Fatally Flaky gbcm-15

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Yolanda worked with alacrity on her appetizers, while out in the dining room, the sound of popping corks came in quick succession. Luckily, the weather was cool, so guests wouldn’t be tempted to down multiple glasses of champagne just to slake their thirst. I’d seen that happen more times than I wanted to count, and the vision of guests passed out in the spa’s flower beds—newly mulched by Boyd—was not something I wanted to contemplate.

  Jack made an unexpected appearance in the kitchen. “How you doing, Gertie Girl? Anything I can help with?”

  “Oh, thank you, but no,” I said quickly, intent on the tray of Deviled Eggs with Caviar in front of me. “We’ve got everything under control. Why don’t you just go enjoy the party?”

  “I’d rather not. Where’s your bodyguard?”

  I gave him a quizzical look. “You mean, Sergeant Boyd? What makes you think he’s my bodyguard?”

  “Gertie Girl, I may have been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night. Where is he?”

  “Moving chairs,” I said impatiently.

  “I want to talk to him,” Jack said.

  I took the rémoulade out of the refrigerator and stirred it, then began to spoon it into small crystal bowls. “Jack, please. If you want to talk to Sergeant Boyd, he’s out there somewhere. But please, please don’t give him a lecture on taking care of me. He will.”

  Jack held up his hands in protest. “Okay, okay!” He grinned widely, then disappeared.

  I forgot about Jack, Billie, Charlotte, Victor, and everyone else as our crew worked quickly to serve the appetizers, then start the crab cakes heating and get everyone seated. I didn’t know who was making the first toast and didn’t care. Julian gave me the high sign when it was time to start serving the dinner, and the servers whisked away with their trays.

  The satisfying clink of silverware against china mixed with the incidental music being provided by Aspen Meadow’s one disc jockey, who had arrived without my noticing. The organist had apparently been dispatched, and this had not made a ripple in my consciousness, either.

  “How’re we doing?” I asked Julian when all the dinners had been served.

  “Great. The guests are loving the food. When we were serving the appetizers, several people asked if you’d share the recipe for the deviled eggs. I’ve never had that happen before.”

  “Julian!”

  “I mean, they’re great, boss.” He colored, then smiled. “It’s just that people don’t go to the trouble to make deviled eggs so much anymore, that’s all.”

  When the conversational noise rose again, it was a sign that the meal was coming to a close. The servers zipped out of the kitchen with trays and began what I hoped was a subtle clearing of the tables. Yolanda filled the kitchen’s tublike sinks with scalding water and soap, and, with one of her coworkers, began a quick, quiet, professional dishwashing enterprise. After ten minutes of clearing, one of the servers announced that the tables were ready.

  “I’m taking out the cake,” Julian announced as he rolled the cake stand toward the dining room.

  “The ice cream!” Yolanda shrieked as she peeled off her rubber gloves. “We never have it here in the spa, and I forgot to let it soften!”

  “If that’s the worst that happens during this meal,” I said, “then we’ll be in good shape.”

  But it was not the worst that could happen. The toasts did not take long, nor did the serving of the cake, which was a miracle, considering Julian had to use his swimmer’s arm muscles to dig ice cream out of the big containers. I helped Yolanda with the dishes, and soon the dance music began. I didn’t see Billie and Craig perform their first waltz, which was probably just as well.

  But I was genuinely surprised when Lucas Carmichael slammed into the kitchen and marched right up to me. I pulled away from him, which only made him lean in close to my face.

  “Did you sic the cops on me?” he demanded. He wore a pale blue suit that must have had heavily padded shoulders. Instead of making him appear more fit, which was probably the effect he was after, the suit made him look like a kid who’d been dressed up for a Sunday School presentation. “I’m really tired of you and your manipulations, Goldy. I mean, we both know my father’s an easy touch. So you worm your way into his affections,” Lucas said, “with all your crying and moaning about your ex-husband. Then, when he decides to move out here, you convince him to buy a decrepit house across the street from you, not near me.”

  “I didn’t!” I protested. “I didn’t even know Jack was leaving New Jersey until he was practically here.”

  But Lucas had closed his eyes and was shaking his head. “You feed him food full of stuff he shouldn’t have.”

  “I don’t,” I tried again. “I try to give him heart-healthy meals.”

  Lucas pointed his right index finger at my nose. “And if all that weren’t enough, you tell the cops that I was involved in the death of Doc Finn—”

  After my years with the Jerk, I’d learned to stand my ground. “You are exaggerating, Lucas,” I said evenly. “You’ve got problems with your father? Or with law enforcement? Those are your issues, Lucas. Not mine.”

  But Lucas was going to have his say. “This past Thursday night, I happened to be at Southwest Hospital checking on a patient on my own time, not calling Doc Finn to set up…eek!”

  Sergeant Boyd had come up quietly behind Lucas, circled the young man’s chest with his powerful policeman’s arms, and lifted him off the floor. Lucas’s feet flailed wildly, and he was suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, much less bawl me out.

  “Listen up, pal,” Boyd said huskily into Lucas’s ear. “You don’t belong in this kitchen, understand? It’s for food workers only. Got it?”

  When Lucas did not reply, Boyd loosened his grip a tiny bit.

  “Put me down!” Lucas managed to squeak.

  Boyd retightened his hold on Lucas. “Got it?” the sergeant repeated. Yolanda and two of the servers were frozen, their mouths open, staring first at Boyd, then at Lucas, then back at Boyd again. I wasn’t doing much better. I wanted Lucas out of the kitchen, but I certainly didn’t want to alienate the young whippersnapper any more than I already had.

  Into this unfortunate scene Marla happened to appear. She breezed into the kitchen wearing a rosy pink satin designer dress with a matching shawl; in her hair and ears and around her neck were barrettes, earrings, and a necklace constructed of masses of pink sapphires. She smiled at our little tableau.

  “Well, well, Lucas Carmichael!” she exclaimed, as if she ran into cops holding physician’s assistants in death grips every day. “When I saw you slip in here, I knew you weren’t coming for another crab cake. Now, Sergeant Boyd,” Marla scolded mildly, “what ever it is you want from Lucas Carmichael, I can guarantee he’ll give it to you. Right, Lucas?”

  Boyd released Lucas, who despite his light weight dropped heavily onto the kitchen floor.

  “C’mon, Lucas,” Marla spoke down smoothly to where Lucas was kneeling on the floor, coughing, panting, and rubbing his eyes. “It looks as if they want you out of the kitchen. Am I right or am I right? Okay, I’m right. And anyway, I want you to dance with me.”

  “I, I—” Lucas struggled to his feet, narrowed his eyes to give me a dark look, then glanced over at Boyd. Boyd crossed his arms and raised his thick black eyebrows in a threatening manner. “Okay,” Lucas said grudgingly, straightening his pale blue tie. “But I was just trying to—”

  “Don’t start with the excuses, buddy,” Boyd said. “Or I’ll lift you up by your ankles.”

  Marla tapped her foot. “Lucas? I’m waiting.” She leaned over and whispered in Boyd’s ear, I suspect to say she was going to take Lucas off Boyd’s hands instead of asking Boyd to dance. “Lucas?” she asked again. “Are you going to dance with me?”

  “God, Marla,” Lucas said, recovering himself, “dance with you? You’re old enough to be my mother.”

  “Take it easy, dear boy,” Marla said, taking Lucas’s arm. “Does your mot
her have a ten-million-dollar slush fund?”

  Lucas gazed at Marla with sudden interest. “Do you?”

  Marla’s expression twinkled as brightly as her sapphires. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to dance with me to find out!”

  Yolanda, her coworkers, and I hadn’t worked more than ten more minutes when Julian stuck his head in the kitchen.

  “Boss,” he said to me, “you’d better come have a look at this.”

  “Oh, hell, Julian, if it’s Lucas Carmichael again, then I’ll bring Boyd with me, and we can—”

  “It’s not Lucas,” Julian replied. “It’s Jack.”

  “Oh, crap,” I muttered under my breath. Jack and Lucas fighting? Jack and Billie fighting?

  When I sidled into the dining room, which had been skillfully turned into an enormous dance floor, I tried to focus on the crowd, to look for Jack. It was a slow dance, which was unusual for a wedding, and made distinguishing people via their backsides somewhat challenging. Finally, though, I saw him. He was dancing, very close, with Isabelle. Again. Oh, hell. She was supposed to be there in a server capacity, not a guest capacity. Yes, the serving was over, but I could imagine the kerfuffle if Victor saw Isabelle with Jack again.

  Aw, jeez, now it looked as if Jack was whispering something in Isabelle’s ear. When she turned away to laugh and shake her head, I noticed she wore a red lace dress with lots of décolletage.

  So Isabelle was breaking all kinds of rules here. First of all, nobody at a wedding was supposed to wear lace except the bride. And no one, no woman anyway, is supposed to look sexier at a wedding than the bride. Take it from me, I’d heard from plenty of mothers of the brides who were outraged at the provocative dresses some of the female guests had turned up in, that this was a huge no-no. Worst of all, Isabelle was dancing and flirting with a man—okay, my godfather—who was old enough to be her father, and he had come with Charlotte Attenborough. Plus, Isabelle was a server, not a guest…

  Which all might have been okay in this day of relaxed standards. But leaning against a nearby wall, Charlotte Attenborough was ostensibly talking to a friend—someone I recognized from a Mountain Homes photo display—while casting murderous glances at Jack.

  Would he never learn?

  15

  I repaired back to the kitchen, where any crisis was worth dealing with as long as it didn’t actually involve the wedding. Boyd and Julian were engaged in a conversation that was important enough that they’d stopped washing the cake dishes. Julian finally faced me with the bad news.

  “Four guests have come in saying they smelled pot smoke coming from the area of the Smoothie Cabin,” he announced.

  I glanced at Boyd. “Do we have to do something about it?” I said, ever one to duck responsibility when it came to law enforcement at catered functions.

  “You don’t,” he said simply. “How do I get to the Smoothie Cabin?” I told him. “Keep an eye on her,” he ordered Julian, “don’t let her out of your sight.” Then he checked that his cell phone was working and marched out the back door of the kitchen.

  I eyed the remains of Julian’s cake. There wasn’t much left. “What should we do with this?”

  “Charlotte came in and said we were to wrap it well and put it in our van. She didn’t want any hungry spa guests delving into it, and she wants to save some for a magazine staff meeting tomorrow morning.”

  I sighed. “Of course.”

  Five minutes later, Boyd had not returned, but Julian and I had wrapped the lowest cake layer in plastic.

  “I can take this to the van,” I told Julian.

  “The hell you say. I’m sticking to you like, well, what? Epoxy? Cement?”

  “Dried royal icing.”

  “Fine,” he conceded. “Let’s boogie.”

  We, too, marched out the back door, with Julian holding the cake and me being, well, his escort. There was indeed a strong scent of marijuana drifting from somewhere, but it was hard to tell from where. Where was Boyd? Had he decided to get stoned with the party? Unlikely.

  After we’d stowed the cake, Julian and I were walking back to the main house when we heard a soft, low moaning.

  “Somebody having sex?” Julian whispered to me. “They needed the grass to get them going?”

  “Wait. Listen.”

  The low groaning was there again, along with faint coughing. It did not sound as if whoever-it-was was enjoying himself.

  “Could it be Boyd?” I asked Julian fearfully. “Maybe he caught somebody smoking, and whoever it was hit him, or something.”

  “I think Boyd can take care of himself.”

  The moaning was there again, less distinct this time. But I was sure it was a man in pain.

  “I want to find out who’s hurting,” I said firmly.

  “We’ve got a lot of dishes still to do,” Julian warned as I set off in the direction of the newly landscaped area.

  “They’ll keep!”

  Julian cursed under his breath, but true to his promise, stuck close to me.

  “Where are you?” I called into the night. “Boyd? Are you hurt?”

  There was a kind of whimpering coming from the bushes. Oh, how I wished cheap old Victor Lane had installed some real perimeter lighting instead of relying on Christmas-in-summer strands of lights.

  “Boyd!” I called again when the sounds stopped. “Where are you?”

  “I’m right behind you,” Sergeant Boyd announced, and Julian and I almost jumped out of our epidermi.

  “Did you find the pot smokers?” Julian asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, we heard somebody moaning and groaning and crying,” I said. “Somebody’s hurt.”

  “More like somebody’s drunk or having sex,” Boyd said.

  But it was neither. Beside the bushes, a body was sprawled at an unnatural angle. It looked like a man clad in dark colors. In the strings of lights, he was visible by his bright white shirt. Julian and I rushed over.

  “Oh, Christ,” Julian said. Breathless, I fell to my knees beside the man.

  “Gertie Girl,” Jack Carmichael managed to say before he lost consciousness.

  BOYD WAS RIGHT behind us, and quickly took command of the scene. Thank God, he got a cell signal. He summoned an ambulance and law enforcement, while Julian judged Jack’s condition.

  “His heart’s beating fine,” Julian said to me. I was still speechless, but I was vaguely aware of tears streaming down my cheeks. “It just looks as if he was knocked out or something. Oh, Christ,” he said again, as he reached around to the back of Jack’s head. When he pulled his hand back, he held it up to show me. His fingers were covered with blood.

  I’d seen plenty of trauma in my day, but it was different when it was someone you loved. “Jack!” I called down to the inert form. “Please, Jack!”

  “Move away, Goldy,” Boyd ordered. “You, too, Julian.”

  “He’s been hit in the back of the head, and he’s bleeding,” Julian said. “I should hold on to the wound until the medics get here.”

  Curious wedding guests were gathering outside to watch the drama before them.

  “Dammit,” Boyd muttered when he saw the crowd. “All right, then, Julian, stay where you are. But do not move a muscle from that spot. Goldy, I’ve called Tom. We had a bad connection, but he’s coming. Now, I want you to move these people back inside. Get Yolanda to help you. Victor, too. Tell everyone…tell them Jack’s had an apparent heart attack and we need the guests to stay away until the ambo gets here. You got it?” he asked. “You going to be all right to do that? You’re not going to pass out on me, are you? Or throw up?”

  I pressed my lips together and nodded. “I am fine,” I said evenly, “and I’ll do exactly what you want. But what the hell happened? Is he going to be all right?”

  “He’s going to be fine as long as you can keep people out of here. Oh, and isn’t the groom a doctor? Get him out here. ASAP.”

  “All right,” I acquiesced. “But,” I continued stubborn
ly, “why would someone do this?”

  “Goddamn it, Goldy,” Boyd said angrily, “I don’t know. Isn’t your godfather wealthy? Maybe someone wanted his wallet.”

  “His Rolex is gone,” Julian said. “Uh-oh, he’s conscious now. And he’s going to puke.”

  “Roll him on his side,” Boyd commanded. Julian did as commanded, and I really did think I was going to pass out when my godfather began to throw up weakly into the grass. Boyd shouted, “Get the damn doctor, Goldy!”

  I blinked, overcame my immobilization, and walked quickly over to where the crowd was gathered. “Please go back inside,” I begged them. “Someone is just sick, that’s all.”

  “Serves him right,” a guest commented.

  “I’m sure as hell not having any more of that punch.”

  “Cake either!” Someone else cackled.

  “Does anybody know where Dr. Miller is?” I asked, my voice suddenly high and imperious.

  “Inside, I expect,” an anonymous voice from the crowd announced. “Which is where all of you should be.” The voice was Victor Lane’s. “Let’s go, everybody. The show’s over.”

  Victor was better at directing people around than I was, perhaps because he’d had more practice.

  I pushed through the crowd, future clients be damned. “I need Dr. Craig Miller,” I said urgently to Victor.

  “He’s still inside, Goldy. At least, he was the last time I saw him.”

  I sped through the dining hall doors and searched the hundred or so faces. Near me, Isabelle was listening uncomfortably to a lecture from Charlotte Attenborough. Out on the dance floor, Marla was swaying jovially from side to side, while Lucas Carmichael tried desperately to find the music’s rhythm. He seemed as ill at ease as Isabelle. I threaded my way through the tables and immediately was aware of people’s glares. Now what does she want? Isn’t the dinner over?

  Finally, Billie’s loud laugh exploded from the far side of the dining room, and I made a beeline toward that noise. I realized I hadn’t yet seen her in the fancy cream wedding dress that, when you included all the fees for change orders, Marla reported had cost over two thousand bucks.