Tom pondered this. “So you were supposed to meet with Finn last night to find out what kind of research he was doing, and he didn’t show. You called him on both his home phone and his cell, and then you went over to his place. Did you call anybody else, another friend, say, to see where he might be?”
“Nope.”
“After Finn said he was doing some research, he suddenly disappeared and didn’t call. Did you suspect foul play?”
Jack shook his head in frustration. “I didn’t know what to think. Now could you please tell me what is going on?”
“I can’t,” said Tom.
AND SO TOM and I went home. I hugged Jack before we left, and he hugged me back and muttered something about seeing me in the morning.
“Where’re you going with him in the morning?” Tom asked me, once we’d come into our house and put the animals back outside.
“Gold Gulch Spa. Jack’s insisting on coming. Why? You don’t think I’m in danger when I’m with him, do you?”
“No,” Tom said thoughtfully. “I’m just trying to figure out what he’s not telling us. There’s something, I just can’t put my finger on it.”
“He’s secretive, you know that. He…loves puzzles. He used to give me all kinds of different ones when I was growing up. Plus, he’s a risk junkie. Maybe he’s sure he can figure out what happened to Doc Finn…on his own.”
“Oh, man, that’s all we need. Another amateur sleuth mucking things up. What do you mean, he’s secretive?”
We moved into the kitchen and sat down.
I said, “I didn’t even know until a week before he got here that he was moving to Aspen Meadow from New Jersey. And that he’d bought that decrepit old place across the street.”
“You didn’t know anything?”
“Nope. And that was only six months ago, as you know. Plus, I think the only reason he told me about the move was that he had told his son, Lucas, what he was doing, and Lucas had had a fit that Jack wasn’t moving across the street from him. So to avert Lucas showing up on our porch and accusing me of trying to steal Jack’s affections, which he’d done before, mind you, Jack calmly called and told me his plans.”
“Huh.” Tom looked around our kitchen and insisted on tidying up. “It’ll give me a chance to think.”
While he was washing dishes, I said, “Listen, Tom, you’ve probably already heard this from six different people—”
Tom turned off the water, wiped his hands, and gave me his full attention. “Go ahead.”
“Well, just some of those questions you were asking Jack…” Tom waited. Finally, I said, “Enemies Doc Finn had? Billie Attenborough didn’t like Doc Finn.”
“Stop while I get my notebook.”
“You know,” I went on, “she always blamed him for losing her first two fiancés. She blamed him loudly.”
“Billie does everything loudly. And,” he added thoughtfully, “you know how nothing is ever her fault? She doesn’t take responsibility for a thing. Everything is always your fault.” When I looked stricken, he said, “No, not you, Miss G. At least, not all the time.” When I frowned, he went on, laughing, “Don’t go getting paranoid on me. Guys down at the department are always saying women are just too sensitive.” This time I narrowed my eyes. “Okay,” Tom concluded, his tone apologetic, “for Billie, everything is always somebody else’s fault.” He closed his notebook. “We’ll check this out, thanks. Now, let me finish these dishes.”
I thanked him and put my feet up on a chair. When the phone rang, it startled me. Quarter after ten? Jack calling to try to get information out of Tom? Billie Attenborough phoning with a new demand?
It was neither. The caller ID said merely, southwest hospital.
“Looks like somebody might be trying to set up one of us,” I commented, and told Tom about the call’s provenance.
“I’ll deal with it.” With wet hands, Tom took the phone. After a moment, he said, “Actually, you want my wife.”
I shot him a murderous glance, but only sang into the phone, “Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! Whoever this is, I usually don’t do business this late in the evening!”
“Is this Goldy?” a tentative male voice asked.
“It is.” I wracked my brain to figure out who I knew in Southwest Hospital at the moment. Someone from church? Someone I was supposed to do a party for?
“This is, uh, Norman O’Neal.”
I shook my head. Cecelia O’Neal’s didn’t-want-to-be-irresponsible-anymore ex-dad. “Norman. Last time I saw you, you didn’t look too good.”
“Okay, yeah, sorry. It’s just that I can’t remember today very well. I’m down here in the hospital, and I can’t figure out what I did to get here. I’m not sick, or at least, I don’t think I am. One of the nurses told me I busted up my daughter’s wedding, and I’m really hoping that isn’t true.”
“Well—”
“Oh, God, I did bust up Cecelia’s wedding, didn’t I?”
“Not really. You just busted up the cake. I am curious, though. Why are you calling me? Why not call Cecelia if you want to apologize?”
“She’s on her honeymoon, I guess, and her mother isn’t answering. I, I’m desperate. I looked in the yellow pages for caterers and churches in Aspen Meadow, and your name sort of sounded familiar, so I called you.”
“But why—”
“Oh, right, right. Well, to make a long story short, I want to get back into my daughter Cecelia’s life.”
I’d majored in psychology, and I knew Carl Rogers would have wanted me to spit that right back at him. And anyway, I didn’t know what else to do. “You want to get back into your daughter’s life,” I said slowly.
Tom raised his eyebrow and gave me a quizzical look. I shook my head: You don’t want to know.
Norman O’Neal’s voice rose hopefully. “Do you think I have a chance? Of getting back into Ceci’s life?”
I licked my lips and tried to think of what to say. “Let’s put it this way, Norman,” I said, finally. “I’d say you’re going about it in the wrong way. You could start by apologizing to Cecelia and Dodie, and sending them a big check.”
“Please, Goldy, help me.” Norman O’Neal took an unsteady breath. “Have you ever had a close brush with death, Mrs. Schulz? You’re married, aren’t you? Should I call you Mrs. Schulz?”
“Mrs. Schulz is fine. And yes, I’ve had a close brush with death.”
“Doesn’t it make you reorder your priorities?”
“Mr. O’Neal. Norman. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Look, I have a granddaughter I’ve never seen. I know she’s just adopted, I mean, not Cecelia’s by blood, oh, that didn’t come out right. But still, I want to be part of Cecelia’s life, sort of start over, you know? I want to get to know this granddaughter, even if she is just adopted, you know.”
“Just adopted?” I thought of Julian, who was “just adopted,” and had turned out just fine, thank you very so much. “You might want to rethink your diction when it comes to referring to your granddaughter, Norm. And where does the brush with death part come in?”
“I heard my granddaughter almost died! So I wanted to reorder my priorities. Please, won’t you help me? Wait, wait a second—”
“Almost died? What do you mean?”
There was no reply, just some gargling from the other end.
“Norm,” I said, “really, I’d love to help you—,” but was interrupted by the sound of Norman O’Neal once again puking his guts out, this time on the hospital floor.
8