Fatally Flaky gbcm-15

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Julian then wondered aloud if he should send Dodie outside to talk to the two uniforms, as she kept asking him if he’d seen Doc Finn.

  “No,” Jack said suddenly, draining his drink and setting the empty glass on the counter. “Don’t ruin her special day with her daughter. Let me go talk to Dodie, tell her Finn was unaccountably delayed because of some…medical thing, I don’t know what, and does she want me to make the toast. Now, Goldy, don’t go getting stubborn on me, because I’m much more stubborn than you are, and I’ve been at it a lot longer. Dodie can learn what actually happened once the reception is over. And, godchild,” he said tenderly, “you need to get into some dry clothes, take care of yourself for a change instead of everyone else.”

  Julian and Jack disappeared through the swinging doors. Two of the servers came back and said the guests had moved to the far end of the dining room for picture-taking, and all the tables had been moved back into the main dining room. Could they take out the shrimp cocktails, to start putting them on the plates? I gratefully said that would be super, then headed off to retrieve the clean uniform I kept in the restroom closet.

  Somehow, we got through the next two hours. Jack did a wonderful toast, holding little Lissa with one arm and his glass with the other. Marla showed up as lunch was being served, and told Jack he was going home with her, no argument permitted. Besides, she added, she had a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, which he needed to open with her. Jack even managed a smile. He hugged me and said we’d talk later.

  The lunch, a chilled curried chicken salad recipe I had been working on for a while, was served on a bed of baby lettuce alongside cold raisin-rice salad, and was a big success. The cake—which Julian had miraculously frosted with our back-up supplies into a replica of Keystone Mountain—was enjoyed by all. By the time the DJ started playing the music, I was ready to collapse with relief.

  Guests at wedding receptions don’t like to hear the sound of dishes being clanked around as they’re washed. But I had asked the servers I had hired for the event to bring all the dinnerware and flatware to the kitchen as soon as the guests were done. I gave them their pay, told them I needed them to come to Gold Gulch Spa, and not my event center, for Billie Attenborough’s wedding the day after next, and hustled them on their way. Julian and I then used our patented ability to clean silently, and washed, rinsed, dried, and packed up all the dishes, serving platters, trays, and flatware. By the time Dodie O’Neal appeared in the kitchen and handed me an envelope stuffed with bills, the cooking space was sparkling.

  “Dodie, please, you’ve already given us the gratuity. It was part of your contract.” I looked inside the envelope and realized the number of twenties she’d given us amounted to nearly a thousand dollars. “This is way, way too much extra money.”

  “Goldy, don’t protest.” Like some other women her age, Dodie managed to look older than her forty-five years. Her thin face was perpetually lined with wrinkles of worry, and she dyed her short blond hair at home. I didn’t know if the cops had talked to her yet, but I doubted it. “I feel as if I ignored you throughout the proceedings,” she went on, frowning.

  “Have you, I mean, did you—,” I faltered.

  “Yes. After Ceci threw the bouquet, I finally asked the two policemen why they were guarding the French doors, since I’d hired security guards. They told me. What a disaster, and so sad.”

  “Yes,” I said, remembering the times Doc Finn had treated me for bruises and cuts, all caused by my horrible ex-husband. Doc Finn had tried, in vain, to get me to report John Richard to the police, but I’d been too afraid. This had all taken place before doctors were required to inform law enforcement of suspected abuse, and I knew in my heart that Doc Finn never would have had any fear of the Jerk. A rock seemed to be forming in my chest. Poor, poor Doc Finn.

  “Well,” Dodie said now, “I want you to take the tip. Both of you. Give a good extra chunk to your servers, too. God knows you all deserve a big gratuity, since I understand Norman did show up, and caused a ruckus. And where were the security guards, I’d like to know? I didn’t give them an extra tip.”

  “Please, Dodie, don’t worry. Norman was just a nuisance. He created a temporary disturbance.” I kept my tone nonchalant. Behind Dodie, Julian opened his eyes wide and cocked his head at me, as in, You’re kidding, right?

  “Where is Norman now?” Dodie asked nervously. She licked her lips and glanced around the kitchen as if Norman were going to jump out of the walk-in refrigerator. “Did he leave?”

  “Yeah, he’s gone,” I said with a dismissive wave.

  “But…where did he go?” Dodie pressed. “I suppose I should have checked on him before, but what with Cecelia being so upset, and Lissa starting to cry, I just didn’t have the heart to come out and look for him.”

  “Your ex-husband, ah, became ill,” I told Dodie. “He’s on his way down to, oh, one of the area hospitals, I think.”

  “He’ll probably try to sue somebody.” Dodie’s voice was resigned. She pinched the bridge of her nose, sighed, then brushed the pleats of her beige dress. “That’s what he always does when things don’t go his way.”

  I thought of Tom’s imposing presence, not at all diminished by the fact that he was wearing an apron as he towered over Norman O’Neal. I thought of Father Pete, the priest with the deadly swing. Norman was going to sue somebody? Who would that be, exactly?

  “Well, he can try to sue people,” I said. “But considering the forces arrayed against him, I don’t think he’d have much chance of winning.”

  “LISSA STARTED CRYING? Remind me who Lissa is?” Julian queried once we’d packed up the dishes—I’d given the leftovers to Dodie—and were walking through the rain back to my van. The precipitation had diminished to a whispering drizzle, which blended with the tumble of water over rocks in Upper Cottonwood Creek. The gray light made everything seem like dusk, even though it was not quite four in the afternoon, and the sun would not set until after eight.

  I gave Julian an abbreviated version of Ceci’s trip to Romania. He was impressed, and said he hoped to be that good-hearted one of these days.

  “You already are,” I said.

  Julian pushed his boxes into the back of my van, and the two of us walked through the light rain to the kitchen door. When we arrived, Julian unlocked our storage door and brought out a shovel and a bag of sawdust. He dug into the bag and sprinkled it over the area where Norman O’Neal had hurled. We’d learned from unfortunate past experiences that the sawdust and shovel were necessary accoutrements for any catering venue where guests might be tempted to overindulge.

  Julian stopped to lean on the shovel. “And, boss, what are you going to do about Billie Attenborough changing the venue for her wedding? She’ll have to pay a cancellation fee for renting your space, too, right?”

  “Absolutely. Charlotte knows that.”

  “Looks like you don’t want to discuss it at the moment,” Julian said with a kind grin.

  “You’re right.” I really did not want to think about Billie Attenborough and her latest crisis. I could envision my entire evening—when I had wanted just to go home and cook for Tom—going down the proverbial tubes as I called the florist and all the other vendors. Of course, if Tom was involved in an investigation of Doc Finn’s death, the evening was already shot. My heart squeezed again. Poor Doc Finn.

  After a moment, I said to Julian, “Gold Gulch Spa is located at the old Creek Ranch Hotel.”

  “Yeah, the one with the hot spring. Way out Upper Cottonwood Creek. Near the Spruce Medical Group’s building, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “but Spruce Medical has relocated to town, and their old building is up for lease.”

  Julian shook his head. “This town is changing too fast.”

  “You know, with Gold Gulch Spa as the venue for Billie’s wedding, we’re going to have to deal with Victor Lane.”

  “That guy’s an asshole,” Julian remarked. “I wish somebody would dump him int
o a ravine.”

  “Now, now, Julian. Stiff upper lip.”

  “He thinks he knows about food and he doesn’t know jack.”

  “He’s going to know Jack, because Jack’s coming to the wedding.”

  “Oh, super. Your godfather, the smoker who’s had two heart attacks, coming face-to-face with the guy who thinks he knows all there is to know about healthful eating. I did a party where he was a guest. He tried to tell me what I should have served. I’m like, Welcome to the Vegetarian Revolution, Victor! You wanna cook, go ahead. But someone else is paying me to do it, so back off.”

  “I know the guy’s a creep, but give him a break.”

  “No.”

  Great. I had to say, though, Julian was right. And in fact, I had as much, if not more, reason to dislike Victor Lane and his vaunted Gold Gulch Spa than Julian did. But I kept mum. After all, a job was just a job, right?

  As Julian had said, No.

  5

  As I headed home, tatters of dark cloud hung in front of a lighter sky. Gray drizzle continued to fall. Once I’d unpacked the boxes, I fixed myself what I called my Summertime Special: two to four shots of espresso—depending on how badly I needed the caffeine—with whipping cream and ice cubes, and sat at our oak kitchen table to collect myself. With some trepidation, I checked our blinking answering machine.

  There was no message from Billie Attenborough—she probably figured she’d done enough damage for one day—nor was there one from Southwest Hospital, the place to which the ambulance had hauled away Norman O’Neal. Tom’s deep, reassuring voice sounded strained when he said he hoped to be home by seven; the medical examiner was making a special trip in to night.

  That didn’t sound good.

  Arch was up next, announcing gleefully that he’d been invited to spend another night at Gus’s place, and was that okay? Todd was there with them, too, and Todd’s mother had already said he could stay.

  Charlotte Attenborough’s voice greeted me next. She said she wanted to talk to me about the new arrangements for the reception, which Billie was supposed to tell me about, but had forgotten. I rolled my eyes. The daughter blamed the mother, and vice versa. Personally, I accepted Charlotte’s version. I shook my head. If Arch had ever been as flaky as Billie Attenborough, he never would have made it through elementary school.

  Did I, Charlotte went on, know where my godfather, Jack, was? There was no answer at his house. Could she come to my place this evening to talk?

  “I sure don’t want to see you,” I said aloud to the empty kitchen. “But I suppose we’re going to have to go over some things.”

  Adding fifty people and changing the venue of the reception? Letting me know a mere forty-eight hours in advance? I poured myself a small glass of sherry.

  Finally, there was Marla. She and my godfather were getting comprehensively inebriated, and could they please come over? Not to worry, Marla had already called a Denver car service to do the chauffering.

  “Call me as soon as you get this message, will you?” Marla demanded. “I’ll have to tell the car service what time.” She stopped to give Jack directions to her garage, where he’d find more scotch. “I know you live less than a mile from me, Goldy. But you can’t be too careful with cops waiting around every corner, just dying to hand everyone DUI citations. I don’t mean Tom, of course. Yeah, sure, bring the bourbon, too!” she shrieked at Jack. “Now listen”—here she lowered her voice—“I’ve got the churchwomen coming to night for a fund-raising discussion. Remember that dessert you promised to make for me? I still need it. And I won’t be able to stay at your place long, okay? So you need to take care of your godfather once I get there. What, Jack?” she called. “You can find more ice in the refrigerator in the garage—”

  She hung up.

  So. At this point, I was left to worry about how much booze two former heart attack patients—Marla and Jack—were downing, whether I could come up with realistic contract changes for Charlotte Attenborough, and making a dessert that I’d completely forgotten about. I wondered how the Episcopal churchwomen would feel about vanilla ice cream in a graham cracker crust. Probably not very good.

  But I always had backup plans, so our walk-in or freezer should yield something.

  I called Marla and told her to contact the car service. She replied that they’d be along as soon as humanly possible. How was Jack doing? I asked.

  “About what you’d expect,” was her cryptic reply. He must have been sitting right there.

  Next I phoned Arch and said it was fine for him to stay with Gus. He thanked me profusely and promised they’d be over the next night. I told him not to worry about it.

  I called Charlotte Attenborough, got her voice mail, and said sure, she could come over this evening, as long as it was before ten.

  I opened the walk-in and looked around for dessert ingredients for Marla. My eyes lit on a coeur à la crème that I’d drained overnight, with the intention of serving it to Tom to celebrate our love, it being wedding season and all. I could fix Tom another one, and the churchwomen would be more likely to open up their checkbooks if they were actually served something that Marla said was “incomparably rich.”

  It was just past five. Marla was due to come over with Jack, but what with a car service having to make it up the mountain, that was probably at least an hour away. I drank my sherry, and thought about Doc Finn.

  He had been a wonderful man, absolutely dedicated to healing. When Arch had been running a high fever during one of our periodic blizzards, his pediatrician’s office had not been answering their phone. Nor had Arch’s father, the Jerk, chosen to come home. He’d said he was staying in Denver—although I knew he was with his girlfriend. In desperation, I’d called Spruce Medical, and Doc Finn had jumped into his Jeep and driven out to us that night. I’d told him I didn’t know doctors still made house calls. Doc Finn had tried to touch my swollen cheek—another gift from the Jerk—and I’d shied away from him. I’d said Arch was in bed, and didn’t he want to see him?

  Doc Finn had been kind and gentle with Arch. He’d taken my son’s temperature, listened to his chest, and checked his ears. Doc Finn’s verdict: Arch had pneumonia. But Doc Finn had brought a bag of meds, including antibiotics, and we had weathered the storm, literally and figuratively.

  As Doc Finn was leaving that night, he turned to me thoughtfully and said, “Doctors are supposed to heal, not hurt.” I’d burst out crying, and taken the card Doc Finn had proffered. It hadn’t been his card; it had belonged to a divorce lawyer.

  I finished the sherry and traipsed upstairs, where I peeled off my catering clothes and decided on a shower. Doc Finn had been such a wonderful man, so thorough in his diagnoses, so good with patients young and old—the town would miss him terribly. As would Jack Carmichael. My heart was wrenched, thinking of my godfather and his dear friend. What would Jack do without Doc Finn?

  While the hot water soothed my body, I tried to put the image of Doc Finn at the bottom of a ravine out of my mind. But when I did, the vision of today’s wedding crashers—Norman O’Neal, plus Billie Attenborough with her fiancé, Craig Miller, in tow—came up. Better to dispense with them, too.

  Instead, I pondered Marla’s pie. I had pecans in the walk-in, and could make a nut-and-butter crust. This I would pack with the chilled coeur filling. On top I’d put concentric circles of blueberries and raspberries, and I’d give Marla a bowl of whipped cream to place on the side. All this would go over well with the churchwomen, I had no doubt.

  With the least of my problems solved, I dried off and donned jeans and a sweatshirt. It was still cool and drizzly outside, so a hot dinner for Tom and me, and Jack if I could convince him to stay, would work well. I always wanted Jack to feel welcome to eat with us, but he seldom did. Said he’d been a bachelor for so long, he resisted mothering.

  I opened the freezer side of the walk-in and surveyed the contents. In February, I’d made and frozen a pork ragout. With penne pasta and a Romaine salad with vi
naigrette, it would be perfect.

  Once I’d mixed up Marla’s butter crust with toasted pecans, I patted the crumbly mixture into a pie pan, then put it into the oven to bake. I set the table for three and thawed the ragout. It looked luscious. Finally, I located the penne, washed and dried the Romaine leaves, and whisked together a Dijon vinaigrette.

  I pulled the hot pie plate out of the oven, set it aside to cool, and booted up my kitchen computer. Reluctantly, I pulled up Billie Attenborough’s menu. I had my basic moneymaking formulas for different recipes. They all allowed for some overage, because you had to, but not for an extra fifty people. I was a true believer in love and all that, but if you were a caterer, weddings were the last place you should be feeling charitable.

  I stared at the menu. On such short notice, how in the hell was I supposed to come up with fifty extra guests’ worth of crab cakes with sauce gribiche, labor-intensive deviled eggs with caviar, artichoke skewers, and the two salads? Plus, would the wedding cake Julian was making even be big enough? And what about having enough servers? Well, Billie had said Victor Lane’s staff would be willing to help, and doggone it, help they were going to have to.

  I printed out a list of extra foodstuffs we would need, plus the recipes that would go with those ingredients. I knew the chef at Gold Gulch Spa. Yolanda was actually an old friend who had trained with my mentor, André. She had a prickly exterior, but once you got to know her, Yolanda was a generous soul. Still, I knew she would not be happy to add more duties to all she had to do in the spa kitchen. I shook my head. What ailed Billie Attenborough anyway?

  The phone rang and I checked the caller ID. It was Julian.

  “Are you all right?” I immediately demanded.