Dying for Chocolate

Two catastrophes in one day. I wondered about the Guinness record for mess-making as I gathered up soaked envelopes from Utah, rifle shells, empty bottles of Adele’s Estée Lauder cream and Julian’s peroxide, as well as bits of cut rope and empty fertilizer bags.

I said, “Why do you suppose Julian dyes his hair?”

“Probably to disguise his upbringing among the Indians,” the general said, exasperated. “Although you’d think he’d choose another style.” He scooped up mounds of fruit peelings sanded with coffee grounds, old newspapers, and empty chocolate boxes. He lifted one of these and said, “Sometimes you can’t believe you ate this stuff in the first place.”

Large raindrops had begun to splat down on the driveway when he finally towed the trash wagon to the curb. It was not until we were walking into the house together that it even occurred to me to wonder how the general knew I was going to see Schulz again.

16.

General Bo offered to let me shower first. Since one of the odd things about this luxurious house was that only one person could command the hot-water supply at a time, I told him to go ahead. I would be up after I checked on my culinary domain. I washed my hands in the hall bathroom and went into the kitchen, where Adele was deep into a phone conversation whose bad vibes were readily apparent. A crisis had erupted with a pool fund-raiser set for August, a fifty-dollar-per-seat showing of a film featuring George Rumslinger in a supporting role.

“Doesn’t anybody at that school know him?” she demanded into the phone. She looked regal in a navy-and-white silk shirtdress and spectator pumps, a dress suited more for a yacht-club luncheon than a day in Vail. With one hand she held the phone; with the other she leaned slightly on the cane, as if she intended momentarily to use it as a weapon. I giggled and devoutly hoped it was Joan Rasmussen who was getting the third degree.

I wrote her a note: “I know the foreman.” She nodded, smiled, and held up one finger, as if to say, I’ll be off in a minute. I wrote, “Do you have any bandages?” She pulled her mouth into an astonished O, then shook her head. “Do you need help?” she whispered. I shook my head and walked stiffly through the pelting raindrops back out to my van, where my trusty safety kit yielded an Ace bandage. I wrapped up my arm, pulled out Marla’s copy of the Mountain Journal, and went out to the deck. I decided against taking a painkiller. For the moment. The headline jumped out at me.

NO LOVE AT THIS FIRST BITE!

In her latest culinary adventure, Ms. Goldy Bear (yes, folks, you read that right), the divorced proprietor of GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING, WHERE EVERYTHING IS JUST RIGHT! (no joke there either), has declared herself a goddess of love. Our unmarried Venus claims to reign in the kitchen, where she supposedly prepares aphrodisiac foods.

Contrary to die advertised amorous effects, no outbreak of love was in evidence at a dinner party for six at the elegant home of Brian and Weezie Harrington last Saturday night. Quite the opposite, in fact. The hostilities between the host and hostess began somewhere between the mussels and the quiche, and continued on through the undercooked pork chops and dry chocolate cookies.

How long must Aspen Meadow endure such pain to the palate? Think if Goldy Bear had to cater a peace conference! The U.S. would be nuked before the lemon meringue pie. Since Ms. Bear obviously has no demonstrable skill in the culinary arts and no successful experience in the love department, this reviewer recommends that she try something she’s good at. Like carpool.

Until next time, discriminating diners, I am ever your

Pierre

Mussels? Quiche? Pork chops? Carpool?

Why was someone doing this to me? Who could be so cruel? My pain was like that of a fish when he’s gutted alive. A blade of agony ripped through my psyche. To be skewered so publicly, so unfairly. . . it was beyond belief. The hurt flared into rage. I wondered what my chances would be with a libel suit. Thing was, every time I called my lawyer, it cost me hundreds of dollars to hear that whatever it was I had in mind was not a good idea.

Adele arrived on the deck. The rain had turned to hail, and I had not heard her cane over the rapid-fire thudding on the roof.

She saw the newspaper in my hand. Her eyes clouded sympathetically. “I’m so sorry you saw that.”

“So am I. Who could it be? Someone who was there? Someone who heard about it and got the menu wrong?”

Line One began to ring. I rose to get it. Anything to be away from the newspaper.

“Mrs. Farquhar, please. This is the headmaster of Elk Park Preparatory School.”

Obviously he did not recognize the voice of the caterer who’d bailed him out of a sixty-plate-brunch problem only the week before. I told him to hang on and brought the portable phone out to Adele.

I closed my eyes, listened to the hail thud on the deck roof. I wished Pierre—whoever he was—were outside.