Chopping Spree

Barry is… was. Since she finally got her divorce settlement, she has money, lots and lots more than Barry. So she had to find out if he was getting serious so he could get his hands on her money. She also wanted to know why he was lying to her about being in Vail and whatnot.” She paused and crunched on something, probably a cookie. “So. You want to call Rufus Investigations?”

After I jotted down the number, I signed off. I washed my hands and reflected a bit, then fluted, pricked, and baked the pie crust. I would make a quiche, I decided, and use up this morning’s leftover bacon. The pie would be rich, creamy, and soothing, and would go perfectly with a field green salad dressed with raspberry vinaigrette and defrosted homemade baguettes. Goodness, but I was glad Liz was doing that wedding reception this afternoon.

No one can recover from a head injury—much less investigate—on an empty stomach, I reminded myself. I would have a salad, baguette, and slice of quiche before donating the rest to the neighbors, since it wouldn’t keep for Tom and Arch. The neighbors would be thrilled.

Quiche Me Quick

7 pieces thick-sliced bacon

4 ounces Gruyere cheese, grated

8-inch baked pie shell (a baked9-inch shallow frozen pie crust is fine)

3 large eggs

? cup whipping cream

2 tablespoons milk

? teaspoon freshly grated nutmegCook the bacon until crisp, drain thoroughly, and pat with paper towels. Cut each slice of bacon into 4 equal pieces. Evenly distribute first the bacon, then the cheese, over the pastry crust. Set aside.Preheat the oven to 350°F.In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs until they are thoroughly combined. Beat in the cream and milk, then sprinkle on the nutmeg and stir until combined. Pour over the bacon and cheese, and set carefully in the preheated oven.Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the quiche has puffed and browned slightly and is set in the middle. (Check with a spoon to make sure there is no uncooked liquid in the center of the quiche.) Serve immediately.Makes 6 servings

I tucked the phone beneath my ear, started grating Gruyere, and put in a call to Rufus Investigations. I was told that John Rufus had left that morning for Africa, on an extended assignment. I swallowed hard and begged his secretary to look up something about a client of theirs. Ellie McNeely had hired Mr. Rufus to have somebody surveilled, and now that person has been murdered. The secretary let out an exasperated breath.

“Let me have the name of the victim, then,” she said, as if my call were ruining her day. Which it probably was.

I gave her Barry’s name, then testily explained that a young friend of mine had been arrested for the murder, and whatever Mr. Rufus had discovered would help this innocent young man get out of jail…. At that point, the secretary interrupted me and brusquely read the tenets of Rufus Investigations’ confidentiality policy. When law enforcement contacts us, we will be sharing information with them and them only—

I thanked her and said good-bye before slamming the phone down. Then I cracked three eggs, whacked on my big mixer, and beat the eggs with almost a cup of whipping cream. Whipping cream, so aptly named. In cooking, you could take out your frustrations by whipping, folding, beating, and smothering.

And here folks thought the home cook was so docile.

I piled the chopped bacon and grated Gruyere into the cooled crust, sloshed the eggs and cream over all, then artfully grated nutmeg on top. After sliding the luxurious concoction into the oven, I phoned Ellie McNeely.

“It’s Goldy,” I began. “Please don’t hang up. I really need to talk to you—”

“I can’t talk.” She was whispering. “There are two men here from the sheriff’s department, and they want me to come in for questioning. You see, this private investigator I hired called them from the airport when he saw the headlines this morning. The headlines about Barry.” Her voice trembled. “That bastard private eye, Rufus, told the cops I was having Barry followed. He told them all about Barry and me, and why I was having him tailed, and now Barry, the man I thought was going to marry me, has been killed—”

The line went dead. I imagined Detective Sawyer, hovering like Uriah Heep, pressing the dial-tone button while poor, wretched Ellie sought comfort from a friend. Doggone it.

John Rufus had called the sheriff’s department from the airport? I imagined a man in a trenchcoat, reading the newspaper while waiting for his jet to Capetown, then making a beeline for a pay phone. Probably private investigators were like doctors and shrinks, that is, if they had information that might shed light on a crime, they had to share it. But why couldn’t he stay in this country and help out a bit? Yet another question occurred to me. Was it possible John Rufus had been in Prince & Grogan last night, and seen who stabbed Barry? If so, would he have told the cops that? I grabbed the phone and left another message for Tom.

I cleaned up the kitchen. Then I went back to my file.

Find out if Private Investigator Rufus was in the department store, I typed. Find out what Ellie knows. Find out if Rufus told the cops anything that could help Julian. Did B.D. have another girlfriend, say, Pam Disharoon? If so, how jealous was she? For that matter, just how jealous was Ellie? Why did Barry lie about a meeting, and go to the bank instead? Why did he say he was skiing, and then hustle off to the doctor?

And most importantly: Is there any information that can clear Julian?

The quiche emerged puffed and golden brown. I cut myself an enormous slice and smiled after the first bite. The bacon gave the pie a lovely crunch, the Gruyere added tang and substance, and the eggs and cream gave the whole melange a texture like velvet. I awarded myself points for concocting such a dish in the midst of stress. Next time, I would omit the bacon, and make one for vegetarian Julian when he got out of jail. With remarkable discipline, I dutifully carried a newly tossed salad, warmed baguettes, and the rest of the quiche to my next-door neighbor, Trudy. She swooned with joy and complimented me extravagantly. I actually felt happy for the first time in twelve hours.

Back at home, my answering machine was blinking. I had three messages. Murphy’s law of answering machines: Leave the house for less than ten minutes? You’re going to miss your calls.

The first was from Tom. His reassuring voice warmed me, but what he had to say turned my blood to ice. The cameras in the lounge had recorded Barry schmoozing with a number of guests, first Ellie, then several others, including Pam Disharoon. Unfortunately, the tapes also showed that Julian had had not one, but two squabbles with Barry. And by the way, none of the cameras captured my knife being transported in or out of the kitchenette. Except for the eight cameras focused on the display cases, there had been only two others, and they had recorded nothing regarding the murder weapon. The only tape the cops hadn’t checked was the one from the roving videographer; the detectives were tracking that fellow down now.

The cameras on either end of the P & G shoe department, Tom went on, were focused on the cash registers to keep tabs on the employees, and the chairs and couches, where women might be tempted to slip a pair of shoes into another shopping bag. No camera had been focused on the cabinets by the wall. Moreover, with the way the cabinets had been placed, there had been enough room behind them for a person to hide while I was struggling to help Barry. In any event, no videotape showed the murder, me coming in, or Julian finding us.

Tom concluded by saying he was hoping that his friends in the department would continue to share information with him. That data-sharing would dry up instantly, however, if Julian flunked the second lie-detector test.

The next message was short and bittersweet. It was from Liz Fury.

“Goldy, I’m hoping you’re OK. The Grigsons just started their wedding ceremony. Everything looks good for the setup, food, service. I added six dozen frozen spinach appetizers, by the way, from my freezer. Don’t know if Tom told you I got two of my former staffers to help.” She paused. “I, um, really hope you’re feeling better.” Her voice became apologetic. “Goldy, I’m sorry I ever introduced Teddy to Julian. I just thought if Teddy could have a role model, a strong kid like Julian, that he might want to try to turn his life around. I had no idea that Julian would turn violent toward Barry.”

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered.