Free The Cereal Murders by Diane Mott Davidson Page A

of compliments. The Marenskys regarded us haughtily as they picked at their food, but ventured no more critical comments.
     
     
On the big-screen television, brilliant close-up shots made the football playing surface look like tiny blades. Happily, Denver won by two touchdowns, one on a quarterback sneak and the other on a faked field goal attempt. I predicted both plays in addition to serving the food.
     
     
Hank Dawson, flushed and effusive, reminded me I was booked again for next week's game. He brandished a wad of bills' that amounted to our pay plus a twenty-five percent tip. I was profusely thankful and divided the gratuity with Arch and Julian. Unfortunately, I knew that next week the Broncos were playing the Redskins in Washington.
     
     
Maybe I could split the tip over two weeks.
     
     
We arrived home just before five. Early darkness pressed down from the sky, a reminder, like the recent snow and cold, of winter's rapid approach. Julian stared out the kitchen window and said maybe he should stay home and do SAT review instead of doing stir-fry at the Tattered Cover. Inwardly, I cursed Rhoda Marensky. Arch said he wanted to come along when I told him we'd be cooking on the fourth floor, usually closed to the public.
     
     
"Cool! Do they, like, have their safe up there, and surveillance equipment, and stuff like that?"
     
     
"None of the above," I assured him as I packed up the ingredients. "Probably just a lot of desks and boxes of books. And a little kitchen."
     
     
"Maybe I should take my wardrobe with the fake back for the C. S. Lewis display. Oh, Julian, please come with me so you can help me carry it. I know they have a secret closet there, did you? Do you think they'll use my display? I mean, if Julian helps me set it up?" He looked with great hope first at Julian, then me. I was afraid, as mothers always are, that the voice of expedience - "They probably have all the displays they need" - would be interpreted as rejection. I said reflectively, "Why don't we ask them when we get there?"
     
     
He seemed satisfied. Julian decided his homework and the SAT review could wait. He helped Arch load the plywood wardrobe into the van while I packed up the stir-fry ingredients. On the way to Denver, I decided to broach the topic of Arch's weekend. Despite his basically nonathletic nature, he had learned to ski at an early age and enjoyed the sport quite a bit. For Halloween, I asked, did he want to ski early with his father, go out for trick-of-treat, what?
     
     
"I don't have any friends from Elk Park Prep to go trick-or-treating with," he replied matter-of-factly. "Besides, if Dad wants to ski-wait! I could go around in his condo building!"
     
     
"And dress up as... ?" Julian asked.
     
     
"Galileo, what else?"
     
     
I grinned as we pulled into the bookstore's parking garage. Audrey was waiting for us in her silver van by the third-floor store entrance. She hopped out and swiped her security card through the machine next to the door. Arch, a security nut, had her repeat the process, which he studied with furrowed brow as Julian and I unloaded my van. While helping us haul in the electric wok and bags of ingredients, Audrey said the store was empty for the two-and-a-half-hour break between closing and reopening for the seminar. The other seven staff members present were doing some last-minute preparation... dinner was planned for six-forty, and she'd already started cooking some rice she'd found in a cupboard... was that okay?
     
     
"Is now a good time to ask her about the wardrobe?" Arch whispered to me in the elevator to the fourth floor.
     
     
We had fifteen minutes before cooking had to begin. I nodded; Arch made his request.
     
     
"A wardrobe with a false back!" Audrey cried. "You're so creative! Just like Heather... why, I remember when she was nine, she loved C. S. Lewis too. How old are you?" Arch reddened and said he was twelve. Audrey shrugged and plowed ahead. "When Heather was nine,