Chopping Spree

“I’ve had worse pain, please don’t worry,” I assured him.

He scraped the bowl’s luscious dark contents into a springform pan and slipped the pan into the oven. Then he came over and murmured, “Let me rub where it hurts.”

Tom’s warm hands eased along my upper back. Meanwhile, because it was not a catering day and because Tom had sworn to disinfect the kitchen over the weekend, the dogs were enjoying an unusual foray into the kitchen. Jake the bloodhound and Latte the basset hound pressed in next to me for pats. Like Tom, they also appeared worried about me. Scout the cat, however, was still in hiding. And someone else was missing, too.

“You know what’s bothering me most,” I said. “Julian—”

“OK, look. Hulsey told me to tell you that neither of us should go down to the jail. It’s an embarrassing situation for his firm, and they don’t want you or me around just yet.”

“Bad publicity?”

“You bet,” Tom replied. “Hulsey, Jones, Macauley and Wilson is the best-known criminal defense firm in the state. One partner represents a murder case’s initial suspect, you. Then he works with a second suspect, Julian Teller. Later, when a much more credible suspect gets apprehended and hit in the groin by a cop’s wife”—I shrugged modestly—“and it turns out the guy now hitting the high notes is the brother of the Wilson in Hulsey, Jones, Macauley and Wilson, they’ve got a damage-control problem on their hands. They’re worried sick the press will be all over them.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. Another sibling problem.

“Julian will be all right,” Tom reassured me. “And there’s something else,” he added. “Minor by comparison to all this. Shane Stockham called. Before he could say why he was phoning, I blasted him on his claims about the payoffs to Barry on the rent issue. I told Stockham if he didn’t tell me the truth, he’d go straight to jail. Scared the guy to death. He admitted Barry hadn’t demanded anything from him. He just made that up so he wouldn’t be blamed for holding back on his rent. His lawyer was already dealing with Pennybaker.”

“You must have put the fear of God into him.”

“That’s my job. Anyway, Shane turned all ingratiating after his admission, as if he were the best friend a cop could ever hope to have. He also said he signed up all the investors he wanted. He really needs to get some ring back from you, though. He’ll exchange it for the check he owes you.” Tom stopped his wonderful massage. “A ruby, sapphire, and diamond ring? Please, please, Miss G.—tell me it’s not stolen.”

I laughed, then promised him I would call Shane. At that moment, the doorbell rang, and the dogs went berserk.

A moment later, Tom was ushering in Ellie McNeely. I tried not to look disappointed that it wasn’t Julian. Ellie was carrying a handsome flower arrangement of dark blue iris, daffodils, and white stock, set not in a basket, but on a base topped with a… lacrosse helmet?

“It’s for Arch,” she said, her tone apologetic. “For his birthday. I told the florist I needed the most masculine thing possible, with a lacrosse theme.”

“They’re gorgeous,” I said, deeply touched.

“Oh,” she added, pulling an envelope out of her pocket, “and here’s an Abercrombie and Fitch gift certificate for him, too, just so he won’t think I’m totally square.”

“This is so unnecessary, Ellie.”

“Goldy,” she said earnestly, “I didn’t really come here because of Arch’s birthday. I came because I wanted to thank you, because I needed to thank you.” Before I could protest and say, It’s nothing, she hurried on: “You found out what happened to Barry, and got half choked to death in the process, I heard. You’ve been great.”

We invited her into the kitchen, where we all had more espresso and kept watch over the cake through the oven window. At length, Arch, clad in the sweatsuit he’d slept in, made one of his silent floating appearances.

“It’s the Birthday B—!” I stopped instantly when I registered my son’s threatening countenance. Laboriously, I got to my feet and shuffled in his direction, hoping for a birthday hug.

“Mom, don’t.” Arch drew back and gave me a pained look: Can’t you ever treat me as if I were older than three? “What’s that?” he asked, frowning at the flowers.

“They’re from Mrs. McNeely,” I said. “They’re for you. For your birthday.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, and nodded in Ellie’s direction. “Thanks a lot.” He looked from Tom to me. “So my party’s going to be now? Is Julian out yet?”

“Don’t know,” said Tom. “But breakfast definitely won’t be the end of today’s partying.”

“They really are nice flowers,” Arch said to Ellie, with a sincere smile and brief nod.

“There’s a gift certificate, too,” Ellie said, “for A and F.” She pointed to the envelope she’d placed on the table.

At that, Arch brightened a bit more. “Well, gee. Thanks!”

Tom removed the cake from the oven, set it on a rack, then rummaged through the freezer for the last batch of Julian-made chocolate-filled croissants. I set the table and poured orange juice.

When we were digging into the flaky croissants a few minutes later, Ellie said suddenly, “I guess I’ll never know if Barry meant to get engaged or not. It doesn’t matter.” Her lovely, wet eyes regarded me earnestly. “He was two-timing me, but he wanted to get married, Goldy. He told me so at the jewelry-leasing event. He said, ‘All these arrangements we’re making today are for the temporary wearing of stones. But ours will symbolize a lifelong promise.’” I knew she was looking at me for affirmation. I nodded, thinking only that Barry had a gift for communication, not necessarily one for commitment.

“Who’s ready for another croissant?” Tom cried jovially.

Arch raised his hand. Ellie, still preoccupied, burst out with, “If only I could have figured out that riddle!”

Arch cut his eyes at me. I lifted my eyebrows and gave him a knowing grin. My son had always been an expert at riddles, codes, and puzzles, and he knew how much I appreciated his talent. Arch then glanced at Tom, too, who nodded almost imperceptibly. But before Arch said anything, he unexpectedly looked back at me. His eyes held such tenderness that I was undone. Maybe in that split second, my son realized, as he hadn’t in a while, how much my appreciation of him meant that I loved him. I swallowed; my eyes flooded with tears. And then the moment was over.

My son put down his pastry and said, “I know a lot about codes, Mrs. McNeely. If it’s that kind of thing.”

“It’s not a code, it’s about sex,” Ellie explained.

Arch beamed. Well, he was turning fifteen. He said, “Fire away.”

Ellie demurred. “Oh, I’ve taken up too much of your party time. I’m sorry. I’m just preoccupied with my own problems.”

“So what’s the code?” Arch persisted.

“‘When we fight, and then we BLANK, when you do it alone, you’ll find your ring.’” Ellie wrinkled her nose. “You see, whenever we fought, we… made love afterward. I sure don’t want to know what he meant by ‘do it alone,’ for crying out loud.”

Arch shook his head. A huge grin creased his face. “I don’t think it’s about sex, Mrs. McNeely. When you fight with somebody”—and here he gave me that affectionate expression again—“you do other things. You… apologize. You get something for ‘em. You… make up.” Ellie let out breath, still bewildered. “Look, Mrs. McNeely,” Arch went on, “Barry meant when you make up, get it? Then later you put on makeup, you know? Don’t you get that?”

Oh Lord, I thought. I bolted from our table as swiftly as a person with a sore shoulder and bruised neck can bolt. From my tote, I retrieved the manila envelope Barry had left for me, that I had remembered to bring home from his place.

When Tom eyed it skeptically, I said, “Look, I left all the clues to Victor’s wrongdoing there in the cabin, OK? This is separate. It’s not withholding evidence.” Tom shook his head and rolled his eyes, but said nothing. I opened the envelope and shook out the lipstick and blush, both new.

And the compact, slightly used. I grabbed a clean table knife, put a paper towel under the compact, then pried up a corner of the makeup. Bits of creamy chalklike stuff broke, splintered upward, and spilled over the top of the compact. I tried again. And again. When I reached the edge of an object in the middle of the makeup, everyone leaned in. I levered out a thin, delicate cylinder.

And then I held up the ring Barry had intended to surprise Ellie with.

Ellie burst into tears.

For reasons I could not understand, I felt happy for Ellie. The good side of Barry, the side that didn’t want to philander, that side of him had left her a promise for what their life together could have been. Maybe some women would have sold that ring faster than you could say money-back guarantee, but I knew that, for Ellie, it represented something else. A love—imperfect, to be sure—but still precious, still something to be treasured.

And wasn’t it treasure all the players from our drama of this week had been looking for? I checked to see if the cake had cooled as Ellie, Tom, and Arch fed too many homemade dog biscuits to our spoiled hounds. Barry had used stuff-—not always legally his to give, mind you—to buy admiration and love. Shane, Page, Pam, and most tragically of all, Victor, had wanted material goods to assuage feelings of inferiority, sadness, and loss. Living in resentment, Page spent enormous sums to rent jewelry and buy cars that equaled Pam’s. Shane, driven to please his wife, always lived on the brink of financial disaster. Pam and Page competed instead of enjoying each other’s company; the two sisters drained their financial resources where they could have just spent time together.

Nor was I immune. For months, I had worried that my son would stop loving me if I failed to buy him a hugely expensive birthday present. But that wasn’t what success as a mother was about, was it? Now, seeing him bask in Tom and Ellie’s appreciation of his riddle-solving ability, I didn’t even think he cared about the darn guitar.

Over the din of dogs and happy chatter, Marla’s voice rose shrill and loud from beyond the front door. “Open up!” she shouted. “You can’t have this party without me!” She kicked at the door. The dogs howled and raced toward the hall. “What does it take to get one of those pastries I know you’re gobbling up in there?” my friend shrieked.

We all tumbled out from the kitchen, people falling over dogs and one another, and pulled open the front door. Marla, grinning triumphantly, was balancing another cake, plus a bulging bag of gifts.

“Hey!” she crowed. “Where do you think I’ve been these last few days? Shopping for Arch! Now somebody take this cake! I’m gonna drop it!” Ellie reached through the door, relieved Marla of the pastry box, and lofted it above the dogs’ leaping attempts to get it.

From beside the door, Marla then produced a black-and-red guitar that looked about twice as expensive as the one I’d originally bought Arch. Arch cried out with joy.

Then, like a magician, Marla sashayed sideways. She cried, “Ta-da!” From behind her, Julian appeared.

“I’m here!” he hollered. “Happy birthday!”

He didn’t even make it into the hall. I suppose that to the neighbors, we—Arch, Tom, Ellie, yours truly, and both dogs—looked like a football team. How else could a group of people and hounds surge forward in such a perfect wave? Nor would the neighbors have understood why we were yelling and carrying on. This was April the fifteenth, for crying out loud. Nobody was happy on tax day.

But we were. After I hugged Julian, and Arch had given him a cool high five, Arch turned to me.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, “I love you.” He gave me a tight, firm hug.

“Happy birthday,” I said. And I hugged my son back.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON lives in Evergreen, Colorado, with her family. She is the author of eleven bestselling culinary mysteries and is at work on her twelfth.

CHOPPING SPREE

A Bantam Book

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Bantam hardcover edition published July 2002

Bantam mass market edition / March 2003

Published by

Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2002 by Diane Mott Davidson