know about this food stuff, go to the library and ask for Sissy Stone. She, like, helped Mrs. Harrington with her research. She knows who you are. Sissy was a finalist for Colorado Junior Miss, too, how about that? I’m bringing her to the Harringtons’ dinner tonight. My date, as Adele calls her.” He stopped. “I don’t believe aphrodisiacs work,” he said defiantly.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“Do you believe other means are more effective for getting the girl?” I asked with what I hoped was a friendly smile.
He whipped off the damp towel, slapped it over his shoulder, and started out of the kitchen. He paused at the door.
He said, “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”
I couldn’t wait to get hold of Sissy Stone, sort of like getting hold of the flu. But when the wooden doors of the Aspen Meadow Public Library swung open at 9:58 A.M., the young woman behind the door gave me a toothpaste-ad smile. She was my height and compactly built, a cross between a gymnast and a cheerleader and probably functional at both. She had pushed up the sleeves on a too-large Elk Park Prep sweatshirt that I suspected was Julian’s. Perfect cream beige makeup covered olive-undertoned skin. Her hair fell in thick dark waves that reminded me of the ribbon candy I bought Arch at Christmastime.
“I’m looking for Sissy Stone,” I said with what I hoped was an enormous, confidence-winning grin. “Do you know where she is?”
The girl said, “Why?”
“Are you Sissy?” I asked.
“Well. Yeah,” she said with another bright smile, as if I had just introduced her on network television.
I gestured into the library so we could go somewhere and talk. “Julian Teller suggested I come talk to you. I’m the owner of Goldilocks’ Catering. Julian said you knew. . . .” To her unenthusiastic nod I said, “I’m working as a live-in cook with the Farquhars this summer. You’re coming to the dinner I’m doing tonight for Weezie Harrington.” Another nod. “I need some help from you, the kind you gave her, if that’s okay. In the area of food.”
“Weezie Harrington,” she repeated. She looked both ways, as if conscious of who might be watching or listening. “I’ll have to check.”
My hopes for this conversation grew dim. Around us young mothers pulled reluctant toddlers to Saturday morning story time. The front-desk computers whirred and beeped as morning visitors began to check out books, demand paper for the copier, and slap down volumes to be assessed for overdue fines.
I trundled after Sissy. She had a light step and carried herself with confidence. She glanced this way and that on her way to the computer, as if she were looking for someone more important to talk to. Once at the computer, she tapped away.
I shook my head. “Can we go outside for a few minutes? Please?” Before she could say no, I was on my way to the library garden, a plot lovingly and meticulously tended by the Aspen Meadow Garden Club. Long-stemmed flax, pansies, petunias, and mountain bluebell swayed in the cool morning breeze as I settled on one of the benches and gestured for her to do the same.
“Listen, Sissy, “ I began, “all I need is a few ideas. Julian is a vegetarian. Can’t you remember anything from some of those articles you supplied Mrs. Harrington?”
“Oh, look, a pansy,” said Sissy, as if I had not spoken. She gestured to the garden. “Do you know why its juice was used as a love potion in
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
“Cupid shot one of his love arrows into what was originally a flower of pure color. You see,” she said as she bent down to brush the pansy with her fingertips, “it bled.”
I looked at my watch: 10:10. Clearly, Miss Priss had no intention of helping me. I would give this conversation five more minutes and then head for the grocery store.
I cleared my throat. “If Cupid were cooking for a vegetarian, Sissy, what would he fix?”
“Mmm,” she said, and focused vaguely on a nearby evergreen. “Nothing too heavy. Eggs. Sign of fertility. Can you do that for dinner? Cheese for creaminess and sensuality. Also because it’s easy to digest. You don’t want to have indigestion at the wrong moment.”
I stared at her. She closed her eyes dramatically and shrugged one shoulder. Well, at least we were getting somewhere.
“Cheese,” I prompted.
“Something with spice. You know, like garlic or peppers. Onions,” she added as an afterthought.
“Got it,” I said, and she nodded. I went on, “Now I know chocolate’s a must for dessert,” another nod, “so I’m just looking at a salad situation here. Give me a tip in the green department and I’ll be on my way.”
But she was watching someone going into the library. I shook my head along with the flowers bending in the cool June wind.
I said, “What kind of roughage heats up the libido, Sissy?”
No response. My watch said 10:20. I stood up and started to walk toward the car.
She called after me, “Fennel! Endive! Asparagus, carrots, and mushrooms!”
At the grocery store I bought ingredients for Shrimp Dumpling Soup, Chile Relleno Torta, as well as avocados, mushrooms, and baby lettuces for salad. Back at the Farquhars I spread everything out and began to get out pans to grease. My cooking concentration began to rev up, like the adrenaline some athletes claim after the first mile. Then the security gate buzzed.
It buzzed and buzzed. It was apparent that I had gone from live-in cook to phone answerer to butler and general factotum.
“Yes,” I said into the speaker. The closed-circuit camera showed two men in a dark sedan.
“Goldy Bear?” asked one of them. “We would like to talk to you.” Police officers.
I said, “I am unbelievably busy.”
“Just a few questions.”
“May I cook while you ask things?”
“We’d rather you’d take some time out.”
“Then you’ll have to come tomorrow.”
A pause. They looked at each other.
“You can cook,” said one.
I buzzed them through. A moment later, I opened the front door and drew my mouth into what I hoped was a threatening pucker. “My business isn’t in jeopardy, is it?”
“If we can just talk to you, Ms. Bear, we should be able to get some things straightened out.”
“Right,” I said as I turned to walk down the hall to the kitchen. “I can’t wait.”
8.
The cops introduced themselves and then sat down at Adele’s oak kitchen table. I readied my recipe for Chile Relleno Torta. If I made an individual serving, everyone would want a bite, and Julian would have no main dish. Anyway, when serving men a nonmeat entree, it is essential to serve enormous amounts so as not to offend machismo. Otherwise, after you’ve cleared the ramekin or quiche or souffle away, one of the fellows will innocently pipe up, “That was great! Now what’s the main course?”
“Ms. Bear?” said the first one, who was named Boyd. He was a barrel-shaped man with a short black crew cut that was not meant to be fashionable. One of his stubby carrotlike fingers held a ballpoint pen poised over a smudged notebook. “Were you the last one to talk to Dr. Miller before he got into his car?”
I removed brown eggs from the Farquhars’ side-by-side refrigerator and thought back.
“I think so,” I said. Then, “Yes, I was. He helped me load platters into Mrs. Farquhar’s Thunderbird.”
