when we’d visited Bride’s Creek, the spot where Adele Farquhar’s ashes were scattered. General Bo, ever heroic, still loved the deceased Adele himself. The fact that Marla refused to see him pained the general deeply.
As I scooped out dark balls of the rich, chocolate-chip-dotted cookie batter, I tried to imagine the general’s new hosts. What kind of deal had Bo Farquhar hatched with these guys to get free room and board at a luxurious, privately owned ranch? Mind you, these former military-industrial-complex honchos didn’t call it a ranch, Bo had told Arch when he’d called to let us know he was back. They called it a compound. And I had no clue what Bo was doing out there that kept him so busy. I melted luscious, creamy white chocolate over the stove and resolved not to worry. General Bo was astonishingly good at survival. At least, he had been before he’d been sent away.
I tasted one of the triple-rich chocolate cookies and shivered with pleasure. The warm chips were seductively gooey inside the dark chocolate dough that was robed in white chocolate. If these didn’t give General Bo his desired chocolate fix, nothing would.
Oddly enough, I was looking forward to seeing General Bo again. I didn’t have any catering to do until this evening, when I visited the Trotfields, formerly served by their Sri Lankan chef. The food for that sumptuous dinner in Meadowview was mostly prepared. I smiled; the Trotfields did not live far from the Farquhars’ old estate. But our family had no emotional link to the Trotfields ? nothing like our connection to General Bo. Not only had I worked for General Farquhar at a time when I’d desperately needed a job to support Arch, but he had wormed his way into our hearts: Arch’s, Julian’s, mine, even Tom’s. Of course, Tom had not been enthusiastic about my visits to the general when he was behind bars. Still, I reflected as I greedily licked my chocolate-smeared fingertips, eccentric as he was, General Bo was a friend.
Chocoholic Cookies
2 cups rolled oats
2 cups (1 12-ounce package) semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
? cup granulated sugar
1 ? cups all-purpose flour
? teaspoon baking soda
? teaspoon salt
z cup unsweetened cocoa, preferably Hershey’s Premium European-Style
2 large eggs, slightly beaten
1 tablespoon milk
1 ? teaspoons pure vanilla extract
9 ounces (3 3-ounce bars) “white chocolate,? preferably Lindt Swiss White Confectionery Bar
1 ? tablespoons solid vegetable shortening such as Crisco
Preheat oven to 350 . Butter 2 cookie sheets. Do not alter the order in which the ingredients are combined. In a large bowl, combine the oats and chocolate chips; set aside. In another large bowl, beat together the butter and sugars until creamy. Sift together the flour, baking soda, salt, and cocoa, then add to the butter mixture, stirring until thoroughly combined. The batter will be very stiff. Stir the milk and vanilla into the eggs, then stir this mixture into the butter mixture until thoroughly combined. Add the chips and oats; stir until well mixed.
Using two-tablespoon scoop, drop batter 2 inches apart on cookie sheets. Bake 9 to 12 minutes, until cooked through. Cool on pan 1 minute; transfer to wire racks to cool completely.
Melt the white chocolate with the solid vegetable shortening in the top of a double boiler over simmering water. Holding a cooled cookie between your thumb and forefinger, dip the edge into the warm white chocolate to cover the top third of the cookie. Place on a rack over wax paper to dry completely. Store between layers of wax paper in an airtight container in a cool place.
Makes 5 dozen.
Tom, however, had been skeptical when we’d discussed my plans.
“There’s nothing unusual about the general not having to serve his whole sentence,” Tom announced that morning, before leaving for his sixth straight day in court. “I checked with his parole officer. Bo doesn’t need to work because he has an income. From the army and the sale of what was left of his property, because the land underneath the house that blew up was valuable. I guess he invested the proceeds of the sale.” He frowned. “But the guy’s a nut case, Goldy, you know that.”
“He’s just… odd,” I’d replied cheerfully. “He doesn’t think things through the way most folks do. He gets all passionate, demands to be in charge, and that’s what gets him into trouble. But I promised I’d go see him and I’m going. Anyway, with his wife dead and Marla refusing to see him, who knows how many friends he has left?”
“Oh, he has plenty of friends. I checked on that, too.” Tom chuckled. “Friends who managed his financial affairs while he was in jail. Friends who have oddball radio programs. Friends who would plan the invasion of Saturn if they thought there’d be a payoff in it.”
“Please, no cop paranoia, all right? I’m just taking the man some cookies. That’s all he wants. Okay?”
Tom shot me a skeptical look. “I’d feel better if Macguire or somebody went with you. I’m not sure I like the idea of you paying a house call on a convicted felon and surrounded by those paramilitary wackos.”
I’d sighed, but said nothing. Who was there to go with me? Not Marla. And if I asked Macguire, the would-be law enforcer, to be my bodyguard at an army-type compound, he would probably show up in battle gear juggling a brace of hand grenades. No gasoline needed on that particular fire, thank you very much.
I took the second batch of chocolate cookies out of the oven, set the cookie sheets aside to cool, and reflected on what I hadn’t told Tom: that the general had instructed me to come alone. Sometimes you just had to act on your gut instinct. I was keeping my mouth shut and going unaccompanied. Like most caterers, the gut is the only organ I trust, anyway.
Arch pelted down the stairs to report that he was taking Jake over to his friend Todd’s. I didn’t ask about the blood test. Fifteen minutes later, I’d packed the cookies and revved up the van. Time to see just what was going on out at that thousand-acre nonranch.
Despite the fact that it was the tenth of June, fat snowflakes mixed with rain splattered softly on my windshield as I drove along the wet streets of Aspen Meadow. The water in Cottonwood Creek was so high that it no longer flowed under the main bridge in town, but instead hit the concrete at midpoint and created a turbid backwash the length of the cross street. I turned and headed toward the small mountain town of Blue Spruce, five hundred feet above and fifteen miles west of Aspen Meadow. Actually, it was fifteen miles on the main road, General Bo had said, then ten miles meandering on dirt roads that were sure to be treacherous with snow and mud. I couldn’t wait.
Just west of town, traffic had been diverted because of yet another washed-out bridge. Sam Perdue’s dishevelment and frustration at the same type of crisis earlier this week made me resolve to go slow. The van bumped precariously over the makeshift bridge. Here the creek was particularly tumultuous, like dirty laundry water in a wild washing machine. But also dangerous. It made me nervous to look at the culverts, which had obviously not been designed to swallow so much liquid. Each concrete cylinder I passed was clogged with stones and brush. Above the culverts’ rims, thick, wet sticks protruded like skeletons.
The van wheezed and climbed, topped a hill, and descended into a deep valley. I passed Carl’s You-Snag-‘Em, We-Bag- ‘Em Trout Fishing Pond, High Country Auto Repair, which looked abandoned, the equally decrepit Aspen Grove restaurant, and finally the minuscule Blue Spruce fire department and even tinier Blue Spruce post office. I wheeled the van right on what I hoped was the first dirt road Bo had described. Another road and then another deteriorated into rutted pathways, where it was all I could do to avoid stony fissures and puddles the size of small ponds. The muddy pathway with its central ice-crusted grass strip did not appear promising. Just when I became convinced I had gone the wrong way, the bumpy road abruptly ended at a gate and a high chain-link fence that extended in both directions through thick pine trees. There was a freshly painted white guard shack at the gate. Within moments of my approach, a tall man in a hooded green slicker came out to the van. He held a clipboard covered with plastic.
“Yes?” He was light-skinned and dark-haired, with sparkling espresso-colored eyes.
I told him who I was visiting and why. The guard politely demanded that I open the back doors of the van so he could inspect it. Moving methodically, he used a flashlight to peer along all the racks, under the seats, into the
