General Farquhar offered to work on the charcoal. I rushed back to the kitchen to start the parade of food. I put the burgers and shrimp on a large tray, and prayed for balance.
When I came back out, Sissy and Julian had appeared on the patio. Bo, Adele, Weezie, and most of the other adults were sitting on white Adirondack chairs, chatting amiably. Julian sat apart, alone. Weezie cast occasional smoldering glances in the direction of Brian and Sissy. Julian was more direct: he glared. I followed his line of vision in time to see big Bri lean forward, ostensibly to tell Sissy something important, but really just to glance down her dress.
“Brian!” screeched Weezie. “Come over here! We’re talking about Philip Miller!”
My heart ached. I wanted to hear what they were going to say, but I had to get the salads and asparagus. When I was almost to the sliding glass door General Farquhar trotted up behind me and caught me lightly by the arm.
“This is a party,” he said forcefully. “I want you to enjoy it.”
“Yes, sir! Just like the bird-watching!”
He said, “You’re part of the family.” Behind us the hostile voices of Weezie and Brian careened into shrieking.
I said, “You bet. Just let me go get the rest of the food.” I smiled in what I hoped was a familial manner. “Did you ever find your detonator?”
“No. The biscotti come out?”
“Beautifully,” I said, and turned to go back to the house.
In the kitchen I had the sudden hollow feeling that dusk often brings. I tried to put the feeling aside as I balanced covered bowls on a large tray. I wished Schuiz were here. Arch had his friends. Among the adults I was odd woman out. Why hadn’t I invited him? You should be used to solitude by now, I told myself. I had seen him just this morning, and he had said he would be in court all afternoon. Could he possibly have some other engagement on a Tuesday night? I put down the tray and punched in Schulz’s office number.
“Speak!” he answered gruffly. His voice flooded me with warmth.
“Hi, it’s me, the Farquhars are having a dinner party and I was wondering if you’d like to join us, sorry about the late notice.” I ended out of breath.
“You getting lonely or something?”
I bristled but held it in. “Just trying to be nice.”
“You are nice. And I miss you, too.” Wonderful words. Why should I be upset if he could read my mind? John Richard had always said I expected him to read my mind. Schuiz said, “No can do, sorry to say. I’m waiting for a couple of calls back on that background check.”
We promised to see each other the next day and rang off. I felt much better until I hoisted my tray and reemerged onto the patio. Brian and Weezie were still arguing. Let the mood fit the food. I tried to think festive. But the squabble had become so heated that even Arch and his friends were watching from beside a stand of shrubs.
“My family owned Flicker Ridge,” Weezie was saying. “J was the one who brought it to the,” she spat out the last word, “marriage.”
“Salad, anybody?” I said brightly. I proffered the tray. “I’m just about to put them out here on the buffet—”
Weezie interrupted me, her voice still scathing. “Philip Miller and his Protect Our Mountains group got in the way, didn’t he, Bri? He had an ecological strategy for the ridge; he even talked to me about it right before he died. But he doesn’t seem to have left it to anybody. What luck for Brian Harrington Associates.”
Adele turned a miserable face to me. Some party.
“Let’s eat!” I cried. Grateful for a diversion, the group rushed toward the buffet. I concentrated on the grill, and shortly the shrimp and burgers threw off luscious barbecue smoke. The hostilities ceased while people ate.
When I brought around a second tray of the mixed grill, Arch murmured to me, “Thanks, Mom, this is really great.” I told him to be ready to do tricks when the food was gone.
When the guests had revisited the buffet for thirds and begun to look around expectantly for dessert, I said, “Who’s ready for a magic show?”
All the faces turned to me. I looked at Arch. After a moment’s hesitation, he assumed a businesslike manner. He asked a cohort to help him carry out the stand he and Julian had made from plywood. On its front was painted ARCHIBALD THE MAGNIFICENT. Julian put a tape into his recorder and a whiny horn fanfare crackled through the air. Deck chairs scraped and screeched over brick as the guests turned their attention to Arch. I looked around nervously. Arch had never performed in public before, and I didn’t want any interruptions. Weezie was still casting murderous glances at Brian, while he in turn winked at Sissy. It was as if he were trying to say, I’m still in control of this situation. But he did look shaken.
Arch bowed to light applause. He tossed the satin cape over his shoulders and flourished a baton, one John Richard had bought him in Denver. He began with some of the tricks I already knew: the liquid in the newspaper, the string through the neck, the disappearing/ reappearing cotton balls under plastic cups. There was polite clapping after each. I was enjoying myself so much that I almost forgot about dessert. I had dipped the biscotti in Valrhona couverture, a dense, silky chocolate that wrapped itself around cookies like a luxurious blanket. Then I had used meringue to attach them to three large Styrofoam cones. I had put a sparkler on top of each. Showmanship demanded appearing with the cones at the conclusion of Arch’s routine. Accordingly, I gave the magic show a wide berth and scuttled back up to the kitchen.
What I did not know was that Brian Harrington was right behind me.
While I was assembling the plates for ice cream to have with the biscotti, he cleared his throat to let me know of his presence. I whirled and gave him my meanest stare.
I said, “Don’t come near me. Don’t try anything. If you make me ruin another dessert, I’ll call 911.”
He said, “Calling 911 won’t do you any good.”
I intentionally raised my voice. “No funny stuff, Mr. Harrington. I’m not kidding. Keep your distance. I’m busy.”
“Lower your voice this instant,” he hissed. “I want to talk to you about Philip Miller.”
“Make it fast,” I said as I searched for the almond fudge ice cream.
“Just look at me, will you? Goldy? Please? I have this feeling you’re the only one who will understand.”
I slapped the ice-cream boxes down on the kitchen island, pressed my lips together, and gave him the benefit of my attention. “You have two minutes.”
“Look,” he said, “I haven’t always done the right thing. I mean, I admit it.”
“Do I look like a priest?”
“What I’m trying to tell you is that. . . sure, I didn’t like the guy. He was a pain with his do-gooder liberalism trying to put hardworking builders and developers on the unemployment rolls.”
“Hey! Spare me the Right Wing Economics lecture, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” he went on, “and I heard the rumors about him with my wife. I’m not sure those are true. Are you?” His eyes questioned me.
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I didn’t know him all that well myself.” I moved the ice-cream boxes around on the island. I added, “Although I thought I did.”
“Right. Well.” He sensed the end of the two-minute warning. “Here’s the thing. Okay, I didn’t like him. He could have undermined my project. He could have been involved with my wife. But. . . twelve days ago, he called me. Very mysterious. He said my life was in danger. I said, Is this some kind of threat, you Greenpeace of shit?”