I sighed. Tony called Marla from the other room, and she disappeared. The rice sputtered with the garlic andonions as I drizzled dry sherry, tomato juice, and homemade chicken stock over it. I gently swirled the ingredients and put on the cover. Cocktail refill time. For the guests, that is.
While I poured drinks in the living room, Edna Hardcastle declared to the other guests that Albert Lipscomb must be in Argentina. That’s where all criminals ended up, she maintained. Whit Hardcastle overruled his wife. She must be thinking of Colombia. Tony Royce somberly told them that the police thought Albert was in California. This prompted Sandy Trotfield, a slender, strawberry-blond fellow who wore a collarless cotton shirt and designer pedal pushers, to observe loudly that he thought California was where all criminals ended up. He guffawed while the guests laughed uneasily. Marla rolled her eyes at me.
I joined Arch in the kitchen. Friendship notwithstanding, Sandy Trotfield had called Albert’s office not once but twice this past Monday morning, presumably over possible problems with the mine assays. Now that Albert had absconded, though, Sandy appeared oddly blustery. Why would you be in a panic one day, and be making forced jokes about your money manager’s disappearance four days later? It didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Then again, maybe Sandy Trotfield was just a jerk.
The Trotfields’ calendar was posted on the side of the refrigerator, and I surreptitiously looked it over while drinking a glass of bubbly water. Sandy had flown to Johannesburg a month ago, stayed five days, and come back. Three weeks ago he’d flown to Puerto Vallarta and stayed for another five days before returning. He was off for Rio tomorrow and would be back next week. Apparently pilots with rich wives managed to worry about their money, recover, laugh about it over spinach hors d’oeuvre, and then take off for extensive globe-trotting without a blink.
The doorbell pealed softly. Mrs. Trotfield had greeted her guests herself, so I felt no compunction to answer it. Arch didn’t even hear the bell. He was listening to the Walkman he’d borrowed from Macguire while rocking unrhythmically but enthusiastically in front of the cookbook shelves. Suddenly he tore the earphones off his head.
“Receipts?” he cried as he reached for one of the books. “What’s a book of receipts doing in with Julia Child and all that?”
I said, “Let me have a look,” as the doorbell rang again. Why, indeed, would the Trotfields have a money book inserted between the food volumes? My heart sank, though, when Arch handed me a green publication entitled Charleston Receipts. “Oh, honey,” I said as I flipped through the famous Junior League cookbook, “this kind of receipt means recipe ? ” I stopped talking as the book fell open to the title page. A handwritten inscription read: “For my new friends Sandy and Amanda Trotfield, from an adopted Charlestonian! Best regards, Albert Lipscomb.”
Hmm. The Citadel, I remembered, was in Charleston, South Carolina. More significant, though, was the fact that the Trotfields and Albert were not just friends, but new friends. How new; and what would they do for a new friend?
The doorbell rang again. I flipped the cookbook closed and peered out the window over the sink. It had started to rain again. All I could see through the curtain of wetness was a line of fancy cars and four other Arnold Palmer Avenue houses. When the bell chimed the third time, I had come out to refill the platters on the buffet. The glistening, ruby-colored pilaf steamed invitingly and the guests ooh-ed. Dingdong, a fourth impatient ring through the loud riffs of Dave Brubeck’s Jake Five. The rat-a-tat-tat of precipitation on the fashionable blue tin roof was so loud, Mrs. Trotfield had turned up her stereo.
I retrieved the smooth, pink raspberry mousse pies from the refrigerator. When I started to whip the cream, I tapped my electric mixer against the side of the steel bowl in time with Gene Krupa’s Maori-inspired drumbeat, which filtered through speakers the Trotfields had installed above the custom-made maple cabinets. Unfortunately, the doorbell rang again as I was starting to spoon heaping mounds of cream on each pie. Whoever was at the door was not going away. Amanda Trotfield, a slender, fortyish woman with translucent skin and black hair spiked outward in a fashionable punk, appeared in the kitchen. She announced that everyone was here who was supposed to be here, that the ice was just getting broken, metaphorically speaking, and would I please get rid of whoever was at the door? She wanted her guests to enjoy their expensive food.
“It’s probably FedEx,” she hissed in my ear, “with some more stuff from Jeppesen for my husband.” When I looked confused, she explained, “Maps. But he’s also ordered a load of information on diamond mining in South Africa. If the guy rings again, would you get it? The security’s off” So when the chime tolled for the umpteenth time, I marched out to answer it.
It wasn’t FedEx. It was the police. One cop was a towering, muscled redhead. The other was slimmer, with an acne-scarred face and jet-black hair above a receding hairline. They wore plain clothes, but their sheriffs department vehicle, invisible from the kitchen window, was pulled conspicuously perpendicular to the Trotfields’ crowded driveway. No one from this party was getting on Arnold Palmer Avenue without these cops’ say-so.
“Mrs. Schulz?” A familiar, chilly trickle of fear shot through me. “Tom. It’s Tom, isn’t it? Something’s wrong. What’s happened?” I cursed myself for not answering the insistent ringing earlier.
The short fellow, whose wiry black hair had been severely pomaded down to conform to his missile-shaped head, frowned. “No, nothing’s wrong, we’re just here to talk. Ask a few questions about ? “
“About what?”
“Mrs. Schulz, please,” said the big redhead, looking uncomfortable. I laughed as relief swept over me. Of course! This had something to do with the Trotfields. Maybe one of the neighbors had complained about all the cars. “Yes,” I said to the two policemen. “I’m sorry. Let me go get Mrs. Trotfield.” Then I hesitated. After all, I was the caterer: I had a professional obligation to protect this party. “Her guests are almost through their entree… any chance you could come back later?”
“We’re here to see you,” rasped the redhead. His eyes bulged. “Just to ask a few questions, Mrs. Schulz. Would it be possible for us to see you someplace private? For maybe ten minutes? Someplace where it isn’t raining?” The downpour had soaked through his dark windbreaker.
My concern about Tom turned to disbelief: The last thing I needed at this moment was another disrupted party and a disgruntled client.
Are you serious? Can’t this wait?” I hissed indignantly. “Please? Do you know who my husband is? I can come down to the department tomorrow. I’ll answer all the questions you want then.”
“We know who you are and it can’t wait,” replied the black-haired man grimly. “It’s about Albert Lipscomb.”
Tom’s words: Shockley’s put himself personally in charge of the investigation. I took a steadying breath. “Let’s get into the kitchen, then.” I opened the door. “Please come quickly before any of the guests see you.”
They followed me into the foyer, where to my annoyance, they stopped to take in their surroundings. I felt trickle of impatience. Before I met Tom, I’d heartily disliked the police. Perhaps my misgivings about the sheriffs department had developed from the fact that when I was deeply bruised and even more deeply depressed, the cops had been unwilling or unable to lock up the Jerk and toss the key to his cell over the Continental Divide. After the divorce, I’d realized that law enforcement folks, unfortunately, don’t have a whole lot of power in domestic disputes unless someone is killed. Marrying Tom and going through the harrowing experience of having him kidnapped by a would-be killer, I’d also come to realize how dangerous his work with the department could be, and how steadfastly most cops carried out their responsibilities. So my attitude had done a complete turnaround. Nevertheless, in the presence of these two men who now stood brushing raindrops off their clothes in the Trotfields’ art-filled foyer, I couldn’t shake my old feeling of discomfort.
“Excuse me, but before we go any further, could I see some ID? Quickly?” I asked. I glanced into the living room. No one looked my way.
The portly redhead with the bulging eyes, I learned, was Investigator Hersey. The black-haired fellow with the missile-shaped head was named De Groot. Neither gave any indication that they knew Tom, which for some reason I didn’t take as a good sign. I handed them back their identification cards, then motioned toward the kitchen.
Hersey puffed himself up as if to follow, but De Groot kept his muddy boots planted on the Trotfields’ Oriental runner. He patted his greasy black hair and stared intently at the deep blue canvas that had so puzzled Arch. After a few moments he leaned over and brought his face up close to the painted cigarette image.
“It’s by Robert Motherwell,” I said, still impatient.
“It’s ? “
“One of his Gauloise paintings,” De Groot said without looking away from the painting. Then he straightened
