The Cereal Murders

by Diane Mott Davidson

“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 café. 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 I 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 café 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.”

  “I do, I do, Miss G. Take it easy, that’s why I called you. There was a message on my voice mail from you, remember? You didn’t want to wake me up, but you’d found something.”

  I told him about the credit card in the pocket of the raccoon coat. He asked for the number. I fished around for the card, then repeated the numerals. He said, “Don’t return the card with the coat. Can you bring it over tomorrow? Stay for dinner?”

  “Love to.” I felt guilty for speaking sharply to him. Softening, I said, “Why don’t you come here? I’ll probably have a ton of leftover bratwurst. Then if we get an anonymous call, you can bawl the person out yourself.”

  “How about this … give the sausage to the boys and come out to my place around six. I need to talk to you alone.”

  His tone made me smile. “Sounds interesting.”

  “It would be if it were about us,” Schulz replied reluctantly. “But this is about Julian.”

  Great. I said I’d be there and hung up. Packing up the choucroute, I remembered Audrey Coopersmith. Doggone it. Support, support, I told myself, and punched the numbers for the bookstore, where I asked for the self-improvement department. Part of psychology, I was told. Hmm.

  “Oh, God, Goldy,” Audrey said breathily when we were connected. “I’m so glad you called. I’m a wreck. First the police and then those damn
Dawsons at the church, plus I got this terrible letter yesterday from Carl’s lawyer—”

  “Please,” I interrupted, but nicely, “you know I’ve got this Bronco thing at the Dawsons—”

  “Oh, well, I’ve got a huge problem. We’re having a seminar, Getting Control of Your Life, tonight and I promised to do a little stir-fry for the staff after the store closes at five and before we reopen at seven, and what with the police asking all those questions, I forgot all about the stir-fry, and they have plates and stuff here, but I don’t have any food and I was just wondering if you’d …”

  Fill in the blank. I stretched the phone cord, opened the door to my walk-in refrigerator, and perused the contents. “How many people?”

  “Eight.”

  “Any vegetarians?”

  “None, I already checked. And we’ve taken up a collection, five dollars per person. I’ll give you all the money and buy you any cookbook you want, plus do the serving and cleanup myself….” Relief and glee filled her voice, and I hadn’t even said yes.

  “Okay, but it’ll be simple,” I warned.

  “Simple is what they want, it’s part of getting control of your life.”

  I made an unintelligible sound and said I’d be down after the Bronco game. After some thought I got out two pounds of steak, then swished together a wonderfully pungent marinade of pressed garlic, sherry, and soy sauce. Once the beef had defrosted slightly under cold running water, I cut it into thin slices, sloshed them around in the marinade, and finished packing up the choucroute and trimmings. I couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that it was going to be a long half-time luncheon.

  • • •

  At the Dawsons’ enormous wood-and-glass home, there was much discussion of the artificial turf inside Minneapolis’ domed stadium. My appearance caused only a momentary pause in the downing of margaritas and whiskey sours and the assessment of Viking strategy. Caroline Dawson, still wearing her red suit, waddled in front of Arch, Julian, and me out to the kitchen.

  It was the cleanest, most impeccably kept culinary space I had ever inhabited. When I complimented her on how immaculate everything was, she gave me a startled look.

  “Isn’t your kitchen clean?” Without waiting for an answer, she peeked underneath the plastic wrap of one of my trays. I thought it was to check how clean it was until her chubby fingers emerged with a crust of potato-caraway bread. She popped the bread into her mouth, chewed, and said, “Hank and I, being in food service, feel it’s imperative to have a dust- and dirt-free environment. You know we asked you to cater this meal because, well, we’re busy with the guests, and you do have a good reputation—”

  Then she scuttled out, but not without filching another slice of bread. Julian, Arch, and I began to prepare the meal in earnest. But if I thought we would be uninterrupted, I was wrong.

  Rhoda Marensky, as thin and leggy as an unwatered rhododendron, sauntered out first. It was well known in town that statuesque Rhoda, now fifty, had been a model for Marensky Furs before Stan Marensky married her. For the Bronco get-together, she wore a chartreuse knit sweater and skirt trimmed with fur in dots and dashes, as if the minks had been begging for help in Morse code. She stood in an exaggerated slouch to appraise Julian.

  “Well, my boy,” she said with undisguised wickedness, “you must have finished your SAT review early, if you can take time out to cater. What confidence!”

  Julian stopped spooning out sauerkraut, pressed his lips together, and gulped. Arch looked from Julian to me.

  “Unlike some people,” I replied evenly, “Julian doesn’t need to review.”

  Rhoda snorted loudly and writhed in Julian’s direction, a female Uriah Heep. She put her hand on the sauerkraut spoon handle so that he was forced to look at her. “Salutatorian! And our Brad tells me you’ve never even been in a gifted program. Where was it you’re from, somewhere in Utah?”

  “Tell me” I wondered aloud, “what kind of name is Marensky anyway? Where is it from, Eastern Europe?” Bitchy, I know, but sometimes you have to fight fire with a blowtorch. Besides, skinny people seldom appreciate caterers.

  “The Marenskys were a branch of the Russian royal family,” Rhoda retorted.

  “Wow! Cool!” interjected my impressionable son.

  I glanced at the butcher knife on the counter. “Which branch would that be, the hemophiliac one? Or is that technically a vein?”

  That did it. Rhoda slithered out. A moment later her husband strode into the kitchen. Stan Marensky almost tripped over Arch, who scooted out of his path and grimaced. I tried not to groan. Stan’s long, deeply lined face, oversize mouth, and lanky frame always reminded me of a racehorse. He was as slender as his wife, but much more nervous. Must have been all that Russian blood that wouldn’t clot.

  “What did you say to my wife about blood?” he demanded.

  “Blood? Nothing. She must have been thinking of the football game.”

  And out went Stan. Arch giggled. Julian stared at me incredulously.

  “Man, Goldy, chill! You’ve always told me you have to be so nice, especially to rich people, so you can get more bookings … and here you are just dumping on the Marenskys—”

  Caroline Dawson interrupted his rebuke by waddling back into the room. The queen of the short people put her hands on her wide hips; her crimson body shook with rage. “What is taking so long? If I had known you three were going to be out here having a gab fest, I would have had Greer help you, or, or … I would have brought in help from the café—”

  “Not to worry!” I interrupted her merrily and hoisted a tray with platters of steaming sausages. “We’re holding our own. Let’s go see how our team’s doing,” I ordered the boys.

  Julian mutely lifted his tray with the sauerkraut and potato-caraway bread. Arch carefully took hold of the first serving dish of warmed applesauce. We served the food graciously and received a smattering of compliments. The Marenskys regarded us haughtily as they picked at their food, but ventured no more critical comments.

  On the big-screen television, brilliant close-up shots made the football playing surface look like tiny blades. Happily, Denver won by two touchdowns, one on a quarterback sneak and the other on a faked field goal attempt. I predicted both plays in addition to serving the food.

  Hank Dawson, flushed and effusive, reminded me I was booked again for next week’s game. He brandished a wad of bills that amounted to our pay plus a twenty-five percent tip. I was profusely thankful and divided the gratuity with Arch and Julian. Unfortunately, I knew that next week the Broncos were playing the Redskins in Washington.

  Maybe I could split the tip over two weeks.

  We arrived home just before five. Early darkness pressed down from the sky, a reminder, like the recent snow and cold, of winter’s rapid approach. Julian stared out the kitchen window and said maybe he should stay home and do SAT review instead of doing stir-fry at the Tattered Cover. Inwardly, I cursed Rhoda Marensky. Arch said he wanted to come along when I told him we’d be cooking on the fourth floor, usually closed to the public.

  “Cool! Do they, like, have their safe up there, and surveillance equipment, and stuff like that?”

  “None of the above,” I assured him as I packed up the ingredients. “Probably just a lot of desks and boxes of books. And a little kitchen.”

  “Maybe I should take my wardrobe with the fake back for the C. S. Lewis display. Oh, Julian, please come with me so you can help me carry it. I know they have a secret closet there, did you? Do you think they’ll use my display? I mean, if Julian helps me set it up?” He looked with great hope first at Julian, then me. I was afraid, as mothers always are, that the voice of expedience—“They probably have all the displays they need”—would be interpreted as rejection. I said reflectively, “Why don’t we ask them when we get there?”

  He seemed satisfied. Julian decided his homework and the SAT review could wait. He helped Arch load the plywood wardrobe into the van while I packed up the stir-fry ingredients. O
n the way to Denver, I decided to broach the topic of Arch’s weekend. Despite his basically nonathletic nature, he had learned to ski at an early age and enjoyed the sport quite a bit. For Halloween, I asked, did he want to ski early with his father, go out for trick-or-treat, what?

  “I don’t have any friends from Elk Park Prep to go trick-or-treating with,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Besides, if Dad wants to ski—wait! I could go around in his condo building!”

  “And dress up as … ?” Julian asked.

  “Galileo, what else?”

  I grinned as we pulled into the bookstore’s parking garage. Audrey was waiting for us in her silver van by the third-floor store entrance. She hopped out and swiped her security card through the machine next to the door. Arch, a security nut, had her repeat the process, which he studied with furrowed brow as Julian and I unloaded my van. While helping us haul in the electric wok and bags of ingredients, Audrey said the store was empty for the two-and-a-half-hour break between closing and reopening for the seminar. The other seven staff members present were doing some last-minute preparation … dinner was planned for six-forty, and she’d already started cooking some rice she’d found in a cupboard … was that okay?

  “Is now a good time to ask her about the wardrobe?” Arch whispered to me in the elevator to the fourth floor.

  We had fifteen minutes before cooking had to begin. I nodded; Arch made his request.

  “A wardrobe with a false back!” Audrey cried. “You’re so creative! Just like Heather … why, I remember when she was nine, she loved C. S. Lewis too. How old are you?” Arch reddened and said he was twelve. Audrey shrugged and plowed ahead. “When Heather was nine, she wanted a planetary voyager for Christmas, and, of course, she is so gifted in science, why, one summer she built a time-travel machine with little electric gizmos right in our backyard….”

  Arch rolled his eyes at me; Julian cleared his throat and looked away. I think Audrey caught the look, because she stopped abruptly and gnawed her lip. “Well, Arch, I’m sorry, but we probably can’t,” she said plaintively. “I mean, I can’t authorize you putting up a false-back display, somebody might get hurt….”