Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

“But Kim Fury said—”

“You yourself told me that Kim the sister and Teddy the brother had an argument about one of Liz’s cars on Monday. Nobody here has any idea where Teddy Fury is at the moment. My guess would be he’s getting as far from that sister as possible.”

I felt derailed. But I persisted. “I saw Hulsey at the jail. Any idea why they don’t consider me a suspect anymore?”

“Maybe they believe you. Your story doesn’t have holes. Only the guitar has holes. Should I be out looking for another present for Arch, by the way?”

Guilt thudded against my chest. “Sure,” I said, and gulped. “Great. Thanks.”

“No sweat. So, what about Hulsey?”

“He’s representing Julian now, and says the charge at the arraignment will be second-degree murder. Bail is set at a million. Julian passed the second polygraph, by the way.”

“I heard.”

I thought of the seconds ticking by while the kids dissected Lucas Holden, maybe destroying valuable evidence that might free Julian. Had Tom’s deputy reached the coroner? Or was I, like Julian, becoming both manic and desperate?

My thoughts whirled. Ellie’s stolen Lexus had been rammed into Barry’s Mercedes. That seemed like too much of a coincidence to attribute the burglary to a garden-variety car thief. Plus, somebody had tried to get rid of Ellie last night. That had not been an accident. Plus, somebody had been driving that dump truck on Monday. Somebody had definitely tried to kill Barry in the West-side Mall parking lot. And, hours later, somebody had succeeded in killing him.

“Tom, getting back to Ellie’s purse. Suppose Barry’s new wannabe girlfriend, Pam Disharoon, had been watching Ellie. Pam’s incredibly competitive. Say she saw her opportunity to nab the purse Teddy dumped. Could Pam have crashed Ellie’s car into Barry’s, picked up the cuff links, and later driven the runaway truck? All to make Ellie look bad in Barry’s eyes? Then when Barry said he was sticking with Ellie, Pam stabbed him.”

“Mm, I’d probably believe anything of Pam Disharoon. That woman has been difficult.”

Visions of the cadaver abruptly intruded. “Tom, can you stay on top of this cadaver question? To help Julian? Please?”

Tom made his tone kind. “I promise. Don’t worry, we can handle this. But I do have one thing that might interest you.” I heard him shuffle papers. “A lawyer called us this morning, guy from a firm in Denver. Says his client is offering us evidence about the Barry Dean case, but only in exchange for immunity from prosecution by another governmental agency.”

“You mean, immunity from a federal agency? As in, Make the IRS leave me alone ?” My heart started to thump.

“Probably. Happens all the time. Only the IRS and other federal agencies don’t prosecute. Not technically, anyway. They turn all their stuff over to a government attorney, who makes or doesn’t make a case.”

I exhaled. “What kind of evidence was this guy offering?”

“The attorney says his client will tell us why Dean had headaches .”

“You mean, the client knows who pushed Barry down?”

“Probably. And it looks as if the guys are going to take the deal.”

While he mused aloud on the immunity question, I debated about confessing to my pill-bottle-in-the-apron discovery. It was finding the Vicodin that had spurred me to get the medical records faxed to me. But I hadn’t actually told Tom about the Vicodin yet. If I showed Tom the pills, was there any way I’d be able to avoid being charged with evidence-tampering? If the cops knew about Barry’s headaches and their cause, would they really care so much about the painkillers themselves? I tried to remember if I’d ever seen Tom use my clarified butter, where I’d stashed the pills. I didn’t think so.

“Uh, well,” I stammered. “Just let me know about the coroner, will you?”

Tom paused. “You, uh, you don’t know anything more about this headache deal, do you? I mean, I know you’ve… reviewed Dean’s records.”

I gnawed the inside of my cheek, remembering my forging exercise to get Barry’s medical records. “Sorry. Listen, are you going to be home for dinner? I… have a couple of new theories about… this and that.”

“I wish I didn’t have to say ‘I knew it.’”

“I’ll explain it all later, promise. See you at six.” I bade him good-bye and hung up. Sometime in the next few hours, I had to figure out how I was going to present to Tom all the stuff I’d kept from him. My own head began to hurt.

When I showed up at the classroom door, the teacher slipped out and asked if I was all right. I nodded. She informed me that the students had just started on the cadaver’s spleen.

“Is there any way,” I asked, “that you could wait? There could be a question from the coroner’s office—”

“Wait? Wait for what? The class has waited for this trip the entire semester. If we don’t proceed, we won’t finish. We can’t wait .”

“Well, it’s just that I… thought I might have recognized the cadaver.”

The teacher’s face turned as ashen as the corpse’s. “Oh, dear! Mrs. Schulz, please! I really have to get back to my class. What are you going to do?”

“I’ll just…go to my van,” I faltered. And hope for whoever Tom’s deputy could muster to put an end to this, before more evidence was destroyed. I knew I couldn’t go back into the lab. Say the coroner did appear and demanded, “Which mom called about this cadaver?” Arch would never speak to me again.

Instead, I sat in my van and tried to raise Pam Disharoon on the cell. No answer. I gave up when the anatomy class rushed out the hospital doors. The five boys I’d brought squeezed into the van in high spirits. All were eager for a gross-out competition. The snow had turned to slush on the interstate, so I concentrated on my driving. It was better than listening to merrily delivered descriptions of each organ, and how it was not as bad as the dead bat they’d found on a Scouts expedition or the dead elk their dad had scraped off the Rover bumper.

To my great surprise, Tom was already home when Arch and I got there, putting the finishing touches on a cake with shiny chocolate icing. Comforted by his presence in the kitchen, I gave him a big hug, washed my hands, and got to work myself. While I defrosted stock and sautéed mushrooms, he told me he hadn’t heard anything back yet on any of my inquiries. I tried to put the case out of my head as I energetically chopped vegetables for the salad I’d intended to serve at the Stockhams’ lunch before changing the menu.

Because salads of chopped ingredients were all the rage among the Shop-Till-You-Drop set these days, I’d dubbed the creation Chopping Spree Salad. First I placed some hearts of palm into water to remove the brine, then assembled the rest of the ingredients. Since I was a great fan of limes for tanginess, I’d decided to feature lime in both the grilled chicken and the dressing itself. I sliced several of the bright green citrus globes and juiced them, then pounded fresh chicken breasts between layers of plastic wrap. After I’d whisked together a marinade of lime juice and olive oil, I carefully placed the breasts into it. Then I rewashed my hands and set about slicing and dicing a mountain of crisp romaine lettuce, flavorful vine-grown tomatoes, crunchy, barely sweet jicama, and fat scallions. Yum. While I preheated the indoor grill, I pulverized fresh and ground herbs in my mini food processor and whisked them with more lime juice, a bit of mayonnaise, and a touch of cream. Tasting the spicy mélange, I decided to add a bit more tang by grating in some aged Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. The result was a rich, sharp ranch-style dressing that would have sent Escoffier spinning in his grave. So what, I thought smugly, as I toasted pine nuts for a finishing touch. Soon the luscious scent of the grilling chicken brought Tom and Arch clomping back into the kitchen.