Dying for Chocolate (7 page)

He said, “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

I couldn’t wait to get hold of Sissy Stone, sort of like getting hold of the flu. But when the wooden doors of the Aspen Meadow Public Library swung open at 9:58 A.M., the young woman behind the door gave me a toothpaste-ad smile. She was my height and compactly built, a cross between a gymnast and a cheerleader and probably functional at both. She had pushed up the sleeves on a too-large Elk Park Prep sweatshirt that I suspected was Julian’s. Perfect cream beige makeup covered olive-undertoned skin. Her hair fell in thick dark waves that reminded me of the ribbon candy I bought Arch at Christmastime.

“I’m looking for Sissy Stone,” I said with what I hoped was an enormous, confidence-winning grin. “Do you know where she is?”

The girl said, “Why?”

“Are you Sissy?” I asked.

“Well. Yeah,” she said with another bright smile, as if I had just introduced her on network television.

I gestured into the library so we could go somewhere and talk. “Julian Teller suggested I come talk to you. I’m the owner of Goldilocks’ Catering. Julian said you knew. . . .” To her unenthusiastic nod I said, “I’m working as a live-in cook with the Farquhars this summer. You’re coming to the dinner I’m doing tonight for Weezie Harrington.” Another nod. “I need some help from you, the kind you gave her, if that’s okay. In the area of food.”

“Weezie Harrington,” she repeated. She looked both ways, as if conscious of who might be watching or listening. “I’ll have to check.”

My hopes for this conversation grew dim. Around us young mothers pulled reluctant toddlers to Saturday morning story time. The front-desk computers whirred and beeped as morning visitors began to check out books, demand paper for the copier, and slap down volumes to be assessed for overdue fines.

I trundled after Sissy. She had a light step and carried herself with confidence. She glanced this way and that on her way to the computer, as if she were looking for someone more important to talk to. Once at the computer, she tapped away.
“Complete Apbrodisia
is out,” she announced without looking back at me. “Let’s check for articles.” She moved efficiently to another machine, where she typed into another keyboard. As the machine whirred efficiently, she said, “I guess you can’t wait until Monday?”

I shook my head. “Can we go outside for a few minutes? Please?” Before she could say no, I was on my way to the library garden, a plot lovingly and meticulously tended by the Aspen Meadow Garden Club. Long-stemmed flax, pansies, petunias, and mountain bluebell swayed in the cool morning breeze as I settled on one of the benches and gestured for her to do the same.

“Listen, Sissy, “ I began, “all I need is a few ideas. Julian is a vegetarian. Can’t you remember anything from some of those articles you supplied Mrs. Harrington?”

“Oh, look, a pansy,” said Sissy, as if I had not spoken. She gestured to the garden. “Do you know why its juice was used as a love potion in
Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“Cupid shot one of his love arrows into what was originally a flower of pure color. You see,” she said as she bent down to brush the pansy with her fingertips, “it bled.”

I looked at my watch: 10:10. Clearly, Miss Priss had no intention of helping me. I would give this conversation five more minutes and then head for the grocery store.

I cleared my throat. “If Cupid were cooking for a vegetarian, Sissy, what would he fix?”

“Mmm,” she said, and focused vaguely on a nearby evergreen. “Nothing too heavy. Eggs. Sign of fertility. Can you do that for dinner? Cheese for creaminess and sensuality. Also because it’s easy to digest. You don’t want to have indigestion at the wrong moment.”

I stared at her. She closed her eyes dramatically and shrugged one shoulder. Well, at least we were getting somewhere.

“Cheese,” I prompted.

“Something with spice. You know, like garlic or peppers. Onions,” she added as an afterthought.

“Got it,” I said, and she nodded. I went on, “Now I know chocolate’s a must for dessert,” another nod, “so I’m just looking at a salad situation here. Give me a tip in the green department and I’ll be on my way.”

But she was watching someone going into the library. I shook my head along with the flowers bending in the cool June wind.

I said, “What kind of roughage heats up the libido, Sissy?”

No response. My watch said 10:20. I stood up and started to walk toward the car.

She called after me, “Fennel! Endive! Asparagus, carrots, and mushrooms!”

At the grocery store I bought ingredients for Shrimp Dumpling Soup, Chile Relleno Torta, as well as avocados, mushrooms, and baby lettuces for salad. Back at the Farquhars I spread everything out and began to get out pans to grease. My cooking concentration began to rev up, like the adrenaline some athletes claim after the first mile. Then the security gate buzzed.

It buzzed and buzzed. It was apparent that I had gone from live-in cook to phone answerer to butler and general factotum.

“Yes,” I said into the speaker. The closed-circuit camera showed two men in a dark sedan.

“Goldy Bear?” asked one of them. “We would like to talk to you.” Police officers.

I said, “I am unbelievably busy.”

“Just a few questions.”

“May I cook while you ask things?”

“We’d rather you’d take some time out.”

“Then you’ll have to come tomorrow.”

A pause. They looked at each other.

“You can cook,” said one.

I buzzed them through. A moment later, I opened the front door and drew my mouth into what I hoped was a threatening pucker. “My business isn’t in jeopardy, is it?”

“If we can just talk to you, Ms. Bear, we should be able to get some things straightened out.”

“Right,” I said as I turned to walk down the hall to the kitchen. “I can’t wait.”

8.

The cops introduced themselves and then sat down at Adele’s oak kitchen table. I readied my recipe for Chile Relleno Torta. If I made an individual serving, everyone would want a bite, and Julian would have no main dish. Anyway, when serving men a nonmeat entrée, it is essential to serve enormous amounts so as not to offend machismo. Otherwise, after you’ve cleared the ramekin or quiche or soufflé away, one of the fellows will innocently pipe up, “That was great! Now what’s the main course?”

“Ms. Bear?” said the first one, who was named Boyd. He was a barrel-shaped man with a short black crew cut that was not meant to be fashionable. One of his stubby carrotlike fingers held a ballpoint pen poised over a smudged notebook. “Were you the last one to talk to Dr. Miller before he got into his car?”

I removed brown eggs from the Farquhars’ side-by-side refrigerator and thought back.

“I think so,” I said. Then, “Yes, I was. He helped me load platters into Mrs. Farquhar’s Thunderbird.”

“This was at Elk Park,” said the other fellow, a stocky fellow named Armstrong who had thin strands of light-brown hair pulled over a shiny bald spot. He had the pasty complexion people get when they’ve spent too much time inside. I nodded.

CHILE RELLENO TORTA

½ pound cheddar cheese, grated

½ pound Monterey Jack cheese, grated

5 eggs

1/3 cup all-purpose flour

1 2/3 cups half-and-half

1 4-ounce can diced green chiles, drained

¼ cup picante sauce

Preheat oven to 375°. Mix grated cheeses and spread evenly in buttered 10-inch pie plate. Beat eggs, add flour slowly, and then beat in half-and-half. If mixture is lumpy, strain it. Pour egg mixture over cheeses in pie plate. Carefully spoon chiles over the surface, then spoon picante sauce over all. Bake about 45 minutes or until center is set.

Makes 8 to 10 servings

“Did he seem to be in any pain to you?” asked Boyd.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Pain? Like physical pain? Or psychic pain?”

Boyd said, “Philip Miller was late for the breakfast because he had just been to his doctor, according to his sister. Now we still need to talk to the doctor, but we’re just asking, how did he seem?”

I thought back to Philip. On such a dark and cold June morning, he had been as smartly dressed as ever in his black and white outfit and Ray Bans. There had been the usual smattering of resentful female glances and whispers as he’d made his way over to me, as if I did not deserve so lovely a man.

Wait a minute. Ray Bans?

“What kind of doctor did he go to?” I asked.

“We’re not at liberty—”

“Oh, shut up,” I said impatiently. “Was it an eye doctor?”

The two cops exchanged a look.

“Routine checkup,” said Boyd. “How’d you know?”

“Sunglasses,” I said. But I felt gloom descend again. So? He’d been able to see me across the room, he’d walked over, talked, walked back out to his car . . .

“What did he have to eat at the breakfast?” asked Armstrong.

I ran through that again and added, “His sister gave him some sausage cake. Just a bite, and I saw her do it. Nothing sinister.”

“You made the sausage cake?”

I nodded slowly.

“Miller and his sister seem to get along to you?”

“Of course. He helped her out with that health-food store—”

“He helped her out,” Boyd repeated.

“So what?” I said.

No response. I said, “Look, I can probably help you more if you tell me more. We’re not exactly talking state secrets here. I knew Philip was helping Elizabeth financially, I just don’t know how much.”

Boyd wrote in his notebook, stopped, then bit the inside of his cheek. He said, “The other two hippie-food stores in this town went out of business over five years ago. Hers was the only one left, because her rich brother had bailed her out with a six-figure business loan.”

“Elizabeth was devoted to him. She worried about him,” I said. “How many siblings in their thirties can you say that for?”

He sniffed, then said, “She gave him something to eat. Did she have some, too?”

“She’s a vegetarian.” I left out the high-performance part. “Forensic pathology’s not my field. What does the autopsy say about the contents of his stomach?”

“Who prepared the rest of the food?” asked Armstrong, brushing aside my question.

“Except for the nut cakes, I did. But no one—including Philip—got sick.” Annoyance bristled in my voice. “Your insinuation is unappreciated.”

They ignored me. Then came a barrage of questions: Did Philip have an argument with anyone at the brunch? Was anyone else in the parking lot? Did his car start right away? Was there anything hanging underneath the car? Did the brakes appear to work? I answered as best I could: nothing suspicious with the car or the person.

“You were going out with Philip Miller, weren’t you?” asked Armstrong.

For the second time that day unexpected tears stung my eyes. The last thing I wanted to do was fall apart in front of these two.

I cleared my throat and said, “I was very fond of him.”

Armstrong pressed on. “Anyone jealous of that relationship? Your ex-husband? Miller’s ex-wife lives in Hawaii, but what do you know about any former girlfriends of his?”

“I don’t know about his former girlfriends,” I said with some sharpness. The only thing I knew about Philip’s ex-wife was that she existed. For heaven’s sake, we’d only been going out for a month. To my relief the brink of tears passed. I drew myself up and said, “I try to have as little to do with my ex-husband as possible.”

“We have several reports on file, Ms. Bear. All from you.”

I said evenly, “He wasn’t at the brunch.”

“Did Philip have anything to drink?” asked Boyd. “Coffee? Juice?” He stared at me. “Champagne?”

I said, “I didn’t see him drink anything.”

“But twenty minutes later he’s driving like he’s drunk.”

I put my hands flat down on the island, then leaned toward their impassive faces. “Then why wouldn’t he pull over?”

Boyd said, “Macho guy, he’s not going to pull over and ask a woman for help. Maybe.”

I shook my head, then said, “Look, why don’t you see what the eye doctor says? Maybe he was on some medication or something—”

“Thank you, Ms. Bear,” said Boyd. He nodded to Armstrong to indicate the interview was over. “We need to talk to you, we’ll call.”

I grated cheddar and jack, beat eggs and swirled in flour and cream, drained chiles, then mounded the cheese into pale hillocks on the pie plates. The cream mixture made a wonderful glug-glug noise as I poured it over the cheese. I spooned the chiles on top and then artfully sloshed picante sauce over each. As I put the pies into the Farquhars’ oven the security gate buzzed. Not the police again already. This time I was going to cook whether they liked it or not.

It was not the police.

It was my ex-husband.

He gave me a broad smile in the closed-circuit camera. He lifted up his hands to show he was unarmed.

I let his car through and felt sick. In my state of confusion over the accident and the work for the dinner party, I had forgotten to call up to Arch and make sure he was ready. I stared at the intercom. If I could mince with a Cuisinart, I could master this. I pressed buttons and called hopefully throughout the house. No answer. I made my way out to the front porch. There was no way I was letting him into the house.

“Heard you lost your boyfriend,” he said once I came through the door.

I looked around for neighbors, the general, Julian, anybody. The only thing I saw were the little marble and clay pots that the general was supposed to fill with geraniums and impatiens sometime during the weekend.

I said, “News travels fast.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m listening,” I said as I sidled away from him, moved a couple of unpotted plants aside, and tentatively sat.

“I didn’t say I wanted to go to bed with you. I just said I wanted to talk.”

“I can hear you just fine. And if you want to
talk,
you’re going to have to watch your mouth.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, then smiled at me indulgently.

John Richard Korman’s extraordinary handsomeness, his boyish sensitive face, brown hair, and light blue eyes, always made me feel light-headed. He also played his doctor aura to good effect. He did this not just with me but with all manner of women, I came to find out after we were married. It was this type of man Henry Kissinger had been talking about when he said that power was the great aphrodisiac.

This was the man I used to love, the man who had slapped me when he was drunk, the man who did not love me. I knew to guard against his disarming good looks by keeping the conversation short. Kissinger, I reasoned, was probably talking about himself.

I pressed my fingers down into the dirt around one of the geraniums waiting to be planted. It needed water. Then I brought out a paring knife I had slipped into my apron pocket and put it down next to the plant, where John Richard couldn’t see it. Just in case.

He said, “A female friend of mine is going to teach Arch a few magic tricks.”

I said, “Oh, please. Your last girlfriend tried to teach him geometry and he’s gotten D’s ever since.”

“Maybe that’s because someone’s too busy catering to help him with his homework.”

I closed my eyes. I did not want to get into a fight. When I opened my eyes, John Richard was giving me his toothy innocent smile.

He said, “So where are Marla’s sister and her famous husband? What’s his name—Rommel?”

“Don’t.”

He looked at the sky, then said, “Well, let me ask you this. Who’re you cooking for tonight?”

“The Harringtons.”

He laughed. He guffawed, started to say something, and then snickered and wouldn’t quit. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of asking what the joke was. He said, “This is just ironic as hell.”

“Why’s that?” This conversation was strange, but familiar. One subject, then another, laughing one minute, then. . . my neck snapped up involuntarily. Too late.

John Richard picked up a clay pot and threw it at the front door. The crack of the shatter reverberated in my ears. Then a second pot smashed against the house.

“Stop it, stop it,” I squealed and buried my face in my hands. My throat was raw, like in those nightmares when you call for help but have no voice. I looked up in time to see him kick a third pot. Fragments went spinning away from the porch steps.

“Okay! Okay!” My voice begged. I looked helplessly at the knife. What did I think I was going to do with it, anyway? “Whatever it is, you can have it,” I cried. “Just stop. Arch is on his way out here.”

John Richard glared at me. He spat out each word. “You’ve ruined my life. My family’s gone, my practice has lost business. All your fault, you bitch. So listen up. If I want my son to learn magic, he’s going to learn.”

“All right! Just calm down, for God’s sake! I’ve got a party to do tonight, and I don’t want trouble!”

He picked up another pot and threatened me with it. I could hear my heart beating in my chest. “Don’t want trouble?” he mimicked in a high voice. “Don’t want trouble?”

Before I could answer, there was General Bo suddenly behind John Richard. The general grabbed The Jerk’s neck with both hands. John Richard dropped to his knees like a rag doll. The clay pot fell out of his hands and rolled down the driveway.

“Oh, stop! Stop!” I cried as I jumped to my feet. A ball of nausea collected in my stomach.

General Bo Farquhar took no notice of me. He spoke down to John Richard’s head, which he had torqued around to force eye contact.

“Now you listen to me, you little son of a bitch,” said the general with such ferocity that my whole body broke out in a sweat. “There’s a law in this state called Make My Day. You set foot on this property again, I’ll use it. I’ll show you how the Special Forces can kill people without making any noise. Is that clear?”

John Richard made the throaty sound of a man about to be strangled. The front door opened. The general released John Richard into the freshly raked dirt at the side of the driveway just as Arch came out. Arch looked soundlessly from person to person, then pushed his glasses high up on his nose.

He said, “Should I go back inside, Mom?”

John Richard was wiping dirt from his nose. I wanted to say, Yes, yes, go back! But I could not. John Richard gave an almost imperceptible nod. I gestured to Arch to go. He plodded toward his father, who was brushing dirt off his polo shirt.

The general moved toward the porch. He said quietly, “Goldy, I’d like to see you inside.”

I nodded. But I could not take my eyes off John Richard, who was walking slowly with Arch toward his Jeep. John Richard whirled, and I cringed.

He yelled to me, “Philip Miller was fucking Weezie Harrington!”