Part 6 (1/2)

”No.”

”Do you know anyone who could have thought of Claire as an enemy?”

Julian rubbed his brow so hard I feared he might bruise his skin. ”Look,” he said finally, ”I just know they were investigating shoplifting at the store.”

”Did she report any shoplifters?” Tom asked. He wasn't writing. ”No,” said Julian with a sigh. ”I don't think so.”

”What about these other men? Anybody shady that you knew about?”

”Claire just told me she'd seen other guys. But she also said she had admirers. Male admirers,” he added dejectedly.

”Who?”

”Oh, Tom, I don't know.” Julian gestured helplessly. His bleached hair caught the light, and he looked suddenly childlike. ”She used to laugh when she told me men were always after her. She said she was glad to have a gla.s.s counter between herself and them. One time she teased me and said she'd managed to get rid of the guy who pestered her most. But she was so pretty, I guess you'd have to expect ...” He didn't finish the thought. ”And as for being bothered, well, sometimes she thought somebody was playing weird practical jokes on her at the counter-”

”Like what?”

”Like getting into her stuff, I don't know ... she just said some of her stuff was missing, that's all.”

”Did she say that she suspected anybody?”

”No!” Julian snapped, and Tom backed off.

The oven buzzer went off and I took out the crepes. I requested that we put off the discussion of the investigation. Endless talk about crime can put a damper on the appet.i.te. And we hadn't even told Julian about Marla yet.

The crabmeat in wine sauce was succulent, wrapped inside the thin, tender pancakes. But Julian, who occasionally ate sh.e.l.lfish as part of his not-strictly-vegetarian diet, consumed next to nothing. He had gone from furious to sullen. Over dinner I broke the news to him about Marla. I tried to make it sound as light as possible, with a good prognosis and quick recovery.

Julian's mood went back to anger. ”What can we do? Is she going to need us to help her when she gets out? I thought heart attacks only happened to old people.”

I felt a wash of relief that he did not react with either a fit of despair or more shock. ”Yes, we'll all have to help. You especially, Julian, you know how much she adores you. And she's not old.”

I s.h.i.+fted the topic to business. While Tom had a second helping of crepes, Julian and I pushed our plates away and did the final planning for catered events coming in the next three days. Despite the crises breaking all around, or maybe because of them, Julian seemed desperate to be preoccupied with food service. Maybe it was a way of rea.s.serting control. Day after tomorrow he would do a Chamber of Commerce brunch, and we talked about preparing lamb with nectarine chutney and avocado salad. He even asked earnestly if he should be taking notes. I said no; the menu, supplies needed, cooking and serving times were all in the kitchen computer. I wanted to embrace him in his pain. But I had learned from Arch that hugging teenage boys is a precarious enterprise.

When we had finished eating, Julian made a pitcher of iced espresso, a drink we'd all taken to imbibing after dinner in the unusual heat. Since I'd had latte as soon as I got home from the banquet, more caffeine would surely wire me for the night. But worry about Marla and the events of the day ought to guarantee insomnia anyway, I reasoned. I set aside a covered dish for Arch, and took the brownies and peach cobblers that I'd stashed for the banquet out to the front porch.

I loved our porch, although the only time you could use it in Colorado was the summer and early fall. Mercifully, the evening air had complied. Savory barbecue smoke drifted through the neighborhood. As soon as Tom and I were sitting in the old redwood chairs he'd brought from his cabin, baby Colin Routt started to wail again from down the street.

”Poor kid,” Tom commented. ”I just read an article about preemies. They have a hard life, all the way through.”

”Especially when they're born at under one pound and their dad takes off for parts unknown,” I said.

Dusty Routt appeared in the tiny dirt-covered yard holding her little brother, or, more correctly, half brother, on her shoulder. She was jiggling the infant up and down, but the motion failed to comfort him. Then the mellow notes of jazz saxophone again floated out of the house's screened porch, and the tiny baby was immediately quiet.

”Music therapy,” Tom and I said in unison, and then laughed. When Julian appeared with crystal gla.s.ses filled with espresso and ice, we thanked him and sat listening to the jazz filtering through the dusky air. I sipped the cold, dark stuff and waited for one of them to speak.

Julian popped a brownie into his mouth and pushed off on the porch swing. After a moment he addressed Tom and me.

”She was under a lot of pressure.”

”What kind?” asked Tom without missing a beat, as if we had not stopped talking about Claire twenty minutes earlier. Wisely, he didn't reach for his notebook.

Julian shrugged. ”Pressure to sell. That was the main thing. You know, Prince & Grogan carries Mignon exclusively in Colorado. Not only that, but the Mignon counter is the only million-dollar cosmetics counter in the state. If the saleswomen don't sell there, they get fired.” He grimaced.

”Pressure to sell,” repeated Tom.

Julian sighed. ”They live off those commissions. Lived.”

”Julian,” I said, ”don't-”

He waved this away. ”Plus what I mentioned. You know-pressure to watch for shoplifters.” His tone was resigned. ”There was a lot of theft there. It was a big problem in the store. Credit card fraud, employee theft, shoplifting, you name it. Claire introduced me to the guy who was in charge of security. Nick Gentileschi. He was okay, I guess. She was helping him with something.”

”What?” Tom said, too sharply, I thought. ”Helping the security guy with what? The shoplifting investigation?”

”I don't know!” Julian cried. ”If I don't even know the ident.i.ty of this admirer who wasn't bothering her anymore, how do you think I know what she was doing with security?”

Arch made one of his sudden appearances, probably lured by the sound of raised voices.

”Hey, guys! What's going on? Blow-Up was too weird and complicated, I didn't like it. Is that pancakes on my plate out there? Neat. I put them in the microwave.”

I nodded and held up one finger: I'd be there in a minute.

”She was afraid,” Julian said tonelessly, as if he were speaking from a distant asteroid.

”Who-” Arch began.

I gave him a warning look and shook my head: Say nothing. Arch crossed his arms and waited for an explanation, which he didn't get.

”Afraid of what?” Tom asked Julian gently.

”Just yesterday she told me she thought she was being followed,” Julian replied wearily. ”But she said she wasn't sure. Oh, G.o.d, why didn't I tell you? I just thought it was some stupid thing, like the unexplained stuff at the counter.”

”Wait,” I said. ”Wait.” I thought back through the muddle of the day. Claire, her Peugeot, the helicopter. When I'd swerved the van into the right lane, I'd barely missed a pickup truck. Then when I'd looked again ... the pickup had fallen back several car lengths. ”Someone might have been following us on I-70 this morning. In a pickup,” I said miserably.

”Make?” asked Tom mildly. ”Color? Did you see the driver?”

”No,” I said helplessly. ”No ... I don't remember any of that. Maybe I'm just being paranoid.”

Julian was holding his head in his hands.

”Big J.,” said Tom, ”why don't we go inside-”

Julian's head jerked up. ”There's a part of you that's always alone,” he blurted out. ”People always have secrets, and you know they have secrets, but maybe they don't want to tell you because they're afraid of your reaction, or maybe they don't want to tell you because they don't want to burden you. She didn't want to be a burden to me. And I didn't want to trouble you with it.”

Tom and I exchanged a look. Inside the house, the microwave buzzer went off. My instinct told me Arch and I should leave Tom and Julian alone. Perhaps without an audience Julian would feel more inclined to talk to Tom.

”Let's go,” I said to Arch.

”Why can't I eat out here?” Arch asked, perplexed. But he obeyed.

”Mom?” he asked when we were back in the kitchen. He held up his plate precariously. ”Should I eat now or not?”