Dying for Chocolate

All the faces turned to me. I looked at Arch. After a moment’s hesitation, he assumed a businesslike manner. He asked a cohort to help him carry out the stand he and Julian had made from plywood. On its front was painted ARCHIBALD THE MAGNIFICENT. Julian put a tape into his recorder and a whiny horn fanfare crackled through the air. Deck chairs scraped and screeched over brick as the guests turned their attention to Arch. I looked around nervously. Arch had never performed in public before, and I didn’t want any interruptions. Weezie was still casting murderous glances at Brian, while he in turn winked at Sissy. It was as if he were trying to say, I’m still in control of this situation. But he did look shaken.

Arch bowed to light applause. He tossed the satin cape over his shoulders and flourished a baton, one John Richard had bought him in Denver. He began with some of the tricks I already knew: the liquid in the newspaper, the string through the neck, the disappearing/ reappearing cotton balls under plastic cups. There was polite clapping after each. I was enjoying myself so much that I almost forgot about dessert. I had dipped the biscotti in Valrhona couverture, a dense, silky chocolate that wrapped itself around cookies like a luxurious blanket. Then I had used meringue to attach them to three large Styrofoam cones. I had put a sparkler on top of each. Showmanship demanded appearing with the cones at the conclusion of Arch’s routine. Accordingly, I gave the magic show a wide berth and scuttled back up to the kitchen.

What I did not know was that Brian Harrington was right behind me.

While I was assembling the plates for ice cream to have with the biscotti, he cleared his throat to let me know of his presence. I whirled and gave him my meanest stare.

I said, “Don’t come near me. Don’t try anything. If you make me ruin another dessert, I’ll call 911.”

He said, “Calling 911 won’t do you any good.”

I intentionally raised my voice. “No funny stuff, Mr. Harrington. I’m not kidding. Keep your distance. I’m busy.”

“Lower your voice this instant,” he hissed. “I want to talk to you about Philip Miller.”

“Make it fast,” I said as I searched for the almond fudge ice cream.

“Just look at me, will you? Goldy? Please? I have this feeling you’re the only one who will understand.”

I slapped the ice-cream boxes down on the kitchen island, pressed my lips together, and gave him the benefit of my attention. “You have two minutes.”

“Look,” he said, “I haven’t always done the right thing. I mean, I admit it.”

“Do I look like a priest?”

“What I’m trying to tell you is that. . . sure, I didn’t like the guy. He was a pain with his do-gooder liberalism trying to put hardworking builders and developers on the unemployment rolls.”

“Hey! Spare me the Right Wing Economics lecture, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” he went on, “and I heard the rumors about him with my wife. I’m not sure those are true. Are you?” His eyes questioned me.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I didn’t know him all that well myself.” I moved the ice-cream boxes around on the island. I added, “Although I thought I did.”

“Right. Well.” He sensed the end of the two-minute warning. “Here’s the thing. Okay, I didn’t like him. He could have undermined my project. He could have been involved with my wife. But. . . twelve days ago, he called me. Very mysterious. He said my life was in danger. I said, Is this some kind of threat, you Greenpeace of shit?”

“Your two minutes are up,” I announced loudly.

Brian Harrington regarded me earnestly. “I hung up on him. Tossed and turned all night. Next day I drove over to the club, I don’t know why, thought I might run into somebody I knew, have a Bloody Mary. I was sneaking around though; didn’t want anybody to know I was there. Thought 1 was losing my mind! I saw a phone and panicked. Dialed 911. Told them they had to come help me, my life was in danger.”

I stared at him.

“I chickened out,” he said. “You know, I was just so paranoid, I thought the cops might be in on it, too. So I left. Next thing I knew, Philip Miller was dead.”

24.

The anonymous phone call.

I said, “Have you told the police?”

“I tried that once and I couldn’t go through with it. With Miller gone, what could they do now?”

“A lot more than I can. Look, I’m in the middle of a job.” His head and shoulders slumped in defeat. Well, what did he expect me to do? I found a pen and then reached for a paper cocktail napkin. “Here’s the number of a friend of mine at the Sheriff’s Department.” I jotted down Schulz’s number. “Call him and tell him what happened. He’s an investigator looking into Philip’s death.”

Brian gave me his earnest look again. “I just didn’t want you to think that I had something to do with your boyfriend’s accident.”

“Why do you care what I think?”

“Well, the implication of what my wife was saying . . . the innuendos . . . it’s a small town. You know, with all my real estate developments, everyone always thinks I’m such a son of a bitch.” He lifted his eyebrows.