handle it.
7
When I pulled into his dirt driveway, Schulz was kneeling on the ground. Despite the weblike layer of new snow, he was spading soil energetically by the irregular flagstone walk that led to his front door.
“Hi there.” I climbed carefully out of the Rover with the loaf of Irish bread. The image of the fallen deer still haunted me: I didn’t trust myself to say anything else.
He turned and stood. Clods of wet soil clung to his jeans and jacket. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, please finish what you’re doing. I just ? ” My voice wobbled. Damn. The words were tumbling out; I was shaking my head, appalled at how shaken I was. “I just saw a dead animal by the side of the road and it reminded me … no, no, please,” I said as he started to move toward me. “Please finish what you were doing.”
He regarded me with one eye crinkled in appraisal. After a moment he crouched down again. “It never will leave you,” he said without looking at me. “Seeing a real dead body is nothing like the movies.” His large, capable fingers reached for a handful of bulbs and carefully pressed them at intervals into the newly spaded trough. Gently he refilled the area with potting soil from a bag. The gesture reminded me of putting a blanket around a sleeping child.
I breathed lungfuls of the sharp air. I hugged the fragrant bread. Although I wore a down coat, it felt as if my blood had stopped circulating.
“Cold?” Schulz asked. “Need to go in?” I shook my head. “I’m sorry you were the one who had to find him,” he said gruffly. He finished patting down the soil, rose easily, and put an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, I made you some nachos. Then I need you to look at something.”
We came through his sculpted-wood door and entered the large open space that was his living room. I stopped to admire the moss-rock fireplace that reached up two stones between rough-hewn mortared logs. A carefully set pile of aspen and pine logs lay in the grate. On I one Shaker-style table was a pot Arch had made at the end of sixth grade. On a wall was an Arch-made woodcut print of a .45, the kind Schulz carried. A pickled-oak I hutch held a display of Staffordshire plates and Bavarian I glass. The sparse grouping of an antique sink and a cupboard between the sofa and chairs upholstered in nubby brown wool gave the place a homey feel. When I had complimented Schulz on his good taste during my last visit, he had replied without missing a beat: “Of course. Why d’you think I’m courting you?”
Nachos Schulz
1 15-ounce can chili beans in chili gravy
9 tablespoons picante sauce
1 15-ounce bag corn tortilla chips
4 cups grated cheddar cheese
1 avocado
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 ? cups sour cream
1 tablespoon grated onion
4 scallions, both white and green parts, chopped
1 cup pitted black olives, chopped
1 tomato, chopped
Preheat the oven to 400 . Mash the beans with ? cup of the picante sauce until well mixed. Grease 2 9-by 13- inch pans. Place half the chips in each pan, then spoon the bean mixture over them. Sprinkle the grated cheese on top. Bake for about 10 minutes or until the cheese is melted and the beans are bubbling. Meanwhile, peel, pit, and mash the avocado, then mix it with the lemon juice, ? cup of the sour cream, the grated onion, and 1 tablespoon picante sauce. Garnish the nachos with the guacamole, the remaining 1 cup sour cream, scallions, tomato, and olives. Makes 6 to 8 servings.
I moved away from that thought and arrived in the kitchen just as he was pulling an au gratin casserole out of the oven. The platter was heaped with sizzling corn chips, refried beans, and melted cheddar. A complicated smell of Mexican spices filled the air.
“Agony,” I said when he had placed the platter in front of me and relieved me of the Irish bread. But I smiled.
“Wait, wait.” He rummaged around in the refrigerator, then brought out tiny bowls and sprinkled chopped scallions, tomatoes, and black olives on top of the melted cheese. With a directorial flourish, he brandished ? yes! ? an ice cream scoop that he used to ladle perfect mounds of sour cream and guacamole on top of the platter of chips.
“Nachos Schulz,” he announced with a proud grin. “For this, we use the special china.” He brought out a beautiful pair of translucent Limoges plates painted with tiny, stylized roses.
“These must have set you back a bit,” I said with admiration. “You don’t expect to find a china collector in the Sheriff’s Department.”
“What do I have to spend money on? Besides, the Sheriff’s Department is an equal-opportunity employer. You can have any hobby that helps get your mind off your job.”
“Beans, cheese, tomatoes, and avocado are all aphrodisiac foods.”
“Is that right? Well, Goldy, we both know you’re impervious to all that.” We laughed. It was good to be with him; I felt my anxiety recede. Digging into the Mexican mountain, Schulz retrieved a loaded chip stringy with hot cheese. “Open up, ma’am.”
I held a plate under my chin and let him pop the nacho into my mouth. Heaven. I closed my eyes and made appropriate moans of pleasure.
“Speaking of aphrodisiacs,” he said when we were halfway through the platter, “I need to ask you something about a book. Belonged to Keith Andrews.”
“Oh, that reminds me …” I handed him the rock that had broken our upstairs window, then the Neiman- Marcus credit card. I had put the rock in a plastic bag; Schulz eyed it, turned it over in his big hands, then laid it carefully aside. Between bites he studied the credit card, ran his fingers over the letters and numbers, then pocketed it without indicating what he was thinking. He put a last chip into his mouth and slid off his barstool all in one motion. When I hesitated, he gestured for me to follow.
Like many of the more rustic homes in the mountains, Schulz’s did not have a garage. I put on my coat and followed him outside to his car, where he opened the trunk and carefully emptied out a plastic bag onto some more plastic.
“Look but don’t touch,” he warned. Not knowing what this was about or why I was doing it, I peered in and saw a jumble of papers, pens, and half-eaten pencils; Stanford, Columbia, and Princeton catalogues and pamphlets; a few books ? a German-English dictionary, Faust, as well as the Cliff’s Notes for same; Professor Romeo and Aceing the ACT; several old copies of the Mountain Journal, and some frayed articles held together with staples.
“What’s all this?”
“Stuff from the trunk of Keith Andrews’ car. You probably didn’t notice his old Scirocco over in the corner of the parking lot at the school. I’ve got custody of this stuff until tomorrow. His locker had more textbooks and some papers, but given that he was a supposed computer whiz, it’s odd we can’t find any disks. The department’s checking the locker contents out. No credit cards or bills, though, we know that.”
“Why show me?”
He leaned against the trunk lid and looked up at the dark clouds. After a moment he shook his head. “I don’t understand that school. I talk and talk to people and nothing comes up. The kid was smart, but not well liked. He worked hard on extracurricular activities, but nobody admired him for it. He brought back postcards from Paris for the whole French Club, and according to Arch, nobody thanked him. His windshield got broken, but by whom? Somebody hated him enough to kill him by bashing in his head. It doesn’t sound like the supportive school community the headmaster is trying to convince me it is.”
“His windshield got broken? When? What do you mean, according to Arch ?”
“I talked to Arch this morning. He called me about some snake in his locker.”
