The Cereal Murders by Diane Mott Davidson Read Free Book Online Page A

them. The official interrogations, not to mention Keith's bizarre death, would be guaranteed topics of conversation during the church coffee hour.
     
     
Cook, I ordered myself, you'll feel better. I folded shiny slivers of orange zest into a pillowy spongecake batter to make Bronco-fan cupcakes for the Dawsons' brunch. When the cupcakes were in the oven, I drained and chopped fat purple plums for a Happy Endings Plum Cake, a prototype for Caroline Dawson, who had promised to taste it at church. If she and Hank liked the cake, they'd said I could sell them at their restaurant, the Aspen Meadow Cafe.
     
     
For the rest of the church refreshments, I sliced two dozen crisp Granny Smith apples into bird-shaped centerpieces that would be surrounded by concentric circles of Gouda and cheddar wedges. I didn't even want to think about the price of the cheeses in this little spread. I reminded myself that this was an advertising opportunity, even if it was church. To complete the cheese tray, I cut several loaves of fragrant homemade oatmeal bread into triangles and threw in a wheel of Jarlsberg for good measure. Advertising could get expensive.
     
     
Arch dressed with minimal complaining, since he didn't want to wake up Julian, who was snoring deeply. The wind bit through our clothing as we climbed into the van. The sky was luminescent, like the inside of a pearl. Streets slick with newly plowed snow made the going slow. By the time we arrived at the big stone church with its great diamond-shaped windows, the parking lot was already half filled with Cadillacs, Rivieras, and Chrysler New Yorkers, with the occasional Mercedes, Lexus, and Infiniti.
     
     
I scanned the parking lot for my ex-husband's Jeep with its GYN license plate, but he was not making one of his rare church appearances. The personalized tags indicated who had already arrived. The Dawsons' matching vans advertised the presence of parents and offspring. Greer Dawson was known to her volleyball teammates as G.D., the Hammer, hence the tag GD HMR. Her parents' more sedate tag read AMCAFE, for the Aspen Meadow Cafe. There was MR E, from a local mystery writer, and UR4GVN, from who else? The priest. I pulled in next to the gold Jaguar belonging to Marla Korman, my best friend, who also happened to be Dr. John Richard Korman's other ex-wife. Her license tag said simply, AVLBL.
     
     
When Arch and I pushed through the heavy doors with our platters, Marla shrieked a greeting and rushed across the foyer toward us. Large in body and spirit, Marla always dressed according to the season. This morning, an early appearance of winter demanded a silver suede suit sprinkled with an abundance of pewter buttons across a jacket and skirt. Sparkly silver barrettes, my gift for her fortieth birthday, held back her eternally frizzed brown hair. She folded me in a hug that was all bangle bracelets and soft leather.
     
     
"What in the hell happened out at that school last night?" she hissed in my ear.
     
     
"How did you find out about it?"
     
     
"What, are you kidding? My phone started ringing at six-thirty this morning!"
     
     
The organist sounded the opening notes of a Bach fugue. I whispered back, "It was awful, but I can't talk about it now. Help me in the kitchen afterward and I'll tell you what I know."
     
     
Marla told me she had visitors she had promised to sit with during the service, but that she could help later with the food. Then she whispered, "I heard this kid stole credit cards."
     
     
"He did not," said Arch in a very loud voice behind us. "He was nice." At this, heads in the pews swiveled to stare at us. The Bach was in full swing. Marla lifted her double chin in an imperial gesture. I pretended not to know either of them and hustled the first bird-apple centerpiece out to the church kitchen.
     
     
We mumbled along through the service until the passing of the peace, when you wish the priest God's peace and then turn to your neighbors and wish them the