exploded with flavor. I tried to think of how to say what I thought I needed to. “If you decided to be a cop, you know your father would have a fit.”
Macguire’s grin split his face. “Hey, that’s the best part,” he said heartily.
6
The Kirby-Joneses’ house was a massive log-and-glass building that reminded me of a ski lodge. The architect had tucked a kitchen on one end of the first floor as an afterthought. Lucky for us we found the back entrance right away. As we hauled in our boxes, all I could see beyond the kitchen counter was a forest of tropical trees crowding the interior space. A banner announced the decorative theme of the party: “Marriage is a Safari.” Italian food for an African motif. Well, I’d had weirder assignments.
In the great room, Macguire and I bustled between fake palm trees and huge containers of ornamental grasses to set up the bar. I was thankful we hadn’t been asked to wear safari hats or explain how to make lasagne in the outback. Macguire, thank heaven, didn’t broach the topic of a career in law enforcement again. Which was merciful, because within half an hour we were very preoccupied with guests. Macguire tossed salad, passed pizza, stirred ravioli, and served perfect cheese-glazed wedges of lasagne with an enthusiastic smile. I rejoiced that none of the guests were dieters. Everyone dug into the dishes with relish. At the end of the meal, Macguire and I moved smoothly around large ceramic elephants hung with ornamental lights to offer trays of gold-lined coffee cups. While we were finishing the dishes, Macguire shyly complimented Mrs. Kirby-Jones on the radiance of her skin, She handed him a fifty-dollar tip. He volunteered to split it with me, but I told him to keep it.
The rain had finally eased when Macguire and I parted around eleven that night. Tired, but happy with the successful evening, we decided to meet at four the next afternoon to prep the easy-to-cook Women’s Club dinner. With any luck, I told myself as I luxuriated in a very hot shower at home, I could spend the morning helping Marla resolve her business problems, get her over to her cardiac rehab for a late appointment, and cook for the Women’s Club without a hitch. Tom welcomed me into bed with a warm hug.
“You seem pretty pleased with yourself, Miss G.,” he whispered.
“Well, I am. If I can get through tomorrow, I’ll be in good shape.” I nestled my head into his shoulder. “Man, how come you always smell so good?”
“Maybe it’s because this woman I’m married to keeps buying expensive guy soap they don’t stock down at the sheriff’s department.” He stroked my hair.
“How did you and Arch do with Jake? Did those homemade dog biscuits improve his accuracy?”
He groaned. “Not exactly. Todd climbed up a tree. His pool scent was at the bottom of the trunk, of course, but they don’t teach dogs to look up. So Jake couldn’t find him.”
“Great.” “At least we found the kid before he got bronchitis.”
“I won’t say what I think about your idea of a fun-filled outing.”
He grunted noncommittally. “Speaking of which, I suppose you’re going down to Prospect Financial Partners tomorrow with Marla.”
I pulled the covers over his shoulder. “Tom, listen. If they really have a problem with that investment, her heart could go ballistic. There’s an awful lot of money at stake.”
“Yeah, well. Try not to get into trouble.”
I nestled into his arms and murmured, “If marriage is a safari, would you say you’re a hunter, a guide, or a lion.?
?What?”
I found his ear and whispered into it. “Never mind. Just let me get a whiff of that high-class soap.”
“You are asking for it, caterer. You know that, don’t you?”
“Well, now, I guess I do.” I suppressed a giggle as his large hands reached out for my body. If marriage was a safari, I didn’t ever want to come back.
The next morning, fog like gray wool pressed down on the peaks of the Continental Divide. For the moment the rain had ceased. But a steamroller of dark mist churning toward Aspen Meadow promised to change that. I saved drinking my double espresso until I was following Marla’s Jaguar down Interstate 70. That way, the caffeine couldn’t fire up my brain until it was too late to turn back. I remembered Tom’s words: Try not to get into trouble. No problem. I took a sip of coffee. There was no way I was getting into trouble this morning. Except for Marla and Tony, I didn’t even know the folks at Prospect Financial Partners. Or care about them, for that matter. I was just there to referee.
The fog swallowed Marla’s Jaguar just below the Genesee exit. I slowed my van, slugged down a little more espresso, and reconsidered. Actually, I did care. The sudden death of Victoria Lear in Idaho Springs, the problem Marla had presented at the party, the vehemence of Albert’s denials ? all these had piqued my interest. But Tom would not be pleased if I angered Albert Lipscomb or anybody else in Prospect management. I’d already backed into involvement-Captain Shockley would have called it interference - in several of Tom’s investigations. The last thing I wanted was to upset Shockley by raising hackles at the venture capital firm where the captain had his retirement account. Still, with Marla’s temper so volatile and so much money at stake, I certainly didn’t want my best friend blowing a fuse at the Prospect office without me there to calm her down, did I? Of course not. I smiled, finished the last drop of the rich black espresso, and pressed the accelerator. Within moments the van was paralleling sudsy, swollen Cherry Creek.
We turned on Third Avenue and passed designer boutiques, supertrendy cafes, experimental restaurants, and a host of offices dedicated to making money to support the folks who patronized the expensive shops and eateries. After several blocks I parked in front of an elegant two-story building with square gold letters announcing the offices of Prospect Financial Partners. The modern facade of polished bloodred granite was threaded with veins of black and gold that glimmered in the clouded light.
Marla met me on the wet sidewalk. The last time I’d seen her wearing her subdued navy blue suit and double strand of pearls had been at my wedding. I felt out of place in my black pants, sweater, and old raincoat. Marla waved a dismissive hand and quickly briefed me on how she was going to handle the encounter with Albert.
“Okay,” she said, “say Albert says assays are too complicated for women to understand. Then you say he needs to explain it or I’m going to have a heart attack. Then he says he’s too busy to take time for us, so I clutch my chest ? “
“No,” I advised sternly as I stepped over a mud puddle. “We wouldn’t want to precipitate the real thing.”
She defiantly shook her higgledy-piggledy hair, glanced up the street, and reluctantly reshaped her strategy. “Okay… if I ask him to show me the Kepler ? ” She gripped my arm. “That car looks familiar. Isn’t that Macguire’s Subaru?”
I glanced down the packed row of parked cars. “I sure hope not.”
But it was. Even as I spoke, Macguire Perkins unfurled himself from the battered blue wagon and gave us a shy grin. “Look,” he called before we could utter a word, “I’m here to help you.” In three long strides, he was suddenly at our side. He wore a collarless, but-ton-up black shirt and black pants, the kind of outfit rock stars wear when they’re being interviewed. “You and Marla really shouldn’t try to do this alone,” he said earnestly. “I mean, I’m the one who got that assay report analyzed, and I even know somebody who works here. You know ? a contact.” He ran his fingers through his perpetually damp hair. “She went to Elk Park Prep a couple of years ago. She used to be a snob, but somebody said she’s turned out kind of nice ? “
I shook my head. “No, no, no. Go back to Aspen Meadow, Macguire. Please. What are we going to do, invade Albert’s office and say, ‘Hey, here we are, one client and two bodyguards!’? We just can’t ? “
“Oh, sure we can,” Marla announced with another toss of her head. She linked one arm through mine and another through Macguire’s. “You can help us storm Albert’s office. And Macguire, introduce me to your friend if you see her. I love reformed snobs. There are so few of us.”
Dread filled me as we pushed through the first of two sets of heavy glass doors. I want to get this straight, I could imagine Tom saying with one sandy-colored eyebrow lifted. Without an appointment, the three of you breezed into a multimillion-dollar financial firm, one of you faked a heart attack, and then the other two crashed into the partner’s office? And I’d reply, Something like that. And he’d say, And you were surprised when they kicked you out?
“I’m here to see Albert Lipscomb,” Marla proclaimed to the receptionist. “He’s expecting me!” I assessed the
