Steamed by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant

I’d recall any crucial clues, I assured him that I’d call if I thought of anything new. I hung up, convinced that would be my last contact with the murder investigation.
     

SEVEN
     
    I’D just finished my shower when the phone rang again. I wrapped a towel around myself, grabbed the phone, and stared at the caller ID. Rafferty, P. What? Did I even want to answer this?
     
    “Hello?”
     
    “Is this Chloe?” a shrill female voice asked.
     
    “Um, yes. Who is this?”
     
    “Oh, Chloe, this is Eric’s mother, Sheryl Rafferty.” She muffled a sob. “I spoke with Timothy Rock yesterday. I got your last name.” She stopped for a second and added, “From him. And found your number in the phone book.” She started crying harder.
     
    “Oh, Mrs. Rafferty, I am so sorry about Eric. I just can’t imagine how devastated you must be.” Why was she calling me? What in the world was I supposed to tell this woman? Your son was dreadful and pompous during the two hours I knew him, and then I found him with his throat slit on a men’s room floor?
     
    “Well, dear,” she managed to continue, “Eric’s father and I knew he’d been dating.” She paused. “Dating someone serious. Well, not someone serious . Or not necessarily a serious person, that is. Dating seriously . There. And Timothy told us who you were. I know you must be just as heartbroken as we are. His parents. He was our only child, you know. I had the understanding . . . well, I may have misunderstood. Well, no, I didn’t. I had the sense that this may have turned into a more permanent relationship. Cut short by Eric’s death. But it’s consoling to know that after all, he found great love. During his life.” As opposed to after his demise? Although the bereaved Mrs. Rafferty claimed to be consoled by the thought of her son in love, this notion sent her into another loud gale of moaning.
     
    I couldn’t blame her, obviously, for her tears, and I attributed her evident confusion to grief. Losing a child must be unimaginably painful. No wonder Mrs. Rafferty sounded so fragmented. I had to do whatever I could to comfort her and decided that a nod-and-smile-and-agree-with-everything attitude would be the kindest approach. And very social workish. “This must be awful for you. Please let me know if I can do anything for you,” I said in my best soothe-the-grieving-mother voice.
     
    “Well, actually, Chloe, I want your advice. About the funeral. I’m sure you want to be involved. So I thought I’d let you know that Madeline Rock . . . Do you know her? From Magellan, it’s called. It’s a restaurant. She offered me her executive chef, a Josh something-or-other, and his staff to do the food. Catering. For the gathering at our home after the funeral. Now, Eric was a fan of Timothy’s. But what do you know about this Madeline? What do I tell her? Of course, Eric is my only child, and I adored him to pieces . . . such a precious and wonderful son, but truthfully, Eric and I did not have the closest relationship in terms of day-to-day life. Or else we would have met you by now, of course. So, I’m not sure what he would want.”
     
    Okay, I’d hardly known Eric, but I did know that he had loved food and loved the whole restaurant business, and had seemed quite fond of Magellan. Furthermore, I felt certain that Eric wouldn’t have refused the offer of free food. Who was I to talk? But why was his mother soliciting my advice, anyway? What ulterior motive could Madeline Rock possibly have that should arouse suspicion and require a consultation with me? The notion of a gourmet-catered funeral was a little odd, but it always struck me as peculiar that death was customarily surrounded by tons of food. When someone died, were the surviving loved ones hit with sudden cravings for casseroles and fruit salads? Still, after a death, visitors expected be fed and, more than that, fed well. When our neighbor Ray died, my mother was highly irritated at the