Dark Tort

Tom, Julian, Arch, and Gus decided to watch yet another movie, and I was left with a clean house and a bundle of energy the size of a nuclear reactor. The sheaf of unread pages from Dusty’s journal still beckoned.

I scanned through April, May, June, and July, all still with references to “New O.,” and how much she loved him, and how he said he felt as if he had just been born. Apparently their lovemaking was quite athletic, with her saying, “I just can’t keep up with him! Does that sound dirty?”

No, I thought, you poor girl. It just sounds as if you’re in love. But I was still left with the question: Who was this New O.? And if he loved Dusty so much, why wasn’t he over at the Routts’ house offering condolences? I reminded myself that with all I’d had to do at the Routts’ house—bathing and changing Colin, cleaning out the refrigerator, making a meal, taking down the paintings—I’d forgotten to ask about the funeral. St. Luke’s would be absorbing the expense, no doubt, but I had no idea when it was going to be. Maybe I’d see the mysterious Mr. O. then.

Even though it was after eight at night, I must have been daydreaming, because my attention suddenly snapped back. I reread an entry made this month. “October 6: Somebody is taking stuff. I don’t know who. But I am going to FIND OUT.”

Well, what do you know. I raced up the stairs and handed the page to Tom so as not to interrupt Clint Eastwood dispatching about half a dozen bad guys. Then the doorbell rang: K. D. Chenault.

She was dressed for work, in a camel-hair coat covering a sensible brown tweed skirt and white silk blouse. I knew that she, like the other docs, kept a locker down at Southwest Hospital, because the last thing anyone wanted was to bring home blood-spattered scrubs to do in the home laundry. With her chestnut hair pinned up in a twist and her expertly applied makeup, she might have been going off to work at an expensive women’s clothing store or to manage an upscale bank. You never would have guessed that she was about to go attend to folks with gunshot and stab wounds, to horribly mangled car-accident victims, or to kids who had just opened a four-inch gash in their foreheads, slipping in the bathtub.

“Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger,” she said, once she was settled in the kitchen and sipping a soft drink. “It’s just that Richard listens in on my calls, which drives me nuts. And since this involves hospital business, I didn’t want him to have anything to hang on my head at the next meeting with our attorneys. ‘My wife doesn’t guard the confidentiality of her patients,’ that kind of thing. I wouldn’t put anything past that man.”

I wouldn’t put anything past anyone, I thought, but said nothing. I didn’t care about patients’ records and wondered if this had anything to do with Dusty Routt.

K.D. licked her lips. “Actually, the patient in question is dead.” When she shook her head, a few strands came loose from her French twist. “Let me begin at the beginning.” She inhaled. “Last March, Flight for Life brought an elderly woman into the Southwest ER after she’d been struck by a car. She was a pedestrian up here in Aspen Meadow.”

“I remember, I think. Wasn’t she the lady who was run down on the street outside of Charlie Baker’s last exhibit? I did the catering and she attended the event. I even saw her talking to Charlie for a while. Then we heard the sirens and found out there had been an accident.”

“Yes, that sounds right. The highway patrol came to question the woman at the hospital. But she had already died, so they wanted to talk to me, to see who she was, and if she’d said anything. They said there were no witnesses to this woman being hit. And no skid marks on the pavement.”

An icicle plunged down my back. I asked, “So who was she?”

“Her name was Althea Mannheim, and she was from Utah. I talked to her cousin at length later. Her only relative, living in Boulder now.” K.D.’s voice turned impatient. “The thing is, when they brought Ms. Mannheim in, she was conscious, but hysterical. She was basically talking a bunch of nonsense. Or at least, I thought it was nonsense. She was absolutely covered with blood, plus we were sure she had internal injuries, and she kept saying, ‘Steals. Steals. That’s why I’m here.’ I thought she was just suffering from shock, delirium, that kind of thing. We needed to get her stabilized, and I kept asking her to calm down while the painkiller took effect. She kept saying, ‘Nobody else will tell them so I’m telling them. That bitch your eye steals.’”

“‘Bitch your eye’?”

“I thought maybe she was referring to a woman named Yoreye, as in that bitch, Yoreye. Or something like that. She kept saying, ‘That’s why I’m here. To tell people. That bitch your eye stole our pattern.’”

“‘Bitch your eye stole our pattern,’” I repeated. I wanted to make sure I was hearing this right.

“Then today, you introduced me to Bishop Uriah, from southern Utah.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yes. But a pattern? What pattern? I mean, how many men do you know who sew?”

I nodded, but not because I knew any men who did sewing. My mind was going along different lines: liturgical ones. I was also remembering what Meg had told me, that when she’d driven Charlie home from the party, he’d been agitated, and wanted to hire a private detective. And then there was what I’d just read in Dusty’s journal: that someone was stealing paintings from Charlie’s house. And now I was convinced that in fact someone had tampered with my van so I’d be late the night Dusty was killed. And all of this—all of it—could be related to why and how Dusty had been killed, and by whom.

On the other hand, it could have nothing at all to do with Dusty, or even Uriah Sutherland. It might simply be a coincidence that Althea Mannheim was visiting from Utah, went to Charlie’s exhibit, and was killed in an accident nearby. She indeed might have been mumbling nonsense that K.D. had misinterpreted when she heard the unusual title and name, Bishop Uriah. Uriah certainly seemed an unlikely possibility for a painting thief, especially from a man who was an old and cherished friend. Richard Chenault, it had to be said, was a better possibility as someone who had access to the paintings and the inventories of Charlie’s estate.

“Wait, K.D.” I was thinking how to ask her if she’d seen any of Charlie Baker’s paintings somewhere in that big house that she and Richard still shared. “Do you know anything about Richard’s dealings with Charlie Baker?”

“Couple of things. Why?”

“Well, did you ever see any of Charlie’s paintings in Richard’s part of the house? Paintings that you didn’t think he’d bought?”

She considered. “No. The most we ever do is have some wine together. Okay, it’s not the most we’ve ever done. Once we had a lot of wine,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “And then one thing led to another…”

Aha! I thought. Maybe there was more than one reason they were still sharing a house. And I had to admit, albeit shamefully, that the Jerk had successfully seduced me a couple of times, after we were separated.

“Funny you should ask about Charlie Baker, though,” K.D. said. “The next night, I mean the night after the show, Richard came home just looking miserable. I asked him if he wanted a glass of wine, and he said no, he wanted a glass of bourbon. He hardly ever drinks the hard stuff, Goldy. But he looked like hell, so I fixed him a drink, and I fixed one for myself.” She shook her head, seeming apologetic. “Richard always talks too much when he drinks, and that night was no exception.” She paused and gave me the full benefit of her hazel eyes. “He said Charlie Baker had come into the office that day and changed his will.”

My mouth fell open. “Changed his will?” I echoed. So much for client confidentiality. “Changed his will how?”

“Well, I don’t know, Goldy. Richard wouldn’t tell me that. Why? Do you think Charlie wanting to change his will has something to do with Uriah Sutherland?”

“I’m not sure. I do know the bishop has been involved in setting up the Mountain Pastoral Center, which is being funded by Charlie’s bequest. Maybe Charlie was planning to leave some of his paintings to Uriah, but then what Althea Mannheim told him changed his mind. Or maybe there’s no connection between Mannheim and the bishop at all. You’re not certain exactly what the dying woman was saying, K.D.”

K.D. furrowed her brow and considered. “No, I’m not certain. Still, her words were so strange that they stuck with me. And then when you introduced us at the party…well, you saw how startled I was. I hadn’t had a chance to meet Nora’s father before now. I’ve been pretty busy this year, and then I just tried not to have much to do with anyone at the firm because, well, because of everything. And then this horrible disaster with Dusty happened…and oh my God, then Louise was arrested for it. And now you’re bringing up Charlie Baker.”