The Cereal Murders Page 5

  The organist sounded the opening notes of a Bach fugue. I whispered back, “It was awful, but I can’t talk about it now. Help me in the kitchen afterward and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Marla told me she had visitors she had promised to sit with during the service, but that she could help later with the food. Then she whispered, “I heard this kid stole credit cards.”

  “He did not,” said Arch in a very loud voice behind us. “He was nice.” At this, heads in the pews swiveled to stare at us. The Bach was in full swing. Marla lifted her double chin in an imperial gesture. I pretended not to know either of them and hustled the first bird-apple centerpiece out to the church kitchen.

  We mumbled along through the service until the passing of the peace, when you wish the priest God’s peace and then turn to your neighbors and wish them the same. But in this parish the peace was a signal to pass along news, commentary on weather, parish illnesses and absences, and so on, until the priest halted the ruckus to make announcements. Unfortunately, the peace discussion this day was devoted to the events out at Elk Park Prep.

  Happy Endings Plum Cake

  1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter

  ¾ cup granulated sugar

  ¾ cup firmly packed dark brown sugar

  2 large eggs

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  2 ½ cups all-purpose flour (high altitude: add 2 tablespoons)

  2 teaspoons baking powder (high altitude: subtract ½ teaspoon)

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon salt

  2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

  1 16-ounce can purple plums packed in syrup, well drained, the syrup reserved and the plums chopped confectioners’ sugar

  Preheat the oven to 400°. In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter until creamy and light, then gradually add the sugars, beating until creamy and smooth. Beat in the eggs, then the vanilla. Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon together. Stir the dry ingredients into the butter mixture, alternating with ½ cup reserved syrup, beginning and ending with dry ingredients. Stir in the plums. Pour the batter into a buttered 9-by 13-inch pan. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean. Turn the cake out onto a rack and allow it to cool, then dust with confectioners’ sugar. Makes 12 to 16 servings.

  When Arch and I had politely shaken the hands of all those around us, Marla surprised us by squeezing into our pew. She said accusingly, “You didn’t tell me you found him! After the dinner! Did you know the police have already been around to question some of the parents? I hear they suspect that kid living with you. You know, Julian.”

  “What? Who told you that?”

  “I just heard it,” she replied with a shrug of silver suede. “I can’t remember who told me. Oh, look, Father Olson’s giving us the sanctimonious eye. Can’t talk now.”

  During the final hymn I noticed that Audrey Coopersmith had slipped in sometime during the service. She stood, statuelike, in the last pew with her arms clamped across her chest. Her face was fatigued, but carefully made up, and she wore a long white apron over her baggy clothes. Since her separation, Audrey had been inclined to wear oversize chamois shirts and gray pants that looked as if they’d been issued for postal service employees. She carried a purse only rarely, favoring instead a wallet in her back pocket and a chunk of keys dangling from a belt loop. Now, although everyone around her was singing, she was not. Her dark eyes were half closed. I wondered if she was praying for Carl’s return or for self-improvement. On the other hand, maybe these were mutually exclusive.

  While the acolytes snuffed the altar candles, I signaled to Audrey and we quickly set up a table at the back of the church. Then I tried to spot Caroline Dawson in the bustle. The last thing I needed was for the plum cake to be decimated before she even got to sample it.

  Audrey trundled up to one of the counters, her mouth turned down in a deep-set scowl. Above the cheerful din from the foyer, she said, “Greer Dawson’s mother is out there. She wants some plum dessert. I said I didn’t know anything about it. She said, ‘Well, you just better go check, then.’” Audrey fluttered her free hand against her chest. “Why doesn’t she ask Greer? She couldn’t even manage to help us last night, why can’t she pitch in this morning? Or is actual catering too difficult for the Hammer?”

  “Audrey,” I said in a placating tone, “Greer was listening to the program last night, just like Heather, just like Julian. Let me deal with Caroline Dawson.”

  Audrey grunted.

  Of course, she had a point. Greer D., the Hammer, was interested in working for me only as a way to appear well-rounded to admissions folks. I didn’t see why Greer couldn’t round herself out working at the family café, but perhaps the Ivy League frowns on nepotism.

  Anyway, Audrey was correct in saying Greer hardly ever managed to fit working for me into her busy schedule. But I couldn’t afford to alienate her parents before I had wowed them with my baking. I handed an unsmiling Audrey a cheese tray. The enticing smell of cinnamon wafted up from the moist slices of plum cake. As I picked up the cake platter and headed for the Dawsons, I decided that the last thing I’d want to put on my college application was that working in food service had made me well-rounded.

  “Ooo, ooo, ooo,” crooned Marla when I breezed out into the foyer. She cast a greedy eye on the cake. “I still want to hear about last night. And let me tell you, Father Olson is in love with the spread. He already asked me if I thought you’d cater a high-powered clergy meeting.”

  “As long as he pays for it, I’m his.”

  “This is the church, honey.” Marla pinched a piece of cake and popped it into her mouth. “He’s not going to pay for anything.” She chewed thoughtfully, eyes on something over my shoulder. “Here come Hank and Caroline Dawson,” she said under her breath, “the king and queen of the short people. They’ll eat anything in sight.”

  “Hey!” I protested. “I’m short! And I resent—”

  “Behold your monarchs, then,” Marla said with a lift of her chin. “They’re right behind you.”

  The Dawson parents swept up to me. Hank’s look was knowing.

  He said, “Big game today. You nervous?”

  I eyed him. Hank Dawson was a square-set man—square, leathery face with a sharply angled jaw, square shoulders, square Brooks Brothers gray suit. His short salt-and-pepper hair, receding hairline, and quickly appraising Delft-blue eyes all said: No-nonsense Republican here. When we could avoid the topic of how brilliant Greer was, Hank and I chatted knowingly after church about the upcoming Bronco games. We were hard-core fans who kept a separate orange outfit for Sunday afternoons, followed the plays, trades, and strategies with our own commentary, and had a standing prescription for stomach medication when the playoff season began. Talking shop with Hank after the Episcopal church service was like finding your kinsman who speaks Zulu in the middle of North Dakota.

  “Nah,” I replied. “The Vikings are sunk.”

  “You’re right. The Vikings are sunk without Bud Grant.”

  “The Vikings have been sunk since Fran Tarkenton retired.”

  “Still,” persisted Hank, “you have to worry about any team that can sustain a two-minute offense for a whole quarter.”

  “Hank. That was years ago.”

  “Yeah.” He looked reassured. “That was Bud Grant’s last year.”

  Then we said our refrain in unison, “And we have Elway.”

  “Excuse me!” shrilled Caroline Dawson. You see, they always get upset when you speak Zulu.

  I suddenly wished I were trying to sell the Bronco-orange cupcakes to the café, instead of the plum cake. I turned an apologetic and only slightly saccharine smile to Caroline.

  The queen of the short people touched the buttons of her scarlet Chanel-style suit, which was only a shade darker than the burgundy silk of the night before. Marla had once pointed out to me that this particular hue was favored by women in their late fifties
. She had dubbed it menopause red. Standing, Caroline resembled a squat, heavy column abandoned by the Greeks. The two Dawsons reminded me of Arch’s old square and round blocks that had to be hammered through the right holes.

  “Doesn’t that look lovely,” Caroline murmured as she reached for a large slice. “I do hope it tastes as good as it looks.” She gobbled it down and shoved another into her mouth. Hank picked the bars up and ate them two at a time. Mouth full, Caroline finally commented, “That was quite a dinner last night. Of course, Greer doesn’t really need their college counseling. She has her pick of schools.”

  “Oh, ah, really? Well. I’m glad you enjoyed the dinner. Actually, it was very successful until the end.”

  They both looked astonished. Was it possible someone had not heard? Quickly, I explained about finding Keith Andrews. I prayed silently that the police did not arrive to ask their questions during the Bronco game today.

  “My God,” exclaimed Hank Dawson. I think he had just swallowed his eighth slice. He turned to his wife. “Remember what Greer said after the state volleyball championships?”

  Caroline took another bite. Then she smiled primly. “I think I was too excited to notice.”

  Eagerly, Hank turned back to me to explain. “Of course you know our daughter is responsible for the Elk Park Prep volleyball team being state champions.”

  “My heartfelt congratulations.”

  Hank narrowed one eye skeptically. “Anyway, after the final game, Greer did mention to us this rumor that Keith Andrews was having trouble with drugs….”

  I said, “Excuse me?” and momentarily lost my grip on the plum cake platter just as Caroline reached for the last slice, approximately her tenth. “Drugs? Keith Andrews didn’t seem like the type.”

  Hank shrugged, world-wise. “The kind that seems the type rarely is. You know, Goldy, that’s been true for the team too.” We shook our heads together over the unspoken name of a former Bronco tight end. He had tested positive for cocaine three times in-the last year, and had been banned from pro football. An All-Pro player too. At the time, Hank and I had agreed that the state flag should have been flown at half mast. “Take the headmaster’s son, Macguire,” Hank said after our moment of silence. “He looks innocent as can be, but I understand that kid’s had quite a history with substance abuse.”

  “Substance abuse?” Marla sidled up to us with a tray. “What a nice shade of red, Caroline. It suits you.”

  “I can tell you where I got it if you’d like, Marla.” Caroline and Hank reached simultaneously for cupcakes from Marla’s tray.

  “Oh,” trilled Marla, “I don’t think I need shopping advice—”

  “Mrs. Dawson,” I interjected briskly, “do you like this cake enough to sell it in your café?”

  Caroline puckered her lips and closed her eyes. For an instant, she looked like one of those little Chinese demons who brings you nothing but rotten luck. “Not really,” she murmured. “Sorry, Goldy. We do appreciate what you’re doing for Greer, though. We’ll see you in a couple of hours.” And off she and her square husband plodded, licking the last cupcake crumbs off their fingers as they departed.

  “Was that a rejection?” I asked Marla.

  “No, no, my dear, the royal short people have cleaned the trays. Now they need to talk to some other Episcopalians who’ve come back from the Holy Land.” I did not remember the overdressed couple the Dawsons were now chatting with as being particularly religious. Marla said, “You know, Goldy. England.” Under her breath, she added, “My question is, if she didn’t like it, why’d she have so many pieces?”

  I certainly did not know. I checked on the serving table, where Audrey had deftly kept the platters refilled. Across the room, Arch caught my eye. He was standing with the tall, skinny Marenskys, who were avoiding either me or the food or both. Stan and Rhoda Marensky were the kind of people caterers dislike most: They pick at their food, don’t finish it, and then complain about how expensive it is. At that moment Stan was interrogating Arch, who shot me an imploring look that meant: Can we go? I held up my hand: Five minutes. Then I motioned him over. The Marenskys turned their backs.

  “Has the headmaster’s son been in trouble?” I demanded softly when Arch was by my side.

  Arch pushed his glasses up on his nose. A bit of cheese hung on corner of his mouth. I pinched a paper napkin and wiped it off.

  “Do you mind?” Arch leaned away from my ministrations.

  “Tell me about Macguire, the headmaster’s son. And his trouble.”

  Arch shrugged noncommitally. “Well, he’s kind of a goof-off. I mean, with a dad like that, can you blame him if he’s weird? I don’t think he’s allowed to drive anymore. Listen, Mom, people aren’t saying very nice things about Keith today. Like he deserved to die or something.”

  “Who’s saying that, the Marenskys?”

  “Oh, I guess. Them and other people.” Another shrug. Arch, like Julian, wouldn’t tattle if his life depended on it. “I’m telling you, Keith was a great guy. Even though he was a senior, he would talk to you. Most seniors just ignore you.” Arch reached for another cupcake.

  “I know, I know,” I said, and felt a mother’s pang over the way kids treated small-built, nonathletic Arch.

  Marla sashayed up grandly. She had a piece of torte in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She gestured grandly with her coffee cup. “Van Gogh must have had to listen to people argue about the Ivy League. That’s why he came home and cut off his ear.”

  I shook my head.

  “Just go have a listen-in on the conversation between the Dawsons and Audrey Coopersmith. Caroline was going on about grade point average being less important than extracurricular activities. Audrey replied that besides volleyball, the only outside interest Greer Dawson has ever shown was in clothes. So Caroline said, now that you mention it, maybe dear daughter Greer could give Audrey’s daughter, Heather, a few pointers in that department. For that matter—Caroline threw in, as long as she was on a roll—it looked as if Audrey herself could use a little advice in the fashion department.”

  I groaned. “Poor Audrey. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Marla. “I told Father Olson we needed a referee for a coffee hour argument. He said, Oh, theology or ethics? And I said, academics. He nodded. Said he learned all about it in seminary.”

  “Really?”

  But before Marla could elaborate, the head of the Altar Guild came up and asked me to start clearing the serving table, as there was going to be a meeting in the parish hall after church. Arch sidled off.

  To my relief, the cheese was almost gone, the plum cake was crumbs, and the bird centerpieces had been reduced to a few slices of apple-feather.

  “Oh, Goldy!” Father Olson’s face glowed with pleasure. “This was marvelous! And it gave rise to such a lively coffee hour! I wonder, could you be persuaded to do a luncheon-ministry for the Board of Theological Examiners? I’m sorry to say that we can’t really afford to—”

  “No thanks!” I called back gaily, scooping up the last of the Gouda. “I’m all booked for the next three months.” This was not entirely true. But clients have to be willing to pay for their bread. I had a child to support.

  “… just don’t understand why you think your daughter is the only one qualified …” Hank Dawson was gesticulating with a wedge of Gouda. As he chided Audrey Coopersmith, his tone was judgmental. “We have looked into this extensively—”

  Caroline Dawson was nodding as she stuffed the last of a cupcake into her mouth. The lapels of her red suit quivered in indignation. She swallowed and continued her husband’s thought. “Why, just the other day I was speaking with the director of admissions at—”

  “And you think that makes you an expert?” Audrey fired back. Her face flushed with ferocity. “You don’t know the first thing about the value of an education.” She paused, and I felt myself chilled by the intensity of the dark-eyed glare she directed at the bewi
ldered Caroline Dawson. Audrey’s words erupted like a spray of bullets. “You think Ben Jonson is a Canadian runner. You, you”—she paused, grasping for another insult—“you think Heidegger is a box you carry to detect radiation!”

  So saying, Audrey whacked her tray down on the table and stomped out the wooden door of the church. Her chain of keys made a loud chinking sound when the edge of the door caught them. She didn’t stop to tell me good-bye. She didn’t even take off her apron.

  4

  Father Olson tugged on his beard. “I do wish she hadn’t made fun of Heidegger….”

  “Oh,” I said sympathetically. “She’s going through a bad time.”

  Father Olson moved off to smooth the Dawsons’ ruffled feathers. Personally, I didn’t know whether Audrey needed understanding, self-improvement, or a brand-new outlook on life. But she sure needed something. Pain seeped out of her like water from a leaking dam. I resolved to say a few carefully chosen words of support the next time we worked together. Carefully chosen, because Arch always said that what I thought of as support was giving somebody the Heimlich maneuver when all they’d done was hiccup.

  Hank Dawson nodded at Father Olson and maneuvered his way back to me. “Isn’t Ben Jonson a Canadian runner?” His brow furrowed.

  “Yes, of course. Named after a sixteenth-century playwright, perhaps.”

  “Who does that woman think she is?”

  “Well, she was upset …”

  Hank Dawson poured himself another cup of coffee and blew on it. He looked down his broad nose at me. “Audrey Coopersmith has distressed my wife.” This from the fellow who the night before had given me that classic henpecked look: Don’t worry, I have to live with her. Maybe the more distress Audrey created for Caroline Dawson, the more there was for Mr. Caroline Dawson.