Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “They’ll eventually find out that we’re married, Meagan. Unless you plan on never wearing your wedding ring as well,” Morehouse snapped.

  “Of course I’ll wear my ring – both of them. By the time the next Cavalcade rolls around, a whole year will have passed and my becoming your assistant and your fiancée, all in a matter of months, will cause far less of a uproar than it would right now.”

  “I honestly don’t see why you care so much what other people think. You and I are ridiculously happy and anyone who either questions or tries to interfere with that happiness can quite simply go to hell.”

  “I don’t know why I care either,” Meagan admitted, “but it doesn’t stop the fact that I do.”

  “I know, darling,” Morehouse said gently. “And I’m sorry if it seemed as though I was attacking you. I can be a tough-skinned old git at times. Too tough.”

  “You can say that again,” the Salvage Guy cracked from his side of the table.

  Morehouse was unfazed. “You’re more softhearted than I am, Meagan, and that’s something that I shouldn’t try to change. If you want to wait until after the fair to wear your engagement ring full time, I won’t say another word. But would you at least do me the honor of wearing it during the evenings? Unless, of course you’re afraid that a grain of quinoa might become lodged in the filigree of the setting or a wayward fork tine could scratch the band.”

  Meagan laughed. “No, of course not. I’ll go upstairs and get it.”

  “Please do,” Ms. B. Ology encouraged. “I’d love to see it.”

  “Me too,” Stella seconded.

  “All this silliness! If someone loved me enough to give me the engagement ring I would never take it off my finger,” Aurora asserted.

  On her way out of the room, Meagan shot Aurora a glance that belied the kind, tender-natured portrait that Morehouse had painted mere moments before.

  “As pretty as they might be, I don’t think I’d bother with the whole engagement/wedding ring business,” Ms. B. Ology opined. In the background, the Victrola struck up a rousing rendition of “You Do Something to Me.” “Matching tattoo bands on our ring fingers would be pretty cool though.”

  “Tattoos are so hackneyed,” Zolar whined in a rare moment of socialization, all the while looking down at his plate. “Even soccer moms have them these days. If you want to seem unconventional, you seriously need to try harder.”

  Ms. B. Ology cringed while Nick volleyed: “I’ve seen them done before, and they look kind of cool, but what I don’t get is what do you throw at each other when you’re angry?”

  Stella balled up her napkin and threw it at her husband’s head.

  “See?” Nick added to the laughter of his wife and the others at the table.

  When the laughter had died down, Chip Carlson rejoined, “Divorce is painful and costly enough without having to suffer through dermabrasion or thousands of dollars worth of laser treatments.”

  “Ah, but you already possess laser technology, don’t you, Carlson?” Rousseau grinned impishly. “I’m sure if Ms. B. were in need, you’d be happy to hook her up.”

  Carlson raised an eyebrow in Rousseau’s direction. “With a laser? Certainly. But before I could perform any sort of procedure, Ms. B. would need to promise to help me replace the windows in my house.”

  “What?” Ms. B. answered incredulously. “I don’t know anything about replacing windows.”

  “But you work with glass don’t you? Windows. Glass. Same thing, aren’t they?” Carlson replied with sly grin.

  “Okay, okay,” Rousseau moaned. “Message received. I won’t joke about all lasers being equal and you won’t ask me tax questions.”

  “Deal,” Carlson declared with a nod of the head.

  Amanda entered the dining room bearing a large tray. She immediately began clearing the second course dishes.

  “When you’re finished, if you’d be so good as to bring out the red wine glasses and the next bottle of wine,” Morehouse directed.

  “Yes sir,” Amanda replied obediently.

  “I believe Chef Durand will be presenting the main course. Am I correct in that assumption?”

  “You are. He’s in the kitchen right now, helping Helen to plate up.”

  As Amanda collected plates, forks, and empty wine glasses, Meagan breezed back into the dining room, her face aglow and the heels of her tall brown riding boots clicking rapidly against the marble floors as she walked.

  “Here’s my blushing bride,” Morehouse exclaimed.

  “She truly does seem to be blushing, doesn’t she?” Ms. B. Ology concurred. “I hope you choose an off-white wedding gown. The ivory color of your sweater dress does simply wonders for your complexion.”

  “Thanks.” Meagan blushed a deeper shade of scarlet. “I’ll have to keep that in mind when I finally go shopping. I’m not even sure when that will be but… well, come to think of it, I have no family living nearby. Would you, I mean could you –”

  “Go dress shopping with you?” B. Ology filled in the blanks. “Are you kidding? I’d love to! Now shut up and show us that ring!”

  Meagan rounded the table to where Ms. B. sat and happily thrust her left hand in the glass blower’s face.

  “Oh! It’s beautiful, Meagan.”

  “May I see?” Stella asked as she leaned forward, tentatively, in her chair.

  “Of course, the more the merrier,” Meagan laughed.

  Stella scurried to the other side of the table to join the two women. The tall, elegant figure of Aurora reluctantly trailed behind her.

  Upon Meagan McArdle’s left ring finger rested a round-cut chocolate diamond surrounded by a halo of white diamonds, which also encircled the delicate platinum band.

  “I love the color,” Stella declared. “It’s a neat twist on a classic engagement ring.”

  “Eh! The white diamond, it symbolizes the sanctity of marriage. It means that the love is pure,” Aurora preached. “Any other color is the bad luck.”

  “Stop, Aurora. I can’t abide by your negativity and, besides, that’s just an old wives’ tale,” B. Ology chastised. “Or, in this case, an old maid’s Tale.”

  Meagan plucked her left hand from Ms. B. Ology’s grasp and placed it on her hip. “B.!” she shrieked.

  “Sorry, Meagan,” B. apologized. “But I don’t think it’s acceptable to tell a newly betrothed woman that the ring she chose denotes that her lover isn’t true.”

  “And I agree that Ms. Marici’s words were far from kind,” Meagan flashed a warning glance at the designer. “However, all of us Creators put so much into this weekend and the Cavalcade, and no one more than Philip himself. Can’t we just put our differences behind us and enjoy this weekend – as fellow artists and Creators?”

  “You are correct,” Aurora acknowledged. “For Philip’s sake, and the Cavalcade’s, I apologize. Your ring is beautiful, Meagan.”

  “Why, thank you, Aurora.”

  “Even if no self-respecting Italiana would ever wear it.”

  As Aurora Marici sauntered back to her spot beside Nick Buckley, Ms. B. Ology drew her right fist back as if to deliver a blow to the back of the woman’s head. Meanwhile, the gramophone launched into a sprightly piano-based version of “Anything Goes.”

  Meagan jumped in front of the glass blower with both hands held aloft. The silent bid for peace worked, for Ms. B. Ology lowered her arm with an exasperated shake of the head.

  “Violence? It would appear that we are serving dinner just in time,” Nicolas Durand joked as he entered the dining room, bearing a large, round covered tray. Amanda trailed behind him, carrying an identical platter.

  “Meagan was just showing the ladies her engagement ring,” Rousseau explained.

  “It would appear that Ms. B. was quite offended by the size of the stone,” Durand quipped.

  “You know me, Chef. Passionate and opinionated about everything. Including cuts of diamonds,” Ms. B. ribbed in return.

  As Durand and Amanda
placed their serving vessels on the low sideboard, Meagan approached the pair with her left arm outstretched.

  “May I sneak a peek?” Amanda asked, her eyes twinkling with excitement.

  “Please do,” Meagan urged.

  “Oh. My. Goodness,” the younger overstated as she swooned over the bauble on Meagan’s ring finger. “It’s stunning. Just stunning!”

  Durand peered over the serving woman’s shoulder. “It is lovely, just like its owner,” he said quietly. “As expected, you have exquisite taste.”

  “Oh, I didn’t pick it out. Philip did.”

  “Ah! Well, I could compliment Monsieur Morehouse on his exquisite taste, but I think the proof of that resides more in the wearer of the ring than in the ring itself.”

  “You are too kind,” Meagan said with a slight curtsey.

  “I can assure you kindness has nothing to do with it,” Durand affirmed. “I wish you and Philip all the best.”

  “Thank you, Nicolas,” Morehouse uttered from his end of the table.

  Durand bowed. “And now, if I might, I present to you this evening’s main course.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Morehouse boomed over the applause and cheers of his guests.

  While Meagan and Ms. B. Ology returned to their seats in anticipation of the sumptuous dish to be placed before them, Durand motioned to Amanda to remove the lids from the trays. As he turned to assist in the serving, Stella noted that the chef’s usual amiable, easy-going smile gave way to a deeply troubled frown.

  When Durand again approached the table, plates in hand, he was back to his cheerful self. “Baked wild mushroom risotto with caramelized shallots in a balsamic and red wine reduction. Bon appetit!”

  “Looks and smells amazing,” Stella remarked.

  “Yes, compliments to the chef.” Carlson, once again, raised his glass.

  “I would be more than happy to drink with you, but the glory and the accolades belong to Helen. She prepared our entire meal this evening. I merely helped with some of the chopping of the vegetables and the caramelizing of the onions.”

  “I hope you invited Helen to come out and say ‘hello’ after dinner,” Morehouse expressed.

  “I did, but alas, she has another commitment.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right, her son and daughter-in-law are in town for the weekend, aren’t they?”

  “Oui, I told her to go home and spend time with her family. I can easily warm the dessert and Amanda and I will take care of the dishes and clean up. I hope you do not mind.”

  “Not at all. So long as you don’t mind having a busman’s holiday, my friend.”

  “Of course not. A day without cooking is like… well, I’ll tell you as soon as I have one.” Durand grinned.

  The conversation during the main course remained light-hearted and good natured, thanks in part to the back-to-back frivolity of Cole Porter’s “Let’s Do It” and “Let’s Misbehave,” as well the deliciousness of the meal before them.

  “I have to admit, I was skeptical about dinner,” Nick confessed as he took a final bite of risotto, “but that was really terrific.”

  “Have you not had risotto before?” Rousseau inquired.

  “Oh, I have. Stella makes it, but I usually have it as a side dish, not a main course.”

  “Nick always wants a steak or piece of chicken with his risotto,” Stella clarified. “While I’m content with it on its own.”

  “Do you put mushrooms in yours?” Durand asked.

  “No, just whatever vegetables are in season. Asparagus and peas in spring, butternut squash in the fall.”

  “Try adding some mushrooms next time, it adds richness and fullness. This has three different kinds of mushrooms: porcini, portabella, and shiitake. Oh, and if you’re not vegetarians, use beef broth instead of the vegetable. It is more satisfying.”

  “As you can tell, Chef Nicolas is a diehard carnivore,” Morehouse noted.

  “Do not be so limiting,” Durand reprimanded. “Like most trained chefs, I am an omnivore.”

  “Are there any foods you won’t eat?” Ms. B. Ology queried after the laughter of the room had died down.

  “There are three: head cheese, ramps – I don’t know how they ever became a ‘thing’ – and Akvavit.”

  “Now, now, don’t go picking on my Akvavit,” Morehouse decried. “It’s a tradition my mother’s family brought with them from Norway.”

  “Yes, and they should have left it there.”

  Morehouse addressed his new guests, “It’s a Creator’s Cavalcade tradition for me to take a shot or two of Akvavit after our first dinner. It’s a hold-over from my younger days when it was customary for us to include it at every celebratory event: Christmas, birthdays, weddings –”

  “– one’s first ambulance ride,” Durand added to the list.

  “Haute cuisine and comedy, Nicolas?” Morehouse deadpanned.

  “What can I say, Philip? I am a man of many talents. That, and I’ll be here all weekend.”

  “Indeed. Well, I certainly wouldn’t take that act on the road any time soon,” Morehouse teased. “And now that dinner is complete, time for another Creator’s Cavalcade tradition. Mr. Carlson, if you would be so kind as to raise the volume on that gramophone of yours.”

  “Certainly. I’ll check the power supply too,” Chip assented graciously.

  “This isn’t karaoke night, is it?” Nick asked in jest.

  “We dance between dinner and dessert,” Ms. B. Ology explained. “I’m not sure whether it stemmed from the amount of wine we drink with our meal or if it was devised as a way to burn off some steam prior to the big event, but we’ve been doing it for years now.”

  “Six years running,” Morehouse clarified as he took Meagan by the hand and twirled her onto the twelve foot by nine foot area of marble tile that served as a makeshift dance floor. “And the past five years, this is the part of the evening where Mr. Zolar excuses himself and goes to hide in his room. Care to make it year six, Kenneth?”

  “Phil’s right, Ken. Time to break out of your shell. Dance with me,” B. insisted as she stood up and extended a hand in his direction.

  Zolar rose from his seat with a heavy sigh. “Sorry, B. I don’t like dancing and I won’t be bullied into doing it, even if you do have the best intentions.” He glared at Morehouse and then Meagan before exiting.

  B. watched with a frown as Zolar trudged out of the dining room. Within moments, she turned to Rousseau with a wide smile, “Mark! How about it?”

  “Normally, I’d be happy to oblige, but I’m afraid I have some last minute work to do,” he pushed away from the table. “Good night, everyone.”

  Carlson struck up a swing instrumental version of “Begin the Beguine” and sidled up to Ms. B. Ology, but it was too late. The pretty glass blower had already grabbed the hand of Nicolas Durand. “Come on, Chef. You’re not going to let me down, are you?”

  “So long as you do not mind my creakiness,” the chef joked and followed her onto the dance floor.

  Carlson thrust his hands into the pockets of his frock coat and stared at the floor.

  Stella gave a quick glance to her husband before rising from her chair. “I’d be happy to dance with you, Mr. Carlson.”

  Carlson looked up with a grin. “Sure. That would be great – I mean, if your husband doesn’t mind,” he looked back at Nick’s place at the table.

  “You don’t need my permission,” Nick stated. “Besides, while you’re dancing, the Salvage Guy and I can talk shop.”

  His conscience eased, Carlson led Stella onto the dance floor while Dan, the Salvage Guy, grabbed his glass of wine from the space in front of him and carried it to a seat closer to Nick.

  From the other end of the table, the voice of Aurora Marici erupted, “And what am I? The liver that is chopped?”

  Like a small dog being called by his owner, Dan leapt to his feet and hastened to the designer’s side. “I’m sorry, Aurora. I should have asked you to dance.”

/>   “Not you, Dan. I danced with you last year and you stepped all over my feet.” Aurora gave a dismissive wave of the hand before rising from her chair.

  “Ouch!” the Salvage Guy exclaimed. “It would seem that I am now the liver that is chopped.”

  “Signore Neek,” Aurora invited, extending a slender arm in Nick’s direction.

  “Who? Me?” a bewildered Nick asked. “No, no, no, I couldn’t. I’d probably step on your feet too.”

  “Is that true, Signora Buckley?” Aurora called to Stella.

  “Well, um, I wouldn’t say it was probable, but it is possible,” Stella allowed as she mirrored Carlson’s rhumba moves.

  “Ah, we will see what happens when I take the lead, yes?”

  “Uh oh, I’d be careful, if I were you, Nick,” the Salvage Guy advised.

  “And perhaps you should mind your tongue, Dan,” Chef Durand warned amidst Ms. B. Ology’s giggles, “otherwise you may be demoted from the chopped liver to scrapple.”

  Aurora slid the chef a dirty look and then guided Nick onto the dance floor.

  “Perhaps you should be careful too,” B. Ology whispered nervously.

  Chef Durand nodded in silent agreement.

  As the Beguine segued into a tango-tinted rendition of “Longing for Dear Old Broadway,” Aurora’s sinuous body began to move in time with the rhythm. Swiveling her hips, she raised her long arms above her head and undulated them, as a belly dancer does, so that they resembled snakes.

  Nick stared blankly, uncertain as to how he was to mimic her movements and whether or not he should even try. But he needn’t have worried, for within a matter of moments, she threw her right arm around Nick’s waist, grabbed his right hand with her left, and, while staring him directly in the eyes with an unflinching gaze, pressed her body against his and took several steps forward.

  Nick took the few necessary awkward steps backward and used the brief pause to move Aurora’s hand from his waist to his shoulder before pushing her away slightly and clamping his left hand on her shoulder.