Chopping Spree

In spite of all this, the luncheon came off well. I was disappointed not to have had a chance to talk to Pam about the Barry mess, but wasn’t sure I actually would have been able to. And anyway, my disappointment was allayed when Marla sashayed through the front door, claiming she was taking the place of someone who was sick. Because the luncheon was quite a bit smaller than Monday’s party, we didn’t have the opportunity to share gossip—except when she tiptoed into the kitchen to say Page and Shane had started to fight again, and that Page had stalked out. A few moments later, I saw Page’s Audi—a duplicate of her sister’s—whiz away.

Without his wife there to scrutinize and criticize his every move, Shane was unexpectedly brilliant. His enthusiastic pitch about The Gadget Guy On-Line reminded me of Tom Sawyer’s whitewash-the-fence psychology. Only a select few were good enough to do this job, and if you wanted to be in on this opportunity to invest, you were just going to have to get in line! Shane’s enthralled guests all beamed and asked, Was there an upper limit on how much one could invest? All, that is, except for Marla, who gave me a dramatic wink.

The food, despite our disastrous start, was out of this world, if I do say so myself. As if on cue, the snow began to flutter down again as Liz and I ferried out the steaming, fragrant bowls of soup dotted with floating dumplings. Liz stoked the fire in the dining room fireplace while I served Wild Girls’ Grilled Mushroom Salad. Since Liz and I had learned one of Julia Child’s lessons well—Never criticize your own food at a party—we were able to serve “Lightly Smoked Prime Rib” without batting an eye or even giggling. The investors gobbled it all up, right to the Strawberry-Rhubarb Cobbler, of which, like the investment, everyone demanded large pieces.

While we were serving the lunch, however, my curiosity began to nag. During the ring-stealing and fire- starting escapades, I’d seen a couple of things that had perplexed me, and I wanted to look into them—OK, snoop —a bit more. There were a few too many things about the Stockhams that were bothering me—the vicious way they fought, the nasty games they played, their ruthless habit of blaming others for their financial problems. All these, plus their current money mess brought on by The Gadget Guy’s eviction from Westside, were making me wonder if they were more involved in the death of Barry Dean than the cops suspected. Anything to try to help Julian, I said to myself, as I scooped globes of ice cream.

While Liz handed out seconds of ice cream and cobbler, I climbed back onto the kitchen chair and turned my attention to the bookshelves. The lowest shelf contained the usual assortment of gourmet cookbooks people bought these days but rarely used. All looked brand-new. Above them was another array of cookbooks, these of the specialty-fad type, featuring Cooking With Bananas the Fiji Way, Creative Tofu Touches, and Bread Soups from Around the World (spare me). My guess was that these books hadn’t ever been opened.

But above those, I’d spotted something that hadn’t quite fit. As Tom was always telling me, that’s what you should look for. Off the top shelf, I pulled a well-worn copy of Alcoholics Anonymous, otherwise known as The Big Book. Was Shane or Page an alcoholic? Or thinking he or she might be? The way Page had been hitting the wine this morning might indicate so. But why keep this reading material in the kitchen, as if to hide it? Still perched on the chair, I opened the book and caught two pieces of paper before they fluttered to the floor.

Wild Girls’ Grilled Mushroom Salad

4 ounces Portobello mushrooms (about 1 large or medium-size)

4 ounces shiitake mushrooms

1 ounce oyster mushrooms

3 large garlic cloves, peeled and pressed

2 teaspoons Dijon mustard

2 tablespoons best-quality medium-dry sherry (recommended brand: Dry Sack)

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Nonstick cooking spray

6 cups field greens (mesclun)To clean the mushrooms, wipe them carefully with damp paper towels. Remove the stems from the Portobello and shiitake mushrooms and discard. Using a sharp knife, lightly trim the gills from the Portobello mushroom and slice into 1 x 1-inch pieces. Slice the shiitakes in half. Weigh the mushrooms; you should have about 8 ounces total.In a large glass bowl, whisk together the garlic, mustard, sherry, and vinegar until well combined. Pour the oil into this mixture in a steady stream, whisking all the while. Place the mushrooms into this marinade and mix very carefully to coat all sides.Spray a grill with nonstick spray and preheat the grill for 5 minutes, while the mushrooms marinate. Do not over-marinate the mushrooms, or their delicate flavor will be lost.Grill the mushrooms over medium-high to high heat for about 3 to 4 minutes per side, or until cooked through. Serve immediately on a bed of field greens.Makes 4 servings as a side dish, 2 servings as a main dish

The first was a list of the Twelve Steps, but something about it was different. I read, We admitted we were powerless over our spending, that our lives had become unmanageable. I turned to the second sheet. Shopaholics Anonymous Meeting Times, the heading announced. Hmm. I’d heard of Debtors Anonymous, but not this. Meetings were held at two times, on two days—ten o’clock in the morning and seven in the evening Mondays and Thursdays, in the—I had to read this part twice— shoppers’ lounge at Westside Mall? Hello? Would you have an AA meeting in a liquor store?

Hearing Liz approach, I shoved the book back into its spot, then scrambled off the chair.

“Ten more coffees, two more teas,” she announced, giving me a quizzical glance as I shoved the chair back into place. “Want to refill the coffeepot?”

“I already did, and it’s percolating,” I replied. “I’m going to the little girls’ room,” I added.

Liz bustled around, working on the hot drinks. Meanwhile, I sprinted down the hall, turned on the fan in the peach-colored bathroom, and, still standing in the hall, shut the door hard. Then I whipped into Page Stockham’s room, aka Page’s Place.

Unless I was very wrong, I’d glimpsed something here, too. Something—no, make that things—that I’d seen before, but in a wholly different context. If I was right, these items were of interest not only to me but maybe to law enforcement. I tiptoed over the clothes-strewn floor, bypassed the chaise lounge with its multicolored array of bras, and only cast a cursory glance at the armoire with its jumble of jewelry. As quietly as possible, I eased the bifold closet door to its fullest open position, then flipped on the light.

I had not been wrong. There, on Page Stockham’s closet floor, was a jumbled mountain of shoes and shoe- boxes. Red, pink, black, navy, beige, and white pumps spilled from cardboard and tissue. Each and every one was of the same style, featuring a cutout toe.

The last time I’d seen this style shoe, hundreds of them had been littered around the body of Barry Dean.

CHAPTER 15

Damn, I thought as I stared in astonishment down at the footwear. What exactly did this mean? That Page Stockham was the Imelda Marcos of the Rockies?

Logistics: Page hadn’t physically attacked Shane; she’d acted in self-defense. She must have rejoined Marla after being hauled out of the lounge, because I knew that Marla, Ellie, and Page had been shopping together, even buying shoes, at that mammoth sale. But how could Page Stockham have bought so many of one style, and not seen Barry Dean Monday night? Forget seeing; could she have done something else? Was it possible that Page had stolen my knife, and in that corner of the shoe department that the cameras couldn’t see, killed Barry herself? Maybe she hadn’t quite succeeded in eliminating her husband’s financial enemy, but had shoved him into the cabinet still moaning, then come back to finish the job, and bop me in the process?

I squatted down and stared at the shoes, thinking hard. What had Marla told me? That she, Page, and Ellie had left the mall together Monday evening, just before nine. I’d found Barry just after nine. In the nightmare that