Filling: 1 ˝ pounds (5 medium-size) ripe tomatoes, trimmed but not peeled, cut into eighths, seed pockets removed
5 ounces Brie cheese, rind scraped off; cut into small cubes
2 ounces best-quality fresh mozzarella cheese, cut into small cubes
1 ounce Fontinella cheese, cut into small cubes
1/3 cup chopped fresh basil
3 large eggs
1/3 cup heavy cream
1/3 cup milk
Preheat oven to 350 . Drain the tomatoes thoroughly on paper towels. Place the cheese cubes evenly around the prepared crust. Place the tomatoes on top of the cheese, and top with the basil. Beat the eggs, cream, and milk, and pour this mixture over the tomatoes, basil, and cheese. Place in the oven and bake 35 to 50 minutes, until center is set. Allow pie to cool 10 minutes before serving.
Serves 6.
I hugged him and apologized. When Julian Teller had been boarding with us, he had been like a big brother to my son. Now, Arch missed Julian more than any of us. The new dog, I told myself, was a welcome substitute for the much-admired friend. Despite my warnings about the weather, Arch and Jake took off on a long hike. Arch told me not to worry. He thought the sky was clearing. By early afternoon, however, icy raindrops fell in a chilling, slashing curtain. To arrive early enough for the Prospect party, I allowed an extra half-hour of travel time and secured pan after pan of the expensive appetizers into a Cambro, a heavy plastic stacking device that locks into place on my van floor. When I inched my vehicle onto Aspen Meadow’s Main Street, I winced at the sight and sound of Cottonwood Creek. Our normally placid, usually picturesque tributary of the South Platte River had developed into a roaring, turgid beast. In fact, the rain had turned our whole town into a mud pit. The shoulders of all the mountain roads oozed mire. Streamfront properties, usually highly prized, became disaster areas when the creeks had crested their banks. As the van rocked forward behind a line of cars, I fretted about the appetizers tilting inside the Cambro, not to mention the trays on the overhead racks. Cleaning up six dozen meticulously layered quesadillas from the floor of my van was not my idea of a good time.
Unsurprisingly, traffic in Idaho Springs was detoured. I prayed the bungee cords would hold the trays in place as I piloted my trusty vehicle over rocks and through silt to avoid a road crew. Sporting fluorescent life vests and calf-deep in mud, workmen pulled debris from a plugged culvert. I inched forward and tried not to imagine my platters of savory hors d’oeuvres skimming down the rapids.
At last, I pulled up to the sheds in front of the Eurydice Mine. No one else had arrived, so I parked the van and rushed through the rain with the first plastic-wrapped platters. Once under the tent, I scanned the dark interior until I turned on the tent lamps and spotted the portable ovens. I heaved the trays onto the makeshift counter, checked the ovens, then switched them on. I paused to look around. A string of light bulbs that went back as far as the eye could see illuminated the railroad track that led into the depths of the old mine. The light bulbs had been strung beside the track for the Prospect investors’ tour of the Eurydice in May. I fought off a shiver.
“There’s a superstition about women in mines,” Marla had told me after she returned from the tour. “We’re supposed to be bad luck. ‘Women prohibited for decades!’ they told us before we went in. Poor Edna Hardcastle showed why by promptly having a claustrophobia attack. Got fifty feet inside and threw up.”
Maybe I was better off with savings bonds. I pulled my eyes away from the dark portal of the mine, which seemed to leak cold, dank air, and nipped back and forth through the downpour to unload more trays. Ten minutes later, Macguire roared up in his Subaru. Lanky, acne-scarred, and endearingly unambitious, Macguire was the son of the headmaster of Elk Park Prep. Macguire was taking what was euphemistically called a “year off,” while he lifted weights, did odd jobs, and occasionally attempted to decide what to do with the rest of his life. He wasn’t too adept at the food biz. But he could carry heavy trays. And he liked people. From my point of view, that was half the battle.
“Hey, Goldy.” His tall body curled out of the Subaru and he smiled crookedly, squinting against the rain. He wore an unbuttoned, too-large, yellow plastic slicker he’d probably scrounged from the Elk Park Prep lost-and-found. But the gaping slicker revealed that he had remembered to wear black pants and a white shirt, a good sign. “The beers are gonna be late,” he informed me. He shook his short, wiry red hair. Droplets skittered through the damp air. “It was all the truck driver could do to get up Marla’s driveway. When she told him he needed to come up a dirt road leading out of Idaho Springs, he said, Forget that! So she bribed him to put a few cases into the trunk of her Mercedes. Tony could only get a couple into his Miata, and Albert’s going over to get the rest in his Explorer. Marla is not happy. But I told her, hey! You know, it’s like the bumper sticker, sh “
“No,” I interrupted him. I put the covered platter of quesadillas I was holding down on the van floor and held up one hand. “Need to change your thinking, Macguire. Clients cuss. Caterers don’t.”
He grinned good-naturedly, released the lock, and heaved up the Cambro. “Your clients are going to cuss a lot if they get up here and don’t have anything to drink. Anyway, I really need to talk to Marla before the festivities get started. She here yet?”
Even as he spoke, we heard the distinctive growl of the Mercedes. Marla emerged from her shiny new car in a cloud of dark green silk dotted with gold. She shook her fist dramatically at the weeping clouds and struggled to open her new Louis Vuitton umbrella. Although she’d only lost about ten pounds since the heart attack, she swore she was exercising regularly, eating virtuously, and not losing her temper more than once a month. As she merrily trundled toward us through the downpour, I doubted all three.
“Darlings,” she exclaimed extravagantly once she was under the tent. She closed the umbrella with a flourish and shook it. The bright gold barrettes holding her unruly brown curls in place twinkled in the light of the rented tent lamps. She sniffed at the delicious aromas seeping from the ovens. “Let’s indulge! Correction: Let’s unload this designer beer, and then indulge. Ah, Macguire,” she trilled, “you left a message saying you had something for me?”
“I do,” he muttered. His face darkened with uncertainty. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“You don’t think she’s going to like what?” I asked as I whisked the mustard and cream for the bacon appetizers.
But Marla reopened the umbrella, walked with Macguire to his car, and ignored me. The rain continued to pelt down, so I couldn’t hear what the two of them were saying as they huddled next to the Subaru and spoke in confidential tones. Then Macguire ducked into his car and brought out a manila envelope. Marla tore into it and yanked out a sheet of paper. Under the shelter of the umbrella, she pored over it while he talked quietly, pointing here and there on the sheet. Marla scowled. Macguire appeared to be trying to calm her.
“Brau-au-au-gh!” she yelled, as the first of the guest cars crested the dirt road. I couldn’t help wondering what the problem was. Marla continued to stare at the paper in her hands. “I don’t believe this!” I heard her yell.
“What are you going to do?” Macguire said loudly, crossing his arms and frowning down at her. “Confront him?”
“Are you kidding?” my best friend shrieked. She crushed the paper and stuffed it into a silk pocket. “I’m going to kill him!”
2
Try as I might, I couldn’t discover what Marla was so angry about. When Macguire unpacked the crystal glasses not real, of course, for an outdoor event he mumbled that I’d learn soon enough. And then I became so busy loading the quesadillas and tomato-Brie pies into the ovens that I didn’t have time to ask again. I didn’t even notice when Prospect partner Albert Lipscomb arrived with the last of the cases of brew. The boxes of gleaming brown bottles just seemed to appear magically in the tent. I was briefly aware of tall, athletic Tony with an equall
y tall, but bald, man moving confidently in the direction of the large storage shed abutting the side tent flap. From their assured manner together, I figured the balding man had to be Prospect partner Albert Lipscomb, the most tedious man on earth, as Marla had called him. After a moment the two men emerged from the shed wearing miner’s hard hats complete with cap lamps. Without stopping to talk to the few clients who’d already arrived, they walked briskly into the mine.
I watched curiously as the two men disappeared down the dark-hewn throat into the earth. But I was even more interested in their mission. Before leaving they’d spoken with Macguire briefly, pointing at the middle of the tent. Macguire had in turn disappeared and returned with another man, whom I could see only from the back. With great effort, Macguire and his helper hauled a glass display case the size of a large coffee table back to the spot in the center of the tent that the partners had indicated.
“What’s going on?” I asked Macguire when I was by his side. He was dusting off his hands and muttering about having to wash them again before serving the food.
The man with him, whom I belatedly (and with a sinking heart) recognized as Captain Shockley of the Furman County Sheriffs Department, spoke first.
“Well, now. If it isn’t Mrs. Schulz.” Shockley, in his late fifties, towered over me. I took in his formidable paunch and green polyester suit. He had thin, ruffled black hair above an ominous, horsey face. Within a mass of crepey wrinkles, his bulging brown eyes glared at me. He looked like a boss. I just wished he wasn’t Tom’s boss. He said, “I wonder why Prospect happened to hire you to cater this event?”
Anxiety gnawed at my stomach as Shockley tilted toward me. His oversized teeth were set in a joyless grin as he waited grimly for my reply.
“Um, because my best friend is dating one of the partners?”
He turned back to the display case. “I figured as much.” He stared glumly into the empty glass compartments.
“What are you two doing?” I asked brightly. “I mean, I guess this table isn’t a place where we can put trays of dumplings.”
Shockley ignored me, and Macguire gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. Don’t ask. But I didn’t need to inquire again, because within a minute Tony and his partner reappeared at the mine opening, each with a knapsack slung over his back. When they approached the display table, Macguire tugged me aside.
“It’s supposed to be a surprise for the clients,” Macguire said in a low voice. “They made it a surprise mainly for security reasons,” he added. “The partners didn’t want anyone to know in advance about a display of samples from the mine safe.” I watched Shockley open the top of the glass case. Tony and Albert Lipscomb began to place chunks of streaked rock inside. “That police captain? Shockley? He said they’re doing a, like, before-and-after exhibit. You know samples of ore on one side, ingots of refined metal on the other. The partners are giving Shockley the key to the case. You know for safekeeping during the party.”
The partners opened the second knapsack and carefully lifted out thick, gleaming bars of gold. For a moment, Macguire and I did not speak. We were transfixed by the sight of the precious yellow metal glimmering seductively in the light of the tent lamps. I was sure the bars were worth a fortune.
“But,” I said finally, “I thought they already gave the investors chunks of ore. Marla said she got one when they came up for their tour.”
When Macguire didn’t answer right away, I looked at him. The same uncertainty I’d seen earlier again clouded his face. “Maybe I just shouldn’t talk about it.” He gestured to the makeshift parking area that was bathed in icy rain. “Anyway, here come some more guests.”
And indeed, car after car was pulling into the parking lot. Macguire and I hustled off to the serving area and loaded up our trays with bottles, glasses, and napkins. Have a good time, I warned myself. Guests can always read your mood! So forget the weather and buck up! Unfortunately, a caterer’s worries are as contagious as measles.
But my apprehensions proved groundless. Despite the rain, despite the recent loss of the firm’s investment officer, the atmosphere among the partygoers soon vibrated with joviality. Wave after wave of guests extricated themselves from muddy Range Rovers and Jeep Grand Cherokees and greeted each other with loud cheers and high fives. We made it through the Red Sea, doggone it, and now we’re going to party! Just as heartily, they hailed Macguire and me with demands for drinks. We were happy to oblige.
Once the first batch of thirty-five-dollar-a-bottle Belgian ales was gone, the party became more like a bash at the end of exams than a dignified gathering of wealthy investors. Fine with me. I am ecstatic when rich people celebrate anything, as long as I supply the food. With these folks in such excellent humor, maybe I’d even be able to wangle a couple of July Fourth bookings.
Then again, I reasoned as I served another round of ales, these guests certainly had reason to whoop it up. Tony Royce and Albert Lipscomb had made them a bundle. Tony’s job was to come up with investment ideas and bring in clients. Albert analyzed the companies’ balance sheets and managed the money. The investment officer ran or rather, used to run interference between the clients and the partners. And they’d all done spectacularly. Year before last, Prospect had infused money into Medigen, a regional biotech company. This year, Medigen had gone public and made the Prospect clients a widely reported packet. Now they were trying something new. Contrary to their usual pattern, Albert Lipscomb had been the one who’d pushed the idea of investing in the Eurydice Gold Mine. A lifelong Coloradan, Albert had inherited the mine from his grandfather, who’d vehemently insisted up to his death that the mine contained untapped gold ore. Prospect had hired a geologist who agreed with the grandfather, and the high-rolling clients had piled in. Coloradans can’t resist gold. When they climb the peaks, they kick over rocks to search for untapped veins. When they picnic, they scan the creeks for shiny nuggets. Mention gold, and people go wild. Let them, I say, especially if it means they’ll need catered functions to celebrate their strikes.
Once everyone was flourishing a third or fourth crystal glass full of brew, I brought out the crab quesadillas with chili cilantro salsa. Macguire offered the hot mushroom caps stuffed with savory chicken sausage. Guests were all too happy to drool and consume. Fantastic! Scrumptious! Who cares about calories? We’re all going to get rich! It was great.
For a while after the display case was set up, I didn’t spot Mr. Magnetic, Tony Royce. Marla took time from her chatter with friends about her upcoming travel plans with Tony to wave me in the direction of bald Albert Lipscomb. With the miner’s hat and heavy jacket off, Albert appeared unexpectedly lithe and well-built. His slender chest was covered with a pale blue monogrammed shirt. His madras tie, seersucker jacket, yellow pants, and hand-sewn loafers couldn’t have screamed preppy more loudly if he’d been wearing a sign. While Macguire stopped to talk to Marla, I scooted toward Albert to offer the tray of quesadillas the first pass. Suck up to the high rollers, my cooking instructor had advised, or you’re going to have a brief career in catering.
“Marla tells me you’re recently married?” Albert said slowly after I’d introduced myself His light brown eyes regarded me seriously. “To a police officer? Is this true?”
I felt myself frowning. Was this a trick question? “Ah, yes. My husband works for Captain Shockley over there.”
Albert smiled painfully, showing small, even white teeth. “And will your husband be happy when Captain Shockley gets enough money in his Prospect account to retire?”
“Well… .”
“Never mind.” Again the pained grin. Lipscomb was trying, unsuccessfully, to find some common ground where we could banter. “So.” He took a deep breath. “Do you find yourself catering a lot of policemen’s picnics?”
“In this weather,” I replied sincerely, “I’d be happy to cater any picnics.”
“In that case… we’ll certainly keep you in mind,” he drawled, chuckling and giving me that same ag
onized smile. Kip yew ian mahnd. Although he was from Colorado and not the South, he apparently had picked up a southern accent during his years at the Citadel, where Marla mentioned Albert and Tony both had gone to school. Albert rubbed his free hand over his bald pate and droned on: “We’re always needing wonderful food like this. My grandfather was particularly fond of smoked meat. Is that Smithfield ham I smell?”
I mumbled something along the lines of “Not exactly,” and wondered if Macguire was listening to his Walkman instead of taking the bacon-wrapped artichokes out of the oven.
Albert Lipscomb moved past me to talk to Eileen Tobey, the new president of Aspen Meadow Bank and a loyal client of mine. Eileen winked at me and held up a glassful of raspberry-flavored beer in a silent toast. I smiled, nodded, and gave her a thumbs-up, even though I’d drink liver-flavored lemonade before indulging in raspberry beer. But I did treasure Eileen’s business. In the midst of my current downturn, she’d booked me for a small, regular catering job at her bank. If this Prospect party was a success, perhaps Eileen would want me to do a businesswomen’s luncheon event later in June… inside, that is… .
“Oh, Goldy!” gushed a nearby female voice. I turned from Albert and Eileen in time to see a gnarled hand reach out to stop me. “These Mexican pizza things are out pf this world! Did you make them? For someone with no formal chef training, you amaze me.” My heart sank. It was Edna Hardcastle.
Under the current slender-bookings circumstances, I decided to be eager to please. I turned a blinding smile toward Mrs. Hardcastle, a willowy, sixtyish woman whose swept-up henna hair and bright yellow polka-dotted suit with matching pumps were a vision of scarlet and yellow. Both the suit skirt and the pumps had become muddy en route to the tent. Her white-haired husband Whit short for Whitaker, I’d learned when I catered at their cabin by Bride’s Creek last fall shuffled uncomfortably and craned his long neck inside a I knotted tie that appeared to be decorated with spackling compound. On the other side of Edna stood a short, blond man I recognized as restaurateur Sam Perdue, the proprietor of Sam’s Soups in Aspen Meadow.
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