Critical Conditions

I said, “Hi, Lucy. Nice outfit.” Lucy liked clothes the way Dead Ed liked diesel-powered toys. I knew Sam wouldn’t notice how she was dressed and I knew Lucy felt good when people noticed.

The outfit I was admiring was a one-piece bodysuit of some soft fla

“You really think it works? Su

“It works, Lucy. You look lovely. Don’t you think she looks great, Sam?”

Sam grunted.

She turned to face her partner but spoke to me. “He’s hopeless, Alan. Don’t bother. You guys made good time, Sam. Su

“Alan mistook I-70 for the Bo

“I know that, Sam. Don’t worry. Everybody’s cool about you being here.”

“Who is everybody?”

“A Summit County deputy named Larsen. He’s the one who called us; he’s on the ball. And the Robilios’ oldest daughter, Helen. Says everybody calls her Su

“And she doesn’t know I’m Merritt’s uncle?”

“She thinks you’re a specialist in this kind of thing. You know, like a consultant.”

“And exactly what is ‘this kind of thing,’ Luce?”

Lucy was already walking toward the back of the house. Without turning, she said, “Wing it, Sam. I’m not sure what we have yet.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“You’re Sam’s driver. Hang around the back of the room and act bored. It should be easy for you.”

Twenty-two

“Hello, I’m Su

A fire was smoldering in a red granite-faced fireplace that was flanked by two leather sofas of an almost identical hue. A fresh piece of green oak had just been thrown on the grate, and the sap in the wood was escaping in gaseous little bursts that were snapping like a string of tiny firecrackers.

I said hello with a weak wave, and moved to a corner of the huge room, where I settled at a game table. I grabbed a magazine from a stand that was fashioned from the racks of a pair of good-sized bucks, the whole time trying to appear both superfluous and inconspicuous. The magazine I chose was the latest edition of MotorHome.

I was absolutely certain that it was the first time I’d had an opportunity to read MotorHome magazine.

Sam introduced himself to the deputy and to Su

Su

Su

Sam had removed a notepad from one of his pockets and was poised for work. In a soft, seductive voice I’d never heard him use before, he asked, “Now what exactly happened that caused you so much concern?”

Su

I couldn’t figure out Larsen’s agenda. Was he hitting on Su

She perched herself on the arm of one of the sofas before she started. “I’ve been in Denver with Mom since…everything happened. You know, the things with my father. George-he’s my husband-and I live in Grand Junction. After Dad’s funeral, George had to go right back home for work. I didn’t need to be back so quickly, and I decided to take a few days here at the ranch to, I don’t know, consider things, reflect. Grieve, whatever. So I said good-bye to Mom this morning, took George to the airport in Denver, and drove up here.

“I got to the ranch, I would guess, about two. Is that when I phoned you, Craig?”

“It was closer to three when you called us. But later on, when we talked, you said it took you awhile to realize what was wrong.”

“That’s true.” The fire was roaring and spitting and Su

The psychologist in me was hearing Su

“One of Dad’s things was that no one ever came to the ranch without him. That was a rule. This was Dad’s personal retreat. Even Fred and I-Frederick’s my little brother-needed an invitation to come here. Mom has still never been here without my father. That’s one of his things. Got it?”

Sam said, “Sure, gotcha.”

“The second thing is that every time I’ve ever been here to visit, the place has been immaculate, clean, neat. That’s another one of Dad’s peculiarities. Order. Cleanliness. At home, in Boulder, Mom gets housekeeping help now. She didn’t used to, even in that big house. But not up here. Dad expected her to keep this place clean all by herself. He once told me that she doesn’t fish, she doesn’t ski, she doesn’t hunt, she doesn’t ride horses, what else does she have to do? That’s my dad.”

She sighed. Her efforts were transparent as she struggled to balance her sorrow and anger with some more enduring feelings about her father, feelings that caused discomfort but not pain, like ill-fitting shoes. “When I arrived here this afternoon, the place was not…tidy. There were crumbs on the kitchen counter, and some spilled liquid that had dried on the floor. There were dirty dishes in the dishwasher. And the trash hadn’t been taken out. I checked his bedroom, upstairs. The bed was made, but it wasn’t made well. Not like my mom makes it. Like Dad insisted Mom make it.

“It all seemed…suspicious to me. Like I said, you would have to know him.” Again, she sighed. “I phoned my mother and told her I’d arrived safely and asked her when she and Dad had last been here. She said they hadn’t been here for weeks. ‘Your father has been traveling,’ is what she said. Then, in as much of a joking voice as I could-I didn’t want to alarm her, she’s been through an awful lot-I asked her if he still made her leave the place looking like a show home when they left. She said he did.”