Crunch Time

“Isotope?” said Donna loudly. “I know that’s some kind of frozen dessert. You can’t use it in medicine.”

“Actually,” interjected Kris, still smarting from his lack of computer knowledge, “medical isotopes are used for—” But just as quickly as he’d started speaking, he stopped.

Donna sniffed proudly and glanced around the table. It was clear she was looking for a new topic of conversation, something that wouldn’t make her appear quite as drunk or stupid as she already did. When her eyes lit on me, my stomach turned over. I couldn’t remember the difference between the median and the average, but I had heard that sunspots were related to business cycles. Had they predicted the current recession?

Donna raised her brows and pointed a red-painted fingernail in my direction. “Aha, Goldy! Maybe you can bring us up-to-date on the investigation into the murder of our dear fellow Aspen Meadow resident Ernest McLeod! I’ll bet Odette doesn’t know anything about that.”

Odette exhaled and looked down. Father Pete turned redder than Donna’s nails. But he was not one to tell people to back off.

“Oh my goodness,” I said. To cover my embarrassment, I picked up the wines and began circling the table again. “I, well, I don’t know anything. Uh, Tom doesn’t tell me that much. Tom Schulz is my husband,” I said to Norman and Isabella Juarez, who so far had seemed completely at sea over the entire conversation. “He’s an investigator at the sheriff’s department?” I said with a stern look at Norman. Please don’t indicate we’ve talked about Ernest. He seemed to get it.

“Goldy’s a real detective,” said Donna, wagging her finger at me.

That reminded me. I stared at the cheese platter. It was about half-denuded, but at that moment, I saw both Sean and Brie Quarles exchange a look. He reached for the Gouda. First he cut her a slice, placed it on a cracker and a napkin, then handed it across the table. Then he cut himself a wedge. With their eyes locked, they put the cheese into their mouths simultaneously. And Brie, I noticed, was wearing a lilac silk outfit and mauve lipstick. I thought, Well well well. Is this a gotcha moment? I glanced over at Tony Ramos, who, in typical Calvin Coolidge style, hadn’t said anything during the dinner. What did he think of Brie and Sean’s locked eyes? The last time I’d seen him, Brie had been showering her attentions on him.

“Are you going to pour Brie some of that Riesling, Goldy,” Kris asked, “or are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and poured the Riesling—the adulterers’ Riesling, their favorite—into her glass. Again simultaneously, they picked up their glasses and made just the slightest movement, a silent toast to each other. Yup. Gotcha.

“Oh, yes,” Donna said in a loud, querulous voice. “I know all about Goldy’s detecting skills. In fact, I sent her on a mission! And it had to do with illicit sex!”

Father Pete choked on his cracker. Venla Strothmeyer’s cheeks turned pink. But the rest of the table turned toward Donna. She preened. I thought, Doggone. She didn’t want me to talk to the paper, and now she’s making a public announcement.

“Do tell,” said Marla. Showing remarkable forbearance, she did not look at me.

“So here’s the scoop,” Donna hissed conspiratorially. “People wanting to have sex have been sneaking into my rentals. It’s a couple, always the same couple, judging by the glimpses from neighbors. Except now they might be using disguises. At least, that’s what my assistant says. Anyway, these two are always looking for places without security systems. In remote areas. It just pisses me off! Oh, sorry.” She glanced at Father Pete, who was trying to wash down the aberrant cracker with some red wine. “Anyway, one day, a neighbor who lives not far from one of the places—out by the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve?—called to alert me. Then she shouted at them that the cops were coming, which wasn’t true, unfortunately,” Donna said, continuing breathlessly. She slugged down some wine. “But the pair had to skedaddle. They left behind their sleeping bags, wine bottle, cheese wrappers, and other trash. So I just handed it all over to Goldy. I suppose she wanted to help, since her husband works for the sheriff’s department, and they won’t do jack to help me. I said, ‘You get ’em, girl!’ ” This was not what she’d said, but I knew by now that Donna was in the embellishment business. “So,” she said to me expectantly, “did you figure out who they were? Did that stuff I gave you yield any clues, Sherlock?”

I was painfully aware of all eyes turning to me. Sean’s and Brie’s mouths dropped open. Brie blinked, turned away, and moved her wineglass several inches from her place setting. Sean gave me a malevolent, accusing stare.

“I didn’t find anything,” I lied. “I have no idea who they are. Between getting ready for this party and all my other work, I didn’t really have time to investigate.”

“But you went out there, to the cabin,” Donna said, protesting. “What kind of detective are you?”

“Not a very good one, apparently,” said Kris Nielsen, who up to then had said nothing. “Why, just yesterday, Goldy barged into my house, on false pretenses, mind you—”

Whatever it was he was going to say got lost as an unearthly series of screams issued from the kitchen.

16

I whacked the wine bottles onto the porch table and raced back to the kitchen. Rorry trotted along behind me, muttering worriedly about what other thing could have happened now. The rest of the guests were clearly curious, but I heard Father Pete, bless him, tell everyone to just stay put and let Goldy and Rorry handle this, whatever it was.

Rorry and I ran into Boyd, who was carrying a shrieking, flailing Yolanda. “Bathtub!” he yelled at Rorry. “I need a bathtub and ice cubes! I’ve called nine-one-one.”

“Upstairs, first door on the right,” said Rorry, her voice cracking. She wanted to lead Boyd, but he was too quick for her. He dashed up the spiral staircase, his arms tight around Yolanda. Rorry stumbled up behind him. I ran into the kitchen to get ice cubes.

The place was a mess. Several pieces of cooked fry bread had scattered across the floor, next to parts of the electric skillet. The handle was upside down under the island, while the skillet itself had slid underneath the kitchen table. A thick, shiny layer of oil lay all over everything. What had happened?

I shimmied around the oil slick, mercifully found a large glass bowl in one of the cupboards, and filled it with ice cubes from Rorry’s side-by-side refrigerator. Holding one hand over the top of the bowl and the other underneath, I moved as quickly as I could up the stairs.

Boyd’s low voice and Rorry’s high-pitched one led me to an opulent bathroom done in blue tiles and brass fixtures. Yolanda sat in a deep tub. She was sobbing inconsolably as Boyd ran cold water over her legs. She still wore her catering uniform. I handed Boyd the bowl. He upended the ice over Yolanda’s thighs.

Rorry, kneeling beside the tub, took Yolanda’s free hand. She murmured reassurances to Yolanda, whose sobs had turned to whimpers. Tears still flowed freely down my friend’s face.

I said, “Can someone tell me what happened?”

“She was moving the frying pan,” Boyd said. “I was right there.” He shook his head. “I was holding a coffee can for her to pour the boiling oil into. The handle to the electric skillet just, it just, came off. The hot oil poured all over her.”

“Oh, God, Yolanda,” I said, my heart constricting. “I’m so sorry.” I swallowed. “I just, I don’t . . .” I didn’t know what to say. “Boyd?” I asked finally. “Did any of the oil get on you?”

“Not that you’d notice,” he replied, keeping his attention on Yolanda. “I’m going to need somebody to get me more ice.”

“I’ll do it,” Rorry said. She grasped the bowl and stood up. Then she stopped. “It was an electric skillet?” asked Rorry, puzzled. “I thought Etta said we didn’t have one after all.”

Neither Boyd nor Yolanda answered. As Rorry and I walked back to the kitchen, I found myself transfixed by a trio of gold-framed photographs on the wall beside the stairs. They were of baskets of beagle puppies.

“Rorry?” I asked. “Where did you get these?”

Rorry looked up. “Those are pictures Sean took. They were supposed to be part of his professional portfolio, as he insisted on calling it. I said he should advertise as Fun, Furry Photos! He didn’t find that amusing. So I framed his little doggy prints and put them in the bathroom. He didn’t like that, either, so I put them in this hallway. We should get that ice.”