Dying for Chocolate

I assumed a businesslike tone. “This is Goldy the caterer, live-in cook for the Farquhars. My son, Arch Korman, is a summer student at Elk Park. Shall I have Adele call you?”

“Yes, you need to do that. But I can talk to you. As the parent of a student, you need to be brought up to date on parents’ responsibility for pool fund-raising.”

“Oh, no—”

“Have you read the contents of your packet yet?”

“Well, no, Ms. Rasmussen, I just got it a couple of minutes ago—”

“You need to read it, then. And when you’re done, you need to go around to local businesses, solicit donations, and then you need to give them a decal for their window—”

I said, “Look, Joan honey, the only thing I need to do right now is get off the telephone.” I slammed the receiver down. Honestly, some people.

“Don’t tell me,” said Adele. “I’ve just lost Joan Rasmussen as co-chair.”

“Trust me,” I said, “you’re better off.” I began to search through the refrigerator for the food I’d prepared yesterday for the western barbecue. When I emerged with the last of the platters, Adele was taking another pill. Reluctantly, it seemed to me.

“Goldy,” she said finally, “I know you have a lot on your mind. But I just feel so frustrated trying to raise funds in this town. In Washington we worked hard on it!” She gestured with her teacup. “There were committees for charity balls, fashion shows, luncheons, everything! Everyone worked! The headmaster said the alums would be supportive. They haven’t been. Neither have the parents. I’m at a loss.”

I put the platters down and sat next to her. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “I know you have other things to worry about, dear. I know you’re upset about this Miller fellow, and of course there’s Arch and your business. It’s just that when I set my mind to something, I do it. I know people here have money! But do you think I can get them to work on this committee during June, July, and August? No. The only person who’ll do any work is Joan Rasmussen, and she beats people over the head. It’s the wrong time of year, the headmaster says. It’s hard to get people to work now. But why?” She shook her head and sipped from her cup.

“Oh, my dear Adele,” I said with a smile. “It’s because the residents have to work on their Colorado Summer Merit Badges.”

She choked on the tea. “Their what?”

I got a cup, poured myself some of the pale brown liquid, and settled back beside her. “Here’s how it works. You’ve got money and you live in Colorado. Every summer vacation, you’re duty-bound to work on your badges. Sometimes they come with a star.”

“I beg your pardon? These are actual things?”

I shook my head. “Of course not, although sometimes you get a T-shirt.” When she still looked puzzled, I explained: “Coloradans are going to recite their summer achievements to you as soon as they see you in the fall. You say, How was your summer? They roll their eyes. Well! First we hiked ten of the state’s fourteeners. Hiking merit badge. Only earned for hiking repeatedly at fourteen thousand feet above sea level. Then we climbed the Flatirons, about lost two of the kids when we were rap-peling down! Rock-climbing merit badge. Then we back-packed into the most remote area of Rocky Mountain National Park. Camping merit badge. When we got back we ran a 10K road race over by Vail and did the 60K bike race over the Rockies. Running and biking badges, the latter with a star.”

She grinned. “What about bird-watching? Or . . . or . . . fishing?”

“Well,” I said huffily, “I haven’t gotten there yet. Of course, the only merit badge you can get in fishing is for fly-fishing. Only a novice uses bait.”

“So that’s why I can’t get anyone to work on a committee. I thought the parents and alums might be on vacation, but then I see them in town.”

“Dear Adele. You haven’t asked them about their summer! Just listening to them would make you need a muscle relaxant.”

Adele smoothed her lips with her finger. Finally she said, “I’ve got it!” She was beaming. “A bird-watching fund-raiser picnic. Catered by guess who. We set it up for this Saturday, say it was an impromptu sort of affair.”

I groaned. “You’re not serious.”

“Could you work it into your catering schedule? Figure on tripling the cost of your supplies. Then I’ll double that and give half to the school. Could you?”

I looked at the yellow kitchen tiles and calculated. I still had to come up with the final payment on my security system. Arch’s summer-school costs had put a painful dent in my budget. And this job would be exceptionally profitable. I said, “Sure.”