Double Shot

things. We don’t have too few clues. We’ve got too damn many.”

“Right.” Suddenly, I felt dejected. As Tom turned on the car and reversed onto the shoulder, I asked, “So, now what? Do you think Reilly and Blackridge will want to talk to the Vikarioses?”

“Yeah, I do. Another job we can foist off on Boyd. He’s going to be thrilled. So are Blackridge and Reilly. And if this gets out, it’s going to be a mess, even if the Mountain Journal doesn’t have a gossip columnist anymore. I can see the headline now: ‘Who Killed Love Child’s Father?’ ”

“Oh my God.” My thoughts flew to Arch. How would he handle such a thing? The answer was that he wouldn’t. Nor would Talitha’s son. “Is there any way to investigate this secretly? There’s got to be.”

Tom took a deep breath. “I’ll tell Boyd to tell the detectives what our suspicions are, but to keep it extra quiet. How’s that?”

I didn’t feel very reassured. Somehow I’d become mixed into this stew of folks with their secrets, their pain, and their rage, and I felt as if I was sinking. Or maybe that was my exhaustion. The day had been long, too long, and I was desperate for food and bed. Tom drove me to the jewelry store and handed me a paper evidence bag from his kit in the trunk. I wrote the jewelry-store owner a note, put it, along with the pearls, into the bag, and shoved the whole thing through his mail slot. I couldn’t wait to get home.

But unwelcome news awaited us there. Arch was ensconced in the living room watching a TV show, but Boyd lowered his voice anyway. The medical examiner had completed his preliminary report, Boyd told us. It looked as if Cecelia Brisbane had been strangled.

The next morning, Friday, the tenth of June, dawned with a disconcerting gray haze hanging in the air. The smell of smoke was so strong that I made sure all the windows were closed. I even plugged in some fans to keep the air circulating. Like most mountain homes, we had no air-conditioning, which was probably just as well. The prospect of chilled, smoky air did not thrill me.

Scout and Jake went out with reluctance. They both seemed nervous, sniffing the air and darting tentatively around the backyard. After a few moments, both were pawing to come back in. Don’t tell me animals are unaware of approaching fire.

And it was drawing near. What I’d thought was my own voice, wailing in my dreams as I confronted a dead ex-husband over and over, was actually sirens. According to the TV news, the fire in the westernmost, remotest section of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve had bloomed overnight from eleven hundred acres to two thousand. The fire was spreading faster than they could contain it. Aspen Meadow firefighters had called on Denver departments to send up volunteers. Worst of all, a pair of hikers was missing.

When I ventured outside to retrieve Jake’s water dish, I was greeted by a loud roar from overhead. It was a huge cargo plane, bearing its load of orange fire retardant toward the thick evergreen forests of the preserve. I shuddered.

Blackridge and Reilly were due to pick up Arch at half-past eight, to go to the bank in Spruce and check out the contents of the safety-deposit box. The only thing I had to look forward to was the memorial service for John Richard, which was set to start at one o’clock. And to tell the truth, I wasn’t looking forward to that at all.

I took a deep breath but only smelled more smoke. I glanced around the kitchen, unsure of what to do with myself. The Furman County Sheriff’s Department’s new emergency reverse-calling mechanism had been widely touted as a foolproof mode of alerting residents to the need for evacuation. Our phones would ring if we were in danger, and we’d be given an hour to pack up our stuff and get out. How much of your life could you pack up in an hour? Your loved ones, your animals, maybe a few photographs. That was it.

The phone rang as I was making my usual double-shot espresso. The demitasse cup I’d been holding slipped away and shattered to smithereens. This was emphatically not because I’d had too much caffeine—in fact, I hadn’t had any yet. I grabbed the phone, sure it was a recorded message telling us to get out.

“Goldy Schulz here,” I said, my voice shaky.

“I know you’re not using caller ID if you’re answering like that,” Marla said.

“You’re up early, girlfriend. I thought you were the sheriff’s department, telling me to round up our crew and get out.”

“Listen up. I have two problems. One is that the smoky air makes it impossible for me to sleep. The other is that the Jerk’s service is today. Remember you asked me to invite Sandee to come with us? Well, I did.”

“I know. She called me.”

“Well, anyway, I don’t want to be alone right now.”

I smiled. “Come on over.”

“Are you making something yummy?”

“This instant, I am starting to prepare whatever you would like.”

“Good. Because I never got a chance to taste what I’m looking at in the Mountain Journal.”

My heart plummeted. I didn’t remember submitting a recipe to the Journal, and anyway, this wasn’t the day for their food page. “What is it?”

“Why it’s you, naughty girlfriend, plastering a strawberry-cream pie onto the face of Roger Mannis, the district health inspector.” I groaned. “You at least could have whacked him with lima bean soup or raw scallops. Why ruin a yummy pie?”

“I lost my head. Just come over, will you?”

She giggled and hung up.

Once I’d made myself a new espresso, I reached for butter-flavored shortening to try a new variation on my crust recipe. I was trying my pie again, but this time in a deep dish so we wouldn’t have another eruption of Mount Saint Strawberry.

Half an hour later, I had placed the new pie on a cookie sheet and was just sliding it into the oven when the doorbell rang. Oh good, Marla. But it wasn’t my friend. Reilly and Blackridge stood on our porch wearing wraparound sunglasses and dark suits. They looked like the Blues Brothers. Was their attire a joke? Knowing them, it wasn’t.

My discomfort showed in my stiff voice as I invited the detectives into the living room. But they were acting very polite, even deferential. I wondered how they felt about the progress of the investigation. I was curious to know how the questioning of Courtney MacEwan had gone. And I was very curious to know if they’d found anything in Cecelia Brisbane’s files, or if they’d come up with a theory as to who had strangled her, and why. But I refrained. I doubted the cops’ newfound civility extended to coughing up answers to my questions.

“Big man upstairs?” Blackridge asked.

“Yes,” I replied. The rushing sound of shower water was clearly audible. “Let me go roust my son. That’s who you’re here for, isn’t it?” Blackridge nodded, and I reluctantly went on: “You’ve heard this rumor about him possibly having a half brother?” I got another assent…and was that a look of sympathy melting Blackridge’s usually hard eyes? “I’d be very grateful,” I said hesitantly, “if you wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Arch.”

Reilly exhaled. “We wouldn’t, ma’am. We never would.”

I thanked them and set off up the stairs, where I was surprised to see a freshly showered, tired-looking Arch sitting on his bed. He was neatly dressed in khaki pants and a white polo shirt. His right hand was closed in a fist, undoubtedly holding the key.

“You’re all ready?” I couldn’t hide my astonishment. “Did you set your alarm?”

He straightened his glasses with his free hand. “Yeah. I’m real curious about what Dad was doing.”

I hugged my sides and made my voice low. “Remember we have the service today, hon?”

His look became guarded. “I know. One o’clock. I’ll be ready at half-past twelve, if you want.”

We agreed, and he took off with the detectives for Spruce. I checked on Tom, who was still sleeping. I was thankful that the sheriff’s department had told my husband to take all the time he needed to help me during this bad time. The department wanted their premier investigator back in top form, not worried about his hapless wife.

An unaccountable uneasiness seized me as I made my way back to the kitchen. Something was bothering me, but what was it? This unsolved question, who had killed John Richard, hung like the smoky haze that now