Fatally Flaky gbcm-15

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I’d like to see how he’s making out on the Finn case, that’s all.”

  “He’s working the Finn case today, actually. I know he’ll keep you posted, Jack.”

  “Will anybody else from the sheriff’s department be at Billie’s wedding?”

  I paused for a moment. What was going on here? I had the feeling Jack was fishing for information, but for what kind of information?

  “One of Tom’s associates will be here,” I said cautiously. “His name is Sergeant Boyd.”

  “Is he a guest?”

  “No, he’s helping me in the kitchen. Jack, what is going on? Why are you asking me these questions? You know, you can always leave a message for Tom if you want to.”

  “Hey, Gertie Girl, back off!” He laughed. “I just want to know what they’ve found out.”

  “I doubt Boyd will know anything.”

  “All right, then.”

  We signed off, and I continued piling up the dishes and silverware. The conversation with Jack troubled me. Did he know something about Finn’s death that he had withheld from the sheriff’s department? If Finn was his friend, why not tell all to Tom?

  I tried to put these questions aside as I worked on figuring out how to balance all the plates and glasses. I started with the dishes, then put the napkins on top, then the glasses, then the silverware inside the glasses. I was immensely proud of myself when I’d constructed a mountain of china that looked like something out of Arch’s old magic books.

  With great care, I picked up the whole thing. Unfortunately, I hadn’t figured on the hot pool’s steam covering the surrounding flagstones and my carefully constructed stack with condensed moisture. I slipped, fell on my knees, and watched in despair as my castle of dishware plunged into the depths of the pool.

  I cursed, rubbed my knees, and tried to think of what to do. I peered into the murky water, but could not see the glass. The famous Creek-side Ranch hot pond, about fourteen feet across, was fed by genuine geothermal springs. There were two ladders, but the bottom was invisible because the soaking pool was constructed of dark, and undoubtedly slippery, rocks.

  “Dammit to hell,” I muttered.

  What would happen if someone drank to excess at the wedding reception, came up here, and decided to have a soak? And what if he or she cut a major artery on broken glass? Unlikely, perhaps, but I didn’t carry enough insurance to cover stupidity, my own for losing my grip on all those dishes, or others’, for drinking too much.

  I prayed that no one, absolutely no one, was anywhere nearby. I pulled up my sleeve, knelt, and reached into the steaming water.

  It was so hot that I gasped. But I got used to it after a few moments. Scooting forward and feeling a couple of feet down along the edge of the pool with my fingers, I realized that a bench of some kind had been constructed around the inside perimeter. Marvelous. Only one plate had landed—and broken—on the bench.

  I decided to make another grabbing circuit of the hot-spring pool. Unfortunately, when I extended my right arm as far as I could, my knees gave way yet again on the slippery stones and I fell in.

  Cursing as wildly as one can while one’s mouth is full of foul-tasting water, I tried to get some purchase on the bottom. Underneath the bench was another shelf, probably meant as a footrest. I used it to propel myself upward, where I emerged, choking and coughing.

  I heaved myself onto the pool’s bench, shivering and thinking. Thank God I kept a clean change of catering clothes in my van.

  Since I had dropped the load in the first place, Victor would no doubt blame me—endlessly—for the broken dishes and glasses.

  What the hell, I was already wet.

  I took a deep breath and plunged down, down, down. How deep was this thing, anyway? Finally, at a depth that I judged to be about eight feet, I touched an uneven bottom. I pushed off and up for more oxygen, as I didn’t want to risk hurting my eyes by opening them. Then down I went again, and began to feel, ever so carefully, for more dishes and glasses.

  The water was hot, really hot, and I wondered if anyone ever scalded him- or herself. There was only one warning sign indicating that the very old or very young should not expose themselves to extreme temperatures for more than ten minutes. Peachy.

  After what had to have been twenty minutes of probing, I had found four glasses and five plates. Had there been more? I could not remember. My hair stank of sulfur, and I was so light-headed I thought I might pass out. Had I just heard Julian yelling for me?

  I had. He seemed to be hollering from a distance that might not be too far off. Was he on the path, maybe?

  “Yeah, I’m here!” I croaked, sputtering.

  “Goldy?” he called.

  “Yeah, I’m in the pool! Just don’t come all the way up, ’cuz I fell into the water and my clothes are stuck to me!”

  Julian laughed, sounding relieved. “All right, I’ve got my back turned. Jeez, it’s misty up here.”

  I clambered out of the pool and immediately felt even more light-headed. “No kidding,” I said.

  “I couldn’t imagine what had happened to you! Look, why don’t you have a shower in the spa gym? They’re cleaning in there and it’s open. I’ll bring you your clean clothes from the van. We’ve got lots of work in front of us, boss.” He paused. “What’re you doing up here, anyway?”

  I told him about finding Billie, then being ordered to pick up all the dishes and glasses, then dropping all of same into the pool, then feeling guilty and worried and reaching for the stuff, and finally, falling in, which was when I started looking everywhere for the still missing glasses, et cetera.

  “This is easy,” Julian called from the path. “We tell Victor about what happened. He puts a sign up saying the pool is being cleaned or something, and then he finds somebody to fix the problem. I’ll meet you in the gym in ten minutes?”

  “Okay,” I said reluctantly. I clomped down the path toward the gym.

  I simply could not wait for this day to be over.

  14

  Sergeant Boyd, whom we’d always only ever called “Boyd,” had arrived and immediately gone off looking for me up one of the hiking trails. Billie, apparently, had not bothered to tell anyone where I was.

  “Man, I thought I was going to lose my job over you being abducted or something,” he said, running his carrot-shaped fingers through his unfashionable black crew cut when I reappeared in the kitchen, showered, shampooed, and dressed in clean clothes. “In fact, lose my job? Forget my job. Schulz would’a killed me.”

  Julian just shook his held. Yolanda, who wore her hair up in an intricate cascade of curls, giggled. Apparently, she thought Boyd was kidding. Yolanda looked happy, anyway. After their set-to the other day, maybe Billie was giving Yolanda a wide berth.

  “C’mon, Sergeant,” she said playfully, “taste one of these. You won’t want to go looking for anyone else the rest of your time here.”

  She plucked a paper napkin from a pile and put what looked like an empanada on top. I peered more closely at the napkins. They said, Billie and Craig, in embossed silver letters. I supposed with all the scheduling changes, Charlotte had given up on having a date printed on them.

  “Here’s one for you, Goldy,” Yolanda said demurely. “Julian won’t want one, because it has meat in it.”

  I tasted her offering: it was crunchy on the outside, with a smooth pork filling and a chile finish with a definite kick. “Yum,” I said. After all my time in the hot pool, I was strangely famished. I was also strangely dizzy. When black spots appeared in front of my eyes, I reached for the kitchen counter and swayed.

  Julian grabbed me. “You need to drink some water or a sports drink or something. You’re dehydrated from being in that hot pool for so long.”

  “You were in the pool all that time?” Yolanda demanded. “Why?”

  I gave them an abbreviated version of Charlotte’s request to find Billie, my hunting expedition, the mishap with the plates, and fina
lly, my sulphur-water diving escapade.

  Yolanda held her hand up in an almost-closed position, as if she were handling an invisible potato. “Ay, that woman Billie! I curse her and her wedding—”

  “You don’t need to go that far,” I protested, ever wary of evil people bent on providing real curses. “We’ll all be fine.”

  Yolanda lifted her chin. “I curse her anyway.”

  Boyd and Julian, who were apparently impervious to Yolanda’s cursing, ducked out of her way as they ferried plates from the spa cupboards to the counter where Julian had taped my signs showing where everything should go.

  “Victor told Isabelle she had to help with the serving!” Yolanda said, her face ablaze. “We’re going to have too many servers as it is, and now Isabelle? And it’s all because Charlotte complained about her, too.” Yolanda lowered her voice. “Isabelle? She was kissing the boyfriend of Charlotte?”

  “Well,” I began, “he was kissing her…I’m just so sorry you and Isabelle are having to give up your Sunday.”

  “Don’t be,” she said, playful again. “I kind of like your friend Boyd. I just broke up with my boyfriend, so I’m available. And Boyd is cute! Get it? Boyd-friend?”

  I didn’t mention that I’d half-promised Boyd to Marla for a dance at the reception. Man, these things could get complicated.

  But before we could chitchat further, Julian bolted into the kitchen.

  “Boss man’s coming,” he hissed.

  Yolanda immediately turned back to her deep fryer, and I opened the first box I could find, which contained the chilled crab cakes.

  “I see you’ve begun working,” Victor boomed. “Yolanda volunteered to help you,” he went on, and only I could hear Yolanda’s tiny groan at this blatant lie. “Isabelle will be along around five. She’s also offered to help.”

  “I really don’t need them—,” I began, but Victor held up his hand.

  “They absolutely insisted,” he lied again. He squinted at me. “You want to tell me what you were staring at inside the Smoothie Cabin?”

  I shrugged. “I was looking for my godfather, Jack.”

  “And what was he looking for in there?” Victor pressed.

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Have you asked him?”

  Victor pursed his lips and gave me an angry look. “You just happened to be going by there just when your godfather just happened to be scrounging around for something, after breaking into private property—”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Julian said. “Speaking of breaking? There was an accident up at the hot pool.”

  Victor blanched. “An accident? Was someone hurt? Did you call an ambulance? What happened?”

  “If you’ll be quiet, I’ll tell you,” Julian said evenly. Everybody else was cowed by Victor Lane, but not my assistant. Hooray.

  “Young man, what is your name? Maybe we need to clarify your relationship to this spa,” Victor said. “You are here because I allowed you to be here. I can easily ban you from the premises, starting right now.” Victor snapped his fingers to make his point.

  “You want to hear about this accident, or not?” Julian said, unfazed.

  I really, really needed Julian to help me with this wedding reception, so I plunged in with, “Billie and Craig were up at the pool with some dishes and whatnot. They asked me to pick up after them, which I did, but the dishes slipped out of my hand and into the pool, and I couldn’t find them all, so they’re probably at the bottom of the—”

  Victor Lane turned on his heel. As he stomped out of the kitchen, he shouted over his shoulder, “This is why I refused to hire you!”

  “And you’re showing why she wouldn’t work for you!” Julian called after him.

  I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Julian and Yolanda were laughing so hard, Julian was doubled over and Yolanda had tears coming out of her eyes.

  “Since this is undoubtedly the last time I’ll be working here,” I said calmly, “could we please, please get going on this reception?”

  “Sure, boss,” said Julian. His face had turned bright pink from all the delirium, but he made an effort to read over my checklist.

  Boyd shuffled back into the kitchen. “What’s so funny?” he demanded. “Victor Lane told me he wanted some mulch spread in the new flower beds. So I spread the mulch, rewashed my hands, and now I’ve missed out on the big joke.”

  I told Julian to take Boyd out to the dining room, along with their checklist, if the latest tale in the Victor Lane saga absolutely, positively had to be repeated. Spreading mulch in the new flower beds? What was the matter with Victor Lane, anyway?

  Thank goodness, I couldn’t contemplate that question because we had too much to do. We worked diligently over the next two hours, making sure every detail was being attended to. Yolanda kept us supplied with scrumptious Mexican appetizers, and Julian had even brought some nonalcoholic beer that we could have with them.

  The ceremony itself was due to start at six, which meant guests would start to show up around half past five. Charlotte and Jack arrived, but I didn’t get a chance to visit with Jack, as the photographers showed up at the same time. Charlotte, who was wearing a flounced scarlet blouse and black pencil skirt, told the photographers to take lots of pictures of the spa exterior until it was half an hour before the wedding, at which point they were to come and find her. She then announced that she needed Jack to help with getting the groomsmen ready. Jack, who looked dapper in a white shirt and navy suit, winked at me.

  Charlotte caught the wink and cleared her throat. She said she was just checking in the kitchen to make sure we were on schedule. Then, once Jack was helping the groomsmen, she was off to make sure the hairdresser and makeup artist were hard at work on Billie and the bridesmaids.

  “Billie and the Bridesmaids!” Yolanda singsonged. “Sounds like a rock group!”

  Charlotte narrowed her eyes at Yolanda, unsure whether she was being made fun of, which of course she was. But clearly, Charlotte had more important things to do at that moment than force Victor to punish Yolanda again. Everyone departed for various dressing rooms, Julian announced he was going to start the grill for the artichoke skewers, and I was glad once again to be working with Boyd and Yolanda.

  Various servicepeople arrived. Boyd showed the bartender to his lair in the dining room. The bartender, a tall, slender fellow with a bald pate, began arranging the glasses, ice, sliced fruit, and bottles of wine and hard liquor to his liking. To my question when Boyd returned to the kitchen, he announced that the bartender was sober. This in itself was cause for rejoicing.

  Father Pete poked his chubby face into the kitchen. “I’m looking for a handout.”

  “Ooh, the priest!” Yolanda trilled. “You like quesadillas, Father?”

  “Do I!”

  While Father Pete was feasting on Yolanda’s offerings, Boyd once again checked every table; every place card; every setting of china, silverware, and crystal in the dining room. He reported that everything looked A-OK.

  Billie had insisted on a miniature organ being set up in the room’s far corner. When the opening strains of Jeremiah Clarke’s “Trumpet Voluntary in D Major” startled me, I asked Boyd to make another quick check. He disappeared and returned, saying the organist was just warming up.

  “Still, though,” he cautioned, “one of the ushers warned me that the guests will probably start arriving in about ten minutes. You ready?”

  I surveyed the kitchen. Yolanda’s offerings of empanadas, quesadillas, and fish minitacos were ready to be slid into one of the spa’s large ovens. The enticing scent of wood smoke drifted through the windows; this meant Julian’s fire would be ready in time for the artichoke skewers. Like the caviar-topped deviled eggs, the rémoulade sauce was still in the spa’s enormous walk-in refrigerator, as were the crab cakes—also on baking sheets, ready to be heated—the new-potato salad, and the haricots verts, with their vinaigrette only needing a final shake. The butter and baguettes were covered with plastic wr
ap on the center island. And the cake, another of Julian’s phenomenal creations, was on a separate wheeled cart, along with a stack of plates, napkins, and dessert forks.

  “We’re ready,” I said under my breath, just as the organist started in on Jeremiah Clarke in earnest, and the murmurings of guests being led to their seats beside the makeshift aisle began. Before long, the strains of the processional indicated the bridesmaids were making their way toward Father Pete. And, at long last, Wagner’s “Wedding March” commenced.

  Julian popped into the kitchen through the back door. “Fire’s ready. Oh, man, you should see Billie. That dress does not fit her. She looks like a whale inside a white girdle that’s, like, two sizes too small.”

  I groaned. “Don’t say that. If she thinks the guests are judging her, she’ll be in an even more vile mood than usual.” I gave him a worried look. “Will they notice?”

  He shook his head confidently. “Not if they’re blind.”

  Boyd snickered. “Man, I’d like to work with you people every day. You’re certainly a lot more fun than the sheriff’s department.”

  Yolanda tilted her chin provocatively. “We would like to have you work here. In fact, I would like it very much.”

  “Is that so?” Boyd asked. “How are your cheese enchiladas?”

  This banter went on for about twenty minutes as we worked. When we took a short break, I handed out the tip money from Dodie O’Neal, including Yolanda and her servers in the disbursement. Then, suddenly, from out in the dining room, Father Pete’s sonorous voice announced something, and the guests clapped.

  “Boy, that was quick,” Julian said in surprise. “Guess the bride and groom didn’t write their own long, elaborate vows. I’ll go start the skewers.”

  As prearranged, Boyd and the rest of the servers worked to move the chairs away from the aisle. That side of the big room would be the dance floor, while the dining tables and their chairs would be reserved for people who just wanted to sit and relax. The wedding party, meanwhile, was outside having their photos taken.