Oh Lord, I thought. I bolted from our table as swiftly as a person with a sore shoulder and bruised neck can bolt. From my tote, I retrieved the manila envelope Barry had left for me, that I had remembered to bring home from his place.
When Tom eyed it skeptically, I said, “Look, I left all the clues to Victor’s wrongdoing there in the cabin, OK? This is separate. It’s not withholding evidence.” Tom shook his head and rolled his eyes, but said nothing. I opened the envelope and shook out the lipstick and blush, both new.
And the compact, slightly used. I grabbed a clean table knife, put a paper towel under the compact, then pried up a corner of the makeup. Bits of creamy chalklike stuff broke, splintered upward, and spilled over the top of the compact. I tried again. And again. When I reached the edge of an object in the middle of the makeup, everyone leaned in. I levered out a thin, delicate cylinder.
And then I held up the ring Barry had intended to surprise Ellie with.
Ellie burst into tears.
For reasons I could not understand, I felt happy for Ellie. The good side of Barry, the side that didn’t want to philander, that side of him had left her a promise for what their life together could have been. Maybe some women would have sold that ring faster than you could say money-back guarantee, but I knew that, for Ellie, it represented something else. A love—imperfect, to be sure—but still precious, still something to be treasured.
And wasn’t it treasure all the players from our drama of this week had been looking for? I checked to see if the cake had cooled as Ellie, Tom, and Arch fed too many homemade dog biscuits to our spoiled hounds. Barry had used stuff-—not always legally his to give, mind you—to buy admiration and love. Shane, Page, Pam, and most tragically of all, Victor, had wanted material goods to assuage feelings of inferiority, sadness, and loss. Living in resentment, Page spent enormous sums to rent jewelry and buy cars that equaled Pam’s. Shane, driven to please his wife, always lived on the brink of financial disaster. Pam and Page competed instead of enjoying each other’s company; the two sisters drained their financial resources where they could have just spent time together.
Nor was I immune. For months, I had worried that my son would stop loving me if I failed to buy him a hugely expensive birthday present. But that wasn’t what success as a mother was about, was it? Now, seeing him bask in Tom and Ellie’s appreciation of his riddle-solving ability, I didn’t even think he cared about the darn guitar.
Over the din of dogs and happy chatter, Marla’s voice rose shrill and loud from beyond the front door. “Open up!” she shouted. “You can’t have this party without me!” She kicked at the door. The dogs howled and raced toward the hall. “What does it take to get one of those pastries I know you’re gobbling up in there?” my friend shrieked.
We all tumbled out from the kitchen, people falling over dogs and one another, and pulled open the front door. Marla, grinning triumphantly, was balancing another cake, plus a bulging bag of gifts.
“Hey!” she crowed. “Where do you think I’ve been these last few days? Shopping for Arch! Now somebody take this cake! I’m gonna drop it!” Ellie reached through the door, relieved Marla of the pastry box, and lofted it above the dogs’ leaping attempts to get it.
From beside the door, Marla then produced a black-and-red guitar that looked about twice as expensive as the one I’d originally bought Arch. Arch cried out with joy.
Then, like a magician, Marla sashayed sideways. She cried, “Ta-da!” From behind her, Julian appeared.
“I’m here!” he hollered. “Happy birthday!”
He didn’t even make it into the hall. I suppose that to the neighbors, we—Arch, Tom, Ellie, yours truly, and both dogs—looked like a football team. How else could a group of people and hounds surge forward in such a perfect wave? Nor would the neighbors have understood why we were yelling and carrying on. This was April the fifteenth, for crying out loud. Nobody was happy on tax day.
But we were. After I hugged Julian, and Arch had given him a cool high five, Arch turned to me.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, “I love you.” He gave me a tight, firm hug.
“Happy birthday,” I said. And I hugged my son back.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON lives in Evergreen, Colorado, with her family. She is the author of eleven bestselling culinary mysteries and is at work on her twelfth.
CHOPPING SPREE
A Bantam Book
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published July 2002
Bantam mass market edition / March 2003
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2002 by Diane Mott Davidson
Border art by Jackie Aher
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002025408
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address:
Bantam Books, New York, New York.
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-42699-4
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
Copyright
Chopping Spree Page 32
