Double Shot

And so our team forged ahead. Julian and Liz tucked chilled foods into the walk-in and searched the cabinets for serving dishes. Tom preheated the ovens and clattered pans onto the stovetop. I pulled out my printed sheets and scanned the prep schedule. The first order of business was checking on the setup inside the tent.

There, all was activity. Volunteers worked feverishly, festooning the bulletin boards that they’d finally managed to set up beside the podium. Foil letters screaming “Happy Retirement!” and “We’ll Miss You!” fluttered in the breeze. When I arrived beside the crookedly placed buffet tables, the auxiliary was pinning up photos and cards to commemorate Nan’s twenty-five years at Southwest Hospital.

I requisitioned a volunteer to help me straighten the tables, and was unfurling a tablecloth when Holly Kerr arrived—early, as promised. After the horrid PosteriTREE meeting, she must have gone home, showered—to wash off the residue of the women’s hostility—and changed her clothes. Now she was wearing a beige linen pantsuit accented with pearls, probably an outfit she’d worn often when Albert was a pastor and she was the dutiful pastor’s wife. Oh well, you can take the girl out of the church, but you can’t take the church out of the girl. Holly seemed as disappointed by all the women wearing jeans as she was sorry that I was too busy to visit with her just then. But the countdown to when we’d promised food service was fast approaching. I enthusiastically thanked her, slipped the envelope of photos from Tuesday’s lunch into my apron pocket, and promised to chat with her about them later.

When I’d finished overseeing the setup in the tent, Marla’s big Mercedes roared into the Roundhouse lot. I checked my watch, then slipped back inside and helped Liz unpack the strawberry pies. Within moments, Marla, who had changed into a spangled pantsuit, burst into the kitchen.

“Ooh, pie!” she cried. “Let’s do that eat-dessert-first thing. Where are the plates and forks?” She began clattering through the cupboards until she found a plate and a fork. “Where’s that damn pie server?” She looked at me expectantly, then lowered her voice. “I want to have a piece of pie while I tell you about the rumor I heard that Talitha Vikarios had an affair with Albert Kerr. I wish I had some idea of who this girl is—”

I said, “Some idea of…wait a minute.” While Liz sliced a piece of pie for Marla, I ran out to my van and nabbed Holly’s old album. When I returned, Marla was in the Roundhouse’s empty dining room merrily digging into her jumbo slice of pie. I sat down beside her and opened the album.

“Remember this young woman?” I demanded, pointing to the photo of Talitha Vikarios in her candy-striper uniform.

She put down her plate and fork and stared at the picture. “Oh, right. Her. Sweet girl, Talitha. I did hear she slept with Albert Kerr. Apparently Holly was desperate to break up the affair, and that’s why they left for England. I mean, we have seminaries here in the United States, don’t we? Why go to England?”

“Albert Kerr, huh?” I examined the picture again: the buoyant young candy striper, baby Arch, John Richard, tall, Abraham Lincolnesque Ted Vikarios, and bald, grinning Albert Kerr. “I can’t believe it.”

Marla finished her pie and put down her fork. “I told you it was a rumor.”

“From your vast knowledge of John Richard’s sexual conquests, do you know if Talitha might have been one of them?” I asked.

Marla said, “She’s not in the data bank.”

I snorted. “You and your data bank. Okay, now check these out with me.” I put away Holly’s album, pulled out the new batch she’d just given me, and laid them out on the adjoining table. “These are from Tuesday’s funeral lunch. Anything jump out at you? My theory is that somewhere in here is the person who attacked me and killed our ex.”

“So you don’t like my Courtney MacEwan–Roger Mannis theory?”

“I like it. Just look at the pictures, will you?”

Marla sighed. But she was full of pie, so she didn’t complain.

We pored over the glossy shots of Tuesday’s event. There were Ted and Ginger Vikarios, Ted looking tipsy, Ginger forcing a smile. Holly Kerr appeared serene beside her church friends. Courtney, her figure shown off to advantage by her hands on her hips, stared in the direction of John Richard and Sandee. Her facial expression could have had the caption “Woman Chewing a Lemon.” Lana Della Robbia and her sidekick Dannyboy laughed at somebody’s joke.

“Hold on,” I said, grabbing the photo with the laughing Lana and Dannyboy. Behind them, a man huddled beside the window.

“Who’s he?” Marla asked.

“I think it’s our Elvis impersonator! Bobby Calhoun, Sandee’s boyfriend.” Marla stared at the picture with me. “So,” I went on, “he was there. I can’t believe it! Maybe he’s the one who trashed my food and chucked me into the ground.”

“But why would he do that?”

I looked at her. “All right, think. If you’re dying of jealousy, and you’re going to kill the new boyfriend of your girlfriend, how do you set it up? Maybe you want to make it look as if it’s the ex-wife of your girlfriend’s new boyfriend.”

“Hold on, I’m having a sugar rush.” Marla closed her eyes, then opened them. “So you’re saying Bobby trashed your place and chopped you in the neck so you’d have a motive to be pissed off with the Jerk?”

“Exactly.”

“And why did he come to the lunch?”

I said, “My guess is that he followed Sandee everywhere. You remember how nervous she was at the strip club. And also, if Bobby’s at the lunch, then he looks for an opportunity to go through my van, so he can steal something to drop at the scene. Imagine his delight when he found my gun.”

“Uh-huh. And the reason he stole your kitchen shears?”

I tilted my head and blew air in the direction of the log ceiling. “Maybe he always wanted to be a barber.”

“When all else fails, there’s always wild speculation!” Marla said brightly. “Think we’ll have this figured out by the time the picnic begins?”

“All right, I guess I should go work,” I said, picking up the photos and the album. Marla snagged her dish and wiggled her hips as she sashayed out of the dining room ahead of me. The white spangles on her pantsuit glittered in the sunlight. Then she stopped abruptly and glanced back. “Goldy? Are you sure you’re all right? You look bad.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, and followed her into the kitchen.

Marla left to see if she could find some old friends. I resolved to put the Jerk, Cecelia, and everything else associated with this frightful week out of my head. For the next half hour, Liz and I worked side by side, drizzling balsamic vinaigrette over the chops. The brining gave the pork its butterlike texture; the vinaigrette gave each bite a zingy taste of herbs. When we finished with the meat, I moved on to arranging the salad in lettuce-lined bowls while Liz whisked the dressing. After putting the last touches on the salad bowls, I washed my hands one last time. The thought of the medical examiner washing her hands before doing the autopsy on Cecelia Brisbane made me suddenly dizzy. What if Cecelia had been killed by John Richard’s murderer, because of what she knew about the Jerk? I told myself to stop thinking like this, and picked up a carton of wine bottles. Then I turned to go back to the kitchen and ran right into Liz and her gallon of salad dressing. The resulting spew of oil, vinegar, herbs, and cuss words would have gotten me forever expelled from the Sunday School Teachers Association. Luckily, the vinaigrette missed my uniform. This was a good thing because I didn’t have any more clean ones.

I helped Liz clean up and make a second gallon of dressing while Julian and Tom cooked the chops. Finally, it was time to haul the food out to the buffet. Taking care to give each other a wide berth, Liz, Julian, Tom, and I conveyed the chops, salads, and rolls to their long tables. I greeted old friends, answered questions about “dear Arch,” and ducked queries regarding the sheriff’s-department investigation into John Richard’s death. Julian and Liz—sporting a clean pair of dressing-free pants from her car—guided the revelers down four lines for the buffet. The partygoers seemed both hungry and interested in the police work across the lake. But once they’d filled their plates with food and the speeches started, they focused on the matters at hand. Thank God.

Julian, Liz, and I were mercifully not expected to listen to the tributes. We moved between tables smoothly serving drinks and clearing plates, and eventually, serving thick wedges of strawberry pie topped with vanilla ice