Diane Davidson - The Cereal Murders

First the police and then those damn Dawsons at the church, plus I got this terrible letter yesterday from Carl’s lawyer – “

“Please,” I interrupted, but nicely, “you know I’ve got this Bronco thing at the Dawsons – “

“Oh, well, I’ve got a huge problem. We’re having a seminar, Getting Control of Your Life, tonight and I promised to do a little stir-fry for the staff after the store closes at five and before we reopen at seven, and what with the police asking all those questions, I forgot all about the stir-fry, and they have plates and stuff here, but I don’t have any food and I was just wondering if you’d…”

Fill in the blank. I stretched the phone cord, opened the door to my walk-in refrigerator, and perused the contents. “How many people?”

“Eight.”

“Any vegetarians?”

“None, I already checked. And we’ve taken up a collection, five dollars per person. I’ll give you all the money and buy you any cookbook you want, plus do the serving and cleanup myself… .” Relief and glee filled her voice, and I hadn’t even said yes.

“Okay, but it’ll be simple,” I warned. “Simple is what they want, it’s part of getting control of your life.”

I made an unintelligible sound and said I’d be down after the Bronco game. After some thought I got out two pounds of steak, then swished together a wonderfully pungent marinade of pressed garlic, sherry, and soy sauce. Once the beef had defrosted slightly under cold running water, I cut it into thin slices, sloshed them around in the marinade, and finished packing up the choucroute and trimmings. I couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that it was going to be a long half-time luncheon.

At the Dawsons’ enormous wood-and-glass home, there was much discussion of the artificial turf inside Minneapolis-domed stadium. My appearance caused only a momentary pause in the downing of margaritas and whiskey sours and the assessment of Viking strategy. Caroline Dawson, still wearing her red suit, waddled in front of Arch, Julian, and me out to the kitchen.

It was the cleanest, most impeccably kept culinary space I had ever inhabited. When I complimented her on how immaculate everything was, she gave me a startled look.

“Isn’t your kitchen clean?” Without waiting for an answer, she peeked underneath the plastic wrap of one of my trays. I thought it was to check how clean it was until her chubby fingers emerged with a crust of potato-caraway bread. She popped the bread into her mouth, chewed, and said, “Hank and I, being in food service, feel it’s imperative to have a dust-and dirt-free environment. You know we asked you to cater this meal because, well, we’re busy with the guests, and you do have a good reputation – “

Then she scuttled out, but not without filching another slice of bread. Julian, Arch, and I began to prepare the meal in earnest. But if I thought we would be uninterrupted, I was wrong. Rhoda Marensky, as thin and leggy as an unwatered rhododendron, sauntered out first. It was well known in town that statuesque Rhoda, now fifty, had been a model for Marensky Furs before Stan Marensky married her. For the Bronco get-together, she wore a chartreuse knit sweater and skirt trimmed with fur in dots and dashes, as if the minks had been begging for help in Morse code. She stood in an exaggerated slouch to appraise Julian.

“Well, my boy,” she said with undisguised wickedness, “you must have finished your SAT review early, if you can take time out to cater. What confidence!”

Julian stopped spooning out sauerkraut, pressed his lips together, and gulped. Arch looked from Julian to me.

“Unlike some people,” I replied evenly, “Julian doesn’t need to review.”

Rhoda snorted loudly and writhed in Julian’s direction, a female Uriah Heep. She put her hand on the sauerkraut spoon handle s6 that he was forced to look at her. “Salutatorian! And our Brad tells me you’ve never even been in a gifted program. Where was it you’re from, somewhere in Utah?”

“Tell me,” I wondered aloud, “what kind of name is Marensky anyway? Where is it from, Eastern Europe?” Bitchy, I know, but sometimes you have to fight fire with a blowtorch. Besides, skinny people seldom appreciate caterers.

“The Marenskys were a branch of the Russian royal family,” Rhoda retorted.

“Wow! Cool!” interjected my impressionable son.

I glanced at the butcher knife on the counter. “Which branch would that be, the hemophiliac one? Or is that technically a vein?”

That did it. Rhoda slithered out. A moment later her husband strode into the kitchen. Stan Marensky almost tripped over Arch, who scooted out of his path and grimaced. I tried not to groan. Stan’s long, deeply lined face, oversize mouth, and lanky frame always reminded me of a racehorse. He was as slender as his wife, but much more nervous. Must have been all that Russian blood that wouldn’t clot.

“What did you say to my wife about blood?” he demanded.

“Blood? Nothing. She must have been thinking of the football game.”

And out went Stan. Arch giggled. Julian stared at me incredulously.

“Man, Goldy, chill! You’ve always told me you have to be so nice, especially to rich people, so you can get more bookings… and here you are just dumping on the Marenskys – “

Caroline Dawson interrupted his rebuke by waddling back into the room. The queen of the short people put her hands on her wide hips; her crimson body shook with rage. “What is taking so long? If I had known you three were going to be out here having a gab fest, I would have had Greer help you, or, or … I would have brought in help from the café – “

“Not to worry!” I interrupted her merrily and hoisted a tray with platters of steaming sausages. “We’re holding our own. Let’s go see how our team’s doing,” I ordered the boys.

Julian mutely lifted his tray with the sauerkraut and potato-caraway bread. Arch carefully took hold of the first serving dish of warmed applesauce. We served the food graciously and received a smattering of compliments. The Marenskys regarded us haughtily as they picked at their food, but ventured no more critical comments.

On the big-screen television, brilliant close-up shots made the football playing surface look like tiny blades. Happily, Denver won by two touchdowns, one on a quarterback sneak and the other on a faked field goal attempt. I predicted both plays in addition to serving the food.

Hank Dawson, flushed and effusive, reminded me I was booked again for next week’s game. He brandished a wad of bills’ that amounted to our pay plus a twenty-five percent tip. I was profusely thankful and divided the gratuity with Arch and Julian. Unfortunately, I knew that next week the Broncos were playing the Redskins in Washington.

Maybe I could split the tip over two weeks.

We arrived home just before five. Early darkness pressed down from the sky, a reminder, like the recent snow and cold, of winter’s rapid approach. Julian stared out the kitchen window and said maybe he should stay home and do SAT review instead of doing stir-fry at the Tattered Cover. Inwardly, I cursed Rhoda Marensky. Arch said he wanted to come along when I told him we’d be cooking on the fourth floor, usually closed to the public.

“Cool! Do they, like, have their safe up there, and surveillance equipment, and stuff like that?”

“None of the above,” I assured him as I packed up the ingredients. “Probably just a lot of desks and boxes of books. And a little kitchen.”

“Maybe I should take my wardrobe with the fake back for the C. S. Lewis display. Oh, Julian, please come with me so you can help me carry it. I know they have a secret closet there, did you? Do you think they’ll use my display? I mean, if Julian helps me set it up?” He looked with great hope first at Julian, then me. I was afraid, as mothers always are, that the voice of expedience – “They probably have all the displays they need” – would be interpreted as rejection. I said reflectively, “Why don’t we ask them when we get there?”