Double Shot

somebody.

Recalling the detectives’ interrogation, I wondered why they hadn’t asked me if I’d set up a friend to assault me. They clearly thought I’d planned the accidental-shooting incident. Maybe they speculated that the bruises on my arms were self-inflicted. I should have given them a good look at my neck.

And of course, I wanted most of all to know who had killed my ex-husband. I had concern for myself, as a suspect. And perhaps I did, after all, have concern for him.

A sudden vision of John Richard’s bloody body loomed. I resolutely put it out of my mind, but it popped up again. Something had been wrong…something apart from the fact that he’d been dead, of course. I swallowed more coffee, closed my eyes, and went over the mental image. The blood, his face, his hair… something had been off, or strange, or at the very least, out of place. I hadn’t spotted my gun, so that wasn’t it. Still, something had struck me as weird, and I was fairly sure this was beside the fact that John Richard had been shot. But the observation, or realization, or whatever it was, flashed just out of reach, like a silvery trout wriggling off a hook.

At least I could remember John Richard’s body, or what I’d been able to see, given its skewed angle. Who could have done such a thing? Was it the same person who’d attacked me? And how was I going to find out these things?

I put my cup in the sink and did a few gentle yoga stretches. Blood flowed to my bruises like an anesthetic. If Yogi Berra was right, and 90 percent of baseball was half mental, then perhaps the same was true of pain. I took more cleansing breaths before stretching, breathing, and stretching some more. I had another double shot of espresso and felt restored. Ready to face the day, I booted up my computer.

Tom lumbered back into the kitchen, full of purpose and resolve. Overhead, the shower water began running.

He rubbed his hands together. “Miss G.? You seem to be feeling better.”

I nodded. “So do you, Tom. Are you doing better?”

“Last night was great.”

“Besides that.”

His face darkened and he turned away. “Sometimes. It feels good to help you and Arch. I wish I could work on this case, but the department actually told me to take some time off, to help the two of you.”

“Well. Thanks.”

His smile was rueful. “All right, then. I still need to get Arch out of here. If people can’t get you to answer the phone, they’ll come to the door. Believe me, I know.” He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. “I want to get him somewhere safe, as in emotionally safe. Do you have plans for today?” I told him about the two events I needed to finish prepping. Then Marla was taking me out to lunch. I omitted the strip-club part. “Let me tell you what I’ve been thinking,” Tom went on. “Call Trudy next door, and ask her if she can take in cards, flowers, casseroles. Meanwhile, Arch and I are going out.” He looked at the ceiling. “Maybe we’ll play golf.”

“Golf? The day after his father’s been killed?”

“It was my idea. And he doesn’t want to sit around.” He stood, reached into a cupboard for a tray, and set it with a plate, napkin, and silverware. “The fresh air will do him good. Miss G., trust me—you don’t want him here if reporters start swarming.”

Tom poured a glass of juice for the tray. I smiled. He had called me Miss G. twice this morning. Maybe he was getting better.

“Since I don’t belong to the country club,” he went on, “I suggested the municipal course by the lake. It’s not a bad course, and it’s unlikely he’ll see anybody he knows. No embarrassing questions that way.”

I shook my head, dumbfounded. Whenever someone close to me had died—a grandparent, an uncle I hadn’t seen in years—I’d felt numb. Even throwing myself back into whatever work needed doing had been an emotional chore. Then again, until the last two years, I hadn’t had Tom to help me through a crisis. Maybe I would have been willing to go play golf with him, too.

Tom popped two slices of brioche into the toaster and gave me a sidelong glance. “Couple more things.” He handed me a new cell phone and an index card. “Use this instead of your old one. Brewster Motley’s guy brought it by this morning. Also, the home phones are secure.” He smiled. “He also swept the place for bugs, if you can believe it. More important, I called a buddy of mine and ordered a chain-link fence and gates, complete with heavy- duty locks, to be put in around your compressors and switches outside the Roundhouse. Boyd will bring your new keys by later. He also promised to call either you or Marla, strictly on the q.t., if he heard any details about the investigation. Okeydoke?”

“Great. Thanks.” I watched in puzzlement as Tom zapped thick-sliced bacon in the microwave, then buttered the brioche. Within moments he was layering sizzling bacon strips on the toasted bread. My mouth watered.

“Bacon sandwich,” Tom offered. “I’m taking this up to Arch.” He lifted the tray to his shoulder, waiter style. “We should be taking off within twenty minutes.”

Upstairs, the water was still running. “Tom,” I protested gently. “He’s still in the shower. Why won’t you just let him have his breakfast after he’s dressed, in the kitchen the way he usually does? Please? I want to see him. Talk to him. Check on how he’s doing.”

Tom hesitated at the kitchen door, still gripping the tray. Finally, his green eyes met mine. “He’s not quite ready to see you, Miss G.”

“What?”

“Just…give him some time. All right?”

“What are you talking about?”

Tom hesitated, then put the tray down on the counter. He walked over, embraced me, and murmured in my ear, “Arch needs somebody to blame. Last night he blamed himself. This morning, it’s you. He doesn’t understand how you let your gun get stolen. He thinks you should have called paramedics once you found his dad in the garage.” Tom sighed. “He’s not doing well, Goldy. As soon as the department figures out what happened, he’ll have the right person to blame. Just…don’t overreact, okay?”

“But I didn’t do anything,” I protested. “Arch was less than thirty yards away from me when I found John Richard, who was already dead.”

“I know that. On some level, he does, too. He’s just real wound up now, and he’s not being logical. He needs a friend, someone he can trust, to start his grieving with. I’m not talking about Todd. Right now, he feels okay with me. Let me go with it, will you?”

My face, my ears, every part of my body began to pulse with heat, not to mention embarrassment, shame, and worry. Somehow I had failed my son. I thought I was going to be sick. Trust Tom? I was beginning to feel I couldn’t trust anyone. I couldn’t even think. My ex-husband was dead, and my beloved son wouldn’t even talk to me? What was going on here?

Tom picked up the tray and disappeared. I ran cold water from the kitchen faucet, splashed my face, then dried it with a rough paper towel. I swallowed back the rock in my throat, and tried not to picture Arch’s freckled, innocent face, with his glasses riding down his nose. I tried to imagine him not being angry with me.

Cook, an inner voice advised. It’s better than just standing around feeling bad.

My computer laid out the prep I still had to do. Regardless of whatever problems a dead ex-husband, an alienated son, nosy churchwomen, or bothersome journalists could pose, I had to work. Not only that, but I was determined to do a thorough check of my van to see if anything besides my thirty-eight had been ripped off. The cops wouldn’t have been able to tell that, would they? I took a deep breath and tapped buttons. First I printed out the inventory sheets for my equipment boxes. Then I pulled up the menus for the two upcoming events.

I wondered uneasily if Priscilla Throckbottom had been calling to change the time or place for the committee breakfast. My computer reminded me that I’d already made and frozen her mini-brioches, but that I still had to make the Crustless Fontina and Gorgonzola Quiches. Very early the next morning, I would slice a mega-ton of fresh fruit. Ah, the caterer’s life.

As I pulled out eggs, cheeses, cream, and butter, I worried that Priscilla might be immersed in one of her last-minute crises, where she insisted on adding or subtracting two, three, or six guests. Then again, maybe the death of John Richard had made Priscilla wonder if things were proceeding normally chez Goldilocks. Well, doggone