“I made the mistake of asking the Dawsons if Greer had anything to impress the Stanford rep with. They went into a fit of preparation. Greer hightailed it into the bathroom and changed into a red and white outfit. Now they’re all awaiting your presence in the kitchen for the big taste test. Oh.” She lifted one eyebrow in her wide, humorless face. “The jam’s putrid. Better say you’ll make the Linzertorte they want at home.”
Too much. I said, “Any sign of the Marenskys? Or Miss Ferrell?”
She pressed her lips together. “Ferrell’s in the kitchen. I don’t know about the Marenskys.”
I said wishfully, “Is the jam just tart? Would it be better with some sugar mixed in?”
The smile she gave me oozed smugness. “Believe me, Goldy, you could take the sugar made by every beet farmer in eastern Colorado and put it in that jam, and it would still taste like solidified vinegar.”
“Thanks, Audrey,” I said dryly. “I trust you didn’t let your opinion show.”
“I had to spit it out. Either that or throw up.” “Great,” I said as the Dawsons approached. They were like a human phalanx.
“Hey, Hank! Great game Sunday.” His face turned even more grim at my greeting. “They were lucky, you know that, Goldy. Washington’s going to be tough. About as tough as this Stanford guy. We’ve just been talking about how to play him.”
“I don’t know why the Marenskys are even bothering to bring Brad,” said Caroline primly. “Everyone knows Stanford is as demanding as the Ivy League schools. They never take anyone below the top ten percent.”
I murmured, “But in a school as small as Elk Park Prep ? “
“Never!” she interrupted me, her small dark eyes glowing. “Didn’t you hear me?”
I was saved assuring her that my hearing was fine by the cheerful jingle of the bell hung over the cafe door. Stan Marensky came through, wearing a fur jacket, then Rhoda strutted regally past the bread baskets in a full- length fur coat, not the raccoon thing. She was followed by a diminutive fellow, presumably the Stanford rep. He wore blue jeans, a bow tie, and no coat. Bringing up the rear was Brad Marensky, a broad-shouldered boy who wore shorts and an Elk Park Prep varsity tennis T-shirt, despite the fact that it was about thirty-eight degrees outside.
The diminutive fellow glanced around the cafe. He did ‘not look so very powerful to me. Yet beside me, Audrey Coopersmith was visibly trembling. “Audrey,” I said in as comforting a tone as I could muster, “please relax. This is simply not as important as you make it out to be.”
Her look was chill. “You just don’t get it, Goldy.” The Marenskys were chatting in loud, possessive tones to the Stanford rep. They seemed extraordinarily pleased with themselves, and acted as if some very important business had been resolved in the ten-minute car ride from the 1-70 exit. It occurred to me that while the Marenskys, who were both as thin as models, ignored me, the short, rotund Dawsons were always curious about my every word or thought.
Hank Dawson leaned in close. “They sure seem smug. I wonder what they could have told him about Brad? That kid’s only number five in the class, he?ll never make it. I need to get that guy away from them. Punt or go for it?”
“Go for it,” I said without hesitation.
“Welcome to our little restaurant.” Caroline Dawson’s lilting voice pronounced restaurant with a French accent. I cringed. The Marenskys turned into two skinny ice sculptures as they watched Caroline Dawson waddle forward in one of her trademark crimson suits.
“We’d like to take you into the kitchen,” Caroline Dawson declared. She grasped the young man’s arm firmly. Once she had him in tow, she indicated with a move of her head that she wanted me to follow her into the kitchen. “Our daughter, Greer, who is third in her class, is by the Hobart,” she said with great sweetness.
“I’m so glad you came out on an early ski trip,” she added as if she and the unfortunate rep were old chums.
“Should I kneel and kiss his ring?” I asked Audrey Coopersmith, who had timidly followed me in while tugging Heather’s sleeve to bring her along. The Marenskys, trying to appear cool and unruffled, marched out into the kitchen to see what the Dawsons were up to with the rep.
While we were all assembling in the kitchen, Caroline engaged the Stanford rep in lively, empty conversation. Miss Ferrell, drinking coffee and leaning against a sink, had a pained look on her face. Well, that ought to teach the college counselor not to host unexpected reps. She click-clacked her way over to me on her tiny heels.
“I have a teachers’ meeting in Denver the next couple of days, Ms. Bear,” she said under her breath. “But I would like to talk to you about Julian as soon as I get back. Can you free up some time? He came to see me this morning, and of course he’s very upset about what happened to Arch… but he also has a number of questions about Keith. Oh, this all has become so dark ? ” She jerked back abruptly, suddenly aware that Audrey, Hank Dawson, and the Marenskys were all keen to hear what she had to say.
“What questions about Keith?” I asked.
“He was having some problems ? ” she began in a low voice. She looked around. The Marenskys began to whisper to each other. Hank reached for a cabinet door while Audrey pretended to be intensely perusing a menu she had found on the counter. “Some problems with this college thing,” Miss Ferrell whispered.
“How about chatting Saturday morning before the tests?” I whispered back. I sneaked a sidelong glance at Audrey, but to read the menu she had put on her usual blank expression. It was hard to tell whether she was listening. “I’ll be setting up that breakfast out at the school.”
Miss Ferrell nodded and turned on her heels and click-clacked back to the Stanford rep. Greer Dawson had made her appearance from the back end of the kitchen. As Audrey had predicted, the teenager was ‘wearing a red and white striped shirt. The skirt matched. Her golden hair curled angelically around her diminutive heart-shaped face. I was reminded of the Breck girl. Daintily, Greer reached for a utensil and spooned a mouthful of the raspberry jam into the rep’s reluctantly open mouth. Apparently, Greer didn’t want me to preempt the rep in the tasting. With startling suddenness the rep’s face took on the look of a two-week-old kiwi fruit.
He said in a high, uncertain voice over the expectant hush in the room, “What? No sweetener?”
Everyone immediately began bustling around, trying to make up for this faux pas. Everyone, that is, except Audrey, who leaned in to my ear and jeered, “Nanny-nanny-nana.”
“Ah, well.” Hank Dawson hustled forward. “This jam is still in development, I mean, this is a new batch, and Greer’s just a rookie chef, after all, you can hardly judge ? “
“We’ll let Goldy decide,” Caroline Dawson announced imperiously. “After all, she’s the one Greer’s been studying with.”
Oh, blame it on the caterer! Well, excuse me, but the only thing Greer had studied while she was with me was whether you served pie with a spoon or a fork. Up until now, the girl had never shown even the slightest inkling of interest in rood preparation. Of course, I knew what this setup was all about. If I pretended to love the jam, I’d get a Linzertorte job in addition to the plum cake assignment, and I’d show up Miss Ferrell and poor Audrey. Not to mention the Stanford guy. If I screwed up my face in disgust, I could forget about a Stanford tailgate picnic, and I could go elsewhere to peddle my plum cake. I also had the discomforting premonition that Schulz might walk in at any moment on this ridiculous scenario. The things a caterer has to do for business.
I stalled. “Fresh spoon?”
“In there.” Audrey motioned to a wooden drawer. I pulled the drawer open. It held one of those plastic four- part silverware trays. Each section bulged with utensils. I reached toward the spoon section, desperately attempting to imagine sweet jam.
“I’ll get a big one,” I said loudly.
But I wasn’t going to taste jam that day. I should have looked more closely at the small object in the spoon section, the shiny black round form, the red hourglass on the bottom of its dark belly. But by the time I had the sense to draw back my hand, I had already been bitten by the black widow.
10
“Omigod!” I screeched.
The Dawsons, the Marenskys, Miss Ferrell, Audrey, all pressed forward with urgent queries: What happened? Are you all right? A spIder? Are you sure? Where?
I backed up, my left hand clutching my right wrist. The stinging crept up my finger and into my palm. Furiously, I thought, Why did it have to be my right hand? I backed hard into Stan Marensky. When I whirled around, he appeared stunned. Involuntary tears filled my eyes.
