Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

  “Great,” said Suzanne, without much enthusiasm, wondering if Carmen was going to scold and rebuke her about the fashion show yesterday. Or demand she bring the clothes back. “That should do it.”

  “Dear,” said Carmen in a simpering, nattering tone. “Are tickets still available for the gourmet dinner this evening?”

  “Ah . . . you’d have to check with Toni,” said Suzanne. She tilted her head. “Inside.”

  Carmen slipped away with a whisper of Gucci-shod feet.

  Rats, thought Suzanne. Carmen Copeland is the absolute last person I want at our winner’s dinner tonight.

  Chapter twenty nine

  But it turned out Carmen wasn’t the only late entry. Just as Suzanne was arranging registration forms in four neat piles, Nadine Carr rushed in, balancing her cake.

  “Did I make it?” Nadine asked, a little breathless. “Can I still enter my cake?” She placed it carefully on the table in front of Suzanne with a worried, anxious look. “Sorry I’m so ... late.”

  Suzanne glanced at her Timex. It was five minutes past the deadline they’d set, but Nadine looked so eager and hopeful. And, of course, she’d just lost her husband a week earlier, so Suzanne felt more than a little compassion for her. “Of course we can squeak you in,” she told her. “No problem. Let’s see what we have here . . .” While Nadine filled out her entry form, Suzanne studied her cake. It was a small, round, three-layer cake covered with vanilla crackle glaze and artfully decorated with chocolate swirls. On top, enormous pieces of shaved chocolate formed a glistening poufy bow. It was beautifully done. A cake that might even give Carmen Copeland a run for her money ...

  Nadine pushed her completed entry form across the table as she uncrumpled a blue flyer. One of the flyers Toni and Petra had passed out all over town advertising the cake-decorating contest. “Are Sharon and Petra still doing the judging?” she asked.Suzanne shook her head. “Slight change in plans. Now Sheriff Doogie will help do the honors. Along with Petra, of course.” She indicated the two of them, who had their heads together, whispering, down at the other end of the tent.

  “Oh,” said Nadine. “Doogie.”

  Suzanne reached out and patted Nadine’s arm. “Don’t worry, I know what you’re thinking. What does Sheriff Doogie know about cakes anyway? Am I right?”

  Nadine’s head moved slightly.

  Suzanne continued. “But Doogie actually has a rather discerning palate.” She laughed. “At the very least, he can tell a cinnamon scone from a cake doughnut.”

  “Well, that’s something,” agreed Nadine, with a good-natured grin.

  It took Petra and Sheriff Doogie some forty minutes to study all the cakes, jot a few notes, then decide the winners in each of the four cake-decorating categories, as well as first runner-ups. In fact, they were still marking their judging sheets when Ray Lynch poked his head into the tent.

  “Sorry,” Suzanne told him, waving her hands and hurrying over to bar him from entering. “This tent’s closed for judging.” She gazed at him, wondering why Ray Lynch, of the Roth Funeral Home Consortium, had chosen to show up here and now.

  Lynch seemed to spot the question mark in Suzanne’s eyes, so he said, “I was just driving by and noticed all the commotion.”

  “It’s our Take the Cake Show,” Suzanne explained.

  Lynch regarded her with a slightly curious look.

  Suzanne let loose a deep sigh. “If you’d like, there’s a cake social starting in about ten minutes. You can go into the other tent and take a seat.”

  ‘That sounds lovely,” said Lynch.

  Lovely? thought Suzanne. This from a guy who buys distressed funeral homes for a living?

  Petra was suddenly standing at Suzanne’s elbow. “We’ve got a problem,” she said in a terse voice.

  “Hmm?” said Suzanne, whirling about.

  “We simply don’t believe Carmen Copeland decorated her own cake,” said Petra. She cast a conspiratorial glance at Doogie. “Do we?”

  He shrugged. “If you say so. It’s awful nice and fancy, though.”

  “It’s gorgeous!” agreed Petra. “But since she already asked me to create that handbag cake, do you really think Little Miss Romance Writer knows how to feather frosting or do garrett frills?”

  Suzanne’s mouth twitched. “Maybe she took a class?”

  “And maybe she’s out-classed,” replied Petra in a huff. “A lot of hard work and love went into baking and decorating all these other cake entries. They’re the ones who are the most deserving.”

  “So what are you gonna do?” asked Suzanne. More and more, she was becoming a bottom-line gal. Define the problem. Figure out a solution. Don’t agonize or burst a blood vessel in the process.

  Petra made an unhappy face. “Since I can’t prove Carmen didn’t decorate her own cake, we’re probably going to have to award her a ribbon. Her cake is clearly the best in the sugar arts category.”

  “What about the other categories?” asked Suzanne.

  Petra squinted at her judging sheet. “Nadine is the hands-down winner in tiered cakes, Lynda Jenner in sheet cakes, and Kathy Cromley in wedding cakes. And, of course, we also have our first runner-ups.”

  “Okay,” said Suzanne. “So seven out of eight’s not that bad. The contest’s not a total disaster.”

  Petra was still unsure. “But don’t you think everyone will guess that Carmen didn’t decorate her own cake?”

  Suzanne raised an eyebrow and flashed a snarky, knowing grin. “Yes, I think that might well happen. So . . . it’s not a total capitulation on our part, is it?”

  Petra stared at her, then a gradual smile stole across her broad face. “Yes,” she said, clearly warming up to the idea. “I see what you mean.”

  The cake social proved to be an even bigger hit than when the Kindred Sluggers faced off against the Jordan Brewers in the state finals.

  Toni and Kit brought out all the cakes Petra had baked and set them up as a veritable cake buffet. Thin slices of coconut cake arranged on a sterling silver tray. Devil’s food on a three-tiered curette. Chocolate cake decorated with fresh strawberries on a tall crystal cake pedestal. Marble cake on a marble slab balanced atop two silver columns. Petit fours on a fancy lacquer tray. And scattered among the cake display were flickering candles and elegant floral bouquets.

  “Oh my goodness,” Laura Benchley marveled to Suzanne. “Forget Old Country Buffet or the potluck at St. Sebastian’s. This is what every buffet should look like!” As editor of the Bugle turned eager reporter, Laura was snapping photos and jotting notes like crazy.

  “Sugar, gobs of frosting, and fruit glazes,” agreed Suzanne. “I mink I could live on this stuff.” And sometimes I have, she thought, feeling a small pang of nutritional guilt.

  “What kind of ice cream are they serving?” asked Laura. She pointed toward the far end of the table where Toni and Kit were doing the honors, scooping ice cream and sorbet.

  “Vanilla bean and peach mango,” said Suzanne. “Along with Petra’s homemade strawberry sorbet.”

  “Dear Lord,” murmured Laura. “Petra makes her own sorbet?”

  “She’s just an old-fashioned gal,” laughed Suzanne.

  “Deep down, don’t we wish we all were,” replied Laura.

  Suzanne worked her way down the cake buffet line and stepped behind Toni and Kit, who were scooping like mad. “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “Great,” said Toni, “except for the fact we’ve got frostbite up to our elbows.” Toni shook her right hand to warm it up. “This is even worse than going ice fishing!”

  “You never . . .” said Suzanne with a laugh, then did a double take. “Ice fishing? Really?”

  “I’ll have you know Junior dragged me out onto Lake Elmo last winter,” said Toni. “Or, rather, I dragged the ice auger, spincast reels, and night crawlers, while Junior dragged two six-packs of Budweiser.”

  “You see,” murmured Suzanne, “that’s one of the reasons your relationship doesn’t work.
”

  “Incompatibility?” asked Toni.

  “Inequality,” said Suzanne.

  Some fifteen minutes later, Petra and Sheriff Doogie stood in front of the group with fluttering purple and blue ribbons in hand. Somewhere during the judging process, Doogie had picked up a chef’s hat that matched Petra’s. So now they looked like a pair of giant white mushrooms performing a song and dance act in front of the crowd.

  Toni, who had relinquished ice cream duties to Kit, perched at one of the tables, clinking her fork against her glass.

  “Attention, please!” called Doogie, obviously relishing his role as judge and jury. “Petra and I are about to announce the division winners in the cake-decorating contest!”

  A burst of applause followed and chairs were scooted around so everyone could face front. Laura Benchley crept toward them down the center aisle and snapped another quick photo.

  Petra took a step forward and began. “After careful consideration and delicious deliberation Sheriff Doogie and I have determined grand prize winners as well as first runner-ups in the Cackleberry Club’s first annual Take the Cake cake-decorating contest.”

  More bursts of applause echoed through the tent as Suzanne slipped into a seat beside Toni and grinned. Somehow, they’d managed to pull it off! Now if they could only get through tonight!

  “Take the Cake’s a hit!” said Toni, clapping and adding a few high-pitched whistles for punctuation.

  “Thank goodness,” murmured Suzanne.

  “We’ll have to make it a permanent event,” said Toni.

  Suzanne nodded as she glanced around the tent, where good fellowship and a definite sugar high seemed to prevail. In fact, two tables down, Carmen Copeland leaned over to whisper in the ear of Ray Lynch. And not just a discreet, casual whisper, either. Carmen had a distinctly flirty, conspiratorial look about her, while her body language projected something akin to Look at me, I’m still a little hottie.

  Suzanne nudged Toni with her elbow. “Carmen.”

  Toni stole a quick glance, then rolled her eyes in disdain. “She’s something else. Little Miss Muffet on her tuffet.”

  “She does have a way of putting it all out there,” admitted Suzanne.

  “Maybe Carmen should be shaking her moneymaker at Hoobly’s,” whispered Toni.

  “Did she ask you about tickets for tonight?” said Suzanne.

  “Oh yeah,” snorted Toni. “Afraid so. And since we had a cancellation, Carmen bought two tickets.”

  “Say it ain’t so,” said Suzanne.

  “From the looks of things,” said Toni, “I’d say Carmen probably invited Ray Lynch.”

  “Shhhh,” said Suzanne, “Petra’s going to hand out ribbons now.”

  With a big grin on her face, Petra held up one of the purple ribbons for all to see. “In the sheet cake division, I’m pleased to award the grand prize to Lynda Jenner.”

  More thunderous applause.

  “In the tiered cake division,” said Doogie, “grand prize goes to Nadine Carr.” He looked around. “Nadine, come on up here, girl.”

  Nadine, shy little lady that she was, shuffled forward reluctantly to accept her purple ribbon.

  “In the wedding cake division, our grand prize winner is Kathy Cromley,” said Petra.

  “And last, but not least,” said Doogie, “grand prize in the sugar arts division goes to Carmen Copeland!”

  Carmen clasped a hand to her chest and dropped her jaw in mock surprise. Me? she mouthed, even as she leapt from her seat and ran to collect her purple ribbon.

  When Carmen finally settled down, Petra announced the four runner-ups and Doogie proudly handed them ribbons.

  “And so,” said Petra, wrapping up the awards ceremony, “all of our grand prize winners are cordially invited to our gourmet dinner this evening.”

  “The winners’ dinner!” shouted Carmen. She searched for the camera, smiled prettily, then waved her purple ribbon like a crazed cheerleader shaking her pompoms. “Hooraaayl”

  Toni sighed deeply. “Don’t her batteries ever wear down?”

  Chapter thirty

  “Where’s the pepper mill?” shrieked Petra. She spun fast with a saucepan full of melted butter in her hand, bumped the table, and watched helplessly as butter spattered everywhere. “Oh great!”

  Suzanne grabbed a rag and knelt down swiftly to wipe up the glistening mess. “Don’t worry about it,” she told Petra. “Calm down, take it easy.”

  Suzanne, Petra, and Toni were all jammed in the kitchen, trying to pull together their gourmet dinner. Suzanne had just trimmed out the salmon medallions, Toni had set out stacks of plates for the various courses and had just finished rinsing and drying the Boston bib lettuce. It didn’t help that it was pouring like crazy outside, rain drumming on the roof of the Cackleberry Club and gurgling loudly in the downspouts. And, of course, just steps away in the cafe sat a full complement of dinner guests—cake-decorating winners, runner-ups, and another dozen or so assorted diners.

  “Everything simpatico out front?” asked Petra.

  “Quaffing their aperitifs,” said Toni, who’d poured out judicious servings of Lillet into small crystal glasses.

  “Sipping,” said Petra, still a little stressed. “They should be sipping.”

  “They are,” said Suzanne, snicking open the door to the pass-through and peering out. “And, believe me when I say this: everyone has been highly complimentary so far.We’ve even gotten compliments on the table arrangements.”

  “See?” said Toni. “Who says you can’t take dried milkweed, judiciously coat it with a little gold spray paint, arrange it in white country crocks, and then light the room with a million white candles?”

  “There are a lot of candles,” allowed Suzanne. Toni had gone slightly overboard in that department.

  Petra allowed herself a smile. “It looked like midnight Mass last time I peeked out.”

  “The cafe is simply gorgeous,” Toni said with pride. They had set the tables with crisp, white linen tablecloths, laid out the good silver, and rented crystal stemware from Fancy Nancy’s Party Rental over in Jessup.

  Petra turned her attention toward the mustard sauce cooling on the counter. “There’s so much going on, I feel like I’m in an old Marx Brothers movie. A Day at the Races or A Night at the Opera!’

  “Which Marx Brother am I?” asked Toni, playing along.

  “You’re Groucho,” said Petra. “Always making with the cryptic comments.”

  “No, no.” Toni laughed. “You’re thinking of Suzanne.”

  “Not me,” said Suzanne. “You take the honors on that front.” She glanced around quickly. “What now?”

  “I’m going to lightly grill our salmon medallions,” said Petra. ‘Then we’ll arrange them on individual appetizer plates, drizzle on mustard sauce, and add our dilled cucumber garnish.”

  Joey Ewald creaked open the swinging door and peeked in. “Got any more of that fancy wine?” he asked. “Some guy is asking for a refill.”

  “Earl Stensrud,” said Kit, shuffling in behind Joey.

  “The answer’s no,” said Toni. “Honestly, we only had three bottles to begin with. Doesn’t he know Lillet is an aperitif? Doesn’t he know there’ll be more wine with dinner?”

  “Oh, he knows,” said Kit.

  “He was just being rude to me,” said Joey. “ ‘Cause I’m a kid.”

  “Earl was being rude,” said Suzanne, “because he’s a rude person. It’s not about you, it’s about him.” Or maybe it’s about the Lillet, thought Suzanne. The wine’s sweet notes of candied orange and mint are awfully intoxicating. Appealing, even, to a lout like Earl.

  Joey flashed a lopsided grin at Suzanne. “Will you adopt me, Boss? Can I be Baxter’s half brother?”

  “Sorry, cutie,” Suzanne told him. “No can do.”

  “I’ll take ya,” said Toni, linking an arm around Joey’s neck.

  “You’re too permissive,” said Petra, gently slipping her medallions onto th
e grill. “Witness the way you deal with Junior. No,” she continued, “Joey needs someone who’ll ride herd on him. Help unleash the gentleman hidden within, and maybe channel his aspirations into something besides skateboarding.”

  “Skateboarding’s cool,” said Joey.

  “But you can’t make a living at it,” argued Petra.

  “Some guys do,” said Joey. “In California.”

  “Unless the town fathers truck in a load of sand and rename this place Redondo Beach,” said Suzanne, “I’d say you’re out of luck.”

  “Why is Earl Stensrud here, anyway?” asked Toni, pulling four bottles of Pinot Gris from the cooler. Suzanne had selected it to complement the salmon appetizer. The wine’s acidic flavor to balance the oily richness of the fish.