"Was that a rejection?" I asked Marla.
"No, no, my dear, the royal short people have cleaned the trays. Now they need to talk to some other Episcopalians who've come back from the Holy Land." I did not remember the overdressed couple the Dawsons were now chatting with as being particularly religious. Marla said, "You know, Goldy. England." Under her breath, she added, "My question is, if she didn't like it, why'd she have so many pieces?"
I certainly did not know. I checked on the serving table, where Audrey had deftly kept the platters refilled. Across the room, Arch caught my eye. He was standing with the tall, skinny Marenskys, who were avoiding either me or the food or both. Stan and Rhoda Marensky were the kind of people caterers dislike most: They pick at their food, don't finish it, and then complain about how expensive it is. At that moment Stan was interrogating Arch, who shot me an imploring look that meant: Can we go? I held up my hand: Five minue's. Then I motioned him over. The Marenskys turned their backs.
"Has the headmaster's son been in trouble?" I demanded softly when Arch was by my side.
Arch pushed his glasses up on his nose. A bit of cheese hung on the corner of his mouth. I pinched a paper napkin and wiped it off.
"Do you mind?" Arch leaned away from my ministrations.
"Tell me about Macguire, the headmaster's son. And his trouble."
Arch shrugged noncommitally. "Well, he's kind of a goof-off. I mean, with a dad like that, can you blame him if he's weird? I don't think he's allowed to drive anymore. Listen, Mom, people aren't saying very nice things about Keith today. Like he deserved to die or something."
"Who's saying that, the Marenskys?"
"Oh, I guess. Them and other people." Another shrug. Arch, like Julian, wouldn't tattle if his life depended on it. "I'm telling you, Keith was a great guy. Even though he was a senior, he would talk to you. Most seniors just ignore you." Arch reached for another cupcake.
"I know, I know," I said, and felt a mother's pang over the way kids treated small-built, nonathletic Arch.
Marla sashayed up grandly. She had a piece of torte in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She gestured grandly with her coffee cup. "Van Gogh must have had to listen to people argue about the Ivy League. That's why he came home and cut off his ear."
I shook my head. "Just go have a listen-in on the conversation between the Dawsons and Audrey Coopersmith. Caroline was going on about grade point average being less important than extracurricular activities. Audrey replied that besides volleyball, the only outside interest Greer Dawson has ever shown was in clothes. So Caroline said, now that you mention it, maybe dear daughter Greer could give Audrey's daughter, Heather, a few pointers in that department. For that matter - Caroline threw in, as long as she was on a roll - it looked as if Audrey herself could use a little advice in the fashion department." I groaned. "Poor Audrey. As if she didn't have enough to deal with."
"Don't worry," said Marla. "I told Father Olson we needed a referee for a coffee hour argument. He said, Oh, theology or ethics? And I said, academics. He nodded. Said he learned all about it in seminary."
"ReaIIy?"
But before Marla could elaborate, the head of the Altar Guild came up and asked me to start clearing the serving table, as there was going to be a meeting in the parish hall after church. Arch sidled off.
To my relief, the cheese was almost gone, the plum cake was crumbs, and the bird centerpieces had been reduced to a few slices of apple-feather.
"Oh, Goldy!" Father Olson's face glowed with pleasure. "This was marvelous! And it gave rise to such a lively coffee hour! I wonder, could you be persuaded to do a luncheon-ministry for the Board of Theological Examiners? I'm sorry to say that we can't really afford to - "
"No thanks!" I called back gaily, scooping up the last of the Gouda. "I'm all booked for the next three months." This was not entirely true. But clients have to be willing to pay for their bread. I had a child to support.
"... just don't understand why you think your daughter is the only one qualified"..." Hank Dawson was gesticulating with a wedge of Gouda. As he chided Audrey Coopersmith, his tone was judgmental. "We have looked into this extensively - "
Caroline Dawson was nodding as she stuffed the last of a cupcake into her mouth. The lapels of her red suit quivered in indignation. She swallowed and continued her husband's thought. "Why, just the other day I was speaking with the director of admissions at - "
"And you think that makes you an expert?" Audrey fired back. Her face flushed with ferocity. "You don't know the first thing about the value of an education." She paused, and I felt myself chilled by the intensity of the dark-eyed glare she directed at the bewildered Caroline Dawson. Audrey's words erupted like a spray of bullets. "You think Ben Jonson is a Canadian runner. You, you" - she paused, grasping for another insult - "you think Heidegger is a box you carry to detect radiation!"
So saying, Audrey whacked her tray down on the table and stomped out the wooden door of the church. Her chain of keys made a loud chinking sound when the edge of the door caught them. She didn't stop to tell me good-bye. She didn't even take off her apron.
4
Father Olson tugged on his beard. "I do wish she hadn't made fun of Heidegger...."
"Oh," I said sympathetically. "She's going through a bad time."
Father Olson moved off to smooth the Dawsons' ruffled feathers. Personally, I didn't know whether Audrey needed understanding, self-improvement, or a brand-new outlook on life. But she sure needed something. Pain seeped out of her like water from a leaking dam. I resolved to say a few carefully chosen words of support the next time we worked together. Carefully chosen, because Arch always said that what I thought of as support was giving somebody the Heimlich maneuver when all they'd done was hiccup.
Hank Dawson nodded at Father Olson and maneuvered his way back to me. "Isn't Ben Jonson a Canadian runner?" His brow furrowed.
"Yes, of course. Named after a sixteenth-century playwright, perhaps."
"Who does that woman think she is?"
"Well, she was upset..."
Hank Dawson poured himself another cup of coffee and blew on it. He looked down his broad nose at me. "Audrey Coopersmith has distressed my wife." This from the fellow who the night before had given me that classic henpecked look: Don't worry, I have to live with her. Maybe the more distress Audrey created for Caroline Dawson, the more there was for Mr. Caroline Dawson.
"Well, Hank..."
"Listen. Audrey's just jealous because of how gifted our Greer is. Heather is good in math and science, period. Greer, mind you, has been making up stories since she was eight. She excels in languages and is an athlete, to boot. She's well-rounded, and that's what they're all looking for, you know that. Heather and Greer in a contest? That's not a game, It s a rout."
"Of course," I said soothingly. "But you know we all feel so protective of our children. Especially after what happened last night."
Hank swirled the coffee around and regarded me with his stern ice-blue eyes. "Oh, tell me! Nine thousand bucks a year, and then you tell me you find a dead body after a dinner at the headmaster's house! Jesus H. Christ'"
"Father Olson is within earshot," I murmured. Hank lifted a jaw that was so sharp it would have cut an Italian salami. He spat out his words. "Of all times for that school to get caught up in a scandal, this is the worst. These kids have their senior years, college applications, all that coming up. And what business does Audrey Coopersmith" - the blue eyes blazed as his voice rose -"who has never done a thing with her life, have judging our daughter? Greer placed fifth in the state in the National French Contest. She's written poems... she went to a writers' conference and studied with the writer-in-residence at Harvard "
"Greer's wonderful, wonderful," I lied. "Everybody thinks so."
The king of the short people grunted, turned on his heel, and walked off.
The strange part about Audrey's outburst was that within ten minutes Caroline Dawson had a change of heart-not toward Audrey, but toward me. Or, more accurately, toward my plum cake. Wanted to show she wasn't all snob, I guess. Before the stragglers had left the church coffee hour, when I was cleaning up the last bird-built-of-apple slices, she bustled over and announced she'd changed her mind. What could she possibly have been thinking? Of course they'd love to have me sell plum cakes at the cafe. They were absolutely delicious, and would go over wonderfully with their clientele. Should we start with six a week?
Oh, definitely, I'd replied meekly. The cake go-ahead wrapped me in a small cloud of good feeling, so rashly informed Father Olson I'd do his clergy meeting if the church could pay for my labor and supplies. His right hand combed his beard in Moses-like fashion. He murmured that he'd check with the diocesan office. The clergy meeting was this coming Friday, and as the church bulletin announced, they were going to discuss faith and penance. So could I think of something appropriate? I gave him a blank look. What, bread and water? Then I assured him a penitential meal was no problem. I even had a recipe for something called Sorry Cake.
When Arch and I got home, Julian sat in the kitchen sipping his version of caf‚ au lait, a cup of hot milk flavored with a tablespoon of espresso. He said he'd called for a window-repair person to come out tomorrow, and he wasn't in the mood to do his homework, so could he help with the choucroute for the Bronco lunch? He also said I'd had six calls: two hang-ups and four with messages. The messages were from the headmaster, Tom Schulz, Audrey Coopersmith, and my ex-husband, who sure sounded pissed off about something.
Nothing new there. But two hang-ups? "Did these anonymous callers say anything at all?" Julian tilted back in one of the kitchen chairs. "Nope. I just said, 'Hello? Hello? This is Goldilocks' Catering, who're you?' And all I could hear was breathing and then click."
The air around me turned suddenly chill. Could it be the same prankster who had smashed our window last night? What if Arch had taken those calls? Was someone casing my house? Best to tell Schulz about this. But I had someone else to call first.
I reached for the phone; my ex-husband picked up after four rings. The Jerk's uninflected voice, the one he used to try to show he was above feeling, said only that he'd been trying to get me all morning. I asked if he'd been around our house last night, maybe with a rock? He said, "What do you think I am, crazy? "
Well, I wasn't going to answer that one. I asked what he wanted. Only this: Because of the early snow, he wanted to go skiing this coming weekend, his time to take Arch. He wanted to pick him up at Elk Park Prep early on Halloween, this Friday, to beat the rush. Just wanted to let me know.
I chewed the inside. of my cheek. Since our weekend visitation arrangement did not include Friday, John Richard had to check with me about Arch's leaving school early. Of course, this checking actually meant announcing his plans and then waiting to see if I would get upset. Who, me? But I was concerned Arch might have other plans for Halloween. If Arch agreed, John Richard would no doubt take him to his condo in Keystone. His dad had had the locks changed, Arch had reported to me, to make sure I never used the place on the sly. Why should I be upset? Fine, I told John Richard, just let me check with Arch. I didn't even say what went through my mind, that some people had to work on Halloween. Or at least, like the Board of Theological Examiners, be penitent. But John Richard fit into neither of those categories, so I hung up.
I phoned Headmaster Perkins next, but got his son. Macguire acknowledged that he knew me by saying, "Oh yeah, hi. That was pretty heavy last night. You okay?" When I replied in the affirmative, he said, "Dad said to tell you he'd like to see you. Tomorrow. Just come into the office anytime, and, uh, bring some coat." He thought for a minute. "Tell him you just dropped in, you know, like a... meteorite."
I told him to expect a hit about ten the next morning, and hung up. Before I could dial Schulz, the phone rang.
"Goldilocks' Catering," I chirped, "where everything is just right!"
Breathing.
"Hey!" I yelled. "Who is this?"
A dial tone, then nothing. I pressed Schulz's number.
"How's my favorite caterer?" he said with a chuckle when I had greeted him.
"You mean your only caterer."
"Oops. She's in a bad mood. Must have been chatting with her ex-husband."
"That, and someone heaved a rock through one of our windows last night. Plus I just had an anonymous call, third one of the morning."
He snorted. "The ex up to his old tricks?"
"He says no. The security alarm went off when the rock came through, and Arch handled it. The calls worry me."
"You going to let the phone company know?"
"Yes. yes, of course. But what scares me is that these things happened right after the Keith Andrews thing. Maybe there's a connection. I wish I'd never found him. I wish I'd never gotten involved. But I did and I am, in case you don't recall."
