The Cereal Murders

by Diane Mott Davidson

  At that moment a horrific shriek and reverberating metallic crash cut the air. On the other side of the room, a crowd gathered to see what had happened. A short, stocky fellow had dropped one of the largest barbells. I wondered how many pounds were involved, and if the barbell had landed on his toe. So much for clean and jerk.

  Blaster started yelling at the poor guy who’d dropped the weight. Even Macguire pulled off his earphones. The Richter-scale vibration had come through the treadmill. With an air of exasperated defeat, Egon Schlichtmaier hunched toward the melee. But it seemed to me the teacher was only too glad to leave me standing there; we hadn’t exactly been having a pleasant conversation. Macguire slouched off after Egon. I noticed with delight that the preoccupied Blaster had his back turned to me.

  Time to boogie.

  • • •

  I showered quickly and drove home. By the time I eased the van in behind the Range Rover it was almost eight A.M. The Range Rover? Julian and Arch usually left for school around 7:30. Panic welled up. Were they all right? Had they overslept? I bounded inside and up the stairs to check, and immediately regretted the move. My thighs screamed with pain from the workout.

  “Julian,” I whispered after knocking on their door, “Arch!”

  There were groans and the sounds of shuffling sheets. The air in the room was close, and it smelled of boy. As an only child, Arch took rooming with Julian as a great adventure. It had begun with a bunk bed. Of course, I hadn’t been able to afford a new one, and we wouldn’t be needing it after Julian went off to college. But a classified ad in the Mountain Journal had provided a secondhand two-tiered bed for fifty bucks. Unfortunately, it had cost another fifty for a carpenter to reinforce the upper bunk for Arch’s weight.

  “Guys!” I said more loudly. I glanced around the room. Their school clothes lay in piles on a chair. A gel-filled ice pack was on the floor next to Arch’s slippers. “Is this a school holiday that I don’t know about?”

  Julian lifted his head and barely opened puffy eyes. His unshaven, exhausted face was a mottled gray. He made unintelligible sounds along the lines of, “Gh? Hnh?” and then, “Oh, it’s you,” and flopped back on his pillow.

  “Hello?” I tried again. “Arch?”

  But Arch only pulled himself under his covers, a typical maneuver. I bent down to pick up his slippers. They were wet.

  “Julian,” I said with frustration, “could you wake up enough to tell me what is going on?”

  With great effort Julian propped himself up on one elbow. He announced thickly, “Arch and I saw your note. Arch went outside to get the paper and slipped on the top porch step. He landed on his ankle and really hurt himself.” He yawned. “I took a look, and since it had already begun to swell, I put some ice packs on it and told him to go back to bed until you could decide what to do.” Another, longer, yawn. “I didn’t feel too good either. I’m really tired.” He let out a deep, guttural groan, as if even putting this much thought into discourse were an effort.

  “Uh, Doctor Teller?” I said. “After you diagnosed and treated the ankle, and sent the patient back to bed, what?”

  He opened an eye. “Well,” he said with just a shade of a grin cracking the expanse of youthful brown beard, “since I knew you wouldn’t want Arch to be here alone, I mean after the rock and the snake and all, I decided to stay home with him. I can afford to miss a day.” He flopped over. “You’ll have to be the one who calls the school, though.”

  Oh, what was the use? “All right, okay,” I said. Respecting kids’ assessment of a situation is a finely tuned parenting skill. Not a skill I was sure I had yet, but never mind. “Arch? May I please take a look at your ankle?”

  He grunted an assent and thrust the offending foot from underneath his covers. Julian’s makeshift ice pack had already begun to unwrap, but there were still two frozen gel-filled packs inside a gently knotted terry-cloth towel. The ankle was swollen all right. The skin around the ankle was a pale blue.

  “From the steps?” I was confused. “That’s awful.” Arch was not usually clumsy. In fact, his lack of athletic ability was in direct contrast to what I thought of as his physical grace, which of course you could see when he skied. Admittedly, as his mother I was somewhat prejudiced. “Can you stand on it?”

  “I can stand on it and it is not broken,” said Arch.

  “One more thing,” muttered Julian, his head on the pillow, his eyes closed. “I don’t know if I’m getting paranoid or something. Did you spill water out front?” When I said that I had not, he said, “Well, it looked to me as if someone had poured water over the steps. So anyone going out the front would fall and break his ass.”

  Hmm. In any event, medical attention was not warranted, at least for now. I backed out of the room, but not before I heard Arch’s muffled and indignant voice say: “I did not break my ass!”

  I went down to the kitchen. When other people’s lives get chaotic, they smoke, they drink, they exercise, they shop. I cook. At the moment it seemed we all needed the comfort of homemade bread. I made a yeast starter and phoned Marla. “You said you were coming over to help me today, remember? Please come now,” I begged to her husky greeting.

  “Goldy, it’s the middle of the night, for crying out loud. Or the middle of winter. I had a late date last night and I’m hibernating. Call me when spring arrives.”

  “It’s past eight,” I countered unrelentingly, “and it won’t be winter for another seven weeks. Come on over and I’ll make something special. Julian and Arch are both home. Arch fell and Julian’s … tired. Besides, I want you to tell me more about the lost teacher, Pamela Samuelson, and this Schlichtmaier fellow.”

  “The former has been hard to find, and the latter is too young for you. Is Arch okay?”

  “Just bedridden.”

  She groaned. “Lucky him. I’m so glad I’m the one you call when the kids are incapacitated and you don’t have anything better to do. But if you’re making something special….”

  “Doughnuts,” I promised. Marla was wild for them. She made a cooing noise and hung up.

  Within moments I realized I didn’t have enough oil to fill even a quarter of a deep fryer. Well, necessity was the mother of all new recipes. Not only that, but I needed to develop something sweet but nutritious for the SAT breakfast that would follow Headmaster Perkins’ directive of including grains in everything possible. Why not oat bran in a doughnut? I’m sure kids would prefer that to an oat bran muffin any day, especially when those kind of muffins usually tasted as if they’d come right out of a cement mixer.

  I moved the college financial aid books that Julian had left askew on the counter, then sanctimoniously sifted soy flour with the all-purpose stuff and, ever virtuous, poured judicious measures of oat bran and wheat germ on top. After the yeasty starter was warm and bubbly, I swirled in sugar, eggs, vanilla, and the flour mixture. I massaged it into a rich, soft pillow of dough that snuggled easily into a buttered bowl. After I’d put the whole thing into my proofing oven to rise, I put in a call to Schulz’s voice mail. I said I wanted to talk to him about Egon Schlichtmaier, who taught out at the school. And how was he doing on the pickup-truck situation, and Audrey’s background? As I hung up, Julian shambled in. He wore a T-shirt with the faded logo of some ancient rock concert, frayed jeans, and loafers with the backs crumpled down.

  “Sorry I was so tired,” he mumbled. He looked around the kitchen hopefully. “What’re you putting together? You going to make some coffee?”

  “Doughnuts in about an hour and a half,” I countered as I measured out Medaglia d’Oro and filled a pitcher with half-and-half. “Cappuccino in a couple of moments.”

  He stood in front of my calendar of upcoming events and read what was coming: “Clergy lunch … Tattered Cover dessert … SAT breakfast … Bronco brunch. How do you figure out what to charge for these meals?”

  Even when he was out of sorts, Julian had great enthusiasm for catering. He wanted to know everything. It provided a contex
t for our relationship, for his goal was to work as a hotel chef or have his own catering or restaurant business. Vegetarian, of course. While steaming the hot half-and-half for his cappuccino, I told him that the basic rule in catering was that you tripled the cost of your raw ingredients to include cooking, serving, and overhead. If clients wanted wine or any liquor, that was computed into the cost per person of the meal. I had sheets I gave to clients with the details of menus that were six to fifty dollars per person.

  “What if clients giving a party disagree on what they should get and how much things should cost?”

  I laughed. “Don’t get me started on weddings this early in the morning.”

  “So tell me what you’re planning,” he asked as he sipped the cappuccino. We reviewed the menus and costs for the four upcoming events. He nodded and asked a question here and there. Then I asked how he was feeling about the college-application process.

  “Okay.” He stood to fix himself another, weaker cup of cappuccino. “I guess.” He obviously did not want to chat about the applications, though, so I let it drop. He reached for the sugar bowl, then plopped back down at the kitchen table. I managed not to wince when he ladled four teaspoons of sugar into the second cup. Ah, well, perhaps I should be glad that it wasn’t drugs. Speaking of which.

  Galaxy Doughnuts

  5 teaspoons (2 ¼-ounce envelopes)active dry yeast

  ⅓ cup warm water

  2¼ cups plus ½ teaspoon sugar

  ¾ cup solid vegetable shortening, melted

  1½ cups milk, scalded and cooled to lukewarm

  2 teaspoons salt

  2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  2 large eggs

  ¼ cup wheat germ

  ¼ cup soy flour

  ¼ cup oat bran

  4½ cups all-purpose flour

  2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

  1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted

  In a large mixing bowl, sprinkle the yeast over the warm water. Allow the yeast to soften for 5 minutes, then stir the yeast into the water along with the ½ teaspoon sugar. Set the mixture aside to proof for 10 minutes; it should be foamy. Mix the melted shortening into the warm milk, then add the liquid to the yeast mixture along with ¼ cup of the remaining sugar, the salt, vanilla, eggs, wheat germ, soy flour, oat bran, and 1½ cups of the flour. Beat vigorously until very well blended. Stir in the remaining flour and beat until smooth. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and put it in a warm, draft-free place until the dough is doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.

  Punch the dough down, turn it out on a well-floured board, and pat it out so that the dough is about ½ inch thick. Using a star cookie cutter, cut out the dough and place the doughnuts 2 inches apart on buttered cookie sheets. Allow the doughnuts to rise uncovered for another 20 to 30 minutes or until they are doubled. Preheat the oven to 400°. Mix the remaining 2 cups sugar with the cinnamon. Bake the doughnuts for about 10 to 15 minutes or just until they are golden brown. Dip them quickly into the melted butter and roll them in the cinnamon sugar. Makes about 3 dozen.

  “Tell me about the headmaster’s son,” I began conversationally.

  “What’s there to tell?” he asked between tiny slurps.

  “Is he taking steroids?”

  Julian choked on the coffee. Sputtering and coughing, he wiped his chin with a napkin I handed him and gave me a dark look. “Gee, Goldy, let’s not mince any words.”

  “Well?”

  Julian chewed the inside of his cheek. “You can’t tell anybody,” he began quietly.

  “As if it weren’t obvious.”

  Julian turned. “Macguire is under a lot of pressure.”

  “From whom?”

  “Gosh, Goldy, from whom do you think? Do I have to spell it out for you, like, like, uh”—he cast his eyes heavenward in imitation of the headmaster—“like … ?”

  “But Perkins, the son, I mean, isn’t an academic type. He can hardly be expected to follow in his father’s footsteps.”

  Julian got up and carefully covered his cappuccino with waxed paper before placing it in the microwave. When the timer beeped, he took it out. Then he shook his head. “You’re not getting it.”

  “Okay, okay. Macguire excels in athletics. But that doesn’t mean he needs to do a dangerous drug, does it? What happens if he gets caught?”

  “He isn’t going to get caught. Besides, he’s not selling anything, so what’s the penalty? Everybody feels sorry for him.” He carefully sipped the heated cappuccino. Then he added darkly, “Almost everybody.”

  Wait a minute. “Was this what Keith Andrews was going to expose in the Mountain Journal?”

  Julian, exasperated, snapped, “When are you going to believe that none of us knew what Keith was writing for the newspaper?” He ran the fingers of one hand through the blond mohawk. “That was the whole problem. I tried to get Keith to tell me what he was working on, and he said it would all come out. He made such a big deal about his secrecy, tapping away in the computer lab when no one was there. The CIA, man.”

  The front doorbell rang. I told Julian it was probably Marla, then cursed the fact that I’d forgotten to sand the front steps.

  He said, “Oh, that reminds me, I forgot, you got a call—”

  “Hold that thought.”

  Marla had safely navigated the steps and now stood in our doorway in her usual seasonal colors. This morning, three days before Halloween, the outfit consisted of an extra-large orange and black suede patchwork skirt and matching jacket. She held a brown grocery sack.

  “You didn’t have to bring anything,” I said.

  “Don’t presume,” she announced haughtily as her plump body breezed past me. “It’s a hot melt glue gun, Styrofoam cone, and bag of baby Three Musketeers for Arch. Even sick people can do a craft project with candy. Especially sick people. And by the way, your front porch steps are covered with ice. Absolutely treacherous. Better put some salt on them.” So saying, she dropped the bag at the bottom of the stairs, then yodeled a greeting to Julian, whom she passed on her way into the kitchen.

  “You see, about this call—” Julian attempted.

  “Just a sec.” I turned back to slam the front door against the cold. Before I could close it, though, a small foreign car arrived on the street directly in front of my house. A young woman whom I vaguely recognized as being from the Mountain Journal delicately stepped out and peered up at me.

  Julian came up beside me. “This is it, I’m sorry I forgot to tell you. This woman called from the newspaper around 6:45. She asked if it would be okay to come by and interview you this morning. I thought you’d want it for free publicity. For the business. It wasn’t until I was about to hang up that she said it was about that night out at the headmaster’s house.” He added lamely, “I’m really sorry.”

  “Just take care of Marla, will you?” I said under my breath. “And check the doughnut dough.” Then I shouted gaily to the intruder, “Come on in!” as if I were accustomed to having open house at nine o’clock every morning. “Just avoid the ice on the steps.” After lifting weights, the last thing I needed was to lug a bag of road salt up from the basement to make my steps safe for the world of journalism.

  The reporter tiptoed gingerly up the far side of my front steps. Frances Markasian was in her early twenties, wore no makeup, and had straggly black hair that fell limply to the shoulders of her denim jacket. An ominously large black bag dangled from her right arm and banged against the knees of her tight jeans.

  “You don’t have a camera in there, do you?” I asked once she was safely inside. I couldn’t bear the thought of photographs.

  “I won’t use it if you don’t want me to.” Her voice was pure Chicago.

  “Well, I’d really rather you wouldn’t,” I said sweetly, leading her out to the kitchen. Marla was already sipping cappuccino that Julian had made for her. Frances Markasian was introduced all around, and I asked her if it was okay if my friends stayed while she talked to me. She shrugged, which I took
as consent. I offered her some coffee.

  “No thanks.” She dipped into her bag, brought out a diet Pepsi, popped the top, and then dropped two Vivarin through the opening.

  Marla watched her, open-mouthed. When Frances Markasian took a long swig from the can, Marla said, “Mission control, we have ignition. Stand by.”

  Frances ignored her and pulled a pen and pad out of the voluminous bag. “I understand you were the caterer the night of the Andrews murder?”

  “Well, er, yes.” I had a sinking feeling she was not going to be asking about the menu.

  Julian must have felt the reporter’s eyes on him, because he got up, punched down the risen dough, and began to roll it out to cut doughnuts with a star cookie cutter.

  “You want to tell me what happened?” she said.

  “Well …” I began, then gave her the briefest possible account of the evening’s events. Her pen made switching noises as she took notes.

  “They’ve been having some other problems out at that school,” she said when I had finished and was checking on the doughnuts, which had almost finished their brief rising.

  “Really?” I inquired innocently. “Like what?” I wasn’t going to give her anything. My previous experience with the Mountain Journal had been negative. They’d hired a food critic, who had viciously trashed me. The critic had been conducting a private vendetta in print. By the time I got the mess exposed, the unapologetic Mountain Journal had moved on to reports of elk herds moving through mountain neighborhoods.

  “Problems like snakes in lockers,” Frances said.

  I waved my hand dismissively. “Seventh grade.”

  “Problems like a headmaster who might be having trouble raising money if bad news got out about the school,” Frances continued matter-of-factly. “Take this dropping-SAT-score thing—”

  “Oh, Ms. Markasian, sweetheart,” Marla interrupted, “that news is so old, it has mold on it. Besides, if you were worried about your academic reputation, you wouldn’t kill your top student, now, would you?” Marla rolled her eyes at me. “Those goodies ready?”