Dying for Chocolate Read online

  Alone back on the third floor of the Farquhars’ house, I bathed and dressed in my stodgy old caterer’s white uniform and apron. An uninvited wave of sadness swept through the room as the sunlight faded. Without work to keep my mind occupied, pain flooded in. I lowered myself to the bed and watched as the mountains’ shadows lengthened over Denver.

  Maybe I never should have started going out with Philip Miller. More even than missing him, I missed the emotional self-sufficiency bred from years of evenings spent in solitude. I had found other things to do: help Arch with homework, talk to Marla, try out new recipes while listening to jazz. In one month, Philip’s doting presence, his evocation of memories and hopes I had had fifteen years ago, made all those activities feel less important. Schulz was a question mark, too, retreating as he had behind his cop persona. Now the future span of evenings stretched out the way they had right after the divorce: empty.

  I put on my latest necessity for the business, thick-soled walking shoes I used for serving. Then I did a quick step over to the Harringtons. An aphrodisiac banquet was no time to indulge in heartache. Let the mood fit the food. Buck up, be happy, have fun.

  Brian and Weezie Harrington had left the door open for me. They were nowhere in sight. Upstairs, water was running, closet doors were opening and closing, and there was the occasional hurried call between rooms. I couldn’t wait to see what Weezie was going to wear. I preheated the oven for the torta and started the soup simmering. I had been lucky to be able to get the oysters. I could see it all now: the sensual activity of digging, the sound of swallowing, the licking of fingers. Tom Jones, eat your heart out.

  Weezie had told me to serve from and clear to a sideboard next to the dining-room table. I assembled trays and ice buckets for the patio and dining room, then got the liquor organized: champagne, chardonnay with the appetizers, Cabernet Sauvignon with the lamb, and Asti Spumanti to go with the dessert tray. I had delicately suggested to Weezie that coffee could help with postprandial love interest for more mature people. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by my own tact.

  The Harringtons’ brass knocker echoed through the house—Sissy and Julian. Both teenagers looked exceptionally uncomfortable, their faces reddened by sunburn or anger. The late-day sun caught gold light in Sissy’s perfectly waved brown hair. Julian’s scalp glistened like a new scrub brush. Perhaps they were put out by having to wear evening clothes. Perhaps I had interrupted an argument. Without getting verbally entangled, I ushered them out to the patio and explained that champagne was going to be the order of business as soon as everyone was assembled. Then I offered them nonalcoholic beer or wine. They were, after all, underage.

  They said they were both in athletic training, thank you very much. La de da. The oysters were calling.

  When I reemerged with a tray of crudités, the teens appeared to have resolved their differences. Sissy was holding one of the crystal glasses up to the light, as if she were looking for a price tag. I tried to remember what it was I had needed as a teenager, and decided it was more compliments.

  “You look lovely,” I said as Sissy reached for one of the gold-trimmed crudité plates, then turned it over.

  “Buckingham by Minton,” I told her. “Very expensive English bone china.”

  She said, “How about the crystal?”

  “What? Are you casing the joint?”

  She wasn’t amused. “I’m just interested. Those glasses look expensive.”

  “The pattern is called Star of Edinburgh. Scottish crystal that, to tempt fate, they use on the White House yacht. And no, it’s not cheap.” I smiled. “That’s a becoming dress.”

  She shrugged. At the library she had been inscrutable. There, perhaps the mention of sexuality had embarrassed her. But if she did not want to encourage interest, she was wearing the wrong outfit tonight. The shirred white bodice of the dress was strapless, showing off superbly tanned shoulders and some cleavage. The above-the-knee black skirt hugged her hips and thighs.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Julian said nothing. I wondered briefly if you could see someone blushing through a Mohawk.

  After a moment Weezie floated out. A diaphanous red chiffon gown billowed around her as she walked. “Oh hello, hello,” she sang out. She stopped dead when she saw Sissy. “Nice dress,” she said sharply.

  “This is Miss Stone,” I said lamely. “Er, Julian’s date. She works at the library and she did an internship with—”

  “I know all about her internship,” said Weezie.

  “How about something nice and cool to drink,” I offered in a rush, to fill the silence.

  “Why not?” said Weezie in the same frosty voice. “Johnnie Walker Black, no mixer.”

  So much for her being able to taste the nuances of the dinner. I poured the scotch over lots of ice and handed it to her. From the house came a wave of approaching voices. Brian Harrington was escorting the general and Adele out to the terrace. The general looked spiffy in a navy-blue suit that fit him like a uniform. Seeing me, he broke into his patented wrinkled smile. Behind him, Adele, elegant in a daffodil yellow linen coat-dress, let go of Brian’s arm and lightly tap-stepped her way along behind her spouse.

  “Now what have we here?” asked General Farquhar as he paced off steps to the bar. He picked up liquor bottles and examined the labels, then took the tops off and gave each a healthy sniff.

  “New way to get a buzz, General?” asked Julian.

  “You have to be careful, son, you never know when substitutions can be made,” he replied seriously. Julian pulled his mouth into a smirk-grin that might or might not have been friendly. Hastily, I started another round with the crudites.

  Brian assumed the role of gracious host. He popped the champagne cork and then flitted from person to person like a honeybee attending flowers. Weezie’s increasingly loud voice pierced the cool evening air. Once the champagne was dispensed, the host, hostess, and four guests arranged themselves into two groups. Brian appeared engrossed with Sissy and Julian, and Weezie held forth to the Farquhars. At one point Weezie nodded to me, which I took to mean that we should start dinner. I also could not help but notice how she shot several furtive glances in her handsome husband’s direction, and how her voice seemed to grow louder each time she noticed Brian moving closer to Sissy.

  Inside, I removed the torta from the warming oven and readied the mushrooms for their brief sautéing. I had put the foil packets of lamb chops in the other oven; the guests would open them at table. I lit the candles and called the assembly to dinner with a set of tiny bells Weezie had given me for that purpose.

  “Suggest,” whispered Weezie as she brushed past me in a cloud of chiffon and sweet perfume.

  “Aye aye, Captain,” I said clearly.

  “Let’s avoid navy terms, shall we?” said the general with a wink.

  “Sissy, darling,” said Weezie, “come and sit down next to me.”

  No, I wanted to say, that’s not the way the seating is supposed to . . . But I let Weezie arrange things in her own way. With a toss of her silver-blond mane she put Sissy on her left and the general on her right. This put Adele on Brian’s right and Julian across from her, which was correct enough in the end. But keeping Sissy away from Brian, not etiquette, had been Weezie’s top priority.

  “What lovely flowers, dear,” Adele confided to Weezie. She leaned forward to admire the arrangement of white rosebuds, ruffle-edged pink tulips, and fragrant purple hyacinths. “Utterly, utterly reminiscent of love.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Weezie, without acknowledging the caterer who had ordered them. She did look up and give me another of her withering looks, however, which I figured meant that it was time to start suggesting.

  “Food for love,” I began, “has a long and illustrious history.” All eyes were on me. I picked up the chardon-nay and began to circle the table, filling the crystal glasses as I spoke. “In the 1400s the Arab sheikh Nefzawi wrote the first known treatise on the subject. Among other recommendations,
he mentioned a number of foods,” the wine bottle teetered over Adele’s glass as I paused, “to excite passionate desire.”

  There was an audible collective sigh. I served the oysters to enthusiastic approval from all but Julian, who nibbled unobtrusively on carrots, looking sullen.

  “Next is Shrimp Dumpling Soup,” I said as I ladled delectable little mouthfuls into each white-and-gold bowl along with the broth. When I had finished passing them around, I said, “The myth surrounding Aphrodite’s birth holds that she was borne to dry land on the crest of a wave. The word aphros means foam. Traditionally, any product from the sea, Aphrodite’s birthplace, has aphrodisiacal properties. In their raw state, seafood such as the oysters contains iodine, reputed to excite the libido.”

  “Mm,” said Weezie after her first spoonful. “Positively sensuous, n’est-ce pas?”

  Brian did not look at his wife but instead gave Sissy a wink. He tilted his soup plate to catch the last dumpling, then noisily sucked it down. After a moment he said, “I’ve heard of this Nefzawi. Seems to me he says one of the things that turns a man on is ‘various women’s faces.’ I can buy that.”

  Sissy said nothing, only turned over an ornate silver fork to see who had made it.

  “When a man ages,” Julian said flatly, “maybe various women are what he needs to turn him on.”

  Weezie gave me an icy look.

  I wanted to say, This is not my fault.

  “Now let me tell you something about oysters,” said the general. “Well, actually, it has to do with pearls. Did you know that Mussolini’s mistress absolutely refused to wear pearls after she heard about the Nazi experiments to coat the things with poison chemicals? The poison would be absorbed through the skin.”

  Adele cleared her throat, as in, Shut up.

  “I’m serious now!” cried the general. “And Ceausescu wore a new pair of shoes every day because he had heard about how the CIA could introduce poisons through the soles. His wife refused to have her hair bleached because she had heard that peroxide could be used for cheap torture on exposed nerve cells. It’s the truth!”

  “General Bo,” said Julian, “you’re great.” He reached over and gently braided his fingers through Sissy’s limp ones. Brian slid a look across to the teenagers’ clasped hands. Weezie visibly stiffened.

  I began to clear the plates. I said, “Mussolini and Ceausescu may not have known that the word for love potion in Latin is venenum. It also means, ah, poison. So there you are.”

  But they didn’t want to talk about poison. The conversation settled uneasily into local politics while I sliced the torta. A meeting of the county commissioners was coming up, where projects approved by the planning commission would get final approval or denial. Sissy said that Protect Our Mountains would be involved in several of the hearings. Adele beamed at her. I remembered Protect Our Mountains, a conservation group that led various crusades against development, was another of Adele’s favorite charities.

  Weezie signaled for another glass of wine. “Speaking of Protect Our Mountains, I’m so upset about this accident with Philip Miller. I can’t imagine why he would drive like that. He seemed like such a sensible fellow. I wonder if he was having some problems.”

  I held the pie cutter still. My back was to the guests. They could not know how acutely I was listening.

  “Problems?” said Sissy. “Dr. Miller wasn’t having any problems. His clients had the problems.”

  Brian said greedily, “Did he talk to you about his clients?”

  This host was definitely weird, I decided as I butchered the last two pieces of torta. What kind of question was that to ask Sissy? At least, I thought he was talking to Sissy. When I turned, all eyes were on me.

  Brian said, “Did he tell you his clients’ secrets?”

  I paused and closed my eyes. “If he did,” I said, “I can’t remember. He was discreet.”

  “I’m so sorry Goldy had to witness that accident,” said General Bo. “Terrible shock.”

  “Yes,” I said curtly. “Who would like a piece of torta?” The steaming slices made their rounds. “Eggs,” I began again, “as well as cheese, are reputed to have aphrodisiac properties because of their association with fertility. And chiles are associated with the more southern climes—”

  “—where we all know what they do during siesta,” finished Brian.

  There was a silence. Sissy looked wide-eyed around the room. Weezie was pinching the red chiffon of her sleeve into unnecessary pleats.

  Julian said, “Why don’t you tell us what they do? If you really do know.”

  Adele reached across the table and patted Julian’s free hand. Brian Harrington still eyed Julian’s other hand, which lay on Sissy’s.

  Brian said, “What an interesting haircut, Julian. I imagine it gets a little cold in the winter.”

  “Oh, Bri,” gushed Weezie, “when we met you wore your hair so long. You complained about how it got in your way when you swam.”

  “Do you still swim, Brian?” asked Adele.

  “Yes, of course,” said Brian. He watched the teenagers’ hands unravel and reknit. He said, “This is wonderful scrambled egg whatever. Should I eat more, or is there an actual main course?”

  “Don’t tease Goldy.” Adele spoke with a slight edge of sharpness. “This is simply delicious.”

  There were some embarrassed nun’s and ah’s, and I scurried out to fetch the next course, trusting that Real Realtors Ate Lamb Chops. The guests opened their packets with cautious solemnity. All but the teenagers studiously swilled the Cabernet. But whatever was supposed to be happening was not happening. Sissy finished examining all the costly things within reach while Adele began a long discourse on the fundraising drive at Elk Park Prep. Julian was quiet. The general, after being shushed by Adele, ate in silence. Weezie fumed. The only noise came from Brian, who continued to direct his syrupy questions and attention to Sissy. Sissy, however, took no more notice of Brian than she had of the food.

  Time for the finale.

  “And now chocolate,” I said with a flourish as I brought out the tray. “Chocolate has the most sinful reputation of all, because the phenylethylamine in it simulates the same feeling we get with, ah, sexual happiness—”

  “Simulates or stimulates?” asked the general, bewildered.

  “Simulates?” interjected Julian. “How does it do that?”

  “You’re the scientific person, my dear,” said Adele in her most flattering tone. “Why don’t you tell us?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Why don’t you tell us?” mimicked Brian Harrington in a high voice.

  My heart squeezed for Julian and the embarrassment I knew he must be feeling. It was like the time I had tried to convince the parents of my Sunday-school kids that they should let me take the class down to help at a Denver soup kitchen. The derisive laughter still rang in my ears.

  But I knew jumping to Julian’s defense would only make things worse. Instead, I concentrated on refilling the platter and glasses with cookies and Asti Spumanti. Weezie held up a piece of fudge and murmured to Julian, “I hope Adele told you Brian’s wild about this.” Julian ignored her.

  When the agony was finally over and they were drinking their demitasse out on the terrace, I washed dishes as quietly as possible. After a very short while I heard rustling in the hall: Sissy and Julian. I scurried out after them.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said in a low voice once I was behind them at the front door. “It was nice of you—”

  But before I could finish, Julian, who had avoided my eyes, slammed the front door with such force that the knocker reverberated, klok klok.

  “—to come,” I said to empty air.

  Not much later I ushered the Farquhars out. I told them I would be over in about half an hour. When I came out to get the last cups, I heard Brian Harrington snoring on the living-room sofa.

  “Leave him,” said Weezie’s sour voice behind me. “Let him wake up with a sore back, see if I
care. He can swim it off at the club.”

  “I’m sorry about tonight,” I said. “Maybe next time—”

  “We’ll make it dinner for two,” said Weezie through clenched teeth. “And try a more potent venenum.’”

  12.

  Sunday I tried to put the events of the previous evening out of my head. I missed Philip, and I still did not know when his funeral would be. The Farquhars, sensing my low mood, invited me to go with them to church and then to the country club for the afternoon. I accepted for church but politely declined the afternoon at the club. My calendar indicated I had two big catering events coming up. The first was a western barbecue for forty the following day, Monday the sixth. And then there was the Farquhars’ anniversary party, a cookout for thirty, on Tuesday the fourteenth. With all the turmoil in my life, I had neglected to cook for the former and plan for the latter, and so had a load of work to do. Onward and upward.

  Before we left for church I started beans simmering, put country-style ribs slathered with homemade barbecue sauce into the oven, then basted chickens before skewering them on the rotisserie for a brief cooking that the grills would complete the next day. When the Farquhars dropped me off after the service, you could have floated into the kitchen on the heady smell of roasting meats.

  I kneaded dough for the rolls and wondered why things had gone so wrong the previous night. The dinner had resembled a wedding I’d done once where three-fourths of the family members were not speaking to each other. Elaborate maneuvers to avoid visual or verbal contact took place both on the dance floor and at the buffet table. By the time it was over I’d felt like a wrung-out dishrag.

  And the nerve of Brian Harrington to ask me if Philip talked to me about his clients! I pressed hard into the dough as I kneaded out, folded in. Perhaps it was because his attempt at flirtation had ended so badly that he now felt he had to put me down at every opportunity.