telling you.” I didn’t like the tone of his voice. Did it mask hostility, or was I imagining things? “Our cat doesn’t like to go to the veterinarian’s. She scratched me when I tried to put her into the cage.”
I nodded sympathetically and thought that Sergeant Beiner was probably on the phone with the veterinarian right now, finding out if in fact Ralph Shelton had just brought a female cat in for a visit. I thanked him for helping me, then backed away. Time to grill fish for the McCrackens.
“So,” Ralph said slowly, “the police suspect my oId friend, John Richard Korman?” His fingers brushed the top of his shirt, then went to his bandage again. Suddenly, he didn’t seem to want me to leave.
I shrugged as convincingly as possible. “Who knows? I try to keep up with that guy as little as I possible.” I turned toward my van. “Thanks for your help, Ralph.”
“Wait,” he called. “I’m sorry. Of course you have as little to do with him as possible. I … I remember how he treated you.” I turned back and waited for him to speak. Finally he said, “It’s just that I’ve had such a horrible morning.” I pressed my lips together. “I knew her, you know,” he said bluntly. Was his voice wistful? Hard to tell. “I knew Suz Craig.”
“Really?” I asked. “Oh, right, the HMO. And you’re a doc. I hardly know anyone in the medical business anymore. Do you practice in Denver?”
“I did. Our group was affiliated with ACHMO. Still is, actually, I’m just not a part of it.” He heaved a sigh. “I’ll see you at the party later. Sure you know where you’re going?” Before I could answer, however, he said, “Good- bye.” Then he closed the door.
Well, doggone. Ralph was in some kind of pain, no question, and it wasn’t just from cat scratches. I gave the brass knocker one last glance and walked back to my vehicle ? in case he was watching through a window ? and hightailed it over to the McCrackens’ place. Within five minutes I’d eased up to the curb in front of a tall wooden house that had been stained a bilious purple, with shutters painted a dull maroon. They should have photographed this place for a National Hockey League advertisement. Avalanche flags hung from the lampposts along the walk. Oversize Avalanche banners were draped from each upstairs window. The place looked like a sporting-goods store.
When I drove into the McCrackens’ driveway, though, I was prevented from pulling up to the back entrance. A rope had been put up around a large, rectangular paved area that had been marked with bright white lines to resemble a hockey rink. I couldn’t imagine what my tires would do to all those brilliant chalky lines if I drove over them. I dreaded contemplating how I was going to unload, much less serve.
Clark McCracken, a long-legged fellow with a thin, sweating red face and lots of sweat-streaked brown hair, flapped his arms maniacally as he came loping down the drive toward me. He was wearing a maroon Avalanche jersey, shiny maroon shorts, and stiff, bulky kneepads that made his gait resemble the canter of a crippled race- horse. No question ? this man was ready for the end-of-the-driveway game. There was also no question that he wasn’t ready for my van to ruin all his chalk marks. I sighed. Unloading a hundred pounds of supplies anywhere near the shortest route to the kitchen was going to be impossible. I rolled down the window and resolved to stay pleasant.
“Need you… to park…” Out of breath, Clark wobbled, stiltlike. I certainly hoped he wasn’t participating for more than five minutes in today’s face-off or whatever the hockey equivalent of a scrimmage is. “Park behind the line,” he blurted out as he pointed to the closest chalk stripe. He pressed his hair against the sides of his head and gasped. “Then… you can walk down with the beer and food to where we’ll be playing, with a tray or something.”
“Clark,” I began patiently. “There is no way ? “
?Back up then,” Clark interrupted, waving dismissively toward the front of his house. “It’ll be okay, the cake’s going to come in that way, too. Back to the sidewalk. Open your doors and…” He took another deep, agonizing breath and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ll help.”
Oh, sure, I thought as I gunned the van in reverse. And within ten minutes of you trying to help me, [‘II be trying to remember the CPR course I took right after Marla had her heart attack. The van sputtered. I braked a little too hard at the beginning of the sidewalk, a herringbone-brick path that led back to the garishly decorated house.
It was not my place to tell Clark McCracken that he should not be tugging two fully loaded dollies up his sidewalk so soon before his party. But Clark seemed determined to be as physically involved with the setup for his hockey celebration as possible. I knew what he would do next-splash ice water on his face, comb back his sopping hair, and leap down the stairs to be the official greeter. Then, with an enormous sense of justification, our host would slug down a speedy half-dozen beers before beginning the roller hockey derby in his driveway, which would be followed by a lot more brewskis, a minimal amount of food, and passing out on a piece of patio furniture before I’d finished serving the entree. That is, if he didn’t hurt himself with all the activity first.
On second thought, maybe I should summon an ambulance. Just in case.
“Okay,” he said, still panting heavily. “What goes in first?”
Twenty minutes later I was set up in the kitchen. Clark, wheezing from his exertions, made a martyrlike declaration that he was going to light his gas grill ? ever a man’s job, even if no actual starting of fires was involved.
“Clark,” I cautioned politely, “please be careful. There was just a big article in the Mountain Journal about how those grills need to be checked ? “
Again I got the dismissive wave. “Don’t quote Frances Markasian to me, please. I’ve never heard of mountain moths building nests in propane grills! What will that woman think of next?” He rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe a word that crazy woman writes. She’s not a reporter, she’s a viper looking for a cause. Explosions from moths, give me a break! But don’t worry, I’m going to clean the vents. It’s my job.”
“Just be careful,” I repeated gently.
I unwrapped the appetizers for the party: an enormous oval basket of fresh vegetables meant to resemble, as did the rest of tonight’s food, a hockey rink. In the place of the goals were baskets of chips, and in the center of the rink-basket I gently lowered a huge crystal bowl of Mexican dip, my own concoction of thick layers of guacamole, cubed tomatoes, smooth sour cream, shredded crisp lettuce, chili beans mashed with picante sauce, sliced black olives, and an ample blanket of golden grated cheddar cheese.
“Ooh, may I taste?” Patricia McCracken cooed as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Her tousle of streaked curls was held back with a twisted headband printed with tiny Avalanche logos. But her fine-featured face was haggard. She wore an oversize Avalanche jersey that reached almost to her knees. She looked like a coed who’d spent the night in a fraternity house, complete with borrowed pajamas and bags under her eyes.
Despite my best intentions to cater this event, I couldn’t help but ask what was on my mind. “Patricia, are you sure you want to go through with this? You look exhausted.”
“Yes,” she said, “I do. Tyler’s already over at some body’s house. Besides, what am I going to do, call everyone and say, ‘Sorry! Murder in the neighborhood! Gotta cancel!’ Oh, gosh, that reminds me, the centerpiece cake’s not here yet. Could you call the bakery and find out if Mickey is going to send somebody over with it?”
“No problem.” Patricia extended an index finger to scoop up a bit of dip. I punched in the buttons for the Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop and handed Patricia a small plastic bowl of dip that I had set aside for sampling. She wrinkled her nose and whined, “Is this the same?”
“Patricia, please. Of course.” I removed the plastic wrap from the Grilled Slapshot Salad.
“Well, it doesn’t look the same.” She shoveled a pile of dip onto one chip and popped it into her mouth.
“Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop,” announced Mickey Yuille in the sad, gruff voice I recognized so well.
“Mickey, hi, it’s Goldy Schulz. I’m over at the McCrackens’ place and she’s waiting for her cake. Can I tell her it’s on the way?”
Mickey sighed. “Brandon always insists on helping out with my Saturday deliveries. But now they’ve had some kind of crisis down at his office, and my other guy is sick, so all the Saturday-afternoon deliveries have been delayed.”
I held my breath. Brandon Yuille, head of Human Resources at ACHMO, was already being questioned? By whom? The police? His Minneapolis head office? “We really need somebody to bring the cake over,” I implored.
“Yeah, yeah, okay. That’s what I was going to tell you. Brandon came in late. He’s out on his rounds now and should be there any minute. And say! Great fudge, Goldy. Brandon brought me some made from your recipe. Come by and see me sometime. I want you to try out my new cinnamon rolls. They’re bigger than the other guy used to make them.”
