Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

The second message was from Arch, who’d checked his cell phone voice mail between classes—strictly forbidden at Elk Park Prep—and was calling from the boys’ bathroom. Flushing sounds punctuated the static as Arch sullenly announced that Mr. Stockham was not coaching lacrosse anymore, and had I gotten him fired? My son went on to say that he would be going to practice no matter what, and Tom wasn’t coming to pick him up, so he needed me to be there right at five o’clock. And please don’t tell him when to go to practice and when not to go. I sighed as his phone slammed shut.

The third call was in a husky voice. “Find out why Barry Dean had headaches, lady. Then you’ll get all your answers.” I sat up straight, taken aback. The caller had hung up without leaving a name. I played the message four times, but could not recognize the voice. My caller ID said the number was unavailable. I saved the message and moved on.

Shane Stockham’s contrite tone was next. “I am so sorry we had a problem yesterday, Goldy. It was all my fault. And by the way, I’m quitting coaching at Elk Park Prep. We’re just having too many problems. Anyway, I hope you won’t press charges against me for coming at you yesterday.” He paused, and I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “If you’re not too mad at me, Page and I are still hoping to have this party tomorrow. At our place, at noon. Come by whenever you need to set up. Goldy… I hope you can forgive me.” He signed off.

Shane Stockham was doing really badly. Well, this I knew from Marla, Page, and now him. But he had quit coaching? Just because he and his wife had had a tiff at the jewelry event?

The final call was from Pam Disharoon. “My friend phoned and said you wanted me to call, so here I am. But you’re not there. I’ll be at P and G tomorrow, Wednesday, from ten to six. Same on Thursday and Friday, and ten to ten on Saturday. OK?” She didn’t sound pleased, and she didn’t bother to say good-bye.

I put on my apron and reflected. Arch was mad at me, Shane was sorry as hell, and Pam was miffed. And I wasn’t sure why any of them were feeling the way they were. But it was the third call I’d received that had me the most bewildered. Find out why Barry Dean had headaches. Well, I was trying to find out. And who had made that call? Raoul, the construction worker? Rob Eakin, the mall’s acting manager? Victor Wilson? The caller had been a male, I was pretty sure, and not like anyone I’d heard before.

A knock on the front door derailed that particular train of thought. My peephole revealed strawberry-blond Alicia, my supplier since I’d opened Goldilocks’ Catering. She hauled in baskets of fresh wild mushrooms—stunning arrays of everything from chanterelles to Portobellos—plus marbled slabs of standing rib roast, lusciously flavorful greenhouse-grown strawberries and rhubarb, and the rest of the supplies for the next two days’ parties. As she was leaving, she handed me a brightly wrapped compact disc.

“It’s for your kid. I can’t understand this music,” she said with a wink, “but the guy at the store told me this is what they’re listening to these days. Tell Arch happy birthday from me.”

I thanked Alicia profusely, gave her a check for the supplies, and got to work storing the food. Once done, I stood immobilized in the middle of our kitchen. Frustration gnawed at my brain. I needed to cook. Working with food always helped put things in perspective.

On my new computer, I pulled up the menu for Shane’s luncheon party. Yes, I was going to do it. He had apologized; his wife had apologized. Besides, he was the one who’d flown through the air and landed on the lounge floor. Maybe he was quitting coaching lacrosse because he was black-and-blue. Maybe he was quitting because he’d been thrashed by a mom.

I felt my mouth curl into a smile. Finally, finally , I was beginning to look forward to doing the Stockhams’ lunch. I tried to recall the layout of their place. The house itself was a gorgeous log dwelling in a stunning development of executive homes near the entrance to the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. As my printer spat out the menu, recipes, and schedule, I called Shane back and left a message thanking him for his apology. All was forgiven, I said, while making a serious mental note to bring a can of Mace to the party, just in case he lost it again. In my message, I enthusiastically concluded that my crew and I would start setting up around ten tomorrow.

I searched for and found my Mace, then slipped it into my purse. As I scanned the menus, I tried to recall everything I’d heard from Marla about Shane and Page. According to Marla, Shane’s store, The Gadget Guy, had received an eviction notice from Westside Mall. This notice had to have come from Barry. Complicating Shane’s problems were 1) Westside wanted a million bucks’ worth of back rent from him, and 2) his wife Page had a compulsive shopping problem, an addiction severe enough to warrant antidepressants and group therapy. Moreover, Page was locked in a to-the-death competition with her sister Pam, for stuff.

But how had Shane and Page Stockham felt about Barry? If either one of them had been on bad terms with him, why had they come to the jewelry event? Ah… but I knew the answer to that. More than anything, Page craved whatever big-ticket items sister Pam managed to land. Apparently, Page hadn’t gotten what she wanted. No doubt that was why she and her husband had fought. I’d have to ask Tom if the videotape had shown anything else about the whole Shane-Page-Pam-Barry situation.

I made myself a perfect cup of espresso to wash down a couple of aspirin and two homemade caramel brownies that Alicia had thoughtfully left on the kitchen table. Oh, boy, I thought, as warm fuzzies spiraled through my veins. Nothing like chocolate and coffee to kill pain.

I switched files and typed all I’d learned that day into the “Barry” file. Sipping the last of the coffee, I added my new crop of questions and licked my fingers. Then I read over the file. Why did the image of grasping at straws come to mind? I ignored the image, washed my hands, and rinsed the strawberries and rhubarb.

My fax rang. Since Arch’s short-lived foray into quantum physics had taught me that, indeed, the watched pot never boils, I was sure the same principle applied to fax machines. So I trimmed and halved the juicy strawberries, cut the crunchy emerald-and-ruby rhubarb into tidy widths, and mixed both of them with a judicious combination of cornstarch and sugar. Yum.

I carefully set the bowls of glistening fruit aside, then grabbed the spill of faxed pages. The brief cover letter was followed by a photocopied page from Barry Dean’s medical records. Ha!

I read the doctor’s notes and then, stunned, sat down to read them again. Pt. fought with a friend, who pushed him down. Pt. lost balance, fell into deep ditch, landed on back of head. Headaches ever since. Pt. v. stressed. Thinks he may have tumor. Pain excruciating. Vicodin script, follow in 2w.

I swallowed hard. Do ggone it. If only, if only , Barry had told his doctor who this belligerent “friend” was. Finding out why Barry had headaches might be the key, but it looked as if I’d have to wait for Mr. Anonymous Phone Call to elucidate that particular datum.

Then again, maybe Barry had told his doctor the identity of the pusher. My girlfriend, who set a P.I. on my tail. My other girlfriend, the lingerie saleswoman. The owner of The Gadget Guy, after he slapped my face with his eviction notice. The construction manager, before he suddenly quit. And those were only the folks who immediately came to mind. Poor Barry.