The Cereal Murders gbcm-3

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Julian did not accompany me to the Sunday service. I came in late, sat in the back, slipped into the bathroom when tears again overcame me during the passing of the peace. I left quietly as soon as communion was over. A couple of curious sidelong glances came my way, but I resolutely averted my eyes. I wasn’t in the mood to discuss murder.

  The glumness on Hank Dawson’s ruddy face when he opened the door to let me in that afternoon seemed to emanate more from the prospect of the Broncos having to face the Redskins than from anything to do with Elk Park Prep. The Dawsons had even invited the Marenskys. Bizarrely, Hank and Stan seemed to be friendly, resigned together to weather another tragedy out at the school. Either that, or they were both awfully good actors.

  Caroline Dawson was a completely different story, however. Instead of her usual menopause-red outfit, scrupulously made-up face, and stiff composure, Caroline was dressed in an unbecoming cream-colored suit that was made of a fuzzy wool that kept picking up stray watts of static electricity. She looked like a squat, electrically charged ivory post. There was an edginess, too, about her untidily pinned-up hair and too-fussy inspection of the food and the way we were setting the table for her guests.

  “We pay a lot of money for Greer to go to that school,” she said angrily during her fifth unexpected appearance in her kitchen. “She shouldn’t have to put up with crime and harassment. It’s not something I expect, if you know what I mean. They never should have started letting riffraff into that school. They wouldn’t be having these problems if they’d just kept their standards up.”

  I said nothing. Everybody paid a lot to go to that school, and I didn’t know how Caroline would define riffraff. Julian, maybe?

  Rhoda Marensky, dressed in a knitted green and brown suit with matching Italian leather shoes, made one of her tall, elegant appearances. She conspired with Caroline in misery. “First there was that Andrews murder. One of our coats, mind you, was involved, and the police said they found a pen from our store out by the body … and now Ferrell. Poor Brad hasn’t slept in two weeks, and I’m afraid he hasn’t even been able to start his paper on The Tempest. This is not what we’re all paying for,” she exclaimed, eyes blazing. “It’s like someone’s trying to disrupt our lives!”

  “Rhoda, honey,” Stan called from the kitchen doorway, “what was the name of that lacrosse player from a couple of years back who graduated from Elk Park and went to Johns Hopkins? I can’t remember and Hank just asked me if he was National Honor Society.”

  In a blur of green and brown, Rhoda brushed past Caroline Dawson, Julian, and me as if she had never even spoken to us. Strands from Caroline Dawson’s hair and beige outfit now stood completely on end. Flaming spots of color stood out on her cheeks. Would we please hurry up? she said. Catering was so expensive, and with all the college expenses they would have next year, they couldn’t afford to go for hours and hours without eating.

  As soon as she’d banged out of the kitchen, Julian erupted. “Well, excuse the fuck me!”

  “Welcome to catering,” I said as I hoisted a tray. “You always think it’s just going to be about cooking, but . . ” It never is.

  We served the manicotti to a few grudgingly bestowed compliments. I felt terrible for Julian, especially since my own taste test had rated them mouth-watering. But what could you expect when the Redskins were smearing the Broncos? There was energetic kibbitzing about why this was happening: The coach had changed the lineup, Elway was worried about his shoulder, a line-backer was the subject of a paternity suit. When Washington won by three touchdowns, I feared we would receive no tip. But Hank Dawson reluctantly handed me twenty dollars as we trucked out the final boxes.

  He lamented, “When Greer was in the state volleyball finals, we were going to take a gourmet box lunch. But Caroline said no, we had to have ham sandwiches the way we always did or we’d jinx it!”

  “Oh, my,” I said sympathetically. I didn’t quite get the connection with the manicotti.

  “Anyway,” he continued morosely, “you should have done the same food you did last week. It would have been luckier.” It’s always the caterer’s fault.

  19

  “Lucky?” Julian groused on the way home. “Luckier food? What a dork.”

  “I keep telling you, people eat for different reasons. If they think eating sausage is going to win them the Super Bowl, then get out your bratwurst recipe and rev up the sausage stuffer. It pays in the long run, kiddo.”

  After we’d unloaded, he announced he was going to work on his college application forms. He called over his shoulder that anything was better than the thought of pig intestines. I laughed for the first time in two days.

  John Richard left Arch off outside the house late that afternoon, the end of their Halloween skiing weekend. There he was, a strong, athletic father not lifting a finger to help his diminutive twelve-year-old son with skis, boots, poles, high-powered binoculars, and overnight bag. Should I scold him for forcing Arch to struggle halfway up the sidewalk with his loads of stuff? Never mind. This was, after all, the Jerk. If I uttered a word, then the whole neighborhood would rediscover why we were divorced in the first place.

  I walked carefully down steps Julian had salted liberally that morning, relieved Arch of his skis and boots, and noticed with dismay that his face was sunburned to a brilliant pink except for the area around his eyes, where his goggles had left the skin eggshell-white. The resulting raccoon effect did not bode well for Monday morning. Then I noticed that what I had taken from him were new Rossignol skis boasting new Marker bindings.

  “What is going on?” I asked. Arch kept his eyes cast down as he hauled his overnight bag up the steps. “Dad forgot sunblock,” he muttered.

  “So he paid you off with new skis?” I said, incredulous.

  “I guess.” His tone was as downcast as his voice. I realized with a pang that I hadn’t even welcomed him home, much less told him about the tragic events of the weekend. Oh, spare me John Richard and his lavish attempts to bribe his way out of misconduct. The fact that I could not even come close to affording these luxurious trinkets didn’t make dealing with them any easier. Not to mention what kind of message Arch was picking up from this kind of behavior.

  “I’ll be embarrassed to death if I have to go to school tomorrow looking like this,” my son said with a crack in his voice. “I look like a red giant.”

  “A…”

  “Oh, never mind, it’s just a kind of star. Big and ugly and red.”

  “Oh Arch – “

  “Just don’t say anything, please, Mom. Not a word.”

  “You can stay home tomorrow,” I told him, giving him a hug. “The police are watching the house, so if I have to go out, you’ll be protected.”

  “All right! Cool! Can I invite Todd over to watch the surveillance?”

  Give them an inch… “You can invite him over for dinner,” I replied. At least this would give me some more time to lead up to the news of the Ferrell murder. It was my hope that Todd, a seventh-grader at the local junior high, would not be aware yet of the most recent crisis at Elk Park Prep.

  Julian, who had fallen asleep working on his college applications, was in the kitchen drinking a Coke when Arch trundled in to greet him. To Julian’s credit, although his eyebrows peaked in surprise upon seeing Arch’s speckled facial condition, he made no comment. Over supper – fettuccine with hearty ladles of leftover tomato sauce – Arch regaled Todd, Julian, and me with stories of how he caught about six feet of air going down a blue and cruised through a totally monstrous mogul field before biffing on top of this guy from Texas. The Texan, one presumed, survived.

  Before Arch went to bed I broke the news of Miss Ferrell’s death. There would be counselors at the school the next day, I told him. So if he wasn’t too worried about the sunburn… Arch said Miss Ferrell wasn’t his teacher, but she was so nice… . Was it the same person who had bashed Keith, he asked. I told him I didn’t know. After a few minutes Arch asked if we could pray for the
two of them.

  “Not out loud,” he said as he turned away from me.

  “Not out loud,” I agreed, and after five minutes of silent offering, I turned out his light and went downstairs.

  A windstorm kicked up overnight. Pine tree branches whooshed and knocked against the house and cold air slid through all of the uncaulked cracks. I got up to get another blanket. The police car at the end of our drive should have provided soporific assurance, but it did not. I prowled the house at midnight, two-thirty, and four A.M. Each time I checked on the boys, they were sleeping soundly, although Arch had stayed up late with his binoculars, watching for movements in the police car. Around five I finally drifted off into a deep sleep, but was sharply awakened an hour later when the phone rang.

  “Goldy.” Audrey Coopersmith sounded panicked. “I need to talk. I’ve been up for hours.”

  “Agh,” I gargled.

  “Carl’s back,” her voice rushed on, as if she were announcing a nuclear holocaust. “He came over and talked to Heather about his… girlfriend.”

  “He came over,” I repeated, my nose deep in my pillow.

  “He’s thinking of getting married.”

  “Better to her than to you,” I mumbled. “The police were here when he came. He didn’t even ask if I was all right. He didn’t even ask what was going on.”

  Sadly, I said, “Audrey, Carl doesn’t care anymore.” I bit back the urge to talk about waking up and smelling the coffee. Mentioning caffeine would make me desire it too deeply.

  “I just don’t understand why he’s acting this way, especially after all these years… .”

  I pressed my face against my pillow and said nothing. Audrey was determined to recite the lengthy litany of Carl’s wrongs. I said, “I’m sorry, but I need to go.”

  “Carl’s upsetting Heather terribly. I don’t know how she’s going to survive this.”

  “Please, please, please, Audrey, let me go back to sleep. I promise I’ll call you later.”

  She snapped, “You don’t care. Nobody cares.” And with that she banged the phone down before I had a chance to protest. Grudgingly, I got out of bed and went down to smell, as well as make, the coffee. Julian was already up and showering. Audrey had not mentioned Suzanne Ferrell, but that was certainly why the police had visited her. I wondered if they would also be stationed out at the school.

  Arch stumbled down to the kitchen at seven. His bright pink raccoon mask had faded somewhat, and I noticed with surprise that he had dressed in a ski sweater and jeans. He pulled a box of cereal out of the cupboard.

  “Sure you feel okay about going today?” He stopped sprinkling out Rice Krispies and gave me a solemn look. “Julian says that if you go to school with this kind of sunburn, kids don’t make fun of you. They think you’re cool because you skied all weekend. Besides, I want to listen to the counselors and find out if the French Club is going to do something for Miss Ferrell. You know, send flowers to her parents, write notes.”

  Within an hour both boys were out the door. Schulz called and said he was going down to Lakewood again to work on the Kathy Andrews case. He asked how we were, and I said truthfully that I was exhausted.

  “I keep trying to figure out what’s going on. Since Miss Ferrell wanted to talk to me about Julian, I need to at least make an attempt to chat with the headmaster about him.”

  “Keep at it,” Schulz said. “You inspire great trust, Miss G.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He promised he would meet us at the Tattered Cover for the last college advisory affair this coming Friday night. Was it still going to happen, he wanted to know. I said I would call the school to find out if I was still the caterer of record.

  “Look at it this way,” Schulz soothed. “It’s your last one of these college advisory things.”

  Small comfort. But I smiled anyway. “Getting to see you will be the best part.”

  “Ooo, ooo, should have gotten this on tape. The woman likes me.”

  I savored his wicked chuckle for the rest of the day.

  The school secretary brusquely informed me that Headmaster Perkins was completely tied up with the police, parents, and teachers. He wouldn’t have a free moment to see me for days. Then she put me on hold. In that time I managed to put together a Roquefort ramekin for our vegetarian supper, so I guess I was on hold for a long time. She returned to tell me that yes, they were going ahead Friday night; I should just fix the same menu. And Headmaster Perkins and I could discuss Julian Teller Friday morning at nine if I wanted. If, I thought with indignation.

  The week passed in a flurry of meetings with clients, who were already planning Thanksgiving and Christmas parties. I called Marla every day, but that was my closest link to the grapevine around the adults connected with Elk Park Prep. Unable to attend her exercise class with a broken leg, Marla had precious little access to information herself although she did tell me that she’d heard Egon Schlichtmaier was dating somebody else from the athletic club.

  “In addition to Suzanne Ferrell? Really?”

  “She swears his relationship with Ferrell was just platonic. This other woman is disgustingly thin,” Marla pronounced. “I just know she’s had liposuction.” She asked how Julian was doing, and I assured her he seemed fine. When I asked her why she cared about Julian, she said that she had a strong sympathy for vegetarians. News to me.

  On Thursday, both Julian and Arch attended the memorial service for Miss Ferrell at the Catholic church. I had an unbreakable appointment with a client who had booked me for Thanksgiving itself. This client wanted a goose dinner for twenty that I would have to balance with my other commitments. Generally, I limited myself to ten Thanksgiving dinners. I would do most of the cooking Tuesday and Wednesday, deliver fixings for nine of them early Thursday morning, then actually cater one. John Richard habitually took Arch skiing that weekend, and I earned enough during the four-day period to support Arch and me for any sparsely booked spring month. Not only that, but I had learned that clients with relatives visiting over that weekend didn’t want to see turkey Tetrazzini, turkey enchiladas, turkey rolls, or even poultry of any kind until the following week. So it was a great time to showcase any fish recipes I had been working on. Clients were famished for anything without gravy or cranberry jelly.

  The windstorm raged all week. Temperatures dropped daily, and a skin of ice formed over the dark depths of Aspen Meadow Lake. Friday’ morning, after I had finished my yoga, I set out at nine o’clock and wished for about six more layers than my turtleneck and faded down coat. The fierce cold and snow had even encouraged the Main Street merchants to bring out their Christmas decorations early. The digital readout on the Bank of Aspen Meadow sign provided the grim reminder that it was November in the mountains: eleven degrees. Uneven ice coated the roads, the result of snow being churned up by the plows and then frozen solid. I drove carefully up Highway 203 toward Elk Park Prep and wondered if you could make a decent living doing catering in Hawaii.

  The telltale side spotlights, huge mirrors, and low-to-the-ground chassis announced the fact that the only other vehicle in visitor parking at the school was an unmarked police car. More investigators for the Ferrell homicide? Catching up with me from the faculty parking lot, Egon Schlichtmaier, elegantly sartorial in a new fur-trimmed bomber jacket, held one of the massive doors to the school open wide and bowed low. Someone, I noticed, had finally removed the black crepe paper and Keith’s picture.

  “Tardy today?” I asked.

  “I do not have a class until ten o’clock,” he replied cheerfully. “I was working out, but did not see you.”

  I eyed him and said, “Nice jacket.” He swaggered off.

  The headmaster was deeply involved in a conference call, but could see me in a bit, the receptionist informed me. I went down the hall to check on Arch – undetected, this time. To my surprise, he was standing in front of his social studies class, giving a report. Before creeping off to find Julian, I scanned the facial expressions of Arch’s classmates. Al
l listened attentively. Pride lit a small glow in my chest.

  A uniformed police officer stood guard outside one of the classrooms of the upper school area of the old hotel. I nodded to him and identified myself. He did not reply, but when I looked through the window into the classroom, he didn’t ask me for ID either. Egon Schlichtmaier’s American history class had just begun: Macguire Perkins was giving an oral report at the front of the room. On the board was written: THE MONROE DOCTRINE. Sad to say, Macguire and the justification for hemispheric intervention were not receiving as much attention as Arch. Greer Dawson was combing her hair; Heather Coopersmith was figuring on a calculator; Julian looked perilously close to slumber. For one brief moment my eyes locked with Macguire’s, and he signaled hello to me with one hand. I shrank back from the door. The last thing I needed was for Egon Schlichtmaier to claim I’d been bothering his class. I slunk back toward the headmaster’s office.

  “He’ll see you now,” chirped the secretary without looking up from her computer monitor. I marched into the office, wondering vaguely how she’d known it was me. Did I smell like a caterer?

  Headmaster Perkins was once again on the phone – although this must have been less important than the earlier conference call – as he covered the receiver with his hand and waved me over to a side table laden with a tray of baked goods and silver electrified urn.

  “Help yourself,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll be right off.”

  There must have been an early morning meeting of the board of trustees, I thought vaguely, for all the profiteroles, miniature cheesecakes, chocolate chip bars, and frosted cupcakes on the tray. I poured myself a cup of coffee but decided against the sweets. How come Perkins hadn’t called me to cater an early-morning meeting? Did he save me for the easy stuff like getting up at oh-dark- thirty to make healthful munchies for hordes of seniors? Or was he afraid I might hear how he presented the murder of Suzanne Ferrell to the big contributors?