Free Dying for Chocolate by Diane Mott Davidson Page B

eyebrows set in a square-jawed, fine-featured face and crossed his arms.
    “I was. I was right behind him.”
    The corners of his mouth turned down. His towel had fallen open over his wet tank suit, but he appeared to take no notice. He said, “What were you doing behind him?”
    I took a deep breath, sipped foam off the espresso. “Driving Adele’s car, following Philip into town. To have coffee. Then I was going to go buy supplies for Weezie’s dinner tonight.”
    He turned away. Silence filled the kitchen. Then, “I’m a replacement guest,” he said contemptuously.
    “Lucky you, get to taste the food I make for a catered function. But with the brunch yesterday, I’m swamped. Mrs. Harrington has made specifications about the food. You’re a vegetarian, and I need to do a dessert—”
    He said, “Why don’t you just use some of that fudge with the sun-dried cherries? For dessert, I mean. When I moved in a couple of weeks ago, I made a batch, and Adele took some over to the Harringtons. Brian Harrington loves the stuff. He couldn’t believe I made it.”
    “Well, thanks,” I managed to say, “but a client usually likes to have me make something if I’m going to get paid for it.” I smiled and ventured, “Cooking is something we have in common.” After all, if we were going to share the Farquhars’ house and Arch for the next few months, rapprochement seemed in order.
    He gave an offhand laugh and said, “I don’t think we have anything in common.”
    Again silence fell between us.
    Finally Julian said, “That coffee available or what?”
    I nodded, dumped the spent espresso grounds, and started a new cup brewing. He stood up, tucked the towel in, and sat down again.
    When I had managed not to stare at him putting four teaspoons of sugar and a quarter cup of milk in my perfect espresso, I said, “Would you like to talk about Philip Miller?”
    “Not really.” He did not look at me, but began sipping somewhat noisily on the coffee. He said, “He was a good guy.”
    “When was the last time you saw him?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “This week? Last week?”
    “I told you,” he said loudly. “I don’t remember.”
    I said, “Sorry,” and meant it.
    Julian pushed back his chair and drained the espresso. “Look,” he said, “I need to go change. You want to know about this food stuff, go to the library and ask for Sissy Stone. She, like, helped Mrs. Harrington with her research. She knows who you are. Sissy was a finalist for Colorado Junior Miss, too, how about that? I’m bringing her to the Harringtons’ dinner tonight. My date, as Adele calls her.” He stopped. “I don’t believe aphrodisiacs work,” he said defiantly.
    “Really?”
    “Yeah, really.”
    “Do you believe other means are more effective for getting the girl?” I asked with what I hoped was a friendly smile.
    He whipped off the damp towel, slapped it over his shoulder, and started out of the kitchen. He paused at the door.
    He said, “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”
    I couldn’t wait to get hold of Sissy Stone, sort of like getting hold of the flu. But when the wooden doors of the Aspen Meadow Public Library swung open at 9:58 A.M., the young woman behind the door gave me a toothpaste-ad smile. She was my height and compactly built, a cross between a gymnast and a cheerleader and probably functional at both. She had pushed up the sleeves on a too-large Elk Park Prep sweatshirt that I suspected was Julian’s. Perfect cream beige makeup covered olive-undertoned skin. Her hair fell in thick dark waves that reminded me of the ribbon candy I bought Arch at Christmastime.
    “I’m looking for Sissy Stone,” I said with what I hoped was an enormous, confidence-winning grin. “Do you know where she is?”
    The girl said, “Why?”
    “Are you Sissy?” I asked.
    “Well. Yeah,” she said with another bright smile, as if I had just introduced her on network television.
    I gestured into the library