Diane Davidson - Dying for Chocolate

I punched the buttons and got Schulz, the early bird. I said, “Finally!”

There was a pause. “Well,” he said, “I didn’t want to wake you up returning your call.”

“Sorry, had a bad night. Any chance we could get together today?”

“Let’s see. Later in the morning? ’Bout ten?”

At that moment I was sure I heard someone pick up the phone. Paranoia or no, I did not answer Schulz.

“Hello?” said Tom Schulz and General Farquhar at the same moment.

“I’m on the other extension, Goldy,” said the general.

I said, “Do you need me to get off?” Although I didn’t see why he would, with two other lines in the house.

“No, no,” he said, “sorry to have bothered you, it’s just that I want to talk to you about a special dessert for our anniversary party tonight.”

I told him to come on down and heard the distinct click of him getting off the line. I asked Schulz if he would meet me at the Aspen Meadow grocery store.

He said, “At the grocery store? Hold on, I have to check my calendar. . . . I have to be in court this afternoon. I can come up there, but not for long. The supermarket’s not where I usually interview people. You’ve been reading too many spy stories.”

I said, “My life is a frigging spy story.”

General Farquhar slipped into the kitchen and began pacing like Napoleon. I rang off, fixed espresso, and took out some cookbooks. I sipped the velvety dark stuff, felt my brain coming to life as the general began to grunt over photographs of million-calorie desserts.

He looked up at me with a puzzled expression. “What exactly are you fixing for the party?”

I tried to rid the word interrogation from my mind. Instead of my name, rank, and serial number, I said, “Grilled shrimp, French hamburgers, something vegetarian for Julian, rotini salad with a creamy Dijon dressing, cold cooked asparagus with lemon, and whatever you want for dessert.”

“Great, great,” he said with some impatience. He flipped a cookbook shut, paced, paused by the counter. “Listen, I have a surprise for Adele, a piece of jewelry that I never thought I’d get my hands on, something she admired once in Florence. So I’d like a real special dessert.”

I said, “Fourteen Carrot Cake?”

He craned his neck back to gaze at the ceiling. “She admired this ring in a shop on a bridge over the Arno. Later we had those hard Italian cookies that have nuts in them. Sometimes they have chocolate on top. Know what I mean?” He gave me his characteristic squint.

I said, “Biscotti?”

He smacked his hands together. “That’s it. Could you make some for tonight? Instead of a cake? She would understand. Hell, she’d love it.”

I told him it would be no problem. The fifteenth anniversary was crystal, I wanted to say, and Adele might want you to replace the Waterford vase destroyed in the garden-explosion, but never mind. The Farquhars had managed to keep a good relationship, a married one, too, for fifteen years. Maybe they could give me some pointers.

The general was rattling on about the fact that he had ordered all the flowers and for me not to worry about that. I patted him on the back and told him he was just a huge help, then managed to shoo him out of the kitchen so I could check recipes and make a list. There would be thirty of us this time, all the same people who were at the Harrington aphrodisiac dinner, friends from the school, the club, and various committees, plus Arch and me.

Plus Arch’s friends! Oh Lord, I thought on the way to the grocery store, I had forgotten to make the calls as I’d promised. I would have to call the kids’ parents the moment I got home from seeing Schulz. Could Arch have given up and be inviting them while he was at summer school today? There were too many things to worry about, I reflected as I swung my van in next to Schulz’s car in the parking lot. When I found him, he was picking out artichokes.

I leaned into him, spylike, and said under my breath, “You need to stop calling me on the Farquhars’ phone. It’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, 007? Why’s that?”

“Get serious. I’ve discovered the perfect crime.”

He said, “Artie Chokes Two for a Dollar.”

“Are you done?”

ANNIVERSARY BURGERS

2 eggs, beaten

2 tablespoons whipping cream

2 tablespoons milk

2 slices bread, torn up

1 tablespoon dried minced onion

1 ½ teaspoons salt

2 teaspoons prepared horseradish

¼ teaspoon black pepper (preferably freshly ground

¼ teaspoon dried thyme

¼ teaspoon dry mustard

2 pounds lean ground beef

½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter

½ cup catsup

Light a charcoal fire.

Mix eggs with cream and milk, then add torn-up bread, onion, salt, horseradish, pepper, thyme, and dry mustard. Stir well, let stand for 10 minutes, then stir well again, until all is well moistened and the bread is no longer in pieces. Add ground beef and mix well.

Melt butter with catsup and keep warm.

Measure out beef in ½-cup increments and form patties. Grill over hot coals on one side. Turn and brush with butter-catsup mixture. Grill other side. Serve hot.

Makes about 9 patties

DIJON PASTA SALAD

1 pound tricolored fusilli or rotini pasta

2/3 cup corn oil

2 tablespoons cider vinegar

2 teaspoons Dijon-style mustard

2/3 cup mayonnaise

2 large celery ribs, chopped

6 thick bacon slices, cooked and chopped

2 hard-cooked eggs, chopped

2 scallions, chopped

½ to 1 teaspoon salt

paprika (optional)

Cook pasta in boiling water just until done, usually 11 to 13 minutes. Drain. Run cold water over pasta until it is completely cool.

In a large bowl, whisk together oil, vinegar, mustard, and mayonnaise.

Add pasta and all other ingredients to dressing, mix carefully, and taste for seasoning. Chill thoroughly before serving.

Makes 8 to 10 servings

“No, I’m waiting by the vegetables for the town caterer to tell me how to do my job.”

I told him my theory about the peroxide on the unrinsed lenses. About the anesthetic delaying the burning of the corneas. I finished with, “All the killer would have to do is sneak into the doctor’s office somehow, do a trade with the saline solution, and then just wait for things to self-destruct. But you’d have to know Philip’s schedule beforehand.” I handed him two firm artichokes.

“No offense, Miss G., but it sounds a little thin. If you’ve got a real homicidal person on your hands, there are easier ways.” He put down the artichokes, picked up some celery, put it down. “Like guns.”

“But this way it looks like an accident,” I said.

“If the guy dies.”

“He’d die driving blind on that twisting road,” I insisted. “Listen. Do me a favor. I’m going to see Weezie Harrington tonight, and I want to try to find out more about her. But when I found the calendar—”

He leaned against the celery bin and closed his eyes. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Well. . .” I said slowly, “don’t get mad, okay?” He let his shoulders go slack. I went on, “I got into Philip’s office and looked at his schedule.”

“We saw his schedule, too, Miss G.”

“Yes, but you didn’t know at that time that Julian Teller used peroxide for his hair! He saw Julian for his regular appointment and also the Farquhars, probably something to do with Julian’s behavior, I’d say. I had to go in to see Arch’s counselor monthly about the fantasy role-playing games. Don’t you think it’s strange that he saw the three of them, all in the few days before he died? Then on the day before he died, he had lunch with Weezie Harrington?”