Fatally Flaky

“Gertie Girl?” Jack’s large eyes implored me.

“Don’t start with her, Jack,” Tom said sharply. “Or else we’re going to have to leave. Now tell me why it’s all your fault, okay? Or else tell me who Doc Finn’s enemies were.”

Jack considered. Time stretched out for so long that I finally looked around for a clock. Big problem: this was Jack’s mostly empty house, and there was no clock. He wore a Rolex, so he probably figured he didn’t need another timepiece.

“All right,” Jack said finally. “But if I talk to you, will you tell me what you know?”

Tom said, “Nope.”

“Did someone run him off the road? Shoot him while he was driving?”

Tom shrugged.

Jack exhaled and stared at the legal pad. “I don’t know too much about Finn’s enemies. There were a few women who wanted to get married, and he didn’t.” Jack stopped talking and considered. “You know Finn had retired. But recently, he had a few patients. There…were problems, I don’t know what.”

“What kind of problems?” Tom asked sharply. “Medical problems? Financial problems?”

“I don’t know,” Jack replied, still disconsolate, still staring at the legal pad. “Finn just told me there were problems, and that he was doing some research. But then before I could find out what kind of research, exactly, he stopped answering his home phone and his cell. I went over to his house and banged on the door. No answer there either.”

Tom grunted and refilled his drink. I wondered if he meant to rattle Jack by doing this. Ordinarily he’d have taken out his notebook to write down what Jack was saying; I knew that much about my husband.

“How recently was all this, Jack?” Tom asked. “Today’s Friday. When, exactly, did Finn stop answering his home phone and his cell?”

“Why?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what you’re telling me, how it fits with our timeline.”

“What’s your timeline?”

“I’m very tired, Jack,” Tom replied. “Goldy’s even more tired, and she and I both have to get up early tomorrow morning, even though it’s a Saturday.”

“Okay,” Jack said. He set his glass down on the table. “Today’s Friday.” He cast his eyes up to his ceiling. “I was supposed to meet with Finn, let’s see, last night. I didn’t see him or hear from him after yesterday afternoon. I went to his place real late last night, but he wasn’t there. Then this morning, he was supposed to pick me up for the O’Neal wedding, but he didn’t show.”

Tom pondered this. “So you were supposed to meet with Finn last night to find out what kind of research he was doing, and he didn’t show. You called him on both his home phone and his cell, and then you went over to his place. Did you call anybody else, another friend, say, to see where he might be?”

“Nope.”

“After Finn said he was doing some research, he suddenly disappeared and didn’t call. Did you suspect foul play?”

Jack shook his head in frustration. “I didn’t know what to think. Now could you please tell me what is going on?”

“I can’t,” said Tom.

AND SO TOM and I went home. I hugged Jack before we left, and he hugged me back and muttered something about seeing me in the morning.

“Where’re you going with him in the morning?” Tom asked me, once we’d come into our house and put the animals back outside.

“Gold Gulch Spa. Jack’s insisting on coming. Why? You don’t think I’m in danger when I’m with him, do you?”

“No,” Tom said thoughtfully. “I’m just trying to figure out what he’s not telling us. There’s something, I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“He’s secretive, you know that. He…loves puzzles. He used to give me all kinds of different ones when I was growing up. Plus, he’s a risk junkie. Maybe he’s sure he can figure out what happened to Doc Finn…on his own.”

“Oh, man, that’s all we need. Another amateur sleuth mucking things up. What do you mean, he’s secretive?”

We moved into the kitchen and sat down.

I said, “I didn’t even know until a week before he got here that he was moving to Aspen Meadow from New Jersey. And that he’d bought that decrepit old place across the street.”

“You didn’t know anything?”

“Nope. And that was only six months ago, as you know. Plus, I think the only reason he told me about the move was that he had told his son, Lucas, what he was doing, and Lucas had had a fit that Jack wasn’t moving across the street from him. So to avert Lucas showing up on our porch and accusing me of trying to steal Jack’s affections, which he’d done before, mind you, Jack calmly called and told me his plans.”

“Huh.” Tom looked around our kitchen and insisted on tidying up. “It’ll give me a chance to think.”

While he was washing dishes, I said, “Listen, Tom, you’ve probably already heard this from six different people—”

Tom turned off the water, wiped his hands, and gave me his full attention. “Go ahead.”

“Well, just some of those questions you were asking Jack…” Tom waited. Finally, I said, “Enemies Doc Finn had? Billie Attenborough didn’t like Doc Finn.”

“Stop while I get my notebook.”

“You know,” I went on, “she always blamed him for losing her first two fiances. She blamed him loudly.”

“Billie does everything loudly. And,” he added thoughtfully, “you know how nothing is ever her fault? She doesn’t take responsibility for a thing. Everything is always your fault.” When I looked stricken, he said, “No, not you, Miss G. At least, not all the time.” When I frowned, he went on, laughing, “Don’t go getting paranoid on me. Guys down at the department are always saying women are just too sensitive.” This time I narrowed my eyes. “Okay,” Tom concluded, his tone apologetic, “for Billie, everything is always somebody else’s fault.” He closed his notebook. “We’ll check this out, thanks. Now, let me finish these dishes.”

I thanked him and put my feet up on a chair. When the phone rang, it startled me. Quarter after ten? Jack calling to try to get information out of Tom? Billie Attenborough phoning with a new demand?

It was neither. The caller ID said merely, southwest hospital.

“Looks like somebody might be trying to set up one of us,” I commented, and told Tom about the call’s provenance.

“I’ll deal with it.” With wet hands, Tom took the phone. After a moment, he said, “Actually, you want my wife.”

I shot him a murderous glance, but only sang into the phone, “Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! Whoever this is, I usually don’t do business this late in the evening!”

“Is this Goldy?” a tentative male voice asked.

“It is.” I wracked my brain to figure out who I knew in Southwest Hospital at the moment. Someone from church? Someone I was supposed to do a party for?

“This is, uh, Norman O’Neal.”

I shook my head. Cecelia O’Neal’s didn’t-want-to-be-irresponsible-anymore ex-dad. “Norman. Last time I saw you, you didn’t look too good.”

“Okay, yeah, sorry. It’s just that I can’t remember today very well. I’m down here in the hospital, and I can’t figure out what I did to get here. I’m not sick, or at least, I don’t think I am. One of the nurses told me I busted up my daughter’s wedding, and I’m really hoping that isn’t true.”

“Well—”

“Oh, God, I did bust up Cecelia’s wedding, didn’t I?”

“Not really. You just busted up the cake. I am curious, though. Why are you calling me? Why not call Cecelia if you want to apologize?”