Dying for Chocolate

7.

I slept fitfully, dreamt of nothing, and lay in bed the next morning, Saturday, as if nailed there. Ï tried to put the image of Philip Miller out of my mind,

Sunshine and the strains of voices streamed through the east-facing window of my room as I stretched and breathed through my yoga routine. From the direction of the Farquhars’ pool and garden, Ï could hear Julian and General Bo calling amicably back and forth. When I got up to investigate, I could see Julian vacuuming the pool with a long-handled instrument attached to a hose. Over a raked area of what had been the garden-crater, General Bo arranged flowering plants in rows as straight as well-drilled troops.

I had to smile. From here I could see it was the kind of garden an eastern couple with no children but lots of money would put in with great optimism. Lots of money for double-blossom begonias, Johnny-jump-ups, and lilac bushes that bordered rainbows upon rainbows of pansies. No children to worry about poisoning with late-blooming Christmas rose and camas lilies. And optimism, in thinking the soil would be acidic enough for hydrangeas.

Seeing them labor so diligently made me realize I needed to focus on the day’s work. Deadlines for obtaining supplies, cooking, baking, arranging, serving—all these gave caterers their thin and tired look. Alas, the bathroom mirror told me I was not thin, only short and blond and still sporting a field of faded freckles across a nose that even the kinder girls at boarding school had called “snub.”

Which reminded me.

I came out of the bathroom and knocked softly on Arch’s door. I felt awful because it was Saturday morning, but I needed to remind him that his father would be over later, and that all hell would break loose if he wasn’t ready. And I wanted to find out if, on orientation day, he’d been snubbed.

“Arch?” I called through the wood.

To my surprise he opened the door. He was dressed in one of his all-purpose sweat suits and held his bag of magic tricks in one hand. He had his glasses on, a good sign that he had been up for a while.

“Your dad will be by this afternoon,” I told him. Then, before he could say anything, I said, “You didn’t finish telling me about the first day. Were the kids nice?”

He looked into my face and pulled his mouth into a straight line. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “they weren’t as bad as I expected.” He paused and looked around the room. “Hold on, Mom, I got you something.” He reached over to a shelf and solemnly handed me a Russell Stover Mint Dream. My heart warmed. Arch knew I loved chocolate with mint. He was always on the lookout for new combinations of the two ingredients.

“Well, thanks very much,” I said as I fingered the silver-green foil. This was Arch’s way of saying he was sorry about Philip Miller.

“You going to eat it?”

“Not before eight in the morning. But I will! It’s my favorite, you know that.”

He was not listening but was again rummaging through his belongings. “Wait. There’s a note here for you from Adele, er, Mrs. Farquhar.” He handed me a crumpled index card.

The Nelsons have canceled and Weezie Harrington is beside herself. She called this morning and invited Julian and a date for tonight. I told her you’d already bought the food. I don’t think she knows Julian is a vegetarian. Sorry if this causes problems! A.

I looked back at Arch.

“So what about the first day?”

“I told you, the kids weren’t too bad. Watch.” He turned his back to me, then pivoted and held up one, two, three ropes. He caught my eyes again and gave a tiny, knowing grin. “And now,” he said with a flourish, and whipped out a single, long rope.

I clapped.

“I did it for the kids in my class at orientation. They liked it. Okay, Mom,” he said by way of dismissal, “anything else?”

“How’d you get the candy?”

“Julian took me to Aspen Meadow Drug in the general’s car. I told him my parents were divorced and my mom had lost her boyfriend and I needed to get her something.”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend.”

“Okay, Mom. I need to practice now. Nobody was mean to me at the school. You don’t need to worry.”

Back in the bathroom, I started water gushing into the Farquhars’ claw-footed tub. For myself, I was quite sure I hadn’t snubbed anyone in years. Poverty will do that to you. But as a former doctor’s wife, I had learned all about snub-ers and snub-ees. With the post-divorce reduction in circumstances, my friends, with the exception of Marla and a few others, had evaporated like the steam now rising from the bathwater. Former acquaintances feigned looks of confusion when they encountered me at catered functions, as when I’d seen a surgeon’s wife I knew at the Elk Park Prep brunch. There I was up to my elbows in cheese strata and sausage cake, and Mrs. Frosted Hair Usually Seen in Tennis Clothes had said, “Oh, Goldy!” (as if she’d been trying to reach me for weeks) “How are you?” (as if I’d just recovered from a failed suicide attempt) “Are you working now? I mean, besides this.”

Yes indeed, I thought as I lowered myself into the water. Just this.

I reached for the pad of yellow legal paper I kept on a nearby stool that Arch had piled high with back issues of Magician magazine. Well, at least it wasn’t Playboy. I wrote “Dinner For Six” across the top yellow sheet.

The hostess, Weezie Harrington, had given me an overview of aphrodisiac foods. I had placed a meat and seafood order, but vegetarian Julian and his date would present a problem.

“I have to have six,” Weezie had said. “It sets up the right psychological dynamic.” For Julian’s meal I would have to do additional research. All I remembered at this point was Weezie’s raised eyebrow when she’d said, “Chocolate for dessert. At one point, the church banned chocolate because it was believed to be inciteful of lust. So make it decadent.”

I wrote “DECADENT” in large letters and wondered why Weezie and Brian Harrington, who had been married six years, needed aphrodisiacs anyway. He was an energetic and fit fifty. She was in her mid-forties, slender and elegant and with the look of an aging Greek goddess. The story around town was that Brian had courted Weezie lavishly to get hold of her gently sloping thousand acres just north of Interstate 70 near the Aspen Meadow exit. Once successful in obtaining Flicker Ridge, the story went, Brian had moved on to other conquests in the world of real women and real estate. And Weezie had recently steeped herself in the lore of desire-producing foods and substances, much to the current amusement of the country club. Whether she would win Brian back by these charms was up to the caterer, apparently.

I stared at the yellow pad. Brian, Weezie, Adele and Bo, Julian Teller and a female friend. I had already asked about food allergies, and managed not to smile when Weezie told me Brian was allergic to nuts. Since Venus was born in the sea, we were starting off with shellfish. Except for Julian. I sighed.

The library did not open until ten, this being Aspen Meadow and suitably provincial. I would have to whip around and finish shopping by eleven to have enough time to cook. Maybe the Farquhars’ encyclopedia could yield info. Surely it would carry more than entries for rocket-propelled grenades and C-4.

I pulled the tub’s plug. Feel great, I said to myself in the most persuasive way possible. Let the mood fit the food, André, my cooking instructor, had said when he trained me. Act hurried and your clients will feel hassled. Have a great time and your clients will have a great time. How I was supposed to act at an aphrodisiac dinner I did not know.

I reached for one of Adele’s plush floral towels. Sudden tears bit the back of my eyes as the water sucked loudly down the drain. Have a great time.

Once dressed, I made my way quickly to the Farquhars’ library-cum-study in the back of the house. Outside there was the regular slap-slap of Julian’s arms hitting water. Through the window I could see him plowing through his morning laps. He had vacuumed up the dirt clods—remnants of the garden explosion—from the pool floor. But there was still dirt everywhere else, and the water looked somewhat murky. General Bo was sweating over another row of pansies. I turned to the books.

Volume A of the encyclopedia cracked open in my lap to “Aphrodisiacs.”

I remembered Weezie tossing her lioness mane of blond and silver hair at our interview.

“Spanish fly,” she’d said, “is really dried cantharides, a kind of beetle. Deadly as hell, despite its reputation.”

The encyclopedia article talked about bark from the yohimbé tree in Africa. No help there; I was pretty sure yohimbé didn’t grow in Aspen Meadow. And then there was the warning that ingesting Spanish fly was a highly toxic way of causing inflammation in the lower abdominal and genital regions. Burning pain accompanied the inflammation. If enough was taken, the inflammation was followed by death. Better avoid that one, too; didn’t sound as if it would fit the ticket.

What Weezie had told me was that the effect from food was very subtle. She’d said, “You have to tell them what’s supposed to happen.” Tell them what? This will work if you think it does?

The encyclopedia concurred. The idea of inciting lust rested largely on the powers of suggestion and sympathetic magic. The rhinoceros had been particularly abused, I learned, owing to the unfortunate resemblance its horn bore to the erect male member.

Clearly, I would have to think about the suggestion angle. I closed the book and headed for the kitchen, where I could hear glasses tinkling and jars being moved in the refrigerator.

“Hello, there,” I said to Julian’s towel-wrapped backside.

He started, surprised, then turned to face me.

His thickly lashed eyes narrowed in appraisal. I didn’t know much about Julian except that Adele had volunteered to take him in when the boarding department had closed at the end of this school year at Elk Park. He’d won a science scholarship to the prep school his tenth-grade year. This summer he was taking Advanced Placement Biology. As soon as the schedule was set, he was going to drive Arch to and from his class in American literature. His parents lived in the Four Corners area, where Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona all came together. But that was all I knew, except that he made excellent candy.

And that he had been a patient of Philip Miller’s.

Julian put his hand on his hip. At eighteen, he already had a swimmer’s body, short and tough and muscled. I tried not to eye his bleached hair, which had been shaved in one of those Mohawk cuts with a center ridge. The blond half-inch stood up like a strip of unmowed lawn.

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded. He made no effort to hide his hostility.

“Fixing coffee, okay?” I put espresso makings together and tried to soften the anger I felt rising. What was he so mad at me about? Philip’s accident?

“Julian,” I said once a fragrant rope of dark liquid was twining out of the Farquhars’ Gaggia. “I guess you’ve heard the bad news—”

“I know. I heard.” He sat down at the kitchen desk chair and ran his fingers through what hair he had. “Bo said you were there,” he said in a voice I tried not to think of as accusing. He raised thick, dark eyebrows set in a square-jawed, fine-featured face and crossed his arms.

“I was. I was right behind him.”

The corners of his mouth turned down. His towel had fallen open over his wet tank suit, but he appeared to take no notice. He said, “What were you doing behind him?”

I took a deep breath, sipped foam off the espresso. “Driving Adele’s car, following Philip into town. To have coffee. Then I was going to go buy supplies for Weezie’s dinner tonight.”

He turned away. Silence filled the kitchen. Then, “I’m a replacement guest,” he said contemptuously.

“Lucky you, get to taste the food I make for a catered function. But with the brunch yesterday, I’m swamped. Mrs. Harrington has made specifications about the food. You’re a vegetarian, and I need to do a dessert—”

He said, “Why don’t you just use some of that fudge with the sun-dried cherries? For dessert, I mean. When I moved in a couple of weeks ago, I made a batch, and Adele took some over to the Harringtons. Brian Harrington loves the stuff. He couldn’t believe I made it.”

“Well, thanks,” I managed to say, “but a client usually likes to have me make something if I’m going to get paid for it.” I smiled and ventured, “Cooking is something we have in common.” After all, if we were going to share the Farquhars’ house and Arch for the next few months, rapprochement seemed in order.

He gave an offhand laugh and said, “I don’t think we have anything in common.”

Again silence fell between us.

Finally Julian said, “That coffee available or what?”

I nodded, dumped the spent espresso grounds, and started a new cup brewing. He stood up, tucked the towel in, and sat down again.

When I had managed not to stare at him putting four teaspoons of sugar and a quarter cup of milk in my perfect espresso, I said, “Would you like to talk about Philip Miller?”

“Not really.” He did not look at me, but began sipping somewhat noisily on the coffee. He said, “He was a good guy.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t remember.”

“This week? Last week?”

“I told you,” he said loudly. “I don’t remember.”

I said, “Sorry,” and meant it.

Julian pushed back his chair and drained the espresso. “Look,” he said, “I need to go change. You want to know about this food stuff, go to the library and ask for Sissy Stone. She, like, helped Mrs. Harrington with her research. She knows who you are. Sissy was a finalist for Colorado Junior Miss, too, how about that? I’m bringing her to the Harringtons’ dinner tonight. My date, as Adele calls her.” He stopped. “I don’t believe aphrodisiacs work,” he said defiantly.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Do you believe other means are more effective for getting the girl?” I asked with what I hoped was a friendly smile.

He whipped off the damp towel, slapped it over his shoulder, and started out of the kitchen. He paused at the door.

He said, “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

I couldn’t wait to get hold of Sissy Stone, sort of like getting hold of the flu. But when the wooden doors of the Aspen Meadow Public Library swung open at 9:58 A.M., the young woman behind the door gave me a toothpaste-ad smile. She was my height and compactly built, a cross between a gymnast and a cheerleader and probably functional at both. She had pushed up the sleeves on a too-large Elk Park Prep sweatshirt that I suspected was Julian’s. Perfect cream beige makeup covered olive-undertoned skin. Her hair fell in thick dark waves that reminded me of the ribbon candy I bought Arch at Christmastime.

“I’m looking for Sissy Stone,” I said with what I hoped was an enormous, confidence-winning grin. “Do you know where she is?”

The girl said, “Why?”

“Are you Sissy?” I asked.

“Well. Yeah,” she said with another bright smile, as if I had just introduced her on network television.

I gestured into the library so we could go somewhere and talk. “Julian Teller suggested I come talk to you. I’m the owner of Goldilocks’ Catering. Julian said you knew. . . .” To her unenthusiastic nod I said, “I’m working as a live-in cook with the Farquhars this summer. You’re coming to the dinner I’m doing tonight for Weezie Harrington.” Another nod. “I need some help from you, the kind you gave her, if that’s okay. In the area of food.”

“Weezie Harrington,” she repeated. She looked both ways, as if conscious of who might be watching or listening. “I’ll have to check.”

My hopes for this conversation grew dim. Around us young mothers pulled reluctant toddlers to Saturday morning story time. The front-desk computers whirred and beeped as morning visitors began to check out books, demand paper for the copier, and slap down volumes to be assessed for overdue fines.

I trundled after Sissy. She had a light step and carried herself with confidence. She glanced this way and that on her way to the computer, as if she were looking for someone more important to talk to. Once at the computer, she tapped away. “Complete Apbrodisia is out,” she announced without looking back at me. “Let’s check for articles.” She moved efficiently to another machine, where she typed into another keyboard. As the machine whirred efficiently, she said, “I guess you can’t wait until Monday?”

I shook my head. “Can we go outside for a few minutes? Please?” Before she could say no, I was on my way to the library garden, a plot lovingly and meticulously tended by the Aspen Meadow Garden Club. Long-stemmed flax, pansies, petunias, and mountain bluebell swayed in the cool morning breeze as I settled on one of the benches and gestured for her to do the same.

“Listen, Sissy, “ I began, “all I need is a few ideas. Julian is a vegetarian. Can’t you remember anything from some of those articles you supplied Mrs. Harrington?”

“Oh, look, a pansy,” said Sissy, as if I had not spoken. She gestured to the garden. “Do you know why its juice was used as a love potion in Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“Cupid shot one of his love arrows into what was originally a flower of pure color. You see,” she said as she bent down to brush the pansy with her fingertips, “it bled.”

I looked at my watch: 10:10. Clearly, Miss Priss had no intention of helping me. I would give this conversation five more minutes and then head for the grocery store.

I cleared my throat. “If Cupid were cooking for a vegetarian, Sissy, what would he fix?”

“Mmm,” she said, and focused vaguely on a nearby evergreen. “Nothing too heavy. Eggs. Sign of fertility. Can you do that for dinner? Cheese for creaminess and sensuality. Also because it’s easy to digest. You don’t want to have indigestion at the wrong moment.”

I stared at her. She closed her eyes dramatically and shrugged one shoulder. Well, at least we were getting somewhere.

“Cheese,” I prompted.

“Something with spice. You know, like garlic or peppers. Onions,” she added as an afterthought.

“Got it,” I said, and she nodded. I went on, “Now I know chocolate’s a must for dessert,” another nod, “so I’m just looking at a salad situation here. Give me a tip in the green department and I’ll be on my way.”

But she was watching someone going into the library. I shook my head along with the flowers bending in the cool June wind.

I said, “What kind of roughage heats up the libido, Sissy?”

No response. My watch said 10:20. I stood up and started to walk toward the car.

She called after me, “Fennel! Endive! Asparagus, carrots, and mushrooms!”

At the grocery store I bought ingredients for Shrimp Dumpling Soup, Chile Relleno Torta, as well as avocados, mushrooms, and baby lettuces for salad. Back at the Farquhars I spread everything out and began to get out pans to grease. My cooking concentration began to rev up, like the adrenaline some athletes claim after the first mile. Then the security gate buzzed.

It buzzed and buzzed. It was apparent that I had gone from live-in cook to phone answerer to butler and general factotum.

“Yes,” I said into the speaker. The closed-circuit camera showed two men in a dark sedan.

“Goldy Bear?” asked one of them. “We would like to talk to you.” Police officers.

I said, “I am unbelievably busy.”

“Just a few questions.”

“May I cook while you ask things?”

“We’d rather you’d take some time out.”

“Then you’ll have to come tomorrow.”

A pause. They looked at each other.

“You can cook,” said one.

I buzzed them through. A moment later, I opened the front door and drew my mouth into what I hoped was a threatening pucker. “My business isn’t in jeopardy, is it?”

“If we can just talk to you, Ms. Bear, we should be able to get some things straightened out.”

“Right,” I said as I turned to walk down the hall to the kitchen. “I can’t wait.”