I nodded and conjured up Elk Park Prep. “There could be seven thousand people out there applying for a thousand places in the freshman class at Yale. If you’d kill to get into Yale, do you stalk all seven thousand? No. The killer doesn’t worry about all those people out there who might be better than he is. He thinks, I have to remove the people right here who are standing in my way. Then I’ll be guaranteed of getting what I want. Fallacious reasoning, but psychologically sound.”
“You just better be careful,” Marla told me. “Somebody out there is vicious, Goldy. And I have the broken bone to prove it.”
When Julian and I arrived back on our street, I was relieved to see a cop sitting in a regular squad car right outside my house. Schulz had called and left a message that the investigators were working all day Sunday, and that the school would have counselors on Monday to deal with the kids’ reactions to the latest murder. I should not worry, he added. Not worry. Sure. Sleep came with difficulty, and Sunday morning brought weak sunshine and a return of the headache.
Overnight, we’d received ten inches of snow. Not even the brilliant white world outside raised my spirits.
I brought the newspaper in from my icy deck and scanned it for news of Suzanne Ferrell. There was a small article on the front page: PREP SCHOOL SCENE OF SECOND DEATH. I started to tremble as I read of Suzanne Joan Ferrell, 43, native of North Carolina, graduate of Middlebury College, teacher at Elk Park Prep for fifteen years, whose body was found while seniors took their Scholastic Aptitude Tests … parents in Chapel Hill notified … her father an architect, mother the chairman of the French Department at the University of North Carolina … police have no explanation, no suspects … death by strangulation….
I took out a sheet of notepaper and performed that most difficult of tasks, writing to Suzanne’s parents. My note to Keith’s parents had been short, since I had not really been acquainted with the boy. This was different. I knew her, I wrote to the unknown architect and professor, she was a wonderful teacher. She cared deeply about her students … and then the tears came, profusely, unapologetically, so many, many tears for this unexplained loss. I allowed myself to cry until I could not cry anymore. Finally, painfully, I penned a closing. I signed my name, and addressed the note to the Ferrells in care of the French Department at U.N.C. Perversely, I found the university’s address inside one of Julian’s college advisory books. I slammed the book closed and heaved it across the kitchen, where it hit a cabinet with a loud crack.
With shaking hands I measured out espresso. While it brewed, I stared out the kitchen window and watched Stellar’s jays fight for supremacy at my bird feeder.
I turned away. One thing was clear. Suzanne Ferrell had not killed herself. My espresso machine hissed; a fragrant strand of coffee streamed into the small cup. Had Suzanne Ferrell preferred café au lait? Had she been enthusiastic about French food? Did she leave a lover? I would never know.
Let go of it. I wiped a few fresh tears from my face and sipped the espresso. Julian appeared and thankfully said nothing about my appearance or the college advisory book lying facedown on the floor. When he finished his coffee, he reminded me that we had another Bronco half-time meal to cater for the Dawsons. An Italian feast, I had specified on the appointments calendar. I groaned.
“Let me fix the food,” he offered. When I was about to object, he added, “It’ll help me get my mind off of everything.”
I knew how cooking could help with that particular emotional task, so I agreed. Julian rattled around, collecting ingredients. As I watched, he deftly grated Fontina and mozzarella, beat these with eggs, ricotta, Parmesan, and softened butter before blending in chopped fresh basil and pressed garlic. I felt a burst of pride in him as he sizzled onion and garlic in olive oil and added ingredients for a tomato sauce. The rich scents of Italian cooking filled the room. After he had cooked the manicotti noodles, he stuffed in the Fontina-ricotta mixture and ladled thick tomato sauce over it all.
“After it heats, I’m going to garnish it with more Parmesan and some chopped cilantro,” he informed me. “I’ll make it look good, don’t worry.”
Food was the least of my worries. I pulled myself up from my chair, tore fresh greens for the salad, and mixed a lemon vinaigrette. I had made some breadsticks and frozen them the week before. Julian said he would put together a mammoth antipasto platter. I would bake a fudge cake when I returned from church, and that would be that.
Julian did not accompany me to the Sunday service. I came in late, sat in the back, slipped into the bathroom when tears again overcame me during the passing of the peace. I left quietly as soon as communion was over. A couple of curious sidelong glances came my way, but I resolutely averted my eyes. I wasn’t in the mood to discuss murder.
The glumness on Hank Dawson’s ruddy face when he opened the door to let me in that afternoon seemed to emanate more from the prospect of the Broncos having to face the Redskins than from anything to do with Elk Park Prep. The Dawsons had even invited the Marenskys. Bizarrely, Hank and Stan seemed to he friendly, resigned together to weather another tragedy out at the school. Either that, or they were both awfully good actors.
Caroline Dawson was a completely different story, however. Instead of her usual menopause-red outfit, scrupulously made-up face, and stiff composure, Caroline was dressed in an unbecoming cream-colored suit that was made of a fuzzy wool that kept picking up stray watts of static electricity. She looked like a squat, electrically charged ivory post. There was an edginess, too, about her untidily pinned-up hair and too-fussy inspection of the food and the way we were setting the table for her guests.
“We pay a lot of money for Greer to go to that school,” she said angrily during her fifth unexpected appearance in her kitchen. “She shouldn’t have to put up with crime and harassment. It’s not something I expect, if you know what I mean. They never should have started letting riffraff into that school. They wouldn’t be having these problems if they’d just kept their standards up.”.
I said nothing. Everybody paid a lot to go to that school, and I didn’t know how Caroline would define riffraff. Julian, maybe?
Rhoda Marensky, dressed in a knitted green and brown suit with matching Italian leather shoes, made one of her tall, elegant appearances. She conspired with Caroline in misery. “First there was that Andrews murder. One of our coats, mind you, was involved, and the police said they found a pen from our store out by the body … and now Ferrell. Poor Brad hasn’t slept in two weeks, and I’m afraid he hasn’t even been able to start his paper on The Tempest. This is not what we’re all paying for,” she exclaimed, eyes blazing. “It’s like someone’s trying to disrupt our lives!”
Julian’s Cheese Manicotti
Sauce:
1 large onion, chopped
4 garlic cloves, pressed (preferable) or chopped
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 6-ounce cans tomato paste, plus water
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh oregano leaves
1 small bay leaf
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Pasta:
1 teaspoon olive oil
14 manicotti noodles
Filling:
1½ cups ricotta cheese
6 large eggs
¾ pound Fontina cheese, grated
¼ pound mozzarella cheese, grated
⅓ cup freshly grated best-quality Parmesan cheese
6 tablespoons soft butter (not margarine)
1 teaspoon salt
¾ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh basil leaves
freshly grated Parmesan cheese for sprinkling on top
Preheat the oven to 350°. To make the sauce, gently sauté the onion and garlic in the olive oil in a saucepan over medium heat until the onion is translucent, about five minutes. Add the tomato paste and stir. Slowly add 4 tomato paste cans of water and stir. Add the seasonings and allow the sauce
to simmer while you prepare the manicotti and filling.
Bring a large pot of water to a boil, add the olive oil, and drop in the manicotti. Cook just until al dente, about 10 to 15 minutes. Drain and run cold water over the manicotti in a colander. Set aside.
To make the filling, beat the ricotta with the eggs until combined in the large bowl of an electric mixer. Add the grated cheeses and softened butter; beat until combined. Add the salt, pepper, and basil. Beat on low just until everything is combined.
Gently fill the cooked manicotti with the cheese mixture and arrange in 2 buttered 9-by 13-inch pans. Cover the pasta in each pan with half the sauce; sprinkle on additional Parmesan. Bake for about 20 minutes, until the cheese is thoroughly melted and the sauce is bubbling. Makes 7 servings.
“Rhoda, honey,” Stan called from the kitchen doorway, “what was the name of that lacrosse player from a couple of years back who graduated from Elk Park and went to Johns Hopkins? I can’t remember and Hank just asked me if he was National Honor Society.”
In a blur of green and brown, Rhoda brushed past Caroline Dawson, Julian, and me as if she had never even spoken to us. Strands from Caroline Dawson’s hair and beige outfit now stood completely on end. Flaming spots of color stood out on her cheeks. Would we please hurry up? she said. Catering was so expensive, and with all the college expenses they would have next year, they couldn’t afford to go for hours and hours without eating.
As soon as she’d banged out of the kitchen, Julian erupted. “Well, excuse the fuck me!”
“Welcome to catering,” I said as I hoisted a tray. “You always think it’s just going to be about cooking, but it never is.”
We served the manicotti to a few grudgingly bestowed compliments. I felt terrible for Julian, especially since my own taste test had rated them mouth-watering. But what could you expect when the Redskins were smearing the Broncos? There was energetic kibbitzing about why this was happening: The coach had changed the lineup, Elway was worried about his shoulder, a linebacker was the subject of a paternity suit. When Washington won by three touchdowns, I feared we would receive no tip. But Hank Dawson reluctantly handed me twenty dollars as we trucked out the final boxes.
He lamented, “When Greer was in the state volleyball finals, we were going to take a gourmet box lunch. But Caroline said no, we had to have ham sandwiches the way we always did or we’d jinx it!”
“Oh, my,” I said sympathetically. I didn’t quite get the connection with the manicotti.
“Anyway,” he continued morosely, “you should have done the same food you did last week. It would have been luckier.”
It’s always the caterer’s fault.
19
“Lucky?” Julian groused on the way home. “Luckier food? What a dork.”
“I keep telling you, people eat for different reasons. If they think eating sausage is going to win them the Super Bowl, then get out your bratwurst recipe and rev up the sausage stuffer. It pays in the long run, kiddo.”
After we’d unloaded, he announced he was going to work on his college application forms. He called over his shoulder that anything was better than the thought of pig intestines. I laughed for the first time in two days.
John Richard left Arch off outside the house late that afternoon, the end of their Halloween skiing weekend. There he was, a strong, athletic father not lifting a finger to help his diminutive twelve-year-old son with skis, boots, poles, high-powered binoculars, and overnight bag. Should I scold him for forcing Arch to struggle halfway up the sidewalk with his loads of stuff? Never mind. This was, after all, the Jerk. If I uttered a word, then the whole neighborhood would rediscover why we were divorced in the first place.
I walked carefully down steps Julian had salted liberally that morning, relieved Arch of his skis and boots, and noticed with dismay that his face was sunburned to a brilliant pink except for the area around his eyes, where his goggles had left the skin eggshell-white. The resulting raccoon effect did not bode well for Monday morning. Then I noticed that what I had taken from him were new Rossignol skis boasting new Marker bindings.
“What is going on?” I asked.
Arch kept his eyes cast down as he hauled his overnight bag up the steps. “Dad forgot sunblock,” he muttered.
“So he paid you off with new skis?” I said, incredulous.
“I guess.”
His tone was as downcast as his voice. I realized with a pang that I hadn’t even welcomed him home, much less told him about the tragic events of the weekend. Oh, spare me John Richard and his lavish attempts to bribe his way out of misconduct. The fact that I could not even come close to affording these luxurious trinkets didn’t make dealing with them any easier. Not to mention what kind of message Arch was picking up from this kind of behavior.
“I’ll be embarrassed to death if I have to go to school tomorrow looking like this,” my son said with a crack in his voice. “I look like a red giant.”
“A …”
“Oh, never mind, it’s just a kind of star. Big and ugly and red.”
“Oh, Arch—”
“Just don’t say anything, please, Mom. Not a word.”
“You can stay home tomorrow,” I told him, giving him a hug. “The police are watching the house, so if I have to go out, you’ll be protected.”
“All right! Cool! Can I invite Todd over to watch the surveillance?”
Give them an inch …
“You can invite him over for dinner,” I replied. At least this would give me some more time to lead up to the news of the Ferrell murder. It was my hope that Todd, a seventh-grader at the local junior high, would not be aware yet of the most recent crisis at Elk Park Prep.
Julian, who had fallen asleep working on his college applications, was in the kitchen drinking a Coke when Arch trundled in to greet him. To Julian’s credit, although his eyebrows peaked in surprise upon seeing Arch’s speckled facial condition, he made no comment. Over supper—fettuccine with hearty ladles of leftover tomato sauce—Arch regaled Todd, Julian, and me with stories of how he caught about six feet of air going down a blue and cruised through a totally monstrous mogul field before biffing on top of this guy from Texas. The Texan, one presumed, survived.
Before Arch went to bed I broke the news of Miss Ferrell’s death. There would be counselors at the school the next day, I told him. So if he wasn’t too worried about the sunburn … Arch said Miss Ferrell wasn’t his teacher, but she was so nice…. Was it the same person who had bashed Keith, he asked. I told him I didn’t know. After a few minutes Arch asked if we could pray for the two of them.
“Not out loud,” he said as he turned away from me.
“Not out loud,” I agreed, and after five minutes of silent offering, I turned out his light and went downstairs.
A windstorm kicked up overnight. Pine tree branches whooshed and knocked against the house and cold air slid through all of the uncaulked cracks. I got up to get another blanket. The police car at the end of our drive should have provided soporific assurance, but it did not. I prowled the house at midnight, two-thirty, and four A.M. Each time I checked on the boys, they were sleeping soundly, although Arch had stayed up late with his binoculars, watching for movements in the police car. Around five I finally drifted off into a deep sleep, but was sharply awakened an hour later when the phone rang.
“Goldy.” Audrey Coopersmith sounded panicked. “I need to talk. I’ve been up for hours.”
“Agh,” I gargled.
“Carl’s back,” her voice rushed on, as if she were announcing a nuclear holocaust. “He came over and talked to Heather about his … girlfriend.”
“He came over,” I repeated, my nose deep in my pillow.
“He’s thinking of getting married.”
“Better to her than to you,” I mumbled.
“The police were here when he came. He didn’t even ask if I was all right. He didn’t even ask what was going on.”
Sadly, I said, “Audrey, Carl doesn’t care any
more.” I bit back the urge to talk about waking up and smelling the coffee. Mentioning caffeine would make me desire it too deeply.
“I just don’t understand why he’s acting this way, especially after all these years….”
I pressed my face against my pillow and said nothing. Audrey was determined to recite the lengthy litany of Carl’s wrongs. I said, “I’m sorry, but I need to go.”
“Carl’s upsetting Heather terribly. I don’t know how she’s going to survive this.”
“Please, please, please, Audrey, let me go back to sleep. I promise I’ll call you later.”
She snapped, “You don’t care. Nobody cares.”
And with that she banged the phone down before I had a chance to protest. Grudgingly, I got out of bed and went down to smell, as well as make, the coffee. Julian was already up and showering. Audrey had not mentioned Suzanne Ferrell, but that was certainly why the police had visited her. I wondered if they would also be stationed out at the school.
Arch stumbled down to the kitchen at seven. His bright pink raccoon mask had faded somewhat, and I noticed with surprise that he had dressed in a ski sweater and jeans. He pulled a box of cereal out of the cupboard.
“Sure you feel okay about going today?”
He stopped sprinkling out Rice Krispies and gave me a solemn look. “Julian says that if you go to school with this kind of sunburn, kids don’t make fun of you. They think you’re cool because you skied all weekend. Besides, I want to listen to the counselors and find out if the French Club is going to do something for Miss Ferrell. You know, send flowers to her parents, write notes.”
The Cereal Murders Page 24