The Cereal Murders gbcm-3

  The Cereal Murders

  ( Goldy Bear Culinary Mysteries - 3 )

  Diane Mott Davidson

  Thanks to her recent adventures in Dying for Chocolate, Goldy Bear, the premier caterer of Aspen Meadow, Colorado, is no stranger to violence--or sudden death. But when she agrees to cater the first College Advisory Dinner for Seniors and Parents at the exclusive Elk Park Preparatory School, the last thing she expects to find at the end of the evening is the battered body of the school valedictorian.

  Who could have killed Keith Andrews, and why? Goldy's hungry for some answers--and not just because she found the corpse. Her young son, Arch, a student at Elk Park Prep, has become a target for some not-so-funny pranks, while her eighteen-year-old live-in helper, Julian, has become a prime suspect in the Andrews boy's murder.

  As her investigation intensifies, Goldy's anxiety level rises faster than homemade doughnuts. . .as she turns up evidence that suggests that Keith knew more than enough to blow the lid off some very unscholarly secrets. And then, as her search rattles one skeleton too many, Goldy learns a crucial fact: a little knowledge about a killer can be a deadly thing.

  From Publishers Weekly

  Caterer Goldy Bear must solve the murder of a high school valedictorian in this delicious mystery.

  The Cereal Murders Diane Mott Davidson

  October College Advisory Dinner for Seniors and Parents Headmaster’s House Elk Park Preparatory School Elk Park, Colorado SKEWERED SHRIMP LEEK AND ONION TARTLETS SALAD OF OAK LEAF LETTUCE AND RADICCHIO WITH RASPBERRY VINAIGRETTE ROAST BEEF AU JUS YORKSHIRE PUDDING PUREE OF ACORN SQUASH STEAMED BROCCOLI EARLY DECISION DUMPLINGS IVY LEAGUE ICE CREAM PIE

  1

  “I’d kill to get into Stanford.” A you’ve-got-to-be-kidding laugh snorted across one of the dining tables at the headmaster’s house. “Start playing football,” whispered another voice. “Then they’ll kill to get you.”

  At the moment of that sage advice, I was desperately balancing a platter of Early Decision Dumplings and Ivy League Ice Cream Pies, praying silently that the whole thing didn’t land on the royal blue Aubusson carpet. My job catering the first college advisory dinner for Colorado’s most famous prep school was almost over. It had been a long evening, and the only thing I would have killed to get into was a bathtub.

  “Shut up, you guys!” came the voice of another student. “The only kid who’s going to Stanford is Saint Andrews. They’d kill to get him.”

  Saint . .~.? Using the school’s silver cutter, I scooped out the, last three slices of pie. Thick layers of peppermint ice cream cascaded into dark puddles of fudge sauce. I scooted up to the last group of elegantly dressed teenagers.

  Ultra-athletic Greer Dawson, who wore a forest-green watered-silk suit, moved primly in her ladder-back chair to get a better view of the head table, Greer, the school’s volleyball star, was an occasional helper with my business: Goldilocks’ Catering: Where Everything Is Just Right! Apparently Greer thought listing power serve and power lunch on her Princeton application would make her appear diversified. But she was not serving tonight. Tonight, Greer and the other seniors were concentrating on looking spiffy and acting unruffled as they heard about upcoming tests and college reps visiting the school. I needed to be careful with her slice of pie. Watered silk was one thing; ice-creamed, another. With my left hand J lowered plates to two boys before I balanced the tray on my hip and gingerly placed the last dessert in front of Greer.

  “I’m in training, Goldy,” she announced without looking at me, and pushed the plate away.

  The headmaster stood, leaned into the microphone, and cleared his throat. A gargling noise echoed like thunder. The bubbling chatter flattened. For a moment the only sound was the wind spitting pellets of snow against the rows of century-old wavy-glassed windows.

  I zipped back out to the kitchen. Fatigue racked my bones. The dinner had been hellish. Not only that, but we were just starting the speeches. I looked at my watch: 8:30. Along with two helpers, I had been setting up and serving at the headmaster’s house since four o’clock, Cocktails had begun at six. Holding crystal glasses of Chardonnay and skewers of plump shrimp, the parents had talked in brave tones about Tyler being a shoe-in at Amherst (Granddad was an alum), and Kimberly going to Michigan (with those AP scores, what did you expect?). Most of the parents had ignored me, but one mother, anorexically thin Rhoda Marensky, had chosen to confide.

  “You know, Goldy,” she said, stooping from her height with a rustle of her fur-trimmed taffeta dress, “our Brad has his heart set on Columbia.”

  Greeted with my unimpressed look and decimated platter of shrimp, Rhoda’s towering husband, Stan Marensky, elabortaed: “Columbia’s in New York.”

  I said, “No kidding! I thought it was in South America.

  Refilling the appetizer platter a little later, I berated myself to act more charming. Five years ago, Stan Marensky’s fast-paced, long-legged stalk along the sidelines, as well as his bloodcurdling screams, had been the hallmark of the Aspen Meadow Junior Soccer League. Stan had intimidated referees, opponents, and his team, the Marensky Maulers, of which my son, Arch, had been a hapless member for one miserable spring.

  I walked back out to the dining room with more skewers of shrimp. I avoided the Marenskys. After the painful soccer season, Arch had decided to drop tear sports. I didn’t blame him. Now twelve, my son had quickly replaced athletics with passions for fantasy-roll playing games, magic, and learning French. I’d tripped over more dungeon figures, trick handcuffs, and miniature Eiffel Towers than I cared to remember. These days however, Arch had dual obsessions with astronomic maps and the fiction of C. S. Lewis. I figured as long as I grew up to write intergalactic travel novels, he’d be okay. With my career as the mother of an athlete over, I had heard only through the town grapevine that the shrill voiced Stan Marensky had moved on to coaching junior basketball. Maybe he liked the way his threats reverberated off the gym walls.

  I didn’t see the Marenskys for the rest of the dinner. I didn’t even think of Arch again until I was fixing the desserts and happened to glance out the kitchen windows. My heart sank. What had started that afternoon as an innocent-looking flurry had developed into the first full-blown snowstorm of the season. This promised icy roads and delays getting back to Aspen Meadow, where my son, at his insistence, was at home without a sitter. Arch had said it would make him happy if I didn’t worry about him any more than he worried about me. So the only things I actually needed to be concerned about were finishing up with the preppies and their parents, then coaxing my snowtireless van around seven lethal miles of curved mountain road.

  The last two rows of Early Decision Dumplings beckoned; These were actually chômeurs – rich biscuit dough-drops that had puffed in a hot butter and brown sugar syrup. I had added oats at the behest of the headmaster, who insisted even the desserts have something healthful about them or there would be criticism. The parents would use any excuse to complain, he told me regretfully. I ladled each dumpling along with a thick ribbon of steaming caramelized sauce into small bowls, then poured cold whipping cream over each. I handed the tray to Audrey Coopersmith, my paid helper this evening. Audrey was a recently divorced mother who had a daughter in the senior class. Gripping her platter of china bowls chattering against their saucers, she gave me a wan smile beneath her tightly curled Annette Funicello-style hairdo. Audrey wouldn’t dream of complaining about the healthfulness of the chômeurs; she spent every spare breath complaining about her ex-husband.

  “I just have so much anxiety, Goldy, I can’t stand This is such an important night for Heather. And of course Carl couldn’t be bothered to come.”

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” I soot
hed, “except that whipping cream might curdle if it doesn’t get served soon.”

  She made a whimpering noise, turned on her heel, and sidled out to the living room with her tray.

  The chômeurs had steamed up the kitchen windows. I rubbed a pane of glass with my palm to check on the storm. Brown eyes like pennies, then my slightly freckled thirty-one-year-old face came into view, along with blond curly hair that had gone predictably haywire in the kitchen’s humidity. Did I look like someone who didn’t know Columbia was in New York? Well, those folks weren’t the only ones with high SAT scores. I’d gone to prep school, I’d even spent a year at a Seven Sisters college. Not that it had done me any good, but that was another story.

  Outside the headmaster’s house, a stone mansion that had been erected by a Colorado silver baron in the 1880s, lamps dotting a walk illuminated waves of falling snow. The snowbound setting was idyllic, and gave no indication of Elk Park’s tumultuous history. After the silver veins gave out, the property had been sold to a Swiss hotelier who had built the nearby Elk Park Hotel. A day’s carriage ride from Denver, the hotel had been a posh retreat for wealthy Denverites until interstate highway and roadside motels rendered it obsolete. In the fifties the hotel had been remodeled into the Elk Park Preparatory School. The school had been through erratic financial times until recently, when Headmaster Alfred Perkins’ elimination of the boarding department, all-out PR campaign, and successful courtship of wealthy benefactors had put “the Andover of the West” (as Perkins liked to call it) on secure footing. Of course, one of the benefits of being a fund-raising whiz had been the current headmaster’s decade-long residency in the silver baron’s mansion.

  The wind swept sudden, white torrents between the pine trees near the house. During the college advisory dinner we’d gotten at least another four inches. Late October in the Colorado high country often brought these heavy snowfalls, much to the delight of early-season skiers. Early snow, like a winning season for the Broncos, also helped yours truly. Wealthy skiers and football fans needed large-scale catered events to fuel them on the slopes or in front of their wide-screen TV s.

  The coffeepots on the counters gurgled and hissed. Headmaster Perkins had given me a dire warning about the old house: any sudden electrical drain would bring the wrath of blown fuses down on us all. For safety, I had brought six drip pots instead of two large ones, then had spent forty minutes before the cocktail hour snaking extension cords around the kitchen and down the halls to various outlets. The parents had found the old house – with its Oriental rugs, antique furnishings, and higgledy-piggledy remodeling – charming. Clearly they had never had to prepare a meal for eighty in its kitchen.

  After the cord caper, my next problem was finding room for salad plates and platters of roast beef as they teetered, askew, on buckled linoleum counters. But the real challenge had come in making Yorkshire puddings in ovens with no thermostats and no windows through which to check the dishes’ progress. When the puddings emerged moistly browned and puffed, I knew the true meaning of the word miracle.

  From the dining room came the ponderous throat-clearing again. I nipped around the corner with the last row of dumplings as the headmaster began to speak.

  “Now, as we prepare these youngsters to set forth into the fecund wilderness of university life, where survival depends on the ability to discover dandelions as well as gold.

  Spare me. Headmaster Perkins, who wore tweeds no matter what the weather, was smitten with the extended metaphor. I knew. I had already had to listen to a slew of them at parent orientation. Arch’s sixth-grade year in public school had started badly and ended worse. But he had survived Elk Park Prep’s summer school to become a new student in the school’s seventh grade. To my great delight, a judge had ordered my wealthy ex-husband to pay the tuition. But as Audrey Coopersmith would soon discover and add to her list of complaints, like most single mothers, I was the one duty-bound to attend parent meetings. Already I had heard about “our trajectory toward the stars” and “harvesting our efforts” whenever things went well, or when they didn’t, “This is a drought.”

  Now Headmaster Perkins intoned, “And in this wilderness, you will all feel as if you are navigating through asteroid fields,” and held a pretend telescope up to his eye. I sighed. Galileo meets Euell Gibbons.

  I finished serving the desserts, returned to the kitchen and with Egon Schlichtmaier, one of my faculty helpers, poured the first eight cups of regular coffee into black and gold china cups. German-born and bred, olive-skinned Egon possessed a boyishly handsome face and a muscular physique that threatened to burst out of his clothes. The school newsletter had stated that the newly hired Herr Schlichtmaier was also highly educated, having just finished his doctoral dissertation, “Form, Folly, and Furor in Faust.” How that was going to help him teach American history to high school seniors was beyond me, but never mind. I told the muscle-bound Herr Doktor that cream, sugar, and artificial sweetener were on the tables, and he whisked out with his tray held high like a barbell. Without missing a beat I poured eight cups of decaffeinated coffee into white and gold china cups. I hoisted my tray and marched back out to the dining room in time to hear the headmaster direct his audience to “… galaxies in a universe of opportunities.”

  I came up to the table where my other usual paid helper, Julian Teller, sat looking terribly uncomfortable. Julian, who was a senior at Elk Park Prep, was a vegetarian health-food enthusiast. He was also a distance swimmer, and sported the blond whipsawed haircut to match. Living with Arch and me the past four months, Julian earned his rent by cooking and serving for my business. Julian was, like Greer Dawson, exempt from service tonight because of the importance of the meeting. I had tried to sneak supportive smiles to him during the dinner. Each time, though, Julian had been involved in what looked like agonizing one-way conversations. Just as I was about to ask him if he wanted coffee, he extricated himself from the woman who had been chatting to him and half stood.

  “Did you change your mind? Do you need help?”

  I shook my head. It was nice to hear his concern, though. Faced with platters of roast beef, Julian hadn’t had much to eat. I had offered to bring some tofu bourguignon that he had left in the refrigerator the night before, but he had refused.

  Julian sat back down and shifted his compact body around in the double-breasted gray suit he had bought from Aspen Meadow’s secondhand store. While helping me pack up for the dinner, he had recited the ranking of the thirty seniors in the class. Most small schools didn’t rank, he assured me, but most schools were not Elk Park Prep. They all laughed about it, he said, but the seniors still had one another’s academic statistics memorized. Julian was second in his class. But even as salutatorian, he would need bucks in addition to smarts to get a bachelor’s degree, as the threadbare suit made plain enough.

  “Thanks for offering,” I whispered back. “The other pots are almost ready and – “

  Loud hrr-hrrs rattled from the throats of two irritated parents.

  “Do you have regular coffee?” demanded Rhoda Marensky, shaking her head of uniformly chestnut hair dyed to conceal the gray. She still hadn’t forgiven me for the Columbia comment.

  I nodded and plunked a black and gold cup down by her spoon. I dislike giving caffeine to people who are already irritable.

  Julian raised one eyebrow at me. I worried instinctively about how his close-clipped haircut would fare, or rather how quickly the scalp underneath would freeze, in the blizzard raging outside.

  “Are you serving that coffee or are you just thinking about serving it?” The harsh whisper came from Caroline Dawson, Greer Dawson’s mother. Fifty-five years old and pear-shaped, Caroline wore a burgundy watered-silk suit in the same style as her daughter’s. While the style favored athletic Greer, it didn’t look to advantage on Caroline. When she spoke sharply to me, her husband gave me a meek, sympathetic smile. Don’t worry, I have to live with her. I placed a white cup at Caroline’s side with the reluctant realiza
tion that all too soon I would be catering to this same group of people again. Maybe the decaf would mellow her out a little.

  “Students moving from high school to college are like – ” The headmaster paused. We waited. I stood holding the tray’s last coffee cup suspended in mid-descent to the table. ” – sea bass… swimming from the bay into the ocean … .”

  Uh-oh, I thought as I put the cup down and raced back to the kitchen to pour the rest of the coffees. Here we go with the fish jokes.

  “In fact” boomed the headmaster with a self-deprecating chuckle into the microphone that came out as an electronic burp, “that’s why they’re called schools. right?”

  Nobody laughed. I pressed my lips together. Get used to it. Two more college advisory dinners plus six years until Arch’s graduation. A mountain of metaphors. A sea of similes. A boxful of earplugs.

  When I came back out to the dining room, Julian was looking more uncomfortable than ever. Headmaster Perkins had moved into the distasteful topic of financial aid. Distasteful for the rich folks, because they knew if you made over seventy thou, you didn’t have a prayer of getting help. The headmaster had squarely told me before the dinner that such talk was as much fun as scheduling an ACLU fund-raiser at the Republican convention. Tonight the only adult not wincing at the word need was the senior college advisor herself. Miss Suzanne Ferrell was a petite, enthusiastic teacher who was also advisor to the French Club and a new acquaintance of Arch’s. I checked Julian’s face. Lines of anxiety pinched at the sides of his eyes. At Elk Park Prep he was on a scholarship that had been set up on his behalf. But the free ride ended after this year, salutatorian or no.

  “And of course,” Perkins droned on, “the money doesn’t rain down the way it does in the Amazon… ” er – “

  Caught in mid-simile, he attempted a mental swerve.