Dying for Chocolate (13 page)

My van! The grille seemed to grin at me like an old friend. I started it up, checked the bungee cords that would hold the food on racks, checked to make sure the glove compartment still held my safety kit, with its bandages, sunscreen, instructions for doing the Heimlich maneuver in case someone choked, and my little bottle of ipecac, in case, God forbid, someone ate something he shouldn’t.

I tried to think positive thoughts as I drove to the Rumslinger ranch. Sure enough, the barbecue was an enormous success. George Rumslinger was a country-music star who had moved to Aspen Meadow and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars establishing a cattle ranch. The hands loved him not only for the good pay but because they regularly were treated to food and song. They pulled on the pony keg of Coors and dug heartily into the hills of barbecued chicken and ribs, bowls and baskets of salads and rolls, and stacks of Scout’s Brownies. Highlight of the day was when Rumslinger serenaded the crowd with his new hit remake of “I’m Just Roadkill on the Highway of Love.”

The foreman paid in cash and gave me a fifty-dollar tip. He was feeling so good he even asked if I had a favorite charity. In the spirit of killing two birds with one stone I mentioned the Elk Park Prep Pool project. I pointed out how good the decal would look on the rear window of his pickup truck.

He said, “Pretty ritzy school for the son of a caterer.”

I placed the cash in my zip bag and said nothing. If he wanted a decal, he could get it himself.

The black-capped chickadee’s plaintive song woke me Tuesday, the morning of Philip’s funeral. Adele had given me the day off from cooking and answering the phone. It was wonderful to be free. Part of the message from Marla was that some of us would gather before the service at Elizabeth’s house. When I was there Elizabeth said the two of us must get together soon. I nodded. Then we all took off for the Episcopal church. Even a latter-day hippie could revert to the faith of her childhood when facing the burial of a brother.

Into your hands, O Lord, we commend our brother, Philip.

Marla was there; she held my hand. There was a slew of people in country club clothes. The Farquhars came, as did Julian, a very red-eyed Sissy, Weezie Harrington, and Brian Harrington, whose beeper went off during the service.

Do not let the pains of death turn us away from you at our last hour. . . .

Elizabeth Miller had convinced the priest to allow friends of Philip to talk briefly about the good work he had done in the community. So many people depended on him—his clients, his friends, his supporters in the Audubon Society and Protect Our Mountains. There were subdued sobs as acquaintances told anecdotes. Still. In all this, and it was indeed lovely, there was no discussion of the strangeness of the way in which he had died.

Let our faith be our consolation, and eternal life our hope.

Somehow, I felt Philip’s presence. Maybe hovering somewhere around, I didn’t know. I thought, Did you ever say anything that would help me understand what happened that morning?

There was no response.

After a small gathering at Elizabeth’s house I came home and took a long bath. Arch said he was going to work on some of his dives in the pool, and then on some tricks. I asked him about his homework. He said he couldn’t do anything until I had done my reading, and had I decided about money for a cape?

No, I said sullenly as I trundled on to bed with the Poe under my arm. I was at the high tide of fatigue; there was no way I would read more than a page or two, I said.

But it was not to be. Splashing, calling, diving sounds from the pool gradually diminished. The floorboards creaked as Arch went to bed. I was glued to the book. The big house became quiet. In a far corner of my brain I could hear the telltale heart, beating its way to discovery. Beating, beating, beat—

“Agh!” I cried when I thought I heard a splash outside. My windows were closed against the cold night air of the mountains. Slowly, I slid the east-facing window open. There was no sound of arms or legs thrashing down the lap lanes. A neighbor’s dog began to bark, then stopped abruptly. The pool lights were off. I could not see a thing. I peered into the darkness, thought I heard whispers.

“Who’s there?” I called. My whole body shivered.

There was sudden quiet.

14.

In the relationship with John Richard, I had learned I was a physical coward. There was no way I was going outside. If you weren’t secure, why call it a security system, anyway? The perimeter motion detector would scream if the house was violated. I crept back to bed and turned out the light.

The next morning, I de-activated the security system and stepped outside to look around and call for Scout the cat. Lime-green aspen leaves clicked in the early breeze, like the sound of tiny hands clapping. It did not sound like a splash.

I had the feeling of being watched. There was no sign of anything or anyone who might have been by the pool after Arch came in. My eye found Scout. He was sitting very still, watching me from inside the French doors leading to the patio.

“Lot of help you are,” I said. He looked up with reproachful pale cat eyes. He was still too spooked by the dogs he’d encountered during his tenure of homelessness to have been last night’s noisemaker.
Don’t venture into the world,
his impassive face said.
It’s dangerous out there.

Adele gleefully announced we had a go for the Audubon Society picnic. Wednesday and Thursday I finished planning and ordering the food for that affair and Adele and Bo’s wedding-anniversary party on the fourteenth. Philip’s absence was a hole to be filled with work. Keeping busy helped deal with grief.

Bo and Adele were also preoccupied—with phone calls, committee meetings, buying and planting flowers for the garden. The general was one of those rare men who love to shop. Late Thursday afternoon he surprised me with a package of fresh sole fillets. He asked if I could do something with them for dinner the next night. He began a long explanation about becoming an Episcopalian when he married Adele. But there really is no such thing as a
former
Catholic, and could we start having fish on Fridays? In case Vatican II had been wrong.

We eat for different reasons, I said with great seriousness. Fish was no problem.

Friday morning I awoke with a heaviness in my chest. It’s not the day of a funeral that’s most difficult, or even the next day or the next. I did my yoga routine, turned off the security system, and made my way to the kitchen. No, the first few days you have the memory of the church service, of the casseroles afterward, of the conversations you had with friends when you remembered the person who died. Within a couple of days, though, the reality of the loss hits. The person is gone. Forever.

I set about making Julia Child’s Fish Fillets Silvestre for the evening meal. Adele and the general were taking a break from all their activities by making a day trip to Vail. Outside, the rhythmic slap-slap of Julian’s arms hitting the water started up.

I poached the fillets and made the sauce—all but its final butter enrichment—and set the whole thing to chill. I looked around the kitchen and tried to figure out what to do next. It was still too early to start breakfast for the household.

I made a double espresso. I put a call in to Schulz. He was not at his desk; I left a message. I hadn’t thought of anything, nor did I know anything new, but I missed him.

I sipped the espresso: Lavazza. General Bo had picked some up for me when he bought the sole. However, the caffeine was not doing its perk-up job. My heart felt as if it were in the grip of a vise. I phoned Marla.

“Want to do lunch?” I said.

She said, “It’s too early in the morning. I can’t believe my ears.”

We agreed on Aspen Meadow Café, near Philip’s office. Well, I was going to have to go back to that part of town sometime. As soon as I hung up, Schulz called.

“That was quick,” I said.

“Are you in a good mood or a bad mood?”

“Good, of course,” I said. “Why?”

“Then you haven’t seen the paper, I take it.”

I had forgotten. “Don’t tell me.”

He exhaled deeply. In sympathy, I thought. Schulz’s voice sounded far away when he said, “I’m not going to read it to you again, Miss G., and risk having my head blown off. Why don’t you bring Arch over tonight. We’ll cook out.”

I reflected. I liked sole, but not that much.

“Sure,” I said. “I’d love to.”

“I know you feel funny. . . with that fellow you were dating gone—”

“I need to get my mind off the accident. Philip and I had just been seeing each other for about a month. It wasn’t that big a deal.” Without thinking, I added, “Probably I imagined more than was actually there.”

Schulz was quiet. Then he said, “Well. I might need to talk to you about our friend Dr. Miller.”

“Talk.”

“Confidential, you understand. You were his friend.”

“I told you. I’m beginning to think I didn’t know that much. What’s your question?”

“We found something in his briefcase. Thought it was a drug at first. Had to send it off to be analyzed.”

“And?” ’

“Ever heard of
cantharidini”

You bet I’d heard of it. I said, “Spanish fly. Deadly as can be. Did it show up in the autopsy?”

“No, that’s the weird thing. You have any idea why he would have something like that?”

Just for the slightest fraction of a moment, I thought I heard someone else on the line. Not the CIA listening in, but someone breathing. My body went cold. Three nights ago it was sounds outside. Now it was eavesdropped conversations. That would teach me to read Edgar Allan Poe.

“None whatsoever,” I said, “but let’s talk about it tonight.” I tried to put some urgency into my voice, something he would read as my having to hang up.

“Before you rush off,” he said, “you might like to know that because of finding this substance, they’ve given me the go-ahead to investigate this as a suspicious death.”

I was quiet. Could I hear anything on the line besides Schulz’s voice?

After a moment I said, “I can’t talk about this any more right now. I’m looking forward to tonight.”

I listened on the line after Schulz had hung up. Perhaps there was a very gentle clicking off. It was hard to tell. What had Philip said the last time we’d talked?
Not on the phone.

Great.

•  •  •

STRAWBERRY SUPER PIE

CRUST:

¾ cup (1 ½ sticks) unsalted butter, melted

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon confectioners’ sugar

¾ cup chopped pecans

TOPPING:

2 pounds strawberries, divided

½ cup water

1 cup sugar

3 tablespoons cornstarch

FILLING:

1 ¼ cups whipping cream

¼ pound cream cheese, softened

¾ teaspoon vanilla extract

½ cup confectioners’ sugar

Preheat oven to 375°. For crust, mix melted butter with flour, confectioners’ sugar, and pecans. Press into a buttered 10-inch pie plate. Bake for 25 minutes or until light brown. Allow to cool completely.

Start topping by mashing enough strawberries to make 1 cup. Cut tops off rest of strawberries and set aside. Place mashed berries in a saucepan and add water. Mix sugar and cornstarch into crushed berry mixture and bring to a boil on top of stove, stirring. Boil about one minute or until clear and thickened. Set aside to cool.

For filling, whip cream until stiff. In another bowl, beat cream cheese with vanilla and confectioners’ sugar. Carefully fold whipped cream into cream cheese mixture. Spread in cooled crust and refrigerate.

When crushed berry mixture is cool, pie can be assembled. Stand whole (or halved, if you prefer) strawberries on top of cream filling, cut side down. When entire filling is covered with whole berries, carefully spoon cooled crushed berry mixture over all. Cream filling should not be seen between whole berries. Once the crevices have been filled, do not overload the pie with the crushed berry mixture, as it will just drip over the sides. Any leftover crushed berry mixture is delectable on toast or English muffins.

Makes 8 to 10 large servings

The household separated for school and Vail. I made a nut short crust, folded whipped cream into beaten cream cheese for a mountain of filling that I then dotted with rows of fat strawberries. A final glaze of crushed, cooked fresh strawberries was the finishing touch for the Strawberry Super Pie I was taking to Tom Schulz’s. I cleaned the kitchen and headed out to meet Marla. With dismay I noticed that Arch had neglected his one chore: rolling the garbage can to the end of the driveway. Too bad household chores were resistant to his magic.

The Aspen Meadow Café is an attempt to bring continental cuisine to our little portion of the map. Originally a real estate office that had gone under during the 1985 oil slump, it was rumored that the new place had been remodeled à la Nouvelle Bistro. As I waited for Marla, my purse pleasantly stuffed with the tip from Monday’s barbecue, the window displays beckoned.

On the inside shelves, baskets filled with every sort of bread crowded the shimmering expanse of plate glass. Braided loaves, round loaves, loaves freckled with poppy and sesame seeds, baguettes, muffins, fragrant nut breads, and oversize whole-wheat loaves crowded over and under each other. Decorously placed in one corner of the window was an Elk Park Prep decal: G
ET
I
NTO
T
HE
S
WIM
!

The chimes attached to the glass door jingled cheerfully as I pushed through the door to look for Marla. Heady smells of roasting chickens and baking cakes mingled in the air. Above the glass cases filled with carryout items, there was a blackboard with the day’s specials chalked in: Red Onion and Basil Tart, Grilled Chicken Santa Fe, Crevettes aux Champignons. Past the glass cases and around a corner there was a seating area. I strolled back. No Marla. She was not at any of the tables, where fresh arrangements of freesias and daisies adorned each white tablecloth. Lunch business was brisk: waitresses bustled about in the dining area. A waitress whispered that she would be out to help me at the counter in a moment and apologized that they were shorthanded today.

I walked unhurriedly around the corner to the counter area and turned my concentration back to the day’s specials. I had just decided on the tart when I was whacked from behind.

I did not see who hit me. One minute I was reading the blackboard. The next I was shoved into a pastry case. I felt the glass crack beneath my chest. Shards splintered over tortes and pies. I careened off the glass. My head hit the metal of the bread shelves. I groped wildly for the bread baskets, the shelves, anything to keep from landing on the tile floor. My attacker rammed me again. This time I fell on a small marble table. It clattered to the floor and broke beneath my weight.

Loaves of bread toppled down as I landed on the broken table and tile floor. My body screamed with pain. I couldn’t see; I could only hear my voice howling, even as I knew the sound was muffled by loaves of bread.

A husky voice came in close to my ear. It said, “Let Philip Miller rest in peace.”

Then I heard abrupt jingling as the door to the café was flung open in haste. My attacker had rushed out.

I began to push loaves of bread away from my face and chest. My head throbbed from the fall; my back and chest ached from the relentless shoves.

“Hey! Hey!” came Marla’s voice from far above me. “What happened here?”

Hands groped through the piles of bread to pull me up. I opened my eyes and thought I saw stars. But it was just a pantsuit covered with embroidered galaxies: Marla’s sweat suit showing the summer constellations. A waitress and a cook were standing next to her, and they all stared down at me. Their questions tumbled out: What happened? Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?

I laughed at that last one. But that made everything hurt worse. My arm was bleeding. My chest felt as if it had caved in. The rest, luckily or unluckily, would be bruises. I gasped for breath. Something in my chest would not open up.

While Marla fetched clean wet towels for the cut, I told the assembled onlookers that I had been shoved. Had anyone seen anything? I looked into their surprised faces. One waitress said she’d seen someone leave in a hurry, but just assumed I’d lost my balance getting out of that person’s way. The most description I could get was dark long hair that could have been a wig, black shirt and pants. She couldn’t even say whether it had been a male or female. How tall? Not too tall.

“Should we call your cop friend?” asked Marla.

I shook my head. “Later. Without a description, license plate, or other ID, they’re only going to record it anyway.”

“Still feel like lunch?” she asked in a low voice.

“Let me pull myself together for a minute.” Two of the kitchen staff were cleaning up the bread and marble mess. Broken glass shimmered all across the floor. I clamped the towel around my arm. Several diners eyed me as they left the café. Marla told me I was creating a curiosity slow-down. I said if she would help me around the corner to the seating area, we could get settled.

We limped together slowly through tables of women in tennis clothes and men in fringed leather shirts, jeans, and tooled cowboy boots to a table in the corner.

“I was hoping to avoid the rodeo crowd,” Marla mumbled as she lowered me into a chair.

Good old Marla. It was so much easier to smile at her complaint than to think about my own pain. Coming from Connecticut, Marla had a hard time with the male crowd on any given day in any given Colorado eating establishment. Whether they were bankers, real estate agents, surveyors, or petroleum engineers, a large number would be sporting ten-gallon hats, hand-tooled cowboy boots, fringed leather jackets, and turquoise Indian jewelry. Today was no exception, although I somehow couldn’t see how western apparel jibed with Belgian endive and peppercress.