Diane Davidson - The Cereal Murders

In French III, Brad Marensky had a solid stream of C’s and B’s; his midterm grade was due to be a B minus. Greer Dawson’s showed wide swings: two F’s early on, the rest B’s. Her grade: C. Julian had made A’s at the beginning of the quarter, then a B and an F on a quiz last week. He had also received a B minus for the midterm. Heather Coopersmith had B’s punctuated by two A’s, and was due to receive a B plus. Keith Andrews had received all A’s and one B. There was a line through his name.

Well, that didn’t tell me much. Or if it did, I hadn’t a clue how to interpret it. Would this finally all come down to mathematical calculations of grades? Is that what people would kill for?

With some trepidation I turned to the college counseling section. In addition to the class rank, the students were listed alphabetically. Reactions and conferences with the students, headmaster, and parents had been duly noted in careful handwriting.

KEITH ANDREWS-Disillusioned by recent trips to universities. Parents in Europe. Wishes he could join them, visit Oxford, etc. Says someone should start a college made up of all the winners of Distinguished Teachers awards who didn’t get tenure. H. says K. can’t be trusted; writing something for paper. I said probably harmless. RECOMMENDED: STANFORD, PRINCETON, COLUMBIA.

HEATHER COOPERSMITH-Mother worried. Sat next to her at dinner. H. says mother obsessing on college thing because father dumped. Wants control of life. Jealous of K. Claims others have $$ they can spend to help their kids get into college. H. dreamy and distant. Wants less structure, less pressure in academic life. H. says mother a pain. RECOMMENDED: BENNINGTON, ANTIOCH.

BRAD MARENSKY-Parents brought in media rankings. Wanted to know Dawson list! They think B. “deserves” top-ranked school. Says stories about them offering fur coat to admissions director at Wiliams untrue. But do I think it would be a good idea? (Said no.) Unpleasantness from last year apparently resolved. B. indifferent to schools, but seemed to be watching me. Told me he wanted to be ‘far away from parents.” Asked, “Did I know?” I said, about what? No response. H. doesn’t have a clue. RECCOMMENDED: WASHINGTON AND LEE, COLBY.

GREER DAWSON-Very difficult. Wants Ivy League or Stanford, but SATs not high enough; grades erratic. Parents offered me a year’s free meals if I’d recommend her. Not amused. H. warned, “trouble if the school doesn’t get Greer into Princeton. RECOMMENDED: OCCIDENTAL, UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA.

MACGUIRE PERKINS-Asked about drinking record, drugs. Said he has talent for drama, but he thinks not; says he’s depressed. Recommended psychotherapy. H. opposed, looks bad. RECOMMENDED SCHOOLS FOR BASKETBALL: INDIANA, N.C. STATE, UNLV.

Uneasily, I turned to the dead woman’s comments about Julian.

JULIAN TELLER-Vulnerable. Wants to study food science. Not covered in Rugg’s. Will phone around for help. J. knows Cornell has a program (Jane Brody alum); would fit with his academic bent. Meet with foster mother (caterer) morning of 11/1. RECOMMENDED: CORNELL, MINNESOTA (?).

None of this made a whole lot of sense to me, except to confirm my suspicions about these people. Miss Ferrell was one smart cookie, except that she had not fathomed Brad Marensky’s question: Did Miss Ferrell know about his stealing? Apparently she had not.

I also remembered vaguely about Rugg’s – a reference book that rated colleges and universities by departments. If food science wasn’t in there, perhaps I could check the cookbook section when I went to the Tattered Cover that evening to see where the most recent culinary writers had gone to school. It was something I could do to help, anyway. Even though Julian now had the funds to go anywhere he wanted, he might as well get the most his money could buy.

I tried to let go of academic worries while I put together more biscotti, some fruit and cheese trays, and started in on a recipe I was testing for Valentine’s Day: Sweetheart Sandwiches. A Sweetheart Sandwich consisted of a pair of fudgelike cookies separated by a slide of buttercream filling. Serving these rich little cookies was inspired by the subject for the evening’s lecture: “Stress Reduction in Test-taking.” My prescription for stress was simple: Take chocolate and call me when it’s over.

Audrey called, contrite over her early-morning explosion, and assured me she wanted to help tonight. Could she have a ride to the bookstore? Heather was doing some calculations for her classmates on their new class rank, and she had to deliver the results to her friends on their way down to Denver. Heather didn’t want Audrey to embarrass her, Audrey told me sadly. Were we wearing white uniforms, aprons, what? I told her black skirt, white blouse, and her apron that said GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING. She promised she’d come over at five-thirty. Julian called. He said he would be eating over at Neil’s; he would catch a ride with Neil and meet me at the bookstore. Unless I needed help? I assured him I had everything under control. Arch came home and announced he had to pack for an overnight with a friend. But first he would have some of the new cookies.

“If you’ll pour me a glass of milk,” he negotiated as he pushed his glasses up his nose and methodically placed three freshly baked cookies on his plate. With eyes closed, he tasted the first one.

“Well?” He let me suffer a moment. Then he said very seriously, “Excellent, Mom. Any teacher would give you an A plus.”

I grinned. “Are you feeling better in school?”

He swallowed, took a sip of milk, and wiped off the liquid white mustache. “Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Seventh grade is like…” Headmaster Perkins’ mannerisms were contagious. Arch popped another cookie in his mouth and chewed pensively. “Seventh grade is like half happiness, half totalitarianism.”

“Totalitananism?”

“Oh, Mom.” He adjusted his glasses. “Julian taught me that word for social studies.” He paused. “Are they still working on finding out who killed Keith Andrews and Miss Ferrell?”

When I nodded, he said, “You know, I just want to be in a safe place. It is scary in school, I have to admit.”

“But nothing else has happened, right?”

“Mom, the police are there. How safe do you think it’s going to be when they pull off their investigators and the surveillance?”

I didn’t answer that question. “Don’t worry,” I said tensely, “we, or they, or somebody, is going to figure out what happened.”

He didn’t seem to want to talk anymore, so I went back to my cooking. By the time the friend’s mother arrived at five o’clock, Arch had run through half a dozen cookies and declared he didn’t want any dinner.

Neither did I, I decided after he left, but not because I was full of anything but dread. My stomach was churning in anticipation of yet another college advisory event. I wondered how many guidance counselors had ulcers. Perhaps when this final ordeal was over, Audrey could get a ride home with her daughter and Schulz and I could go out for a late supper.

Audrey arrived. We packed the trays into the van, hightailed it to Denver, and arrived at the Tattered Cover promptly at six. Driving up to the third-floor entrance, where I had parked before, I remembered my resolve to check the cookbooks for names of schools for Julian. I also suddenly remembered Miss Ferrell’s grade book, which I had packed in one of my boxes in the hope that I could give it to Schulz after the program. With all the stealing going on among Elk Park preppies, I was going to make certain I personally handed this valuable volume to him for analysis. But I had learned my lesson with Keith’s computer disks: I wasn’t about to leave the grade book unprotected in the kitchen during the confusion of the catering. When Audrey was preoccupied with folding up box lids, I grabbed the grade book, wrapped it in a spare business apron, and headed briskly through the third-floor door and down two flights on the interior staircase. I wanted to put it in the secret closet Audrey had shown me