B. ? Read ? Judas?
vm p.r.a.y.
1133 vdd
My head throbbed. I reread the scribbles.
?Well?? demanded Inspector Calloway.
I said nothing.
Boyd grunted.
Frustrated, Investigator Calloway asked, ?Is there anything you can tell us??
I pulled back and looked into Calloway?s shred hazel eyes. Her look and her questions were urgent. I knew she needed my help to find Tom and solve this horrific murder. Pain squeezed my voice. I told her, ?The handwriting is Tom Schulz?s. I don?t know what he was trying to say.?
4
Boyd pressed his thin lips together, scowling down at the sodden spiral notebook. ?Schulz and his notes. Memory enhancer, he called it.? He flung his match into the snow and craned his stubby neck to reread the scribbles. ?GSW times two. Two gunshot wounds, we knew that. DD. Looks like he might have gotten a dying declaration.?
Investigator Calloway sighed. ?Now, if we cold just figure out what the victim said. And we?ll need to read up about Judas.? She concentrated her gaze on me. ?Know anybody with a white van? People with names, initials VM or B??
I felt dizzy. His handwriting. I could hear my teeth chattering. A vision of a shotgun welled up. Where was the gun now? How much ammunition did it have?
?Please, Miss Bear. A van. A white Nissan van. Sound familiar??
?Ah, I have a white van. It says … ? I roped for words. ?Goldilocks? Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! On the side. But it?s a Volkswagen, not a Nissan.?
?is your van missing? Where was it this morning??
With difficulty, I though back. My van had spent the morning being filled with platters of food for our wedding reception. I told her so. Investigator Calloway nodded. She assured me her investigative team would check with Olsons? neighbors as well as with people who lived along Upper Cottonwood Creek Road, to see if anybody else saw a van.
I stared at the wilted notebook that Tom had, presumably, somehow managed to toss into the bushes. The paper in front of me must hold some clue to what had happened out here. Impenetrable hieroglyphics stared back.
?Don?t you cops use some kind of standard shorthand? That?s what it looks like to me.?
Boyd pulled out his pad and began writing on it. ?Nothing standard,? he said gruffly. ?GSW and DD I already told you. Gunshot wounds. Dying Declaration. The victim was alive. The victim was dead. Somebody drove a van. A reference to praying and the Bible. We?ll get you a copy of this. If you can puzzle over it some more, that would sure help.?
?Wait, though,? said Calloway. ?Wait. Look at it again, Miss Bear. VM P.R.A.Y? Could all those periods in there have some significance for Schulz? Or something from your church, maybe? Is P.R.AY. an acronym for some church organization? Schulz use V for victim on the first line, so could VM refer to that? We?ll check through his files, see what we can come up with. Maybe you have something else he?s written, some notes to you, something with abbreviations??
I said no and did not mention that Tom Schulz had written me few notes in the time we?d known each other. Our courtship had emerged from crisis. When the attempted poisoning of my ex-father-in-law had led to the temporary closing of my catering business, I had responded reluctantly to Tom?s interest in me. As our relationship developed over the last eighteen months, we?d had phone conversations, barbecues, outings in the mountains or in Denver. These outings invariably concluded with meals I fixed in my professional cooking area or dinners Tom prepared in the fabulously equipped kitchen of his cabin. And only very recently, when we were alone, those meals were followed by lovemaking.
We had not written.
Calloway persisted. ?But you must have something of his, a notebook, journal, calendar, anything that might contain some of these abbreviations. If you did, or if such written material existed, would it be at your house? Or his??
I knew she was doing her job. Trying to find their premier homicide investigator, the police would ruthlessly unearth every scrap of information. But I wasn?t up to discussing our complex domestic arrangements, especially when it involved so much stuff in boxes that had just been moved to my house from Tom?s cabin. In fact, I wasn?t up to discussing much of anything. I said, ?I?m not sure. But I?ll look, I promise.?
?Who has keys to his place?? she wanted to know. ?And his car? I mean, besides that set in the creek.?
My eyes were burning, my hands were numb with cold. I muttered that I had a set of keys to his home but not with me. Anyway, I added, his place was empty. At that moment, another officer summoned Calloway. She promised that Boyd or Armstrong would stay in touch, and directed that I keep the phone line to my house open. I asked Boyd when I could have the articles Tom Schulz dropped at the crime scene. He clomped off, then reported back that when the lab was done with them, someone would come by my place with Tom?s things.
?Was there any blood?? I asked Boyd. I cleared my throat. ?Tom?s blood? You said he was hurt.?
Boyd winced sympathetically. One of his rough hands reached out impulsively for mine. Quietly, he answered, his ankle or broke a leg bone coming down the bank. I?m not going to lie to you: He could be hurt bad.? I couldn?t listen, couldn?t look at Boyd, couldn?t bear to have him touching me. I turned my gaze to the snowy ground and pulled my hands away. Boyd went on. ?That?s the only way the perp could have overpowered him, we think. If that?s what happened. You know, Schulz is muscular, he?s a touch guy. Street smart and regular smart. We?re going to bring you a copy of the note,? he added, changing the subject, ?for you to study.?
A cold, wet breeze swept the frigid meadow. The end of the snow and advent of watery afternoon sunshine had not materialized into anything warm and springlike. I clasped my upper arms but couldn?t stop trembling. Helen Keene shambled over to me and again threw the victim-advocate quilt around my shoulders. Slowly we walked down the muddy driveway to Boyd?s squad car. She asked me for directions and then drove us home. We passed the ranches, the custom homes, the preparatory school entrance. The time spent in Olson?s meadow had been hard on my wedding suit; cold, wet silk clung to my legs. In my mind?s eye, I kept seeing Boyd, Armstrong, and Helen Keen walking across the flagstones to the St. Luke?s office with their terrible news. I couldn?t control a guttural groan. I needed to get home, to be with Arch and Julian.
?Please keep your phone line open,? Helen said after I?d turned down her offer to come into my house and stay for a while. She handed me her card. ?And keep the quilt,? she added softly. ?A group of women from your church donates them to the Sheriff?s Department and to Aspen Meadow Outreach just for situations like yours.? The questions bubbled up in my brain: Situations like mine? What exactly was my situation? But Helen held me in her steady gaze. ?Goldy ? please call me if you need me.?
I thanked her and extricated myself from the police car. On the sidewalk across from my house, a trio of neighbors watched, apparently oblivious to the cold. How bad news traveled so quickly in this town I did not know. Stumbling dizzily toward my front door, it was all I could do to keep the quilt awkwardly clutched around my muddied wedding suit.
Once I had come through our security system, I called for Arch, then Julian. The silent house felt deserted without the customary rich smell of cooking. My suitcase, packed for our honeymoon, sat forlornly in the front hall. I turned away from it.
?Oh, Mom, you?re here!? cried Arch as he galloped down the stairs. He had changed from the tux to a gray sweatsuit. ?Julian took Grandma and Grandpa to the airport. He?s taking our tuxes back, too. I was just about to start putting the food in the walk-in, the way Julian told me. Where?s Tom? How come your clothes are so messy? Where?d you get that blanket thing??
?Oh, hon. It?s a long story.? I begged off immediate explanations by announcing I would take a shower while he put the platters away. Wearily, I climbed the stairs. Every muscle in my body ached. In the bedroom that Tom had begun only recently to share with me, I stood in front of the mirror and gazed at the ruined beige silk outfit. A middle-aged Miss Haversham, my reflection mocked back. A flood of anger sent my fingers ripping at the tiny pearl buttons. Two flew off and pinged on the wooden floor. A half-formed sob squawked out of my throat. I carefully
