Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

Slowly, groggily, I sat up. The room whirled. “You didn’t need to cancel me out of the reception.”

“You’ve got a slight concussion and need to take it a bit easy. Also, you have Steve Hulsey to meet with today. His secretary called and said he needs to change your appointment from ten to half past two—”

“How’s Julian?” I asked, because I needed to. The fact of his arrest scalded my nerves. “When can I see him? Can he take the polygraph again?”

“It’s probably not a good idea for you to see him. He’ll be advised of charges today. And it looks as if he can take the polygraph again on Thursday.” Tom’s tone was resigned. “And there’s something else…. I heard an unconfirmed report that someone witnessed Julian driving the truck that tried to hit you and Barry.”

“Baloney!” I cried, indignant. “Who would tell such a lie?”

“Miss G., please. I’m not going to tell you things if you’re going to go off the deep end.”

I gnawed the inside of my cheek. “Did you tell Arch what happened?”

“He’s more worried about you , if you want to know the truth.”

“Arch said he was worried about me ? I don’t believe it.”

“I promised him that Julian would be out as soon as we got this all straightened out.” Tom sighed. “Arch said if you got hit on the head with the seven-hundred-dollar Epiphone guitar, you must be hurt pretty bad.”

“And I’m sure he asked how badly the guitar was damaged, right?”

Tom chuckled. “Well, yes. But he felt guilty, really, that you’d tried to get something for him, and then gotten beaned with it.”

“Where is the guitar, exactly? As in, right this minute.”

Tom shrugged. “Crime lab, probably. Being checked for prints, fiber, the usual. You probably won’t have it until well after Arch’s birthday. Sorry.”

The morning felt unreal. I was still in bed at nine-thirty. I didn’t know what was going on with Julian, and I wasn’t racing to a catering assignment.

Outside, it was still Aspen Meadow in April. Our front yard pines, laden with new snow, trembled in the cold breeze. Thick white clouds chugged through an expanse of sky, dollops of meringue on a blue plate.

And Barry Dean was dead. My old coffee buddy. I saw his smiling face, heard his teasing. This could not be real.

And yet it was.

“Come on,” said Tom, mustering some cheer. “Can you manage a shower on your own?” When I nodded, he said, “I’ll meet you in the kitchen. I’m making you a Dutch pancake. Oh, forgot to tell you. Two friends of mine from the department stopped by real early. I gave them your keys, and they brought up your van. I’ve already cleaned all your dishes and platters and whatnot.”

“What would I do without you?” I murmured.

Twenty minutes later, after I’d managed only two yoga asanas and a quick shower, I dug into Tom’s warm, light Dutch pancake. It dripped with golden melted butter and genuine maple syrup from Maine. I began to feel a bit more optimistic. Tom had also fried an entire pound of bacon. The salty crunch of meat perfectly complemented the delicate pancake. I told him it was the best breakfast ever. He beamed.

“I need to take off,” he said. “Do you want me to do anything for you? Did they give you a prescription for a painkiller?”

“I’ve got both aspirin and ibuprofen,” I replied. “But thanks for worrying.”

He donned his jacket but seemed reluctant to leave. “Sure you’re OK to drive to Hulsey’s office?”

“Absolutely.” I stood to fire up the espresso machine. “I’m going to putter around here before stopping at Hulsey’s. I’ll be done in time to pick up Arch at lacrosse practice.”

“Can I bring home dinner?”

“Tom. If you don’t let me cook, I’ll go nuts.”

He kissed me and took off. As the house fell silent, I booted my computer, popped two aspirin, and pulled myself a double shot of rich, dark espresso. Because I needed to take care of myself—didn’t everyone say so?—I topped the coffee with a mountainous glob of whipped cream.

And then I thought of Julian, in jail, with no espresso and a bunch of criminals as his new roommates. Tom was off the case. Would Hulsey wait for a new polygraph before he moved forward with his own team of investigators? Probably not. But meanwhile, Julian, with no alibi, was stuck in jail. It would take a few days for the lab work to come back, but trying to pull my knife out of Barry meant, of course, that Julian’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon.

If I don’t help him, who will?

I swallowed more espresso, then tapped computer keys to open a new file: BARRY DEAN.

Tom had told me a hundred times: You have to figure out what you know before you can concentrate on what you don’t know.

I typed in everything I knew about Barry. His background at C.U. His deep affection for basset hounds. His brief work with the Longmont TV show. Business school. Marketing. His job managing Westside Mall. His status: Most Eligible Bachelor. And then I looked down at my espresso cup. He loved coffee , I typed numbly.

Both his old classic Mercedes and his rarely used BMW racing car had boasted leather coffee-compartment caddies that fit over the hump between the front seats. Dear old Honey the Hound had presided over our outings, her mournful eyes regarding us from the rear seat. When we’d met the previous week, Barry had said that Honey had passed away, but that he still loved bassets and had just gotten a new one. He’d been so full of enthusiasm for canines, I’d told him about our own hound, Jake. He’d laughed and wanted to know more. Did he howl? His new dog did.

Who was taking care of his new dog now? The cops? The pound?

I veered away from that thought and forced myself to concentrate.

Love interests , I typed. Let’s see. He’d gone out with all kinds of girls at school, but wasn’t as enthusiastic about them as he was about dogs, coffee, or cars. I knew he’d been seeing Ellie McNeely, and that she had recommended my catering company to him. Possibly, he’d also been seeing Pam Disharoon. I’d suspected he’d been seeing Liz, but realized now that their familiarity was probably based on Liz’s nervousness about catering for a fellow who’d barred her son from the mall. The rest was a blank.

Find out what BD was up to with women , I typed. Jealousy there?

My head throbbed and I pulled another espresso. Did I dare to take another couple of aspirin? No. Tom’s words came back to me: Did they give you a prescription for painkillers? My apron, I thought. What was in that prescription bottle?

I sprinted up the stairs. My head felt as if I were balancing a pine log on top of my cranium. Balancing a large pine log. Balancing a large pine log with a guy teetering on each end.

I groped in my apron pocket and pulled out a brown bottle from Westside Pharmacy. March 22 , the tidy label read. Rx No. 2880. Dr. Louis Maxwell. Barry Dean. Take 1 as needed for headache. Vicodin ES tablet.

How on earth had the bottle gotten into my apron pocket? It had to have fallen out of Barry’s pocket, I reasoned. When I scooted forward to check his pulse, I must have inadvertently picked it up.

Vicodin was a narcotic painkiller. Barry had to have had some monster headaches. Was something worrying Barry to cause him crippling headaches? I typed a new question into the file: What caused BD’s headaches?

OK, let’s see… there were a few more random facts I knew about Barry. He’d just bought an older house far out Upper Cottonwood Creek, an Austrian-chalet-style dwelling with gingerbread trim à la Hansel and Gretel. A detached garage held his cars—I thought he’d told me that at one point he’d had three vehicles—the old BMW racing car, a new white Audi, and the classic Mercedes, which had been wrecked, only to be replaced by the new Saab. Behind the garage, there was a large paved area where he kept his pontoon boat. Without kids and a wife to support, Barry could afford expensive toys.