1 Catered to Death

by Marlo Hollinger

  “I’m continually amazed over how your mind works,” Simpson muttered.

  Frank’s Cheshire cat grin grew even wider. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

  “Actually, I think it’s your turn, Frank,” Jack told him, wiping his beard with the sleeve of his sweater.

  Frank shook his head. “Impossible. It was my turn last week. I think it’s your turn, Jack.”

  “It can’t be. I’m sure I just took the garbage out.”

  “It’s on the roster, Jack,” Frank said in a voice that told me that this ground had been trod over a few thousand times. “You know that we have to follow a schedule if we want to keep things running ship-shape at Eden Academy.”

  “If it’s my turn then I’ll take care of it,” Jack said testily. “Don’t I always do what I’m supposed to do?”

  Frank laughed loudly. “Not without a whole lot of nagging, you don’t. You’re worse than some of our students. An over-aged, overgrown, hirsute teenager. Which reminds me,” Frank added, “we need to talk about those damn kilns of yours.”

  “How can taking out the garbage remind you of the kilns?” Jack questioned. I couldn’t believe it. Why did these people keep on giving Frank openings to tell them what he thought of them? I barely knew the man but even I could see how much he enjoyed putting them in their place like a king getting his jollies out of knocking the serfs around. It was like asking to be hit over the head with a rolled up newspaper.

  Frank smirked. “Well, the crap you bake in them looks like garbage to me so it goes to figure that they’d remind me of each other.”

  The color drained from Jack’s face. “I’ll have you know that that ‘crap’ has won prizes at art festivals around the world!”

  “There’s really no accounting for taste, is there?” Frank questioned.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that some people like oil portraits of clowns painted on black velvet, some people like crap like you make and some people prefer real art.”

  Jack’s face grew even more pale until he resembled a dead flounder. “Has anyone told you what a complete jackass you are, Frank?”

  “Not today,” Frank said smoothly.

  “Give it time. I’m sure someone will point it out before dinner.”

  Frank shrugged. “Like I’ve ever cared what anyone thinks about me. So seriously, Jack, if you’re going to use the Eden Academy kilns for your own profit, you need to start kicking in for the energy it takes to fire those suckers up. You should have seen our electric bill last month. It was ten percent higher than it was the month before. What were you doing, working overtime? You get a big order all of the sudden?”

  Jack’s mouth worked angrily and I could see his dark eyes shooting off angry sparks behind his glasses. “Why would you be looking at electric bills all of the sudden?” he asked. “I’ve been using those kilns for years and you’ve never said a word to me.”

  “Monica pointed out to me how the electric bill is getting out of hand,” Frank said casually, nodding his silver head in Monica’s direction. “She’s great at noticing the little details that sometime escape my attention. I’m a very busy man, you know, and it’s sure a big help to me to have an assistant like this gal.”

  Jack’s death glare switched from Frank to Monica who met his look with a hard gaze of her own. “Why don’t you mind your own business, baby?” Jack snapped.

  “Anything that happens at Eden Academy is my business,” Monica informed him. “We all share in the same end-of-the-year bonuses, Jack. Your selfish use of energy is cutting into the school’s profit margin.”

  “Since when were you ever in line for a bonus?” Jack questioned. “We’ve never given Frank’s secretary a bonus.”

  “Until now,” Monica said quite smugly. “Frank decided that since I do such an exemplary job as his administrative assistant that I should share in the pie you all cut up at the end of each school year—you know, the leftover money that no one else is supposed to know about?”

  Placing his huge hands on the table, Jack leaned toward Frank. “I’ve been told since Day One that this whole school operates on a flat playing field and that we all have equal say in what happens around here and that would include deciding who gets a bonus and who doesn’t. When did that change?”

  “It changed the day I became the director of Eden Academy,” Frank replied. “I’m surprised it took you so long to notice, Jack.”

  “Your title is ‘director,’ not ‘dictator,” Jack retorted. “Someday someone is going to take you down a peg, old man, and I just hope I’m there to see it happen.”

  Frank waved a hand in front of his face as if he was shooing away a fly. “Let’s get back to the kilns. I expect a check from you to be on my desk Monday morning, Jack. Or we can deduct the energy costs from your paycheck. See? I can be fair when I want to be.”

  “You call it ‘fair’ to call all of the shots while the rest of us have no say in anything?”

  “Sure I do,” Frank replied.

  From my corner, I glanced around the room to see how all the other guests were reacting to the shouting match between Frank and Jack. To my surprise, they didn’t seem to be reacting at all. Simpson looked slightly bored, Junebug was shaking her flask over her coffee cup and everyone else was still eating their lunch. Maybe Jack and Frank going at each other had to be pretty much an everyday occurrence.

  The color rushed back into Jack Mulholland’s face along with a look of pure loathing. “If I were you, I’d start watching my back at night, Frank. You have an uncanny knack for making enemies wherever you go.”

  “Jack, you’re behaving like a fool,” Claudine interjected. “This is neither the time nor the place for this kind of discussion. DeeDee, would you please serve dessert?”

  Instantly, I began whisking plates off the table, surprising myself with how quickly I could move in such a hostile atmosphere. The very air seemed to be almost steaming with waves of anger directed at Frank Ubermann from Jack Mulholland.

  “Of course,” I said in the sickeningly chipper voice I generally reserved for long-distance telephone calls to Steve’s mother. “We have fudge brownies or fresh fruit for dessert,” I announced to no one in particular. “Strawberries and blueberries with a custard sauce.” It was like addressing an audience of mimes. Not a soul responded to my announcement.

  “Ever since you started working here you’ve been breathing down my neck,” Jack said to Monica, switching his anger from Frank to the woman sitting next to him. “I can’t turn on a light switch without you following behind me and switching it off. You watch every penny like it’s coming out of your own pocket.”

  Monica smiled at him sweetly. “Calm down, Jack. You have a vein bulging in your forehead that looks like it’s about to blow.”

  “Monica’s right,” Junebug said, her first contribution to the conversation since getting her gift.

  “What are you talking about, Junebug?” Jack asked irritably. “Monica’s right about what?”

  Junebug stared at him from behind her rimless glasses. “This school may be private but it still gets some of its funding from tax dollars, you lame brain. My tax dollars are helping you fire that ‘art’ you make. Doesn’t seem right to me that you’re using the kilns on the taxpayer’s dime. Monica’s doing her job keeping an eye on you. I say either be a teacher or an artist, not both because you obviously aren’t capable of doing two things at the same time.”

  Monica all but started preening as she smiled smugly at Jack and I half expected her to lick her forefinger and chalk up an imaginary point in her favor.

  “Thank you for that keen observation, Junebug.” Jack stood up and threw his napkin down on the table. “The next time I want your opinion, I’ll be sure to scrape it off my zipper. Thank you for the lunch,” he said to me. “It was delicious. I wish I could say the same about the company. Frankly, I’d rather have lunch in a tank filled with hungry sharks.” He took a step toward the door.
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  “You don’t want any dessert?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, thank you. I couldn’t swallow another bite.”

  “What about the garbage, Jack?” Frank asked calmly. I watched him in amazement. Frank Ubermann seemed to have been born without any nerve endings at all. Jack had all but threatened him and Frank remained unflappable and as cool as a cucumber. “Are you going to remember to take it out this week?”

  “Don’t worry. Everything will get taken care of, Herr Director.” As Jack stormed out of the room he paused behind Frank’s chair and I could almost see his breath steaming as it came out of his mouth. “I mean it, Frankie. Watch your back. The only people around here who don’t have a number on it are those two sluts sitting next to you and we all know that either of them would do anything for you. The rest of us would like to see you rot in hell and the sooner the better.”

  After Jack slammed the staff lounge door behind himself, an uncomfortable silence fell over the group as the members of the staff of Eden Academy looked around embarrassedly, each studying the ceiling or the floor but none of them making eye contact with each other. I began to walk around the table with the dessert tray, trying to smile and acting like I hadn’t just witnessed the most unprofessional exchange I’d ever seen in my life.

  “That didn’t go well,” Frank remarked to the group at large. “All I did was remind him to take out the garbage. He always forgets and then I get stuck doing it. Is that such a terrible thing?”

  “He needs to be reminded,” Monica assured him with a warm pat on his arm as she shimmied her breasts at him. “That man is getting to be plain impossible. He acts like he can do whatever he wants to around here.”

  “Not for long,” Frank murmured under his breath.

  “Yes,” Claudine agreed, looking pleased. “Mr. Jack Mulholland will be having his comeuppance quite soon, won’t he?”

  “What are you talking about?” Simpson inquired. “Or is it something else that falls under the Highly Classified heading that seems to cover so much of what happens at Eden Academy?”

  “Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about,” Frank retorted.

  Simpson shrugged. “If you say so, boss.”

  “I say so.” Frank threw his own napkin down on the table and pushed back his chair. “Time for me to shove off. I’ve got some work down in the basement and then I’m heading out of here.”

  “You don’t want any dessert either?” I asked. At this rate, I was going to have a ton of leftovers to share with Helen.

  Frank patted his flat stomach. “No, thanks. I’ve got to watch the calories at my age.”

  Monica and Claudine both giggled at the same time. “Hardly!” Monica said.

  “You can handle all the calories you want,” Claudine urged.

  Frank smiled down at both of them fondly. “Looks can be deceiving, ladies. I’ll see all of you on Monday, bright and early. The students will be back so let’s not have any tardy slips among the staff. The cameras are working again which means I’ll be monitoring them and making sure each of you checks in on time.”

  “Big plans for the weekend, Frank?” Emily asked.

  “Sylvia and I are going camping,” Frank said. “I’m heading down to the storage room to get some supplies right now.”

  I deduced that Sylvia must be Frank’s wife. Noting the disappointed expressions on both Monica’s and Claudine’s faces, I couldn’t help but wonder how Frank Ubermann was managing to take care of all three of the women in his life at the same time. He must be a master at juggling his schedule and also be on those vitamins for virility that are advertised at three in the morning.

  I turned to Junebug. “Would you like a brownie or fresh fruit?” I asked.

  Junebug considered her options. “I’ll take both,” she replied. “After all, my tax dollars kind of paid for this lunch too. By the way, honey, that lunch was all right but your croissants reminded me of hockey pucks.” Reaching out, she patted me on my backside. “Although I don’t need to tell you that, do I? I can tell that you’ve sampled more than a few by all that Crisco you’ve got in your can.”

  I smiled back at the older woman but as I put her dessert down in front of her, I silently agreed with the general consensus of the rest of the staff: Junebug McClellan needed to retire.

  Chapter Five

  By the time the last staff member finally left the lounge, I was on the verge of screaming don’t let the door hit you on the way out! I did manage to control myself since a comment like that could hardly be considered gracious, much less professional. Simpson was the last one to leave and in spite of his comments about getting a paunch, wanting to lose weight, etc. he seemed to be chewing the entire time I saw him. At first that made me happy as it was a sure sign that the food was good but after a while I was ready to see him reach the conclusion that he’d ingested enough calories for a small family to survive for a week on. But since that kind of a comment would also fall under ungracious and unprofessional, I kept my mouth shut and began to clean up what I could without making Simpson feel like I was turning the lights out on him.

  “Well,” Simpson said after all but licking the bottom of the seafood casserole, “that was quite a lunch. You are a marvelous cook, DeeDee. I think you’re in the right field. You’re going to make a killing as a caterer.”

  I instantly forgave him for taking forever to eat. “Thank you.”

  “Any more of that casserole hidden away somewhere?”

  “No,” I lied. I had stashed a portion for the receptionist and as pleased as I was by Simpson’s compliment, I wasn’t going to give Ruth’s food to him. It went against my grain to exclude someone just because they were an hourly employee as opposed to a salaried staff member. It seemed so....outdated.

  Simpson’s round-cheeked face fell. “Too bad. I really liked it.”

  “Perhaps I can cater a party for you,” I suggested. “I’d be glad to make my seafood casserole again.”

  “Excellent idea. My birthday is coming up and I really should have a dinner to celebrate. Do you have a card?”

  “I sure do.” I pulled a card out of my pocket and handed it to him.

  Simpson read it and grinned. “You really should change the name of your company to ‘Steve and DeeDee’s Catering.’ Your name is a positive hoot.”

  “Well, Steve doesn’t help me with the catering,” I pointed out. “Besides, younger people haven’t heard of Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme.”

  “I’m only thirty and I’ve heard of them,” Simpson pointed out.

  “Maybe you’re right then.”

  “Or how about if you call your business ‘DeeDee’s Gourmet?’” Simpson suggested. “Get it—it’s almost Eydie Gorme. Do you get it—gourmet—Gorme?”

  “That’s cute,” I agreed. It really was and better than Classy Catering.

  “It’s adorable,” Simpson assured me. “Oh, well, I’ve always been one for ideas but not so much one to carry them through.” He tossed his napkin down on the table and got to his feet. “Now I should get going.”

  “Yes, you said you have a meeting this afternoon.”

  “I do indeed.” Simpson sighed. “I wish I were going camping like our fearless leader. There’s nothing I’d like more than to be out in the wilderness, away from all the stresses and annoyances of everyday life.”

  Unable to picture Simpson sitting in the woods next to a campfire, I simply nodded. I liked talking to him but I was anxious to get the room cleaned up and my equipment put away. It was almost three o’clock and I wanted to get home so I could start Steve’s dinner.

  “Unfortunately, I have to meet with an irate parent who wants to know why her darling is failing my English class. I never should have become a teacher. No one ever told me that the parents are a hundred times worse than the kids. I’ll call you about my party, DeeDee.”

  “Oh, I hope you do,” I replied.

  Simpson waved good-bye and I began to clean up. Cleaning up was much less
stressful than setting up had been and as I worked I hummed to myself happily. My first catering job had been a success. Maybe not a standing ovation kind of success but the Eden Academy staff seemed to like the food and I hadn’t heard any complaints except from Junebug and I had the feeling that she was the kind of woman who always found something to complain about.

  First I stowed the leftovers—and there weren’t many, another good sign—in the coolers. Then I put the used linens into a laundry bag and then I put the dirty plates, silverware and glasses into another cooler. When the table and side table were cleared, I wiped everything down, leaving the room looking better than it had when I’d first gotten there. Looking around slowly, I realized that I felt like I’d just run in a marathon. Being a caterer was a ton of work and while I’d expected to be busy, I hadn’t known that I’d be quite so exhausted when I was through. Along with the exhaustion was a sense of accomplishment. No one had choked on my seafood casserole, no one had an allergic reaction to any of the dishes I’d served. I felt like I’d scored a pretty solid hit with my first catering gig and it was a thoroughly pleasant sensation. I could hardly wait to tell Steve all about it.

  Outside the staff lounge, I heard a sudden scream. Stopping in my tracks, I listened. There it was again.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I can’t believe this!”

  It was a woman’s voice and she was screaming at the top of her lungs. Running to the door, I stepped into the hallway just as Monica came out of her office next to the lounge. “Who is that?” I asked.

  “It sounds like Claudine,” Monica replied. Junebug appeared from around a corner.

  “What the hell is all that hollering about?” she asked. “I’m trying to do a little shopping on Amazon and it’s hard to concentrate with that noise.”

  Simpson came down the stairs. “Who’s screaming?” he asked.