Dying for Chocolate

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Clearly, I would have to think about the suggestion angle. I closed the book and headed for the kitchen, where I could hear glasses tinkling and jars being moved in the refrigerator.

  “Hello, there,” I said to Julian’s towel-wrapped backside.

  He started, surprised, then turned to face me.

  His thickly lashed eyes narrowed in appraisal. I didn’t know much about Julian except that Adele had volunteered to take him in when the boarding department had closed at the end of this school year at Elk Park. He’d won a science scholarship to the prep school his tenth-grade year. This summer he was taking Advanced Placement Biology. As soon as the schedule was set, he was going to drive Arch to and from his class in American literature. His parents lived in the Four Corners area, where Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona all came together. But that was all I knew, except that he made excellent candy.

  And that he had been a patient of Philip Miller’s.

  Julian put his hand on his hip. At eighteen, he already had a swimmer’s body, short and tough and muscled. I tried not to eye his bleached hair, which had been shaved in one of those Mohawk cuts with a center ridge. The blond half-inch stood up like a strip of unmowed lawn.

  “What are you doing out here?” he demanded. He made no effort to hide his hostility.

  “Fixing coffee, okay?” I put espresso makings together and tried to soften the anger I felt rising. What was he so mad at me about? Philip’s accident?

  “Julian,” I said once a fragrant rope of dark liquid was twining out of the Farquhars’ Gaggia. “I guess you’ve heard the bad news—”

  “I know. I heard.” He sat down at the kitchen desk chair and ran his fingers through what hair he had. “Bo said you were there,” he said in a voice I tried not to think of as accusing. He raised thick, dark eyebrows set in a square-jawed, fine-featured face and crossed his arms.

  “I was. I was right behind him.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down. His towel had fallen open over his wet tank suit, but he appeared to take no notice. He said, “What were you doing behind him?”

  I took a deep breath, sipped foam off the espresso. “Driving Adele’s car, following Philip into town. To have coffee. Then I was going to go buy supplies for Weezie’s dinner tonight.”

  He turned away. Silence filled the kitchen. Then, “I’m a replacement guest,” he said contemptuously.

  “Lucky you, get to taste the food I make for a catered function. But with the brunch yesterday, I’m swamped. Mrs. Harrington has made specifications about the food. You’re a vegetarian, and I need to do a dessert—”

  He said, “Why don’t you just use some of that fudge with the sun-dried cherries? For dessert, I mean. When I moved in a couple of weeks ago, I made a batch, and Adele took some over to the Harringtons. Brian Harrington loves the stuff. He couldn’t believe I made it.”

  “Well, thanks,” I managed to say, “but a client usually likes to have me make something if I’m going to get paid for it.” I smiled and ventured, “Cooking is something we have in common.” After all, if we were going to share the Farquhars’ house and Arch for the next few months, rapprochement seemed in order.

  He gave an offhand laugh and said, “I don’t think we have anything in common.”

  Again silence fell between us.

  Finally Julian said, “That coffee available or what?”

  I nodded, dumped the spent espresso grounds, and started a new cup brewing. He stood up, tucked the towel in, and sat down again.

  When I had managed not to stare at him putting four teaspoons of sugar and a quarter cup of milk in my perfect espresso, I said, “Would you like to talk about Philip Miller?”

  “Not really.” He did not look at me, but began sipping somewhat noisily on the coffee. He said, “He was a good guy.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “This week? Last week?”

  “I told you,” he said loudly. “I don’t remember.”

  I said, “Sorry,” and meant it.

  Julian pushed back his chair and drained the espresso. “Look,” he said, “I need to go change. You want to know about this food stuff, go to the library and ask for Sissy Stone. She, like, helped Mrs. Harrington with her research. She knows who you are. Sissy was a finalist for Colorado Junior Miss, too, how about that? I’m bringing her to the Harringtons’ dinner tonight. My date, as Adele calls her.” He stopped. “I don’t believe aphrodisiacs work,” he said defiantly.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Do you believe other means are more effective for getting the girl?” I asked with what I hoped was a friendly smile.

  He whipped off the damp towel, slapped it over his shoulder, and started out of the kitchen. He paused at the door.

  He said, “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

  I couldn’t wait to get hold of Sissy Stone, sort of like getting hold of the flu. But when the wooden doors of the Aspen Meadow Public Library swung open at 9:58 A.M., the young woman behind the door gave me a toothpaste-ad smile. She was my height and compactly built, a cross between a gymnast and a cheerleader and probably functional at both. She had pushed up the sleeves on a too-large Elk Park Prep sweatshirt that I suspected was Julian’s. Perfect cream beige makeup covered olive-undertoned skin. Her hair fell in thick dark waves that reminded me of the ribbon candy I bought Arch at Christmastime.

  “I’m looking for Sissy Stone,” I said with what I hoped was an enormous, confidence-winning grin. “Do you know where she is?”

  The girl said, “Why?”

  “Are you Sissy?” I asked.

  “Well. Yeah,” she said with another bright smile, as if I had just introduced her on network television.

  I gestured into the library so we could go somewhere and talk. “Julian Teller suggested I come talk to you. I’m the owner of Goldilocks’ Catering. Julian said you knew. . . .” To her unenthusiastic nod I said, “I’m working as a live-in cook with the Farquhars this summer. You’re coming to the dinner I’m doing tonight for Weezie Harrington.” Another nod. “I need some help from you, the kind you gave her, if that’s okay. In the area of food.”

  “Weezie Harrington,” she repeated. She looked both ways, as if conscious of who might be watching or listening. “I’ll have to check.”

  My hopes for this conversation grew dim. Around us young mothers pulled reluctant toddlers to Saturday morning story time. The front-desk computers whirred and beeped as morning visitors began to check out books, demand paper for the copier, and slap down volumes to be assessed for overdue fines.

  I trundled after Sissy. She had a light step and carried herself with confidence. She glanced this way and that on her way to the computer, as if she were looking for someone more important to talk to. Once at the computer, she tapped away. “Complete Apbrodisia is out,” she announced without looking back at me. “Let’s check for articles.” She moved efficiently to another machine, where she typed into another keyboard. As the machine whirred efficiently, she said, “I guess you can’t wait until Monday?”

  I shook my head. “Can we go outside for a few minutes? Please?” Before she could say no, I was on my way to the library garden, a plot lovingly and meticulously tended by the Aspen Meadow Garden Club. Long-stemmed flax, pansies, petunias, and mountain bluebell swayed in the cool morning breeze as I settled on one of the benches and gestured for her to do the same.

  “Listen, Sissy, “ I began, “all I need is a few ideas. Julian is a vegetarian. Can’t you remember anything from some of those articles you supplied Mrs. Harrington?”

  “Oh, look, a pansy,” said Sissy, as if I had not spoken. She gestured to the garden. “Do you know why its juice was used as a love potion in Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Cupid shot one of his love arrows into what was originally a flower of pure color. You see,” she said
as she bent down to brush the pansy with her fingertips, “it bled.”

  I looked at my watch: 10:10. Clearly, Miss Priss had no intention of helping me. I would give this conversation five more minutes and then head for the grocery store.

  I cleared my throat. “If Cupid were cooking for a vegetarian, Sissy, what would he fix?”

  “Mmm,” she said, and focused vaguely on a nearby evergreen. “Nothing too heavy. Eggs. Sign of fertility. Can you do that for dinner? Cheese for creaminess and sensuality. Also because it’s easy to digest. You don’t want to have indigestion at the wrong moment.”

  I stared at her. She closed her eyes dramatically and shrugged one shoulder. Well, at least we were getting somewhere.

  “Cheese,” I prompted.

  “Something with spice. You know, like garlic or peppers. Onions,” she added as an afterthought.

  “Got it,” I said, and she nodded. I went on, “Now I know chocolate’s a must for dessert,” another nod, “so I’m just looking at a salad situation here. Give me a tip in the green department and I’ll be on my way.”

  But she was watching someone going into the library. I shook my head along with the flowers bending in the cool June wind.

  I said, “What kind of roughage heats up the libido, Sissy?”

  No response. My watch said 10:20. I stood up and started to walk toward the car.

  She called after me, “Fennel! Endive! Asparagus, carrots, and mushrooms!”

  At the grocery store I bought ingredients for Shrimp Dumpling Soup, Chile Relleno Torta, as well as avocados, mushrooms, and baby lettuces for salad. Back at the Farquhars I spread everything out and began to get out pans to grease. My cooking concentration began to rev up, like the adrenaline some athletes claim after the first mile. Then the security gate buzzed.

  It buzzed and buzzed. It was apparent that I had gone from live-in cook to phone answerer to butler and general factotum.

  “Yes,” I said into the speaker. The closed-circuit camera showed two men in a dark sedan.

  “Goldy Bear?” asked one of them. “We would like to talk to you.” Police officers.

  I said, “I am unbelievably busy.”

  “Just a few questions.”

  “May I cook while you ask things?”

  “We’d rather you’d take some time out.”

  “Then you’ll have to come tomorrow.”

  A pause. They looked at each other.

  “You can cook,” said one.

  I buzzed them through. A moment later, I opened the front door and drew my mouth into what I hoped was a threatening pucker. “My business isn’t in jeopardy, is it?”

  “If we can just talk to you, Ms. Bear, we should be able to get some things straightened out.”

  “Right,” I said as I turned to walk down the hall to the kitchen. “I can’t wait.”

  8.

  The cops introduced themselves and then sat down at Adele’s oak kitchen table. I readied my recipe for Chile Relleno Torta. If I made an individual serving, everyone would want a bite, and Julian would have no main dish. Anyway, when serving men a nonmeat entrée, it is essential to serve enormous amounts so as not to offend machismo. Otherwise, after you’ve cleared the ramekin or quiche or soufflé away, one of the fellows will innocently pipe up, “That was great! Now what’s the main course?”

  “Ms. Bear?” said the first one, who was named Boyd. He was a barrel-shaped man with a short black crew cut that was not meant to be fashionable. One of his stubby carrotlike fingers held a ballpoint pen poised over a smudged notebook. “Were you the last one to talk to Dr. Miller before he got into his car?”

  I removed brown eggs from the Farquhars’ side-by-side refrigerator and thought back.

  “I think so,” I said. Then, “Yes, I was. He helped me load platters into Mrs. Farquhar’s Thunderbird.”

  “This was at Elk Park,” said the other fellow, a stocky fellow named Armstrong who had thin strands of light-brown hair pulled over a shiny bald spot. He had the pasty complexion people get when they’ve spent too much time inside. I nodded.

  CHILE RELLENO TORTA

  ½ pound cheddar cheese, grated

  ½ pound Monterey Jack cheese, grated

  5 eggs

  1/3 cup all-purpose flour

  1 2/3 cups half-and-half

  1 4-ounce can diced green chiles, drained

  ¼ cup picante sauce

  Preheat oven to 375°. Mix grated cheeses and spread evenly in buttered 10-inch pie plate. Beat eggs, add flour slowly, and then beat in half-and-half. If mixture is lumpy, strain it. Pour egg mixture over cheeses in pie plate. Carefully spoon chiles over the surface, then spoon picante sauce over all. Bake about 45 minutes or until center is set.

  Makes 8 to 10 servings

  “Did he seem to be in any pain to you?” asked Boyd.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Pain? Like physical pain? Or psychic pain?”

  Boyd said, “Philip Miller was late for the breakfast because he had just been to his doctor, according to his sister. Now we still need to talk to the doctor, but we’re just asking, how did he seem?”

  I thought back to Philip. On such a dark and cold June morning, he had been as smartly dressed as ever in his black and white outfit and Ray Bans. There had been the usual smattering of resentful female glances and whispers as he’d made his way over to me, as if I did not deserve so lovely a man.

  Wait a minute. Ray Bans?

  “What kind of doctor did he go to?” I asked.

  “We’re not at liberty—”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said impatiently. “Was it an eye doctor?”

  The two cops exchanged a look.

  “Routine checkup,” said Boyd. “How’d you know?”

  “Sunglasses,” I said. But I felt gloom descend again. So? He’d been able to see me across the room, he’d walked over, talked, walked back out to his car . . .

  “What did he have to eat at the breakfast?” asked Armstrong.

  I ran through that again and added, “His sister gave him some sausage cake. Just a bite, and I saw her do it. Nothing sinister.”

  “You made the sausage cake?”

  I nodded slowly.

  “Miller and his sister seem to get along to you?”

  “Of course. He helped her out with that health-food store—”

  “He helped her out,” Boyd repeated.

  “So what?” I said.

  No response. I said, “Look, I can probably help you more if you tell me more. We’re not exactly talking state secrets here. I knew Philip was helping Elizabeth financially, I just don’t know how much.”

  Boyd wrote in his notebook, stopped, then bit the inside of his cheek. He said, “The other two hippie-food stores in this town went out of business over five years ago. Hers was the only one left, because her rich brother had bailed her out with a six-figure business loan.”

  “Elizabeth was devoted to him. She worried about him,” I said. “How many siblings in their thirties can you say that for?”

  He sniffed, then said, “She gave him something to eat. Did she have some, too?”

  “She’s a vegetarian.” I left out the high-performance part. “Forensic pathology’s not my field. What does the autopsy say about the contents of his stomach?”

  “Who prepared the rest of the food?” asked Armstrong, brushing aside my question.

  “Except for the nut cakes, I did. But no one—including Philip—got sick.” Annoyance bristled in my voice. “Your insinuation is unappreciated.”

  They ignored me. Then came a barrage of questions: Did Philip have an argument with anyone at the brunch? Was anyone else in the parking lot? Did his car start right away? Was there anything hanging underneath the car? Did the brakes appear to work? I answered as best I could: nothing suspicious with the car or the person.

  “You were going out with Philip Miller, weren’t you?” asked Armstrong.

  For the second time that day unexpected tears stung my eyes. The last
thing I wanted to do was fall apart in front of these two.

  I cleared my throat and said, “I was very fond of him.”

  Armstrong pressed on. “Anyone jealous of that relationship? Your ex-husband? Miller’s ex-wife lives in Hawaii, but what do you know about any former girlfriends of his?”

  “I don’t know about his former girlfriends,” I said with some sharpness. The only thing I knew about Philip’s ex-wife was that she existed. For heaven’s sake, we’d only been going out for a month. To my relief the brink of tears passed. I drew myself up and said, “I try to have as little to do with my ex-husband as possible.”

  “We have several reports on file, Ms. Bear. All from you.”

  I said evenly, “He wasn’t at the brunch.”

  “Did Philip have anything to drink?” asked Boyd. “Coffee? Juice?” He stared at me. “Champagne?”

  I said, “I didn’t see him drink anything.”

  “But twenty minutes later he’s driving like he’s drunk.”

  I put my hands flat down on the island, then leaned toward their impassive faces. “Then why wouldn’t he pull over?”

  Boyd said, “Macho guy, he’s not going to pull over and ask a woman for help. Maybe.”

  I shook my head, then said, “Look, why don’t you see what the eye doctor says? Maybe he was on some medication or something—”

  “Thank you, Ms. Bear,” said Boyd. He nodded to Armstrong to indicate the interview was over. “We need to talk to you, we’ll call.”

  I grated cheddar and jack, beat eggs and swirled in flour and cream, drained chiles, then mounded the cheese into pale hillocks on the pie plates. The cream mixture made a wonderful glug-glug noise as I poured it over the cheese. I spooned the chiles on top and then artfully sloshed picante sauce over each. As I put the pies into the Farquhars’ oven the security gate buzzed. Not the police again already. This time I was going to cook whether they liked it or not.

  It was not the police.