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“No. Thinking.”
A narrow cabinet next to the stove held spices, oils, and salt. The salt and oil on the bottom shelf were well-used. A double-tiered lazy Susan held small jars and tins of spices, many with the now familiar dusty film. I gave the lazy Susan a half-hearted spin, watching the names of unused spices go by.
“Because it looks like you’re snooping,” Diana said with mild amusement.
“You’re easily misled.”
“Any blinding insights?”
“He had a lot of nutmeg. Must be a big fan of egg nog, though you’d think he’d have used some of this up over the holidays.”
“He doesn’t strike me as a big holiday entertainer. Not to mention, you can use nutmeg in a lot of other things. Pasta sauces, potatoes — especially scalloped or au gratin, meatballs, and meat sauces, and I know people who put it in chili and tacos.”
“Nutmeg? In chili and tacos?”
“Yup. I ask again, any blinding insights from your thinking, which is definitely not snooping?”
“Not blinding and not much of an insight. He’d narrowed his life to the essentials. But either he alternated his glassware or he did entertain a second person now and then.”
“Brenda?”
“I’d say Brenda was a coffee mug visitor.” I tipped my head toward that collection. “Or maybe single malt drinker. I just don’t see Keefer and Brenda sitting here, drinking champagne.”
Diana’s eyebrows came up. She went to the glassware cabinet, opened it, and studied it for a long moment. “Water, juice — or, as you say, single malt — and champagne. Sam McCracken? Celebrating progress?”
“Most likely answer. Doesn’t sound like Brenda and Randall’s visit Monday would have had anyone breaking out champagne.”
By the outside door I paused and looked back. It was dark enough to think in terms of a cave, with the true opening to it those three windows by the little table — windows looking toward the outdoors.
From all we’d heard, it reflected the man’s priorities.
Coming from the direction of her cabin, Brenda transferred her frown from the NewsMobile, which Diana insisted on for her equipment, to Diana and me as we crossed the porch of Keefe’s cabin.
We didn’t let it prevent us from each reaching down to pat Suzie Q, in her same spot. She didn’t acknowledge our touches. She seemed thinner to me.
“What are you doing here?” Brenda called out.
“No police tape anymore,” I said.
That wouldn’t have satisfied Wendy. Nor would my next foray have distracted her. But they worked with Brenda.
“I understand Chester was a difficult patient during his last illness.”
I’d been wanting to broach this to Brenda since Wendy’s comments Wednesday about Chester’s groping.
To my surprise, she chuckled. “He was, right up to the end. Not that I was there at the last, because Wendy wouldn’t hear of that. Oh, no. I was good enough to help in the last three, four weeks before the end, but not at the very end. No chance to say good-bye.”
“It must have been difficult.”
“It was. It had seemed like he’d be around forever, you know? I guess because he always had been. That last spring, I remember seeing him one day and thinking it wasn’t even Chester Barlow. I suppose I’d been blind to the changes and this one day they just stepped up and slapped me in the face. And there he was, a sick old man. And lonely after Ulla died. I saw that, looking back. Wendy sure wasn’t any comfort to him. Barely even company. Always wanted to be out doing the fun things with the guests, none of the work. All she’d do was complain about how he didn’t understand her, how old-fashioned he was. Mocked how he ran this place — well, all I can say is it was doing fine under him. Can’t say that under Wendy Miss High and Mighty Barlow.”
That seemed harsh, since it seemed to have run well under Wendy for a lot of years.
Though there was that account from Tom’s mom about Wendy selling her second home in Arizona. And the ranch showed no signs of new or lush or expensive additions.
On the other hand, it didn’t show signs of disrepair or ignored maintenance, either.
Of course, if Keefe did all that work as part of his normal duties...
