Cold Snap (30 page)

Ari was salivating. He wished he could grab
his guests and throw them into their seats so that they could begin
their meal immediately. But nothing was ready until Madame Mumford
gave the say-so. Besides, not all of his guests had arrived.

Another knock, and Ari opened the door to
Pastor Grainger.

"I thought I would be eating at a kitchen
table," he said, nodding approvingly at the new furniture. He had
visited the house once before, in the company of Howie Nottoway,
when requesting Ari's services as a translator. Howie was one of
his parishioners. Guessing what was on his mind when he saw
Grainger surveying the other guests, Ari said:

"I didn't call Howie. I don't think..."

"No, he's not a connoisseur of fine cuisine.
You might have called him, in any event. He's sure to take note of
this assembly. He would have declined, of course. He would have
told you he was sharpening his pitchfork or something."

"You appear to know your people very
well."

"Sometimes I think so, too."

"Is this the result of confession?"

"Ummm...Methodists don't do confessions.
Well, we don't have confessionals."

As Ari removed the pastor's coat, he noted
the clerical collar. He supposed it was inevitable. Had he invited
an imam into his home, he would have fully expected him to wear his
robe and turban.

"I'll smooth things over with Howie for you,"
said the minister. "I'll tell him you had snails. Are we having
snails?"

"In fact..."

"All the more for me, then," said Grainger,
rubbing his hands together. "That makes me sound like a glutton,
doesn't it?"

"About that promise I made to Ben..."

"I hope it wasn't made under duress."

"He wasn't holding a gun to my head, if that
is what you mean," Ari said seriously. "I'm wondering...can I
convert it to something else?"

"You want to convert?"

Wrong word.

"I mean, would it be possible to join your
harriers, instead?"

"You mean the Christ Church Jogging
Club?"

"Yes, indeed."

"I don't deliver sermons while I'm jogging,
I'm afraid," Grainger said with amused regret. After a brief and
mildly sadistic pause, he continued: "But that will do, I think.
We're meeting at Reedy Creek in a couple of days. That's just up
the road from you."

"Thank you," said Ari, making a mental note
not to smoke and drink too much the day before.

The pastor turned to greet Mangioni.

"We know each other from the Prison
Ministry."

An attempt to win hearts and minds, Ari
thought bitterly. Just like the Coalition back home, unwilling or
unable to learn that good will in the sectarian mayhem of Iraq was
permanently temporary. Why hadn't they learned in Vietnam? Or had
they forgotten?

When Ari next answered the door, he found Ben
and Becky Torson on his stoup. On seeing Grainger in the hallway
behind Ari, Ben grinned broadly.

"So you're coming to church next Sunday?"

"I have come to an accommodation with your
holy man."

With a wide if skeptical smile that held no
hint of events two days earlier, Ben made a scoffing noise.
Grainger interpreted the sound at the door and ducked
sheepishly.

"I knew you would wriggle out of it. What's
the compromise?"

When Ari told him, he seemed delighted. "But
don't let our Reverend DI push you too hard. The course isn't for
old guys."

Ari hid his affronted face behind Becky's
coat as he lifted it off and raised it onto the rack.

With two exceptions, the guests mingled
fruitfully, with evident enjoyment. Rebecca was speaking earnestly
to Mangioni, her fluid eyes searching him closely for clues in his
responses. How much would she tell him of Ari's involvement in the
search for her missing husband? And how dismayed would she be when
she found out he had not yet approached the police about it? She
would be even more upset when the final guest arrived—if he arrived
at all. But Ari thought he knew his man. He had seen Bristol
Turnbridge's expression of ecstasy when he delved into the serving
platter at the Mackenzies.

Diane was sulking on Ari's new ottoman, no
doubt astonished at the absence of children for her to play
with—not to mention the fact that her mother had dragged her to the
house of an ogre. Seeing that things were going well among the
adults, Ari sidled over to the girl. With a grunt that only
confirmed Ben's 'old man' assessment, he crouched next to her. The
same way he had crouched next to his own boys when they were
Diane's age, though the position had been far easier to maintain in
his twenties.

"Are you dismayed, child?"

"I don't want to be here," she scowled
churlishly.

"I mean you no harm."

"You want to kill me."

"How can you say such a thing?"

"You want Marmaduke back."

Ari sighed. Children had a knack for baring
bones of contention. "I won't deny it."

"You don't love him."

"I find it hard to understand the concept of
loving a cat," Ari conceded.

"Then why do you want him so much?"

"It is a demanding necessity."

"A what?"

Ari struggled to find the right words, as he
always did when confronted by children. That boy in Fallujah, not
much older than Diane...in such dire situations one realizes
children are the only true believers. And what they believe in is
simple. And true. And sometimes, in a world of demented adults,
completely devastating.

I have shot a child, he thought. He could not
afford to weep.

"For me...Marmaduke is a little package of
life," he said.

"You don't make sense."

"I wish I did." He looked around at the
clutter of grownups. "I also wish I had thought to have children
here for you. Alas, I don't know any."

She smiled.

"Is that amusing?"

"The way you say 'alas'. It's funny. Like an
old movie."

"My English has many subversives."

Her smiled disappeared in a cloud of
puzzlement.

"Many things have happened to me, lately, and
they have caused me to miss my cues. Once my mind has settled, I
will speak properly, again. I am very good at languages, by the
way. Do they teach you any foreign languages at school?"

"I learned 'bon jour' and 'oui'."

"French! An excellent language. I have a love
for other languages. Each develops its own special beauty. I hope
you have the opportunity to learn more. French is a most excellent
beginning."

"OK," said Diane. "Tres bien, merci."

Ari smiled. "C'est bien."

Where Diane was stand-offish, Karen had
disappeared completely. He was wary of entering kitchen, not a
little afraid of being caught in a crossfire between the deputy and
the cook. But if Karen was harassing Madame Mumford the entire
evening would be jeopardized. Then he saw Bill bringing up trays
from the back and rushed over to him.

"Are things going well in the kitchen?"

"Of course," said Bill, surprised by the
question.

"I noticed the deputy marshal going in."

"She's not in the way at all," came the
reassuring answer. But Ari was not reassured. Bill struck him as
someone born to shower oil on troubled waters, even in the midst of
a hurricane. In Ari's experience, attempting to placate opposites
made a fool of the man in the middle. Bill did not seem to be a
fool, but Ari could not believe there was room for complacency.

"There's no call to be stressed," said Bill
emphatically. "My wife is her own severest critic."

"She's never had a party that failed?"

"Oh...she only provides the food. As for the
party...that depends on the chemistry between the guests."

"Yes, of course. Then you don't think she
would mind—?"

"Go right on in."

Such confidence should have been infectious.
Certainly, the confidence of the man who had predicted total
victory in the Mother of All Battles filled his people with pride
and keen anticipation—for a day or so. It had been the kind of
object lesson that forever tainted rosy futures.

"Thank you," Ari said in a quiet voice, like
a man given permission to jump off a high bridge. Three steps to
the right carried him into the kitchen.

He was flatfooted by what he saw. Madame
Mumford and Karen were speaking in low voices, with Karen
occasionally nodding and smiling. She glanced at him and
grinned.

"Well, didn't you hit the mother lode?" she
said.

"Mmmm?"

But Madame Mumford plucked at her sleeve to
draw her attention back to the frying pan in front of her.

"You see, the frying pan is almost hot enough
now..."

"I thought it was hot enough five minutes
ago," Karen said, a little alarmed by the fiery red coils under the
pan.

"The rule of thumb is, if you're thinking of
calling the Sapeurs-pompiers, then it is hot enough."

"The who?"

"The fire department," Ari translated.

"Excuse me, but that doesn't sound very
safe," said Karen.

"It is only unsafe if you don't pay
attention."

"But I notice...please don't mind, but you
seem to have a few burn scars..."

"That's nothing," Madame Mumford chuckled a
little lewdly, as though speaking of a lover with kisses of fire.
"Naturally, this only applies when sautéing vegetables or if you
want a good crust on your meat. If you are making caramel, fling
what I have said out the window. Once it begins to cook, sugar
creates its own heat..."

Her soft accent seasoned her admonishments.
Karen's tension had faded completely.

Ari scarcely recognized his kitchen. His
counters and new dual drop leaf table were heavily laden with food
that had already been prepared, or was half-prepared, or was
awaiting the first delicate ministrations. The stove on which he
had destroyed so many culinary dreams was now an organized clutter
of dreamy aromas and subjugated rawness. Madame Mumford barely
noted the occasional passage of Bill Mumford through the kitchen,
limiting her words to a few quiet instructions. He might be her
husband, but he was also her factotum. He looked wise enough to be
content.

Ari understood he was re-learning a very old
lesson: architecture was meaningless without occupants. And the
class of occupant made all the difference. A beautiful woman could
make a hovel glow with grace and charm. If a hole in the ground
held a deposed president, it became a castle.

Well, perhaps not always.

Yet there was no doubt the massive
architecture of the Republican Palace, so imposing and frightening
in its heyday, took on the aspect of an oversized playground when
first occupied by the Americans.

Having Madame Mumford in his kitchen was like
transplanting a heart into a man who had never had one. Meanwhile,
Karen absorbed her impromptu cooking lesson like an acolyte
receiving holy writ. Ari realized that, for at least a few hours,
his house would be a home. He was now sorry he had invited Bristol
Turnbridge. There should be no tension or controversy on a night
like this. No suggestion of murder.

"I'll get it!" Ben called out from the
hallway. Ari had not heard the knock. It could only be one man,
plus his wife. In one form or another, murder had arrived.

Two hours later conviviality was triumphant,
due in no small part to Madame Mumford's expertise. With so many
guests packed around Ari's new dining room table, the critical mass
of social interaction was unavoidable.

Once again, Ari found himself admiring
(against his will) Bristol Turnbridge. Appreciation of fine cooking
was as much a talent, in Ari's eyes, as picking out the nuances in
the Sistine Chapel. In the throes of gustatorial ecstasy,
Turnbridge's dual-pronged fork hesitated for only a second when
Rebecca mentioned that Mangioni was a policeman. After a flicker of
surprise, or disappointment, the fork proceeded to Turnbridge's
mouth, not in the least dissuaded by the news or the sizzling
butter that encased the escargot.

Diane found herself unable to maintain her
surliness after a bite from Madame Mumford's Galette bretonne. And
her eyes widened with delight as she gingerly tested the crisp
confit de canard. Drawing a great deal of attention from the guests
around her, she gradually began to bask in the adult environment.
The last thing Ari wanted was to alienate the girl, and he was
satisfied by the outcome.

"All right, Ari, you have paid your penance,"
Grainger said at one point. "I'll release you from your obligation
to run with the club. This meal is too heavenly..."

Ari glanced at Ben. Had he overheard?

"Seeing as I jog regularly in weather fine
and foul, I would be honored to run with your group."

"In other words, since you're doing it
anyway?" Grainger joshed him with a nudge to the ribs. "In that
case, you might want to consider our biking club. Do you realize
you have a mountain bike trail practically on your doorstep?"

"It has been many years since I rode a
bicycle," Ari responded, thinking of the day he had guided Quassim
down a gentle slope in al-Masbah.

"I suspect you are quite fit, in the
Hemingway way."

"Pardon?"

"Ernest Hemingway, one of our great
writers."

"Did he look like Gary Cooper? I believe I
saw a movie..."

"He had the Cooper flavor, I guess one could
say. Hemingway was also one of our great drinkers, sadly. Someone
who knew him said he was the healthiest and unhealthiest men she
had ever met. Jogging and shadow-boxing one day, bedridden the
next."

This was not a direction Ari cared to take.
He had been raised in a religion that forbade the drinking of
alcoholic beverages. He also drank to excess. God didn't seem to
care, one way or the other, although his liver might one day lodge
a protest.