The Cereal Murders gbcm-3

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Now what?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Heather approach the platters of food on the counter next to the computer.

  “Do you know what college she recommended for Heather? Bennington! Bennington! What does she think we are, hippies?”

  “It’s unstructured,” murmured Heather over her shoulder.

  “She’s getting a kickback,” Audrey fumed. “I just know it. Ferrell recommends some college to the school’s best students, and the college gives her – -“

  “What is this?” exclaimed Heather.

  Oh, damn. One Andrews disk was still in the computer, one was on the counter. I’d never make it as a Republican; I couldn’t cover up a thing.

  “How did you get this?” demanded Heather. Her pale eyes narrowed behind the pink-tinted glasses.

  “I … don’t know,” I said, fumbling. I can’t say.”

  “You stole it,” she accused me. “Nobody can put anything down at that school without it getting lifted.”

  Not anymore, I longed to say. “Please don’t give me a hard time,” I chided the girl gently. “Somebody gave Keith’s disks to me because I found him that night and because Arch was threatened. They thought the disks might help. I can’t make hide nor hair out of them and I’m just going to hand them over to the cops.”

  “Huh,” grunted Heather. Disbelief was heavy in her voice.

  “What is it?” Audrey was momentarily distracted from her harangue against Miss Ferrell. I took the disk out of the drive and slipped it into its sleeve. Audrey picked up the other one from the counter. “Oh, my God,” she said with a sharp intake of breath, “where did you get this?”

  “Never mind.” I reached over and deftly unplugged the computer. The screen flashed and went blank. “The police will deal with it.” I slipped the disks into my purse.

  “They won’t deal with it if they don’t use WordPerfect,” Heather announced smugly.

  “You see how smart she is?” Audrey’s voice gushed pride.

  “We need to hit the road,” I replied. And with that we began trucking platters of goodies out to the van. But if I thought Audrey was going to relinquish the subject of the superior and underappreciated intelligence of her daughter, I was sadly mistaken. As the van sped down I-70 toward Denver, Audrey ordered Heather to tell me about her summer internship at a Boulder engineering firm, Amalgamated Aerospace. It was a complicated thing dealing with a simulator. To me, virtual reality was something you dealt with when you did your finances. To Heather, it was something quite different.

  “I was doing Mars,” Heather began in a thin, superior tone.

  “This is why she should be going to MIT, not Bennington,” interjected Audrey. Did this imply MIT students were like Martians? Best not to ask.

  “It was an astronaut-training exercise,” Heather prattled on, “and I was working as an assistant to a programmer in the software department.”

  “Isn’t this wonderful!” her mother exclaimed. “I told her to put this in the essay. They’ll have to take her. Second in her class. You know… now.” An awkward silence descended on us.

  Heather said crisply, “Are you going to tell this story or am I, Mother? Because I wouldn’t want to interrupt you.”

  “Go ahead, dear, I know Goldy really wants to hear it.”

  Goldy really didn’t want to hear it, but never mind. There was a volcanic sigh from Heather. We were clearly testing her superior intelligence to the limit.

  Heather rolled out the words quickly, as if she were a recording put on seventy-eight. “We used photographs taken by the Viking I and Viking II Mars Landers. We developed 800 gigabytes of video image data so that simulated real-time viewing of the Martian surface was possible when the virtual reality simulator display device was in place.”

  “Simulator display device?” I ventured.

  “We used a modified F-16 helmet,” she explained tartly. “Anyway, when you put on the helmet, you saw Mars. Look to the left, red rocks of the Martian landscape to the left. Look to the right, red rocks of the Martian landscape to the right.” She sighed again.

  “Wow!” I said, impressed. “Then what?”

  “The programmer was laid off while he was viewing the surface of Mars. The President postponed the project until 2022, when I’ll be forty-eight, the programmer will be sixty-eight, and the President will be dead.” Sigh. “I think I should go to Bennington.”

  We all silently contemplated that brutal prospect. Then Audrey said miserably, “I can’t afford Bennington.”

  Heather harrumphed. “You can’t afford MIT.” Audrey swung around and glared at her daughter. “Do you have to contradict everything? I think I should have a say in where my daughter goes to school. I’ve earned that, haven’t I?”

  “Oh, Mother.”

  16

  When we arrived at the intersection of First Avenue and Milwaukee, I cast a fleeting glance across the street at Neiman-Marcus.

  “Did you two know the bookstore building used to house a department store?” Audrey asked brightly as I. wound up the concrete ramp to the same entrance I’d used the night of the stir-fry.

  Heather harrumphed. She hadn’t said a word since the flap over tuition money.

  “Yes,” I mused, “I know about when this place was a store…” Did l ever. In fact, I’d often reflected that my acquaintance with different establishments of commerce depended on my financial status at any given stage of life. Neusteter’s had been an upscale department store during my tenure as a doctor’s wife. I had made frequent visits to the jewelry, cosmetics, shoe, dress, and suit departments. Not visits suffused with happiness, I might add, although, I used to think, for example, that getting my hair done for an astronomical sum in the top-floor salon would make me feel better. But it never did. On my last visit there, I winced whenever the hairdresser touched the back of my scalp, because that was where John Richard had slammed me into a wall the night before. Now I much preferred a blunt cut from Mark the Barber in Aspen Meadow. Freedom cost eight bucks.

  I firmly put these memories out of my mind as we unloaded the first trays of concentrically arranged Chocolate-Dipped Biscotti and strawberries. Audrey said the doors were already unlocked, and led the way to the tiny kitchen. The whole area was no more than five feet by five feet, but it would do. In fact, it was so small, we could start the coffee brewing without extension cords. Thank God.

  “What do I do if the lights go out?” I demanded of Audrey when I’d filled the large pot with water and fresh coffee.

  “The lights?” Her look was puzzled.

  “The last time you and I catered this group – Just tell me if there’s an auxiliary lighting system.”

  “Come with me.” Audrey spoke with the resigned tone people use to deal with needlessly worried bosses. She guided me through a maze of shelves to an empty clerk’s desk. The desktop was a jumble of books and papers. Set at an angle was one of those complicated phones with flashing buttons and finely printed instructions on paging and transferring calls. Audrey reached deftly under the desk, yanked, and brought out a flashlight. “There’s one under every employee’s desk in this entire store, in case a thunderstorm or power failure takes the lights out. Satisfied?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling dumb. “Thanks.” Before we could get back to the subject of food, the trade book buyer, a plump woman with papery white skin and curly black hair, came up and introduced herself; Miss Nell Kaplan. While Audrey replaced the flashlight, I invited Miss Kaplan into the kitchen to taste a biscotto. To be sociable, I had one too. Chocolate oozed around the crunch of almonds and cookie. Wonderful, Miss Kaplan and I both agreed.

  “The chairs are all set up,” Miss Kaplan informed us. “Now all we have to do is find the books the author is going to autograph. You wouldn’t think this happens, but it does. Would you consider sharing that recipe for biscotti?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “You should write a cookbook.”

  “One of these days.”

  Miss Fe
rrell click-clacked into the tiny kitchen, wearing a black tent dress. A matching black scarf was wound around her bun of hair. I immediately worried how to keep her away from the wrath of Audrey, who was still Bennington-fixated, but was saved from that task by Miss Kaplan. They had found the books, she announced, and now she needed only a returning Audrey to help her open the chilled wine.

  Her face bright with anticipation, Miss Ferrell said, “I’m so glad we’re finally getting back on track with our college advisory nights.” When I made a vague acknowledging gesture, she added in a lower tone, “Has Julian told you his news?”

  “What news?”

  She frowned and wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps Julian should be the one to tell you. We just found out this afternoon.” She giggled. “What a trick-or-treat!”

  Worry nagged behind my eyes. I thought of Julian’s haggard face, the piles of review books. “You… wanted to meet with me tomorrow morning to talk about his college choices. If something has changed, I … think I’d like to hear about it now. If that’s okay.”

  She put a finger mysteriously to her lips and guided me out to the open area where our meeting was to be held. Chairs were set in neat rows facing a table and podium. A bookstore employee was arranging bright, fragrant flowers at the table where the speaker, author of Climbing the Ivy League, was going to sign books. Apart from that we were alone.

  Miss Ferrell leaned toward me. “He’s been given a full scholarship.”

  I jerked back in astonishment. “Who? Julian? To what school?”

  “Any school. He can go wherever he wants now. Wherever he gets in. Perkins just got the news this afternoon from the College Savings Bank in Princeton. Eighty thousand dollars wired to an account for Julian Teller.” She rolled her eyes. “From an anonymous donor.”

  “Does Julian know who this donor is?” I said, confused. General Farquhar, who had given Julian the Range Rover, was in prison and unable to do anything with his money, which in any event had been largely spent on legal fees. I couldn’t think of any other potential benefactor, unless it was a wealthy person at the school. But why a scholarship for Julian? I was utterly baffled. Unless someone wanted something from him… My mind rocketed around wildly. Was Julian being bribed to do something? To keep something quiet? I closed my eyes to stop the chattering in my head. In the face of recent events at the school, paranoia loomed.

  “Is Julian here?” I asked wishfully.

  Miss Ferrell’s smile faded. Perhaps my response was not what she had anticipated. “I’m sure I don’t know. What’s the matter? Aren’t you thrilled?”

  “I am, I am,” I said unconvincingly. In true paranoid fashion, I didn’t feel I could trust anyone. “It’s just that … I need to talk to him. Now I must go tend to the food. Happy Halloween.” I nipped back to the kitchenette, my mind reeling.

  Heather sidled up while I was arranging the fruit. She straightened her thick pink glasses and whispered, “You didn’t tell Miss Ferrell how mad my mom was, did you?”

  “No, no, no …” Why did these teenagers, first Brad and now Heather, seem to think I was the resident tattler? Perhaps paranoia is contagious. “Miss Ferrell had something else to tell me,” I told her.

  “I heard about Julian’s scholarship. It’s supposed to be very hush-hush.” Heather gave me a quizzical look. “One of the kids said maybe it was you, but then the headmaster’s son said, Nah, you were poor.”

  Audrey rescued me from commenting on this unto-ward assessment of my financial state by announcing that we had a big problem where we were supposed to be setting up. I was saved from asking her what it was when I heard the all too familiar sound of parents’ voices raised in heated dispute.

  “Oh, come on, Hank. Nobody’s heard of Occidental.” Stan Marensky. “You must be joking!”

  Audrey whispered to me, “I’ll bet Hank Dawson just heard of Occidental himself. He probably thinks it’s a Chinese restaurant. Or an insurance policy, maybe.”

  I rubbed my forehead, trying to think what to do. The Dawsons, the Marenskys, and Macguire Perkins stood together near the signing table. The mothers – short, crimson-suited Caroline and thinly elegant, fur-coated Rhoda – were eyeing each other like two wild animals in a life-and-death standoff. The fathers – lanky Stan and squat, beefy Hank – stood stiffly, bristling. All were glaring, and the air around them crackled with hostility. Macguire, as usual, had his eyes half closed and was observing the verbal brickbats fly back and forth as if the conversation were some kind of sporting event.

  “You just don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hank Dawson spat out. He clenched his fists at his sides; I was afraid he would raise them at any moment. “It’s on U.S. News & World Report’s list of the top twenty-five liberal arts colleges. Greer is extraordinarily gifted, in the top ten percent of her class. That’s more than you can say for Brad. What does he do, anyway? Besides play soccer, I mean.”

  To my horror, Hank turned and winked at me, as if I somehow shared this assessment. I recoiled and looked around for Brad Marensky, whom I had not seen since our encounter in church. But when I caught the teenager’s eye, he turned away.

  “You know, Stan,” Hank went on, rocking back and forth on his heels and looking up into Stan’s lean face with a smug grin, “you could always give the director of admissions at Stanford ‘a mink coat, but I think it’s too hot out there.”

  “I’m getting so tired of this from you! We used to be friends! And really, you don’t know the first thing about colleges.” Stan was white with anger. “Jam for the Stanford rep! What a laugh!”

  “Oh, yeah?” shrilled Hank. His face flushed the color of a cherry tomato. “Greer’s sixth-grade teacher said she tested out at the highest intelligence level they’d ever found.”

  “Brad has been in gifted and talented programs since he was eight. And he’s an athlete, named all-state in soccer and basketball. Not just girls’ volleyball,” rasped Stan, his nostrils flaring. “You think you can improve Greer’s chances with this stupid campaign of yours? Does the world know that Hank Dawson flunked out of the University of Michigan? You don’t have a credential to your name.”

  “Oh, shit,” muttered Macguire Perkins. “Oh, man,” he said, looking around for Brad, who had sunk into a nearby chair rather than witness the intensifying conflict.

  “Honey, stop,” protested Caroline Dawson. But both men stood their ground. At any moment, someone was going to get punched in the nose. I tentatively offered my tray of biscotti to the little group. All ignored me Stan Marensky smiled largely. His tall body loomed over Hank Dawson’s. “You’re just jealous because you know Brad’s gotten better grades than Greer – “

  “Man, who cares?” interrupted Macguire Perkins.

  “Shut up!” both fathers cried simultaneously to the headmaster’s son.

  Macguire raised his palms. “Whoa! I’m outta here.” He slunk off. Brad Marensky slumped miserably and put his head in his hands.

  Hank squinted up at Stan Marensky. He was breathing hard. Instead of addressing the jealousy question, he used Stan’s own mocking tone to respond. “Six generations of Dawsons have attended the University of Michigan. That’s more than you can say for the royal Russian Marenskys, I’m sure.”

  Stan Marensky grunted in disgust. His fists clenched.

  I had resolved not to get involved in this, of course, but perhaps I could get us out of this.

  “Please, men,” I said amicably, wafting biscotti under their noses – I’m a great believer in the peace-making abilities of good food. “The kids will get the wrong idea of what college is all about if you don’t quit arguing. You’re both winners. I mean, remember the time when the Broncos – “

  “Who asked you?” bellowed Hank Dawson as if I had unexpectedly betrayed him. He certainly was not in the mood for Bronco talk. Well, hey! I was just doing my referee imitation. I whisked off to set down the tray. Audrey and I had food to set out, conflict or no.

  In catering weddings, I had discovered t
hat there is absolutely no time to become overly involved in arguments between clients while you are trying to serve. To my great relief, and in the manner of wedding receptions, the Marenskys and the Dawsons now settled on opposite sides of the meeting area. More students and parents joined us. Audrey and I kept the trays filled and tended to the glasses. Miss Ferrell, who had watched the bitter exchange between the two sets of parents but sagely declined to interfere, pointed Julian out to me when he sauntered up the stairs to the third floor. I handed my tray to Audrey and rushed over to him.

  “Congratulations,” I gushed. “I heard. This is so – “

  But the hard look in his eyes stopped me short. His face was cold with defiance.

  “What is it?” I stammered. “I thought you’d be ecstatic.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Even in the catering business, you know there’s no free lunch.”

  “I’m happy for you anyway,” I said lamely. The initial doubts I’d had about the scholarship loomed.

  Julian nodded grimly and walked over to join the chatting students and parents. Several members of the crowd took their seats in response to Headmaster Perkins’ agitated appearance at the table where the evening’s speaker, a young fellow with wire-rimmed glasses and slicked-down blond hair, had just settled himself next to an enormous pile of books.

  “I think we should have a moment’s silence for our” – Headmaster Perkins gushed into the microphone – “our classmate and friend, Keith Andrews.” There was shuffling and rearranging of chairs. Along with the noise from the customers on other floors, it was not exactly silence.

  Miss Ferrell stood to introduce the author. Now, I would have thought that a Halloween speaker would at least have had a few lighthearted things to say about how scary the college-application process was, or something along those lines. But when the blond fellow regaled us with no jokes, and instead began with a fluttering hand gesture and the line, “When I was at Harvard…” I knew we were in trouble.

  There would be no more serving until the man had finished his spiel and the question-and-answer period was over, so I slipped around to the back of the room and found Audrey.