Dying for Chocolate (16 page)

“Am I ever,” I said. He handed me a bottle of my favorite brand of nonalcoholic beer, then got one for himself. “Did you buy this especially for me?” But I knew he had. “Gee, am I ready for somebody to be nice.”

“I take it you saw the paper.”

“Change the subject, please. So we’re having steak? I thought you
liked
fancy cooking.”

“I like so many things, you can hardly imagine.” He winked. “Let’s go sit.”

I went back out to the porch and settled tentatively on the swing. It was one of the old-fashioned kind with slats.

“Wait here a sec,” he said as he took my fake-beer bottle and put it on the deck railing. He returned with an alpaca blanket, which he unfolded and carefully tucked around me.

I said, “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Shut up and drink this stuff that means I don’t have to worry about you driving home.” He handed me the bottle and lowered himself to the other side of the swing.

“You really are wonderful, you know,” I said without looking at him. The drink was cold and fizzy; my chest warmed in response. The scratchy alpaca felt snug and safe.

“Yeah, aren’t I something. Goldy, I want you to report this attack, whether anybody saw the guy or not.”

“Will do.”

“You can bet we’re not going to let any aspect of this thing rest in peace now.”

I nodded. Silence enveloped us as the sun sank behind the mountains. The air was gauzy from the melting hail.

He said, “You’re still feeling bad about this Philip Miller fellow.” It was not a question.

An involuntary tightness gathered in the area where my ribs ached. I said, “Sometimes. It seems like such a waste.”

“Oh. I don’t think so.”

“What do you know about it?” I sipped, looked out at the view.

“Well, Miss G., as hard as it may be for you to believe, I had a girlfriend once. Went to high school together, all that. She was killed in Vietnam.”

I was nonplussed. “I thought women weren’t—“

“She was a nurse. Hit in an artillery shelling.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Point is, love is never wasted.”

“Really. I wasted it for seven years on The Jerk. And I’m not sure I was in love with Philip Miller.”

He let that pass. After a few minutes he said, “Feel like talking about him, then? In an unemotional kind of way? It involves people you know better than I do.”

I swished the liquid around in its green bottle until it foamed. I said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

“For starters, there’s Philip Miller and the people who live next door to you.”

I said flatly, “I don’t know whether he was having an affair with Weezie.”

“That’s the rumor I heard from four people. Also, if she’s so interested in aphrodisiacs, do you think she’d go so far as to use this Spanish fly? Might explain why Philip had it.”

“I told you, I know the rumor about the affair. That’s it.”

“Actually, I’m wondering if you know anything about the relationship between our good shrink and Brian Harrington.”

“Oh,
please.”

“Not that kind of relationship. Business. Rivalry. Philip Miller, the politically correct counselor, active in Protect Our Mountains, president of the local Audubon Society, and an opponent of development of ecologically sensitive Flicker Ridge. Which is owned by Mr. Harrington.”

I said, “Show me a part of Colorado, even one rock, that somebody’s not insisting is ecologically sensitive.” I got up to hunt for another fake beer.

“Okay, okay,” he said as he followed me back to his compact kitchen. “Let me do this,” he said as he took my bottle and rattled around in the refrigerator for another one. “I’m the host. I just wanted to know if you knew anything about it.”

“Audubon Society, I don’t know. I’m doing a picnic for them tomorrow with the Farquhars. As to specifics, the only kind of birds I know about are the kind you eat.”

“Can’t say that I blame you,” he said as he handed me another cold bottle. “Bring that out back so we can do the steaks. I need to talk to you about health food, anyway.”

“Another one of my favorite topics.”

He smiled at me. “The sun’s gone down. You need a sweater or something?” He looked questioningly at my thin jacket.

I said I would get the alpaca and meet him around back. When I arrived at the patio, the steaks had begun to sizzle on the grill. The enticing smell of barbecue smoke drifted upward into the darkening sky. I rewrapped myself and sat down on a picnic bench, Indian-style.

“Okay,” he said as he tossed a few drops of water on the fire to bring the flames down. The coals hissed. He moved his big body around to face me, and I felt a surge of warmth not associated with the fake beer or the blanket. He said, “The sister. Elizabeth. Having trouble with her health-food-store mortgage payment until Philip’s will takes care of everything.”

I shook my head. “I just don’t think she would do it. She’s weird, but not murderous.’ I reflected. “She and Weezie were having a fight about something, though. Did Philip leave anything for Weezie, that was what the argument was about.”

“Leave what, like money?”

“I don’t know. Elizabeth wants to get together. Maybe I could talk to her.”

“Your mission, Miss G., is to find out what the fight was about. Leave Weezie what?”

“This is kind of gross,” I said, “but was he an organ donor or something? I remember Elizabeth yelling he left his body to science. Maybe that’s what he was going to leave.”

Schulz turned the steaks over. Tantalizing smoke rushed out.

He said, “I checked. He was a donor. Contrary to public perception, a death in a car crash means his heart and kidneys couldn’t be donated. Only things that can be, were. Skin and corneas. Both per Miller’s instruction. “ He threw more water droplets on the fire. “No evidence of poison in the autopsy, by the way. I already told you he was negative for drugs. I still can’t figure out that cantharidin. He didn’t have any of the internal inflammation that would have shown he’d been given some.”

“Let’s not talk about this anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He tucked in the steaks’ sides and came over to sit next to me on the bench. He pulled one foot up on his knee. “You doing okay? Need anything? I got a big salad and some baked potatoes inside. Strawberry pie made by my favorite caterer.”

I smiled. “Not to mention steaks cooked by a great cop.”

He turned, put his arms around the alpaca with me inside, pulled the package close. My inner tightness melted. His facial skin was cool. His sandy hair smelled intensely of steak smoke. I could hear my heart beating.

“I’m worried about you,” he said into my ear. “And I miss you.”

I unraveled my arms from the alpaca, reached out for his large waist.

“Somebody’s driving up,” he said, very low.

Just when things were getting good.

“Mom!” came Arch’s distant voice. “Mom, I changed my mind!” Tires ground into the mud. A car turned around. “Mom! The general brought me! I even remembered how to get here! Where are you, around back?”

Schulz and I untangled ourselves.

Schulz cocked his head at me. Said, “To be continued.”

Arch burst out onto the patio. “Wow, does that smell good! It’s okay for me to come this late, isn’t it?”

17.

Food always tastes better when it’s cooked by someone else. When that someone else was Tom Schulz, you were in good hands. The juicy steaks were redolent of a garlic-Burgundy marinade, the flaky baked potatoes oozed melted butter, and every leaf of the green salad was unabashedly coated with thick guacamole dressing. Schulz confessed to having called Arch to find out how I liked chocolate best. Arch had said, With mint. Therefore, alongside our strawberry pie we had Schulz’s famous chocolate-mint cheesecake. So much for the National Cholesterol Institute.

Arch was happy in Tom Schulz’s company. He felt accepted and it showed; he even called Schulz by his first name. After some initial hesitation, Arch dug in and ate voraciously. Toward the end of our visit he became downright chatty. Did Tom know how to call the wizard to tell him what card was in his hand? He did not. Arch took out a deck of cards and had Tom pick one. Then he called a friend of his, and the wizard announced the card to Tom, who was amazed.

“It’s a code,” said Arch. “Like Mom and I used to have when I was little. If I wanted her to come pick me up at a friend’s house, or if I was having some kind of problem at school or something? I would just call her up and say, ’The seven of spades.’ She knew to come right away, and I wouldn’t be embarrassed trying to explain things. Calling the wizard,” Arch went on, “is a code that a lot of magicians use. The caller knows the card. The wizard is just any one of your friends who knows the trick.” He gave me a wide grin, the first I’d seen in a while. “Even Mom knows it.”

SCHULZ’S GUACAMOLE SALAD

1 head iceberg lettuce

¼ cup grated cheddar cheese

¼ A cup grated Monterey Jack cheese

½ cup chopped scallions

8 cherry tomatoes, halved

1 cup crushed corn chips (recommended: Chili Cheese Fritos)

DRESSING:

1 avocado, peeled, pitted, and mashed

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

½ cup sour cream

1/3 cup corn oil

1 tablespoon picante sauce

Tear lettuce into small pieces and combine with cheeses, scallions, and tomatoes. Cover and refrigerate in salad bowl until serving time. Combine all ingredients for dressing and mix well. Toss salad with dressing and sprinkle top with crushed chips.

Makes 4 to 6 servings

“Would you teach me?” asked Tom Schulz. “Please?”

Arch hesitated, then said he could use another wizard, anyway. He told Schulz that if someone called and asked for the wizard, to run slowly through the suits, until the caller interrupted him. Then the wizard ran downward from the ace until the caller interrupted him again.

Schulz was impressed. “Will you call me sometime? Not at the Sheriff’s Department, but here at home? That is, if you can tear yourself away from that fancy summer school of yours.”

Arch said he would, then confessed he didn’t really like summer school except for his mini-course in French. This he was taking to avoid an hour of sports
(tennis,
he said with disgust, in the same tone of voice that one might use upon discovering
ants).
Had Tom read Poe, Arch wanted to know. Yes, a million years ago. Arch said, Imagine, we even have ravens in Aspen Meadow.

Tom asked if Poe was a good dresser. Arch said he wasn’t sure. Well, Arch’s taste in clothes showed some new influence. Arch said, Just a guy named Julian. I could not remember the last time I had seen Arch so happy. He even hummed along with Schulz playing his guitar and singing “Love Is a Rose” after the cheesecake. When the three of us did the dishes, Schulz taught him “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.” Arch alternated humming the two tunes all the way home.

As I drove up to the Farquhars’ house with its numerous floodlights, I realized I had forgotten to tell Schulz about the general’s private magazine. Before I went through the security gate I picked up the Farquhars’ mail and made a mental note to tell him about it when I thanked him for the evening.

There were letters for General Bo from the Center for Poison Research and from the Department of the Army, for Julian from some government agency, and a note to me from Elizabeth. I opened it. She thanked me for flowers I had sent after the funeral. The Farquhars had invited her to be their guest at the Audubon picnic. She would see me there and we could arrange getting together soon.

Another missive awaited me in the kitchen. It was from Adele, written in her cramped, arthritic hand. We were going to leave at eight-thirty in the morning for the birding expedition to Flicker Ridge. The Audubon Society had helped with the calls soliciting attendees, and we had twenty people coming at sixty dollars a pop. It was a good thing I’d cooked for about thirty. Adele went on to say that a woman who worked in the bird house at the Denver Zoo would be our guide. Julian was going to assist. He knew so much about biology in general and birds in particular! I felt a pang. Why was everyone enthusiastic about Julian except me? Arch was welcome to come along. Thank you for making the picnic vegetarian, hope this didn’t cause too much trouble, but you know how Julian and Elizabeth Miller are about eating flesh.

When you put it that way, I thought, who wouldn’t be?

She closed saying the sole was stupendous, and that whoever wrote that article for the paper was a simpleton, wouldn’t know pâté from a can of peas. Or, I added mentally, pork chops from lamb chops. But I would have my chance in the rebuttal.

I set the alarm system, got into bed, and read “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” Perhaps sensing that the last time I had done nighttime reading it had not ended well, Scout slipped into my room and eyed me askance. Then he did a soft cat-leap and plopped himself on the end of my bed, perhaps to keep me from trundling off in the middle of the night. But sleep came with ease, and I dreamt of chocolate-mint cheesecake.

The next morning brought one of those magnificent sunrises that make a soul glad to live in Colorado. Radiant feathers of cloud along the eastern horizon went from brilliant pink to burnished gold as the sun climbed. A mild breeze swished through the pines and aspens around the house. I watched a dark rope of espresso unwind from the Farquhars’ Gaggia and realized I felt happy for the first time in a week. Before packing the lunch for the Audubon Society, I allowed myself the luxury of sipping my coffee out on the Farquhars’ porch. Golden banner and dandelions speckled the deep greens of the mountain meadow. Birds of every ilk vied in chorus.

The Audubon Society would be appalled to hear that our feathered friends were no obsession of mine. I loved western flowers and tried to learn their names and seasons. Birds were more difficult. For one thing, they kept moving while you tried to figure out what you were seeing. I couldn’t tell a finch from a flicker. Despite twelve years of living in the state, I had never been birding and was glad of it. For many Coloradans, keeping their life lists, participating in yearly counts, and searching for new species were activities undertaken with religious fervor. I felt the same way about any given bird that I did about modern art. I could appreciate it without knowing too much.

But who was I to worry? All I had to do was cater. I packed containers of vichyssoise, croissants filled with Jarlsberg and curly endive, chilled cooked angel-hair pasta with tomatoes and pesto, green salad with balsamic vinaigrette in a separate container, sour cream chocolate cupcakes, chardonnay, beer, and thermoses of iced tea and hot coffee. If they had no success in the birding arena, the guests could still eat to their hearts’ content.

Our party of twenty consisted of Elizabeth Miller, Julian Teller, the Harringtons, the Farquhars, Arch and myself and the young woman from the zoo, plus eleven hardy naturalists with graying hair, sun hats, sensible boots, and plenty of heavy binoculars to go around. My van, the general’s Range Rover, and several other four-wheel-drive vehicles were scheduled to rendezvous just inside Flicker Ridge around nine o’clock. Julian helped pack the picnic boxes onto the van shelves. He was in a foul temper. My efforts to lighten his mood backfired. He had followed up the latest bleach job on his hair with a close shave on both sides of his head, and a trim on the Mohawk.

I said, “Julian, you don’t look like a Navajo.”

He squinted in my direction. “No kidding. You don’t look like a bear.”

Give up. The kid had no sense of humor. But when we all bumped and rocked over the ridge road that was more of a trail, I realized he was nervous. Although I could see that the nervousness might be causing the hostility, I was getting tired of always making excuses for him.

When we got to the tables I blissfully began to unpack checkered tablecloths and to place rocks on them to keep the breeze from wafting them off. The birders settled around on the benches and opened—yes!— notebooks. Lord, I was glad not to be a part of it.

“Goldy,” said General Farquhar, “what do you think you’re doing?”

I looked up at him in surprise. “Why,” I said, gesturing to the tablecloths, “getting ready for the picnic. What else?”

“You’re a part of the family,” he said firmly. “I want you to come on this expedition with us. No need for anyone to be left out.”

“But I really, really, really want to get ready for the picnic,” I said earnestly. I leaned in toward his ear and smelled Dial soap. In a confidential tone, I added, “I think birds are dumb.”

When he shook his head his translucent cheeks glowed with authority. “This is going to be fun! I want you to enjoy this along with everyone else. No excuses.”

Arch breathed a singsong
You’ll be sor-ry,
but I did not know whether this was intended for the general or me. Giving up, I cursed the resourcefulness of the Audubon Society when a notebook and pen were provided for me.

“The eagle population is down on the Front Range,” the zoo-lady began after a brief look at her notes. She stared at us. I picked up my pen and wrote, “Eagle pop. down,” then looked up at her expectantly.

She said, “This is because of the drought. There are fewer prairie dogs and voles for the birds of prey to feed on.”

She had lost me. I didn’t want to risk another reprimand from the general, so I scribbled, “What’s a vole?” Must be some kind of bird, I figured. What was that Domenico Modugno song about flying? “Volare.”

I smiled at everybody and got up to pour coffee. Listen, look, lift—these were the rules for hunting birds with the binoculars. It sounded like an explanation of working with hand weights. In any event, within ten minutes the zoo-lady had outlined the list of birds we would probably see that day, beginning with a redheaded woodpecker.

Redheaded woodpecker? What was the big deal about that? In New Jersey you saw them all the time.

But we were off and running, or at least the general was. He knew the site of the woodpecker’s nest and was forging ahead to set up the tripod and the scope. In the absence of actual military operations, the r.h.w. was the enemy.

Adele hobbled along the dirt path behind the gaggle of old-time birders. Weezie, elegant in designer jeans and an Indian leather jacket, chatted vivaciously alongside her. Next was Elizabeth Miller in a black leotard and peasant skirt. Weezie studiously ignored her. Arch walked quickly to keep up with Julian. Behind them were Brian and the zoo-lady. She had kind of a beak nose and a profusion of plumage on the top of her head, so I didn’t know how the birds would be able to distinguish her from one of their own. How about if we just set up the scope and looked at her?

“There it is,” the general whispered as he sighted the woodpecker. “Check it out,” he added in the tone you’d associate with spotting a MIG-29. We took turns peeking through the scope. It was a woodpecker, all right.

When we had all had a look I glanced anxiously around at the group. I said, “Are we done?”

There was a sigh of disgust from Julian. He turned back toward the path. The zoo-lady announced we were headed to a slightly higher elevation to look for the dusky flycatcher.

General Bo shouldered the equipment. We hiked along the trail until we came to the new site. We fanned out, walked for a ways, and listened. Listened
intently.
For what, I wanted to know.

“Gray-headed junco, first pine straight ahead, two o’clock,” said Julian.

To my dismay, everyone in the party, even Arch, knew what Julian was talking about. They all whipped up their binoculars to view the tree in question. I sidled over to Arch and said, “What’s going on?”

He put his finger to his lips and then passed his binoculars over. I tried to look through them. I tried to focus. I saw a bird. It flew away. Then everyone in the group lowered their binoculars and looked around like they’d just had great sex.

“Wow,” said the zoo-lady. “That was really something.”

We all listened again. Julian whirled and spied through his binocs.

“Blue-green vireo, third ponderosa pine, eleven o’clock.”

“Sounds like an air raid,” I said under my breath. But I pulled up my borrowed binoculars, then had to put them down to count one, two, three ponderosa pines, then put them back up and tried to figure if the tree was a clock, which branch would be right before noon? While I was doing all this, I did catch a glimpse of turquoise flitting away from the tree. Branch eleven was empty.

By the time I took my binoculars down, everybody was giving me patronizing looks.

I said, “Maybe next time.”

The zoo-lady announced that since we had not spotted the flycatcher, we were going to look at the nest of a Brewer’s blackbird that Julian said he had found the previous week. We started down a path leading to Flicker Creek. Cottonwoods profuse with new leaves crowded the crumbling shores on both sides. The sun glided out from behind a cloud and turned the cottonwood leaves to silver. A flick of breeze whispered through the trees. Clouds and wind moving in meant our afternoon shower was not too far off. Thank God.