Chopping Spree

more optimistic. Tom had also fried an entire pound of bacon. The salty crunch of meat perfectly complemented the delicate pancake. I told him it was the best breakfast ever. He beamed.

“I need to take off,” he said. “Do you want me to do anything for you? Did they give you a prescription for a painkiller?”

“I’ve got both aspirin and ibuprofen,” I replied. “But thanks for worrying.”

He donned his jacket but seemed reluctant to leave. “Sure you’re OK to drive to Hulsey’s office?”

“Absolutely.” I stood to fire up the espresso machine. “I’m going to putter around here before stopping at Hulsey’s. I’ll be done in time to pick up Arch at lacrosse practice.”

“Can I bring home dinner?”

“Tom. If you don’t let me cook, I’ll go nuts.”

He kissed me and took off. As the house fell silent, I booted my computer, popped two aspirin, and pulled myself a double shot of rich, dark espresso. Because I needed to take care of myself—didn’t everyone say so?—I topped the coffee with a mountainous glob of whipped cream.

And then I thought of Julian, in jail, with no espresso and a bunch of criminals as his new roommates. Tom was off the case. Would Hulsey wait for a new polygraph before he moved forward with his own team of investigators? Probably not. But meanwhile, Julian, with no alibi, was stuck in jail. It would take a few days for the lab work to come back, but trying to pull my knife out of Barry meant, of course, that Julian’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon.

If I don’t help him, who will?

I swallowed more espresso, then tapped computer keys to open a new file: BARRY DEAN.

Tom had told me a hundred times: You have to figure out what you know before you can concentrate on what you don’t know.

I typed in everything I knew about Barry. His background at C.U. His deep affection for basset hounds. His brief work with the Longmont TV show. Business school. Marketing. His job managing Westside Mall. His status: Most Eligible Bachelor. And then I looked down at my espresso cup. He loved coffee, I typed numbly.

Both his old classic Mercedes and his rarely used BMW racing car had boasted leather coffee-compartment caddies that fit over the hump between the front seats. Dear old Honey the Hound had presided over our outings, her mournful eyes regarding us from the rear seat. When we’d met the previous week, Barry had said that Honey had passed away, but that he still loved bassets and had just gotten a new one. He’d been so full of enthusiasm for canines, I’d told him about our own hound, Jake. He’d laughed and wanted to know more. Did he howl? His new dog did.

Who was taking care of his new dog now? The cops? The pound?

I veered away from that thought and forced myself to concentrate.

Love interests, I typed. Let’s see. He’d gone out with all kinds of girls at school, but wasn’t as enthusiastic about them as he was about dogs, coffee, or cars. I knew he’d been seeing Ellie McNeely, and that she had recommended my catering company to him. Possibly, he’d also been seeing Pam Disharoon. I’d suspected he’d been seeing Liz, but realized now that their familiarity was probably based on Liz’s nervousness about catering for a fellow who’d barred her son from the mall. The rest was a blank.

Find out what BD was up to with women, I typed. Jealousy there?

My head throbbed and I pulled another espresso. Did I dare to take another couple of aspirin? No. Tom’s words came back to me: Did they give you a prescription for painkillers? My apron, I thought. What was in that prescription bottle?

I sprinted up the stairs. My head felt as if I were balancing a pine log on top of my cranium. Balancing a large pine log. Balancing a large pine log with a guy teetering on each end.

I groped in my apron pocket and pulled out a brown bottle from Westside Pharmacy. March 22, the tidy label read. Rx No. 2880. Dr. Louis Maxwell. Barry Dean. Take 1 as needed for headache. Vicodin ES tablet.

How on earth had the bottle gotten into my apron pocket? It had to have fallen out of Barry’s pocket, I reasoned. When I scooted forward to check his pulse, I must have inadvertently picked it up.

Vicodin was a narcotic painkiller. Barry had to have had some monster headaches. Was something worrying Barry to cause him crippling headaches? I typed a new question into the file: What caused BD’s headaches?

OK, let’s see… there were a few more random facts I knew about Barry. He’d just bought an older house far out Upper Cottonwood Creek, an Austrian-chalet-style dwelling with gingerbread trim a la Hansel and Gretel. A detached garage held his cars—I thought he’d told me that at one point he’d had three vehicles—the old BMW racing car, a new white Audi, and the classic Mercedes, which had been wrecked, only to be replaced by the new Saab. Behind the garage, there was a large paved area where he kept his pontoon boat. Without kids and a wife to support, Barry could afford expensive toys.

I fingered the prescription bottle. Would the cops allow me inside Barry’s house? Probably not. I need to help Julian, I thought. I need to find out what Barry was up to. I need to discover what whoever killed Barry was up to. Back in the dark divorce days, I’d become an expert at ferreting out incriminating evidence. It’s important to use your talents, right?

Speaking of John Richard, for better or worse, he had been temporarily moved to a less crowded jail in Colorado Springs. We made the two-and-a-half-hour trip on a weekly basis, so Arch could visit his father. But at least The Jerk would not be in the Furman County lockup to hassle or intimidate Julian.

Julian. My heart ached. He’d been a part of our family for only a few years, but it felt like forever. He worried incessantly about Arch and me. He helped Arch with homework and visits to museums; he even corrected Arch’s drafts of English papers, something I was forbidden upon pain of death to do. Julian brought over his signature chocolate croissants whenever he visited. And he always, always helped me out at catered events when I needed him.

If I told Tom about Barry’s pills, he’d make me turn them over to the cops. So I was tampering with evidence. But I wasn’t ready to give up Barry’s prescription bottle just yet, at least not until I ferreted out the reason for the painkillers. After frowning at the little brown bottle for a minute, I wrapped it in plastic, opened the freezer side of the walk-in, and stashed it in a place I doubted Tom or Arch would ever look: a plastic tub half full of frozen clarified butter.

I was going to help Julian, I resolved. He possessed a keen intelligence, a great willingness to help out, a love for our family, and unfortunately, a quick temper. And now his desire to help others had landed him in a load of trouble.

So, Tom had relieved me of my catering assignments for that day. Until I could gather more supplies, there was little I could do to work on other events for later in the week. Meanwhile, my psyche needed to cook.

I washed my hands, tore the leftover bacon into bits, then washed my hands again. My whisk clicked the side of the bowl as I violently beat together a salad dressing. Finally, I washed and dried head after head of tender baby lettuces.

Despite my frenzied activity, my mind kept circling back to Julian. I’d introduced him to Liz, who had introduced him to her son Teddy, whose plight had touched Julian. His sense of justice had propelled him to confront Barry Dean. Julian always tried to do the right thing. Of course, this had also included trying to pull the knife out of Barry’s stomach.

I quickly stored all the food. Even if Hulsey forbade me, I was going to go down to the jail. I was going to demand that Julian Teller be released.

Fat chance of that, I thought. I groped again in the freezer, tried to avoid the tub of butter (the hidden prescription seemed to scream at me), and clattered ice cubes into a glass. I poured heavy cream into the glass, then put that into the freezer while I searched the refrigerator side of the walk-in for something luscious. Aha—a last piece of flourless chocolate cake topped with raspberries and strawberries. I whipped some more of the cream, ladled it on top of the cake, then pulled four shots of espresso and poured it into the glass over the chilled cream and ice cubes. I took a delicate mouthful of the chocolate cake, then sipped the creamy coffee. The dark, rich