Crunch Time (28 page)

The yard boasted an expansive wooden swing set and slide, a sandbox, and a metal jungle gym. At one edge of the property was a brown playhouse with the word
Saloon
painted over the doorjamb. I smiled and wondered if Sean and Rorry’s son would be allowed to attend the dinner.

Several cars were already parked in the driveway. I checked my watch: It had just turned four, which was when we were due to start setting up. Was this like a kids’ birthday party, when the invitees were so excited they often showed up early?

I couldn’t remember Rorry telling me if our catering team was supposed to come in through a side door or the front. With guests already arriving, a side door would have been preferable. I found the side door and knocked on it. There was no response. Rorry was probably busy entertaining her early arrivals.

We marched to the front door and rang the bell.

A long singsonging echoed into the interior. After a few moments, Rorry appeared to usher us in.

“Sorry, so sorry.” She smiled, but she sounded wretched. Fortyish, short, dark haired, and very pretty, Rorry nonetheless had dark circles under her brown eyes. She hid her wide hips under a flared, embroidered purple skirt and a puffed-sleeve white blouse, which gave her a designer-homemaker kind of look. Marla said Rorry was one of the nicest, most generous people in the church, but that she kept her munificence quiet. She’d kept the misery she was undergoing quiet, too . . . although perhaps not from Ernest McLeod.

“People have been coming in and out all day to bring food,” Rorry explained as we hauled our first boxes across the threshold. “It’s been like a train station. I’m so sorry I didn’t have a chance to open the side door for you.” She eyed me apologetically. Rorry’s accent was elegant, only slightly distinguishable as southern. Having attended boarding school in Virginia, I’ve had a pet peeve over the years at how Hollywood folks trying to portray a Southerner affect an ear-grating, bumpkin-from-the-farm style of speech. Those actors make me wish they’d actually
visit
the places whose accents they’re trying to imitate. Listening to Rorry speak in her genteel, soft voice, one would know she was the real deal.

“You must be an incredible cook!” she said now. Perhaps she knew she was projecting unhappiness, so now her smile was wide and sincere. “I’ve never had
so many
extra people decide they have to come to an expensive dinner at the last minute. We even advertised for this supper in the
Mountain Journal,
with no takers except church people. It’s lucky we had cancellations! Folks seem to have gotten wind that you were doing the cooking. The people Father Pete and Sean and I talked to? When they asked if they could come? They all asked if you were catering.”

“Well, that is flattering,” I replied. I wasn’t
that
popular, was I?

Rorry led the way across the large, marble-floored foyer. The tawny walls were lit by brass and crystal sconces. A cherry bench upholstered with gold brocade stood between a pair of dark cherry cabinets. Both brimmed with pink-and-beige Limoges china, French crystal, as well as polished silver platters and bowls. It certainly did not look like any of the contemporary mountain homes where I usually catered, which were uniformly stuffed with heavy lodge-type furniture and cabinets. In the dinnerware department, I usually saw only stainless-steel cutlery and nondescript dishes.

Rorry said over her shoulder, “Sean’s entertaining four people already. First to arrive were Father Pete and Venla Strothmeyer. To bring an elderly widow like that? He is
such
a sweet man. He even said Venla bought the tickets for them both.”

I could hear voices, Father Pete’s low rumble, Venla’s occasional gravelly comment. Even Sean’s high-pitched voice was sometimes audible. They must have been outside, or in a section of the house so well upholstered that all sounds were muffled. I said that Father Pete was indeed a wonderful man, even though Yolanda rolled her eyes.

“And to think it snowed last night,” Rorry said. “Our son is in heaven. Etta took him up to our condo in Beaver Creek to spend the night, even though the lifts aren’t open. They’ll be back early tomorrow. Remember, I don’t want you cleaning up tonight! Etta would have a fit if you put things where they didn’t belong. Anyway, Seth was so excited about seeing snow. Those ski resort owners must be hoping the blizzards never stop.”

“They must be,” I murmured.

Rorry said, “Follow me,” and turned. Her leather flats made soft clopping noises on the part of the foyer that was floored with stone and not Kirman rugs. Rorry seemed hassled, but not so self-centered that she didn’t want to make us feel welcome. I appreciated that.

When Boyd, Yolanda, and I entered the kitchen, I gulped. The ceilings were at least twenty feet high. I bet someone had to build a scaffolding to change the lightbulbs. The decorating scheme of the enormous space was yellow cabinets with brass pulls; blue and yellow tiles on the island, countertops, and backsplashes; and a tiny flowered print of blue, yellow, and red for the matching wallpaper and curtains. I was pretty sure the kitchen table and chairs were solid cherry. The whole effect was like something you’d see in a fifties magazine for living in the South, not Colorado in the twenty-first century.

“This is a
gorgeous
kitchen, Rorry,” I said as I put my box on one of the counters.
Especially for someone who doesn’t cook,
I added mentally.

Rorry blushed. “It’s an exact replica of our kitchen in New Orleans. Sean thought I was crazy, but I missed home so much, I wanted it to be the same.” Tears appeared suddenly in her eyes, but she blinked them back.
She still misses home,
I thought.
Maybe she’ll go back there, if and when she gets rid of Sean.

“I’m going to get another box,” Boyd announced.

“Shall I get the plates out, the way I usually do?” Yolanda asked me. When I nodded, Yolanda said to Rorry, “Do you want to show me which ones you want to use?”

Rorry waved toward one of the cherry cabinets in the front hall. “Just the pink and gold Limoges in there. There should be plenty.”

When Yolanda left, Rorry cleared her throat. “Sean’s also talking to a couple I don’t know. They signed up today, through Father Pete. The man’s first name is Norman, and I think his last name is Juarez, but I didn’t catch his wife’s name. They’re Catholic, so I don’t know why they’re here.”

My shoulders slumped.
I
knew why they were there. Church dinner notwithstanding, I prayed again for no fireworks between Humberto Captain and Norman Juarez. When Boyd returned with his box, I made a mental note to tell him we might be having an altercation that night.

Rorry waved her hand over the island and toward the kitchen table. “When people came by today with more food and wine, I told them to put it over there and in the refrigerator. That foil-covered pan is enchiladas from the Juarezes. Venla brought a homemade cheese ball with crackers. And then earlier, Humberto brought champagne, which he put in to chill. Kris Nielsen, who’s bringing a date, brought caviar, which is also in the—”

She didn’t get a chance to finish. Yolanda, precariously carrying the Limoges china into the kitchen, heard Kris’s name and dropped the china she was carrying. The dishes hit the tile floor with a deafening clatter.

I thought,
Oh, hell.

15

“M
y Lord!” cried Rorry as she raced to Yolanda’s side. “Oh, my dear, are you all right? Did you cut yourself?”

“Where’s the bathroom?” asked Boyd. He’d deposited his box and was holding Yolanda’s elbow. That was the only part of Yolanda’s body that wasn’t shaking.

“Let me show you,” said Rorry, and she
clip-clopped
efficiently down the hall.

I looked for a broom and dustpan. I finally located the cleaning closet, grabbed the necessary tools, and started sweeping. Kris was coming. He was bringing a date. Upon hearing the news, Yolanda had broken what I estimated to be about a thousand dollars’ worth of china.

While Boyd and Yolanda were in the bathroom, I swept the shards into a pile. Father Pete had said Kris was
so
generous to the church. Really? Was that the actual reason he was coming to the dinner tonight, bringing caviar and a date?

I looked for paper towels and could find none. Worse, I was so addled I couldn’t remember which of our boxes contained our stash. Desperate, I searched under the sink, where two new, large sponges had been tucked into zipped, labeled plastic bags. One said
Floor,
the other,
Counters
.

As I wet the floor sponge, I swallowed hard and reminded myself that I couldn’t be sure of everything Yolanda had told me about Kris. But since I was thinking about Kris and had an actual sponge in my hand, it wasn’t too much of a leap to place Kris—fairly or unfairly—into the sponge category. Father Pete had told me how Kris had paid for all the Sunday school rooms to be painted and carpeted, even though he didn’t attend church services. And I’d just found out from Father Pete that in June, Kris had sought to secure the priest’s help in getting a woman who sounded a lot like Ferdinanda involuntarily committed to an institution. That movement from generosity to demand was the way of the sponge.
I’ll spend a couple hundred bucks on paint and cheap carpet, so you’ll owe me.

Call me a cynic, but I’d seen a lot of sponges in the church. They gave in expectation of receiving something, usually something much larger than their initial gift.

Using Rorry’s damp sponge, I briskly swept the bits of broken china into the dustpan.

I washed my hands savagely in the sink and hoped I
wasn’t
becoming a cynic. Still, just ask one of these sponges to teach Sunday school, or visit a handicapped parishioner in a nursing home, or bring meals to a family that had been in an automobile accident. Forget it. I’d catered for sponges; I’d had their checks bounce; I’d lived in a state of rageful humiliation when they refused to do the right thing unless they got a reward. Unlike actors with the fake southern accents, human sponges were difficult to detect.

I dumped the broken bits of china into the trash. I wasn’t sure I had gotten them all, so I rinsed the sponge, got down on my knees, and wiped the floor with careful, even strokes. Then I threw the floor sponge in the trash.

Boyd and Yolanda returned to the kitchen. Yolanda’s complexion was still pale, but she wasn’t shaking anymore. Did she know that Kris had tried to have Ferdinanda—if that was who it was—involuntarily committed? Was that why she had reacted so negatively toward Father Pete in the grocery store? Or had she been so much on edge that an accidental brush by our preoccupied priest in the pickle aisle had made her lose her cool? I suspected the latter, and I didn’t want to upset Yolanda any more than she already was by asking about the former.

Boyd was still holding Yolanda’s arm. “Rorry’s out with the guests. Yolanda says she slipped on something.” He eyed the damp kitchen floor.

“Sorry, I just wiped it.”

“Give Yolanda something to do, then.”

I said, “No problem. The rest of the guests should be arriving soon. How about if you two open some red and white wine from this lot here? I’ll put together an appetizer tray and start ferrying stuff out to the porch.”

While they busied themselves lining up the bottles people had brought, I put together the cheese, fruit, and cracker trays. Rorry had said she would do it, but I felt so guilty about the broken Limoges, I wanted to do it myself. Besides, I had a bit of an ulterior motive in being in charge of the cheese. Venla’s walnut-covered cheese ball, surrounded by crackers, went on one tray. I placed the Gouda—part of my trap for Sean and his girlfriend, if she showed—and a large wedge of sharp cheddar, a peppered goat cheese, and a block of Gruyère around a tumble of red and green seedless grapes. I carefully cut the Camembert, which had turned creamy, into four wedges. Around it, I carefully spread different types of crackers.

“Christ,” said Marla when she popped into Rorry’s kitchen. Yolanda was startled again; this time, though, she dropped only the keys to my van. Marla, who wore a shimmery gold-and-brown dress and shawl, looked around the kitchen in astonishment. She lifted the ruffles of the café curtains and smoothed her hand over the flowered wallpaper. “Who decorated this kitchen, Betty Crocker?” Then she caught a look at Yolanda’s pale face, disheveled hair, and shaking hands. “Uh . . . did I come at a bad time? Hey, Boyd, how’re you doing?”

Boyd gave a single shake of his head.

“Goldy?” asked Marla. “Do you need me to help with anything? I think some guests are already here.”

I’d moved on to spooning Kris’s caviar into a soft nest of crème fraîche that I’d brought just in case we needed it. I adore crème fraîche, as does Marla, who plucked a spoon out of a drawer and helped herself to a small mouthful.

“Mm-mm. Don’t tell my cardiologist,” she said. “So, do you need me to take stuff out?”

“Yes, thanks.” I handed her the platter with Venla’s cheese ball and crackers. “You can help by asking Rorry if she has more dishes. Also, please look at place cards, if Rorry’s filled those out, and see exactly who’s coming.” I added in a low voice, “Don’t mention Kris Nielsen. We didn’t know he would be here, and now Yolanda’s very fragile.”

Marla took out another spoon and ate a second dollop of caviar with crème fraîche. “Take out cheese ball. Check on dishes and place cards. Got it.”

She returned a few minutes later holding a sheet of paper. “Had to take notes, sorry. Including me, there are sixteen. And there
are
some folks who are here already. Rorry introduced me to some new people. They’re Norman and Isabella Juarez. Isabella offered the information that she brought homemade enchiladas, so you better serve me some of those before anybody else gets any! Humberto Captain is coming, and the name of his date is Odette, no last name. Father Pete is already here with Venla Strothmeyer. Tony Ramos from CBHS is coming, along with his wife, Franny. Last, there are Donna Lamar and yours truly. Plus there’s the couple you mentioned,” she said in a low tone, “and Sean and Rorry and Brie and Paul Quarles.” Marla made a face. “Paul Quarles always looks as if he swallowed a canary six years ago and has yet to digest it.”

The doorbell gonged, and Marla disappeared. I moved over and closed the door to the kitchen. High-pitched voices, clearly eager for a party, filtered in from the foyer.

“Crunch time,” I said under my breath, then cursed silently that there was no open wine out on the patio yet. “Keep her here,” I ordered Boyd, who nodded once. Yolanda looked at the floor.

The guests would be coming through the house. That meant I had to go around it. I tucked the open bottles into a canvas grocery bag and hightailed my way through the now-unlocked side door in an attempt to make it to the patio before the guests all arrived. The grass was icy in spots and wet right through my sneakers, which I wore to all catering gigs, regardless of their fancy factor.

I gritted my teeth and ignored the discomfort. The party absolutely
had
to be a success. The great sucking sound I imagined was not so much the noise my sneakers were making in the glacially chilly mud but the crash of the church budget if people stopped payment on their checks and we lost the thousands being raised by this little shindig.

And then my eye caught on something—not footprints, but something shiny, slim, and metallic. It was a wrench. Without thinking, I picked it up and dropped it in my pocket, intent on leaving it in the kitchen. I was pretty sure neither Sean nor Rorry did any home repairs, and some hapless handyman was bound to come back asking for it.

The party was being held on the winter porch, which boasted a gas fireplace that was flickering merrily when I squeaked open the screen door. I looked around, disoriented. I had no idea where the Juarezes, Father Pete, and Venla had gone. Maybe they were welcoming the new arrivals. The room’s tobacco-colored upholstered couches, plus an assortment of chairs, flanked the door I’d just come in. A long wrought-iron table surrounded with cushioned wrought-iron chairs stood in front of the fireplace. Dinner plates that Rorry had somehow located to replace the broken ones, silverware, napkins, and serving spoons were arrayed on a rolling tea cart. The main table itself sported three cornucopiae filled to bursting with gold, orange, and white mums, plus white roses and gold alstroemeria. When Rorry did a party, she did one.

I walked quickly to the table and was grateful to see that someone had already placed gold-rimmed crystal wineglasses, more napkins, and salad plates by each place card. Hallelujah. I squinted at the crystal and held it up to the light. It was the real deal, and Rorry was using it on her porch. I swallowed. No more accidents.

I rapidly moved one of the centerpieces over to the tea cart. I carefully plunked the bottle of white wine into an ice bucket labeled for that purpose, then placed both it and the bottle of red near the center of the table. As the rumble of voices approached, I scampered out the way I’d come.

I heard the unmistakable nasal voice of Paul Quarles. “Really, this is the time to invest. You have to believe me. What did you say your name was? Norman? Juarez? What kind of name is that?”

Really, sometimes people’s insensitivity surprised even me, and I’d often been the butt of tactless folks as well as sponges. But Norman was a big boy; he’d just have to handle it. Maybe, like me, he’d even be able to make jokes about it later.

When I came back into the kitchen, Marla was already regaling Yolanda and Boyd with tales of Paul Quarles.

“I’m telling you, Paul Quarles hadn’t taken two steps into the foyer before he found somebody he hadn’t yet hit up to buy stocks. He said everyone should be putting money into the market, because it’s so low. The mouths of the Juarez couple actually dropped open, as in,
We just paid two thousand dollars to come to this dinner, and now somebody wants to talk to us about investing?
They must think all Episcopalians are obsessed with money, which is more or less true, but never mind.”

“Guys,” I said, “we need the rest of the food from the van. Boyd, can you go out there?”

“Kris just arrived,” Marla said to Yolanda, her voice low.

“It’s all right,” said Yolanda without looking up from the bunch of keys in her hand.

“He’s brought a tall brunette,” Marla said. “Do you want to hear about her?”

“Marla,” I said, warning her. “Maybe this isn’t the best—”

Yolanda’s eyes flared as she gave me a steady look. “What, you don’t think I can handle it, Goldy? Tell me, Marla. Tell me about Kris’s new woman.”

“Well, she’s pretty,” Marla said, “but not nearly as pretty as you. When Paul was going on to Norman Juarez about investing in the stock market, I asked Kris’s date if she knew what it meant to short a stock. She said, ‘Does that mean you buy a stock from someone who isn’t tall?’ So one thing we know about Miss Dumb About Dough is that she probably isn’t an Episcopalian.”

“What’s this woman’s name?” I asked.

Marla raised her eyebrows. “Harriet. While Rorry was ushering everyone out to the porch, I asked Harriet if she had a job. She said she did modeling and odd jobs. Of course, I think modeling is an odd job, but nobody asked me. I guess in the current economy, you’ll do just about anything to make money.”

I tried to give Yolanda a compassionate glance, but she had turned resolutely to the sink. While she washed her hands, Boyd caught my eye and shrugged. I asked him, “Did you bring in the box with the lamb chops?” I turned my attention back to Marla. “Listen, girlfriend. How are your puppies?”

“Cute as can be. And yapping all the time.”

“Great. Listen, could you see if you can get the conversation over to Hermie Mikulski? See if anyone has heard anything about a local beagle puppy mill.”

Marla, who had discovered the pan with the enchiladas, gave me a skeptical glance. “You want me to change the subject from investing to
dogs
? How do you propose I do that?”

“How about this,” I said. “Tell people you’ve just adopted three beagle puppies. Then see if you can move the conversation over to whether you can make
money
breeding dogs. If so, what breeds work best? And has anyone heard about any mills in the area?”

Marla was still skeptical. “I thought you gave away all the puppies.”

“What I want you to do is see if anyone has heard any reports of rescuing abused beagles in this area. If so, from where?”

Marla placed the enchiladas on the counter. Then she ducked back into the refrigerator and hauled out two bottles of Humberto’s Dom. Doggone it. I’d remembered the other guests’ wine, but not Humberto’s. “Know what, Goldy? People do better with sudden shifts in topic when they’re well lubricated.” She peered at the bottles. “These were leaning against a bowl of salad in the refrigerator. Does that mean someone knocked them over?”

I sighed. It could indicate that, which could in turn lead to an explosion of bubbly in the kitchen, which was not what we needed at this point.

At that moment, Humberto himself slithered into the kitchen. He wore a pale blue sport coat and yellow pants. “Ah, my countrywoman,” he said silkily. When Yolanda ignored him, he drew himself up and gave me an expectant look. “I brought my champagne over myself, this afternoon. Would you please serve it?”

I said, “Yassuh,” before I could stop myself. Humberto trundled out. I wondered where Odette was.