Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes

by Christine Arness

  Chapter 10

  “May I suggest Aioli Monstre?” Max kept his voice matter-of-fact.

  Mrs. Dunlap drew plucked brows together. “I expected to meet with Mrs. Cinonni.”

  “Until she returns, I’m in charge of planning.” Max poised his pen over a rose-colored legal pad. “August would be the perfect month for this traditional Provence feast.”

  The magic word “Provence” was enough to deflect Mrs. Dunlap from her grievance, although she didn’t have a clue whether aioli was an entrée or a fancy name for mashed turnips.

  “Aioli, yes, the perfect dish.” Stumbling over the pronunciation of the unfamiliar word, she scrambled to retrieve her dignity. “I’m afraid Mother isn’t fond of foreign foods.”

  “Everyone loves this garlic-laced mayonnaise. Picture bowls of hard-boiled eggs dotting platters of miniature endives, scallions, and cherry tomatoes. Green beans and tiny ears of flash-cooked corn represent the goodness of the earth and sun. Dipped in aioli, they become taste sensations.”

  Mrs. Dunlap tugged at a cluster pearl earring. “Sounds lovely, Mr. Summers. But so foreign—”

  “Trays of steamed broccoli, cauliflower, and miniature red potatoes. Nothing exotic about them! We’ll serve chicken. Lamb, if you prefer. Cheese—a table covered with cheeses.” Max’s expansive gesture encompassed the desk top. “As a centerpiece, we’ll use an earthenware bowl brimming with crisp apple slices and juicy figs. Imagine reed baskets heaped with crusty rolls.”

  She swallowed. Max didn’t blame her, his own mouth watered at the thought of biting into a snail after its bath in a massive stone crock awash in creamy aioli. Forget the anniversary—if this overfed, overdressed, and overperfumed fusspot nixed the idea, he’d whip up a batch and throw a private party for one. Max mentally reviewed the items in his pantry. Garlic, eggs, lemon juice, cloves—

  “I’m trying to picture this buffet, but it’s difficult.” Mrs. Dunlap, clinging to her vision of finger sandwiches and salted almonds, was reluctant to abandon France completely.

  Attitude! Max reminded himself. He’d seen firsthand how people ate up Anna Marie’s legendary arrogance. Women reported to their friends with pride how wonderfully rude the dictator of Feast of Italy had been to them.

  But Max couldn’t bring himself to squelch the dowdy little woman. He gave her the gift of his most charming smile. “Feast of Italy doesn’t cater the ordinary. If you prefer the standard anniversary party fare, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”

  Her eyes pleaded for understanding. “But what would I do for decorations? I was thinking lavender streamers and tissue paper wedding bells…”

  Max regarded her with tender pity. “We’ll have it outdoors, Mrs. Dunlap. I assume you have a patio or terrace? This could be the anniversary party of the century! We’ll supply fabulous food—you supply the imagination.”

  In his urgency to help her share his vision, Max forgot his lethargy. He spoke knowledgeably of joyful peasants celebrating a saint’s day, describing the cobblestone square, a quaint village church, and a benevolent sun blazing on contented people.

  His unfeigned enthusiasm elicited a tentative smile. A creative spark glowed in Mrs. Dunlap’s eyes. Soon they were deep in a discussion of seafood preferences and the proper wines.

  Mrs. Dunlap, her cheeks flushed with enthusiasm, suggested rustic baskets and brown glass serving plates. In turn, Max’s proposed backdrop of colorful hangings met with mutual approbation.

  After escorting a satisfied client to her car, Max sprawled in his chair. The lady lived in Heatherfield and, by some miracle, didn’t subscribe to the Lake Hope Ripples. She’d hear the bad news about last Sunday through the grapevine as Feast of Italy’s other clients had, but fortunately so far only a few had demanded deposit refunds.

  Anna Marie couldn’t return to her throne soon enough to suit Max, but he would miss the challenge of turning monotonous lives upside down.

  He snorted at his own pomposity. “Are you listening to yourself?” Who was he to sneer at Mrs. Dunlap? Life’s injustices had reduced Max Summers, noted restaurateur, to a couch potato.

  Yanking the booking schedule in front of him, Max scribbled “Aioli Monstre Buffet” on August 23rd. Flipping back to July, he penciled in a tentative date for the final conference and began a preliminary checklist. Brown linen napkins with a coarse weave. Earthenware serving platters. Crocks on stone pedestals?

  As soon as her ankle healed, Anna Marie would go back to haunting antique stores and garage sales for the distinctive linen and table services which overflowed the huge storage cupboards of Feast of Italy. Presentation, Anna Marie drilled into her troops, is everything. Before August, she’d unearth the perfect service for the Dunlap party or break the other ankle trying.

  Max was compiling a cost estimate for the buffet when a knock at the door jarred him from his concentration. “Come in.” He sat back, rolling his head to loosen the tension in his neck.

  His welcoming smile faded when he recognized his visitor. “Detective Gifford! Where’s your partner, the Terminator?”

  “Can the sarcasm. You can’t afford to antagonize me.”

  Max usually liked candor in a person, but Gifford wielded it like a truncheon. She paused, her gaze taking in the delicate lines of the antique cherrywood desk and the shelf which ran a complete circuit of the office. Above the dark line of wood, the richness of heart-shaped copper trays alternated with the glitter of silver ring molds and exquisite English lustre plates.

  “Not bad. Cooking must pay better than I thought.”

  “This is my aunt’s domain.”

  “You’re the one I’m interested in.” She clumped over to the client’s chair and sat down, crossing her legs.

  Max blinked. He hadn’t seen platform shoes in years.

  She noticed the direction of his gaze. “I don’t chase perps any more, Mr. Summers. I’ve graduated to plain clothes.”

  Anything less plain than her yellow dress spattered with red poppies he had yet to see, but he kept his expression neutral. “How may I help you? I thought we covered everything Sunday.”

  “Place is quiet today. Took a wrong turn when I came in. Didn’t see anyone working in that fancy kitchen of yours.”

  Not believing the wrong turn story, Max wondered whether Gifford had been snooping in the right kitchen. Feast of Italy’s work area was simply that, a no frills room featuring huge ovens, industrial size dishwashers, and a mammoth island complete with double sinks and gleaming pasta racks. If she hoped to find hot brass candlesticks tucked in with the torte pans, she’d been rattling the wrong drawers.

  “How come you’re alone? Business falling off?”

  “Wednesday’s conference day.” Max gave his visitor a gritty smile. “The day I see clients.”

  “Enlighten me. Hank and I eloped so I never had to deal with a caterer. What do you talk about at these conferences?”

  He kept his reply brief, serving up the meat without the fat, another Anna Marie maxim. “Menus and party sizes. Presentation. Fee schedules.”

  “Fees.” Gayla tented slim, brown fingers. “I imagine the deposits are sizeable. I’ve heard your food isn’t cheap.”

  Food? Max shrugged, thankful that Anna Marie was still flat on her back and miles away from the detective’s caustic comments. Denting a police detective’s head with a cast iron skillet probably carried a stiff penalty.

  He recited his customary spiel. “Anna Marie has built a clientele based on her reputation for surpassing the ordinary, disdaining the mundane. Feast of Italy is the best and I intend to maintain the status quo until she returns to work.”

  “You mentioned reputation.” Gifford settled back and fingered the scarlet poppy dangling from her left ear. “A ten letter word vital to your business.”

  Two robberies and a brutal assault and the woman wanted to play word games. Choking back an offer to get out the Scrabble board, Max nodded.

  “How does Mrs. Cinonni feel about the recent n
egative publicity?”

  Triple word score. Max concentrated on the sparks thrown by the silver pen twirling between his fingers. Anna Marie insisted Max use her lucky pen.

  Gayla flashed white teeth in a smile. “Your aunt, Mr. Summers. How does she feel?”

  Max hadn’t told Anna Marie about the cancellations. It wasn’t that he was a coward, but he figured the poor woman had enough healing to do.

  Today’s cancellations left holes in the schedule, which last week had been crammed from 9:00 a.m. until 7:00 tonight. No one, Max reflected bitterly, wanted a caterer with sticky fingers, unless he’d gotten them rolling cheese straws.

  “Negative publicity, Mr. Summers. Things don’t look good, the paper’s virtually accusing you of being the inside contact for this ‘Sterling Ring.’ Mind if I smoke?” Gifford was already lighting up.

  Max shrugged, aware Anna Marie would have a fit if she caught a whiff of tobacco in her office. “Wood absorbs odors,” she’d informed Max curtly from her hospital bed. “Though I love you like a son, I don’t want you eating anchovies or garlic toast at my desk.” Max rolled his chair back and raised the window.

  Gayla appropriated a crystal dessert plate as an ashtray. “You and your friend O’Brien have major credibility problems.”

  Max remembered the contempt in Keely’s eyes when she accused him of lying. He’d blown any chance of establishing communication by marching into her studio with his nerves shredded to confetti.

  He didn’t understand why she persisted in saying she’d seen him with Flo. Oil and water—together he and Keely were more like a stick of dynamite and a lit match…

  “Mr. Summers?” Gifford’s voice cracked like a whip. “We’re talking about Flo Netherton’s trashing you in print.”

  Max pulled himself together. “Feast of Italy will survive the innuendos made by any journalistic assassin.” On that pontifical note, Max unobtrusively slid his elbow over the appointment book to cover up the crossed-out entries.

  “You and Ms. O’Brien were seen together when she returned to the dining room at the Postwaite residence. What was the subject of that conversation?”

  Here was the curve ball. Max opted to let the pitch go by with a shrug. “I don’t remember. We were stunned by what had occurred—I suppose we commented on the unusual situation.”

  “Was she demanding an explanation about your meeting with Ms. Netherton?”

  “Why should Keely care? We only met each other last week. Is it a crime to chat with a newspaper columnist? I deny talking to the woman, but even if I did, why is it so important? Or does Ms. O’Brien claim she saw me wandering the halls with my pockets stuffed with wedding silver?”

  Gayla tugged a nondescript notebook from the pregnant purse in her lap and made a show of consulting one of the pages.

  “This mysterious tape and Keely’s testimony aside, let’s talk about Max Summers before he came to Lake Hope. What are your qualifications for running Feast of Italy?”

  “I told you on Sunday—I have my own restaurant.”

  “Wrong tense, Mr. Summers. Had, not have.” The curt rebuttal slammed into Max’s gut. “Max’s Bistro transferred ownership last December to a David Wagner.”

  Smoke from Gifford’s cigarette stung Max’s nostrils. Smoke dulled the palate, spoiled the taste of food. “David was my partner, along with my wife, Lisa.”

  “Wrong again, Max. Ex-wife.”

  Max’s throat closed. “Lisa and I divorced—”

  “In December. The same month you lost your restaurant.”

  So far, she’d hit every nail square on the head. “I lost my restaurant—”

  “To Mr. Wagner.” Gayla consulted another page. “He married your ex-wife in February.”

  “On Valentine’s Day.” Max’s face felt hot as he gripped the edge of the desk. “They rubbed my nose in it—”

  Gifford arched a derisive brow. “Care to explain how you managed to lose your restaurant? Did somebody sue you over a case of food poisoning? Do you have a drinking problem? Gambling?”

  Max had the irrational urge to grab his persecutor by the scruff of her neck and chuck her out, but she’d probably give him a judo chop that would leave him permanently paralyzed.

  Scrubbing his hand over his face, Max pasted on his most appealing smile. “I originally owned seventy percent of the restaurant, and David thirty. When Lisa and I married, I gave her half of my interest as a wedding gift.”

  “Thirty and thirty-five percent make sixty-five. Enough to force you out. You were too generous.”

  “I prefer the word ‘imbecilic.’” Max threw down Anna Marie’s lucky pen. The thing must be cursed. “I lost my wife and my restaurant to my partner and best friend. The judge refused to put a sufficient value on my ownership interest. Blinded by pride, I walked—virtually gave Max’s Bistro away. Since I didn’t have the capital to start a new business, I agreed to manage Feast of Italy while my aunt is recuperating. I wanted to stay in food service and this is more challenging than waiting tables or flipping burgers. Period.”

  “Not quite the end. Let’s talk about your bruised feelings in terms of the Sterling Ring. You had a rough deal. Perhaps this elaborate scenario—”

  “Is a twisted way of getting back at David and Lisa while picking up some spare change? Only if you’re into revenge fantasies, Detective.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. I’ve taken enough trash talk from guys like you to overload a landfill. I’m also getting plenty of heat from the mayor’s office.”

  Gifford leaned forward, her nut brown eyes drilling into Max, pinning him against the chair. “Those thieves didn’t just waltz in off the street. They had help, and plenty of it. The role of inside contact is a toss-up between you and O’Brien. I suggest you start convincing me you aren’t the leading candidate!”

  After his unwelcome visitor’s departure, Max slumped forward, with his head resting on crossed arms. The scent of burnt tobacco lingered, but Max was too drained to move.

  “I’ll empty the ashes,” he muttered to pacify his conscience. “I’ll scrub the plate, I’ll steam clean the drapes—”

  A rap on the door interrupted his mumbled litany of penance. Max smothered a groan. Gifford had probably returned, eager to finish off her bloodied prey.

  “Go away. I’m through talking without a lawyer.” Raising his head, he looked into the startled eyes of Keely O’Brien.

  Chapter 11

  Keely hesitated in the doorway. “We need to talk.”

  Max appraised her as though she were a fallen soufflé. “I recall saying those exact words to you two days ago.”

  “That was before—”

  “Before I was called a liar and shown the door.”

  “A woman could grow old waiting for an invitation to sit down.” Keely headed for a chair. “You were right, we need each other’s help. How about a general amnesty?”

  She looked around. This was obviously Anna Marie’s domain, decorated with exquisite taste around an antique cherrywood desk. Max had had recent company. The air reeked of smoke; a spill of ashes and cigarette butts marred the crystal plate sitting in front of Keely.

  Moving the makeshift ashtray aside, she held up the newspaper she’d brought with her. “Have you read Flo’s column?”

  “Echoes of our last conversation persist.” Max leafed through a calfskin appointment book. “Wednesday is the day I see clients. No time to chat or pour over the society page.”

  “You’re alone.” Keely waved a hand. “Where’s your clamoring clients? Why did you just declare you were through talking without a lawyer?”

  Max remained silent. Keely leaned forward and snatched the scheduling book before he could prevent it.

  She turned to the current date. “Five appointments lined out. Cancellations?”

  A muscle along Max’s jaw twitched before he grudgingly unlocked his lips. “Did you come here to gloat?”

  “Gloat? I knew you’d be free because after informing me my serv
ices were no longer required, Mrs. Whitney told me she’d canceled her appointment with Feast of Italy. Apparently she didn’t want me to feel I was the only leper in the industry.”

  Keely tossed the book back to Max. “If we can’t quash these damaging rumors, Anna Marie and I are likely to lose the businesses we’ve worked so hard to build.”

  “Quash away, but don’t expect help from me. I’ve no desire to be run over again by the juggernaut of disaster.” Max grabbed the plate and dumped its foul-smelling contents into the wastebasket. “I still have tread marks from the last time.”

  He spoke with such bitterness that Keely was taken aback. She said slowly, “But Monday you thought we could do something—”

  “That was before I realized the futility of even trying.” Max looked like a man whose beloved dog had just savaged him, but Keely didn’t have the luxury of indulging male angst. “I came here to discuss ‘Flo Knows’ and what we can do to prevent her from printing these vicious innuendoes.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.” Propping his feet on the desk, Max started whistling, his gaze directed toward the ceiling.

  Keely crumpled the paper. “I’m not buying this immature display of indifference!”

  The whistling on the other side of the desk increased in volume. An Italian loafer shod foot jiggled with the beat and Keely curbed the impulse to give the foot a hard shove.

  She raised her voice. “Poor, unfortunate Max. No one can tell you about hard times. Sitting behind a four thousand dollar desk and planning dinner parties—life sucks, doesn’t it?”

  The whistle cut off in mid-measure. He didn’t move and Keely was tempted to walk out, but she held her ground.

  The rock spoke. “Per Anna Marie, nothing’s more disgusting than overcooked asparagus or a man wallowing in self-pity.” Max swung his feet off the desk. “The only part of my anatomy not yet nailed to the wall is my ears. I’m listening. What does dear Flo have to say?”

  Keely bit her lip, wary of this sudden turn-around.