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 grandfather?”
“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
