Dying for Chocolate

9.

I trudged up the steps as the Jeep roared away. The general leaned over broken clay fragments and pressed his lips together. He motioned me inside. Behind us he firmly shut the front door with a no-nonsense, deliberate sound: chook.

I thought, At best I’ll get a lecture. At worst I’ll lose my job.

He gazed at me with those piercing blue eyes.

He said, “Don’t ever let that man through my gate again.”

I nodded vigorously.

“When he comes to pick up Arch,” he spoke the name delicately, as if Arch were his own son, “I will be the one to complete the transfer. Also,” he continued as he retrieved a short pole from a closet, “I want to show you this. It’s a portable door jam. If that man” (my mind supplied, the enemy) “somehow gets through the gate and tries to come through the front door, you expand it like this.” He clicked the steel rod open in his powerful hands. I had a sudden vision of Arch doing one of his magic tricks. “Then you wedge it under the doorknob.”

The rubber-covered end squeaked across the tile floor like chalk on a board. When the jam was in place, General Bo ordered me to try to open the front door. Of course, it wouldn’t budge.

“Thanks for—” I began in a wavering voice. Actually, I didn’t know how I felt about his help.

“You’re part of the family,” he said solemnly. “Just make sure that when you wedge this thing in, it’s under a door that opens toward you.”

And with that the lesson was over. No sentiment. No sure-you’re-all-right? The general took off down the hall with his long loping stride. It was the kind of walk people used to pace off a large distance. How could he get around the side of the house without my seeing him? How can you kill someone without making any noise? How could Philip have been having an affair with Weezie Harrington?

Well. I had cooking to do. I went back to the kitchen and mixed the Dijon vinaigrette and, pretending it was The Jerk’s head, shook vigorously. I tried to focus on what Sissy had told me about the lust-inducing properties of onions and garlic and peppers. Concentrate, I told myself.

But I couldn’t think. I couldn’t catch my breath. Arch would be all right. John Richard had never harmed him.

Arch would be back tomorrow night.

The avocados were impossible to skin without getting my hands slimy. I looked at my green-covered fingers. Would I always be a failure at relationships? Philip’s touch on my arm, the earnest look in his eyes, these came back. Had I been so bad a judge of character? Philip had been my age. Weezie was older. Not that an age difference made a difference anymore. Still, it was hard to believe that Philip and Weezie had been sexually intimate, when he and I had not.

The phone rang. After the mess with The Jerk, I did not want to talk to anybody. But the phone rang and rang, and the machine did not pick up. I was grateful that the Farquhars allowed me to use their third line for my business. The theory was that I would answer “Farquhars” to two lines and “Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right!” to the third. Usually by the time I figured out which line was ringing I forgot to do this last, and just answered “Farquhars” to all three. So far, my regular clients had recognized my voice.

I grabbed a towel and picked up the phone. “Farquhars,” I announced, but was met with silence. There was hesitant throat-clearing as somebody checked to make sure this was the right number.

“Is this Goldilocks the caterer?”

“Yes indeed, what can I do for you?”

“Is this Goldy Bear the caterer?”

“Well, uh, yes,” I said.

My name was not my fault. My first name was Gertrude. Goldy was my nickname from childhood, and I had disliked it. Korman was my last name in adulthood, and I had disliked it even more. But the resumption of my maiden last name, along with my nickname, made me sound like an escapee from a children’s story.

“This is George Pettigrew from Three Bears Catering in Denver.”

Right away, I knew we had trouble. (Don’t want trouble? I could hear John Richard’s mocking voice in my inner ear.) The ensuing conversation proved I was going to get it anyway.

George and his wife had been in business for five years. They were strictly small-time. I mean, I had never heard of them. But they had read the article in the Mountain Journal and were loaded for bear, no joke. George was screaming about copyright infringement. How dare I use the name Bear? he wanted to know. Because it was mine, I said. But my divorce had taken place after George and his wife had started Three Bears. It was their name, he insisted. I said, Oh yeah? Then why not call it Two Pettigrews!

He said he’d see me in court and hung up.

I stared at the phone for what felt like an eternity. I couldn’t face a call to my lawyer, and this being Saturday, he wouldn’t be in anyway. I finished the shrimp dumplings and thawed a container of chicken stock I had brought from my house to the Farquhars. Together these two ingredients would make the soup course. Finally, I spent two hours putting together an enormous chocolate mousse cake. I began by making a three-layer chocolate cake. While it was cooling I made a smooth white chocolate mousse for one layer of filling, then a dark chocolate mousse flavored with framboise for the second layer of filling. I built the tower of cake-with-fillings as carefully as any architect, then covered the whole thing with a thin layer of tempered chocolate. I packed everything up.

It was time to visit Weezie Harrington.

The Harringtons lived next door. In New Jersey, living next door meant if you wanted to get from here to there you walked down your sidewalk, down the sidewalk by the street, and then up your neighbors’ sidewalk. But this was Colorado, and next door meant a steep driveway down from the Farquhars’ fenced property, a slanted stretch of street, and another driveway up to the Harringtons. These were daunting without a vehicle, so I decided to trek the back way, where the security fence had a back gate set to the same code as the front. Hoisting up two heavy-duty boxes, I trudged through the back door of the garage, past the extra-thick walls of the general’s magazine, where he kept his explosives. Then I carefully circled the garden-site crater and beat a path through the long field grass between the two houses.

I wished I knew more about birds, I thought, as gaggles of feathered creatures flitted between bushes and trees. Philip had been devoted to the local Audubon Society and had asked if I’d consider catering one of their nature-hike picnics. Would they eat chicken? I wondered.

I sat down to rest on a rock by the gate. In a nearby cluster of aspens, warm afternoon air stirred pale green leaves the size of mussel shells. An iridescent blue-green hummingbird zoomed by overhead. Then a shriek split the calm.

“I don’t understand—” cried a high female voice.

I peered through a stand of evergreens. I could just see the Harringtons’ enormous deck. It was actually an elaborate cantilevered patio surrounded by a balustrade and filled with delicate white wrought-iron furniture that was all romantic curls and scrolls. The two women on the deck were not sitting down. In fact, from their voices and stances they appeared to be having an argument. I leaned closer to try to make out the words and faces.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” came one voice, high, shrill, angry. I moved off the rock and sidled up to a blue spruce. It wasn’t that I was eavesdropping or nosy, I told myself. I just didn’t want to embarrass the combatants by suddenly arriving with a box of aphrodisiacal dumplings.

“I can’t believe you could be so crass . . . to ask if he left anything to you—”

“Oh, calm down, for Christ’s sake!”

I peered through the sweet-smelling branches of the prickly spruce. Elizabeth Miller had her arms folded across her narrow chest, and had turned away from Weezie Harrington.

I had not seen Elizabeth since the accident. Why was she with Weezie? And what in the world could they be arguing about?

“Please,” shouted Weezie. “Listen, will you? We were working on something together. He told me he would leave—”

“You listen!” screamed Elizabeth. “He left his body to science, if that’s what you want to know.”

There was a silence. I felt intrusive, even though I was sure they had not seen me. One of the women was crying; it was hard to tell which one. Returning to the rock, I picked up the boxes, backtracked over the damp ground through the pines and grass and back through the Farquhars’ house. By the time I made it to the front door of the Harringtons’ place I thought I would start counting the hours until I had my van back Monday morning. The voices became indistinguishable.

The Harringtons’ house was a glass and stucco affair with a tile roof, the hybrid of Spanish colonial and French provincial that had been the rage in Aspen Meadow about fifteen years before. That is, insofar as any phenomenon in a town of thirty-five thousand people can be said to have been the rage.

A brass coyote-head door knocker echoed klok klok klok through the quiet interior. For a moment the screeching female voices rose again. My chest felt as if it were in a hammerlock.

Sometimes clients start drinking early on the day of a party. To relieve tension. Start the festivities early. Whatever. The problem was that this occasionally resulted in their canceling everything. Then all you got was your deposit, a whole lot of food, and anticipation of going to small-claims court, which I’d had to do from time to time. I fervently hoped that Weezie and Elizabeth had not added booze to their altercation. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the screeching stopped. I knocked again.

No one answered. I leaned against the stucco and peered through one of the double-pane windows, a standard insulating feature in mountain homes. The glass was cloudy, as often happens when the window was getting old. It had been a while since Brian had been king of the hill in Aspen Meadow Country Club, and the people he’d sold land to hadn’t yet had the chance to build. The massive rough-hewn door, another hallmark of older club homes, swung open to reveal Brian Harrington.

“Sorry, Mr. Harrington,” I said, flustered and apologetic in my clumsy attempt to pull back from the window. “I’m the cate—”

He stopped me with a wave of the hand and closed eyes. Silver chest hairs curled out of the V in his turquoise sport shirt. His shorts, a paler hue of turquoise, revealed muscular legs also covered with curly gray hair. Like everyone else in town, I had seen Brian’s elegant self strolling down Main Street in the company of bankers or a Cadillac-load of oil people from Dallas. But I had never seen that chiseled face up close. I took a deep breath. He was gorgeous, the human equivalent of a male silver-backed gorilla. If I were Weezie Harrington I’d get out the aphrodisiacs, too.

My voice wobbled. “I’m the cate—”

“Listen,” he interrupted, “there’s a bit of a problem out back.” He lifted the raised hand and ran it through his wiry hair, then shook his head.

“Problem,” I echoed. With some effort I picked up a box. “Mr. Harrington,” I said with as much authority as I could muster, “I need to get started in your kitchen if you expect to have a party tonight.”

“Oh, yes, sure,” he said absentmindedly as he opened the door all the way and I heaved the first of my boxes over the threshold. “Just follow me.” He turned away and started down a hallway. Bastard. He could have at least offered to take a box. Good looks, yes. Chivalry, no.

The kitchen was one of those L-shaped affairs that made figuring out where to put and prepare things difficult. Again big Bri was no help. He promptly disappeared around the kitchen’s corner. Five minutes later, looking for a platter for the cake, I found him lurking by the back door that led to the patio.

“Unbelievable,” he said. “Those women are still arguing.” He regarded me, his face pulled into puzzlement. Perhaps this was because his wife was one of those women. He shook his head and turned back to catch the sound of the again-raised voices. He closed the door abruptly and started toward me.

“I wouldn’t mind two gals fighting over my body,” he said with a wink, “but not if I were dead.”

“Do you know where there’s a cake plate, Mr. Harrington?”

“No. But you better look busy. They’re coming.”

With this he started to open cupboard doors and clatter through them as if he were genuinely seeking a plate or a glass or something, which he was not. I was standing holding the cake and feeling stupid when Weezie and Elizabeth came banging into the kitchen.

Elizabeth’s voice was loud and still hostile. She said, “You’re the one who’s vulgar.”

Then the two of them stopped, startled to see Brian and me gaping at them. Brian was clutching an upside-down casserole dish and I was balancing the cake. Weezie cocked her slender, evenly tanned face toward Brian. Her silver-blond mane, long, glazed scarlet nails, and crinkled tan pantsuit gave her the aspect of a cougar about to strike.

“What the hell is this?” she demanded.

“Honey, don’t—”

“Mrs. Harrington—”

“Don’t call me,” Elizabeth interrupted Brian’s and my protestations in her same furious tone. She cocked her head of wild blond frizz at Weezie. She had that drawn look vegetarians get when they aren’t getting enough of something. I wanted to reach out to her, to say something to her about Philip, but her rage with Weezie immobilized me. “Don’t call,” she said to Weezie, her finger stabbing the air, “don’t write, don’t get your friends to bug me. Leave me and the memory of my brother alone, do you understand?”

“Why won’t you listen to me?” shrieked Weezie, but Elizabeth had whirled and stomped off. While the three of us stood there, Elizabeth’s Aspen Meadow Health Food truck whizzed down Sam Snead Lane.

“Honey,” said Brian Harrington, “how about a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Weezie said crisply. “I have a little surprise for Goldy,” she said. One of the glazed nails was pointing at me. “Let me know when you’ve finished setting up,” she ordered before breezing out. She did not look at her husband or me. When she was marching noisily up the hall stairs, Brian eyed me ruefully.

“Do you want a drink?”

“No, thanks,” I said. I felt sorry for him. But I knew if I had one teensy-weensy drink, with what my ex-husband had told me earlier about Weezie and Philip, and the impending problems with the two Pettigrews, I’d be tempted to drown my grief in an entire fifth. “Maybe later,” I added with more sympathy than I intended. “After the party.”

“Oh?” He gave me a look. With a half-smile and raised eyebrows, he asked, “Are you staying after the party?”

How had I gotten into this? I had heard about Brian Harrington. I had seen him leaning toward my aerobics instructor and asking questions: “Where exactly are the obliques? Trace the muscle out for me when I twist over in this sit-up. Oh,” he’d say, “I’m not sure I’m tensing the hamstring muscle when I’m pulling it out in this ski exercise. Put your hand on it.”

Was I staying after the party? Ha. I didn’t answer, but carefully put the cake down on the countertop. My arms ached. Then I rummaged through a cupboard until I found, miraculously, a crystal serving plate. That feeling of irritation, of being intruded upon, was creeping up. I needed to be alone to work. Never mind that it was his kitchen.

I said, “I’m staying to clean up, that’s it. Does Mrs. Harrington have a salad bowl she wants me to use tonight? I really need to get to work in here.”

“Oh, sure. It’s probably around here somewhere.” He didn’t move but eyed me steadily with a suggestive half-smile.

I pursed my mouth into my best imitation of a displeased schoolteacher and put my hands on my hips.

Brian Harrington raised his eyebrows again and said, “Am I being dismissed?”

“Sorry. I need to be alone while I work.”

He remained immobile while I began the hunt for a bowl. He said, “You were going out with Philip Miller, weren’t you?” I slammed cabinet doors and nodded curtly. He went on, “Did you hear his sister say something about giving his body to science?”

I found a salad bowl on top of the refrigerator and began to line it with paper towels. “He didn’t talk to me about being an organ donor. If you don’t mind, I’d really rather not talk about it.” So saying, I rattled through drawers looking for serving utensils.

“Aah. . .” he began.

What in the world was the matter with the man? I sighed to let him know I was put out and said, “Now what is it?”

He smiled. “Will Sissy Stone be coming tonight?”

“If I tell you, will you let me do my work?”

“Yes, you cute little thing, you.”

I picked up the cake and walked quickly toward the refrigerator. I said, “Sissy is coming tonight.”

I could feel him moving in my direction. He murmured, “That cake just looks good enough to eat.”

I hrumphed and opened the refrigerator with my elbow and knee. If I hadn’t been concentrating so hard, I would have realized how close he was. Suddenly there was a small nibble of cool lips on my neck.

He was kissing me.

I dropped the cake.

Crystal shattered with an ear-splitting crash. The mousse fillings splattered wildly, like cream and mud flung all over the floor. Clods of cake skittered in every direction. The tempered chocolate broke like bricks.

“You idiot!” I yelled.

Brian calmly surveyed the mess. “Sorry, dear,” he said mildly. “You should have been more careful.” He glided out of the kitchen.

I looked around. I think I was looking for a rope. The kind you strangle people with. I shouted after him, “Now what am I supposed to serve for dessert?”