Diane Davidson - The Cereal Murders

“Yes, that…” A breeze chilled my skin, and I shivered. Schulz pulled me into his warm chest.

“What else doesn’t Miss G. understand?”

“I know it sounds petty after all that’s happened, but … the scholarship for Julian. What was Hank hoping to gain from that?”

“Ah, nothing.” Tom Schulz kissed my cheek, then hugged me very gently, as if I were breakable. The tune on the car radio changed: “Moon River.” The bittersweet notes filtered through the snowy air.

I said, “You seem pretty sure of that.”

Schulz sighed. “I’m just so happy to have you and Julian alive – “

“Yes, but… is the money gone now, or what? Julian will need to know.”

He let go of me. Snowflakes drifted down onto my face and shoulders.

“The money is not gone,” Schulz said. “It is not gone because I donated it, and I got your friend Marla to go in halvsies with me.”

“What?”

He cupped my hand in his, then said, “Smart detective like Miss G., I should have thought you’d figure that out. I told you I didn’t know what to do with my money. Good for Julian I’m a saver. Without kids of my own, this felt like a great thing to do. Marla likes Julian too, and God knows she has enough money. She said”– and here he drew his voice into an astonishingly accurate imitation of Marla’s husky voice – ” ‘Oh, oh, I’ll never be able to keep a secret from Goldy!’ And now look at who told.”

“Aah, God…” I said, faltering. I was losing consciousness. My body was falling, falling, to the pavement, and I could feel Schulz’s hands gently easing me down. It was all too much – Keith Andrews, Suzanne Ferrell, Hank Dawson.… death everywhere.

“You’re going to need counseling,” Schulz warned. “You’ve been through a lot.” He stroked my cheek.

The pavement was cold. Yes, counseling. I had witnessed too much. After all the death, my own mortality again loomed large. What really kept me going? What was I going to have faith in? I had Arch, Julian. I had … An ache filled me. What else?

Hank Dawson had wanted desperately to have a successful family. So had Audrey. The Marenskys. Headmaster Perkins with hapless Macguire. And so, too, had I. We had all reached out for success – or the image of success , we had in our minds. I’d had a picture of John Richard, Arch, and me, a happy family, and that had certainly failed. What had gone so wrong?

This was what was wrong: my idea, Hank’s idea, Caroline’s, Brad’s, Macguire’s … that if you have this educational pedigree, this money, this fill-in-the-blank, you will be successful.

But really, I thought as I lay on the cold pavement and looked up into Schulz’s concerned face, success was something else. Success was more a matter of finding the best people and then going through life with them… it was finding rewarding work and sticking with it, through thick and thin, as if life were a succession of cream sauces… .

Suddenly my head hurt, my stomach hurt, everything hurt. Schulz made patient murmuring noises, then helped me up.

I was shivering. “I’m so embarrassed,” I said without looking at him.

“Aah, forget about it.”

I tilted my head and again tasted a few blessed flakes of snow. Schulz motioned at the sky.

“Too bad Arch won’t be able to look for galaxies tonight.”

“Oh, well. You know how he’s always complaining to me about the clouds obscuring the stars. The way all my troubles have obscured my appreciating you,” I added.

“Listen to this woman. She’s using metaphors like some headmaster I know. And it sounds as if she’s gone soft – “

“Tom, there’s something I have to tell you.”

He took my hand and waited. Finally he said, “Go ahead.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” said Tom Schulz.

“Yes,” I said, firmly, with no hesitation. “Yes, I will marry you.”