Diane Davidson - Dying for Chocolate

Schulz was quiet. Then he said, “Well. I might need to talk to you about our friend Dr. Miller.”

“Talk.”

“Confidential, you understand. You were his friend.”

“I told you. I’m beginning to think I didn’t know that much. What’s your question?”

“We found something in his briefcase. Thought it was a drug at first. Had to send it off to be analyzed.”

“And?” ’

“Ever heard of cantharidini”

You bet I’d heard of it. I said, “Spanish fly. Deadly as can be. Did it show up in the autopsy?”

“No, that’s the weird thing. You have any idea why he would have something like that?”

Just for the slightest fraction of a moment, I thought I heard someone else on the line. Not the CIA listening in, but someone breathing. My body went cold. Three nights ago it was sounds outside. Now it was eavesdropped conversations. That would teach me to read Edgar Allan Poe.

“None whatsoever,” I said, “but let’s talk about it tonight.” I tried to put some urgency into my voice, something he would read as my having to hang up.

“Before you rush off,” he said, “you might like to know that because of finding this substance, they’ve given me the go-ahead to investigate this as a suspicious death.”

I was quiet. Could I hear anything on the line besides Schulz’s voice?

After a moment I said, “I can’t talk about this any more right now. I’m looking forward to tonight.”

I listened on the line after Schulz had hung up. Perhaps there was a very gentle clicking off. It was hard to tell. What had Philip said the last time we’d talked? Not on the phone.

Great.

• • •

STRAWBERRY SUPER PIE

CRUST:

¾ cup (1 ½ sticks) unsalted butter, melted

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon confectioners’ sugar

¾ cup chopped pecans

TOPPING:

2 pounds strawberries, divided

½ cup water

1 cup sugar

3 tablespoons cornstarch

FILLING:

1 ¼ cups whipping cream

¼ pound cream cheese, softened

¾ teaspoon vanilla extract

½ cup confectioners’ sugar

Preheat oven to 375°. For crust, mix melted butter with flour, confectioners’ sugar, and pecans. Press into a buttered 10-inch pie plate. Bake for 25 minutes or until light brown. Allow to cool completely.

Start topping by mashing enough strawberries to make 1 cup. Cut tops off rest of strawberries and set aside. Place mashed berries in a saucepan and add water. Mix sugar and cornstarch into crushed berry mixture and bring to a boil on top of stove, stirring. Boil about one minute or until clear and thickened. Set aside to cool.

For filling, whip cream until stiff. In another bowl, beat cream cheese with vanilla and confectioners’ sugar. Carefully fold whipped cream into cream cheese mixture. Spread in cooled crust and refrigerate.

When crushed berry mixture is cool, pie can be assembled. Stand whole (or halved, if you prefer) strawberries on top of cream filling, cut side down. When entire filling is covered with whole berries, carefully spoon cooled crushed berry mixture over all. Cream filling should not be seen between whole berries. Once the crevices have been filled, do not overload the pie with the crushed berry mixture, as it will just drip over the sides. Any leftover crushed berry mixture is delectable on toast or English muffins.

Makes 8 to 10 large servings

The household separated for school and Vail. I made a nut short crust, folded whipped cream into beaten cream cheese for a mountain of filling that I then dotted with rows of fat strawberries. A final glaze of crushed, cooked fresh strawberries was the finishing touch for the Strawberry Super Pie I was taking to Tom Schulz’s. I cleaned the kitchen and headed out to meet Marla. With dismay I noticed that Arch had neglected his one chore: rolling the garbage can to the end of the driveway. Too bad household chores were resistant to his magic.

The Aspen Meadow Café is an attempt to bring continental cuisine to our little portion of the map. Originally a real estate office that had gone under during the 1985 oil slump, it was rumored that the new place had been remodeled à la Nouvelle Bistro. As I waited for Marla, my purse pleasantly stuffed with the tip from Monday’s barbecue, the window displays beckoned.

On the inside shelves, baskets filled with every sort of bread crowded the shimmering expanse of plate glass. Braided loaves, round loaves, loaves freckled with poppy and sesame seeds, baguettes, muffins, fragrant nut breads, and oversize whole-wheat loaves crowded over and under each other. Decorously placed in one corner of the window was an Elk Park Prep decal: GET INTO THE SWIM!

The chimes attached to the glass door jingled cheerfully as I pushed through the door to look for Marla. Heady smells of roasting chickens and baking cakes mingled in the air. Above the glass cases filled with carryout items, there was a blackboard with the day’s specials chalked in: Red Onion and Basil Tart, Grilled Chicken Santa Fe, Crevettes aux Champignons. Past the glass cases and around a corner there was a seating area. I strolled back. No Marla. She was not at any of the tables, where fresh arrangements of freesias and daisies adorned each white tablecloth. Lunch business was brisk: waitresses bustled about in the dining area. A waitress whispered that she would be out to help me at the counter in a moment and apologized that they were shorthanded today.

I walked unhurriedly around the corner to the counter area and turned my concentration back to the day’s specials. I had just decided on the tart when I was whacked from behind.

I did not see who hit me. One minute I was reading the blackboard. The next I was shoved into a pastry case. I felt the glass crack beneath my chest. Shards splintered over tortes and pies. I careened off the glass. My head hit the metal of the bread shelves. I groped wildly for the bread baskets, the shelves, anything to keep from landing on the tile floor. My attacker rammed me again. This time I fell on a small marble table. It clattered to the floor and broke beneath my weight.

Loaves of bread toppled down as I landed on the broken table and tile floor. My body screamed with pain. I couldn’t see; I could only hear my voice howling, even as I knew the sound was muffled by loaves of bread.

A husky voice came in close to my ear. It said, “Let Philip Miller rest in peace.”

Then I heard abrupt jingling as the door to the café was flung open in haste. My attacker had rushed out.

I began to push loaves of bread away from my face and chest. My head throbbed from the fall; my back and chest ached from the relentless shoves.

“Hey! Hey!” came Marla’s voice from far above me. “What happened here?”

Hands groped through the piles of bread to pull me up. I opened my eyes and thought I saw stars. But it was just a pantsuit covered with embroidered galaxies: Marla’s sweat suit showing the summer constellations. A waitress and a cook were standing next to her, and they all stared down at me. Their questions tumbled out: What happened? Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?

I laughed at that last one. But that made everything hurt worse. My arm was bleeding. My chest felt as if it had caved in. The rest, luckily or unluckily, would be bruises. I gasped for breath. Something in my chest would not open up.

While Marla fetched clean wet towels for the cut, I told the assembled onlookers that I had been shoved. Had anyone seen anything? I looked into their surprised faces. One waitress said she’d seen someone leave in a hurry, but just assumed I’d lost my balance getting out of that person’s way. The most description I could get was dark long hair that could have been a wig, black shirt and pants. She couldn’t even say whether it had been a male or female. How tall? Not too tall.