Dying for Chocolate

While Marla fetched clean wet towels for the cut, I told the assembled onlookers that I had been shoved. Had anyone seen anything? I looked into their surprised faces. One waitress said she’d seen someone leave in a hurry, but just assumed I’d lost my balance getting out of that person’s way. The most description I could get was dark long hair that could have been a wig, black shirt and pants. She couldn’t even say whether it had been a male or female. How tall? Not too tall.

“Should we call your cop friend?” asked Marla.

I shook my head. “Later. Without a description, license plate, or other ID, they’re only going to record it anyway.”

“Still feel like lunch?” she asked in a low voice.

“Let me pull myself together for a minute.” Two of the kitchen staff were cleaning up the bread and marble mess. Broken glass shimmered all across the floor. I clamped the towel around my arm. Several diners eyed me as they left the café. Marla told me I was creating a curiosity slow-down. I said if she would help me around the corner to the seating area, we could get settled.

We limped together slowly through tables of women in tennis clothes and men in fringed leather shirts, jeans, and tooled cowboy boots to a table in the corner.

“I was hoping to avoid the rodeo crowd,” Marla mumbled as she lowered me into a chair.

Good old Marla. It was so much easier to smile at her complaint than to think about my own pain. Coming from Connecticut, Marla had a hard time with the male crowd on any given day in any given Colorado eating establishment. Whether they were bankers, real estate agents, surveyors, or petroleum engineers, a large number would be sporting ten-gallon hats, hand-tooled cowboy boots, fringed leather jackets, and turquoise Indian jewelry. Today was no exception, although I somehow couldn’t see how western apparel jibed with Belgian endive and peppercress.

“You sure you’re okay?” she wanted to know. When I nodded she said, “We need to get Amour Anonymous started up again.”

Our version of AA had to do with being addicted to relationships instead of liquor. Unfortunately, Marla and I were the only steady members, and virtually every one of our conversations was devoted to our problems anyway.

I said, “Why?”

“Because otherwise,” she hissed, “I don’t know what’s going on in your life until something like this happens.”

“I’ll let you know the time and date of my next mugging.”

She waved that off and gave me a look of deep concern. “The Jerk been bothering you lately?”

I told her about the clay pots and the general’s timely appearance.

She said in a low voice, “Think this could have been him?”

“Hard to tell. He usually behaves himself in public. Plus I don’t know how I could have pissed him off.” I felt my spirits sink, as if the adrenaline generated by the attack suddenly had worn off. Had I ever known what pissed off The Jerk?

Marla helped herself to a large slice of French bread from the basket on our table and slathered it with butter. She offered it to me and I took it with my free hand. But I wasn’t ready to eat yet.

“I have to admit,” Marla said, “I mean if you don’t mind talking about it, that when I heard Philip had been killed I immediately suspected our ex.”

Sweat prickled across my brow and under my arms. I said, “You must be joking.”

“No. So I called The Jerk’s office Monday morning, got the secretary, gave the name of one of his patients, and said I had a problem with my checkbook. What day had I come in? Said I thought it was last Friday morning. She said no way because the doctor was at the hospital for an induction at eight.” She paused. “So I called a nurse I know at Lutheran and got a confirmation.”

I took a bite of the sliced baguette. It was warm, moist, and could not have come out of the oven more than twenty minutes before. Minced fresh basil speckled the unsalted butter. Food always made pain recede. I said, “Why did you think John Richard would even care what Philip did?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, don’t. You can’t possibly be that naive.”

“How could he be jealous? We’ve been divorced for four years!”

Marla spread the soft herbed butter to the edge of another chunk of baguette. She said, “You’re joking. You start going out with Miller. The Jerk starts driving by your house, making anonymous phone calls, giving you a hard time. Jealousy, I’m telling you.”

“Ready to order, ladies?” said the same waitress who had helped me get up. “Or do you still need a little time? That was a horrible thing out there. Unbelievable.” While she was talking, the manager came up to see if I was okay. In a tone I tried not to think of as accusing, he said the rest of the staff was out cleaning up the mess. Then he swished off and we quickly ordered the tart, greens with vinaigrette, and coffee.

I turned Marla’s words over in my mind as the coffee arrived. It tasted like sludge. When the waitress had gone, I said defensively, “I went out with Tom Schulz for four months.”