Catering to Nobody (Goldy Schulz Series)

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “That’s right.”

  I sighed. “Doesn’t exactly narrow the field.”

  “Goldy? Listen. I got two other homicides I’m working on. They’re both higher priority than this. But I’m still trying to locate that guy in Illinois. I’ll talk to the doc and the neighbor. Why don’t you just take it easy for a day or so,” Schulz suggested. “Think about your parties or something.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “All my parties have been canceled. Besides, tomorrow I’m going on another adventure. This time into a dungeon.”

  Without explanation, I hung up.

  After the excitement at Laura’s, a fantasy-adventure the next night promised to be a piece of cake. Or batch of cookies. Arch’s all-night games generally required baked goods to accompany the popcorn and soft drinks and assorted snacks he and his friends needed to fortify themselves for their forays into lands thick with polymorphs and other-worldly creatures. Todd was coming over so we would have a threesome. A bedraggled Patty Sue had come home from a make-up appointment with Fritz (since he’d been out Monday) and begged off from a party with eleven-year-olds by announcing she wanted to sleep the entire weekend. Todd and Arch and I were going to start off with a dinner of hot dogs and homemade baked beans and finish with Arch’s favorite sweet for these adventure nights, an oatmeal-raisin concoction I had dubbed Dungeon Bars.

  I got out the oats and unsalted butter, then searched for brown and white sugars. Maybe I had made a mistake not to do the fantasy-role bit with Arch before. Had Laura? Had she been closer to him than I was? His behavior had gone from bothersome to worrisome, and he seemed to think I was out to get him.

  I reached for the raisins and eggs and tried to remember what I knew about pre-adolescent behavior. It was normal for eleven-year-olds to distance themselves from parents. But as the single active parent, I found this hard to accept. Arch walked away while I was talking to him. He hastily hung up the phone at my approach. He refused to talk about Ms. Smiley. He never showed me his schoolwork anymore. His new teacher, Ms. Heath, was an unknown, except that she was the one who had discovered the body that fateful Monday.

  I sighed and looked at my recipe card for Dungeon Bars.

  That was the thing about cooking, I thought after mixing up the creamy batter and spreading it in the prepared pan. It was largely predictable. Children, spouses, and the economy were not. Maybe that was why I liked my job. When I had it.

  Arch’s bus was due shortly so I set the timer and stepped out into the October sunshine to walk to the stop. The air was like cotton. Sunshine splashed over bright orange and black Halloween decorations in the Main Street store windows. After a few minutes the school bus came huffing toward its stop with a great show of black diesel smoke and blinking yellow and red lights.

  “Why’re you meeting me, Mom?” asked Arch after the bus had chugged away.

  “Just wondered how things, you know, if you, well, were ready to play tonight.”

  He nodded and slung his backpack over his shoulder and started to march home. In earlier years we would have spent some time looking at the accordions of crepe paper in the merchants’ windows or talking about what costume he wanted for Halloween, or what candy he was hoping to get in his treats bag. Other times we would have crossed over to the creek to throw stones into the water. Now I exhaled hard to get the sour smell of diesel exhaust out of my lungs, and trudged up the hill after him.

  “You know,” I said as I dug out a scoop of vanilla ice cream to put on his warm Dungeon Bar, “I’ve been thinking about—”

  “Ms. Smiley,” he answered for me.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “What are we having for dinner?” he asked as he cautiously cut his first bite.

  * * *

  Dungeon Bars

  1 cup all-purpose flour (high altitude: add 2 tablespoons)

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon baking soda

  1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter

  ½ cup packed dark brown sugar

  ½ cup granulated sugar

  2 large eggs

  2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  1 cup rolled oats

  1 cup raisins

  Vanilla or cinnamon ice cream

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter a 9 × 13-inch baking pan and set aside.

  Sift together the flour, salt, and baking soda. Set aside.

  In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter with the sugars until the mixture is light and fluffy. Turn the mixer to low, and beat in the eggs and vanilla until well combined. Carefully stir in the flour mixture, oats, and raisins until well combined.

  Spread in the prepared pan (batter will be thick). Smooth the top. Bake from 20 to 30 minutes, until the batter has puffed and flattened, is brown around the edges, no longer appears wet in the center, and tests done with a toothpick. Cool slightly. While warm, cut into 32 bars. Allow to cool completely on a rack. Serve with best-quality vanilla or cinnamon ice cream.

  Makes 32 bars

  * * *

  “Beans and wieners. And don’t change the subject. How did you know what I was thinking of?”

  “If I eat all my dinner may I have more Dungeon Bars later?” His earnest eyes regarded me.

  I said, “Sure. Have you been thinking about Ms. Smiley, too?”

  He shook his head and gave a muffled “No.”

  “What I was thinking about,” I began again, “is that it certainly is strange she didn’t leave a note or letter or something. Especially since she liked to write letters. To you, for instance.”

  Arch narrowed his eyes at me, just a little bit, but I got the message. When he had finished his bite he said, “Maybe she did.” He paused. “Leave a note.”

  “Do you know if she did?”

  He shrugged.

  “Did you know if she was sad? Or upset? Or sick? I need to know, Arch,” I added gently, “because it may have something to do with someone giving your grandfather rat poison over at Ms. Smiley’s house. That attempted poisoning got my business closed.” I paused. “Did you know Ms. Smiley was having problems?”

  “Not really.”

  “Arch,” I said, “I found a D and D book over at Ms. Smiley’s. Did you ever play with her?”

  He shook his head and got up to put his dish in the sink. I thought that pulling teeth had to be easier than this. Without looking at me Arch picked up his bag and started toward his room. Even though I knew, I asked him where he was going.

  He turned to me. “I have to go make up your character,” he said, “for the adventure.”

  “What am I going to be?” I asked.

  He said, “A thief.”

  When Todd arrived we ate and cleared the table for combat. We had no board, only a glittering array of multisided dice and Arch’s pile of books and papers. He also had some props—a small knife, which represented an authentic crosier for casting spells, scrolled pieces of paper, some marble eggs he had bought on a field trip to the western slope, and a glass of skim milk symbolizing a potion to control the colors of certain dragons.

  Arch was in a bad mood. He had spoken sharply to Todd at dinner and yelled at me when I asked if I could help set things up. Giving me sharp sideways glances, he carefully arranged several small metal statues of knights in gallant and aggressive poses.

  As dungeon master, Arch was our guide, he crisply informed us. He had created the adventure with its many possibilities. When it was Todd’s or my turn he told us what we were doing, where we were going, and what our options were. When we chose an option, we would throw dice to see what happened. It sounded complicated so I poured myself a brandy.

  Our characters began in a somewhat downtrodden condition. Taxes, rents, and prices were all high, Arch the dungeon master announced. He brandished a yellowed facsimile of the Declaration of Independence, meant to represent the documentation for these new financial burdens.

  “What are you doing paying taxes?” I whispered to Todd, who was a high-level cleric.

/>   “Just play the game, Ms. Bear,” he replied.

  To relieve our difficulties, Arch went on, we were going to have to go into a dangerous forest where the possibility of adventure was high. We were told that after wending our way through the dense array of trees, we had come to a cave. Inside the cave there was the possibility of finding treasure, but only if we could successfully fight the monsters.

  I was thinking Freud would have a field day with this when Arch said that I had just encountered six giant water rats, and what did I want to do about it?

  “What are my options?” I wanted to know as I poured another brandy.

  “Fight or flee,” he said solemnly.

  I thought. I wanted to ask a number of questions, beginning with “Just how big are these rats?” but then he yelled at me.

  “Hurry up, Mom, you’re slowing down the game!”

  I told him I would fight. This produced a flurry of dice-throwing to match my abilities against the rats’ power.

  “What happens if I die?” I asked with some timidity while my hit points were being compared to the rats’ on a chart from some book. “Do I lose? I mean, am I out of the game?”

  Arch said, “There’s no such thing as winning and losing in this game, Mom. You might just have a setback. If you die here, the cleric can raise you from the dead.”

  I looked at Todd, who nodded. Some cleric!

  “Do I have a weapon?” I asked.

  Arch checked my character’s inventory sheet. “Yes,” he said, “but you can use other methods. Giant water rats eat any flesh, but the flesh of the electric eel is poisonous to it. So you can crack open a raw alligator egg, which the rats like, and then mix chopped up electric eel into the egg, and the rats will eat it and die.” With this lurid explanation, Arch passed me two marble eggs.

  I said, “Gross.”

  “You made that up,” Todd protested. “I never read that in any book! Besides, the thief is going to use his knife if you’re doing hit points.”

  “I am the DM,” Arch announced. “I can make stuff up.”

  “Cannot!” protested Todd.

  “Shut up!” Arch yelled. He stood and brandished his play knife at Todd.

  “What—” I said.

  “Shut up, Mom!” Arch’s face shook with anger. His knuckles had turned white as he clutched the sword.

  “Stop acting that way this minute,” I ordered. “Todd is your guest.”

  “Yeah,” said Todd. He pulled his face into a sulk.

  “Nobody around here cares about anything I say,” said Arch. He glowered at me, and for a horrible moment his eyes bulged with the same look of hatred I had seen so often in his father.

  “I care,” I said. “Just sit down, okay?”

  “I’m the DM,” said Arch.

  “Nobody’s saying you’re not,” I said.

  Fear knotted my stomach. Uneasy silence filled the room for a few moments, until finally Arch put the sword back on the table and sat down.

  After some discussion I said I would prefer to use the knife to hunting up electric eels and alligator eggs. To demonstrate this I traded the marble ovoids for the knife-crosier. I was glad to get it away from Arch, in any event. Thanks to the dice I prevailed against the rats. Sheesh! I needed another brandy.

  As it turned out the rats were guarding a secret entry to a cave where a princess was being held prisoner. Worse, the princess was immobilized by a spell. On the plus side we learned that the father of the princess was very rich. If the cleric and I could manage to find and free her, we would receive a huge reward in gold pieces from the local king.

  Things took a turn for the worse for Todd. He encountered an amulet-sporting lich, a strong anticlerical monster.

  “Surely clerics, can’t carry weapons,” I said.

  “Only blunt weapons that can’t draw blood,” said Todd. “And they can cast spells.”

  “Yeah,” said Arch, “no weapons for you.”

  Todd ignored him and tried to get the initiative on the lich with a dice throw. He lost, and was attacked first. After sustaining some damage to his clerical persona, Todd asked Arch what the deal was on this heavy-duty monster.

  Arch screwed his face into an evil expression that made my flesh crawl. He said, “This lich is seeking vengeance for a wizard whom the king killed in battle.” He paused. “It is very powerful. You must approach it from the side, so that it cannot sense your presence. Then you can cast your most harmful spell.”

  Todd cast a spell of immobilization, the medieval equivalent of a stun gun. We were off again.

  “You can’t go into that part of the cave,” Arch warned when Todd indicated his next move.

  “How come?” Todd demanded.

  “It’ll explode,” Arch warned. “It has a special warning device put in by the lich.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Arch,” I protested again, “they didn’t have explosives in the Middle Ages.”

  He again wrinkled his face into a malevolent expression. “If you don’t want to play, Mom,” he said, “you don’t have to.”

  My stomach was still churning, and my mind was feeling the soporific effects of the brandy. I wasn’t learning anything, and what I was seeing from Arch was not making me feel any better about his mental health. And while he was calling the plays, it would be impossible to ask questions about Laura Smiley or anything else.

  “Mom’s going to bed,” I said, as if my duties could be lightened by speaking of myself in the third person. I bequeathed to Todd all the gold I had accumulated—on paper, of course—and said I would find out in the morning whether he had succeeded in freeing the princess.

  “You boys sure are serious about this,” I commented with a yawn.

  “Yeah,” said Todd, “my mother’s making me a thief costume for Halloween. I can’t wait.”

  I turned to Arch. “What about you, son? Want to dress up as the archbishop of Cottonwood Creek?”

  “No,” said Arch. “I’m going to go as a lich.” He said this without looking at me.

  “I can see about a costume,” I said doubtfully, “if you want. But why do you want to be a monster?”

  He shrugged. “You have a lot of power. You can do things you wouldn’t be able to do in real life.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning, after dreaming fitfully of alligator eggs and my son pointing a knife at me, I remembered the key I had filched from the athletic club five days before. I doubted that going through Laura’s locker could be more productive than going through her house. Still, Arch had correctly role-cast me: I could be a thief.

  Arriving at the club brought the horrid realization that the Saturday morning aerobics class was the one for masochists. Attending this class had always led to deep and serious regret. When I sidled into the back row Trixie was leading the pain parade in a high-step double-time run-in-place to the chase scene music from To Live and Die in L.A.

  “Go! Go!” Trixie shrieked over the din. She was throwing her arms and legs out like a cheerleader fighting off a mugger.

  “Best thing for a hangover!” shouted the man next to me as we switched to jumping jacks.

  The mirror reflected new unwelcome pillows of flesh in the worst places. Not rushing around to cater was taking its toll. I went to the wall to stretch ligaments and wished to be dying in LA rather than exercising. Back in my spot I began to jog in place. My neighbor (hung over?) responded by increasing the speed of his jumps, which he accompanied with loud grunts.

  We flapped arms and kicked legs while Trixie increased the tempo to what could only be described as frenzied. It was like an African tribal dance being filmed by National Geographic.

  Abruptly the music stopped in midbar. I stopped too, although the maniacs around me kept hopping.

  “What is the matter with this thing?” screeched Trixie as she punched buttons on the lifeless stereo. “What! What!”

  She picked up one of the weights, a big one.

  “Damn you!” she screamed
, and heaved the weight at one of the wall-sized mirrors, which shattered with the sound of windows exploding in a small building.

  “That’s worth at least forty-nine years of bad luck,” said Hung-Over.

  Trixie ran into the locker room. Hal appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked bewildered, but quickly summoned all the masochists to the outside track. I decided to hit the showers.

  In the locker room Trixie was complaining loudly to a group of women in shiny leotards and tights about the stereo system, the club, and life in general. I slipped into the welcome relief of a shower stall. When the crowd dispersed I would check out Laura’s locker. But fifteen minutes later the women were still bubbling with subdued chatter about Trixie and her temper tantrum, so I headed for the steam room. There I encountered the becalmed mirror-shatterer herself.

  “Trix,” I said cautiously as I eased down onto the moist tile steps. “Guess you were a little pissed off back there.”

  She groaned and turned over. “Guess so,” she said. “Hal’s secretary just came down. Breaking the mirror cost me three hundred dollars. Next time it’ll be my job.”

  I muttered something about being in the same boat, a metaphoric fit with the clouds of steam enveloping us. Then I said, “Listen, I don’t know how to say this delicately, but I just found out about your baby. I’m sorry. I didn’t even know you were pregnant.”

  She said nothing for a few minutes. Then, “Thanks, Goldy. It’s been really hard.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured again. In the clouded light I could just see her hand. I took it and squeezed; she squeezed back.

  I said, “Want to talk?”

  “Maybe sometime. I need to figure out how to break the mirror news to my husband … ha ha.” She let go of my hand.

  “I didn’t see your husband at Laura Smiley’s house,” I said.

  She said, “God, it’s getting hot in here.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, Martin,” she said vaguely, as if she had just remembered his name. “He was out of town. Doesn’t like the thought of death, anyway. Since … well.”