“Who’s there?” I called. My whole body shivered.
There was sudden quiet.
14.
In the relationship with John Richard, I had learned I was a physical coward. There was no way I was going outside. If you weren’t secure, why call it a security system, anyway? The perimeter motion detector would scream if the house was violated. I crept back to bed and turned out the light.
The next morning, I de-activated the security system and stepped outside to look around and call for Scout the cat. Lime-green aspen leaves clicked in the early breeze, like the sound of tiny hands clapping. It did not sound like a splash.
I had the feeling of being watched. There was no sign of anything or anyone who might have been by the pool after Arch came in. My eye found Scout. He was sitting very still, watching me from inside the French doors leading to the patio.
“Lot of help you are,” I said. He looked up with reproachful pale cat eyes. He was still too spooked by the dogs he’d encountered during his tenure of homelessness to have been last night’s noisemaker. Don’t venture into the world, his impassive face said. It’s dangerous out there.
Adele gleefully announced we had a go for the Audubon Society picnic. Wednesday and Thursday I finished planning and ordering the food for that affair and Adele and Bo’s wedding-anniversary party on the fourteenth. Philip’s absence was a hole to be filled with work. Keeping busy helped deal with grief.
Bo and Adele were also preoccupied—with phone calls, committee meetings, buying and planting flowers for the garden. The general was one of those rare men who love to shop. Late Thursday afternoon he surprised me with a package of fresh sole fillets. He asked if I could do something with them for dinner the next night. He began a long explanation about becoming an Episcopalian when he married Adele. But there really is no such thing as a former Catholic, and could we start having fish on Fridays? In case Vatican II had been wrong.
We eat for different reasons, I said with great seriousness. Fish was no problem.
Friday morning I awoke with a heaviness in my chest. It’s not the day of a funeral that’s most difficult, or even the next day or the next. I did my yoga routine, turned off the security system, and made my way to the kitchen. No, the first few days you have the memory of the church service, of the casseroles afterward, of the conversations you had with friends when you remembered the person who died. Within a couple of days, though, the reality of the loss hits. The person is gone. Forever.
I set about making Julia Child’s Fish Fillets Silvestre for the evening meal. Adele and the general were taking a break from all their activities by making a day trip to Vail. Outside, the rhythmic slap-slap of Julian’s arms hitting the water started up.
I poached the fillets and made the sauce—all but its final butter enrichment—and set the whole thing to chill. I looked around the kitchen and tried to figure out what to do next. It was still too early to start breakfast for the household.
I made a double espresso. I put a call in to Schulz. He was not at his desk; I left a message. I hadn’t thought of anything, nor did I know anything new, but I missed him.
I sipped the espresso: Lavazza. General Bo had picked some up for me when he bought the sole. However, the caffeine was not doing its perk-up job. My heart felt as if it were in the grip of a vise. I phoned Marla.
“Want to do lunch?” I said.
She said, “It’s too early in the morning. I can’t believe my ears.”
We agreed on Aspen Meadow Café, near Philip’s office. Well, I was going to have to go back to that part of town sometime. As soon as I hung up, Schulz called.
“That was quick,” I said.
“Are you in a good mood or a bad mood?”
“Good, of course,” I said. “Why?”
“Then you haven’t seen the paper, I take it.”
I had forgotten. “Don’t tell me.”
He exhaled deeply. In sympathy, I thought. Schulz’s voice sounded far away when he said, “I’m not going to read it to you again, Miss G., and risk having my head blown off. Why don’t you bring Arch over tonight. We’ll cook out.”
I reflected. I liked sole, but not that much.
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love to.”
“I know you feel funny. . . with that fellow you were dating gone—”
“I need to get my mind off the accident. Philip and I had just been seeing each other for about a month. It wasn’t that big a deal.” Without thinking, I added, “Probably I imagined more than was actually there.”
Schulz was quiet. Then he said, “Well. I might need to talk to you about our friend Dr. Miller.”
“Talk.”
“Confidential, you understand. You were his friend.”
“I told you. I’m beginning to think I didn’t know that much. What’s your question?”
“We found something in his briefcase. Thought it was a drug at first. Had to send it off to be analyzed.”
“And?” ’
“Ever heard of cantharidini”
You bet I’d heard of it. I said, “Spanish fly. Deadly as can be. Did it show up in the autopsy?”
“No, that’s the weird thing. You have any idea why he would have something like that?”
Just for the slightest fraction of a moment, I thought I heard someone else on the line. Not the CIA listening in, but someone breathing. My body went cold. Three nights ago it was sounds outside. Now it was eavesdropped conversations. That would teach me to read Edgar Allan Poe.
“None whatsoever,” I said, “but let’s talk about it tonight.” I tried to put some urgency into my voice, something he would read as my having to hang up.
“Before you rush off,” he said, “you might like to know that because of finding this substance, they’ve given me the go-ahead to investigate this as a suspicious death.”
I was quiet. Could I hear anything on the line besides Schulz’s voice?
After a moment I said, “I can’t talk about this any more right now. I’m looking forward to tonight.”
I listened on the line after Schulz had hung up. Perhaps there was a very gentle clicking off. It was hard to tell. What had Philip said the last time we’d talked? Not on the phone.
Great.
• • •
STRAWBERRY SUPER PIE
CRUST:
¾ cup (1 ½ sticks) unsalted butter, melted
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon confectioners’ sugar
¾ cup chopped pecans
TOPPING:
2 pounds strawberries, divided
½ cup water
1 cup sugar
3 tablespoons cornstarch
FILLING:
1 ¼ cups whipping cream
¼ pound cream cheese, softened
¾ teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup confectioners’ sugar
Preheat oven to 375°. For crust, mix melted butter with flour, confectioners’ sugar, and pecans. Press into a buttered 10-inch pie plate. Bake for 25 minutes or until light brown. Allow to cool completely.
Start topping by mashing enough strawberries to make 1 cup. Cut tops off rest of strawberries and set aside. Place mashed berries in a saucepan and add water. Mix sugar and cornstarch into crushed berry mixture and bring to a boil on top of stove, stirring. Boil about one minute or until clear and thickened. Set aside to cool.
For filling, whip cream until stiff. In another bowl, beat cream cheese with vanilla and confectioners’ sugar. Carefully fold whipped cream into cream cheese mixture. Spread in cooled crust and refrigerate.