Dying for Chocolate

A note. A card. A signal of distress. I lifted the seven of spades from the floor.

27.

I called Schulz. “Arch is gone,” I heard my disembodied voice saying. “I can’t find him. I’m losing my mind.”

He said, “Back up. Begin with when you left the parking lot.”

“John Richard couldn’t get Arch because the security gate was locked and the general wouldn’t let him in. He said he could see through his scope that Arch wasn’t with him. Which was true. Tom. I know Arch is in trouble. He left our old danger code.”

Schulz was calm. He asked questions: about the card, about Bo, about when everyone had disappeared, about where Julian could go, about Sissy.

He said, “I’ll call the girl’s parents. If we haven’t found him by tonight I’ll put out an APB. You call Arch’s friends, Adele’s friends, see if you can come up with anything.” He hesitated. “Something you should know. It’s been six hours since they got Harrington’s body out of the pool. I had the coroner make a preliminary check for what I suspected, and it looks as if it was there.”

I struggled to focus back on the floating body of Brian Harrington. “What?”

“He didn’t drown. There wasn’t any water in his lungs. But his insides were burned up. My guess would be by cantharidin.”

I was numb. I said, “I’ll make those calls and drive around to look for Arch. Think I should go talk to Weezie Harrington?”

“We already did. She said Brian was restless last night, told her he was going out for a walk to look at the stars.”

“And?”

“That was the last time she saw him. She says. The guys believed her.”

“What do you think?”

“I think, Miss Goldy, that you should be careful.”

I phoned Weezie. One of the women who had come to be with her answered. Weezie would be grateful for my sympathy. At my request she asked the assembled group about Arch. No, nobody knew where he was, no one had seen him on the street. I said I would be coming over to talk to Weezie myself, if that was okay. It was.

I called Marla. Adele wasn’t there and she didn’t know where she could be. Marla said, “Should I be worried about my sister? She never worries about me.”

“I don’t know why she would be with Sissy, who can be pretty hostile sometimes. I really don’t even know what’s going on,” I said truthfully. “If you want to worry about somebody, worry about Arch.”

Marla said she would call Arch’s friends. I gave her a list of numbers and asked her to drive over by our old house and check to see if any of the neighbors had seen him.

“I know he loves you, Goldy. He wouldn’t run away.”

A rock formed in my throat. I whispered, “Sure,” and signed off.

I steeled myself and called John Richard.

He said, “Now what?”

I said, “Arch is missing. I need you to get a new attitude and help out.”

He said, “Whose fault is this?”

I hung up.

The general responded with a nod when I said I was going to ask Weezie some questions and look for Arch. I asked him again if he had any idea where everyone had gone.

He shook his head. I picked up the Mace. He said, “An ambush.”

The van whined all the way down the driveway. I decided to do a street-by-street search for Arch in Meadowview before showing up at the Harrington house. Even if I did not find him, at least it would make me feel that I was working on it.

The sky, covered with pearly haze most of the day, now boiled with dark clouds. Here and there gray wisps of moisture hung over the mountains. If Arch was with Julian, they both would soon be soaked. If Arch was with Sissy . . . but why would he be with Sissy?

I rolled down my window. As if on cue, raindrops pelted the windshield. Thunder rolled like gunfire in the distance. I called Arch’s name as I chugged in first gear along Sam Snead Lane, Arnold Palmer Avenue, Gary Player Parkway.

Nothing. There were not even any playing children I could ask; they’d all been driven in by the rain. I headed back to Weezie’s.

I parked the van behind the Audis, Buick Rivieras, and Lincoln Continentals lining the Harrington driveway. The cars belonged to women, I discovered when I went inside, who knew the Harringtons from the athletic club and the country club. They cooed, hugged, and whispered to Weezie and each other. They were happy to see me, but puzzled. One woman asked, “Are you a friend of Weezie’s?”

I swallowed an angry response. A svelte brunette who had been sitting across from Weezie on a leather recliner asked us if we wanted anything. I said, “Coffee,” to be rid of her, plopped into her empty spot, and mumbled my condolences.

Weezie raised bloodshot eyes. Her mane of silver-blond hair was wildly askew. She said, “Thanks. Did you find Arch?”

“No, but people are looking, and I’m going to keep searching when I leave here. Are you sure you never saw him this afternoon?”

“Not once. This has been a nightmare. I have to believe . . .” Her voice broke. “I have to believe there was a reason for his life. He was a good person.” Her eyes searched mine. “Wasn’t he?”