Dying for Chocolate

Schulz was impressed. “Will you call me sometime? Not at the Sheriff’s Department, but here at home? That is, if you can tear yourself away from that fancy summer school of yours.”

Arch said he would, then confessed he didn’t really like summer school except for his mini-course in French. This he was taking to avoid an hour of sports (tennis, he said with disgust, in the same tone of voice that one might use upon discovering ants). Had Tom read Poe, Arch wanted to know. Yes, a million years ago. Arch said, Imagine, we even have ravens in Aspen Meadow.

Tom asked if Poe was a good dresser. Arch said he wasn’t sure. Well, Arch’s taste in clothes showed some new influence. Arch said, Just a guy named Julian. I could not remember the last time I had seen Arch so happy. He even hummed along with Schulz playing his guitar and singing “Love Is a Rose” after the cheesecake. When the three of us did the dishes, Schulz taught him “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.” Arch alternated humming the two tunes all the way home.

As I drove up to the Farquhars’ house with its numerous floodlights, I realized I had forgotten to tell Schulz about the general’s private magazine. Before I went through the security gate I picked up the Farquhars’ mail and made a mental note to tell him about it when I thanked him for the evening.

There were letters for General Bo from the Center for Poison Research and from the Department of the Army, for Julian from some government agency, and a note to me from Elizabeth. I opened it. She thanked me for flowers I had sent after the funeral. The Farquhars had invited her to be their guest at the Audubon picnic. She would see me there and we could arrange getting together soon.

Another missive awaited me in the kitchen. It was from Adele, written in her cramped, arthritic hand. We were going to leave at eight-thirty in the morning for the birding expedition to Flicker Ridge. The Audubon Society had helped with the calls soliciting attendees, and we had twenty people coming at sixty dollars a pop. It was a good thing I’d cooked for about thirty. Adele went on to say that a woman who worked in the bird house at the Denver Zoo would be our guide. Julian was going to assist. He knew so much about biology in general and birds in particular! I felt a pang. Why was everyone enthusiastic about Julian except me? Arch was welcome to come along. Thank you for making the picnic vegetarian, hope this didn’t cause too much trouble, but you know how Julian and Elizabeth Miller are about eating flesh.

When you put it that way, I thought, who wouldn’t be?

She closed saying the sole was stupendous, and that whoever wrote that article for the paper was a simpleton, wouldn’t know pâté from a can of peas. Or, I added mentally, pork chops from lamb chops. But I would have my chance in the rebuttal.

I set the alarm system, got into bed, and read “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” Perhaps sensing that the last time I had done nighttime reading it had not ended well, Scout slipped into my room and eyed me askance. Then he did a soft cat-leap and plopped himself on the end of my bed, perhaps to keep me from trundling off in the middle of the night. But sleep came with ease, and I dreamt of chocolate-mint cheesecake.

The next morning brought one of those magnificent sunrises that make a soul glad to live in Colorado. Radiant feathers of cloud along the eastern horizon went from brilliant pink to burnished gold as the sun climbed. A mild breeze swished through the pines and aspens around the house. I watched a dark rope of espresso unwind from the Farquhars’ Gaggia and realized I felt happy for the first time in a week. Before packing the lunch for the Audubon Society, I allowed myself the luxury of sipping my coffee out on the Farquhars’ porch. Golden banner and dandelions speckled the deep greens of the mountain meadow. Birds of every ilk vied in chorus.

The Audubon Society would be appalled to hear that our feathered friends were no obsession of mine. I loved western flowers and tried to learn their names and seasons. Birds were more difficult. For one thing, they kept moving while you tried to figure out what you were seeing. I couldn’t tell a finch from a flicker. Despite twelve years of living in the state, I had never been birding and was glad of it. For many Coloradans, keeping their life lists, participating in yearly counts, and searching for new species were activities undertaken with religious fervor. I felt the same way about any given bird that I did about modern art. I could appreciate it without knowing too much.