Double Shot

see in the Rockies—had finally sprung. Our Alpine rosebushes’ tight buds had opened into a cloud of creamy blossoms. Blue-button flax wavered on tall, sea-green stalks, and a profusion of chartreuse aspen leaves shone beside the jade green of new spruce growth. When a sudden breeze swished through the roses, a spill of petals floated downward, freckling the ground.

The ground, I thought miserably as Tom’s sedan crunched through the gravel ravines made by the hail. The ground into which Cecelia Brisbane would soon be interred. And John Richard, too. I took a deep breath and made my way toward the van.

Driving up Main Street, I gripped the steering wheel so hard my hands became damp. With Tom, back at our house, I’d felt calm. Now my nerves were unraveling. I tried to distract myself by checking out the chattering tourists clogging the sidewalks. They ate taffy and popcorn, showed off their new Navajo turquoise jewelry, and asked for directions to the saloon, the sweatshirt store, and the art gallery. They were all oblivious to this morning’s gruesome discovery. I stared ahead at Tom’s sedan as we crested the road circling the lake.

A soft wind ruffled the water. On the far bank, six sheriff’s-department cars were parked, lights flashing. Uniformed officers waved away the crowd of spectators as others combed the area where the tow truck had been.

My cell phone’s brat-brat brought me back to life.

“Goldy?”

I did not immediately recognize the female voice, and hesitated a moment.

“Goldy? It’s Holly Kerr.”

I was so out of it that it took me a minute to realize that Holly, my catering client from Tuesday’s lunch, was the same kind, wealthy woman I’d just visited yesterday and seen at that morning’s committee breakfast. I said, “Yes?”

“I don’t mean to bother you,” she apologized, “but I have something to show you. Photographs from Albert’s memorial luncheon. You said you were interested in seeing them.”

“Of course, yes, please.” I pulled the van into the Roundhouse parking lot. At the tent, Liz and Julian were directing volunteers setting up chairs. I couldn’t see where Tom had gone.

“One of the guests took a whole roll,” Holly went on, “then had the pictures developed overnight. I can bring them to the picnic, if you want.”

“Oh please, yes. If you could come twenty minutes or so before the picnic begins…” I didn’t finish my sentence. Where had Tom gotten to?

Holly murmured something about wanting to help and signed off. So now I was going to get some photos from Tuesday’s lunch, and they might answer some questions, such as, who had sabotaged my food and attacked me that morning. Or if Bobby Calhoun, dressed as Elvis or as himself, had been present.

I finally saw Tom striding, head down, to the edge of the Roundhouse property. He put his hands in his pockets and gazed at the cops combing the scene where Cecelia’s car had been recovered. I suddenly realized I had more to worry about than some pictures.

Tom’s case that had been thrown out of court had been a drowning. Someone had intentionally, brutally held a young woman under water until she stopped struggling. Was Tom staring at the investigation on the far side of the lake and getting that distant look in his eyes—a look I’d seen far too much of lately—because he was reliving that final, astonishing day in court, when a witness had changed his testimony?

I wanted so much to take care of Tom, to reciprocate the affection and support that he’d lavished on Arch and me from the moment his big body and bigger spirit had swaggered into our lives. But would I really be able to help him? So far, I had no clue.

I threw the van’s gear into Park and fought a wave of nausea. I did have a slew of my own problems. I didn’t know how much time I had to try to figure out who had attacked me or killed John Richard. If the firearms examiner’s report was due that afternoon, then the sheriff’s department was bound to have obtained the results of the gunshot-residue test. Something congealed in my abdomen as I wondered how much trouble I was going to get into for not reporting the theft of my gun. And what if the bullets the coroner took from John Richard had come from my thirty-eight? I rubbed my eyes.

Too many questions, and no good answers. If all of the firearms tests pointed to my firing my own weapon into John Richard, then charges would probably be filed against me that afternoon. Suddenly the future looked darker and murkier than Aspen Meadow Lake.

Tom rapped on my window and I jumped. I hadn’t even seen him come over.

“You all right?” he called through the glass.

“Fine,” I replied. Then I stared into his eyes, searching. How about you? I wanted to ask him. Are you all right?

I rubbed my cheeks to try to get my circulation going. Then I jumped from the van and resolutely put my mind into catering gear. Work, action, moving forward: All these were the antidote for stress, depression, and a host of other ills, right? Tom and I both needed to get cracking.

The Southwest Hospital Women’s Auxiliary and friends of Nurse Nan Watkins swarmed across the rutted parking lot and toward the bright white tent. They bore table linens, flower arrangements, baskets, bags, and boxes, all bulging with the flatware, china, glasses, and other odds and ends they’d insisted on providing. Two separate groups of volunteers were slowly hauling a pair of bulletin boards toward the speaker’s podium.

I tried not to think that this might be my retirement party, too.

Soon I was loading Tom’s outstretched arms with containers of pork chops. I balanced the containers of salad and followed him toward the Roundhouse kitchen. My eyes involuntarily wandered back to the sheriff’s- department cars. Would they be done before the picnic started? I certainly hoped so.

Tom stopped short, and I almost crashed into him.

“Tom.” I rebalanced my load and moved to his side. “Tell me what’s going on.”

He lifted his chin. “Over there.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “It’s a possible crime scene. That’s why they’re taking their time.” Of course, as much as I wanted to know what was going on over there, I wanted to know even more what was going on over here, with him. Oblivious, Tom mused: “Problem is, between fishermen and the joggers, any evidence of what happened is probably either contaminated or gone.”

I shifted my grip on the pans. “Tom—”

His voice was deadpan, faraway. “Once they get the car down to the department, they’ll extract the corpse before sending it to the M.E. The rest will go to the crime lab.”

“Please—”

Tom shrugged, hoisted up his load, and resumed shuffling toward the kitchen. Without looking back, Tom said, “That’s their job.”

“Stop for a sec,” I said, my voice low.

He turned and gave me a look of annoyance. “Didn’t you tell me we had all kinds of work to do?”

Hearing our voices, Julian and Liz tumbled out of the kitchen. Julian, clad in a chic gray catering suit, wore a gray apron around his slim waist. A red neckerchief gave him the look of a real chef. Liz’s spill of silver jewelry sparkled in the sunlight as she hurried toward me, a look of motherly concern on her slender face. The cops had come over to tell them they were closing down the lake’s paddle-and sailboat rental, and cordoning off the lake path. Any curious picnickers from our event were to stay put. The cops had refused to tell Julian and Liz exactly what they were doing with their truck and personnel. Undaunted, Liz had called a friend of hers who lived by the lake and heard the whole story.

“Oh my God, Goldy,” she began, “that poor woman. First her husband kills himself, and now this.” She awkwardly tried to hug me around the pans I was carrying. The sharp smell of her cologne made me dizzy. Maybe I wasn’t doing as well as I thought I was.

“It’s gruesome,” I agreed, and gently pulled away from her.

“Let Liz and me do the picnic,” Julian offered. He scanned my face. “Go home, boss. You look exhausted. When Boyd gave me the keys, he told me the breakfast this morning was like a comedy made in hell. Tom,” he began, looking for support. But one glance at the vacant look in Tom’s eyes made him realize that my husband wasn’t bucking up as I’d hoped.

“We’re fine,” I told them. “Stop fretting, will you? Now help us get this food going, okay?”