Dying for Chocolate

17.

Food always tastes better when it’s cooked by someone else. When that someone else was Tom Schulz, you were in good hands. The juicy steaks were redolent of a garlic-Burgundy marinade, the flaky baked potatoes oozed melted butter, and every leaf of the green salad was unabashedly coated with thick guacamole dressing. Schulz confessed to having called Arch to find out how I liked chocolate best. Arch had said, With mint. Therefore, alongside our strawberry pie we had Schulz’s famous chocolate-mint cheesecake. So much for the National Cholesterol Institute.

Arch was happy in Tom Schulz’s company. He felt accepted and it showed; he even called Schulz by his first name. After some initial hesitation, Arch dug in and ate voraciously. Toward the end of our visit he became downright chatty. Did Tom know how to call the wizard to tell him what card was in his hand? He did not. Arch took out a deck of cards and had Tom pick one. Then he called a friend of his, and the wizard announced the card to Tom, who was amazed.

“It’s a code,” said Arch. “Like Mom and I used to have when I was little. If I wanted her to come pick me up at a friend’s house, or if I was having some kind of problem at school or something? I would just call her up and say, ’The seven of spades.’ She knew to come right away, and I wouldn’t be embarrassed trying to explain things. Calling the wizard,” Arch went on, “is a code that a lot of magicians use. The caller knows the card. The wizard is just any one of your friends who knows the trick.” He gave me a wide grin, the first I’d seen in a while. “Even Mom knows it.”

SCHULZ’S GUACAMOLE SALAD

1 head iceberg lettuce

¼ cup grated cheddar cheese

¼ A cup grated Monterey Jack cheese

½ cup chopped scallions

8 cherry tomatoes, halved

1 cup crushed corn chips (recommended: Chili Cheese Fritos)

DRESSING:

1 avocado, peeled, pitted, and mashed

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

½ cup sour cream

1/3 cup corn oil

1 tablespoon picante sauce

Tear lettuce into small pieces and combine with cheeses, scallions, and tomatoes. Cover and refrigerate in salad bowl until serving time. Combine all ingredients for dressing and mix well. Toss salad with dressing and sprinkle top with crushed chips.

Makes 4 to 6 servings

“Would you teach me?” asked Tom Schulz. “Please?”

Arch hesitated, then said he could use another wizard, anyway. He told Schulz that if someone called and asked for the wizard, to run slowly through the suits, until the caller interrupted him. Then the wizard ran downward from the ace until the caller interrupted him again.

Schulz was impressed. “Will you call me sometime? Not at the Sheriff’s Department, but here at home? That is, if you can tear yourself away from that fancy summer school of yours.”

Arch said he would, then confessed he didn’t really like summer school except for his mini-course in French. This he was taking to avoid an hour of sports (tennis, he said with disgust, in the same tone of voice that one might use upon discovering ants). Had Tom read Poe, Arch wanted to know. Yes, a million years ago. Arch said, Imagine, we even have ravens in Aspen Meadow.

Tom asked if Poe was a good dresser. Arch said he wasn’t sure. Well, Arch’s taste in clothes showed some new influence. Arch said, Just a guy named Julian. I could not remember the last time I had seen Arch so happy. He even hummed along with Schulz playing his guitar and singing “Love Is a Rose” after the cheesecake. When the three of us did the dishes, Schulz taught him “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.” Arch alternated humming the two tunes all the way home.

As I drove up to the Farquhars’ house with its numerous floodlights, I realized I had forgotten to tell Schulz about the general’s private magazine. Before I went through the security gate I picked up the Farquhars’ mail and made a mental note to tell him about it when I thanked him for the evening.

There were letters for General Bo from the Center for Poison Research and from the Department of the Army, for Julian from some government agency, and a note to me from Elizabeth. I opened it. She thanked me for flowers I had sent after the funeral. The Farquhars had invited her to be their guest at the Audubon picnic. She would see me there and we could arrange getting together soon.

Another missive awaited me in the kitchen. It was from Adele, written in her cramped, arthritic hand. We were going to leave at eight-thirty in the morning for the birding expedition to Flicker Ridge. The Audubon Society had helped with the calls soliciting attendees, and we had twenty people coming at sixty dollars a pop. It was a good thing I’d cooked for about thirty. Adele went on to say that a woman who worked in the bird house at the Denver Zoo would be our guide. Julian was going to assist. He knew so much about biology in general and birds in particular! I felt a pang. Why was everyone enthusiastic about Julian except me? Arch was welcome to come along. Thank you for making the picnic vegetarian, hope this didn’t cause too much trouble, but you know how Julian and Elizabeth Miller are about eating flesh.

When you put it that way, I thought, who wouldn’t be?

She closed saying the sole was stupendous, and that whoever wrote that article for the paper was a simpleton, wouldn’t know pâté from a can of peas. Or, I added mentally, pork chops from lamb chops. But I would have my chance in the rebuttal.

I set the alarm system, got into bed, and read “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” Perhaps sensing that the last time I had done nighttime reading it had not ended well, Scout slipped into my room and eyed me askance. Then he did a soft cat-leap and plopped himself on the end of my bed, perhaps to keep me from trundling off in the middle of the night. But sleep came with ease, and I dreamt of chocolate-mint cheesecake.

The next morning brought one of those magnificent sunrises that make a soul glad to live in Colorado. Radiant feathers of cloud along the eastern horizon went from brilliant pink to burnished gold as the sun climbed. A mild breeze swished through the pines and aspens around the house. I watched a dark rope of espresso unwind from the Farquhars’ Gaggia and realized I felt happy for the first time in a week. Before packing the lunch for the Audubon Society, I allowed myself the luxury of sipping my coffee out on the Farquhars’ porch. Golden banner and dandelions speckled the deep greens of the mountain meadow. Birds of every ilk vied in chorus.

The Audubon Society would be appalled to hear that our feathered friends were no obsession of mine. I loved western flowers and tried to learn their names and seasons. Birds were more difficult. For one thing, they kept moving while you tried to figure out what you were seeing. I couldn’t tell a finch from a flicker. Despite twelve years of living in the state, I had never been birding and was glad of it. For many Coloradans, keeping their life lists, participating in yearly counts, and searching for new species were activities undertaken with religious fervor. I felt the same way about any given bird that I did about modern art. I could appreciate it without knowing too much.

But who was I to worry? All I had to do was cater. I packed containers of vichyssoise, croissants filled with Jarlsberg and curly endive, chilled cooked angel-hair pasta with tomatoes and pesto, green salad with balsamic vinaigrette in a separate container, sour cream chocolate cupcakes, chardonnay, beer, and thermoses of iced tea and hot coffee. If they had no success in the birding arena, the guests could still eat to their hearts’ content.

Our party of twenty consisted of Elizabeth Miller, Julian Teller, the Harringtons, the Farquhars, Arch and myself and the young woman from the zoo, plus eleven hardy naturalists with graying hair, sun hats, sensible boots, and plenty of heavy binoculars to go around. My van, the general’s Range Rover, and several other four-wheel-drive vehicles were scheduled to rendezvous just inside Flicker Ridge around nine o’clock. Julian helped pack the picnic boxes onto the van shelves. He was in a foul temper. My efforts to lighten his mood backfired. He had followed up the latest bleach job on his hair with a close shave on both sides of his head, and a trim on the Mohawk.

I said, “Julian, you don’t look like a Navajo.”

He squinted in my direction. “No kidding. You don’t look like a bear.”

Give up. The kid had no sense of humor. But when we all bumped and rocked over the ridge road that was more of a trail, I realized he was nervous. Although I could see that the nervousness might be causing the hostility, I was getting tired of always making excuses for him.

When we got to the tables I blissfully began to unpack checkered tablecloths and to place rocks on them to keep the breeze from wafting them off. The birders settled around on the benches and opened—yes!— notebooks. Lord, I was glad not to be a part of it.

“Goldy,” said General Farquhar, “what do you think you’re doing?”

I looked up at him in surprise. “Why,” I said, gesturing to the tablecloths, “getting ready for the picnic. What else?”

“You’re a part of the family,” he said firmly. “I want you to come on this expedition with us. No need for anyone to be left out.”

“But I really, really, really want to get ready for the picnic,” I said earnestly. I leaned in toward his ear and smelled Dial soap. In a confidential tone, I added, “I think birds are dumb.”

When he shook his head his translucent cheeks glowed with authority. “This is going to be fun! I want you to enjoy this along with everyone else. No excuses.”

Arch breathed a singsong You’ll be sor-ry, but I did not know whether this was intended for the general or me. Giving up, I cursed the resourcefulness of the Audubon Society when a notebook and pen were provided for me.

“The eagle population is down on the Front Range,” the zoo-lady began after a brief look at her notes. She stared at us. I picked up my pen and wrote, “Eagle pop. down,” then looked up at her expectantly.

She said, “This is because of the drought. There are fewer prairie dogs and voles for the birds of prey to feed on.”

She had lost me. I didn’t want to risk another reprimand from the general, so I scribbled, “What’s a vole?” Must be some kind of bird, I figured. What was that Domenico Modugno song about flying? “Volare.”

I smiled at everybody and got up to pour coffee. Listen, look, lift—these were the rules for hunting birds with the binoculars. It sounded like an explanation of working with hand weights. In any event, within ten minutes the zoo-lady had outlined the list of birds we would probably see that day, beginning with a redheaded woodpecker.

Redheaded woodpecker? What was the big deal about that? In New Jersey you saw them all the time.

But we were off and running, or at least the general was. He knew the site of the woodpecker’s nest and was forging ahead to set up the tripod and the scope. In the absence of actual military operations, the r.h.w. was the enemy.

Adele hobbled along the dirt path behind the gaggle of old-time birders. Weezie, elegant in designer jeans and an Indian leather jacket, chatted vivaciously alongside her. Next was Elizabeth Miller in a black leotard and peasant skirt. Weezie studiously ignored her. Arch walked quickly to keep up with Julian. Behind them were Brian and the zoo-lady. She had kind of a beak nose and a profusion of plumage on the top of her head, so I didn’t know how the birds would be able to distinguish her from one of their own. How about if we just set up the scope and looked at her?

“There it is,” the general whispered as he sighted the woodpecker. “Check it out,” he added in the tone you’d associate with spotting a MIG-29. We took turns peeking through the scope. It was a woodpecker, all right.

When we had all had a look I glanced anxiously around at the group. I said, “Are we done?”

There was a sigh of disgust from Julian. He turned back toward the path. The zoo-lady announced we were headed to a slightly higher elevation to look for the dusky flycatcher.

General Bo shouldered the equipment. We hiked along the trail until we came to the new site. We fanned out, walked for a ways, and listened. Listened intently. For what, I wanted to know.

“Gray-headed junco, first pine straight ahead, two o’clock,” said Julian.

To my dismay, everyone in the party, even Arch, knew what Julian was talking about. They all whipped up their binoculars to view the tree in question. I sidled over to Arch and said, “What’s going on?”

He put his finger to his lips and then passed his binoculars over. I tried to look through them. I tried to focus. I saw a bird. It flew away. Then everyone in the group lowered their binoculars and looked around like they’d just had great sex.

“Wow,” said the zoo-lady. “That was really something.”

We all listened again. Julian whirled and spied through his binocs.

“Blue-green vireo, third ponderosa pine, eleven o’clock.”

“Sounds like an air raid,” I said under my breath. But I pulled up my borrowed binoculars, then had to put them down to count one, two, three ponderosa pines, then put them back up and tried to figure if the tree was a clock, which branch would be right before noon? While I was doing all this, I did catch a glimpse of turquoise flitting away from the tree. Branch eleven was empty.

By the time I took my binoculars down, everybody was giving me patronizing looks.

I said, “Maybe next time.”

The zoo-lady announced that since we had not spotted the flycatcher, we were going to look at the nest of a Brewer’s blackbird that Julian said he had found the previous week. We started down a path leading to Flicker Creek. Cottonwoods profuse with new leaves crowded the crumbling shores on both sides. The sun glided out from behind a cloud and turned the cottonwood leaves to silver. A flick of breeze whispered through the trees. Clouds and wind moving in meant our afternoon shower was not too far off. Thank God.

“Just look through those bushes at the cowbird,” Adele said to me when we came to the creek.

I looked where she indicated, and actually saw a dark bird sitting on the branch of a bush. Another bird, unseen but not far off, was squawking frantically. Yet the cowbird sat calm and quiet.

I whispered to Adele, “What’s going on?” Before she could respond, Julian held up his hand to stop the group, and pointed to the bush where the cowbird perched. The group looked. The loud bird began to circle overhead, and then we looked at that.

The zoo-lady turned to the group, which had huddled around her. “The cowbird,” she said, “has no nest of its own but will lay her eggs in the nests of other birds. That’s what’s upsetting the Brewer’s blackbird.”

Well, I was glad we had gotten that straightened out. We waited and eventually the cowbird took off. Then we started across the creek. The general was so chivalrous it touched my heart. He put all his equipment down and gently lifted Adele as if he were carrying her across the threshold. When he put her down on the other side of the water, he kissed her cheek. Instead of looking happy, Adele lowered her head as if she were embarrassed. She glanced at the Harringtons to see if they had noticed. When she saw that they had, she closed her eyes and turned down the sides of her mouth. She veered and started up the bank with such suddenness that she wobbled on her cane.

I couldn’t wait for lunch.

We strode through a batch of spearmint that I would have liked to pick and take back with me, only by doing so I would have broken at least sixteen state laws about leaving things in the wild.

“We’re getting close to the Brewer’s blackbird nest,” Julian whispered.

He needn’t have whispered, as the bird in question began to throw another fit. She circled us, pretty low it seemed to me, and squawked to wake the dead.

I asked timidly, “Are we in any danger here?”

Julian looked at me crossly. “The blackbird might peck at our heads when we approach the nest. That’s all.”

I said, “Will it hurt?”

Julian scowled. “It shouldn’t.”

I put both of my hands over my head, walked back through the spearmint to Arch, and told him to do the same.

He said, “No, it looks stupid.”

On we stumbled through the meadow toward the nest, with the mother bird shrieking louder and louder, until finally Julian stopped us in a small circle. He opened his mouth to say something, but Arch interrupted him.

“Oh, look! A nest of voles!”

I craned my neck back to see what new flock of flying creatures we were now going to encounter. I felt a slight tickling around my feet, but I was determined to see the birds in question this time.

I said, “I don’t see any voles.”

“Well, Mom,” said Arch, “you’re standing on them.”

Everyone else was looking down. I looked down. Rodents. They were jumping over my feet. I screamed bloody murder.

“That’s just great,” I heard Julian saying. My shriek faded from the air. I stopped hopping around and thanked God I had survived.

The zoo-lady said, “There isn’t a bird left within two miles.” I hadn’t noticed before how beady her little black eyes were.

“Let’s eat,” said Brian Harrington. It was the first time he had spoken since the outing had begun, but I thanked him for the magic words.

We recrossed the creek and marched in silence back to our picnic tables. I opened the van and took everything out of the coolers. No one volunteered to help. Once the adults got going on the chardonnay, however, the mood started to lift. While I was setting out the stuffed croissants, the general disappeared behind a rock outcropping with some of his equipment.

He strode back to the table without telling us what he was up to, and we all enjoyed a pleasant lunch. After the chocolate sour cream cupcakes were reduced to a platter of crumbs, General Bo got to his feet.

He cleared his throat. “I want to demonstrate something to you all.”

Adele gave him a fearful look. Apparently, he had not cleared his plans with her.

“Now don’t worry,” he said to mollify us. “I just want to demonstrate to you how a terrorist can detonate a briefcase from a thousand feet.”

He pointed. Obediently, we all turned our attention to the rock outcropping. A brown briefcase perched on the humps of gray. I scuttled around to the edge of the picnic bench where Arch sat and put my arm across his shoulder.

“My Lord,” murmured Weezie.

“The environment will not respond well. . .” said Elizabeth Miller.

“Bo. Stop this immediately,” said Adele in a low hiss. She glared at him, her mouth set.

“You can’t do this,” said the zoo-lady. “You’ll upset every—”

But her words were swallowed in the explosion.

When I opened my eyes, I checked to make sure Arch was all right. He was fine, and he was gazing up in admiration at an exultant General Bo.

Arch said, “That guy is so cool.”