last minute. Asparagus Quiches—done. Fruit Salad—ditto with the last-minute thing. So…there I was looking around in your walk-in, and what do I find but a bunch of apples? Time for an apple pie. Or a couple of apple pies, so I can take one over to the Routts if they aren’t too burned out on apples after your Apple Betty. I’m going to use Charlie’s recipe for All-American Apple Pie. What do you think?”
“Who can say no to apple pie?” I smiled and said, “I think you’re great.” Then I stared at the computer screen and skipped over to the file I’d opened regarding the investigation. It didn’t take long to write up my analysis, or theory, really, about the paintings that Dusty had cleverly hidden by putting them in her blind grandfather’s room. The cops who’d searched the Routts’ house wouldn’t have known they were significant; how could they have? But they were. Or at least I believed they were. And the attached inventories, I added, might indicate that something was up with accounting for Charlie Baker’s assets, assets that needed to be reported to the probate court. When I was done, I printed out the sheets for Tom, who thanked me and said he would wait in the living room for the department guys to show up.
Well, I hoped my ideas would be some help, I mused as I started a big pot of water boiling for the potatoes that would go into the sausage casserole. While I was peeling the potatoes, I told Julian about the most recent developments in the Dusty case. Julian shook his head and rolled out the pie dough. I dropped the potatoes into the water and then began earnestly chopping onions. After a few moments, I wiped tears away. The hard place behind my heart, the place that was still holding on to Dusty, wasn’t softening.
I washed and trimmed the mushrooms, squeezed them to release their liquid, and melted a big hunk of butter in a large saute pan. I tossed in the chopped onions and mushrooms, and soon the kitchen was filled with the delectable scent of onions and mushrooms sauteing in butter. Perhaps drawn by the sound of the sizzle in the pan, or maybe by the fragrance wafting upstairs, Arch and Gus came clomping down.
Gus pushed through the kitchen door first. “Man, what are we having?”
I had cut off the casings of the sausages and added them to the sputtering onions and mushrooms. Gus watched in fascination. I told him about the sausage casserole, and he beamed.
“Uh-oh, pie!” Arch yelled, when he saw Julian carefully spooning a mound of spice-laced apple slices into a waiting crust. “Is that for us, or is it for a job?”
Julian lifted his chin and winked at Arch. “Hey, would we make apple pies for clients, and not make one for the family?”
“Yes,” Arch said, his tone accusatory.
“One’s for us,” Julian said. “And one’s for the Routts.”
There was an awkward moment when Gus and Arch looked at each other, as if trying to think of something to say. Teenagers have a hard time talking about the death of someone they know. I worried about Arch. Maybe the death of Dusty was bothering him more than he was letting on. As usual, my son was pretty hard to read.
“Let’s go throw the Frisbee for Jake,” Gus said finally, and the two boys raced out of the room.
“I think Arch is having a difficult time,” I told Julian. “When death strikes this close, all that comes up is fear for the people he loves.”
Julian nodded as he concentrated on the apples. Not so long ago, he had lost a young woman he loved in another murder; this had changed him, made him a little more serious. I suppose kids in their twenties have the same fears.
Once the pies were baked and cooling, we had a jolly dinner. Julian indulged in a small quiche made from leftovers, while the rest of us dug into the rich, juicy casserole, with its layers of potatoes, mixture of mild and hot Italian sausages, and creamy binder of eggs, half-and-half, and Gruyere cheese. I thought back to when a critic asked if I was cooking for the National Cholesterol Institute. There was actually no such thing, place, or restaurant. But if there
When we finished eating, Tom insisted on doing the dishes so that the boys could watch a movie and Julian and I could plan upcoming events. We didn’t have another scheduled affair until Monday, when I was supposed to do breakfast for Hanrahan & Jule. I wasn’t so sure how I felt about going back to the H&J offices where I’d found Dusty, but I was still under contract to the law firm, and the place would probably be cleaned and open for business by then. We decided on a frittata made with fresh chopped scallions and Tom’s cherry tomatoes. That night, we’d be doing a dinner for ten big donors and a few others involved in buying the land and designing the Mountain Pastoral Center. The funding to build and operate the center would be coming from Charlie Baker’s bequest, once the will finished wending its way through probate. Our catering client was the Episcopal Diocese of Colorado itself. The meal would be simple: Chicken Piccata, steamed asparagus, and wild rice. Julian frowned and asked about possible vegetarians. I said I didn’t know of any who might be coming, but if he wanted to think about a possible dish, that would be great. For dessert, the events coordinator had said they just wanted “something spectacular.”
Julian snorted. “Chicken and ‘something spectacular.’ What is this, an amusement park?”
I sighed. Every now and then, Julian was showing signs of becoming a chef. “We can invent whatever we want, to go with the vegetarian dish you’ve yet to come up with.”
“Thanks, boss,” Julian replied, with an enormous smile.
Julian went off to watch the movie with the boys. Tom and I were left sitting in the kitchen. For some reason, I felt totally wired, and said so.
“Couldn’t be those sixteen shots of espresso you had this morning, could it?” Tom asked mildly.
I gave him a sour look. “Have you told Sally and John Routt about the arrest?”
“That’s not my job. But they’ll be informed soon.”
I blew out air. I had done so much talking to people in the past two days, made so many attempts at investigating Dusty’s bizarre death, tried so hard to fulfill my promise to Sally Routt…and what had it come to? Nothing. Well, a bit more than nothing. The inventory for Charlie’s assets had some discrepancies. And I had lots of suspects in mind for the person who could have stolen the paintings and manufactured a fake inventory.
Tom’s phone beeped. When he got off, he said, “Hmm.”
“That’s not very enlightening.”
“Louise Upton and her lawyer say she found the bracelet in her car. As far as the sledgehammer goes, she has no idea whose it is. She’s never even handled a sledgehammer, she insists, and we weren’t going to find her fingerprints on the thing. And get this—she and her lawyer
“She
Tom cocked his head. “She must be pretty sure of her innocence.” He chuckled. “She told the cops they weren’t to make a mess in her house.”
At that, I actually laughed. Then the same buzzing sound in my brain, the crazed energy that I’d been feeling ever since I’d come home from the Routts’ house with the paintings, took over. I zipped around the house, putting stuff away, tossing trash, and leaving each room spotless. What else could I do? Well, I could finish reading Dusty’s journal. And…
Maybe I could prevail on K. D. Chenault to come over to the house tonight. I simply couldn’t wait until the next morning to hear what she had to say, not with Louise Upton behind bars and so many questions unanswered.
I put in a call to K.D.’s separate line at the Chenault home. I know that it’s time-consuming and expensive to find lovely housing, and I’d heard of more than one Aspen Meadow divorce ending up with a physical splitting of the big mansion, but goodness! I never could have lived with my soon-to-be ex under the same roof, once I had decided the marriage was over. But people were different. Maybe divorce was friendlier these days. Somehow, I doubted that.
K.D. answered on the third ring, sounding as if I had awakened her. Feeling like a heel, I identified myself and apologized for calling at eight on a Saturday night. She said it was no problem, she just tried to sleep when she could, since late Saturday night and the wee hours of Sunday morning were prime times for ER activity, and she could be called in at any minute. I explained that I would love to hear what she had to tell me, if she was up to it. And, I would dearly like to listen to her story tonight, because the police had arrested Louise Upton for Dusty’s murder.
Her predictable shock propelled her out of bed. “I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. You still live right off Main Street?”
I told her that we did. She said she’d be right over.
