Diane Davidson - The Cereal Murders

Before I could answer, Tom Schulz appeared on the other side of the table and greeted me with a huge smile. “Got some of those for me?”

“Finally,” I said with a smile I couldn’t suppress. “You’re back.” And I handed him a steaming cup of fragrant black stuff and a plate of Sweetheart Sandwiches. The headmaster attempted a jovial greeting for Schulz, but it caught in his throat. He reddened.

“You have something else for me?” Schulz whispered in my direction, ignoring Perkins’ discomfort. Mr. Rathgore paused in his talk to furrow his brow at the coffee-serving table. Several parents turned to see what was distracting the speaker’s attention, and I drew back in embarrassment. Headmaster Perkins’ too-bright smile froze on his face.

Alfred Perkins took a bite of his Valentine’s Day cookie that was too early. There were too many snoopy folks around to give Schulz the grade book now, I decided.

“Have some cookies first, they’re – ” But before I could hand him the platter, another parental squabble erupted in the audience. This time it was between Caroline Dawson and Audrey Coopersmith.

“What is the matter with you?” Caroline shrieked. She jumped to her feet and glowered down at Audrey Coopersmith. Audrey closed her eyes and raised her pointy chin in defiance. Caroline was as scarlet as her suit. “Do you think Heather is the only one with talent? Do you think she’s the only one who can do math? Do you have any idea how tired we all get of your boasting?”

That shattered Audrey’s calm. She blazed, “Oh, excuse me, but it was Hank and Stan who started this – “

Mr. Rathgore turned puzzled eyes to Miss Kaplan, who seemed at a loss for dealing with a civil disturbance during an author presentation.

“We did not!” Hank Dawson, irate, protested with his meaty hands. “Stan just said Heather wanted grades from Brad, but he’s been busy all week, and Greer couldn’t get her number in either, and all I said was that with the time it was taking, maybe the government should hire Heather to compute the deficit… really, let’s just all calm down!”

“I will not calm down!” Audrey fumed. Now she rose to her feet and yanked at the strings of her apron. After she had flung it off, she wagged a finger at the Dawsons. “Hank, you don’t know anything! How dare you make fun of Heather? To compute the deficit! Since when are you the economics expert? I’m so tired of you! You act like a know-it-all, and you know nothing! You – you think you buy a government bond to get out of jail!”

Not this routine again. Parents murmured and I coughed; Schulz gave me one raised eyebrow. The Marenskys spoke to each other excitedly. They were probably bond investors.

“I’d like to know what business Hank Dawson has making snide remarks about computing the deficit,” Aujdrey’s shrill voice demanded of the stunned audience. “He thinks the Federal Reserve is where all the Indians live!”

Audrey did not wait for a response. True to form, she stomped out. Heather slithered out after her. So much for my post-catering cleaning help.

Miss Kaplan tried to restore order. “Why don’t we all just… have some refreshments, and if you have questions for Mr. Rathgore …” Her voice trailed off amid the noise of people scooping up their coats and scrunching shopping bags. A couple of parents lined up to buy Mr. Rathgore’s book: The True Test.

“Don’t worry.” Julian appeared at my side, holding a tray of biscotti. “I’ll give you a hand. You know, Heather’s mom is always stressed. Stressed major.”

Schulz helped himself to two biscotti. “As you were saying, Miss G., about my having cookies – “

But before I could try any thoughts out on him, there was a distant explosion of crashing glass.

Macguire, who’d been leaning against a bookcase, was so startled he almost fell down. Julian’s tray dropped with a bang. Headmaster Perkins looked appalled.

“Don’t move, anyone!” cried Tom Schulz. He loped out the nearby exit to the adjoining garage. Bewildered’ parents turned to one another; an anxious buzz filled the air. The unfortunate Mr. Rathgore turned to the trade buyer.. He had forgotten he was wearing a microphone.

“What the hell is going on?” his voice boomed out. Miss Kaplan steepled her hands and pressed them to her lips. First a parental argument, then a glass-breaking disruption. Unlikely Mr. Rathgore would agree to another signing anytime soon.

Schulz returned. “It’s your van,” he announced laconically.

“Whose?” the ill-fated Mr. Rathgore screeched into his microphone.

Julian cried, “Somebody’s broken the windshield! Just like…” But he didn’t have to say just like which windshield.

Schulz quickly crossed the room to me, ignoring the confusion. “Goldy, I’m taking you to my car. I’ll notify surveillance. I want you out of here and with me,” he finished abruptly.

“I can t … have to clean up.”

“You have to go.” Julian echoed Schulz. “It’s what I keep telling you. You’re not safe around these people. Go, go now. I’ll clean up.”

Schulz had taken me by the arm to lead me out. I stood firm.

“And how will you get home?” I demanded of Julian, refusing to budge.

“I’ll get a ride or something. Now, go on, go.”

I felt dazed. I took one long look at the assembled group of students, parents, school and bookstore staff. All stood immobile, as if suspended in a snapshot, watching the caterer make her unexpected exit under police guard. I wondered how many decided I was under arrest.

21

Tom Schulz’s wheels shrieked as we rounded the parking lot’s hairpin curves. Within moments he was gunning the car up First Avenue. “Where’s Arch?” he demanded.

“Spending the night with a friend. I still don’t understand why I should leave because of a broken windshield. I feel ridiculous.”

“Come on, Goldy. You know you can’t stay,” was all he said.

When we arrived in Aspen Meadow forty-five minutes later, stillness enveloped my neighborhood. The only sounds were a dog barking in the distance and the murmurs between Schulz and the surveillance policeman.

Schulz shook his head as he walked back to me. “Nothing suspicious.” He escorted me up the steps. At the door I hesitated.

“Had the surveillance fellow received any radio messages about who trashed my car?”

“Nope. Look, I’ve had another call, unrelated. But I’ll come in and look around if you want.”

“No need. The bookstore closed at nine. Julian’ll be home by ten.”

“I’ll call you then.” I snapped on lights in each room, then checked the clock: 9:30. Every creak, every moan of breeze, every stray sound, made me jump. Finally, I made a mug of steaming hot chocolate, slipped on my down coat, and settled into a snowy lawn chair out front. Keeping the surveillance car in sight seemed like the best idea.

The hot chocolate was deliciously comforting. I leaned back to look at the expanse of stars glittering overhead. Because there was no moon, Arch was probably outside with his friend, wielding his high-powered binoculars and enthusiastically pointing out Sirius and Cassiopeia. I could find the Big Dipper and Orion, but that was about it.

At ten o’clock I went inside, checked my answering machine – no messages – and made more hot cocoa. Chocolate always tastes best with more chocolate, and I lamented that the windshield disruption had necessitated leaving the Sweetheart Sandwiches down at the bookstore. Actually, it was getting so that any Elk Park Prep catered event was likely to be disrupted.

Back on my lawn chair, I stared again at the sky. And then, it was as if a hole opened up in the sparkling firmament. Through it I could see Rhoda Marensky in the Dawsons’ kitchen, exclaiming: It’s as if someone’s trying to disrupt our lives. I remembered Hank Dawson’s different spin on that sentiment: You should have done the same food you did last week. /t would have been luckier. Rhoda and Hank seemed to believe that if you ate the right things, got enough sleep, followed all the same routines, you’d do well.