The Cereal Murders

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Well, that didn’t tell me much. Or if it did, I hadn’t a clue how to interpret it. Would this finally all come down to mathematical calculations of grades? Is that what people would kill for?

  With some trepidation I turned to the college counseling section. In addition to the class rank, the students were listed alphabetically. Reactions and conferences with the students, headmaster, and parents had been duly noted in careful handwriting.

  KEITH ANDREWS—Disillusioned by recent trips to universities. Parents in Europe. Wishes he could join them, visit Oxford, etc. Says someone should start a college made up of all the winners of Distinguished Teachers awards who didn’t get tenure. H. says K. can’t be trusted; writing something for paper. I said probably harmless, RECOMMENDED: STANFORD, PRINCETON, COLUMBIA.

  HEATHER COOPERSMITH—Mother worried. Sat next to her at dinner. H. says mother obsessing on college thing because father dumped. Wants control of life. Jealous of K. Claims others have $$ they can spend to help their kids get into college. H. dreamy and distant. Wants less structure, less pressure in academic life. H. says mother a pain, RECOMMENDED: BENNINGTON, ANTIOCH.

  BRAD MARENSKY—Parents brought in media rankings. Wanted to know Dawson list! They think B. “deserves” top-ranked school. Says stories about them offering fur coat to admissions director at Williams untrue. But do I think it would be a good idea? (Said no.) Unpleasantness from last year apparently resolved. B. indifferent to schools, but seemed to be watching me. Told me he wanted to be “far away from parents.” Asked, “Did I know?” I said, about what? No response. H. doesn’t have a clue, RECOMMENDED: WASHINGTON AND LEE, COLBY.

  GREER DAWSON—Very difficult. Wants Ivy League or Stanford, but SATs not high enough; grades erratic. Parents offered me a year’s free meals if I’d recommend her. Not amused. H. warned, “trouble if the school doesn’t get Greer into Princeton.” RECOMMENDED: OCCIDENTAL, UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA.

  MACGUIRE PERKINS—Asked about drinking record, drugs. Said he has talent for drama, but he thinks not; says he’s depressed. Recommended psychotherapy. H. opposed, looks bad. RECOMMENDED SCHOOLS FOR BASKETBALL: INDIANA, N.C. STATE, UNLV.

  Uneasily, I turned to the dead woman’s comments about Julian.

  JULIAN TELLER—Vulnerable. Wants to study food science. Not covered in Rugg’s. Will phone around for help. J. knows Cornell has a program (Jane Brody alum); would fit with his academic bent. Meet with foster mother (caterer) morning of 11/1. RECOMMENDED: CORNELL, MINNESOTA (?).

  None of this made a whole lot of sense to me, except to confirm my suspicions about these people. Miss Ferrell was one smart cookie, except that she had not fathomed Brad Marensky’s question: Did Miss Ferrell know about his stealing? Apparently she had not.

  I also remembered vaguely about Rugg’s—a reference book that rated colleges and universities by departments. If food science wasn’t in there, perhaps I could check the cookbook section when I went to the Tattered Cover that evening to see where the most recent culinary writers had gone to school. It was something I could do to help, anyway. Even though Julian now had the funds to go anywhere he wanted, he might as well get the most his money could buy.

  I tried to let go of academic worries while I put together more biscotti, some fruit and cheese trays, and started in on a recipe I was testing for Valentine’s Day: Sweetheart Sandwiches. A Sweetheart Sandwich consisted of a pair of fudgelike cookies separated by a slide of buttercream filling. Serving these rich little cookies was inspired by the subject for the evening’s lecture: “Stress Reduction in Test-taking.” My prescription for stress was simple: Take chocolate and call me when it’s over.

  Audrey called, contrite over her early-morning explosion, and assured me she wanted to help tonight. Could she have a ride to the bookstore? Heather was doing some calculations for her classmates on their new class rank, and she had to deliver the results to her friends on their way down to Denver. Heather didn’t want Audrey to embarrass her, Audrey told me sadly. Were we wearing white uniforms, aprons, what? I told her black skirt, white blouse, and her apron that said GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING. She promised she’d come over at five-thirty.

  Julian called. He said he would be eating over at Neil’s; he would catch a ride with Neil and meet me at the bookstore. Unless I needed help? I assured him I had everything under control. Arch came home and announced he had to pack for an overnight with a friend. But first he would have some of the new cookies.

  “If you’ll pour me a glass of milk,” he negotiated as he pushed his glasses up his nose and methodically placed three freshly baked cookies on his plate. With eyes closed, he tasted the first one.

  “Well?”

  He let me suffer a moment. Then he said very seriously, “Excellent, Mom. Any teacher would give you an A plus.”

  I grinned. “Are you feeling better in school?” He swallowed, took a sip of milk, and wiped off the liquid white mustache. “Sort of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Seventh grade is like …” Headmaster Perkins’ mannerisms were contagious. Arch popped another cookie in his mouth and chewed pensively. “Seventh grade is like half happiness, half totalitarianism.”

  “Totalitarianism?”

  “Oh, Mom.” He adjusted his glasses. “Julian taught me that word for social studies.” He paused. “Are they still working on finding out who killed Keith Andrews and Miss Ferrell?” When I nodded, he said, “You know, I just want to be in a safe place. It is scary in school, I have to admit.”

  “But nothing else has happened, right?”

  “Mom, the police are there. How safe do you think it’s going to be when they pull off their investigators and the surveillance?”

  I didn’t answer that question. “Don’t worry,” I said tensely, “we, or they, or somebody, is going to figure out what happened.”

  He didn’t seem to want to talk anymore, so I went back to my cooking. By the time the friend’s mother arrived at five o’clock, Arch had run through half a dozen cookies and declared he didn’t want any dinner.

  Neither did I, I decided after he left, but not because I was full of anything but dread. My stomach was churning in anticipation of yet another college advisory event. I wondered how many guidance counselors had ulcers. Perhaps when this final ordeal was over, Audrey could get a ride home with her daughter and Schulz and I could go out for a late supper.

  Audrey arrived. We packed the trays into the van, hightailed it to Denver, and arrived at the Tattered Cover promptly at six. Driving up to the third-floor entrance, where I had parked before, I remembered my resolve to check the cookbooks for names of schools for Julian. I also suddenly remembered Miss Ferrell’s grade book, which I had packed in one of my boxes in the hope that I could give it to Schulz after the program. With all the stealing going on among Elk Park preppies, I was going to make certain I personally handed this valuable volume to him for analysis. But I had learned my lesson with Keith’s computer disks: I wasn’t about to leave the grade book unprotected in the kitchen during the confusion of the catering. When Audrey was preoccupied with folding up box lids, I grabbed the grade book, wrapped it in a spare business apron, and headed briskly through the third-floor door and down two flights on the interior staircase. I wanted to put it in the secret closet Audrey had shown me in Business, but there was a cadre of people in front of the shelf, reading up on making millions in utilities stocks. I tried for a safer area.

  Sweetheart Sandwiches

  Cookies:

  ¼ pound (1 stick) unsalted butter

  1¼ cups sugar

  2 large eggs

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  ½ cup unsweetened cocoa (recommended brands: Hershey’s Premium European-style, Droste, Ghirardelli)

  2 cups flour

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  Filling:

  4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter

  1 teaspoon van
illa extract

  4 cups confectioners’ sugar whipping cream

  To make the cookies, cream the butter with the sugar in a large bowl until light. Beat in eggs and vanilla; set aside. Sift the cocoa, flour, salt, baking powder, and baking soda together. Stir the dry ingredients thoroughly into the butter mixture. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 or 3 hours. Preheat the oven to 375° and butter 2 cookie sheets. Using a teaspoon measure, roll level teaspoons of the dough into balls and place them 2 inches apart on the sheets. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes, until cookies are puffed and surfaces slightly dry and cracked. Cool on racks.

  To make the filling, cream the butter until light. Beat in the vanilla and confectioners’ sugar, adding whipping cream and continuing to beat until the consistency is like creamy frosting. When the cookies are completely cool, spread about ½ tablespoon of filling on the bottom of one cookie, then top with the bottom side of another cookie. Makes about 3 dozen sandwiches.

  Variation:

  For half a batch of vanilla-filled and half a batch of peppermint-filled cookies, add a teaspoon peppermint extract to half the filling. Tint the peppermint filling pink or green before filling half the sandwiches.

  The staffperson in Cookbooks recognized me from the previous week. She was delighted at my request to see the latest in culinary writing.

  “Oh, but you have to go see our window display!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “It’s a new display Audrey and I put together: ‘What’s new in food and cooking’! You must go admire what she did.”

  She directed me out the door to First Avenue, where I turned right and then faced a stage set behind plate glass that was designed to make people run—not walk—to the nearest restaurant. From every cranny of the big display window, photographs of food jumped out: splashy posters of Jarlsberg, Gorgonzola, and Gouda rounds vied with brilliant photos of jewel-red peppers, beets, and squashes, tangles of colored pasta, blackened fish and thick succulent steaks, loaves of shiny bread, creamy cheesecakes, gleaming raspberry tarts, dark chocolate soufflés. Stacked on tables placed in the visual display were at least a hundred cookbooks, thick and thin—Julia Child, Jane Brody, the Silver Palate people, the Cajun crowd, you-name-it. Hanging like flags here and there above the small stage were aprons, kitchen towels, and tablecloths. Hmm. I wondered if the woman could be persuaded to put a Goldilocks’ Catering apron in there? The worst that could happen was that a negative response would be accompanied by the judgment that I was crassly, irredeemably commercial. Which I was. It was worth a try. None of us, I reflected as I trudged inside, is above bribery.

  She would be happy to put the apron in, she told me cheerily. I accompanied her to the interior side of the window. There she slid expertly between the photographs, took down a red and white apron, and hung up my spare, the GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING facing the street. Inspired, I sidled up to the front of the window and surreptitiously slipped the grade book underneath the latest Paul Prud’homme. It was, after all, hot.

  “Watch your step,” the woman warned as I accidentally backed into a pile of cookbooks.

  “Not to worry,” I assured her. I scooted off the platform in front of the window, where several street-side onlookers stood salivating over the photo display, thanked the cookbook person, and ran up the stairs to the third floor. The store staff was already setting up chairs, and Audrey had made the coffee and concocted the apple juice from concentrate. Her face was set in a studied frown.

  “Carl bothering you again?” I ventured.

  “No,” she said after a moment. “It’s Heather. She’s having some problems with her classmates. Now she wants me to drive her home after this. And she said Carl called, just had to talk to me about some new crisis.”

  What else was new, I wanted to ask her. I refrained.

  However, after spending a few silent minutes stacking plastic cups in the tiny kitchenette, Audrey faced me gloomily. “Heather’s classmates told her they wanted her to figure the class rank because she’s so marvelous with numbers. They were going to supply her with their midterm grades, which supposedly came out Tuesday. But she’s tried for the past three days and she can’t get some of the top people, like Brad Marensky or Greer Dawson, to give her their grades in French. Now, I know they both have team practices, but why not answer Heather’s messages? I mean, they all said they wanted her to do this.”

  “I certainly don’t know, Audrey. If you send Heather to Bennington, she won’t have any grades.”

  Audrey tsked and shouldered a fruit and cheese tray. In the outer room, Miss Kaplan’s microphone-enhanced voice introduced the evening’s speaker, a Mr. Rathgore. I carried out the first tray of cups, returned to pick up the wine and apple juice, and scuttled back in time to see the troubled Heather deep in intense conversation with her mother, whose eyebrows were raised in perplexity.

  Julian sat between Egon Schlichtmaier and Macguire Perkins. The three were chuckling over some private joke as Mr. Rathgore, a bald fellow in a shiny rayon suit, launched into his opening.

  “We all hate to be tested,” he said. A chorus of groans greeted this.

  I stole a glance at the headmaster, who was nodding absentmindedly. Perkins appeared even more exhausted than he had that morning. The Marenskys and Dawsons had prudently decided to sit on opposite sides of the room. Brad Marensky wore a Johns Hopkins sweatshirt; Greer Dawson was again swathed in forest-green watered silk. A steely-eyed staring contest seemed to be taking place between the Dawsons and Audrey, who was seated in a couch to the side of the speaker. But after a moment Heather touched her mother’s arm and Audrey looked away from the Dawsons.

  “Worse, we can get caught up in the nerve-racking process of identifying with our children as they are tested,” continued Mr. Rathgore. “Old patterns recapitulate. Parents take their children’s poor performance much more seriously than the children themselves do….”

  No kidding. People began to shift uncomfortably in their seats, which I put down to the speech hitting a little too close to home. As I was setting out the paper cups one by one, I could see out of the corner of my eye that a few folks were standing up, stretching, milling about. Maybe they just couldn’t take any more reminders of their last chance at success. I turned an attentive face to Mr. Rathgore, but instead met with the gray visage of Headmaster Perkins, who had crossed the room to me.

  “Goldy,” he stage-whispered, “I’m more exhausted than Perry when he finished traversing Antarctica.” He favored me with a chilly half-grin. Apparently he’d forgiven me for bringing up the mess with Pamela Samuelson and her grading. “Please tell me this isn’t decaf.”

  “It isn’t,” I assured him as I poured the dark liquid into the first cup. “Unadulterated caffeine, I promise. And have a Valentine’s Day cookie, they’re called Sweetheart Sandwiches.”

  His expressive brow furrowed. “Valentine’s Day cookies? We haven’t even endured Thanksgiving! Somewhat too early, wouldn’t you say?”

  Before I could answer, Tom Schulz appeared on the other side of the table and greeted me with a huge smile. “Got some of those for me?”

  “Finally,” I said with a smile I couldn’t suppress. “You’re back.” And I handed him a steaming cup of fragrant black stuff and a plate of Sweetheart Sandwiches. The headmaster attempted a jovial greeting for Schulz, but it caught in his throat. He reddened.

  “You have something else for me?” Schulz whispered in my direction, ignoring Perkins’ discomfort. Mr. Rathgore paused in his talk to furrow his brow at the coffee-serving table. Several parents turned to see what was distracting the speaker’s attention, and I drew back in embarrassment. Headmaster Perkins’ too-bright smile froze on his face.

  Alfred Perkins took a bite of his Valentine’s Day cookie that was too early. There were too many snoopy folks around to give Schulz the grade book now, I decided.

  “Have some cookies first, they’re—”

  But before I could hand him the platter, another parental squabble erupted in the
audience. This time it was between Caroline Dawson and Audrey Coopersmith.

  “What is the matter with you?” Caroline shrieked. She jumped to her feet and glowered down at Audrey Coopersmith. Audrey closed her eyes and raised her pointy chin in defiance. Caroline was as scarlet as her suit. “Do you think Heather is the only one with talent? Do you think she’s the only one who can do math? Do you have any idea how tired we all get of your boasting?”

  That shattered Audrey’s calm. She blazed, “Oh, excuse me, but it was Hank and Stan who started this—”

  Mr. Rathgore turned puzzled eyes to Miss Kaplan, who seemed at a loss for dealing with a civil disturbance during an author presentation.

  “We did not!” Hank Dawson, irate, protested with his meaty hands. “Stan just said Heather wanted grades from Brad, but he’s been busy all week, and Greer couldn’t get her number in either, and all I said was that with the time it was taking, maybe the government should hire Heather to compute the deficit … really, let’s just all calm down!”

  “I will not calm down!” Audrey fumed. Now she rose to her feet and yanked at the strings of her apron. After she had flung it off, she wagged a finger at the Dawsons. “Hank, you don’t know anything! How dare you make fun of Heather? To compute the deficit! Since when are you the economics expert? I’m so tired of you! You act like a know-it-all, and you know nothing! You—you think you buy a government bond to get out of jail!”

  Not this routine again. Parents murmured and coughed; Schulz gave me one raised eyebrow. The Marenskys spoke to each other excitedly. They were probably bond investors.

  “I’d like to know what business Hank Dawson has making snide remarks about computing the deficit,” Audrey’s shrill voice demanded of the stunned audience. “He thinks the Federal Reserve is where all the Indians live!”