Jamie didn’t answer, but nodded toward the good-looking man pulling large roasts from the portable ovens. He reminded Susan of someone, but the air in the room was smoky, and it was getting more and more difficult to see. She continued to work and wait.
But just when Susan had decided that she needed to see her, Gwen Ivy walked into the room. Susan couldn’t lean any closer to the fire without burning herself, so she just turned away and hoped that she wasn’t too conspicuous.
However, Gwen Ivy didn’t run a great catering company by forgetting to pay attention to every detail. “Mrs. Henshaw? Susan? What are you doing down here?”
Susan immediately realized that Gwen assumed she was a guest at this event. “Low woman on the totem pole in the historical society,” she kidded. “You know how it is; I got the crummy job.”
“I thought …,” Gwen said, and then stopped. “Well, whatever,” she continued, apparently deciding that free kitchen help was nothing to be sniffed at. “Jamie, who’s preparing the currant fool?”
“I am. I’ll get started as soon as the main dish goes upstairs,” Jamie answered.
“And the cornmeal cookies?”
“Were made from meal ground in this very mill.” Jamie anticipated the question. “And the waitresses have all been instructed to mention that fact when they’re serving.”
“And the oyster stew?”
“Ready to go up in about three minutes. Everyone is sitting down.” A waitress appeared upon the steps that rose from the other doorway. “But we have a real problem here.”
Gwen Ivy was instantly alert. “What’s going on?”
“It’s impossible to carry trays up and down these steps wearing long skirts. And they can’t be hiked up and tucked into our aprons—not everyone is wearing dark opaque stockings.”
“In fact, Carla’s wearing red stockings embroidered with tiny little Santas,” someone called out.
Gwen walked to the bottom of the steps and looked up. “They’re steep. This should have been checked out before.”
In the silence of her pause, Susan wondered whether everyone in the room was thinking that if Z had been alive, it would have been done before this.
“We’ll have to set up a relay system. The food will have to be taken to the top of the stairway by someone who is not wearing these ridiculous costumes.” She looked over at Susan speculatively. “I don’t suppose there are other members of the historical society who are willing to work tonight?”
“I don’t believe so. Everyone else is expecting to be waited on,” Susan said honestly. “But I don’t mind helping out.” Actually, she wasn’t looking forward to the idea, but it would give her an excuse to hang around. She certainly couldn’t go upstairs and sit down with the expected guests. But Gwen Ivy was speaking.
“I don’t think you should trot up and down those stairs carrying trays—you’re not used to it. Why don’t you station yourself at the bottom and pass things up to Stefan. He’ll supply the women at the top. But don’t do anything until you’re done there,” she added as Susan made a move to hop up. “We don’t want that damn meat to burn up after all the work it’s taken to get it nice and crispy.
“Well, good luck, everyone. We’re working under difficult circumstances, and I appreciate your competence. I’ll be back in a little while.”
As Gwen left, there was a general shuffling and a sound of chairs being scraped across the floor. The waitress dashed up the steps, and the young man that Susan was waiting to speak with turned out to be the Stefan who was stationed on the stairs.
“If you can help me get this thing off the spit, you’ll be free to help out over there—and get away from this fat. You really volunteered for a miserable job.”
Susan did as she was asked, relieved to get away from the fire—until she realized how drafty other parts of the room were.
Stefan noticed her discomfort. “You should have been here when we were setting up. This place is a sieve—no storm windows and cold air pouring in around that waterwheel,” Stefan said, handing a large platter of homemade crackers over his head to whomever was waiting above. “Even the head of the historical society insisted that we ignore historical accuracy and ring both floors with electric heaters.”
“Really?”
“They’re hidden, of course.”
“Of course.” And that was the last chance she had to chat. First, deep bowls of steaming oyster stew were handed up the stairs.
“Oysters were practically free during Colonial times. The settlers kept them alive in barrels of cold saltwater, feeding them cornmeal like they were pets,” Stefan commented. “Of course, I don’t know how much heavy cream they had available back then or whether the fresh thyme sprinkled on top is absolutely authentic.”
Susan passed on tiny crocks of butter and some sort of cheese spread, amused by his chatter.
“Wonder who spent the afternoon at the old wooden churn to make these?” He chuckled at Susan’s startled look. “Not a chance. Probably the best New York City’s gourmet stores had to offer. Actually, the first edible thing I ever made was butter—whipped it up in the old Cuisinart.”
Stefan amused the room through the rest of the meal, from stew to the currant fool, crisp cornbread heart cookies, and warm (and slightly smoked) gingerbread with nutmeg sauce. His lively chatter kept Susan from thinking about how hard she was working.
Loud scraping of the chairs announced that the meal had ended, and Susan sighed and leaned back against the wall. “I’m glad that’s over. I didn’t realize how much work catering a party would be—and this is your third party today.”
“None of us worked all the way through all the parties, believe me,” Jamie said. “But it is hard work.” She passed Susan a steaming glass. “Have a hot toddy—just like in the Dickens stories. You deserve it.”
“I have to drive home,” Susan protested, sipping and realizing how strong the drink was.
“Don’t worry. Someone else can drive you home. You’ve done more than enough for us—you deserve it,” Jamie said.
“Actually, I wanted to talk with—” Susan began.
“Maybe Stefan would drive you home,” Jamie interrupted.
Susan looked up at the handsome young man. “That would be very nice,” she agreed.
“I’d rather be with a lovely lady than cleaning up any day.”
“When you’re done chauffeuring, you can come back to the carriage house and do your share of the dirty work,” Jamie insisted.
“They don’t appreciate me,” Stefan said, grinning at his coworkers. “Where did you hang your coat?”
They gathered their belongings and walked out into the freezing cold to Susan’s car.
“You did some good work tonight,” Stefan complimented her, accepting her car keys and sliding into the driver’s seat. “Why were you there?”
“You mean you didn’t believe that I was the only member of the historical society doing volunteer work tonight?”
“It seems a little unlikely.”
“It is. I came to the mill looking for you.”
“Me? Why? Has something happened between your daughter and my brother?”
“Your bro—” Susan had a revelation. “That’s who you remind me of … Klaus Hoffmann.”
“My beloved younger brother.” He started her car before asking a question. “You mean you didn’t know who I was? Then why were you looking for me?”
“Because Jamie Potter told me that you knew Z Holly better than anyone else.”
“Gwen …”
“Gwen only tells me what a wonderful person he was.…”
“Because he was truly a wonderful person. I don’t think you’ll find many people who say anything different than that.”
“But …” Susan began to protest that no one was completely wonderful—no one who would inspire a murder. “What about all the people I’ve met this week who seemed to have good reason to be mad at Z?”
“Who?”
“L
ike men whose wives have fallen for Z. And men whose daughters Z seduced …,” Susan began.
“I’ll bet if you look closely at those situations, you’ll discover that Z didn’t seduce anyone. Z wasn’t like that.”
Susan glanced over at her driver, a suspicion sneaking into her mind. “Are you saying that Z was gay?”
Stefan chuckled. “No, Z was definitely heterosexual. He loved women. That was the problem. He loved them, but he didn’t understand them—actually, that might have been part of his charm.”
Susan, who believed that the most charming (and rare) attribute a man can possess is a deep understanding of women, wondered just how well Stefan knew Z. She asked that question.
“I was his roommate for two years in college. I introduced him to Gwen as a matter of fact. She was in one of my classes, and when she found out who my parents are—”
“The food stores—”
“And the cookbooks, the articles in food magazines, the products that they produce under their own label. All that stuff. I was busy rebelling against that. I was determined not to be a foodie—classic adolescent response to having famous parents, I’m afraid.
“Anyway, Gwen was already interested in food back then, so she sought me out, and we became friends.”
“Was Z interested in food then, too?”
“Not that I knew about. He knew how I felt about my parents, so he wouldn’t have talked about it.”
“But he was popular,” Susan suggested.
“Yes, very. Especially with women. At one point, half the women in our dorm were in love with him.”
“And how did he handle that?”
“Same as always. Z didn’t know how to turn anyone down, so he didn’t.”
“He was promiscuous?”
“Well, this was before AIDS, remember. And he didn’t use these women. He just didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I hope I’m not making him sound like an idiot.”
“No, just sort of shallow.”
Stefan nodded. “He was—that’s exactly the right word. He was shallow. He loved material things; he loved giving parties, giving other people pleasure, but he didn’t have any depth. And he knew it.”
“He did?”
“Yes. He used to say that he wasn’t someone to depend on—that he was only good at the little things in life.”
Susan thought about the elegant parties, the sophisticated apartment, the boyish charm … It was all beginning to fall into place. “But why kill someone like that?” she asked, thinking out loud.
“Well, he did tend to fall into and out of relationships pretty easily. That made some people furious.”
“Enough to kill him?”
They were pulling up in front of Susan’s house. “I can’t quite imagine that. Most people knew exactly what Z was about—at least since he graduated from college. Back then, the women were younger and more likely to take him seriously. But most women knew exactly what they were getting when they got involved with Z—a fine romance, but no one was going to overdose on reality.”
“Unless they were still young—like those women back in college,” Susan suggested, thinking of Cameo Logan.
“Maybe.” Stefan turned off the engine and turned to Susan. “Do you mind if I come in and call a cab? I have to get back to the carriage house.”
“Why don’t I drive you?”
“I thought—”
“It was strong, so I didn’t drink it. I just wanted the chance to talk with you.”
“But—”
“And now I want the chance to talk with Gwen. If you think she’ll be back there.”
Stefan frowned. “She must be. In the past, either she or Z would close up after a busy day like this one, but now that Z’s dead … Well, it’s too much of a job for just one person.”
Susan looked at him. “She is around more, isn’t she?”
“That’s just it,” Stefan explained. “She seems to be around less—but that might just be a faulty impression. It might be that she doesn’t happen to be where I am.”
“Is that possible?”
“It’s more than likely. We’re doing three or more jobs each day. The chances of two people being together much is probably fairly rare.
“You’re sure you want to go back with me?” he asked, reaching out to start the engine.
“Yes. Let’s give it a try,” Susan insisted, sitting back and watching one of her neighbors turn off the candles in her windows, one by one. “Who do you think Gwen will choose for a new partner?”
“I’m not sure, but I think she’ll be looking for someone who can fill Z’s shoes—someone to take care of the more public details of the business, someone with style and charm, probably good looks. And, of course, someone who can afford to buy into the business. I haven’t seen the books of The Holly and Ms. Ivy, but I would think it would take a large chunk of cash to buy half of the business.”
“Any idea of a name?”
“Well, if my parents will finance it, I’m hoping it will be me.”
Susan was quiet the rest of the drive.
“Why don’t you drop me off by the curb,” Stefan suggested. “I have to get a change of clothing from my car. I don’t want to go home wearing my uniform, and I don’t think there’s anything clean in my locker.”
Susan did as Stefan asked and then pointed her Jeep into an empty parking spot. The lot was still full of cars, but not so full that she couldn’t see that Stefan Hoffmann was removing a gym bag from a white Range Rover. Deciding to ask that question later, she followed the walk to the carriage house.
Jamie Potter was carrying a large pile of tablecloths down the center aisle as Susan walked into the room. “Phew. Everyone you meet will wonder what you’ve been doing,” she commented.
“They’ll think she’s a volunteer firefighter after a busy day,” another chef, busy scrubbing a large slab of marble with vinegar, suggested.
“I smell like the fireplace,” Susan said, suddenly realizing the truth of that statement.
“You reek,” Jamie agreed cheerfully. “I thought you’d be home showering by now. What’s up?”
“I was hoping to see Gwen,” Susan admitted. “Everyone keeps talking about how she’s around when you’re closing up. I thought if I came here I couldn’t miss her. But I did, didn’t I?”
“Yup. She left about ten or fifteen minutes ago.”
“Why are you still here?” Susan asked, glancing over at Jamie’s work area: It was immaculate.
“Gwen asked if I would help put away some of the linens. I don’t have to be in until noon tomorrow.”
“No parties scheduled?” Susan couldn’t believe it.
“There are never many parties the day before New Year’s Eve. Sometimes none. This year we’re doing one. A sweet-sixteen party for some girl named Finn or Sawyer … or something Mark Twainish …”
“Courtney Sawyer!”
“You know her?”
“My son is going to that party. In fact, I understand Chad has a real crush on Courtney Sawyer.”
“You must have a good relationship. I certainly would never have let my parents know about that type of thing when I was a teenager.” Jamie sorted and folded clean napkins as she spoke.
“My daughter told me about it.”
Jamie chuckled. “In my case, my brother was the family blabbermouth.”
“I understand Courtney’s party is going to be very elaborate,” Susan said, not mentioning that what she had actually heard was that The Holly and Ms. Ivy had, according to her daughter, “messed up” the reservations for the place where the party was to be held.
“Not for The Holly and Ms. Ivy. We’re used to doing these extravagant events for children. I don’t think the kids like them as much as their parents do, but they are fun to arrange. If your son is going, you might want to stop in sometime during the evening.”
“He’ll be disappointed if there aren’t lots of desserts,” Susan said, as Jamie folded the last napkin and got up
.
“There are lots—an excess. But no elaborate cake decorating. I’m going to be spending tomorrow working on the New Year’s Eve parties we’re doing. Remember, I promised you something special.”
Susan grinned. “I’m looking forward to it.” She glanced at her watch; it was almost one a.m. “Look, could you tell me where Gwen lives?”
“It’s a little late for visiting, isn’t it?”
“I won’t stop in if it’s dark—don’t worry.”
“And you won’t mention my name when she asks how you know where she lives?”
“I could say I looked it up in the phone book.…”
“Won’t work. She’s unlisted. She always says that she works sixteen-hour days and has an answering machine on for the other eight, so she deserves some privacy. Well, maybe she won’t ask how you know,” Jamie said, frowning. “Anyway, I know you won’t get me in trouble. It’s 18 Applejack Lane. It’s one of those cul-de-sacs down by the river—a tiny house that looks like it should be in Sweden or someplace.”
Susan knew the area, and she thought she might even know the house. She made her excuses, stifled a yawn or two, and drove right over to the address she had been given. There were lights on inside the charming cottage, but despite her intentions, Susan didn’t knock on the door. She had noticed that Gwen drove a silver BMW convertible. Parked in her driveway was a white Range Rover with a soiled tux tossed over the backseat.
TWENTY
Jed wandered into the living room. His wife was standing in the middle of the carpet, staring straight ahead. “What are you doing?”
“Do you think the tree looks dead?” Susan asked, not bothering to answer his question.
“It’s the most beautiful tree we’ve ever had.” Jed repeated his annual Christmas mantra.
“It’s awfully dry, and I don’t think it’s absorbing any water.”
“Well, it’s been in the house for almost three weeks. But it will look beautiful tomorrow night. Everything will be just fine.”
Susan sat down on the edge of the coffee table. “I’m usually frantically busy today.”
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