Dying for Chocolate

I had quit going to church when my ex-husband began making beautiful music with a choirlady. Interestingly, our Episcopal priest had seen nothing wrong with The Jerk’s liaison with Miss Vocal Cords. My cynical thought was that The Jerk could afford to give a lot more money to the parish than I could. But that priest eventually had left for greener pastures, and the liaison with the choirwoman had given way to a failed engagement to a high school geometry teacher. John Richard’s new girlfriend, Arch had told me, was Presbyterian or nothing. So I had started going back to my old parish. The new priest had welcomed me, and to my relief, had not asked me—as had his predecessor—to cater free luncheons for clergy meetings.

When the service was over and everyone was gone, Arch and I walked quietly down the nave to the intercession table. We knelt and lit a candle for Brian Harrington.

I called Marla from the church office. No answer. I called two of Arch’s friends who were not going to summer school. I got recordings saying the kids were at camp. Finally, I called The Jerk and asked the receptionist if Arch could stay with his father for the afternoon. Through the receptionist John Richard relayed the firm message that he was leaving the office at lunchtime. Take Arch back to the Farquhars, I was instructed, and Doctor would be over within the hour.

Reluctantly, I took Arch back. Sam Snead Lane was crammed with cars, both official and unofficial. The policeman in charge told me to go on down to the department to see Investigator Schulz. I left Arch in his room with strict instructions to go with nobody but his father.

Then I zipped over to the Mountain Journal office and left off my letter before hightailing it down Interstate 70 to the Sheriff’s Department. The van spewed dust when I skidded into the municipal parking lot. With great relief I saw Schulz sitting in the front seat of his Chrysler.

When I climbed out of the van, he got out of his car. He said, “You find someone to take care of Arch?”

“He’s at the Farquhars with all kinds of cops around. His father’s going to pick him up shortly.”

“Goldy, I know I’ve said this before, but I don’t know how I feel about you living in that house.”

“Brian Harrington lived next door.”

“Uh-huh. Crime lab’s already turned up a note in his pocket with my name and number. You wouldn’t know how he got that, would you?”

“Brian bared his soul to me last night,” I replied, and gave him the details of the party: Weezie’s rage, Brian’s defensiveness, Philip’s cryptic message to Brian before his death, Brian’s 911 call. And, I added lamely, my suspicion and anger that Brian had been my anonymous critic in the Mountain Journal.

When I had finished talking, Schulz said, “We already have a handful of people who’ve told us the two of you had a loud argument in the kitchen.”

“We did. Before he told me about Philip’s warning, I thought he was trying to hit on me.”

“Where were you between midnight and five this morning?”

“in bed. Reading, writing, and sleeping.”

“Gotta ask, you know. Did you push Brian Harrington into the pool?”

“No, I did not.”

He put his arm around me. “You look awfully tired, Miss G. Have you had anything to eat today?”

I laughed. What a question, after the other ones! No, I had not eaten. I couldn’t. He asked if he could get me something from the department vending machines. Chips, crackers? I told him I would have a drink of water.

We walked inside the department in silence. The fountain water tasted metallic. But a distant part of my brain cleared. When we sat down on the one couch in the reception area, Schulz asked if I felt better. I replied in the affirmative and looked out the ground-floor window. A clinging haze had turned the sky powder blue.

After a long silence, Schulz said, “I want to talk to you about Julian Teller.” More silence. “Real name Julian Harrington.”

My heart felt as if it had stopped beating.

•  •  •

“Philip Miller,” Schulz began, “was a very interesting fellow. Well-off. Cautious. Hardworking. Wanted to unlock human behavior. Poor guy.” He sighed, raised his bushy eyebrows, and puckered his mouth. “The files said Julian turned eighteen this year.”

“So?”

“Julian was adopted.”

“This isn’t news, Tom.”

“Miss G. Give me a chance. In some states, if you’re adopted, you can find out who your biological parents are when you turn twenty-one. Other states, like Utah, it’s eighteen. According to Philip’s records, Julian’s issue in therapy was finding out who his biological parents were.”

“I know this,” I said. “Sissy told me.”

But I felt distracted, confused. Brian Harrington had shown no interest in Julian, and Julian had been openly hostile to the erstwhile real estate agent on more than one occasion. I said, “But Julian’s adoptive parents are in Utah.”

“According to Philip Miller’s records, they were opposed to him going on this quest.”

“So—”