CATERING TO NOBODY

DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON

COLD BUFFET FOR FORTY
Poached salmon
Mayonnaise mixed with wild Maine
  blueberries
Asparagus vinaigrette with minced
  tomatoes
Wild rice salad
Herb rolls and honey muffins
Strawberry shortcake buffet
Vouvray, lemonade, coffee and tea

-1-
   Catering a wake was not my idea of fun. First of all, there was the short notice. A person died. Three days later there was a funeral. In this case the body had been discovered on a Monday, autopsy Tuesday, funeral Saturday, seven days after the presumed day of death. In Colorado we didn't call the buffet after the funeral a wake. But whether you called it a reception or coming over for a bite to eat afterward, it still meant food for forty mourners.

   I dumped a mound of risen dough as soft as flesh onto the oak countertop.  Eating, I reflected, was a way of denying death.

   I had known her. I did not want to think about it now. My fingers modeled soft dough around dill sprigs, then dropped the little rolls onto a baking sheet, where they looked like rows of miniature green-and-white sofa pillows. This was the last two dozen. I rubbed bits of yeasty mixture off my hands and let cold water gush over them.

   A professional caterer has to keep her mind on the job, not the reason for the job.  October was generally a slow month for parties in Aspen Meadow. Despite the fact 
that Goldilocks' Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! provided the town's only professional food service, making a living here was always a precarious enterprise. Like it or not, I needed the income from this postfuneral meal.

   Still. I would rather have had Laura Smiley alive. She had been Arch's fifth-grade teacher last year. She also had taught him third, when he was recovering from the divorce. They had become special friends, had worked on games and outdoor projects. They had written letters over the summers. I could picture Laura Smiley with my son, her arm around his slender shoulders, her cascade of brown-blond curls just touching the top of his head.

   Psychologists and social workers had come into the elementary school to work 
with the students after the news of Ms. Smiley's death broke on Monday. Arch had not spoken much about it. I did not know what the counselors had said to him, nor he to them. All during the week he had come home from school, taken snack food into his room, and closed the door. Sometimes I could hear him on the phone, acting as dungeon master or playing television trivia games. Perhaps losing Ms. Smiley was not much on his mind. It was hard to tell.

   But now because of her death we had this job, which would help pay the bills for October. Laura Smiley's aunt from Illinois, acting in place of parents long dead, had ordered the food and sent me an express mail cheque for eight hundred dollars. This covered my second problem, usually my first, and that was money.

   Above the steel hand-washing sink, one of several required by the county for commercial food service, the booking calendar showed only two parties between tomorrow, October tenth, and the thirty-first. Clearing four hundred dollars on each of those plus four hundred for tomorrow's buffet would take us to the Halloween-to-
Christmas season, where I made almost enough money to get Arch and me through May. Long ago I had learned to stop depending on regular child support payments from Arch's father, even if he did have an ob-gyn practice with an income as dependable as procreation. The payments were invariably wrong and invariably late. But arguments between us were bad for Arch and dangerous for me. Peace was worth a lower income. I stared 
grimly at the calendar. Lots of parties between Halloween and Christmas. That was the ticket to financial security.

   Problem number three after short notice and money was getting all the supplies for a job. My meat and produce supplier was doing an extra run for me because she, too, had known the financial strains of single motherhood. Her truck was supposed to be rumbling up from Denver right now bringing a salmon and out-of-
season asparagus and strawberries. After she delivered them, she'd give me a lecture on going out. She'd say, It's not that tough to have fun.

   But tough was like a roll in the microwave. I didn't have time for a harangue about my social life because in 
addition to needing the supplies, I'd just used the last of the honey to make the rolls. This meant the muffins were on hold. The local honey supplier was a handsome fellow named Pomeroy, lusted after by every unattached woman in the county, a fact my supplier usually did not fail to mention. Unfortunately Pomeroy had said he wouldn't be able to get over for a while to resupply my stock. The unusually warm weather had brought out a predator that had raided one of the hives. And he had his hands full.

   Of what, I had wanted to say, but hadn't. Sugar would do for the muffins.

   The phone rang.

   "Goldilocks' Catering," I said into the receiver, "where everything is just-"

   "Spare me the greeting, Goldy," came the voice of Alicia, my supplier. "I called Northwest Seafood. Fish's all yours."

   "You're great." She mm-hmmed and then said nothing.

   I-said, "What is it?"

   "How well did you know this Laura?"

   "She was Arch's teacher. For a couple of grades."

   "Young?"

   "Early forties," I said. "She acted young." I paused. "I knew her."

   She grunted and said she would be up in an hour.

   I opened the refrigerator, a walk-in needed for the business. John Richard Korman, my ex-husband, had found the cost of this item ridiculous. Ditto the van and the required new sinks and shelves to store food above insect level. Other purchases out of my sixty-thousand- dollar divorce settlement had included a six-burner stove, extra oven and freezer, and enough cooking equipment to outfit Sears. Retrofitting our old house off Aspen Meadow's Main Street had not been terribly difficult.

   What had been difficult was hanging up on John Richard's alternately shrieking and pleading voice, and then finally getting the locks changed when he had shown up repeatedly to do one of two things. At first, even though we were separated, he would try to seduce me. Sometimes successfully, I was ashamed to admit. Or he would start a fight to demonstrate his opposition to my financial independence. And by demonstrate, I don't mean like Gandhi.

   In the walk-in I reached for the butter, eggs, and cream. I backed out and whacked the door with my foot, then 
regarded my balancing act in the mirror-black surface. Blond curly hair. Freckles on a face unbruised for three years. Brown eyes. These stared back at me, saying, Don't think about it now, just cook. At thirty I was doing okay, single but with good friends, and only slightly pudgy from all the fancy cooking that made the living for Arch and me.

   But I was preparing a wake for someone I'd known. : Early forties. Also single. Had been.

   For the dessert shortcakes I used an old trick: make giant scones. Another thing I'd learned in this business: involve the clients with the food. Make the spread good to look at, smell, touch, taste. Gauge action by needs. At a bridal shower, don't give the guests much to do with the food since they're already involved with the presents. 
But keeping people active at a wake was essential. Being busy, like working, allayed grief. By splitting cakes and 
heaping on berries and cream, the mourners could start to get their minds off death.

   Getting one's mind off it. Not easy.

   Laura had smiled broadly and flourished papers with Arch's drawings of mountain wildlife at our parent conferences, which I'd always attended alone, as John Richard couldn't be bothered. Arch is so talented, Laura had said, one of the most unusual students I've ever had. It's too bad he doesn't have more friends.

   The food processor blade whirred and bit through the butter and flour. Soon the kitchen would smell divine. Arch could have a hot scone when he came in from school. Maybe he would eat it in the kitchen instead of heading off to his room.

   The phone rang again. "Goldilocks'-" I began, but was interrupted.

   "Shut up, it's me!" shouted Marla Korman, John Richard's other ex-wife, now a good friend of mine. "Arch home yet?"

   I strained to see out the window that overlooked Main Street, then listened for the bus. Yellow aspen leaves as bright as lemon disks shook in the warm breeze. No children's shouts announced the bus's afternoon rounds. Instead there was only the roar of a motorcycle and the rushing sound of Cottonwood Creek, already frigid with October snow melt from the high mountains.

   I said, "Not yet. Ten minutes or so."

   "I've been shopping," Marla said, "because I don't want to think about Laura. The stores are empty now that the tourists have gone. They didn't leave much."

   "Maybe we didn't have much in the first place," I said.

"This place," wailed Marla.

   I poured a cup of coffee and steeled myself for the coming barrage of complaints. The town would be the warm-up for the ex-husband.

   She said, "How demoralizing to live in a terminally quaint western village."

   I made sympathetic noises.

   "Of course, I don't know why I would need a size sixteen cowgirl dress anyway," Marla complained, "since I'm not coming to this shindig tomorrow. The Jerk's going to be there, isn't he?"

   "He certainly is," I said. "But I'm leaving the rolling pin at home."

   Bad joke, but we chuckled anyway. The Jerk was what Marla had dubbed our mutual ex, for his personality and his initials, J.R.K Marla so intensely disliked seeing John Richard that it was hard to understand why she talked about him so much. Seven months after my divorce was final, John Richard ended a fling with a married woman who sang in the church choir and wedded Marla's bulk and wealth. They were divorced fifteen months later and she and I promptly became partners in anger. But before that point Marla's disgust with his extramarital antics had ballooned her up another thirty pounds, weight she'd used to good advantage when he came at her with a rolling pin. She had managed to heave him into a hanging plant, dislocating his shoulder.

   I looked down at my right thumb, which still would not bend properly after John Richard had broken it in three places with a hammer.

   "That rolling pin," Marla was saying between giggles, "that damn rolling pin. You could use it to fix him green tomato 
pie."

   Without thinking, I looked at the menu. Tomatoes. Damn. Amid all the other grousing he had done, John Richard had been at pains to remind me of his allergies to chocolate and tomatoes. I was planning to mince some of the latter and sprinkle the red bits on the asparagus vinaigrette, for color. John Richard would have to get mushrooms if I didn't want to make him sick. Oh, I thought as I poured my coffee down the sink and finished mixing the scones, the adjustments we make after divorce.

   Marla had stopped laughing. "I have news," she announced. "He's bringing his new girlfriend. . ."

   I shook my head and began to spoon mounds of batter onto cookie sheets.

   "Think of it," Marla went on, "you could poison both of them."

   "Wouldn't you just love that," I muttered.

   "On second thought, maybe one death is enough for a while," said Marla. "Since the funeral's tomorrow, I guess our women's group won't meet tonight."

   "I'm swamped," I said truthfully. "How about later in the month?"

   "Don't know if I can wait that long. I need to order some cookies." I said, "Can we talk about it later? I'm awful busy right now." I wedged the phone between my chin and shoulder and scraped the last of the scone-shortcake batter out. It made a sucking noise before plopping on the sheet.

   "The cookies can wait. My pantries are full, anyway. You're getting upset because we've been talking about you-know-who. Sorry."

   "Not to worry," I said. "If I hadn't wanted a family so badly, I'd never have made the mistake of marrying him in the first place."

   Marla sighed. "Oh God, think of Laura. She didn't even, have the chance to get married."

   I checked inside the proofing box; the dill rolls had risen. I snapped the other oven button to Preheat.

   I said, "I am thinking about it. I am thinking about her. I'm fixing all the food, aren't I?"

   "Where's your housemate? What's her name, Patty Sue? Can't she help you? What about Arch? You going to draft him to serve?"

   "Patty Sue will help tomorrow," I said. "She's at the doctor now. Korman senior. Arch is going to have to help. I hate to do that to him since he was so close to Laura. Plus the aunt decided to have this reception over at Laura's house, all the worse. Just a sec." I grunted. I was thrusting my free hand through my dry goods shelves. "Oh my God," I said, "I've let my supplies get too low, even if this is the slow season. I'm out of honey and sugar."

   "No honey and no sugar," observed Marla. "You're not doing very well. And as Laura would have said, you're not acting too sweet either, Goldy. I'll call when you're in a better mood. Let me know how the affair goes." She suppressed a laugh. "Laura would think it was all a big joke, you know. She'd say, Man, this party is dead."

   "Goodbye, Marla."

   The front door swept open and let in a gust of aspen-sweet October air. Arch traipsed into the kitchen and threw his backpack onto one of the counters before heading for the refrigerator.

   I said, "How'd it go today?"

   He groaned. "Terrible. As usual." He turned his small, earnest eleven-year-old face full of freckles and brown hair and tortoise-shell glasses to me.

   He said, "Larry and Sean attacked me. They said I was stupid for still going around on Halloween. They say I'm stupid about everything, and they're the stupid ones. Halloween isn't even here yet!" He shook his head, disgusted. "They said it was like believing in Santa Claus. Look, they tore my shirt." He fingered a rip in the blue-and-red flannel.

   "Hmm."

   He gave me a grim look. "And don't tell me all that stuff about turning the other cheek because I already tried that and it doesn't work. I'm going to have to think of something else."

   I said, "Sorry. Want a hot biscuit in two minutes?"

   "Can't." His voice wrapped around the open refrigerator door. "Todd's calling as soon as he gets home. We're doing a role-playing game and then TV trivia. I've been reading a book about the old shows all week." He emerged clutching a pitcher of peppermint tea, his favorite. "Don't worry. I'll use the other phone line in case any clients call in.

   He smiled, and I wanted to hug him, ripped plaid shirt and all. But he was at the age where this made him uncomfortable, so I just lifted one eyebrow at the tea.

   "You use the last of my sugar in that?"

   "I had to use something," he said in defense. "I needed it."

   I shook my head and began to mince scallions for my Wild Man's Wild Rice Salad, so named because men usually 
turn the other cheek to rice. The rich scent of baking scones filled the kitchen. Arch loaded a plate with oatmeal cookies, a sure sign he was not going to stay and chat.

   "Listen up," I said. "You remember I need you to help tomorrow?" He nodded. "Your job now, please," I went on as I 
handed him two dollar bills, "is to pop on down to the convenience store and get me another bag of sugar. And don't open it for a sweet fix on the way home. I have to have it for the muffins and strawberries and lemonade."

   He groaned dramatically and clomped out, yelling something over his shoulder about Todd calling back in half an hour.

GOLDY'S MARVELOUS
MAYONNAISE

1 large egg, purchased from salmonella-free source
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
1/2 teaspoon dry mustard
1/2 teaspoon salt 
1 cup safflower oil

Put the egg, juice, vinegar, mustard, and
salt in a food processor fitted with a metal 
blade. Process until well blended, about 
30 to 40 seconds.

Place the oil in a small pitcher and, with 
the machine running, dribble it into the 
egg mixture in a thin stream. When all the 
oil has been added, turn off the processor 
and scrape the mayonnaise from the bowl 
and the blade into a small bowl that can 
be tightly covered. Keep the mixture 
chilled. It is best to use homemade 
mayonnaise within 24 hours.

Makes 1 cup

WILD MAN'S WILD RICE SALAD

1/2 cup raw wild rice
2 cups chicken or vegetable broth
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
1 tablespoon tarragon vinegar
½ teaspoon Dijon mustard (or more, if desired)
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 scallions, finely chopped
3 radishes, diced
1 small tomato, drained, seeded, and diced
1/3 cup jicama, peeled and diced
1 cup baby spinach leaves, well washed and drained, plus extra for lining platter
Salt and pepper to taste

The night before you are to serve the 
salad, thoroughly rinse the rice, place it in 
a glass bowl, and completely cover the 
kernels with water. Allow the rice to soak 
overnight. The next morning, carefully 
strain the rice and discard the water. In a 
large pan, bring the broth to a boil and add 
the rice. Cover the pan and immediately 
lower the heat to the lowest setting. Allow 
the rice to cook, covered, about 1 hour to 
1 ¼ hours, or until the kernels have puffed 
and taste done (i.e., they are not chewy or 
hard). Drain the rice and measure it. You 
should have 1 ¾ and 2 cups cooked rice. 
Spread the kernels out on two plates to 
cool completely. For the salad, the kernels 
must be dry and cool. Pat the kernels dry 
with paper towels, if necessary.

In a small bowl, combine the mayonnaise, 
vinegar, and mustard, and whisk well. Add 
the oil in a thin stream, whisking all the 
while, until you have a smooth, blended 
dressing. In a medium-sized bowl, gently 
combine the cool rice kernels with the 
scallions, radishes, tomato, jicama, and 
spinach. Pour the dressing over this 
mixture and mix very gently. Taste and 
correct the seasoning. Chill at least 2 
hours before serving. Turn out onto a 
small platter that you ma line with spinach 
leaves, if desired. The salad must be 
consumed the day it is made; it does not 
keep well.

Makes 4 to 6 servings.

   I washed the food processor and started on Goldy's Marvelous Mayonnaise. When Todd rang I gave him the message. Halfway through drizzling in the safflower oil for the mayo, Alicia banged through the front door. With all the interruptions I'd be lucky not to end up mixing vinegar into the whipped cream.

   "Let's put it on the counter," I yelled over the buzzing and gulping of the processor.

   We heaved a Styrofoam box up next to the mountain of chopped vegetables for the salad. Inside would be the salmon, wrapped in plastic and packed in ice. I planned to poach it that night and slice the strawberries, whip the cream, and make the lemonade all in the morning. Laura's aunt was providing the Vouvray and dishes. I was bringing the cups. Arch and Patty Sue, who had lived with us for two months, would help serve, and we would get through this.

   "That's it," said Alicia after she'd downed the scone I'd offered. "How's your love life?"

   "No news that's fit to print."

   She eyed me. "Something you're not telling me?"

   I said, "Maybe." In a gossipy small town one does not discuss one's social hopes. "Don't worry," I said. "I'll get out eventually." She sighed and left.

   The silvery salmon slapped my hands as I rinsed it and wrapped it in muslin. It too had been dedicated to mating and spawning and look at how far it had gotten.

   Arch marched in and lobbed a two-pound bag of sugar onto a chair before heading for the phone in his room. The opened bag snowed part of its contents onto the kitchen floor.

   "The Television Trivia Championship is at hand," Arch, ignorant of his mess, hollered over his shoulder.

   The rolls enveloped the kitchen with the smell of dill. In a large ceramic bowl I sloshed oil and egg and sugar for the muffins and was about to add the flour when my business line rang again.

   "Goldilocks' Catering-"
 
   "Stop."

   Marla again. I began to measure the flour into the bowl, but some blew up my nose and onto the floor on top of the sugar. New powder on top of packed powder. Soon we could ski in the kitchen.

   "What now?" I said.

   "Don't tell me you haven't heard the latest."

   "How could I? I just talked to you within the last hour."

   "He is marrying this girl." I set the bowl down.

   "Goldy, did you hear me?"

   I reached for the mushrooms. "Goldy, do you believe this?"

  I said, "Hmm."

   "Well, my dear," she demanded shrilly, "what are we going to do?"

   "Feel sorry for her. Not give tomatoes to him," I answered as I began to mince.

     "Anyyway," continued Marla, "the thought of a third daughter-in-law was too much for Vonette. She got drunk, I mean really gone, and Fritz called the cops and had her hauled down to Furman County detox."

   "Not again," I said as bits of mushroom fell from the side of my knife. "Did someone go get her?"

   "Yes, she's home, doing better. She'll be at the wake tomorrow. Fritz, for all that silver fox routine, isn't exactly what you'd call compassionate. Must run in the family."

    I said, "Should I try to keep Vonette away from the Vouvray?"

   "No way," said Marla with a snort. "I can't believe that in your eight years with John Richard, you never saw Vonette's flask. She keeps it in her purse. You must be blind."

   "I am not blind," I replied before hanging up, "but I will be broke if I can't finish the food for this party."

   With the mushrooms minced and wrapped and the muffins steaming in the oven, I headed down the hall toward Arch's room, sugar bag in hand.

   "Do you realize the mess you made by tearing into this?" I demanded after knocking and entering and offering the bag as evidence. He told Todd to hang on and cupped his hand over the phone.

   "Please, Mom," he said as he held up a book, something about TV facts. "Let me talk. Besides, I didn't do that. See," he said as he tongued forward a wet pink mass, "I had bubble gum."

     I cocked my head at him. "Arch, alibis are like food service. They have to do more than look good and hold up. They have to be palatable. And yours," I added, "doesn't even look good."

   "Sorry, Mom," he said. "Really. I'll clean it up."

   I wanted to open his head and look in, to see what he was really thinking, how he was dealing with everything. I wanted to say, Are you okay? And have him say, Yeah, Mom.

   "Don't bother." I said. "I swept it. Just be more careful, all right?"

   He nodded solemnly and said nothing. And then I turned away. I did not know what the right grieving behavior should be from a boy whose favorite teacher ever, 

Laura Smiley, had only six days before slashed her wrists and bled to death.

-2-
   I'm starving," said Patty Sue as she 
tiptoed into the kitchen in a ruffled pink 
housecoat the next morning. I finished 
slicing the strawberries and offered her a 
bowl. A lanky twenty-year-old who had a 
twig-like figure and the metabolism of an 
athlete, Patty Sue Williams had been my 
roommate since August tenth at Vonette 
Korman's request.

   "She just doesn't have anywhere to live 
while she's here, Goldy honey," my ex-
mother-in-law had said, "and she needs 
Fritz to treat her medical problems. Take 
her in for a while. Give her a job. She's 
never done anything out there in eastern 
Colorado except live with her folks. This 
gal wants to learn, Goldy. You can teach 
her."

   This I had come to doubt, I reflected as I 
pushed down on lemon halves to ream out 
their juice for the lemonade. Patty Sue 
had been so sheltered by her parents that 
her approach to any new endeavor was 
timidity, confusion, or both. She had 
attended a local community college "for a 
while," she said vaguely, as if that, like 
everything else in her life, had not quite 
panned out. When she first arrived she 
had told me all about herself, including the 
fact that she was a virgin. Dr. Fritz 
Korman, John Richard's father and the 
other half of Korman and Korman Ob-Gyn, 
was treating Patty Sue for amenorrhea. 
Which meant she hadn't had a menstrual 
cycle for the last year.

   "This is a bad thing?" Marla had asked 
at the last meeting of Amour Anonymous, 
our women's group.

   "It needs to be treated," I replied. "Her 
doctor out in Fort Morgan sent her to Fritz, 
who claims to be some kind of specialist 
with it. It's serious enough that Patty Sue's 
mother let her come out and live with me, 
although she calls once a week to make 
sure I'm not corrupting her."

   "Not a chance of that, I'm afraid," Marla 
said. "Maybe we could bring her into the 
group as a special assignment." I doubted 
if Patty Sue would have recognized herself 
in any of the literature about love-addicted 
women, which the Amour Anonymous 
group reads religiously. Sometimes I 
wondered if she recognized herself as 
anything. She was I tall, lovely, and 
unsophisticated to the point of never 
having operated a dishwasher. She 
wanted to learn to drive a car but was 
intimidated by crown roast of pork. At first 
she had been quite eager to learn the 
catering business. She had made 
cementlike loaves of bread and 
overcooked hamburgers with the brightest 
of smiles. But just when she started 
mastering the skills, she had detoured into 
a state of distraction.

   In September she'd started avoiding my 
eyes and my questions. Perhaps she was 
thinking about her sickness. It was strange 
because she didn't look sick. In fact, 
physical fitness was her one obsession. 
She had even asked that her first wages 
as a caterer's helper go to adding her to 
my athletic club membership. Despite the 
mood shift, which she unfortunately could 
not blame on PMS, she still worked out at 
the gym. But her energy had become 
feverish instead of enthusiastic. And her 
cooking abilities, such as they were, had 
gone to hell.

   "That was great," Patty Sue said now as 
she licked her fingers from the 
strawberries. "This kitchen always smells 
super."

   I set the bowl aside and broke three 
eggs into an iron skillet, then went back to 
squeezing lemons until it was time for the 
over-easy part. These days, nothing was 
easy for Patty Sue until it was over. My 
attempts in the last two weeks to teach her 
to cook anything more complicated than 
toast, much less eggs, had not gone well. 
Words like marinate and braise were 
beyond her. I had asked if she was 
homesick. She'd said no, and gone on to 
leave the top off the food processor when 
she worked with flour, generating small 
blizzards.

   So I had put her to work serving to pay 
for her rent, food, and right to exercise 
indoors. For Laura Smiley's wake she was 
in charge of the strawberry shortcake 
buffet. This would mean little beyond 
keeping a platter stacked with scones and 
replenishing bowls with sliced strawberries 
and whipped cream.

   "Where's Arch?" I asked as I placed little 
glasses of orange juice next to each 
placemat.

   Patty Sue said, "On the phone, I think."

   Since she obviously was not going to 
get him, I started down the hall to his 
room. On the way I glanced at the 
drawings of mountain flowers he had done 
last spring. Laura had encouraged his 
artwork after he'd produced the sketches 
of high-country animals. These delicate 
pen-and-ink works were of bluebell, 
fireweed, daisy, lady's slipper - all part of a 
project on nectar producers. Arch had 
chewed his tongue and furrowed his brow 

while drawing the details of tendrils and 
stamens.

   Arch was the other problem-in-
residence. Never gregarious, he had 
seemed even more isolated since the 
beginning of school. Twice he had come 
home with a black eye and a note from the 

principal saying he had been in a fight. I 
knew better than to pry. Or worse, rescue. 
I just wanted to understand what was 
going on.

   Since Laura's death he had become 
even more withdrawn. Whenever I was 
near he spoke on the phone in a hushed 

tone. His eyes glazed more and more in 
indifference, as if he were taking lessons 
from Patty Sue. Our days of counting 
spoons, of telling stories, of loitering next 
to the hill of pumpkins at the grocery store 
to choose just the right one for a jack-o'-
lantern - these were over. Immersed in 
fantasy role-playing games, he prepared 
and embarked on elaborate paper 
adventures, the purpose of which eluded 
me. As I edged away from the drawings 
and approached his room I could hear the 
authoritative voice he invariably used 
when directing one of these adventures. I 
slid his door open.

   ". . . and since you have trespassed the 
space in front of their lair," he announced, 
"you will be attacked by a low-flying 
straight line of stringrays-"

   "Arch!" I stuck my head into his room. 
"Hate to interrupt. Breakfast."

   He looked up at me from his neatly 
made bed. He was already wearing his 
white shirt and black pants. Soon he 
would cover this outfit with one of our 
white chef's aprons.

   "To be continued," he said, and hung up. 
Behind the glasses his eyes were 
inscrutable.

   "You're all right?" I said, half statement, 
half question. "I'm not hungry," he said 
with straight-lipped calm.

   "For eggs or anything. Let's just go."

   And so we did. Patty Sue ate all the 
eggs. We packed the van and set out.

   The air was cool but calm, quite different 
from the snarling frost-blowing beast an 
October day could be. At eight thousand 
feet above sea level, snow and cakes fell 
unexpectedly. After eleven years I'd 
learned how to adjust the recipes, but 
driving the van through storms and over 
ice remains a challenge. This day the 
aspen leaves moved languidly as the van 
sputtered out of the driveway's dust. 
Above, the sky was deep blue and 
cloudless, as if nature were holding her 
breath before the first storms. Starting the 
descent to Main Street, we passed a 
vacant lot and had a glimpse of the far 
distance.

   "Oh," said Patty Sue, "what is that?"

   She was pointing to the town's 
namesake, the Aspen Meadow, now a 
large patch of gold in a green-and-brown 
quilt of trees about seven miles away. This 
patchwork of fall color nestled at the base 
of mountains already blanketed with white. 
I explained to her that that area was 
known as the Aspen Meadow Wildlife 
Preserve. There, I added as we turned 
onto Main Street, the forest was so thick 
that during dry spells even hikers were 
barred entry, for fear of forest fire.

   "Arch knows all about the Aspen 
Meadow," I announced, hoping to invite 
him out of his silence. "He's done 
drawings as part of his school work."

   "You do?" said Patty Sue as she turned 
to face him. "You have?"

   "Oh, I guess," said Arch in a flat voice. 
"The Webelos hike in for the last pack 
meeting of the year," he said. "The woods 
are real deep. We see a lot of deer and 
elk and foxes and stuff like that. But to get 
in you have to go down a long dirt road. 
Fritz fishes the upper Cottonwood in the 
summer, and Pomeroy Locraft raises 
bees." He thought for a moment and then 
explained to Patty Sue, "I used to help 
Pom with the hives, last spring when I was 
studying bees."

   "And flowers," I added.

   "Did you get stung?" Patty Sue asked. 
"Did you catch fish?"

   "I caught some trout," said Arch. He 
thought for a minute. "The bees never 
stung me." I looked at him in the mirror. 
He was shaking his head at Patty Sue, as 
if he were twenty and she eleven. He 
explained, "You learn how to be careful. 
Pomeroy taught me stuff like wearing 
white around the bees." Arch sighed. "He 
taught me a lot."

   "This Pomeroy," I said to anticipate Patty 
Sue's next question, "teaches driver ed 
over at the high school and does the 
apiary in the summer. Pomeroy is also 
recently divorced." I stopped at Main 
Street's one red light and smiled at my 
housemate. "A new single person in town 
can be an interesting part of the 
landscape, too."

   "Oh," said Patty Sue.

   "Will Dad be at Ms. Smiley's?" asked 
Arch.

   "Yep," I said, and pushed the van's 
grinding gears into first. "Vonette and 
Fritz, too. Plus all the teachers from the 
schools."

   Patty Sue said, "I've never seen a dead 
person."
   "Don't worry," I assured her, "we're not 
going to the church at all. Plus it's not that 
kind of wake. They'll have the funeral and 
the interment while we're setting up. All 
we'll see is live people."

   Patty Sue paused and then said 
suddenly, "I never knew anyone who killed 
herself."

   I did not answer but glanced again at 
Arch in the rearview mirror. He was 
looking out the window, but sensed my 
eyes.

   "It's okay, Mom," he said. "You can talk 
about it."

   "All I know is," I said quietly, "what I've 
heard. She was out doing errands 
Saturday morning. One week ago today. 
On Monday she didn't show up for school 
and didn't call in. They got a substitute." I 
coaxed the van into second and turned 
onto Homestead Drive before going on. 
Apparently one of the teachers came over 
at lunchtime to check on her and to bring 
some papers that needed correcting. The 
door was open. Laura was in the bathtub. 
Dead. Razor in her hand and dried blood 
all over, I guess. No note, but no sign of a 
fight or anything. There was an autopsy." I 
cleared my throat. "I think that's routine. 
Anyway, the guy said suicide." I paused. 
"Except that it just seems so sad. 
Premature."

   I glanced at Arch. He was intent on the 
view out the window. The van released 
another cloud of dust as we turned onto 
Piney Circle, a dirt road where wood-
paneled houses peeked out from behind 
stands of ponderosa and lodgepole pine.

   "So did you know her?" Patty Sue 
asked.

   Alicia's question. Why did people inquire 
so suspiciously about your prior 
acquaintance with a suicide victim? Were 
they trying to ascertain guilt? If you had 
known her better, she wouldn't have done 
this? If you hadn't known her at all, you 
were off the hook?

   "She was Arch's teacher last year and 
two years ago. I saw her at conferences," I 
replied. "Sometimes I saw her in exercise 
class. That's it." I thought for a minute. 
"She was funny. She could make you 
laugh talking about how she was going to 
be a taxing person for the IRS, things like 
that. And she was a special person for 
Arch."

   I looked again in the mirror. My son was 
holding his hands over his eyes. I pulled 
over onto the graveled shoulder and 
turned to face him.

“Arch," I said. "You don't have to do this. 
Listen, we can manage with just Patty Sue 
and myself serving. You don't even have 
to come at all."

   Patty Sue and I sat as Arch sobbed 
quietly. I handed him a tissue. I shouldn't 
have talked about Laura Smiley, after all. 
Arch blew his nose and coughed as 
people do when they want it to look as if 
the real problem is sinus congestion, not 
heartache.

   "It's okay," he said. He cleared his 
throat. "Let's go. Please."

   I said, "You really don't have to."

   "Yeah," he said, "I do."

   We turned off Piney Circle and onto Pine 
Needle Lane. Whoever had named the 
streets wanted to remind us we were in 
the mountains. The lane was a dirt road 
that would take us to Laura's house. She 
had lived close to the center of town, in a 
hilly area once peppered with log cabins. 
In the Forties, Aspen Meadow had been a 
rustic retreat from Denver for the well-to-
do. Now the largest portion of residents 
made the hour-long commute to 
Denver to work. In Laura's residential area 
small A-frames and wood-paneled houses 
built in the Fifties and Sixties were 
sandwiched between a scattering of 
remaining cabins. The resulting 
architectural mishmash made the area not 
a good investment for the commuters, but 
a haven for teachers, artists, waiters, and 
others who could not afford a ritzier 
neighborhood.

   The van shook as we started down the 
steep, dusty driveway to Laura's 
bungalow. The aunt from Illinois had flown 
in and rented a car. It stood outside the 
open garage, as she had planned to take 
a limousine to the funeral. She had left us 
enough room so that I could just edge the 
van in next to the garage door.

   Fortunately the aunt also had 
remembered to leave the door unlocked. 
We pushed in with our crates, boxes, 
foodstuffs, bowls, and cups.

   Once inside I took a deep breath. A 
professional service from Denver had 
been in to clean. Their assignment 
included, Laura's aunt had crisply 
informed me, disinfecting and regrouting 
the bloodied bathroom tile. This was about 
the fifth time I'd done a postfuneral meal in 
the home where a person had died. I 
shivered in anticipation of any lingering 
smell or sense of death.

   But here there was none. Large 
bouquets of flowers, florist's mixtures of 
carnations and gladioli, snapdragons and 
baby's breath, crowded the counters in the 
brightly wallpapered kitchen. Only the 
cinnamon smell from the carnations and 
the piney scent of disinfectant lingered in 
the air.

   The house was small. We carted our 
boxes through the. garage into the 
kitchen, which adjoined a larger dining-
living room combination. The guests would 
be parking around the side near the aunt's 
car. On that side there was a walkway to 
the front door, which opened into the 
dining-living area. I surveyed the room to 
figure out how to set up the tables and 
arrange the flowers between the plates 
and food. Like an investigator at a crash 
site, I did not want to think about the 
tragedy that had happened here. We had 
a job to do. The living had to eat.

   Nevertheless, pacing off the living room 
for measurement, I kept expecting to feel 
some eeriness in the house. What was 
actually discomfiting was that the whole 
place seemed so terribly cozy. Two of the 
living room walls paneled in diagonal 
beetle-killed wood glowed green-gold in 
the sunlight. Shelves and cabinets dotted 
the other walls. There was a wall of 
photographs. Deep blue carpet covered 
the area where the floor was not wood. In 
addition to the photos there were painted 
pictures of snowy mountains and snowy 
fields and brooks with snowy banks. 
Laura's two wing chairs looked newly 
reupholstered, as did the two old but not 
antique love seats. The fabric on the 
furniture and several throw pillows was a 
print of spring flowers-periwinkle blue, 
kelly green, sunshine yellow. With the blue 
rug and rows of wooden shelves and 
cabinets, the big room was lively with 
color. Nowhere in sight were the browns 
and grays and blacks, the filth or lack of 
care one would expect of a suicidal 
personality.

   The three long tables ordered from 
Mountainside Rental lay piled like slabs of 
rock on the blue rug. They would all fit. We 
pushed the love seats and chairs into 
conversational groupings, then cracked 
open the tables and arranged them in a 
horseshoe shape. Arch unfurled the 
tablecloths while Patty Sue and I began to 
unpack the food.

   "Listen to this," I said a few moments 
later. I had just closed the refrigerator and 
was perusing the homemade magnets 
and cartoons with which Laura had 
festooned the door. Arch and Patty Sue 
were in the living room setting out 
silverware and plates in the areas 
between the flower baskets.

   I read, " 'This refrigerator is cooler than 
Dave Brubeck.' Uh-huh. A woman should 
be more than a cute dish in the Cabinet. 
She should be Secretary of State.' Very 
funny. 'The only time I COOK is on the 
highway.' Ha!" I turned to the dining room, 
where Patty Sue and Arch had begun 
unraveling extension cords for the coffee 
machine. "How could a funny person get 
so depressed?"

   After a minute Arch said, "Oh Mom, you 
know. She was I always making jokes. ‘A 
school is for fish,' stuff like that."

   "Right," I muttered, then read above the 
stove: "When is a pig a canine? When it is 
a hot dog." By the sink: "I went to 
plumbing school and told them to make 
me into Farrah Faucet."

   Patty Sue joined me. Her face was paler 
than usual. She said, "I feel kind of 
spooky. Please tell me again what you 
want me to do. I mean, when the people 
get here."

   I explained her duties once more, then 
showed her the bathroom, in case folks 
asked for directions. To my relief the aunt 
or the cleaning service had put up an 
opaque white shower curtain, whose new-
plastic smell was overwhelming. It was 
drawn across the tub. I couldn't help it: I 
poked my head around the curtain while 
Patty Sue checked her lipstick in the 
mirror. The bathtub was spotless. What I 
had expected to find I did not know. I 
hustled Patty Sue out to the kitchen to 
show her where everything would be. Arch 
was busy slicing lemons to float in the 
lemonade pitcher.

   When Patty Sue was occupied in the 
living room opening bottles of wine, Arch 
said to me, "You know Dad has a new 
girlfriend."

   I said, "I know." I was looking through 
Laura's pantry for extra sugar in case we 
needed additional lemonade. I had 
brought the rest of the new bag, but the 
warmth of the day made me worry about 
the possibility of needing more. The only 
thing I found was some flour she had put 
in a canister sporting, naturally enough, a 
painted flower. Since I knew no homonym 
for sugar, I gave up.

   "Maybe she'll be here," said Arch.

   "Right," I said. I turned to him. "The 
girlfriend. Do you care?"

   He stared down at the lemons and I was 
immediately sorry. I knew his warning was 
meant to prepare me for not caring, not 
him.

   "Sorry, hon," I said. "I've just got a lot on 
my mind."
   "Will Vonette be here?" he asked. "I 
wanted to talk to her yesterday but Fritz 
said she was sick again."

   Arch did not use words like grammy or 
grandpa because John Richard and I had 
never taught him to. He had a child's 
devotion to his grandmother, who doted 
on him. Fritz had always been too involved 
in his practice to pay any more attention to 
Arch than recognizing him. But Vonette's 
"being sick" was the euphemism the 
adults in Arch's life used to refer to her 
cocktail hour beginning at eleven in the 
morning. I often wondered if Arch knew, or 
suspected, the truth.

   "Sick again," I repeated as I scanned the 
kitchen. "Yes, Marla told me that."

   "They're coming," called Patty Sue from 
the other room.

   "Quick, slip on your apron, kiddo," I told 
Arch. "Then go to the front door and greet 
people. Tell them to leave coats, if they 
have any, in Laura's bedroom, which is on 
the other side of the living room." I 
hesitated. Then I said, "And show them 
where the bathroom is."

   His apron was in place; he raised fearful 
brown eyes to mine at the word bathroom.

   I put my hands on his shoulders. "I 
checked it, and it's all clean."

   He said, "I really don't like this. I'm 
afraid." And so, for different reasons, was 
I.

-3-
   Parsley tendrils brushed the sides of the 

salmon and the exposed pink backmeat 
when I set the silver platter down on the 
long main-course table. I ladled the 
mayonnaise into a crystal bowl and placed 
it next to the salmon. Then I carried out 
the asparagus and the rest, including a 
packet with the mushrooms I had minced 
to replace the Jerk's tomatoes. Arch had 
ushered the first group into Laura's 
bedroom to leave their coats. The murmur 
of voices and click of heels on the brick 
walkway filtered through the air.

   Backing up to the kitchen, I gave the 
room a quick scan before putting on my 
apron. Catering a reception was much like 
directing a play: the props and actors all 
had to be in place before the 
entertainment could begin.

   My hands were shaking, my ears 
burning. Inexplicably, my right shoulder 
began to hurt. I had to take mental stock. 
Pull yourself together, I told myself. But 
the old fears welled up.

   Toward the end of my marriage to John 
Richard, we had a fight in which I fell 
backward into an open dishwasher. My 
right shoulder was slit open by a 
protruding knife, necessitating stitches and 
a sling. While I was recovering, but before 
I could consciously acknowledge how bad 
things had become, I had a recurrent 
nightmare of being raped. The man in the 
nightmare was a famous regional tennis 
player named John. When the rape was 
over, a voice would say, "Call the 
plumber." Then with great clarity one 
morning I realized that John in the dream 
was John my spouse, and that it was my 
life which was draining away.

   I filed for divorce, then threw myself into 
the catering work with the zeal of a lover. 
Though I'd finally gone back to school 
when Arch was in first grade to finish a 
degree in psychology, the food service 
offered the most immediate potential for 
financial security. The child support 
payments, when they came, took care of 
about a third of the house payment. New 
recipes, new bookings, keeping accounts, 
working in the kitchen, and most 
important, being financially independent of 
John Richard, all these I relished. My 
shoulder healed; my work was my love. 
My nightmare now, when I had one, was 
that the business would be taken away as 
my dream of a family life had been.

   I took a deep breath. My heart beat in its 
cavity. John Richard was going to be here 
and I understood why Marla was staying 
away. He would act charming, do his 
handsome guy routine with the women. 
Then in a few moments he would come up 
and make some cutting remark. He 
wouldn't do anything to hurt me, in any 
event not physically, not here in front of all 
these people. I pressed my lips together. 
Go greet the guests, I told myself, but 
could not.

   I looked through the kitchen drawers 
and found a pack of Kools, lit one, and 
inhaled deeply. Heavenly. I pondered the 
walls of the kitchen, which Laura had 
papered in a pattern of ice cream cones in 
Neopolitan colors. Just right for a teacher. 
But at least she smoked. Smoking is self-
destructive. Laura Smiley was self-
destructive, remember?

   But she hadn't had an ex-husband 
showing up to taunt her, I reminded my 
inner voice.

   How do you know what taunted her? 
asked the voice. I put out the cigarette and 
slipped into the living room. Maybe I would 
just take a look at that wall of photos 
during my break, see who had been the 
people in Ms. Smiley's life. But I couldn't 
take a break if I never started working.

   "Trixie," I said to the backside of a tall, 
muscled woman.

   Trixie Jackson finished shaking off her 
coat and turned around. She was one of 
the aerobics instructors at Aspen 
Meadow's athletic club, although I had not 
seen her for about a year and had put it 
down to a class-schedule change. She 
narrowed her eyes at me. I thought, She 
can smell the cigarette.

   "Good to see you," I said. "How was the 
funeral?"
   "Depressing," she replied. She raised an 
eyebrow at me. "Your ex-husband was 
there. John Richard."

   I resisted asking her if that was what 
made it depressing and motioned Arch 
over to take her coat. More people 
shuffled through the door and their low 
voices gurgled through the room like water 
melting a lake of ice. Trixie headed off 
toward the as - yet unmanned beverage 
table.

   Vonette Korman's shrill voice carried 
over from outside. "It just makes me so 
sad," she was saying, "and she was so 
young and all. Course maybe not that 
young. Still, though. She was a caring 
person. And it is sad."

   I was caught in a dark bustle of coats, 
unneeded on this warm day but for the 
chilling effects of a funeral. Vonette's 
highly made-up face and brilliant orange-
red hair emerged by Trixie and the 
glasses of white wine. Threading my way 
back toward the food, I kept an eye on my 
ex-mother-in-law by pretending to 
examine the straightness of the 
tablecloths. And there it was, just as Marla 
had observed. As quickly and stealthily as 
any magician, Vonette drew a small 
leather-covered flask out of her purse and 
poured a clear liquid into her wineglass. It 
must have been vodka or gin. Unlike a 
magician's, her glass contents did not 
change color, although I imagined it had 
changed into a martini.

   "Mom," came Arch's shrill whisper from 
nearby. "Now what do you want me to 
do?"

   "Go tend the drinks," I whispered back. 
"Let them pour their own wine. You just do 
lemonade and coffee." I looked back at 
the table. "And tea. That other pot has hot 
water in it and the Lipton bags are next to 
it. Sugar and cream are on the table. All 
you need to do is keep everything going."

   He nodded and turned away. "Please 
come and have something to eat," I said 
to a desultory group. And with that the 
show had begun. When their stomachs 
were full, the entertainment would be 
complete. I hoped.

   "Well, if it isn't the little food lady," came 
the all-too-familiar voice. How he had 
found me so quickly I did not know. "I may 
not miss much," John Richard said with a 
laugh, more like a snort, "but sometimes I 
miss your cooking."

   "Really?" I replied. "Funny, I don't miss 
anything."

    I looked up at my ex-husband. Although 
I had not cared what clothes he'd worn 
when we were married - he looked like a 
male model in every thing - I had a 
compulsive interest in assessing his 
current wardrobe. Perhaps it was the new 
ostentation. He wants to look younger: Or 
the leather, wool, occasional silk: he's 
making lots of money. If I thought it was 
polyester, I savored an inner victory: the 
practice is failing. I now glanced from the 
hand-tooled cowboy boots past the 
charcoal-colored wool pants to the silk 
cowboy shirt and Navajo bolo tie. The bolo 
was held with a silver ring sporting a hunk 
of turquoise that matched his eyes. John 
Richard was tall and blond, with broad 
shoulders and narrow hips. He had more 
the build of a prizefighter than a doctor. 
Which, I reflected, was probably 
appropriate.

   He straightened his tie. He said, "Outfit 
okay?"

   I took a deep breath. I was too angry to 
admit he looked fabulous. I closed my 
eyes and feigned boredom.

   "Remember," I said, "I'm from New 
Jersey. There, people wear cowboy 
clothes up to fourth grade. But suit 
yourself."

   He was walking away. He held his hand 
up in mock salute. "I'll do that."

   I looked at the food spread out on the 
table, then scanned the room for Patty 
Sue. She was talking to Pomeroy the 
beekeeper. At least someone was having 
a decent conversation with a man. Fritz 
Korman was sidling up to Patty Sue 
himself. Didn't he see her enough with the 
twice-weekly visits? I also noticed Vonette 
watching Fritz.

   Not a student of social interaction, I put 

myself to work. Besides, I didn't want to 
seem to be looking for John Richard.

   "Come and eat," I invited a new gaggle 
of people eyeing the salmon. "C'mon, Trix, 
" I said because she was once more near 
me.

   Trixie's right arm - ripped, shredded; cut, 
as they say in the body business - 
reached for a plate. I lifted salmon flesh 
from the carcass.

"Asparagus?" I asked her.

   "Of course," she said. "But no bread."

   "Were you a friend of Laura's?" I asked.

   "I knew her," she said vaguely, as I 
topped her coral-colored mound of fish 
with a dollop of mayonnaise. Trixie looked 
at me, dark brown eyes in a face framed 
with streaked blond hair. She said, "Not 
too much mayo." She thought for a 
minute. "Laura used to come to class. 
Sometimes we talked afterward. She was 
funny, a little wacko, I thought, but not. . . 
She never came to the club's parties. She 
was like you, didn't really go out with 
men."

   I mm-hmmed and averted my eyes to 
end the conversation. This was not the 
assessment of my current social life that I 
wanted John Richard to overhear.

   The aunt came up and asked how 
everything was going, then complimented 
us on the food, which she had yet to taste. 
She was a short woman with pale makeup 
and too-black hair cut severely short 
around her face.

   "Thank you," I said. "Will you be around 
long?"

   She shook her head. "I'm flying back to 
Chicago tonight. The house is going up for 
sale Monday. She left her goods to me, 
but I certainly don't know what to do with 
them. I'll be back in November to finish 
things up." She gave me an ingratiating 
smile. "Your son is just a little darling. And 
how nice of him to help you with the 
business."

   I nodded and fixed her a plate, then 
glanced in the direction of Arch, who was 
talking to John Richard, or rather, being 
talked to. Arch was nodding, his face full 
of pain. I could imagine the questions. Did 
you try out for soccer? Are you going to 
play football? Have you thought about 
basketball? Why not? The Jerk had never 
accepted the fact that his son was not 
destined for the NFL.

   I reassured the moneyed aunt that the 
catering business was very important to 
me, as well as to Arch. She gave me a 
sympathetic look and slid away.

   Now I could sense John Richard, hear 
him, see him shuffling along in what had 
become a fairly long food line, maybe ten 
people. With that kind of backup I was 
now preparing the plates in advance, 
whether the guests wanted asparagus or 
not. I heard him again and looked up. He 
was talking to Fritz. A medical 
conversation, no doubt. Beside the Jerk 
was the new girlfriend, a nondescript 
brunette whom my memory could only 
vaguely identify as a teacher.

   I counted out the plates to John 
Richard's. Eight. I. drew out the mushroom 
packet. No sense in making him sick with 
tomatoes, thus risking more wrath, 
although the thought made me giggle. I 
sprinkled the mushroom bits on top of 
John Richard's asparagus vinaigrette and 
kept going with plate preparation. I looked 
back at the line. For heaven's sake. The 
girlfriend had stepped in front of the Jerk, 
so now she would get the mushrooms and 
he would still get tomatoes. I clanked the 
plates into their proper order, and that was 
my mistake.

   John Richard sidled up to the front of the 
line and again straightened the bolo as he 
peered at the dishes. Then he raised a 
thick wrist to dramatically count the 
number of people in line.

   "Okay, Goldy," he said with a deep sigh, 
as he picked up the plate with the 
mushrooms. "What are you trying to feed 
me?"

   "It's not for you. It's for your girlfriend. An 
aphrodisiac. She may need it."

   He said, "Then you won't mind if I send 
this down to a lab and have it analyzed."

   "Don't be so paranoid." I grabbed the 
edge of the plate. "It's just mushrooms 
instead of tomatoes, because I didn't want 
you to get sick."

   He pulled the plate toward him. The 
salmon made a precarious slide toward 
the silk cowboy shirt.

   "Will you stop?" I said through clenched 
teeth. "Just let me get you a new one."

   "Like hell," he said. He pulled the plate 
as I let go. The vinaigrette splashed down 
the silk.

   John Richard cursed.

   I met his withering look and said, "Send 
me the cleaning bill."

   He muttered something and moved off. I 
wasn't having a very good day.

   Patty Sue appeared next to me and 
complained that no one was ready for 
dessert yet.

   "Take over the food line," I commanded. 
"I need a break. Funerals for the wrong 
people depress me."

   Once she had taken my place, I stared 
at the wall of photos. When it was my turn 
at the coffeepot I let the dark liquid gush 
into two of the deep Styrofoam cups with 
my logo on them. One was for me and one 
was for Vonette, who probably would be 
needing caffeine about now. But before I 
could deliver it I saw Fritz Korman chatting 
with Patty Sue again. This meant Patty 
Sue had slowed down in serving the food. 
I strolled back.

   "Well hello, Goldy;" said my ex-father-in-
law with his patented toothy grin. The light 
shone off strands of white hair carefully 
combed across his bald pate. His teeth 
gleamed as he directed his smile back to 
Patty Sue, the wolf welcoming Red Riding 
Hood. John Richard had inherited his 
hulking build from Fritz, which was shown 
off to good advantage in yet another silk 
shirt with fringed vest and pants.

   I said, "Fritz, you look like you just 
stepped off the set of 'Bonanza.' "

   He chucked me under the chin, 
unruffled. Fritz was like a man who was 
perpetually running for office, and he 
always treated me as if we were old 
friends or lovers or both.

   "Has Patty Sue told you," I began as I 
set down the cups, "that her father is a 
doctor, too?"

   "Why no," said Fritz, startled.

   "But he isn't," said Patty Sue.

   "Oh yes," I continued as I again began 
to flick out creamy glops of mayonnaise 
onto piles of salmon. "Patty Sue's father, 
the doctor, works in Washington, D.C. 
Very important fellow. Proctologist, to be 
exact."

   "What?" said Patty Sue and Fritz in 
unison.

    "The Pentagon proctologist," I rolled on, 
"who also gives political advice. He tells 
the generals working on Iran policy, Shove 
it up there where it hurts."

   Success. A confused look passed over 
Fritz's face before he walked away. After a 
minute, Patty Sue started serving again.

"You need to get more mayonnaise from 
the kitchen," I advised as I handed her the 
bowl. "Quickly." When she returned I took 
the lukewarm coffee over to Vonette, who 
was bending Pomeroy Locraft's ear.

   "It just makes me so sad," Vonette was 
saying, true to form. The sorrier and 
sadder she felt, the more she drank.

   I said, "What makes you so sad?"

   "Oh hi, Goldy," she replied. Pomeroy, 
tall, dark, thirtyish, and flannel shirted, 
nodded at me.

   Vonette went on. "Did I hear you talking 
to Fritz about Iran over there? Honey, Fritz 
doesn't care about foreign policy." A swig. 
"He didn't even vote for Bush last time." 
Another swig. "Hell, he's still mad about 
Nixon going to China."

   "What?" said Pomeroy.

   "Why?" I asked.

   "Oh, you know how mad he gets," she 
said with a roll of her eyes, "and those 
Red Chinese, I mean in addition to being 
Commies" - another swig - "have this 
forced abortion policy."

   Pomeroy shook his head, stood up, and 
walked away. "I'm still out of honey," I 
called after him. He turned. I handed 
Vonette her coffee and walked over.

   Pomeroy was and always had been an 
enigma to me. Apparently he also gave 
that impression to the other women in 
town, who had given him the moniker Ice 
Man. He had none of the flirtatious mock 
shyness that John Richard used to such 
advantage with women.

   Arch, on the other hand, adored 
Pomeroy. Something about his aura of 
quiet, his life in a remote cabin, his way 

with the bees, had magnetized my son. 
Through a whole year of teaching Sunday 
school I had only rare clues that Arch was 
absorbing any of the study-of-saints 
curriculum. Nevertheless, after his spring 
project working out at the hives, Arch had 

said Pomeroy was like Saint Francis. He 
loves all the animals, Arch had said; he 
understands nature.

   So I was interested in Pomeroy in a way 
that was more than curiosity. I had been 
unwilling to discuss my interest with Alicia, 
as I didn't know what kind of chance I had 
with an icy-tempered beekeeper.

   "You walked away from that 
conversation awful fast," I said to him.

   He shook his head. "I don't have to listen 
to her when she's like that, or when she's 
talking about that. . . subject. No one has 
to."

   "Oh, well. Besides Vonette, how're you 
doing?" I asked with a bright smile.

   He said, "Why do you care?"

   So much for social interchange. I said, "I 
don't know," and walked back to my ex-
mother-in-law.

   "How's your coffee, Vonette?" I asked. It 
was on the table, and it looked untouched. 
Under the table was the purse that held 
the flask.

   "Think I need it?" she asked, her voice 
still full of self-pity. Her head of wild red 
hair shook slightly. I waved my hand at the 
dessert and beverage 'tables, where Arch 
and Patty Sue were now feverishly trying 
to keep up with the flow of people finished 
with the main portion of the meal.

   "No," I said, "but everyone's lining up for 
shortcake now, and they'll be wanting 
coffee, too. I brought you some so you 
wouldn't have to get up." But of course 
she needed it. This day was upsetting 
enough without another trip to detox.

   Arch was looking frantic by the coffee 
machine; I joined him.

   "Mom," he said, "I need more lemons. I 
don't know why everyone wants lemonade 
all of a sudden."

   "I'll do it. Just keep them going with the 
coffee and wine, if they want it."

   Out in the kitchen, I located my manual 
squeezer and extracted the juice from a 
dozen lemons, then cut paper-thin slices 
from two more using a knife from a wall 
mount. After a few moments Arch came in.

   "Now what?" I asked.

   He was opening cupboards and looking 
through them.

   "Well," he said as he pulled over one of 
the kitchen chairs to climb up for a better 
view, "now somebody wants herb tea. All 
we've got out there is that Lipton stuff." He 
strained to look in the high cupboards. "So 
I have to find some."

   I left the lemons and joined Arch in his 
search. In the process I finally found 
Laura's sugar in a canister with a 
magazine picture of Sugar Ray Leonard 
taped on the front. But there was no herb 
tea.

   "See if whoever it is will try this," I said 
as I handed him Postum. "I'll be out in a 
minute with the lemonade."

   He left. The running water foamed up 
over the sugar and juice. When I brought 
the pitcher into the living room, Arch had 
disappeared again, and there were only a 
few people left in the food line. I hoped the 
lemonade shortage would be our last 
crisis of the day.

   Within twenty minutes people were 
nearly finished with the last of their plates. 
Conversation settled into small pockets 
around the room. Quietly I began to gather 
plates and ashtrays to take out to the 
kitchen. Clients do not like to have dirty 
plates around at a party, but they don't 
want to hear you wash them either. Luckily 
there was a door between the kitchen and 
the main room, and I could begin the 
cleaning unobtrusively.

   Hot water and suds were just churning 
over the silver- ware when I heard a sound 
that made me shudder. Someone was 
moaning.

   I turned off the water. From the living 
room came the same loud sound, the kind 
of deep groaning you associate with. . .

   Associate with. . .

   I didn't even want to think. If someone 
vomited at a function I catered, that would 
be the end of the business. Or close to it.

   I pushed through the door to the other 

room. The groan became a howl. There 
was a crowd gathered around the sound, 
and several people were walking quickly 
toward me uttering names of things they 
wanted.

   "Water-"

   "Phone-"

   "Towel-"

   My face was suddenly cool with the 
sweat of fear, as prayed, Please not Arch, 
please let him be all right. I made my way 
past tables and chairs as if in slow motion. 
Please let my child be okay. At the 
outskirts of the crowd I could hear 
Vonette's high whine, words like What is it, 
honey? Oh what is it, honey?

   "Let me through," I begged the people I 
was elbowing past, darting my head all 
around to find Arch. The first thing I saw 
was the jar of Postum on the coffee table. 
Let him not be hurt. Let him not be in pain. 
The guttural groan of agony did not quit. It 
was too deep for a child.

   I gasped and pleaded to be let through, 
then at the front of the crowd asked, 
"What is it?"

   Fritz Korman was on the floor. His large 
frame was writhing on the blue rug. He 
was holding his stomach. Horror and 
distress surged through me - Fritz was 
family, or had been. And he was in terrible 
agony.

   "Get back, get back!" my ex-husband 
was yelling above the general buzz and 
the groaning from Fritz, which continued 
unabated. John Richard was waving his 
hands to move people away from around 
Fritz, who was now curled up on his side 
like a fetus. Arch was tugging on my 
apron. I clutched him to me.

   "What is going on?" I asked into the 

general melee. John Richard started 
screaming as soon as he saw me.

   "You did this, you bitch! You poisoned 
my father! Did you mean it for me and 
then do him by mistake?"

   I could feel my mouth come open, my 
head shake from side to side.

   John Richard shrieked, "You did it, and 
I'm going to have you nailed!"

-4-
   At first, I thought some kind of shock had 
made John Richard accuse me. But after 
his outburst, he turned his back and 
refused even to acknowledge my 
presence. What was worse, debonair, 
ever-in-control Fritz was not getting any 
better. All around, people were turning 
their heads away and murmuring. 
Someone was phoning for help; others 
were applying damp cloths and asking 
questions. Was it the mayonnaise, the 
cream, the fish? There was nothing for me 
to do. That was a good thing, since I 
couldn't have done anything anyway. I felt 
terrible, and dizzy with a vague sense of 
guilt. . . Did Fritz have a food allergy, too?

   I herded Arch back to the kitchen, found 
the pack of Kools, and smoked one after 
another until Patty Sue came out and said 
Fritz was on his way to the hospital. She 
added, hesitantly, that John Richard had 
called the police and they were coming 
over. Now that my ex-husband had left, I 
went into the other room. That he would 
call the police was incredible. What could 
he possibly have told them? Was he even 
remotely convincing? Would they believe 
that I was trying to poison anyone? I, who 
had, earlier in the afternoon, tried to keep 
an abusive ex-husband from suffering an 
allergic reaction to tomatoes? Would they 
believe-me, a caterer? Or would they 
believe him; a doctor?

   I wondered what the food would be like 
in jail.

   Investigator Tom Schulz of the Furman 
County Sheriff's Department was 
introduced to us by another cop, whose 
reverential tone said, Here's God. Schulz 
loomed large in height and bulk. When he 
came striding through the door of Laura 
Smiley's house, shifting his weight from 
one foot to the other, he looked like one of 
those old-time movie heroes who use 
sword and cape to threaten villains, to 
keep skeptics at bay, to summon up an 
imposing sense of self-importance. Only 
the investigator needed neither sword nor 
cape. He had his size.

   In general, I felt powerful with hefty 
people. They held me in great esteem 
because I was an expert cook. But within 
five minutes of watching Investigator 
Schulz scan the tables, glasses, coffee 
cups, and the bevy of trembling faces, my 
confidence melted. He consulted a guest 
list given to him by Laura's aunt. Then he 
cocked an authoritative thumb at the first 
person to be questioned and hiked up his 
belt as if it were a holster before he 
banged through the door into the kitchen, 
the improvised interrogation chamber.

   John Richard had insisted on 
accompanying Fritz in the ambulance to 
Lutheran Hospital, I had heard. Lutheran 
was located in Wheat Ridge, a suburb 
west of Denver that was forty-five minutes 
from Aspen Meadow. The Denver Poison 
Center had recommended this course 
rather than ipecac or any other treatment. 
The person who had called the Poison 
Center had made an announcement: 
within an hour of Fritz's entering the 
hospital, blood and urine tests would 
indicate the source of distress.

   Vonette sat slumped in one of the wing 
chairs, overcome. I wanted to go and 
comfort her, tell her maybe Fritz had 
stomach flu. But the two uniformed 
policemen who had arrived with Schulz 
had commanded us not to touch anything 
and not to talk to each other.

   "Us" at that point was the forty mourners 
for Laura, now witnesses to exactly what, I 
still did not know. But I was going to have 
to find out. I felt sorry for Fritz, anxious for 
him. He was in pain and possibly in 
danger. But there was something else. 
This incident could pose an acute threat to 
my business. Unfortunately, I could not 
determine anything when all of us were 
sitting around looking guilty and being 
silent, as if this were Adult Detention Hall. 
One policeman took me aside to say 
Investigator Schulz had ordered him to call 
the Colorado Department of Health so that 
all the food could be seized and analyzed.

   Marvelous. What microbes might the 
Health Department detect? Before I could 
worry about that, Investigator Schulz 
called a second person to be questioned, 
then a third. Some people came out right 
away: they hadn't seen anything. Patty 
Sue went in and came out looking 
confused. Arch and I were last. When it 
was Arch's turn, Tom Schulz's thumb 
indicated that he wanted me, too.

   "I thought you wanted us individually," I 
muttered, once we had settled into Laura's 
red wire kitchen chairs, the kind you used 
to see in ice cream parlors.

   Investigator Schulz adjusted his 
backside on the too-small chair. He was, I 
noticed somewhat reluctantly, good-
looking as well as charismatic. The other 
room had been filled with men trying to 
look macho in their western attire. Tom 
Schulz was the real thing. Despite his 
coat, sweater, and tie, he had the 
commanding aura of a ranch foreman. In 
the caramel-colored October light filling 
the kitchen, his hair shone gold-brown. It 

was cut short, parted on the side, and 
combed at a jaunty angle above bushy 
eyebrows. These thick triangles of hair 
climbed up and dropped down his 
forehead when he listened or talked. He 
had a sideways smile that came easily 

and suggested a sense of humor. His 
green eyes beheld everything just a 
moment longer than necessary, as if by 
concentrating hard enough, he could see 
through things and people. He grinned 
widely at me. Fear froze my face.

   "Your boy's a minor. Got to have you 
here when I talk to him." The green eyes 
regarded me. He added, "By law."

   I nodded, but felt sick. Schulz reached a 
fleshy palm out to Arch. "My name is Tom 
Schulz," he said as he shook Arch's small 
hand, "and I need to ask you a few 
questions about what happened here 
today."

   Arch sat in one of the red chairs and 
straightened his glasses. He said, "Okay."

   Schulz took our full names and address. 
He showed some confusion over my 
name, Gertrude Bear. I told him with two 
other Mrs. Kormans in town I had thought 
my business would do better under my 
maiden name.

   He said, "What's Goldy short for?"

   "Nothing, really," I said, feeling my 
cheeks get hot. "No one's called me 
Gertrude for twenty-some years. When I 
was little I had blond hair-"

   "Still do," observed Schulz. "It was just a 
nickname that stuck. I liked it better than 
Gertrude, anyway."

   He nodded. I said, "I use Goldilocks for 
the business. You know, like the story, 
everything is just right. It's just an ad, 
connecting me with the food service."

   Schulz nodded again. He said he would 
ask Arch only a few questions before he 
could leave and it would be my turn. Then 
he put his notebook away.

   He asked, "What grade are you in, 
Arch?"

   "Sixth, sir." Arch's voice was trembling 
slightly. He crossed his legs and looked 
down in his lap before raising his eyes to 
Schulz.

   "Do you play soccer?" The inevitable 
subject of sports. A look of pain passed 

briefly over my nonathletic son's face. This 
tack for putting Arch at ease would not 
work.

   "No, sir," Arch said.

   "What do you like to do? Do you like to 
play any games?"

   "Oh yes," said Arch, brightening.

   "Such as?"

   "Fantasy role-playing. Have you heard 
of them? Like Dungeons and Dragons and 
Top Secret? Do you know about those?"

   "A little bit," said Schulz, leaning back in 
the chair. "How do they work? Do you play 
them with your friends?"

   "Well, you roll different kinds of dice," 
Arch began with characteristic 
enthusiasm, "like ten-sided, twenty-sided, 
or thirty-sided, see, to figure out what 
character you're going to be. Then you 
decide on the attributes. Well, I mean, you 
roll the dice again to see about that stuff. 
There are charts and things for the 
different abilities. For the characters, I 
mean." He looked at Schulz 
sympathetically, not unlike the way he had 
looked at Patty Sue on the drive over. "It 
can get pretty complicated," he said.

   "Mm-hmm. Then what do you do?"

   "Well," said Arch, "then you, like, go on 
adventures." I thought this must be boring 
for a police officer, but he repeated, 
”Adventures."

   "Yeah," said Arch, "with the other 
characters. You can play with up to five 
people. Usually I just play with one. One 
guy will make up the dungeon or whatever 
it is you're going to do, and then you go 
through it to see what happens to your 
character. You use the dice for that, too."

   Now Arch was relaxed. Good work, 
Schulz.

   "Do you play with the kids in your 
class?" asked Schulz.

   "Some of them," said Arch. "It's really 
pretty hard. Most kids aren't interested."

   Schulz shifted in the small chair. He 
reached down and flicked invisible bits of 
lint off his oatmeal-colored sweater. He 
asked, "Did you ever play with your grand- 
father?"

   "Oh no," said Arch. "He's much too 
busy."

   "Your grandmother?"

   "No. She's sick a lot."

   "Your mom? Any other grownups?"

   "No." Arch raised his eyes to me 
apologetically. "My mom's really not 
interested in it. Neither is my dad. Usually 
just kids like it. Like my friend Todd 
Druckman. He's in sixth grade, too." He 
thought for a moment. He said, "Ms. 
Smiley was interested in playing."

   "Ms. Smiley," said Schulz, "whose 
house we're in."

   "Yeah. She was my teacher last year. 
She's dead."

   "Right. And that's why we're here, isn't 
it? Because Ms. Smiley died and 
everybody misses her."

   "I guess."

   "Do you like to help your mom with her 
food business? To work on parties like this 
one?"

   Now it was my turn to cross my legs. I 
couldn't imagine where this was going.

   "Well," said Arch slowly, "I don't exactly 
like it. But I do it when she asks me."

   "Like today."

   "Yeah."

    "Do you think you're good at helping 
her?"

   "Oh yes," said Arch confidently. "I know 
all about serving."

   "What was your job at this party?" 
Schulz asked.

   "The drinks. Coffee, tea, and lemonade. 
Not the wine," he explained as he pushed 
the glasses back on his nose, "because 
I'm too young."

   Well, thank God he added that, I 
thought. At least I didn't break that law.

   Schulz gave me a brief smile. "Did you 
stay over at the coffee machine?" Schulz 
asked. "The whole time, I mean."

   "No. I had to do the lemonade too, see, 
and we only had two pitchers. So 
sometimes I had to come out to the 
kitchen to fill those up."

   "Did you see what your grandfather was 
eating or drinking?"

   Arch thought. "I guess Fritz had some of 
the food, because he came over for a 
glass of wine. But I didn't see him eat. 
Later he wanted a cup of coffee. I don't 
think he likes lemonade."

   "Fritz."

   "That's what I call him," said Arch. "My 
grandfather."

   "He's always called his grandparents by 
their first-" I started to explain.

   Schulz held his hand up to me. "Did you 
see Fritz drink the wine?" asked Schulz. 
"Did you see what he did with his glass?"

    "No," said Arch, "I didn't see either." 
"Before Fritz got sick, did he drink 
anything else?"

   "Let's see," said Arch. "Okay, now I 
remember. We were out of lemonade and 
my mom was making some in the kitchen. 
A lot of people had been asking for it. Fritz 
was, let's see, he was talking to Trixie, the 
woman who teaches the exercise class, 
you know? And when she came over for 
coffee. . ." Arch paused to think. "No, wait 
a minute, she doesn't drink coffee. I 
remember now because she wanted 
lemonade. We didn't have any yet so she 
asked me if we had any herb tea."

   Schulz drew his eyebrows together. He 
said, "Herb tea."

   "Yes, she asked me if we had any herb 
tea. I said I didn't think so. Then Fritz 
came over and laughed and said Trixie 
thought coffee was bad for you. He was, 
like, laughing and saying Trixie thought a 
lot of things were bad for you. But he said 
he would have some anyway. Coffee. So I 
poured her some hot water and him some 
coffee. And then Trixie said, Well, could I 
check and see if Ms. Smiley kept any 
herb-tea in her kitchen. So I came in here 
to check."

   Schulz leaned ever so slightly toward 
Arch. "Where was Fritz's coffee then? Did 
he take it from you and start drinking it?"

   "No," said Arch slowly. "I put them both, 
the cups of coffee and hot water, next to 
each other on the table.

   Then I came out here to look for the 
tea."

   "The two cups were just sitting there?"

   "Right," said Arch. "I thought I'd just be 
gone": minute, and they had started 
talking again."

   "Did you find any tea?"

   "No. I was looking and looking, and 
Mom was helping me."

   Schulz said, "So your mother was in the 
kitchen then?"

   "Yes," said Arch, "she was busy making 
lemonade. We looked for some tea. 
Finally she gave me some Postum 
instead. And then Patty Sue ran out of 
strawberries and I helped her with that for 
a while. And then I saw my mom emptying 
ashtrays and picking up dirty dishes. . . I 
guess I just forgot about the tea. Anyway, 
when I came back to the table somebody 
asked me again for lemonade."

   "So how long was it from the time you 
gave Fritz, or rather, put down Fritz's 
coffee and the woman's water for tea, and 
then got back to do lemonade?"

   Arch shrugged. "I don't know. A long 
time, I guess. Twenty minutes? I can't 
remember. Toward the end of a party, 
Mom says, you don't have to pay as much 
attention to the guests. But I did forget the 
tea." He looked at me. "Sorry."

   Schulz stared at Arch. "When you went 
back out, who asked you for lemonade?"

   "Vonette, I think. We still didn't have any, 
so she said, Well, never mind, she'd have 
coffee."

"What was the next thing that happened?" 
asked Schulz.

   "I went to the bathroom." Again he 
looked at me apologetically.

   "Did you see Trixie again?"

   "No, she was gone before I decided to 
go to the uh, you know. She never even 
got the Postum."

   "Know what happened to the hot water?"

   "What hot water?" Arch wrinkled his 
nose. "Oh, Trixie's. No."

   "Then what?"

   "Well, I heard Fritz sort of like moaning. 
So I came back out to the living room."

   "Uh-huh. Now this is important, Arch. 
Was there anyone else around the drinks 
table when you came out to the kitchen to 
look for the tea?"

   Arch closed his eyes. "There were lots 
of people."

   "Anybody's face come to mind?" Arch 
thought. He said, "No."

   "Okay," said Schulz, "now just a few 
more questions. Besides Trixie, do you 
remember your grandfather talking to 
anyone else?"

   "Vonette, I think. And my dad."

   "Was Fritz arguing with anyone, 
anything like that?" Arch sighed. "No. 
Everybody was just talking about Ms. 
Smiley, saying how nice she was. That it 
was really weird that she had killed herself 
because she was such a, you know, funny 
person. Nobody was arguing." Arch 
looked at me from behind his glasses. He 
lowered his voice. "Except my mom and 
dad. They were arguing."

   I groaned and walked over to the 
cabinet where I'd put the cigarettes, took 
another one, and lit it.

   "I know about that," said Investigator 
Schulz. "Do you know what your mom and 
dad were arguing about, Arch?"

   Arch looked back at Schulz. "No. My 
dad had his new girlfriend here. I think that 
upset my mom. My mom and dad are 
divorced, you know."

   "I know."
   I inhaled deeply on the cigarette and 
looked through the window at the aspens 
shaking in the breeze. I imagined dirty 
laundry hanging out there to air.

   Arch said, "May I go now?"

   "Just one more question, Arch. Do you 
know if anyone was mad at Fritz? Mad 
enough to try to make him sick, say?"

   Arch hesitated. "Well, the only person I 
know who sort of didn't like Fritz. . . well, 
this sounds kind of dumb. I'm really not 
sure. . ." He furrowed his forehead and 
looked at me.

   "It's okay," I said. "Just tell Mr. Schulz 
whatever it is."

   "Well," Arch said again, "I don't think Ms. 
Smiley liked him very much. I don't think 
she liked Vonette either."

   I coughed on the cigarette smoke. This 
was news to me. I said, "Ms. Smiley? 
Didn't like Fritz Korman? Or Vonette? 
How'd she even know them?"

   Schutz said, "Mrs. Korman. Miss Bear. 
Goldy. Please."

   "That's what I mean," continued Arch. "I 
told you it sounded dumb."

   "Do you know what she was mad 
about?" asked Schulz.

   "No."

   "When did she tell you she didn't like the 
Kormans?" Again Arch closed his eyes. "I 
can't remember. I'm not even sure she 
was the one who told me."

   Investigator Schulz stood up. "Arch, 
thanks a lot. You've been helpful. I'll give 

you a card with my number. You keep it in 
your pocket. If you think of something 
else, call me."

   "My turn?" I asked.

   Investigator Schulz looked at me with 
those penetrating green eyes. An 
unexpected and unwanted wave of sexual 
something rolled over me.

   Schulz said, "You bet. Just begin by 
telling me if you saw anything suspicious 
with the food."

   Before I could begin the long 
explanation about John Richard's tomato 
allergy, one of the uniformed policemen 

interrupted us.

   "Schulz, you'd better come take a look at 
this." Tom Schulz stood up and walked out 
of the kitchen. This reminded me of the 
many calls John Richard had received at 
home, always from females in one sort of 
pain or another, and only rarely, I found 
out from the hospital, actual patients.

   I shook this off and went out to the living 
room. The guests had left and two fellows, 
presumably from the Health Department, 
were labeling everything and packing the 
containers into boxes. Schulz was in 
consultation with his man, their voices 
lowered.

   Outside I could hear Patty Sue laughing, 
so I went to investigate. She was seated 
on a wooden bench next to the cluster of 
aspens in Laura's front yard. Next to her 
was Pomeroy Locraft.

   He was grinning. Seeing him with Patty 
Sue did not make me feel great. Last 
spring I had dropped several hints that 
Porn and Arch and I all go out for pizza or 
a movie after their worktime. Perhaps I 
was too subtle. Perhaps Porn was dense, 
uninterested, or both, which was the way 
he had acted today. Now he was engaged 
in a lively conversation with Patty Sue. I 
had the uncomforting thought that she 
was at least ten years too young for him.

   I walked in their direction through the 
long dry grass, I which the summer heat 
had burned to gold. Here and there 
bushes reduced by the fall sun to thorned 
sticks snared my stockings. Above, fluffs 
of cloud sailed across a deep blue sky. 
The air was thick with the sweet mixed 
smell of decaying aspen leaves and 
smoke from a wood fire, probably built 
during the early morning chill. But the day 
had turned out warm and beautiful, and 
the calm was disorienting after the turmoil 
in the house.

   "Hi, Mom!" yelled Arch from somewhere 
I couldn't see.

   "Where are you?" I called back.

   "Here!" he hollered triumphantly from the 
middle part of a lodgepole pine near the 
bench. I absolutely hated seeing Arch 
climb those feeble-branched evergreens. 
As if in answer to my worries, he let out a 
shout.

   "Help!" he cried. "I'm falling!" I could see 
his body toppling, hear branches 
snapping. I was too far away but my feet 
darted forward anyway.

   With startling swiftness Pomeroy ran to 
the bottom of the tree, where he caught 
Arch by the arm and broke his fall. By the 
time I got to the pine, the two of them were 
laughing. I was not amused, as this was 
the second time in one day that I'd come 
close to coronary arrest worrying about my 
child's welfare.

   I said, "Thanks, Pom." He had handed 
Arch his glasses and was brushing bits of 
bark off Arch's formerly white shirt.

   "It's okay," he said, as much to Arch as 
to me. "Can't blame a kid for wanting to 
climb a tree, right?"

   "No," Arch said.

   "Yes," I said.

   "Oh, Arch and I are buddies," said 
Pomeroy with that half smile. "Right, bud?"

   Arch nodded and started toward the 
chokecherry bushes that lined Laura 
Smiley's driveway.

   "Thanks for being nice to him," I said. 
"Thanks for being a good catcher."

   "I like kids."

   "So I see."

   Pomeroy gave me another embarrassed 
look-not the pink-red of shyness, but a 
black-red that glowed from underneath his 
skin. I could not imagine what was 
bothering him, so I let it go.

   Pomeroy sat back on the bench, then 
turned to me and smiled. He had 
recovered his composure, and the impish 
smile and splatter of freckles over his pale 
cheeks gave him the look of a child. But 
the dark good looks and brown mustache 
were unmistakably adult, as was the lanky 
body that spilled over the bench's slats. 
His brown eyes held mine, and I could not 
think of what to say next.

   He said, "Before we were interrupted, 
Patty Sue here was telling me she can't 
drive."

   "She's made a few attempts with her 
father's pickup, I believe," I said.

   Patty Sue groaned. "I was thinking," said 
Pomeroy. "Maybe she could come to one 
of my driver-ed classes. At the high 
school." He gave a slight grin. "There's not 
much money from the county for this type 
of thing, and some of my cars are pretty 
old, but she could still learn."

   "Sounds marvelous," I said with false 
cheer. My ex-husband might have been 
able to mine the high school faculty for 
dates. But with Pomeroy stuck on my 
housemate, it looked as if my chance to 
find social life from the same place was 
collapsing with the rapidity of a soufflé. 
Schulz appeared at the end of the 
driveway and motioned me back down to 
the house with that thumb.

   I said, "I have to go."

   "I'll check on the liability and what not," 
Pom called after me. “Are you all free 
Friday afternoons?"

   I turned around and put my hand on my 
hip. "What do you need me for?"

   He grinned again, wide and sheepish, 
and I felt some of the frost in my heart 
melt. Maybe there was hope. He was still 
good-looking and single. Perhaps his 
ability to get along with children, witness 
the relationship with Arch, was merely 
extended to Patty Sue.

   He leaned toward me and said, 
"Somebody's got to I get her a learner's 
permit and bring her to the high school."

   I nodded and traipsed back toward 
Schulz, who had gone inside.

   "Look familiar?" he said as he pointed to 
one of my Styrofoam cups. "Don't touch," 
he admonished. "Just peek inside."

   I did as ordered and saw an almost 
empty coffee cup with what looked like 
about twenty little green pellets on the 
bottom.

   "I don't know," I said.

   Schulz grinned at me, a wide face-
breaker.

   "Miss Goldy," he began. "Excuse me, 
Miz. Your business is closed down until 
further notice. You served this coffee, 
you're responsible until I find out 
otherwise. I wonder if I could come over 
and ask you some questions tomorrow? 
I'm a little tied up right now." He motioned 
to one of his underlings to come retrieve 
the cup.

   "For God's sake," I protested, "what's in 
the cup?"

   He had begun to walk away, but at my 
question turned back. "Oh," he said, "you 
just flunked Detection 101. Dr. Korman 
drank that coffee, but he didn't know what 
was on the bottom. Looks to me like 
whoever tried to do him in was using rat 
poison."

   Saturday ended with a whimper after the 
day's bang. When Pomeroy left, I outlined 
our suddenly disastrous finances to both 
Patty Sue and Arch. Patty Sue's rent was 
her ability to work for the catering 
business, and without' the business both 
of us would have to do whatever work we 
could find just to buy groceries and make 
the November house payment. Arch 
accepted the suspension of his allowance 
with a grim silence.

   Even our dinner that night was a 
problem. I reminded Patty Sue and Arch of 

this as we pulled into our driveway. After a 
job, we usually feasted on leftovers and 
odds and ends. Now the leftovers were 
being analyzed down at the Department of 
Health.

   Arch offered to heat chili in the 
microwave. I didn't think things could get a 
whole lot worse until he pointed to an 
enormous bouquet of dried flowers on our 
deck. Damn. One of the arrangements for 
the funeral or reception had been 
delivered here by mistake.

   But no. The envelope was addressed to 
me. Inside was an unsigned message.

   "Don't worry about Fritz, sweetie pie. He 
deserves it."

-5-
   How'd you do it?" my ex-husband 
demanded over the phone the next 
morning, Sunday. "Get your dumbass 
roommate to drop the stuff in? You tell her 

they were sweetening capsules?"

   "Oh stop," I said. "Just tell me how Fritz 
is."

   "Not until you answer my question."

   "My roommate is a patient of your 
father's," I reminded him, "and she is living 
here at your mother's request. She's a 
lovely girl who respects your father, and 
does not deserve to be maligned by you."

   He started to yell, and I held the phone 
away from my ear. It was only seven 
o'clock, but John Richard and I were both 
early risers. The first year of our marriage 
this had meant lovemaking and fresh 
sweet rolls as strokes of sunlight swept 
the walls of the house. Later the fights 
merely started earlier; accusations came 
at sunrise followed by the recriminations 
and my learning to dodge the frying pan: 
full of hot bacon and grease.

   In fact, I thought as I looked around the 
kitchen while I still holding the screeching 
voice at arm's length, the first thing I had 
redecorated after he moved out was this 
room where I now made my living. I slid 
my foot against the slick black and white 
tile that had replaced the brick-colored 
vinyl flooring. The walls and curtains now 
glowed with a muted red and white 
checked print. Think of something else, I 
told myself as John Richard continued to 
shriek. Breakfast.

   "You there?" the Jerk was saying.

   "If you're not going to tell me how Fritz 
is, then I need to fix breakfast," I said 
dryly. "Tell me something else, though. 
Why don't you ever blow up like this in 
public? Then people would know why we 
got divorced. Look. You called me. What 
do you want, anyway?"

   "Nothing," he said. "Not a damn thing."

   He hung up. I rubbed my temples, 
removed rolls, bacon, and coffee beans 
from the freezer, and put my mind on the 
day ahead. Probably the best thing was 
that the Broncos were due to play Green 
Bay, which promised to be an easy win. It 
was good to have the regular season 
underway. I disliked the preseason, with 
its mandatory shrinkage of team size. 
Getting cut was probably a lot like getting 
divorced.

   During the time before kickoff, I needed 
to make calls canceling parties and food 
supplies on order. Talking to the Jerk was 
like waking up and not being able to shake 
a nightmare. Even worse, I realized as a 
sharp pain grabbed my chest, was that the 
more recent nightmare had come true: my 
business and I were separated.

   I needed to think. Get things in 
perspective. For openers, there was 
figuring out what it was the flower sender 
thought Fritz deserved. Was the flower 
sender the rat poisoner? The impending 
questioning from Schulz was another dark 
cloud on the day's emotional horizon. If 
the Broncos didn't win, the day would be a 
complete loss.

   First things first. Patty Sue and Arch 
were still asleep. I steeled myself to make 
the first call. It would largely determine the 
tone of the day.

   "Vonette," I said brightly to her foggy 
greeting, "Goldy. Tell me how Fritz is 
doing."

   "Just fine, honey. My God, what time is 
it?" She groped and muttered. "Yeah, 
Fritz. Can't imagine what happened to 
him."

   I was sorry to awaken her, but it was the 
only way I could be sure to catch her 
sober. I said, "How was the hospital? Did 
they give him anything?"

   "Oh yeah, something. He put up a fuss, 
good heavens. Don't know what it was he 
drank after that funeral. Like D-Kon, they 
said. Does the same thing, or whatever."

   "Does what same thing?" She yawned. 
"Causes internal bleeding or such like 
that. But don't worry, he's not bleeding 
anymore. That stuff hit his ulcer and made 
him hurt, but he's fine now. You're bigger 
than any old rodent, I told him. It won't kill 
you. Goldy, let me call you right back. I 
need to go make some coffee."

   I hung up, ground espresso beans, and 
filled the cappuccino maker. Vonette's 
tone was strange. Maybe she was just 
tired. The machine steamed and gasped. 
When I was sipping the result, she called 
back. I said, "Is he still sick? Is he upset?"

   "Aw," she said with a yawn, "he'll stay 
home today, watch the game, you know, 
maybe rest for a couple more days. They 
wanted him to take it easy for a week and 
I laughed. Lord, I laughed. You know how 
important that practice is to him, I told 
those guys down at Lutheran. No way he's 
going to stay in bed for a week. Doctors 
can be stubborn, I said."

   "Arch was saying something about how 
you all had known Laura."

   "Little Arch," she said. I could feel her 
smile come over the phone. "I told Fritz to 
be sure and speak to him but I don't think 
he did. And then all hell broke loose."

   "Did you and Fritz know Laura Smiley 
for a long time?"

   A pause. She said, "A long time ago, we 
knew her."

   "How?"

   "Oh," she said, "she kind of worked for 
us one time. She was a . . . teacher and 
then a . . . a . . . what do they call it these 
days? Like a nanny one time. When we 
went on a vacation."

   "When was that?"

   There was a longer silence. "You know, 
Goldy," Vonette said, suddenly perplexed, 
"I don't want to talk any more right now. I 
do feel one powerful headache coming 
on."

   This was bad news. The effects of 
chronic headaches on Vonette had led her 
past aspirin through Darvon, Valium, 
Librium, and whatever was the latest 
miracle cure. She occasionally had such 
pain, she had told me, that Fritz gave her 
shots of Demerol. This was in addition to 
the substantial amounts of alcohol she put 
away on a daily basis. Why she had not 
died from these combinations long ago 
was beyond me; I figured she possessed 
an incredible tolerance for drugs. I heard 
her gulp something down, and I knew our 
conversation about Laura was finished, at 
least for the moment.

   "Let me help out," I offered. "Let me 
bring your meals over. I mean," I added 
hastily, "if you want."

   "I would, honey," she said in a lower 
tone, "but you know John Richard is just in 
such a state about that food from 

yesterday. Lord! What does Goldy have 
against Fritz, I asked him. Exactly nothing, 
that's what." Another yawn. "I said to John 
Richard, Well, you know, son, there's lots 
of women thought your daddy was a rat." 
She giggled. The painkiller was taking 
effect.

   "Vonette," I said before the conversation 
degenerated further, "I'm coming over on 
Tuesday, and I'm going to bring Fritz 
some things to eat I know he likes. Okay?"

   She giggled again. "You can even test 
them," I said, "and I want to visit with you, 
anyway. Make sure there are no hard 
feelings with old Fritz."

Vonette inhaled. She said, “Goldy, honey. 
Thanks. That would be sweet. I'll taste 
them if you want. Hell, nobody cares if I 
die. Just kidding, of course. Laura Smiley 
had that kind of attitude and it did her in, 
didn't it? Well, who knows. And you know 
what else? John Richard will be taking 
over the whole practice for Fritz for a 
couple of days anyway, so he won't be 
around to bother you. You know."

   Did I ever. Maybe I should have adopted 
Marla's attitude and actively avoided John 
Richard. My life might have been a lot 
easier. It would be good to have the son 
out of the way when I chatted with the 
mother. Though I hated to use Vonette, I 
needed information she might have. I 
didn't know what in the world was going 
on. I had to start somewhere.

   "Guess what?" I said. "Those cops are 
going to close down my operation until this 
is all cleared up. Maybe you can help me 
out a little."

   "Oh, honey," she said, "I'll give you all 
the cash you need. It'll just be our little 
secret."

   "No no no. I mean, thanks, really, but I 
don't mean money. All I want to do is talk 
to you, about some of the possibilities. Of 
who could have done this to Fritz."

   "Goldy honey, I keep telling you. Fritz is 
fine. Just let the police handle it." She was 
quiet for a minute. Then she said, "Do you 
know what? Maybe nobody did it to him. 
Maybe somebody did it so's your catering 
business would be busted. Ever think of 
that?"

   As a matter of fact, I had not. Besides 
John Richard, who hated me? The flowers 
from yesterday seemed to indicate I was 
not the target. No need to confuse Vonette 
with that, however.

   I promised to see her in two days, rang 
off, and phoned Marla.

   "You'll never guess what happened to 
Fritz Korman," I began.

   "Pfft!" she answered. "Old news, sweetie 
pie. The way I hear it, you're the one tried 
to do it."

   Wait a minute.

   "Well, sweetie pie," I said, "as a matter 
of fact, I was wondering if you had 
anything to do with it."

   "Don't be ridiculous," said Marla. "I 
wasn't even there, for God's sake." She 
began to chew something. "Trixie said the 
guy from the sheriff's department was 
good-looking in an oversized mountain-
man sort of way. That skinny bitch. She 
thinks anyone who doesn't look as if they 
just came out of a refugee camp is 
overweight." More chewing. "So tell me 
about this guy."

   "What guy?"

   "The cop."

   "Marla," I said in a voice full of vinegar, 
"tell me why you called me sweetie pie."

   "I don't know. Does it bother you? Think 
I'm sweet on you? I just asked you about a 
policeman. Schulz, she said his name 
was."

   I gave her a brief description of the 
investigating officer and then told her 
about the flowers and their message, with 
its "sweetie pie."

   "Weird," she said. "Is that all you can 
think of to say? My whole life's falling 
apart, for God's sake!"

   "Well, I didn't send them," she protested. 
"Did John Richard ever send you 
flowers?"

   "Only when he felt guilty about some 
fling he was having," I said. "You?"

   "No, not after I served him edible 
nasturtiums." I said, "Could the Jerk 
possibly have sent them? I mean, is this 
guy cracking up or what?" I told her about 
the tomato allergy, about my innocent 
substitution of the mushrooms. "When 
Fritz got sick John Richard had a fit and 
blamed me. Because of the mushrooms, if 
you can believe it."

   Marla said, "Okay, okay. You are still my 
good buddy and I am still yours. 
Everything is going to be all right. Let's 
think." She stopped to drink something. 
"The Jerk is pissed off with you. So what 
else is new? But look at it this way. Maybe 
he did it. He blames you, makes it look like 
you, raises a stink. So nobody says, Well 
now, who spends the most time hanging 
around Daddy? Catch my drift?"

   Another new angle. Everyone had a 
theory. I couldn't wait to try them out on 
Schulz. On second thought, I could wait.

   "Get him sent to jail, will you?" Marla 
begged. "I'm getting tired of avoiding him."

  After hanging up I considered. Would 
Schulz have thought of these possibilities? 
Perhaps not yet.

   I spent the remainder of the morning 
calling the clients whose parties I was 
supposed to cater in the next month. 
Canceling felt like pouring money down 
the drain. Worse, and to my surprise, my 
clients were all eager to try Denver 
caterers. Bad news traveled fast. Then I 
balanced the checkbook. Three hundred 
ninety dollars. More bad news, even if the 
November child support payment came on 
time, which was unlikely. I calculated what 
it would take to make the next house 
payment and pay the bills.

   I should have majored in math, I'd 
decided within a week of being single 
again. The degree in psychology had not 
only provided the depressing evidence 
that I had married a violent egotistical 
narcissist, it had also failed to help in 
making money.

   My fallback during dry periods with the 
catering business was housecleaning, 
which paid a reliable eight bucks an hour. 
If I could book the jobs, Patty Sue and I 
each were going to have to do three 
houses a week just to make the November 
house payment and buy groceries. 
Luckily, finding needy clients whose 
houses were a mess was never difficult.

   The only questionable debt was monthly 
dues for the athletic club. Missing this 
payment meant starting over with the four-
hundred-dollar initiation fee, and I certainly 
didn't want to do that. But the club was a 
place I needed to get away from the 
kitchen. Arch enjoyed the pool in summer. 
I called and got, of all people, Trixie 
Jackson. "Oh Trix," I said casually, "I need 
to speak to Hal." Hal owned the club; I 
knew he was the only one in a position to 
let me barter for the dues.

   "He's gone down to the game," she 
replied. And then, "I can't get over that 
mess yesterday. Fritz writhing on the floor 
like a woman in labor. Makes him know 
what it's like."

   To the best of my knowledge, Trixie had 
no children. How did she know what it was 
like? "Just tell me when Hal will be back," I 
said.

“Oh, not until tomorrow. Why? You have a 
problem with something?"

   "Look, Trix," I said, "tell him I want to do 
something for him to take care of my dues 
this month. Clean or whatever. Just see 
what he says."

   She agreed. We decided to talk more 
the next day at the morning aerobics 
class, which she had taken over from 
another instructor. After that I called Alicia 
and canceled all my food for the upcoming 
month. Arch and Patty Sue began to 
wander into the kitchen and litter it with 
cinnamon roll crumbs, cereal boxes, and 
grease-soaked paper towels from draining 
the bacon. At one o'clock the doorbell 
rang.

   Investigator Tom Schulz. He sauntered 
in. Sensing his first question, I took him 
silently into the kitchen to look around. He 
smiled politely at Patty Sue and Arch, 
nodded at the pots and pans, walls and 
floors, cabinets and counters, said "Mm-
hmm" and "It sure smells good in here," 
and scanned everything with those green 
eyes. Next I led him out to the living room, 

which I had redecorated postdivorce in a 
riot of yellows and oranges. The 
eucalyptus in the mysterious dried flower 
arrangement perfumed the room.

   "Nice arrangement," he said.

   "A bizarre arrangement," I said, and told 
him of its sudden appearance and 
anonymous message. He asked to see 
the card. I gave it to him and he pocketed 
it. Then he made a silent visual check of 
the entire room before settling himself on 
the lemon-colored couch.

   "Miss Goldy," he began, "why don't you 
start by telling me about your husband? 
About this allegation of his?"

   "My ex-husband," I said, suddenly 
angry, "is a-" I stopped and looked at my 
hands. "John Richard Korman," I began 
again, "is an abusive man. He frightens 
me. I was trying to give him mushrooms 
instead of tomatoes, to which he is 
allergic." I looked at Schulz. "Believe me," 
I said, "I don't have that much interest in 
Fritz Korman. He's just an old charmer 
whose wife is an alc-" I paused. I said, 
"Not under my jurisdiction, as you cops 
would say."

   Schulz pulled his mouth into a small o. 
He leaned toward me and raised the 
tentlike eyebrows.

   He said, "Just calm down." He leaned 
back again. "Let's start over. You can 
begin by offering me a nice cup of 
espresso and some of those rolls they're 
eating out in the kitchen. I don't ordinarily 
take refreshment at a suspect's house, but 
I'm going to make a large exception, since 
it smells so good in here."

   I complied. Somehow the fact that he 
was hungry for something I had fixed, and 
that he trusted something I would fix, was 
encouraging.

   He smiled at me between sips and bites. 
"This is really nice, this place," he said. "I 
like this old neighborhood. Has a lot of 
charm. So do some of the residents." He 
gave what appeared to be either a 
judicious wink or a left-eye tic.

   What in the world was going on? After a 
moment I said, "Are you going to ask me 
some questions or not?"

   "Okeydoke." He laboriously wiped each 
of his fingers on the napkin I had given 
him. "Just take it easy, okay?"

   I nodded.

   He said, "Did you put a foreign 
substance into Fritz Korman's food to 
make him sick or kill him?"

   I looked Investigator Schulz square in 
his X-ray vision eyes.

   "No," I said. "I did not."

   "Did you put a foreign substance into 
John Richard Korman's food to make him 
sick or kill him?"

   I said, "I did not. It would harm my 
business, which is my sole source of 
income-"

   Schulz chuckled. "It has already harmed 
your business. It may be the end of your 
business. Please assure me they weren't 
funny mushrooms."

   "They were the regular kind."

   "Good. Health Department report'll be in 
tomorrow or the day after. That spread 
sure looked good, too, hated to waste it. 
Poached salmon. Strawberry shortcake." 
He took a deep breath and leaned back to 
hike up his belt. "I've never been to a party 
you've catered."

   "So?"

   "Now Miss Goldy, I'm just saying you 
seem to be a good cook. You've got a 
reputation to protect."

   I said, "The way you say it, it sounds like 
soliciting."

   "There you go again." He closed his 
eyes, then opened them to look around 
the room. He stopped to gaze at a bright 
orange All Saints' Day drawing Arch had 
done at the beginning of Sunday school 
class, the one I'd taught. Since Arch did 
not at that point know about any actual 
saints, his picture was a cluster of Mom, 
Dad, Vonette, Fritz, and Mother Teresa. I 
explained all this to Schulz when he asked 
about it.

   "Interesting," he said. "Now look. You 
don't need to get uptight. About your 
business. I'm just saying a good cook is 
hard to find. You make great cinnamon 
rolls."

   He stopped and worked his jaw for a few 
moments. "Now tell me why a good 
unmarried cook with a reputation to 
protect would get so upset talking to a cop 
who's trying to help her out?"

   I shook my head. I said, "Sorry. Talking 
about my ex-husband gets me upset." I 
took a deep breath. "That's what our 
argument was about, anyway. The Jerk 
and no tomatoes. That son of a bitch. 
Nothing even happened to him."

   "Something happened, though."

   I looked at Schulz. "I didn't do anything 
to John Richard. I thought it was 
inappropriate for him to bring a new 
girlfriend, his fianceé, mind you, to a 
reception after the funeral of one of his 
son's teachers. Plus he walked over and 
insulted me. Then we fought over the dish 
with the mushrooms. But that's it."

   Schulz swung his body around to the 
side and crossed his legs. He was wearing 
tan corduroy slacks and a gray sweater 
and tie: preppy clothes over his mountain-
man body. He lifted his eyebrows and 
shoulders, opened his hands in question.

   I said, "The guys down at the Health 
Department aren't going to find anything in 
that trash bag."

   "Let's hope not."

   I was suddenly exhausted. Worse, I did 
not like the way Investigator Tom Schulz 
was making me feel. He made me want to 
trust him, which did not come easily. I 
said, "So am I going to jailor what?"

   He shook his head and smiled. "No. But 
the other incident is something else. We 
have a policy about attempted I poisoning. 
Sorry, your business will have to stay 
closed down. For a while. Until we find out 
about the rodent poison, who did it and 
why. That's it."

   "Please don't do that to me," I begged. 
My eyes sought I his. "My busy season is 

coming up. Arch and I depend on the 
November and December income to make 
it through the next year. The longer I'm 
closed down, the worse things will get for 
us financially. I can't make it on 
housecleaning alone."

   He shrugged. "Have to, sorry. At least 
until this mess with Fritz Korman is 
cleared up."

   "How long will that take?"

   "That depends."

   I leaned forward. "I can help you. Really. 
I'm already going over there day after 
tomorrow to talk to Vonette."

   Schulz lifted an eyebrow, tilted his head. 

   He said, "To talk to Vonette. Listen. 
When I want help on this case, I'll ask for 
it."

   It was my turn to shrug.

   He said, "Okay, Goldy. Do you know 
who didn't get along with Doctor Korman? 
Sounds as if you know a lot of people."

   "Oh, well," I began. I felt a wave of 
sympathy for Vonette. How could I be 
disloyal to her? What could I say? I shook 
my head.

   "Look," I said, "everyone in this town 
knows Fritz. Most of the people under 
twenty were delivered by him, for God's 
sake."

   "Know anybody who thought he wasn't a 
good doctor? Anybody at the party?"

   "No."

   "Were any of his patients there 
yesterday?"

   I thought. "I think Trixie Jackson is one 
of his patients. The aerobics instructor."

   "Yeah," said Schulz. "I used to see her 
over at the athletic club. She married?"

   "Yes," I said, "she is, I think. I remember 
seeing her in the Kormans' office. But that 
was a long while ago, when I was still 
married." I frowned. A guilty knot tied itself 
in my stomach. It wasn't up to me to give 
Trixie's ob-gyn history to Schulz. After the 
divorce I'd changed doctors; I now went to 
a female gynecologist in Denver. I didn't 
keep up with the Kormans' practice.

   Schulz said, "Who else?"

   "Why don't you just subpoena his 
records or whatever it's called?" I could 
hear the exasperation in my voice. A 
minute ago I had offered to help him. Now 
I just wanted him to leave.

   "Okay," I went on wearily, "Patty Sue 
Williams. My roommate. He's treating her 
for amenorrhea. It's in the dictionary. 
Anyway, her doctor from eastern Colorado 
sent her out here to be treated by Fritz." I 
switched to a lower tone. "Believe me," I 
said, "Fritz might as well be the governor, 
the way Patty Sue looks up to him. She'd 
have an anxiety attack before she'd put 
poison in his coffee."

   He tapped his fingers on the mahogany 
coffee table. "What about the wife?" He 
looked at the ceiling as if he were turning 
things over in his mind. "Vonette."

   "Look," I said, "you can check all this in 
your files somewhere. Vonette's an 
alcoholic. Fritz got her tossed into detox a 
few nights ago. It happens now and then. 
But that doesn't mean she tried to do 
anything to him." I paused. "She doesn't 
operate that way. When she's upset with 
Fritz she takes it out on herself. She 
drinks."

   "I'll do the interpreting around here, if 
you don't mind." He smiled. "What about 

this Laura person? What's this your son 
said about her not liking Korman?"

   "I'm going to see what Vonette knows 
about that," I replied. “I know about Laura 
is from our teacher-parent conferences 
last year and two years before, when she 
was Arch's teacher."

   "How did your son feel about Ms. 
Smiley?"

   "They were very close. They used to tell 
each other jokes, write letters." I paused. 
"He's very upset about her killing herself. 
At least, he seems that way."

   Schulz cleared his throat. "I've read 
about those fantasy games," he said. 
"Some kids can get awfully involved in 
them. Think they're real."

   "Tell me something I don't know."

   "Your son was in charge of the coffee 
and whatnot. He was friends with Ms. 
Smiley and for some reason thought Fritz 
Korman was her enemy. He's having 
trouble dealing with her death, but puts 
great stock in fantasy games where they 
use potions and the like. Any chance that 
could spell trouble for his grandfather?"

   I stared at Schulz with my mouth open. I 
said, "My son is not a liar."

   "He didn't tell me he didn't do it."

   "You didn't ask." I felt my ears burning. 
"Arch!" I called toward the kitchen door. 
"Arch, the policeman wants to ask you 
another question!"

   Arch stuck his head into the living room. 
"What?" he said.

   Schulz said nothing. He only looked 
benevolently at Arch.

   "Hon," I said gently, "did you put 
anything into Fritz's coffee?"

   "Huh?"

   "Did you" - I began again and opened 
my eyes wide at him - "put something into 
Fritz's coffee to make him sick?"

   Arch reddened. "No," he replied. "Why? 
Do you think I did?"

   "No," I said in relief, and glanced back at 
Schulz, who was studying Arch's face. 
"You can go. Unless Mr. Schulz here has 
any more questions."

   He shook his head. Arch left, and I stood 
up.

   Tom Schulz gave me a long look. This 
time I felt that the X-ray vision was not 
directed to seeing what was in my mind. I 
felt he was looking for something else, but 
I couldn't quite figure out what.

   He said, "Let's keep in touch."

-6-
   Monday morning arrived gray and chilly. 
From my bedroom window a nimbus of fog 
was just visible shrouding the far 
mountains. Gray fingers of cloud drifted 
down to caress the yellowed treetops of 
the Wildlife Preserve. The wooden window 
stuck in its track when I pulled; eventually 
it shuddered open and let in a flood of air 
as cold and sweet as the cherry cider 

Colorado farmers sell off the backs of their 
trucks this time of year.

   Arch was out of school because it was 
Columbus Day. Since Fritz was home 
recovering, Patty Sue would not see him 
until Wednesday. As the sole person 
awake, I did not want to have to face the 

possibility of another first-strike telephone 
call from John Richard. I closed the 
window and slipped into a turtleneck and 
jeans before heading out for the warmth of 
Aspen Meadow's pastry shop.

   The fresh air hit my face like a slap. 
Perhaps it was not such a good idea to 
spend money on someone else's cooking, 
I reflected as my boots crunched over the 
frosted gravel of the driveway. I headed 
down Main Street past the Grizzly Bear 
Restaurant and Darlene's Antiques and , 
Collectibles. But the lure of hot rolls and 
coffee won out.

   The walk took twenty minutes. To my 
relief the small shop held no one I knew.

   "Sorry about your business," was the 
mournful greeting from Murray, the master 
baker.

   I said, "I love living in a small town."

   Murray looked puzzled. "Listen," he said 
defensively, "it's gonna hurt me, too. 
Somebody kills that doctor, I'll lose half my 
customers."

   I nodded. The shop was on the first floor 
of a long two-story wood-paneled building. 
Upstairs, Fritz and John Richard practiced 
obstetrics and gynecology. It would be a 
couple of hours before John Richard came 
in. But within fifteen minutes of his 
opening, the pastry shop would begin to 
fill with pregnant women. I knew the 
pattern: they would eat nothing before 
weighing in for their appointment. After 
seeing the doctor they'd waddle down the 
wooden staircase outside the building and 
burst into the pastry shop, starved. I often 
wondered if that was why Murray had 
located his bakery-haven in this particular 
spot.

   "Don't worry," I said before ordering, 
"he's going to be just fine, and so is your 
business."

   Soon I was dipping one finger of that 
western oversized baked good, the Bear 
Claw, into coffee and reading in last 
week's Mountain Journal of Laura Smiley's 
death. The new issue would not be out 
until later in the week, and it would 
undoubtedly cover the postfuneral fiasco. 
That was something I could wait for. Now I 
read of Laura Smiley, the much beloved 
teacher at Furman Elementary, who had 
been born in Denver and raised in Aspen 
Meadow until she went to the University of 
Illinois. After that she had become an 
elementary teacher in Carolton, also in 
Illinois.

   There was something familiar about that 
name, that place. After Laura's parents 
were killed in a drunk driving accident on 
Highway 285 near Conifer, she had 
moved back to the family home, and had 
been a teacher at Furman Elementary 
ever since.

   I stared at the picture. Between the 
black dots of newsprint, Laura was caught 
in a sunny grin. Suddenly, the dots 
clouded.

   You're depressed, I told myself. Drink 
some coffee. I looked up at Murray, who 
gave me his best version of a sympathetic 
wink. I held the paper in front of my face. 
Ms. Smiley, the Journal went on to say, 
was found by fellow teacher Janet Heath, 
autopsy ordered, new deputy coroner 
performing. Funeral Saturday, in lieu of 
flowers, donations to Pacifists United or 
the National Organization for Women. But 
some people had sent flowers anyway. 
And not only to her.

   The rest of the article was what I already 
knew. But the words "came as a great 
surprise to her students and those who 
had known her" were difficult to handle. I 
thought once again of the cheerful 
punning magnets and paintings of serene 
landscapes in Laura's small home.

   Out the pastry shop's picture window old 
wooden storefronts broke the cloudy view 
of distant snow-capped peaks. Most 
people moved to the mountains for this 
vista and for the slower pace. Now 
Homestead Drive and Main Street were 
silent. The only noises were the gentle 
gushing of Cottonwood Creek and the 
occasional ding-ding of cars announcing 
their presence at a nearby gas station.

   Maybe Laura had been looking for 
serenity when she stayed in Aspen 
Meadow after her parents' death. She had 
taught third grade at Furman Elementary. 
Arch had been in the class; it was the first 
time I felt a teacher had appreciated him. 
The beginning of their friendship, she had 
related at the first parent conference, had 
come from a " technological advance.

   He had come to her shyly one snowy 
November morning before school. A 

neighbor with a new car had driven Arch 
along with his own kids to avoid a late bus. 
At school Arch had asked Laura how a 
door could be a jar. A voice in the 
neighbor's car had said, "Your door is 
ajar!" Then she'd told him once she'd 
eaten a strawberry moose. Kindred spirits. 
They'd written little jokes and poetry 
verses to each other, and later letters, and 
they were partners in laughter even after 
he went on to fourth grade. The next year, 
in one of those moves peculiar to 
elementary school administrations, Laura 
was transferred to teaching fifth grade. 
Arch had ended up with her again.

   Sometimes I had thought they spent too 
much time together. He had come home 
with some peculiar stories. Ms. Smiley had 
made fun of the President. Well, who 
didn't. But with a fifth grader? Then when 
her street wasn't plowed, she told Arch 
she was going to hire dump trucks to 
leave a ton of snow in front of the county 
commissioners' office. When I asked her 
about these stories, she just laughed them 
off. It never occurred to me that Laura 
Smiley was truly off-balance. With the 
suicide, of course, I had begun to wonder.

   And poor Arch. This year he had 
slammed into the hostile environment of a 
large sixth grade. He had reacted by 
becoming more secretive and serious, 
more committed to the complex fantasy 
games, more rebellious in the slide to 
adolescence. He had no teacher who 
could talk about dumping fantasy snow on 
newly cruel peers.

   I looked down at the newspaper on the 
table, then back out the window. The sun 
had burnt off the fog and shone now in a 
liquid expanse of blue. It was hard to 
imagine someone looking at the Colorado 
sky before making that last trip into the 
bathroom.

   Marla broke the silence by plopping into 
the chair across from me.

   She hummed as she spread out her 
fare, two buttermilk-glazed doughnuts and 
a cream-filled Long John - the western 
version of an éclair - and a cup of coffee, 
which she immediately began to douse 
with sugar and cream. She stopped 
humming to give me a baleful look.

   "You shouldn't eat alone," she warned. 
She shook pillowy jowls that resembled 
the Pillsbury doughboy's. She had on a 
sequined sweat suit. Half of her brown 
frizzy hair was held by a ponytail. The rest 
spilled out every which way. Her face, 
however, was perfectly made up, She bit 
carefully into one of the doughnuts so as 
not to smear the scarlet lipstick, then went 
on with her mouth full. "It's like drinking 
alone. A bad sign, very bad." She dabbed 
around her mouth with a napkin. 
"Especially in the morning."

   "Then why are you here?" I asked. I took 
a sip of coffee before biting off another 
Bear Claw finger.

   She narrowed her eyes and munched 
thoughtfully, then tongued a small glob of 
cream that had oozed out of the center of 
the Long John.

   "I'm used to eating alone," she replied. 
"You're not." She looked at the paper 
spread out in front of me and shook her 
head again. "Good God. Eating alone and 
reading about suicide."

   "Give me a break, Marla."

   "Hey! I'm trying to cheer you up." I 
smiled and looked down at her doughnuts. 
"What are you doing here, anyway?" I 
asked. "I thought your larder was full."

   "Well," she said hesitantly, "you're not 
going to believe this, but I can't eat at 
home. Mice."

   "Mice?" I said, staring at her. She gulped 
her cream-colored coffee again and 
touched her free hand to the frizzy mass 
of hair. "Yeah, so what? It's getting cold 
outside. The mice come in. They're 
hungry. They scare me. I call an 
exterminator. Is there something wrong 
with that? You sure seem to be on edge 
this morning." She gestured at the paper. 
"Stop reading about Laura. That'll only 
make you feel worse."

   I frowned at her. She was my friend. I 
said, "Whoever tried to do in Fritz Korman 
used rodent poison."

   Marla closed her eyes, then opened 
them. "I didn't do it, Goldy."

   "Sorry," I mumbled. She leaned across 
the table. "Listen," she said. "I don't even 
care about Fritz. And neither should you. 
The more involved in this you become, the 
more depressed you're going to get. It's 
like hanging around John Richard. It just 
makes things worse. Let the police do 
their job."

   "I have to help them," I said. "My 
business and livelihood are on the line." 
This would not have occurred to Marla, of 
course, since she'd made her money the 
easy way: she inherited it.

   She shrugged and tapped a fat finger 
twinkling with sapphires on the newspaper 
picture of Laura. "Here's a mystery you 
should be working on," she said. "Why'd 
she do it? I have a theory."

   "What's that?"

   "Unrequited love."

   I looked at her blankly. "What?" Marla 
returned the blank look and started to 
mumble vaguely about not being 
completely sure when the shop door flew 
open, banged against our table, and sent 
the coffee into a tidal wave across the 
Formica.

   "I figured you were here," Arch 
announced triumphantly as he marched in 
with Patty Sue in tow. "You always come 
here when you don't have any work."

   I gave Marla a rueful glance and 
dropped a pile of napkins on the table's 
lake of coffee, then got up to refill our cups 
and pay for whatever Arch wanted. He 
ordered a sugar twist and juice. Patty Sue, 
after noticing she hadn't brought any 
money, ordered a Long John, a cheese 
Danish, and two cartons of milk.

   "How do you stay so thin?" demanded 
Marla. "I mean didn't they feed you out in 
eastern Colorado, before you had to come 
out here to see Fritz, or what?"

   "They fed me. And I'm trying to learn to 
cook," said Patty Sue in what I viewed as 
extraordinary understatement. "One time 
Dad was sick for a long time and then I 
had to do the cooking because Mom got 
sick, too. I fixed frozen stuff like Banquet 
chicken and Sara Lee."

   Marla said, "What did she have, 
scurvy?"

   There was no answer. Patty Sue and 
Arch were staring at Laura's picture in the 
paper. Patty Sue put down her Danish and 
looked out the window. I reached for the 
paper.

   "Guess what," I said to distract Arch. 
"Marla has mice."

   "Oh, cool," he said with genuine 
admiration. "Do you have gerbils, too?"

   Marla turned her look of distaste on me. 
“Arch," Marla explained as she gestured 
with her remaining doughnut, "there are 
good mice and bad mice. Good mice live 
in cages and children's stories. Bad mice 
bite and spread disease after they get into 
your best cookies and crackers and make 
a mess. Not to mention that after all your 
cookies are gone, you have to go to local 
pastry shops and listen to your best friend 
ask if you're using rodent poison on 
humans." She paused to swallow some 
coffee. "And no to the gerbils, too."

   Arch nodded. "Did you call the Division 
of Wildlife to get rid of them?"

   Marla and I both found this amusing. 
The furrows of confusion in Patty Sue's 
forehead deepened. I was not sure, but it 
looked as if she was about to cry.

   "Arch honey," I said in a voice I hoped 
was not patronizing, "you call the Division 
of Wildlife if you have a problem with a 
bear or a raccoon or a mountain lion. Not 
for mice and common animals like that."

   Arch said, "I don't think you're right, 
Mom."

   Marla glanced at her watch. "Oh," she 
said, her mouth full of doughnut, "the irony 
of it all. Time for exercise class."

   I nodded. I still needed to find out if Hal 
was interested in my cleaning offer, so I 
hustled Patty Sue and Arch along. As they 
were getting up to leave, I turned to Marla.

   "So what's this about Laura?" I asked in 
a low voice.

   "I've seen and heard this and that," 
Marla whispered.

   "Well, tell me."

   "Not now," said Marla. She thought. "Let 
me ask around at the club. That's where I 
saw something that made me wonder."

   "Made you wonder about what?"

   "Let me call around, will you, Goldy? I 
hate to gossip."

   Untrue, I thought, as I hastened after 
her. Marla adored gossip.

   We took off for the Aspen Meadow 
Athletic Club, which occupied the bottom 
two floors of a streamlined brick building 
full of glass and sharply angled walls. The 
other four floors of this incongruously 
contemporary edifice housed First Bank of 
Colorado, realtors' offices, even our own 
branch of Merrill Lynch. The building and 
its residents were a sign of the urban 
future coming to our little town, a sign that 
was none too welcome to the small 
population that had moved here to get 
away from all that.

   Inside, the athletic facility was about as 
close to yuppie heaven as one could find 
in Aspen Meadow. Plexiglas walls 
enclosed clean white racquetball courts; 
an advanced sound system boomed in the 
exercise room; Nautilus equipment and 
weights were judiciously spaced in 
another room, which had the look of a 
museum exhibit of modern sculpture. For 
postworkout relaxation there was a 
steamroom, sauna, and hot tub in a locker 
room that would have given pause to the 
architects of the Roman baths.

   A cook feels more comfortable putting 
fat into things than taking it out or off, so 
belonging to a fancy gym had always felt 
strange. As I pushed through the glass 
door and shuffled across the beige-and-
burgundy striped carpet, it was Marla's 
comment that reminded me of the other 
reason for feeling out of place here. The 
club was the one spot in Aspen Meadow 
where, as if by agreement, all the single 
people who did not want to resort to either 
bars or church groups could meet.

   I only felt duty bound to exercise, and 
that not too much. My business had kept 
me going until a few days ago. Besides 
splashing in the pool, Arch enjoyed 
puttering around on the racquetball court, 
so I also rationalized paying the dues for 
his sake. But unless some work 
materialized soon, we would have to quit. I 
hated to feel poor. It made me resent John 
Richard even more than usual.

   Needless to say, I hadn't taken 
advantage of the social life available at the 
club. There was a small voice of 
uncertainty in my gut, not unlike the 
interest in Pomeroy. Over the years some 
of the muscle-bound fellows had asked 
me out. I had replied in the negative, 
claiming to myself that I wasn't ready.

   But I belonged to the club, and like the 
woman on a diet who stares at the frozen 
desserts, I had my wild thoughts.

   This feeling did not diminish when Patty 
Sue, Marla, Arch, and I retrieved our 
locker keys from Hal, a shaggy-haired jock 
who had metamorphosed from surf bum to 
club owner without losing his beachboy 
gestalt. He was on the phone and 
whispered he would talk to me later. The 
place was crowded since it was a holiday. 
Glancing into the Nautilus room the first 
person I saw, of course, was Pomeroy 
Locraft. Not teaching today because the 
high school was closed, no doubt. He 
gave us a hearty wave which, since I had 
never received it before, was probably 
meant for Patty Sue. She waved back 
while Arch sauntered over to chat, 
probably about beekeeping.

   In the locker room Marla said, "I don't 
know if I'm ready for this after two 
doughnuts and a Long John. What an 
unfortunately phallic name for an éclair, 
anyway." She was struggling into peach-
colored tights that made her look even 
more round and fuzzy than she already 
was.

   "Okay, girls," shouted Trixie after we had 
stretched calves and assorted ligaments, 

"let's go get 'em!"

   This, coupled with the sudden booming 
of the theme from Top Gun, meant the war 
on cellulite had been declared. I had not 
had a class from Trixie in quite a while. I 
wasn't sure I was up to it.

   Within the first minute of activity it was 
abundantly clear that too long a time had 
elapsed since my last trip to class, no 
matter who the teacher was. The ruthless 
bank of mirrors in front of us pointed out 
every fatty pouch. My thighs, next to Patty 
Sue's long slender ones, looked as if they 
were plastered with rice pudding. My 
stomach was a bombe glaceé.

   "Come on, girls!" exhorted Trixie. "Get 
that energy up!" She balled her hands into 
fists and punched at the air below the 
ceiling. "Go! Go!"

   Beside me Patty Sue was lunging and 
jumping. Pomeroy I and Arch were out of 
sight. I surveyed the rows of women.

   I did not want to do this, did not want to 
do this. The women were like pasta 
groupings, I decided. The back row of 
overweight newcomers wiggled 
laboriously, manicotti in hot water. Next 
came lasagne, wide-looking one way and 
thin when they turned. The linguini in front 
of them possessed the same thin/wide 
dimensions, only in not so dramatic 
proportions. Then onward to spaghetti and 
finally to vermicelli, thin tall tubes like Patty 
Sue and Trixie. How Patty Sue could eat 
so much and stay so thin was beyond me. 
I was an incidental misfit on this row, short 
and round. An elbow macaroni, maybe.

   After class I stretched out on a towel in 
the steamroom, where I was soon joined 
by Patty Sue, Marla, and Trixie.

   "Glad you're back," said Marla to Trixie.

   "Oh," Trixie said loftily, "I've been back 
for a couple of weeks."

   "In fighting shape," I said as we all 
settled in the dark room with its swirls of 
steam.

   Trixie said, "What's that supposed to 
mean?"

   "Not a damn thing," I said. "What's the 
matter?"

   "Not a damn thing," she said. After a 
moment she sniffed.

   I said, "Did I say something wrong?"

   Trixie flipped over. She said, "Just shut 
up, Goldy."

   I said, "What are you so angry about?"

   Trixie said, "Since when are you a 
shrink?"

   "Be cool, girls, be cool," said Marla.

   I let a silence go by. Then I said, "Would 
somebody please tell me what is going 
on?"

   "Not now," said Trixie.

   There was another uncomfortable 
silence, in which Patty Sue cleared her 
throat several times.

   "I've been thinking, Trixie," Marla said 
finally. "Maybe you'd like to come to our 
group. Tell her about it, Goldy."

   I did, but I didn't know why I was doing 
it. I explained that we ate dessert and 
talked. If she was having some problems, I 
said delicately, it sometimes helped to talk 
them out.

   "I'll think about it," said Trixie. "When do 
you meet?"

   "We're meeting on Thursday the twenty-
second," I said.

   "Then we'll meet again on Friday night 
the thirtieth."

   "Um," said Patty Sue, "can I come too?"

   "Sure," I said. "Trix?"

   "I teach Thursday nights and Saturday 
mornings," she said, "so maybe the one 
near Halloween. Martin's going out of town 
at the end of the month - it's a possibility." 
She was quiet for a minute. "I'll think about 
it."

   "Such enthusiasm," said Marla. To me 
she said, "I'm glad the last one's near 
Halloween. I'll need a heavy sugar fix right 
before all the little neighborhood goblins 
arrive and I actually have to give candy 
away."

   After dressing I hunted for and found 
Hal. We stood in back of the desk to talk 
while he continued to dispense keys. I told 
him we were desperate for money to pay 
our dues, and that I had spent some time 
doing cleaning in addition to cooking, so I 
was qualified to do both. And he couldn't 
beat my prices.

   "Tell you what," Hal said as he reached 
down for a key under its tag, "we usually 
have a Halloween party the thirty-first and 
just get all the food from a grocery store. 
Chocolate cookies, pumpkin cake, same 
old stuff every year. And one of the 
problems this year is that our cleaning 
crew comes in only on Sunday when we're 
closed. Halloween falls on a Saturday, so 
we need someone, who I thought was 
going to be me, to clean up after we close 
on Friday. If you can do the munchies and 
punch and decoration, plus clean up 
beforehand, then that'll take care of your 
dues for October and November."

   I told him the county had forbidden me 
to do catering. For a while.

  "Hey," said Hal, as he screwed his 
tanned face into indignation, "who cares 
what the county thinks? You're doing this 
for me. And I'm doing something for you. 
Ever since I burned my draft card, I 
haven't worried about the law."

   "Just don't advertise the fact that I'm 
doing it, or I'll catch hell."

   "It's a favor," he said. "Don't worry so 
much! It's bad for your heart."

   I did feel sick, but put it down to too 
many abdominal exercises. We settled on 
how many people and what kind of food 
he would like to have - mild Chinese, hot 
Mexican, and sweet American.

   "Sounds like three girls," he said. I told 
him the cash flow problem was severe. He 
trundled off to get me fifty dollars from the 
cash register for my supplies.

   While I waited for him I glanced down at 
the board with its rows of glistening keys. 
Keys to lockers were like keys to inner 
selves, solutions to outer and inner 
mysteries. But the one enigma in my 
current life - who had poisoned Fritz? - 
was not dangling on the board. Or if it 
was, I couldn't see it. Whoever did hold 
the key to the pellets also determined my 
business future. Why had someone done 
it? I noticed Fritz's key and my ex-
husband's hanging under the K. Why 
poison someone after a funeral? 
Especially after the funeral of a suicide?

   What had Arch said? That Laura hadn't 
gotten along with Fritz and Vonette. 
Carolton, Illinois, the paper had said.

   Carolton, Illinois. John Richard and I had 
driven by that town once on a summer trip. 
The highway was near where his father 
had had a practice a long time ago.

   I looked around for Hal. He was caught 
in conversation with a person carrying 
some weights.

   What about Laura and the Kormans' 
lives before Aspen Meadow? Who knew? 
Unless...

   Unless the attempted poisoning of 
Korman had had something to do with 
Laura's death. Which would explain why 
someone would go to the lengths of trying 
to do him in at her house, after her funeral, 
with her spirit or whatever there.

   And what about Laura's death, anyway? 
How indisputable was the determination 
by the coroner's office, I wondered. With 
no note, what made them say it was 
suicide?

   This wasn't even a theory. This was an 
insane idea. The police were looking into 
the coffee poisoning. They had already 
decided about Laura Smiley's death by 
her own hand.

   But the police would still get their 
salaries whether or not they were right 
about a woman's death, whether or not 
they figured out who was playing pellets-
in-the-coffee. The solution to that question 
directly affected my livelihood. Was I 
ready to trust Arch's and my income to 
someone else's intelligence and 
perseverance?

   I was not. Sweat dimpled my scalp. My 
fingers shivered. Hal was still talking to the 
guy with the weights. I would not be able 
to follow up on 'this inclination right away. I 
would have to wait. Wait until the club was 
silent, empty. Still, it would be a start.

   With one swift movement I reached 
down to the keys marked S, and removed 
one from its hook: Laura Smiley's.

-7-
   At home that night I stared at the key 
and wondered if I'd committed a crime. So 
far, detection was neither enjoyable nor 
productive. The Grand Marnier I usually 
saved for cheesecakes gurgled when I 
poured some into one of my 
grandmother's liqueur glasses. The taste 
like smoke and oranges burned all the 
way down.

   I picked up the key and felt its edges 
bite into my I hand. Think. I would have to 
wait to search Laura's locker, wait for a 
time when the athletic club was deserted. 
It would raise more questions than it was 
worth to be caught pilfering the goods of a 
dead woman. This was Monday. The best 
bet would be Saturday, five days away. 
Given I the choice, most folks would rather 
shop than sweat on a Saturday morning. 
The liqueur did nothing to prevent another 
fitful night. Like most insomniacs, I fell into 
a deathlike sleep just as the sun was 
coming up. To my chagrin two 
interruptions shattered what could have 
been restful slumber.

   The first was a barely remembered 
encounter with Arch. Before the bus came 
he had been banging around the house 
looking for some seeds for. . . milk? That 
was what had been confusing, what had 
sent me back to bed. He'd said he needed 
it for a potion for unbelievers, which 
seemed even more incredible.

   The second rude awakening was from 
the phone. "What is it?" I demanded into 
the receiver.

   "Oh-ho, it's the good-natured caterer, I 
see," said Tom Schulz. "Resting up for 
housecleaning somewhere? Or do you 
have time to talk?"

   "What can you possibly want at this 
hour?"

   "It's nine o'clock, Goldy. I could want a 
lot of things." I sat up in bed, feeling 
groggy and uncomfortably warm. Either 
this guy was flirting with me or my 
paranoia was taking a turn toward the 
delusional.

   "Listen," he was going on, "I was 
thinking about something your son said. 
Funny thing about your kid. He ended up 
being a cooperative and polite person in 
spite of his parents."

   "Schulz," I said. "Please. It's just that I 
have some cooking to do."

"Really? Who're you cooking for?" "I am 
going, as I told you before, over to visit my 
ex-in-laws. I am taking them a basket of 
things to eat. This has nothing to do with 
my business, either, if that's what you're 
thinking. It's just - " I groped for words. I 
did not want Schulz to know of my plans to 
snoop around as well as ask questions. 
"Just because I am a nice person after all. 
And this way, if poison turns up in the 
coffee cake, you'll know I was the one 
after all."

   "Uh-huh. I'd say more like you're going 
snooping to figure out what's going on by 
yourself. Spite of what you say; you don't 
trust the police to do their job. Goldy wants 
to get her business opened without benefit 
of law enforcement agencies, is what I'm 
hearing."

   "I could be more helpful than you think."

   "Really," he said again, unconvinced. 

   There was a pause. "You're a suspect, 
you know."

   "Yes, but you know I didn't do it. In your 
heart of hearts."

   "My heart of hearts, she says. About 

which she knows so much."

   "Come on, Investigator Schulz." :

   Another pause. Then he said, "Well. You 
want to be in on the investigation? I'll give 
you a chance to do just that."

   "Okay, what?"

   “A chance, I said. That means we work 
together. Within the law."

   "Uh-oh. Can't take my Uzi when I 
question witnesses." He sighed. "There's 
something you might be able to look into. 
What your son said about Laura and Fritz 
and Vonette not getting along? Turns out 
they all lived in the same town for a while. 
Fritz and Vonette moved here from 
Carolton, Illinois, in 1967. Ms. Smiley 
came out about a year later, when her 
parents died: Not that that tells us 
anything, it's just a strange link."

   "They knew each other," I said. "I 
already asked Vonette. Laura babysat for 
them during a vacation. But that was 
twenty years ago."

   "Still," he said, "it's a link. I'm going to 
call out there to Carolton and see if I can 
do a little background checking on Laura 
Smiley, maybe on the Kormans, too. Ask if 
there was anybody else from that town 
who moved here. See if we get any more 
strange links."

   "Like if anyone had a rodent problem 
twenty years ago."

   He chuckled. "One of these days I'm 
going to tell you why you're so tough."

   I chewed the inside of my cheek and 
didn't answer. "Anyway," he went on, "I 
thought you were itching to help out. You 
could do just that in your little chat with 
your ex-in-laws today."

   "Will do," I said. "And there's something I 
want to find out. I was wondering if you 
could talk to the deputy coroner or 
whoever it was that said Laura was a 
suicide. I'd like to know why he said it was 
suicide."

   "We'll see." He harrumphed. "I am letting 
you in on all this," he went on, "because I 
want to help you. And of course because I 
care about you. As a taxpayer, of course."

   "You care about me because you're a 
taxpayer or because I'm one?"

   “As a taxpayer, you help pay my salary, 
Goldy," he said with a grin I could hear. 
"With no income, your taxes will be lower 
and there goes my salary. Tell you what. 
How about if we talk more about this over 
Chinese food tonight? We could compare 
notes, my treat. Six o'clock at Aspen 
Meadow's finest Oriental restaurant."

   "You mean Aspen Meadow's only 
Oriental restaurant."

   "Aw," he said, "you take all the fun out of 
everything."

   I thought. It would probably be a long 
time before I had another chance to be 
taken out to dinner. Still, I wasn't used to 
it. I might flunk social adeptness.

   "It's just dinner," he said. "Come on."

   I could make spaghetti for Patty Sue and 
Arch. I could even walk to the Dragon's 
Breath, since it was just off Main Street.

   I said, "Six o'clock," and hung up.

   Nothing equals mixing and baking to 
clear the head, I thought after I had 
showered and downed a quart of coffee. 
Patty Sue had decided to go for a long 
run, she told me with an unusual amount 

of explanation, to get in shape for skiing. 
Fine. The next few hours of cooking in a 
quiet house stretched out like a dry road 
after a storm.

   The components of Goldilocks' Cheer-
Up Basket usually were the following: 
three different kinds of baked goods, fresh 
fruit in season, at least two kinds of fancy 
cheese, a soup or dinner that could be 
frozen, and a bouquet of flowers.

   For the soup I was in luck. I had already 
made up a quantity of Goldilocks' Gourmet 
Spinach Soup and frozen it. This recipe 
had actually derived from a miscalculation 
in making Julia Child's entree crepes 
stuffed with spinach and mushrooms. 
Trying to help Arch with some fourth-grade 
math homework while making the crepe 
filling, I had ended up with quadruple the 
amount I needed for the crepes. After the 
initial distress, I had thinned out the 
cheese and vegetable mixture with 
chicken broth, and the result had been 
brilliant. The success pleased customers 
no end. Periodically I made great 
quantities of the stuff, without crepes, just 
to keep on hand. So Fritz and Vonette 
could have some.

   The senior Kormans were also partial to 
coffee cakes. I sometimes saw Fritz in the 
Aspen Meadow pastry shop indulging in 
an iced cinnamon roll. Unless I phoned 
her, Vonette never got up early enough to 
have a normal breakfast, but she loved my 
cakes anytime. So I hunted up the 
buttermilk, took some cream cheese out to 
soften, and made a New England crumb 
coffee cake flavored with ginger and 
nutmeg.

   The pièce de résistance was Goldy's 
Dream Cake. This, too, was a cookbook 
recipe that I had messed up in the most 
fortuitous manner. I pulled out the 
ingredients, made a fingerprint in the 
cream cheese to make sure it had 
softened, and then peered at the card.

GOLDY'S DREAM CAKE

Crumb Mixture:
4 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 1/2 cups (3 sticks) unsalted butter, cut 
into 1 - tablespoonpieces, well chilled

Cake:
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
6 cups reserved crumb mixture
2 large eggs, beaten
1 ½ cups sour cream
2 teaspoons almond extract

Filling:
1 pound (two 8-ounce packages) cream 
cheese, softened
½ cup sugar
2 large eggs, beaten
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup red raspberry preserves, sieved to 
remove seeds

Topping:
2/3 cup raw whole almonds
2 cups reserved crumb mixture

   Preheat the oven to 350 . Butter two 9- 
or to-inch springform pans and set aside.
In the large bowl of a food processor fitted 
with a steel blade, blend the flour and 
sugar until well combined, about 5 
seconds. With the motor running, quickly 
drop the butter pieces through the chute, 
blending until the mixture resembles small, 
sandy crumbs, less than a minute. 
Measure out 6 cups of this mixture for the 
cake. Measure the last 2 cups of the 
mixture for the topping and set aside.

   For the cake, gently stir the baking 
powder, soda, and salt into the 6 cups of 
reserved crumb mixture. In a separate 
bowl, mix the beaten eggs with the sour 
cream and almond extract, stirring until 
well combined. Pour the egg mixture over 
the crumb mixture and stir until smooth 
and thick. Spread the cake batter over the 
bottom and up the sides of each of the 
prepared pans.

   For the filling, beat the cream cheese, 
sugar, eggs, and vanilla extract in the 
large bowl of an electric mixer until 
smooth. Spread half of this mixture over 
the cake batter in each of the prepared 
pans. Top the cream cheese mixture in 
each pan with 1/2 cup of the sieved 
preserves.

   For the topping, whirl the raw almonds in 
a food processor fitted with the steel blade 
until chunky. Mix the almonds into the 2 
cups reserved crumb mixture and sprinkle 
half of this mixture over the preserves 
layer in each pan.

   Bake the cakes for 45 to 55 minutes. 
Test with a toothpick for doneness. (All 
that should adhere to the toothpick is 
cream cheese and preserves, not cake 
batter.) Cool the cakes thoroughly on 
racks, then cover with foil and refrigerate 
several hours or, even better, overnight. 
Serve in the morning with coffee, if 
desired.

Makes 2 large cokes

   Vonette and Fritz were not going to get 
one made ahead. Patty Sue and Arch 
could have the other one for dessert 
tonight after their spaghetti. Good thing 
they were both so thin.

   I began to measure and mix. It was all 
like a cake, I thought. This mess with Fritz, 
the unknowns about Laura. It was like 
having a large group of ingredients and 
not knowing how they were all combined.

   And what about Schulz? He wanted to 
trust me, wanted me to help him with the 
case. After John Richard, I'd grown 
suspicious of men and their motives. In 
Amour Anonymous, we sometimes joked 
about being addicted to hate. We worried 
that hostility-for-guys was what drew us 
together. I wanted to be social again, 
didn't I? I wanted someone to care about 
me.

   Didn't I? I was just sprinkling on the 

crumb-and-almond mixture when the 
buzzer sounded the completion of the 
crumb cake. After placing it on a cooling 
rack I saw myself briefly in the reflection of 
the black refrigerator door. I was actually 
going out tonight. I would have to do 
something with my hair and find some 
garment besides a corduroy skirt. I was 
going to have to be sociable, and it wasn't 
even for a client. I was going out with a 
man I knew liked me. All of a sudden, I felt 
sick.

   Four hours later the van was grinding its 
way up the steep entrance to the 
residential area surrounding Aspen 
Meadow Country Club. To call this club 
with its half-hearted golf and tennis 
offerings a country club was an 
overstatement. The AM.C.C. never would 
measure up to any of its eastern 
counterparts, and migrants from Rumson 
and Chevy Chase and Lake Forest were 
quick to point this out. But then again, this 
was the West. Even the idea of a country 
club had been imported. Eastern snobbery 
gave Coloradans no end of psychic pain, 
and the natives produced a multitude of 
bumper stickers to express their attendant 
disgust. The most impudent declared, 
LOVE NEW YORK? TAKE HIWAY 40 
EAST!

   I looked down at the basket on the seat 
next to me. The cakes and container of 
soup glistened in cellophane wrap tied 
with bows of yellow and orange and 
brown. A small arrangement of flowers 
dried from my own garden last year 
echoed the fall colors. And speaking of 
bouquets, maybe I'd be able to find out 
this afternoon what it was Fritz deserved.

   "Well now, Goldy honey," Vonette 
greeted me after the doorbell on the 
massive front door to their contemporary 
wood home had bing-bonged a la Big 
Ben. "Don't you look cute! You got a date 
or something?"

   I winced. Was the fact that I was 
showered and coifed and sporting a 
seldom-worn black wool dress so very 
unusual? So very new?

   Vonette's brilliant red hair was more 
disheveled than usual, but it just might 
have been the way it clashed with the 
purple Ultrasuede hostess gown.

   She said in a confidential tone, "I got a 
batch of margaritas going. Want one 
before you see Fritz?"

   I was tempted. I was about to see a 
doctor whom half the town thought I had 
tried to kill, and yet who merited 
something, according to an anonymous 
flower sender. Moreover, in a few hours I 
was going out on my first date in five years 
with the cop investigating the case. If I 
succumbed to the buzz from the first hit of 
salt, lime, and tequila, then it would be 
numerous margaritas later before the thirst 
left and the headache began. By that time 
I'd be knee-deep in egg rolls and moo-shu 
pork with my head swimming like the 
shreds of yolk in egg drop soup. This 
dismal prognosis made me ask for coffee.

   Vonette, on the other hand, professed 
no worry about either Oriental cuisine or 
the hangover to come. I followed her out 
to the cavernous kitchen. She waved her 
free hand gaily as she beeped microwave 
buttons to heat water for coffee. After a 
long swig of greenish liquid she started to 
talk.

   "I just don't know what to do with him 
being home. He's fussing and yapping all 
day about Lord knows what. That John 
Richard can't see all his patients. That 
they need him over there. The practice, 
the practice. Yappety yap. That some 
doctor on TV is an idiot. Lord! I wished 
they'd have given him an injection to make 
him shut up!"

   "I know he's dedicated to his work," I 
said, thinking of Patty Sue and her 
mandatory twice-weekly appointments. 
"How soon before he's back in shape?"

   "Tomorrow. Thanks be to God." She 
paused and looked at my basket for the 
first time. "Now look what you've brought. 
Aren't you just so sweet."

   I explained the basket's contents and 
opened the refrigerator to put in the cake 
with cream cheese. The food of a noncook 
littered the shelves. Fancy sliced deli ham 
and smoked salmon, herring in sour 
cream, and little nibbled packages of Brie 
and Samsoe and Port Salut vied for space 
with beer and wine and every imaginable 
kind of mixer. It again occurred to me, as it 
had so many times, that John Richard had 
married a woman who could cook 
because he had been raised by one who 
could not.

   "May I see Fritz?" I asked.

   She nodded. "Just wait here a sec," she 
said. "Let me go see if he minds. He 
probably won't, but you know how ornery 
he can be. He was talking about taking a 
shower, so it might just be a little bit."

   "I'll wait in the study," I announced, and 
slipped into the paneled room off the 
kitchen.

   When Vonette had padded off, I slowly 
opened the drawers of the study desk. 
Take your shower, Fritz. My heart was 
knocking loudly and I felt cold. Vonette 
was not returning immediately. The 
business has to reopen, I said to myself. 
Schulz doesn't need to know about this. 
Start investigating.

   Apparently Vonette liked to organize as 
little as she liked to cook. Letters and 
papers and photographs were crammed 
into each of the small drawers like 
dressing in a too-small turkey. I could feel 
blood pounding in my throat and ears. I 
did not know what I was looking for or how 
I would know when I found it.

   There wouldn't be time to read any 
letters or study any bills, but perhaps I 
could get some names, something like 
that. Threats, I told myself, people who 
don't like him. That's what you're looking 
for. But would something be here? Would 
a doctor even keep that kind of thing at 
home? What about his office?

   I came to a box of what looked like old 
photographs.

   There was my unmistakable ex-
husband, charming in a sailor suit at about 
age six. And there he was again in front of 
a birthday cake, about to blowout four 
candles. Behind him in the picture was an 
adolescent girl - a babysitter? Then there 
was another picture of the same girl, by 
herself this time in one of those old-
fashioned stiff photo portraits done in high 
schools. She wore a bouffant hairdo with 
the ends of her hair flipped up. In large 
looping feminine handwriting were the 
words "Dear Mom, No matter what, I'm still 
your baby." And unsigned. As I stared at 
the photo I thought there was something 
familiar about it, something I couldn't quite 
place. The girl was not someone I knew or 
had ever known. It was not Laura Smiley. 
But I had seen a picture of this face before 
somewhere, maybe from when I was 
married to John Richard. Fat chance I'd 
have of him telling me who it was.

   I crept quickly into the kitchen and slid 
the picture into my purse. I was heating up 
a fresh cup of water for instant coffee 
when Vonette wobbled back and leaned 
on the counter before pouring herself 
another margarita.

   "He's just on the phone right now with 
John Richard," she said. "Let's give him a 
couple more minutes. You know how he 
hates being interrupted."

   I nodded and looked at Vonette, whose 
coppery too-poufed hair shone in the 
afternoon light. I really knew little about 
her. When we got together with the senior 
Kormans at holidays and other times, 
John Richard had silently ignored his 
mother as she began to drink and make 
outrageous statements. Fritz never 
seemed to be paying much attention to 
her either. I felt like a one-woman listening 
team, saying "uh-huh" and "I know what 
you mean," and wishing I could get her 
into a residential treatment program for 
alcoholics. But she had never told me 
much about anything personal. Her 
diatribes were against people in the 
church she didn't like, or what was wrong 
with the school system, the highway 
department, or the Republican party.

   "Vonette," I said, "do you know who put 
that stuff into Fritz's coffee?"

   She turned away and opened the 
freezer door of the refrigerator. "Nope," 
she said without looking at me. "Just like I 
told that cop." She brought out a can of 
frozen limeade and started to peel off the 
plastic tab.

   "But you must know who his enemies 
are," I persisted. "You must know who at 
the funeral didn't like him."

   She dug hard into the frozen 
concentrate with a metal spoon and said, 
"Enemies? C'mon, honey. What do you 
think this is, a war?"

   "What about his patients? Please, 
Vonette," I begged, "help me with this. I 
can't make enough money to support Arch 
and myself without the catering business, 
and the police have shut me down hard. 
You must know something."

   Finally she turned to face me. "Goldy," 
she said, "I don't. Well, leastwise not that 
much. And after all that's happened - "

   She shrugged and began to run water to 
dilute the lime concentrate. She said, "I 
don't really want to know."

   "After all what has happened, Vonette? 
You mean Fritz and the rat poison?"

   She threw the can of water against the 
side of the sink. "Goddamn but I've got a 
headache. If you want to see Fritz, Goldy 
honey, just go on back. You need money, 
call me later. But I gotta go lie down now." 
And she tottered out of the kitchen before 
I had a chance to say anything.

   Great. Something had happened. 
Thinking about it gave Vonette a 
headache. And now I had to face Fritz 
alone. I picked up my basket.

   "Well hello, Goldy," said Fritz after I had 
knocked and been admitted to their 
enormous bedroom suite done in pink, 
green, and white. "Or should I say Little 
Red Riding Hood?"

   I didn't know where Vonette had gone to 
lie down. Fritz was propped up with at 
least half a dozen pillows behind him. His 
almost-bald head shone like a baby's bum 
in the gray light from the television, which 
had a picture but no volume. The 
newspaper, a tray with dishes and cups, 
and the remote control for the television 
were spread out around his lap. He was 
wearing pale blue pajamas covered with 
tiny dark blue fleurs de lis. A French king 
in repose, sans wig.

   I stared at him. He was a good-looking 
man. There are people who age badly and 
people like Fritz, who age beautifully. The 
silver chest hair peeking out from the V of 
his pajama top matched the silver hair 
above his ears. His face was radiant with 
the fine-boned handsomeness that had 
been inherited by the man I had loved for 
eight years.

   "Just pull up a chair," he said, "and look, 
you've brought me something. Now John 
Richard would say I shouldn't eat anything 
you bring me." He winked after I had 
settled stiffly on the side of a chaise 
longue. "You know what I said to him? I 
said, Son, don't you worry about it. Goldy 
and I get along just great. Don't we?"

   I nodded, described the various things in 
the basket, and told him about the cake in 
the refrigerator. He thanked me and then 
there was a pause while soap opera 
characters ranted silently on the flickering 
screen.

   "Well," I lied, "Patty Sue says hello."

   "Does she?" His eyes sparkled. "Great 
gal. Marvelous patient. She must be such 
a help for you."

   I didn't want to appear difficult and 
disagree. "Well," I said finally. "Well, well." 
I had to get out of here. I was beginning to 
have a headache myself, and I was 
meeting Schulz shortly. I smiled at Fritz 
and said, "So John Richard still thinks I did 
this to you?"

   Fritz sat up straight in bed and screwed 
up his face into a menacing grimace. He 
shook his head. His eyebrows formed a 
bushy line just above his nose, and his 
mouth was set downward over the clean-
cut jaw.

   "Don't you worry about this, Goldy, you 
hear?" "Okay," I said, moving my knees 
back and forth. The wool was making 
them itch. "I really am sorry this happened 
to you. I still do think of us as being sort of 
related." There was an uncomfortable 
silence. "Maybe I'd better go." I stood up 
to leave. "Hope you feel better," I said as I 
opened the bedroom door.

   "Don't fret about John Richard," Fritz 
said with a smile, full of charm. I nodded, 
speechless again. Fritz's face relaxed 
suddenly, and he gave a slight laugh. " 
‘After all, son,’ I told him, 'you're the only 
one standing to gain if I go.' " He laughed 
again, somewhat wildly.

   "Well, bye now," I said as I started down 
the hall.

   "I said, 'Son, look here!' " he yelled after 
me. " 'Get Goldy out of your mind, will 
you? If I die, she doesn't inherit the 
practice. You do!' "

-8-
   Despite its name, the Dragon's Breath 
Chinese Restaurant was not strictly 
Szechuan. In a small town a food place 
could not afford to alienate those with 
milder tastes, so the proprietor offered 
Cantonese dishes in addition to those 
made with vinegar and mustard and red 
pepper. This was good, since my own 
feeling was that spicy cooking was better 
left to the Mexicans. Whether Tom Schulz 
had mild tastes I did not know. Asking me 
out to dinner indicated something to the 
contrary.

   The restaurant's entrance was carved in 
the shape of a dragon's head. Coming 
through the mouth-door with its solid 
inverted-pyramid teeth, I always had a 
feeling of sympathy for Jonah. During the 
restaurant's remodeling, so the story went, 
a local sculptor had created this 
monstrosity in exchange for a year's free 
Chinese food. Poor man, I always thought, 
he must have been terribly hungry.

   Inside, sparkling polygonal lights flashed 
and winked off ornately framed mirrors, 
pots of glass flowers, and shiny red plastic 
booths. From the kitchen came the 
beckoning sizzle of stir-fried meat. The 
Dragon's Breath, I remembered while 
threading through the tables, also served 
wonderful shrimp-stuffed egg rolls and 
homemade almond cookies. Two years 
ago I had begged for the almond cookie 
recipe and received it once the smiling 
cook understood my question. Then I had 
pressed candied cherries in the centers 
instead of almonds and served them to 
clients at Christmas.

   Christmas parties, perish the thought. 
Much work, more income. And it was in 
the power of Investigator Tom Schulz to 
say whether I would be able to start 
planning for them.

   "You're frowning," he said when I slid 
into the booth opposite him. He smiled 
with irrepressible pleasure, and did a 
respectful half stand. Seated again, he 
sighed.

   "Mad already," he said. "That's a bad 
sign. What's making Miss Goldy irritable 
now?"

   I couldn't help noticing how his gray 
hounds tooth jacket hugged his shoulders, 
how deftly he moved his bulk around. 
There was something comforting about his 
large presence. He unfurled an enormous 
white napkin to cover a nubby burgundy 
sweater. It was, I reflected, an 
unexpectedly attractive outfit for a cop.

   "Thinking about the Christmas parties I 
may not be giving," I said while he poured 
tea. "Unless you, we, get this poisoning 
incident cleared up. Maybe you can 
pinpoint my ex-husband." I told him about 
the inheritance configuration.

   "Don't you think if a doctor really wanted 
to poison somebody, he'd do it right? And 
not in front of a bunch of people?" He 
went on, still grinning. "Tell me about your 
Christmas parties, so I can work up an 
appetite. Maybe talking about food will 
cheer you up."

   I described the almond-turned-cherry 
cookies as well as the fragrant 
gingerbread houses I modeled after the 
hostess's own home. I told him I made a 
lot of money on these affairs, money that I 
needed.

   He said, "I have never seen a woman so 
worried about her livelihood." Ordinarily I 
would have taken offense at such a 
statement, but his green eyes were soft 
and kind, the tilt of his head sympathetic.

    have to support Arch and me," I said. 
"My ex- husband's willingness to pay child 
support on time is tenuous at best. I need 
to give parties to survive." I fingered the 
thick jade-colored glass leaves of the 
table's centerpiece. "There's something 
else, though."

   "Something else."

    "Well." I felt suddenly uncomfortable, as 
if I were offering an explanation when 
none was needed. "I love my job. It fills a 
hole. It's hard to have it taken away. It's 
like the hole's ripped open."

   "It won't be for long," he said in a low 
voice. "I just have that feeling. Go on 
about the parties."

   "One time," I said, "I actually did do a 
Christmas party for free. For the church. I 
was still teaching Sunday school, trying to 
carry on this normal life. Then John 
Richard started seeing a soprano in the 
choir. He even nuzzled up to Miss Vocal 
Cords during the coffee hour. It was 
sickening." I stopped talking, sipped tea. "I 
remember the Sunday school party, 
though. Making miniature baby Jesuses 
out of meringue kept me up half the night. 
The kids loved them."

   "So you're a churchgoer?" he asked, 
surprised.

   "Not anymore," I replied, picking up my 
menu. "Let's get on with this, okay?"

   "My goodness, you make it sound like 
being with me is torture." He smoothed out 
his sweater and perused the menu. "Why 
don't I order and surprise you? Give you a 
break from being in charge of the food."

   The sleepless nights, the worry, the 
cooking for and visiting with the Kormans-
all these had made me too tired to argue. 
About the meal, anyway. The waitress 
arrived and I asked for sherry. Tom Schulz 
ordered scotch.

   Then our food waiter appeared and 
Schulz ordered egg rolls, a pu pu platter, 
hot and sour soup, steamed trout, pork 
with broccoli and bamboo shoots, moo-
shu shrimp, and red-cooked chicken.

   I said, "How many more people are 
coming to dinner?"

   Schulz looked at me silently for a 
minute, then stuck his chin out. "Just 
relax. Okay, Goldy?" The perpetual grin. 
"We're going to have a nice meal. We're 
going to talk. I like you, but you sure don't 
make it easy. Try to remember we're 
trying to help each other."

   "Is that so? Well guess what, I wouldn't 
give you a nickel for the entire Furman 
County Sheriff's Department."

   The drinks arrived and Schulz sipped his 
scotch. "Well," he said, "now we're all 
clear where we stand."

   "It's Tuesday," I replied, "and this thing 
happened Saturday and what have you 
found out? I need my business reopened 
and all you have to offer is strange links 
and barbecued pu pu."

   "Take it easy," he said. "Remember our 
chat with your son saying the Kormans 
and Laura Smiley didn't get along? I made 
that callout to Illinois. Turns out Korman 
senior was not exactly your universally 
loved medical man. Before he left twenty 
years ago, that is. Guy I talked to said 
there's more, but I need to talk to the 
fellow who was involved in the 
investigation, and he's gone to a 
department in another town. Happens to 
cops in small towns, you know. You arrest 
a city councilman's son for drunk driving. 
The next day you start looking for a new 
job."

   I grunted as the banquet of appetizers 
arrived. "What was the investigation 
about?" I asked.

   Schulz offered me the plate of egg rolls 
and I took one. He dipped one in brown 
sinus-clearing Chinese mustard and 
crunched his way through it before starting 
in on the skewered beef.

   "Don't know that yet," he said as he 
pulled his eyebrows into a line. "Files 
twenty years old are put on microfilm, then 
into storage. Have to have clearance and 
a microfilm operator to look them up. 
They're working on it, don't worry. They're 
going to call me back. Our friend Laura 
Smiley was involved somehow, though. 
That's all this guy could remember."

   "Is that it?"

   "Listen. When you do this kind of 
research, you've got to talk to the 
detective who worked the case. Even if 
they read me that file over the phone, it 
won't tell as much as the cop involved in it 
could. And I'm going to find him." He 
ladled out the soup, then said, "There's 
something else that may be related. Your 
little friend Trixie has a record for assault. 
A recent one."

   "What?"

   He shrugged and swallowed some soup, 
then gestured with the porcelain spoon. 
"She was fighting with a neighbor over a 
dog or something. He, the dog, was 
barking and driving her nuts. That's what 
she claimed. So she hauled off and threw 
one rock after another at the animal until it 
ran under its owner's deck. Then the 
fellow who owned the dog came flying out 
shrieking at Trixie and she beaned him 
with a hunk of quartz the size of a 
football." He chuckled. "That woman must 
be damned strong. Poor bastard had to 
have eighteen stitches."

   I had stopped eating. "What in the world 
happened?"

   "Eat your soup before it gets cold. She 
pleaded guilty and got a suspended 
sentence. No priors, and she said 
because she was pregnant she was on 
edge or some such."

   "Pregnant?"

   "Her baby was stillborn a month later," 
he said. "You said you hadn't seen her 
around for a while and that's why. I talked 
to her husband. She had high blood 
pressure, in spite of all that exercising. 
High blood pressure, excitable 
temperament, high-risk pregnancy."

   So that was what Marla had meant by 
You're back. And Trixie's mood. I wished 
I'd known. Poor Trixie.

   "That's as far as I've gotten," he said. 
"But I am working on it, just wanted to let 
you know. Oh look, here comes our 
waiter.

   I sighed. At this rate, we might have the 
answers to what happened last Saturday 
by Valentine's Day.

   Our food arrived. Schulz astonished me 
by ladling enormous amounts onto my 
plate. Then, muttering something that 
sounded like "wimps," he waved away the 
chopsticks proffered by the waiter. He 
nodded to me before attacking his trout. I 
smiled, remembering John Richard's 
selfishness with food. If he ever did serve 
me first, it was always in small portions. 
Usually, though, he served himself large 
quantities and then passed me what was 
left while he started eating.

   I looked from my plate to Schulz's.

   A look of worry crossed his face. "What's 
the matter!” he said, "don't you like it?"

   "It's fine," I said, attempting to get up 
some pork with chopsticks. "It's great. 
Really."

   He chuckled between mouthfuls. "I'll bet 
you just cook so much you get tired of 
food, don't you?"

   "Oh no," I said. I speared the pork. 
"Honestly. I'm just preoccupied."

   We ate in silence for a while, making 
occasional comments on the size and 
freshness of the fat shrimp, the perfect 
seasoning of the trout. Again I felt an odd - 
because unused - trust melting my 
resistance.

   After a while I said, "When I went to visit 
Fritz and Vonette today, I kind of looked 
around. I thought I might be able to figure 
out who their enemies were if I sort of 
went through their desk."

He washed down his bite with some tea 
and said, "You sort of went through their 
desk? When I said you could help, didn't 
say you could burgle the place, for God's 
sake."

   I laughed in spite of myself. "Well, listen 
up, copper," I went on. "I'm going to go 
through some of Laura Smiley's stuff, too."

   "Christ."

   "Look," I said, "I appreciate your making 
long-distance calls to find people who 
have moved and files that are on 
microfilm." I smiled. "You even got over 
your reluctance to bring me in on the case. 
But I need more if we're going to go 
forward." Then I asked, as much for 
myself as for him, "Why do you think I'm 
having dinner with you?"

   "Miss Goldy," he said while pouring me 
some more tea, "excuse me. I thought we 
were here at least partially for social 
reasons."

   "Dating a suspect? Is that legal?"

   He held the teapot in midair. My face 
was warm. He said, "Tell you what. Let me 
worry about what's legal. I don't go 
breaking into folks' desks and stuff, for 
instance. But I wouldn't have brought you 
in, as you call it, unless it was legal. I can 
share information with you about what the 
department is doing, if I think it'll aid the 
investigation."

   "So what you're saying is that being with 
me is social and helpful."

   He nodded. "Investigators can get 
information from any source within the 
law. Which does not include breaking and 
entering, I might add. It might include 
keeping closer tabs on your son, 
however."

   I gave him an absolutely sour look.

   He finished a bite of pork and shook his 
head. "Just precautionary. Find out if he's 
really nuts about these games. Most kids 
aren't. But maybe there's something he's 
not telling me, or not telling you." He 
thought. "There're people involved in this 
who might talk more easily to you, is all."

   "What kind of information do you expect 
to get from me?"

   He shrugged. "Don't mean to offend you, 
Goldy, but you know how women talk - "

   "You're offending me."

"Tell you what," he said, "let me try to 
make it up to you by taking you out to 
dinner again."

   "No, I don't think so. . ."

   "The movies?"

   "No..."

   "Bronco game?"

   I hesitated.

   "They're looking awfully good this year. 
Beat Green Bay last Sunday. Department 
has a pair of tickets. Let me know which 
Sunday. When you're free, that is."

   "Wait," I said. I felt my head swimming. I 
wasn't ready for all this. I needed to talk to 
my group. "I am not looking for a social 
life," I told him. "For now I just want to 
solve this crime and start making money 
again."

   "Then let's solve it."

   "How? We've, I've, got a huge problem, 
and you're acting like getting some 
information on this is some long-term 
project."

   He waved to the waiter for our check.

   "What do you want to know?" he asked.

   I took a deep breath. "Okay. A, someone 
tried to poison Fritz. B, that same 
someone did it in Laura Smiley's house 
after Laura Smiley's funeral. C, nobody 
seems to know why Laura killed herself 
and she didn't leave a note to tell us, and 
D, Laura and the Kormans didn't get 
along. Now E, you're telling me, this 
history between them goes way back. So 
maybe the two events, Laura dying and 
Fritz being poisoned, are related." I closed 
my eyes and nodded. It sounded logical, 
didn't it? "I told you before, it might help to 
know what that deputy coroner said about 
Laura Smiley's death. If she didn't leave a 
note, why are they calling it suicide?"

   "My dear," said Schulz as he looked at 
the bill, "a note doesn't mean squat. I've 
seen suicide notes that were photocopied, 
for God's sake. With blood allover the 
room. I called the deputy coroner. She 
slashed her wrists, and there was no sign 
of a struggle, no burglary, nothing. That's 
what I know. We treat a suicide like a 
murder until we know differently. In this 
case, suicide was the deputy coroner's 
conclusion. Now granted, the guy is new. 
And before this he was out in some small 
town on the western slope." Schulz 
rubbed his temples.

   I said, "Well, would you be willing to look 
into it some more? I mean if you really 
want to cooperate on this thing. And I'll 
work your women's angle. Talk it up, find 
out about Trixie and if the reason she 
works out with weights is so that she can 
exercise her aggression on people. Deal?"

   He nodded.

   "By the way," I said, "did the Health 
Department find anything?"

   "No. It's probably like sending it down to 
the crime lab." When I looked puzzled, he 
said, "You've got to tell them, look for this, 
look for that. If you've got some white 
powder that's cocaine and you say, Check 
for heroin, they'll send your coke back to 
you and say, It's not heroin. Same 
principle."

   I smiled. "Thanks for dinner."

   He said, "Hey. Something else. I need to 
know more about Vonette. Something's 

wrong there, I don't know what. And you're 
welcome. Let's do it again soon."

   I nodded, although eliciting more 
information from Vonette was 
unappealing. I took a fortune cookie from 
the tray that held the check.

   "Look," he said as he ate his cookie and 
tossed away the fortune, "we may have a 
bigger problem. Especially if whoever put 
the stuff in Fritz's coffee is really trying to 
kill him."

   "Why is that?"

   "Because," he said patiently, "if 
somebody's trying to kill him, they're going 
to try again."

   "At least they're not going to do it at one 
of my catered functions," I replied, then 
remembered the Halloween party in three 
weeks. I wasn't actually being paid for it, 
just getting my club dues. Still. Better not 
mention that to Schulz, stickler for legality 
that he was.

   "We'll have all this cleared up soon," 
Schulz said confidently. "Trust the sheriff's 
department."

   I unfolded the paper fortune in my hand.

   It said, "Faith is your greatest present 
need."

Like Schulz, I tossed it

   At home I noticed miserably that the 
leftover spaghetti mess in the sink 
matched the red and white decor of the 
kitchen. Honestly, that Patty Sue. If she 
could run all afternoon, why couldn't she 
make a minimal effort to cook or clean? I 
tried to remember myself at twenty. Had I 
really never had the big picture of running 
a house before I had a child? Probably 
not.

   The house was quiet. Before going to 
bed I crept down the hall to make sure 
Arch was safely asleep. This had been my 
habit since he was born. John Richard 
had given me the title Helicopter Mom: I 
hovered.

   Arch was not asleep but was murmuring 
excitedly on the phone.

   "That sounds great," he was saying. 
"But what about the potion?"

   A pause. "No, you have to use milkwort 
for that. It's all that's available for lethal 
missions." He listened for a moment, and 
then said, "You mean I'm going to have to 
find that, too? Don't you know anything 
about getting rid of opponents?"

   Another pause. I felt a tightness in my 
chest. Blood pounded in my ears.

   "Oh, Todd!" said Arch, irritated. "I can't 
believe I'm going to have to find the 
weapon and do the spell and put together 
the potion. I'm not going to have time for 
all that."

   I knocked forcefully on Arch's partially 
opened door. Perhaps it was just the 
pounding in my head that made the noise 
thunderous. Then I swung the door open 
all the way without getting an answer.

   He had hung up the phone.

   "What is going on?" I demanded.

   "Mom," he said. He looked at me, hair 
disheveled, glasses askew. They seemed 
incongruous next to his baseball-print 
flannel pajamas. In his lap were a 
guidebook and folder for his games. 
"You're home!" A pause. "Uh, I stayed up."

   "Yes," I said, suddenly feeling out of 
place. "I just came in to see if you were 
asleep yet. I heard you on the phone. Was 
it for your game?"

   He turned back to the papers in his lap. 
"Yes," he said impatiently. "But I'll call him 
back tomorrow."

   "Okay," I said. I stood by his door, 
unable to put words together.

   "Mom?"

   "Yes?"

   He set his mouth in a straight line and 
folded his arms across his chest.

   "Please," he said, "don't sneak up on me 
like that again."

-9-
   The next day I managed to book two 
cleaning jobs in the country club area, one 
for that day and one for the next. Since 
Fritz was back on his feet, I took Patty Sue 
to her appointment and instructed her to 
walk home while I went off to scrub, scour, 
and vacuum. I talked minimally to Arch 
before he left for school. If checking on 
him was considered sneaking up, then 
asking questions would be prying. I did 
elicit the promise that he would take me 
on a role-playing adventure over the 
weekend. It was time for me to find out 
what was going on with these games. Or 
at least try.

   The house to be cleaned was one of 
those rambling ranch-style structures done 
in all-western decor right up to the walls 
hung with harnesses, cowboy hats, 
sombreros, and horseshoes. Maid service 
of this ranchette took six hours, which 
included polishing a coffee table shaped 
like a flatbed wagon. The worst part was 
that I kept expecting Dale Evans to pop 
out from behind one of the numerous 
bathroom doors. She didn't, and when I 
was done I was very glad to receive forty-
eight dollars in cash.

   After making a run to a janitorial supply 
house in west Denver I picked up some 
groceries and came home to give Patty 
Sue her first lesson in housecleaning for 
fun and profit.

   "I'll do whatever you say," she said, but 
it was without enthusiasm.

   "Need to be safe first," I said, as I Magic-
Markered my name on the gallon bottle of 
phenol-based cleaning fluid I would use at 
the athletic club. Then I drew a skull and 
crossbones on the plastic bottle's 
backside. Industrial-strength 
concentrations were much cheaper than 
anything in the supermarket, but they were 
dangerous to have around.

   "I really don't know much about cleaning 
or chemicals," Patty Sue said. She 
wrinkled her nose at the plastic bottle.

   "Look," I said, looking directly in her 
eyes, "if you want to be independent, the 
most important thing is to be financially 
self-supporting. Housecleaning is a way. 
Not glamorous, but reliable."

   "Yes I know, but. . ."

   "But what?"

   "Oh," she said, turning away, "just never 
mind. Just teach me about it, go ahead."

   Begin with proper dilutions, I began, 
pointing to the ten-to-one and twenty-to-
one lines on the plastic spray bottles. 
When I finished, she gave me another 
wordless look, as if I'd taught her how to 
construct an atomic bomb in twenty 
minutes. I ignored it and cheerily assigned 
her Arch's bathroom to practice on. This 
was a particularly dirty trick. But chiseling 
off all that dried spaghetti demanded 
retribution. I disappeared to answer the 
phone.

   "How's my little darling doing?" asked 
Patty Sue's mother over the crackle of 
long distance. One of her regular checkup 
calls.

   "She's working hard," I said truthfully. 
"As a matter of fact, she's working right 
now, so can I have her call you back? 
Collect?"

   "Oh yes, of course," said the mother, 
disappointed. "I was just worried if she 
was eating and sleeping all right."

   It was difficult for me to see if I in fact 
overprotected Arch. But I could sure see it 
in other mothers. Would Arch end up like 
Patty Sue if I kept worrying about him? 
This was not a question to dwell on.

   "She's eating and sleeping fine," I said. 
"In fact, she's doing lots of both. And 
exercising, working, and going to the 
doctor, so everything's just peachy."

   "I called the doctor's office to see how 
she was doing," she said.

   “And?"

   "They said she's not improving."

   "Well," I said, impatient, "these things 
take time."

   "I'm sorry, I don't want to trouble you."

   "You're not."

   Next I phoned a real estate agent.

   "Kathleen," I said breathily when I got 
through to the one person I knew at 
Mountain Realty. "I'm interested in buying 
Laura Smiley's house."

   "Oh, Goldy, the kitchen is marvelous," 
replied Kathleen. "You'll love it."

   I knew darn well that the kitchen had 
minimal counter space and old appliances, 
but never mind. While Patty Sue grunted 
and scrubbed and rinsed in Arch's 
bathroom, Kathleen and I made an 
appointment to go through the house the 
next day. She said that since Laura had 
left the house to her aunt it would be a 
while before we could close, but I told her 
not to worry, it would be a while before I 
had any money.

   Next I phoned Marla and asked her to 
fabricate a real estate emergency for the 
next morning so I could be rid of Kathleen 
once we got to Laura's. She gleefully 
acquiesced. Marla hated real estate 
agents.

   It was still unseasonably warm for 
October when Patty Sue and I loaded the 
van the next morning. Overhead the sky 
was a deep periwinkle blue, as if a 
celestial housecleaner had spilled a bottle 
of bluing agent to the four comers of the 
earth. A few aspen leaves clung to the 
tops of slender bone-white branches: the 
last stage of autumnal undress. I swung 
the van around a comer toward the house 
Patty Sue was going to clean and 
wondered if we would have Indian 
summer through Halloween instead of our 
usual late-October snow. After I parked, 
Patty Sue gingerly pulled out all the 
cleaning equipment while I promised to 
pick her up in a few hours.

   "I heard your ex was getting married 
again," Kathleen greeted me when I 
ground the van to a halt at the top of 
Laura Smiley's driveway. I tried to find my 
tongue. If Marla had already put in her 
call, I would be out of luck.

   Kathleen was standing beside a silver 
Mercedes with a REAL ESTATE FOR 
SALE sign emblazoned on the driver side 
door. Surely there were better ways of 

advertising than wrecking a 450 SL. A 
sudden beeping interrupted my stare. 
Kathleen slipped back into her car to 
answer the mobile phone. There was 
much heated talking. Kathleen set her fine 
features into a frown.

   "Listen," she said when she was back 
out of the car, "I've got a problem with an 
appointment from Denver showing up 
early. How about if I just give you the key 
and come back to finish showing you the 
house in about half an hour?" She smiled 
hopefully, and I blessed dear old Marla.

   I knew that Kathleen knew she would 
get her commission as long as she 
showed me the house at some point, so I 
smiled back and nodded, seeing as how I 
had no intention of ever being the supplier 
of the commission.

   "Oh," she said over the roar of the 
Mercedes, "one more thing. I told that aunt 
I'd do a change-of-address form for Laura 
but things have been so crazy." She rolled 
her eyes as if this explained everything. 
"Anyway. I've been taking the mail in and 
putting it on the kitchen table when I show 
the house. Take it for me this time, will 
you?" she hollered.

   I nodded as she gunned her engine 
away. Would I? You bet.

   A breeze lifted the black smoke from the 
Mercedes' tailpipe and dispersed it into a 
stand of chokecherry bushes heavy with 
scarlet berries. Once the car was gone the 
wind was the only noise. It whispered and 
sighed through the pines and spruces and 
aspens of the hilly neighborhood. I put the 
house key into my pocket and walked over 
to Laura's rural delivery mailbox, the only 
kind we have in Aspen Meadow besides 
those at the post office. It creaked open 
after I pulled on the rusty cover. Inside 
was a small assortment of bills and ads. 
No letters.

   I looked through the bills. Here were 
people who thought Laura was still alive. 
Public Service of Colorado, a dentist 
whose name I did not recognize, a doctor 
whose name I did. I put the mail into my 
purse.

   As I started down the sloping driveway 
to Laura's house, the wind kicked up again 
and sanded my eyes with dirt. Dread, 
sudden and unexpected, throttled me. I 
stopped and stared at the small house 
with its green-stained paneling and 
redwood deck.

   The wind stopped. Everything was very 
still. I pursed my lips and braced myself, 
then trotted the rest of the way down the 
driveway. After all, I wasn't the first 
Goldilocks to go into an empty house. But 
at the open garage I came up short again. 
Had this car been here before? It was 
familiar.

   Then I remembered: it was Laura's blue 
Volvo, which I had seen many times in the 
elementary school parking lot. It called 
attention to itself via its blaring bumper 
stickers: WOMEN MAKE GRFAT 
LEADERS, YOU'RE FOLLOWING ONE 
and HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR 
TEACHER TODAY? and EASY DOES IT.

   I did not know where the car had been 
the day of the funeral, but someone had 
put it back now.

   I stepped around it carefully. There were 
some nicks in the flat blue paint, and the 
wheels sported a set of new, but muddy, 
radials. I did not know what I was looking 
for, except that it did seem odd that 
someone who wanted to kill herself would 
prepare for winter with the purchase of 
new tires. The doors were unlocked, but 
there was a decal on the window that read 
This Car Protected by Ungo. I had had 
one of those alarms installed in the van, 
just in case a guest at a catered function 
tried to filch a few dozen filets. On the side 
window I saw the small piece of plastic 
with its wire lead. If a thief tried to jam his 
way in through the window when the car 
was locked, his eardrums would never 
survive.

   We had had a rash of car thefts in 
Aspen Meadow over the past six months. 
The rumor was that a ring of teens took 
the cars and a smart mechanic managed 
to get them fenced down in Denver before 
the cops could catch him. This was 
another indication of unsuccessful law 
enforcement from the sheriff's department 
which I would have to bring to Schulz's 
attention.

   I hugged myself in the cool air of the 
garage. Outside, the wind whipped and 
shot through the trees. Time to go into the 
house. But not yet. The car ought to be 
able to tell me something. I walked around 
to the hood. There was a smell of either 
exhaust or oil in the garage. Odd. If the 
car had been sitting here for a week, 
shouldn't things be odorless and 
blanketed with dust? But then I noticed 
that the clay - red mud was fresh and wet, 
and that it clung to the car's grille as well 
as the tires. I reached out to touch the 
hood.

   It was warm. Well, well. I clenched my 
teeth. Catering was safer than this, and 
sometimes you couldn't be sure about 
catering. I needed to be quiet, I knew that. 
In fact, I needed to skedaddle.

   But my feet stayed cemented to the cold 
garage floor. I had come here. I was going 
to go into Laura's house, and in two days I 
was going to go through Laura's locker. 
Kathleen had left me at the top of the 
driveway; if there was someone in the 
house, that someone probably would be 
unaware of my arrival. I was going in. And 
if I saw somebody I would scream bloody 
murder and apologize later. I could even 
arm myself, the way they did on TV. 
Unfortunately there was no .22 slung 
across my chest, and I was at least fifteen 
steps from the kitchen and the nearest 
meat cleaver.

   I looked around the garage. There was a 
large workbench. Maybe the woman who 

claimed to be a leader had bought herself 
a nice heavy hammer or wrench or even a 
drill. My feet made gritty echoes as I 
tiptoed over.

   The bench was large and long and had 
two shelves above it and one below. Paint 
thinner, caulking, and a tool box rested on 
the first shelf. The tool box yielded a small 
wrench. I was about to enter the house 
with it when I saw the edge of something 
else on the top shelf. I reached up.

   It was a BB gun. I recognized this type 
of firearm from the time I had volunteered 
as a counselor at Arch's Cub Scout day 
camp. Many local people used them to 
shoot bothersome blue jays or rabid 
squirrels. I ducked down to check the shelf 
underneath, but there was only a large 
cardboard box marked BB's.

   I was not going to load the gun. For one 
thing I couldn't exactly remember how to 
do it. It looked menacing enough, a lot like 
a rifle really, and I would just have to do a 
good impersonation of Annie Oakley if the 
need arose.

   I crept through the unlocked door to the 

kitchen but stopped short before heading 
through to the living room. In that room, 
someone was rustling papers.

   My body went numb. The unloaded BB 
gun felt cold and inadequate. I backed up 
noiselessly, grabbed a long knife off a wall 
mount above the counter, and turned back 
toward the garage.

   The blue Volvo was still there. I locked 
its doors, jammed the knife into the edge 
of the window and pushed down with all 
one hundred twenty pounds.

   The alarm split the air. I jerked the knife 
out and ran back around to the front of the 
house. The door between the kitchen and 
the garage banged open. After a moment 
the alarm stopped. Whoever was down 
there had the keys to the car, and wanted 
the alarm off so as not to attract attention.

   From the top of the driveway came an 
unexpected female voice, followed by a 
robe and a head of hair neatly rolled in 
cylinders.

   "Hoohoo! Kathleen, is that you, dear?"

   The Volvo engine started and revved. 
From where I was crouched behind a 
thicket of chokecherry bushes I could not 
see who was driving. Worse, the driver 
appeared to be wearing a ski mask.

   "Hey!" yelled the robed woman to the 
car. The driver ignored her and gunned 
the Volvo back up the driveway. I wanted 
to stand to get a better look, but I didn't 
want the driver to see that I was the one 
who had set off the alarm.

   "Kathleen!" the woman in the driveway 
was calling again, now that the Volvo had 
gone. "Are you in there?"

   "Excuse me," I said in a loud voice over 
the chokecherry bushes. "Hello!"

   When I had pushed my way through the 
underbrush and up to her, I learned the 
caller was Laura's neighbor, Betsy 
Goldsmith. She had come out because of 
the noise, but did not know who could be 
driving Laura's car, or why. Her husband 
was a pilot, she added, and since they 
had no children they traveled frequently 
and didn't really know too much about 
what was going on in the neighborhood. 
She did know, however, that her neighbor 
had died, although she had missed the 
funeral.

   "Do you know who was in that car?" she 
asked me. "It looked like Laura's. Why 
would someone be over here with it now?"

   "I really don't know," I said, then added, 
"and I sure do wish I did."

   "Well, it certainly is strange - " she said, 
then gave me a quizzical look.

   "I'm here to see the house," I told her, 
before introducing myself.

   "The caterer!" she said. An embarrassed 
smile flooded her face, as if she had met a 
famous person at the Laundromat. "Well, I 
certainly hope you buy that house. Most 
people would be spooked, you know. 
Don't want to live in a house where there's 
been a death."

"Did you know Laura?" I asked.

   "Oh, you know," she said vaguely, "we 
waved to each other. In winter my 
husband would help her shovel out, I 
sometimes give her a lift into town when 
that car of hers wasn't working, which was 
a lot." She paused. "Maybe that's who it 
was, her new mechanic. I knew she had 
someone new working on the car, maybe 
that person was looking for her."

   By looking through her papers?

   "Laura and I gave each other cookies at 
Christmas," Betsy added bleakly.

   "She was my son's teacher," I put in.

   "Uh-huh, well," she said, starting back 
up to her house, "nice meeting you." She 
turned back almost as an afterthought. 
"You don't know who the new mechanic 
was, I do you?"

   "No, sure don't. Say," I began as if it had 
just occurred to me, "you didn't see Laura 
right before she died, did you? I'm, just, 
wondering how she was."

   "We were gone that Monday the teacher 
came over and found her," she said 
plaintively. "That last time I saw her was - 
" she thought for a moment " - the 
Saturday before."

   "But that - " I stopped. If Betsy did not 
know that Saturday was when the deputy 
coroner had said Laura was supposed to 
have died, I was not going to remind her 
and chance getting her spooked.

   "I remember," Betsy went on, "because I 
was out planting bulbs that day, trying to 
get them in before the cold weather. Laura 
walked out of her garage." She stopped to 
point. "She waved to me as she came up 
the driveway. 'Car broken again?' I called 
down to her, and she said, 'You bet.' And 
that was the last time I saw her."

   "Did you know where she was going?"

   "No," said Betsy. "Errands, probably, 
since she taught during the week. Then 
later I heard a car and I figured she'd 
walked to the new repair place and picked 
it up. But I guess not if someone's trying to 
return it now."

   I shook my head. Betsy said, "Oh, well. 
When I was out planting the bulbs was the 
last time I saw her. I don't know who her 
friends were," she added and turned away 
again.

   I tried to think of how to put the next 
question before she was out of earshot.

   "Kind of odd," I said to her back. "You 
know. You'd think that the cops would 
have been interested in you hearing a car 
on Saturday, huh?"

   Betsy turned her rollered head and 
robed body so she could give me a long 
look. "How come you're so curious? 
You're more interested than the cops 
were. Anyway," she said with a final sigh, 
"I don't think I told them about hearing her 
come back later in her car. It doesn't 
matter now, does it? You don't kill yourself 
because you have a car that's always 
quitting." And off she trudged to her 
house, a two-story affair with several 
decks and a wide expanse of glass.

   I walked quickly into Laura's house, 
through the kitchen and into the living 
room. There was an opened box sitting on 
the blue rug. Its flaps stuck out at angles, 
as if someone had tried to close it in 
haste.

   That'll teach you to break in when I'm 
trying to break in. Lucky for me, in a way, 
that the cops didn't suspect that Laura's 
case was a homicide. They could have 
secured the house. This way all the 
burglars in town could drop in at a 
moment's notice.

   The box contained bundles of letters 
and postcards to Laura. I tried to read 
through at least one in each bundle, 
skimming because I knew Kathleen would 
be back soon. Some were from 
vacationing teachers whose names I 
recognized. Some were from Illinois, from 
people whose names were unfamiliar. I 
pulled out a pad from my purse and wrote 
down the names, Singleton and Carey 
and Ludmiller and Druckman. There was 
even a bundle from the aunt who had paid 
the funeral expenses. The first letter was 
full of news of nephews traveling and a 
house being redone. None of this was 
helping me with a possible link between 
Laura's death and the attempted 
poisoning of Fritz Korman, so I piled all the 
letters back into the box and pushed it into 
a cupboard.

   Above the cupboard was a shelf of 
books. Beside it was the wall of 
photographs that I had briefly noted during 
the funeral reception. Laura's library 
reflected sociopolitical issues of the Sixties 
and Seventies: Susan Brownmiller's book 
on rape, works of Tillie Olsen and 
Adrienne Rich, Pacifism in the Nuclear 
Age and, of course, Our Bodies, 
Ourselves. In addition there were some 
books on alcoholism, including One Day at 
a Time in Al-Anon. To my surprise there 
was also a copy of The Dungeon Masters 
Guide, which I removed and flipped 
through. No name on the flyleaf, but I 
made a mental note to ask Arch about it.

   The photos on the wall were of grinning 
family groups and Laura, white teeth, skin 
tanned to nut brown, and hair summer-sun 
bleached. She was either clad in hiking 
gear and leaning against a boulder, or 
posing with the families by a lake or cabin. 
Some photos were signed with the same 
names I had seen in the box. In the 
bottom-left comer of this display was one 
picture that gave me a jolt.

   It was another youthful photograph of 
the girl whose picture had been in the 
Kormans' desk. Now I remembered why 
that picture had looked familiar to me - I 
had seen it in this house the day of the 
funeral. I immediately removed it from the 
wall and slid the picture out of the frame. 
On the back was written "Love to a 
teacher who is smiley (ha-ha) no matter 
what! B. Hollenbeck."

   I put this in my purse and tried not to 
imagine what I Investigator Tom Schulz 
would say about taking things from 
Laura's house. I trotted into the bedroom 
to look around there, if only to figure out 
where someone could stash some rat 
poison until an opportune moment 
presented itself at a postfuneral party. The 
bedroom was small and neat, with dresses 
and skirts hung in the closet and a 
crocheted throw folded carefully at the 
bottom of the bed. The bathroom was 
next. Its rows of Jhirmack hair products 
and Vitabath shower gel and body cream 
indicated a person who wanted to look 
and smell good. The medicine cabinet 
yielded some soap and cream samples as 
well as a prescription bottle announcing 
itself as Ornade, a cold medicine I used 
myself in the winter months.

   A car was coming down the driveway. I 
hurried back through the living room to the 
kitchen. A quick visual check of both those 
areas showed no evidence of my prying. 
The knife was missing from the wall 
mount. Of course, that was because I had 
dropped it behind the chokecherry 
bushes. No point in risking picking it up 
now and engendering questions from 
Kathleen.

   My eye fell on the pile of old mail by the 
kitchen phone. I sifted through it quickly, 
but it was only more ads, a few bills, a 
postcard from the Singletons. Then I 
remembered my promise to Kathleen and 
reached into my purse for the mail I had 
brought in. Outside, I could hear her 
opening the car door. I glanced again at 
the three bills that had arrived that day.

   The past due Public Service and 
dentist's bills I ignored. The third was a bill 
from my ex-husband and Fritz's office. 
This seemed very odd to me, given Arch's 
view that Laura did not get along with the 
Kormans. Maybe she was John Richard's 
patient. Swallowing hard, I opened the 
envelope. Inside was a bill for an office 
visit.

   It was the date that gave me a start.

   Laura Smiley had done errands and 
seen Fritz Korman on Saturday, October 
third.

   Afterward, apparently, she had come 
home and killed herself.

-10-
   I need to talk to you," I said into the 
phone to Tom Schulz. I was aware that I 
was gasping for breath, as if I had just 
finished running a few miles when all had 
done was pick up Patty Sue and drive 
home.

   "What about? You having a heart attack 
or something?"

   "Did you talk to the deputy coroner?" I 
demanded.

   "Anything new?"

   "Yeah, he said that corpse just jumped 
out of the grave and told him all kinds of 
new stuff."

   "Not funny."

   He sighed. "The only thing I found out 
that I didn't know already was that there 
was a foreign substance in her stomach 
when she died. Looks as if she took some 
Valium before she did it, settle herself 
down a little bit."

   "Valium?" I said quickly. "There wasn't 
any Valium in her medicine cabinet."

   "Oh boy." He snorted. "Not in her 
medicine cabinet, she says. What else did 
you figure out going through her stuff? 
Ever occur to you that what you were 
doing was illegal? Her medicine cabinet. 
Maybe that's not where she kept it. Think 
of that, Detective G?"

   "Cool it," I said angrily. "This is why I 
called you. I'll tell you what I found in my 
search. Another intruder was there when I 
got there - what do you think of that? I had 
to scare off burglar number one before I 
could do my thing. So. Did your fellow 
check to see if she had a prescription?”

   "Just a sec, back up. You just broke into 
Laura's house and found someone else 
had broken in, too? You got a description 
of this person?"

   "I didn't break in," I protested. "But the 
other person drove off in Laura's blue 
Volvo. Wearing a ski mask."

   A groan. He said, "Great. The woman 
kills herself and nobody finds her for two 
days and once she's buried her house is 
like a practice area for B and E."

   "You never answered my question about 
the coroner."

   "What are you getting at?" he said in a 
voice edged with irritation. "You have any 
suspects yet? No forced entry, no sign of 
a struggle, no evidence of second-party 
involvement at all, which is what the 
deputy coroner concluded, by the way. 
You think she was murdered maybe by 
someone driving her car? And not only 
that, but whoever did her in is interested in 
killing Korman too, is that your theory?"

   "I don't know why there was no forced 
entry. Could be she invited the person in, I 
don't know. Maybe it was someone she 
knew," I said to Schulz's silence. Then I 
asked, "Were her legs shaved? Did she 
have hair under her arms?"

   "What?"

   "The story is she killed herself with a 
razor blade. But she doesn't have any 
razors. At least, I didn't see any in her 
medicine cabinet," I added apologetically. 
“And guess what else? She read some 
feminist literature. Lots of them, us, don't 
believe in shaving."

   Schulz said, "Well, no wonder she didn't 
have any boyfriends." I tapped my foot 
while he laughed. "Sorry," he said, "this 
job gives you a strange sense of humor. 
Look. You can slash your wrists with a 
credit card if you try. We had one guy 
down Cottonwood Creek do just that, had 
a grudge against American Express. She 
might have bought a razor just to kill 
herself. She might have kept the Valium in 
her purse."

   "Might have," I said, "might have. She 
was happy, she was funny, she didn't 
leave a note, you said so yourself."

   "Yeah, I'm beginning to wish I hadn't," 
he muttered.

   "Suicide a big surprise to all," I went on. 
"And then somebody, for reasons 
unknown, tries to poison somebody else in 
Laura's house after Laura's dead. 
Somebody," I added with vehemence, 
"maybe the same person, goes waltzing 
into her house looking for something after 
Laura's dead. And meanwhile my catering 
operation is down indefinitely." I stopped. 
Schulz, after all, was not the enemy. I 
said, "Tell me this. What do you need to 
reopen an investigation?"

   "What investigation are you talking 
about? The one into that woman's 
suicide?"

   "Of course." He said, "An investigation is 
never closed completely unless we get a 
conviction of some kind. Which of course 
you don't with a suicide. But if you're 
talking about exhuming the body - "

   "Maybe I am," I said defiantly. "Maybe 
that's what we need to get this cleared 
up."

   "I wish I knew how I ever got you into 
this."

   "By closing down my business. By 
taking me out to dinner. By telling me I 
could help you. Tell me what you need to 
exhume the body."

   "You need," he went on wearily, "some 
evidence you didn't have before - "

   "A neighbor heard a car at Laura's 
house the afternoon she's supposed to 
have died. This was after the neighbor 
had seen Laura walking into town in the 
morning. She I didn't tell the police 
because she thought it was Laura coming 
back with her car. There's more. Laura 
made an office visit to Fritz Korman the 
same day." I didn't add how I'd come upon 
that bit of information. Surely stealing mail 
was a federal offense.

   Schulz took a deep breath as if to signal 
he needed to get off the phone. He said, "I 
can talk to the doctor and the neighbor, 
but it's not enough. You'd have to produce 
something like death threats against 
Laura. In writing, mind you. Or come up 
with some new physical evidence, a diary 
entry, a weapon, new indications 
somebody forced their way in. You got any 
of that?"

   I paused. "No."

   "Okay then. Let's go back to what we're 
supposed to be worried about, and that is 
who put the stuff in Korman's coffee. I 
found out the name of that particular rat 
poison. Just One Bite - how about that? I 
guess just one sip doesn't work. But get 
this, it takes more than a bite to kill a 
human. In fact, you could eat ten times 
your weight and not die. You'd need a liver 
transplant, but you'd live. Your slick killer 
of Laura is incredibly stupid when it comes 
to poison."

   "I didn't say it was the same person," I 
said.

   "Something else," said Schulz. "The 
folks down at the Poison Center say it 
takes thirty to sixty minutes before 
somebody drinking that stuff would have a 
real bad stomachache."

   "What does that mean?" I asked. "That it 
could have I been anybody who was 
around that coffee machine? Which l 
basically means anybody?"

   "That's right."

   I sighed. "Doesn't exactly narrow the 
field."

   "Goldy? Listen. I got two other 
homicides I'm working on. They're both 
higher priority than this. But I'm still trying 
to locate that guy in Illinois. I'll talk to the 
doc and the neighbor. Why don't you just 
take it easy for a day or so," Schulz 
suggested. "Think about your parties or 
something."

   "I can't," I said. "All my parties have 
been canceled. Besides, tomorrow I'm 
going on another adventure. This time into 
a dungeon."

   Without explanation, I hung up.

   After the excitement at Laura's, a 
fantasy-adventure the next night promised 
to be a piece of cake. Or batch of cookies. 
Arch's all-night games generally required 
baked goods to accompany the popcorn 
and soft drinks and assorted snacks he 
and his friends needed to fortify 
themselves for their forays into lands thick 
with polymorphs and other-worldly 
creatures. Todd was coming over so we 
would have a threesome. A bedraggled 
Patty Sue had come home from a make-
up appointment with Fritz (since he'd been 
out Monday) and begged off from a party 
with eleven-year-olds by announcing she 
wanted to sleep the entire weekend. Todd 
and Arch and I were going to start off with 
a dinner of hot dogs and homemade 
baked beans and finish with Arch's 
favorite sweet for these adventure nights, 
an oatmeal-raisin concoction I had dubbed 
Dungeon Bars.

   I got out the oats and unsalted butter, 
then searched for brown and white sugars. 
Maybe I had made a mistake not to do the 
fantasy-role bit with Arch before. Had 
Laura? Had she been closer to him than I 
was? His behavior had gone from 
bothersome to worrisome, and he seemed 
to think I was out to get him.

   I reached for the raisins and eggs and 
tried to remember what I knew about 
preadolescent behavior. It was normal for 
eleven-year-olds to distance themselves 
from parents. But as the single active 
parent, I found this hard to accept. Arch 
walked away while I was talking to him. He 
hastily hung up the phone at my 
approach. He refused to talk about Ms. 
Smiley. He never showed me his 
schoolwork anymore. His new teacher, 
Ms. Heath, was an unknown, except that 
she was the one who had discovered the 
body that fateful Monday.

   I sighed and looked at my recipe card for 
Dungeon Bars.

DUNGEON BARS

1 cup all-purpose flour (high altitude: add 
2 tablespoons)
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon baking soda
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter
½ cup packed dark brown sugar
½ cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cup rolled oats
1 cup raisins
Vanilla or cinnamon ice cream

   Preheat the oven to 350 . Butter a 9 x 
13-inch baking pan and set aside.

   Sift together the flour, salt, and baking 
soda. Set aside.

   In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter 
with the sugars until the mixture is light 
and fluffy. Turn the mixer to low, and beat 
in the eggs and vanilla until well 
combined. Carefully stir in the flour 
mixture, oats, and raisins until well 
combined. Spread in the prepared pan 
(batter will be thick). Smooth the top. Bake 
from 20 to 30 minutes, until the batter has 
puffed and flattened, is brown around the 
edges, no longer appears wet In the 
center, and tests done with a toothpick. 
Cool slightly. While warm, cut into 32 bars. 
Allow to cool completely on a rack. Serve 
with best-quality vanilla or cinnamon ice 
cream.

Makes 32 bars

   That was the thing about cooking, I 
thought after mixing up the creamy batter 
and spreading it in the prepared pan. It 
was largely predictable. Children, 
spouses, and the economy were not. 
Maybe that was why I liked my job. When I 
had it.

   Arch's bus was due shortly so I set the 
timer and stepped out into the October 
sunshine to walk to the stop. The air was 
like cotton. Sunshine splashed over bright 
orange and black Halloween decorations 
in the Main Street store windows. After a 
few minutes the school bus came huffing 
toward its stop with a great show of black 
diesel smoke and blinking yellow and red 
lights.

   "Why're you meeting me, Mom?" asked 
Arch after the bus had chugged away.

   "Just wondered how things, you know, if 
you, well, were ready to play tonight."

   He nodded and slung his backpack over 
his shoulder and started to march home. 
In earlier years we would have spent 
some time looking at the accordions of 
crepe paper in the merchants' windows or 
talking about what costume he wanted for 
Halloween, or what candy he was hoping 
to get in his treats bag. Other times we 
would have crossed over to the creek to 
throw stones into the water. Now I exhaled 
hard to get the sour smell of diesel 
exhaust out of my lungs, and trudged up 
the hill after him.

   "You know," I said as I dug out a scoop 
of vanilla ice cream to put on his warm 
Dungeon Bar, "I've been thinking about - "

   "Ms. Smiley," he answered for me.

   "Yes, how did you know?"

   "What are we having for dinner?" he 
asked as he cautiously cut his first bite.

   "Beans and wieners. And don't change 
the subject. How did you know what I was 
thinking of?"

   "If I eat all my dinner may I have more 
Dungeon Bars later?" His earnest eyes 
regarded me.

   I said, "Sure. Have you been thinking 
about Ms. Smiley, too?"

   He shook his head and gave a muffled 
"No."

   "What I was thinking about," I began 
again, "is that it certainly is strange she 
didn't leave a note or letter or something. 
Especially since she liked to write letters. 
To you, for instance."

   Arch narrowed his eyes at me, just a 
little bit, but I got the message. When he 
had finished his bite he said, "Maybe she 
did." He paused. "Leave a note."

   "Do you know if she did?"

   He shrugged.

   "Did you know if she was sad? Or 
upset? Or sick? I need to know, Arch," I 
added gently, "because it may have 
something to do with someone giving your 
grandfather rat poison over at Ms. 
Smiley's house. That attempted poisoning 
got my business closed." I paused. "Did 
you know Ms. Smiley was having 
problems?"

   "Not really."

   “Arch,” I said, "I found a D and D book 
over at Ms. Smiley's. Did you ever play 
with her?"

   He shook his head and got up to put his 
dish in the sink. I thought that pulling teeth 
had to be easier than this. Without looking 
at me Arch picked up his bag and started 
toward his room. Even though I knew, I 
asked him where he was going.

   He turned to me. "I have to go make up 
your character," he said, "for the 
adventure."

   "What am I going to be?" I asked. He 
said, “A thief."

   When Todd arrived we ate and cleared 
the table for combat. We had no board, 
only a glittering array of multisided dice 
and Arch's pile of books and papers. He 
also had some props - a small knife, which 
represented an authentic crosier for 
casting spells, scrolled pieces of paper, 
some marble eggs he had bought on a 
field trip to the western slope, and a glass 
of skim milk symbolizing a potion to 
control the colors of certain dragons.

   Arch was in a bad mood. He had spoken 
sharply to Todd at dinner and yelled at me 
when I asked if I could help set things up. 
Giving me sharp sideways glances, he 
carefully arranged several small metal 
statues of knights in gallant and 
aggressive poses.

   As dungeon master, Arch was our guide, 
he crisply informed us. He had created the 
adventure with its many possibilities. 
When it was Todd's or my turn he told us 
what we were doing, where we were 
going, and what our options were. When 
we chose an option, we would throw dice 
to see what happened. It sounded 
complicated so I poured myself a brandy.

   Our characters began in a somewhat 
downtrodden condition. Taxes, rents, and 
prices were all high, Arch the dungeon 
master announced. He brandished a 
yellowed facsimile of the Declaration of 
Independence, meant to represent the 
documentation for these new financial 
burdens.

   "What are you doing paying taxes?" I 
whispered to Todd, who was a high-level 
cleric.

   "Just play the game, Ms. Bear," he 
replied. To relieve our difficulties, Arch 
went on, we were going to have to go into 
a dangerous forest where the possibility of 
adventure was high. We were told that 
after wending our way through the dense 
array of trees, we had come to a cave. 

Inside the cave there was the possibility of 
finding treasure, but only if we could 
successfully fight the monsters.

   I was thinking Freud would have a field 
day with this when Arch said that I had just 
encountered six giant water rats, and what 
did I want to do about it?

   "What are my options?" I wanted to 
know as I poured another brandy.

   "Fight or flee," he said solemnly.

   I thought. I wanted to ask a number of 
questions, beginning with "Just how big 
are these rats?" but then he yelled at me.

   "Hurry up, Mom, you're slowing down 
the game!"

  I told him I would fight. This produced a 
flurry of dice-throwing to match my abilities 
against the rats' power.

   "What happens if I die?" I asked with 
some timidity while my hit points were 
being compared to the rats' on a chart 
from some book. "Do I lose? I mean, am 
lout of the game?"

   Arch said, "There's no such thing as 
winning and losing in this game, Mom. 
You might just have a setback. If you die 
here, the cleric can raise you from the 
dead."

   I looked at Todd, who nodded. Some 
cleric!

   "Do I have a weapon?" I asked.

   Arch checked my character's inventory 
sheet. "Yes," he said, "but you can use 
other methods. Giant water rats eat any 
flesh, but the flesh of the electric eel is 
poisonous to it. So you can crack open a 
raw alligator egg, which the rats like, and 
then mix chopped up electric eel into the 
egg, and the rats will eat it and die." With 
this lurid explanation, Arch passed me two 
marble eggs.

   I said, "Gross."

   "You made that up," Todd protested. "I 
never read that in any book! Besides, the 
thief is going to use his knife if you're 
doing hit points."

   "I am the DM," Arch announced. "I can 
make stuff up."

   "Cannot!" protested Todd.

   "Shut up!" Arch yelled. He stood and 
brandished his play knife at Todd.

   "What - " I said.

   "Shut up, Mom!" Arch's face shook with 
anger. His knuckles had turned white as 
he clutched the sword.

   "Stop acting that this minute," I ordered. 
"Todd is your guest."

   "Yeah," said Todd. He pulled his face 
into a sulk.

   "Nobody around here cares about 
anything I say," said Arch. He glowered at 
me, and for a horrible moment his eyes 
bulged with the same look of hatred I had 
seen so often in his father.

   "I care," I said. "Just sit down, okay?"

   "I'm the DM," said Arch.

   "Nobody's saying you're not," I said. 
Fear knotted my stomach. Uneasy silence 
filled the room for a few moments, until 
finally Arch put the sword back on the 
table and sat down.

   After some discussion I said I would 
prefer to use the knife to hunting up 
electric eels and alligator eggs. To 
demonstrate this I traded the marble 
ovoids for the knife-crosier. I was glad to 
get it away from Arch, in any event. 
Thanks to the dice I prevailed against the 
rats. Sheesh! I needed another brandy.

   As it turned out the rats were guarding a 
secret entry to a cave where a princess 
was being held prisoner. Worse, the 
princess was immobilized by a spell. On 
the plus side we learned that the father of 
the princess was very rich. If the cleric and 
I could manage to find and free her, we 
would receive a huge reward in gold 
pieces from the local king.

   Things took a turn for the worse for 
Todd. He encountered an amulet-sporting 
lich, a strong anticlerical monster.

   "Surely clerics can't carry weapons," I 
said. "Only blunt weapons that can't draw 
blood," said Todd. "And they can cast 
spells."

   "Yeah," said Arch, "no weapons for you."

   Todd ignored him and tried to get the 
initiative on the lich with a dice throw. He 
lost, and was attacked first. After 
sustaining some damage to his clerical 
persona, Todd asked Arch what the deal 
was on this heavy-duty monster.

   Arch screwed his face into an evil 
expression that made my flesh crawl. He 
said, "This lich is seeking vengeance for a 
wizard whom the king killed in battle." He 
paused. "It is very powerful. You must 
approach it from the side, so that it cannot 
sense your presence. Then you can cast 
your most harmful spell."

   Todd cast a spell of immobilization, the 
medieval equivalent of a stun gun. We 
were off again.

   "You can't go into that part of the cave," 
Arch warned when Todd indicated his next 
move.

   "How come?" Todd demanded.

   "It'll explode," Arch warned. "It has a 
special warning device put in by the lich."

   "Oh for heaven's sake, Arch," I protested 
again, "they didn't have explosives in the 
Middle Ages."

   He again wrinkled his face into a 
malevolent expression. "If you don't want 
to play, Mom," he said, "you don't have 
to."

   My stomach was still churning, and my 
mind was feeling the soporific effects of 
the brandy. I wasn't learning anything, and 
what I was seeing from Arch was not 
making me feel any better about his 
mental health. And while he was calling 
the plays, it would be impossible to ask 
questions about Laura Smiley or anything 
else.

   "Mom's going to bed," I said, as if my 
duties could be lightened by speaking of 
myself in the third person. I bequeathed to 
Todd all the gold I had accumulated - on 
paper, of course - and said I would find 
out in the morning whether he had 
succeeded in freeing the princess.

   "You boys sure are serious about this," I 
commented with a yawn.

   "Yeah," said Todd, "my mother's making 
me a thief costume for Halloween. I can't 
wait."

   I turned to Arch. "What about you, son? 
Want to dress up as the archbishop of 
Cottonwood Creek?"

   "No," said Arch. "I'm going to go as a 
lich." He said l this without looking at me.

   "I can see about a costume," I said 
doubtfully, "if you want. But why do you 
want to be a monster?"

   He shrugged. "You have a lot of power. 
You can do things you wouldn't be able to 
do in real life."

-11-
   The next morning, after dreaming fitfully 
of alligator eggs and my son pointing a 
knife at me, I remembered the key I had 
filched from the athletic club five days 
before. I doubted that going through 
Laura's locker could be more productive 
than going through her house. Still, Arch 
had correctly role-cast me: I could be a 
thief.

   Arriving at the club brought the horrid 
realization that the Saturday morning 
aerobics class was the one for 
masochists. Attending this class had 
always led to deep and serious regret. 
When I sidled into the back row Trixie was 
leading the pain parade in a high-step 
double-time run-in-place to the chase 
scene music from To Live and Die in L.A.

   "Go! Go!" Trixie shrieked over the din. 
She was throwing her arms and legs out 
like a cheerleader fighting off a mugger.

   "Best thing for a hangover!" shouted the 
man next to me as we switched to jumping 
jacks.

   The mirror reflected new unwelcome 
pillows of flesh in the worst places. Not 
rushing around to cater was taking its toll. 
I went to the wall to stretch ligaments and 
wished to be dying in L.A. rather than 
exercising. Back in my spot I began to jog 
in place. My neighbor (hung over?) 
responded by increasing the speed of his 
jumps, which he accompanied with loud 
grunts.

   We flapped arms and kicked legs while 
Trixie increased the tempo to what could 
only be described as frenzied. It was like 
an African tribal dance being filmed by 
National Geographic.

   Abruptly the music stopped in mid bar. I 
stopped too, although the maniacs around 
me kept hopping.

   "What is the matter with this thing?" 
screeched Trixie as she punched buttons 
on the lifeless stereo. "What! What!"

   She picked up one of the weights, a big 
one.

   "Damn you!" she screamed, and heaved 
the weight at one of the wall-sized mirrors, 
which shattered with the sound of 
windows exploding in a small building.

   "That's worth at least forty-nine years of 
bad luck," said Hung-Over.

   Trixie ran into the locker room. Hal 
appeared at the top of the stairs. He 
looked bewildered, but quickly summoned 
all the masochists to the outside track. I 
decided to hit the showers.

   In the locker room Trixie was 
complaining loudly to a group of women in 
shiny leotards and tights about the stereo 
system, the club, and life in general. I 
slipped into the welcome relief of a shower 
stall. When the crowd dispersed I would 
check out Laura's locker. But fifteen 
minutes later the women were still 
bubbling with subdued chatter about Trixie 
and her temper tantrum, so I headed for 
the steam room. There I encountered the 
becalmed mirror-shatterer herself.

   "Trix," I said cautiously as I eased down 
onto the moist tile steps. "Guess you were 
a little pissed off back there."

   She groaned and turned over. "Guess 
so," she said. "Hal's secretary just came 
down. Breaking the mirror cost me three 
hundred dollars. Next time it'll be my job."

   I muttered something about being in the 
same boat, a metaphoric fit with the 
clouds of steam enveloping us. Then I 
said, "Listen, I don't know how to say this 
delicately, but I just found out about your 
baby. I'm sorry. I didn't even know you 
were pregnant."

   She said nothing for a few minutes. 
Then, "Thanks, Goldy. It's been really 
hard."

   "I'm sorry," I murmured again. In the 
clouded light I could just see her hand. I 
took it and squeezed; she squeezed back.

   I said, "Want to talk?"

   "Maybe sometime. I need to figure out 
how to break the mirror news to my 
husband. . . ha ha." She let go of my 
hand.

   "I didn't see your husband at Laura 
Smiley's house," I said.

   She said, "God, it's getting hot in here."

   "Really."

   "Yeah, Martin," she said vaguely, as if 
she had just remembered his name. "He 
was out of town. Doesn't like the thought 
of death, anyway. Since. . . well."

   "Of course," I said, and nodded in the 
dark mist. I cleared my throat and said, "I 
went over to Fritz Korman's the other day. 
He was doing better, went into the office 
Wednesday."

   "Don't mention that man to me."

   "Mad at the doctor? Why?"

   "Don't call him a doctor," she said evenly 
as she swung her body around and 
rearranged herself on the room's tile 
steps. "Don't exaggerate."

   I needed a cold shower. In the last ten 
minutes heat and moisture had built up in 
the steam room to almost unbearable 
proportions. But I couldn't go yet.

   "Hey," I said, "I called Fritz's son a 
husband, and that was the worst. 
exaggeration of my life."

   This brought a laugh. She said, "I know 
I'm being disagreeable. I'm just worried 
about the cash for the mirror."

   "I wrote the book on money worries 
making you disagreeable. At least no 
one's asking if I'm premenstrual."

   Another harsh laugh.

   “Anyway," I added, "if that theory 
worked, my roommate would be the most 
agreeable person in the world."

   “Also the stupidest," said Trixie acidly, 
"since she's going to Fritz Korman for 
treatment."

   "How did you know that?"

   "She told me, sitting right in here not 
long ago. She was talking to Laura Smiley 
about it one time when I came in."

   "What? I didn't even know she knew 
Laura."

   Trixie let out a breath. "I'm not saying 
she knew her, Goldy. I'm just saying that 
one time she was talking to her. I didn't 
even hear the whole conversation, since I 
came in in the middle and had to leave 
before they finished."

   "But what were they talking about? What 
were they saying?"

   "I don't know. They were talking about 
Fritz. Patty Sue was upset. When I first 
came in they stopped talking, you know 
how people do. When I asked them if they 
wanted me to leave, Laura was, what's the 
word, cryptic. She said, 'Trixie had the 
same doctor. She doesn't think too much 
of him.' "

   "Then what?"

   Trixie said, "Patty Sue was saying she 
was sorry she had bothered Laura, and 
Laura was saying that was okay. I had 
already dumped all my grievances on 
Laura once before, and I didn't want to 
hear any more about Korman. So I got 
out."

   "That's it?"

   "I think so. So what?"

   I thought for a minute. Then I said, 
"Well, judging from what happened last 
Saturday, you weren't the only one 
dissatisfied with Fritz."

   "That doesn't surprise me."

   "Of course," I said bitterly, "whoever was 
upset with him could have managed to 
give him rat poison someplace besides 
Laura's funeral."

   "Odd that he would even come," said 
Trixie.

    "Why is that?"

   "Oh, I don't know. As I said, Laura and I 
used to talk in here. And usually not with 
your roommate around. It's hard. With 
Laura gone, I mean."

   "What did you and Laura talk about?"

   "Jesus, what is this? Interrogation time?"

   "I'm sorry, forgive me," I said. "I'm just 
interested because of my business being 
closed down from what happened at her 
house. Sorry," I said again. I thought I was 
going to faint from the heat and humidity 
in the small dark room. The ambient 
temperature must have been a hundred 
and twenty. But instead of leaving I 
cleared my throat and said, "Have you 
thought any more about coming to our 
group?"

   She moved around on the tiles.

   "Tell me again when you're meeting."

   "Next week, Thursday, and also Friday 
night, October thirtieth. I just thought you 
might enjoy it."

   "Well, at least I can enjoy the food, 
right?" She gave a harsh laugh. Then, 
"The thirtieth, I guess."

   "You'll be glad you did."

   She said, "I guess," and stood to leave. 
The door slammed behind her.

   Twenty minutes later I was dried and 
dressed but still full of questions. While 
Trixie worked on her hair and makeup I 
tried to bring up the subject of Laura 
again, to no avail. When I asked if we 
could get together before the meeting on 
the thirtieth she gave me a curious look.

   "Just to chat," I said.

   "No," she said, then picked up her gym 
bag and swept out.

   The locker room was empty. I groped 
around in my handbag for the key to 
Laura's locker. L221. The L stood for 
Ladies; that much I knew. I wouldn't get 
over to do the M side until I did my first 
cleaning job here. For that I could wait.

   There was a sudden hush in the locker 
room. Saturday classes were over before 
noon. Everyone had left to chop firewood 
or shop for groceries. This set burgling 
into high relief, morally speaking.

   I put the flat metal key into 221 and 
turned. Gooseflesh crawled up my neck. 
The key wouldn't budge. I jiggled it and 
tried again. The door clanged open.

   The inside of the locker door was 
plastered with homemade signs, and I 
began to wonder if Laura had a fixation 
with slogans. "You Can't Find These 
Muscles on the Seashore." Too much. 
The uppermost sign was a copy of the 
Serenity Prayer. She had underlined to 
change the things I can.

   On the top shelf was the usual array of 
female bath accessories, shampoo, rinse, 
body lotion. Still no razor, I noticed, and 
made a mental note to tell Schulz. Not that 
he would care. My ideas didn't seem to 
carry much weight with the local 
constabulary. Behind the toiletries was a 
paperback, which I imagined from its 
brittle condition to be reading material 
Laura took into the sauna. It was a day-by-
day meditation book, advocating strength 
and courage and calm. For what?

   Underneath her name in the front of the 
book were the words Sundays, noon, 
Episcopal church. Thinking of my old 
parish, I tried to remember what went on 
at noon on Sundays, after everyone had 
left. Several times I had stayed to clean 
the Sunday school room while Arch threw 
stones into Cottonwood Creek. One time I 
had gone into the ladies' room to cry when 
John Richard slipped out with the choir 
lady; Arch had thrown enough stones into 
the creek to qualify him for dam 
construction by the time I came out, red-
eyed and sniffly. And there had been a 
meeting going on, where I remembered 
several of the people had also been red-
eyed and sniffly. What was it? Memory 
failed.

   My hand slid across the cool metal of 
the shelf. In the far corner there was a 
piece of paper that was stuck. Perhaps 
Laura had put a wet bottle of shampoo or 
damp washcloth up there. It was probably 
just an old label from soap. Without 
thinking I pulled, and half of whatever it 
was came off in my hand.

   The torn paper was not a label, and I 
cursed myself for not trying to extricate it 

more carefully. It was part of a yellowed 
article from an old newspaper with a 
scrawled note: Show P.S. and T. I tried to 
release the rest of the stuck paper from 
the shelf with my fingernail, but got only 
illegible bits.

   The torn part read:

CAROLTON PHYSICIAN TO MOVE
Local obstetrician Fritz Niebold Korm
last month on charges of having
in mistrial, will move his pract
Sources indicate that Korman,
under investigation by the Il
Examiners for other alleg
accusations, Korman stat

tired of it all," and
he had received a Iic
been practicing in

The upper left-hand corner said October 6, 
1967.

   I put the book with the notation about 
Sunday meetings, as well as the article, 
into my gym bag and headed for the front 
desk. In 1967 John Richard had been ten 
years old, so that even if he would be 
willing to explain this, he probably wouldn't 
remember. If I could get Vonette sober, 
she might tell me more. Maybe Schulz had 
already found out what this was about, 
though I doubted that. Like the book of 
advice or the church meeting, or the fact 
that Vonette had said that Laura had been 
a nanny for them, I did not know how this 
fit.

   At the desk I received a note telling me 
Arch's teacher had tried to reach me at 
home and had been told to call here, and 
would I please call her at home during the 
weekend. Nothing urgent, she'd said, just 
call at your convenience.

   You bet, I thought, but first I had some 
other business to attend to. I dialed the 
number for the office of Korman and 
Korman, asked for an appointment, and 
was informed that the doctors had left for 
the weekend. Would I like to see Dr. 
Korman senior on Monday?

   "Yes," I said. "I have to bring Patty Sue 
Williams in anyway; maybe you could fit 
me in around that time."

   There was a pause. "I only need to see 
him for about ten minutes," I said.

   "Oh? And what is your problem, Miss 
Bear? Are you in pain?"

   "Chronic. Lower abdomen. I know he'll 
be able to help me." I said, "There's just 

so much I can't digest," and hung up.

-12-
   Show P.S. and T.

   Why had Laura Smiley made that note 
on an article about a mistrial? It had been 
in her locker; one had to assume that P.S. 
and T. were available in the athletic club. It 
was an article about Dr. Fritz Korman, 
something from two decades before, 
something which, for a reason I did not 
know, had relevance for P.S. and T.

   I put the article down and tried to call 
Arch's teacher, Janet Heath, but got her 
answering machine instead. I stared at the 
article again.

   Trixie (T.?) had said that she and Laura 
had talked about Korman in the steam 
room after exercise class. She also had 
said that Laura and Patty Sue, of all 
people, had had a tête-à-tête in the same 
steam room. Time for me to have a little 
chat with P.S. myself, especially since she 
was the only woman I knew who was a 
current patient of Fritz Korman's.

   But Patty Sue was out running when I 

arrived home. When she came back Arch 
was in and out with Todd so that it was 
impossible to ask questions. Then she 
went to bed after we finished the dishes. 
What was the point of all that exercise if it 
rendered you constitutionally incapable of 
staying up past nine at night?

   Well, we still lived under the same roof. 
Sunday morning would do for questions. I 
dialed Janet Heath again and got her 
machine again. Another chat set aside for 
the next morning.

   As usual I awoke early. Sunday, with its 
inevitable doldrums, is the bane of the 
single person who has been married. For 
couples and families it is a day of church, 
picnics, fishing, football games, pizza, and 
movies. Now the emptiness descended 
like one of the cold fogs that go creeping 
through the mountain valleys in winter. 
The frigid moisture is almost invisible, but 
you can see the way the icy clouds turn 
green pines to silver; you can feel the chill 
seep into your bones.

   So I followed my routine. Cooking was 
the cure for loss.

   The candy for Arch's Halloween party at 
Furman Elementary was the next order of 
business. A batch of my Terrific Toffee 
would do for the sixth graders. The candy 
would keep in the refrigerator for a couple 
of weeks. I buttered two nine-by-thirteen-
inch glass pans and started to melt butter 
with brown sugar in a big pot. I rummaged 
through my knife drawer for the candy 
thermometer, then snapped its long bulb 
onto the side of the pan.

GOLDY'S TERRIFIC TOFFEE

2 cups coarsely chopped pecans
2 pounds (8 sticks) unsalted butter, plus 
extra for pans
2 pounds best-quality milk chocolate 
(Lindt)
4 cups packed dark brown sugar

   Note: A candy thermometer is essen tial 
for this recipe. Making a good toffee is 
tricky at high altitude, because the 
traditional soft-crack stage is not reached 
until the thermometer reaches 300 , at 
which point the toffee is in danger of 
burning. Therefore, at high altitude, if you 
are close to 300 , detect a burning smell, 
and stir up a darker substance from the 
bottom of the pan, stop stirring 
immediately, remove the toffee from the 
heat, and quickly pour it into the prepared 
pans without scraping the bottom of the 
cooking pan. If you have managed not to 
stir in any of the burnt candy, the toffee 
will still be delicious. It will be chewier than 
that made at sea level, but proper 
refrigeration will maintain a good candy 
texture.

   Preheat the oven to 375°. Spread the 
pecans in two 9-inch glass pie plates, and 
roast until the nuts have turned slightly 
darker and are well toasted, about 10 
minutes. Stir once or twice during the 
roasting process to ensure even browning. 
Remove the pecans from the oven, spread 
out to cool on paper towels, and set aside 
until you finish the toffee.

   Butter two 9 x 13-inch glass pans and 
set aside. Unwrap the chocolate and 
divide it between two plates. Break all the 
chocolate into squares and set aside. 
Using a deep, heavy-bottomed pan, melt 
the butter with the sugar and cook over 
medium to medium-high heat, stirring 
constantly until a candy thermometer hits 
285° to 290  (high altitude: 300 ), the soft-
crack stage. (Candy will be very hot; be 
sure to protect your skin and clothing 
through the cooking and pouring 
processes.) Pour the toffee into the 
prepared pans and immediately place the 
squares of chocolate in rows across the 
toffee (1 pound of chocolate per pan). 
When the chocolate has softened, spread 
it to the edges of the toffee. Sprinkle 1 cup 
of the toasted pecans over the chocolate 
in each pan. Allow to cool, then cover with 
foil an chill.

Using a large, heavy-duty knife, break the 
toffee into 1- to 3-inch pieces.

Makes approximately 6 dozen pieces

   I stirred, and remembered when Arch 
was five. We had spent a lot of time 
playing the game Candyland. This had led 
to long discussions about how they made 
all the sweets for that place, which Arch 
believed existed outside of the game 
board. The Candyland cement mixer 
trucks were full of toffee, he insisted, 
because they could keep it moving all the 
time. Car engines had little blades to chop 
up peppermint drops so you could stir 
them into Christmas fudge. Two years 
later John Richard moved out, and two 
months after that dismal Christmas I found 
a hoard of old mint-flavored fudge in one 
of Arch's drawers. When I asked him 
about it he said he just kept it there to 
smell it, so he could pretend he was in 
Candyland instead of being at home.

   The thermometer hit 300°; I poured the 
bubbling brown stuff into the two pans. 
Then each pan got a pound bar of 
chocolate, which I had successfully hidden 
from Patty Sue. I pushed the bars around 
over the molten toffee until they melted 
into soft chocolate lakes. For fancy par- 
ties I would have sprinkled minced pecans 
or filberts on top, but kids were finicky 
about pimentos, olives, and nuts, so I 
always omitted them.

   "Man," said Patty Sue as she entered 
the kitchen at ten o'clock, "what smells so 
great?"

   "Toffee for Arch's school Halloween 
party," I replied. I looked at her. Her face 
was wan. Her hair, like her general 
outlook, had dulled since she had arrived 
in August. She puttered slowly around the 
kitchen, and I wondered if more could be 
wrong with her than her cyclical problems.

   "Patty Sue," I began, "are you feeling all 
right?"

   She was taking an English muffin out of 
the toaster. "Sure," she said without 
looking at me. "I was just tired after my run 
yesterday." She spread chokecherry jelly 
on the muffin, then changed her mind and 
scraped it off.

   I walked over to her and said in a low 
voice, "Are Dr. Korman's treatments 
working at all? You don't look very good. 
Is he giving you iron or any special 
medication?"

   She said, "Yes, he's giving me some 
pills and no, I'm not normal yet." She sat 
down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. 
"He knows what he's doing. Why would 
my doctor send me out here if he didn't?"

   "I don't know. Why did you talk to Laura 
Smiley about it?"

   She froze in midbite.

   I said, "Trixie told me."

   She said, "Well, uh . . ." and then was 
quiet.

   "Patty Sue, I didn't even know you knew 
Laura Smiley."

   "I didn't know her."

    "You talked to her."

   "One time."

   "When did this conversation take place? 
Did she say she wanted to show you an 
article about Fritz?"

   Patty Sue pushed the plate away and 
began to catch her breath, as if she was 
about to cry. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm just 
so sorry."

   "For what?"

   She stood up. "Please leave me alone, 
please, Goldy, I feel really bad."

   “About what?"

   "About everything," she said with a 
cough, before running out of the room. 
She called back, "Please leave me alone!"

   "I'm coming with you to the doctor's 
office tomorrow," I yelled after her.

   "Gee, Mom," said a sleepy Arch as he 
shuffled into the kitchen. "What's going 
on? What's all the racket about? Are you 
sick?"

   "No. I just told Patty Sue that I'm taking 
her to her appointment tomorrow, that's 
all."

   He poured himself some cereal. 
Between bites he said, "You always take 
her. Maybe after her driving lesson on 
Friday she'll be able to drive herself and 
you guys can stop yelling."

   I said, "I doubt both."

   He ate silently and then rinsed his bowl.

   "Just remember," he said in his little-
adult voice, "Pomeroy has some old-
fashioned kind of driver-ed cars. That's 
what he told me. You'd better be careful."

   I said, "You and Pomeroy had all kinds 
of conversations, didn't you?" Arch 
shrugged. "I think what he meant," I went 
on, "is that his cars are the old driver-ed 
kind, because he can't get an increase in 
funds from the school board to set up a 
more modern instructional program. I read 
about it in the paper."

   "Oh-kay-ay," he said in that singsong 
cadence associated with Don't say I didn't 
warn you.

   I narrowed my eyes at him and said, "I 
need to make an important phone call."

   He nodded and drifted out of the kitchen 
while I dialed Janet Heath. She didn't 
sound too happy about being called on 
Sunday morning, but I was not going to 
risk another encounter with her answering 
machine.

   "I would like to see you sometime soon," 
she said stiffly when we had exchanged 
pleasantries. “About Arch."

   I coughed. I said, "Please tell me what's 
wrong."

   "Well, that's what I don't know. I just 
need to talk to you about some things 
going on in the classroom. Can you come 
in this week?"

   We settled on Friday before school and 
hung up. One more thing I just couldn't 
wait for.

   The next morning frost painted the 
kitchen windows and I had the usual go-
round with Arch concerning his outer 
clothing.

   "But it gets so hot in the afternoon," he 
complained, "and kids make fun of me 
wearing my coat when they're in sweats."

   "So let them," I said. "You won't be sick 
for Halloween and they will, which is all 
right because from what you say they 
don't care about it anyway."

   He stomped out muttering something 
unintelligible. The van was doing its 
cough-and-sputter warm-up routine when 
Patty Sue came skittering out of the house 
in white lace blouse, white skirt, and 
matching white tights. No coat for her 
either. It was no wonder she had health 
problems. But I couldn't ask her about 
anything. We had been friends when she 
first arrived. What had happened?

   When I pulled up in front of Korman and 
Korman, Obstetrics and Gynecology, Patty 
Sue gave me a puzzled look.

   "Did you say you were sick?" she asked.

   I sighed. "Yes and no.”

   Entering K and K, I had always told John 
Richard, was an experience rivaled only 
by stepping into the big greenhouse at the 
Denver Botanic Gardens. Why 
obstetricians needed a jungle environment 
for an office was something better left to 
psychologists. Perhaps the sudden entry 
into leafiness suggested fecundity. Freud, 
I had told John Richard to his immense 
irritation, would have hypothesized 
something more specific. I avoided the 
enfolding arms of a stand of Norfolk pine, 
threaded my way through oversized 
bamboo plants, and ducked a hanging 
basket of wandering Jew before arriving at 
the reception desk.

   "Do you have an appointment?" asked 
the nurse-receptionist.

    "Yes," I said breezily. "You just don't 
recognize without my safari hat.”

   "Name?"

   "Bear," I said, ''as in Goldilocks and the 
Three - "

   "I don't have a chart on you," she said 
without looking up. "You'll have to fill out 
new-patient papers." She handed me a 
clipboard filled with forms that would have 
given the IRS pause.

   "But you don't understand," I said. "John 
Richard is my - “

   I stopped as her withering glance shot 
through me. Perhaps it would be better 
not to advertise my presence in this office 
after a four-year absence. Nor did I feel 
welcome, given the Jerk's assumption of 
my guilt in the rat- poison affair. In fact I 
had better try to avoid him altogether.

   "Tell you what," I said conspiratorially, 
"I'll bet I could find my file back there. Just 
let me take a look."

   "Oh no - " she began, but was 
interrupted by an extremely distressed 
patient who had appeared at my side.

   "I'm pregnant," whispered a woman to 
the nurse. Her voice broke. She said, 
"Unplanned." The patient signaled to her 
husband, who emerged from behind the 
foliage.

   "You have two options," the nurse 
started to say as I slid behind the 
counter's side door.

   “And we were so careful," the woman 
complained.

   I surveyed the file cabinets. Inside these 
formidable gray metal boxes the files were 
color-coded, I knew. Since more than 
thirty-six months had elapsed since I had 
been treated by my ex-husband, I would 
be classified as inactive. I opened the top 
drawer, A through I, pink files.

   I saw some names I recognized, but no 
Bear. Were these current? The next 
drawer, J through S, was more helpful. 
There was Jackson, T., which would be 
Trixie, and Korman, M., which would be 
Marla. She had been married to John 
Richard more recently than I, and might 
still be classified as active, although like 
me she now went to a female gynecologist 
in Denver. There was also Korman, V. - 
Vonette. At this juncture I remembered 
that the last time I had been in the Korman 
office, I too had been a Korman, so these 
must be the current or only recently 
inactive patients.

   I skipped the next drawer and opened 
drawer J through S in the adjoining 
cabinet, which bulged with green files. 
Inactive? The unhappily expectant patient 
at the desk was still bemoaning her fate; 
her husband was figuring out dates with 
the nurse. My ex-husband's voice floated 
out his office door.

   If only there were some plants behind 
the counter. I needed cover.

   I turned back to the green files and had 
a sudden thought. Could Laura Smiley be 
in here? Would she have been active or 
inactive? I flipped quickly back to the S 
pink files: Sandoval, Scalia, Sheffield, 
Smythe. Back to the green files I went, 
checking into Slacek, Smalrose, Smart, 
Smith. No Smiley in either green or pink. 
Perhaps it had been misfiled. I began with 
the green H's, where I saw Heath and 
Hilliard, then the J's, Jacoby, Jermaine, 
and so on, through K's, where I found 
Korman, G., and removed it, through the 
L’s, Lapham, Leduc, Locraft, and 
Ludmiller, when the sudden swift foot of 
John Richard kicked the file drawer out of 
my hands so that it crashed into the 
cabinet.

   "You," he said. "What the hell are you 
doing in here? I mean, besides being 
nosy?"

   "I'm not being nosy;" I said. I gritted my 
teeth and tried to cut him with a glance. 
From behind the waiting-room bushes 
faces appeared, like curious pygmies. "I 
was looking," I said airily, "for my file." I 

waved it. "Which I found."

   Whispers from the waiting room.

   John Richard said to the nurse, "Why is 
she back here?"

   The nurse looked at me and back at the 
Jerk, who was a large hulking blond 
presence in his white doctor coat. "She 

was looking for her file," she said. "I think."

   John Richard narrowed his eyes at me 
again. "I suppose you weaseled your way 
in here with an appointment?"

   I murmured assent, holding my file like a 
life preserver with one hand, and 
gesturing to the appointment book, with 
the other. John Richard hunched over the 
book, and I prayed his pants would split. 
Then he glared back at me.

   "Let me tell you something," he said in a 
rough whisper. His index finger stabbed 
the air between us. "I don't know what 
you're up to here. But you keep out of 
those confidential files, you little bitch. If 
you try to harm my father again I'll wring 
your neck. And listen up. Get yourself 
another doctor. Don't come back to this 
office or I'll call the cops."

   "I've got another doctor," I said. "But feel 
free to call the cops. Ah . . . try the one 
I've been going out with. He shoots people 
for assault and battery."

   John Richard gave me a look with 
enough steel in it to keep Pittsburgh going 
for a day. Then he whisked out in a cloud 
of anger and white coat."

   "You can see Dr. Korman now," said the 
nurse, avoiding my eyes. "The other 
doctor. Just go on back." She knew' she 
had screwed up.

   Patty Sue was nowhere in sight. I 
assumed she had already seen Fritz, 
come back out through the plants, and 
gone downstairs to the pastry shop for a 
bite to eat. Knowing Patty Sue, it would be 
more than a bite. I walked quickly past the 
waiting-room jungle and peered around 
the corner into the room where they drew 
blood and refrigerated samples and 
medications. This was also where they 
stored all the equipment for "office 
surgery," their euphemistic term for ridding 
the uterus of anything unwanted. My 
guess was that such a procedure would 

be the next visit for the unexpectedly 
pregnant patient who had preceded me.

   I knew I was also unwanted in this office. 
I peeked around the corner, unwilling to 
be removed myself.

   The room with the abortion equipment 
was empty. I walked quietly past.

   "Hi, Fritz," I said as I entered his office. 
"Hope you don't mind my coming in like 
this."

   "Goldy." He looked up at me with a 
frown. He said, "You know you're not 
supposed to come in here. Let the nurse 
put you in one of the examination rooms. 
Then I'll come see you."

   "Oh thanks," I said, and averted my eyes 
from his tall frame to the office greenery, 
which resembled the profusion of foliage 
in the waiting room. There were rows of 
geraniums on shelves in a built-out 
window, Swedish and other strains of ivy 
hanging behind the desk and couch, and 
tall rubber plants hugging the frame of a 
door. "Tell me, Fritz," I said, "do you have 
a repressed desire to be a botanist?"
   He smiled. He sat in his chair and 
swiveled toward me. With his head tilted, 
his bald pate caught the light and shone 
like a halo. He said, "Repressed desires? 
That's shrink talk. Now why don't you go to 
an examination room and we'll get on with 
our appointment?"

   I sat on the couch, a dark, softly stuffed 
expanse that exuded the sensual smell 
and sigh of leather.

   "I'm not sick," I said.

   He chuckled. "That's not what my son 
tells me."

    "Did you like the cakes?"

   He nodded. "Is that why you're here? To 
talk about food? Because I have other 
patients to attend to. Ones who are sick."

   "I need to talk to you about business. 
Yours and mine, if that's okay. I won't take 
long."

   He grinned again. His teeth were slightly 
gray, from age, but when he smiled he 
filled the room with his aura, a sort of 
older-movie-star appeal.

   He said, "I don't know anything about 
cooking, Goldy."

   "That's okay," I said and looked at a wall 
of framed degrees and other official-
looking papers, then at a table next to the 
couch where African violets circled some 
family photographs. In these Vonette and 
John Richard appeared with the doctor, 
and there were shots of fishing buddies. 
There was no sign of the strange girl.

   "Fritz." I eyed him solemnly. "You know I 
didn't put that stuff in your coffee. But the 
cops have closed down my business until 
they figure out what's going on. You'd 
think that would be simple, but it isn't." I 
told him that I was looking into the 
histories of some of his former patients 
who might have something against him.

   He said, "So if the catering doesn't work 
out, you're considering a career with the 
cops?" Another wide smile. "You know I 
can't tell you anything about patients. I 
heard John Richard out there screaming 
at you for going through the files." He 
leaned toward me. "They're confidential, 
Goldy."

   "Did Trixie Jackson ever threaten you?" I 
demanded. "She was real upset about her 
stillbirth."

   He cocked his head and looked at me 
as if he were dealing with a thick-headed 
child. "It's a very difficult thing for a 
prospective mother to take. It's also hard 
on the doctor."

   I gave him a sympathetic look. "I'm 
sure." I cleared my throat. "How about 
Laura?"

   His face lost expression. "Laura who?"

   "Laura Smiley," I said, astonished. Did 
he really have so many patients with that 
first name? I said, "Laura whose funeral 

you attended nine days ago. Who, a long 
time ago, also lived in Carolton, Illinois." I 
took a breath. "Who had an appointment 
with you the day she died."

   He shook his head. "You're confused, 
Goldy, in more ways than one." He stood 
up, a signal our interview was over. "Do 
you think Laura Smiley messed with my 
coffee? She couldn't have put pellets in 
someone's drink if she was dead, could 
she? And I told you patient dealings are 
not open to your misguided prying. Now 
why don't you go home and cook and let 
the police do the investigating?"

   I stood up but pressed on. "How come 
there's no file out there on her, if she was 
a patient?" Fritz shrugged. I said, "Why 
can't you tell me if or why she was here 
the day she died? I mean if you or John 
Richard told her she had cancer or 
something, then the cops should know."

   He stopped by the door I had come in. 
He said, "She killed herself. That's what 
the police know. If they want more they 
can come and ask me themselves. Now 
it's time for you to go."

   "But what about in Illinois? I've found 
photographs of a girl, a teenager, and 
then I found an article about you - "

   He held the door open.

   He said, "Goodbye, Goldy."

-13-
   I hadn't received any clarification about 
the torn article in Laura's locker. Not that 
Fritz would have told me about a mistrial 
or anything else. He had his reasons for 
not divulging information. I didn't know 
what they were, but I doubted 
confidentiality of files was uppermost in his 
mind. As I swept and scrubbed and 
scoured other people's houses that week, 
I decided my financial rationale for getting 
information was more important than any 
of his reasons. Let Fritz clean houses for a 
while, see how it felt. Unfortunately, I 
didn't know what my investigation 
methods were going to be. Yet.

   Schulz was no help. In addition to the 
two homicides he was working on, he'd 
had another crisis. Some late-season rock 
climbers had found the body of a biker 
down Cottonwood Creek Canyon. So he 
was momentarily tied up sorting out the 
politics of rival gangs. The department 
clerk said he'd call me as soon as he 
could.

   The Thursday evening meeting of 
Amour Anonymous, postponed because 
of a funeral, was similarly funereal it self, 
complete with surprise ending.

   After cleaning two houses, Patty Sue 
said she was too tired to attend, but that 
she'd make the next meeting. Two other 
women who were occasional attendees 
called and backed out, so it was just Marla 
and myself. I made cream puffs and coffee 
and put out a bottle of dessert sherry.

   "I'll eat anything you cook," Marla said 
when she walked in. "The hell with the 
health department."

   The sight of Marla, grinning broadly and 
wearing an or ange and black jumper - 
she always dressed in seasonal colors - 
made my heart soften. She looked like a 
giant pumpkin. I hugged her.

   "I asked for food, not love," her muffled 
voice said into my shoulder. "We can eat 
the former and talk about the latter." I let 
go of her and she held up a package, 
grinning. "Where's your little guy? I've 
brought him something."

   I called Arch from the nether regions of 
the house and poured coffee into two 
cups.

   "A whole pack of Hershey bars?" Arch's 
delighted voice said behind my back. 
"Gosh, Marla, thanks."

   I was about to scold Marla for ruining 
Arch's teeth when I got a look at his face. 
It was painted a shiny black.

   "What's with the disguise?" I asked, 
trying to keep my voice light.

   "It's part of some work I'm doing," he 
said seriously. The whites of his eyes 
shone as he opened them wide. "I'm trying 
to make our house safer."

   "By doing what?" I demanded, but he 
was gone.

   Marla shook her head. "What's with 
him?"

   "Not sure," I said. "But I think he's still 
pretty spooked about Laura's death."

   "Well, who isn't," said Marla. She 
swallowed the last of her first cream puff 
and started on another. “And it doesn't 
help that the dear teacher was a little 
nutty, either."

   "Oh yeah?" I said. "What makes you say 
that? I mean, I'm beginning to think the 
same thing. But you get around so much 
more than I do."

   "Oh, you know," she said.

   "Marla," I said firmly, "I don't. And every 
time I try to ask anybody about Laura, the 
person either starts crying or kicks me off 
the premises."

   "I'd like to see someone try to kick you 
off any premises."

   "Just tell me why you think she was 
wacko. I really want to know."

   "Well, chill out. Good Lord," said Marla. 
"She would get this bee in her bonnet, I 
don't know." She sucked the filling out of 
her third cream puff before delicately biting 
into it. "I've always wondered about 
elementary school teachers anyway. 
They're either slightly off base when they 
go in or they get that way after five years 
of ignoring books for grown-ups so they 
can gobble more third-grade texts."

I said, “Are you talking about teachers in 
general, or one in particular?"

   "Okay, look," said Marla as she 
extended one of her fleshy arms for the 
sherry bottle. "Here's an example. We 
used to both take our cars into that 
foreign-car repair shop off Main Street. 
She had that Volvo, I had the Jag. Neither 
of them were cheap cars to fix, tune up, 
get parts for, whatever. And I guess she 
had a lemon or something, or the guy 
couldn't fix all the problems, but they 
would always be arguing when I came in. 
When he would go to check if they'd done 
all the work, Laura would turn around to 
me, flick her lighter on, and tell me how 
she wished she could torch the place. 
Then she'd light a cigarette and go ha-ha. 
So I'd ha-ha back. One time she told me 
she was keeping a list of all the Volvo's 
problems, and she was going to send it to 
Ralph Nader in Swedish and put the 
whole car company out of business."

   “Huh? I said.

   "That's what I said, especially when she 
asked me how to say piece of shit in 
Swedish," Marla went on. "But here's the 
weird part. The mechanic comes back and 
she turns all sweet. I mean, a complete 
switch. Making jokes. And I was sitting 
there thinking, What the hell's going on 
here? Then after she paid him and he 
went back out again, she said, 'You can 
bet I'm never coming back here.' She said, 
'It can't be that difficult to find someone 
who really knows how to fix cars.' And I 
guess she did because I never saw her 
there again."

   "Well," I said, "she told Arch the 
President should paint his skin black and 
go to South Africa, see what it's really like 
to live under apartheid."

   "Not a bad idea," said Marla with a 
grunt. "Anyway, is that what Arch is doing 
tonight? African sympathy ritual?"

   The lights flickered.

   "I have no idea what he's doing," I said. 
"But he's been acting odd lately, so I 
wouldn't put anything past him."

   "Do you have something to talk about 
tonight?" Marla, asked. "I mean besides 
Laura Smiley."

   We were quiet while I tried to take the 
focus off Laura and put it onto myself. The 
lights flickered again.

   "That reminds me, I said. "What about 
the unrequited love you were claiming for 
her?"

   "I'm checking around. Looking into it. 
Has to do with the beekeeping Ice Man, 
though, I can tell you that. I just have to 
find someone who's been close to him to 
confirm the rumor."

   I said, "Nothing ever works."

   Marla wiped her mouth. "Oh, stop 
complaining." She winked at me. "Tell you 
what, you can complain now that our two-
person meeting is underway. It's your turn, 
anyway."

   I said, "Already?" then sighed while I 
thought. "I've been kind of bitchy lately, I 
guess," I said. Marla was silent. "At first I 
thought it was the business - having it 
closed down. Or Laura." I looked around. 
“Arch is acting strange, obviously. And 
John Richard is getting married - "

   "Again," Marla said in disgust. "Third 
time's the charm," I said dryly. More 
silence.

   "I've had this. . . I went out," I said, as if 
my date had been with a mass murderer. 
Marla looked noncommittal.

   "The last thing I want to do is date," I 
said. "That's not even the word they use 
anymore, is it? You go out for dinner and 
then have casual sex, right? Well, forget 
that. Except for asking Pomeroy to eat 
pizza with us, I haven't looked for male 
companionship at all. And Pom ignored 
me."

   "Hmm," said Marla, in her knowing way. 
"Part of what I've heard about him is that 
he is, or was, very hung up on his ex-
wife."

“Anyway," I said, "about going out. I did 
want a relationship. I just didn't want the 
potential hassle." I drained my sherry 
glass. “And then along comes this cop. 
Schulz. My business is a wreck, my 
eleven-year-old is acting strange, the man 
I used to love is marrying a geometry 
teacher, and I'm a prime suspect in 
attempted murder. This cop comes along, 
and. . . he likes me! Sheesh!"

   Marla said, "You're not that repulsive, 
silly."

   "Fine," I replied. "But I want to be 
honest, right? I mean, I was dead set 
against acting nice and sweet and this-
could-be-the-start-of-something-great, just 
to get my business reopened. He's my 
age, so maybe he doesn't believe in the 
casual-sex lifestyle. Maybe he doesn't 
even use the word lifestyle."

   I stopped to pour myself some coffee.

   Marla said, "Do men brood and worry 
about all these possibilities the way we 
do? I doubt it. Anyway, what's the bottom 
line here?"

   "I told you," I said. "I'm just afraid that I'm 
not being very nice to him because I don't 
know how I feel about him. I wanted 
Pomeroy, but maybe it was because I 
knew he would give me the Ice routine. No 
risk there. But Schulz likes me, he likes 
Arch, he likes - loves - food. All good."

   Marla said, "Pomeroy is unhappily 
divorced. He lives out in the middle of 
nowhere. I think he's got a screw loose. 
Negative lifestyle, babe."

   "That's just great," I said. "Maybe during 
the three months they worked together, he 
gave Arch the go-ahead on being weird."

   "Look," said Marla, "don't worry about 
Arch. Don't worry about Pomeroy. If 
Schulz likes you, go with it. I mean I know 
we're not supposed to give advice, but this 
is getting kind of long and involved, my 
dear, when you haven't even had the 
second date. You - "

   Before she could finish, the lights went 
out.

   "What the hell," I muttered.

   "Bring out the candles," Marla 
demanded. "We're talking about men 
anyway, might as well make it romantic."

   "Hold on. They're back here in the china 
cabinet," I said, while grunting along on all 
fours. I felt inside the cabinet, lit a match, 
and then three candles. A breath of fall air 
from an open window made shadows 
move across the walls.

   "Hey," she said, "I'm looking at your next 
door neighbor's house and across the 
street, and everyone still has power. 
Looks like you're the unlucky one. I'll take 
one of these candles out to the kitchen 
and call Public Service."

   "Wait," I said. My own voice trailed off as 
I listened for another one.

   "Mom," came Arch's voice from nearby. 
"Mom?"

   "Arch?" I called. "Do you know what's 
going on?"

   "The thing didn't work!" Arch's voice 
exploded behind me. He had come into 
the dining room, but he was hard to see 
with the black face and the waving light 

from the candle.

   "So what is this," I demanded, "some 
terrorist routine?"

   "Of course not!" he said. "I was trying to 
hook up an alarm system to our house. 
One of the stupid fuses blew."

   “And why is your face black?"

   "That's part of it. Don't you see? You 
have to be secretive about these things if 
you really don't want people to know. You 
get in disguise, then you wire the place 
up. Don't you even care about living in a 
safer place?"

   "Of course I do," I began, "but - "

   "Don't worry about it," he interrupted, 
and I felt bad for being cross at him. "Todd 
knows how to replace a fuse. I'll call him 
and he'll be right over." He took a candle 
so he could see the phone and 
disappeared as quickly as he'd come in.

   "Good Lord," said Marla. "Maybe we 
should be seeking a wee bit of 
professional help."

   I didn't say anything because I couldn't 
think of anything.

   "Oh well," said Marla, "where were we?"

   I found my voice. "You were telling me, 
Marla, that I shouldn't be worried about 
Arch."

-14-
   The next day was Friday. With the early 
conference with Arch's teacher, one house 
to clean, and a driving lesson with Patty 
Sue and Pom, the day looked as 
unpromising as the ominous morning 
clouds spilling like oatmeal over the hills of 
the Wildlife Preserve. A frost had turned 
the streets to glass. Foreseeing slippery-
road delays meant leaving early, just after 
I served Arch his French toast.

   He talked to me briefly when the soaked 
bread was beginning to sizzle. I pointed 
out to him that I was able to cook with 
electric power thanks to Todd's deftness 
with fuses. Arch told me he had bought 
the alarm system from a radio store with 
his own money, and he was going to 
return it.

   "But what I can't understand," I said 
when he was pushing the last bite through 
a puddle of syrup, "is why you thought we 
needed it."

   "Oh Mom, you're giving me such a hard 
time," he said with his mouth full. He ran 
off to brush his teeth and gather his 
things, then came back to announce, 
"Other people have them, you know. It's 
not a crime." Then he rushed out to meet 
Todd before the bus arrived.

   Ten minutes later the van skidded and 
spewed gravel at the entrance to the 
teachers' parking lot. The vehicle seemed 
to be as apprehensive as I was at the 
prospect of a teacher conference.

   "Miss Heath?" I asked as I pushed 
through the sixth-grade door festooned 
with construction-paper pumpkins. Bats 
and spiders made from black paper and 
pipe cleaners hung from the ceiling of the 
classroom: late October in an elementary 
school.

   Globular blue eyes set in a pale 
triangular face caught me from across the 
room, and I walked obediently through the 
maze of pupils' desks toward the teacher's 
table. Janet Heath, fettuccine in the 
aerobics class, was now comfortably 
ensconced in a billowing black Indian-
embroidered tent dress. With her pale 
blond hair tied up in a ballerina topknot, 
she had the aspect of a kindly but 
powerful witch.

   We had agreed to a 7:45 meeting to 
have enough time for a long chat before 
the students came in. Fixing Arch's 
breakfast but missing my own now 
brought on a wave of queasiness.

   When I had finished winding my way 
through under- sized chairs and ducking 
dangling spiders, I remembered 
something else. Miss Heath was the one 
who had found Laura Smiley that fateful 
Monday afternoon. How she had reacted 
to finding the body I could not imagine, 
and did not want to on an empty stomach. 
I said, "You wanted to see me." She gave 
me an indulgent smile. "Yes." There was a 
pause.

   "I'm Archibald's mother."

   She seemed to be taking me in. Finally 
she said, "I know."

   "Well," I said, casting my eyes around 
hopefully for a thermos or other sign of 
coffee, "here I am."

   "I've been worried about the way Arch 
has been acting in class," she said. "Some 
of his behavior has been very odd."

   I let out an involuntary groan, and Janet 
Heath gave me a sympathetic look.

   She said, "Let's get something hot to 
drink in the teachers' lounge. They're 
finishing up a meeting in there, so we can 
come back here to talk. We'll have plenty 
of time."

   When we came to the smoke-filled 
faculty lounge, Miss Heath waved at the 
gray cloud with regal hand motions. I let 
coffee gush into the biggest Styrofoam 
cup I could find. Miss Heath fixed 
chamomile leaf tea, which she strained 
through a little straw basket, a potionlike 
beverage to match her outfit.

   She took minute sips of her tea as we 
walked back to the room, then said, "Arch 
and Laura were close, weren't they?"

   "Yes, they were. He used to stay quite a 
bit after school, just to work on projects, 
help around the room, so on."

   "Yes." More sips of tea. "I have some of 
the drawings he did for her. They were in 
with the other things from her desk."

   I said, "I'd love to see them, if you don't 
mind. The drawings, I mean."

   We reentered the classroom, more like a 
cave hung with critters, and I followed her 
back to her desk. She motioned for me to 
sit while she shuffled through the desk 
drawers.

   "I've made some toffee for the 
Halloween party," I said to fill the silence.

   Again the ridged brow greeted me as 
she stopped her search.

   She said, "Sugarless?”

   "No, afraid not."

   She brought a manila envelope out of 
the desk. "This is all there was from Ms. 
Smiley's, Laura's, desk, besides a coffee 
mug. Arch was helping her with a fifth-

grade project on small mammals. It's all in 
here. I'm sure it's okay for you to take his 
work. Just leave the rest - I'll have to give 
it to the principal eventually. Arch does 
have extraordinary artistic talent, although 
he rarely uses it in this classroom."

   I drew out drawings of raccoons, mice, 
prairie dogs, skunks. While I was admiring 
them Miss Heath got up to open a window. 
I dumped out the rest of what was in the 
envelope, a grading book, a sheaf of 
papers with meeting announcements, a 
teaching aid called "Science in the 
Classroom," odds and ends. The very last 
was a small wallet.

   I glanced up. Miss Heath was writing 
Bring Halloween Sheets to Music Class on 
the board. I opened the wallet.

   It contained some pictures of students, a 
very old photo of what I assumed to be 
Laura and her parents while they were still 
alive, some faces signed with familiar 
names from the box of letters and the wall 
of photos in her home, and then a jolt. 
There was a picture of a very young John 
Richard Korman accompanied by his 
parents, the much younger Fritz and pre-
red-haired Vonette. Standing beside them 
was the same girl, the same teenager, 
whose picture had been in Ms. Smiley's 
living room and in Vonette's desk.

   "What's that?" asked Miss Heath. She 
had returned and was again looking for 
something on her desk.

   "Oh," I said, "I don't mean to be prying. 
It's just a picture of a family Ms. Smiley 
and I both know. Knew. I wonder who 
gave it to her," I said as I slipped the photo 
out of its plastic folder and flipped it.

   An immature female hand, the same as 
the one on the other two photos, had 
written "In happier times." .

   Angry hot blood flowed into my face, and 
I was wondering just how well Laura 
Smiley had known my ex-husband's 
family; She had lived in Aspen Meadow, 
moved to Illinois, then moved back here 
after leaving Illinois. What her connection 
had been to them in that state, besides a 
vague reference to being a nanny, I did 
not know.

   But questions were beginning to form in 
my mind. Had the friendship between 
Laura Smiley and my son been a fluke? 
Had he truly been so special to her? Had 
she for some reason sought him out? Or 
had she resisted becoming friends with 
him, perhaps because of some unfinished 
history between herself and the Kormans?

   "Well?" said Miss Heath. "Someone you 
know?"

   I stared at her, unable to remember what 
we'd been talking about. I gathered up 
Arch's drawings and then slipped the 
wallet and other papers back into the 
envelope.

   "I'm sorry," I said. "Why don't we just 
discuss Arch?"

   Miss Heath smoothed the skirt of her 
embroidered dress.

   "I am really very worried," she said, "by 
the way Arch is acting in class. His 
behavior indicates some kind of distress."

   "What kind of behavior?"

   "Well," she said as she stood and picked 
up another sheaf of papers, "let's go over 
to his desk."

   My heart dived. Arch, who was fairly 
neat at home, never had been one to keep 
an orderly desk. During parent 
conferences over the past five years I had 
always felt compelled to sort through the 
scrunched-up mess of papers, pencils, 
crayons, mittens, and overdue library 
books to bring a little order into the chaos. 
Today was no exception. The innards of 
his desk were precariously cantilevered 
out over his seat. Miss Heath was 
beginning to talk again, so my cleaning 
compulsion would have to wait a few 
minutes, anyway.

   "I've been concerned about Arch this 
whole month," she said. "Of course I know 
all the children were shocked by the loss 
of Laura Smiley. Many of them had had 
her for a teacher. The counselors advised 
us to have them write about their feelings."

   She shuffled through a small pile of 
papers in front of her and handed me one. 
It was written by one Jane Ross: "I feel 
sad about Ms. Smiley dying because she 
was nice to me and she hugged me when 
my bird died."

   Another, from Charlie Johnson: "It's too 
bad about Ms. Smiley. I feel sad the way I 
did when my grandmother died. She was 
old, though."

   Clarissa Ludmiller had written, "Today is 
a very unhappy day because of Ms. 
Smiley dying. She was funny and she 
always made us laugh. That's what I will 
remember about her."

   Then Miss Heath handed me Arch's. It 
said, "I can't write how I feel about my 
teacher dying."

   I said, "Hmm." I knew all about how 
important it was to get feelings out. But if 
he wasn't ready, he wasn't ready.

   "Then," Miss Heath went on, "I had them 
write in their journals, which they hand in 
from time to time, about someone they 
absolutely hate. It could even include me."

   Now she handed me another student's 
journal: "The person I hate is my sister. I 
was so glad when I went to visit my 
grandparents and she went to camp 
instead. Grandma bought me a Hershey's 
Big Block and I didn't have to share it."

   Another journal: "The person I hate is 
the Iutola Koamainee because he hates 
Americans."

   Arch's was next. He wrote, "The person I 
hate is my grandfather. Not the one in 
New Jersey, even though he's a bit 
strange. But my other grandfather has no 
respect for human life."

   "What?" I said aloud. "Fritz delivers 

babies, for God's sake."

   Miss Heath sipped tea and said, "That 
was my reaction. But I didn't ask him 
about it because the journals, although I 
see them, are their own reflections. I 
always tell them that anything goes." She 
paused again. "But the most frightening 
thing to me is the way he's become so 
involved in these fantasy role-playing 
games."

   I let out a breath. "He is very involved 
with them," I said lamely.

   She went on, oblivious, "He often will 
stay in at recess to work on a game, or 
become involved when he has free time." 
She gestured to the far side of the room, 
where a fluorescent light was illuminating 
a large cluster of plants. "He says he's 
growing milkwort over there for one of his 
potions." Then came the dreaded words. 
"It's like an obsession."

   "I know," I said. Even the most dim-
witted psych major knew that if feelings 
weren't dealt with they went underground 
and after a proper incubation period 
reemerged as neuroses. But an 
obsession? With potions?

   Miss Heath said, "I'm worried about just 
how serious this is. He's drifted off from 
his fine school record, and he hangs 
around with only one friend, Todd 
Druckman. He's become very touchy."

   "He's always been touchy," I offered.

   She shook her head.

   "I know he's sensitive," she said, "but 
what I mean is different. In fact what 
happened last week is what made me 
think I needed to call you." Another pause, 
two sips of tea. "The first month of school 
Arch impressed me as a generous person. 
He was always there with a pencil or 
paper clip or whatever for any classmate. 
But earlier in the week John Hickles 
started rummaging around in Arch's desk. 
He was looking for an eraser, he said 
later. Arch, who was tending to the 
classroom gerbils over there" - she 
motioned to a cage next to the fluorescent 
light - "came running over, shrieking about 
leaving his stuff alone."

   "That's not really typical," I said. 
"Although he did accuse me of sneaking 
up on him the other night."

   Miss Heath nodded. She said, "Not 
dealing with feelings, and now sudden 
outbursts of temper. What do you think 
about seeing if the school psychologist will 
have a talk with him?"

   This was the second time for this 
particular suggestion in the last twenty-
four hours.

   "No," I said, "please. Not yet. Let me try 
to talk to him a little bit first."

   "I really think it's a good idea. I truly think 
he needs counseling."

   "Let me think about it."

   "Okay, suit yourself," she said, "but I 
think you're making a mistake not to set 
up something right away." There was a 
long pause, during which she again 
smoothed her skirt. “Alright. Well. Thank 
you for coming. The kids will be here 
soon." She got up to cue me that we were 
done. When I didn't move, she said, "Ah, I 
have to finish getting the Friday activities 
ready."

   "Please do," I said in a leaden voice, 
avoiding her eyes. "But," I went on, "I just 
want to sit here and let all this sink in." I 
looked down at Arch's paper-crammed 
desk. "Maybe I'll clean out this mess. Then 
when Arch or somebody else wants an 
eraser he won't have to have a temper 
tantrum."

   Miss Heath shrugged. Again she said, 
"Suit yourself."

   I looked at the clock. Eight-thirty. The 
students wouldn't be coming in until 
quarter to nine. I could finish by then. Arch 
was always grateful when I cleaned things 
up for him, although I tried not to do it too 
much. Parenting seminars beat you over 
the head - a term they would never use - 
with the injunction to let the children be 
responsible for their own mess.

   In any event, I was wondering if there 
was more to the eraser story than what I'd 
heard. I pulled the trash can: over and sat 
back down.

   Out came the math papers first. They 
were stapled in several bundles, with 
Arch's wobbly zeros floating across the 
lines like jellyfish. I smiled, remembering 
his first-grade habit of chewing his tongue 
when he wrote the numbers 1 to 100. 
Then wadded social studies papers 
cascaded out, on the subject of drugs and 
avoiding peer pressure. My groping hands 
pulled out six erasers and a clump of 
science worksheets on gerbils and their 

habitats. Pencils, a mitten, multisided dice. 
Spelling. Book report. More gerbil info.

   And then. A crumpled envelope. Beige 
stationery. Something inside, which I didn't 
look at. Not from school, not from home. I 
looked at the envelope briefly and then, 
with the nonchalance that often 
accompanies being completely stunned, 
reached for my purse.

   The outside of the envelope read, "For 
Arch, my special friend." In the upper 
corner, a scrawled "October 2." The 
handwriting I recognized from numerous 
other communications - progress reports, 
comments on book reports, thank-you 
notes for helping on field trips. I dropped 
the note in my purse.

   The handwriting was Laura Smiley's.

   The date was the day before her death.

   Perhaps she had left a note, after all.

-15-
   I walked out of the school building 
feeling dazed. It was essential that I avoid 
Arch: my eyes would give me away. Guilt 
riddled my conscience like bullets. The 
letter might as well have been burning a 
hole in my purse. I couldn't read it yet. I 
needed time to think and I didn't have it. 
My cleaning assignment on the other side 
of town was due to start in ten minutes; at 
noon the owner was having a bridge party.

   Waves of children were already surging 
into the school building. With a growl of 
defiance, the van started. I slapped it into 
first gear and took off. The job was in 
Aspen Hills, a residential area dominated 

by boxy contemporary houses that looked 
as if they'd all been popped ready-made 
from ice cube trays. In the assigned house 
I put Laura's letter to my son, her "special 
friend," out of my mind while I covered the 
sunken tubs and tiled floors with cleaning 
solution before starting on the living room. 
The architect who had designed this 
particular dwelling had obviously never 
washed a window in his life. I propped a 
ladder against the highest of three stories 
of glass and began to climb up with a 
bucket containing a squeegee and squirt 
bottle of ammoniated solution. Below, the 
ladder teetered on sculptured chartreuse 
and pink carpeting.

   I wondered A, if dropping the solution on 
the rug would improve its appearance, 
and B, if my life insurance would be 
sufficient for Arch should the ladder 
tumble. To my vertiginous chagrin I 
noticed that the ceiling was covered, 
between its rough-cut beams, with the 
same pink and green carpet. The architect 
had been impractical; the designer, 
insane.

   After three hours the house from Atlantis 
was done and I was famished. The pastry 
shop beckoned: Cornish pasties and tea. 
The van once again cut a defiant and 
dusty path through town, but I was 
thankful for both the trustworthiness of the 
transport and the warmer weather. 
Despite early-morning frosts the month 
was remaining summery and dry. I could 
do without snow for a while since the 
blizzard of difficulties in my life was about 
all I could handle.

   The air in the pastry shop was filled with 
the scent of fresh brownies. I knew Patty 
Sue would be down after her appointment 
with Fritz, sometime in the next hour. This 
would allow me enough time to balance 
my guilt with my need-to-know, a term 
they use someplace like the Pentagon. 
But I did need to digest lunch and Laura's 
epistle before the driving lesson.

   I reached gingerly for the crumpled letter 
and smoothed it out on the table.

   "Correspondence?" said Fritz Korman 
over my shoulder. He met my upward 
stare with a conciliatory nod, then lowered 
himself into the chair opposite mine. His 
sudden appearance made me wonder if 
he'd been watching for me from his office 
window.

   "May I see it?" he asked as he reached 
for the letter, I which I quickly stuffed back 
into my purse.

   "No." I paused. "Why are you so 
interested? Did the handwriting look 
familiar?"

   He laughed. "Still playing detective, I 
see. No," he said, "it didn't look familiar. I 
just thought since you took liberties with 
my files, you wouldn't mind if I had a look 
at your letters."

   "Right." I dug my fork into one of the pas 
ties. The spicy meat and onion scent 
steamed out. "Fritz," I said, "do you want 
to tell me about some mistrial you were 
involved in?"

   "Say," said Fritz, his handsome face 
suddenly cheery, "doesn't that pasty look 
and smell good. I believe I'll order 
something myself. My patients love this 
place." He winked at me. "Some of them 
too much. Mind if I join you?"

   I shrugged. "Listen, Goldy," he said 
when he returned in a few: minutes with a 
plate containing two brownies, "I need to 
talk to you about something."

   "Oh?" I said, cheery myself. “Abbout the 
time in Illinois? What were the charges?"

   "Well." He tilted his head and gave his 
serious look. "That was all a long time 
ago, best left in the past. I guess that's 
why I was surprised when you came 
barging into the office with all your 
questions."

   I sipped tea, waited. He wasn't touching 
his brownies. "I did know Miss Smiley," he 
said. He closed his eyes and bobbed his 
head. "Of course. That's why I was at the 
funeral with the teachers and others who 
also knew her."

   "What was your relationship in Illinois? 
And did you have contact with her here? I 
mean beyond the last office visit, of 
course."

   "Now Goldy, you know I take care of 
women. But that doesn't mean I 
understand them." He laughed and shook 
his head. "She showed us this town, 
Aspen Meadow, one time when we came 
out on a skiing vacation. She was helping 
us with our... family. But we weren't close 
after. .. after we moved out here. We loved 
Aspen Meadow. When it came time to 
leave Illinois, we moved here in part 
because we had loved it when we'd seen 
it before and in part because at that time 
Colorado and Illinois had reciprocal 
licensing procedures for doctors. But 
Laura. . . she. . . knew Vonette - "

   "Why exactly did you leave Illinois? And 
why did Laura come to see you the day 
she died? If she wasn't a patient of 
yours?"

   Fritz stuffed some brownie into his 
mouth.

   "Goldy," he said between chews, "I've 
told you everything I can. You know I can't 
talk to you about office matters or anything 
along those lines." He wiped his mouth 
and fingers with a paper napkin and then 
regarded me. His eyes were steely, then 
soft. "Look," he went on, conciliatory 
again, "I know you've gotten all involved in 
this since your business was closed down 
because of that unfortunate incident at 
Laura's house."

   I looked at him and then puffed up my 
stomach and chest with air. It was a yoga 
breathing thing I had learned in the 
Seventies that was supposed to calm you 
down. It didn't work.

   "Unfortunate," I said, "indeed. It 
happened to you, and you seem pretty 
indifferent. What's worse, it just doesn't 
seem to be getting solved, does it? I keep 
getting more questions than answers. 
Pretty weird, huh? Do you know if Laura 
had medical problems? Emotional 
problems?"

   He pursed his lips, shook his head.

   "Goldy," he said, "I don't. She was a 
troubled girl, woman, that's why she killed 
herself. We just all need to put losing her 
behind us. And I sure would like to help 
you financially through this particular time 
of stress. Let Vonette and me give you a 
couple thousand until you reopen. Okay?"

   I shook my head, but he ignored me.

   He said, “And I would appreciate it if you 
would quit worrying about this rat-poison 
silliness. Just let the police finish their job. 
They're the ones with the most 
information. They know what they're 
doing."

   I stood up to clear my place. I said, “As I 
recall, that was the approach that worked 
so well with Watergate."

   He smiled, stood up, sat down, sighed. 
"Tough as nails, that's our Goldy. Now if I 
had been John Richard, I would have 
learned how to keep you - "

   "Well now, isn't this cozy," said Marla as 
she waddled up to us. She was wearing a 
sky-blue sweat suit embroidered with tiny 
turquoise feathers. Close on her heels 
fluttered Patty Sue, a vision in rose mohair 
sweater and white wool slacks. "Is the 
pastry shop neutral territory? No 
attempted poisonings allowed? No need 
for hostilities, it was a joke. Let's see. 
What are we having? Pasties and 
chocolate! But I'm interrupting."

   "You're not interrupting," I said as I 
motioned to Patty Sue that we had to 
leave. Marla pouted. I said to her, "Fritz 
was just telling me how he doesn't 
understand women, and he was hoping 
you could enlighten him."

   "Oh Fritz, this just sounds too 
scrumptious a topic for words," said Marla, 
seating herself beside him and eyeing his 
remaining brownie. "I've never enlightened 
anyone in my life."

   On that hopeful note, I guided Patty Sue 
out of the shop. Pomeroy had instructed 
me to obtain a learner's permit for her. 
This proved easy enough at the local 
office of the Division of Motor Vehicles, 
because, happily, Patty Sue had learned 
enough from her handbook to pass the 
written test.

   "I haven't had any lunch," she said, once 
she was done and we were on the way to 
the lesson. "Have you?"

   She picked up a hot dog and cone at the 
Dairy Delight next to the high school. We 
started to walk to class; I held the cone 
while she worked on the wiener.

   "Patty Sue," I began in what I hoped was 
a mild tone, "could we just try chatting a 
little bit about Laura Smiley? Please?"

   She groaned.

   "That reminds me," she said through 
bites. "Trixie called. From the athletic club. 
She wanted to know exactly when it was 
you were going to clean over there, and 
when we were going to set up the food."

   "Right," I said. "Did you all talk about 
anything else?"

   Patty Sue gave me a glassy look. She 
said, "Not this time," and began on her 
cone.

   "What did you talk about last time?"

   "I can't tell you, Goldy."

   "Why not?"

   "I just can't. It's too. . . dangerous."

   Oh give me a break, I thought. I looked 
around. Pom had said Driver Ed was 
above the parking lot, next to Dairy 
Delight. Why the county commissioners 
had permitted a small commercial zone 
between two areas of the high school 
grounds was beyond me. But as with the 
workings of the police department, I didn't 
question it.

   "No more goodies now," I said firmly to 
Patty Sue as she gave a longing look back 
at the giant glass ice cream sculpture. 
"You don't want to turn into a pillar of salt."

   "Huh?"

   “You know," I said, "Lot's wife. She 
looked back when she wasn't supposed 
to."

   "I don't understand what you're talking 
about."

   "Forget it."
   One of the boys in my Sunday school 
class, after hearing this part of the Sodom 
and Gomorrah story, had said his mom 
looked back at their house and she turned 
into a telephone pole. Now I gave a 
longing look back at my van. I would have 
preferred being anywhere other than 
where we were going.

   We clambered over a sloped concrete 
embankment and saw Pomeroy and his 
students clustered in the middle of the 
paved expanse ahead. Although the 
weather had warmed to a cool fifty 
degrees, the teens standing around in 
groups wore no sweaters or jackets, but 
only the uniforms of their group: preppies, 
punks, or jocks. No hippies, though, and 
no ideological messages on the shirts. 
Things had changed.

   "There you are," said Pomeroy as he 
came sauntering up to us. My heart flip-
flopped, but I ignored it.

   "I have delivered your trainee," I 
announced. "Now may I go sit over on the 
embankment while you teach?"

   Pom shook his head. "Sorry," he said, "I 
need you to stay in the car with her. Most 
of the other kids in the class have been 
learning to drive for the last six weeks. But 
Patty Sue here will need more 
supervision." He smiled at my roommate 
in her pink and white outfit.

   She said, "I'm glad to be learning from a 
real driving teacher this time."

   "You can use my driver-ed car," Pom 
told me and motioned to a yellow 
Japanese number on the other side of the 
lot. "I rigged it up myself so that it's 
equipped with a brake on your side. That 
way you can slow things down if you need 
to. That's old-fashioned driver ed. This is 
my last class of the day, so when we're 
done we can go over to Dairy Delight and 
have hot fudge sundaes. Sound good?"

   "It sounds super," said Patty Sue.

   He winked at me. "I'll give her the 
stationary instructions once we get over to 
the course. You can drive her over," he 
said, then turned to Patty Sue. "Young 
lady, you're going to be driving like a pro 
in no time."

   Oh, God. No time was what I had for this 
educational expenence.

   "Brother," said Patty Sue as she opened 
the door to the old yellow Civic, "this car 
sure is little."

   "Compared to the van," I said as I slid in 
on the driver side, "it is."

   The teens were trudging across the 
course marked with fluorescent orange 
cones toward the Dairy Delight edge of the 
Driver Ed lot. There, about half of them 
formed a group to one side while the 
others disappeared into a line of dark cars 
with taxi-type signs on top - CAUTION! 
STUDENT DRIVER!

   I had noticed ours didn't have a sign, 
probably because it was Pom's. Well, who 
needed a warning about us? I looked at 
the small windshield and tried to rid myself 
of a mental image of going through it.

   Patty Sue said, "I'm scared. Well, you 
know what I mean. I wish Pom was the 
one in here .with me." That made two of 
us. Patty Sue wiggled in her seat. She 
said, "I feel so cramped."

   At that moment Mr. Wonderful was 
waving and honking to us from his nice big 
safe-looking Saab.

   "First gear!" he called back and made 
the wagon-ho sign. In Colorado they never 
let you forget the Old West.

   I put the Civic into first and started 
across the course. I looked over at Patty 
Sue's feet, which were next to the brake 
bar. She saw me and tapped the bar. We 
screeched to a stop.

   "What are you doing?" I demanded. "Will 
you just please put on your seat belt and 
then hold still?"

   "I thought you wanted me to do it," Patty 
Sue said. "Anyway, my body is too long 
for this little seat."

   I said, "The Japanese are small people." 
The Saab chugged along in front of us, 
and for a moment I had the apprehensive 
feeling that accompanies the slow incline 
on a giant roller coaster. When we came 
up to the class, Pom jumped out. He 
signaled to the driving teens to repeat the 
course before heading over toward us. At 
Pom's request, Patty Sue and I changed 
places.

   "Okay," he said, as he reached across 
Patty Sue's lap to restart the car. "You say 
you've had some driving experience."

   "Yes," Patty Sue said hesitantly.

   I thought, If she's lying, I'll kill her.

   "Do you remember to press in the clutch 
each time you need to change gears?" 
Pomeroy was asking. She nodded and he 
went on. "Then you go a little faster. Do 
you know how to change gears?"

   She nodded again. "I've done it in our 
driveway at home. Neutral to reverse."

   Pom frowned and said, "Why don't you 
move this seat back a little, Patty Sue? 
But watch it. When you go back, Goldy 
here'll come forward. I did it that way for 
teenage drivers with shorter legs and adult 
instructors with longer ones. You all are 
sort of the opposite of that."

   I hated it when people referred to my 
being short. To make up for the coming 
lack of legroom I put Patty Sue's purse in 
the back next to Home Beekeeping and 
Fifth Grade Science in the Classroom, 
Teachers' Edition.

   Patty Sue grunted and brought her seat 
back. My face made a sudden spring 
toward the windshield.

   "Not so much!" I howled, but Patty Sue 
was off. "Let me know if I'm making you 
nervous!" she yelled as she gunned the 
accelerator while we were in first gear. We 
spurted forward. When I was trying to get 
comfortable she veered right.

   "Gosh, this steers so easily," she cried, 
as we tilted on two wheels and my door 
swung open.

   "No, no!" I shouted. But she veered left 
and then right again. Only my seat belt 
kept me from falling out.

   "Brake!" called Pom. "Brake!"

   With another screeching turn I was back 
inside the car and pressing with both feet 
on the brake bar.

   "Damn you!" I yelled at a surprised Patty 
Sue. "I've got a kid at home to take care 
of! And at my age I don't care for an 
extended trip to the hospital and a set of 
dentures! Now will you calm down, for 
God's sake?"

   "I guess I'm not very good at this," she 
said, contrite at my sudden rage.

   Pom trotted up to us and leaned in on 
her side. "Take it easy now, girls."

   "Oh shut up!" I said. "Why don't you get 
in here with Mario Andretti in first gear? 
See what it's like."

   Pom again gave Patty Sue gentle 
explanations about the gears, clutch, 
accelerator, and, most important from my 
point of view, brakes. Getting Patty Sue 
into a comfortable distance from the 
steering wheel had meant that my feet 
were only inches from the brake bar on my 
side. The students, still standing around in 
groups, giggled and pointed at us.

   "Sorry," Patty Sue said once Pom had 
sauntered off again. "I guess I just screw 
up everything."

   I felt bad in spite of myself. "You don't 
screw up everything," I reassured her as 
she bumped us along, still in first, to the 
short middle track of the drivers' course. 
When she did not answer I surveyed the 
cones and fences, which had looked like a 
miniature golf course when we first 
climbed over the embankment. Now they 
presented themselves as large and 
unyielding. Dairy Delight and the cars in 
the high school parking lot, on the other 
hand, looked like pieces from a Lionel 
train set. Laughing, blasé teens zoomed 
by on both sides of our Honda, 
downshifting and upshifting and steering 
around the obstacles as effortlessly as 
toddlers on trikes.

   "I do screw up everything," she said 
while we were waiting our turn.

   "Come on, Patty Sue," I said with false 
enthusiasm. "You're going to learn to 
drive, the business is going to be 
reopened, everything is going to be okay."

   "If I had learned to drive when I was 
supposed to, then we wouldn't have to be 
doing this today. And if it weren't for me, 
your business would be reopened."

   Now she really had my attention. We 
were still stopped; so I said, "What do you 
mean?"

   "Well, you know, my talk with Laura," 
she said plaintively. "If she hadn't died, 
then that thing wouldn't have happened at 
her house."

   It was finally our turn, so Patty Sue 
inched and jerked the Honda along while 
teens in the passing cars shouted 
derisively at us. She catapulted us into 
second and we picked up a little speed.

   "Give it a little more gas," Pomeroy 
called.

   Patty Sue obeyed and then said, "I just 
think if I tell you about it, something bad 
will happen. Now do I go to fourth?" she 
asked as she swerved to avoid a cone.

   I was gripping the sides of my seat.

   I said, "Third. Just concentrate on your 
driving. We can talk about the rest later."

   But she was off and running. "I'm afraid 
to tell you about Laura!" she wailed. "I'm 
afraid of what will happen!"

   Preoccupied with these thoughts, she 
pushed the Honda into neutral and the 
engine gasped. Then she put it into fourth 
and the car sighed until she stepped on 
the accelerator again.

   "No!" I yelled, as we whizzed by our first 
set of startled teenagers.

   "Downshift!" came Pomeroy's remote 
voice.

   "If I tell you what I told Laura," Patty Sue 
shouted as her knuckles turned white on 
the steering wheel, "you might die! That's 
what happened to her!"

   "Don't worry about it now!" I shrieked 
over the rushing sound the wind was 
making in our car.

   "I don't know how to downshift," Patty 
Sue called out the window.

   "Look out!" I howled as a Volkswagen 
loomed before us.

   Patty Sue swerved wildly and shattered 
a headlight of the VW: As she turned 
again my body fell forward, then back, and 
my feet became jammed underneath the 
brake bar. I looked out at the timid VW 
driver, who was stepping gingerly from her 
car.

   I yelled, "My feet are stuck!"

   We were speeding headlong toward the 
ice cream place.

   "I can't brake!" yelled Patty Sue. "I'll 
crush your feet!"

   "Take your foot off the accelerator!" I 
shouted.

   She screamed, "Is the accelerator this 
one?" She pushed down again on the gas.

   "No, no, no, no!" came voices far behind 
us.

   Suddenly before us was Dairy Delight, 
where the tables and chairs were lined up 
like so many bowling pins. A worker came 
running out waving a knife. I let go of the 
dashboard long enough to honk. He 
leaped out of the way. We hit the plastic 
chairs and tables with a solid thunk thunk 
thunk. I tried to loosen my feet but could 
not.

   "Why don't you steer?" I cried.

   "Where?" Patty Sue screamed. She 
wrenched the I wheel to the left, then 
gunned the engine again.

   We came up behind Dairy Delight. Two 
attendants were disgorging the remains of 
three huge ice cream barrels. Before us 

was a mountain of slop. On the other side 
of that, I knew, was the cement 
embankment.

   The Honda hit the edge of the ice cream 
puddle like a water skier going full tilt; the 
wheels spewed a muddy wave of glop 
over the attendants. We skidded wildly 
toward the embankment.

   "Oh God," I cried, "no!"

    "Help!" called Patty Sue. She began to 
shriek wildly, then pressed the accelerator 
again.

   I am going to die, I thought as we hit the 
embankment. But we didn't stop. The 
Honda climbed. We vaulted the concrete. 
Below us were the cars in the school lot. 
Patty Sue passed out.

   Unfortunately, I could see our trajectory 
only too well. We were aiming for a roof, a 
car roof, that I tried to imagine being soft. 
A cloud. A trampoline.

   But no. When the Honda landed on my 
van, it collapsed like a beer can.

-16-
   I really get off on women in hospital 
gowns," Investigator Tom Schulz said as 
he patted my knee beneath the white 
sheet.

   The room was slightly fuzzy, but then 
cleared to pale institutional green walls 
and a window luminous with the apricot 
light of sunset. I said to Tom Schulz, "Are 
you here because I broke a law?"

   He gave a low whistle. "And here I was 
trying to be sweet and pay you a nice visit. 
Look. What's wrong with this picture?"

   He handed me a photograph, whether 
made by the police, the school, a 
bystander, or the Mountain Journal I knew 
not. It showed the yellow Honda perched 
atop my van. Someone had attached the 
caption DRIVER ED?

   I handed it back to him. "Where are the 
mountains in the background? There 
ought to be something pretty about this."

   "Your friend didn't try to ski the car, Miss 
Goldy, she tried to fly it."
 
   A nurse swished in and I checked her 
name tag. I was at Lutheran Hospital. "Am 
I all right? Is Patty Sue Williams - "

   "You're just banged up," she said. She 
checked my vital signs and shook her 
head. "You're lucky you're not dead. And 
that nothing's broken. Want some pain 
medication?" I nodded and she went on. 
"You'll probably only be here tonight. 
We're just watching you." She smiled. 
"They said it looks like you'll be 
discharged in the morning."

   Schulz winked at me. "Why don't you let 
me watch her?"

   She ignored him and left. I closed my 
eyes and made a mental journey through 
my body. My head throbbed and my back 
and hips hurt.

   "Do you know about my son?" I asked 
Schulz. "What time is it?"

   "He went to your friend Marla's house. 
When I heard about an accident at the 
high school, and that you were in it - " He 
stopped to shake his head. "I went by your 
house. Your son had already come home 
and left you a note. On the door, very bad. 
Tells criminals you're not home. Anyway, I 
called the place where he said he was. 
Talked to that yakkety-yak woman Marla, 
who says Arch can stay as long as you're 
in the hospital."

   "Thank you," I said. I wasn't just touched 
by his effort. I was overwhelmed. I said, 
"That's my ex-husband's second ex-wife 
you're talking about."

   "Well," he said while studying the view 
out my window, "except for his first wife, 
the guy shows no taste."

   I said, "How's Patty Sue?"

   "She got here and asked for your ex-
father-in-law. To treat her broken arm."

   "But he just does ob-gyn."

   "Pardon me, Goldilocks, but your friend 
isn't very smart. Not to mention that her 
driving needs a whole lot of work."

   "Forgive me for failing to see the humor 
in this," I said to Schulz. "I do appreciate 
your efforts, but why are you here, 
anyway? I thought you were investigating 
bike gangs."

   "I get around," he said. "Radios are a 
wonderful invention. Not to mention that I 
was supposed to call you."

   I avoided looking at the closet, which I 
hoped held my purse with Arch's letter 
from Laura Smiley.

   "So you want to talk, or not?" he asked, 
tapping the sheet.

   I said, "I have no job, no car, no helpers, 
my son is at a friend's house, and I don't 
have the faintest idea how I'm going to 
cover the cost of this hospital visit. I'm 
really not in the mood for talking about the 
so-called poisoning incident right now."

   He clucked his tongue. "Spare me. You 

were going to check out your ex-mother-
in-law and your little friend Trixie and get 
back to me, remember? I was kind of 
hoping it would be over pizza tonight. In 
fact," he went on cheerfully, "I could even 
go out and get us some right now. Have a 
supper date right here in the hospital. You 
like pepperoni?"

   My head began its internal thunder 
again. As if on cue the nurse swept in with 
a small tray containing what I hoped was 

an extremely potent narcotic.

   "Oh thank you," I said extravagantly, and 
then to Schulz, "I haven't gotten much out 
of Vonette. But I will. Trixie, Patty Sue, 
and Laura Smiley had a conversation in a 
steamroom close to when Laura died." I 
took my pill, thought for a minute. "I found 
an old article about a mistrial back in 
Illinois. Involving Korman senior. You 
might want to see what you can dig up. 
The torn article is by my phone at home. 
It's what I've been trying to reach you 
about all week. I'll get it for you as soon as 
I get out."

   "Anything else?"

   "That's all I've found out. I don't feel too 
great," I said honestly. He had been kind 
to me. And he cared about Arch. I met his 
gaze. "Thanks again for checking on my 
son. And on me."

   "No sweat," he said. "I'll want that article. 
Now, have you found out anything about 
someone named Hollenbeck?"

   "I saw the name on a photograph."

   "I got the name of the high school in 
Illinois where Laura Smiley did her 
internship," he said. "Called out there and 
talked with the one teacher who was there 
when our departed friend was there. She 
remembered a student of Smiley's named 
Bebe Hollenbeck."

   "Can we talk to this student? Can she 
tell us something?"

   "She's been dead for twenty years. But 
apparently Laura and this gal were very 
tight."

   I said, "Laura kept pictures of her." I 
thought. "I'll ask Vonette, maybe she'll talk 
about that time in Illinois."

   "Okeydoke." He gave me a wide grin. 
"You still not sure about going out with 
me? It's one way for me to keep tabs on 
you, to make sure you stay safe." He 
smiled. "If that's possible."

   I returned his smile, which was difficult 
because pain was still knotting up my 
back. I said, "The athletic club Halloween 
party. Trick or treat. We can go together, if 
you'd like."

   The nurse gave Schulz an ominous 
stare, and he left. But not before he had 
nodded to me. And winked.

   "There was another fellow who wanted 
to see you a little while ago," the nurse 
said when we were alone. "He went away 
when he saw you had a visitor, but I 
imagine he'll be back."

   "Please don't tell me it was a doctor."

   "I don't think so," said the nurse. "Tall? 
Good-looking? Claimed he was the one 
responsible for this mess."

   Great. I couldn't wait to throttle that 
stellar driving instructor, Pomeroy Locraft. 
Perhaps my window was high enough off 
the ground so that I could ask the nurse to 
throw him out.

   The nurse was saying, "Do you have 
someone to pick up you and Miss Williams 
tomorrow?"

   "I'll work something out," I assured her. 
"Just let me deal with one crisis at a time."

   I called Marla; Arch was fine. They were 
on their way out for burgers after Arch 
used the last of her Brie to finish 
constructing an elaborate trap for the 
resident mice.

   Next I called Vonette Korman. It was 
past five, but she was still coherent. I 
reminded Vonette that I'd taken in Patty 
Sue at her request, that Patty Sue was a 
patient of her husband's, and that it was 
her son who had treated me so rottenly in 
the first place that I had to do catering and 
cleaning in a van that Patty Sue had 
wrecked. And furthermore, I added before 
she could do more than make sympathetic 
murmuring noises, now the two of us were 
at Lutheran Hospital and we needed her 
to come and pick us up tomorrow morning. 
Early.

   "That's awful," said Vonette.

   "Right," I said. My door was opening 
again; I needed to get off the phone. "And 
may I borrow one of your cars, Vonette? 
I've got to get around somehow."

   She mumbled something about seeing 
what she could do and I hung up.

   A sweet-smelling Persian violet 

preceded Pomeroy Locraft into my room. 
He held the plant like a shield, which was 
probably a good thing. Patty Sue was in a 
cast, but my arm was in good shape. I 
looked around for a suitable projectile. 
Luckily for Pomeroy, there wasn't one.

   "Bees may like the smell of Persian 
violets," I said sharply as I whacked the 
pillows behind my back, "but I don't. Even 
if my nose isn't broken."

   He smiled. "Actually, bees prefer wild 
daisies and clover. Patty Sue thought 
you'd like these."

   "What'd you bring her, fudge?"

   "Honey candy."

   "I should sue your ass for negligence," I 
snapped, "or gross incompetence as an 
instructor, or something along those lines."

   He placed the plant, a pale purple-and-
green cloud of fragrance, on the movable 
tray near my head. Then in one slow 
motion he unfurled his lanky body into the 
room's only chair. His face was pinched 
with stress. His hand cut wavy furrows 
through his dark hair. Finally he looked at 
me.

   "Goldy, I'm sorry. The school insurance 
ought to cover the repair to your van. Patty 
Sue, I don't know. I really didn't think she'd 
- "

   "Be naive and reckless at the same 
time? Would you even recognize naive if 
you saw it?" I plopped back on the pillows. 
"Tell me, Pom. Do your students ever say, 
You are driving me crazy? You are driving 
me up the wall?"

   He blushed, but for once I was 
impervious to the charm of vulnerability.

   I said, "And while I've got you to myself, 
tell me what Laura Smiley's science text 
was doing in your backseat."

   Now he turned really red. My guess as 
to the ownership of that book had paid off.

   He said, "We used to work together 
sometimes."

   "You were friends, or what?"

   He let out breath that was deeper than a 
sigh. "What difference does it make?"

   “A lot."

   He said, "Friends, yes. We'd started 
working together on that spring project for 
fourth and fifth grades. Some of the 
students enjoyed working with the bees. 
Answer your question?"

   "She and Arch were close," I said. "You 
know that. He's taking her death real hard. 
You know anything else about her?"

  He paused. I waited. "It doesn't matter 
now, I guess," he said. He looked out the 
window. "We were in AI-Anon together. 
You know what that is?"

   Sundays, noon, Episcopal church. Of 
course. I nodded. "Sure. It's the support 
group for relatives and friends of 
alcoholics. Can you tell me what she said 
in there?"

   "No."

   "Can you tell me anything about her?"

   "Like what? I don't want to betray her-
whatever you'd call it - memory."

   "She's dead. I don't believe it was 
suicide, mainly because things just don't 
fit." I adjusted myself on the pillows. It felt 
as if the pain pill had turned my bed into a 
kind of boat floating in a big tub the size of 
the room. I said, "Do you know anything 
about her relationship with or to Fritz 
Korman?"

   "Why?"

   "Because of that mess with the rat 
poison, I'm suspected. The health 
department closed me down. No cooking, 
no income.

   “Aren't the cops looking into it?"

   "For heaven's sake, Pom, they're slow." 
I stopped talking long enough to take a 
whiff of the plant. "I'm trying to get myself 
cleared before the holiday season. Here's 
this nice teacher gone, my catering 
operation down. I'm trying to open a 
cleaning business instead, needing for 
Patty Sue to learn to drive.. . . and then 
Patty Sue does one of her spaceout 
routines and my van gets destroyed. So 
yes, I'm interested in knowing as much as 
I can about both Dr. Korman senior who 
somebody tried to kill and Laura Smiley 
who somebody may have. Which includes 
anything you might know," I finished, 
again out of breath and with my head 
swimming inside the bed-boat.

   Pomeroy said, "What are you looking 
for, background?"

   "Anything."

   He said, "Laura Smiley's father was an 
alcoholic. It's what killed him, finally. He 
drove himself and Laura's mother into the 
back of a pickup over near Conifer. 
Alcohol level in his blood was three times 
what they consider to be intoxication."

   "What does this have to do with - "

   "Just hold on a sec," he said and 
readjusted himself in his chair. "By that 
time Laura was long gone. She had 
moved to Illinois to go to school. She had 
some family, that aunt who was at the 
funeral, there. She taught high school 
when she finished at the U. of I. - that's 
how she met the Kormans. She came out 
with them one time on a ski vacation, 
while they were friends, to be their sort of 
guide and babysitter, even though she 
was only twenty-one or -two.

   "Not long after," he went on, "the 
Kormans left Illinois. Moved to the spot 
Laura had shown them."

   "Did she know they were here?"

   He shrugged. "She knew they had 
moved to Colorado. She didn't know 
they'd moved to her hometown. When her 
parents died they left her their place, and 
she moved back. A big coincidence which 
probably didn't feel too great to anybody."

   "When she moved back here," I said, 
"did she see the Kormans? Have contact 
with them?"

   "Not socially, as far as I know."

   "What do you mean?"

   He thought, then said, "Laura avoided 
the Kormans because there was bad 
blood between them."

   I said, "Bad blood from what?"

   He was still looking out the window. 
After a minute he said, "That's something 
you'd better ask Vonette, I think."

   "Great. What about Patty Sue?" I asked. 
“Apparently she and Laura had at least 
one earth-shattering chat."

   "Yes," he said, "they did."

   “About what?"

   "You talked to Patty Sue?"

   "I tried, Pomeroy, but that's not saying I 
got any answers."

   "Yes, well." He shrugged again.

   "Why would Laura avoid the Kormons?" 
I asked. This was the real puzzle to me. 
"It's too small a town to try to do that. Did 
she actually use that word, avoid?"

   Pomeroy's head turned. His brown eyes 
met mine. He said, "You asked what she 
was doing in AI-Anon. She had a lot to 
work through, her parents dying in an 
accident, her relationship with the 
Kormans going from closeness to 
alienation. She had sorrow, a ton of it, and 
a lot of grieving to do. She, yes, said that 
she needed to avoid these people that 
being involved with them in any way 
caused her pain. She said that for her 
mental health she needed to keep her 
distance."

   I stared at him. I said, "Okay, first, she 
belonged to the athletic club, to which they 
also belong. Second, she became very 
close pals with their grandson, who just 
happens to be my son. Third, right before 
she died she went to see Fritz Korman. 
She made an appointment, Pomeroy. She 
had an office visit the day she died. The 
office sent her a bill, for God's sake. 
Explain how all this adds up to 
avoidance."

   Pomeroy was quiet for a minute. "You 
know, I don't have all the answers." He 
shifted his weight in the chair and crossed 
his arms across his plaid flannel shirt. "It 
seems to me," he said thoughtfully, "that if 
you really want to know who would be 
wanting to get Korman out of the way, you 
ought to think of who would benefit from 
his being gone."

   "I've already thought of that."

   "In a will, it's usually the next of kin who 
inherit."

   "You mean like my ex-husband?"

   "Or his mother."

   I said, "Vonette would never have the 
guts to do the old guy in. Besides. I saw 
her at that reception. She was as drunk as 
a skunk."

   "She had a flask."

   "Aren't you the observant one."

   "Korman was cheating on her."

   I said, "Why, you're just a fount of 
information. With whom?"

   "I shouldn't be the one to say."

   "Do it anyway."

   He stopped talking and looked out the 
window, then he seemed to have an idea.

   "Goldy. Didn't you say you were out of 
honey?"

   "Yeah, so?"

   "Why don't you come out to my place in 
the Wildlife Preserve and get some. Next 
week." He stopped to think. "On 
Wednesday."

   "Why Wednesday?"

   "You come on Wednesday. If the 
weather's still warm, you'll get answers to 
some of your questions."

-17-
   With Pomeroy gone the room was 
temporarily quiet. Privacy in a hospital, like 
silence in a library, is what one expects 
but only rarely gets. I looked out the 
window, now filled with the gray light of 
dusk. Had Laura been involved with 
Pomeroy? What difference would that 
make, anyway? I shook my head, which 
felt as if it was filled with the somber light 
of painkiller. It was hard to make sense of 
the whole thing.

   The note! When I leaped out of bed my 
body buckled. Soreness climbed my legs. 
My arms felt and looked as if they'd been 
stretched on a rack. The pain pill had 
apparently only entered my head. I 
hobbled across the room, reached into my 
bag, and found the letter.

   It was crumpled, leading to the 
conclusion that Arch had read it before 
stuffing it in his desk. The beige stationery 
crackled. Inside were perfect, looping, 
black letters, the writing of a teacher. It 
read: 

   Dear Arch, Thanks for your latest idea, 
dungeon master! I do like the idea of 
being a troll. Does that mean I can cast 
spells? I can't wait!

   Unfortunately, we won't be able to play 
this Saturday as we'd planned. I have 
something very important I have to do. In 
a way it's like the thing you talked about in 
your last letter. Remember how you said 
most of the kids in sixth grade didn't seem 
to care about Halloween anymore, how 
they called that and your role-playing and 
trivia games kids' stuff? I remember how 
bad that made you feel. And now you 
don't know what to do? I have something 
like that in my life, too. And Saturday I 
have to do something about it.

   How about next weekend for our game? 
That'll give me a whole week to get ready! 
Let me know on Monday, okay?

   Hugs, Ms. Smiley

   But he had not let her know on Monday. 
Nor had he let me know that he'd had 
plans with Laura Smiley for Saturday, the 
day the deputy coroner had indicated she 
had died.

   October the third was beginning to look 
quite complex.

   There was a gnawing in my stomach not 
brought on by the van accident. I felt 
uncomfortable with, jealous and 
suspicious of, the relationship between 
Arch and Laura Smiley. She had been too 
close to him. And perhaps to the other 
student that Schulz had mentioned, the 
deceased Hollenbeck girl. These 
relationships smacked of impropriety, 
somehow. The note brought Arch into a 
world of adult problems, even if the 
reference was vague. This in turn might 
account for his inability to talk about the 
letter or to deal with Laura's death in an 
appropriate way.

   I looked at the piece of paper in my 
hand. On Saturday, October 3, something 
had gone wrong after Laura had walked 
into town to do something, and then 
returned by car. But what? This letter 
raised more questions than it answered.

   I could imagine him cycling over to her 
house and I ringing the bell. Hearing no 

answer, he would have come back home. 
But why had he mentioned none of this to 
me or to Investigator Schulz? What was 
he afraid of? Maybe Laura Smiley hadn't 
been all there in the upstairs department, 
after all. Maybe this desire to help; 
students she liked had flipped her out. The 
problem was, whatever this drama was we 
were involved in, it wasn't over.

   "My little Goldy," Vonette said after she 
walked in the next morning and gave me a 
smooch on the cheek. She smelled of 
Estée instead of gin: a good sign.

   I said, "Thanks for coming, Vonette. 
Another meal of hospital food and I would 
have taken over the kitchen by force. Patty 
Sue know you're here?"

   "Oh yes," Vonette replied as she 
checked her creamy orange lipstick and 
curly same-hue-of-orange hair in my 
bathroom mirror. "Got that arm set and 
everything. She's going to be great. Six 
weeks she'll be out of that thing, good as 
new, able to help you with the catering."

   "Cleaning, Vonette," I corrected, "until 
we or the police figure out what happened 
to Fritz."

   Vonette sauntered out of the bathroom. 
"Let's not get into that again. Gives me a 
headache just thinking about it."

   "Tell me," I said while gingerly pulling my 
slip over my head, "since I'm still mulling 
that funeral over in my mind. Did you get 
to know Laura Smiley well when she was 
your vacation nanny?"

   Vonette sat down in the room's only 
chair, brought out a pack of Kools, and 
inserted one in the newly lipsticked mouth. 
So much for the hospital's No Smoking 
policy.

   "Yes and no," she said. She paused to 
light and inhale. “Anyway, I can loan you a 
car. That old station wagon of ours. Used 
to use it to pull the boat down to Lake 
Powell. Before the engine gave out. Boat 
engine, that is. I don't know about the 
wagon, probably been a year or more 
since it's been started, might need a 
jump."

   "Do you know if Laura Smiley had any 
enemies?"

   She laughed quietly and took a deep 
drag. "More enemy talk."

   "Do you know someone who just plain 
didn't like her?"

   She said, "Well, there again, yes and 
no." She raised one thin penciled eyebrow 
at me. "I did know her for a long time, 
though. I mean not that we were close. 
Nothing like that. You know."

   Dressed by then, I sat down on the bed. 
"No," I said, "I don't."

   "Well," said Vonette. "Well, well." She 
stood up. The cigarette drooped from her 
mouth. "I'll tell you all about it sometime."

   "According to Fritz," I said, "John 
Richard would inherit the practice if he 
died. Doesn't that bother you?"

   Her eyes narrowed. "You sure?"

   "No."

   "Well, I don't really know either, I guess. 
I thought if something happened to old 
Fritz, like he had a heart attack while he 
was doing an abortion, God punishing 
him, y'know . . ." She raised her eyebrows 
at me.

   "Vonette!"

   "Well? That's still a hot issue in the 
church, after all."

   "It's too bad they worry about that more 
than they do adultery," I said evenly.

   "Now, now," she said. "Don't start in on 
John Richard. Let's not get into that again, 
please. I'm beginning to feel a headache 
coming on. Anyway." She crushed the 
cigarette underneath one of her open-toed 
sandals. So much for hospital hygiene. 
"You know his daddy isn't much better. I 
try not to think about that. Although," she 
said as she felt around in her purse, "I 
have to admit, sometimes I've thought 
about killing the old lech myself."

   "Really."

   "Yeah." She eyed me sadly. "But you 
know I don't mean that. What the hell, I've 
made it this long, I can take it, right?" She 
gave me a confused look. "Oh yeah, the 
practice. I thought in that kind of situation, 
it was split between John Richard and me. 
I mean the Accounts Receivable. I don't 
know what happens to the equipment and 
the patients. Who'd want to kill him to get 
his patients?"

   I had been putting on my makeup; I 
paused to look at her.

   "You mean, the good ones are all 
gone?"

   She sighed. "Well, you always lose a 
few. You know babies die sometimes 
before they're born. The patients blame 
Fritz. Now and then they sue, if they can 
stand all that agony."

   "Anybody sue lately? That you know 
of?"

   "Nope." She looked around the room. 
"My head hurts. S'pose they'd give me 
something here?"

   "What are you taking for your 
headaches now, Vonette?"

   She said, "Demerol."

   "Demerol? With your orange juice?"

   "Don't laugh, Goldy. You don't know how 
bad the pain is. I have to have injections 
when I just can't stand it."

   "Sorry. I know how much you've 
suffered."

   In truth I did not know the extent of her 
suffering. But I was determined to find out.

   The hospital wouldn't give Vonette any 
oral meds, as they called them, so she 
contented herself with something out of a 
prescription bottle that she fished from her 
voluminous purse.

   We drove up 38th Avenue in silence. 
Patty Sue was hushed with what I hoped 
was contrition. Vonette wasn't talking 
because she was deep in thought or pain 
or both. I was quiet because I was trying 
to figure out what Vonette was thinking.

   "Gee, you guys," Patty Sue said thinly 
into the silence, "my hospital breakfast 
was awful."

   "Mine was better than the other meal I 
had there," I said truthfully.

   "You girls want to stop and get a bite to 
eat?" asked Vonette. "My treat. I could use 
something myself, anyway."

   "Goldy," Patty Sue said in a husky voice, 
"are you mad?"

   I said, "What? With no business? No 
car? No money? Me, mad? Yes. Mad as 
in angry. Heading toward deranged."

   "Now, girls," came Vonette's soothing 
voice, "let's not get all upset. We'll have a 
little brunch. Couple plates of huevos 
rancheros and you'll both be doing a lot 
better."

   She signaled to turn right. Her 
Fleetwood, which maneuvered like a road-
bound yacht, glided into the parking lot of 
a Mexican restaurant built in the shape of 
a sombrero.

   Vonette invited me to join her in a 
margarita, but I opted for a fruit smoothie. 
Patty Sue ordered a Coke. She asked the 
waitress if it was true that the Mexicans 
had chocolate sauce on their eggs and if 
so, could she? The waitress gave Vonette 
a questioning look.

   "Oh, sweetie pie," Vonette assured her, 
"don't you worry about my girls here. Just 
bring the three of us your huevos and we'll 
be fine. Oh yes, and make that a pitcher of 
margaritas. Okay?"

   Fine and dandy. It was clear I would be 
taking the helm of the Fleetwood after 
lunch. Which reminded me.

   I said, "Where is the station wagon 
you're loaning me, Vonette?"

   The pitcher of margaritas had 
materialized in front of us along with Patty 
Sue's Coke, my smoothie, and a single 
salted glass.

   "Now remember," Vonette said as she 
poured and then took a long swig. "We 
haven't used it as our family car for a long 
time. We bought it a few years after we 
moved here."

   "Moved here?" I asked. Information 
might come after Vonette's first drink but 
before her fourth. I said, "You know, John 
Richard never talked to me about his life 
be- fore Colorado. About how you and 
Fritz met, what your early life was like in 
Illinois."

   My ex-mother-in-law pondered the crust 
of orange lipstick she had left on her 
margarita glass.

   I said, "Please tell me."

   Finally Vonette said, "Oh, well." She 
began slowly. "We used to work together," 
she said. "I was Fritz's secretary; 
Sometimes he'd take me out in the 
country to help with a delivery. We 
became very close, but it was all proper, I 
wanted it that way, being a divorcée and 
all."

   "What?" I said.

   "Oh yeah," she said, "I'd been married 
before, right out of high school in Corpus. 
My first husband was in the navy. Then I 
got pregnant, had my baby, and the navy 
moved us to Norfolk, where Joe was from 
anyway. You know, in Virginia. There Joe 
got involved with first one call girl, then 
another. Then he left for good. I was 
awfully young, just twenty when Joe 
moved out." She sighed. "So when I met 
Fritz I'd been on my own for a while 
anyway, trying to make do for myself and 
my little baby girl." She sloshed a large 
measure of the green stuff into her 
orange-and-salt-lined glass. "Just breaks 
my heart the way people don't care about 
marriage these days. Or those days either. 
Anyway, there were hundreds of navy 
wives looking for clerical work in Norfolk, 
so off I went with a girlfriend and my three-
year-old little daughter to Carol ton, 
Illinois, because my friend had kin there." 
She paused for a few swallows. "We had 
some tough times, let me tell you, living in 
first one and then another trailer court, 
men always thinking I was available, as if I 
was. . . loose."

   I said, "So how did the doctor fit in?"

   "Oh, he was so nice to me when I was 
looking for work," Vonette gushed. 
"Treated me so nicely. It was my first 
regular job. Then after I had worked for 
him for six years, well, his wife died of 
cancer. A few months later he asked me 
to marry him and it took me about two 
seconds to say 'You bet.' "

   "Colorado is a long way from Illinois," I 
mused.

   "Yes, well." Vonette took out her mirror 
to do a little damage control on the lipstick. 
"Let me tell you, being a doctor’s wife is 
not all it's cracked up to be." She thought. 
"We got married in a little chapel and then 
started to try, no matter what, to be a 
family. After I had John Richard I thought 
everything would settle down but it didn't." 
She stopped to look out the restaurant 
window. "My daughter, she, well, she had 
some problems in school. Not too bad at 
first, but things got so much worse when 
she got to be a teenager. John Richard 
was just about ten then, and I guess I 
wasn't paying as much attention to her as 
I should have. She had started out liking 
Fritz, but their relationship. . . sort of got 
bad, if you know what I mean."

   Patty Sue excused herself to go to the 
bathroom. Vonette let out a very long 
breath.

   "My daughter. . . got involved with a fast 
sort of gang. She had gone through a lot, 
and she was only seventeen." Another 
swallow. "Then one night, she drank too 
much. The kids dared her, is what came 
out afterwards. She drank a whole bottle 
of Southern Comfort, then keeled over 
dead. Seventeen years old, and 
everything to live for. It was just awful."

   I reached out and held Vonette's hand. I 
said, "I'm sorry."

   "Yes, well," she said, "you wanted to 
hear this story and now you're hearing it. 
Just let me finish, maybe it'll do me good 
to talk." She gripped my hand. “Anyhow," 
she went on, "that's when I started getting 
my headaches real bad. Life wasn't good 
for Fritz then either; he was, well, he 
couldn't really practice, so we decided to 
make a clean break of things and move 
out here."

   "Couldn't really practice?" I said. "Why? 
From grief?"

   "Oh, no," said Vonette. She ran her 
finger over the orange lipstick on her 
glass.

   "Couldn't practice," I prompted.

   Vonette signaled the waitress for 
another pitcher of margaritas. She 
touched her fiery hair and began to talk 
slowly again. "It was such a mess." She 
sighed. "You keep asking why we left 
Illinois, Goldy. I'll tell you, but the 
beginning of it goes back even farther, to 
when my daughter was sixteen. It's awful, 
so please, don't go around talking about 
it."

   I nodded, although I certainly didn't like 
the idea of keeping whatever bad news 
was coming to myself.

   "We had to leave," Vonette said in a 
voice just above a whisper.

   The huevos arrived; we ignored them. 
After the waitress left I said, "Had to."

   "Yes." She drained her glass. "The year 
before my daughter died, a couple of 
Fritz's patients reported him to some state 
board. Not only that, but there was a trial 
coming up. That's when Laura Smiley first 
got involved. Oh, hell." Another sigh. "My 
daughter. . . said they'd had relations."

   "Who had?" I asked.

   "Fritz and my daughter," she said, just 
above a whisper. "She was sixteen."

   "What?" said Patty Sue as she returned 
to the table. Vonette's voice turned fierce. 
"I thought about divorcing Fritz then, when 
John Richard was nine. But he kept saying 
how much he needed me, and I already 
felt so guilty about my daughter. Well, I 
just couldn't leave my son without a father. 
I felt so confused, and then my daughter 
began to run with that fast gang and to 
drink a lot - I thought, you know, to forget - 
and then she passed away. I was having 
these terrific headaches, and Fritz was so 
helpful with that pain. He was so eager to 

make amends. It was real tragic. He said 
he could get certified in another state with 
no problem, so a month after my 
daughter’s funeral, we came out here."

   We were all silent for a moment.

   I said, "What was the trial going to be 
about?"

   Vonette shrugged her shoulders. "It 
doesn't matter, does it? He helps so many 
women with their babies, and with their 
problems. I don't like to think about the 
bad." She nodded benevolently in Patty 
Sue's direction. "He does seem to be such 
a good man that usually I just don't know 
what to think, so I don't. You know."

   She gave me a helpless look.

   She pressed on, "I don't want to know. It 
gives me too much of a headache, having 
a lot of hate inside me." She stopped 
talking, then started again. "Sometimes I 
think, Vonette, just leave. I hate staying. 
But then, I don't know."

   Patty Sue and I looked at each other. 
Her bottom lip was trembling.

   The new pitcher of margaritas arrived. 
Vonette gave the waitress a grateful look.

   Vonette said, "I don't want to burden you 
girls with this." She picked up her fork and 
leaned over her plate.

   "It's okay," I said.

   Patty Sue slowly began on the cold 
eggs. I started to do the same but stopped 
when I saw tears falling onto Vonette's 
plate.

   "Vonette," I said, "listen. Come over to 
my house on the thirtieth, after dinner. I'm 
having some friends over to talk and have 
dessert. We can talk some more then. You 
might feel better."

   She sniffed and said, "The thirtieth? I 
don't know. Call me about it." Patty Sue 
reached over with her good arm and 
patted her on the shoulder.

   "Oh girls," Vonette said, "it's okay. It was 
all a long time ago. I'm all right now." As if 

to demonstrate how all right she was, she 
lifted her glass in a mock toast.

   I said, "Just tell me one thing. You never 
told us your daughter's name. What was 
it? I'm curious. John Richard never 
mentioned her."

   Vonette put her glass down and looked 
at me. Her cheeks sagged; her mouth 
turned down at the edges. Her eyes were 
solemn and tired and indicated a sadness 
belied by the wild orange hair and made-
up face.

   She said, "Joe and I had thought since 
my name was French we should give her 
a French name. She was such a cute 
baby, that's what we called her. Baby. 
Only in French it's spelled different. So 
she was our Bebe. That's what I had put 
on her gravestone, too. Bebe Hollenbeck, 
1950 to 1967."

-18-
   Who said a little learning was a 
dangerous thing? Was knowledge 
dangerous, too? If so, what was a lot of 
knowledge, more or less dangerous? And 
if the knowledge was related but 
disconnected, what good was it at all?

   I clutched the keys Vonette had given 
me and slumped behind the wheel of the 
Kormans' old green Chrysler sta tion 
wagon, trying to put things in place. 
Vonette's first child had been Bebe 
Hollenbeck. Bebe had also been a student 
of Laura Smiley's when the Kormans and 
Laura had lived in Illinois. According to 
Vonette, Fritz Korman had seduced Bebe 
when she was sixteen. And Bebe had 
drunk herself to death.

   Then, Fritz Niebold Korman had moved 
to Colorado, bringing with him Vonette 
and a young John Richard. Was the 
practice the reason? According to the torn 
newspaper account in Laura's locker, 
there had been a mistrial. I had to get 
home to get the article and give it to 
Schulz. He'd be able to follow up on it. 
Whatever Laura's involvement had been 
in all this, it had ended in her feeling 
alienation that had not subsided in twenty 
years of living in the same small town. But 
why had Laura overcome her alienation- . 
or had she? This was the most puzzling 
aspect of all. What did she have to say to 
Fritz Korman that morning? And even if 
hostilities had erupted, how could she 
have put rat poison in Fritz's coffee after 
she was dead?

   And how and why had Laura died, 
anyway?

   "Um, Goldy," said Patty Sue. "What are 
we waiting for?"

   I stared at the keys. It looked as if the 
only thing that was going to go into place 
was one of them. Vonette said she had 
cables if we needed a jump. I had had my 
share of bad luck with American cars and 
thus had no hope for a Chrysler. I thrust 
the key into the ignition, pumped the gas, 
and turned the key.

   It started right up. For once, something 
went right.

   Our first stop was Aspen Meadow 
Drugstore. The hospital had given me a 
prescription for pain medication. George 
Morgan, the pharmacist, looked as old as 
Gabby Hayes in his last picture. He was 
reputed to have been in Aspen Meadow 
since the gold rush in nearby Central City. 
I noticed with some satisfaction that he 
finally had hired a new female assistant. 
As I handed George the prescription I had 
a thought.

   "George, did you fill any prescriptions for 
Laura Smiley?" I called after him as he 
was about to disappear between shelves. 
He turned and shook his head at me like a 
wise gnome.

   "This'll be ready in ten minutes," he said. 
I went off to call Arch, whom I had missed 
more than I would have thought possible. 
One night away from home felt like weeks. 
Worse, the doctor had recommended that 
I spend the rest of the weekend in bed, 
and that Arch stay elsewhere at least until 
the end of school Monday.

   "Not to worry," Marla assured me over 
the phone. "He loves it here. He keeps 
telling me how cool all the insects are in 
my greenhouse. He wanted me to help 
him with this crazy Halloween costume, 
but you know sewing's not my thing."

   "What Halloween costume?"

   "Oh, something from one of those crazy 
games. Sounds like leech. Wait. Lich. 
Anyway, I told him to forget it, his mother 
could handle the seamstress routine. If 
you pick him up Monday afternoon when 
the bus comes, I can tell you all the latest 
news. And not just about bugs." She 
laughed and hung up.

   Back at the prescription counter the new 
assistant eyed me vaguely. She said, "Did 
you say your name was Laura Smiley?"

   I blinked. "Did you hear me say that?"

   She wrinkled her nose at me and looked 
through the S prescription box. Then she 
punched some keys on a computer. 
"Penicillin?" she asked. "That's what you 
had last time."

   "Really," I said, "what did I have the time 
before that?"

   "Can't you remember what your 
prescription was for this time?"

   I shook my head.

   This soul sister of Patty Sue punched 
some more buttons. "Organidin? You had 
a cough?" I shook my head. "Ornade?" 
she asked. "Colds?"

   "Don't have one now." More punching.

   "Looks like that's all you've ever had. Let 
me go find George."

   "No, no," I protested, backing away. "Let 
me call the doctor. He's sure to clear this 
all up. I'll have him give you a ring."

   She shrugged. Of course, it was not the 
doctor who would be able to clear any of 
this up. Maybe now Schulz would listen to 
me, even if it had cost me my own 
prescription to relieve pain.

   Monday morning I had the article in my 
hand and dialed Schulz. He was away 
from his desk; the clerk took a message.

   "Don't forget I have a doctor's 
appointment today;" Patty Sue reminded 
me.

   "I haven't forgotten," I replied. "How's 
your arm? You sure you want to keep up 
with this other treatment when you're in 
pain?"

   She said, "It's not too bad."

   I looked at poor, thin Patty Sue and felt 
a surge of pity. "How long's he going to 
treat you for not getting your period?" I 
asked. "I don't understand why pills don't 
work."

   "He says they will," said Patty Sue. "It 
just takes time. I don't question him. He is 
a doctor, you know."

   I shook my head. Several hours later I 
revved up the wagon and drove over to 
Korman and Korman to deposit my 
charge. Indian summer weather was 
holding, and already the sun was 
lightening a deep blue sky. I did not see 
the doctors' twin Jeeps, with their license 
plates that said OB and GYN, when we 
arrived in a cloud of dust. Patty Sue might 
be in for a long wait.

   When I warned her of this, she said, "It's 
okay, since it's warm enough to 
sunbathe."

   "Go right ahead," I said, "just be ready 
after I pick up Arch. I need you to look 
after him while I try to do a little more 
digging on this thing with his teacher."

   "Oh, no. Not more school trouble."

   "No. His other teacher. Laura." I looked 
at her. She frowned back. I said, "Just sun 
yourself on the benches outside the pastry 
shop until I come back."

   She nodded and turned away. I headed 
toward Marla's, down Ponderosa and up 
Blue Spruce, roads named for the tall 
trees whose velvet-green arms hugged 
the occasional bright gold stand of 
aspens. I rolled down the window. No 
early snow had trampled down the thick, 
rebellious field grass or stripped the blood-
red chokecherry bushes of their summer 
splendor. Soon the little kids in town would 
be dressing up for Halloween and 
traipsing from house to house demanding 
sweets. So Arch was not too old for a 
costume this year, after all. I remembered 
the lich only vaguely from our role-playing 
night. Researching the costume might be 
a pain, especially if the sewing was either 
complex or expensive. As it was I would 
be tied up getting ready for the athletic 
club party and molding my caramel-corn 
balls for the trick or treaters. The balls 
were wrapped in cellophane, labeled 
GOLDILOCKS' CATERING for advertising 
purposes. I knew how irresistible 
Halloween bags were to adults.

   My eyes avoided the brass plate on the 
door of my ex-husband's other ex-wife. 
Marla and I had become allies in our 
dislike of John Richard, but not in our 
decorating taste. The plaque read Chez 
Marla.

   "Darling," she said expansively when 
she came to the door. "I have just made 
some coffee. Until your son arrives we can 
have the solarium to ourselves to enjoy it. 
Then he's bound to run us off so he can 
study those damn bugs. Honestly, Goldy, I 
don't know how you take the strains of 
motherhood."

   Tires of flesh rolled and swirled beneath 
her peach satin robe as she padded in 
front of me toward her sun room.

   "How'd it go?" I asked after we had 
flopped onto overstuffed green-and-white 
cushions covering what I hoped was 
sturdy wicker. Around us were all manner 
of sweet-smelling plants that Marla took 
great pride in cultivating. "Did Arch behave 
himself?"

   "Listen here, Goldy," she said as she 
handed me a china cup and saucer and 
poured from a sterling pot next to a 
Rosenthal dish heaped with sticky buns. 
"He was great. Bugs and all. He's so easy 
to get along with, it's hard to believe he 
comes from a long line of bastards. Sweet 
roll? I took Arch to the pastry shop for 
breakfast and stocked up."

   I shook my head and glanced at the 
china dish Marla had filled with goodies. 
Next to it was a crystal pitcher bursting 
with stems of fragrant Cape Jasmine. 
Apparently John Richard had not had as 
loose a hand with Marla's breakables as 
he had with mine.

   Marla, resplendent in her queen-size 
robe, settled back into her cushion.

   "Well," she said, "I'm just going to have 
one of these." She paused for a dainty 
bite. "So," she went on, "the rumor is that 
your new roommate is this great driver."

   I said, "Don't. Don't even start."

   "Obviously you've managed to get other 
transportation."

   "The Kormans' old station wagon." I 
changed my mind and took a sweet roll. 
"Politics may make strange bedfellows. 
But it's nothing to what poverty makes."

   She grunted and leaned forward to slice 
another roll.

   I said, "I'm dying to know what you've 
learned about everybody I've been trying 
to track down lately: What have I missed? 
I'd rather have you than the paper."

   "Well. Trixie is making noises about 
looking for a new job. She called and 
asked if I knew a lawyer, and I said what 
for and she said never mind and I said 
criminal or civil and she said criminal, I 
think. So maybe Hal is doing more than 
just making her pay for the mirror. She 
asked about Friday night, were we still 
going to meet, and I said of course, if 
you're not in jail, and the bitch hung up."

   "Hard to believe that club has put up 
with her for so long," I said.

   "It's hard to believe the athletic club puts 
up with a lot of other stuff."

   "Meaning?"

   "Oh, you know," she said. She picked 
dead leaves from a plant. "I really hate to 
gossip."

   "Bull."

   "Speaking ill of the dead, you know."

   "Laura Smiley?" I asked. "What did she 
do at the athletic club? You were going to 
check out some theory of yours."

   "Last month I stumbled, and I do mean it 
was by accident, into her having an 
intimate tête-à-tête with Pomeroy Locraft, 
in the hot tub, no less. Talking in hushed 
tones, mind you, so that I made a crack 
about it being too bad we had to wear 
suits in the hot tub, it being coed and all."

   "What does this have to do with 
anything?"

   She said, "I just figured, you know, that 
she was trying to put the moves on him. 
He didn't appear to be responding, so I 
thought, Unrequited love. She killed 
herself. Tragic."

   "I don't buy it," I said. "He and Laura 
were friends, that is a fact. But as far as I 
can tell, it was friends, period. And maybe 
they were talking in low tones to avoid 
some of the gossipy people in this town."

   "Yeah, well. After he'd gone, Laura 
started talking to me about the Jerk, like 
all of a sudden we're pals in hating him. 
She said, 'Did he ever go after girls?' I 
didn't know what she was talking about."

   Good God. "Did she mention any 
names? Like Fritz, or someone named 
Bebe, for example?"

   "No. I told her John Richard and I were 
divorced and I didn't think about him 
anymore, which was a lie, but I didn't 
really want to get into it with her. Her eyes 
were bugging out, like it was more than 
just being nosy. More like - "

   Marla said, "More like she was furious."

   I said, "But about what? It sounds as if 
she was wickedly furious."

   "Please don't use that kind of language," 
said Marla, as she poured us more coffee. 
"With Halloween coming up and all."

   One hour and a dozen pastries later the 
sound of Arch's raised voice came through 
the solarium windows.

   "Oh, yeah?" he was screaming.

   Two boys bigger than Arch were 
squaring off against him.

   "Wimp!" yelled one. "Faggot!"

   One of the big boys pushed Arch's 
shoulder and Arch swung back. The boy 
ducked, and the other boy gave an 
underhand punch to Arch's stomach.

   "Hey!" I yelled through the glass. No one 
turned around. "Hey!" I yelled again.

   "I'll show you," Arch was hollering. "I'll hit 
you with a fatal curse!" He was bent over, 
holding his stomach. With his free hand he 
was feeling along the ground for a rock to 
throw.

   "Hey, stop!" I yelled again and looked 
around wildly for Marla, who had gone into 
the kitchen for more coffee.

   The boys fell on top of Arch. The three 
of them squirmed and punched and 
thrashed. I turned, hit my head on an ivy 
geranium, then tripped over an exotic 
orchid, and cursed being lost in an indoor 
jungle for the second time in a week. 
Finally I made my way out to the front 
door.

   "Arch! Arch!"

   "You'll see!" he was yelling. "Just wait!"

   "Na-na-na-na-na-na!" the boys mocked 
back. They disappeared down through the 
evergreens.

   "What in the hell - "

   "Let's just get out of here," Arch said 
without looking at me. He dusted off his 
shirt and rubbed his knee where his pants 
were torn.

   "Just tell me why you're having so much 
trouble," I said.

   "I don't know, Mom," he said. "They hate 
me. I'm small, so they can pick on me. 
Can we go home? I need to call Todd. It's 
very important."

   After hasty thanks to Marla, we swung 
down toward Korman and Korman where I 
prayed Patty Sue was waiting on the 
pastry shop bench engaged in the 
peaceful activity of sunbathing. No luck. I 
went into the shop. No Patty Sue and they 
hadn't seen her. We drove back up to the 
front of the building and the office entry.

   "I'll go in and get her," Arch volunteered.

   He returned in a few minutes with the 
look of a young canary-swallowing cat.

   "No Patty Sue," he announced. The 
nurse-receptionist whom I had disrupted 
when I went searching for the files came 
charging out the front door of the office.

   Arch and I both groaned. I said, "Patty 
Sue's probably dead."

   "I hope she is," muttered Arch. "Then 
she won't be able to wreck any more 
cars."

   The nurse banged on my car window. "I 
want to speak to that young man," she 
said. "I want him to give back what he 
took."

   Arch moaned and climbed out. He and 
the nurse stepped away from the car and 
began a low-pitched but heated 
discussion. Then Arch withdrew a packet 
from inside his shirt and handed it to her. 
The nurse stomped off and Arch skulked 
back to the car.

   "You want to tell me what that was all 
about?" I asked. "Oh," he said in a bored 
tone, "I just wanted to borrow one of those 
surgical packs from Dad's office for 
Halloween. Big deal."

    "Why?"

   "I thought I could use one of those tools 
for, like, a weapon. Not to really do 
anything, but to scare people. That dumb 
nurse wouldn't let me take it. I even told 
her my father was one of the doctors but it 
didn't work."

   "Judas priest," I said, "that nurse is 
going to think we're a bunch of nuts." I got 
out of the car and went into the office, 
demanding to know from the loony-
detector if Patty Sue had finished her 
appointment.

   "I don't know," she said crisply. "Here's 
her bill. If she went out I didn't see her." 
She gave me a withering look and I left.

   "Damn that Patty Sue," I said when I 
slammed back into the car.

   "Why don't you check around the other 
side?" asked Arch.

   "I already did," I said. "You were just 
thinking so hard about what you were 
going to lift from your father's office that 
you didn't notice."

   "Not down below," said Arch. "On the 
deck on the other side. By the back door."

   "Where, smarty-pants? I've only been 
coming to this office since before you were 
born. There is no back door."

   Arch gave me his exasperated look. He 
said, "Mom, you can drive to it."

   "How?"

   He pointed. "Don't you even know where 
Dad and Fritz park when they get here 
early? There's a little paved part over on 
the right side that goes through to the 
back." He laughed under his breath. "Dad 
says sometimes he plays hooky that way, 
going out for a snack or something while a 
patient waits."

   A snack or something. I started the car. 
All this time, and I had never known about 
this other parking area. Perhaps the Jerk 
had not wanted me to know how he got 
out for his snacks. I pointed the Chrysler in 
the direction Arch had shown me.

   The OB- and GYN-plated Jeeps 
glistened in the sunlight. And there was 
Patty Sue sitting on a bench, her chin 
lifted to the sun.

   "You could have told the receptionist 
you were leaving," I said as I walked up. 
"You haven't even paid your bill."

   "I don't have any money to pay a bill," 
she answered me. She got up.

   I said, "How'd you get out here, 
anyway?"

   "Through there," she said. She waved a 
hand at the back doors of the office.

   "Well, how about that," I mused softly as 

I studied the exits. There were two doors, 
one coming out from John Richard's side, 
one from Fritz's. I remembered now from 
my visit to Fritz's plant-bedecked office. 
There had been a back door, but it had 
been draped with ivy.

   "He usually lets me out that way," Patty 
Sue offered. "It's like a secret."

   So that explained how Patty Sue could 
get down to the pastry shop without my 
seeing her, as had happened a number of 
times before. I looked at the doors. A 
secret. I wondered who else the doctors 
might have escorted out this way.

-19-
   “Pluto to Mom. Come in, please."

   We were home. How long I had been 
pressing the button on the coffee grinder I 
did not know. The beans were pulverized, 
fit to make hot mud.

   In the distance Patty Sue was running a 
bath.

   "You okay, Mom?" came Arch's voice 
again. "I need to talk to you about 
Halloween."

   I looked at the would-be surgical-pack 
thief.

   He said, "You want me to make you 
some coffee?"

   "Sure."

   Arch dumped out the dust I'd made of 
the beans, measured more, whirred the 
grinder, lined the filter with paper, ran 
fresh cold water. Then I remembered that I 
had not talked to him about what I had 
taken from his desk. He had been to 
school today. Had he noticed anything 
missing? And what was the bigger picture 
of my son and Laura Smiley, anyway? I 
studied him.

   "Arch. Halloween. I heard you," I said. "I 
need your help to do the party at the 
athletic club that night."

   "You look half-dead, Mom." He grinned. 
The coffee maker bubbled and popped. 
He said, "Coffee will be ready in a sec. 
Raising the dead is my favorite spell."

   Right, with surgical packs. I said, "You're 
not going to go stealing my knives, are 
you? For some curse or something?"

   "No."

   "Did you ever play raise the dead with 
Laura Smiley?"

   "Mom!"

   "Well?" He looked out the window. Then 
he said, "You're hassling me again."

   I opened the cupboard. John Richard 
had given me one of those mugs that said 
BITCH BITCH BITCH on it. Why I had 
kept it all this time I did not know. I 
dropped it into the trash and picked out 
one decorated with rainbows. Then I 
turned to my son. His gaze was fixed on 
the pine trees outside.

   "Well," I began as I filled the mug, "you 
wrote letters to her. You're into those 
fantasy role-playing games. You were her 
special friend, her special student . . . I just 
thought maybe she would be interested in 
your game spells, especially if she had 
someone important to her who had died - "

   I stopped to sip coffee. Arch turned 
slowly from the window to face me.

   "Mom. What do you think she was, 
weird?"

   "Well, yes, as a matter of fact." We were 
both silent. Then I said, "I found the note 
she wrote you before she died."

   Arch snorted. "Great. You get mad at 
me about borrowing something from Dad's 
office, and then you go snooping through 
my desk."

   "Arch, this is different. Your teacher 
called. She's worried about you, writing 
stuff like your grandfather has no respect 
for human life. Why would you write such 
a thing?"

   He shrugged.

   I said, "You're too involved in these 
games, you're not getting along with your 
classmates, you're getting into fights - "

   "You know how you're always telling me 
to say what my feelings are? Okay. Now 
I'm telling you." He eyed me fiercely and 
dug his hands into his pockets. His voice 
broke with the promise of tears. "You're 
making me angry," he cried.

   “Arch. It's just because I'm worried about 
you - "

   He turned to walk out of the kitchen.

   "Now where are you going?"

   "To the car. I left the rest of my game 
stuff out there."

   "Please don't leave. I don't want us to 
have a big fight." He turned and glared at 
me. "You don't want to fight?" I nodded 
and he went on. "Just make that costume I 
marked for Marla. Okay? It's in here." He 
riffled through a book of fantasy 
characters he had left on the kitchen table. 
"Then after Halloween we can talk about 
worrying. Okay? I just need to finish this 
thing that I'm doing right now."

   "Look, just sit down and cool off for a 
sec, will you? Tell me why you're so 
angry."

   He sat, then crossed his legs and arms.

   "Mom, why is it okay for you to go 
through my stuff? I thought you only 
cleaned for people who wanted you to do 
it for them. And I don't."

   I dropped three ice cubes into a Coke 
glass for Arch.

   "Archibald," I said, "listen to me, would 
you, please?"

   He stared at me from behind the rimmed 
glasses.

   "You can help. It's like being a detective. 
After this we can talk about Halloween, I 
promise. Maybe we could get your Dad to 
buy a costume."

   "Oh, sure."

   Arch poured his soft drink and slurped 
the bubbles that climbed the sides of the 
glass. He wrinkled his nose, brought the 
glass down with a bang. Upstairs Patty 
Sue was splashing and singing in her 
bubble bath.

   "She invited you over that Saturday," I 
began, "and then said she couldn't get 
together after all. Did you go anyway?"

He said, "Yeah, I rode my bike over later. 
She had company."

   "How do you know?"

   "Her blue car wasn't there. She was 
having it fixed. She was always having 
trouble with that stupid car. Anyway, 
somebody else was there."

   "What kind of car? Foreign? American? 
Pickup? What?"

   "I don't remember. I just, like, heard the 
engine."

   "Arch."

   "I don't. And don't ask me what time it 
was because I don't remember that either. 
You're just like that policeman, acting as if 
I'm guilty of something."

   "Sorry."

   "I got the Good Citizen award in fourth 
grade, you know."

   "Okay; okay. You went to her house. Did 
you see anything unusual?"

   "No, Mom," he said, exasperated. "I 
don't even know what was usual."

   I paused for a minute. "Do you know 
about a student of hers named Bebe 
Hollenbeck?"

   "No. Can I go now?"

   "Bebe was her special friend," I said, ''as 
you were."

   "Right."

   "Maybe," I went on, "Bebe was shy, like 
you."

   "Maybe they wrote letters," he said, "and 

maybe they played D and D. Who cares? I 
wish you would just stick to cooking."

   "If you want to eat supper, mister, don't 
be difficult. I can't cook until I get this 
figured out, and I can't make any money 
cooking until I get myself cleared in this rat 
poison mess."

   Arch sighed.

   "In her note to you, she said she had 
something important to do. Do you know 
what it was?"

   He chewed his bottom lip. "Not really." 
"What?"

   He looked out the window again.

   "Arch," I said slowly. "Maybe she didn't 
commit suicide. Maybe she was - "

   "I gotta go, Mom."

   I looked at him, and pain filled the area 
behind my eyes. How much adult 
eccentricity could he take? From a 
screwball grandfather, an alcoholic 
grandmother, a philandering father, a 
suicidal teacher, and a demanding 

mother? Poor Arch.

   He stood up and gave me his most 
bored look. He said, "Can I go?"

    "No."

   He let out a gust of air and flopped back 
into his chair. "Now what?"

   "Just tell me if you know whether for 
some reason you think someone wanted 
Laura Smiley dead."

   "No."

   The phone rang.

   "No," I said, "no one wanted her dead, 
or no, you won't tell me?"

   The phone kept on ringing; Arch glared 
at me. "Arch!"

   A sob exploded from him. Then another. 
Tears sprouted from his eyes.

   "Leave me alone!" he yelled. "I don't 
want to talk about Ms. Smiley anymore! 
Can't you see that, Mom? So just stop 
this! Stop!"

   The phone insisted on ringing. I reached 
out for Arch's shoulder only to have him 

whack my hand away. He ran out of the 
kitchen.

   I grabbed for the phone receiver and 
yelled, "What is it?"

   "What is what?" asked Tom Schulz. 

"Sheesh."

   "Well, well, Miss Goldilocks, I can see 
you're in your usual sunny mood."

   “Why are you calling?"

   "Man," he said, "it is a good thing that I 
am such a patient kind of guy. I mean, a 
very good thing. And that I can inquire 
how you're coming along on talking to 
your mother-in-law - "

   "Ex-mother-in-law."

   "Sorry there. Ex-maw-in-law. Tell me 
what she said about her daughter who 
died. The one who drank."

   "How did you know about that?"

   "I've been on the phone to Illinois. 
Finally getting some answers around 
here."

   I could hear Arch thrashing about in the 
nether regions of the house.

   I said, "I'm going to have to call you 
back."

   "I thought you were interested in solving 
this."

   "I'll call you back," I said. "I have to work 
something out with my child."

   I followed the noise from Arch.

   He had not gone directly to the car to 
get his equipment, as he had indicated he 
needed to do. I had heard him clomping 
down the stairs to the basement, which 
was the laundry and storage area. Now 
with the door cracked I could hear him 
rummaging through boxes and papers. 
After a few moments he came traipsing 
back up and I darted into a bedroom I 
used for filing, sewing, and storing table 
linens for banquets. On the bed I spread 
out several yards of unbleached muslin for 
the costume, in case he came in. Then I 
heard him clattering around in the kitchen. 
The noise sounded like the clank of 
butcher knife blades.

   I prayed. After a few more minutes of 
racket he slammed out the front door. I 
crept back to the kitchen and counted my 
knives, every one of them. They were all 
there. Whatever it was he wanted, he 
apparently hadn't found it yet.

   I hurried to the front of the house and 
scanned the driveway. Arch had left the 
station wagon door open and was 
throwing the books and bags of stuff he 
had amassed at Marla's onto the ground. 
He was closing the door when he stopped 
and bent in again, as if he'd seen 
something he'd forgotten. His head 
emerged from the car. He looked in all 
directions to see if he was being watched. 
I leaned back from the front window. After 
a few seconds I looked back: he was 
reemerging from the car, tucking 
something underneath his shirt. Then he 
gathered up his paraphernalia from the 
ground and started back toward the 
house. I trotted out to the kitchen, picked 
up the character book, and slipped into 
the sewing room.

   After a few minutes I had the bobbin 
filled with beige thread and I went to knock 
on his door.

   "I'm getting started on your costume," I 
called in. "Want to take a look at it?"

   "No, Mom," he said. "Just go away. 
Please."

-20-
   It certainly is a good thing you've got a 
crack civilian detective working on this 
case," I greeted Tom Schulz when he 
answered his phone. “Although she can 
be difficult, she comes up with remarkable 
info."

   "Goldilocks? 'Zat you? Must be."

   "Such enthusiasm."

   "Hey," said Schulz, "besides close you 
down, what did I ever do to you? Except 
be nice? Don't give me a hard time. Let's 
start over."

   With as much patience as I could 
muster, I told him about my conversation 
with Vonette. Then I asked, "What did you 
find out from the neighbor and the doctor? 
About the day Laura died?"

   "Not a whole lot. She saw the doc when 
she went into town."

   "What did he see her for?"

   "Routine visit, so he says. Not much 
more I can go on than that. The neighbor 
heard a car, not a gunshot. But I did find 
some things out from Illinois."

   "Such as.''

   "I found the guy who worked the case. 
Twenty years ago there was this huge 
brouhaha over Korman."

   I said, "But it all ended in a mistrial."

   "Did you call Illinois, too?"

   "No, it was in this article I told you about. 
I found it in Laura's locker, but I ripped it 
trying to get it out." I read him the 
fragment.

   "That's what I like about you, Goldy - 
you're not bothered by technicalities like 
search warrants."

   "What was the mistrial about?"

   "Sex."

   "Gee, copper, thanks a lot. Even 
Vonette told me that."

   "Korman was brought to trial on charges 
of having sex with a minor. Our Bebe 
Hollenbeck. This guy said that Korman 
was then also under investigation by the 
Illinois Board of Medical Examiners for 
taking liberties with patients, which would 
explain the rest of the article you ripped."

   "Sorry about that."

   "That's the difference between you and 
Laura Smiley," said Schulz. "She was 
careful with evidence, that cop told me. 
She was going to be a witness against 
Korman. She was a young woman, then, a 
new teacher, in her twenties this guy 
thought."

   "So why the mistrial?"

   "It was 1967. Supreme Court passed 
down the Miranda ruling in 1966. Cops 
weren't used to it yet. They forgot to 
advise Korman - of his rights, you know." 
He paused for a minute, and I could 
imagine him drinking coffee, shaking his 
head. "Anyway," he went on, "Korman 
was under a cloud. Then this young Bebe, 
on her seventeenth birthday, mind you, 
drinks an entire bottle of liquor and dies on 
the spot. More bad publicity, so Korman 
moves out here to get a fresh start."

   "And how did Laura Smiley get involved 
after that?"

   "Now that's what the cop remembers, 
clear as a bell.

   After the mistrial, the D.A. decided not to 
attempt another trial. So this young 
teacher comes strutting into his office and 
throws one holy fit. Turns out her father is 
an alcoholic. Bebe's mother is headed that 
way, so Laura wants to protect her 
student."

   "What happened?"

   Schulz said, "Laura screamed that Fritz 
Korman was a menace to all women. Said 

she had evidence that could curtail his 
practice of medicine permanently. Said if 
the cops wouldn't get him, she would. She 
tried to get the Board of Medical 
Examiners to do something too, but 
Korman decided to move out here, and 
rather than revoking his license, the board 
said, Just don't come back to this state. 

Are you ready for this? Our friend went 
back to the cops, banged on this 
investigator's desk. She said this will 
happen again over her dead body. Then 
she marched out. Laura Smiley."

   I said, "But then the Kormans, not 
knowing her feelings, you'd have to 
assume, picked Aspen Meadow to live in. 
Vonette told me back then there was 
medical licensing reciprocity with Illinois. 
They liked the place when Laura brought 
them here, back when they were all 
getting along." I thought for a minute, then 
went on, "Nobody figured on Laura's 
parents being killed. She moved back. Her 
parents were gone, Bebe was gone, and 
the Kormans were already settled in her 
hometown, where she had a house and 
friends. She must have decided to put it 
behind her."

   "Appears that way. Then after twenty 
years, something snapped."

   "If she had something on him, why wait? 
Maybe she was blackmailing him." I 
paused. "I don't think so, though. She 
wasn't that type. And it goes against what 
she said in a note she wrote just before 
she died."

   "Oh God. I don't even want to hear how 
you got that. Why don't you just tell me the 
rest of what you've been up to."

   I dug out the note to Arch and read it 
aloud. Then I told Schulz that Laura had 
been friendly with Pomeroy, that they had 
been in an AI-Anon group together.

   “And speaking of that, there was this 
weird thing with the drugstore," I said.

   "You break in there, too? If somebody's 
listening in on this line, you're going to 
have to get back into business. Then you 
can hire me as a caterer after they fire me 
from being a cop."

   "Are you interested in the drugstore or 
not? This'll go a long way toward getting 
that body exhumed."

   "Don't tell me," he said. "You found the 
murder weapon on aisle B."

   "Your new deputy coroner said Laura 
had a foreign substance, Valium, in her 
stomach. She didn't have a prescription 
for Valium or any other tranquilizer. And if 
she belonged to one of the AA 
organizations there's a good chance she 
didn't drink or take drugs at all." I 
hesitated. "Come to think of it, there 
wasn't any liquor in her house, either. Odd 
stuff like flour in a flower box - "

   "What?"

   "Just her sense of humor. Puns." Schulz 
clucked his tongue.

   I said, "I'm wondering if that person in 
Laura's house the day I set off the alarm. . 
." I was thinking. "Was, maybe, looking for 
that evidence?" I stopped. "In the living 
room - " I began, remembering something. 
"Vonette - "

   "She was in there?"

   "No. She had a flask. At the reception. 
She added something to her drink."

   "You're thinking she may have fixed 
Fritz's drink, too? Remember any pellets, 
Goldy, or just a flask?"

   I said, "Pomeroy Locraft says Fritz was 
cheating on Vonette. If she knew he was 
up to his old tricks, maybe she'd take 
some kind of corrective steps."

   "Hmm."

   "Pomeroy saw the flask, too. Maybe she 
spilled her guts to him the way she did 
with us." I chewed my nails for a second. 
"I'm going out there tomorrow - I'll see 
what I can dig up."

   "I wish you'd quit saying dig up to a 
homicide investigator," said Schulz. Then, 
"You still going out with me on 
Halloween?"

   "Saturday night? Oh yes." How was I 
going to hide the food for the athletic club 
party from him? I didn't want to have to 
explain illegal catering. "I was wondering if 
you could pick Arch up and I'll meet you 
there. I have a late cleaning job," I fibbed. 
"But what made you think of Halloween?"

   "I've seen the way you go goo-goo eyed 
over this Pomeroy fella. I want you to 
remember our date. Just in case he flirts 
with you when you go out there 
investigating."

   “Aha," I said, pleased. "The jealous 
sort."

   "Maybe so," he replied evenly. "But look 
at it this way. It's better to be with a great 
investigator than an incompetent driving 
instructor."

   The road to the Wildlife Preserve was 
actually a wide, bumpy, mud-and-rock 
affair that was not officially open to the 
public between mid-September and the 
beginning of June. The altitude was about 
a thousand feet above town, and it 
snowed in greater abundance there, both 
early and late. I already knew how to lift 
and pull the swing gate to enter in the off 
season, since it had only been last April 
that Arch had done his beekeeping project 
with Pomeroy.

   Before leaving I had written a note for 
Patty Sue:

   Gone to see Driver Educator. Back late. 
Please give Arch nonchocolate supper.

And one for Arch:

   Am out at Pom's getting honey. If P.S. 
not back by supper, have tuna casserole 
in refrig. Lich costume needs cotton 
batting. Please ride bike to Aspen 
Meadow Drug and charge some. I need to 
make costume tonight because tomorrow I 
have to cook for party.

Love, Mom

   Arch, Arch. I swerved to avoid a pothole 
full of snow melt and remembered how it 
had been even muddier in April when he 
had jumped up and down in enthusiasm 
each time I'd picked him up after working 
with Pom. That effervescence, that love 
for his teachers and for learning, was all 
gone now.

   "The bees are so neat, Mom," he had 
said. "They swarm once a year, and they 
usually come back to the same place. 
They come back to Pom's because of all 
the great wildflowers out in the Preserve. 
And they know where all the flowers are! 
You see there's this, like, navigator bee 
who goes out and finds bushes and stuff 
and comes back and tells the other bees 
how to get there. It's very complicated. 
Bees are smart."

   "Bees? Smart?"

   "Oh yes," he said enthusiastically, "they 
are very intelligent. Pom and I wear white 
because the bees like it. They're afraid of 
black because that reminds them of bears. 
It's way back in their memory. Sort of like 
how you hate snakes, and in the Bible 
somebody says women don't like snakes? 
Bees know that bears steal their honey so 
they all learned to hate the color black and 
to attack big black animals on two feet. So 
we have to wear white."

   "I thought honeybees didn't sting."

   "Of course they sting," he protested. 
"Why do you think we have to wear those 
nets over our faces? Actually, what makes 
them sting is if they get scared. You know, 
somebody invades the hive or something. 
That's why you've got to smoke them out 
before you go in for the honey. You see," 
he concluded in his patronizing tone, 
"there's really a lot to learn if you want to 
become a beekeeper. You'd better not try 
it, Mom."

   I rolled down the window to look for elk 
or deer trying to get into the Preserve 
before hunting season began. The day 
was warm, but a cool breeze buffeted the 
stands of pine that bordered the road. 
From a distance I could see the stone 
chimney of Pom's cabin. Although I knew 
his honey shed was large enough to also 
serve as a garage, he had left six vehicles 
in varying states of abandonment parked 
every which way on the surrounding 
property. Growing up in New Jersey, I had 
noticed that the natives accumulated 
hydrangeas. Coloradans, on the other 
hand, collected cars. And parked them in 
their garages and yards so they could use 
the nearly new four-wheel drive to get out 
in the snow, the old pickup to haul stuff, 
the old Scout with the plow to do the 
driveway, the station wagon to take 
everybody skiing; and the gutted VW and 
Chevy because they had such great parts.

   "Glad you could make it," Pomeroy said 
and gave that heart-melting half smile 
before stepping aside for me to enter.

   I said, "I kind of miss coming out here. 
Arch loved doing work with you."

   “And I liked working with him. He's a 
great kid. You're lucky."

   I sighed in spite of myself. "Being a 
parent is not all roses, Pom. It's almost as 
hard as being married."

   He blushed an absolutely purple hue. 
Then I thought again of what Marla had 
said. Was he that hung up on his ex? 
Even Marla and I weren't that bad about 
John Richard. Whatever the reason, I 
already felt I'd blown it.

   He said, "Why don't you sit down and 
have some herb tea? Got some great 
honey for it."

   I looked around the one-room house. It 
had probably been a hunter's cabin before 
the area was declared a preserve. In front 
of the picture window were two 
telescopes. These I assumed could be 
trained on the beehives, which I knew to 
be upwind of the cabin, at a small distance 
in the meadow.

   "Watching the birds and the bees?" I 
said while he was filling the teapot. I 
peered into one of the scopes.

   "No."

   "Watching wildlife?"

   He didn't say anything. Maybe he still 
felt guilty about the driving lesson. In any 
event, his mind was elsewhere.

   "I got a car," I said. "Vonette's loaning 
me one."

   "Great."

   More silence.

   I said, “Are you coming to the club's 
Halloween party?"

   A nod.

   I said, "Don't tell anybody, I'm making 
the food." He snorted. "Cleaning the place, 
too. Hey!" I had moved the scope to focus 
on the area just below the hives. "You 
have a garden."

   "Yeah," he said, "in springtime. Want 
your honey now?"

   I took three large jars from him and gave 
him a check. Then I looked around the 
room for something else to talk about.

   "Has it snowed up here yet?" I said 
brightly. "Do you see more or less wildlife 
when there's snow on the ground?"

   Pomeroy reached for two mugs, placed 
a teabag in the pot, and cocked his head 
at me.

   "You want to see wildlife, Goldy? Look 
through the other telescope. This is 
Wednesday, lunchtime, warm weather. 
Should be right on schedule. This is what I 
wanted you to see."

   I gave him a sideways glance and 
stepped over to the other scope. Without 
moving it I looked in. Far out in the' 
meadow there was movement. My skin 
went cold.

   It was people. One on top of the other. 
One was Patty Sue. With Fritz Korman.

   Nobody had to tell them about the birds 
and the bees.

-21-
   I don't believe this."

   No response from Pomeroy.

   I looked at him. "Do they come here 
often?"

    He poured the water into the teapot and 
steam clouded his face.

   "Twice in the last couple of weeks. 
Weather's been nice. You know how 
people like to do it out-of-doors in this 
state. The hikers generally save it for 
summer, though."

   My eyes scanned the room. He set the 
tea tray on the table. It was disconcerting 
to be witnessing the sexual activity of 
another couple while in the company of a 
man to whom one was attracted.

   Pomeroy filled the mugs with tea. I 
couldn't help noticing the way his 
shoulders moved under his soft flannel 
shirt. I wondered who did his laundry, and 
looked around the room for a washing 
machine. His couch, tables, and chairs 
were rough-hewn pine scattered with 
store-bought pillows. The furniture looked 
homemade. There were no modern 
conveniences besides a refrigerator and 
oven in the open kitchen. In the living area 
were several lamps, and by his bed in one 
corner were a radiophone and alarm 
clock. So he had electricity and water, 
anyway. If Patty Sue and Fritz had wanted 
a cool drink or piece of toast for a 
postcoital snack, they could have marched 
on up. Right.

   I looked again at Pomeroy, this 
engaging hermit in the middle of his 
homemade couch in the middle of his 
homemade cabin in the middle of 
nowhere. I ran my fingers over the green-
brown coffee table made from pine beetle-
killed wood.

   He said, "Well?"

   I moved a ceramic pot filled with ivy from 
one side of the table to the other, and 
thought.

   "It makes sense," I said finally. "I was in 
his office last week looking for some files. 
Patty Sue had gone in to see him, but I 
never saw her come back out. This 
Monday I was over there and Arch 
showed me the back door to the office, 
which I never knew existed. So."

   Pom said, "What were you looking for in 
his files?"

   I stood up and went over to the window. 
Patty Sue and Fritz were walking through 
the tall grass toward the trees where the 
Jeep was just visible.

   "Oh," I said dully, "you know I'm trying to 
get my catering going again. The cops 
aren't making much headway so I'm 
looking into things myself. Trying to figure 
out what the connection between Fritz and 
Laura Smiley was, why someone would try 
to poison him at her funeral. Trying to 
answer big questions like that while he's 
banging away on my roommate."

   "Find anything?"

   "No."

   He stood up and walked to his cooking 
area, then came back with a plate of hot 
biscuits and a bowl of honey.

   He said, "I made these for you. The 
honey's from a new batch of bees I sent 
away for from a catalog. South American. 
Mean as can be - sometimes they chase 
me off. Good producers, though."

   He split one of the steaming rounds, 
plastered it with honey, then handed it to 

me on a paper napkin. It was delicious.

   He said, "Surprised at a man's 
cooking?"

   "For heaven's sake, Pom, will you get 
serious? Even the police have told me 
more than you have, which is that Fritz 
cheats on Vonette, which is something I 
already knew from his past, thank you."

   "What do you want to know?"

   "Do you know why Laura went to see 
Fritz? If you two were such pals, why 
wouldn't she tell you something as 
important as that? She left an article in her 
locker. She was going to show it to Patty 
Sue and Trixie. It was about a mistrial. 
Was she trying to warn them about 
something?"

   "I already told you, she didn't tell me 
everything. She had known a student, 
Vonette's daughter, who was her friend. 
Since Laura was the daughter of an 
alcoholic, she relived the whole scenario 

by seeing this neglected teenage 
daughter, who then had a stepfather 
coming on to her. She tried to stop it. 
When that backfired, and Laura's parents 
died, she tried to let it go in AI-Anon. But 
she was shocked when I told her what 
was going on out here."

   "That was recent, wasn't it?"

   He looked at me and nodded. "Last few 
months."

   I said, "Was it at the athletic club, and 
Marla stumbled in on your conversation?"

   "Yeah. Laura said, 'He told me he'd 
cleaned up his act.' "

   Pomeroy looked at me. He said, "Those 
were her words. ‘After twenty years,' she 
said, 'I can't believe he's up to his old 
tricks.'" He paused and bit into a biscuit. 
"After we talked, she came out to work 
with me. She saw them out there in the 
meadow. She was angry, seeing this 
again after all these years, him going after 
a younger woman. 'I can't believe it,' she 
kept saying, 'he swore to me when I first 
moved back here that he'd changed.'" 
Pomeroy cleared his throat. "I do know 
this. She had something on Korman 
besides what I'm telling you. She said, 
'This time there will be justice, you can 
count on it.' She was beside herself. I had 
to drive her home. That's when she left the 
science text in my car, by the way. 
Anyway, maybe seeing them was what 
triggered her. The next thing you know, 
suicide."

   "It must be convenient for Fritz," I 
mused, "the women in his life just offing 
themselves when the going gets rough. 
First Bebe Hollenbeck, then Laura 
Smiley."

   "Better keep an eye on your roommate," 
added Pomeroy.

   Suddenly I was exhausted by it all. Now 
that the landscape was empty of people I 
turned my attention out the window. 
Several gently sloping acres in what could 
roughly be termed Pomeroy's front yard 
eventually met the creek, one of the high 
tributaries of the Upper Cottonwood. The 
white hives where Arch and Pomeroy had 
worked so diligently last spring ranged 
along the hill.

   "What are the bees doing now?" I asked. 
"Still producing honey?"

   "When it's warm in October like this, 
they'll fly. Not many flowers now, of 
course, so the production's real low."

   A series of posts jutted along the creek 
front, with rope between some of them. 
The rope led to several of the hives.

   I said, "What's all that heavy twine?" He 
laughed.

   "Old-fashioned burglar alarm. Arch just 
loved it, said he was going to use it in one 
of his dragon-adventures, or whatever 
they're called. Somebody comes up from 
the creek trying to break into your place, 
trips over the rope, the hives topple over 
and you've got yourself a swarm of bees 
that'll do more damage than a shotgun."

   We were quiet for a few minutes.

   I said, “Arch really thought you were the 
greatest."

   "I enjoyed him. I like all the kids. With 
Laura gone, I don't know if the teachers 
will be willing to let the students come out 
here for projects. I'll miss them. A lot."

   "Did you notice anything strange about 
Arch? I mean last spring, was he secretive 
or - "

   "No." Pomeroy waved his hand at me. 
"We had great talks, he was always very 
serious about everything. I could see why 
Laura got such a kick out of him." Pom 
gave me a long look with those brown 
eyes, full of sadness and pity.

   My voice was hard. "I've been thinking 
that she shared too much with him. I'm not 
convinced it was healthy."

   He shrugged. "I loved to talk to Arch, 
too. Sometimes it was like talking to a little 
adult. Maybe Laura felt the same way, I 
don't know. But I know she and Arch did 
admire each other." He paused. 
"Something else you should know, if 
you're worried about your relationship with 
Arch."

   "I'm all ears."

   "Arch said his mother was pretty tough. 
He even said one of the reasons he wasn't 
cool was that all the kids complained 
about how bad their mothers' cooking 
was, slime and worms and mold and so 
on. But to be perfectly honest, he would 
tell me, his mother's cooking was pretty 
good."

   And with that shred of good news amidst 
all the bad, I said goodbye to Pomeroy 
and smiled all the way down the dirt road 
through the trees, back toward town.

   "Mom, I got the batting," Arch 
announced when I strode into our house 
and banged the door behind me. "I 
opened the book to the lich illustration, so 
you can see what I need to look like. I'm 
going to wear it to the athletic club. Maybe 
some of the people will think I'm a midget 
and not a kid."

   I hugged him. "Not likely. Midgets aren't 
as neat as eleven-year-olds."

   He patted my back. "Did you have a 
good day or something?"

   "Do I have to have a good day to give 
my own kid a hug?"

   "Sorry. You just haven't seemed happy 
lately. Neither has Patty Sue."

   No kidding.

   "Did you have a snack?" I said.

   "Well, they had burritos for lunch at 
school and I hate them, so I ordered from 

the Chinese place when I got home 
because I didn't exactly want tuna 
casserole. I charged it. Hope that's okay. 
Patty Sue came in a little while ago and 
she was hungry, too." He paused.

   "Go on."

   "Well," he said as he pushed his glasses 
back up his nose, "when the guy came 
with our order and we opened all those 

little boxes, I said, Hey, this is like the 
boxes I used to get my goldfish in from the 
pet store. I felt real bad because then 
Patty Sue went into the bathroom and 
threw up."

   "Oh, God. Is she sleeping now?"

   "I think so," said Arch with a rueful twist 
of his mouth. "I knocked on her door and 
asked her if I could bring her some sweet-
and-sour pork on a plate, sort of like 
breakfast in bed, but she said the smell of 
it made her sick, and please don't talk 
about the goldfish."

   “Any more good news?"

   "Vonette called. She sounded real 
upset. Said she's a wreck and wants you 
to call her about the car."

   I shook my head and headed down 
toward my sewing room. I said, "That can 
wait."

   "Good," said Arch as he retreated, 
"because I need to use the phone and I 
didn't want to use the business line."

   We parted and I reluctantly plugged in 
the Japanese sewing machine I had 
bought from a traveling salesman who had 
failed to mention the all-Japanese 
instruction booklet. But I had been smart 
enough to figure out how to go forward 
and backward, and, staring at the 
illustration for the lich, I figured that was all 
I needed.

   A robe like a Druid priest's with batting in 
the shoulders and sleeves like a 
magician's, the description said; the 
costume should have a ragged but costly 
aspect. The lich face was terrifying, like a 
skull. I drew on the material with a tailor's 
pencil, then cut and sewed until the hood 
and shoulders were done and all it needed 
was a hem. Arch could paint the muslin 
any colors he wanted, and knowing him, 
he would.

   The picture in the book was black and 
white. My gaze wandered to the caption, 
which read:

   The lich specializes in vengeful activity. 
It uses spells, charms, traps and poison 
potions to punish the wicked. One spell of 
particular use is raising the dead. By 
communicating with deceased victims, the 
lich gathers evidence against evildoers. It 
carries out its plan of vengeance using 
small sharp weapons and clerical spells 
such as deep sleep, fireball, and scaring 
its victims to death. The lich stops only 
when the wicked one is dead.

   I set aside the costume. Jesus wept, I 
remembered, before he raised Lazarus. I 
had no such grand plans. But I wept 
anyway.

-22-
   Todd?" came Arch's whisper over the phone, "I can't talk long. I've been trying to reach you since yesterday.
"
   "Our phone's been broken. What's wrong? Does she suspect something?"

   "No, she's sewing," Arch replied. "But I've still got to be careful."

   I'd wiped my face, blown my nose. Now I breathed oh-so-shallowly as I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece.

   Todd said, "I can barely hear you. Do you want me to come over?"

   "No," said Arch, "no time before dinner." He paused. "Listen, you're not going to believe this. I got it."

   Todd asked, "Got what?"

   "A weapon, silly," Arch said with an impatient hiss. "It's better than a knife too, because it's just like in the book. Small and sharp. I found it in a plastic bag in my grandmother's car. We'll have to clean it later. It's under our woodpile now."

   "Great!" replied Todd. "What spell are you going to use?"

   "How about fireball?"

   "Ever done it before?"

   "Well," admitted Arch, "not in real life."

   "Easy," said Todd, "you could just make a Molotov cocktail. Get yourself a bottle, see, and fill it with gasoline - "

   "Who're you talking to?" asked a sleepy Patty Sue as she slouched into the room.

   I pressed the receiver back into the cradle.

   I said, "Nobody. Just checking to see if the phone’s free so I can call Vonette."

   She tilted her head at me. "What are you making for dinner? Arch ordered some Chinese stuff but it didn't look that great to me. I am hungry, though."

   I said, "You've had a big day."

   She nodded, yawned again.

   "Sorry we don't have anything to eat," I lied. "In fact I need you and Arch to go to the store for me before dinner - "

   "But I haven't even gotten my regular license yet," Patty Sue protested, "and I don't know how I'd drive with a cast." She wandered out of the room toward the kitchen. I turned off the sewing machine and followed her.

   "That's okay," I said, "I'll drive." I grabbed a pencil from beside the phone and hastily began to write. Patty Sue was fishing gherkins out of a jar with her pinky. "I have lots to do," I went on, "and you guys can help me out while I do other errands." I called to Arch, and he came clomping down to the kitchen while Patty Sue read the list over my shoulder.

   "Now what?" he demanded.

   I looked at the two of them and tried to imagine myself as a patient person.

   "I have two parties this week, one day after tomorrow for my women's group and one at the athletic club the next day. This means a lot of shopping and cooking. You two," I went on, "will please buy groceries while I pick up pizza and do errands, and then we'll all come home and discuss the news of the day. Okay?"

   "Oh, guess what?" said Patty Sue. "Speaking of news.

   Dr. Korman's treatments finally worked."

   Arch groaned and left to get his jacket.

   I stared at her. "What do you mean, his treatment worked? You want to tell me what that treatment was?"

   Patty Sue's face turned quite pink.

   "Oh, that's confidential, Goldy. All I can tell you is that as of this afternoon, I'm, um, normal."

   I shook my head. If the North Pole was normal, then Patty Sue was living in Antarctica.

   "The thing is," said Patty Sue, "it's been a long time for me. Since I was normal, I mean. Anyway, I don't feel so good."

   Neither, I reflected, did I, as I swung the boatlike Chrysler wagon into the parking lot of Aspen Meadow's grocery, one of a western chain of food stores. The store's dairy selection was pasteurized to the extent that everything tasted scalded; the produce was whatever could make it to Colorado from California without rotting. Nevertheless, I had made the list long enough to keep both Arch and Patty Sue occupied for at least an hour.

   Under the woodpile. In September I had stacked a half cord of firewood beneath the house's old deck. Once back home .I put on garden gloves and began to dig and scrape out bits of bark and grass from beneath the freshly split yellow logs. The sky was beginning to darken and the sharp smell of wood smoke was already in the air. I hoped that snakes of all genres had begun to hibernate or whatever it was snakes did in the winter. Black widows, of course, were notorious inhabitants of woodpiles.

   A plastic bag crackled in my fingers and I drew it out.

   Inside the bag was the soft towel covering for a surgical pack, the kind I knew Fritz and John Richard kept in the storage closet in the room where the nurses drew blood. It was similar to, perhaps even exactly the same as, the one Arch had tried to steal from the office. Had he succeeded after all? I opened it carefully. Rolled up wads of latex, which I guessed to be surgical gloves, were at the top of the bag. They weren't usually in the kit. Tissue forceps, suture set, two-by-two's, other stuff I recognized.

   A scalpel, one of the kind that used disposable blades. The blade had dried blood on it.

   Now I really had something to tell Tom Schulz. And a few things to discuss with my son.

   "Tom," I said into the phone, "I have to talk to you."

   "I barely recognized your voice, you sounded so friendly."

   "Tell me about the weapon Laura Smiley used on herself."

   "Well now, I don't know whether - "

   "Come on," I pleaded, "you told me yourself that a suicide case was closed unless some evidence was found - "

   "And so far you've given me theories, a tom article, a note, and a missing prescription."

   "Tom!"

   "Okay, okay. One of those twin-bladed ladies' razors. It had a lot of blood on it, I know that. From the depth of the wound on her wrists, the deputy coroner figured she could have done it with that. Although he's not a terribly sharp guy."

   "Not too sharp," I said. "That sounds like something Laura Smiley would say."

   "I don't get it."

   "Forget it," I said. Then I asked, "So the theory was she was shaving her legs?"

   "I guess."

   "Dumb. Stupid. Imbecilic."

   "It's good to hear you sounding like yourself. What'd you find out from Pomeroy? Did he know anything about Vonette?"

   I said, "Hold on. Laura Smiley didn't shave, I'll be willing to bet anything. She was a feminist - "

   "Is that like socialist? I don't think they shave either."

   "I know it's a challenge, but try to take me seriously.

   Look at it practically. Have you ever cut yourself with one of those Good News razors? Or some other twin-bladed kind?"

   "Strictly an electric man, myself."

   "Well," I said, "it's almost impossible, I don't care what the deputy coroner says. You'd have to be trying real hard, because you can barely nick yourself, much less cut, wound, stab, or slash. I'd say your deputy coroner has got a hole in his head."

   "Well," Tom said apologetically, "he's new. So you're saying you think she used something else?"

   "She or someone else." I fingered the surgical kit. "You'd better come on over. I've got something for you."

   Within fifteen minutes he had picked it up. He looked dubious. Wanted to know if this was some kind of kid's joke. Asked if I touched anything, and where I found it.

   "Arch got it out of this station wagon, which belongs to the Kormans," I said. "You know Laura's blood type and all that?"

   He said, "Yes, we do, Goldy. Now listen. I know it's hard for you to leave the police work to me. But just for a couple of days, try."

   Then it was time for me to do the picking up, first pizza with extra cheese, Arch's favorite, then assorted goodies from the pastry shop for the women's meeting. When I arrived at the grocery store both Arch and Patty Sue were shuffling down an aisle wearing fatigued, irritated faces. It was, after all, past dinnertime. I checked their cart for the avocados, carrots, celery, cherry tomatoes, Belgian endive, apples, assortment of cheeses, chicken, eggs, chips, ground beef, cups and crepe paper, and decorative squash and pumpkin I had ordered. Plus Coke and chocolate soda. I was thankful for the fifty dollars from Hal.

   "Mom," whined Arch, "this is boring. I'm tired and hungry."

   "Just need frozen bread dough," I mumbled, claiming the cart.

   "I saw your ex-husband and his new girlfriend over a couple of aisles," whispered Patty Sue, "with the older Dr. Korman and Vonette."

   I turned to her as we headed toward the frozen-food section. "Oh, that's just great. What're they doing here?"

   But I didn't have to wait for Patty Sue to come up with an answer, for at that moment the Korman entourage came wheeling around to frozen foods.

   Patty Sue moaned. She said, "I'm not feeling too good."

   "Just do me the favor of not asking for a medical consultation right now," I said.

   "Why, look who's here," said John Richard. "Goldilocks shopping for porridge. What are you going to put in it?"

   "Hello, Vonette," I announced, as if the girlfriend and two doctors were not present.

   "Ho Arch! How's my boy?" asked John Richard as he pinched his unsmiling son on the cheek. With his tall, hunk-type frame, John Richard looked like a benevolent defensive end talking to a young fan. Only Arch was not acting properly adoring. John Richard responded by turning to his girlfriend. "I told you she was a bitch," he said between his teeth. The girlfriend bobbed a head of streaked hair. "Goldy," he went on, turning back to me, "meet Pam Mosser. She teaches geometry at the high school. She's my, er, fiancée."

   I was so proud of myself. I smiled politely and said, "How do you do?" The virtue of an eastern upbringing.

   "Patty Sue," said Fritz, "how are you getting along?"

   "Well," she began, "not too - "

   "Please be quiet, Patty Sue," I ordered.

   "Now Goldy," Fritz warned. "Don't start up."

   "Start up with what?" I asked and gave Vonette a knowing look, from which she shrank.

   Fritz turned to stare at Vonette.

   "Mom," Arch moaned beside me, "I'm getting tireder."

   "I still don't feel so - " Patty Sue began.

   My ex-mother-in-law looked at me guiltily and cleared her throat. Patty Sue had disappeared down the aisle.

   "Oh, Goldy dear," Vonette said nervously, "I need the car back. I'm sorry, I forgot something, ah, it needs to go into the shop. Sorry," she said again.

   I wasn't ready for another loss of vehicle. I turned to beat a retreat past orange juice and toward ice cream, where Patty Sue had arrived and was filling her arms with Fudge Swirl, Double Chocolate Chip, and Rocky Road.

   "Couple of days," I promised over my shoulder. "At the club Halloween party. My van should be ready by then. Then I'll give you the Chrysler. See you Friday, Vonette!"

   We were almost at the checkout stand.

   To my utter delight, Arch turned around and yelled, "What's geometry?"

-23-
   I got into the car feeling light-headed. But I congratulated myself on one thing: I had survived the encounter.

   Every little success helped. "Have some pizza," I said to Arch. "It's either next to you or you're sitting on it."

   Patty Sue found the pizza box. She and Arch began to tug out hot triangular slices stringy with mozzarella. The smell was inviting, but I wasn't hungry. The last two hours had been too draining. Arch opened the soft drinks and offered me one. When I refused, I noticed that my hands were shaking.

   I said, "Let's go home." After getting Arch to bed and carefully placing the food supplies onto the pantry and refrigerator shelves, I still felt unsettled. It was bad enough to have to live in the same town and hear of John Richard's many exploits. Bad enough to have to endure his arrogance and new wealth. But to have to endure him at the grocery store was almost too much.

   The next few days were going to be hectic. There was cleaning the club, cooking for the meeting Friday and the party Saturday, plus trying to follow up with Schulz on the scalpel and Arch and his eccentricities. If that was all they were.

   The key to the athletic club beckoned. Work. That was the ticket. It had helped when I was preparing for Laura's wake. With decorating supplies and heavy-duty cleaners I could do something useful and work off industrial-strength stress at the same time. Friday night, I could make a recheck for a spot cleaning before the party. Even athletes couldn't completely mess up a place in a couple of days, could they?

   My key turned in the latch and echoed loudly in the darkness. I flipped on the lights. The empty Nautilus machines sprang into view like a chamber of horrors. They flashed silver in the mirrors. Without jocks pumping iron and exercycling and running in place, the air between the club's cream-colored walls and gray and burgundy carpet expanded, thinned out.

   I shook myself. The place had a new life when one was in it alone. The walls, shelves, machines seemed to undergo a metamorphosis at night, like toys in nursery stories. I gritted my teeth to haul the vacuum and bags of supplies across to the front desk.

   Standing in the middle of the open area, I puzzled over where to put the table with pumpkins, punch bowl, and party munchies for Halloween. I could put the long tables by the walls overlooking the racquetball courts, then cover them and the columns in the dance area with orange and black crepe paper.

   The closet next to the bank of mirrors flanking the Nautilus equipment, when I had found its one light, yielded four long tables that would work for the snacks. I placed all the chemicals on the closet floor and started setting up.

   During a break I peered down the stairs and saw that all traces of the exercise-room mirror, the one Trixie had shattered, were gone. Oh, how replacing the old mirror with fun house-style trick ones to make all the skinny people look fat would have been hilarious. But I was not in the practical joke business.

   I dusted, vacuumed, decorated. It was after midnight when I mixed the solutions for disinfectant and tub-and-tile cleaner and trotted downstairs to start on the locker rooms.

   There were some jogging suits and open lockers on the men's side, and despite the staff's once-over on the sinks and showers, the vague odor of sweat still hung in the air. I sprayed the diluted disinfectant into one sink and heard music go on in the aerobics room.

   "Just give me money. . ." It was a jazzed-up version of a Beatles hit. I knew I was the only one who was supposed to be here. Was this a burglar with a sense of humor? One who needed rock and roll to steal hand weights and towels?

   I pushed back fear by reasoning that the music camouflaged any noise I could make. I crept out of the locker room. Looking around the corner I could just see the movement of someone. . . exercising?

   It was Trixie. She was kicking her legs out and shrieking along with the singers.

   "Muh-huh-honey. . . that's what I want!"

   I waved my spray bottle to indicate my presence. "Hey, Trix!"

   She gave the startled cry of a person discovered naked. Which, of course, she was not.

   "Goldy! I thought you were coming tomorrow."

   "What are you doing?"

  She began to cry and crumpled onto the rug. I hurried over.

   "I just wanted to be alone," she said finally. "I just wanted everybody to quit bugging me. You... don't understand."

   "Try me." She took deep breaths to try to calm herself, then hiccuped.

   "You can't, because you have a child."

   "I am sorry about your loss. You know that."

   Her voice was bitter. "That man took mine away from me."

   "Fritz?"

   "He knew I had high blood pressure. That the placenta could break down. It did. I lost the baby while I waited for him. What was he doing? Why didn't he hurry? Now everybody just feels sorry for me. And he goes on with his practice."

   She began to cry again. I hugged her and eventually her sobs subsided. The tape ended; we were enveloped in quiet.

   "Are you still coming to our group the day after - or I guess" - I took a look at my watch - "it's technically tomorrow?"

   She gave that harsh laugh. "You really think that'll help?"

   "What would help?"

   Trixie gulped and said, "If Laura were still alive. She had some information on Korman she was going to show me. I told her my whole story one day after class. She said it wasn't the first time he had messed up. She was planning on doing something - "

   We were interrupted by a noise upstairs, someone walking across the open room I had just cleaned and decorated. I put my finger to my lips.

   I whispered to her, "Are there any weights down here? She nodded.

   "Could you throw one at a burglar, if that's - ?"

   She nodded again. "I have a very strong arm."

   "Let's go."

   We crept upstairs. Trixie had picked up some weights and was warming up her triceps with two-pounders in each hand. To my chagrin the intruder had turned the lights off. Only the outdoor parking lot lights cast a pale neon glow on the room.

   "Where is - " Trixie began.

   "The closet," I whispered back.

   The closet door was partly open. A wedge of light shone out its door, casting a huge triangle of gold-gray on the carpet, The wrapped pillars looked ghastly.

   "Can you hit the closet door?"

   "I think so," she hissed. "Hold this one." She let go of one of the weights and damned if I didn't drop it.

   "Eeyah!" I shrieked when it hit my toe.

   The closet light went out.

   "Uh!" shouted Trixie as she heaved the other weight through the darkness.

   CRASH! went the Nautilus room mirror.

   "Oh no!" screamed Trixie.

   Someone rushed past us in the blackness.

   I tried to run but fell over on my pain-wrenched toe.

   "Turn the lights on!" I commanded Trixie. "Hurry! Run outside! See if you can tell who it is, or see their car!"

   Trixie cursed and careened through the dimness. She hit the light switch and then stumbled out the front door. Across the way the Nautilus room mirror looked like an avant-garde glass sculpture. I would have to remind Hal of this when he sued me. What the hell. He hadn't exactly provided a high-security place to work in, had he?

   "I saw the car," Trixie gasped when she came trotting back.

   "And?"

   "Kinda weird," she said. "It looked just like Laura's old blue Volvo."

-24-
   Hopping down my well of sleep came frog-faced doctors holding scalpel blades. Hot on their trail were gargoyle-faced liches in unhemmed robes, and behind them roared a phalanx of honking blue Volvos. The Volvos crashed against the well walls; the liches and frogs in robes scampered down toward me to escape the wailing horns. I had the frantic thought: Have I disinfected those walls yet?

   Br-r-ring! Br-r-ring! went the Volvo horns. Br-r-ring!

   The phone. I sat up. My right toe was throbbing. What Laura would have said: Call a toe truck.

   The clock read ten-twenty. I'd gotten home at two-thirty, I remembered, after finally driving an exhausted Trixie home. Except for this ringing, my house was quiet - a sure sign that everyone had decided to let me sleep after my wee - hour janitorial stint. Everyone, that is, except this nut calling me.

   I said into the receiver, "This had better be good."

   "Ho-hol" came Tom Schulz's too cheerful voice. "In your usual good mood, too. What'd you do, tie one on last night?"

   "Please."

   He said, "I thought you might be interested in helping us investigate that scalpel. Because that's what it was, you know."

   "A scalpel. I told you it was a frigging scalpel. I passed Med Wives 101, you know. Did you have a blood match?"

   "Easy now. They're working on the blood match. It's coming. Right now I need more to go on than what you've given me. Including why your son would have that scalpel stashed."

   "I told you. He found it in the Kormans' car, and my theory is that someone put it there after using it on Laura."

   "Theory?" Tom Schulz yelled. "That's what I'm supposed to go to the D.A. with? A caterer's theory?"

   "Seems to me, Tom," I said, "that you need to find out who would have access to Just One Bite."

   "That's easy. Anybody can get it to kill rats."

   "Lots of folks think Fritz is just that. A rat." I told him about the creekside activity with Patty Sue.

   "Incredible," said Tom Schulz. "He's irresistible even to a woman with a broken arm."

   "You don't understand," I said in Patty Sue's defense. : "My house mate respects authority with a capital R. That's how people like Fritz get their power."

   Schulz asked again, "Are you going to tell me what your kid was doing with that scalpel?"

   "I don't know what he was doing with it," I replied truthfully. "I'm going to try to find out. But there's more. I got into a mess with Trixie last night." I told him about the intruder, the mirror, and the Volvo.

   "Trouble just follows you around, you know? Be careful. Because whoever our guy, or gal, is, they're going to try again to do in Fritz. You don't want your kid to get in the middle. And chances are our culprit won't mess with a few pellets of rat poison this time."

   "Why not?"

   "Bright little Goldy can't figure that one out?"

   "Excuse me. Let me go get a cup of coffee and my brain will get into gear."

   "Our murderer will probably use something else, and there will be a next time," Schulz said, "because the first time, he or she flunked Poisoning 101. Just watch it."

   "I plan to," I said, and hung up.

   I spent the next day hustling around the house to get ready for the Amour Anonymous meeting. Looking at the treats from the pastry shop made me wonder if we might need more. I could always use any surplus from today on the Halloween party. I slathered fudge frosting on brownies for Patty Sue. I stuffed crepes with sugared ricotta cheese and smothered them with apricot sauce for Marla ("I spent the last two days in Vegas," she'd called that morning to tell me. "I thought it would be a good break. Ended up spending the whole time with a glass of Jack Daniel's and bag of peanuts in one hand and a roll of quarters in the other. Pretty soon the coins sounded like peanuts and the peanuts smelled like coins and I thought, now I'm really crazy. Guess I need the group, Goldy, don't you think? I'll bring the dessert sherry, you just make lots to eat.")

   The phone rang again. Alicia couldn't come: she'd had a blowout on I-70. Her load of pumpkins had exploded like grenades when they hit the concrete. Two dozen cars had spun out in orange slime. . . no one was hurt. . . the road was closed so it could be cleaned. . . traf fic had backed up for six miles. With significant understatement, she added, "You can't imagine the mess."

   A couple of other women called with excuses, none so spectacular. When I finally got back to cooking I melted sugar into a dark syrup for Vonette's favorite, Burnt-Sugar Cake. Pondering what Trixie would fancy, I decided she could manage with cookies. Marla would finish them if Trixie was holding out for health food.

   And speaking of which, I could use Pomeroy's honey to make my marvelous Honey-I'm-Home Ginger Snaps. This was my very own tasty invention. They were popular with the station-wagon set. Plus, they kept well.

HONEY-I'M-HOME GINGERSNAPS

2 cups all-purpose flour (high altitude: add 1 tablespoon)
2 teaspoons baking soda
1/4teaspoon salt
1 ½ teaspoons ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground cloves
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
¼ cup solid vegetable shortening
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup sugar
1 large egg
¼ cup honey
¼ teaspoon finely minced lemon zest

   Preheat the oven to 375°: Butter two cookie sheets.

   Sift together the flour, soda, salt, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. Set aside.

   In a large mixer bowl, cream the shortening, butter, and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in the egg and the honey until well combined. Stir in the flour mixture and the zest, stirring until well combined, with no traces of flour visible.

   Using a 1-tablespoon scoop, measure the cookies onto the cookie sheets, keeping them two inches apart. Do not attempt to make more than one dozen per sheet. Bake the batches one at a time, until the cookies have puffed and flattened and have a crinkly surface, 10 to 12 minutes per batch.

   Cool the cookies completely on racks.

Makes 32 cookies 

   The spicy scent of baking cookies filled the kitchen. When I was done I surveyed the spread. If we were going to be involved in telling all our sad stories we could do with a few sweets.

   Marla arrived first. She swept in wearing a bespangled tent-type dress and a long scarf that said Club Mediterranée.

   "God," she fumed, "I'm exhausted. It's a good thing I don't take drugs. Someone could have sold me some speed and I would have spent another six hundred bucks on those slot machines and put Planter's out of business. Tell me you've made something fabulous to eat."

   "In there." I gestured toward the dining room.

   "Where is everybody?"

   "Coming. They're eating dinner."

   "I ate dinner," she said as she picked up a dessert plate and attacked the brownies. "I just saved room for dessert."

   "Did I hear someone mention dessert?" asked a yawning Patty Sue as she descended from upstairs, where she had been napping.

   "You bet," said Marla, "come quickly before I eat it all."

   Running suit-attired Trixie trotted in carrying hand weights. I begged her to leave them by the door, which she did.

   "Hoo-hool" yodeled Vonette from the front door. She was already tipsy. Her orange hair looked like an abandoned robins' nest.

   "Time to get started," I warned them as Vonette splashed dessert sherry into her coffee.

   "What we do here," I began, "is talk, share, and give support."

   Trixie said, "I just don't see how this can help."

   I said, "Then why don't you go first? Tell us what's bothering you."

   "I hate doctors," she said evenly, "and I don't want to talk about it."

“Aw, c'mon honey," coaxed Vonette. "I don't mind. And I'm married to one." She took a healthy swig from her coffee cup.

   Patty Sue said, "I'm feeling sick."

   "You see?" accused Trixie. "Somebody starts talking about doctors and right away, somebody feels sick. Why do we depend on them so much?"

   "Chocolate's more reliable," said Marla, who was waddling out to the kitchen to replenish the brownie platter, which I had stupidly put within her reach.

   Patty Sue said faintly, "I think we have to trust our doctors. Either that or the treatment doesn't work."

   "Trix?" I said. "Do you want to talk or not?"

   Trixie ground her teeth. "I did trust a doctor and look at where it got me."

   Marla plopped back down at her place. Patty Sue gave me her wide-eyed look.

   I concentrated my gaze on Trixie and said, "You feel angry."

   "What do you think?"

   “And so," I went on, "you throw - "

   Marla said, "Oh my God. You throw up? What a waste."

   "Please don't talk about throwing up," said Patty Sue as she stood to go out to the bathroom.

   "This is great," Marla commented. "We say we're going to talk about men and all we talk about is food and barf."

   Vonette cleared her throat. "Well, girls," she began, "I can talk about it without talking about food. You see, I know something about doctors. I can tell you-" She stopped to pour sherry directly into her cup, an action I felt I should stop, since she was already pretty sloshed.

   I said, "Tell us, Vonette."

   But Trixie interrupted her. "If you're angry too, Vonette, why don't you do something? Talk, talk, talk! How about a little action?"

   "Temper, temper," said Marla. "Have a ginger snap." To demonstrate, she had one herself.

   A limp-looking Patty Sue sat down again. I turned back to Vonette.

   "So what do you want to tell us, Vonette?"

   She took another long sip from her cup. "Do you girls talk about sex in here?"

   Everyone was immediately quiet. "Sure," said Marla.

   "He's impotent with me," Vonette said finally, her voice dropping. "But not with everyone else. He says be cause I drink too much, our lack of a sex life is all my fault."

   Patty Sue said, "I wish we could change the subject."

   Marla rolled her eyes at me. "Everybody thinks I don't know what goes on," Vonette was saying, "but I know. It's just that. . . thinking about it gives me these awful headaches. Thirty-six years," she muttered into her cup before draining it. "For what? Oh, my little Bebe." She started to sniffle. "I miss you. Bebe, Bebe."

   "Do you think Laura had," I said tentatively, "something on Fritz, that she was going to confront him - "

   "Confront?" yelled Trixie. "Confront? Why do we have I to listen to shrink talk all the time?"

   "She had something," said Vonette. "Of course she did. Oh, my." She reached into her purse and pulled out what I knew was her Valium pillbox, then downed one of the green pills with her newly filled coffee cup of sherry.

   "You see," said Marla as she sliced a piece of the Burnt-Sugar Cake. "This is what happens when you abandon food for other palliatives."

   "What palliatives?" asked Patty Sue.

   "Forget it," said Marla, with her mouth full.

   "This just makes me so angry," said Trixie, her forehead wrinkled into a scowl. "Yak, yak, yak. I knew it wouldn't do any good to come."

   "Trixie," I said, "how else could you express your anger?"

   "What's that," she said, "more shrink talk? How about having some of these doctors pay for the damage they inflict? I mean really pay?"

   I said, "What would that look like?"

   Trixie groaned and got up from the table, then flopped down on my living room couch with her arms folded across her chest.

   "This is getting out of control," I said under my breath to Marla.

   "Don't tell me," she said after swallowing, "I learned all about control when I had to deal with the Jerk's lawyer."

   "Laura," came Vonette's drunken voice. In her stupor at the end of the table, she had heard little of the previous conversation. "Laura had something. But not just on him, if you see what I mean."

   I said, "I'm not following you."

   "You don't?" said Vonette with a confused look. "Don't you see that stuff Bebe wrote to her teacher about her home life said something about me, too?" She finished what was in her cup. "At that moment, when my Bebe died, my life was over. Laura had something on us, all right. It's not over, though. I'm going to get him. I'm going to go home and call him an impotent old ass. I'm going to tell him I'm going to turn him in to the Colorado Board of Medical Examiners. Ha! That man screwed anyone, even his own patients!"

   Marla and I looked at each other.

   Trixie screamed, "You see what I mean?"

   Patty Sue had her usual reaction to acute stress. She fainted.

-25-
   Halloween. 
   A thick shroud of October fog clung to the ground as I drove back up to the mountains at five-thirty Halloween morning. Already Colorado was in costume - a shroud mourning the loss of Indian summer. Or perhaps the loss of innocence.

   Patty Sue was in the hospital. The doctor had said she was about two months pregnant. After the women's meeting she hadn't felt any better, even when I brought her back to consciousness with a little ammonia on a paper towel. She was in pain; a couple of pills "to relieve periodic suffering" did no good. It was late anyway, so I'd sent everybody home. Vonette was still babbling on about getting Fritz, even after we'd stuffed her into Marla's car.

   About three A.M. Patty Sue's cramping from what she'd thought was her period had become so intense that even I became frightened. There was more blood. I scuttled the idea of an ambulance, figuring I could get her down to a Denver hospital more quickly myself. After a quick call to the Emergency Room, we were on our way.

   The on-call gynecologist was courteous, informative, and even sympathetic. Trixie should have been there to see a few stereotypes break down. He said they'd have to keep Patty Sue for a while. It looked as if there had been a small separation of the placenta. The fetus appeared healthy and had a good heartbeat. I was worried that the X-rays for Patty Sue's broken arm might have harmed the fetus, but again the doc said not to worry. Poor Patty Sue.

   In her room I swabbed her face with a wet cloth.

   Her eyes, dulled by the loss of sleep, fixed on my face. "I feel awful," she said.

   "First three months are the worst," I said. "I should : have figured it out. . . the way you've been sick."

   "Doctor Korman is the one - " she began, but tears started rolling down onto her pillow.

   "It's okay," I said, and then stopped to take her hand. I said, "That's what you told Laura Smiley, isn't it? That he had been having relations with you."

   She nodded. "He said it would help my condition. Laura already knew what was going on. She told me she I needed to talk to me about it."

   I said gently, "What did she say?"

   "She said I had to get him to stop. But I told her I was afraid of him. What did I know about medicine? Maybe he was right. And he told me that if I told anyone about the treatment he would call my parents and tell them I was uncooperative."

   She started to cry again, a miserable sobbing that erupted from her chest. I leaned over and hugged her until she stopped.

   I said into her ear, "Can you just tell me what Laura , said when you said you couldn't confront him?"

   Patty Sue coughed before whispering back, "She said she could get him to stop. She thought he had changed from the way he was before, you know, from what Vonette told us. Laura said she thought Fritz had reformed. Then it was strange because she said she could ruin his practice. She said she had the power to do that."

   "Do you know what she meant?"

   "The next time I heard about Laura, she was dead."

   I called Patty Sue's parents. Her mother answered. When I related my news there was a long silence.

   Patty Sue's mother said, "She didn't tell us she had a boyfriend."

   I told her Patty Sue would tell them all about it. She said she and her husband could be at the hospital shortly after eight that morning.

   Now the mist clouded my windshield so thickly that I slowed to twenty miles an hour and pulled over into the far right lane. When winter approaches in Colorado, it comes like the poet's cat. It pads along the back roads and darkens the sky earlier each evening until finally, near mid-December, it plops on its ample backside as the cold sets in. During those months of early darkness, the residents take refuge by their firesides or bulk themselves up with Coors and ski stories to await the coming snows.

   And it began this way, not with the ferocious onslaught of thunder and hail that mark spring's arrival, but gently, subtly, with a cold cloud of mist.

   Fog swallowed the cars around me. I straightened up to peer through the glass and thought about Patty Sue. When she came to live with us she had worked hard learning to cook. She had asked questions about my life, and she had told me about hers. It was in September that she wafted off, first into indifference, and late in the month into distraction. The distracted behavior coincided, I now realized, with the confession to Laura and Laura's death.

   My heart tugged for this twenty-year-old about to learn the rigors of motherhood. I would have stayed with her longer but I was worried about Arch. He had been very drowsy when I had told him of the impending trip to the hospital. Arch, Arch. What was he up to with liches and magic spells and lessons in making Molotov cocktails? Worse than that, what were his plans for a used surgical kit?

   I pushed open the front door. The house's air was warm and still, a place wrapped in sleep. Soon Arch's alarm broke the silence. I ground coffee beans, ran water, and turned up the radio news, which warned of clouds and wind and possibly snow in the mountains Halloween night.

   The phone rang: Marla. She said, "Vonette overdosed last night. She's really in bad shape. There's a possibility it was a suicide attempt."

   "Oh my God. How'd you hear that?"

   "Fritz called the priest from the hospital and the churchwomen set up a phone tree. I feel horrible. What do you think we should do?"

   "Not sure. I have to get Arch off to school. How about if you call John Richard? We have to keep up with how she's doing."

   "Thanks a lot," Marla said without enthusiasm. "Don't suppose it could wait until tonight, do you? I mean, if she's out of danger and they're still going to come to the party. I suppose that would be beaucoup crass."

   "I wouldn't put anything past them. Call me later. I'll be up to my rear in chips and dip. Almost forgot. Patty Sue's two months pregnant."

   "What? Expecting? I didn't even know."

   "Neither did she. By Fritz, no less."

   "Jesus," Marla said. "That guy never quits. If I were Vonette, I'd want to die too."

   An hour later I had shooed Arch off to school wearing his lich costume. Asking him tough questions was simply not within my emotional repertoire after the events of the previous night. The house was silent. No clients calling for parties. No Arch sneaking about. No Patty Sue bumping into walls. Still. Questions hung heavily in the air.

   Time to let the mind cook along with the hands. As usual.

   First on the agenda for the athletic club party was the: preparation of guy bow, an Oriental chicken-and-egg affair I seasoned with soy and encased in a bread shell.

   But as I folded and rolled out the dough, I could not: get the image of Vonette out of my mind. She seemed a sudden absence. Prayer had been a difficult proposition since I'd stopped teaching Sunday school. But I prayed; now for Vonette.

   I set aside the guy bow and prayed. Please, please. Then I peeled, pitted, and mashed the plump avocados destined for my Holy Moly Guacamole. Once the rich dip was done, I set it aside and tried to think.

HOLY MOLY GUACAMOLE

1 large or 2 small avocados, peeled, pitted and
   mashed to make 1 cup
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon freshly grated onion
¼ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon picante sauce
¼   cup mayonnaise
Corn Chips

   Place the mashed avocado in a non-metallic bowl. Mix in the juice, onion, salt, and picante sauce until well blended. Spread the mayonnaise over the top to the edges, cover the bowl, and refrigerate. At serving time, uncover the bowl and thoroughly mix in the mayonnaise. Serve with corn chips.

Makes 1 ¼ cups

   Why had Vonette done it? Had the headaches finally become unbearable? Had something not killed the pain?

   Worst question of all was one that filled my mind like the bowls of silky guacamole.

   Had the messy anger of our meeting the evening before triggered some deep mechanism that had been operating all along, only incrementally, with liquor and drugs? Instead of killing herself slowly, had Vonette gone over the edge because of what the meeting had made her think about? And what about her oath to confront Fritz?

   About that I did not even want to think. But had to.

   Before starting the deviled eggs and empanadas I called the hospital. Patty Sue was okay; her parents were with her.

   A nurse who knew me said Vonette Korman was in a coma. I didn't ask if anyone was with her. I could imagine her face and her curly orange hair, but she wasn't there. It I was as if the ground around our relationship had suddenly collapsed.

   I tried to focus back on the party. My next task was to arrange concentric circles of the empanadas and deviled eggs. With the eggs in the guy bow we'd have a cholesterol-heavy night, but what the hey. Eggs were cheap and I looked good. Besides, they filled people up, a key concept' in catering.

   My phone rang: Tom Schulz. Yes, I remembered about tonight. I asked if he had heard about Vonette.

   "Yeah," he said. "I heard the call for the 'copter. Why?"

   "I don't know. I just feel real bad about it. She could have done it so many times before. . .Why last night?"

    "Was she at that meeting you were supposed to have?" he asked, suddenly wary. "Your house, right? What happened?"

   "Don't get suspicious, Mr. Investigator. We just talked. Women's stuff. Besides, it's confidential."

   "Was she upset when she left?"

   I let out a breath. "Well, yes. She was upset. But not suicidal."

   "That Fritz sure has his problems."

   I put all the bags of chips in one large bag. "Listen," I said, "I hope you'll stay on this case with Vonette."

   "Take it easy," Tom responded, "she isn't dead. Yet."

   "If she dies," I warned him, "I hope you'll get on it right away. Toxicology, the whole bit."

   "Don’t worry. That's my job, Goldy. And the coroner's back, too, no more new deputy stuff. Are the guys around here happy about that!" He chuckled. "You just concentrate on tonight. I'll be by at seven to pick up Arch while you finish your cleaning job. Then we'll dance the night away, and you'll forget all your troubles."

   "That," I said before hanging up, "I seriously doubt."

-26
   How do I look, Mom?" asked Arch as he entered the kitchen that evening. Although he had not made up his face for school, he decided for the party to put on the full war paint of the superhuman lich.

   I stopped packing the appetizers into plastic containers, took off my witch's hat and mask, and surveyed him in the painted muslin robe and hood. Around his neck was the heavy gold-plated jewelry Vonette had lent him earlier in the week. The eleven-year-old face glowed with white and black theatrical makeup painted like a skull.

   "What am I supposed to say to a lich," I asked dryly, "you look dreadful? Sorry, lich, I didn't pack any worms for you to eat. And please don't get any ideas about installing an alarm system at the athletic club."

   "Don't worry, Mom," he replied soberly, "liches are only satisfied when they suck the blood from their victims."

   On that happy note, I whisked off for the club with the Kormans' station wagon full of food. The last thing I needed was for my soon-to-be escort, who also happened to be the police officer who had closed my business, to know that I was catering illegally.

   Twenty minutes later I pulled the station wagon into the club parking lot, which held only two cars. Already the night was quite cool, and the rising moon glowed yellow on the eastern horizon. I shivered.

   Pomeroy Locraft greeted me at the door and took one of the boxes from my hands. He was dressed as a beekeeper, complete with mask.

   "Now that's an original costume," I remarked.

   "Beekeeper from another planet," he rejoined, looking over my shoulder. "Newest offering from Stephen King. Trixie's here with me. She's a little drunk, just thought I'd warn you. Seems things got kind of out of control at your place last night."

   "Don't remind me."

   "Where's Arch?"

   "Coming with Tom Schulz. My date," I added.

   "Bringing the cops to keep your ex-husband in line?

   Not a bad idea."

   We set about arranging the platters and punch bowl. Pom said Hal was having a fit about someone breaking the big mirror in the Nautilus room. I had every intention of confessing to my part in that accident after I got through some of the more pressing crises.

   Trixie told me in a whiskeyed whisper that she had thrown away all the shards on the floor. She was trying to explain more when Arch came bouncing in.

   "Where's Tom Schulz?" I asked. "Please tell me he's wearing anything but a police uniform."

   "You know, Mom," Arch said in his serious tone, "you aren't very nice to Investigator Schulz. He's not a clown. He's a magistrate. An enforcer of laws in the human order."

   "Just remember not to mention that I made this food for tonight."

   Arch was nodding doubtfully when Tom Schulz walked in, bedecked in costume and makeup that was somewhere between Bozo and Ronald McDonald. I looked at Arch, who avoided my eyes by surveying the tables laden with food.

   "Patty Sue called while you were in the shower," Arch said. "Said she'll be back tomorrow. Her parents were going to bring her up. She said she wouldn't be able to drive for a while."

   Tom Schulz, Pomeroy, and I all said together, "That's good."

   When Tom and Pomeroy had sauntered off for a friendly glass of punch, I asked Arch, "Do you still miss Ms. Smiley?"

   He nodded without looking at me. This was always a bad sign.

   "On Halloween," I went on, "all the ghosts of dead people are supposed to come out, you know."

   "Don't be weird, Mom."

   "I was just wondering if you'd thought about that."

   He returned my gaze. "Sometimes I miss her. She was the onlv teacher who ever liked me. But if she killed herself, then I guess she was crazy the way everyone says."

   "If she thought you were a really great kid, and she did, then she was not crazy."

   "Mom? I want some chips."

   I reached for his forearm. "Just tell me, Arch, you're not taking this lich stuff too seriously, are you? Curses, violent revenge for dead souls, sucking blood, all that?"

   "What makes you think that?"

   How could I say, From your phone conversation with Todd that I wasn't supposed to be listening to? He sidled away.

   "Arch, old buddy!" Pomeroy called out as Arch approached the tables. "What are you supposed to be, the label on a poison bottle?"

   I looked around the club. The place still looked pretty clean. Trixie had done a passable job of cleaning the floor of the Nautilus room.

   "A lich," Arch was explaining to the Martian beekeeper.

   Hal whizzed over on roller skates. He was dressed as Blues Brother.

   He glared at me from behind his dark glasses.

   He said, "You want to tell me about that mirror?"

I said, "What mirror?"

   He skated away. I took protection at Tom Schulz's side. "Think the Korman doctors will be here tonight?" he asked.

   I nonchalantly rearranged the deviled eggs and the crudités inside a hollowed-out pumpkin.

   "Knowing them," I said, "they aren't going to sit by the bedside of a woman in a coma. It remains to be seen whether they're crude enough to come here tonight. They don't even know about Patty Sue."

   "What about Patty Sue?"

   I told him the story of my hapless roommate, and also about what Laura had said to her, indicating she had some kind of power over Fritz Korman.

   Tom Schulz picked up two brownies. "She didn't use it for twenty years," he said. "But seeing Patty Sue with him, or hearing what Patty Sue had to say, set her off." He thought. "If the docs come, see if you can find out what Laura was threatening. That's our missing link. I'm still running the scalpel for prints and other tests, by the way."

   "Glad to see the cops are doing their job. Don't eat any more brownies until more people get here." He gave me a quizzical X-ray look. I'd blown it. I said, "You see, I'm still a caterer at heart. And I don't know how you expect me to find out what Laura was holding over Fritz's head."

   "Well," said Tom, licking his clown fingers, "you're going to be a detective, you figure things out. Detect."

   At that moment the Jerk made a grand entrance with the teacher on his arm. He was dressed as a doctor. Not very original. She was dressed as a nurse. Poor thing, I hoped she was well stocked with bandages.

   Trixie reappeared from the bathroom, where I assumed she had been either drinking or being sick or both, and for the first time I noticed she was also dressed as a witch. We could have passed as nonidentical twins. Marla swept in, despite the fact that John Richard was here. Maybe that meant she was getting over him. She was dressed as a Las Vegas showgirl, plump but very charming in her net stockings and low-cut leotard. She made a beeline for the food table.

   Then, to my shock, came a stocky bald man dressed in black. His gait and swagger gave him away: Fritz Niebold Korman. I heard an explosion of laughter near him, as someone who had apparently asked what he was screamed, "Oh no! Fritz Korman's dressed as Zorro!"

   I surreptitiously began refilling the punch bowl with ginger ale and fruit juice. No one was talking about Vonette, which was probably a good thing. She would pull through, I was sure.

   In a little while the guy bow and guacamole were almost gone. The empanadas lay untouched. You never could tell what people were going to eat. I resolved to pay no more attention to the status of the food and drink. I didn't want to get into more trouble with Schulz, and Hal had treated me rudely enough that I felt justified in not doing any actual serving.

   One of the club staff put on an aerobics-class tape and men, women, witches, wizards, doctors, nurses, clowns, and showgirls all began to gyrate enthusiastically. Perhaps, like Pavlov's dog, they were used to working hard to this music.

   "Where's your date, the cop?" Pomeroy asked when I was munching the last of the guy bow.

   I waved my hand. "He's out there somewhere," I replied. "I'm not keeping tabs on anything or anyone tonight."

   "Poor Goldilocks," Pomeroy said, "nothing is ever just right. Why don't you come dance with a lonely beekeeper?"

   The music had turned slow. One of the cool-down songs usually reserved for the end of an aerobics class moaned from the speakers. Some astute staff member lowered the lights and as Pom took me into his arms to start dancing, I noticed that I was feeling anything but cooled down. Just the opposite, in fact. Pom must have sensed my reaction. He pulled me in a little tighter, and even in the darkened room I could see the Jerk giving me the Evil Eye. Ha! Let him suffer.

   "I wish you'd take that mask off," I whispered to Pomeroy. "Then I could give you a kiss and make my ex-husband feel terrible."

   "Hey, please don't think of me as a sex object."

   "You know what Laura would have said about that?"

   "No," said Pomeroy.

   "She would have said that a beekeeper should make a stinging reply."

   "She had a way with words, didn't she?" Pomeroy said as he pulled me closer. My heart went zing! But I was determined to stay rational.

   When the music finished he steered me back to the I food table as the couples began to disperse to get refreshments.

   "What did she have on Fritz Korman, though?" I asked as I ignored my own resolution to do nothing, opened a fresh bottle of fruit juice, and sloshed it into the punch bowl.

   He said, "I don't know. I think maybe it was something from that student of hers."

   The empanadas had disappeared during the last dance. Pomeroy was looking around the room.

   He said, "Still don't see your date, sweets, so you're going to have to put up with me for a while. Here they come - your ex-husband and his father. Now you can kiss me." He took off his mask and put it on the floor while I pretended to be busy replenishing brownies.

   "I'm not going to eat a thing you fix," the Jerk said defiantly when I offered him the platter.

   Laura Smiley would have said, Then no brownie points.

   Laura Smiley would have said. . .

   Laura Smiley would have said. . . 

   I thought of jokes. Laura-type jokes. Why didn't the gunslinging prosecutor shoot down the defendant? Because he didn't have enough ammunition. Why did the little girl eat dynamite? Because she wanted to grow bangs. Why dynamite? Why not gunshot? Or some other kind of ammunition?

   Ammunition. I turned away from my ex-husband. Two people dressed as bats began to play racquetball. The ball thwacked against the wall with the same regularity that my mind was making one step, then another. Finally, I had the weapon to shoot the bad guy down. Now all I needed was to load that weapon.

But not yet. After the party, after everyone had gone home.

   Tom Schulz was dancing with Marla. I slid up beside him and whispered, "I figured it out. What she had on him. I even think I know where it is. And I have an idea of who might have put the stuff in Fritz's coffee."

   He shook his clown stomach and said, "At least give me until the end of this song, okay?"

   Marla rolled her eyes at me.

   What the hey, after all this time and effort. I took a deep breath and strolled back to the snack table where Pomeroy, Fritz, and John Richard were engaged in some uneasy conversation. I still hadn't kissed Pomeroy, and my chance was at hand.

   "Better go get your girlfriend," I said to the Jerk, "looks as if she's trying to set up another date."

   And indeed, there was the fianceé on the club's desk phone. She had a serious look on her face. After a moment she came over and whispered something to John Richard, who turned to his father.

   "Dad," John Richard said. His voice cracked. Fritz turned to look at him.

   "Dad," he said again, "she died."

   Fritz, who was drinking punch, brought his hands up to his face. But then, just as suddenly as John Richard's announcement had come, Fritz began to cough. It wasn't just regular coughing, but hacking and wheezing, and he was holding his throat. He slumped to the floor and John Richard knelt down with him.

   "Dad!" John Richard bellowed. "What is it?"

   "That stuff, that stuff!" he cried, pointing to his punch cup.

   I was frozen, statuelike, still in shock from the news of Vonette, but there was John Richard sniffing Fritz's punch cup and giving me an unholy look of rage. John Richard ducked underneath the food table and just as quickly brought out my bottle of phenol-based industrial-strength disinfectant concentrate. There was my name in black marking pen, as clear as could be next to where I'd written POISON with the telltale skull and crossbones.

   John Richard glowered at me. "You!" he screamed. "Again! Schulz! Get over here! Put this bitch under arrest!"

   "Now wait a minute," I murmured, but Schulz was al. ready there talking to John Richard, trying to get him to calm down.

   Schulz leaned over the table.

   He said. "You didn't do this, did you?"

   I said, "You know I didn't."

   Schulz said, "Did you fix this punch and this food?"

   I floundered. I looked at my shoes. I said, "I'm not saying a word until I talk to a lawyer."

   When I raised my eyes to Tom Schulz's silence, his look of disbelief and disappointment was much more difficult to take than John Richard's anger.

   "I didn't know this was going to happen," I said fiercely.

   "Now you listen," Schulz said, jabbing the air with his index finger, "you get over and stand in that corner by that broken mirror. I need to call the Poison Center again, get this man down to the hospital. The guys in my department aren't going to believe this happened while .I was here. I don't believe it myself. But that's not what I don't believe most of all." He eyed me. "I think you know what that is."

   I nodded. "Get your things," I ordered Arch, who had materialized beside me.

   Looking around the room I could see Marla and Trixie in a tête-à-tête. Pomeroy had picked up his mask from beside the table and was heading over toward his net by the jagged mirror. I walked behind him to catch up; there wasn't any way anyone in that room could have missed the interchange between Schulz and me. But maybe Pom would be willing to ignore it.

   Trixie appeared beside us. She said, "This really pisses me off. I mean, again? Honest to God, doctors."

   Marla bounced over. "Jesus," she said, "Vonette's dead. Have you told Arch?"

   "Not yet," I said. "And don't you tell him either. We've got to find out what's going on with Fritz first. But there's something else I need you to do. Call your lawyer. Get him started on extracting money from Korman and Korman for Patty Sue's maternity care. She's going to need it."

   Marla's face lit up like all of Vegas. "You mean I get to take John Richard to court again? For money? Ha! I'm in heaven."

   "Arch," I called, "we're going with Pom. Lots has happened."

   Arch said, "That sure was a short party."

   I touched Pomeroy's arm.

   "Can you give Arch and me a ride home?" I whispered. "I want to go out the back and avoid all this mess."

   He nodded.

   Then when Schulz was leaning over the recumbent Fritz - , I hustled Arch out behind Pomeroy.

   I did want a ride. But I had absolutely no intention of going home.

-27-
   Outside, a sudden breeze swept over us. The moon was still climbing.

   Pomeroy said, "Why do you need a ride from me? Why don't you just climb back on the broomstick you rode over here?"

   "Because," I said impatiently, "I don't feel so good going anywhere in the car loaned to me by my deceased ex-mother-in-law, whose husband I have just been accused by my ex-husband of attempting to poison. Again."

   It was lame, but it would get me started on what it was I wanted to do with Pomeroy.

   He smiled and said, "Let's roll."

   Arch pronounced Pom's four-wheel-drive vehicle cool when we climbed in. The tires spewed gravel as we wheeled out of the parking lot, and the wind picked up the dust and blew it into a whirlwind.

   I put my arm around Arch and hugged him close to me. The sad news could wait.

   After a few moments Pom said, "Tell me where you live, Goldy."

   I took a deep breath. "Well actually, Pomeroy, I don't want to go home just yet."

   He continued to drive, very cool, no emotion. "What did you have in mind? Or should I say, where?"

   I said, "I want to go to Laura's old house. I've got an idea of here to look for something. Drive me to her house and I'll show you."

   Laura Smiley's garage was dank and cold and smelled faintly of oil. Arch said he wanted to stay in the car and I didn't blame him. The wind groaned through the garage window jamb and swished the dry leaves outside. I flipped the switch for the single garage light bulb; it threw a dim light. Groping through the odds and ends on the worktable, I found the box I was looking for and pulled it out to show Pom.

   I said, "The woman loved puns. She left all the clues for us. She put flour in a box with a flower, sugar behind a picture of Sugar Ray Leonard. She was obsessed with punishing Korman and she knew where to keep that ammunition."

   I took a breath, then went on. "She wrote letters to students she loved. And they wrote back. I'll bet she kept every letter. That was the evidence she had, what she never got to use."

   I looked at Pom in the garage's gray light. I said, "I'll bet you knew she didn't drink or take drugs. Someone slipped her a little Valium, enough to calm a person used to drugs, but enough to put a non-drug user, a total abstainer, to sleep. Then that person slashed her wrists with a scalpel blade and put a razor in her hand, except she didn't shave because she was a radical feminist. She didn't kill herself, she was murdered for what was in this box. You figure it out."

   "I can't."

   I read the label on the box. "BB's. In Laura's handwriting. I doubt she was out shooting western long-eared squirrels, Pom. I'll bet she never used her BB gun."

   "You're way ahead of me."

   Arch creaked open the passenger side door of Porn's car. He said, "Mom. I'm tired. Why are we here, anyway?"

   "Just a few more minutes," I told him. "Take it easy." with hands quivering, I opened the box. Inside was what I expected to find, letters in a large scrawling hand bound with ribbons. I riffled through them. The return addressee was the same on each one: Hollenbeck.

   I said, "You see, she even used puns to hide things. Bebe's stuff is in the BB box."

   Pom looked into the box and shook his head.

   I turned to him. "You were looking for it, too, weren't you?"

   He said, "Yes, but. . ."

   "I'm not going to worry about that now," I said. "Listen. She made an appointment to see Fritz the day she died. Saturday. The day I think he killed her. Knowing about Patty Sue, about him seducing a young girl again, made her decide to confront him, made her threaten to bring out the letters after all these years. She could have ruined his practice, a fact he knew all too well. He escorted her out the back door, brought her over here in his old station wagon, maybe on the pretext of talking things through. I'll bet he brought her in that car because he didn't want anyone to recognize his Jeep with its customized plates. Then they had tea or something, in went the Valium, and out came the scalpel that he used and the ladies' razor that she didn't use. He left the surgical pack in the wagon, never thinking anybody would drive it. But the nurse screwed up and sent Laura a bill anyway, even though she wasn't a patient. If she was dead, nobody would think to look here for evidence. I mean, if it looked as if she killed herself."

   I touched the letters, then glanced up at Porn in the darkness.

   "I just need one more thing," I said. "Please take me to Fritz's office."

   He drove, fast but silent. At the office of Korman and Korman I heaved a rock to break the front window, grateful for the things I had learned from Trixie. I climbed in and went to the file I was looking for. I read it and came back to the car.

   "What the hell are you doing?" asked Pom.

   "Just take me out to your place," I begged him, "and we can go through these letters tonight and call Tom Schulz, maybe get him to arrest Fritz instead of me. Arch can stretch out on your bed. I just can't go home now, wanted for another poisoning and with a crazed John Richard on the loose."

   He sighed. "First my car, now my house. Let me know when you want the bees."

   The four-wheel drive jolted and bounced over the muddy road to the Preserve. In my lap I held the box of correspondence between two women, both now dead. The moon came out from behind a cloud and shone through the pines, which were thickening as we roared deeper into the forest. Maybe coming here hadn't been such a great idea. Impenetrable woods populated with deer and elk and other wildlife could not attract trick or treaters. I missed the little neighborhood mites with their bags and plastic pumpkins. They brought Halloween down to kid-size level. Out here, the Eve of All Hallows, with its promise of unleashed spirits, loomed as large as the stands of blue spruce that swung in the evening breeze. Branches of evergreen lining the road fingered Porn's windshield. I reached for Arch's hand.

   "You okay?"

   "Yes, Mom. I just don't understand why we're going out here instead of going home."

   I said, "Just wait."

   When we got to the cabin, I took off my witch's cape and hat and tried to wash the paint off Arch's face. I considered waiting until morning to tell him about the death of his grandmother. But I did not under any circumstances want him to hear it accidentally or casually, from someone else. I decided to break the news after I had tucked him into Pomeroy's cot.

   "I'm sorry, Arch," I whispered. "I have bad news. Vonette died this evening."

   He was very still, his eyes locked into mine. The shadow of the silver greasepaint that had not yielded to the washcloth gave him the aspect of a ghoul. When his tears began I wiped his face on the sleeve of my witch costume.

   "And," I went on slowly, "somebody's tried to poison Fritz again. Except whoever did it probably didn't put enough in again. That's what I think."

   A few moments later he murmured, "Why are we here?"

   "Well," I said with a sigh, "your dad's feeling really crazy right now. His mother's dead and his dad's sick. And you know how your dad can get when he's angry, throwing dishes around and all. So I thought we'd be safer out here."

   He said nothing for a long time while tears continued to well up. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, opened it again.

   He said, "Is Vonette in heaven? With Laura Smiley?"

   I felt the tears prick behind my own eyes as I took my son into my arms.

   I said, “Absolutely. They are up there together, taking care of each other, right now."

   Within half an hour Arch was breathing the comforting shallow wheeze of a child asleep. Pomeroy placed a mug of hot chocolate in front of me and we began the long work of opening letter after letter and reading them in silence. Outside, the wind howled and groaned. The waves of air would start and stop, and once after the sudden cessation of sound I thought I heard a car engine being turned off.

   "Did you hear that?" I asked Pom.

   He shook his head. "Out here you hear all kinds of stuff. You learn to ignore it."

   "Listen to this," I said. I kept my voice low so Arch would not awaken. "Bebe writes, 'He came in this morning when Mom was still asleep. After he did it to me again he wanted to know who I've told. He says this is just sup- , posed to be between us. He says people who betray secrets die. I'm afraid.' "

   "It's bad, all right," said Porn, who was slouched down between the cushions of his homemade sofa. His beekeeper suit was crumpled; he looked like a tired ghost. "I just read where she was bleeding and was afraid to go to a doctor, least of all her own stepfather. So she just waited for it to go away."

   Now there seemed to be sticks breaking outside. Perhaps it was a solitary elk moving through the forest. Pom noticed nothing. He was intensely involved in reading the letters. I thought I must be getting paranoid.

   I read again, " 'Miss Smiley, I have stopped going to church because I know God doesn't like me anymore. Fritz said - ' " I paused and looked up at Pom. "You see, there she uses his name. I'm sure that'll help with laws about evidence." I looked back at the sheet in my hand. "'Fritz said Mom knows. What does that mean, Miss Smiley? What does Mom know?' "

   I shook my head. "Pom. No wonder this kid drank a whole bottle."

   "Yes," came a voice from the door, "that's why she did it, all right."

   And in walked Fritz Korman still in his black Zorro suit. He had a small gun in his hand.

   "Put that thing down," demanded Pomeroy. "Goldy's kid is asleep over there."

   Fritz's bald head shone in the soft yellow light of Pomeroy's lamps. He was leering at us. A broad self-satisfied smile stretched across his handsome face. The devil's own, out on Halloween night. My heart turned to ice.

   I said, "I thought you were so sick."

   He brought his nose up in a wrinkle and kept the gun pointed at us.

   "Goldy, honey," he said, "that's why we have ipecac. To get poison out of people's systems. And since I figured it was Pomeroy or you or one of your buddies who tried to do me in, I've come to find out. And look at what else we've found."

   I said, "You bastard."

   "Now don't go waking up my grandchild, Goldy. He's going to find your and Pom's bodies out in that garage shed after your little lovers' quarrel. Now let's all go out slowly." And he motioned us with the gun to move over to the door.

   "Did you kill Vonette?" I demanded without moving. "She knew about these letters, didn't she? She threatened you, is my bet. How'd you make it look like suicide this time? And what about Laura Smiley?"

   He gave me a rueful smile. "Well now, aren't you full of questions?"

   I pressed on, “Arch found an opened surgical kit in the Chrysler. Is that why you wanted your car back so badly, because of what you had left in there? Was that the car a neighbor heard at Laura's that Saturday morning?" He smirked at me. "What I want to know is, how you got in and out of that house without the police finding any prints."

   He raised his eyebrows, again in mock surprise. He said, "Amazing invention, surgical gloves."

   "Look, Fritz," said Pomeroy evenly. "Cut the crap. Take the letters and go. You don't need to kill us, for God's sake, there's been enough dying already; Just go."

   Fritz cocked his head at Pomeroy; the same leer fixed on his face. For the first time, it occurred to me that my former father-in-law, a man I had liked for so long, was insane.

   "Pomeroy Locraft, you are offending me. You have offended me already. You have accused me of immorality."

   "You mean," I said, "for performing an abortion on his wife who was an alcoholic?"

   "Well, Goldy. You've been reading those files," said Fritz. He turned back to the beekeeper. "Poor Pomeroy, wanted to be a daddy so badly. Came into my office all upset. But it was too late."

   Pomeroy was shaking his head. He said to Fritz, "I wouldn't go outside in that outfit if I were you - "

   "Fritz," I babbled, "where will you go? They'll catch you, you know."

   He snorted. "By the time they figure out I'm gone, I'll be the proprietor of a little hotel in Mexico."

   "What about Vonette?" I demanded, stalling, anything. "How much Demerol did you have to inject her with to kill her? Don't you think the cops are going to figure that out?"

   Fritz looked from one of us to the other. "Vonette's better off now. The police will find nothing. I am tired," he announced, "of listening to you two. Walk."

   And out we shuffled. I gave a last long look at the lump on the bed that was my son.

   Halfway to the shed, Fritz called to us to stop. "Almost forgot," he said over the breeze stirring the trees. "If you and your boyfriend here are going to kill each other, we need another gun. So turn left, boys and girls, and we can go to my car and get one." And then he laughed, a horrible high-pitched sound that made my stomach turn over.

   We turned and marched through the dry grass toward what I could dimly see was Fritz's Jeep. The evening was still cloudy and the moon was high in the sky. Occasionally moonlight swept the meadow. Pom's cabin, the honey shed, the silvered grass would appear - and then be gone. I kept glancing back to see some movement in the cabin. Had Arch awakened? But if he had, what good would it do? Would he have heard? How could he get help? Would he be too terrified or confused to do anything? I had noticed a rural fire number posted on one of the trees near the cabin, an indication that someone had Pomeroy on a map somewhere. Fat lot of good that would do us.

   Fritz was muttering and thrashing through his glove compartment.

   "Goldy," whispered Pom, "when we get down to the shed, I'll try to hit him. If we're in the back of the shed, go out the back door. Then run back to the house and get Arch and take off in my car. The keys are in it."

   "What about you?" I whispered back.

   "Shut up, you two," hollered Fritz. He had come around the car and now held two firearms. "Turn around and get down to that shed."

   We obediently turned and started back over the rocks and grass in the direction of the shed, Fritz behind us. I walked on tiptoe, trying to avoid holes. At one point I stepped on something that felt like eggshells. Then suddenly the clouds parted again and gray-white moonlight flooded the meadow.

   Jesus God in heaven. There was a small figure making its way to the creek, and it was carrying something. A bottle? I couldn't tell. There was something else I could discern, but did not want to accept.

   It was Arch.

-28-
   When the three of us reached the shed Fritz ordered Pom to go in first and turn on the light, with the warning that I would be shot immediately if the light did not come on. Pom did as he was told and we walked in. Surprise. Between the shelves loaded with supplies there was just enough room for a car. A blue Volvo.

   "I knew you had her car," I said to Pom.

   "I was supposed to be fixing it," he said.

   "I already figured out that you were looking for the evidence she had against Fritz. Just tell me what you were doing at the athletic club the other night," I said.

   "I told you two to shut your mouths," said Fritz.

   But then I scanned the shelves in the shed, and I knew what Pom had been looking for Thursday night.

   "Okay, this is how it's going to work," Fritz announced. "Goldy, you get over - "

   "FIREBALL, FIREBALL, COME TO THE AID OF THE LICH!" shouted Arch's young voice from outside.

   “Shut up!" shouted Fritz. "Hey, who is that? Come out here! Hey!"

   Through the air from the blackness came some kind of a projectile, whizzing, ablaze. . . It was a Molotov cocktail.

   "Get out!" shouted Pom. He grabbed my arm and shoved me out the shed door. I heard the bottle shatter and explode. Pom was on the ground beside me. Fritz was nowhere.

   And then I heard what sounded like a low roar, beginning slowly and rising, louder and louder.

   The bees. Arch had pulled the rope.

   "I've got to get one of the smoke pots going to get rid of the bees," Pomeroy cried into my ear. "They're going to sting Fritz to death. Go around back! Get Arch!"

   The warm weather had dried the grass to straw. Already smoke was billowing heavily from one side of the shed, and flames were licking the grass.

   "Arch!" I screamed. "Arch! Where are you?"

   A gust of wind fanned the flames into a roar that swallowed my voice. The smoke stung my eyes and nose. My breath caught in my mouth. A bee landed on my arm and I screamed.

   "Arch! Arch!”

   The smoke was so thick that my eyes felt as if they were on fire. My own tears blinded me as I stumbled toward the meadow. The air was hot. I felt wildly with my hands for trees, bush branches, boulders, anything by which Arch might be huddled. Pine tree branches whacked and scratched my face. I fell over a clump of rocks.

   "Arch!"

   A thin voice called, "Over here, Mom!"

   I jumped and ran in the direction of that sound. Branches again clawed my face. Twice I stumbled on snake holes and fell into black straw. The air was thick, unbreathable with the smoke. From time to time I would feel the brush of a bee. I ran for Arch, calling. His responding voice was my beacon. Finally I could see the cabin.

   Then came the sound of vehicles cracking over small trees. Who? Twirling red and white lights flashed through the web of branches and pungent air. What was it?

   Oh, God. It was the fire department. “Arch!" I called. “Arch! Arch!"

   Turning back to the shed I could see some flames, mostly smoke.

   "Arch!"

   "Here, Mom," came a small voice by a tree. I stumbled over to the sound.

   I pulled him to me. "Arch," I said, '”Arch."

   He said, his voice muffled by my squeeze, "Is Fritz dead?"

   "I don't know," I cried. I could hear men's voices shouting. Figures were running down to the shed. "What were you trying to do by throwing that bomb?"

   Arch said, "I just wanted to scare him. He was acting so weird!"

   I shook my head, hugged him tighter. "And did you call the fire department before you started this blaze?"

   He pulled back from my chest.

   "Of course," he said matter-of-factly. "Pom showed me how to use his radiophone once. The fire number is on it." His face was shiny with sweat. Despite his apparent calm, his voice was shaking. "And I told the fire department to call Tom Schulz."

   At that moment, I was so glad to have him alive and with me that I did not care whom he had called.

   "Thanks, Arch," I whispered into his ear. "You probably saved my life, you know. Pom's, too." I paused. "Hon, I've been so worried about you. Potions and revenge and weapons. It's not the same as life, you know, real life."

   He let his head bob forward. "I know," he said, barely audible over the din from the firefighters. "But" - and now his eyes behind the thick glasses implored me - "it was just because of the kids at school. Todd and I were going to put a curse on them. But it didn't work. I mean we sort of chickened out. You know? We had a curse and a weapon, but the milkwort potion was too gross. I got to make the Molotov cocktail anyway; because I remembered where Pom keeps his extra gasoline tank. And I, uh, let the bees go by pulling the rope that warns of an intruder. Man, I can't wait to tell Todd about that."

   What could I say? He was my son. He didn't cater to anybody either. Still. The games were his escape from reality. What he had done was brave, but much too hazardous for a boy of eleven. I hugged him again.

   "You're really great," I said. "But when all this is over we're both going to go see the school psychologist. We need to have a long chat."

   He looked up at me. The smoke stung my eyes to tears again when he said, “All I need is you, Mom."

   By the time we made our way back up to the cabin, Tom Schulz, still in his clown costume, was sitting on a tall stool boasting about having the situation under control. Fritz, he informed us, was going by rescue squad to a hospital in Denver. He had stings over half his body. And Schulz had sent an investigator to the Korman house to confiscate the records of injections the doctor claimed to have given Vonette. He was going to see if it matched the toxicological report he was ordering.

   "I've got a cop with Korman now," Tom said. "Because we don't even have to wait for those records. That doctor is under arrest."

   "Finally," interjected Pomeroy, who had reentered his cabin, covered with soot.

   I sank onto the couch and pulled Arch down next to me. I never wanted to let him out of my sight again. For the next few hours, anyway. The muscles in my legs and arms ached. A sudden wave of exhaustion swept through my body.

   "And you, Miss G," Tom said as he wagged a heavy finger at me, "are in one load of trouble for making that food."

   "Tell me what you arrested Fritz for," I demanded weakly.

   He puffed out his chest. "Investigation of first-degree murder. Man, I am so smart. I got that scalpel checked for blood and fingerprints. Lucky for us the record on Laura Smiley said she was blood type AB negative, which just happened to match the blood on the blade and the handle. Best of all, I found a right index fingerprint."

   I gave him a questioning look. "I thought there were surgical gloves . . . .

   "Oh, Goldy," Tom rejoined, "you got a long way to go before you become a grown-up detective. Not to mention that your ability to follow orders needs some work. Man wears surgical gloves, touches his forehead or something, picks up some body oil which has some kind of enzymes or something in it, hell, I'm not too sure myself. Anyway, then he touches something and some of that enzyme and oil stuff comes off and bingo, the print comes through the glove." He smiled proudly. "I sent that scalpel down to Denver for a laser picture, got a print, matched it with the Department of Motor Vehicles print of Fritz Korman's right index, and what do you know."

   I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the cushion.

   "Well," I said, "aren't you something. Take that box of letters, too. They ought to help your case."

   "Hey, you finally found something! How about that." He slid off his stool and looked into the box. I said, "I think that's what Laura threatened him with. Vonette might have known about them too, but was too afraid or embarrassed to reveal what she knew. They both probably threatened him with exposure. In Aspen Meadow that would have been the kiss of death. Which it was for them."

   "Sort of like closing down a catering business?" he said with a smile. He stopped talking for a minute, shifted his weight on the stool. "Well, Miss Goldy; after all this, I ought to at least rate breakfast with you," he said with a big clown grin. "Make that brunch. Soon's I get some of the work on this done." He eyed Pomeroy, who was finally removing the sooty beekeeper suit. Then he added, "I mean, since we never did get to finish our date."

   I looked at Tom Schulz. I said, "You bet. Give me five minutes and you can take Arch and me home, out for breakfast when the sun comes up, whatever. Meanwhile, I need to have a little chat with the beekeeper. Outside."

   Pom gave me a rueful glance and said, "Let's go." The two of us walked in silence down to the creek. Our feet swished through the grass. The clouds had left the night sky, but acrid smoke stench still hung in the air. Lights from the flashing fire trucks made Pomeroy's tired face look like a statue in a city square at night.

   I said, "You had a predator who raided one of your hives a couple of weeks ago. A skunk, maybe. That's why you couldn't bring me any more honey before the funeral, right?"

   "Yes, a skunk. So what?"

   "Arch didn't forget the things he learned from you," I went on. "He talked about those facts, even used them in his games. When a wizard trespasses a secret lair, he is attacked by a straight-flying line of stingrays. Just like bees. You have to approach danger from the side. Just like bees. When you have unwanted animals, you call the Division of Wildlife. Just like bees. In a game, when you have problems with giant water rats, you crack open a raw alligator egg and mix in chopped-up electric eel. Just like bees. Only with bees, when you have a skunk or rat or field mouse getting into the honey, you crack open an egg and mix the yolk with poison, right?"

   "Yeah. So?"

   "A poison called Just One Bite, right? That you just happen to keep on the shelves of your shed. Still right?"

   Silence. Then he said, "That's right."

   "And when a caterer turned cleaning lady tells you she's going to be cleaning the club, you sneak over to look for - the poisonous disinfectant, right?"

   "Right."

   "But you make the mistake of bringing the club cleaning woman flowers in the hospital, and you call her 'sweets' at a party, both of which are remarkably like the bouquet and note you sent her after you first tried to poison Doctor Fritz Niebold Korman, right?"

   "Goldy, I wasn't trying to kill him," he protested. "I wanted to, to terrify him, make him sweat. I wanted him to get real worried about dying."

   "Uh-huh. And you mention to your protégé, the one who is so easy to talk to, who sounds just like a little adult, and who just happens to be my son, that Laura didn't get along with Fritz and Vonette, and that furthermore, Fritz had no respect for human life. Right again?"

   There was a long silence. Pom crossed his arms and stared at the black rushing creek.

   He said, "After my wife had her abortion, she left. All I could think about was death. And of course, getting back at him for what he'd done. I know it's not grounds for a malpractice suit. She did what she wanted. But nobody thought about me. It was my child, too, even if she was an alcoholic and the baby probably would have had problems. I wanted Korman to think about death for a while. I'm sorry if Arch took what I said too seriously."

   "It's his grandfather we're talking about."

   "I am really sorry. Revenge makes you a little crazy: I'm sorry about your business, too," he said. In the moonlight I could see his furrowed brow, his earnest dark eyes. "That's why I wanted to teach Patty Sue how to drive, so she could help you - "

   “All because of your ex-wife's abortion? I thought in AI-Anon you were supposed to learn how to take care of yourself. Let go of the addict in your life. I wish I'd figured out earlier what you were doing in that organization, instead of just working on Laura." I paused. "Wake up and smell the coffee, Pom. You want to have children, get married and have them."

   We didn't say anything. I crossed my arms. It was time to go.

   I said, "You know what Newman says to Redford in The Sting when they first meet? 'Revenge is for suckers.' " I was quiet for a minute before saying, "I have to tell Schulz you're the one. Unless you're ready to 'fess up."

   Pom turned away from me completely. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the creek. He cleared his throat. I let him have his silence.

   "I'm ready," he said after a moment. "The person I wanted to hurt is being punished. You don't need to turn me in. I can do that myself."

I touched his shoulder. He headed back to the cabin.

   Later, although I could not say how much later, Tom Schulz was driving me out of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve in a police car. We bounced along the dirt road in silence. Despite all the excitement Arch had fallen asleep in the backseat within minutes.

   The night was very still. Overhead, a sea of stars glittered. The moon was crossing to the west and the wind had died down. Or, I reflected, since it was near dawn and already All Saints' Day, the wind like everything else had given up the ghost.

   "Guess you'll be getting back into the catering business," Tom finally remarked.

   "Guess so," I replied, "since I don't need to worry about people coming along and dumping strange chemicals into people's drinks at my functions."

   "You know," he said, "I had a feeling it was Pomeroy. Quiet people make me nervous."

   "How'd you figure that out?"

   "I thought I saw him. Couldn't be sure. It was right after you were talking real close to him, he bent over to put that net hat down and brought out the cleaner. Sometimes you don't arrest someone right away, especially when Murder One and a bunch of other stuff are a possibility at the same time. Anyway," he said with a self-satisfied smirk, "when you followed him I figured you knew he'd done it too, and that you could take as good care of him as I could."

   "I thought you didn't want me to leave the party! Was that all an act?"

   "Course it was. If Goldy's the prime suspect, Pomeroy won't try to bolt before I've got some evidence. Or a confession, thank you very much. You mind?"

   "I can't believe you! Pomeroy could have killed me!"

   "Oh, I think you and Arch could've defended yourselves. It took three fire trucks and six smoke pots just to get the bees and Molotov cocktail under control."

   I smiled in spite of myself.

   Tom Schulz turned onto the highway. Funny thing, revenge.

   Revenge against Fritz Korman was what had motivated Laura because of Bebe and Patty Sue, Vonette because of Laura and Bebe, Pomeroy because of his baby, Arch because of his teacher and his grandmother. Nor was I above reproach, with my hatred of John Richard Korman, the jerk I used to be married to.

   Ahead the highway stretched like a smooth gray ribbon pulling us into the day when we remember the dead. To the west the mountaintops were fiery with dawn's light. Schulz pointed to the pine trees, whose needles glowed silver.

   Why do we remember the dead? I had asked my Sunday school class when we were studying All Saints' Day. So we can let them go.

   Tom Schulz pulled up in front of the Aspen Meadow pastry shop. The warm scent of cinnamon rolls wafted into the morning coolness. I was happy to be there, happy to be with Tom Schulz, happy, period.

   He said, "I love this place. Let's start with some rolls. Not as good as yours, of course."

   "Flattery will get you absolutely - "

   "Same old Goldy. Okay, this being the beginning of a new day and all that, you better let me start by just buying you a cup of coffee."

   I smiled and said, "Sure. Black. You put anything in it;  I'll kill you."