Dying for Chocolate

“This is George Pettigrew from Three Bears Catering in Denver—” he began.

“Call later,” I said abruptly. “We’ve got a crisis here.”

“Young lady, trademark infringement is a crisis for some of us—”

I hung up. The phone immediately bleated.

“What?” I screamed.

“Stay calm,” said Tom Schulz. “General Farquhar just called here and said you found Harrington. Listen, don’t talk to anybody. I want you to make some excuse this afternoon and come down to the department. I need to talk to you about these people you’re living with.”

I said I would have to find someone to take care of Arch. But I would be there, I promised.

“Mom! What is going on?”

But before I could answer, I heard sirens. The fastest thing about this town was the fire department. I remembered that they always came when there was a suspected drowning. Unfortunately, I was certain it was too late for them to help. There was the buzz for the front gate. A groggy-looking Julian came into the kitchen.

“I overslept. When I went out to do my laps, the general said not to come out on the patio. What’s—”

“Just let me open the gate,” I said to both of them. “Then I’ll get back with an explanation.”

Julian and Arch exchanged looks. I pressed the button that would allow admittance to the fire department. How had this happened? I knew in some corner of my brain that I would have to give a statement, to tell again, as I had with Philip Miller, what I had seen.

But I had not seen anything. I had come outside and there he was. I didn’t even know why he had tried to swim with his clothes on.

“I want to take you out for breakfast,” I announced to Arch. He and Julian traded another look.

Arch assumed his serious tone. “I’m finishing my breakfast, Mom.”

“I want you to come with me into town.”

“Whatever.”

I went on, “It looks as if Brian Harrington might have drowned in the Farquhars’ pool last night.” I looked at Julian. “You can come with us if you want,” I added lamely.

Julian knew I didn’t really want him along. He mumbled a regret. Without eating, he left the kitchen.

Arch finished his cereal. As he spooned mouthfuls in, he swung his feet under the table. Was he sympathetic? Sad? I tried to think how I would feel if a neighbor had drowned when I was eleven. Arch’s eyes made an arc around the room and settled on me. He was afraid.

“I’m going to go talk to the police,” I said, “while you get dressed.” My watch said that it was eight o’clock. It was hard to think. What time did the school office open?

“I’ll call Elk Park Prep and tell them I’m not coming today either,” he said to my unasked question. “But you’ll have to write a note tomorrow.” He got up, rinsed his cereal bowl, then walked over to me. His large brown eyes held mine. To my surprise he hugged me.

“I’m sorry about Mr. Harrington, Mom. I’m sorry about Dr. Miller, too. And I’m sorry I haven’t been doing very well lately.”

I held him close, momentarily wishing he was little again so I could rock him. “Arch,” I said, “you’re doing fine. If you want to go live with your father, that’s okay with me.” That last part was a lie, but I wanted to give him his freedom.

His voice cracked. “I love you, Mom.”

I said, “I know.”

After the police questioned me, I couldn’t stay in that house. But I didn’t know where to go. Finally I left a note saying I was taking Arch to church. I felt awful about Brian Harrington. Seeing a dead body is not something you recover from quickly. Arch and I sat in a back pew and whispered.

I said, “I want to tell you again that I’m sorry I hauled you out of the pool. The thought of you down there in the handcuffs was more than I could take.”

“It was just so embarrassing.” His voice wavered. We were on dangerous ground. “And right before that we could all hear you fighting with Brian Harrington.”

“I wasn’t fighting with him!” I whispered fiercely.

“It sure sounded like it.”

My spirits took a dive. The last thing I needed was to be a suspect in a murder. I forced myself to think about something else.

I said, “I finished one of those Poe stories last night.” I started to tell him about “The Purloined Letter” as a dozen or so people began to straggle into the pews for Wednesday’s service of Morning Prayer.

“But what’s a project with a letter?” Arch whispered. “It’s not cool like a heartbeat or a gold bug.”

“We’ll think of something,” I promised as I opened a prayer book and pointed to where the service began. After what had happened to Philip and now Brian, I was frightened and needed comfort. It seemed like the right thing to do.