Uneasily, I turned to the dead woman’s comments about Julian.
JULIAN TELLER-Vulnerable. Wants to study food science. Not covered in Rugg’s. Will phone around for help. J. knows Cornell has a program (Jane Brody alum); would fit with his academic bent. Meet with foster mother (caterer) morning of 11/1. RECOMMENDED: CORNELL, MINNESOTA (?).
None of this made a whole lot of sense to me, except to confirm my suspicions about these people. Miss Ferrell was one smart cookie, except that she had not fathomed Brad Marensky’s question: Did Miss Ferrell know about his stealing? Apparently she had not.
I also remembered vaguely about Rugg’s ? a reference book that rated colleges and universities by departments. If food science wasn’t in there, perhaps I could check the cookbook section when I went to the Tattered Cover that evening to see where the most recent culinary writers had gone to school. It was something I could do to help, anyway. Even though Julian now had the funds to go anywhere he wanted, he might as well get the most his money could buy.
I tried to let go of academic worries while I put together more biscotti, some fruit and cheese trays, and started in on a recipe I was testing for Valentine’s Day: Sweetheart Sandwiches. A Sweetheart Sandwich consisted of a pair of fudgelike cookies separated by a slide of buttercream filling. Serving these rich little cookies was inspired by the subject for the evening’s lecture: “Stress Reduction in Test-taking.” My prescription for stress was simple: Take chocolate and call me when it’s over.
Audrey called, contrite over her early-morning explosion, and assured me she wanted to help tonight. Could she have a ride to the bookstore? Heather was doing some calculations for her classmates on their new class rank, and she had to deliver the results to her friends on their way down to Denver. Heather didn’t want Audrey to embarrass her, Audrey told me sadly. Were we wearing white uniforms, aprons, what? I told her black skirt, white blouse, and her apron that said GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING. She promised she’d come over at five-thirty. Julian called. He said he would be eating over at Neil’s; he would catch a ride with Neil and meet me at the bookstore. Unless I needed help? I assured him I had everything under control. Arch came home and announced he had to pack for an overnight with a friend. But first he would have some of the new cookies.
“If you’ll pour me a glass of milk,” he negotiated as he pushed his glasses up his nose and methodically placed three freshly baked cookies on his plate. With eyes closed, he tasted the first one.
“Well?” He let me suffer a moment. Then he said very seriously, “Excellent, Mom. Any teacher would give you an A plus.”
I grinned. “Are you feeling better in school?”
He swallowed, took a sip of milk, and wiped off the liquid white mustache. “Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
“Seventh grade is like…” Headmaster Perkins’ mannerisms were contagious. Arch popped another cookie in his mouth and chewed pensively. “Seventh grade is like half happiness, half totalitarianism.”
“Totalitananism?”
“Oh, Mom.” He adjusted his glasses. “Julian taught me that word for social studies.” He paused. “Are they still working on finding out who killed Keith Andrews and Miss Ferrell?”
When I nodded, he said, “You know, I just want to be in a safe place. It is scary in school, I have to admit.”
“But nothing else has happened, right?”
“Mom, the police are there. How safe do you think it’s going to be when they pull off their investigators and the surveillance?”
I didn’t answer that question. “Don’t worry,” I said tensely, “we, or they, or somebody, is going to figure out what happened.”
He didn’t seem to want to talk anymore, so I went back to my cooking. By the time the friend’s mother arrived at five o’clock, Arch had run through half a dozen cookies and declared he didn’t want any dinner.
Neither did I, I decided after he left, but not because I was full of anything but dread. My stomach was churning in anticipation of yet another college advisory event. I wondered how many guidance counselors had ulcers. Perhaps when this final ordeal was over, Audrey could get a ride home with her daughter and Schulz and I could go out for a late supper.
Audrey arrived. We packed the trays into the van, hightailed it to Denver, and arrived at the Tattered Cover promptly at six. Driving up to the third-floor entrance, where I had parked before, I remembered my resolve to check the cookbooks for names of schools for Julian. I also suddenly remembered Miss Ferrell’s grade book, which I had packed in one of my boxes in the hope that I could give it to Schulz after the program. With all the stealing going on among Elk Park preppies, I was going to make certain I personally handed this valuable volume to him for analysis. But I had learned my lesson with Keith’s computer disks: I wasn’t about to leave the grade book unprotected in the kitchen during the confusion of the catering. When Audrey was preoccupied with folding up box lids, I grabbed the grade book, wrapped it in a spare business apron, and headed briskly through the third-floor door and down two flights on the interior staircase. I wanted to put it in the secret closet Audrey had shown me
Sweetheart Sandwiches
Cookies: z pound (1 stick) unsalted butter 1 z cups sugar 2 large eggs 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ? cup unsweetened cocoa (recommended brands: Hershey?s Premium European-style, Droste, Ghirardelli) 2 cups flour ? teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking powder ? teaspoon baking soda
Filling: 4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 4 cups confectioners? sugar whipping cream
To make the cookies, cream the butter with the sugar in a large bowl until light. Beat in eggs and vanilla; set aside. Sift the cocoa powder, flour, salt, baking powder, and baking soda together. Stir the dry ingredients thoroughly into the butter mixture. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 or 3 hours. Preheat the oven to 375 and butter 2 cookie sheets. Using a teaspoon measure, roll level teaspoons of the dough into galls and place them 2 inches apart on the sheets. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes, until cookies are puffed and surfaces slightly dry and cracked. Cool on racks.
To make the filling, cream the butter until light. Beat in the vanilla and confectioners? sugar, adding whipping cream and continuing to beat until the consistency is like creamy frosting.
When the cookies are completely cool, spread about ? tablespoon of filling on the bottom of one cookie, then top with the bottom side of another cookie. Makes about 3 dozen sandwiches.
Variation: For half a batch of vanilla-filled and half a batch of peppermint-filled cookies, add 1/8 teaspoon peppermint extract to half the filling. Tint the peppermint filling pink or green before filling half the sandwiches.
in Business, but there was a cadre of people in front of the shelf, reading up on making millions in utilities stocks. I tried for a safer area.
The staffperson in Cookbooks recognized me from the previous week. She was delighted at my request to see the latest in culinary writing.
“Oh, but you have to go see our window display!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “It’s a new display Audrey and I put together: ‘What’s new in food and cooking’! You must go admire what she did.”
She directed me out the door to First Avenue, where I turned right and then faced a stage set behind plate glass that was designed to make people run ? not walk ? to the nearest restaurant. From every cranny of the big display window, photographs of food jumped out: splashy posters of Jarlsberg, Gorgonzola, and Gouda rounds vied with brilliant photos of jewelred peppers, beets, and squashes, tangles of colored pasta, blackened fish and thick succulent steaks, loaves of shiny bread, creamy cheesecakes, gleaming raspberry tarts, dark chocolate souffles. Stacked on tables placed in the visual display were at least a hundred cookbooks, thick and thin ? Julia Child, Jane Brody, the Silver Palate people, the Cajun crowd, you-name-it. Hanging like flags here and there above the small stage were aprons, kitchen towels, and tablecloths. Hmm. I wondered if the woman could be persuaded to put a Goldilocks’ Catering apron in there? The worst that could happen was that a negative response would be accompanied by the judgment that I was crassly, irredeemably commercial. Which I was. It was worth a try. None of us, I reflected as I trudged inside, is above bribery.
She would be happy to put the apron in, she told me cheerily. I accompanied her to the interior side of the window. There she slid expertly between the photographs, took down a red and white apron, and hung up my spare, the GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING facing the street. Inspired, I sidled up to the front of the window and
