The Cereal Murders

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Arch looked disappointed, but then piped up, “Can I see the secret closet, then? I know you have one, a kid at school told me.”

  “Uh, I suppose,” Audrey said, hesitating, “but it isn’t exactly The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Are you sure?”

  Arch replied with an enthusiastic affirmative. Arch, Julian, Audrey, and I unloaded the supplies and rode down to the first floor. In Business Books, Audrey carefully pulled out an entire floor-to-ceiling shelf. In back was a small closet. Arch insisted on being closed into it.

  His muffled voice said, “Yeah, it’s cool all right! Now let me out.”

  This we did. Satisfied, he returned to the fourth floor with us and minutes later was stringing snow peas to go in the stir-fry under Julian’s direction.

  As I heated oil in the electric wok, Arch said, “Did you do stuff like that during the summer when you were nine, Mom? Make a time-travel machine?”

  Julian snorted.

  I replied, “The only thing I did during the summer when I was nine was swim in the ocean and eat something called fireballs.”

  Arch pushed his glasses up on his nose and nodded, considering. Finally he said, “Okay. I guess I’m not too dumb.”

  I gave him an exasperated look, which he returned. The oil was beginning to pop, so I eased in the marinated beef. The luscious smell of garlic-sautéed beef wafted up from the wok.

  “Thank you, thank you,” gushed Audrey. “I don’t know what I would have done without you, I’ve just been so stressed lately—”

  “No problem.” I tossed the sizzling beef against the sides of the wok until the red faded to pink. When the beef slices were just tender, I eased them onto a platter and heated more oil for the broccoli, carrots, baby corn, and snow peas, an inviting palette of emerald, orange, and pale yellow. When the vegetables were hot and crisp, I poured on the oyster-sauce mixture, then added the beef and a sprinkling of chopped scallions. I served the whole hot steaming mass with the rice to Arch, Audrey, and her staff, who exclaimed over the fresh veggies’ crunchiness, the tenderness and rich garlic flavor of the steak.

  “I love to feed people,” I replied with a smile, and then wielded chopsticks into the goodies myself.

  On the way home, Julian ate a cheese sandwich he’d brought, pronounced himself exhausted, and lay down in the back seat. He was snoring within seconds. Arch rambled in a conspiratorial tone about the upcoming weekend, skiing, the amount of loot he’d collect trick-or-treating at his father’s condo, being able to see more constellations in Keystone because it was farther from the lights of Denver. He wanted to know, if I hadn’t read C. S. Lewis when I was his age, had I at least liked to look at stars? Did I wait until it was dark to see Polaris, and could you see a lot of stars, living near the Jersey shore? Like in the summertime, maybe? I told him the only thing I looked forward to on summer evenings when I was his age was getting a popsicle from the Good Humor man.

  “Oh, Mom! Fireballs and popsicles! All you ever think about is food!”

  I took this as a compliment, and laughed. I wanted to ask him how school was going, how he thought Julian was doing, how life was going in general, but experience had taught me he would interpret it as prying. Besides, he spared me the trouble as we chugged up the last portion of Interstate 70 that led to our exit.

  “Speaking of food, I’m glad we had meat tonight,” my son whispered. “Sometimes I think eating that brown rice and tofu stuff is what makes Julian so unhappy.”

  Monday morning brought slate-gray clouds creeping up from the southernmost part of the eastern horizon. Below the cloud layer, a slice of sunrise sparkled pink as fiberglass. I stretched through my yoga routine, then turned on the radio in time to hear that the blanket of clouds threatened the Front Range with—dreaded words—a chance of snow. The reason Coloradans do not use the eastern word autumn is that October offers either late summer or early winter, with precious little in between.

  I dressed and made espresso. Arch and Julian shuffled sleepily out of their room and joined me. I flipped thick, egg-rich slices of hot French toast for them and poured amber lakes of maple syrup all around. This perked them both up. After the boys left for school, I worked on my accounts, sent out some bills and paid some, ordered supplies for the upcoming week, and then took off for Elk Park Prep with the raccoon coat rolled into a furry ball on the front seat of my van.

  The winding driveway to the prep school had been paved and straightened out somewhat at the end of the summer. But the approach to the magnificent old hotel was still breathtaking. Several of the driveway’s curves even afforded glimpses of snow-capped peaks. Saturday night’s snowfall, now mostly melted, had reduced the roadside hillocks of planted wildflowers to rust-colored stalks topped with wrinkled flowers in faded hues of blue and purple.

  Chinese Beef Stir-Fry with Vegetables

  1 pound good-quality (such as Omaha Steaks) sirloin tips, cut into 1-inch cubes

  1 tablespoon dry sherry

  1 tablespoon soy sauce

  1 tablespoon cornstarch

  ½ teaspoon sugar

  2 tablespoons and ½ teaspoon vegetable oil

  ⅛ teaspoon freshly ground blac pepper

  2 cloves garlic, pressed

  1 tablespoon oyster sauce

  2 large stalks of broccoli, stems removed and cut into florets

  2 carrots, peeled and sliced on a diagonal

  ½ cup beef broth

  8 spears (½ 15-ounce can) water-packed baby corn, drained

  20 fresh snow peas

  1 scallion, both white and green parts, chopped

  Marinate the sirloin at room temperature in a mixture of the sherry, soy sauce, 1 teaspoon of the cornstarch, the sugar, ½ teaspoon of the oil, the pepper, and garlic for an hour. Heat 1 tablespoon of the remaining oil in a wok over high heat. Stir-fry beef quickly, until the meat is brown outside and pink inside. Remove.

  Mix the remaining 2 teaspoons cornstarch with the oyster sauce. Reheat the wok with the remaining tablespoon oil. Add the broccoli and carrots; stir-fry for 30 seconds.

  Add the broth, cover the wok, and steam for approximately 1 minute or until the vegetables are tender but retain their crunch. Add the corn, snow peas, scallion, beef, and oyster sauce—cornstarch mixture. Heat quickly, until the sauce is clear and thickened. Serve immediately. Makes 4 servings.

  As I rounded the last curve and rolled over speed bump number three, I noticed that the school had finished tearing down the chain-link fence around the pool construction site. In its place was a decorous stone wall surrounded by hemlock bushes. Looked like the administration didn’t want kids thinking about swimming with winter coming on. Over the summer Arch had nearly drowned in that damn pool. I didn’t want to think about swimmings, either.

  I parked, grabbed the fur coat, and leaped out onto the iced driveway. Over by the headmaster’s house I could see two policemen methodically sweeping the ground with metal detectors. I turned away.

  Someone had taped photocopied pictures of Keith Andrews onto the front doors of the school. Black crepe paper hung around each. The angelic, uncannily Archlike face stared out from both flat photos. I closed my eyes and pushed through the doors.

  In the carpeted lobby, chessboards left in mid-game were perched on tables with their chairs left at hurriedly pulled-out angles. Piles of books and papers spilled off benches. Through this clutter threaded Egon Schlichtmaier, my muscular faculty assistant from the college dinner. Today he was conspicuously spiffy in a very un Faustian sheepskin jacket. Next to him clomped the much less sartorial Macguire Perkins in a faded denim coat. Macguire’s acne-covered face had a dour expression; Egon Schlichtmaier’s baby face was grim. They had just come in from outside, and they were in a hurry.

  “You heff made us late,” Egon was scolding.

  “So?” retorted Macguire.

  “Ah, there you are,” trilled Headmaster Perkins at me. He approached in the tweed-of-the-day, a somber herringbone. “With Mrs. Marensky’s coat. W
on’t she be happy.”

  Yes, won’t she. Mr. Perkins escorted me into his office, a high-ceilinged affair that had been painted mauve to match one of the hues in the hand-cut Chinese rug that covered most of the marble floor. A buzz of his intercom distracted him. I sat carefully on one of the burgundy leather sofas profuse with brass buttons. It let out a sigh.

  “You and me both,” I said under my breath.

  “Well!” said the headmaster with a suddenness that startled me. “Saturday night was indeed tragic.” From behind his hornrimmed glasses, Perkins’ eyes locked mine; we had the abrupt intimacy of strangers thrown together by disaster. There was the mutual, if unwanted, need to come to terms with what had happened. His usually forced joviality had disappeared; his anxiety was barely masked. “Awful, just awful,” he murmured. He jumped up restlessly and paced back and forth in front of the windows. Sunlight shone off his thick mass of prematurely white hair. “It was like a … a …” But for once the complicated similes wouldn’t come. “As you can imagine,” he floundered, “our phones have not stopped ringing. Parents calling to find out what happened. The press …” He gestured with his hands and lifted his pale eyebrows expressively. “We had an emergency faculty meeting this morning. I had to tell them you were the one who found the body.”

  I groaned. “Does this mean people are going to be calling me to find out what happened?”

  Headmaster Perkins brushed a finger over one of the brass wall sconces before moving toward his Queen Anne—style desk chair, where he ceremoniously sat. “Not if you can tell me exactly what you saw, Mrs. Korman. That way, I can deal with those who want all the details.”

  Hmm. In a small town, people always wanted all the details, because everyone wanted to be the first one with the complete story. How many stitches did George need when he fell while rock-climbing? Did Edward lose his house when he filed for bankruptcy? Did they take out Tanya’s lymph nodes? And on it went. So the request did not surprise me. On the other hand, this wasn’t the first time I’d had some involvement with a homicide investigation. I had learned from Schulz to talk as little as possible in these situations. Remembered details were for the police, not the gossip network.

  “Sorry,” I said with a slight smile, “you know as much as I do. But let me ask you a question. Who would have had the keys to your house to get in before I did that night?”

  “Oh.” Perkins didn’t bother to conceal his distaste. “We leave it open. This is an environment of trust.”

  Well, you could have fooled me. The receptionist buzzed once more. While Mr. Perkins was again deep in similes, I glanced around his office. The mauve walls held wood-framed degrees and pictures. The Hill School. B.A. from Columbia. M.A., Yale. There was a large crackled-surface oil painting of a fox hunt, with riders in full Pink regalia hurtling over a fence. Another painting was of Big Ben. As if the life of Merrie Olde Englande were available in the Colorado high country. But these hung decorations sent a subliminal message to prospective students and, more important, to their parents. Want these accoutrements and all they imply? Go to this school.

  The headmaster finished up on the phone and laced his fingers behind his silvery-white hair. “I have a few more things to talk to you about, Mrs. Korman. We need to move the next college advisory meeting off the school grounds. Too much anxiety would be aroused if we held it at my residence again, I fear. Can you stay flexible?”

  “As a rubber band,” I said with a straight face.

  “And you do remember that the SATs are this coming Saturday morning? You’re making a healthful treat, something whole grain?”

  I nodded. How could I forget? I would be bringing the Elk Park Prep seniors, as well as the visiting seniors from the local public high school, a buffet of breakfast-type treats, to be served before the test. Better than skiing at Keystone any day, I thought sourly.

  “It’s the morning after Halloween,” the headmaster reflected, “although I don’t suppose that will make a difference. But it may spook them,” he added with a grin.

  Getting back to his old self. I waited. Perkins pulled off his glasses and polished them carefully.

  I said, “Well, if that’s all—”

  “It isn’t.”

  I squirmed on the sofa. He put on his glasses, narrowed his eyes, and puckered his lips in thought.

  Perkins said: “Your son Arch is having some problems.”

  Ringing assaulted my ears. Keeping my voice even, I said, “What kind of problems?”

  “Academic as well as social, I’m told.” To his credit, a shade of gentleness crept into Perkins’ tone. “Arch is failing social studies. Missing most of the assigned work, is my understanding. He seems quite unhappy … not swimming with the currents of scholastic life. Reading books outside of the curriculum and wanting to report on them.”

  “Failing a course? Social studies?” The mother is always the last to know.

  “We wanted you to be aware of this before midterm grades come out next week. Parent conferences are scheduled in two weeks. When you come, you can ask Arch’s instructors yourself.”

  “Can I talk to his teachers now? Do they know why this is happening?”

  He shrugged. His gesture clearly said, This is not my responsibility. “The instructors can see you if it’s convenient. Remember, grades are only an indication of what young Arch is learning. Like the weather forecasts, this may mean a storm, but it may only be dark clouds … a wee disturbance in the stratosphere.” This last was accompanied by a weak, patronizing smile.

  “The instructors can see me if it’s convenient?” I repeated. In public school, if you wanted to see a teacher, you got a conference, period. “Grades are like the weather forecasts?” Fury laced my voice. “You know what this school is like? Like … like … bottled water! You pay more for it than the free stuff out of the tap, but there’s a lot less regulation! And the product is awfully unpredictable!”

  Perkins drew back. How dare I invade his field of metaphorical expertise? I stood up and bowed slightly, my way of excusing myself without speaking. There was only one comfort in the whole infuriating experience: For the meteorological analysis of Arch’s academic progress it was John Richard, and not I, who was forking over nine grand a year.

  5

  When I left the headmaster’s office, I noticed that ultra-thin, ultra-chic couple, Stan and Rhoda Marensky, hovering around the receptionist. This day, Rhoda’s fashionably short red hair stood in contrast to a blond-streaked fur jacket, the kind that looked as if the animals had their hair frosted. She stopped reading a framed article on the wall and turned a blank, prim face to me. Either she was angry to learn who had carried off her raccoon coat or she was still stewing about my hemophilia comment.

  Stan, less like a clotheshorse than a horse who happened to be wearing clothes (in this case a rumpled green suit), paced nervously. His lined face quivered; his bloodshot eyes flicked nervously about the room. He looked at me, then away. Clearly, I wasn’t worth greeting.

  “I brought back your coat,” I announced loudly, not one to endure snubs lightly.

  “Huh,” snorted Rhoda. She tilted her head back so she could look down her long nose at me, literally. “I suspected somebody had taken it. Compound grand theft with murder, why not?”

  I could feel rage bubbling up for the second time in ten minutes. Now I really couldn’t wait to tell Schulz whose coat had someone else’s credit card tucked in its pocket. A dead somebody else, no less. We’d see about insinuations. To the Marenskys, I only smiled politely. I had learned the hard way not to respond directly to hostility. Instead, I purred, “How’s the fur store doing?”

  Neither answered. The receptionist even stopped tapping on her computer keys for a moment to see if she had missed something. Was it possible that Marensky Furs, a family business that had been a Denver landmark for over thirty years, wasn’t doing so well? The newspapers are always full of doom-and-gloom analyses for the Colorado economy. But Marla, who was a regular
Marensky customer, would have told me if the trade in silver fox had taken a hit. Perhaps I should have asked how Neiman Marcus was doing.

  The bell clanged, signaling the end of the second academic period. I wanted to catch Arch between classes but was determined that if anyone was going to back down, it was going to be the Marenskys. Stan stopped pacing and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He rocked back on the heels of his unpolished Italian loafers and regarded me. “Didn’t I coach your son in soccer?”

  “Yes, briefly.”

  “Little guy, right? Kind of timid? What’s he doing now, anything?”

  “Building props from C. S. Lewis novels.”

  Stan Marensky continued to look at me as if I baffled him, or in some way presented an enigma. A wave of noisy students swelled down the hall. Stan Marensky said, “I understand Julian Teller lives with you now, doesn’t he?”

  What was this, interrogation time? If he couldn’t even tell me the status of the fur trade, what was I doing recounting the doings of our household?

  I said merely, “Mmm.” We were saved from open warfare by the sudden appearance of Headmaster Perkins at his doorway. He looked expectantly at the Marenskys, who turned in unison and made for the headmaster’s office. Odd. Two people didn’t need to come in to pick up an old coat. Something else was going on. But as the door to the office closed with a soft click, I knew I wasn’t going to be privy to any confidences.

  The second bell rang. I asked the receptionist how to get to seventh-grade social studies and then walked pensively down one of the long halls. Pictures of the old hotel before it had become a school hung between the bulletin boards and rows of metal lockers. In the first photograph you could see the lobby in its former glory. Once this had been an expanse of pink Colorado marble with replicas of classical statuary placed tastefully here and there. Now it was covered with dark industrial-grade carpet. Other pictures showed the wide halls to the guest suites; still others, the suites themselves, lushly decorated with floral-patterned rugs, matching wallpaper, and egg-and-dart molding. The faded photos exuded an air of quiet luxury that was distinctly at odds with the bulletin boards stuffed with announcements, the battered lockers papered with pictures of rock stars, the throb of young voices pulsing from classrooms.