the sugars, beating until creamy and smooth. Beat in the eggs, then the vanilla. Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon together. Stir the dry ingredients into the butter mixture, alternating with ? cup reserved syrup, beginning and ending with dry ingredients. Stir in the plums. Pour the batter into a buttered 9-by 13 -inch pan. Bake for 25 to ‘30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean. Turn the cake out onto a rack and allow it to cool, then dust with confectioners’ sugar. Makes 12 to 16 servings.
When Arch and I had politely shaken the hands of all those around us, Marla surprised us by squeezing into our pew. She said accusingly, “You didn’t tell me you found him! After the dinner! Did you know the police have already been around to question some of the parents? I hear they suspect that kid living with you. You know, Julian.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“I just heard it,” she replied with a shrug of silver suede. “I can’t remember who told me. Oh, look, Father Olson’s giving us the sanctimonious eye. Can’t talk now.”
During the final hymn I noticed that Audrey Coopersmith had slipped in sometime during the service. She stood, statuelike, in the last pew with her arms clamped across her chest. Her face was fatigued, but carefully made up, and she wore a long white apron over her baggy clothes. Since her separation, Audrey had been inclined to wear oversize chamois shirts and gray pants that looked as if they’d been issued for postal service employees. She carried a purse only rarely, favoring instead a wallet in her back pocket and a chunk of keys dangling from a belt loop. Now, although everyone around her was singing, she was not. Her dark eyes were half closed. I wondered if she was praying for Carl’s return or for self-improvement. On the other hand, maybe these were mutually exclusive.
While the acolytes snuffed the altar candles, I signaled to Audrey and we quickly set up a table at the back of the church. Then I tried to spot Caroline Dawson in the bustle. The last thing I needed was for the plum cake to be decimated before she even got to sample it.
Audrey trundled up to one of the counters, her mouth turned down in a deep-set scowl. Above the cheerful din from the foyer, she said, “Greer Dawson’s mother is out there. She wants some plum dessert. I said I didn’t know anything about it. She said, ‘Well, you just better go check, then.? ” Audrey fluttered her free hand against her chest. “Why doesn’t she ask Greer? She couldn’t even manage to help us last night, why can’t she pitch in this morning? Or is actual catering too difficult for the Hammer?”
“Audrey,” I said in a placating tone, “Greer was listening to the program last night; just like Heather, just like Julian. Let me deal with Caroline Dawson.”
Audrey grunted. Of course, she had a point. Greer D., the Hammer, was interested in working for me only as a way to appear well-rounded to admissions folks. I didn’t see why Greer couldn’t round herself out working at the family cafe, but perhaps the Ivy League frowns on nepotism.
Anyway, Audrey was correct in saying Greer hardly ever managed to fit working for me into her busy schedule. But I couldn’t afford to alienate her parents before I had wowed them with my baking. I handed an unsmiling Audrey a cheese tray. The enticing smell of cinnamon wafted up from the moist slices of plum cake. As I picked up the cake platter and headed for the Dawsons, I decided that the last thing I’d want to put on my college application was that working in food service had made me we//-rounded.
“Ooo, ooo, ooo,” crooned Marla when I breezed out into the foyer. She cast a greedy eye on the cake. “I still want to hear about last night. And let me tell you, Father Olson is in love with the spread. He already asked me if I thought you’d cater a high-powered clergy meeting.”
“As long as he pays for it, I’m his.”
“This is the church, honey.” Marla pinched a piece of cake and popped it into her mouth. “He’s not going to pay for anything.” She chewed thoughtfully, eyes on something over my shoulder. “Here come Hank and Caroline Dawson,” she said under her breath, “the king and queen of the short people. They’ll eat anything in sight.”
“Hey!” I protested. “[‘m short! And I resent ? “
“Behold your monarchs, then,” Marla said with a lift of her chin. “They’re right behind you.”
The Dawson parents swept up to me. Hank’s look was knowing.
He said, “Big game today. You nervous?”
I eyed him. Hank Dawson was a square-set man ? square, leathery face with a sharply angled jaw, square shoulders, square Brooks Brothers gray suit. His short salt-and-pepper hair, receding hairline, and quickly appraising Delft-blue eyes all said: No-nonsense Republican here. When we could avoid the topic of how brilliant Greer was, Hank and I chatted knowingly after church about the upcoming Bronco games. We were hard-core fans who kept a separate orange outfit for Sunday afternoons, followed the plays, trades, and strategies with our own commentary, and had a standing prescription for stomach medication when the playoff season began. Talking shop with Hank after the Episcopal church service was like finding your kinsman who speaks Zulu in the middle of North Dakota.
“Nah,” I replied. “The Vikings are sunk.”
“You’re right. The Vikings are sunk without Bud Grant.”
“The Vikings have been sunk since Fran Tarkenton retired.”
“Still,” persisted Hank, “you have to worry about any team that can sustain a two-minute offense for a whole quarter.”
“Hank. That was years ago.”
“Yeah.” He looked reassured. “That was Bud Grant’s last year.”
Then we said our refrain in unison, “And we have Elway.”
“Excuse me!” shrilled Caroline Dawson. You see, they always get upset when you speak Zulu.
I suddenly wished I were trying to sell the Bronco-orange cupcakes to the cafe, instead of the plum cake. I turned an apologetic and only slightly saccharine smile to Caroline.
The queen of the short people touched the buttons of her scarlet Chanel-style suit, which was only a shade darker than the burgundy silk of the night before. Marla had once pointed out to me that this particular hue was favored by women in their late fifties. She had dubbed it menopause red. Standing, Caroline resembled a squat, heavy column abandoned by the Greeks. The two Dawsons reminded me of Arch’s old square and round blocks that had to be hammered through the right holes.
“Doesn’t that look lovely,” Caroline murmured as she reached for a large slice. “I do hope it tastes as good as it looks.” She gobbled it down and shoved another into her mouth. Hank picked the bars up and ate them two at a time. Mouth full, Caroline finally commented, “That was quite a dinner last night. Of course, Greer doesn’t really need their college counseling. She has her pick of schools.”
“Oh, ah, really? Well. I’m glad you enjoyed the dinner. Actually, it was very successful until the end.”
They both looked astonished. Was it possible someone had not heard? Quickly, I explained about finding Keith Andrews. I prayed silently that the police did not arrive to ask their questions during the Bronco game today.
“My God,” exclaimed Hank Dawson. I think he had just swallowed his eighth slice. He turned to his wife.
“Remember what Greer said after the state volleyball championships?”
Caroline took another bite. Then she smiled primly. “I think I was too excited to notice.”
Eagerly, Hank turned back to me to explain. “Of course you know our daughter is responsible for the Elk Park Prep volleyball team being state champions.”
“My heartfelt congratulations.”
Hank narrowed one eye skeptically. “Anyway, after the final game, Greer did mention to us this rumor that Keith Andrews was having trouble with drugs… .”
I said, “Excuse me?” and momentarily lost my grip on the plum cake platter just as Caroline reached for the last slice, approximately her tenth. “Drugs? Keith Andrews didn’t seem like the type.”
Hank shrugged, world-wise. “The kind that seems the type rarely is. You know, Goldy, that’s been true for the team too.” We shook our heads together over the unspoken name of a former Bronco tight end. He had tested positive for cocaine three times in the last year, and had been banned from pro football. An All-Pro player too. At the time, Hank and I had agreed that the state flag should have been flown at half mast. “Take the headmaster’s son, Macguire,” Hank said after our moment of silence. “He looks innocent as can be, but I understand that kid’s had quite a history with substance abuse.”
“Substance abuse?” Marla sidled up to us with a tray. “What a nice shade of red, Caroline. It suits you.”
