Diane Davidson - Dying for Chocolate

Clearly, I would have to think about the suggestion angle. I closed the book and headed for the kitchen, where I could hear glasses tinkling and jars being moved in the refrigerator.

“Hello, there,” I said to Julian’s towel-wrapped backside.

He started, surprised, then turned to face me.

His thickly lashed eyes narrowed in appraisal. I didn’t know much about Julian except that Adele had volunteered to take him in when the boarding department had closed at the end of this school year at Elk Park. He’d won a science scholarship to the prep school his tenth-grade year. This summer he was taking Advanced Placement Biology. As soon as the schedule was set, he was going to drive Arch to and from his class in American literature. His parents lived in the Four Corners area, where Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona all came together. But that was all I knew, except that he made excellent candy.

And that he had been a patient of Philip Miller’s.

Julian put his hand on his hip. At eighteen, he already had a swimmer’s body, short and tough and muscled. I tried not to eye his bleached hair, which had been shaved in one of those Mohawk cuts with a center ridge. The blond half-inch stood up like a strip of unmowed lawn.

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded. He made no effort to hide his hostility.

“Fixing coffee, okay?” I put espresso makings together and tried to soften the anger I felt rising. What was he so mad at me about? Philip’s accident?

“Julian,” I said once a fragrant rope of dark liquid was twining out of the Farquhars’ Gaggia. “I guess you’ve heard the bad news—”

“I know. I heard.” He sat down at the kitchen desk chair and ran his fingers through what hair he had. “Bo said you were there,” he said in a voice I tried not to think of as accusing. He raised thick, dark eyebrows set in a square-jawed, fine-featured face and crossed his arms.

“I was. I was right behind him.”

The corners of his mouth turned down. His towel had fallen open over his wet tank suit, but he appeared to take no notice. He said, “What were you doing behind him?”

I took a deep breath, sipped foam off the espresso. “Driving Adele’s car, following Philip into town. To have coffee. Then I was going to go buy supplies for Weezie’s dinner tonight.”

He turned away. Silence filled the kitchen. Then, “I’m a replacement guest,” he said contemptuously.

“Lucky you, get to taste the food I make for a catered function. But with the brunch yesterday, I’m swamped. Mrs. Harrington has made specifications about the food. You’re a vegetarian, and I need to do a dessert—”

He said, “Why don’t you just use some of that fudge with the sun-dried cherries? For dessert, I mean. When I moved in a couple of weeks ago, I made a batch, and Adele took some over to the Harringtons. Brian Harrington loves the stuff. He couldn’t believe I made it.”

“Well, thanks,” I managed to say, “but a client usually likes to have me make something if I’m going to get paid for it.” I smiled and ventured, “Cooking is something we have in common.” After all, if we were going to share the Farquhars’ house and Arch for the next few months, rapprochement seemed in order.

He gave an offhand laugh and said, “I don’t think we have anything in common.”

Again silence fell between us.

Finally Julian said, “That coffee available or what?”

I nodded, dumped the spent espresso grounds, and started a new cup brewing. He stood up, tucked the towel in, and sat down again.

When I had managed not to stare at him putting four teaspoons of sugar and a quarter cup of milk in my perfect espresso, I said, “Would you like to talk about Philip Miller?”

“Not really.” He did not look at me, but began sipping somewhat noisily on the coffee. He said, “He was a good guy.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t remember.”

“This week? Last week?”

“I told you,” he said loudly. “I don’t remember.”

I said, “Sorry,” and meant it.

Julian pushed back his chair and drained the espresso. “Look,” he said, “I need to go change. You want to know about this food stuff, go to the library and ask for Sissy Stone. She, like, helped Mrs. Harrington with her research. She knows who you are. Sissy was a finalist for Colorado Junior Miss, too, how about that? I’m bringing her to the Harringtons’ dinner tonight. My date, as Adele calls her.” He stopped. “I don’t believe aphrodisiacs work,” he said defiantly.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Do you believe other means are more effective for getting the girl?” I asked with what I hoped was a friendly smile.

He whipped off the damp towel, slapped it over his shoulder, and started out of the kitchen. He paused at the door.

He said, “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

I couldn’t wait to get hold of Sissy Stone, sort of like getting hold of the flu. But when the wooden doors of the Aspen Meadow Public Library swung open at 9:58 A.M., the young woman behind the door gave me a toothpaste-ad smile. She was my height and compactly built, a cross between a gymnast and a cheerleader and probably functional at both. She had pushed up the sleeves on a too-large Elk Park Prep sweatshirt that I suspected was Julian’s. Perfect cream beige makeup covered olive-undertoned skin. Her hair fell in thick dark waves that reminded me of the ribbon candy I bought Arch at Christmastime.

“I’m looking for Sissy Stone,” I said with what I hoped was an enormous, confidence-winning grin. “Do you know where she is?”

The girl said, “Why?”

“Are you Sissy?” I asked.

“Well. Yeah,” she said with another bright smile, as if I had just introduced her on network television.

I gestured into the library so we could go somewhere and talk. “Julian Teller suggested I come talk to you. I’m the owner of Goldilocks’ Catering. Julian said you knew. . . .” To her unenthusiastic nod I said, “I’m working as a live-in cook with the Farquhars this summer. You’re coming to the dinner I’m doing tonight for Weezie Harrington.” Another nod. “I need some help from you, the kind you gave her, if that’s okay. In the area of food.”

“Weezie Harrington,” she repeated. She looked both ways, as if conscious of who might be watching or listening. “I’ll have to check.”

My hopes for this conversation grew dim. Around us young mothers pulled reluctant toddlers to Saturday morning story time. The front-desk computers whirred and beeped as morning visitors began to check out books, demand paper for the copier, and slap down volumes to be assessed for overdue fines.

I trundled after Sissy. She had a light step and carried herself with confidence. She glanced this way and that on her way to the computer, as if she were looking for someone more important to talk to. Once at the computer, she tapped away. “Complete Apbrodisia is out,” she announced without looking back at me. “Let’s check for articles.” She moved efficiently to another machine, where she typed into another keyboard. As the machine whirred efficiently, she said, “I guess you can’t wait until Monday?”

I shook my head. “Can we go outside for a few minutes? Please?” Before she could say no, I was on my way to the library garden, a plot lovingly and meticulously tended by the Aspen Meadow Garden Club. Long-stemmed flax, pansies, petunias, and mountain bluebell swayed in the cool morning breeze as I settled on one of the benches and gestured for her to do the same.

“Listen, Sissy, “ I began, “all I need is a few ideas. Julian is a vegetarian. Can’t you remember anything from some of those articles you supplied Mrs. Harrington?”