Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

I fingered the prescription bottle. Would the cops allow me inside Barry’s house? Probably not. I need to help Julian , I thought. I need to find out what Barry was up to. I need to discover what whoever killed Barry was up to. Back in the dark divorce days, I’d become an expert at ferreting out incriminating evidence. It’s important to use your talents, right?

Speaking of John Richard, for better or worse, he had been temporarily moved to a less crowded jail in Colorado Springs. We made the two-and-a-half-hour trip on a weekly basis, so Arch could visit his father. But at least The Jerk would not be in the Furman County lockup to hassle or intimidate Julian.

Julian. My heart ached. He’d been a part of our family for only a few years, but it felt like forever. He worried incessantly about Arch and me. He helped Arch with homework and visits to museums; he even corrected Arch’s drafts of English papers, something I was forbidden upon pain of death to do. Julian brought over his signature chocolate croissants whenever he visited. And he always, always helped me out at catered events when I needed him.

If I told Tom about Barry’s pills, he’d make me turn them over to the cops. So I was tampering with evidence. But I wasn’t ready to give up Barry’s prescription bottle just yet, at least not until I ferreted out the reason for the painkillers. After frowning at the little brown bottle for a minute, I wrapped it in plastic, opened the freezer side of the walk-in, and stashed it in a place I doubted Tom or Arch would ever look: a plastic tub half full of frozen clarified butter.

I was going to help Julian, I resolved. He possessed a keen intelligence, a great willingness to help out, a love for our family, and unfortunately, a quick temper. And now his desire to help others had landed him in a load of trouble.

So, Tom had relieved me of my catering assignments for that day. Until I could gather more supplies, there was little I could do to work on other events for later in the week. Meanwhile, my psyche needed to cook.

I washed my hands, tore the leftover bacon into bits, then washed my hands again. My whisk clicked the side of the bowl as I violently beat together a salad dressing. Finally, I washed and dried head after head of tender baby lettuces.

Despite my frenzied activity, my mind kept circling back to Julian. I’d introduced him to Liz, who had introduced him to her son Teddy, whose plight had touched Julian. His sense of justice had propelled him to confront Barry Dean. Julian always tried to do the right thing. Of course, this had also included trying to pull the knife out of Barry’s stomach.

I quickly stored all the food. Even if Hulsey forbade me, I was going to go down to the jail. I was going to demand that Julian Teller be released.

Fat chance of that, I thought. I groped again in the freezer, tried to avoid the tub of butter (the hidden prescription seemed to scream at me), and clattered ice cubes into a glass. I poured heavy cream into the glass, then put that into the freezer while I searched the refrigerator side of the walk-in for something luscious. Aha—a last piece of flourless chocolate cake topped with raspberries and strawberries. I whipped some more of the cream, ladled it on top of the cake, then pulled four shots of espresso and poured it into the glass over the chilled cream and ice cubes. I took a delicate mouthful of the chocolate cake, then sipped the creamy coffee. The dark, rich chocolate melted in my mouth and sent a flash of pleasure up my back. Forget aspirin—this was a real painkiller! Then I allowed the luscious coffee to roll over my tongue. My brain felt sharper, no question.

I frowned at my computer’s blank screen, then looked outside. The sky was turning. The brilliant white clouds had darkened, which promised more snow. I turned my back on that particular gloomy prospect, took another large bite of chocolate, cream, and berries, and washed it down with the rich coffee. Think, I ordered myself, as I surveyed the kitchen and my cooking equipment.

Which reminded me. What about my missing knife? Somehow, one of my new Henckels knives had ended up in Barry Dean’s gut.

I set aside my snack and typed, Who stole the knife? How? When?

But I knew the answer almost as soon as I typed it. Anyone could have slipped into the kitchenette while Julian, Liz, and I were busy with the crowd. Sneaking in through the service entrance, once the main doors were opened, shouldn’t have been too hard either, because at that point the security guards were inside the lounge.

There ought to be some way to determine…Wait. The lounge had boasted a multitude of cameras, all poised on the party. Cameras on the walls; cameras overhead. Plus, there’d been that videographer. Surely, one of those cameras had captured the knife thief sneaking into or out of the kitchen. Or had the knife made it to the buffet, say on one of the platters, and been snitched from there? When I visited the jail, I’d have to ask Julian if he’d spotted anything suspicious. And getting back to cameras, there should have been some hidden ones focused on the Prince & Grogan shoe department, right? Wouldn’t those videos show how Barry had died?

I finished the cake and put in a quick call to Tom. Hopefully, he’d sniffed out news of the investigation. Did being off the case mean being excluded from the progress of the investigation?

“Tom,” I said to his voice mail, “could you see if the cops got hold of the security-camera videos from the lounge, and from the P and G shoe department? Oh, and if you find out anything else about Julian’s case, would you please call?”

As soon as I hung up, the phone rang. I pounced on it. It was Marla.

“Goldy, what the hell is going on? Julian didn’t even know Barry Dean. I say the hell with waiting for another polygraph. I told Hulsey to get his investigators on this right away. I’m not pleased that Hulsey’s not dealing with Julian himself. He should have given you to Jackson.”

“I—”

“And what is it with you and Julian, guzzling all that caffeine? Don’t you know better than to drink so much of it?”

“Well, I’ll have to remember that,” I replied huffily, “the next time I cater a buffet for fifty on less than five hours of sleep, and can peer into one of my crystal balls to see that Julian will face a polygraph for a murder investigation that very day. Oh, and since you didn’t ask, I’m feeling just fine after being hit over the head.”

Marla rattled ice cubes, then gulped down something. It wasn’t even noon yet. I hoped whatever she was drinking was nonalcoholic.

She took a deep breath. “Sorry I yelled at you. You know how fond I am of Julian—I’m just scared, that’s all. Tell me what they’ve got on him, would you please?”

So I told her the little I did know, much of which she probably already had weaseled out of Julian or his lawyer. In addition to failing the polygraph, Julian had no alibi for the time Barry was murdered. He had also been accused—by whom, I still did not know—of being behind the wheel of the truck that had very nearly mowed Barry and me down. And worst of all, his fingerprints would no doubt show up on the murder weapon.

“No alibi? I’ll say I was with him.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m sure he was loading supplies and dirty dishes into my van, the way he said he would.” And speaking of vehicles, I wondered, where were Barry’s Saab and Julian’s Range Rover? Had the police impounded both vehicles?

“But,” Marla protested, “if I say he was with me, will they let him out of jail?”

“Funny thing about cops, girlfriend. They’re interested in the truth .”