Crunch Time gbcm-16

by Diane Mott Davidson

  The party was being held on the winter porch, which boasted a gas fireplace that was flickering merrily when I squeaked open the screen door. I looked around, disoriented. I had no idea where the Juarezes, Father Pete, and Venla had gone. Maybe they were welcoming the new arrivals. The room’s tobacco-colored upholstered couches, plus an assortment of chairs, flanked the door I’d just come in. A long wrought-iron table surrounded with cushioned wrought-iron chairs stood in front of the fireplace. Dinner plates that Rorry had somehow located to replace the broken ones, silverware, napkins, and serving spoons were arrayed on a rolling tea cart. The main table itself sported three cornucopiae filled to bursting with gold, orange, and white mums, plus white roses and gold alstroemeria. When Rorry did a party, she did one.

  I walked quickly to the table and was grateful to see that someone had already placed gold-rimmed crystal wineglasses, more napkins, and salad plates by each place card. Hallelujah. I squinted at the crystal and held it up to the light. It was the real deal, and Rorry was using it on her porch. I swallowed. No more accidents.

  I rapidly moved one of the centerpieces over to the tea cart. I carefully plunked the bottle of white wine into an ice bucket labeled for that purpose, then placed both it and the bottle of red near the center of the table. As the rumble of voices approached, I scampered out the way I’d come.

  I heard the unmistakable nasal voice of Paul Quarles. “Really, this is the time to invest. You have to believe me. What did you say your name was? Norman? Juarez? What kind of name is that?”

  Really, sometimes people’s insensitivity surprised even me, and I’d often been the butt of tactless folks as well as sponges. But Norman was a big boy; he’d just have to handle it. Maybe, like me, he’d even be able to make jokes about it later.

  When I came back into the kitchen, Marla was already regaling Yolanda and Boyd with tales of Paul Quarles.

  “I’m telling you, Paul Quarles hadn’t taken two steps into the foyer before he found somebody he hadn’t yet hit up to buy stocks. He said everyone should be putting money into the market, because it’s so low. The mouths of the Juarez couple actually dropped open, as in, We just paid two thousand dollars to come to this dinner, and now somebody wants to talk to us about investing? They must think all Episcopalians are obsessed with money, which is more or less true, but never mind.”

  “Guys,” I said, “we need the rest of the food from the van. Boyd, can you go out there?”

  “Kris just arrived,” Marla said to Yolanda, her voice low.

  “It’s all right,” said Yolanda without looking up from the bunch of keys in her hand.

  “He’s brought a tall brunette,” Marla said. “Do you want to hear about her?”

  “Marla,” I said, warning her. “Maybe this isn’t the best—”

  Yolanda’s eyes flared as she gave me a steady look. “What, you don’t think I can handle it, Goldy? Tell me, Marla. Tell me about Kris’s new woman.”

  “Well, she’s pretty,” Marla said, “but not nearly as pretty as you. When Paul was going on to Norman Juarez about investing in the stock market, I asked Kris’s date if she knew what it meant to short a stock. She said, ‘Does that mean you buy a stock from someone who isn’t tall?’ So one thing we know about Miss Dumb About Dough is that she probably isn’t an Episcopalian.”

  “What’s this woman’s name?” I asked.

  Marla raised her eyebrows. “Harriet. While Rorry was ushering everyone out to the porch, I asked Harriet if she had a job. She said she did modeling and odd jobs. Of course, I think modeling is an odd job, but nobody asked me. I guess in the current economy, you’ll do just about anything to make money.”

  I tried to give Yolanda a compassionate glance, but she had turned resolutely to the sink. While she washed her hands, Boyd caught my eye and shrugged. I asked him, “Did you bring in the box with the lamb chops?” I turned my attention back to Marla. “Listen, girlfriend. How are your puppies?”

  “Cute as can be. And yapping all the time.”

  “Great. Listen, could you see if you can get the conversation over to Hermie Mikulski? See if anyone has heard anything about a local beagle puppy mill.”

  Marla, who had discovered the pan with the enchiladas, gave me a skeptical glance. “You want me to change the subject from investing to dogs? How do you propose I do that?”

  “How about this,” I said. “Tell people you’ve just adopted three beagle puppies. Then see if you can move the conversation over to whether you can make money breeding dogs. If so, what breeds work best? And has anyone heard about any mills in the area?”

  Marla was still skeptical. “I thought you gave away all the puppies.”

  “What I want you to do is see if anyone has heard any reports of rescuing abused beagles in this area. If so, from where?”

  Marla placed the enchiladas on the counter. Then she ducked back into the refrigerator and hauled out two bottles of Humberto’s Dom. Doggone it. I’d remembered the other guests’ wine, but not Humberto’s. “Know what, Goldy? People do better with sudden shifts in topic when they’re well lubricated.” She peered at the bottles. “These were leaning against a bowl of salad in the refrigerator. Does that mean someone knocked them over?”

  I sighed. It could indicate that, which could in turn lead to an explosion of bubbly in the kitchen, which was not what we needed at this point.

  At that moment, Humberto himself slithered into the kitchen. He wore a pale blue sport coat and yellow pants. “Ah, my countrywoman,” he said silkily. When Yolanda ignored him, he drew himself up and gave me an expectant look. “I brought my champagne over myself, this afternoon. Would you please serve it?”

  I said, “Yassuh,” before I could stop myself. Humberto trundled out. I wondered where Odette was.

  Marla raised her eyebrows and opened drawers. “I’m looking for a cloth dish towel to put over this thingy they use to stop up champagne. Where in hell does Rorry keep things?” She slammed a drawer shut, frustrated. “I met Odette, Humberto’s date, or whatever he’s calling her. More like paid escort, I’d say. She’s a cute, busty blond who looks less than half his age.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I saw her this afternoon. Does she seem familiar to you?”

  “Never having worked for an escort agency myself, I have to say no, she does not look familiar. I’m going to go ask Rorry where her dish towels are.”

  I cursed silently. “Don’t. We’ll find some.” I began pawing through Rorry’s drawers, as well as the supply closet. Where would she keep cloth dish towels? She, or her cook, Etta, had hundreds of kitchen utensils and cleaning tools. They were clean and looked new. But they were in no discernible order.

  Marla said, “So you want me to turn the conversation from cash to canines while you open the champagne?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “The things I do for you, Goldy, I swear.” She disappeared as Boyd reentered the kitchen hauling the box containing the lamb chops and Navajo taco ingredients. I asked him to start opening the shrink-wrapped packages of chops.

  Yolanda, meanwhile, was bent on a new task: rolling out the balls of dough that would become the fry bread.

  “If I can ever get this champagne open, I need to start the lamb chops,” I said to her. “And I was hoping you could get going on the Navajo tacos. We’re getting behind.” When Yolanda threw a ball of dough on the counter, I said, “No, scratch what I just said. Go home. Take Boyd. I can handle this dinner.”

  Her face softened, and when she looked at me, her eyes were wet. “Oh, Goldy, no, thank you. No. I asked you for this job, and you’re paying me to do it. I’m fine. It’s just that . . . I haven’t really seen him since our breakup.” Her full mouth pulled into a tight smile. “There’s a first time for everything, and this is it. And besides, you don’t know how to make the Navajo tacos.”

  “Didn’t I just hear you say there’s a first time for everything?”

  She barked a laugh. “You don’t want to be learning ho
w to make fry bread when you have a whole party to serve it to.”

  “O ye of little faith. Just help me find some dish towels, would you, please?”

  It was stupid, really. How could you have a retro kitchen but no cloth towels? Boyd offered to help, but I said it was more important to get the racks of chops open.

  “You’ve checked the cupboards?” Yolanda asked.

  “Yup.” I began to look along the walls, where Rorry, or Rorry’s architect, had put open shelves. There were no linens anywhere. “I should drive out and get one,” I said.

  “I’d say to use towels from the guest bathroom, but all she has in there are monogrammed paper guest towels,” said Yolanda.

  “Just give me one more minute,” I said, “and then I’ll go look for a linen closet. Sergeant Boyd, could you go out to the porch and make sure people’s glasses are filled?” He nodded and disappeared. I preheated the ovens for the lamb, then looked up the walls of the kitchen.

  Over the center island, Rorry’s architect had used chains to suspend one of those heavy oval rings, the kind that cooks hang all their pots and pans on. Rorry’s were all copper, and polished to a high sheen. A metal net filled with dish towels dangled from the far end. I thought, Finally, then walked over and reached for it. I couldn’t quite see how to unhook the net, so I tugged on it gently to see where it was attached.

  And then the whole ring of pots, pans, and dish towels crashed down on my head.

  Later, I judged that at least twenty pots came cascading down, along with the heavy metal oval, the screws, even chunks of the ceiling. Two tubs for poaching fish hit me on the head and shoulders, and I careened sideways on the floor. The banging and clattering mixed with the sound of Yolanda screaming. A corkscrew caught the side of my face. When the skin on my cheek tore open, I cursed vociferously and struggled to get up, but could not.

  “Goldy!” Yolanda shrieked. “Goldy, are you all right?”

  “Listen to me,” said Boyd calmly. When had he returned to the kitchen? He leaned close to my face. “You’re cut. Do you think any of your bones are broken?”

  “No,” I said curtly. “I’m fine. Just pissed.”

  I blinked back blood and could just make out Sean Breckenridge as he raced into the kitchen. “What the hell was that?” he hollered. He caught sight of me on the floor. His wide eyes fixed on my bloody face. At that point his mouth dropped open, his eyelids fluttered closed, and he keeled toward me.

  “Damn it!” I screamed, but it was no use.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Boyd said as he reached out in an effort to catch Sean. With blood dripping into my eyes, I could make out only enough of Sean’s trajectory to hold out my arms.

  “Oof,” I cried as he landed more or less on top of me.

  Rorry’s voice sounded faraway, I realized, because blood was streaming into my left ear and Sean was blocking my right one. “Sean!” Rorry screamed. “Get off of Goldy! Did he see blood?” Rorry demanded.

  As Boyd, Yolanda, and Rorry yanked and tugged an unconscious Sean off me, I wondered how often Rorry had had occasion to holler at her husband to get off a woman to whom he was not married.

  Five minutes later, Rorry had revived Sean, although he still lay on the kitchen floor. Rorry kept pellets of ammonia salts in every room and in the car, she told me when I returned from the guest bathroom, pressing a wet paper towel to my cheek.

  Yolanda gestured to one of the kitchen stools. “Sit down, Goldy. Let me clean that up for you.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Sit down.” She ran water over one of the searched-for dish towels and squirted dish soap onto it.

  I took a seat. “You sound like Ferdinanda.”

  “Stubbornness runs in the family.” She gently dabbed my torn skin.

  “Sean?” I asked. “How’re you doing down there?”

  He groaned. Rorry said, “When Sean was in middle school? He thought he wanted to be a doctor—”

  “Honey, don’t tell this story again,” Sean said, his voice just above a whisper.

  “—right up to the point when a friend accidentally sliced his thumb with a knife in biology,” Rorry said, continuing. “When the friend’s blood spurted out?”

  “Sweetheart,” Sean whined, “you’re going to make me sick.”

  “When the blood spurted out,” Rorry said, her voice raised a notch, “Sean passed out and hit his head on the lab counter.” The look she was now giving her husband was somewhere between disgust and sympathy. “He got a concussion. He dropped biology, studied physics, majored in business in college, then became an accountant.”

  “And are you still one, Sean?” I asked as Yolanda carefully rinsed my cheek. “I mean, do you keep up with your certification, or whatever it’s called?”

  When he didn’t answer, Rorry said tersely, “He doesn’t.” At this point, Sean, looking dazed, sat up and leaned against one of the cabinets. “He did people’s taxes for a while, hated it, and wanted to become a professional photographer. He, um, we decided to travel around the world after we got married, so he could take pictures. Then we settled here, so he could take more pictures. He never went back to being an accountant. Am I telling the story properly, Sean?”

  Sean did not look at his wife. He said, “Yeah, that about sums up the life of Sean, according to Rorry.”

  Could this marriage be saved? Somehow I doubted it. I glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s Boyd?” I asked Yolanda.

  “While you were in the bathroom,” Yolanda said in a low voice, “he asked Rorry if he could get a ladder from the garage. He wants to take that whole metal oval and all the pots and pans and whatnot into evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?” I whispered.

  “He wouldn’t tell me,” she murmured. “He asked Rorry for permission to take it, and she said yes. He also asked her who had access to the kitchen today, while she was getting ready for the party.”

  “And?”

  “Just about everybody, apparently, except for Tony and Franny Ramos. They all brought food, wine, even beer, which was from Marla. According to Rorry, it was because they all felt guilty about adding to the dinner party. Except for Venla, of course, who says she always brings her cheese ball. For all these food donors, Rorry said she was either out on the patio setting it up or upstairs getting ready. Etta had already taken off for Beaver Creek with their son. Rorry said she was only in and out of the kitchen from time to time.”

  I tried to count. That meant that Kris and his girlfriend, Harriet, Marla, Donna Lamar, the Juarezes, the Quarleses, and Humberto and his young blonde had all been in here. I shook my head.

  “Sean?” Rorry put her face in front of her husband’s. “Are you ready to go back to our guests?”

  Sean cleared his throat, tried to get up on his own, and couldn’t make it.

  “C’mon, Sean honey,” Rorry said, pulling on her husband’s elbow. “Let me help you.”

  “I don’t need you!” Sean said fiercely. He jumped to his feet, wobbled, then stopped, perplexed, at the sight of Boyd walking in, carrying a stepladder with one hand. Boyd ignored him and opened the ladder under the hole in the ceiling.

  Rorry turned back to me. “If you’re up to it, could you bring Humberto’s champagne out to the porch? He’s been asking about it. And could somebody carry out some more white wine? We’ve finished what we had. And white wine usually helps Sean.”

  I nabbed a spare cotton apron I’d brought, placed it carefully over the stopper in the Dom, and cautiously turned it. But it was no use: the champagne had become shaken up in the refrigerator, and the stuff spurted everywhere. Well, tough tacks. I opened the second bottle, which also exploded. I cursed vociferously, if silently, and put both bottles on a wooden tray. Next I looked around for the bottles of Riesling I’d brought.

  “I already moved the box with the bottles of white wine out of here,” Boyd said. He was perched at the penultimate step of the ladder and was gazing at the ceiling. “How they survived al
l that metal crashing down on them, I do not know.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the foyer. “It’s out there.”

  “In the foyer?” I asked, gingerly touching the bandage Yolanda had taped to my cheek.

  “That front hallway, yup.” Boyd plucked his cell phone out of his back pocket and began taking pictures of the jagged opening overhead. When he was done, he pocketed the phone, came down the ladder, folded it up, and disappeared.

  In despair, I looked at the jumble of pots and pans, plus the damn metal net with the dish towels that had been the cause of all this drama in the first place. Boyd was going to take all this? When he returned, he had paper bags under his arm—from the garage?—and was pulling on latex gloves. He began picking up the pots and stowing them in the bags. I wondered what Etta would think of a cop checking all her cooking equipment for signs of sabotage.

  “Wait,” I said to Boyd as he methodically clanked pot after pot into the second bag. “Take this.” I reached into my apron pocket and brought out the wrench.

  “Where’d you get this?” Boyd asked.

  “It was outside, on the ground. If this was a case of sabotage, I think our saboteur dropped it between the locked side door and the porch.”

  “Thanks,” said Boyd as he placed the wrench into a bag. “Too bad you touched it with your bare hands.”

  I wanted this party to be over, but there was still work to be done. I asked Boyd to get the wine from the foyer. Then I gently picked up the tray with the Dom and made my way to the porch via the living room.

  The space was lovely, filled with chintz-covered sofas and wingback chairs. On the cream-colored walls, enormous gilt-framed posters showed the evolution of marketing for Boudreaux Molasses: girls holding bottles of the dark liquid, bottles next to palm trees, bottles in meticulously kept kitchens, and yet more bottles next to piles of molasses cookies. Well, I thought, at least Rorry and Sean could have a constant reminder of where all the money came from.

  I wondered what Sean thought of that.