“Clearly, you don’t read the Mountain Journal” ? she crushed the cigarette savagely beneath her toe ? “because we did. In ‘Mountain Arts and Crafts’ there was an article on little Greer Dawson and the Bronco jewelry she was making to peddle at her parents’ cafe. Earrings dangling with miniature plastic orange footballs. Necklaces made of rows of teensy-weensy football helmets.” Frances groped in the bulging bag and brought out a packet of candy corn. Dessert. She offered me some; I declined. “Now, how many women do you think actually buy jewelry like that? That article proved every stupid stereotype people have of rural journalism. We got the cafe’s advertising back, but it was still a mistake because who comes in the next week? Audrey Coopersmith, whining that we should run an article on Heather and how her scientific know-how saved the ice cream social at the Mountain Rendezvous ? “
“How do you save an ice cream social?” She finished the candy corn and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Oh. You know, they have such a small power source in the homestead next to the park where the Rendezvous is held.” I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. “The freezer holding the Haagen-Dazs blew the fuses, and Heather Coopersmith saved the day by rewiring the whole thing… we are talking way boring. .We didn’t run an article for Audrey Coopersmith, and she cancelled her subscription. So what. I have to go. Sorry about your chimney.” And with that she climbed into her car and discarded the candy corn bag out the window. She lit up another cigarette, revved the engine, and chugged away.
I picked up the bag from the street and went back I into the house. The smoke alarm had stopped its ear- splitting buzz. I opened all the windows. After the commotion, the place felt absurdly quiet; it smelled like a camping site. I jumped when the phone rang ? Tom Schulz. I told him what had happened, ending with poor Marla.
“How’d the board get over your chimney?” he wanted to know.
“That was my question. Think I should get the security people to come back out here?”
“I think you should move out of your house for a while. Go to Marla’s, maybe?” His voice was slow and serious.
“No can do, sorry to say. Her cabinets would never I pass the county health inspector. Anyway, whoever is doing this seems to know I have a security system, so I’m safe except for pranks.”
He asked where the boys were, and I told him.
“Listen, Goldy, I don’t care about your system. I don’t want you in that place alone, especially at night.”
I ignored this. “Thanks for the worry. Now, I’ve got a question for you. What was the story on the fuses at the headmaster’s house? I mean, when the fuses blew that night, that was the moment that Keith Andrews’ killer made his move, wasn’t it?”
“There was a timer attached to one set of wires that had been stripped and coiled together. It was planned, sure, but you knew that, didn’t you?”
I told him about the Rendezvous and Heather Coopersmith’s expert knowledge of wiring.
“It’s a long shot,” he said, “but I’ll go question her again. What’s your take on that kid and her mother, anyway?”
_”Oh, I don’t know.” My head ached, my finger throbbed, and I didn’t want to go into the details of Audrey’s bitterness, or how long it seemed to be lasting. “Audrey’s unhappy, you saw that. Did the headmaster’s place turn up anything else? I saw your guys out there sweeping the place after the snow melted.”
“It did, as a matter of fact. Makes your discovery of the credit card in Rhoda Marensky’s coat somewhat more interesting. Out by the sled there was a gold pen with the name Marensky Furs.”
“Oh, my God.” “Problem is, Stan Marensky says the pen could have come from anywhere, and Rhoda Marensky swears she didn’t leave her coat out at the headmaster’s house.”
“Liar, liar, raccoon on fire. Mr. Perkins specifically told me she’d be so happy to get it back.”
“Headmaster Perkins said the coat just appeared in his closet the day of the dinner and he called Rhoda, who then forgot to take it with her after the lights went out. But she had been missing it for a couple of weeks. She says.”
“If that is true, then whoever is doing all this is a phenomenally elaborate planner.” I thought for a minute, and remembered only a glimpse of a fur-clad Stan Marensky whisking Rhoda out the headmaster’s front door after the lights had come back on and order had been restored. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with the Marenskys, their store, or pens from their store. What I don’t understand is why me? Why a rock through my window, why ice on my steps, why a board over my chimney? I don’t know anything. I never even met Keith Andrews.”
“I swear, I wish you’d come to my place for a while, Miss G. Or more than a while, if you’re still of a mind…”
“Thank you, but I’m staying put.”
“You’re in danger. I’m going to talk to the team here about setting up some surveillance ? “
I let out a deep breath.
He said, “I’ll get back to you.”
As usual, cooking cleared the head and calmed the nerves. I needed both. First I froze the doughnuts, which, miraculously, weren’t smoke-damaged. Then I set about planning cooking times for the priests’ luncheon on Friday, the Tattered Cover affair on Halloween night, and the SAT breakfast on Saturday morning. I called my supplier and ordered the freshest sole she could find, plus fresh fruit.
The rest of that day and the next passed placidly enough. I picked Marla up from the hospital Thursday morning and took her back to her house. She didn’t want me to baby her. With all her money, Marla could pick anyone she wanted to take care of her; she had opted for a private nurse, arranged while she was still in the hospital. Arch’s ankle healed nicely and gave him the much-desired excuse from gym class. He announced brightly that he was resting so he’d be completely better for skiing over the weekend. Julian sprinkled road salt on the iced front steps before the supplier arrived with her crates of boxes. I tried to believe that the board-over-the-chimney person had not also been responsible for the ice hazard. But that was sure to be wishful thinking.
Miss Ferrell called on Thursday afternoon and said she wanted to go over Julian’s list for colleges with me after the SATs on Saturday, instead of our planned chat beforehand. She had too much organizing to do before the tests began, and she wanted to give me her full attention. I wasn’t one of his parents, but she wanted to feel that some responsible adult was involved. “Julian can come too, if you like,” she added. But I said I would feel better if she and I could just have a little time together alone. After all, I was new at this.
Friday morning brought gloomy clouds spitting snowflakes. Because his father was picking him up at three to go directly to Keystone, Arch busied himself packing up his ski gear before school. I washed crisp spinach leaves and poached sole fillets in white wine and broth. Then I chopped mountains of cranberries and pecans for the Sorry Cake. When I was putting the cake pans into the oven, Julian said he’d had an invitation to spend the night at a friend’s house; they would go to the bookstore talk arid the SAT testing together. But he was concerned ? would I be all right alone? It was all I could do to keep from laughing. I told him if I could survive all those years with John Richard Korman, I could survive anything. Besides, with both boys gone, I knew just what guest to call.
I gave the boys pumpkin muffins for breakfast and helped Arch lug his skis, boots, and poles out to the Range Rover. Saying good-bye to him before he went off with his father was always difficult; before a holiday, even Halloween, it was excruciating.
At the last minute, Arch dashed upstairs to get his high-powered binoculars. “Almost forgot! I might be able to see the Andromeda galaxy once they turn out the night-skiing lights. You can see Andromeda in the winter, but never in the summer!” he hollered over his shoulder. When the boys were finally ready, I sent them off over their halfhearted protests with homemade popcorn balls and packets of candy corn to share with their friends. They took off in a mood of high good cheer. Halloween was not a school holiday, but the snow, the buttery scent of popcorn, and Arch’s cone sculpture of Three Musketeers bars made the two boys laugh giddily after a week ” that had been grueling for us all.
Despite his upbeat mood as he drove off, Julian’s taut face and bitten nails told another story. During the past two weeks, he had spent hours at the kitchen table, studying financial aid forms and making lists of numbers. When he wasn’t doing homework, he pored over tomes on test-taking and SAT review. Along with the rest of his class, Julian had taken the PSATs his sophomore year and the SATs his junior year. But this third time was it, he told me, the big one, make or break, do or die. These were the scores the colleges looked at to make their decisions.
I had tried to drill him a little bit Thursday night, using the SAT review, but it had not been a pleasant task. I
