Dying for Chocolate

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!”