Dying for Chocolate

The rubber-covered end squeaked across the tile floor like chalk on a board. When the jam was in place, General Bo ordered me to try to open the front door. Of course, it wouldn’t budge.

“Thanks for—” I began in a wavering voice. Actually, I didn’t know how I felt about his help.

“You’re part of the family,” he said solemnly. “Just make sure that when you wedge this thing in, it’s under a door that opens toward you.”

And with that the lesson was over. No sentiment. No sure-you’re-all-right? The general took off down the hall with his long loping stride. It was the kind of walk people used to pace off a large distance. How could he get around the side of the house without my seeing him? How can you kill someone without making any noise? How could Philip have been having an affair with Weezie Harrington?

Well. I had cooking to do. I went back to the kitchen and mixed the Dijon vinaigrette and, pretending it was The Jerk’s head, shook vigorously. I tried to focus on what Sissy had told me about the lust-inducing properties of onions and garlic and peppers. Concentrate, I told myself.

But I couldn’t think. I couldn’t catch my breath. Arch would be all right. John Richard had never harmed him.

Arch would be back tomorrow night.

The avocados were impossible to skin without getting my hands slimy. I looked at my green-covered fingers. Would I always be a failure at relationships? Philip’s touch on my arm, the earnest look in his eyes, these came back. Had I been so bad a judge of character? Philip had been my age. Weezie was older. Not that an age difference made a difference anymore. Still, it was hard to believe that Philip and Weezie had been sexually intimate, when he and I had not.

The phone rang. After the mess with The Jerk, I did not want to talk to anybody. But the phone rang and rang, and the machine did not pick up. I was grateful that the Farquhars allowed me to use their third line for my business. The theory was that I would answer “Farquhars” to two lines and “Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right!” to the third. Usually by the time I figured out which line was ringing I forgot to do this last, and just answered “Farquhars” to all three. So far, my regular clients had recognized my voice.

I grabbed a towel and picked up the phone. “Farquhars,” I announced, but was met with silence. There was hesitant throat-clearing as somebody checked to make sure this was the right number.

“Is this Goldilocks the caterer?”

“Yes indeed, what can I do for you?”

“Is this Goldy Bear the caterer?”

“Well, uh, yes,” I said.

My name was not my fault. My first name was Gertrude. Goldy was my nickname from childhood, and I had disliked it. Korman was my last name in adulthood, and I had disliked it

even more. But the resumption of my maiden last name, along with my nickname, made me sound like an escapee from a children’s story.

“This is George Pettigrew from Three Bears Catering in Denver.”

Right away, I knew we had trouble. (Don’t want trouble? I could hear John Richard’s mocking voice in my inner ear.) The ensuing conversation proved I was going to get it anyway.

George and his wife had been in business for five years. They were strictly small-time. I mean, I had never heard of them. But they had read the article in the Mountain Journal and were loaded for bear, no joke. George was screaming about copyright infringement. How dare I use the name Bear? he wanted to know. Because it was mine, I said. But my divorce had taken place after George and his wife had started Three Bears. It was their

name, he insisted. I said, Oh yeah? Then why not call it Two Pettigrews!

He said he’d see me in court and hung up.

I stared at the phone for what felt like an eternity. I couldn’t face a call to my lawyer, and this being Saturday, he wouldn’t be in anyway. I finished the shrimp dumplings and thawed a container of chicken stock I had brought from my house to the Farquhars. Together these two ingredients would make the soup course. Finally, I spent two hours putting together an enormous chocolate mousse cake. I began by making a three-layer chocolate cake. While it was cooling I made a smooth white chocolate mousse for one layer of filling, then a dark chocolate mousse flavored with framboise for the second layer of filling. I built the tower of cake-with-fillings as carefully as any architect, then covered the whole thing with a thin layer of tempered chocolate. I packed everything up.

It was time to visit Weezie Harrington.