A Fine Fix

by Gale Deitch

  “Of course,” she said, making her way to Bradley, who was wiping glasses and setting up the bar. “So very nice to see you again, Bradley.” She leaned toward him, exposing some cleavage.

  Zach glanced at me and shook his head almost imperceptibly, the expression on his face saying, “See? When Bradley’s around, I’m invisible.”

  Bradley gave her his most charming grin. “Mrs. Lewis,” he said, taking her hand.

  Barbara Lewis giggled, or what might be the sound Queen Elizabeth would make if she in fact giggled. Then she went into the dining room to set out the place cards.

  “What is it about you, man?” Zach asked Bradley after she’d left the room. “You’ve got every woman wrapped around your finger, ready to do whatever you ask.”

  I stiffened, afraid Zach was starting a confrontation. He and Bradley were like vinegar and oil in salad dressing, the oil constantly floating to the top, and me always attempting to whisk them together.

  Bradley’s laugh was edged with bitterness. “For me, it’s more a curse than a blessing. Bequeathed to me from my old man.”

  I remembered my conversation with him at the Schwartz house and Bradley’s animosity toward his father, who had wounded his family with his repeated acts of infidelity.

  Zach appeared perplexed.

  “Sorry, Zach. Believe me, I’m not asking for the attention.” He paused, studying Zach for a moment. “Hey, I’ve been watching the way the two of you handle those knives. I’ve never been able to get the knack of chopping vegetables like that. Do you think you can show me the technique some time?”

  I held my breath, waiting for Zach’s answer to Bradley’s attempted peace-offering.

  Zach frowned then nodded. “Sure. I’ll be glad to. Drop by the warehouse whenever you want.”

  When they fist-bumped, I relaxed and turned back to preparing the shrimp cocktail sauce. I smiled to myself. Maybe the two of them could learn to get along after all. It sure would make my life easier.

  “Hello.” The deep booming voice made me jump.

  Mr. Lewis stood at the kitchen doorway, dressed for the evening in a pale blue shirt and navy blazer with brass buttons. His eyes widened when he saw me. I guess his wife hadn’t enlightened him about the catering crew tonight. He recovered quickly from his shock, but frowned as he headed to the bar. “Just want to go over the liquor for tonight with the bartender.”

  Zach and I continued preparing the hors d’oeuvres. I hadn’t told him or anyone else about the conversation I’d overheard during Shiva. As Mr. Lewis spoke with Bradley about the cocktails his guests preferred, my hands shook trying to thread the chicken satay onto wooden skewers.

  While preparing the peanut sauce, I stopped stirring.

  Peanuts. That was the cause of everything. The death of a college student leading to Zach’s arrest. The death of Mr. Schwartz. But it wasn’t just the peanuts, was it? The real culprits were the people who had served them up, whether inadvertently or maliciously. Someone, possibly Ally, had put peanuts into those bars the college girl ate. And someone had intentionally given peanuts to Mr. Schwartz.

  The question was who? I had been careful not to use anything at the Schwartz party that had peanuts, peanut oil or that was packaged in the same warehouse as a peanut. So who gave Mr. Schwartz peanuts? Was it Ally, his own daughter? Was it Mr. Lewis or one of his business associate? And why was Mr. Lewis concerned about getting his pants dry-cleaned?

  The smell of the peanut sauce was beginning to nauseate me. If I never saw another peanut, that would be fine with me.

  A little before seven, Barbara Lewis entered the kitchen for a final check. She wore a green and gold silk kaftan and gold chandelier earrings. Her blond hair was swept up with a few loose tendrils dangling on her neck.

  “You look lovely, Mrs. Lewis,” Bradley said, smiling. “What can I get for you?”

  He had it, I thought, and he definitely knew how to use it. I glanced at Zach as he arranged the endive canapés stuffed with herbed cheese, smoked salmon and caviar on a tray. There was no trace of jealousy or resentment and, in fact, he was grinning.

  “How sweet,” Barbara Lewis cooed to Bradley, touching his cheek. “A chardonnay for me and Scotch on the rocks for Bob, please.” She headed toward the foyer when the doorbell announced the arrival of the first guests.

  “Okay. Game on. Let’s go,” I said, beaming at my team. We were ready.

  The cocktail hour and dinner were flawless. Elsa, the Lewises’ housekeeper, helped to serve and clear dishes, which was a big help with a table of twenty diners. I recognized some of the guests, notably the head of the D.C. City Council, a local TV news anchor, and a bestselling author who lived in Georgetown.

  During the meal, Barbara Lewis whispered how pleased she was with my low-carb menu and said she couldn’t wait to inform her guests about it at the end of the meal. Everyone raved about our creamy wild mushroom soup and murmured with appreciation at the plating of our entrée, the twin carrot and parsnip purees in the center forming a yin and yang design, surrounded by slices of the grilled flank steak and Brussels sprouts that had been halved and then sautéed with bacon, shallots and garlic. The dark chocolate Ls that stood at attention on each dessert were the biggest hit of all, surprising and delighting Mrs. Lewis.

  Although I’d helped with the serving, most of my time was spent in the kitchen, preparing and plating the meals. The first time I entered the dining room, I noticed Mason, the man who’d been sitting with Mr. Lewis at the Shiva house who had asked him whether he’d gotten rid of his pants. He didn’t seem surprised to see me. Mr. Lewis must have warned him that I was there, and every time I entered the room, Mason glared at me.

  During the evening, several guests asked for my card, including the news anchor. Hallelujah, I thought. We needed the business. Especially wealthy, prominent customers like these. It was a dream come true, and I wanted to kiss Barbara Lewis for giving me this chance, not that boosting my business was ever her motive for hiring me. I still wasn’t exactly sure why she’d chosen me. Maybe she had been impressed by the food. Or, more likely, her previous caterer had backed out at the last minute.

  Now, as I served dessert to Mason, his wife remarked, “We’d love to use your services some time. Do you have a card?”

  I froze. Her husband had been glowering at me the entire evening. I was sure he didn’t want me in his house.

  “I…I don’t believe I have any cards left,” I stammered. I was always stammering around this man. “I’ll have to check in the kitchen.” She could always get my number from Barbara Lewis, but I was sure Mason would nix the idea of using my services anyway.

  After dessert, the men moved into the study for brandy and cigars, and the wives went into the drawing room for sherry and chocolates. Elsa was helping Zach and Bradley load the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen. So I took the opportunity to excuse myself and went to the powder room located off the kitchen at the base of the back stairs.

  When I came out, I contemplated the carpeted steps that led to the second floor. I knew it was against all reason or sense for me to enter my clients’ personal living space. I could get into big trouble; maybe lose my business license, not to mention prospective clients. But I couldn’t help thinking about those pants that needed dry cleaning. Maybe they would provide an answer to Mr. Schwartz’s untimely death. But after an entire week, would they still even be in the house? Everything in my being told me to stay put, but still I headed up, the carpeting silencing my footsteps.

  At the top of the stairs, the entrance to the master suite beckoned me forward. I opened the double doors just enough to slink into the spacious suite before closing them behind me. A California king bed occupied the center of the room, a crystal chandelier hanging directly above from a twelve-foot ceiling. To the left was the entrance to a master bath, dressing area and a closet the size of my bedroom. One peek inside indicated that it belonged to Barbara Lewis. I turned around, padded to the other side of the bed and ent
ered another huge bathroom, dressing room, and Mr. Lewis’ closet, which was as well-organized as a platter of sushi, all the jackets lined up together, pants, shirts, shoes, everything in its own category.

  There must have been thirty pairs of pants hanging, colors ranging from creams to tans, grays, browns, blues, blacks and plaids. Not to mention the jeans. How would I ever find the pair of pants I was searching for, the one that was being sent out to be dry-cleaned?

  Wait a minute. A pair of pants waiting to be dry-cleaned wouldn’t be hanging up. They would be in a hamper of some sort. I surveyed the closet. On the left side, several dark cherry wood dressers most likely housed his underwear, socks, ties, cufflinks and other accessories. Beyond the last dresser three brown wicker lidded baskets lined the wall. I opened the first to find his white laundry, socks and underwear. The second housed his dark clothing ready for the wash. I removed the lid on the third basket. Bingo. Dry cleaning.

  I was skeptical that in this house, with a housekeeper, a whole week’s worth of dry cleaning would not yet have been sent out, but it was worth a try.

  On the top were business shirts and trousers as well as a couple of neatly folded suit jackets. What I was looking for would most likely be near the bottom of the basket. Sure enough, the final item of clothing was a pair of off-white linen trousers, just the sort of thing he would have worn to the Schwartzes’ backyard Mexican fiesta.

  As I reached in to remove the pair of pants, I heard the bedroom door open. Oh, God. My heart began to pound in my chest. I pulled the trousers out of the basket and threw the other articles of clothing back in, closing the lid.

  I frantically searched for a place to hide, but the closet was so well-organized, there just was no hiding place. I sunk to the floor between the dresser and the first hamper, balling up the pair of pants against the wall behind me, and held my breath.

  For a moment, I didn’t hear anything. Maybe Mrs. Lewis had come upstairs to powder her nose or freshen her lipstick.

  Then I heard that deep resonant voice. “It’s me,” he said. “How are you holding up?” Pause. “I know. Me too, baby. Soon. As soon as I can manage it. We’re halfway there.” Pause. “What about tomorrow? Two o’clock. I’ll tell Barbara I’m going to the club.” Pause. “Yes, our regular place. See you then.”

  I could almost hear my pulse beating in my temples as I plastered myself harder against the closet wall. Please, I prayed silently. Don’t come in here. Don’t come in here. I shut my eyes tight and held my breath. When I heard the bedroom door close, I exhaled audibly and swallowed back the nausea that had lumped in my throat.

  I scrambled to my feet too fast, and feeling lightheaded, leaned against the wall until my equilibrium stabilized. As I bent over to retrieve the pair of pants and hide them under my apron, a pulverized substance like sand poured out of the pockets to the floor. Kneeling down, I cupped some of it into the palm of my hand and brought it up to my nose. Then I licked my finger, touched it to the gravelly pieces in my hand and, knowing full well what they were, took a taste.

  Peanuts.

  Chapter Twelve

  At two-thirty in the morning, I couldn’t sleep. My adrenaline was pumping faster than my blender turned up to the whip option. The dinner had been a great success, and compliments from the guests still buzzed around in my head. This was the sort of clientele I had always dreamed of. I hoped they would start calling soon.

  Beyond that, I couldn’t stop trembling. Now I understood why Mr. Lewis needed to have his pants dry-cleaned. Could he and his friend, Mason, have murdered Mr. Schwartz? Was I a threat to them after what I’d overheard? And now I had the evidence in my possession. I didn’t think Mr. Lewis would ever notice that his linen trousers were gone. He would expect Elsa to send them out with the other dry cleaning. He certainly would never suspect I had them. But remembering the way Mason had glared at me, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was in danger.

  My worries intensified when snippets of Mr. Lewis’ telephone conversation replayed in my head, along with warning alarms proclaiming that I knew way more than I should about too many things involving Mr. Lewis.

  He would be meeting a woman at two o’clock this afternoon. Mr. Lewis was having an affair. But with who? “We’re halfway there,” he had said on the phone. What did that mean? Did it have something to do with Mr. Schwartz’s murder?

  I hadn’t mentioned any of this to Zach or to anyone else. They’d think I was being foolish or blowing things I’d overheard out of proportion, letting my imagination run away with me. I wondered if I should contact Detective Goldman with this “evidence” but was sure he’d laugh at me and tell me I watched too much TV.

  The phone rang, and I jumped. Who would be calling at this time of night?

  “Trudie, it’s Zach.”

  In all the years I’d known Zach, there’d been only two times he’d called in the middle of the night. Once when he’d hit a dog that had run out in front of his car. I could barely calm him down enough to find out where to pick him up. He’d been too upset to drive. The other time was after he’d lost his virginity with his high school girlfriend. The experience hadn’t been what others had built it up to be. He thought maybe he’d done something wrong, but he couldn’t call his guy friends for advice. Instead, he’d called his best friend—me.

  So I knew whatever reason he was calling now, it was important.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I’ve been arrested for the murder of Mr. Schwartz. Goldman was waiting for me when I got home. I’m back at the police station.”

  “Again?” What was wrong with that detective? There were other, more viable suspects, so why did he keep picking on Zach? Of course, I knew why. Zach had been arrested before for the same thing. When he’d taken the rap for Ally. “I’ll be right down.”

  “Thanks. And Trudie? I think I’ll need a lawyer this time.”

  “Maybe not, hon. Maybe not.”

  Dressing quickly and putting my hair up in a ponytail, I folded Mr. Lewis’ pants into a plastic bag and left my apartment. I took the elevator down to the basement parking garage. Although lighted by amber spotlights, it was pretty creepy at three a.m. when no one else was around. Shadows lurked in every corner, and I sensed someone watching me.

  I sprinted to my car, jumped in and locked the doors, checking the back seat to make sure no one was hiding on the floor behind me. Of course, I should have checked the back seat before I got into the car. Thankfully, no one was there. I exhaled the breath I’d evidently been holding. Goldman was right. I watch too much TV and too many crime shows.

  But as I pulled out of my space, I saw another pair of headlights come on farther down the row. I would have to pass that car as I headed for the exit. The other driver turned on his engine and revved it up. Who else would be out at this time of night? Maybe some guy going home from a one-night stand or teenagers leaving a party.

  It was a straight shot to the garage exit, so I pushed down as hard as I could on the accelerator and sped past him, my tires squealing. When I reached the street, I saw him in my rear view mirror exiting his garage space and pulling up behind me. Silhouetted against the amber lighting of the garage, and with its headlights on, the car was unidentifiable. I could just make out the shadow of a figure in the driver’s seat, someone wearing a baseball cap. But I didn’t want to stick around to determine who it was.

  Deciding to give the situation the benefit of the doubt, I proceeded toward the police station. I turned right, and the car behind me turned right. I turned left, and so did he. My skin prickled with apprehension. It wasn’t my imagination. This person was following me.

  I turned right and raced down the street, turning right again at the corner, then left at the next corner, then right again, hoping to lose him. I heard the car following behind, making the same turns, its tires squealing. With no traffic on the roads so early in the morning, I couldn’t imagine how I could lose my pursuer. Who was following me? And why? My heart pounded in
my chest as I sped through a red light and was almost broadsided by an SUV, whose driver blared his horn as he veered into another lane to avoid hitting me.

  Think. Focus. What would they do on TV to lose someone in a car chase? The answer hit me like an oven timer going off in my head. I made another sudden right turn, pulled into someone’s driveway and turned off the headlights and the car engine.

  I ducked down so the car would appear empty. A moment later, I heard a car squeal as it turned the corner and sped past. I lifted my head a little to peek out the window. It was a black Town Car sedan, the kind VIPs use to escort them around town. I squinted at the license plate, but it was too dark to read. The driver had stopped at the corner as if deciding which way to turn. Finally, he crossed the intersection and continued down the road.

  Hah! Watching TV isn’t such a waste after all, is it?

  I sat up, my whole body trembling. Was it my imagination that I was being followed? I didn’t think so. I started my car, but didn’t turn on the headlights, and backed out, turning in the opposite direction of the Town Car. Then I headed to the police station.

  THIS TIME ZACH was not in the waiting area.

  The same detective sat at the front desk, feet propped on his desk.

  “I’m here to see Zachary Cohen,” I said, breathless.

  “Sorry, ma’am. He’s in a holding cell right now. No one’s allowed back there.”

  “But I’m his friend, Trudie Fine. You remember me from the other night. Zach called me to come down here. I need to see him.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. No can do.”

  In an authoritative voice not unlike that of Barbara Lewis, I said, “I want to speak to Detective Goldman.”

  “He’s gone home for the night,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Well, call him and tell him he needs to get back here now. I have evidence that will release this man.” If I couldn’t sleep tonight, then I’d be darned if I’d let Goldman sleep.