2 cups reserved crumb mixture
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter two 9- or 10-inch springform pans and set aside.
In the large bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade, blend the flour and sugar until well combined, about 5 seconds. With the motor running, quickly drop the butter pieces through the chute, blending until the mixture resembles small, sandy crumbs, less than a minute. Measure out 6 cups of this mixture for the cake. Measure the last 2 cups of the mixture for the toppng and set aside.
For the cake, gently stir the baking powder, soda, and salt into the 6 cups of reserved crumb mixture. In a separate bowl, mix the beaten eggs with the sour cream and almond extract, stirring until well combined. Pour the egg mixture over the crumb mixture and stir until smooth and thick. Spread the cake batter over the bottom and up the sides of each of the prepared pans.
For the filling, beat the cream cheese, sugar, eggs, and vanilla extract in the large bowl of an electric mixer until smooth. Spread half of this mixture over the cake batter in each of the prepared pans. Top the cream cheese mixture in each pan with 1/2 cup of the sieved preserves.
For the topping, whirl the raw almonds in a food processor fitted with the steel blade until chunky. Mix the almonds into the 2 cups reserved crumb mixture and sprinkle half of this mixture over the preserves layer in each pan.
Bake the cakes for 45 to 55 minutes. Test with a toothpick for doneness. (All that should adhere to the toothpick is cream cheese and preserves, not cake batter.) Cool the cakes thoroughly on racks, then cover with foil and refrigerate several hours or, even better, overnight. Serve in the morning with coffee, if desired.
Anonymous, we sometimes joked about being addicted to hate. We worried that hostility-for-guys was what drew us together I wanted to be social again, didn’t I? I wanted someone to care about me.
Didn’t I?
I was just sprinkling on the crumb-and-almond mixture when the buzzer sounded the completion of the crumb cake. After placing it on a cooling rack I saw myself briefly in the reflection of the black refrigerator door. I was actually going out tonight. I would have to do something with my hair and find some garment besides a corduroy skirt. I was going to have to be sociable, and it wasn’t even for a client. I was going out with a man I knew liked me. All of a sudden, I felt sick.
Four hours later the van was grinding its way up the steep entrance to the residential area surrounding Aspen Meadow Country Club. To call this club with its halfhearted golf and tennis offerings a
I looked down at the basket on the seat next to me. The cakes and container of soup glistened in cellophane wrap tied with bows of yellow and orange and brown. A small arrangement of flowers dried from my own garden last year echoed the fall colors. And speaking of bouquets, maybe I’d be able to find out this afternoon what it was Fritz deserved.
“Well now, Goldy honey,” Vonette greeted me after the doorbell on the massive front door to their contemporary wood home had bing-bonged a la Big Ben. “Don’t you look cute! You got a date or something?”
I winced. Was the fact that I was showered and coifed and sporting a seldom-worn black wool dress so very unusual? So very new?
Vonette’s brilliant red hair was more disheveled than usual, but it just might have been the way it clashed with the purple Ultrasuede hostess gown.
She said in a confidential tone, “I got a batch of margaritas going. Want one before you see Fritz?”
I was tempted. I was about to see a doctor whom half the town thought I had tried to kill, and yet who merited something, according to an anonymous flower sender. Moreover, in a few hours I was going out on my first date in five years with the cop investigating the case. If I succumbed to the buzz from the first hit of salt, lime, and tequila, then it would be numerous margaritas later before the thirst left and the headache began. By that time I’d be knee-deep in egg rolls and moo-shu pork with my head swimming like the shreds of yolk in egg drop soup. This dismal prognosis made me ask for coffee.
Vonette, on the other hand, professed no worry about either Oriental cuisine or the hangover to come. I followed her out to the cavernous kitchen. She waved her free hand gaily as she beeped microwave buttons to heat water for coffee. After a long swig of greenish liquid she started to talk.
“I just don’t know what to do with him being home. He’s fussing and yapping all day about Lord knows what. That John Richard can’t see all his patients. That they need him over there. The practice, the practice. Yappety yap. That some doctor on TV is an idiot. Lord! I wished they’d have given him an injection to make him shut up!”
“I know he’s dedicated to his work,” I said, thinking of Patty Sue and her mandatory twice-weekly appointments. “How soon before he’s back in shape?”
“Tomorrow. Thanks be to God.” She paused and looked at my basket for the first time. “Now look what you’ve brought. Aren’t you just so sweet.”
I explained the basket’s contents and opened the refrigerator to put in the cake with cream cheese. The food of a noncook littered the shelves. Fancy sliced deli ham and smoked salmon, herring in sour cream, and little nibbled packages of Brie and Samsoe and Port Salut vied for space with beer and wine and every imaginable kind of mixer. It again occurred to me, as it had so many times, that John Richard had married a woman who could cook because he had been raised by one who could not.
“May I see Fritz?” I asked.
She nodded. “Just wait here a sec,” she said. “Let me go see if he minds. He probably won’t, but you know how ornery he can be. He was talking about taking a shower, so it might just be a little bit.”
“I’ll wait in the study,” I announced, and slipped into the paneled room off the kitchen.
When Vonette had padded off, I slowly opened the drawers of the study desk. Take your shower, Fritz. My heart was knocking loudly and I felt cold. Vonette was not returning immediately. The business has to reopen, I said to myself. Schulz doesn’t need to know about this. Start investigating.
Apparently Vonette liked to organize as little as she liked to cook. Letters and papers and photographs were crammed into each of the small drawers like dressing in a too-small turkey. I could feel blood pounding in my throat and ears. I did not know what I was looking for or how I would know when I found it.
There wouldn’t be time to read any letters or study any bills, but perhaps I could get some names, something like that. Threats, I told myself, people who don’t like him. That’s what you’re looking for. But would something be here? Would a doctor even keep that kind of thing at home? What about his office?
I came to a box of what looked like old photographs. There was my unmistakable ex-husband, charming in a sailor suit at about age six. And there he was again in front of a birthday cake, about to blow out four candles. Behind him in the picture was an adolescent girl—a babysitter? Then there was another picture of the same girl, by herself this time in one of those old-fashioned stiff photo portraits done in high schools. She wore a bouffant hairdo with the ends of her hair nipped up. In large looping feminine handwriting were the words “Dear Mom, No matter what, I’m still your baby.” And unsigned. As I stared at the photo I thought there was something familiar about it, something I couldn’t quite place. The girl was not someone I knew or had ever known. It was not Laura Smiley. But I had seen a picture of this face before somewhere, maybe from when I was married to John Richard. Fat chance I’d have of him telling me who it was.
I crept quickly into the kitchen and slid the picture into my purse. I was heating up a fresh cup of water for instant coffee when Vonette wobbled back and leaned on the counter before pouring herself another margarita.
“He’s just on the phone right now with John Richard,” she said. “Let’s give him a couple more minutes. You know how he hates being interrupted.”
I nodded and looked at Vonette, whose coppery too-poufed hair shone in the afternoon light. I really knew little about her. When we got together with the senior Kormans at holidays and other times, John Richard had silently ignored his mother as she began to drink and make outrageous statements. Fritz never seemed to be paying
