Truffle Me Not: Baker by Day ,Sleuth on the Side (Cupid's Catering Company Book 2)

by M K Scott

  The phone rang as soon as she entered. At this time in the morning, it might be an inquiry about when the bakery opened. Della dashed for the wall-mounted phone and picked it up on the third ring.

  “Cupid’s Catering Company and Bakery.” She made sure to tack on the last part because the company’s name without it misled people who were looking for a bakery.

  “I need a caterer for a wedding.”

  “Sure.” Della cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder, picked up a pen, and glanced at her wall calendar. “Okay. We’ll need to schedule an appointment where we go over the number of guests, venue, date, and if there’s a kitchen onsite along with menu selections.”

  A lengthy pause from the other end made Della wonder if the call had dropped. Right about the time she decided to hang up, a breathy voice said, “December 24th, this year. A Christmas wedding. It’ll be so beautiful. I’ll have marabou fur on my dress just like a certain singer.”

  Della didn’t know any singer that went around dressed in marabou fur, but then again, she didn’t know any professional singers. What she did know was that while a Christmas Eve wedding sounded romantic, it didn’t ring any bells for the attendees. Most folks would rather be spending the evening with their families. There was also the issue of no churches being available. Other venues would be closed for the holidays or hosting seasonal programs. “Do you have your venue already booked for the twenty-fourth?”

  “Venue?” The caller echoed the word as Della stretched the phone cord to see how far it would go. It barely reached the commercial fridge, which she opened with one hand. Her fingers curled around a foiled-covered, oversized cookie sheet filled with premade chocolate chip cookies, waiting to be baked. Thank goodness she always planned ahead. Yesterday, she’d prepped for a rehearsal dinner and the Saturday morning rush. She didn’t, however, build in extra time for shopping for cat collars or brides that called before eight in the morning. Technically, she shouldn’t have answered the phone.

  Della transferred the tray to the island since she’d have to open the double doors on the convection oven before she could slip them inside. She needed to pin down a date for the disorganized bride-to-be. Something about weddings could turn perfectly ordinary women into demanding divas, and occasionally the groom became the one who believed his perfect wedding should be featured on the evening news.

  “All right, a venue is a place where you plan to host the wedding.”

  The hesitation made Della deduce the woman was trying to figure out what she was asking.

  “I know what a venue is.” She bit out the words. “Hollister Mansion. That’s my venue.”

  A town the size of Owens had few wedding venues. Even though Cupid’s Catering Company had only worked a few weddings, Della made a point of knowing the possible venues just in case a potential bride might ask for a suggestion. The Hollister Mansion happened to be a three-story example of Victorian architecture at its fussiest with not one, but three turrets, two wraparound porches, a sharply pitched roof, and canted bay windows. There was even a widow’s walk around the top of the house, which had to be for show since no person would dare make their way along the roof edge considering the winds that blew up from the river.

  Many a bride lusted after the mansion for her own lavish display of vows. A few even merited such an honor. After the last wedding, things had gotten out of hand. Della only heard bits and pieces of gossip involving the groom riding a horse up the porch steps and shotguns used as props. Major damage had been done. The owner swore he’d not host another event unless a twenty-thousand-dollar damage deposit came with the request.

  “Have you secured the mansion? There may be a seasonal event at that time. The twenty-thousand-dollar damage deposit keeps most folks away.”

  “The what?” Della felt safe placing the phone on the counter as she slid in the cookies since her caller had transitioned to yelling. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  Once she closed the oven doors and set the timer, she picked up the phone. “No, that’s the going price. Most places insist on the money up front to secure the date. Right now, I need to get ready for an event today. Can I take your name and number and call you back?”

  “Tifiani with three I’s. I’m unique like that. Here’s my number.”

  Not her! Not the woman from the Lawson Industries party! Della sucked in her lips to prevent any comments. A job was a job. Never mind Tifiani with three I’s showed up only after Kyle was promoted to head of security at Lawson Industries. A promotion that came with significant responsibility and a pay raise. She’d snapped at Della for even talking to her boyfriend. The woman had all the charm of a hungry wolverine. Come to think of it, the wolverine was more honest about its motives, which made it easier to understand.

  Using a washable marker, Della wrote the name and number down on the board, then surveyed her calendar. “Tuesday the 6th is my earliest opening. That would be cutting it close for a wedding on the 24th. I’ll need the groom, possibly your mother, and whoever else is involved to attend the meeting. We won’t have time for tweaking anything. We might even have to pare down the menu if we’re unable to get supplies in on time. There will be a five hundred dollar or more deposit, depending on the menu. Okay?”

  “Ah, we’ll be there. Kyle is just so excited! See ya!”

  “Bye.” Della stared at the phone, wondering about Kyle and his level of enthusiasm. The last time she witnessed Tifiani’s extravagant display of bad manners, the man acted like he’d swallowed a ghost pepper whole. He spent a good part of the night apologizing to everyone who’d had the misfortune to have encountered Tifiani.

  The café swing-through door opened, allowing the scent of coffee a wider avenue. No wonder, Stephanie strolled in with a cup clasped in her hands and held it out to Della.

  “Bless you.”

  “Saw you coming.”

  “I thought so.” She stopped herself before mentioning the unlocked door. “I appreciate your getting stuff ready.” She took a sip of her beverage and sighed. “Excellent. I’d better watch out or the student may become the master.”

  A chuckle greeted the pronouncement as Stephanie rounded the island and started pulling ingredients out of the fridge. “No worries. I don’t need people calling all agitated about their various parties. I’ll let you deal with that side of the business.”

  “Thanks.” Della wrinkled her nose while mentally reminding herself that customers paid her bills. “At least today’s dinner should be easy.”

  “Is that the DiFranco dinner?” Stephanie glanced up, her brow puckered, and her lips pinched.

  Did Della even want to know? “Someone called?”

  “Uh-huh, just before you got here. All panicky, they said they had four extra people for the dinner. Out-of-town relatives or something.”

  Hadn’t anyone heard of the word No? No, you weren’t invited. No, you can’t just drop by. No, there isn’t enough food. In the end, four more wasn’t too bad. Della learned early to estimate high seeing as there were big eaters out there, especially when it came to a buffet. Tales floated around the catering community of brides and grooms who didn’t get to eat at their own wedding dinner because the guests gobbled all the food. At least that wouldn’t happen at the plated—as opposed to a buffet—rehearsal dinner.

  “We can handle four extra people.” She wagged her index finger playfully. “That just better be all the surprises for today.”

  Chapter Five

  A LIGHT PATTER of raindrops tapped the borrowed van’s roof as Della steered through the slick streets. A Midwest winter with piles of dirty snow and dripping icicles melting under the current precipitation never showed up in any bridal magazines. Fairy lights wrapped around streetlights provided some charm to the dismal atmosphere. A large buff-stone building—a mashup of a castle with four square turrets and a church with elaborate, gothic, arched stained-glass windows—served as her destination.

  “Looks like we’re here.”

 
Her mother snorted. “I always wondered about this place. All that’s missing is a moat.”

  A valid observation, but instead of answering, Della drove into the church parking lot. Very few cars in the lot meant the wedding party hadn’t arrived for rehearsal.

  Inside the glassed-in lobby of the sanctuary, Elise, her occasional catering helper, stood and waved. The chubby high school senior reminded Della a little of herself at that age when she would have jumped at the chance to make a little extra money working weekends for a caterer. It wasn’t like she’d had any other pressing social activities.

  Carefully, she backed up the van as close as she could get to the door. Not one for jumping into various vehicles and driving without a second thought, Della sucked in her lips as alert beeps sounded, warning anyone nearby to get out of the way. Her view alternated between the rearview mirror and the camera. Finally, she had the van’s rear dead centered on the doors. Depressing the brake, she put the vehicle into park and sighed.

  “Got as close as I could,” Della informed her mother, who sat in the passenger seat. “That ought to save your hair.”

  Her mother patted her auburn curls, swung her door open, and peered out. She cleared her throat before speaking. “Um, you might want to pull up some.”

  As an adult, she prided herself on doing things well, even things she’d never done before, such as backing up a cargo van. Here she tried to be thoughtful, and her mother could at least be appreciative. Ignoring the instruction, Della slid out of her seat and hurried to the back of the van to unload. As she rounded the back end of the vehicle, she realized just how close the bumper was to the double glass doors. Elise tried to open the door only to stop a few inches short of hitting the van. Her mother was right. Della slipped back into the front seat, started the vehicle, and pulled up about one foot. Knowing her mother might offer more helpful comments, she waited.

  “Della, darling, you need to pull up about two more feet. The van doors open out.”

  Of course, they did. How could she have forgotten? She had loaded it only thirty minutes before. Sure, there was a side door on the passenger side, but Della had loaded it in the order she wanted things unloaded. Not saying a word, she pulled up three feet just to be safe.

  With the van in the right place, the three of them swung into action, familiar with the routine. Della pushed the rear doors wide, pulled out the tablecloth box, and placed it in Elise’s waiting arms. The helpful teen hugged the heavy box close as she spoke. “I’ve already arranged the tables and chairs plus turned on the ovens.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.” Della made a mental note to add a little something extra to Elise’s pay. Dependable helpers didn’t grow on trees, and she’d like to keep Elise around.

  “No big deal.” Elise asserted, turned, and led the way downstairs.

  Mabel, who had grabbed the tray frames, angled her head in the direction Elise went. “They’re having their dinner in a church basement?”

  “Makes sense. They don’t have to drive anywhere since they’re already here. Besides, if they had it in a restaurant, they wouldn’t need a caterer.”

  “Fair point,” her mother conceded as they moved down the stairs in tandem. “You’d think they’d want something more personal, like a home.”

  An open door revealed eight round tables with white plastic chairs grouped around them. A colorful mural depicting pairs of animals marching into the ark covered the far wall. On the other wall, a roll of tiny cubbies for coats and possibly backpacks took most of the space from the floor to three feet up. Two wide windows showcased the commercial kitchen on the other side. You had to respect a church that had a commercial kitchen.

  Della opened the kitchen door and gestured to the three ovens and the industrial dishwasher. “See, Mom? Who has this type of setup in their home?”

  “No one I know.” She waggled her brows. “I doubt anyone involved in a wedding wants to worry about cleaning house for a rehearsal dinner.”

  “Sounds about right.” Della chose not to mention that’s why most people choose restaurants for their meals. Most restaurant dinners that size ran about two thousand dollars, which averaged out to eighty dollars a person if there were twenty-five people. Della kept that figure uppermost in her mind when pricing out dinners. Too close to two thousand and people might opt for a restaurant. Too little and it might feel like a discount dinner. Forty dollars per plate attracted clients. Out of all local caterers, Cupid’s Catering Company came in as the least expensive and most delicious. Sure, Della could be a tad biased. However, she worked hard to create the experience the client wanted.

  The groom’s mother, who helped plan the meal, wanted all her son’s favorite foods, including fried chicken, sliders, and mini barbecue sandwiches. Sides included macaroni and cheese, potato salad, and green bean casserole. Her nod to traditional wedding food included mini quiches and fruit skewers. If the bride ate everything on the menu, she might not fit into her dress. As for the rest of them, they might not move for an hour or two after ingesting the carb-heavy meal.

  As a student, she’d had the reputation of always being prepared and carried over that reputation to everything she did. Every event she catered would have people watching her and her staff. A few would like for some horrible gaffe to happen where they could gossip about it later. Others might be measuring Cupid’s Catering Company for their own event.

  Wanting to set the mood with a romantic playlist, Della found one on her phone and retrieved the wireless speaker from her tote. The tunes ranged from the fifties to current times to please everyone at the party. Frank Sinatra crooned about the way you look tonight as Della raced up the stairs to unload the food. There was no time to waste in getting ready. That would come later, sometimes much later.

  ALMOST FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later, the tables shone with lit candles and cut flowers, along with place settings and napkins that were arranged with place cards. Knowing the dynamics between wedding party members, the bride had insisted on a seating chart. As an upbeat tune played about coming and getting your love, Della rested her hands on her lower back. Perfect. Now she hoped everyone would be content with the food.

  Footsteps and laughter meant the rehearsal must be finished. Della smoothed down her apron, pasted on her professional smile, and greeted each person. “Hello. Let me know if you have any problems finding your seat.”

  One matron buzzed past her on her way to the tables with a firm step and a determined mien. Since Della didn’t know her, she assumed the woman had to be part of the bride’s family. Della continued to greet the guests as she monitored the woman picking up name cards and rearranging them.

  Della reminded herself she was not getting paid to referee family matters. Someone else would have to rein the woman in. The other guests glanced at the reorganized names, grabbed their own name cards, and moved to the table of their choosing. While it ruined the whole seating plan for serving, Della could adapt. At least no loud yelling occurred, which only proved most were used to the woman’s antics.

  As the people sat, Elise circulated, filling iced tea glasses and inquiring if anyone wanted water. Mabel served the salad plate, which was a scoop of slaw with a decorative carrot curl and a radish rose.

  Della assisted by placing a basket of corn muffins and rolls along with a dish of butter on each table. The groom used to be a former linebacker on a farm team but never made it to the professional leagues. It probably explained why he could eat so much comfort foods, but she doubted he did, at least not every day. This meal dictated by the mother could be either the first or last salvo in the competition for the son’s affection. Some mommas had a hard time letting go.

  Talk swirled around her as she cleared plates, brought in more food, and helped mop up spilled tea. Della learned early on that while serving, she was the help, which made her little more than a skin covered automaton. People made no attempts to watch their conversations. It allowed her to be the proverbial fly on the wall.

  As she whisk
ed away an empty glass, she discovered one of the bridesmaid’s pregnancy had played havoc with the lines of her figure-hugging bridesmaid dress. An indignant mother of the bride implied the woman deliberately became with child to mar the symmetry of the wedding party. Typical.

  Della bent to pick up a napkin as chatter moved on to the newest bakery, Sweet Treasures. Good Heavens, she only heard about the bakery yesterday and already it was on everyone’s lips.

  A younger woman sneered as she spoke. “Oh please. I find it hard to believe anyone would work for her if they knew her. Difficult with a capital D.”

  There was someone Della could agree with. She cut her eyes briefly to the woman, wondering if it could be someone who had attended school with her. The face struck no familiar responsive chords, which may only mean they never shared a class.

  “Of course,” the woman continued, “money can buy loyalty. Everyone knows her family has scads of it.”

  That little reminder she could have done without.

  It was time to plate the pineapple upside-down cake and serve it with a small dish of rose sorbet. The rose flavor was a concession on the mother’s part, who originally wanted rocky road ice cream. Talk about a sugar overload. There needed to be something light about the meal. People usually remembered the first thing and the last thing they ate. At least the last thing would be the delicate, almost ethereal note of a rose.

  Della found out fast that people didn’t pick out foods because of how the flavors paired with one another. They usually chose due to sentiment and, more often, cost. She laid out twenty-five plain white china dessert plates.

  “Did anyone say they didn’t want dessert?”

  “None to me,” her mother replied while hefting a full pot of coffee. “This is my second pot of coffee. Do these folks want to stay up all night?”

  The kitchen wall clock hour hand already hovered on seven. “It shouldn’t be a problem. We’re using the decaf blend and the half and half mixture.”