“Friday lunch,” I agreed reluctantly. Whether Tony would have me cater Prospect’s next big affair was something I doubted very much, given yesterday’s fiasco at the mine. But Marla was my closest friend, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. Besides, it was the only way to get her off the phone. “I’ve made a couple of unexpected bookings, and Friday’s the first time I can manage. Now please, I have to—”
“What, go feed the dog? How come I can’t hear the mighty canine? Usually he’s in the background singing away.”
“He’s out with Tom and Arch.”
“In this weather?”
“Don’t remind me.” I removed the wrappings from several packages of milky-white chèvre and started to cut it into small cubes.
“No, I’ll let you go if you’ll just promise you’ll come to Cherry Creek with me tomorrow morning. Be the buffer at the Prospect office.”
I inhaled deeply, turned away from the chèvre, and stirred the dark Bolognese sauce. “If I come with you, promise you won’t lose your temper again with Albert Lipscomb.”
“I’ll be like Mr. Rogers. On Librium,” she added, and signed off. As the former wives of a doctor, Marla and I always laced our similes with drugs.
“Okay, look,” I said to Macguire, but stopped. “Macguire, what are you doing?” I cringed as a large chunk of dough just missed the ceiling. “Macguire!”
Macguire held his hands out for the dough, but it landed on the counter. “Oops.” He gave me a sheepish look. “You know how you see those pizza guys …” He scooped up the dough and began to press it into a jelly roll pan. “Never mind. How’s Marla? Has she recovered from that big argument? Did that guy explain what he was up to?”
“No, he’s doing that tomorrow morning.” I let water gush into my pasta pentola and set it on the stove. “I’m going down to the Prospect office with her and try to keep things sane.”
He stopped reading the pizza recipe and gave me a look. “The two of you are going down there together? Alone? Are you taking a referee’s uniform and a whistle? Can I come?” He was hoping for fisticuffs, apparently.
Provençal Pizza
1¼-ounce envelope active dry yeast
1 cup warm water
½ teaspoon sugar
½ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons olive oil
2½ to 3 cups all-purpose flour
½ cup prepared pesto
12 ounces ripe tomatoes, thinly sliced and seed pockets removed
3½ ounces chèvre
4 ounces best-quality fresh mozzarella, grated
In a large mixing bowl, sprinkle the yeast over the warm water. Add the sugar, stir, and set aside 10 minutes, until the mixture is bubbly. Stir in the salt and olive oil. Beat in 2½ cups of the flour, then add as much extra flour as needed to make a dough that is not too sticky to knead. Knead on a floured surface until the dough is smooth and satiny. (Or place the dough in the bowl of an electric mixer and knead with a dough hook until the dough cleans the sides of the bowl, approximately 5 minutes.) Place the dough in an oiled bowl, turn to oil the top, cover with a kitchen towel, and let rise in a warm place until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.
Preheat the oven to 425°. Brush a little olive oil over the bottom and sides of a 10- by 15-inch pan. Punch the dough down and press it into the bottom of the pan. Spread the pesto over the dough. Lay the tomato slices in even rows over the pesto. Dot the surface evenly with the chèvre, and sprinkle the mozzarella over the entire surface. Bake for 15 to 25 minutes, or until mozzarella is bubbly and dough has cooked through.
Serves 6.
The phone rang again and I begged Macguire to answer it so I could start on the salad. Instead of giving my customary greeting, however, my ever-helpful assistant barked, “Yeah, this is Goldilocks’ Catering! What do you want?”
Even across the room I could hear Mrs. Kirby-Jones’ hysterical voice over the wire. I gestured desperately for the phone.
Macguire cupped his palm over the receiver and opened his eyes wide. “I’m never going to learn how to handle people if you don’t let me handle them. Go make salad. If she hangs up on me, you can call her back and say some weird teenager just broke into your kitchen—Excuse me? What?” he said into the phone.
I held my hands up in mock surrender and returned to the counter to tear radicchio to shreds. Just when you think you’re getting a handle on things in your personal life, your business life intrudes with a crisis. Or vice versa.
“Oh, my. Mm-hmm,” Macguire said with unsettling empathy. “No. How many people, again? What? Oh, yes, we’re completely mobile.” I felt my heart lurch. What was he promising? Macguire furrowed his brow and watched me rip into a head of arugula. “We can move around the African decorations in your dining room, that’s absolutely no problem at all. Oh, no, you don’t know who you’re talking to. This is Goldilocks’ Catering—”
His blithe assurances were interrupted by more hysterical objections that threatened to rise to a shriek.
“What?” he demanded, cradling the phone under his ear and reaching for the pizza dough again. I cringed, envisioning another attempt at spinning it through the air. “Oh, pull-leeze! What did he say?” I waved the sauce spoon, trying desperately to get Macguire’s attention. But he was staring at my shelves of cookbooks. Knowing him, he wasn’t reading any of the titles. “Vegetarian burritos? For twenty people? In the next two hours?” He hesitated. “Oh, no. No way. We’re having green lasagne the way Guido used to make it, lady! I mean, uh, Mrs, Kirby-Jones.”
The voice on the telephone rose precipitously.
“Please listen to me, Mrs…. er …” Macguire faltered. He clutched his throat with his free hand, and stuck out his tongue. I’m being strangled by Mrs. Kirby-Jones! The shrill protests had changed to pleading. “Please,” he repeated. “Will you listen? I did the research myself. I called Guido’s-on-the-Pike. I don’t care what your husband says he remembers…. You didn’t eat at Taco Tita’s. They even remember you at Guido’s. You were wearing that gorgeous pink dress with that wonderful corsage…. Nope, you were at Guido’s, not Taco Tita’s, that’s for sure. The whole staff gets teary-eyed every time they think of it. You were the most beautiful bride they’d—” I signaled violently. Macguire turned to me, finally. And winked.
Oh, Lord, I prayed, please get us out of this mess.
“Yes, ma’am. Talked to them myself. Talked to Guido, as a matter of fact. Who, me? Who am I? Why, I’m Goldilocks’ researcher. Macguire Perkins. Yes, the same Perkins.” Macguire smiled and rolled his eyes. “Yes, my father is the headmaster of Elk Park Preparatory School. What, me? I’ve already graduated. Oh, Harvard. Next year.”
I pictured Macguire’s father in his large, airy office with his gilt-framed degrees and his large, airy ego. I didn’t want to imagine how he would react to this string of lies that was growing more fanciful by the minute.
But Macguire was all smiles. “Oh yes, we can be there early to set up. Are you going to wear pink again? Wonderful. Pink is definitely your color. Yes, your husband is wrong. There’s no way you ate at Taco Tita’s that day. But don’t make a big deal out of it,” Macguire advised solemnly, the world’s sagest marital counselor. “It is your anniversary.” He hung up.
“I don’t believe this.” I dotted the pesto-slathered pizza dough with the bright red tomato slices and creamy cubes of goat cheese. “What if she finds out Guido’s been dead all these years?”
“Hey,” said Macguire. He reached over to preheat the oven for the pizzas and then pulled out a kitchen chair. He missed the rungs and the chair fell on its side. “Oh, sorry, sorry … listen, everything’s going to be okay!”
“What if she learns that restaurant went out of business ten years ago?”
Macguire widened his eyes in mock astonishment. “Oh, Mrs. Kirby-Jones,” he shrilled in uncanny imitation of our client’s neurotic tones, “you must be thinking of the Guido’s on Connecticut Avenue!” He grinned. “Y’see, I knew that junior-year
trip to the nation’s capital would pay off some time. It sounds like I actually know something about Washington.”
I sprinkled mozzarella over the pizza. Give up, I thought. It seemed Macguire could be perceptive or deceptive, as the occasion demanded. Still, the kid did have a way of leasing a place in your heart. Aloud, I said mildly, “I don’t know why I ever thought you wouldn’t be able to handle Mrs. Kirby-Jones.”
“Yeah, most people think I’m pretty stupid if they meet me,” he agreed cheerfully. “Just barely graduated. no college. But if I talk to them over the phone, then they think I must be like my supereducated, golf-groupie father, the prep school headmaster—”
“Macguire! I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, it’s okay.” He set the chair upright and flopped into it. “Hey, listen. I felt real good doing that investigation into that ore for Marla. It was like a head trip—I mean, there they are at this big financial party having a big, loud fight over something I’d researched! Man!” He hopped up to slide the pizzas into the oven. Then he crossed his arms, leaned against the oven, and gave me a look of triumph. “I finally found something I’m really good at. I’m a great investigator.” He paused. “So I’m thinking about going into law enforcement. Tell Tom Schulz I want to talk to him. I want to be a cop.”
“Oh, come on. I’m not sure this is something you want to consider seriously….”
“Chill, Goldy! Who do you think would miss me if I got shot by a bad guy?”
“Macguire!”
“I’m kidding, kidding.” He sat back down and stretched out his legs. His sneakers looked sopping wet. “It’s just that I don’t think I’ll ever go to like, some university. So I’m thinking of my future. I really do think I’d be good at cop work. Everybody figures I’m dumb, so they’d trust me and like, tell me stuff.”
I finished tearing up the lettuce and stirred the Bolognese again, then tasted it. The dark, spicy sauce exploded with flavor. I tried to think of how to say what I thought I needed to. “If you decided to be a cop, you know your father would have a fit.”
Macguire’s grin split his face. “Hey, that’s the best part,” he said heartily.
Chapter 6
The Kirby-Joneses’ house was a massive log-and-glass building that reminded me of a ski lodge. The architect had tucked a kitchen on one end of the first floor as an afterthought. Lucky for us we found the back entrance right away. As we hauled in our boxes, all I could see beyond the kitchen counter was a forest of tropical trees crowding the interior space. A banner announced the decorative theme of the party: “Marriage is a Safari.” Italian food for an African motif. Well, I’d had weirder assignments.
In the great room, Macguire and I bustled between fake palm trees and huge containers of ornamental grasses to set up the bar. I was thankful we hadn’t been asked to wear safari hats or explain how to make lasagne in the outback. Macguire, thank heaven, didn’t broach the topic of a career in law enforcement again. Which was merciful, because within half an hour we were very preoccupied with guests. Macguire tossed salad, passed pizza, stirred ravioli, and served perfect cheese-glazed wedges of lasagne with an enthusiastic smile. I rejoiced that none of the guests were dieters. Everyone dug into the dishes with relish. At the end of the meal, Macguire and I moved smoothly around large ceramic elephants hung with ornamental lights to offer trays of gold-lined coffee cups. While we were finishing the dishes, Macguire shyly complimented Mrs. Kirby-Jones on the radiance of her skin. She handed him a fifty-dollar tip. He volunteered to split it with me, but I told him to keep it.
The rain had finally eased when Macguire and I parted around eleven that night. Tired, but happy with the successful evening, we decided to meet at four the next afternoon to prep the easy-to-cook Women’s Club dinner. With any luck, I told myself as I luxuriated in a very hot shower at home, I could spend the morning helping Marla resolve her business problems, get her over to her cardiac rehab for a late appointment, and cook for the Women’s Club without a hitch. Tom welcomed me into bed with a warm hug.
“You seem pretty pleased with yourself. Miss G.,” he whispered.
“Well, I am. If I can get through tomorrow, I’ll be in good shape.” I nestled my head into his shoulder. “Man, how come you always smell so good?”
“Maybe it’s because this woman I’m married to keeps buying expensive guy soap they don’t stock down at the sheriff’s department.” He stroked my hair.
“How did you and Arch do with Jake? Did those homemade dog biscuits improve his accuracy?”
He groaned. “Not exactly. Todd climbed up a tree. His pool scent was at the bottom of the trunk, of course, but they don’t teach dogs to look up. So Jake couldn’t find him.”
“Great.”
“At least we found the kid before he got bronchitis.”
“I won’t say what I think about your idea of a fun-filled outing.”
He grunted noncommittally. “Speaking of which, I suppose you’re going down to Prospect Financial Partners tomorrow with Marla.”
I pulled the covers over his shoulder. “Tom, listen. If they really have a problem with that investment, her heart could go ballistic. There’s an awful lot of money at stake.”
“Yeah, well. Try not to get into trouble.”
I nestled into his arms and murmured, “If marriage is a safari, would you say you’re a hunter, a guide, or a lion?”
“What?”
I found his ear and whispered into it. “Never mind. Just let me get a whiff of that high-class soap.”
“You are asking for it, caterer. You know that, don’t you?”
“Well, now, I guess I do.” I suppressed a giggle as his large hands reached out for my body. If marriage was a safari, I didn’t ever want to come back.
The next morning, fog like gray wool pressed down on the peaks of the Continental Divide. For the moment the rain had ceased. But a steamroller of dark mist churning toward Aspen Meadow promised to change that. I saved drinking my double espresso until I was following Marla’s Jaguar down Interstate 70. That way, the caffeine couldn’t fire up my brain until it was too late to turn back. I remembered Tom’s words: Try not to get into trouble. No problem. I took a sip of coffee. There was no way I was getting into trouble this morning. Except for Marla and Tony, I didn’t even know the folks at Prospect Financial Partners. Or care about them, for that matter. I was just there to referee.
The fog swallowed Marla’s Jaguar just below the Genesee exit. I slowed my van, slugged down a little more espresso, and reconsidered. Actually, I did care. The sudden death of Victoria Lear in Idaho Springs, the problem Marla had presented at the party, the vehemence of Albert’s denials—all these had piqued my interest. But Tom would not be pleased if I angered Albert Lipscomb or anybody else in Prospect management. I’d already backed into involvement—Captain Shockley would have called it interference—in several of Tom’s investigations. The last thing I wanted was to upset Shockley by raising hackles at the venture capital firm where the captain had his retirement account. Still, with Marla’s temper so volatile and so much money at stake, I certainly didn’t want my best friend blowing a fuse at the Prospect office without me there to calm her down, did I? Of course not. I smiled, finished the last drop of the rich black espresso, and pressed the accelerator. Within moments the van was paralleling sudsy, swollen Cherry Creek.
We turned on Third Avenue and passed designer boutiques, supertrendy cafés, experimental restaurants, and a host of offices dedicated to making money to support the folks who patronized the expensive shops and eateries. After several blocks I parked in front of an elegant two-story building with square gold letters announcing the offices of Prospect Financial Partners. The modern façade of polished bloodred granite was threaded with veins of black and gold that glimmered in the clouded light.
Marla met me on the wet sidewalk. The last time I’d seen her wearing her subdued navy blue suit and double strand of pearls had been at my wedding. I felt out of place in my black p
ants, sweater, and old raincoat. Marla waved a dismissive hand and quickly briefed me on how she was going to handle the encounter with Albert.
“Okay,” she said, “say Albert says assays are too complicated for women to understand. Then you say he needs to explain it or I’m going to have a heart attack. Then he says he’s too busy to take time for us, so I clutch my chest—”
“No,” I advised sternly as I stepped over a mud puddle. “We wouldn’t want to precipitate the real thing.”
She defiantly shook her higgledy-piggledy hair, glanced up the street, and reluctantly reshaped her strategy. “Okay … if I ask him to show me the Kepler—” She gripped my arm. “That car looks familiar. Isn’t that Macguire’s Subaru?”
I glanced down the packed row of parked cars. “I sure hope not.”
But it was. Even as I spoke, Macguire Perkins unfurled himself from the battered blue wagon and gave us a shy grin. “Look,” he called before we could utter a word, “I’m here to help you.” In three long strides, he was suddenly at our side. He wore a collarless, button-up black shirt and black pants, the kind of outfit rock stars wear when they’re being interviewed. “You and Marla really shouldn’t try to do this alone,” he said earnestly. “I mean, I’m the one who got that assay report analyzed, and I even know somebody who works here. You know—a contact.” He ran his fingers through his perpetually damp hair. “She went to Elk Park Prep a couple of years ago. She used to be a snob, but somebody said she’s turned out kind of nice—”
I shook my head. “No, no, no. Go back to Aspen Meadow, Macguire. Please. What are we going to do, invade Albert’s office and say, ‘Hey, here we are, one client and two bodyguards!’? We just can’t—”
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