Dying for Chocolate

“Didn’t you see what he—” I began.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Behind us my van started up. I hoped Arch turned the heat to high. “Listen, the general said you’d be out here doing fund-raising for someone other than yourself.”

“Excuse me? How’d he know that? I was the only one who talked to the fund-raising lady.”

“Look, Goldy, you live with a former member of the intelligence community, you gotta figure he’s going to do what he does best.”

“Great.” If he was going to listen in, why didn’t he just answer the phone himself?

“Anyway,” Schulz was saying, “something’s come up with the Philip Miller case.” He paused and looked around. “Something you said about the way he was driving made me call back the coroner’s office. They just checked Miller’s eyes briefly because he was a cornea donor. You know, that procedure has to be done within a few hours or it’s no good. So I called the cornea bank. You’re not going to believe this.” He took a deep breath, his green eyes suddenly solemn. “Miller’s corneas were rejected.”

“What?”

“The coroner’s office doesn’t remove contact lenses, which Miller had on. Remember, he had gone to the eye doctor that morning?” I nodded and he continued, “Miller’s contacts, according to the ophthalmologist at the cornea bank, were embedded with peroxide. The tainted contacts burned off the epithelium, or top layer of the cornea. He couldn’t see.”

I was incredulous. “Couldn’t see? He could see me at the brunch. He drove fine on the road for a while. How could this happen?”

“Goldy. I do not know. I called the eye doctor. He said Philip Miller was fine when he left his office. And obviously he could see well enough to get to the brunch. Another thing. The doctor said peroxide on your ienses would cause intense pain. And right away. It’s not possible anyone could stand the pain for more than a few seconds.”

I ran my fingers through my damp hair and shook my head.

“I gotta go,” said Schulz. “Lot of work to do. Mind if I peek in at Arch?” He eyed the van.

“Sure.”

He opened the door and said a few words to Arch that I could not hear. They both laughed, then Schulz slammed the door and swaggered over to give me a hug. Into my ear, he said, “There’s just one thing I want.”

“What’s that?”

“Whatever it was Julian Teller wanted.”

Arch explained on the way back to the Farquhars that he was so sick of doing his schoolwork that he just needed a break in the pool.

I said, “That’s not the point. It’s too dangerous to go into a pool that’s not completely built.”

“Mais la piscine est finie!”

Well, I was impressed that he knew how to say in French that the pool was finished. But I was not going to let him off the hook that easily.

“Then why have a security fence around it?”

“Oh, Mom! They just filled it with really, really chlorinated water yesterday. It’s supposed to, like, shock the bacteria out of the pool. The gym teacher said the water would be clear in a couple of days.” He drew some rope and a piece of bamboo out of his magic bag, then dangled them by my face. “Just wait, Mom,” he said. “You’re going to be amazed. Check out these Chinese manacles.”

I smiled. This was no time to argue about dangerous tricks. The potentially treacherous road to Aspen Meadow demanded my attention. “You always amaze me,” I told him evenly. “If we’re going to have a magic party, we need to call your pals pretty quickly. Have you talked to Adele?”

“Yes, didn’t she tell you?” He tilted his head from side to side in front of the dashboard heater. His hair was a mass of dried fluff and wet streaks. “You were supposed to invite my friends to the anniversary barbecue tomorrow night. I left you a list of friends in your Edgar Allan Poe book. Also, hate to tell you, but I still need to get a top hat and cape.”

“Arch! I haven’t called anybody!”

“Mom!”

I sighed. “I’ll do it when we get home. Find out how much the cape and hat cost when they’re not made of silk.”

“Gee, Mom, thanks.”

“I didn’t say I’d get them!”

“Yeah, but whenever you tell me to check on the price I know you’re going to do it.”

I dropped Arch at the Farquhars and drove toward Philip’s office. Between Interstate 70 and downtown Aspen Meadow there was a business complex done all in dark horizontal wood paneling with pale turquoise deck railings and trim. This mountain style-meets-Santa Fe commercial space, known as Aspen Meadow North, housed Philip’s office, Aspen Meadow Café, Elizabeth’s store— To Your Health!—and assorted real estate and medical centers. Aspen Meadow had more chiropractors per square foot than any area outside of northern California. Two new ones had set up shop in this complex, which had originally been developed by Harrington and Associates. There was also, I noticed as I drove in, an optometrist.

I parked and picked up the packet of decals. My cover, I would tell Schulz later.