Catering to Nobody (Goldy Schulz Series) gs-1

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Through the air from the blackness came some kind of a projectile, whizzing, ablaze … It was a Molotov cocktail.

  “Get out!” shouted Pom. He grabbed my arm and shoved me out the shed door. I heard the bottle shatter and explode. Pom was on the ground beside me. Fritz was nowhere.

  And then I heard what sounded like a low roar, beginning slowly and rising, louder and louder.

  The bees. Arch had pulled the rope.

  “I’ve got to get one of the smoke pots going to get rid of the bees,” Pomeroy cried into my ear. “They’re going to sting Fritz to death. Go around back! Get Arch!”

  The warm weather had dried the grass to straw. Already smoke was billowing heavily from one side of the shed, and flames were licking the grass.

  “Arch!” I screamed. “Arch! Where are you?”

  A gust of wind fanned the flames into a roar that swallowed my voice. The smoke stung my eyes and nose. My breath caught in my mouth. A bee landed on my arm and I screamed.

  “Arch! Arch!”

  The smoke was so thick that my eyes felt as if they were on fire. My own tears blinded me as I stumbled toward the meadow. The air was hot. I felt wildly with my hands for trees, bush branches, boulders, anything by which Arch might be huddled. Pine tree branches whacked and scratched my face. I fell over a clump of rocks.

  “Arch!”

  A thin voice called, “Over here, Mom!”

  I jumped and ran in the direction of that sound. Branches again clawed my face. Twice I stumbled on snake holes and fell into black straw. The air was thick, unbreathable with the smoke. From time to time I would feel the brush of a bee. I ran for Arch, calling. His responding voice was my beacon. Finally I could see the cabin.

  Then came the sound of vehicles cracking over small trees. Who? Twirling red and white lights flashed through the web of branches and pungent air. What was it?

  Oh, God. It was the fire department.

  “Arch!” I called. “Arch! Arch!”

  Turning back to the shed I could see some flames, mostly smoke.

  “Arch!”

  “Here, Mom,” came a small voice by a tree. I stumbled over to the sound.

  I pulled him to me. “Arch,” I said, “Arch.”

  He said, his voice muffled by my squeeze, “Is Fritz dead?”

  “I don’t know,” I cried. I could hear men’s voices shouting. Figures were running down to the shed. “What were you trying to do by throwing that bomb?”

  Arch said, “I just wanted to scare him. He was acting so weird!”

  I shook my head, hugged him tighter. “And did you call the fire department before you started this blaze?”

  He pulled back from my chest.

  “Of course,” he said matter-of-factly. “Pom showed me how to use his radiophone once. The fire number is on it.” His face was shiny with sweat. Despite his apparent calm, his voice was shaking. “And I told the fire department to call Tom Schulz.”

  At that moment, I was so glad to have him alive and with me that I did not care whom he had called.

  “Thanks, Arch,” I whispered into his ear. “You probably saved my life, you know. Pom’s, too.” I paused. “Hon, I’ve been so worried about you. Potions and revenge and weapons. It’s not the same as life, you know, real life.”

  He let his head bob forward. “I know,” he said, barely audible over the din from the firefighters. “But”—and now his eyes behind the thick glasses implored me—“it was just because of the kids at school. Todd and I were going to put a curse on them. But it didn’t work I mean we sort of chickened out. You know? We had a curse and a weapon, but the milkwort potion was too gross. I got to make the Molotov cocktail anyway, because I remembered where Pom keeps his extra gasoline tank. And I, uh, let the bees go by pulling the rope that warns of an intruder. Man, I can’t wait to tell Todd about that.”

  What could I say? He was my son. He didn’t cater to anybody either. Still. The games were his escape from reality. What he had done was brave, but much too hazardous for a boy of eleven. I hugged him again.

  “You’re really great,” I said. “But when all this is over we’re both going to go see the school psychologist. We need to have a long chat.”

  He looked up at me. The smoke stung my eyes to tears again when he said, “All I need is you, Mom.”

  By the time we made our way back up to the cabin, Tom Schulz, still in his clown costume, was sitting on a tall stool boasting about having the situation under control. Fritz, he informed us, was going by rescue squad to a hospital in Denver. He had stings over half his body. And Schulz had sent an investigator to the Korman house to confiscate the records of injections the doctor claimed to have given Vonette. He was going to see if it matched the toxicological report he was ordering.

  “I’ve got a cop with Korman now,” Tom said. “Because we don’t even have to wait for those records. That doctor is under arrest.”

  “Finally,” interjected Pomeroy, who had reentered his cabin, covered with soot.

  I sank onto the couch and pulled Arch down next to me. I never wanted to let him out of my sight again. For the next few hours, anyway. The muscles in my legs and arms ached. A sudden wave of exhaustion swept through my body.

  “And you, Miss G,” Tom said as he wagged a heavy finger at me, “are in one load of trouble for making that food.”

  “Tell me what you arrested Fritz for,” I demanded weakly.

  He puffed out his chest. “Investigation of first-degree murder. Man, I am so smart. I got that scalpel checked for blood and fingerprints. Lucky for us the record on Laura Smiley said she was blood type AB negative, which just happened to match the blood on the blade and the handle. Best of all, I found a right index fingerprint.”

  I gave him a questioning look. “I thought there were surgical gloves …?”

  “Oh, Goldy,” Tom rejoined, “you got a long way to go before you become a grown-up detective. Not to mention that your ability to follow orders needs some work. Man wears surgical gloves, touches his forehead or something, picks up some body oil which has some kind of enzymes or something in it, hell, I’m not too sure myself. Anyway, then he touches something and some of that enzyme and oil stuff comes off and bingo, the print comes through the glove.” He smiled proudly. “I sent that scalpel down to Denver for a laser picture, got a print, matched it with the Department of Motor Vehicles print of Fritz Korman’s right index, and what do you know.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the cushion.

  “Well,” I said, “aren’t you something. Take that box of letters, too. They ought to help your case.”

  “Hey, you finally found something! How about that.” He slid off his stool and looked into the box.

  I said, “I think that’s what Laura threatened him with. Vonette might have known about them too, but was too afraid or embarrassed to reveal what she knew. They both probably threatened him with exposure. In Aspen Meadow that would have been the kiss of death. Which it was for them.”

  “Sort of like closing down a catering business?” he said with a smile. He stopped talking for a minute, shifted his weight on the stool. “Well, Miss Goldy, after all this, I ought to at least rate breakfast with you,” he said with a big clown grin. “Make that brunch. Soon’s I get some of the work on this done.” He eyed Pomeroy, who was finally removing the sooty beekeeper suit. Then he added, “I mean, since we never did get to finish our date.”

  I looked at Tom Schulz.

  I said, “You bet. Give me five minutes and you can take Arch and me home, out for breakfast when the sun comes up, whatever. Meanwhile, I need to have a little chat with the beekeeper. Outside.”

  Pom gave me a rueful glance and said, “Let’s go.”

  The two of us walked in silence down to the creek. Our feet swished through the grass. The clouds had left the night sky, but acrid smoke stench still hung in the air. Lights from the flashing fire trucks made Pomeroy’s tired face look like a statue in a city square
at night.

  I said, “You had a predator who raided one of your hives a couple of weeks ago. A skunk, maybe. That’s why you couldn’t bring me any more honey before the funeral, right?”

  “Yes, a skunk. So what?”

  “Arch didn’t forget the things he learned from you,” I went on. “He talked about those facts, even used them in his games. When a wizard trespasses a secret lair, he is attacked by a straight-flying line of stingrays. Just like bees. You have to approach danger from the side. Just like bees. When you have unwanted animals, you call the Division of Wildlife. Just like bees. In a game, when you have problems with giant water rats, you crack open a raw alligator egg and mix in chopped-up electric eel. Just like bees. Only with bees, when you have a skunk or rat or field mouse getting into the honey, you crack open an egg and mix the yolk with poison, right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “A poison called Just One Bite, right? That you just happen to keep on the shelves of your shed. Still right?”

  Silence. Then he said, “That’s right.”

  “And when a caterer turned cleaning lady tells you she’s going to be cleaning the club, you sneak over to look for the poisonous disinfectant, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But you make the mistake of bringing the club cleaning woman flowers in the hospital, and you call her ‘sweets’ at a party, both of which are remarkably like the bouquet and note you sent her after you first tried to poison Doctor Fritz Niebold Korman, right?”

  “Goldy, I wasn’t trying to kill him,” he protested. “I wanted to, to terrify him, make him sweat. I wanted him to get real worried about dying.”

  “Uh-huh. And you mention to your protege, the one who is so easy to talk to, who sounds just like a little adult, and who just happens to be my son, that Laura didn’t get along with Fritz and Vonette, and that furthermore, Fritz had no respect for human life. Right again?”

  There was a long silence. Pom crossed his arms and stared at the black rushing creek.

  He said, “After my wife had her abortion, she left. All I could think about was death. And of course, getting back at him for what he’d done. I know it’s not grounds for a malpractice suit. She did what she wanted. But nobody thought about me. It was my child, too, even if she was an alcoholic and the baby probably would have had problems. I wanted Korman to think about death for a while. I’m sorry if Arch took what I said too seriously.”

  “It’s his grandfather we’re talking about.”

  “I am really sorry. Revenge makes you a little crazy. I’m sorry about your business, too,” he said. In the moonlight I could see his furrowed brow, his earnest dark eyes. “That’s why I wanted to teach Patty Sue how to drive, so she could help you—”

  “All because of your ex-wife’s abortion? I thought in Al-Anon you were supposed to learn how to take care of yourself. Let go of the addict in your life. I wish I’d figured out earlier what you were doing in that organization, instead of just working on Laura.” I paused. “Wake up and smell the coffee, Pom. You want to have children, get married and have them.”

  We didn’t say anything. I crossed my arms. It was time to go.

  I said, “You know what Newman says to Redford in The Sting when they first meet? ‘Revenge is for suckers.’ ” I was quiet for a minute before saying, “I have to tell Schulz you’re the one. Unless you’re ready to ’fess up.”

  Pom turned away from me completely. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the creek. He cleared his throat. I let him have his silence.

  “I’m ready,” he said after a moment. “The person I wanted to hurt is being punished. You don’t need to turn me in. I can do that myself.”

  I touched his shoulder. He headed back to the cabin.

  Later, although I could not say how much later, Tom Schulz was driving me out of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve in a police car. We bounced along the dirt road in silence. Despite all the excitement Arch had fallen asleep in the backseat within minutes.

  The night was very still. Overhead, a sea of stars glittered. The moon was crossing to the west and the wind had died down. Or, I reflected, since it was near dawn and already All Saints’ Day, the wind like everything else had given up the ghost.

  “Guess you’ll be getting back into the catering business,” Tom finally remarked.

  “Guess so,” I replied, “since I don’t need to worry about people coming along and dumping strange chemicals into people’s drinks at my functions.”

  “You know,” he said, “I had a feeling it was Pomeroy. Quiet people make me nervous.”

  “How’d you figure that out?”

  “I thought I saw him. Couldn’t be sure. It was right after you were talking real close to him, he bent over to put that net hat down and brought out the cleaner. Sometimes you don’t arrest someone right away, especially when Murder One and a bunch of other stuff are a possibility at the same time. Anyway,” he said with a self-satisfied smirk, “when you followed him I figured you knew he’d done it too, and that you could take as good care of him as I could.”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to leave the party! Was that all an act?”

  “Course it was. If Goldy’s the prime suspect, Pomeroy won’t try to bolt before I’ve got some evidence. Or a confession, thank you very much. You mind?”

  “I can’t believe you! Pomeroy could have killed me!”

  “Oh, I think you and Arch could’ve defended yourselves. It took three fire trucks and six smoke pots just to get the bees and Molotov cocktail under control.”

  I smiled in spite of myself.

  Tom Schulz turned onto the highway.

  Funny thing, revenge.

  Revenge against Fritz Korman was what had motivated Laura because of Bebe and Patty Sue, Vonette because of Laura and Bebe, Pomeroy because of his baby, Arch because of his teacher and his grandmother. Nor was I above reproach, with my hatred of John Richard Korman, the jerk I used to be married to.

  Ahead the highway stretched like a smooth gray ribbon pulling us into the day when we remember the dead. To the west the mountain tops were fiery with dawn’s light. Schulz pointed to the pine trees, whose needles glowed silver.

  Why do we remember the dead? I had asked my Sunday school class when we were studying All Saints’ Day. So we can let them go.

  Tom Schulz pulled up in front of the Aspen Meadow pastry shop. The warm scent of cinnamon rolls wafted into the morning coolness. I was happy to be there, happy to be with Tom Schulz, happy, period.

  He said, “I love this place. Let’s start with some rolls. Not as good as yours, of course.”

  “Flattery will get you absolutely—”

  “Same old Goldy. Okay, this being the beginning of a new day and all that, you better let me start by just buying you a cup of coffee.”

  I smiled and said, “Sure. Black. You put anything in it, I’ll kill you.”

  INDEX TO THE RECIPES

  Goldy’s Marvelous Mayonnaise

  ♦

  Wild Man’s Wild Rice Salad

  ♦

  Goldy’s Dream Cake

  ♦

  Dungeon Bars

  ♦

  Goldy’s Terrific Toffee

  ♦

  Honey-I’m-Home Ginger Snaps

  ♦

  Holy Moly Guacamole

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Diane Mott Davidson is the author of eleven Goldy novels: Catering to Nobody, Dying for Chocolate, The Cereal Murders, The Last Suppers, Killer Pancake, The Main Corpse, The Grilling Season, Prime Cut, Tough Cookie, Sticks & Scones, and Chopping Spree. Diane lives in Evergreen, Colorado, with her family.

  If you enjoyed Diane Mott Davidson’s delicious debut mystery, CATERING TO NOBODY, you won’t want to miss any of the tantalizing entrees in her nationally bestselling culinary mystery series!

  Available wherever Bantam Books are sold

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