Dying for Chocolate

Blinded by whom? Julian had problems that erupted in hostility. In meeting with Philip Miller, General Bo and Adele were probably trying to help the troubled teen. Weezie had her own agenda: to protect her land and win back her errant spouse. And of course there was Brian himself—ace developer and, perhaps, jealous husband.

I did not know if there was a way to figure this out. Psychologists keep notes on their patients and Schulz had Philip’s. Their content remained a mystery. Arch had gone to a counselor after he became addicted to escaping from reality in fantasy role-playing games. That fellow had referred to notes during our three-way monthly discussions. But what kind of notes did they teach you to take in Shrink School?

Moreover, as academics love to say, there were other ramifications. Sure, I had kicked in Philip’s door. I had looked for and found a schedule for his appointments and activities. I presumed the police had seen his schedule, too. But Schulz would never let me see the files. I was his friend and confidante, but there were limits.

Images of Philip with Adele, Philip with Elizabeth, Philip with Julian, Philip with Weezie floated up as I tossed fitfully in the guest-room bed. Philip with Weezie. Mapping out a game plan for dealing with county commissioners? Or playing some other kind of game? I didn’t want to think about it.

Against all transcendental teaching, I started to repeat my mantra just to get to sleep. That plus the early sunrise had their usual soporific effect. I fell into a deep cloud of slumber that was only dispersed when my radio alarm blasted me at seven o’clock with the Beatles’ version of “Twist and Shout.”

I pressed all the wrong buttons and finally got it off. Arch was still asleep so I turned off the motion detector, stumbled to the phone in the kitchen, and wondered if you could free-base caffeine.

I punched the buttons and got Schulz, the early bird. I said, “Finally!”

There was a pause. “Well,” he said, “I didn’t want to wake you up returning your call.”

“Sorry, had a bad night. Any chance we could get together today?”

“Let’s see. Later in the morning? ’Bout ten?”

At that moment I was sure I heard someone pick up the phone. Paranoia or no, I did not answer Schulz.

“Hello?” said Tom Schulz and General Farquhar at the same moment.

“I’m on the other extension, Goldy,” said the general.

I said, “Do you need me to get off?” Although I didn’t see why he would, with two other lines in the house.

“No, no,” he said, “sorry to have bothered you, it’s just that I want to talk to you about a special dessert for our anniversary party tonight.”

I told him to come on down and heard the distinct click of him getting off the line. I asked Schulz if he would meet me at the Aspen Meadow grocery store.

He said, “At the grocery store? Hold on, I have to check my calendar. . . . I have to be in court this afternoon. I can come up there, but not for long. The supermarket’s not where I usually interview people. You’ve been reading too many spy stories.”

I said, “My life is a frigging spy story.”

General Farquhar slipped into the kitchen and began pacing like Napoleon. I rang off, fixed espresso, and took out some cookbooks. I sipped the velvety dark stuff, felt my brain coming to life as the general began to grunt over photographs of million-calorie desserts.

He looked up at me with a puzzled expression. “What exactly are you fixing for the party?”

I tried to rid the word interrogation from my mind. Instead of my name, rank, and serial number, I said, “Grilled shrimp, French hamburgers, something vegetarian for Julian, rotini salad with a creamy Dijon dressing, cold cooked asparagus with lemon, and whatever you want for dessert.”

“Great, great,” he said with some impatience. He flipped a cookbook shut, paced, paused by the counter. “Listen, I have a surprise for Adele, a piece of jewelry that I never thought I’d get my hands on, something she admired once in Florence. So I’d like a real special dessert.”

I said, “Fourteen Carrot Cake?”

He craned his neck back to gaze at the ceiling. “She admired this ring in a shop on a bridge over the Arno. Later we had those hard Italian cookies that have nuts in them. Sometimes they have chocolate on top. Know what I mean?” He gave me his characteristic squint.

I said, “Biscotti?”

He smacked his hands together. “That’s it. Could you make some for tonight? Instead of a cake? She would understand. Hell, she’d love it.”

I told him it would be no problem. The fifteenth anniversary was crystal, I wanted to say, and Adele might want you to replace the Waterford vase destroyed in the garden-explosion, but never mind. The Farquhars had managed to keep a good relationship, a married one, too, for fifteen years. Maybe they could give me some pointers.