Double Shot

they get the autopsy report. Plus, the neighbors might have seen or heard something. Hopefully, our guys will be able to pin down the time of death as just when you arrived at the rink in Lakewood.”

I undid myself from the quilt and retrieved the first almost-frozen cookie roll. “I hope Boyd can find out a lot.”

While the oven heated, we worked together slicing the silky dough. As soon as a sheet went into the oven, the phone rang. The caller ID indicated that it was Marla.

“Uh-oh,” said Tom. “You were supposed to call her the minute you walked in the door. Better answer it. I don’t want her to bite my head off.”

Now there was something. I’d never seen Tom afraid of anyone. I languidly picked up the phone and cried, “Girlfriend!”

“Dammit, Goldy,” Marla’s husky voice gasped, as if she’d walked up several flights of stairs. “I just talked to Brewster, and he said he dropped you off an hour ago! I want to hear all about it, plus I have stuff to tell you—”

Don’t talk about the case on the phone. It was probably best to follow Brewster’s expensive advice.

“Marla, I’ve gotta go! The timer’s going off and a whole batch of cookies is about to come out of the oven!”

“Baloney! That never stopped you before. Just take them out of the oven! Now listen, John Richard and —”

“Omigod! Smoke!” I squealed. “The cookies are burning! Quick, Tom, get the fire extinguisher!”

In reality, I pulled a perfect batch of fragrant, golden cookies from the oven. Confused but prepared, Tom huddled next to me with the fire extinguisher poised to blast the cookies. I put the sheet down on the cooling rack and covered the phone with one hand.

“Don’t you dare,” I whispered.

“What’s going on?” he whispered back.

“Goldy!” Marla screamed from the receiver.

“I’ll call you back in ten minutes, Marla. Promise.”

As I was putting the phone back in its holder, I heard Marla’s diminished voice say, “If my phone still had a cord, I would use it to wring your neck! Don’t hang up on me—”

Ah, silence. I eased the cookies off the sheet, nabbed a piece of foil, and piled it with ten hot ones—they were small, I told myself—then invited Tom to have the rest.

“I’ll finish the other rolls later,” I said hastily as I grabbed my jacket.

“Goldy, for crying out loud! It’s past eight o’clock. Where are you going?”

“To a pay phone to call Marla back.” He began to pull on his “Furman County Sheriff’s Department Softball” sweatshirt. I said, “No, please. Don’t. Stay here with Arch. I won’t be long.”

“Forget it. You were assaulted this morning, and you’re not going anywhere alone. Besides, what pay phone are you going to use?”

“The one at the Grizzly Bear Saloon.” I eased the front door open.

“You’re kidding!” he protested. He wrote a quick note to Arch, then hustled out behind me. “The Grizzly has at least one drunken brawl a night.”

“Don’t worry. The guys usually fight with each other, not some caterer who just wants to use the phone. At least, that’s what I hope.”

8

As Tom and I made our way down the street, smoke suddenly filled our nostrils. I coughed, then took shallow breaths. This was no barbecue smoke. Moreover, the night was warm, the sun had just set, and I doubted anyone needed a fire for warmth. I hadn’t heard a report of a wildfire, and neither had Tom. If there was any news, the Grizzly was sure to have it.

A sign hanging from the buckled eave read: “Never Out of Service Since 1870.” Never redecorated, either, I thought as we pushed through arched, louvered half doors and shuffled across a genuine sawdust-covered floor. I registered the presence of at least six dozen bankers, electricians, lawyers, plus assorted ne’er-do-wells. Of course, they were all sporting cowboy hats, vests, and boots. That hadn’t changed since 1870, either.

On the stage, a band was playing “Jailhouse Rock.” A short but otherwise fairly convincing Elvis impersonator—upswept dark hair, skintight sequined suit, energetic hips—was bellowing, “Uh-uh-UH!” A glittery sign beside the band announced that they were “Nashville Bobby and the Boys,” and they were going to be in Aspen Meadow for four more days. Then they moved on to Steamboat Springs, where they’d be playing at the Lonely Hearts Cafe for two days, before returning to Aspen Meadow the following week. They did seem to take themselves seriously. I took a deep breath and again started coughing.

“Does anybody know where that smoke smell is coming from?” Tom asked the crowd.

“New forest fire,” a wiry fellow piped up. He wore fringed leather pants, a ten-gallon hat, and a shirt sewn with his name on it: “Tex.” Tex took a long pull of beer. “Up in the preserve. Fifteen miles away. Thousand acres, sixty percent contained.”

“Hey!” A very blond, very pudgy woman hipped me to one side, and I fell onto the back of a chair. Around us, everyone laughed.

“Do you mind?” I yelled at the woman, rubbing my ribs that were already bruised enough, thank you very much. Tom tried to hide his smile.

She was probably ten years my senior. She wore fringed beige leather that sparkled with…was there such a thing as fake rhinestones? I didn’t have time to think about it, because I found myself staring at how the rhinestones were also scrolled into a name: “Blondie.”

“Hey!” she yelled again, poking my chest with a long, scarlet fingernail. I stared at her. Her thick pancake makeup glittered under the saloon’s electric-torch chandeliers. I stared at her scarlet-lipsticked mouth as it formed the words “Gitcher own boyfriend!” This time it was the stench of bourbon that made me reel back. Blondie thrust her double chin in my direction. “Ja hear me?” her drunken breath demanded. “Get lost. Tex is mine.”

I teetered backward over two more chairs. “I’ve got a husband, thanks,” I mumbled as more folks laughed.

Tex, immensely pleased to be apparently desired by two short, blond women, tipped his beer and gave me a sly look. I turned to Tom, who winked at me. Tex cleared his throat loudly.

“The fire should be out by mornin’,” he said. Then he lifted his chin and raised one eyebrow. I don’t care about a husband! You interested in me?

I shook my head in an emphatic negative. As I stumbled away, Nashville Bobby and the Boys started howling at the crowd about being nothing but a hound dog. I didn’t care about Tex; I cared even less about Nashville Bobby and his boys. What did worry me was the new fire, since the Roundhouse was situated a mere eight miles from the preserve. How close was the nearest hydrant? If necessary, could the firemen pump water from the lake? Thousand acres, sixty percent contained. We’d become so accustomed to the wildfires that we just cited each one’s statistics—where it was, how much under control, when the firefighters expected complete containment—and moved on with our lives. This was what I needed to do, I thought, then jumped as Nashville Bobby turned up the volume a notch.

Through the cigarette smoke, I could barely make out the stage. Colorado was most emphatically not California, so everyone smoked indoors, sometimes two cigarettes at a time. Nashville Bobby warbled, shook his hips, and finished his song with a bow. To raucous applause, Bobby then announced that the band was going to debut their new song, “Trash.” Sad guitar-string plinking was followed by Bobby crooning:

“I’m just garbage under your sink,You threw me in here and didn’t think!Now I’m gettin’ old, ’n startin’ to stinkYou don’t check the bag; you don’t even wink.”

Tom asked if I wanted anything, like a beer, but I said no. I pushed my way through the crowd until I finally arrived at the dimly lit phone, which was a grimy beige house phone with a stretched-out cord. It was perched at a