The Cereal Murders gbcm-3

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Sweetheart Sandwiches

  Cookies: ź pound (1 stick) unsalted butter 1 ź cups sugar 2 large eggs 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ˝ cup unsweetened cocoa (recommended brands: Hershey’s Premium European-style, Droste, Ghirardelli) 2 cups flour ˝ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking powder ˝ teaspoon baking soda

  Filling: 4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 4 cups confectioners’ sugar whipping cream

  To make the cookies, cream the butter with the sugar in a large bowl until light. Beat in eggs and vanilla; set aside. Sift the cocoa powder, flour, salt, baking powder, and baking soda together. Stir the dry ingredients thoroughly into the butter mixture. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 or 3 hours. Preheat the oven to 375 and butter 2 cookie sheets. Using a teaspoon measure, roll level teaspoons of the dough into galls and place them 2 inches apart on the sheets. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes, until cookies are puffed and surfaces slightly dry and cracked. Cool on racks.

  To make the filling, cream the butter until light. Beat in the vanilla and confectioners’ sugar, adding whipping cream and continuing to beat until the consistency is like creamy frosting.

  When the cookies are completely cool, spread about ˝ tablespoon of filling on the bottom of one cookie, then top with the bottom side of another cookie. Makes about 3 dozen sandwiches.

  Variation: For half a batch of vanilla-filled and half a batch of peppermint-filled cookies, add 1/8 teaspoon peppermint extract to half the filling. Tint the peppermint filling pink or green before filling half the sandwiches.

  in Business, but there was a cadre of people in front of the shelf, reading up on making millions in utilities stocks. I tried for a safer area.

  The staffperson in Cookbooks recognized me from the previous week. She was delighted at my request to see the latest in culinary writing.

  “Oh, but you have to go see our window display!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “It’s a new display Audrey and I put together: ‘What’s new in food and cooking’! You must go admire what she did.”

  She directed me out the door to First Avenue, where I turned right and then faced a stage set behind plate glass that was designed to make people run – not walk – to the nearest restaurant. From every cranny of the big display window, photographs of food jumped out: splashy posters of Jarlsberg, Gorgonzola, and Gouda rounds vied with brilliant photos of jewelred peppers, beets, and squashes, tangles of colored pasta, blackened fish and thick succulent steaks, loaves of shiny bread, creamy cheesecakes, gleaming raspberry tarts, dark chocolate souffles. Stacked on tables placed in the visual display were at least a hundred cookbooks, thick and thin – Julia Child, Jane Brody, the Silver Palate people, the Cajun crowd, you-name-it. Hanging like flags here and there above the small stage were aprons, kitchen towels, and tablecloths. Hmm. I wondered if the woman could be persuaded to put a Goldilocks’ Catering apron in there? The worst that could happen was that a negative response would be accompanied by the judgment that I was crassly, irredeemably commercial. Which I was. It was worth a try. None of us, I reflected as I trudged inside, is above bribery.

  She would be happy to put the apron in, she told me cheerily. I accompanied her to the interior side of the window. There she slid expertly between the photographs, took down a red and white apron, and hung up my spare, the GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING facing the street. Inspired, I sidled up to the front of the window and surreptitiously slipped the grade book underneath the latest Paul Prudhomme. It was, after all, hot.

  “Watch your step,” the woman warned as I accidentally backed into a pile of cookbooks.

  “Not to worry,” I assured her. I scooted off the platform in front of the window, where several street-side onlookers stood salivating over the photo display, thanked the cookbook person, and ran up the stairs to the third floor. The store staff was already setting up chairs, and Audrey had made the coffee and concocted the apple juice from concentrate. Her face was set in a studied frown.

  “Carl bothering you again?” I ventured. “No,” she said after a moment. “It’s Heather. She’s having some problems with her classmates. Now she wants me to drive her home after this. And she said Carl called, just had to talk to me about some new crisis.”

  What else was new, I wanted to ask her. I refrained. However, after spending a few silent minutes stacking plastic cups in the tiny kitchenette, Audrey faced me gloomily. “Heather’s classmates told her they wanted her to figure the class rank because she’s so marvelous with numbers. They were going to supply her with their midterm grades, which supposedly came out Tuesday. But she’s tried for the past three days and she can’t get some of the top people, like Brad Marensky or Greer Dawson, to give her their grades in French. Now, I know they both have team practices, but why not answer Heather’s messages? I mean, they all said they wanted her to do this.”

  “I certainly don’t know, Audrey. If you send Heather to Bennington, she won’t have any grades.”

  Audrey tsked and shouldered a fruit and cheese tray. In the outer room, Miss Kaplan’s microphone-enhanced voice introduced the evening’s speaker, a Mr. Rathgore. I carried out the first tray of cups, returned to pick up the wine and apple juice, and scuttled back in time to see the troubled Heather deep in intense conversation with her mother, whose eyebrows were raised in perplexity.

  Julian sat between Egon Schlichtmaier and Macguire Perkins. The three were chuckling over some private joke as Mr. Rathgore, a bald fellow in a shiny rayon suit, launched into his opening.

  “We all hate to be tested,” he said. A chorus of groans greeted this.

  I stole a glance at the headmaster, who was nodding absentmindedly. Perkins appeared even more exhausted than he had that morning. The Marenskys and Dawsons had prudently decided to sit on opposite sides of the room. Brad Marensky wore a Johns Hopkins sweatshirt; Greer Dawson was again swathed in forest-green watered silk. A steely-eyed staring contest seemed to be taking place between the Dawsons and Audrey, who was seated in a couch to the side of the speaker. But after a moment Heather touched her mother’s arm and Audrey looked away from the Dawsons.

  “Worse, we can get caught up in the nerve-racking process of identifying with our children as they are tested,” continued Mr. Rathgore. “Old patterns recapitulate. Parents take their children’s poor performance much more seriously than the children themselves do… .”

  No kidding. People began to shift uncomfortably in their seats, which I put down to the speech hitting a little too close to home. As I was setting out the paper cups one by one, I could see out of the corner of my eye that a few folks were standing up, stretching, milling about. Maybe they just couldn’t take any more reminders of their last chance at success. I turned an attentive face to Mr. Rathgore, but instead met with the gray visage of Headmaster Perkins, who had crossed the room to me.

  “Goldy,” he stage-whispered, “I’m more exhausted than Perry when he finished traversing Antarctica.” He favored me with a chilly half-grin. Apparently he’d forgiven me for bringing up the mess with Pamela Samuelson and her grading. “Please tell me this isn’t decaf.”

  “It isn’t,” I assured him as I poured the dark liquid into the first cup. “Unadulterated caffeine, I promise. And have a Valentine’s Day cookie, they’re called Sweetheart Sandwiches.”

  His expressive brow furrowed. “Valentine’s Day cookies? We haven’t even endured Thanksgiving! Somewhat too early, wouldn’t you say?”

  Before I could answer, Tom Schulz appeared on the other side of the table and greeted me with a huge smile. “Got some of those for me?”

  “Finally,” I said with a smile I couldn’t suppress. “You’re back.” And I handed him a steaming cup of fragrant black stuff and a plate of Sweetheart Sandwiches. The headmaster attempted a jovial greeting for Schulz, but it caught in his throat. He reddened.

  “You have something else for me?” Schulz whispered in my direction, ignoring Perkins’ discomfort. Mr. Rathgore paused in his talk to furrow his brow at the co
ffee-serving table. Several parents turned to see what was distracting the speaker’s attention, and I drew back in embarrassment. Headmaster Perkins’ too-bright smile froze on his face.

  Alfred Perkins took a bite of his Valentine’s Day cookie that was too early. There were too many snoopy folks around to give Schulz the grade book now, I decided.

  “Have some cookies first, they’re – ” But before I could hand him the platter, another parental squabble erupted in the audience. This time it was between Caroline Dawson and Audrey Coopersmith.

  “What is the matter with you?” Caroline shrieked. She jumped to her feet and glowered down at Audrey Coopersmith. Audrey closed her eyes and raised her pointy chin in defiance. Caroline was as scarlet as her suit. “Do you think Heather is the only one with talent? Do you think she’s the only one who can do math? Do you have any idea how tired we all get of your boasting?”

  That shattered Audrey’s calm. She blazed, “Oh, excuse me, but it was Hank and Stan who started this – “

  Mr. Rathgore turned puzzled eyes to Miss Kaplan, who seemed at a loss for dealing with a civil disturbance during an author presentation.

  “We did not!” Hank Dawson, irate, protested with his meaty hands. “Stan just said Heather wanted grades from Brad, but he’s been busy all week, and Greer couldn’t get her number in either, and all I said was that with the time it was taking, maybe the government should hire Heather to compute the deficit… really, let’s just all calm down!”

  “I will not calm down!” Audrey fumed. Now she rose to her feet and yanked at the strings of her apron. After she had flung it off, she wagged a finger at the Dawsons. “Hank, you don’t know anything! How dare you make fun of Heather? To compute the deficit! Since when are you the economics expert? I’m so tired of you! You act like a know-it-all, and you know nothing! You – you think you buy a government bond to get out of jail!”

  Not this routine again. Parents murmured and I coughed; Schulz gave me one raised eyebrow. The Marenskys spoke to each other excitedly. They were probably bond investors.

  “I’d like to know what business Hank Dawson has making snide remarks about computing the deficit,” Aujdrey’s shrill voice demanded of the stunned audience. “He thinks the Federal Reserve is where all the Indians live!”

  Audrey did not wait for a response. True to form, she stomped out. Heather slithered out after her. So much for my post-catering cleaning help.

  Miss Kaplan tried to restore order. “Why don’t we all just… have some refreshments, and if you have questions for Mr. Rathgore …” Her voice trailed off amid the noise of people scooping up their coats and scrunching shopping bags. A couple of parents lined up to buy Mr. Rathgore’s book: The True Test.

  “Don’t worry.” Julian appeared at my side, holding a tray of biscotti. “I’ll give you a hand. You know, Heather’s mom is always stressed. Stressed major.”

  Schulz helped himself to two biscotti. “As you were saying, Miss G., about my having cookies – “

  But before I could try any thoughts out on him, there was a distant explosion of crashing glass.

  Macguire, who’d been leaning against a bookcase, was so startled he almost fell down. Julian’s tray dropped with a bang. Headmaster Perkins looked appalled.

  “Don’t move, anyone!” cried Tom Schulz. He loped out the nearby exit to the adjoining garage. Bewildered’ parents turned to one another; an anxious buzz filled the air. The unfortunate Mr. Rathgore turned to the trade buyer.. He had forgotten he was wearing a microphone.

  “What the hell is going on?” his voice boomed out. Miss Kaplan steepled her hands and pressed them to her lips. First a parental argument, then a glass-breaking disruption. Unlikely Mr. Rathgore would agree to another signing anytime soon.

  Schulz returned. “It’s your van,” he announced laconically.

  “Whose?” the ill-fated Mr. Rathgore screeched into his microphone.

  Julian cried, “Somebody’s broken the windshield! Just like…” But he didn’t have to say just like which windshield.

  Schulz quickly crossed the room to me, ignoring the confusion. “Goldy, I’m taking you to my car. I’ll notify surveillance. I want you out of here and with me,” he finished abruptly.

  “I can t … have to clean up.”

  “You have to go.” Julian echoed Schulz. “It’s what I keep telling you. You’re not safe around these people. Go, go now. I’ll clean up.”

  Schulz had taken me by the arm to lead me out. I stood firm.

  “And how will you get home?” I demanded of Julian, refusing to budge.

  “I’ll get a ride or something. Now, go on, go.”

  I felt dazed. I took one long look at the assembled group of students, parents, school and bookstore staff. All stood immobile, as if suspended in a snapshot, watching the caterer make her unexpected exit under police guard. I wondered how many decided I was under arrest.

  21

  Tom Schulz’s wheels shrieked as we rounded the parking lot’s hairpin curves. Within moments he was gunning the car up First Avenue. “Where’s Arch?” he demanded.

  “Spending the night with a friend. I still don’t understand why I should leave because of a broken windshield. I feel ridiculous.”

  “Come on, Goldy. You know you can’t stay,” was all he said.

  When we arrived in Aspen Meadow forty-five minutes later, stillness enveloped my neighborhood. The only sounds were a dog barking in the distance and the murmurs between Schulz and the surveillance policeman.

  Schulz shook his head as he walked back to me. “Nothing suspicious.” He escorted me up the steps. At the door I hesitated.

  “Had the surveillance fellow received any radio messages about who trashed my car?”

  “Nope. Look, I’ve had another call, unrelated. But I’ll come in and look around if you want.”

  “No need. The bookstore closed at nine. Julian’ll be home by ten.”

  “I’ll call you then.” I snapped on lights in each room, then checked the clock: 9:30. Every creak, every moan of breeze, every stray sound, made me jump. Finally, I made a mug of steaming hot chocolate, slipped on my down coat, and settled into a snowy lawn chair out front. Keeping the surveillance car in sight seemed like the best idea.

  The hot chocolate was deliciously comforting. I leaned back to look at the expanse of stars glittering overhead. Because there was no moon, Arch was probably outside with his friend, wielding his high-powered binoculars and enthusiastically pointing out Sirius and Cassiopeia. I could find the Big Dipper and Orion, but that was about it.

  At ten o’clock I went inside, checked my answering machine – no messages – and made more hot cocoa. Chocolate always tastes best with more chocolate, and I lamented that the windshield disruption had necessitated leaving the Sweetheart Sandwiches down at the bookstore. Actually, it was getting so that any Elk Park Prep catered event was likely to be disrupted.

  Back on my lawn chair, I stared again at the sky. And then, it was as if a hole opened up in the sparkling firmament. Through it I could see Rhoda Marensky in the Dawsons’ kitchen, exclaiming: It’s as if someone’s trying to disrupt our lives. I remembered Hank Dawson’s different spin on that sentiment: You should have done the same food you did last week. /t would have been luckier. Rhoda and Hank seemed to believe that if you ate the right things, got enough sleep, followed all the same routines, you’d do well.

  But if someone disrupted your life, you wouldn’t do well.

  Someone had deliberately smashed Keith Andrews’ windshield the day of the Princeton rep’s visit. Not long after, that same person had probably killed him.

  Someone had broken a window in our house, hung a snake in Arch’s locker, and perhaps planted a deadly spider in a drawer. Our steps had been booby trapped, our chimney stopped up, and one of our car windshields broken. The result had been police surveillance, worry, conflict, lack of sleep, quizzes failed, homework and college applications left undone.

  The person who had suffer
ed most had been a highly emotional person, someone who cared deeply about those around him, someone who was terribly vulnerable to criticism and cruelty.

  Could it be that neither Arch nor I was at the heart of this campaign of harassment?

  Excuse the fuck me. And then another time: This stuff at the school is getting to me.

  I pictured Julian, who knew so many things that he was unwilling to discuss – the steroids, bitter conflicts between his classmates, perhaps even blackmail. He was also ranked number two in the Elk Park Prep senior class. Keith Andrews, the top student, was now dead.

  I sat up straight, splashing cocoa down the front of my coat. I didn’t have time to wipe it off or even curse it because I was running toward the house. The windshield incident was probably meant to lure me away. Dammit, I had never been in danger at the bookstore.

  I fumbled with the front doorknob. My mind raced. Whoever had smashed my van knew who would be affected. Who stood in the way of a higher class rank? Who was vulnerable to a campaign of harassment of his employer and her son, whom he held so dear? Who would volunteer to clean up in my absence?

  Julian had been the true target all along.

  I called Julian’s friend, Neil Mansfield. Had Julian asked him for a ride? No, Julian said someone else volunteered to drive him back to Aspen Meadow. Who? Neil didn’t know. But, Neil added, he himself had been home for an hour, so Julian should be home by now. Great. Did Neil have any idea who else might know who offered this ride? No clue.

  I tried to reach Schulz. No answer at his home. The Sheriff’s Department dispatcher said he couldn’t raise the homicide investigator on his cell phone. I glanced at the clock: 10:30.

  I had no ideas, no plan, nothing but panic. I grabbed I the keys to the Rover. If I called the police, I would not know what to tell them or where to send them. I willed the mental picture of Keith Andrews’ bloody head out of my mind.