Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

I thought of Julian’s adoptive parents in Utah. Had he called them yet? I doubted it. “Yes, but—”

“And then you’ll never guess whose message I just answered!” His tone was beyond bubbly; it was feverish. No talk of the arraignment. No talk of the future. I swallowed and remembered my admonition to the parents of my Sunday school kids: Sometimes they just need you to listen.

“Kim Fury!” Julian exclaimed. I tried not to look surprised as he continued: “Kim was a classmate of mine at EPP. We got to know each other pretty well, since we were both science kids among all the rich brats. Kim’s really smart. Finished her B.S. in three years. Now she’s doing graduate work at C.U. in computer science. Anyway, Kim is really pissed off with her brother for running away with her mom’s credit cards.”

I tried to look as if I understood where all this was going. But I was worried. Julian was beyond both bubbly and feverish. He was manic. How was I going to have a logical strategy-planning session with him?

“Anyway. Kim’s sure her brother Teddy had something to do with this Dean thing, and that’s why he skipped! But that’s not all. She says her mother will do anything to keep Teddy from facing the consequences of his actions. Like this one time, he swiped a purse that had some car keys in it, and when he tried to start the car it jumped forward because it was still in gear—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Whose car? Ellie McNeely’s?”

“I don’t know,” he rushed on. “But I was thinking, maybe—”

It was time to interrupt. “Julian,” I said. “Please. Just take a deep breath, OK?”

Immediately the spark of hope in his eyes went out. I felt a pang of guilt.

“Sorry!” I said hastily. “But I need to take notes if I’m going to get all this down. Do you know what kind of car it was?” I dug into my purse for an index card and pencil.

“I don’t know that either.” His voice was barely audible.

“Did Kim have anything concrete to share about Teddy and Barry Dean? Something that might help us?”

“No.”

“Well, give me her number, will you?” I scribbled the number he recited.

Julian looked up at the ceiling. “I passed the second lie detector test. Here’s what’s funny—it didn’t matter. I had a wicked headache from caffeine withdrawal, so I’ve drunk about eight cups of jail coffee since the test. Stuff tastes like motor oil.”

“We’re going to get you out of here—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, right, sure.” He still wouldn’t look at me. “Sorry to be so jazzed up. Listen, I still don’t want my folks to know about this yet. I’ll call down to Bluff when I’m ready, I promise.” He straightened. “The formal charge on Friday will be second-degree murder. You probably heard. It’s different, somehow, from that advisement on Tuesday. It all feels out of control.” He shook his head. Again the sight of his thin face and unkempt hair felt like a blade in my heart. “I … I feel so bad about the bail money,” he went on. “I feel so bad about everything. Seeing that knife in Mr. Dean was like noticing an electrical wire down on a wet road. You know you’re not supposed to touch it. But your only thought is that you want to help, and then as soon as you touch it, you’re either dead, in the case of the wire, or screwed, in the case of the knife—”

I leaned forward and urged, “Julian. Don’t do this to yourself. As you said, all you tried to do was help, and that was the right thing to do. You are innocent of this crime. And we’re going to prove it.” I managed what I hoped was a courageous smile. “I promise to ask Tom to look into Kim Fury’s allegation about her brother.” And to look into my own questions about the whereabouts of Ellie McNeely and Page Stockham from quarter to nine to nine, and why Page had ended up buying so many of a certain kind of shoe , I added silently.

Julian rubbed his forehead. “I don’t really want Teddy to get into trouble.” He was suddenly restless. “Look, thanks for coming. Have fun at Arch’s field trip.” Then he hung up and walked away. He didn’t look back.

Snow fell steadily as I drove up to Elk Park Prep. My muscles ached and my stomach growled. I had had nothing to eat except a reheated chocolate croissant (one of Julian’s creations from the freezer) and double espresso. My mind jumped around: Page Stockham and her shoes. Liz Fury fretting over her troubled (and missing) son. Julian, alone in jail.

First things first. I punched in the phone number Julian had given me for Kim Fury in Boulder. No answer. I left a message identifying myself and asking her to call. Then I tried Tom, who was off somewhere, and brought him up to speed on the shoes I’d found heaped in Page’s closet. Had the cops checked the alibis of these two women, Page Stockham and Ellie McNeely, for the time of Barry’s murder? Finally, there was Kim Fury’s report of her brother stealing a car. Was he aware of any of this? I wanted to know. Had Teddy been a suspect in the theft of Ellie’s car? And finally, had the cops found anything at the Elk Park Prep portable toilet?

At quarter to four, I pulled off the interstate at the Aspen Meadow exit. I had to pick up my own son plus four other boys, drive back down the mountain, and endure an anatomy class. I was going to pass out if I didn’t have something to eat.

To my surprise, there was no line at our little burg’s drive-through espresso place. Through the thickening swirl of snowflakes, I ordered a hot croissant ham-and-Swiss sandwich for myself, plus six biscotti and six large hot chocolates. Yes, extra-hot for the cocoa, and yes, with whipped cream. Extra whipped cream. I accepted the treats gratefully. Times of trauma, I reflected as I bit into the delicious sandwich—flaky pastry surrounding hot, thinly sliced Danish ham, just-melted Jarlsberg, and a hint of Dijon mustard—demand comfort food. I gunned the van toward Arch’s school, secure in the knowledge that when I’d finished wolfing down the sandwich, I had a cup of steaming, cream-topped cocoa waiting. Is there any better comfort food than chocolate? I think not.

Outside the Upper School, I pulled the van behind a line of Mercedes, Jags, Audis, four-wheel-drive Lexuses, and late-model BMW’s. In the prep school big-spender environment, I knew that my van, with its emblazoned logo Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! gave Arch no end of anguish. The parents who did not know my son attended EPP undoubtedly thought I was there to serve gourmet hot dogs, maybe at that day’s volleyball game.

Arch and a group of boys, their jackets unzipped and their wool hats askew, tumbled out of the school doors. Steam issued from their mouths as they hollered and flung quickly scooped snowballs at each other. To avoid enemy missiles, they ran and slid expertly across the snowy ice. Seeing them free and happy made me think of Julian, trapped in jail. I shuddered.

“Please say you brought us something to eat!” Arch exclaimed as he and his pals heaved their Sherpa-worthy backpacks into the van’s rear. “We’re starving! And freezing!”

“Hot chocolate and biscotti!” I called and received a deafening but grateful chorus of Oh, yeah!

“Mom, thanks,” Arch murmured uncharacteristically, as he balanced his treat and surreptitiously leaned forward from the backseat, so his friends couldn’t hear. Well, maybe my request for a little courtesy had hit its mark. That was two nice things he’d said to me in twenty-four hours. I glowed.

“This is how a cadaver’s bone breaks,” called one of the boys, as he snapped his biscotto in two.

“Oh, yeah?” my son replied. “This cocoa? It’s the color of the inside of the liver.”