filling out of her third cream puff before delicately biting into it. “I’ve always wondered about elementary school teachers anyway. They’re either slightly off base when they go in or they get that way after five years of ignoring books for grown-ups so they can gobble more third-grade texts.”
I said, “Are you talking about teachers in general, or one in particular?”
“Okay, look,” said Marla as she extended one of her fleshy arms for the sherry bottle. “Here’s an example. We used to both take our cars into that foreign-car repair shop off Main Street. She had that Volvo, I had the Jag. Neither of them were cheap cars to fix, tune up, get parts for, whatever. And I guess she had a lemon or something, or the guy couldn’t fix all the problems, but they would always be arguing when I came in. When he would go to check if they’d done all the work, Laura would turn around to me, flick her lighter on, and tell me how she wished she could torch the place. Then she’d light a cigarette and go ha-ha. So I’d ha-ha back. One time she told me she was keeping a list of all the Volvo’s problems, and she was going to send it to Ralph Nader in Swedish and put the whole car company out of business.”
“Huh?” I said.
“That’s what I said, especially when she asked me how to say
“Well,” I said, “she told Arch the President should paint his skin black and go to South Africa, see what it’s really like to live under apartheid.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Marla with a grunt. “Anyway, is that what Arch is doing tonight? African sympathy ritual?”
The lights flickered.
“I have no idea what he’s doing,” I said. “But he’s been acting odd lately, so I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
“Do you have something to talk about tonight?” Marla asked. “I mean besides Laura Smiley.”
