“Your two minutes are up,” I announced loudly.
Brian Harrington regarded me earnestly. “I hung up on him. Tossed and turned all night. Next day I drove over to the club, I don’t know why, thought I might run into somebody I knew, have a Bloody Mary. I was sneaking around though; didn’t want anybody to know I was there. Thought 1 was losing my mind! I saw a phone and panicked. Dialed 911. Told them they had to come help me, my life was in danger.”
I stared at him.
“I chickened out,” he said. “You know, I was just so paranoid, I thought the cops might be in on it, too. So I left. Next thing I knew, Philip Miller was dead.”
24.
The anonymous phone call.
I said, “Have you told the police?”
“I tried that once and I couldn’t go through with it. With Miller gone, what could they do now?”
“A lot more than I can. Look, I’m in the middle of a job.” His head and shoulders slumped in defeat. Well, what did he expect me to do? I found a pen and then reached for a paper cocktail napkin. “Here’s the number of a friend of mine at the Sheriff’s Department.” I jotted down Schulz’s number. “Call him and tell him what happened. He’s an investigator looking into Philip’s death.”
Brian gave me his earnest look again. “I just didn’t want you to think that I had something to do with your boyfriend’s accident.”
“Why do you care what I think?”
“Well, the implication of what my wife was saying . . . the innuendos . . . it’s a small town. You know, with all my real estate developments, everyone always thinks I’m such a son of a bitch.” He lifted his eyebrows.
“With all the money you make, it can’t bother you that much.”
“Oh, but it does, you cute little thing! If only you knew! Sometimes I wonder, how long must I endure such pain to the psyche?”
“Such pain to the. . . ?” The Styrofoam cones scraped against my fingers like chalk going the wrong way on a blackboard. “How long must you endure . . . ?”
He closed his eyes and shrugged.
How long must Aspen Meadow endure such pain to the palate?
“You son of a bitch!” I yelled.
Brian Harrington opened his eyes wide and jumped back. “Now what? I told you I didn’t have anything to do with your boyfriend’s . . . Oh! Don’t tell me you’re still mad about that cake!”
“I suppose your middle name is Peter, eh, Pierre?”
“I don’t know what you’ve been drinking while you’ve been catering, but you must have me confused—”
Julian poked his mowed blond head into the kitchen. “Hello in here! The general sent me up. Can the two of you chill out so we can have dessert?”
I said, “Chill out yourself, Julian. I’ve just found my anonymous food critic.”
Julian glanced from one of us to the other. He said, “Who? Him?” He sucked air into his cheeks, blew it out at Brian Harrington, then set his mouth in a frown. “What have you got against Goldy?”
“Nothing! Nothing! Why are people always accusing me of things I didn’t do?” Brian Harrington turned on his heel and marched out of the kitchen.
Julian said, “Whoops. Guess you won’t be doing any more catering for the Harringtons.”
I slammed the Styrofoam cones on the tray. “Nothing would give me more pleasure. Now, Julian, if you really want to be helpful, would you please take these matches and try to do a better job with the sparklers than Brian Harrington did with the charcoal?”
When we arrived at the sliding glass and screen doors that opened onto the patio, a drumroll was issuing from the tape recorder. The guests had turned their attention to the pool. Arch was standing on the diving board. I almost dropped the tray. His hands were cuffed behind him.
“Open this door, open this damn door,” I demanded of a startled Julian.
“I haven’t lit the—”
“Just do it!”
Julian scraped the screen in its tracks. I wiggled through, hurried across the concrete, and slapped the tray down on the buffet table. I sent Arch vibes: Don’t dive off that board with your hands cuffed, don’t dive, don’t. . .
His body lifted and nipped. There was a splash. I counted. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. . .
No Arch.
I did what any mother would do. I ran to the pool and jumped in. Water drenched my clothes, pulling me down. I kicked off my shoes, took a deep breath, and went under. Arch was standing on the bottom of the pool, thrashing about with the cuffs. I swam and kicked fiercely until I got to him. I grabbed him under the armpits just as the cuffs came off. Lunging from the bottom of the pool, I tugged him upward as hard as I could.
“Braaugh!” he gargled when we splashed through the surface. He coughed and choked on the water. “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop! What are you doing? Mom! Jeez! You’ve ruined everything!” He broke away from me and doggie-paddled to the side of the pool.
“I was trying to help you,” I sputtered, to no avail.
Effusive clapping greeted us when we climbed up the ladder. Arch gave me his most hateful look.
“You screwed everything up! Why do you always have to embarrass me?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” When I could bear his angry eyes no longer, I stared down. My clothes were soaked. Puddles were forming around my feet.
“Did you plan it that way?” cried Weezie. Her voice was shrill with delight. “That was quite a performance!”
Arch slunk into the house. I went after him and plodded upstairs to change. When I got to the third floor there was a tightness in my throat. Next door Arch crashed about, looking, I assumed, for dry clothes. I found tissues, wiped my face, and coughed.
All I had ever wanted was to be a good mother. I hadn’t thought it would be that difficult. I read the books. I took my child to the pediatrician, the park, and the playground. 1 read to him and spent time with him and helped with the schoolwork. I’d never even had a regular job until it was a financial necessity. I just wanted to take care of Arch. I thought all I had to do was love him, keep him safe and well, and do the best I could. In turn, he would turn out well-adjusted, happy, and appreciative.
Right.
The sun finished its slide into the mountains. The air was suddenly chilly. When I was putting on a sweat suit and dry sneakers, there was a knock at my door.
“Mom, it’s me.”
I wrapped a towel around my wet head and opened the door.
He avoided my eyes. His voice was shaky. He said, “Mom, I know you want to help. But it’s just not working.”
“Honey, please. I thought you were drowning.”
“Well. I just wanted to tell you. I’m definitely going to ask Dad if I can go live with him for a while.”
Somebody had told me once, In times of crisis, do nothing. I wished I had remembered that before The Poseidon Adventure.
Now I said, “Let’s talk about this tomorrow. You’ve got guests downstairs.”
The show went on. The biscotti-cum-sparklers were a hit. Now that the excitement was over, both adults and children conversed quietly. I felt low. I didn’t know whether I wanted to eat a dozen biscotti or none at all, so I settled on three. They were heavenly: the thin coating of dark chocolate blended exquisitely with the breath of anise and crunch of almonds, and melded perfectly with the hazelnut-flavored French roast coffee. The planet Venus floated in a dazzle of brightness just above the western horizon. The perfumed evening breeze brought the guests’ voices down to hushed tones. The guests discovered the delights of dipping biscotti into their demitasse before eating them, and there was much exclamation over the result.