Chopping Spree

with Pam Disharoon. So Barry figured, ‘I’ll hire my old college pal Goldy, the caterer who solves crimes. She’ll help me to find out what happened to Lucas No-toe Holden.’”

“You did great on this,” Tom reassured me. “The guys did check out those alibis for Ellie and Page, by the way. The women did go straight home, Ellie with Mrs. Harrington, Page in Shane’s car. Shane called a former employee of The Gadget Guy to drive him back up to the Stockham place. He didn’t want to risk driving with his wife after they’d almost killed each other at the party. Oh… and our guy who checked out Page’s alibi also asked her about all those suspicious shoes. Page never saw Barry in the shoe department. She said she bought so much footwear because that was the best way to get revenge on her stingy old husband.”

I shook my head. Tom folded sifted cocoa and sugar into the melted butter and chocolate mixture, then folded in yolks, then creamy, beaten whites. Even as much as my neck now was beginning to ache, I had to appreciate his skill. Tom regarded me with concern. “You look like you’re in pain.”

“I’ve had worse pain, please don’t worry,” I assured him.

He scraped the bowl’s luscious dark contents into a springform pan and slipped the pan into the oven. Then he came over and murmured, “Let me rub where it hurts.”

Tom’s warm hands eased along my upper back. Meanwhile, because it was not a catering day and because Tom had sworn to disinfect the kitchen over the weekend, the dogs were enjoying an unusual foray into the kitchen. Jake the bloodhound and Latte the basset hound pressed in next to me for pats. Like Tom, they also appeared worried about me. Scout the cat, however, was still in hiding. And someone else was missing, too.

“You know what’s bothering me most,” I said. “Julian—”

“OK, look. Hulsey told me to tell you that neither of us should go down to the jail. It’s an embarrassing situation for his firm, and they don’t want you or me around just yet.”

“Bad publicity?”

“You bet,” Tom replied. “Hulsey, Jones, Macauley and Wilson is the best-known criminal defense firm in the state. One partner represents a murder case’s initial suspect, you. Then he works with a second suspect, Julian Teller. Later, when a much more credible suspect gets apprehended and hit in the groin by a cop’s wife”—I shrugged modestly—“and it turns out the guy now hitting the high notes is the brother of the Wilson in Hulsey, Jones, Macauley and Wilson, they’ve got a damage-control problem on their hands. They’re worried sick the press will be all over them.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. Another sibling problem.

“Julian will be all right,” Tom reassured me. “And there’s something else,” he added. “Minor by comparison to all this. Shane Stockham called. Before he could say why he was phoning, I blasted him on his claims about the payoffs to Barry on the rent issue. I told Stockham if he didn’t tell me the truth, he’d go straight to jail. Scared the guy to death. He admitted Barry hadn’t demanded anything from him. He just made that up so he wouldn’t be blamed for holding back on his rent. His lawyer was already dealing with Pennybaker.”

“You must have put the fear of God into him.”

“That’s my job. Anyway, Shane turned all ingratiating after his admission, as if he were the best friend a cop could ever hope to have. He also said he signed up all the investors he wanted. He really needs to get some ring back from you, though. He’ll exchange it for the check he owes you.” Tom stopped his wonderful massage. “A ruby, sapphire, and diamond ring? Please, please, Miss G.—tell me it’s not stolen.”

I laughed, then promised him I would call Shane. At that moment, the doorbell rang, and the dogs went berserk.

A moment later, Tom was ushering in Ellie McNeely. I tried not to look disappointed that it wasn’t Julian. Ellie was carrying a handsome flower arrangement of dark blue iris, daffodils, and white stock, set not in a basket, but on a base topped with a… lacrosse helmet?

“It’s for Arch,” she said, her tone apologetic. “For his birthday. I told the florist I needed the most masculine thing possible, with a lacrosse theme.”

“They’re gorgeous,” I said, deeply touched.

“Oh,” she added, pulling an envelope out of her pocket, “and here’s an Abercrombie and Fitch gift certificate for him, too, just so he won’t think I’m totally square.”

“This is so unnecessary, Ellie.”

“Goldy,” she said earnestly, “I didn’t really come here because of Arch’s birthday. I came because I wanted to thank you, because I needed to thank you.” Before I could protest and say, It’s nothing, she hurried on: “You found out what happened to Barry, and got half choked to death in the process, I heard. You’ve been great.”

We invited her into the kitchen, where we all had more espresso and kept watch over the cake through the oven window. At length, Arch, clad in the sweatsuit he’d slept in, made one of his silent floating appearances.

“It’s the Birthday B—!” I stopped instantly when I registered my son’s threatening countenance. Laboriously, I got to my feet and shuffled in his direction, hoping for a birthday hug.

“Mom, don’t.” Arch drew back and gave me a pained look: Can’t you ever treat me as if I were older than three? “What’s that?” he asked, frowning at the flowers.

“They’re from Mrs. McNeely,” I said. “They’re for you. For your birthday.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, and nodded in Ellie’s direction. “Thanks a lot.” He looked from Tom to me. “So my party’s going to be now? Is Julian out yet?”

“Don’t know,” said Tom. “But breakfast definitely won’t be the end of today’s partying.”

“They really are nice flowers,” Arch said to Ellie, with a sincere smile and brief nod.

“There’s a gift certificate, too,” Ellie said, “for A and F.” She pointed to the envelope she’d placed on the table.

At that, Arch brightened a bit more. “Well, gee. Thanks!”

Tom removed the cake from the oven, set it on a rack, then rummaged through the freezer for the last batch of Julian-made chocolate-filled croissants. I set the table and poured orange juice.

When we were digging into the flaky croissants a few minutes later, Ellie said suddenly, “I guess I’ll never know if Barry meant to get engaged or not. It doesn’t matter.” Her lovely, wet eyes regarded me earnestly. “He was two-timing me, but he wanted to get married, Goldy. He told me so at the jewelry-leasing event. He said, ‘All these arrangements we’re making today are for the temporary wearing of stones. But ours will symbolize a lifelong promise.’” I knew she was looking at me for affirmation. I nodded, thinking only that Barry had a gift for communication, not necessarily one for commitment.

“Who’s ready for another croissant?” Tom cried jovially.

Arch raised his hand. Ellie, still preoccupied, burst out with, “If only I could have figured out that riddle!”

Arch cut his eyes at me. I lifted my eyebrows and gave him a knowing grin. My son had always been an expert at riddles, codes, and puzzles, and he knew how much I appreciated his talent. Arch then glanced at Tom, too, who nodded almost imperceptibly. But before Arch said anything, he unexpectedly looked back at me. His eyes held such tenderness that I was undone. Maybe in that split second, my son realized, as he hadn’t in a while, how much my appreciation of him meant that I loved him. I swallowed; my eyes flooded with tears. And then the moment was over.

My son put down his pastry and said, “I know a lot about codes, Mrs. McNeely. If it’s that kind of thing.”

“It’s not a code, it’s about sex,” Ellie explained.

Arch beamed. Well, he was turning fifteen. He said, “Fire away.”

Ellie demurred. “Oh, I’ve taken up too much of your party time. I’m sorry. I’m just preoccupied with my own problems.”

“So what’s the code?” Arch persisted.

“‘When we fight, and then we BLANK, when you do it alone, you’ll find your ring.’” Ellie wrinkled her nose. “You see, whenever we fought, we… made love afterward. I sure don’t want to know what he meant by ‘do it alone,’ for crying out loud.”

Arch shook his head. A huge grin creased his face. “I don’t think it’s about sex, Mrs. McNeely. When you fight with somebody”—and here he gave me that affectionate expression again—“you do other things. You… apologize. You get something for ‘em. You… make up.” Ellie let out breath, still bewildered. “Look, Mrs. McNeely,” Arch went on, “Barry meant when you make up, get it? Then later you put on makeup, you know? Don’t you get that?”

Oh Lord, I thought. I bolted from our table as swiftly as a person with a sore shoulder and bruised neck can