Diane Davidson - Dying for Chocolate

I stared at the flashing light and tried to remember how the buttons worked. Between General Farquhar’s associates and Adele’s various committee people, the phone rang constantly. Who could be calling at this hour? Someone from the East Coast, no doubt. This inconsiderate person would be thinking, Oh, the time change. Well, they’re probably already up.

I lifted the receiver and stabbed at what I hoped was the right button.

“Farquhars?” I said hesitantly, and prayed that I was not speaking into the intercom.

“Goldy,” said Philip Miller.

I was immediately flooded with relief, desire, and other teenage-type feelings. Why he was calling so early I did not know.

I said, “Are you okay?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment before the brunch,” he said. “I’ll be late.”

“We are indeed meeting at your high school, Philip. But I can’t give you a tardy excuse.”

I could hear his grin when he said, “Not to worry. Listen. May I see you afterwards? There’s something about food I need to discuss.”

“Sure,” I said warily, perusing my appointments calendar on the kitchen bulletin board. For June 3, a hastily penciled Brunch was followed by Prep Harrington Aphrodisiac Dinner. As good as my supplier was, she had been unable to bring some items for the dinner before she went on vacation. I was going to have to shop for substitutions later in the morning. This afternoon would be given over to cooking for the Harrington affair, which was set for Saturday night.

“No problem,” I said, as if to convince myself. Philip did not sound good. There was caution in his voice. I said, “Should we get together before your first appointment? I need to be near your office to shop, anyway. We could have coffee at Aspen Meadow Cafe.” I hesitated as the wind whipped aspen branches against the kitchen windows. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk now?”

He said, “Not over the phone.”

“Don’t get paranoid on me, shrink-man.”

“Don’t play fast and loose with psychological terms, food-woman.”

I said, “Fast and loose?”

But before he could reply, one of the other lines into the Farquhars’ house lit up. Through the insistent beeping I told Philip to hold. Then I took a breath and hit a few buttons.

“Farquhars?”

“Miss Goldy,” said Tom Schulz.

I looked at my watch: six-forty. What was going on here? I said, “It’s a little early, Tom.”

“You’re hard to reach,” he said. I said nothing but felt guilty for the latest creative rash of excuses. He went on, “Besides. As I recall, sometimes you’re an early riser.”

I could imagine him shifting his big body from side to side on one of the too-small chairs of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. I could see him cocking his head, looking into his coffee as if that dark liquid could give him answers to all his questions.

He said, “You cooking or something?”

“Excuse me, Tom, but yes,” I said, irritation masking my conscience as the light for Philip’s line continued to blink.

“I won’t keep you. It’s just that I have today’s issue of the Mountain Journal in front of me. They deliver it to the Sheriff’s Department first, I think.”

“So?”

“Well, now, I was thinking this was one issue you might want to skip.”

“Is that why you’re calling so early?”

“Now, Miss G. Don’t get huffy. I just wanted to tell you not to pick up today’s paper. Avoid a nasty surprise that way.”

“What are you talking about?”

He cleared his throat, then said, “Don’t read the paper, Goldy. The guy’s crazy.” Another pause. “You know I think you’re a great cook. The best.”

“Cut to the chase, Tom. I’ve got fruit to slice.”

He took a deep breath. “Seems our local rag has up and gotten itself a food critic. Name of Pierre; must be French.” He took a sip of what I imagined to be coffee. Then he said, “Pierre doesn’t like you, Goldy.”

Philip’s line was still blinking. Sweat sprouted on my forehead. I said, “Read it to me.”

“Not a good idea, Miss G. That was what I was trying to avoid.”

“Read it to me or I will never fix you my famous Strawberry Super Pie. That would be a shame, it being strawberry season and all.”

He groaned, then read, “ ‘The queen of Aspen Meadow catering cuisine, the unfortunately named Goldy Bear, lays false claim to her throne, we fear.’ ” He stopped. “You sure you want me to go on?”

I clenched my teeth. “Yes.”

“Okey-doke.” More throat-clearing. “ ‘At a recent fête for the Colorado Symphony, we began with heavily sauced eggs for hors d’oeuvres, then plowed onward through avocado cream soup, beef Stroganoff, fettuccine Alfredo, salad with mayonnaise, and finished in a daze with chocolate fondue. Where did this woman learn to cook, the National Cholesterol Institute?’ ” Schulz stopped. He said, “I’ve never heard . . . I mean, is there such a thing?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, of course not.” I stopped shouting and took a deep breath. I felt as if I’d been punched. My voice was shaking when I said, “And it wasn’t Stroganoff, it was London broil. With egg noodles. Is there any more?”

“ ’Fraid so, but not much.” He read, “ ‘How many of us came home and threw up? I know I did.’ And then it’s signed, ‘Pierre.’ What an idiot.”

I pondered the gleaming knife I’d set down near the cantaloupe. I said, “Any more good news?”

“I miss you.”

“Really.”

“Course. Evenings have been pretty warm lately. Big spring sunsets. I was wondering if you’d like to bring Arch over. You know, we could cook out or something.”

“Let me think about it. We could have hamburgers. Direct from the National Cholesterol whatever.”

“While you’re thinking about it, I got a question—”

The third line into the Farquhars’ house lit up and began its insistent beep.

“Tom, could you hold—” I said in a panic, and pushed more buttons for what must surely be some dork on the East Coast.

“Farquhars!” I yelled into the phone.

“Need to cut back on the caffeine, Goldy?” The husky voice belonged to my best friend, Marla Korman. Although Marla and I both had been married to John Richard—at different times, this being Colorado and not Utah—we had become allies after the final divorce. It was through Marla that I had landed my present job. Adele Farquhar was her older sister.

I said, “Oh, jeez, Marla, what are you doing calling so early?”

“No time to talk?”

“Not if it’s about the newspaper.”

“What newspaper? I left two messages for you.”

Another pang of guilt; I’d meant to call her back. But I was not a secretary, and I could not juggle three phone lines before seven o’clock in the morning.

“I can’t talk,” I said breathlessly. “I’ve got Tom Schulz on line two and Philip Miller on line one—”

“You slut.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

Marla groaned. She said, “You asked, my dear, if I would take Arch to his orientation at that snob school. The one where you’re catering this morning. I was merely calling to find out what time you wanted me to come by.”

I had forgotten. Not about the summer school, but about the orientation. Arch was probably still asleep, couldn’t care less. He was supposed to be at the school— I racked my brain, it wasn’t on the calendar—around nine?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Eight-thirty all right?”

Marla agreed, and I tried to get back to Tom Schulz and Philip Miller.

Both lines were dead.

2.

I creaked my way back up to the third floor and gently shook Arch’s shoulder. No response. I tried again. A blue sweatshirted arm and balled fist reached out in protest. I sighed. The arm withdrew, pulled back to warm sheets like a turtle head to a shell.