“Is Arch going to attend the baptism?” Julian asked as he spooned sugar into his cup. He glanced warily at Tom, who had reached Marla and appeared to be arguing with her. In a very low voice, Julian said, “I thought you told me Arch had stopped going to church.”
“He insists he’s going.” I slugged my coffee decisively, again rinsed the cup, and made my own foray into the walk-in. Staring at the shelves, I couldn’t remember why I’d come into the cooled space, or what I was seeking. Without thinking, I pulled a large bag of Granny Smith apples off the shelf.
For the first time since he’d arrived, Julian smiled. “Is Meg Blatchford going to be there?” he asked.
“You bet.” At seventy-nine, Meg Blatchford was the oldest Episcopalian in Aspen Meadow. After a person was baptized at St. Luke’s, Meg was the one who took the baby or stood beside the child or adult and said, “You may welcome the newly baptized.” Liturgically speaking, it wasn’t strictly kosher for Meg to ask this question, as the celebrant was supposed to do it. Still, it had been such a long-standing tradition in our parish that no one objected. It added a nice touch, the oldest Christian in the place welcoming the newest.
Julian shrugged. “I hope I can be as strong as she is when I’m in my seventies. I’ve been taking her pastries every week for over a year. Last time I was there, she was pitching a softball so hard into that little basket she uses for practice, you know what I’m talking about? Anyway, I thought she was going to break the basket.”
I nodded. “She’s pretty amazing.”
Julian slurped down the last of his coffee. After clattering our cups into our big commercial dishwasher, he methodically began to rinse a bunch of scallions.
“You got some blue cheese? I’ve changed my mind on what I’m going to make. I’m going to wrap up this Brie and use it for something else, and instead, I want to make that pie you and Dusty…Oh, Christ.” At the mention of Dusty’s name, tears unexpectedly spilled out of Julian’s eyes. He walked quickly into the ground-floor bathroom, where he started running the faucet. A wave of sadness engulfed me. I turned on my computer, told myself to buck up, and printed out the Blue Cheesecake recipe.
When Julian returned to the kitchen, he didn’t mention the incident. Instead, he said, “Um, I need some tomatoes to make a salad. I didn’t see any in the walk-in.”
“I’ll go downstairs to look for some.”
“Downstairs?”
“Just trust me, okay?” I said as I traipsed down the steps to the basement. Our brief mountain growing season had not deterred Tom from planting a dozen cherry-tomato plants in June. When a September frost had threatened to ruin his crop—then only masses of chartreuse nuggets—he’d grumbled and pulled the plants up by the roots. After stringing a dozen meat hooks across our laundry-room ceiling, he’d hung entire plants—including roots with dirt still clinging to them—upside down, and declared the fruit would ripen by Halloween.
To my surprise, I was able to find a couple dozen good-looking cherry tomatoes from Tom’s batlike plants. I placed them on the washing machine, swept up the dirt, and brought my haul upstairs. My saute pan held chopped shallots that were sizzling in a golden puddle of melted butter. Julian was busy beating cream cheese, so I turned my attention to the apples. They were just ripe, and I’d planned to take a pie into the firm…
So I did, with Julian at my side. While we were working, Arch came in with Tom. Arch looked spiffy in his new wire-rim glasses and de rigueur Abercrombie clothing: rumpled white shirt and baggy gray trousers. His toast- colored hair was dark and wet after his shower.
“Dusty?” Arch began, pushing his glasses up his nose. He looked from me to Tom to Julian. “Dusty from across the street? Tom said you tried to help her?”
I faced him and held my arms out. Too old for a hug, Arch stayed in place. “Yes, hon,” I said, “I did try to help her.”
“There’re a bunch of police cars parked in front of the Routts’. Why? Why not just the coroner’s van?”
Sometimes I wished my son did not know quite so much about police procedure.
“Our guys are helping Mrs. Routt,” Tom supplied.
“Dusty was killed, wasn’t she?” Arch blurted out, his voice accusing. His narrowed eyes took in Tom, Julian, and me. Then he dropped his backpack and stalked out of the kitchen.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get him,” Tom offered.
Julian slumped in a kitchen chair, the savory blue cheesecake and tomato salad momentarily forgotten. “What’s Tom going to say?”
“He’ll tell him the truth. You want more coffee?”
“What the hell, why not.”
Within five minutes Julian had finished his third espresso and we were again working side by side at the counter. Unspoken but understood between us was the knowledge that our energy came from the fact that we were making food for Dusty’s family.
Not much later, Arch shuffled back into the kitchen. He stared at the floor as he asked, “Julian, are you coming to pick Gus and me up from school today?”
“Can’t, bud. Sorry. I promised Marla I’d go to her place tonight. But,” he said suddenly, “I’ll be back to help your mom tomorrow. Want me to spend the night after we do that party?”
“Sure,” Arch said, his voice low. That would be great, thanks.” I felt bad that Arch was feeling sad about Dusty. But clearly, he didn’t want to discuss it at the moment. He heaved up his backpack and turned to me. “Tom canceled my car-pool ride. He’s taking me out for breakfast on the way to the Vikarioses’ house. After that, the Vikarioses are going to drive Gus and me down to school.” I lifted my eyebrows at Tom, who shrugged. Arch went on: “And Gus is coming over today after school. Is that okay? And for dinner, too. Tom just talked to them. Then they want me to go over there to spend the night.” He looked at Julian, his brow furrowed. “Wait a sec. Want me to stay home, Julian?”
“I’m going to be coming back here anyway after I see Marla,” Julian said, as if he hadn’t doubted it for a moment. “So whether you decide to go to Gus’s or not, I’ll be around.”
Cheered that he could stay home with Julian if he needed to, Arch smiled. “Thanks.”
In addition to phoning the car pool and the Vikarioses, Tom had called one of his friends in the department, to see if it would be okay for us to go over to the Routts’ house. We’d been given the go-ahead. Tom had also phoned the Routts themselves, to ask if we could come over sometime in the next couple of hours. When he got the green light on that one, too, he gave me the news, a promise that he’d be back as soon as he dropped Arch off, and a kiss. Then he and Arch were gone.
Julian and I got back to work. Within ninety minutes, Julian had pulled puffed cheesecake out of the oven and arranged sourdough rolls and butter in a covered basket. Tom, meanwhile, had returned and shaken up a fresh garlic vinaigrette for the tomatoes, which he arranged on a bed of romaine and Bibb lettuce and sprinkled with scallions. I carefully pulled the Apple Betty out of the oven. It oozed spicy, lusciously scented juices out from under its crumb crust. At five past nine, Marla rang the doorbell. I went to greet her.
My best friend had swathed her wide figure in a black silk pantsuit. Her curly brown hair, usually held marginally in place by jeweled barrettes, was pulled back from her pretty face by a black velvet headband. Her large brown eyes were puffed and bloodshot.
“I can’t believe this,” she said, handing me a plastic grocery bag with a pack of eggs inside.
“Thanks,” I said. “And no, we can’t believe it either.”
I stowed the eggs, and the four of us packed up the food. Finally, we began our slow trek across the street to the Routts’ house. The sheriff’s department cars had pulled away. Tom had told us that it had been Sally’s father, Dusty’s grandfather John, who had choked and said yes, he’d be happy to have us come over, since Father Pete
