The Cereal Murders by Diane Mott Davidson

well-rounded to admissions folks. I didn't see why Greer couldn't round herself out working at the family cafe, but perhaps the Ivy League frowns on nepotism.
     
     
Anyway, Audrey was correct in saying Greer hardly ever managed to fit working for me into her busy schedule. But I couldn't afford to alienate her parents before I had wowed them with my baking. I handed an unsmiling Audrey a cheese tray. The enticing smell of cinnamon wafted up from the moist slices of plum cake. As I picked up the cake platter and headed for the Dawsons, I decided that the last thing I'd want to put on my college application was that working in food service had made me we//-rounded.
     
     
"Ooo, ooo, ooo," crooned Marla when I breezed out into the foyer. She cast a greedy eye on the cake. "I still want to hear about last night. And let me tell you, Father Olson is in love with the spread. He already asked me if I thought you'd cater a high-powered clergy meeting."
     
     
"As long as he pays for it, I'm his."
     
     
"This is the church, honey." Marla pinched a piece of cake and popped it into her mouth. "He's not going to pay for anything." She chewed thoughtfully, eyes on something over my shoulder. "Here come Hank and Caroline Dawson," she said under her breath, "the king and queen of the short people. They'll eat anything in sight."
     
     
"Hey!" I protested. "['m short! And I resent - "
     
     
"Behold your monarchs, then," Marla said with a lift of her chin. "They're right behind you."
     
     
The Dawson parents swept up to me. Hank's look was knowing.
     
     
He said, "Big game today. You nervous?"
     
     
I eyed him. Hank Dawson was a square-set man - square, leathery face with a sharply angled jaw, square shoulders, square Brooks Brothers gray suit. His short salt-and-pepper hair, receding hairline, and quickly appraising Delft-blue eyes all said: No-nonsense Republican here. When we could avoid the topic of how brilliant Greer was, Hank and I chatted knowingly after church about the upcoming Bronco games. We were hard-core fans who kept a separate orange outfit for Sunday afternoons, followed the plays, trades, and strategies with our own commentary, and had a standing prescription for stomach medication when the playoff season began. Talking shop with Hank after the Episcopal church service was like finding your kinsman who speaks Zulu in the middle of North Dakota.
     
     
"Nah," I replied. "The Vikings are sunk."
     
     
"You're right. The Vikings are sunk without Bud Grant."
     
     
"The Vikings have been sunk since Fran Tarkenton retired."
     
     
"Still," persisted Hank, "you have to worry about any team that can sustain a two-minute offense for a whole quarter."
     
     
"Hank. That was years ago."
     
     
"Yeah." He looked reassured. "That was Bud Grant's last year."
     
     
Then we said our refrain in unison, "And we have Elway."
     
     
"Excuse me!" shrilled Caroline Dawson. You see, they always get upset when you speak Zulu.
     
     
I suddenly wished I were trying to sell the Bronco-orange cupcakes to the cafe, instead of the plum cake. I turned an apologetic and only slightly saccharine smile to Caroline.
     
     
The queen of the short people touched the buttons of her scarlet Chanel-style suit, which was only a shade darker than the burgundy silk of the night before. Marla had once pointed out to me that this particular hue was favored by women in their late fifties. She had dubbed it menopause red. Standing, Caroline resembled a squat, heavy column abandoned by the Greeks. The two Dawsons reminded me of Arch's old square and round blocks that had to be hammered through the right holes.
     
     
"Doesn't that look lovely," Caroline murmured as she reached for a large slice. "I do hope it tastes as good as it looks." She gobbled it down and shoved another into her mouth. Hank picked the bars up and ate them two at a time. Mouth full, Caroline finally commented, "That was quite a dinner last night. Of course, Greer doesn't