Chopping Spree gbcm-11

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Worst of all, I thought, as Liz’s recorded voice continued to speak, was this question: Had Liz been so furious with Barry that she’d stabbed him to death? I shook my head. No way.

  Still, there was lots to find out at a single catering event. I booted up the menu for Shane Stockham’s capital investors’ lunch. Liz’s recorded voice kept droning on. It had been snowing in Golden to beat hell, she didn’t think that would slow her up, we needed to think about Easter ham dinners to make in advance for big clients….

  She stopped talking for a moment. The recorded buzz of empty cell-phone communication filled my kitchen.

  “Teddy’s disappeared,” Liz said abruptly. “Oh, Goldy, he took his mittens but not his damned boots!” Sobbing, she hung up.

  I slammed down some of the espresso—hot, powerful, and just what I needed—then dialed Liz on her cell. She answered before the end of the first ring.

  “Liz, it’s Goldy, and you’re going to be fine,” I reassured her. “Your son is seventeen. He’ll survive without boots.”

  “Goldy, you don’t understand.” Her voice cracked. “After I… found him Monday night at a fast food place, I called the cops, the way I’d promised back when he was… first trespassed from the mall. I said I’d keep track of where he was every minute—”

  “Wait. You mean the security guys didn’t call the cops to get him hauled off somewhere?”

  “I guess they tried, but the sheriff’s department told the security guys to release him outside the mall. I suppose they did that, because when I went into the security office to find Teddy, the guards told me my son had told them he’d go to McDonald’s. And the cops would contact me later. Which they did, but not until late Monday night. They…came to see me about Barry, asked a bunch of questions about where I was when, where Teddy was when, that kind of thing. Before they left, they told me I had to keep track of Teddy all the time.”

  “Good Lord.” Confused, I guzzled more espresso. “So. What did happen after you left us Monday evening?”

  “I told you.” A hint of exasperation wended into her voice. “I went to the security office, then walked to the McDonald’s near Westside, and Teddy was there, chowing down. He had my little car, remember, and I drove him home. Yesterday, while I was doing the wedding reception, he snuck out! He didn’t even have a car! I thought maybe he was with friends, but then he didn’t come home.” She stopped and gasped for breath. “Before he left, he… he put on his ski mittens that he always leaves by the front door. Then he nabbed one of my… of my carving knives. He proceeded to pick-ax his way into a batch of credit cards that I’d frozen in a plastic container of ice at the back of our freezer.”

  “Oh, no…”

  “He didn’t take his boots, so he wasn’t going snow-boarding. I know where he was going,” she continued, her voice bitter. “Shopping. And before you ask, yes, I canceled the cards. A couple of them, anyway. I think there were about eight in there, and all I could remember were the Visa and Saks Fifth Avenue—”

  “You don’t have to work today,” I interjected. “I can manage, I promise.” This wasn’t true, of course. With Julian in jail and my body somewhat the worse for the nighttime excursion to the portable toilet, I really did need Liz. But she was hurtling over a much larger bump on the motherhood road than anything I’d been dealing with lately.

  “No, I’ve got to work,” she protested, her tone urgent. “I can’t just wait for him to call, I’ll go nuts. The cops have my cell phone number. They swore they’d call if Teddy showed up… or got caught. God, I feel awful!”

  “As soon as you get here, I’ll fix you some breakfast. I’ll be fine on prepping the lunch.” Better than fine, I thought. I’d just had an idea.

  “Goldy, you’re the best. And I haven’t even asked how you’re doing.”

  I thought I could say I’d been feeling pretty crappy, but that seemed tactless. “Everything’s fine. Well, not really. Tom told you Julian’s been arrested.”

  “And I told him how bad I felt. How’s Julian doing?”

  “Not too good. Liz…I thought you had a date or something with Barry after the party.” When she snorted, I said, “Do you know anything about Barry’s social life? I guess I mistook your…chat with him at our planning meeting as, I don’t know, interest.”

  She guffawed. “No! I didn’t have a date, although I thought a judge I’d gone out with might show up at the leasing event, so I dressed up. But he didn’t show. Let’s see, Barry’s social life… well, I thought he was going out real seriously with Ellie McNeely. In case you wondered why I was being so nice to Barry at our meeting, I was trying to get on his good side, in case Teddy showed up again and made more trouble. Didn’t work, though.”

  “Do the police… I mean, are they searching for Teddy because he’s underage, or because he’s missing, or—” I couldn’t finish my own sentence, because I knew the answer.

  “They don’t look for anyone who’s just missing until forty-eight hours have gone by.” The line filled with static; Liz must have been driving by some high rocks. “They’re searching for Teddy for the same reason they told me not to leave town. Even though Julian’s been arrested, we’re both still suspects in Barry’s murder.” She paused. “Goldy, you’re one of the few friends I have.”

  The line went dead.

  Well. I hadn’t felt particularly good since the portable toilet ordeal, but now a warm glow suffused my senses. I had helped Ellie, after a fashion. And now I was helping Liz. Arch might think I was always bugging him or getting in the way, but at least my friends appreciated me. On this happy note, I put in a call to Marla, who was out. Well, Easter was right around the corner. Marla always spent enormous amounts of time and money finding clothes in the hues of dyed eggs. Then again, maybe she was hunting for more gossip that could help Julian—to her, this would be much more attractive than groping in ice-covered undergrowth for eggs.

  And speaking of which… outside, a blinding curtain of snowflakes had begun to whirl down. Welcome to spring in Aspen Meadow. One year, it had snowed every day in May. I pitied Liz driving the narrow, winding foothills road between Boulder and Aspen Meadow.

  I turned my attention back to the Stockhams’ menu. The dishes Shane had ordered—primarily cold salads—were more suitable to the brief spell of unseasonably warm weather we’d had back in March than to what we were experiencing now, that is, the usual “Springtime in the Rockies,” which was basically “Return to the Arctic.” Plus, what about these extra people I’d heard about… not from the client?

  I took all the food for the Prospective Tenants’ Lunch out of the refrigerator and placed it on the counter. It was possible I had a way out of this food mess.

  Making small last-minute changes to a menu was a prerogative I reserved. The proviso—always explained to clients—was that Goldilocks’ Catering would make up the cost difference if the new dishes, necessitated by market, weather, or oversight-on-our-part situations, were more expensive than those originally ordered.

  And speaking of expensive, I wanted to ask Shane about these possible extra guests, and remind him of his payment due. Yes, I had the money from Westside, but if I didn’t hold Shane responsible for his bill, too, then word would get out, and all of my contracts would be undermined. I fully intended to give Westside a huge discount on their next catered event, anyway. I just could not start doing last-minute renegotiations for the number of guests and the financial terms of my contracts. If there was one thing I’d learned on the business side of catering, this was it.

  Eight o’clock was a tad early to be calling a client, but Shane was pretty Type-A, so I figured he, too, could be on his third cup of coffee. I punched in the buttons for the Stockham house.

  Shane answered on the first ring. “Oh, God, don’t tell me you’re canceling!” His voice shook with dismay. “Sorry! I have caller ID, Goldy The snow’s really coming down, but I know you’ll be OK. Problem is, I’m worried now that a dozen deep-pocket investors won’t w
ant chilled food—”

  “A dozen, Shane?”

  He continued, oblivious. “Could you whip up another soup? Maybe a French onion, with cheese-slathered croutons? Page bought some Gruyère last week, I think it’s still around. Omigod, look at this snow. Do you have four-wheel drive on your van?”

  “Shane, hold on.” I then reassured him that the snow was not an issue, except as it impacted the menu. “Remember, Shane, you booked for six people. Not twelve. Six.”

  “Oops! I’ve added half a dozen women, didn’t I tell you?”

  “You did not. Most caterers would say it was impossible.”

  “Oh, please, Goldy. I’ll pay you more than double.”

  “You’re in luck. I’ll do it for one and a half times the first rate, provided I actually get the payment from you when we arrive.” He moaned, but I went on: “How would you feel about a gorgeous prime rib of beef with red wine gravy?”

  “Today? Really?”

  “Yes. But Shane, remember your check? I need it before my assistant and I set up.”

  “Can we barter?” he whined. “I can get you some fabulous electronic equipment! Wholesale!”

  “Shane!” I closed my eyes. You may eventually want to work with this person again, I reminded myself. “I need a check from you for a thousand dollars before we start.”

  He lowered his voice. “I’ve got a perfectly nice ruby, sapphire, and diamond ring right here in front of me, Goldy,” he whispered. “Over a half carat for each stone, flawless quality, great colors. The stones alone are worth twelve thousand bucks, and that’s not even counting the fourteen-carat-gold setting. If I don’t get a check from an investor today, you keep the ring.”

  I sighed. “Do you own the ring? Or did you lease it?”

  He gulped. “It’s… mostly paid for. We owe about another thousand for it on Visa. I promise, Goldy, that’s the truth. I swear, if I don’t pay up today, it’s yours, and the Visa bill is ours. The ring’s worth about fifteen thousand. Such a deal!”

  I cast a glance along our counter, taking in the enormous rib roast, the bundles of endive and radicchio, the boxes of wild mushrooms, the bowls of fresh strawberries and rhubarb. I tried to imagine hauling all of it over to the Stockhams’, along with a bald guy with a jewelers’ loupe. Then if the gems weren’t genuine, I could wring Shane’s neck.

  “When do I get the ring?” I heard myself say.

  “I can bring it over now, or, or, I can give it to you when you arrive.” He hesitated, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Probably safer if we wait until you get here. I swear, Goldy. If I don’t give it to you the second you walk in the door, you can dump the food in Cottonwood Creek. It runs right past our house.” Before I could reply, he said, “Hey, that prime rib sounds great. Oh, and could you name one of the dishes after these women? I want to flatter them a bit. We all know gadgets are the wave of the future! But these females keep moaning about nest eggs. Help me placate them, will you? I tell them they need to ‘Get wild!’ I even call them my ‘Wild Girls,’ and they love that. See you at ten.”

  And then the slimeball hung up.

  What would happen to the women’s nest eggs if Shane’s business failed again? Would they be offered emerald necklaces? In these situations, I always tried to think of what Tom, my wise husband, would say.

  You’re already driving yourself crazy trying to control your own burgeoning business, plus Arch, plus a police investigation involving Julian, my internalized Tom-voice reminded me. You don’t need to add taking care of Shane’s investors to Goldy’s List of Controllees.

  I checked our larder, fixed myself another coffee, and began to type.Investors’ Lunch for Twelve——Revised Menu

  Wednesday, April 13

  Steaming Gadget-Dumpling Soup

  Wild Girls’ Grilled Mushroom Salad

  Ad Guys’ Roast Beef and Gravy

  Mashed Russet and Sweet Potatoes

  Brioche Rolls

  Super Spenders’ Strawberry-Rhubarb Cobbler with

  Vanilla Ice Cream

  First things first. I brought out cardboard boxes and packed in the vats of chilled, Asian-flavored stock I’d already made. After preheating the oven, I put in the roast. I would sear and roast it partway at home, then finish it at the Stockhams’.

  Outside, the snow was thickening. Looking down, I wondered how my raw-skinned, much-washed hands would look with a ruby, sapphire, and diamond ring glittering on one finger. It didn’t matter. If we didn’t get paid for this lunch, I was going to sell the damn ring.

  I started water boiling for the potatoes. After trimming the enormous, firm Portobello mushrooms, I whisked together the luscious sherry and balsamic vinaigrette in which the mushrooms would be briefly bathed before I grilled them in the Stockhams’ state-of-the-art kitchen. Food was great, I reflected, as I got swept up in the rhythm of cooking. It’s dealing with folks that makes catering so challenging.

  Liz arrived, her coat dusted with snow, her nose red. She proffered a bag of cinnamon and cheese Danish from the Aspen Meadow pastry shop.

  “I didn’t want you to fix anything for me,” she protested sheepishly. “Anyway, I thought I wouldn’t be hungry, what with my son on the loose, getting us into so much debt I won’t be able to charge at the grocery store anymore. But I’m ravenous and out of cash… not a good time to run into the store clutching your credit card.”

  It turned out that I was ravenous, too. While the potatoes and roast cooked, we dug into the Danish and told credit card jokes. I wrote Liz a check for the Monday event, for which she was almost pathetically grateful. Then we rewashed our hands and quickly divvied up the tasks for the rest of the lunch. Liz, who had a remarkable knack for presentation, asked to be put in charge of piping side-by-side dollops of mashed sweet and russet potatoes in the potato skins.

  “I’ll make it look great,” she promised. “A fat golden swirl of mashed russet next to a creamy orange swirl of sweet potato, both piping hot and crackling with melted butter. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? You’re making me hungry all over again, and I just downed two Danish!”

  We worked feverishly over the next hour. As I energetically mashed the white potatoes—Liz was working on the fleshy, orange sweet ones—I wondered how to broach the subject of Teddy. Can anyone account for every movement of Teddy’s, from the time he left the security office to the time you picked him up at McDonald’s? I wanted to asked. How about someone vouching for your own doings?

  “How’s Julian doing?” she asked as she fitted a piping tip onto my pastry bag.

  “I saw him yesterday. He was feeling pretty low, didn’t talk much about what was going on there. I do know that the day after an arrest, the sheriff’s department does an advisement by video from the courthouse. Lets you know what you’re charged with. The arraignment comes a couple of days later. I’m just hoping that someone else will emerge as a suspect, someone, say, without an alibi—”

  “Teddy and I are lucky in that department,” Liz interjected, without looking at me. Instead, she concentrated on heaping scoops of mashed potatoes into the pastry bag. “I left you around quarter after eight, then went straight to Security. I left them around eight-thirty, which, thank God, is what the guards told the cops. Somebody was just coming in for his shift at McD’s when I arrived there at eight-forty, and watched me talking to Teddy until we left, around nine-thirty.” She finished the first four potatoes, and gave me a look. Triumphant? Defiant? I couldn’t tell.

  “Well,” I said thoughtfully as I brought an oversized bag of field greens out of the walk-in. “Hmm. So… if Teddy’s not a suspect, why would he take off? It’s just going to make them come down harder on him when they do find him.”

  Liz filled another bag with snowy whipped potatoes. “Teddy took off because he was under stress. When he’s under stress, he shops.”

  Or steals, I added silently, but said nothing. I rinsed the field greens and set them aside to drain. What else could I ask Liz before
it was time to take off? “Know anybody who might have pushed Barry down, causing him headaches?”

  Super Spenders’ Strawberry-Rhubarb Cobbler Fruit:

  ½ to ⅔ cup sugar, depending on the sweetness of the strawberries

  2 tablespoons cornstarch

  1½ pounds strawberries, washed, trimmed, and halved

  ½ pound rhubarb, washed, trimmed, and cut into 1-inch pieces

  1 teaspoon vanilla extractTopping:

  ¾ cup all-purpose flour

  ⅜ teaspoon baking powder (High altitude: ¼ teaspoon) ¼

  ⅛ teaspoon salt

  11 tablespoons (1 stick plus 3 table-spoons) unsalted butter, softened

  ¾ cup sugar

  1 egg

  ½ teaspoon vanilla extract

  Vanilla ice cream or heavy creamPreheat the oven to 375°F. Butter a 9 × 13-inch pan or 2-quart au gratin pan.For the fruit: In a small bowl, mix the sugar with the cornstarch. Place the trimmed fruit in a large bowl and pour the sugar mixture and vanilla over it. Mix together gently and pour into the prepared pan.For the topping: Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt; set aside. In the large bowl of an electric mixer, beat the butter until creamy and light. Add the sugar gradually, beating until light and smooth. Beat in the egg until thoroughly combined, then mix in the vanilla. Turn off the beater and with a large wooden spoon, stir in the flour mixture just until all the ingredients are well combined. Using an ice-cream scoop or other large spoon, drop the dough in large, even spoonfuls onto the fruit in the pan.Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until the topping is golden brown and the fruit is bubbling. Test for doneness by spooning up a small section of the middle of the topping. If it is like cake, it is done. If the topping is still a liquid yellow, bake until it is like cake. Serve warm with best-quality vanilla ice cream or heavy cream, either poured or whipped.Makes 6 large or 8 small servings