by CeeCee James
It was Mr. Miquel, the owner of the manor. I saw his profile before he turned to pace in the other direction. His tanned face looked frustrated, and he had the phone to his ear. Obviously a private phone call.
I backed away, but not before I heard him ask in a voice deep with accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t going to be here? And what do you mean the car broke down? You have a rental?”
Odd. I wonder who was missing, so I hurried to the kitchen where I found Adele looking frazzled. I hated to bug her, but wanted to see if she knew, if for no other reason than Mr. Miquel had been so irritated. “Are all the guests accounted for?,” I asked. “Do you have enough meals?”
She nodded. “All the guests are here.”
That was puzzling, but then I was caught up in the serving rush.
The next few minutes flew by as Adele inspected the plates as the servers placed them on silver trays. The butler came in to inform us that the guests were seated.
“Okay! It’s time! Line up, ladies,” Adele directed with a clap of her hands.
There were four of us, and we worked in teams—one of us carried the tray on which sat several plated bowls of soup, while the other acted as the server. Penny, a gal I’d recently met at the art studio where I took classes, was working with me.
Adele watched through a crack in the door, while we tried to be as silent as possible. Finally, she nodded and opened the door wide.
We proceeded through like the soup parade. Two extraordinary crystal chandeliers lit the room and in one corner, a stringed quartet softly played. Guests sat, quietly chatting, down both sides of the lavish dining table, and several seemed glad to see us, obviously hungry. Kari gave me a drunken smile and a thumbs up.
As we were walking in, Mr, Miquel clanked on his wine glass to get everyone’s attention.
“Thank you, everyone, for joining me tonight. As you can see, my wife is not here.” He pointed to an empty place setting next to him. “She had an emergency to attend with her mother. Poor woman had a four-hour drive. She wants you all to know she sends her regrets.”
The guests all murmured their condolences.
The line of us servers split, with each pair going down one side of the table. Penny followed me. Carefully, I placed the soup before each guest, trying to hide the sigh of relief at each successful deposit. I was about halfway down when I spotted Mrs. Vanderton. It was hard to miss her. The woman was shaking her head in disapproval as we approached. The jeweled peacock pin she wore in her hair sparkled in the light.
“That woman has on pink nail polish,” she hissed loudly to the man seated next to her. “Pink! Can you believe it?”
The man raised his eyebrows.
“You put on an authentic party, you should at least try to dress the part. You should be ashamed.” She shook her finger at us.
I didn’t know what she was talking about until I saw Penny flush. Her fingers curled under the silver tray as she tried to hide them.
“What’s the matter?” A woman across the table asked. I recognized her as Mrs. Sutter, the mayor’s wife and someone who occasionally ran Bingo night down at the Episcopal church.
“I’m just appalled that they forgot to remove their nail polish.” Mrs. Vanderton said loudly. “And this woman over there is serving from the left and not the right.” She took a sip from her wine glass.
Mrs. Sutter stared at her with pursed lips, clearly not happy with the complaining woman. Their discussion caught the attention of the two people to Mrs. Sutter’s right, who were now laughing.
“Is something funny?” Mrs. Vanderton asked loudly. She threw her napkin down on the table.
I swallowed and tried to distract her. “Soup?” I asked.
She stared at the soup with as her forehead wrinkled in suspicion. “What kind is it?”
“Leek with potato,” I said.
“And the broth? What is it?”
“Err,” I caught the eye of Penny, needing help.
“Chicken broth, ma’am,” she answered, her nails still hidden under the tray.
“No seafood, is it? Because I’m allergic to shellfish. Don’t make me get my EpiPen. It’s in my purse, you know.”
“Absolutely not, ma’am,” Penny assured her.
Mrs. Vanderton’s nose wrinkled as she accepted the bowl. “I don’t know about that Adele lady. I tried to tell her, you don’t serve potato soup on a night like this. Besides, we’ve been waiting forever. It’s probably cold.”
I was very happy to place it in front of her and move on.
In a few minutes, we had everyone served and were sidling back to the kitchen. Soft chatter had resumed around the table. I couldn’t help a quick glance back at Mrs. Vanderton. She was pushing items around in her bowl, with deep frown lines around her mouth as if she were stirring dirty laundry rather than soup.
Well, whatever. Having sampled, Adele’s cooking at other gatherings, I knew it was first rate.
Back in the kitchen, the chef assistants were arranging trays of bread and plates of salad in preparation for the next course.
“There’s no seafood in the soup, is there?” I asked Adele, just to be certain.
She shook her head. “I do have a parchment-wrapped sole as a dinner option for those who don’t like Beef Wellington,” she said. She puffed her cheeks and blew at a wisp of hair hanging before her eyes.
“Okay, just checking. Someone said they were allergic. We don’t want any reactions.”
“We absolutely do not,” she agreed.
About ten minutes later, Adele assembled us again and sent us back to the dining hall. When I entered this time, Mrs. Vanderton’s seat was vacant.
Chapter 3
The low hum of several conversations and an occasional subdued laugh filled the dining room and soft violin notes floated through the air. No one seemed to notice Mrs. Vanderton was missing.
Or maybe they just didn’t care.
I walked along the table, Penny following me with the silver tray. Carefully, I cleared the plates and stacked them on the tray. At Mrs. Vanderton’s, I hesitated, not sure what the protocol was regarding removing a plate from someone who wasn’t there.
“Just take it,” Penny hissed.
I grabbed it and then continued to clear the table. After a quick trip into the kitchen to deposit the dishes, we were back out with the second course.
“Wasn’t it amazing to see the saber?” Gayle Marshal asked. “All the way from 1782!”
“I’d like to have a second look at it myself,” the mayor said. He was a large man, with cheeks like two ham slices. He turned to Mr. Miquel. “Tell the truth. You take it out of the vault and flay it around from time to time.”
“You’ve caught me; It’s how I slice my cantaloupes!” Mr. Miquel laughed.
“Don’t be greedy, then. Let us play with it,” the mayor ribbed him.
“Salad?” I asked, holding out the ice-cold dish.
He nodded with a smile and pushed his cloth napkin away to make a space.
At Mrs. Vanderton’s place, I hesitated again. She still was not back. I set the plate down and continued to the next guest.
But when it came time to clear the salad course and Mrs. Vanderton still wasn’t back, I felt the first prickle of alarm. Where was she? Had she been so offended by the earlier conversation that she’d left? It was hard for me to imagine. She was such an outspoken woman, it seemed odd she would have gone home without making a scene. Should I try to track the woman down?
Adele eyed the salad when I brought it back. “Someone doesn’t like the food? Who’s not eating?”
“Mrs. Vanderton,” I replied, frowning. “But it’s not that she doesn’t like it. She’s gone.”
Adele pressed her lips together. “The woman loves to be the center of attention, so that’s surprising. And I’ll hold my tongue and not add good riddance.”
When it was time to serve the Beef Wellington, I once again had to set the entrée down before an empty cha
ir.
“Do you know where she’s at?” I broke protocol and asked the woman who had been sitting on Mrs. Vanderton’s right.
The woman glanced at the chair and gave me an empty look. “She just got up and left without a word.”
Great. I passed out the main course and then hurried back into the kitchen.
I let Adele know I was going to try to track down Mrs. Vanderton.
Adele asked me, “She’s not back?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t have time for this.” Adele pulled out a tray filled with ramekins. Eyebrows knotted with concentration, she gently set them on the stove so the tops wouldn’t crack. Next to her was a butane torch and sugar topping.
My mouth watered at the sight. Creamy, with just a hint of golden brown. I needed to learn how to make them.
Maybe learn how to master cherry pie first, my pessimist side schooled me. I rolled my eyes. I knew how to make cherry pie. I’d just forgotten the sugar that one time.
I walked over to Cecelia. “Did you hear Mrs. Vanderton’s missing?”
Cecelia shook her head. Her cheeks were pink from the heat of the kitchen. She was clipping the mint leaves for the crème brûlée. “That woman will do anything for attention.”
“Where’s the other restroom?” I figured that would be the first place I should look.
“About eight doors down on the left. Be careful not to go in the wrong room. There’s an office down that way too.”
Great. Watch me break into the private office.
I walked down the long hallway, studying the doors that I passed, searching for the least officey-looking one. Each one was an elegant six-panel of beautiful wood. I gave up and tried number eight, which opened to reveal a velvet lounging couch at the entrance. A true powder room. Around the corner were the sink and toilet.
But the room was empty.
So I guess she did go home. I left the bathroom and walked down to the main entrance. The doorman nodded at me and opened the door.
I stepped outside where I caught Robert, the valet, slumped against the pillar talking into his phone. His face was red with anger. “Don’t forget. Ten o’clock tonight.”
I cleared my throat to catch his attention. He jumped to his feet and snapped off his phone, only to relax when he saw me in my uniform.
“Robert, did you recently retrieve the car for Mrs. Vanderton?”
He looked at me, his face slack and void of emotion, like he didn’t understand what I was saying.
“Mrs. Vanderton? An older lady with curly black hair.”
“Oh. Her.” His eyebrows flickered. “No, not since she handed me a wet wipe for my hands before I was allowed to park her car.”
“Did another valet come get her car?”
“Nah. They’re all on break. It’s just me out here for the next hour.”
I really wanted to press him if he was sure. He must have seen it in my eyes because he jogged over to a board and jingled a key chain at me. “See? Her keys are right here.”
I nodded and went back inside. She was still in the manor. Why did that thought freak me out?
I headed for the dining room, holding onto a tiny hope that maybe Mrs. Vanderton was back in her seat. When I saw her seat was still empty, my stomach sunk.
Mr. Miquel was laughing with the mayor, seemingly oblivious to the fact that one of his guests was wandering about his manor unescorted. I hesitated, wondering if I should alert him. Maybe I could find the butler and have him let the owner know discretely.
As I was about to sneak back out, I overheard one of the guests exclaim, “That Vanderton woman is unbelievably rude. I do believe she’s left us for good.”
“I don’t know what she’s so high and mighty about. Especially being in such a precarious situation. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” Gayle Marshall sniffed.
“Oh, this sounds juicy. Dish it!” said one of the women who’d laughed earlier.
I slowed my retreat and wandered over to the sideboard. There, I folded the wine towel and did a general tidying up, trying to stay inconspicuous.
Gayle Marshall laughed, sounding mean. “I’m just saying, she’s not nearly as high and mighty as she pretends. You know she’s spent her husband’s inheritance, and I’ve heard”—her voice lowered to a whisper and I strained to listen—“she’s going to lose their house.”
“No!” One lady gasped.
I glanced up the table at the other guests, wondering what Mr. and Mrs. Johnson thought of all of this. Mr. Johnson was deep in a conversation with the mayor, but Mrs. Johnson seemed to be interested in the gossip. Kari, too, was paying attention.
Gayle Marshall nodded before taking a sip of her wine. She wiped her lips on the linen napkin. “It’s true. Veronica is in default.”
After a few shocked sighs, another woman added, “That’s not all ladies. They say she has a married boyfriend and—”
“All right, let’s not get too crazy here.” Gayle’s voice was crisp as she fluttered her hand and cut the woman off. “I highly doubt that woman could get a man.”
There were a few laughs, and then the conversation veered into a past golf tournament. I refolded the towel and hurried back into the kitchen.
Adele was arranging her crème brûlée on trays. She wiped a pan and tweaked a mint leaf, then turned to stare at us.
“Everyone line up! This is the grand finale,” she shouted. Penny picked up the tray and followed me as we left to pass out desserts. Behind us was the sommelier who would bring around a light moscato to pair with the dessert.
The gossip seemed to have died down around the table. Good-natured teasing came from several of the men as they tried to convince Mr. Miquel to let them play with the sword. By the time I’d made it around the table, it appeared they were wearing him down.
Fifteen minutes later, the guests were finished and pushing back from the table. Complaining good-naturedly about full bellies, the men followed Mr. Miquel, presumably back to the drawing room.
The women collected by the door, and I wondered if they would continue the old-fashioned tradition of men and women separating. Slowly, the women trickled from the dining room as well.
When everyone had left, I began to stack the dessert dishes while someone else collected the wine glasses. Penny and I smiled at each other, relieved to have pulled off the huge dinner without a major incident. I rolled my neck to release tension.
“That was quite an experience,” Penny said. She glanced at her fingernails, probably still stunned at the problems the manicure had given her earlier.
“You ready to do it again?” I asked, teasing.
“Wow, you’re so not full of good ideas,” she answered. “I’m pretty sure I’m swearing off this catering business.”
As I hefted the tray to carry it back to the kitchen, a woman’s scream ripped through the house.
I dropped the tray on the table and ran from the room to see what was happening.
“The police! Call the police!” A woman reeled down the hallway, screaming. She caught my arm as I tried to pass. “Get help!” she yelled, her fingernails digging in to my flesh.
I shook her off and ran down the hall. My lungs were tight and my heart pounding as I took the left and dashed up the hallway. Two doors down from the drawing room, a crowd of people stood outside the doorway.
They each had different degrees of horror on their face. Kari had hers buried into her husband’s shoulder. Gayle Marshall held her hand over her mouth. The mayor stood in the corner as if trying to disassociate himself.
I slowed my steps, not sure I wanted to see what they were staring at.
Because I knew.
Of course I knew. There could only be one thing that would cause such a reaction.
Mr. Miquel rushed into the room from behind me, knocking shoulders with me as he passed. I followed after him as if an invisible wake were pulling me along.
Slowly, I looked around the corner and inside.
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br /> The room appeared to be a large study. Mrs. Vanderton was lying on her stomach inside the entrance, arms and legs sprawled out across the floor. Mr. Miquel rolled her over, against the pleas and shrieks from a few of the women begging him to not move her. But after Mrs. Vanderton turned face up, we all saw that no amount of rolling would hurt her condition. Blue lips and a swollen face. I closed my eyes at the sight, horrified.
The guests backed away from the door, leaving just Mr. Miquel kneeling by her side. He stroked her cheek and then covered his eyes. I watched him take several deep breaths. Wearily, he stood up.
Someone must have called the police. Time seemed to be standing still, but all of a sudden, officers were there. They shuffled us to the end of the hall, and I was surprised to see Gayle Marshall still crying. It seemed an odd reaction after their recent fight.
The paramedics almost strolled through, not with a sense of urgency like they normally do. Mics squawked and codes were called in, all at a leisurely pace.
I wanted to know what happened. Had she choked? Why come all the way down the hall to this room if she’d been choking? During my first aid class, somebody had mentioned that choking people sometimes went to the bathroom to hide because of shame, so it wasn’t out of the question.
But was Veronica Vanderton really someone like that? Someone who’d rather hide than get help in the face of unflattering body movements?
I thought about the gossip that had salaciously come out over the dinner table—the fact that her house was about to be foreclosed on, and her inheritance was gone. And I remembered that brightly colored jeweled peacock she’d had pinned in her hair. She definitely fit the bill of someone who cared about what people thought of her, right down to the flash of jewelry in the face of rumored bankruptcy.
“If I could have you all move into there,” one of the officers said. He guided all of us to the next room, which turned out to be the library.
The room was loaded from floor to ceiling with books. Normally the sight would have caused butterflies in my stomach and frozen my steps as I tried to take in all the beautiful treasures. But now, I didn’t spare the books a second glance. Instead, I studied all the guests for their reactions.