eyed the water beneath for fish. Arch used to love to go down to the lake when he was little and feed the waterfowl, now strictly prohibited, as human feeding messed up the birds’ willingness to migrate. Arch had known distress back then: the pain of the playground, the agony of his parents’ divorce. Then as now, I had tried to soothe and protect him. But his distress this time didn’t change the fact that Dr. John Richard Korman, batterer of women, had finally been caught. And then, in front of a street full of nosy neighbors, he’d resisted arrest. I dreaded Arch hearing about that scene.
What was painfully inevitable, I knew, was that John Richard would maintain his innocence to his son and anyone else who would listen until the proverbial bovines came home. No matter what he did or what folks he hurt, John Richard would insist to the end that he was not responsible for his actions. Well, we would just see about that.
I passed the lake. In the near distance cars sent up a nimbus of dust as women from the Aspen Meadow Babsie Club drove into the LakeCenter parking lot on their way to set up for the doll show. What Arch couldn’t see was that this crime ? this event with Suz Craig ? was going to change everything. The publicity surrounding the arrest, the breadth of the investigation, the preliminary hearing, the trial, the conviction, the sentencing-these would alter his relationship with his father forever. Perhaps it was this coming change that Arch sensed. So he’d plunged into denial. Who wouldn’t?
I passed a solitary rower at the edge of the lake and turned the van in the direction of the country club. Since I was still a bit early, did I dare swing by Aspen Meadow Health Foods, to see if Amy Bartholomew, the nurse- without-a-poker-face, was in? No, I’d had enough crime for one day. Besides, Arch and Macguire might be headed over there. If my son thought I was checking up on him, he would have a fit.
Dread made my heart heavy, the way your chest hurts when an election is going to the wrong people and all you can do is watch the numbers mount. I swung through the entryway to the residential part of the country club, where a crew dressed in white overalls and white billed caps was busy at work eradicating the vandals’ painted handiwork from the stone walls. I shook my head. I felt helpless watching Arch’s dilemma, which was sure to end worse than any election. The best I could hope for was that it would all be over soon.
It was this idea of expediting things that made me turn onto Jacobean and from there chug left on Sheridan, then on to Chaucer, where I eased up in front of the Shelton place. The house was a massive, out-of-proportion two-story neo-Georgian. White-painted brick contrasted with shiny black shutters and window boxes lush with bright red geraniums and artfully dripping variegated cream-and-green ivy.
What exactly was I doing here? Trying to disprove John Richard’s theory, whatever it was, about, Ralph Shelton? Trying to remember what it was I had seen this morning? I didn’t know. I parked behind the Sheltons’ van and hopped out of my own. I knew the rules: Anybody who might testify in a case is a witness. Not only had I witnessed all that had I transpired between John Richard and Tom, I’d see or thought I’d seen, Ralph Shelton this morning. If I ever had to testify, I didn’t want to think about how I could be challenged because of the contact I was now making with Ralph. I also tried not to think about how upset Tom would be with me for making this little sleuthing side trip.
Apart from this morning, how long had it been since I’d talked to Ralph? Too long. I’d last seen his daughter as a four-year-old. Now Jill was a teenager, like Arch. I rapped hard on the elaborate, gleaming brass knocker. Of course, Ralph probably wouldn’t even be home. Saturday afternoon on a gorgeous Colorado summer day? He was probably out playing golf.
But he was not on the fairway. Even before the doorbell stopped donging “Three Blind Mice,” tall, white- mustached Ralph answered the door. He had changed from the gardening clothes to a collarless navy shirt and faded blue jeans ? Calvin Klein at Home.
“What is it?” He stared at me with eyes that seemed to be made of yellow glass.
“Ralph!” I exclaimed brightly. “Ralph, don’t you remember me? I used to take care of Jill, about ten years ago.”
He pulled himself up. “I am Dr. Shelton.” Always. Is your first nome Doctor? I smiled. “Ralph, it’s Goldy Korman. Now Goldy Schulz. Don’t you remember me from all those years ago? I’m a caterer now.”
He squinted and cleared his throat. “Goldy?”
“We… saw each other in front of Suz Craig’s house, when the police were there. This morning. Don’t you recall? Over on Jacobean. I didn’t recognize you, either. And then I remembered. And after all we’d been through together way back when…”
But I couldn’t come up with a last-minute lie to push myself into a conversation with this man. Instead, I stared mutely at the right side of his face, where there was a square, expertly cut gauze bandage. I saw again what I’d seen this morning. Just at the upper end of the bandage, under the clear tape, were the beginnings, just the very beginnings, of four vertical gash marks. The kind of scratches that could be made by a woman’s nails, when she was fighting you off.
11
Forgive me, it’s been such a trying day.” Ralph’s unctuous tone made me even more uneasy. “I never would have known… and this morning when you were ordering people around, you seemed so distraught… .” He tilted his bald head and closed his amber eyes, as if struggling to recall the events. Then he shook his head. “Terrible tragedy. The police even questioned me, since I was out on my walk when…” He paused. “But why are you here now? I mean, if you want to catch up on old times, then give me a call and we can set up a lunch or something… . I’ll bring some pictures of Jill, she’s playing soccer down in New Mexico… .” His voice trailed off. A country-club doctor choosing to have lunch with a caterer who was married to a cop? Not likely, regardless of our history. But Ralph pressed on, with an eagerness that seemed almost sad. “Actually, I’ve missed all of my old friends lately, things have been going so badly… and now this has happened. Should we set up a lunch right now?” His hand went nervously to the top button of his shin. “That would be a terrific idea.”
“Oh! Well, actually, I can’t make any appointments now, I’m looking for the McCrackens’ house.” It was lame, but it had to do. “Do you know Clark and Patricia McCracken? Remember, Patricia used to be married to Skip all those years ago… .” He squinted skeptically and I rushed on. “I’m catering a Stanley Cup celebration there tonight, at the McCrackens’, and I just can’t remember exactly where they live, and then I remembered you were such a big hockey fan…”
But he had already held up a hand for me to wait. I fell silent as his tall form disappeared down a hallway whose walls were bathed in a vertigo-inducing print of floating cabbage roses. Beyond, I glimpsed a country kitchen with frilly curtains and gleaming copper. I wondered if Ralph had found another job after being fired by ACHMO. If he had not, I doubted he’d be able to keep up life in his old income bracket.
“Twenty-two Markham,” he said pleasantly as he returned, waving an engraved invitation. Then he regarded me. .“I’m going over there in just a little bit myself. We’ve remained friends, in spite of everything. It’s amazing that she… Well. The guests are all going to skate, get another dose of Cup fever. Sound good? But how can you cater at a house you haven’t visited?”
I was ready for this one. “Do it all the time. Actually, I thought I knew where the McCrackens’ place was. But after this morning my life seems to have turned upside down.” I stared helplessly into his yellow eyes, so much like those of a cat. “It’s just been a nightmare.”
He grinned sympathetically. “Yes, well, I’ll just see you over at the McCrackens’ place ? “
I leaned against the doorframe. “Ralph, can you just show me how to get to Markham? Please? I’m feeling extremely disoriented.”
With obvious reluctance, he walked outside and gestured at Chaucer, where, as I well knew, I needed to take two rights and then a left to get to the McCrackens’ place. He turned and again squinted. My forlorn expression must have finally ignited a spark of curiosity, for before going into his house, he hesitated.
“How did you happen to come upon… Suz Craig… er, in the ditch?” he asked abruptly. “I mean, did you drive over it or something?”
“I was on my way to the Rodines’ place to pick up my son and take him to his father. I just saw her there… in front of her house. Uh… how about you?”
“Oh, I was out for my walk.” I sighed. “I’m sorry for ordering you around this morning. Did you say the police questioned you? I seem to remember them wanting to talk to everybody, you know?”
“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t believe what they wanted to know from me.” He rubbed his bandaged cheek. I felt my own face heat up. “How had I scratched myself, they asked. So I told them what I’m
