Crunch Time gbcm-16

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I got to my feet and said only that some hot oil had spilled. Then I washed my hands and asked him to do the same. Puzzled, he followed my lead. Rorry continued to work on the floor. Quickly, I taught Sean how to follow me, assembly-line style, as we put together the salades composées. As he was putting the last ingredients on each salad, I wrapped the focaccia in foil and put it into the oven. Then I whisked Yolanda’s dressing one last time and drizzled it onto each salad.

  “You can manage four at a time on the trays,” I told Sean as I loaded him up. “Don’t stop to answer questions, don’t give them any details. Just serve.”

  “People are going to ask me to tell them more,” he whined, “especially after the pot hanger came down.”

  “Just tell them we had a mishap.” I was so angry with him over his affair with Brie, I felt no compunction about ordering him around. “Don’t embellish. Come back for more salads after you serve these four. I’ll try to salvage the Navajo tacos. Uh, Sean?” I asked. “Do you happen to remember who requested these tacos?”

  He gritted his teeth and blinked. After a moment, he said, “I don’t remember. Sorry.”

  “How about this,” I said. “Which breeder did you visit to get the beagle puppies? The ones you took pictures of?”

  He colored deeply and looked away. “I don’t recall.” Then he hustled off.

  You sure have one hell of a bad memory, I thought, but didn’t say. Instead, I looked at all the ingredients Yolanda had placed neatly on one of the counters: seasoned beef; chopped tomatoes, lettuce, and green onions; grated Mexican queso; a big bowl of sour cream. I counted out the pieces of fry bread that had not fallen onto the floor. I shook my head and said aloud, “We don’t have enough to go around.”

  Rorry had squirted a degreasing disinfectant onto the floor and was starting in with more towels from her load. “I don’t need one, I know Father Pete would be more than willing to forgo his, and Sean can go without.” She concentrated on wiping the floor and did not look at me as she said quietly, “You know, don’t you? About him.”

  “I, I—”

  “That’s why you brought that white wine and those cheeses, isn’t it? They were for him, and for . . . her.”

  “Well,” I said, anxious to conclude the conversation before Sean returned, “yes, okay, I figured it out. But it wasn’t because I was nosy, Rorry, or because I give two hoots about Donna and her rentals. I was just trying to find out who Ernest McLeod was working for. He’d been hired to find two adulterers.”

  Rorry stood up and gave me the full benefit of her round brown eyes. “He was working for me.”

  Before I could respond, Sean returned. He looked from Rorry to me and back again, then loaded up more salads and whipped out of the kitchen.

  “Do you think Sean knows that you’re aware of what he’s doing?” I whispered.

  “At this point, I don’t care.” She picked up all her monogrammed towels and tossed them down a laundry chute. She washed her hands and smoothed her wrinkled, slightly oily embroidered skirt. “I knew Sean was up to something, but he denied it and acted hurt when I asked him if he was having an affair. He kept asking if I had any proof for my suspicions. He acted like I was impugning his integrity. He insisted that he loved me, blah, blah, blah.”

  I rubbed my temples. The Jerk had done the same thing, turning my doubts about his fidelity into my problem, my insecurity, my paranoia. He had not, however, insisted that he loved me. He’d said if I loved him, I wouldn’t be so suspicious.

  Rorry said, “I only hired Ernest to get me proof. Ernest promised that if he discovered Sean with a mistress, he would take pictures of them. Last week he said he’d been following Sean, that he was sure Sean was cheating on me, and that he, Ernest, was sure he could get some photos. But he never got back to me.”

  Sean had not returned, so I said quickly, “Why did you even hire Ernest? Don’t you have a prenup that allows you to file for divorce no matter what your husband has done?”

  “I do,” she said sadly. “We do. My daddy made sure one was drawn up. He never trusted Sean. Turned out, he was right.” Tears welled in her eyes, but she shook them away. “I don’t care about the money, to tell you the truth. But that was what I wanted: the truth. I wanted proof Sean was lying. Before I filed for divorce, I wanted to show him that evidence. I pray to God I didn’t cause Ernest to be killed.” Here she broke down. Unlike Yolanda, who’d sobbed loudly when her legs were burned, Rorry wept almost soundlessly.

  “What’s going on?” asked Sean when he returned to the kitchen. “Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

  “She’s upset about Yolanda,” I said authoritatively. “She feels responsible, because it happened in her kitchen.” I loaded up four more salads on Sean’s tray, then put the last four, along with the warm focaccia and two sticks of butter, onto my own tray. “Let’s go, Sean. People are waiting.”

  Sean stared wordlessly at his crying wife. Rorry kept her back to him.

  “C’mon, Sean,” I said, urging him on. “The guests are hungry. With Yolanda on her way to the hospital, the one thing Rorry wants is for you to step up and help with the food.” I pushed his left arm a bit with my loaded tray. He gave me an exasperated glance, then turned with his culinary cargo and headed out to the porch.

  Once we arrived, all eyes turned toward me. “Yolanda’s fine,” I lied. “A skillet handle broke. Just to be on the safe side, Yolanda’s on her way to the hospital with the policeman who was helping us.” I gazed at Kris Nielsen, who glared at me, then ran a hand through his white hair. I turned my attention to Humberto, who had his eyes fixed on one of the centerpieces. Was he avoiding my look, or was I imagining it? “That same policeman is keeping the skillet, just in case he needs it later.”

  “Goldy?” asked Father Pete. “In case he needs it for what?”

  “Oh,” I said mildly as I began to circle the table, placing a salad in front of each guest, “I don’t know. He just said he wanted to take it with him.” I was getting good at this lying business.

  Father Pete said, “Your friend certainly seems accident-prone.”

  I had come to Kris Nielsen, and I hesitated slightly before lowering his salad in front of him. He said in a low voice, “Yolanda should be more careful.”

  “Speak up, Kris!” I said immediately. “I don’t think the rest of the table heard that comment of yours.”

  “Yeah, Kris,” said Marla. “I want to hear what you said.”

  “Goldy’s making a mountain out of a pile of manure,” he said, his tone again mild.

  “I’m sorry,” said Norman Juarez, addressing both the table and yours truly. “I do not know this expression.” When he was nervous, his voice betrayed a tinge of an accent.

  I said, “Father Pete?” And then I gave our priest a slit-eyed look that I hoped said, Be pastoral, why don’t you?

  “Don’t worry about expressions,” Father Pete said to reassure Norman Juarez. “I don’t understand most of them myself. And, uh, where are you and Isabella from?”

  “I already asked them,” Paul Quarles put in. “They said—”

  “You mean, before we came to Colorado?” Norman Juarez calmly interrupted Paul. Norman gazed at Humberto, who hadn’t had the forethought, this time, to keep his eyes on the centerpiece. Humberto blushed. “Miami,” said Norman. “I worked in restaurants there.”

  I rolled my eyes heavenward, hoping the Lord would somehow intervene. And He did, in the appearance of Rorry, who materialized holding aloft a tray of Navajo tacos that she had assembled herself. She’d also wrapped the lamb chops in foil and placed them next to the tacos. I set down my own empty tray, then relieved Rorry of hers. “Please sit,” I begged her.

  “I want to help,” she said fiercely.

  “You have helped,” I said. “But in the catering biz, I’ve noticed that most people don’t want to start eating unless the hostess is in her chair.”

  “You’re right,” she said before sliding into her place at the head
of the table. I was beginning to like Rorry more and more. If Etta ever failed her, I hoped she’d call me to fill in.

  Father Pete cleared his throat and directed his attention to Norman and Isabella. “I am of Greek ancestry myself. My grandfather and grandmother both came from Athens, but they did not know each other there. They only met in New York!”

  “My father and mother came from Cuba,” Norman said. He had not touched his food, and his gaze was still trained on Humberto Captain. “Our family was wealthy there, but someone took all our money.”

  Marla piped up. “That commie bastard, Castro—”

  “Oh, it was not Fidel who stole our wealth,” Norman said heatedly. I noticed Isabella putting a restraining hand on her husband’s thigh. It didn’t work. “No. Our father gave our gold, gems, and a valuable necklace of my mother’s to a man he thought he could trust. His name was Roberto Captain. Roberto died, and since then, only one person has been able to find our wealth—”

  Humberto stood up so swiftly his chair fell over. “It is time for us to leave.”

  “—and his name was Ernest McLeod,” Norman said, his tone becoming more ferocious. “He had found something, and was about to tell us about it when he was murdered. Maybe by someone in the Captain family?”

  Humberto took a deep breath, which puffed out his chest like a rooster’s. “I will not stay and allow the name of my family to be impugned. Odette, come.”

  Odette, who was holding her taco and had just taken a big bite, reluctantly got up.

  “Thank you, Sean and Rorry,” Humberto said in a formal tone, pulling himself to his full height, which wasn’t tall in any event. He rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a pristinely white handkerchief, and wiped his eyes, as if he had to deal with this type of accusation all the time. Then he cleared his throat. “Up to a few minutes ago,” Humberto declared, “we have enjoyed being part of your party for the church.” He turned to Norman and Isabella and raised his voice. “I do much good in this community. Many people appreciate me.” He turned, took Odette’s elbow, and made as if to lead her out.

  Odette lost her balance momentarily on her high heels, then let Humberto right her. Directing her attention to Rorry, she swallowed her food and mumbled, “Yeah, thanks. Great food. Lotta fun. ’Bye, everybody.”

  Sean offered to see them out. When the three of them were on their way off the porch, Marla called across the table, “So, Norman! You think Humberto stole your stuff?”

  “I know he did,” Norman said.

  “Let’s hear the juicy details,” Marla demanded.

  “No,” he said stiffly. “I should not have said anything. I am sorry. I do not want to ruin this dinner party.”

  Yeah, yeah, I said to myself as I skirted the table, pouring more wine. Let’s not ruin this dinner party! Ha! Ha!

  Marla scowled at Norman, then wrinkled her forehead at me, as if she were trying to remember something. “Say!” she said suddenly, causing the guests to jump. “Does anybody know anything about breeding puppies? I mean, like an investment?” When no one answered her, she plunged on with, “Has anyone heard of a puppy farm in Aspen Meadow? I did hear a rumor about one, where a guy was breeding beagle puppies, that ended up being—” With all the curiosity about Ernest, I did not want to talk about this now, after all. When Marla saw my black look, she stopped. “Well anyway,” she said, “I took three of the puppies that had been . . . abandoned, let’s say. So did my cleaning lady, Penny Woolworth. Has anybody heard anything about abandoned puppies?”

  Everyone looked puzzled.

  “I took three of the beagle puppies,” said Father Pete into the uncomfortable silence. “The odd thing to me, though, is that they were all female, and they’d all been spayed.”

  “But that was true of mine, too!” Marla exclaimed. “Why would you raise beagles that you hoped would be passed off as American Kennel Club purebreds and then spay them?”

  I busied myself slicing the lamb chops. After placing them on a platter, I rounded the table with them, trying to look as if I had no idea what it was Marla was talking about.

  “Maybe you didn’t want someone to breed them,” Isabella Juarez said. It was the first thing I’d heard her say all evening. “Maybe your clients didn’t want to have to deal with puppies, if they came along. Something like that.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Kris Nielsen, suddenly interested. “They were all female, and they were all spayed?”

  “Yeah,” said Marla. “Why? Are you going into the dog-breeding business, Kris? Puppies would make a mess out of your Maserati, I’ll tell you that.”

  As Harriet, Kris’s date, snuffled with laughter, the doorbell gonged inside the house. I put down my empty platter and headed toward the front door. Once more, Rorry accompanied me.

  “You should just let me get this,” she said.

  “I think it’s my husband, Tom.”

  “Tom? Why would he come?”

  “Oh,” I said, working to appear offhanded, “Boyd wanted me to call Tom to get him to help me out in the kitchen.”

  “Dear me,” said Rorry. “I should have helped you. There’s no need for your husband to come all this way—”

  But I had already opened the front door, and there was Tom, looking even more commanding and suspicious than usual. He said, “Show me the oil spill.”

  “I cleaned it up,” said Rorry. “I’m so sorry you had to come all the way over here.” Tom held up his hand for her to be quiet, and she immediately stopped talking. I was used to Tom’s air of authority having that effect on people.

  “Let me make the coffee,” Rorry murmured as she led us into the kitchen. She busied herself with water, a bag of ground beans, and the pot. “I suppose I should find out if people want regular,” she said, flustered. “Well, no, I’ll just make all decaf.”

  “Rorry, I can do this,” I insisted. “It’s my job. Please go entertain the guests. That’s your job.”

  As soon as she was gone, Tom huddled next to me at the coffeemaker. “Tell me what happened to your head.”

  “The pot hanger came down.” I pointed to the ceiling. “A corkscrew caught me in the face. Do you know how Yolanda is?”

  Tom shook his head. “They’re not at the hospital yet. Boyd gave me the outline of what happened. He said the handle just came right off the pan.”

  “I wasn’t here. Still, Rorry says she thought Etta told her they didn’t have an electric skillet. They were supposed to have lots of other pots we could use.” I felt distracted. “I supposed Etta could have gone out and bought one for us, but I would have thought she would then tell Rorry she’d done that. I’ll tell you something else: I was out here when the pot hanger came down. And I found a wrench outside.” I stopped what I was doing and pointed at the ceiling. “This house is decorated in an old style, but it’s practically new. It’s like the whole damn place was sabotaged.”

  Tom moved away and peered into the hole in the ceiling. “It was. Question is, who was the target? Maybe it was you, Miss G. Maybe it was Rorry. I’ll want to talk to her about who had access to the kitchen and when.”

  I inhaled. “Boyd already did. Everyone here, practically, came during the day, to leave food.” Tom tied on an apron, stepped to the sink, and washed his hands. “A couple of guests have already left. Humberto and his ‘date,’ if that’s what you call a stacked girl in her twenties wearing a skintight silver outfit. Here, I have her picture.” I pulled out my phone and queued up the pictures of Odette. “Does she look familiar to you?”

  “Nope.” He eyed the kitchen, including the two covered flourless chocolate cakes. “You need me to serve these people dessert?”

  I checked my watch. Incredibly, the guests had had the main course for twenty minutes. I said, “First we have to clear the dinner plates.” The coffeepot was gurgling merrily, so I led Tom out to the porch.

  There was a general reaction of surprise at Tom’s appearance. Yes, he was a member of the church, but he was not a dinner guest. So
why was he there? And was it my imagination, or was Sean Breckenridge suddenly twitching nervously in his chair?

  Donna was once again trying to command the floor. Without Humberto, she directed her remarks to all the guests, who appeared to be drooping with boredom. “And then I got my license, and what with my success as treasurer of St. Luke’s, I was honored by the Aspen Meadow Chamber of Commerce to be the Businesswoman of the Year—”

  “Oh, yes,” Marla said, interrupting her. “The fire department loves you, too, right? I heard one of your rentals burned to the ground—”

  “Marla!” I cried. Kris, Harriet, and Brie and Paul Quarles snickered. Marla pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t laugh.

  Venla touched the white hair in her bun and turned to Father Pete. She asked, “What did Marla Korman say that was funny?”

  Rorry shook her head, while Sean’s face was racked with misery.

  The Juarezes looked as much at sea as usual. The Ramoses continued to ignore everyone.

  “I will not be insulted by you, Marla Korman!” Donna Lamar cried. She whirled in her seat. “And not a word from you, either, Tom Schulz!”

  “That’s Investigator Schulz to you,” Tom said as he balanced a pile of the new dinner dishes Rorry had brought out. I gulped and looked away as Tom made a beeline for the kitchen. If we had one more accident tonight, I did not want to witness it.

  Quickly gathering up all the soiled silverware, I deposited it onto the remaining tray and hurried out to the kitchen.

  “What in the world were you correcting Donna Lamar for?” I asked Tom as he carefully sliced the flourless chocolate cakes into eighths. “Odette, or whatever her name is, has already made mincemeat out of her in the science and math departments. And you heard Marla make fun of her. I’m actually beginning to feel sorry for Donna.”

  “Oh, don’t. Somebody needed to puncture Donna Lamar’s good opinion of herself,” Tom said nonchalantly. “Without Humberto Captain, she’d still have that hole in the wall on Main Street and be renting wrecked houses to even more wrecked people.”