Dying for Chocolate

“Take that!” I whispered as I whacked my way through juicy green kiwi, fat, ultra-red strawberries, and pineapple so sweet you wondered why they’d let it leave Hawaii. One of the secrets of catering is that you have access to high-quality ingredients unavailable in the grocery store. If you have a good supplier, you can even get delicacies on short notice.

The cantaloupes were luscious, their juicy dark orange centers dense with a caviar of seeds. By half past six I had carved ten of them into centerpiece baskets and used a garnishing tool to give each a scalloped edge. I took the Sally Lunns out of the oven and put them on racks, where they filled the kitchen with the rich scent of baked bread. The last step was to scoop sour cream batter thick with inky blueberries into muffin tins and put them in to bake. The rest of the food was at the school. Once I’d poured the champagne and managed the buffet, the alums could eat while the headmaster made his money pitch.

The kitchen telephone rang. Unfortunately, this was no ordinary ringing but a sustained beeping from a complicated radio contraption boasting three lines, an intercom, and various other functions unknown to me. Two lines in my own house I could handle. But this gadget of General Farquhar’s—he had brought it with him from the Pentagon, I was convinced—had been a headache from the time of its installation two days ago. The phone was like the security system. It needed to be disarmed.

I stared at the flashing light and tried to remember how the buttons worked. Between General Farquhar’s associates and Adele’s various committee people, the phone rang constantly. Who could be calling at this hour? Someone from the East Coast, no doubt. This inconsiderate person would be thinking, Oh, the time change. Well, they’re probably already up.

I lifted the receiver and stabbed at what I hoped was the right button.

“Farquhars?” I said hesitantly, and prayed that I was not speaking into the intercom.

“Goldy,” said Philip Miller.

I was immediately flooded with relief, desire, and other teenage-type feelings. Why he was calling so early I did not know.

I said, “Are you okay?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment before the brunch,” he said. “I’ll be late.”

“We are indeed meeting at your high school, Philip. But I can’t give you a tardy excuse.”

I could hear his grin when he said, “Not to worry. Listen. May I see you afterwards? There’s something about food I need to discuss.”

“Sure,” I said warily, perusing my appointments calendar on the kitchen bulletin board. For June 3, a hastily penciled Brunch was followed by Prep Harrington Aphrodisiac Dinner. As good as my supplier was, she had been unable to bring some items for the dinner before she went on vacation. I was going to have to shop for substitutions later in the morning. This afternoon would be given over to cooking for the Harrington affair, which was set for Saturday night.

“No problem,” I said, as if to convince myself. Philip did not sound good. There was caution in his voice. I said, “Should we get together before your first appointment? I need to be near your office to shop, anyway. We could have coffee at Aspen Meadow Cafe.” I hesitated as the wind whipped aspen branches against the kitchen windows. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk now?”

He said, “Not over the phone.”

“Don’t get paranoid on me, shrink-man.”

“Don’t play fast and loose with psychological terms, food-woman.”

I said, “Fast and loose?”

But before he could reply, one of the other lines into the Farquhars’ house lit up. Through the insistent beeping I told Philip to hold. Then I took a breath and hit a few buttons.

“Farquhars?”

“Miss Goldy,” said Tom Schulz.

I looked at my watch: six-forty. What was going on here? I said, “It’s a little early, Tom.”

“You’re hard to reach,” he said. I said nothing but felt guilty for the latest creative rash of excuses. He went on, “Besides. As I recall, sometimes you’re an early riser.”

I could imagine him shifting his big body from side to side on one of the too-small chairs of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. I could see him cocking his head, looking into his coffee as if that dark liquid could give him answers to all his questions.

He said, “You cooking or something?”

“Excuse me, Tom, but yes,” I said, irritation masking my conscience as the light for Philip’s line continued to blink.

“I won’t keep you. It’s just that I have today’s issue of the Mountain Journal in front of me. They deliver it to the Sheriff’s Department first, I think.”

“So?”

“Well, now, I was thinking this was one issue you might want to skip.”

“Is that why you’re calling so early?”

“Now, Miss G. Don’t get huffy. I just wanted to tell you not to pick up today’s paper. Avoid a nasty surprise that way.”

“What are you talking about?”

He cleared his throat, then said, “Don’t read the paper, Goldy. The guy’s crazy.” Another pause. “You know I think you’re a great cook. The best.”