“Doggone it, do something,” I demanded.
“Like what? You saw how I tried,” he said sourly. “They won’t listen to me.”
The rain was changing to hail. With her recent medical history, Marla had no business being out in a hailstorm. I wiped my hands, now damp with fear, on my chef’s jacket. Surprised by the unexpected downpour of icy pebbles outside the tent, Albert Lipscomb wobbled on his pale loafers. Perhaps his sudden loss of equilibrium was owing to the beat of hailstones on his bald pate. He extended his long arms to get some balance, but the muddy road proved too slippery and he faltered. To my horror, Marla flew forward to try to catch him. He slipped from her grasp and careened sideways onto a car. Before he could stand up, Marla started yelling at him. The only word I could pick out was creep.
Tony smoothed his mustache and looked around to see if any guests were watching. He tried to appear nonchalant as he walked along the shed wall to the edge of the tent. With another cautious glance at the guests, he loped after his partner and his girlfriend. I doused the flame on the chafer and scooted around the counter. As inconspicuously as possible, I kicked the broken glass under the shed and headed for the edge of the tent. I needed this job: I was not about to let this party fall apart. Out in the parking area, Marla reached into a pocket and flourished a sheet of paper at Albert and Tony. Tony talked rapidly while Albert stood with his arms crossed, his long, pale face a study in disgust. The three seemed impervious to the thickening wash of hail. Why, why, why? I wondered wildly, studying their furious faces. Albert snatched the paper from Marla’s hand and tossed it into the air. Hail thudded hard on the car roofs and the tent overhead. Oblivious, Marla and Albert continued to yell at each other.
Since Tony didn’t seem able to pry Marla and Albert apart, I thought I should try, but out of view of the guests. I yanked on the rope that would let down the tent flap. It wouldn’t budge. I signaled to Macguire to take over serving the food. A few guests were straining to get a glimpse of the contretemps outside, but thankfully, most were still looking at the gold, eating, drinking, and chatting.
I pulled again on the rope: no luck. I had to convince Marla and the partners to stop bickering, because it was not good for Marla to argue. Her excitable temper frequently got her into trouble, although she’d been doing better lately. One of her most notable fights, I recalled as I strode across the tent floor, had been with our violent ex-husband. When the Jerk had come at her with a rolling pin, she’d swung a hanging plant at him and dislocated his shoulder. But post-heart attack, she’d promised to stay cool no matter what the circumstances. I had to stay cool, too. No brawls, I promised myself.
I opened the storage shed’s flimsy door and peered into the dark interior space, as if I needed to search out more supplies. My footsteps gritted over the dirty floor as I rushed past rows of hard hats, wide belts, and what looked like cloth-covered flasks. When I opened the outer door, I gasped as hail hit my cheeks. I blinked and trotted through the jumble of parked four-wheel-drive vehicles. Attempting a shortcut, I headed through a mass of shrubbery and promptly got caught in a web of branches. Breathing hard and shivering, I untangled my damp skirt from several sandcherry bushes and considered dashing back to the tent. But the raised voices spurred me on.
“Don’t try to tell me what I don’t understand! You’re this mine’s promoter, Albert!” Marla’s normally husky voice cracked with rage. “I trusted you!”
Marla and Albert stood inches apart. Like boxers in the thirteenth round, both swayed slightly. Whatever their argument was about, it had exhausted them both. Tony stood off to one side, his head in his hands.
Marla’s wet dress was plastered to her body and her damp hair had slipped askew in weedlike clumps. Lean-built Albert Lipscomb staggered uncertainly. I suddenly wished I’d had the means to call 911 while I was under the tent. But Arch is always scolding me for overreacting. Marla and Albert hadn’t hit each other. They’d only been arguing. At least, I hoped they were only arguing.
“I swear … I swear …” Albert’s voice had hardened. Ah sweah, ah sweah … Without warning, he straightened. “The Eurydice is going to produce!” he yelled. The Yer-ih-dahsey. “You don’t understand, this mine was closed by the government during the height of its gold production! The assays show an average of two troy ounces of gold per ton of ore! Do you have any idea how good that is? When are you going to listen to me?”
Tony dropped his hands from his face and groaned. He said, “Could we please, please discuss this down at the office?”
Marla ignored Tony, ducked, and scooped up the sodden paper Albert had thrown into the mud. “But … but … look at this report!” she shouted. “The only way to test ore reliably for gold is to do a fire assay. This guy at the Colorado School of Mines says—”
“Oh, dear God,” Tony grumbled. “I do not believe this. Do not, do not. If you just would have let me—”
“What the hell is this?” Marla screeched, undeterred. She thrust the sodden, muddy sheet under Albert’s nose. “What difference does it make if you have the best geologist in the universe? You have to have a good assay! I want my hundred thousand dollars back, you scum! Tony says you’ve got it!”
“Do something!” I begged Tony.
Tony’s mouth hung open beneath his bedraggled mustache. His eyes were on Marla. He didn’t seem to hear me.
“Marla, will you listen to me?” Albert protested angrily. “That might be from the wrong—”
I’d had enough. “Okay, look,” I told Tony. “I’ll get Marla. You get him.”
Tony snapped to attention and nodded. Tall and thin as a whippet, he strode obediently in his partner’s direction. I approached Marla, shaking my head. I couldn’t imagine what they’d say down at her cardiac rehab program Monday morning. Of course, it was unlikely that she would tell them she’d engaged in an ear-splitting dispute with her financial adviser. In a hailstorm, no less.
“Look, just go home,” Tony shouted to Albert through the spatter of hail. He glanced nervously toward the tent. He seemed suddenly frantic that this collection of guests—their best clients—not end in disaster. A few partygoers had gathered by the unbudgeable flap to watch the sideshow. Tony lowered his voice. “For heaven’s sake, look at you, Albert. You’re going to get pneumonia. So will Marla if I don’t take care of her. Please go home. We’ll talk later, okay?”
Albert yanked away from him and wiped hail off his bald head. “You’ve got a problem, Tony! And your problem is that lying woman! I am leaving this party, you bet! I will be delighted to leave!” De-lahted. And with that he tucked his wet blue shirt into his yellow trousers, straightened his tie, and slogged through the mud in the direction of his car. Tony shot after him.
I put my arms around Marla and murmured what I hoped were calming words. Her skin was cold and wet and she was shivering. Still, she wrenched herself away from my grasp and hollered after Albert’s retreating form. “I want to see you, you creep! Monday morning, nine A.M.! Do you hear me? And have a reliable assay report ready for me! Or else!”
Albert Lipscomb-did not acknowledge her challenge. I looked back at the curious partygoers gaping at the quarrel. A huge argument, caterer in the middle, I imagined them thinking. Must be something Goldilocks’ Catering did wrong, don’t you think?
Marla screeched: “Nine sharp, Albert, at your office! With the paperwork! Have you got that? Nobody steals from me!”
“Some crummy idea this party was, Marla!” Albert flung over his shoulder. He was drenched and mud-spattered. Beside him, even handsome Tony didn’t look much better. Albert added with vicious gusto, “You! Your friend! Weird beer! And who ever heard of a crab quesadilla?”
The partygoers all burst out laughing. Hello, failure.
Chapter 3
Pain descended on my head. Until Albert hollered his criticism, I tried to convince myself as I watched him stumble off, the party had been going well. No matter what he claimed, the guests had seemed to be enjoying the crab
quesadillas, the tomato-Brie pie, even the raspberry-flavored beer. But when the clients’ attention became riveted to the parking lot, the festive atmosphere underwent a sea change. The Vivaldi ended and the pleasant chattering stopped. The only noise was the sifting sound of hail changing back to rain.
I gritted my teeth as Albert’s car engine caught and growled away. Tony hustled over to Marla and hoarsely commanded me to take care of the guests. Marla was gasping.
“I can’t seem to catch my breath,” she said. “I can’t …”
“All right,” I told Tony, “see if you can find some towels and warm her up in the large shed. You have a cell phone on you?” He mumbled something unintelligible as he held onto Marla with one hand and groped in one of the khaki pockets with the other.
When he finally handed me the flip phone, I tucked it into my apron and returned to the tent. The clients parted to let me through. Without Tony or Marla to query, they watched my every movement with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Whispers rose all around. What happened? they asked each other. What’s going on? What was the fight about? And chief among their questions: Is there a problem with the mine? To each person who tried to corner me, I replied cheerfully, “Oh, just a little disagreement. Something about corn futures, I think.” Ha, Serious and somewhat sullen, the clients reluctantly turned their attention to Macguire. He had assumed a blank expression and was dutifully serving ales to go with the dumplings.
I made a clandestine call to Marla’s cardiologist. The answering service replied that Dr. Lyle Gordon was in surgery but should be able to call back within half an hour.
Tony Royce reappeared in the tent and murmured to me that Marla was resting. His thin face was tight with strain. Marla’s breathing, he reported, was back to normal. Tony then moved through the crowd—touching arms, patting backs—like a politician visiting the site of a tornado. I could just hear his reassurances: Everything is fine, fine, there’s only a silly dispute about a stray piece of ore. Yes, that beer might muddle people’s thinking! And then, sadly. Oh, undoubtedly. Everyone’s on edge since we lost poor Victoria.
I heaped freshly ground coffee into the filter for the large pot, plugged it in, and set out paper cups. When I could slip away, I visited Marla. Wrapped in frayed, mismatched towels, she was sitting in front of a space heater in a tin-lined bathroom. Her limp green silk dress hung on a bent nail close to the heater. Near tears, she said in a thick voice that she didn’t want to talk about that damn Albert. That slime-ball! That bald buzzard! How dare he—But no, she wasn’t going to talk about it. She gasped and plunged right back into talking about it. Me, Tony, everybody—we’re just being swindled! But Tony won’t listen! He and Albert have been friends since they went to that damn military school! I begged her to calm down. She took a deep breath and vowed that she would. She was going to leave as soon as the clients had departed and her accursed dress was somewhere close to dry.
When the appetizers were gone, Macguire trundled through the tent collecting debris. I poured the first cups of coffee and busied myself arranging a tray of white chocolate truffles and fudge wrapped in gold foil. Finally, Dr. Gordon beeped the cellular. I handed the desserts to Macguire.
The good doc seemed not in the least surprised to hear that Marla Korman, the most irascible cardiac patient in the history of Southwest Hospital, had become involved in a blistering debate with a party guest. Didn’t I remember, he asked mildly, what had happened after the atherectomy? Marla, citing her generosity to the hospital, had demanded a private room, a private nurse, and meals sent in from a delicatessen fifteen miles away. Yes, I told her doctor as I watched Macguire circulate with the truffle tray, I remembered. And didn’t I recall that Marla had threatened to whack him. Dr. Lyle Gordon, with her IV if he didn’t let her out of the hospital earlier than he felt was advisable? Ah, no, I wasn’t there for that part. I merely had a vivid memory of the time she’d threatened from her hospital bed to cut off Southwest Hospital from future gifts. That warning had produced both the services and the discharge her damaged heart desired.
Was Marla having chest pains or any trouble breathing now, Dr. Gordon wanted to know? I asked her; she was not. Make sure she gets rest, Gordon ordered crisply, especially since she’s taking this cockamamie trip to Rome with her art appreciation group next week. Right, right, I replied, I was taking her home to lie down. And make sure she’s taken today’s dose of Inderal. Inderal, I repeated. A beta-blocker, Dr. Gordon elaborated. She needed to have it every day. And make sure she has a little something to eat, but no artificial food colorings in any form. She had a food allergy, he reminded me. We didn’t want her heart revving up. I replied that I was well acquainted with the food allergy. Would she be in for her regular rehab appointment on Monday? Yes, yes, I said meekly, wondering whether that would be before or after the scheduled office confrontation with Albert Lipscomb. Make sure Marla doesn’t get into any more quarrels, Dr. Gordon concluded ominously. Fat chance, I said with a laugh that probably didn’t jibe with the cardiologist’s idea of comedy.
When the guests finally departed, Macguire and I worked rapidly to clean up the trash and pack up the soiled pans and platters. Marla reported that she felt better and that her dress was almost wearable. After some discussion. Captain Shockley and Tony Royce began to dismantle the display of gold ore and bars. Since I’d been too busy to examine the brilliant samples at close range, I brought my garbage bag over to the case.
“Come on and take a look,” Tony invited me. His brown eyes were merry. He looked as dapper as ever, and his anguish over the Marla-Albert conflict had evaporated. Maybe Prospect clients violently disagreed with the partners all the time, and he was used to handling confrontations. Smiling, he held a chunk of ore out to me. I put down the garbage bag and took it.
Thick gold streaks ran through the gray rock. I turned the lump over. The glittering bands widened on the stone’s other side. In grade school. Arch had learned about the history of mining in our state. When the Cub Scouts had visited the nearby Edgar Mine, Arch had been in heaven. Until the moment that I held that deliciously shiny chunk of gold ore in my hands, I had never felt even the slightest interest in Colorado gold mining. Suddenly, I was captivated.
“Nice, isn’t it?” asked Tony pleasantly. “Now take a look at a bar of unpolished doré gold. This is how gold ore looks when it’s been refined.”
He handed me a heavy, grainy-textured gold bar with a crusty, rippled underside. I found myself wondering how much it was worth.
“Hoohoo!” called Marla. Wearing the much-rumpled green dress, she waved to me from behind the counter with the portable ovens. “I’m leaving!”
“Want me to follow you?” Tony called.
“No, no,” she cried back. “Goldy will!”
“It’s nice,” I said to Tony, and handed the pebble-surfaced bar back to him. “Do you mind if my assistant oversees this last bit of the cleanup? The rental company will be by within the hour to pick up the ovens, the tent, and the rest of the equipment. I know I’d feel better following Marla home in my van. To make sure she gets there safely, you know.”
“No problem,” Tony said as he loaded the last of the samples and bars into the second oversize backpack. He smiled. “You’re a good friend, Goldy. Tell Marla I’ll call her later.”
Captain Shockley grunted, “What kind of car does that woman own, that you have to follow her? Isn’t she a good driver?”
“She has a four-wheel-drive Mercedes,” I replied crisply. “But she’s had a heart attack, so—” Wait a minute. Why did I feel I had to explain myself to this man?
“Four-wheel-drive Mercedes, huh?” said Shockley as he hefted one of the packs onto his back. His bulging eyes peered in the direction of the parking lot. “Where’d she get the money for that?”
I walked away. Let Tony explain Marla’s financial situation to Shockley. I’d had enough for one day.
Macguire promised to finish up. He’d be coming over in the morning, he said, to di
scuss a new job not related to catering. What new job, I asked. But he only put a finger to his lips. A secret. Great.
I guided Marla to her car, ignoring her fierce protests that she didn’t want to be babied. The van sputtered and coughed as I followed my friend’s taillights to her home in the Aspen Meadow Country Club area. At least the rain had finally let up. I fixed Marla some crackers and herb tea while she got ready for bed. When I went up to her bedroom with the tray, she was under the covers, looking remorseful and sorting a bright pile of cosmetics and jewelry. But I knew better than to get her riled up again by asking what had started the altercation with Albert in the first place.
“Did you take your Inderal?” I asked. When she nodded, I said, “Hey, I’m pooped. But it was a super party,” I added with false conviction. “Those folks drank a lot of beer. And you really looked gorgeous in the silk. Besides, I don’t think anybody’s really going to remember—”
“Oh yeah, it was just a marvelous party,” she interrupted, avoiding my eyes. “I didn’t have a thing to eat. and my new dress is ruined.” Pink plastic bottles and gold lipstick containers cascaded from her hands. “This pile is for the fishing trip I’m taking with Tony,” she said lightly. “We decided to move it up, to get a break, just the two of us.” She fingered a smoky white plastic bottle of cream. “But this large pile is for Rome, where I am going without Tony.” She exhaled in exasperation. “He gave me your check for the party, Goldy, because I told him you needed it right away. It’s on the bureau.”
“Look, Marla, you didn’t have to—”
She stopped dividing containers and finally looked up at me with doleful, red-rimmed eyes. I felt a pang. She looked years older than she had when she arrived at the Prospect Financial party that afternoon. “Don’t start. Some people don’t honor their financial commitments. Tony’s not one of them, you’ll be happy to know. Neither am I.”
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