Dying for Chocolate

I imagined a wealthy client coming out to the kitchen to watch my progress on beef Wellington. I wouldn’t allow it. Teenagers were a different ball game, however. Their resistance to control usually manifested itself as rebellion against authority. Or resentment of a more experienced cook. Julian’s hostility was beginning to be a lot more understandable.

“So she called her sister,” the general was saying, “and asked about this prep school over in Elk Park, since it was near her property. My only request, since it was my money, too, was that the boy be athletic.” He grinned. “I didn’t want to rule out the possibility of West Point.”

I assumed a polite tone. “Of course not.”

The general went on, “She called the school and offered the scholarship money. Ha! Took them about ten seconds to decide, although they made a great show out of taking it to their board of trustees and so on.” He laughed, remembering. “When Adele told them she was moving out here, they said, Well, we just happen to have a trustee vacancy here, how about it? And it’s been all pool fund-raising ever since.”

“How can they afford a pool but not afford a boarding department?”

The general moved over to his cabinet and retrieved a large weapon.

I said, “Gosh, General Bo, that looks like something you see in the movies.”

“Grenade launcher,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You were asking me something about Elk Park. . .”

I said, “The pool. Why have that instead of a boarding department?”

“Attract more locals that way,” said the general. “Elk Park has learned it can’t compete with the eastern boarding schools for students. So many of those have gone out of business in the last decade anyway. What’s amazing is that Elk Park lasted as long as it did. Although I don’t think Adele was bargaining on the boarding department closing as soon as we moved out here.”

“Or bargaining on inheriting your scholarship student.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, “that either.”

A sudden darkness billowed into the room. The general muttered under his breath as he peered outside. I followed his gaze. Dark clouds had swept eastward from the mountains.

“Don’t worry,” I said to him. “That means it’s officially summertime. Every afternoon melting snow in the high country to the west will form clouds, move east, and give us a shower. It’s only dangerous if there’s lightning and you’re out swimming or climbing.”

“Beg to differ,” he said, his voice crisp. “Lightning is dangerous if you’re sitting on hand-held surface-to-air missiles.”

I looked cautiously down at the box where I was perched. What exactly was under it?

He said, “Not literally, Goldy. It’s all over there,” and he pointed to a long cabinet built along the wall. In the dimness I had not even noticed it. Now I saw that the cabinet door had a bulky lock. “But,” he went on, “I would feel better if you closed that door. The building is grounded. Nevertheless, I don’t want to take any chances.”

I slid off the box. “I have to be going anyway. Arch forgot to roll the garbage can down.”

“I’ll do it,” he said. “You’re in no condition to do chores.”

I couldn’t exactly argue with that. I waited while he packed up the remaining weapons.

“What was that policeman’s name,” he asked with his back to me, “the one who helped you the day of the accident?”

I said, “Schulz,” and wondered if the general’s tone was just a tad too nonchalant.

“Did he mention anything about that explosion? I mean, afterward?”

“No,” I said, somewhat tentatively. “He just told me to be careful.”

The general drew his bottom lip up over his top teeth and brought his eyebrows together, a studious attitude of reflection. He said, “You didn’t tell him about the magazine, did you?”

“No,” I said. But I will, I thought. I said, “Why? What you’re doing is legal, isn’t it?”

He lifted the last of the guns and placed it in the cabinet.

“Oh, of course. It’s just that law-enforcement agencies can get so jealous of each other. I wouldn’t want the locals poking around here, you know?”

As usual, I did not.

“In any event,” the general said when he had locked the cabinet, “when you see him I’d appreciate your not mentioning this room. He’ll probably think I’m some kind of wacko instead of a bona fide researcher.”

As far as I was concerned, the jury was still out on whether the general was wacko. But I just said, “It’s going to start raining. If we’re going to do the trash, we need to hustle.”

The general locked and armed the entry door.

“Too heavy for a young boy,” he observed as he tilted the garbage cart back on its wheels. I tried to help guide it and overcompensated with my good arm. The cart tipped over with a resounding crash. Coffee grounds, orange halves, bills and letters, meat trays and plastic wrap, cans and bottles spilled, rolled, broke, and skittered across the garage floor.