of
The hostess, Weezie Harrington, had given me an overview of aphrodisiac foods. I had placed a meat and seafood order, but vegetarian Julian and his date would present a problem.
“I have to have six,” Weezie had said. “It sets up the right psychological dynamic.” For Julian’s meal I would have to do additional research. All I remembered at this point was Weezie’s raised eyebrow when she’d said, “Chocolate for dessert. At one point, the church banned chocolate because it was believed to be inciteful of lust. So make it decadent.”
I wrote “DECADENT” in large letters and wondered why Weezie and Brian Harrington, who had been married six years, needed aphrodisiacs anyway. He was an energetic and fit fifty. She was in her mid-forties, slender and elegant and with the look of an aging Greek goddess. The story around town was that Brian had courted Weezie lavishly to get hold of her gently sloping thousand acres just north of Interstate 70 near the Aspen Meadow exit. Once successful in obtaining Flicker Ridge, the story went, Brian had moved on to other conquests in the world of real women and real estate. And Weezie had recently steeped herself in the lore of desire-producing foods and substances, much to the current amusement of the country club. Whether she would win Brian back by these charms was up to the caterer, apparently.
I stared at the yellow pad. Brian, Weezie, Adele and Bo, Julian Teller and a female friend. I had already asked about food allergies, and managed not to smile when Weezie told me Brian was allergic to nuts. Since Venus was born in the sea, we were starting off with shellfish. Except for Julian. I sighed.
The library did not open until ten, this being Aspen Meadow and suitably provincial. I would have to whip around and finish shopping by eleven to have enough time to cook. Maybe the Farquhars’ encyclopedia could yield info. Surely it would carry more than entries for rocket-propelled grenades and C-4.
I pulled the tub’s plug. Feel great, I said to myself in the most persuasive way possible. Let the mood fit the food, Andre, my cooking instructor, had said when he trained me. Act hurried and your clients will feel hassled. Have a great time and your clients will have a great time. How I was supposed to act at an aphrodisiac dinner I did not know.
I reached for one of Adele’s plush floral towels. Sudden tears bit the back of my eyes as the water sucked loudly down the drain. Have a great time.
Once dressed, I made my way quickly to the Farquhars’ library-cum-study in the back of the house. Outside there was the regular slap-slap of Julian’s arms hitting water. Through the window I could see him plowing through his morning laps. He had vacuumed up the dirt clods—remnants of the garden explosion—from the pool floor. But there was still dirt everywhere else, and the water looked somewhat murky. General Bo was sweating over another row of pansies. I turned to the books.
Volume A of the encyclopedia cracked open in my lap to “Aphrodisiacs.”
I remembered Weezie tossing her lioness mane of blond and silver hair at our interview.
“Spanish fly,” she’d said, “is really dried
The encyclopedia article talked about bark from the yohimbe tree in Africa. No help there; I was pretty sure yohimbe didn’t grow in Aspen Meadow. And then there was the warning that ingesting Spanish fly was a highly toxic way of causing inflammation in the lower abdominal and genital regions. Burning pain accompanied the inflammation. If enough was taken, the inflammation was followed by death. Better avoid that one, too; didn’t sound as if it would fit the ticket.
What Weezie had told me was that the effect from food was very subtle. She’d said, “You have to
The encyclopedia concurred. The idea of inciting lust rested largely on the powers of suggestion and sympathetic magic. The rhinoceros had been particularly abused, I learned, owing to the unfortunate resemblance its horn bore to the erect male member.
Clearly, I would have to think about the suggestion angle. I closed the book and headed for the kitchen, where I could hear glasses tinkling and jars being moved in the refrigerator.
“Hello, there,” I said to Julian’s towel-wrapped backside.
He started, surprised, then turned to face me.
His thickly lashed eyes narrowed in appraisal. I didn’t know much about Julian except that Adele had volunteered to take him in when the boarding department had closed at the end of this school year at Elk Park. He’d won a science scholarship to the prep school his tenth-grade year. This summer he was taking Advanced Placement Biology. As soon as the schedule was set, he was going to drive Arch to and from his class in American literature. His parents lived in the Four Corners area, where Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona all came together. But that was all I knew, except that he made excellent candy.
And that he had been a patient of Philip Miller’s.
Julian put his hand on his hip. At eighteen, he already had a swimmer’s body, short and tough and muscled. I tried not to eye his bleached hair, which had been shaved in one of those Mohawk cuts with a center ridge. The blond half-inch stood up like a strip of unmowed lawn.
“What are you doing out here?” he demanded. He made no effort to hide his hostility.
“Fixing coffee, okay?” I put espresso makings together and tried to soften the anger I felt rising. What was he so mad at me about? Philip’s accident?
“Julian,” I said once a fragrant rope of dark liquid was twining out of the Farquhars’ Gaggia. “I guess you’ve heard the bad news—”
“I know. I heard.” He sat down at the kitchen desk chair and ran his fingers through what hair he had. “Bo said you were there,” he said in a voice I tried not to think of as accusing. He raised thick, dark eyebrows set in a square-jawed, fine-featured face and crossed his arms.
“I was. I was right behind him.”
The corners of his mouth turned down. His towel had fallen open over his wet tank suit, but he appeared to take no notice. He said, “What were you doing behind him?”
I took a deep breath, sipped foam off the espresso. “Driving Adele’s car, following Philip into town. To have coffee. Then I was going to go buy supplies for Weezie’s dinner tonight.”
He turned away. Silence filled the kitchen. Then, “I’m a replacement guest,” he said contemptuously.
“Lucky you, get to taste the food I make for a catered function. But with the brunch yesterday, I’m swamped. Mrs. Harrington has made specifications about the food. You’re a vegetarian, and I need to do a dessert—”
He said, “Why don’t you just use some of that fudge with the sun-dried cherries? For dessert, I mean. When I moved in a couple of weeks ago, I made a batch, and Adele took some over to the Harringtons. Brian Harrington loves the stuff. He couldn’t believe I made it.”
“Well, thanks,” I managed to say, “but a client usually likes to have me make something if I’m going to get paid for it.” I smiled and ventured, “Cooking is something we have in common.” After all, if we were going to share the Farquhars’ house and Arch for the next few months, rapprochement seemed in order.
He gave an offhand laugh and said, “I don’t think we have anything in common.”
Again silence fell between us.
Finally Julian said, “That coffee available or what?”
I nodded, dumped the spent espresso grounds, and started a new cup brewing. He stood up, tucked the towel in, and sat down again.
When I had managed not to stare at him putting four teaspoons of sugar and a quarter cup of milk in my perfect espresso, I said, “Would you like to talk about Philip Miller?”
“Not really.” He did not look at me, but began sipping somewhat noisily on the coffee. He said, “He was a good guy.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t remember.”
“This week? Last week?”
“I told you,” he said loudly. “I don’t remember.”
I said, “Sorry,” and meant it.
Julian pushed back his chair and drained the espresso. “Look,” he said, “I need to go change. You want to
