“What do you mean, the lights are off? And was it two minutes or ten minutes? Are you sure it was Korman? Was it a white Jeep or a silver one? He has one of each.”
“Look, it was a white Jeep. And it happened.
He drove away fast and came back slowly, with no .I lights. He knocked on the side door and what’s-her- name yelled at him a little bit. Then she let him in.”
Vandal Two hissed, “Suck it up, man, somebody’s coming! We gotta split!”
The tire iron clanged to the pavement. The: boys bolted. I peered up Kells Way into the glare of headlights. The approaching car was not the security car. The driver stopped, opened a mailbox, and stuffed in a newspaper. This person didn’t bring security; he brought the news. He would be no help. Spooked by some ambushes in Denver, the newspaper delivery folks now wouldn’t stop if you were bleeding your guts out in six feet of snow. But I didn’t need this person’s assistance.
I whirled and peered into the shifting light of the yards. The vandals had vanished. They had found a magical way of disappearing through people’s property. From what vantage point had they watched Suz Craig’s house the night she died? The two guys hadn’t seen me drive down Kells Way. Perhaps they’d been vandalizing the club road signs on an adjoining block when I’d parked.
The metallic slap of mailboxes being opened and closed punctuated the night air. There was no sign of the security man and no sound of a pickup truck or some other vehicle being driven away. Where had the vandals gone? I had no idea.
It was time to boogie. By the time I drove past the security car with its still-dozing watchman and arrived home, the dashboard clock read three-forty-five. Time flies when you’re avoiding insomnia. I shivered my way into pajamas, eased into bed, and slid my arms around Tom’s warm body. No use waking him. A reasonable morning hour would be a better time to tell him all that had happened.
But I’d awakened him anyway. He turned over and mumbled, “Where in the world have you been, Miss G.?” I shushed him gently and curled in closer. But he took my cold hands in his warm ones. “I went downstairs looking for you… then I saw the van was gone. Honestly, I’ve been a wreck.”
I wove my cold legs through his deliciously warm ones. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a drive. I wanted to … to time the driving distances over by Suz Craig’s. How long from Suz’s house to John Richard’s, you know. But” ? I hugged him tight ? “I ended up interrupting a pair of vandals spray-painting John Richard’s house. You’re not going to believe it, but these guys were painting the word ‘Killer.’ So I talked to them ? “
“What?” Tom extricated himself from my embrace, threw off the sheets, and turned on the lamp. Soon he was dressed in a terry robe and had one of our zillion leaky Biocess pens poised over his trusty spiral notebook. He said, “Would you care to make a quick statement, Mrs. Schulz?”
I sighed, then told him all about the vandals on Kells Way. I included their rude shove and their nonvideotaped account of how they’d seen John Richard drive away from Suz’s house in his Jeep that night and then return very slowly, lights out. “They thought I was in front of John Richard’s tonight so that I could steal something from inside the house. Or to gloat over inheriting the place.”
Tom tapped his notebook. “You didn’t hear them drive away? But yet you say they were afraid of the country-club security man. Who never showed up.”
“Maybe they hid in their car or their truck,” I offered.
He scowled. “Maybe. More likely, they’re teenagers who live right there somewhere. They probably took off on foot or on bike, figuring they could come back later for their paint and ladder.” After a moment of pondering, he turned off the light and pulled me close.
I murmured, “I’m sorry I worried you.” His breath brushed my ear. “Please don’t do any more middle-of-the- night neighborhood prowling, okay? Can we get you a prescription for sleeping pills? It’d be safer.”
“No, thanks.” I hesitated. “Tom. It takes almost ten minutes to get back to John Richard’s house. These guys couldn’t tell me if it was ten minutes or two minutes between when he roared off and when he returned. And why would he drive back so soon? He never recovers from a fit of temper that fast.”
“Haven’t a clue. I’m going back to sleep. But I want a promise from you. A couple of promises, actually.”
“Name them.” “Miss G. You seem determined to poke your nose into this. Maybe you doubt Korman killed the woman. Maybe you’re trying to help Arch. But you’re snooping around. Don’t disagree.” When I nodded, he went on. “Okay, promise me: You won’t go down to that ACHMO office. You won’t break into John Richard’s office and go through his files. You won’t break into Suz Craig’s house or John Richard’s house. We ? Official law enforcement ? will go to the offices and interview the people. We will go through the files, search the houses, all that. Okay?”
“What can I do?”
“Do what you always do. Talk to people. Feed them your great food. And try to stay out of trouble. Promise?”
I sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, cop.” He sighed too. “Let’s just say I love my wife. And I want to keep her alive.”
The next morning, Monday, I was sleeping so deeply when Tom left that he didn’t bring me coffee. I didn’t even hear Arch go out, although he left me a note taped to the computer saying he’d be back from his friend Todd’s house by dinnertime. I banged around the kitchen making espresso and toasting homemade bread. I started a sponge for the brioche I would use for the doll people’s box-lunch sandwiches. No other catering assignments loomed, so I checked that I had the right smoked meats and cheeses, plus some almonds, lemons, and seedless raspberry jam. I wanted to start experimentation to make my own Linzer tarts. I reread the last line in Arch’s note: You promised to help Dad, Mom.
Right. Help him without visiting the ACHMO office, without breaking into Suz’s or the Jerk’s house, without sneaking into the Jerk’s office to go through files. How about this: I could visit John Richard’s office and not poke into files. Couldn’t I?
I put in a call to Tom’s phone and got his machine. Any leads on the vandals? I wanted to know. Or on anything else? Call me back. After I finished breakfast ? crunchy toasted Anadama bread thickly slathered with butter and apple butter ? I checked on Macguire. He was sleeping. I felt his forehead. The fever seemed to have broken.
His yellow-flecked brown eyes opened wide when I withdrew my hand and he groaned. “What’s up?”
“Not much. I just wanted to check on you. Any chance you’d want to walk over to John Richard’s office with me in a little bit? ReeAnn will probably be there.”
It’s amazing how energizing infatuation can be. With much groaning, Macguire roused himself, showered, shaved, and dressed. When he shuffled into the kitchen, his white cotton T-shirt and dark jeans hung so limply on his emaciated frame that I found myself begging. After all, it’s my profession to feed people.
“Please, Macguire. Please eat something. Let me fix you some juice and toast. People love my homemade bread and ? “
“No. Thanks.” He surveyed the kitchen dispiritedly, then looked at my anxious face and relented. “Okay. I’ll have a little glass of juice and a piece of bread. Don’t toast it, though. Toast is too crusty. Hurts my throat.”
He swallowed less than a quarter-cup of juice and nibbled a third of a slice of crustless homemade bread. At least it was something.
When we walked through the door of John Richard’s spacious, all-beige office fifteen minutes later, ReeAnn Collins was in a state, and it wasn’t a good one. Holding the lengthy phone cord in front of the marble counter, she paced across the deep-pile carpet, complained into the receiver, and gestured furiously with her free hand. Her buxom figure was shown off to splendid advantage by a size-too-small white T -shin and clinging black biking shorts. Her curly black ponytail and long, pouffed bangs bobbed as she bent from time to time to whack at magazines that spilled from the beige-painted tables.
“First Judy calls in sick. She’s a nurse, but she can’t tell me what kind of sickness she has. So here I am, left to do everything, and then the sheriff’s depanment calls and says don’t touch anything. They’re on their way.” She nodded us distractedly toward the waiting-area chairs. “Then ACHMO calls,” she continued into the phone, “and says don’t give anything to the sheriff’s department.” I sat down and wondered, as I always did, how hugely pregnant women could ever extract themselves from these deep, soft couches once their appointment time arrived. ReeAnn stormed on. “ACHMO says the files belong to them, and if I give the sheriff’s department anything, I’m in deep yogurt. So then they say they}re on their way.” She set her heart-shape, usually quite pretty face into a pout as she listened to the advice from the other end of the line. She examined her black-and- purple-painted nails and
