Dying for Chocolate

Thanks to all of you who have called, visited, or written in response to the spiteful reviews my culinary work has received in the pages of this newspaper.

Thanks to all those who have pointed out the wild inaccuracies of the menus reported and the cowardliness of the critic who refuses to sign his name. And thanks especially to all the clients who have remained loyal and enthusiastic in giving me your business.

I remain,

Goldy the Caterer

I still had not resolved the name issue, but that was the least of my problems at the moment. It felt good to get my feelings on paper. I looked around my room to see if there was any other unfinished business. What the heck, I was on a roll.

The Poe book sat—reproachfully, it seemed to me— on the bureau. The thought of starting the school project made me immediately sleepy. But as I snuggled under the covers, I remembered Arch saying that three other kids in the class were making tapes of telltale heartbeats. One kid’s father, he had earnestly informed me, was even a cardiologist, and his tape was coming with a murmur! It made me wish Edgar Allan had written something along the lines of “Brutalized in a Baltimore Bakery,” but you can’t have everything.

I got up and flipped open to “The Purloined Letter.”

Within a paragraph Poe had me by the cerebrum, if not by the throat. His narrative wove around the insight that the way to thwart a villain was to think the way he did, and follow those paths of thought until villainy was undone. This without a major in psychology, no less. The story was mesmerizing. I went to sleep satisfied that by having read it, I was on the road to reclaiming good-mother status. Now all we needed was a school project to go with the story. This, too, I would have to point out to Arch, would be an undertaking for which his father would have no interest.

When you have read Poe just before sleep, your dreams are full of persons identified only as D— and G—, with events happening in 18—. Nevertheless, I awoke refreshed and ready to tackle the custody crisis.

Scout meowed to go out. I tiptoed down the first set of stairs, disarmed the security system, slipped silently down more stairs, and let Scout out on the patio. The door to Julian’s room was closed. Rather than risk having him emerge suddenly and see me standing foolishly by the door, I followed Scout out onto the cold ground.

The early-morning sun cast dark pools of shadow across the landscape. Tops of the far mountains were hazily lit. The near mountains were immersed in dark green, like still, silent hills at the bottom of a lagoon.

I crossed my arms and breathed the cool, piney air. Arch just didn’t appreciate me, I thought for the thousandth time. This time of day reminded me, for example, of one of my volunteer jobs at his Montessori school. My job was to go in early and replenish paper, mix new batches of tempera paints, and set up the special projects of the day. The teachers asked all the Morning Moms, as we were called, to check the animal cages first thing, in case any member of the rodent-and-bird menagerie had died during the night. Given my hatred of rodents, I had done this job with some trepidation. Luckily I had avoided the job of animal undertaker. A Morning Mom in my car pool had been confronted with the corpse of a baby gerbil, and it had not been pleasant.

I shivered. Scout had not returned. Perhaps if he had, I would not have experienced the unwelcome and ghastly return of my worst fears as Morning Mom. For there, floating face down in the Farquhars’ pool, was Brian Harrington.

25.

I knew it was Harrington from the gray hair floating serenely, like the tendrils of a flower, around his head. I knew him from his clothes. I knew he was dead. What I did not know was who was screaming. The general appeared on the patio in his West Point bathrobe. He grabbed me and shook me, saying, What is it, what is it? The screaming voice was mine.

I shouted at the general to call 911 and then Schulz directly. I ran up to check on Arch. He wasn’t in his room. I panicked and stumbled back down to the main floor. Arch was in the kitchen, leaning over a bowl of Rice Krispies to check for sound.

“Don’t go outside,” I said, my voice choking. “Something awful has happened.”

He looked up and straightened his glasses to regard me more clearly.

“You look awful, Mom,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Before I could answer, one of the phone lines rang. Police, Weezie, who? What would I say? Another of the lines was lit; perhaps General Bo was already talking to the authorities.