was my fault.
He stopped working on the wild rice. “Oh my, I forgot all about that trash.”
“So did I. It was back when I first suspected Bishop Uriah was up to something. He was listening too intently to some of the conversations at the party, and I just thought…oh, never mind. It was a long shot. But if I don’t go get the garbage, Ghastly Grammar Gary is going to roll the Rover into the street—”
“You want me to go get the trash bags?” asked Julian, eyeing his watch. “Or are you asking if you should… wait. You go. I’ve been working in a restaurant, I can get these dishes out in a hurry. I know what I’m doing, Goldy. You’ll be back by the time we serve.”
Unfortunately, I wasn’t. Because the snow we’d had the previous evening had turned to ice with the setting of the sun, it took my catering van with its nearly bald tires almost forty minutes to get to Gary’s, well past closing time. Gary, who’d stayed late, was none too happy. But then he saw my van with its logo, and he hit me with a barrage of questions about the best way to cook brats. Unfortunately, I couldn’t ignore this interrogation because Gary still had the Rover locked inside his garage with its bear-broken window. I didn’t ask him why he hadn’t moved the car out into the street as he’d threatened, because at that point I was ready to roll Gary out into the highway myself.
“Just cook the brats in beer!” I cried, exasperated. This, like “Drink me,” was the magic word that opened the door, and Gary explained that that was
“I wonder why,” I muttered under my breath, as I grabbed the Ellises’ garbage bag, heaved it over my shoulder, and raced to the van. Gary was still calling questions to me, this time about whether you should put mashed potatoes into taco filling. But I ignored him.
Back at the Roundhouse, Uriah was addressing the group of assembled big donors. Judging from the glazed looks in the guests’ eyes, if they had the chance to do it all over, they would give their money to the library.
“Gosh, boss,” Julian reprimanded me. “What the hell! Did you have to pay him for that trash?”
“Pretty much,” I said, without elaboration.
Julian, as usual, had managed magnificently. Everyone, he reported, had flipped for the Chicken Piccata, with its tart, creamy sauce of lemon, white wine, and butter. The Artichoke-Brie Pie had gone over well with the vegetarians. Even the wild rice and green beans had been hits.
“Thank you so very, very much,” I kept repeating. “What’s happening?”
“They’ve had their torte and chocolate-dipped fruits. Richard Chenault introduced his dear friend Nora Ellis, or at least that’s what he called her. Nora Ellis introduced her father, Uriah, Charlie’s dear friend, and so forth.”
I eyed the stacks of plates. “Can we start on the dishes?”
“Nope. Donald Ellis squirted back here a few minutes ago and said his father-in-law had asked for quiet while he’s talking.”
I sighed. Marla slipped into the kitchen, holding her throat in a gagging motion.
“Tell me how I can give this guy the hook,” she said to me.
“I don’t know,” I said. I was frustrated, too. We had a ton of dishwashing still to do, and it was getting late. “Create a disturbance. Oh, wait. Raise your hand, and ask about the provisions of Charlie’s will. Then ask if he knew if Charlie had planned to change parts of his will.”
“All right,” said Marla.
“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” I called after her, but she was gone.
Well, she did it. And the question provided such an excruciatingly awkward moment, followed by several more awkward moments, that Richard Chenault ended up jumping from his seat and thanking everyone for coming. He said they’d be getting a formal notification when Charlie’s will was settled, and more work could be done on the site, blah, blah, blah.
Meg Blatchford, her hands loaded with a stack of plates, followed Marla into the kitchen. “You’ve got guts, Marla,” Meg said admiringly. “I’ll give you that. Do you think you’d ever like to play senior softball?”
“No, no,” Marla replied, but she giggled at the thought.
“You better go dump that garbage,” Julian said to me, as he began loading dishes into the Roundhouse dishwasher.
“What garbage?” Meg asked, puzzled. “Won’t the bears get it if you dump spoiled food at night—”
I didn’t stay to hear the rest, because I couldn’t go through the same story twice in one day.
I lugged the bag over to the sidewalk. Inside the Roundhouse, I could make out Meg and Marla, alternating telling Julian stories about how things used to be in Aspen Meadow, how we used to have Aspen Meadow Taxi, one guy with one old car that used to be a hearse, how we used to have a bona fide art-film theater, and it was a regular theater, not a multiplex…
I stared at the Ellises’ trash and thought about my earlier assessment of going through it being a long shot. What was I looking for? Communications from Utah about Uriah’s illicit past? Evidence of stolen paintings or legal skullduggery? A copy of Charlie’s altered will, unsigned, that Donald might have tossed away? Or maybe a receipt for an opal-and-diamond bracelet…
I really wasn’t convinced I wanted to go through somebody’s sure-to-be-spoiled trash. But I tore open the sack anyway…and was rewarded with a stinking spill of coffee grounds.
Okay, I thought as I removed wads of wet, crumpled-up paper. I had resolved to look for some of Bishop Uriah’s correspondence, or notes, or something. Or maybe I was looking for something else. I just didn’t know what.
Had Nora known that somebody was selling her a stolen painting? I wondered as I began to smooth out the first wad of papers. Had she suspected? Maybe there was a bill of sale in here? And why did the Ellises have to crumple all their paper trash into teensy-weensy balls that were impossible to open? I’d have to go back and check my psych books, see if that was a sign of anal—Wait a minute.
I was looking at a very wrinkled piece of yellow legal-pad paper that had been completely covered with what looked like shading, done with the side of a pencil tip, not with the point. Whoever had done the shading had revealed writing on a note that had been done on top of it. Well, for goodness’ sake. I didn’t know people did this anymore. Kids, yes. Grown-ups, no.
I was tired. My body hurt and I knew I didn’t smell very good. But now I was consumed with curiosity. Meg, Marla, and Julian were still merrily conversing inside the Roundhouse as they clattered clean dishes back into the cupboards. Meg was doing most of the talking, it seemed to me, but that was okay. Marla isn’t a particularly good listener unless she’s really concentrating, but maybe that was precisely what she was doing. Julian, on the other hand, is a very good listener and can make anyone feel treasured.
I needed better light. I eased under one of the outside security lamps I’d had installed, and suddenly the writing was as clear as if it had been written in white ink.
I swallowed, and all my senses were suddenly alert. The date was October 18, the day before Dusty had been killed.
But that was as far as I got in Donald Ellis’s note to divorce attorney Michael Radford. Because suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I gasped. There was a thin rope around my neck, and it was pulled tight. I tried to cough but couldn’t. I simply could not bring any air at all into my lungs. Black spots appeared before my eyes.
“Our trash goes out on Monday,” Nora Ellis whispered in my ear. “Imagine my surprise when we hardly had any, especially since we’d just had a party over the weekend. Now walk.”
No, I was not going to walk. I thrust my hands back, trying to get some purchase on her. I clawed, shoved backward, and tried to slam her with my head. Then I fell to my knees, refusing to budge.
But I had underestimated Nora and her strong, squash-playing body. She yanked on the rope and deftly moved in front of me, pulling my body away from the Roundhouse with its security lights…and into the shadows. I coughed and choked and tried to get my fingers under the rope, to no avail. Instead, Nora was tugging me into the darkness, toward the lake. The lake, that was already beginning to freeze. If I wasn’t dead by the time I got there, she could push me in and I’d die of hypothermia.
