Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

My stiff, chilled fingers wrenched the driver door open, and I was confronted with my son’s stiff, chilled face. His fingertips pressed hard on the mouthpiece of the cell phone.

“I am so mad at you!” he hissed furiously. “First you get my coach to quit. Then you come to pick me up, only you don’t pick me up, because you get in a long conversation with my former coach. Which is what you always do. Talk, talk, talk. So I sit in here. Cold. Waiting. Starving. And now we won’t be able to go home, because you’re going to have to talk to this person.” He thrust the phone at me.

I gritted my teeth. When Arch acted like this, I didn’t know if he was showing the dark side of teenage temperament—which seemed to be all dark, come to think of it—or if he was following a more troublesome path on the way to behavior similar to that of his Jerk father. The amazing aspect of this little speech from Arch was how articulate he was when he was enraged. Since this was the opposite of his suave father, who became obscenely incoherent when he was angry, I fastened my seat belt and put the car into gear. I was not, I decided, going to respond to Arch.

“I’m so hungry,” Arch growled, as I put the phone to my ear.

I pressed the phone into the front of my jacket to cover the mouthpiece. “Tom is making enchiladas, and—”

“I don’t care!”

Give up , my inner voice counseled, before I reminded him how much he loved Tom’s cooking. So I did. I piloted the van toward the edge of the snow-frosted parking lot. Into the phone, I purred sweetly, “This is Goldy Schulz of Goldilocks’ Catering. May I help you?”

“You must be making a lot of money, to put someone on hold on a cell phone for seven minutes!”

I sighed. Just what I needed today, one more crab. Tomorrow night I would make crab dip.

“How can I help you?” I suddenly remembered the anonymous call I’d received earlier. This voice was deep, too… but I was fairly sure I was being bawled out by a female. Still, you can’t be too careful. “And who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“You can come pick up this puppy. Barry Dean’s basset hound. He’s late.”

“He’s dead,” I countered bluntly.

“I’m looking right at him.”

I paused. Maybe I needed yet more caffeine, even if it was almost dinnertime. “Who is calling, please?”

“Goldy, fer chrissakes,” growled the husky voice. “It’s Darlene Petrucchio. You useta come into my store, and that kid who useta live with you useta come in, too. Darlene’s Antiques and Collectibles. And what do you mean, he’s dead? He’s sitting on my kitchen floor, drooling.”

“Barry Dean is dead,” I said, speaking very slowly and distinctly.

“Well, I know that!” cried an exasperated Darlene Petrucchio. “Otherwise, why would I be calling you? Barry called yesterday and said he was leaving you his dog. He’s late.”

OK. I was driving, one-handed, down the slick, snow-covered curves of the Elk Park Prep driveway. I couldn’t stop to talk sense with chain-smoking, raspy-voiced Darlene of Darlene’s Antiques and Collectibles, or my son would explode. I needed a time-out. I needed to get out of this Abbott and Costello routine about dogs and dead guys.

“I can’t take care of this hound another night!” Darlene shouted, coughing. “He howls and cries and he’s driving Gus and me nuts! Come and get him, will you? He’s late .”

“ Who is late?” I tried again, with deliberate loudness, like an American bellowing English at a European.

“Jesus H. Christ, Goldy! The puppy is late! That’s his name! Late! How many times do I have to tell ya?”

“Thanks, Darlene!” I sang into the phone. Studiously avoiding the word late or its cognate, later , I said, “I’ll be over… after dinner… say, half past seven. Where do you live?”

“Where do you think?” she shrieked, as a dog howled mournfully in the background. “Next door to Barry Dean, fer chrissakes!”

To save us further miscommunication, she slammed the phone down and broke the connection.

Maybe I could bring Darlene and Gus a box of chamomile tea. She seemed to need it.

Regarding the central question now running my life, who murdered Barry Dean, I now had new input. Barry Dean had left me his dog. No question, that would really clarify my thinking on this case.

CHAPTER 11

Ia met Tom’s hearty greeting at our front door by falling into his arms. “I need help!” I gargled. The reason I didn’t add “My son’s driving me crazy!” was that Arch was right behind me.

“I’ve got a glass of sherry waiting for you in the kitchen,” Tom replied, without missing a beat. “Driving to Elk Park Prep can be awfully demanding.”

Arch grunted before announcing: “I’m starving!”—in case I hadn’t recalled that crucial information.

“Dinner’ll be ready in less than five!” Tom replied, his voice jovial.

Arch hefted up his backpack, lacrosse stick, and bag, and vaulted up the steps two at a time. The door to his room slammed resoundingly.

“I can’t drink sherry,” I told Tom as I plodded into the kitchen. “I have to drive somewhere tonight.”

“Tell me you didn’t take on another catering job. Tell me you’re going to stay and enjoy these enchiladas.”

“After dinner, I have to go get a dog. His name is Late. Wait a second. I’ll tell you all about it later , while we eat.”

Tom smiled, winked, and wisely decided not to ask me how I’d become ensnared in canine rescue. Instead he peered into the oven, nodded approvingly, then removed a large pan of fat enchiladas. A thick layer of melted Cheddar cheese bubbled over the dark, pungent enchilada sauce that in turn smothered the rolled and stuffed tortillas. Tom called upstairs.

“Hey, Arch! The enchiladas are done! In fact, they’re overdone! Next time don’t let your mother take so long!”

Arch roared with rage.

When Tom turned back to the kitchen, chuckling, I said, “Don’t start. He already blames me enough for… oh, everything. And please don’t use the word late. It has to do with the dog that I need to go pick up.”

Tom ignored me, which was a good thing. Two minutes later the three of us were digging into sour cream-topped enchiladas bursting with Tom’s mélange of spicy beef, beans, onions, garlic, black olives, and picante. I moaned with pleasure. Arch shot me a disapproving look which said Even at home, Mom can embarrass you!

My mind returned to the parking-lot confrontation between Shane Stockham and Ellie McNeely. Later, when Arch had gone upstairs to do homework, I would tell Tom about it, to get his ideas. In any event, I was back to feeling uncomfortable about catering at Shane and Page’s mini-mansion the next day. Maybe I’d feel better if I could talk to Ellie and find out why she’d argued with Shane.

When my inner mind shrieked, You’re so damn nosy , I forked in another delectable bite.

“Anybody talk to Julian today?” Arch demanded.

I recounted the high points of my visit to the jail. Tom had also dropped in on Julian, but had left when the defense lawyer showed up. My son then asked when he could go see Julian, and I said probably this weekend. Arch’s mood lightened a bit. This made me think that perhaps the cause for his anxiety had not been my usual mom-misbehavior, but his worry about Julian, who was like a big brother to him.

“I’m wondering,” I ventured at length, “does anybody mind if we adopt another dog for a while?”

“Uh-oh,” Tom groaned.