The Cereal Murders

by Diane Mott Davidson

  His head was shaved.

  “They Bic’d me,” he declared, tossing a lime into the air and catching it in the net of his lacrosse stick.

  “They bicked you?” I exclaimed incredulously.

  “Bic, Mom. Like the razor.” He rubbed his bare scalp, then flipped the lime again. “And I would have been home on time, if you’d bought me the Palm, to remind me to tell the guy shaving my head that I had to go.”

  I snagged the lime in midair. “Go start on your homework, buster. You got a C on the last anatomy test. And from now on, either Tom or I will pick you up right from practice.”

  On his way out of the kitchen, he whacked his lacrosse stick on the floor. I called after him please not to do that. I got no reply. The next day, much to Arch’s sulking chagrin, Tom had picked him up directly from practice. If being athletic is what success at that school looks like, Tom told me, then maybe Arch should take up painting. I kept mum. The next day, I was ashamed to admit, I’d pulled out Arch’s birthday list and bought him the Palm pilot.

  Call it working mom’s guilt, I’d thought, as I stuffed tiny cream puffs with shrimp salad. Still, I was not sorry I was making more money than ever before. I did not regret that Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! had gone from booked to overbooked. Finally, I was giving those caterers in Denver, forty miles to the east, a run for their shrimp rolls. This was what I’d always wanted, right?

  Take my best upcoming week, I’d explained to Marla as she moved on to test my cheesecake bars and raspberry brownies. The second week of April, I would make close to ten thousand dollars—a record. I’d booked an upscale cocktail party at Westside Mall, a wedding reception, and two big luncheons. Once I survived all that, Friday, April the fifteenth, was Arch’s birthday. By then, I’d finally have the cash to buy him something, as Arch himself had said, really good.

  “Goldy, don’t do all that,” Marla warned as she downed one of my new Spice-of-Life Cookies. The buttery cookies featured large amounts of ginger, cinnamon, and freshly grated nutmeg, and were as comforting as anything from Grandma’s kitchen. “You’ll be too exhausted even to make a birthday cake. Listen to me, now. You need to decrease your bookings, hire some help, be stricter with Arch, and take care of yourself for a change. If you don’t, you’re going to die.”

  Marla was always one for the insightful observation.

  I didn’t listen. At least, not soon enough.

  The time leading up to that lucrative week in April became even busier and more frenetic. Arch occasionally slipped away from practice before Tom, coming up from his investigative work at the sheriff’s department, could snag him. I was unable to remember the last time I’d had a decent night’s sleep. So I suppose it was inevitable that, at ten-twenty on the morning of April eleventh, I had what’s known in the shrink business as a crisis. At least, that’s what they’d called it years ago, during my pursuit of a singularly unhelpful degree in psychology.

  I was inside our walk-in refrigerator when I blacked out. Just before hitting the walk-in’s cold floor, I grabbed a metal shelf. Plastic bags of tomatoes, scallions, celery, shallots, and gingerroot spewed in every direction, and my bottom thumped the floor. I thought, I don’t have time for this.

  I struggled to get up, and belatedly realized this meltdown wasn’t that hard to figure out. I’d been up since five A.M. With one of the luncheon preps done, I was focusing on the mall cocktail party that evening. Or at least I had been focusing on it, before my eyes, legs, and back gave out.

  I groaned and quickly gathered the plastic bags. My back ached. My mind threw out the realization that I still did not know where Arch had been for three hours the previous afternoon, when lacrosse practice had been canceled. Neither Tom nor I had been aware of the calendar change. Tom had finally collected Arch from a seedy section of Denver’s Colfax Avenue. So what had this about-to-turn-fifteen-year-old been up to this time? Arch had refused to say.

  “Just do the catering,” I announced to the empty refrigerator. I replaced the plastic bags and asked the Almighty for perspective. Arch would get the third degree when he came down for breakfast. Meanwhile, I had work to do.

  Before falling on my behind, I’d been working on a concoction I’d dubbed Shoppers’ Chocolate Truffles. These rich goodies featured a dense, smooth chocolate interior coated with more satiny chocolate. So what had I been looking for in the refrigerator? I had no idea. I stomped out and slammed the door.

  I sagged against the counter and told myself the problem was fatigue. Or maybe my age—thirty-four—was kicking in. What would Marla say? She’d waggle a fork in my face and preach about the wages of success.

  I brushed myself off and quick-stepped to the sink. As water gushed over my hands, I remembered I’d been searching for the scoops of ganache, that sinfully rich mélange of melted bittersweet chocolate, heavy cream, and liqueur that made up the heart of the truffles.

  I dried my hands and resolved to concentrate on dark chocolate, not the darker side of success. After all, I had followed one of Marla’s suggestions: I had hired help. But I had not cut back on parties. I’d forgotten what taking care of myself even felt like. And I seemed incapable of being stricter with Arch.

  I hustled over to my new kitchen computer and booted it up, intent on checking that evening’s assignment. Soon my new printer was spitting out lists of needed foodstuffs, floor plans, and scheduled setup. I may have lost my mind, but I’d picked it right up again.

  “This is what happens when you give up caffeine!” I snarled at the ganache balls. Oops—that was twice I’d talked to myself in the last five minutes. Marla would not approve.

  I tugged the plastic wrap off the globes of ganache and spooned up a sample to check the consistency. The smooth, intense dark chocolate sent a zing of pleasure up my back. I moved to the stovetop, stirred the luxurious pool of melting chocolate, and took a whiff of the intoxicatingly rich scent. I told myself—silently—that everything was going to be all right. The party-goers were going to love me.

  The client for that night’s cocktail party was Barry Dean, an old friend who was now manager of Westside Mall, an upscale shopping center abutting the foothills west of Denver. I’d previously put on successful catered parties at Westside. Each time, the store-owners had raved. But Barry Dean, who’d only been managing the mall for six months, had seemed worried about the party’s dessert offering. I’d promised him his high-end spenders, for whom the party was geared, would flip over the truffles.

  Maybe I’d even get a big tip, I thought as I scraped down the sides of the double boiler. I could spend it on a new mattress. On it, I might eventually get some sleep.

  I stopped and took three deep breaths. My system craved coffee. Of course, I hadn’t given up espresso entirely. I was just trying to cut back from nine shots a day to two. Too much caffeine was causing my sleeplessness, Marla had declared. Of course, since we’d both been married to the same doctor—consecutively, not concurrently—she and I were self-proclaimed experts on all physical ailments. (Med Wives 101, we called it.) So I’d actually heeded her advice. My plan had been to have one shot at eight in the morning (a distant memory), another at four in the afternoon (too far in the future). Now my resolve was melting faster than the dark chocolate.

  I fired up the espresso machine and wondered how I’d gotten into such a mental and physical mess.

  Innocently enough, my mind replied. Without warning, right after Valentine’s Day, my catering business had taken off. An influx of ultrawealthy folks to Denver and the mountain area west of the Mile High City had translated into massive construction of trophy homes, purchases of multiple upscale cars, and doubling of prices for just about everything. Most important from my viewpoint, the demand for big-ticket catered events had skyrocketed. From mid-February to the beginning of April, a normally slow season, my assignments had exploded. I’d thought I’d entered a zone, as they say in Boulder, of bliss.

  I pulled a double shot of espress
o, then took a sip and felt infinitely better.

  I rolled the first silky scoop of ganache into a ball, and set it aside. What had I been thinking about? Ah, yes. Success.

  I downed more coffee and set aside the porcelain bought-on-clearance cup, a remnant of my financial dark days. Those days had lasted a long time, a fact that Arch had seemed to block out.

  When I began divorce proceedings against the ultra-cute, ultravicious Doctor John Richard Korman, I’d been so determined that he would support our son well that I’d become an Official Nosy Person. Files, tax returns, credit card receipts, check stubs, bank deposits—I’d found and studied them all. My zealous curiosity had metamorphosed into a decent settlement. Wasn’t it Benjamin Franklin who’d said, God helps those who help themselves? Old Ben had been right.

  I bathed the first dark ganache globe in chocolate. OK, I’d replaced marital bitterness with bittersweet chocolate and bitter orange marmalade, right? And my life had turned around. Two years ago, I’d married Tom Schulz. As unreal as my newly minted financial success might seem, I did not doubt the miracle of my relationship with Tom, whose work as a police investigator had actually brought us together in the first place. Tom was bighearted and open-armed toward both Arch and me. So far, Tom and I had passed the tests that had been flung our way, and emerged still together. In this day and age, I thought, such commitment was commendable.

  I rolled ganache balls, bathed them in chocolate, and set them aside to dry. Scoop, bathe, set aside. Marla could grouse all she wanted; I savored my new success. I was even considering purchasing a new set of springform pans, since I’d already bought a new computer, printer, and copier, not to mention new tableware, flatware, and knives—a shining set of silver Henckels. I relished no longer renting plates, silverware, and linens! I laughed aloud when I finished the twentieth truffle, and made myself another espresso. The dark drink tasted divine. No wonder they called financial solvency liquidity.

  I rewarded myself with a forkful of ganache, which sparked more fireworks of chocolate ecstasy. I did a little two-step and thanked the Almighty for chocolate, coffee, and business growth.

  Roll, bathe, set aside. I was appreciative that I had scads of new clients. In hiring me, they offered testimonies from friends (Marla in particular), or claimed they’d caught the reruns of my short-lived PBS cooking show. Some even said they just had to hire this caterer they’d read about, the one who helped her husband solve the occasional murder case. Well, why they hired me didn’t matter. New clients were new clients, and glitzy parties paid the bills. It had been stupendous.

  For a while.

  Now I looked and felt like zabaglione, frothy after being beaten too hard. And I was unsure of what was going on with my son. I rolled, bathed, and set aside more truffles, all the while avoiding my reflection in the kitchen window. I knew what I’d see there: a haggard face with licorice-black bags under bloodshot eyes, not to mention a fretwork of worry-wrinkles. My freshly shampooed, too-busy-to-get-a-cut blond hair, which people had always likened to Shirley Temple’s corkscrew curls, now gave me the look of a soaked poodle.

  You’re obsessing again, I scolded myself as I set the thirtieth truffle on the rack. You’ll just make things worse.

  I took a deep breath and ordered myself not to indulge in another taste until all sixty of the chocolates were made. Instead, I had to start planning Arch’s birthday.

  At the moment, Arch was still asleep, as the Elk Park Prep teachers were meeting for an in-service. School that day didn’t start till noon, my son had announced the previous night, and could we spend the morning shopping? I’d said no, I had to work. And besides, where had he been the previous day? He’d sighed. Then he’d pushed his glasses up his nose so he could give me the full benefit of his pleading eyes, which seemed huge against the background of his shaved head. Had I started purchasing any items on his birthday list? he asked.

  I swallowed. I’d only bought the Palm; I hadn’t had time for anything else. Arch had hoisted his bookbag and stalked out of the kitchen. I yelled after him that no matter how much money you had, it was never enough. He’d called back something unintelligible.

  I rolled another ball of ganache and longed to stuff it into my mouth. Instead, I dipped it into the dark chocolate. Marla’s warnings haunted me. What, exactly, was enough? On our day of planning, Barry Dean had told me about the jewelry-event-cum-cocktail-party guests, members of Westside’s Elite Shoppers Club. The “Elites,” as Barry called them, spent a minimum of a thousand dollars a week at the mall. Membership in the group guaranteed special coupons, special sales, valet parking, and events like the jewelry-leasing extravaganza I was catering that night. One thing I had asked Barry: Where did the Elites put all the stuff they bought? He’d winked, done his endearing-bachelor shrug, and said usually they rented storage sheds.

  My business line rang. I put down the truffle, swiped my fingers on my stained apron, and actually prayed that this was not another new client.

  “Goldilocks’ Catering—”

  “You’re working,” Marla accused.

  “No, really, I was sleeping in. Then my best friend called and woke me up.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She swallowed something. I guessed it was her latest version of hot chocolate, which consisted of hot cream, cocoa, and low-cal sweetener. Even though Marla had had a heart attack almost two years before, she’d had little luck losing weight on a low-fat, high-carb, low-protein diet. So now she was trying a some-fat, some-carb, high-protein diet. She claimed she’d lost six pounds and felt much better. When I’d asked what her cardiologist thought of the new regimen, she’d hung up on me. You had to be careful with Marla.

  Now I said, “OK, I was trying to roll truffles, until my best friend called and forced me to smear chocolate all over my new apron.”

  “Quit bellyaching.” She started munching on something, I didn’t want to imagine what. “Yesterday I gave Arch a package for you. It’s in your freezer. I want you to open it.” I sighed, thinking of all the work I had to do. “While I’m talking to you, if you don’t mind.”

  I knew my life would be much easier if I just tucked the phone against my shoulder, wrenched open the freezer door of the walk-in, and did as bidden. So I did. After a moment of groping, I pulled a very cold brown paper bag from a shelf. The bag contained—oh, joy—a pint of Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream, hand-labeled “A,” and a brown bottle of time-release vitamins, marked “B.”

  “OK, get a spoon and a glass of water,” Marla commanded when she heard the paper rustling. “Take a spoonful of A, then a capsule of B. Now.”

  I again followed orders. The ice cream improved my mood, no question. But when I tried to swallow the vitamin, I choked.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing the event tonight,” Marla cried, not heeding my wheezing gasps. “You’ll wreck my shopping experience, and everyone else’s. You think people want a caterer who looks half dead? Shoppers want to escape reality, Goldy. They want to feel rich. They want to feel young. They’ll take one look at you and say, Why should I shop? She’s gonna die and so am I.”

  I finally swallowed the vitamin and croaked, “Are you done talking about me kicking the bucket? ‘Cuz I’ve got truffles to coat.”

  Marla went on, her husky voice laced with anger: “I was going to lease the double strand of diamonds for the first month. They’re perfect for the March of Dimes luncheon. But six thou a month? What’ll I have left to give the March of Dimes?” She paused to devour more food. One of the whole-grain muffins I’d made her? Unlikely. “Then I heard that Page Stockham, also an Elite Shopper, wanted the same necklace. So now I’m trying to decide between a ruby chain and an emerald set in three rows of diamonds, in case Page gets it first. Oh, Page Stockham just makes me so angry. And to think I asked her to go with me to tonight’s event.”

  “To think,” I murmured sympathetically.

  She ignored me. “Making matters even worse, Ellie McNeely wants the double pearl strand with the aqua
marine, which I’ve had my eye on forever to go with a dinner I’m giving in May, that I was hoping you’d cater, if you’re not dead. Wait a minute, there’s someone at the door.”

  Waiting for Marla to return to the phone, I kept on with the truffles. Six to go. Roll, bathe, set aside. What had I been thinking about? Oh, yes, money to burn. I wasn’t resentful, though, because moneyed folks were my best clients. And anyway, who was I to judge anyone else’s shopping?

  My eyes traveled to the carved wooden cupboard hanging over our kitchen table. I truly did not want to look down on folks who engaged in retail therapy. The reason was that during my divorce from The Jerk, and despite near-dire financial straits, I’d been a shop-to-feel-better gal myself. On weekends when it was John Richard’s turn to have Arch, I’d visited every shopping center I could find. I’d strolled through perfume-scented air, by gorgeously stacked goods, past gaggle after gaggle of smiling, prosperous people. I’d loitered in front of brightly lit displays of embroidered baby clothes, rainbow-hued designer sheets, sleek copper pots and pans, even sugared, sparkling cinnamon rolls. I’d allowed myself to feel rich, even if my bank account said otherwise.

  Come to think of it, maybe that was what Arch had been doing the previous day: shopping. Still, there weren’t any luxury shops on East Colfax.

  I retucked the silent phone against my ear, rolled another truffle, but stopped again to ponder the cupboard shelves. On each of those long-ago shopping trips, I’d bought myself a little something from the “Drastically Reduced” tables. My white porcelain demitasse cup and saucer, a tiny crystal mouse, a miniature wooden car laden with painted wooden gifts—all these had made me uncommonly happy. At home, I’d placed my minuscule treasures on the old cupboard’s shelves. Without the stores’ strong overhead lights, the little crystal mouse had not looked quite so brilliant; the cheap china cup had lost its translucence. But I’d never cared. Each piece had been mine, something for me, a small token of an inner voice, too long silenced, saying, “I love you.” So who was I to judge Marla or her friends, Page Stockham and Ellie McNeely? They all wanted someone, even if it was themselves, to say, I really, really care about you! And to prove it, have this!