Double Shot

Saturday morning we awoke to the sound of sirens. The smell of smoke was even thicker than it had been the day before. I coughed as I let the animals out. I revved up the fans, closed all the windows, and turned on the radio. The fire in the wildlife preserve had expanded to three thousand acres and was only 20 percent contained. They still hadn’t found the missing hikers. More firefighters had been called up from Colorado Springs and Pueblo, and we would be hearing those trucks arriving all day.

In the kitchen, I felt at loose ends. I still had no idea as to what had happened to John Richard—who had killed him and why. Was money involved? I wasn’t at all sure. And what about the clipping of the hair and all the other incongruous things found at the crime scene? Either the detectives weren’t getting anywhere or they weren’t keeping Boyd in the loop. I drank an espresso doused with cream. No Arch, no catering event, no amateur sleuthing? I couldn’t think of what to do with myself.

Cook anyway, my inner voice commanded. And so I did.

I checked my file. There was one pie crust recipe I hadn’t yet tried with the strawberry filling. An old standby, it featured unsalted butter and lard cut into flour and salt, then mixed with the smallest amount of ice water possible. Thank goodness for food processors, I thought as the blade cut the butter into the dry ingredients. When it was time for the lard, I scooped out the snowy white stuff and wondered, again, why it wasn’t in more recipes. Okay, it was fat, but so was butter. And the addition of lard to baked goods made them incomparably flaky.

And then there was Beef Wellington, where the placement of lardons helped keep the tenderloin juicy and moist. Yes, lard could be—

Wait a minute. When we said a dish was larded with fat, it was because there was so much of it. The implication was that “larding” meant “putting in lots of layers.”

But what else could you lard with layers? How about a crime scene? What if you planted Goldy Schulz’s gun there, for example? Wouldn’t that point to Goldy as the killer? And when the coroner found the victim’s hair cut— could it be for a trophy, or could it be used for a DNA test? How about dropping fake pearls? Was that meant to point to someone, or was it meant to point away from someone else? If the cops also found a pink tennis-ball gun silencer, how would they know whether the killer dropped it by accident or on purpose?

Larding. That’s what I was doing with the pie crust, whirling bits of fat that, when melted, would make the crust flaky and crisp. But if you larded a crime scene with lots of items, responsibility for the crime could point in any number of directions. If you were patient, gathering up your fake clues, then saw an opportunity to steal a gun or two, you could set up the whole thing, do the deed, and the puzzle would occupy the cops for weeks. Or months. Or maybe forever.

Tom came into the kitchen wearing navy slacks and a pale yellow polo shirt. He looked hot. Remembering the previous night, I got tingly all over.

“And where,” I asked, “are you going, looking so spiffy?”

“Breakfast with Boyd. Then down to the department. Not too many folks there on Saturday. I want to see some of the guys. Clean up my desk. Get going again.”

I smiled and gave him a tight hug. “Enjoy.”

He took off. I sat on our back deck with my double shot of espresso, thinking. If you changed just one thing that had been presented as fact in this whole crime, everything would drop into place. What might that fact be? I had an idea of who could be behind all this planning and plotting, not to mention execution, in both senses of the word. But I had to be sure.

The Aspen Meadow Public Library opened at ten on Saturday mornings. Kids of all ages congregated outside the glass doors, some to do research for homework, some to use the library computers to get online, some to go to the weekly story hour with their mothers. We were all coughing and hacking in the smoky air. Discussion of the fire’s progress dominated conversations. I waited with the kids and their mothers, not saying anything. I couldn’t preoccupy myself with the fire, because I was focused on the one piece of information I needed. Then I would be sure.

We poured through the door on the dot of ten. I made a beeline for the “Locals in Armed Services” photo display. Then I studied the blown-up photograph. After a while, I went to the reference desk and asked for all their books on Greek architecture, and Aspen Meadow High School yearbooks from four and five years ago.

Within twenty-five minutes, I had my answer. She’d lost some weight, had some plastic surgery on her nose, maybe when she got her boob job. She’d changed her haircut and color. And she’d managed to fool all of us, even her own mother. She’d even hoodwinked the fellow who prided himself on being so smart: Dr. John Richard Korman, whom she’d set out to ensnare even while he was still in jail.

I raced back to the van and called Tom on his cell. No luck. Was he out of range? Had he left the phone in his sedan when he met Boyd at their breakfast eatery? I left a voice-mail message: This time I’m sure. Call me back ASAP. Just for good measure, I called Boyd. No answer there, either. I cursed the phone, banged it on the dashboard, then put in a call to the sheriff’s department. Finally, finally I got Reilly.

“Listen, it’s Goldy Schulz,” I gasped. “I think I know who might have killed John Richard. Dr. Korman.”

Detective Reilly had become cordial, if not exactly warm, since the cops had discovered that my gun had not killed John Richard, that I hadn’t trashed his house, and that I’d known nothing about John Richard producing a love child with Talitha Vikarios. But Reilly did sigh when he heard my dramatic announcement about zeroing in on the killer. With forced patience, he said, “I’m listening, Mrs. Schulz. What did you find out?”

I summarized what I knew about Alexandra Brisbane, her terrible history, and what I believed was her motive for revenge. Then again, someone or someones close to her might have done the deed. I outlined how she, he, or they could have entrapped John Richard and gotten him into the money-laundering business, hoping he would start skimming…which was where the hundred and eight thou had come from. The murderer had hoped that John Richard would be killed for the skimming, as his predecessor, Quentin Drake, had been. And when John Richard escaped punishment, someone took matters into his or her own hands. Which is why the money launderers had shown up later and trashed John Richard’s house. They wanted their cash back.

“Okay, Mrs. Schulz, slow down,” Reilly said. “What data are you using to come to these conclusions?”

“The fact that the real Parthenon, its marble remains in ruins, is in Athens, Greece. And the Parthenon made from dun-colored stone is in Nashville, Tennessee.”

“Run that by me again?”

“Alexandra Brisbane sent her mother, Cecelia Brisbane, a picture of herself in front of the Parthenon in Nashville. She said she was in the navy—never mind that no ships deploy out of Tennessee—because Alexandra didn’t want her mother to know where she was. In addition, the photo was taken before Alexandra had shed fifteen or so pounds, had plastic surgery on her nose and boobs, and cut and curled her hair and dyed it platinum.”

“I’m still not—”

“Alexandra Brisbane is Sandee Blue.”

“What? Are you sure?” Reilly’s voice was doubtful. “I mean, Cecelia was at that Kerr funeral lunch, and Sandee Blue was there with your ex. Don’t you think Cecelia would have recognized her own daughter?”

“Not with her poor eyesight, and all those physical changes to her daughter.”

“But…Alexandra was from Aspen Meadow. What about her high school friends who could have recognized her?”

I was ready for this. “At the library, I looked up Alexandra in the Aspen Meadow High yearbooks from four and five years ago. Besides her chubby-cheeked, mousy-haired class picture, there were photos of her in the Explorers’ Club, beside Raccoon Creek, Cowboy Cliff, you name it. But she looked like a jock, not a stripper. Plus, she’s now working at the Rainbow Men’s Club. How many former back-country explorers do you suppose hang out there? I should add, Sandee has a very jealous boyfriend, Bobby Calhoun, otherwise known as Nashville Bobby. He has a Ruger that was supposedly stolen—”

“Okay, okay, we know that. Look, this is good information. Thanks. We’ve already radioed up to the fire chief that we want to question Calhoun as soon as they can spare him from the fire. The chief begged me not to take him off his line right now. And I’ll consult with Blackridge to see about bringing Sandee in for questioning.”

“But that’s not enough—”

“Mrs. Schulz, please. I can’t promise you anything. A lot of leads in this case have gone nowhere—”

“Like what?”