Double Shot

into the kitchen. We would rinse the dishes as quietly as…no, I would not think of mice, not after what had happened on Tuesday. Boyd and I began scraping the plates and gently running water over them. I thanked him again for helping me out, and he waved this away.

“You can’t imagine all I’ve learned today,” he replied solemnly. “If I didn’t before, I now have a genuine fear of, and respect for, the opposite sex.”

“Right.”

When Boyd and I had finished stacking the rinsed dishes and I was brewing a fresh carafe of coffee, Marla slid into the kitchen.

“From all committees, good Lord, deliver us,” she announced, raising her hands in a gesture of prayer. All the feathers on her suit quivered. “Is there a back door out of here?”

“I thought you didn’t want to turn your back on this committee.” I finished drying the last cup. “You were afraid they’d talk about you during even the teensiest absence.”

Marla exhaled. “I didn’t bank on Priscilla doing a presentation on composting. Two of the women are asleep, and the rest are yawning. I figured it was safe to leave.” She tilted her head coquettishly and batted her eyelashes at Boyd. “Why, Sergeant! You did an admirable job out there, and survived to tell the tale.”

For the first time since I’d known him, I saw Sergeant Boyd blush. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Korman.”

She poured two glasses of orange juice, handed me one, and held up her glass as a toast. “To Sergeant Boyd, for surviving his first women’s committee meeting.” We raised our glasses and sipped as Boyd’s cheeks turned even darker. “Now, Sergeant Boyd,” Marla went on, “one more thing. Could you keep an eye on the ladies out there, pretty please? I need to have a heart-to-heart with my girlfriend here, and we need to be warned if they start talking about us. Or if they want more food, God forbid.”

Boyd nodded and mumbled that it would be no problem. Before he was even out the kitchen door, Marla started talking.

“What’s this about the Vikarioses?” she demanded. “Mr. and Mrs. Family Values had a child out of wedlock?”

I shook my head. “That wasn’t what I was hearing. Priscilla said the Vikarioses had a bastard grand child. But she also said John Richard owed a couple mil to creditors, so I don’t know how reliable her sources are.”

“Neither do I, but I’m going to start digging.”

I sighed. “So, what were you able to find out about Courtney MacEwan?” Ever so quietly, I began to load the dirty plates into the club’s commercial dishwasher.

“All right,” Marla began. “The way Courtney tells it, she and John Richard were going to get married before the end of the year. He just needed some money. Also, he was starting a new business and was wondering if Courtney would be willing to ‘help him out with it.’ ”

I groaned. “Why do I feel as if I know where this is going?”

Marla put her hand on her chest. “You haven’t heard it all. Courtney was designing a big new house for the two of them in Flicker Ridge. She even promised to get new boobs for him.”

“Marla, don’t.”

Marla sipped her drink and rattled the ice cubes. “This is to let you know her motivation. She was so in love with him, not only was she ready to have surgery, but as we know, she also loaned him that hundred thousand bucks after they hooked up. She also rented him the Tudor house, ostensibly so that you wouldn’t scream about him living with another woman when Arch came to visit. Really, of course…”

I said, “Yes, yes, she was naive.”

“Courtney had given him a lot of money, which probably meant he saw her as getting controlling.” Marla paused and raised her eyebrows. “And by the way, the Jerk said, he couldn’t actually marry her anytime soon. Are we not surprised at this, either?”

“He wanted his freedom. He wanted to examine his options,” I said dully. “See if he could trade up, so to speak.”

“So to speak. Depends on how you look at a stripper who’s ten years younger than Courtney.” She did a little dance around the kitchen. “Okay. Remember the Mountain Journal of…of…Friday, the sixth of May?”

I slid in a dirty dish and paused. “Was that the one with the picture of John Richard sponsoring the golf tournament? Twenty-five thou to charity and you’re suddenly back in the bosom of society?”

“Oh, darling, don’t talk about the bosom of society, talk about Courtney and her upcoming boobs and her money, and Cecelia’s column from that same issue, which precipitated the breakup. Do you not remember it? What local tennis-playing merry widow is living with an ex-con? Could that be where the ex-con, an infamous local doctor, is getting the wherewithal to squeeze back into everyone’s good graces and have them forget about the past? Are we as willing to forgive and forget a crime against a woman? Courtney drenched herself in champagne cocktails and sobbed to me all about this at the club last night. She blames you and Cecelia for what happened to them. Although she ought to blame the Jerk, as usual,” she muttered.

“I saw the column,” I admitted. “I take it the Jerk objected to being gossiped about?”

“Courtney had been staying at the Tudor house, and only left when you brought Arch over. But the Jerk kicked her out the morning after the column was published,” Marla said. “He said between dealing with you and the Arch-visitation issue, and facing negative publicity, they were through.”

“Whoops.” I wanted to feel sorry for Courtney, but couldn’t. She had certainly proved to me that she was a bitch.

“Okay.” Marla put down her iced tea and poured herself a cup of coffee from our drip machine on the counter. “What the Jerk said to Courtney was that they were officially broken up. Over. Kaput.” Marla gestured with the coffee and slopped half of it onto the counter. “After the breakup, Courtney sobbed how over John Richard had said it should be. She should not call. Not write. No e-mail! And Courtney cried, oh, God, she cried.” Marla blinked and drank a bit more coffee. “She demanded her hundred K back, but not that day. And guess what happened when Courtney went to her lawyer to get her money back?”

I said, “I can’t imagine.”

“The Jerk told his lawyer Courtney’s cash wasn’t a loan, it was a gift.”

“Pretty big gift.”

Marla smirked. “No kidding.” My friend’s tone turned serious. “Goldy, do you think Courtney could have shot him?”

I stopped loading the dishwasher and shook my head. “I don’t know. When she came in here, she was furious. You have to suspect anyone with a temper like that.” I remembered one of the places John Richard had been shot: the genitals. “I know Courtney’s alibi is about as solid as carbon dioxide. In and out of a crowded bake sale five minutes away? But if she were ever caught, the negative publicity from Cecelia Brisbane would be nothing compared to being convicted of homicide.”

“Let me ask you this, then.” Marla picked up her purse. “Do you think Courtney would hire someone to kill the Jerk?”

“She’s got the money, certainly.”

“Yeah. And the motive.”

Something in Marla’s tone made my skin turn to gooseflesh. “Why? Do you know something? What have you heard?”

Marla chewed the inside of her cheek. “I haven’t heard a word. But I did see something unusual when I arrived this morning. I walked around to the club service entrance, because I thought we could visit before the breakfast. You weren’t there, but guess who was? That food inspector you hate so much—”

“Roger Mannis?” I interrupted, stunned. “A guy who looks like a weasel with an ax for a chin?”

“The same. And sitting in the passenger seat of the van, handing him an envelope, was Courtney MacEwan.”