attacked my godfather so brutally he’d died of a heart attack? You bet your bippy I was full of
With the wiry Hispanic man there to protect me, I looked cautiously around the parking lot: were any of these cars new since my arrival? I couldn’t tell. I thanked the worker, then offered him ten dollars as a tip, which he proudly declined. I thanked him again and hoped I hadn’t offended him. Some cultural walls take time to hurdle, and my brain was too mushy to learn what ever lesson was being offered. I jumped into the van and raced home.
There were some cars out on the road, but it was hard to tell if anyone was following me. I didn’t think so, and no one turned up our narrow road off Main Street. Still, I was massively relieved when I slouched into our kitchen. I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised to find Tom at our table, a glass of scotch in front of him.
“You needed to play nine holes of golf in the middle of the night?”
“I just didn’t want to wake you—”
“You could have at least taken your cell phone,” he said mildly, turning his green eyes in my direction. “Turned it on, too, in case your nervous husband woke up, didn’t find you, but found this cryptic note about you waking up with a sudden desire to mix with the country-club set.”
“I wasn’t mixing with anyone, I was getting this.” I handed him the paper and explained its provenance. I didn’t tell him about my fear that someone might have followed me, then come into the locker room while I was there.
“I want you to give me Jack’s keys right now.” Tom held out his hand. “No excuses, and no more late-night ideas for investigating. You’re not rational.”
“Oh, don’t pull that logical argument—,” I began.
Tom held up his hand. “Enough, Miss G. I also need that paper. I’ll make a copy for you.” And off he went to the basement, where he kept his office equipment.
So, at just after three in the morning, Tom wordlessly handed me a duplicate of the scrawled note from the golf club locker. When we finally climbed into bed, I was grateful Tom hadn’t bawled me out more than he had.
WHEN THE ALARM went off at five, I thought I was going to die. Or maybe I was already dead. I slapped it, reset it for seven for Tom, and then went slowly through my yoga routine. Both my insides and outsides felt covered with grit, so I took a quick shower. Then I made my way down to the kitchen, fixed myself a quadruple espresso, and sat down to think.
I missed Jack. His absence was like an ache. If he had stayed in New Jersey, if he had never moved here this year, then I wouldn’t have known what it was like to have my beloved godfather so close by, wouldn’t have known how much fun it would be to renew a relationship that had meant everything to me when I was young.
Yes, I missed him.
I knew enough psychology to be aware that one ignored one’s feelings at one’s peril. But beyond acknowledging that yeah, okay, I was sad, what was I supposed to do? This was not the first time I’d reflected that academic psychology departments were long on analysis and short on advice. And in the long run, what did people need, analysis of their problems, or advice on how to fix them?
Well, I needed the latter, I thought as I pulled another four shots and dumped them over cream and ice. And then I felt another tug on my heart, because if there was one person who’d offered me support and advice in copious quantities, whenever I’d wanted or needed either, it was Jack Carmichael.
This line of thought wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I looked at my copy of the paper I’d pulled from men’s locker number 71 at the Aspen Meadow Country Club. Maybe it meant something, maybe it didn’t. But as feeling depressed worked quite a bit less well for me than a quest for meaningfulness, I chose the latter.
This note
The handwriting was unfamiliar. I had known that Todd Druckman had had a rotator cuff injury. But my calendar announced all too unfortunately that the Druckmans were off on their fishing trip in Montana. Todd had woefully told Arch that his mother had strictly forbidden the taking of any cell phones into the backcountry. You’d have thought she’d told him he couldn’t have any food or water either.
I glanced at the clock: quarter past five. If I was going to fulfill my duties out at Gold Gulch Spa, I had to get cracking. I glanced back at the list, with its puzzle demanding a solution.
I called Julian, who was already on his way over from Boulder. Could he fix high-protein vegetable frittatas this morning, for sixty-one clients at Gold Gulch Spa? I’d pay him well, I assured him.
“Oh, boss,” Julian said, relieved. “You bet. Victor says absolutely no fresh fruit, but I bought fresh vegetables at the farmers’ market day before yesterday. I put them into bags to bring to the spa, just in case I could find a way to serve them. I can stop and pick up cheese and cream, too.”
“I’ll be there by lunchtime,” I said. “Think you can handle it? Yolanda said there were plenty of foodstuffs, and the menus and recipes are there in her computer. You don’t have to follow her recipes exactly.”
“No problem,” he said confidently. “I’ll do my own Summertime Frittata. If you have any issues, call me through the spa switchboard, okay? I can’t get cell reception out there to save my life.”
“Absolutely. And thanks.”
“Before you hang up,” Julian said, at once awkward and shy, “tell me, what’s going on?”
I gave him a brief summary of my evening’s ramblings, and the list in front of me. He whistled. I asked him if any of the names sounded familiar to him, and he said, except for Druckman and O’Neal, no, sorry. We signed off and agreed I’d be out at Gold Gulch no later than eleven.
Next I punched in the numbers for Boyd’s cell phone. He picked up on the first ring, and was oh-so-relieved not to have to do guard duty this morning. We arranged to meet at the spa at eleven, in time to prepare the lunch.
I went back to frowning at the list. If O’Neal was Dodie, then that looked like the best bet. If it referred to another O’Neal, or if it was Ceci, then I would be out of luck, as I didn’t know any other O’Neals, and Ceci was on her honeymoon.
The clock still indicated it was too early to call the O’Neal residence. I took the time to go through the Aspen Meadow phone book, looking for any Parker I knew—there were twenty-seven of them—but none was familiar. There were three pages of Whites, so I gave up on those right away. There were only four Fosters, and I wrote down those names. There was no Katchadourian in the phone book, so I called directory information, which told me that the number was unlisted.
I cursed and slammed the phone book closed. Tom was still asleep, Marla was at Gold Gulch Spa, out of cell phone reach…but what about Arch? I’d told him he had to keep his own cell phone on at all times. So I called him.
“Oh, Mom,” came his sleepy voice. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Not really.” I hesitated, as I could just imagine him encased in his sleeping bag over at his half brother’s house.
“Well, then why are you calling me? I’m so tired!”
“Sorry, hon.” I tried to make my voice nonchalant. “I was just calling to see if you remembered Todd’s rotator cuff problems.”
“What?”
“Remember when Todd had his shoulder problems?”
“Mom, I’m so tired. Can’t this wait? Why do you need to know about this now?” Sudden tears welled in my eyes, and I couldn’t find my voice. When I didn’t speak for a couple of minutes, Arch said, “Mom? Are you still there? Hello?”
“It has to do with your Uncle Jack,” I whispered. And then I further embarrassed myself by starting to cry.
“Oh, Mom, I’m sorry.” He groaned, and I heard the unmistakable slither of body against nylon sleeping bag. “C’mon, please don’t cry.”
“Okay,” I said, but still had to stifle sobs.
“All right, look,” said poor, confused Arch. “You want to know about Todd’s shoulder because it has something to do with Uncle Jack?”