“Of course, what do you expect?” Something about my tone caused both Arch and Julian to turn inquiring faces in my direction. I turned away from them, coloring furiously. “Where are you?”
“At work, drinking probably the worst coffee known to the human species. When can I see you again?”
I wanted that to be soon, and I needed to tell him Marla’s news, but I wasn’t going to say so in front of Julian. “Lunch? Can you come up here? Aspen Meadow Café?
“If you call the entrées that they serve at that place lunch, then sure. Noon.” And with that summary judgment of nouvelle cuisine, he rang off.
“Arch,” I said when we were all munching the marvelous croissants, “you didn’t tell me you called Torn Schulz about the snake.”
Arch put down his croissant. “Mom,” he said with his earnest voice and look. “What, do you really think I’m going to rely on Mr. Perkins to do anything for me? Come on.”
“Boy, you got that right,” Julian mumbled.
“Still,” I insisted as gently as possible, “I want you to be careful today. Promise?”
He chirped, “Maybe I should just stay home from school.”
“Come on, buster. Just keep everything in your bookbag. Don’t even use your locker.”
Julian lowered his eyebrows, and his mouth tightened stubbornly.
“Hey, I didn’t put the snake in his locker,” I said defensively. “I despise vipers, rodents, and spiders. Detest them. Ask Arch.”
“She does,” said Arch without being asked. “I can’t have hamsters or gerbils. I can’t even have an ant farm.” He swallowed the last bite of his croissant, wiped his mouth, and got up from the table. “You should add insects to that list.”
Arch clomped upstairs to finish getting ready for school. As soon as he was gone, Julian leaned toward me conspiratorially. His haggard face made my heart ache.
“I’m going to help him with his classes. You know, set up a study schedule, encourage him, like that. We’re going to work in the dining room each night, if that’s okay with you. There’s more room there.”
“Julian, you do not have time to “
My phone rang again. It was going to be one of those days.
“Let me get it.” Julian jumped up and grabbed the receiver, but instead of giving my business greeting, he said, “Yeah?”
I certainly hoped it was not an Aspen Meadow Country Club client. Julian mouthed, “Greer Dawson,” and I shook my head.
Julian said, “What? You’re kidding.” Silence. “Oh, well, I’m busy anyway.” Then he handed me the phone and said “Bitch” under his breath.
I said, “Yes, Greer, what can I do for you?”
Her voice was high, stiff, formal. “I’ve developed a new raspberry preserve I’d like you to try, Goldy.. It’s … exquisite. We want you to use it in a Linzertorte that you could make for the cafe.”
“Oh, really? Who’s we?”
She tsked.
“Let me think about it, Greer.”
“Well, how long will that take? I need to know before the end of the school day so I can put it on my application that I have to get in the mail.”
“Put what on your application?”
“That I developed a commercially successful recipe for raspberry preserve.”
I detest ultimatums, especially those delivered before eight o’clock in the morning. “Tell your mother I’ll stop into the cafe kitchen just before noon to try it out and talk to her about it.” Without waiting for an answer, I hung up. My croissant was cold. I turned to Julian. “What are you mad at her about?”
“We were supposed to be partners in quizzing each other before the SATs. I didn’t do as well as I wanted to last year, too nervous, I guess, so I really wanted to, you know, review. Miss Ferrell” he pronounced the name with the profound disgust of the young “says we shouldn’t need this kind of cramming, but she encouraged us to go over a few things anyway. I quizzed Greer yesterday. But instead of quizzing me, Greer has to rush down to Denver for her last session of private SAT review.” His shoulders slumped. “Oh, well. It’ll give me more time to get started with Arch. We can use the school library.”
“Why don’t you go to the SAT review with Greer?” I asked innocently.
He pushed his chair back from the table. “Where am I supposed to get a thousand bucks?”
It was a rhetorical question, and we both knew it. But before I could say that I would be more than happy to quiz him myself, Julian slammed out of the kitchen.
9
After the boys left, I fixed a cup of espresso and took it out on the deck off the kitchen. Only a few pillows of white now floated across the sky. The heavy, dark clouds had passed after dropping less than an inch of snow. I brushed melting snow and ice off a redwood bench with one towel and sat on another. It was really too cold to be outside, but the air felt invigorating. In the deep blue of the sky, the sun shone. The snow heaped on each tree branch glittered like mounds of sugar.
It was the kind of moment where you wanted every clock and watch in the galaxy to stop. Yes, someone had horribly murdered Keith Andrews. And someone was threatening us; Arch was having trouble in school; loads of bookkeeping, cooking, and cleaning awaited me. I had people to call, food to order, schedules to set. But for the moment, that could all wait. I inhaled snow-chilled air. The espresso tasted marvelously strong and rich. One thing I had learned in the past few years was that when the great moments came, you should stop and enjoy them, because they weren’t going to last.
And then the flowers began to arrive. First there were pots of freesias. Papery white, yellow, and purple blossoms filled my hall and kitchen with their delicate sweet scent. Then came daisies with heather and an enormous basket of gladiolus, astromeria, and snapdragons. Finally, the florist handed me a box of long-stemmed scarlet roses. He didn’t know the occasion and looked to me for signals about whether to act sad or happy. I didn’t give any clues, so the fellow remained stony-faced. They must teach you to be emotionally removed in florist school. I arranged the roses in a tall ceramic vase Arch had made in the same sixth-grade art class that had produced the woodcut at Schulz’s. My kitchen smelled like a florist’s refrigerator.
The phone rang. Apparently Schulz couldn’t wait to see if the greenhouse had begun to arrive.
I trilled, “Goldilocks’ Florist “
“Huh? Goldy? You okay?”
Audrey Coopersmith.
“No,” I said without missing a beat, “I need you to come help me. You see, after dealing with all these fruitcakes, I’ve gone nuts.”
There was a pause. Tentatively, Audrey began, “Want me to call back in a little bit?”
Depressed people, especially those going through divorce, have a hard time with jokes. They need humor, but it’s like a bank account that has been suddenly frozen. Still, I would be the last one to explain.
“Well, uh,” Audrey continued, floundering, “we’ve got a bit of a problem. Headmaster Perkins just called. He was wondering if we could bring out some cookies around lunchtime. They’re having an unofficial visit from the Stanford rep.”
“Sorry to say,” I replied happily, “I’m busy for lunch.”
“But Goldy” and there was a distinct whine in her voice “I can help you. And I think it would be such a great experience for Heather to meet the Stanford representative. You see, Carl doesn’t care at all about where she goes to school, so I’m the one left with the responsibility … can’t you just help me with this? I’m really going through a bad time now… it’s not that big a deal for you, probably, but…”
Heather? What did Heather have to do with the cookies? I had to bake in order to pave the way for Heather Coopersmith to interview for the college of her dreams correction, her mother’s dreams?
“Look, Audrey, I’m in a good mood and I’m trying to stay that way. Why didn’t Perkins call me himself? I could give the school some ideas about snacks for the Stanford rep.”
“He said he
tried to call you earlier but your line was busy. I’m telling you, Goldy, he’s willing to pay for at least six dozen, and I can help by taking them over to the school, with Heather, of course, and the rep ” She hesitated. “You just don’t understand: Stanford never sends a rep to Elk Park Prep. They figure they don’t need to “
“So give the guy some frozen yogurt! Tell him to pretend he’s in northern California!”
Audrey sighed bleakly and said nothing. I guess I wasn’t acting like a caterer who wanted business, was I? I made a few rapid calculations. Okay, there was the Rocky Mountain Stanford Club, maybe they’d need a big catered luncheon sometime. And Stanford played the University of Colorado in football, so perhaps I could rustle up a tailgate affair in Boulder this fall or next. Impressing the rep might not be such a bad idea.
“All right,” I said. “How about some granola?” Audrey’s silence remained disapproving. “Just kidding. Look, I’ll come up with something. But Perkins needs to make very clear to this guy the name of the caterer making the cookies. And you can also tell Perkins this is going to cost him. Six dozen cookies arranged on trays and delivered, thirty dollars.”
“I’m sure he won’t object. He even asked if you could make a red and white cookie. You know, Stanford colors. He was thinking”-and here she cleared her throat-“of something like, like… barber-pole cookies or … dough candy canes or “
“One of these days, that guy is going to choke and they’ll do CPR on his tongue.”
Audrey said, “Is that a joke?”
“Also,” I added firmly, “I can’t bring the cookies out to the school because of this lunch engagement.”
“But that’s what I told you. Where are you going to be today? I can pick them up. The logistics are getting a bit complicated anyway “
“What logistics?”
She took another deep breath and I prepared for a lengthy explanation. “Oh, well, the Marenskys heard from Perkins that the Stanford rep was coming, and they’d already been in to complain to him that Ferrell hadn’t put Stanford on Brad Marensky’s college list, not that he would ever have a chance of getting in there, he’s fifth in the class, you know… let’s see…” She trailed off. “Logistics,” I said gently, to get her back on track. “Oh, yes, well. So Perkins told me he called the Marenskys no doubt because they’re such big donors to the school, although Perkins didn’t mention that and said Brad should be sure to see the Stanford rep today, and Rhoda Marensky demanded that they get a private audience with the guy “
The pope from Palo Alto. I could just imagine this young fellow, entirely unaware of the intense power plays that his unannounced visit was engendering, or of the awesome authority currently being conferred on his head.
” so the Marenskys are picking up the rep at the I-70 exit and driving him to the school, or at least they were until the Dawsons got wind of this private-interview bit, and they insisted that Greer get to meet with the fellow before the reception ever began “
If in fact it ever did begin, I mentally amended. “And then Miss Ferrell thought she’d better be present to arbitrate, so she gave her fourth period a study hall, which is when Heather has French, so of course I wanted her to meet the rep, since she did all that extra engineering work over the summer, and if they didn’t have such a high percentage of minorities at that school, I think it’s forty-seven percent, then she would be a top contender “
“What is the bottom line here, Audrey?”
“What are you so upset about?” she asked, bewildered. “Where’s your lunch get-together? I’ll pick up the cookies, and bring Heather to meet the Stanford rep, and Miss Ferrell can be there at the same time “
“I’ll be at Aspen Meadow Cafe to taste jam at 11:45.”
“To taste jam? Why not do that at home?”
“Well you may ask, my dear Audrey, but it’s the Dawsons’ idea. No doubt they’ll also want you to taste some. I’m sure they will want Julia Child, Paul Bocuse, and the Stanford rep to taste it too.”
She sniffed. “Well, that doesn’t really make much sense, but I’ll see. Oh, something else. The Tattered Cover folks think it might be a good idea for you to come down to the store early, maybe an hour before the signing Halloween night? I could show you where the third-floor kitchenette is, how they usually set up for a buffet, that kind of thing.”
At last we were off the subject of the Stanford rep. Yes, I said, we should definitely case the third floor of the bookstore ahead of time. We decided Audrey would come over to my place after the penitential luncheon Friday so we could head down to Denver together. Then Audrey asked, “Why did you answer the phone like a florist? Are you thinking of expanding your business?”
“Sorry, I thought you were somebody else.”
“… Not meaning to be disrespectful, Goldy, but maybe you need a vacation.”
That made two of us. I was still laughing when Tom Schulz called.
“Doesn’t the caterer sound merry.”
“She is, she is. First she had a great time with this cop last night.” He mm-hmmed. I went on. “This morning, though, she flunked out of surrogate-parenting. But to her rescue came this same cop, who quickly turned her house into the Denver Botanic Garden. Now for the rest of the day she has to make cookies, kowtow to some guy from California, taste jam, and have lunch with the cop.”
“Uh-huh. Sounds normal to me. Glad you like the flowers.”
“Love them. You are too generous. But listen, I need to tell you some stuff Marla’s found out.” I told him about Egon Schlichtmaier’s allegedly shabby history and current alleged affair, along with the possibility that these items were going to get some journalistic exposure at the hands of the ambitious Keith Andrews.
“Okay, look,” he said when I’d finished, “I may be a bit late for lunch. I’m going 90wn to check on a murder in Lakewood. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t involve me. But the victim’s name was Andrews.”
I was instantly sober. “Any relation to the late valedictorian?”
“Not that we can figure out. The victim’s name was Kathy. They found her body in a field two weeks ago. Her head had been bashed in. Suspect is her ex-boyfriend, who owed her a couple thousand, but the investigators down there can’t find him. Anyway, one of the things they’re looking at is that Kathy Andrews’ mail was stolen. And get this she had an account at Neiman-Marcus. ‘K Andrews’ on her card, they said.’
“I don’t get it. Was it a robbery/murder?”
“That’s the strange thing. Kathy Andrews was single, had a lot of money that she liked to spend. Looks like a lot of her mail might have been stolen, from the way she was complaining to the local post office. Maybe somebody was in the act of stealing letters and she caught them. That’s what the Lakewood guys are trying to reconstruct.
“Why would someone steal her mail?”
“Same reason they take your purse, Miss G. For cash or checks, is what we usually see. Or vandalism. They’re going through all Kathy Andrews’ stuff, trying to check back with what she might have been expecting. But when something that was mailed-in this case a credit card-doesn’t show up, you wonder. According to their records, Neiman-Marcus mailed it sometime in the last month.”
I touched the phone wire, then quickly let go of it., I tried to wipe out the mental image of a woman I did not know. Kathy Andrews. “Did you talk to the Marenskys about their raccoon coat?”
“They claim it was stolen at some party.”
“Well, I’m confused.”
“You’re not alone, Miss G. See you around noon.”
Something red and white. Not a barber pole, not a candy cane, not an embarrassed zebra. Something worthy of a visit from the school that had produced Nobel Prize winners, Pulitzer Prize winners, Jim Plunkett, and John Elway.
Since I thought a football-shaped cookie would be a bit too difficult to manage on such short notice, I decided on a rich white cookie with a red center. I beat butter with cream cheese and le
t my mind wander back to Julian. His abrupt departure that morning left me troubled. Julian, in his fourth year at Elk Park Prep, was bright and extremely competent. He had stunned me with the creativity of his project on DNA research. But his classmates were smart and productive too, and they had money to aid them in all their academic pursuits. I creamed in sugar and then swirled in dark, exotic-smelling Mexican vanilla, which I sniffed heartily. Julian cared about his school, not with a rah-rah cheerleader spirit, but with such a fierce loyalty that he was willing to risk a fight with Keith Andrews to keep a scandal out of the newspapers. I sifted flour in to make a stiff batter. Julian was passionate about people and cooking. The latter trait, I had long ago decided, was another way of being passionate about people. For all those therapy bills, I’d figured out a few things.
As my spatula scraped the golden batter off the sides of the bowl, I recalled the shy and happy look that had begun to creep over Julian’s usually hostile face during the past summer, whenever Schulz or Arch or I had begged him to make his tortellini della panna, spinach pie in filo, or fudge with sun-dried cherries. Julian cared about me and about Schulz, and he was wild about Arch. The events of the past week had caused him great strain. Poor overwrought eighteen-year-old, I thought, what can I do to help you care less about us and more about your future?
Red ‘n’ Whites
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1 3-ounce package cream cheese, softened
˝ cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract )
2 cups all-purpose flour
36 small ripe strawberries, hulled and halved
Preheat the oven to 350°. In a mixing bowl, beat the butter with the cream cheese until well blended. Beat in the sugar and vanilla, then stir in the flour until well mixed. Using a 1/2 -tablespoon measure, shape the mixture into small balls and place 2 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheets. Make a small indentation in the top of each cookie with your thumb. Carefully place a strawberry half, cut side down, in each indentation. Bake for 12 to 18 minutes or until very lightly browned. Cool on racks. Makes 5 dozen.
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