Cooks, Crooks and a Corpse (Baker Girls Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Maria Grazia Swan

  I took off the black dress and put my sweats back on. Brenda was telling me all this because I would have to take Jennifer’s place, and keep track of the temps and regular employees.

  “My regular crew will drive the bulk of the food over and finish up in the Dumont’s kitchen. I’ll need you to arrive about ninety minutes before the start of the party to go over the food stations and the bars, one indoors and one by the pool.”

  “Two bars for fifty people. That means a lot of drinking.”

  Brenda shrugged. “I have nothing to do with the outside bar and the DJ set up by the pool. Some friends of Mr. Dumont are in charge of that. They arrived yesterday and are staying at the house. I understand they own a bar somewhere.” Her tone turned sarcastic, “I can’t wait to see how that’s going to work out.”

  I raised my eyebrows but held my tongue.

  “I’m not being mean, only realistic. They asked me the name of the rental place I used for chairs and tables, yesterday.” She stifled a snort. “And don’t let Tommy know I’m hiring temps.”

  “Huh? What are you talking about? Why is he here so often lately?”

  “He wants a job. No, not a real job. He hasn’t blown all his inheritance yet. He wants me to sign a form saying he works for me so he doesn't need to spend his mandatory sentence in the Sheriff’s tent city. If I perjure myself, he would only go to the tent for two weekends.”

  “Will you do it?’

  “Hell no. Maybe two weeks in the tents with the rest of the losers wearing pink underwear will help him grow up. By the way, I’m changing the locks and don’t you lend him your keys.”

  “You talk as if I like him. I think he’s chasing after Kassandra.”

  “Kassandra? Your office Kassandra?”

  I nodded.

  “You better warn her.”

  “I did. She’s — you know — different. She goes to séances and she even says she reads Tarot cards. But she’s a good person.”

  “Hum, yeah, a good idiot. Okay get going, I need to finish up. See you tomorrow.” She called out as I was going out the back door, “Monica, don’t forget your name tag. Okay?”

  I didn’t sleep at all that night. I couldn’t. I was too excited and yet nervous about working the Dumont’s event. Hell, I wasn’t so excited and nervous the day I got married, probably because we had the honeymoon before the wedding. It went downhill from there. I'd even booked a haircut and manicure-pedicure for the next afternoon, so as to look my best for the Dumont's event. I hadn't even done that for my wedding. A simple affair with none of my Italian relatives present. The Fiat 500 was the wedding gift from my father-in-law to make up for the slight by my family.

  Sunny’s official invite to the party had arrived at the office. It had a western motif going, with a lasso and drawings of boots. It said the event would go from 6:30 to 10. Sort of a lengthy happy hour if you asked me.

  As a matter of fact, finger food and alcohol was the most perfect version of happy hour I could think of. And my office coworkers considered me an expert on the subject. I viewed happy hour as a rather inexpensive way of getting a meal and a show. The show consisted of the single men and women trying hard to impress one another and perhaps find a soul mate in the process. Or pretending they had.

  Ninety minutes before the start of the party, I parked at the back of the Dumont’s house, as all the hired help had been instructed to do. The white truck Brenda used to transport the bulk of the food from the commercial kitchen to the home of clients was already there. I didn’t see anyone around, so I figured the supplies had safely landed in the kitchen. I noticed the cars of Brenda’s top crew, along with Brenda’s Pilot.

  I headed up a light slope and reached three steps that looked chiseled into rocks. There was a big door I assumed led to the kitchen. I assumed wrong. I stepped into a windowless vestibule with hooks and coat hangers on the walls. The big heavy door was self-closing as I discovered when it hit me on the butt, sort of hard. The thud of the door closing must have carried into the other side of the wall because an inside door opened and Leta, Brenda’s number one kitchen helper, shook her finger at me.

  “Always making a grand entrance, aren't you? Get in here.”

  She moved to let me into the enormous, all-white kitchen.

  “Wow, nice. Looks nothing like it used to. What’s the deal with the two doors?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Rich folks, they’re all…” She pointed to her temple.

  According to Leta, in order to be rich you had to have some screws lose. But she was a great cook and a hard worker, so Brenda didn’t pay attention to her opinions as long as she didn’t express them in front of the wrong crowd, like the clients. I already knew everyone in the kitchen, all Brenda’s loyal helpers. Since it was way too early for guests to get there, I decided to do a little looking around.

  “Oh, my, is that straw? Is it real or fake?” Yellowish, dry twigs were strewn on the floor.

  “It’s hay. Someone is coming to clean it up. Mr Dumont’s idea, trying to make the place a bit western. At least he didn’t use cow pies. It’s mainly for the outside bar, by the pool, which was constructed entirely of bales of hay. Talk about city slickers.”

  Leta shook her head and went deeper into the big kitchen. I rushed after Leta, my high heels sounded like a firing squad. Silly me. I should have worn boots.

  “Where's Brenda?” I called out.

  “Right here.”

  I turned to see Brenda talking to a young woman carrying a broom. Ah, the hay sweeper. I moved toward them.

  “This place sure looks different now. But why put in that stupid heavy door to the outside of the kitchen, it hit me right here.” I pointed at my backside. “I’ll probably have bruises.”

  “Sue them.” Brenda wasn’t smiling.

  “What’s with you? Why are you so pissed?”

  “Why? You want to know why? Come on, I'll show you why?”

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me along while she marched through the main room where the serving stations had already been set up, through the den-office where we had first met Angelique Dumont and her assistant, out to the patio and finally to the pool area.

  “Ah, so that’s the bar? It’s kind of fun the way they stacked the hay—”

  “Never mind the bar, what else do you see?”

  “The pool? Are they setting up a DJ’s spot? There's no one around. What’s bugging you?”

  “What’s bugging me? Do you not see the tables with the chairs, nicely scattered around the deck?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I have to reserve mine weeks in advance. These people called last night and here they are, tables and chairs, even matching hurricanes for each table. I’m so mad.”

  “Are you sure they used the same rental company as you?”

  “Positive.”

  “They probably got charged twice what you pay. Don’t you always say you get great rates?’

  She stepped back and looked at me. “You know what? I bet you’re right. Where did you get all that good sense overnight? Well, I feel better. Oh, the double doors? The kitchen? Apparently that’s the fastest way from the stables to the house. The second door is to make sure whoever is coming through stops to remove the dirty boots before going into the rest of the house. I’m told it eliminated the problem with flies.”

  “Flies?”

  “When you have manure on your boots or sweat on your shirt you tend to attract flies. I heard yesterday that the lord of the manor put on quite a show for the girls setting up the tables.”

  “Are you talking about Trist — Mr. Dumont? Why would he have flies?”

  “Not flies, muscles. Apparently he likes to take care of his own horses, even cleaning the stall all by himself, so he removed boots and socks, and his shirt. He received an enthusiastic applause when he walked through the kitchen and butler’s pantry.”

  Images of a shirtless Tristan danced in my head. Mercy. I found myself gulping air.

&nbs
p; THIRTEEN

  GUESTS ARRIVED IN small groups, some early, and others fashionably late. They all headed for the pool area. I could see high-fives being exchanged here and there. Obviously many guests knew each other. Most people appeared to be in their early thirties. Tristan’s age?

  They were all nicely dressed, but in nothing outrageous, no feathers or tiaras. Young women wore pants, designer jeans with glittery stuff, a few long skirts and lots of plunging necklines. Maybe I'd expected tuxedos and gowns, seeing how rich the crowd probably was. But as Brenda kept reminding me, I watched too many old movies.

  Arriving guests drove up to the front courtyard where the young men working valet took over. All the arrivals entered the main house where they found no one to greet them. Where the hell were Mr. and Mrs. Dumont? As if reading my thoughts, Lois Thomas came rushing from the bedroom wing of the house. She didn’t look to be in a party mood, with her pinched lips, stern look, and she kept wringing her hands. What was wrong with her?

  “Hi, Lois. We're all set. I think all the guests are here. Shouldn’t Angelique or her husband be here to welcome the guests?”

  “Black looks good on you,” was her odd response.

  “Lois, thanks, but we need someone, I don’t care which one. I mean, people need to be greeted, introduced, made to feel welcome. I don’t know anyone.”

  “That makes two of us and Angelique isn’t well. She won’t be leaving her room. As a matter of fact, I came to see if someone could bring her meal to her, and mine too since I’ll be keeping her company.”

  This time I was gulping a lot more air than usual when it dawned on me, lecturing hosts wasn’t part of my job description. Oh, happy day.

  “I'll tell Brenda,” I said to Lois.

  On my way to the kitchen I passed the serving stations. They looked well set up and inviting. I recognized some of Brenda’s regular people stacking small plates and napkins. In the kitchen, chaos was at its peak. Business as usual. I still had to mark off who was there and who wasn’t. Sort of a roll call.

  “Hey, Leta, do you know where Brenda is?”

  Leta looked up from the sink where she was washing something. “Do I look like your aunt’s keeper? Check the butler’s pantry or the pool. I’m missing one of the helpers. You sleeping on the job?” Then she winked at me. Dear old, grumpy Leta.

  To make her happy, I started to go down the list of hired help. When I was done, I had four names unchecked. Then I remembered I was supposed to talk to Brenda, so I backtracked to the pantry but kept the list with me, in case I spotted one of the missing.

  Cabinets lined both sides of the walkway through the pantry. Bowls and serving dishes piled with food sat on the counters, nicely divided into Brenda's four groups. B&B for her bland diet, A&A for her allergy section, and Anything Goes. The fourth group was mainly fruits and prepackaged stuff like sugar substitutes and different types of teas. All the people in charge of a station had to do was walk in and take a full plate to substitute for an empty one.

  Brenda wasn’t anywhere in sight so I headed back to the stations. I strolled by and said hello to the two women working the Anything Goes station. Both were regulars. Bland not Blonde also had two women, but Cathy was the only one minding Allergy Alley. She motioned me over.

  “Monica, can you cover for me for a minute? I really need to use the bathroom.”

  “Huh, I guess. Who’s your designated co-worker?”

  “Some new guy, Bill something, but he hasn’t shown up yet. Look, I really, really need to go.”

  “Fine, go. When you get back I’ll track Bill down.”

  I glanced at my list. Yes, there it was. Bill, not checked in yet, and he was one of the new temps from the agency. I surveyed the large living room where the bulk of the guests were expected to congregate and it was pretty deserted except for a couple hanging out by the bar. This was not a good start.

  Oh, and Lois was still waiting for me. Now I felt like I needed to go to the bathroom just from the growing stress. As soon as I spotted Cathy returning, I took off toward the pool area, hoping to locate Brenda. We crossed paths by the sliding glass doors.

  “Brenda.” I sounded breathless.

  “Monica, what’s with you?”

  I told her about Angelique’s health problem.

  “Oh, that. Yes, both dinner plates are ready to go. I marked their names on them, in the kitchen.”

  “You knew about that?”

  “Monica, Lois told me they never eat with the rest of the world, and yes, they had given me the list of their favorite foods. Relax. Where is Mr. Dumont? I’m assuming he decided who to invite, so they're all friends or associates of his. Very popular man I guess. And speak of the devil.”

  She nodded her head and I understood. I turned to see Tristan coming in through the side room where we'd first met with his wife regarding the party. He wore a fitted black shirt with the top buttons undone, and black dress pants. I don’t know what else except he seemed all black, and tempting. My mind went mushy. He looked gorgeous and sexy and so aristocratic, and did I mention sexy? I stared and sucked air.

  He walked by us. “Hey, Fiat.” He nodded to Brenda. “Everything okay?”

  “All smooth going now that the official greeter is here.”

  Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on me, and I’m guessing not on Tristan either. He grinned, touched his forehead with his two fingers like a military salute, and headed toward the pool. All I could think was what it would feel like running my fingers through his hair and down the nap of his—mercy me. I had to get a grip.

  “Okay, Fiat, you can close your mouth now,” Brenda teased me. “I need to go send the food to the recluses.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Wait, wait. I’m missing some temps. A Ginger, who’s supposed to help Leta in the kitchen and a Bill who was to work the A&A with Cathy. The other two temp agency people called to say they're running late. So, any ideas?”

  “About the missing temps? How would I know? I've never met them before. They're supposed to wear name tags. Leta would know. She's collecting cell phones so we get no secret shots of the clients posted on-line. They get them back when we're done and on their way to their cars.”

  “Oh, mine is in my purse, in the small pantry inside the kitchen.”

  “Good girl, don’t forget it.”

  “How? My car keys are in the same purse,” I said to her back as she walked toward the kitchen.

  I was dying to go see what was going on poolside. I could hear music, a lively beat, not really dance music, but catchy tunes. Maybe I could take a peek from the sliding doors. Just then I noticed Celine coming into the main floor from the same side room Tristan had come from. She kept adjusting something, what? Oh, she was adjusting her bra. And she looked disheveled.

  Damn. Was that why Tristan had been nowhere to be found? Reality knocked hard. Time to get the message, Monica. They were lovers. Celine walked by me, all blonde, ethereal, with her camellia skin, wearing a fabulous turquoise dress and some flashy silver jewelry, sort of a city slicker version of a squash blossom necklace.

  She came to within inches of me, flashed me a mocking smile, and raised her arm as if to wave, but really she was showing off some gorgeous silver bangles. I wanted to scream, instead I said nothing. With my pathetic black dress and limp hair, compared to Celine, I probably looked more like Morticia from the Adams family, a flat chested Morticia at that.

  Celine went out to the pool and joined everyone else. I looked around the nearly empty room and the full serving tables. This was awful, the place seemed more like a wake than a party. Too bad, all that food, all the work. And then two things happened. Sunny made her entrance in a lovely dark pantsuit, with a cream colored silk shirt, looking elegant without being overdone. We had barely exchanged greetings when Arizona's unpredictable weather lent a helping hand.

  The sky had turned dark, but it was evening and no one seemed to care until out of nowhere a gust of wind exploded, with pool chairs and plastic glasses twir
ling and falling. The guests camped around the pool responded with laughter and immediate action.

  Within minutes the outside bar was packed up, the DJ moved inside, and the joyful crowd filled the main floor. It was like magic, and once again, Brenda could claim a party she catered was a screaming success, literally.

  Where was Brenda? I glanced around, but because the guests swarmed the food stations like ants after a long, dry winter, I had problems seeing what was going on. As usual I was on the shortest side of the masses. In spite of all my resolve and good intentions, my eyes searched for Tristan. I spotted him by the bar, his back to me. Celine who was almost as tall as he, stood so close he could have been holding her by her waist. But Sunny had his undivided attention.

  I had no idea what they were talking about, but it seemed a lively conversation. At some point, other young men joined in. I watched Tristan introduce Sunny to everyone. I guessed they were the investors/partners he'd told me about. Apparently he wasn’t interested in working with me, which was why he never got back regarding the listings. Stop it Monica, Sunny was and is his broker. The ache in the center of my chest was real. Better get away, and clear my mind. Besides, most of my work was done, twenty more minutes and I could leave and go home.

  I walked back to the kitchen, through the butler’s pantry, which made it much easier. It was like walking through a fancy deli, with all that food on both sides of the narrow passage. I picked up one of the spinach balls from the Anything Goes group and munched on it on my way to find Brenda. I didn’t have to go far, she was coming my way.

  “Let me guess, you’re eating a spinach ball. Make sure you check your teeth before you go talking to the guests. Remember the last party?”

  “You had to remind me.”

  My face was on fire recalling the picture some jackass took of me smiling, and then posted on Facebook. I still said it was photo shopped. There was no way I could have so much green stuck between my teeth, no matter how many spinach balls I'd gobbled up.