“What?”
I pressed my face into my pillow and knew better than to speak. An awkward silence ensued while I involuntarily recalled the Sunday school teaching on sexual activity between single adults ? “… either single and celibate or married and faithful.”
Oh well. The silence lengthened. Father Olson cleared his throat.
I sat up gingerly, wondering if priests were frequently greeted with early morning guilt. Maybe they learned to ignore it. After a minute, Father Olson resumed a normal tone. “I’m sorry to call so early, Goldy. Ahh . . but I have an all-day clergy meeting in Denver, and I wanted to give you the final count on Friday’s luncheon board meeting. There’ll be twelve of us.”
I swallowed hard. “Twelve. How biblical.”
“Can you tell me the menu? Because of our theological discussion.”
“Fish,” I said succinctly. When I didn’t elaborate, he mumbled something that was not a blessing, and disconnected. The phone immediately rang again. I flopped back down on the mattress. Why me?
“Come to Aspen Meadow,” intoned Marla’s husky voice, “the promiscuity capital of the western United States.”
I rolled over and peered blearily at the early morning grayness. Clouds shrouded the distant mountains like a woolen blanket.
“I don’t know why George Orwell bothered to write 1984. He obviously never had to live in a small town, where Big Brother is a fact of life.”
“So you’re not going to deny it?” Marla demanded.
“I’m not saying anything. Tell me why you’re calling so early.”
“In case you’re wondering how I suspected that something was up, so to speak, my dear, I called your fellow I like so much, that teen housemate-helper ? “
“His name is Julian.”
“Yes, well, I called you numerous times last night and got young Julian, who, as I say, is somewhat more forthright than his employer. He said your calendar didn’t show any catering assignments.” She stopped to take a noisy bite of something. “When he still knew nothing at eleven, but was obviously quite besieged with worry, I thought, This is our early-to-bed, early-to-work much-beloved town caterer?” She took time out to chew, then added, “Besides, if you’d been in an accident, I would have heard before now.”
“How reassuring. Marla, I have a full day of cooking ahead, and so ? “
“Tut-tut, not so fast, tell me what’s going on in your love life. I don’t want to hear about it from anyone else.”
Well, you’re not going to hear about it from me, either. I laughed lightly and replied, “Everything you suspect is true. And more.”
“From the wounded warrior, Miss Cut and Chaste? I don’t think so.”
“Look. I had dinner with Schulz. Let me reflect a little bit before I have to analyze the relationship to death, okay?”
That seemed to satisfy her. “All right. Go cook. But when you take a break, I have some real news for you concerning the Elk Park preppies. Unless you want it now, of course.”
This was so typical of her. “Make it fast and simple,” I said. “I haven’t had any caffeine yet.”
“Don’t complain to me that you’re still in bed, when you could be trying to figure out what’s going on out at Colorado’s premier prep school. All right-that German pseudo-academic guy out there? The one who wrote the Faust dissertation?”
“Egon Schlichtmaier. What about him?”
“He helped you with that dinner, right?”
“He did. I don’t know much about him.”
“Well, I do, because he’s single and has therefore been the subject of the usual background investigation from the women in step aerobics.”
I shook my head. How women at the Aspen Meadow Athletic Club could manage to step up, down, and sideways at dizzying speeds while trading voluminous amounts of news and gossip was one of the wonders of modern-physiology. Yet it was done, regularly and enthusiastically.
I ordered, “Go ahead.”
“Egon Schlichtmaier is twenty-seven years old,” Marla rattled on, “but he and his family immigrated to this country when there was still a Berlin Wall, in the seventies. Despite his problems learning English, Herr Schlichtmaier got a good education, including a Ph.D. in literature from dear old c.o. in Boulder. But poor Egon was unable to get a college teaching job.”
“So what else is new? I heard the ratio of humanities doctorates to available jobs is about ten to one.”
“Let me finish. Egon Schlichtmaier is also extremely good-looking. He works out with weights and has a body to die for.”
I conjured up a mental picture of the history teacher. He was short, which meant I could look right into his olive-toned baby face with its big brown eyes. He had curly black hair and long black eyelashes, and whenever I had seen him he had been wearing khaki pants, an oxford-cloth shirt in some pastel shade, and a fashionable jacket. Ganymede meets Ralph Lauren.
“What else?” The lack of coffee was beginning to get to me. Besides, and I was astonished that I even had this thought, Schulz might be trying to reach me.
?All right, here’s the scoop… he was a teaching assistant at C.O., and he was caught having affairs with no less than three female undergraduates. At the same time. Which is his business, I guess, except that the word got around at the Modern Language Association convention. The universities, when they got wind of it, wouldn’t offer him a job scrubbing floors. Seems they thought the last thing they needed was a prof who would cause trouble among tuition-paying undergraduates.”
Since I was no longer what we would call pristine in the lust department, I avoided judgment. But three at a time? Consecutively or simultaneously? I said, “Did all the academics from coast to coast know these details?”
“The way I heard it, only the hiring schools knew.” She chewed some more of whatever it was. “The headmaster at Elk Park Prep owed the head of the C.U. comparative literature department a favor from some kid the department chairman helped to get into C.U., so Perkins hired Egon Schlichtmaier as a kind of interim thing to teach U.S. history. Mind you, this was after he had fired another American history teacher, a Miss Pamela Samuelson, over some unknown scandal last year. This year Egon was supposed to keep looking for a college teaching job.”
“Miss Samuelson? Miss Pamela Samuelson? Why is that name familiar?”
“Pamela Samuelson was in your aerobics class before you quit the club, dummy.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, still unable to conjure up a face. “What about Egon Schlichtmaier’s history with the female undergraduates? How could Perkins justify having that kind of guy around?”
Marla sighed gustily. “Come on, Goldy. First of all, as you and I both know, if nobody squeals about how awful a guy is, then his reputation remains intact.”
“So the undergraduates weren’t talking. And the news didn’t outlive the MLA convention?”
“Apparently not. And if anybody else did find out, I think the spin Perkins was looking for was that this was youthful excess that people would soon forget if the issue were left alone. The word is, Perkins warned Egon not to get involved with the preppie females, or he’d be teaching French to the longhorn steers down at the stock show. And there’s no evidence Egon went after anyone who wasn’t close to his own age. More on that later. Here’s the problem. How willing do you think a college would be to hire Schlichtmaier if his background were exposed in a series of articles for the Mountain Journal by an ambitious student-reporter aiming to spice up his application to the Columbia School of Journalism?”
“No, no, not Keith Andrews…”
“The same. And guess who was trying to get Keith not to publish the articles? Your dear Julian!”
“Oh, God. Are you sure?”
“So I hear. And guess who was sleeping with Schlichtmaier until she supposedly heard the whole background thing from none other than her favorite student, Keith Andrews?”
“I can’t imagine, but I know you’re going to tell me.”
“Mademoiselle Suzanne Ferrell. I don’t know whether they have broken up irreparably, but I’m supposed to
