by Diane Noble
As she walked toward him, he noticed how the shape of her face and her hair, short and mussed and pixie-like, gave her a rather mischievous appearance. The sparkle in her eyes and the way her lips curved upward at the corners, even when she wasn’t smiling, told him he might not be too far off the mark.
“Max,” she said and then hesitated. Sunlight touched her face. The sudden image of the eldila came to him, pillars of faint, shifting light. It had been years since he’d read the C. S. Lewis’s Perelandra. But he’d tucked away that imagery of angelic beings made of light somewhere in his consciousness.
El shaded her eyes with one hand, and he noted her delicate, long fingers, and the lack of polish on her fingernails. Her slender fingers struck him as artistic. And strong.
“I almost made it,” she said, checking her watch. “I was planning to stop by and let you know what I discovered about Marcel Devereaux.”
Max took in a deep breath. “Let me hear it.”
“I don’t know if it’s good or bad or a little of both.”
Max followed her over to the back end of the open van. Inside, dozens of trays of cupcakes were carefully stacked on gleaming stainless-steel shelves. She lifted one to show him. The frosting was a sea green, shaped like ocean waves with whitecaps; in the center sat a ship made of dark chocolate complete with a female figurehead that seemed to be made of some sugary substance.
“You made these?”
She laughed, a musical yet husky sound he’d enjoyed earlier. “I made the prototype. Took some trial and error—the first ones looked like sampans—and then I hired a bakery in town to make the rest. They’re quite delicious on the inside as well. We piped a raspberry cream filling into the chocolate-fudge cupcake.”
She held the cupcake up to Max. The scent of chocolate and vanilla filled his senses. “How about a taste?”
He couldn’t resist. “If you’ll share.”
She laughed and looked around. “I guess the boss deserves a little break.” She broke the little cake into two pieces and handed him the half in the foil wrapper.
He’d just taken his first bite, lost in the silky goodness, when El said, “Devereaux was here earlier.”
He felt his eyes go wide as he finished chewing. “Here?”
El handed him a napkin and took one for herself. “He actually came through the Encore kitchen into the dining room. Hyacinth found him. He told her his daughter might apply for acceptance here. She wants to major in culinary arts.”
“They live in Paris …,” Max sputtered. “Why …?”
“That’s what I said.” El walked with him a few steps away from the van as one of her crew members picked up another tray of cupcakes. She leaned in. “I checked the guest list, and guess what?”
“He’s on it.”
“You betcha. And get this—” She finished her last bite of the cupcake, licked her fingers, and then crossed her arms. “The person who added him to the list is none other than our illustrious university president.”
Max felt his jaw drop. “You’re kidding.”
“Not.” She captured Max’s gaze. “How about this scenario? If it’s true that his daughter is interested in coming here, my bet is that he’s giving the university a sizeable monetary gift. Ensuring her acceptance, one might say.”
Max shrugged. “I still can’t shake the feeling that he’s got an ulterior motive. And I’m betting it has to do with the Lady.”
“Security is tight.”
He drew in a deep breath. “I know. Tighter than it’s ever been for one of these events. Believe me, I’ve been to a lot of these.” As if on cue, a private security vehicle rolled by, already on patrol. “But I also know to expect the unexpected.”
She met his gaze. “So we’ll go forward with the dinner, right?” As soon as he nodded, her eyes sparkled with victory. She did a little air punch, looking ready to dance.
“The cupcake did it. How can I say no?”
“Good.” El pulled her phone from her pocket and punched in a number. “Hyacinth,” she mouthed to Max. “She set up the whole shebang, including the extra security.”
He raised a brow. “I know she did. I worked with her—” But El wasn’t listening.
“She must not be home,” El said. “I’ll try her cell.” She pressed more numbers and then put the phone to her ear. “She’s not picking up,” she said to Max, and then into the phone, said, “Hey, girlfriend, give me a call. Soon. The dinner is ON!” She almost shouted the last word. She shot Max a dazzling smile and stepped closer.
He tried to breathe normally. His heart skipped a beat and then raced. Was he having his first A-fib attack? Or was it this woman’s smile? Or the way she crinkled her nose while shading her eyes from the sun?
How could this be happening? He barely knew Elaine Littlefield, yet in some ways he felt he’d known her forever. He swallowed hard, trying to get hold of his emotions. He needed to think clearly. Already, she had turned his plans upside down. He’d fully intended that morning to cancel the retirement dinner. Yet, because of this woman, he had agreed to move into danger at warp speed.
Chapter Eight
Mrs. Littlefield
Two dozen crew kids and the sous chefs, including Bubba and Junior, whirled about the kitchen at the Encore. I peered into the dining room where my daughter, Katie, second in command at The Butler, supervised the setup. She caught my eye and gave me a thumbs-up. Taller than me, she was dark-haired and pleasantly plump in all the right places. Her hazel eyes expressed more than she wanted to reveal, especially of past heartache.
Smiling at Katie, I returned the thumbs-up, then headed back into the kitchen and made my rounds, tasting and adjusting spices.
I was getting more worried by the minute as I raced around the kitchen, chatting with my staff, inspecting everything from uniforms to dishes, making sure everything was spotless. I glanced at the big clock over the walk-in fridge at least every ten minutes. Where was Hyacinth?
She played a huge role in the event. As the time ticked by, I found I wasn’t the only one worried about her. A couple of the deans and the vice president of instruction stopped by to see if I knew her whereabouts.
Soon after, President Delancy’s assistant called and said her boss needed to see Dr. Gilvertin right away.
“I’m sorry, but she’s … been delayed,” I stammered, then wondered why in the world I was protecting Hyacinth when something terrible might have happened to her. I should call the sheriff’s office.
I considered it as I headed into the walk-in fridge to check the temperature of the sparkling water. What would I say? Normally, she would have been here by now, but she certainly wasn’t late. We had forty-five minutes to go before the hors d’oeuvres happy hour. And another hour before the dinner got into full swing.
Meanwhile, I’d shown the photo of Devereaux to my waitstaff, asking them to keep watch as they bustled in and out. I’d already instructed them to report anything unusual to me.
I called Enrique, who was holding vigil in the back of the van. “Have you seen Dr. Gilvertin?”
“No, not yet, Mrs. Littlefield.”
“How about Devereaux?”
“Nada.”
Taking a deep breath, I told myself that she would sweep in at any minute with her new floaty, artsy fuchsia-print dress and gold strappy heels, her laughter bouncing from the ceiling, her mere presence creating a party atmosphere. She would have a logical explanation, probably humorous, as to why she ran late.
Bubba and Junior were behaving themselves. So far. They exchanged a few mischievous glances, but all I could do was keep an eye on them. They wielded knives, which was a worry as they were very obviously imitating chefs from Chopped. Splatters of barbecue sauce flew around the workspace as they hacked the ribs into serving-size pieces. Although they supposedly graduated from a well-known culinary arts school, their
skills did not impress me.
I shot them what I hoped was a withering stare on my way to change into my chef’s coat and pants. Problem was, my withering stare left something to be desired, according to Hyacinth.
They had settled down by the time I returned. I checked the clock again, and dove into the already-spinning vortex of kitchen activity, checking on this and that, tasting dressings and sauces. Perfection. All of it. I couldn’t help the smile that took over, even in the midst of nonstop activity. I was proud of my workers, proud of The Butler Did It. I kept telling myself this was going to be a grand night.
The best night ever.
If only Hyacinth were here.
I checked the clock. It was nearly time to start the prep for my Sweet Beau Soufflé. Already I could hear the jazz trio setting up and practicing scales and the intros to a few tunes. I recognized a favorite, Horace Silver’s Song for My Father. I stepped through the swinging door.
My setup crew had worked miracles. Festive red linen tablecloths were in place, with sunflower centerpieces and sunny yellow linen napkins poking up from glassware in perky folds. We had achieved a whimsical ambiance that blended a dignified gathering with Southern barbecue.
Even as I watched, early-bird guests began to arrive, mostly faculty and their spouses, some who I knew from the program had speeches to give or tasks they were heading up. As the jazz trio launched into It’s a Wonderful World, I stepped back into the kitchen.
My daughter, Katie, heading up the team of servers and prep people, had overseen setting out my ingredients. The Beauregard sweet potatoes were cooked to perfection, freshly peeled, and sprayed with orange juice. Ready for me to do my magic.
Katie pulled the first tray of my catfish meunière from the oven, a dish I’d created for non-red-meat eaters. At home I sautéed them in small batches in an iron skillet. I was pleased to see how beautifully the large trays of fillets had browned in the 400-degree oven.
“It worked.” I broke off a piece and popped it into my mouth. Katie did the same. “Excellent,” I mumbled around the crunchy munch. “Let’s try it with a little sauce.” I fixed a bite for Katie, giving it a spoonful of the butter-caper-wine sauce.
Katie eyes glistened. “You’ve done it. Best ever.”
I grinned. “Secret ingredient.”
“Someday you’ve gotta come clean with all your secret ingredients.”
I waggled my brows. “I’ll leave them to you in my will.”
She caught my hand, her expression now serious. “I know this isn’t the time, but I’ve got to talk to you after the dinner’s over. It’s important.”
I squeezed her fingers and looked into her eyes, noting the haunted look I had seen too often lately. “It’s a date.”
I checked the pans of finished food that had been prepared ahead and reheated just before serving. Well, of course, except for the slaw, made with baby cabbages and fresh cherries from the farmers’ market, and pine nuts from New Mexico. I felt proud of my team and told them so as I visited the various stations, but also reminded them that the fish needed to stay as crispy as the slaw. I did one more taste test: the baked beans were as sweet as a dessert, and the baby back ribs fall-off-the-bone tender. And my Sweet Beau Soufflé? Well, time would tell. I hoped for the best.
The next half hour flew by. The hubbub of laughter and chatter floated through the swinging doors as my crew went in and out to the dining room.
I glanced at the clock again, took a breath, and swallowed hard. Hyacinth, where are you? Sometime in the past hour my stomach had tied itself into a colossal knot. I pulled out my phone again and hit redial three times: home, cell, office. Nothing. Katie caught my worried look and came over to me. “Are you okay?”
“It’s Hyacinth. She should have been here a while ago.”
Katie frowned. “That’s not like her at all.”
“I know.”
She gave me a smile. “She’s probably just running late. Maybe found a stray along the roadside and detoured to Angel Babies.”
Angel Babies was the town’s animal shelter where Hyacinth and I spent time as volunteers, taming and cuddling the most wild and fearful animals. It was a rare week that passed when one of us didn’t find a stray kitten or puppy to drop by the shelter. “You’re probably right, honey. I just wish she’d pick up one of her phones … or better yet, return my call.”
Katie went back to the stainless table where Bobby Jo and Liza were setting up to plate the slaw. Behind her, Brooke and Fawna were refreshing the hors d’oeuvre platters. Waylan, a young Elvis Presley look-alike, was mixing the ingredients together for refilling the two punches—one nonalcoholic and the other made with champagne.
From the sounds of laughter and conversation drifting through the doorways, the dining room and adjacent foyer were filling fast.
Katie came rushing through the swinging door. “The punch is going fast. They love it.”
Junior elbowed his way to the doorway and peered out. “Need more shrimp cocktails,” he yelled to no one in particular.
“Then you can see to it,” I called to him. “On the double.”
He shot me an exaggerated glare, shrugged, and ambled to the shrimp cocktail prep table.
“Peruvian hot sauce, eh?” Bubba read the label on the small bottle. He turned it to shake into the cocktail sauce. I raced across the room prepared to tackle him. “Nooo,” I shouted as I ran. I wrestled the bottle from his hand.
“Please, go help your brother.” I hurried him to the door, ready to bodily launch him into orbit if he dared touch my sauce. As he stumbled through the doorway, I scanned the dining area and foyer for Hyacinth. I didn’t see her, but maybe she’d run into colleagues who needed to speak with her.
I put on my chef’s beret and checked my watch. I had just fifteen minutes until I needed to slip the Sweet Beau Soufflé ramekins into the oven. That left me a bit of time to circulate.
I headed through the swinging door. Several people came up and complimented me on the hors d’oeuvres and the punch. I threaded my way through conversation clusters, smiling and greeting and nodding, all the while looking for Hyacinth.
Where was she?
Something inside me began to crumble. Something was wrong. I just knew it. But what? I wondered if I should call the sheriff. We knew each other well, had worked on cases together. He had called in extra men to cover the library because of the figurehead, but maybe I could get him to send a patrol car out to her house, just to check on things. I was still contemplating the question when Max appeared at my elbow.
“Have you heard anything from Hyacinth?” Because of background noise in the room, he bent down and spoke directly into my ear. His breath tickled, and I almost giggled. If it wasn’t for my worry over Hyacinth, I probably would have.
I shook my head. “Nothing. How about Devereaux?”
“Not yet. I hear he’s coming with Dr. and Mrs. Delancy. Should arrive any minute.”
“Others know of him?”
“Apparently he’s had meetings today with a couple of other deans. Visual Arts and Culinary Arts. They both were charmed by him.” He shrugged. “I may be reading more into him than is there.”
I forgot myself for a moment and patted his arm. “I need to get back to the kitchen. I’ve got my crew watching for signs of Devereaux. They’ll update me when he appears.”
I hurried toward the kitchen, reached for the door, but three of the planning committee members stopped me.
“Have you seen Dr. Gilvertin?”
I shook my head. “No, and don’t ask me where she is. I don’t know.” My stomach twisted again as I admitted it.
“She’s one of our primary speakers.” Dr. Gerry frowned and exchanged glances with his colleagues.
Dr. Perry, an older woman wearing thick glasses and a permanent scowl, stepped forward. “I suppose I can pinch-h
it.”
The three drifted away, deep in conversation, obviously more worried about Hyacinth’s speech than Hyacinth herself. Just then the decibel level in the room rose. I turned to look toward the entrance. A tall, good-looking couple made their entrance with the Delancys and the mayor and his wife.
The tall couple entered the room first. The woman caught the attention of every male in the room. She was a tall, willowy blonde, her hair short and pleasantly spiked. Her jewelry dangled and sparkled, showing off her sequined dress. Her eyes were wide and expressive as she gazed around the room.
Only slightly taller, the man was impeccably dressed in a custom-cut dark suit and carried himself with the confidence of someone used to the finer things in life. His silver hair, swept back from his face, came close to touching his collar. His gaze flicked over the crowd. He whispered something to his companion, and they laughed.
I had no doubt I was looking at Marcel Devereaux and the companion Max had mentioned.
After greeting a few people near the doorway, the foursome made their way to the hors d’oeuvres. Nothing seemed out of order, but I caught Max’s worried gaze and gave him a slight nod. My waitstaff had already been alerted to keep an eye on Devereaux and company.
I checked my watch and hurried back into the kitchen. Katie glanced up from the station where I had left my Sweet Beau Soufflés. But the ingredients had been put away and Katie was lifting the heavy head of the mixer out of the bowl. “I got worried that they wouldn’t have enough time to bake. So I put the batter together myself.”
She had stepped on my culinary toes. I tried not to bristle at times like this, but I wasn’t always successful. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
I gave her a quick hug. “Not to worry. Did you remember the nutmeg?”
“Fresh ground.”
“Good. Let’s get the first batch ready, shall we?” We each scooped a large measuring cup into the batter, and poured it in half-cup increments into the ramekins. When they were in place, we closed the oven door.