I stuffed the sleeping bags, undies, wine bottle, and all the wrappers back into Donna’s big plastic bag. I’d store it in the garage for Tom, just in case he needed it for evidence, although there was no chain of custody, and my fingerprints were all over everything. But having something tangible sometimes helped in interrogations, if things got that far. I cleaned my hands with disinfecting wipes from the glove box, wheeled the van away from the shoulder, and gingerly pressed on the accelerator. In catering terms, it was getting late, and I really, really didn’t want Yolanda stuck with all the packing.
As I drove back toward town, I tried to unwind from the cabin incident by concentrating on that night’s dinner. The cooking was largely done, except that I had to arrange the composed salads on whatever china plates Rorry wanted us to use. The lamb chops could easily roast over at Rorry’s. Yolanda had volunteered to make the Navajo tacos, which would involve deep-frying pieces of dough—what the Navajos call “fry bread”—then quickly splitting these flat rolls and stuffing them with prepped ingredients. I was dreading serving something at a catered party that I had never actually prepared before. But Yolanda had said she knew how to make them, and I trusted her. Plus, if the tacos didn’t work out, they didn’t work out, period. As Julia Child had been fond of saying, “Never apologize.”
My cell phone beeped with a message, probably sent while I was outside the van checking through the lovers’ garbage. It was not from Tom, as I hoped, but from Rorry Breckenridge. She’d announced to my voice mail that the Hanrahans and the Bells were snowed in and had canceled, but that Father Pete had added two guests. Some people, apparently, felt guilty about coming at the last minute, so they would be bringing platters of extra food. If that was all right, she’d added. She was apologetic. One person had already brought over some caviar and put it in her refrigerator. Another was bringing enchiladas, and someone else was bringing several bottles of champagne.
I shook my head at the irony. The church wasn’t managing to make its budget, but guests were outdoing themselves bringing goodies. Go figure.
Plus, enchiladas? Did this mean the Juarezes were coming? Oh, I so didn’t want a scene between them and Humberto at the party.
I didn’t call Rorry back, because really, what could she do? It sounded as if this party was becoming more and more like a potluck, anyway, albeit a fancy-schmancy one. How far this all was from the simple but elegant dinner we had initially envisaged, back when the party was going to be outside in the Indian summer air, on the Breckenridges’ enormous deck.
My cell rang: Marla.
“Okay, so I’m bringing beer to this shindig tonight,” she said without preamble, “and now I’m wondering, if we’re having Navajo tacos, should I bring Mexican beer? Wouldn’t you rather have the Dutch variety?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. My friend’s voice warmed my heart. “Any kind would work.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way to Aspen Meadow Liquors.”
“Not to buy beer, I hope.”
“No, I need some more white wine. German white wine, in case you’re wondering.”
“Why German white wine?”
“If I tell you, you cannot tell anyone.”
“About German white wine?”
“Marla? I need information, the kind you can often get. But you can’t tell anyone what I’ve found out.”
“Okay, okay. But satisfy my curiosity. Does this big secret refer to Riesling or Liebfraumilch?”
“Riesling.” I took a deep breath. “Donna Lamar told me a couple is breaking into her rentals to have sex. So I went out to a cabin where they’d supposedly been. Get this—one of our lovers is Sean Breckenridge.”
“Oh my God. Poor Rorry.”
I summed up the trip out to the cabin and finding the credit card, which, I admitted, might have been stolen from Sean. I told her about hearing the gunshots and going through the bag of evidence. “And now I’m going to buy the stuff that our loving couple had to eat and drink. I’m hoping that if Sean did indeed drop his own card out at the cabin, his girlfriend will be one of the guests and they’ll both indulge tonight.”
“I simply cannot wait for you to expose these people. Should I have some of each of those cheeses, so it’ll look like it’s no big deal?”
“What you should do is act uninterested.”
“Uninterested? All right, all right,” she said to placate me. “Speaking of tonight, I’m already ravenously hungry. Now, don’t worry. My cardiologist has given me a bunch of rules, and much as I’d like to, I’m not going to pig out.”
I said, “Uh—”
“Oh,” she said dismissively, “you know how it is with your parties. As long as one of the people at the dinner is cooking, like a hostess, guests hold back from gorging themselves. But when we have to buy a ticket or pay for the meal ourselves? It’s full speed ahead on the stomach stuffing.”
“You’re right in your observation, I’m sorry to say. That’s why I never, ever sell tickets to an all-you-can-eat buffet. Folks will come to that kind of meal pulling a cooler.”
“What do you suppose the guests at the Breckenridges’ will be wearing?” she asked. “I mean, it’s a church event, but does that mean folks will wear churchy clothes?”
“The way I’ve seen it work, the more swish the locale, the more people tend to get dressed up, even in Aspen Meadow, which is Denim Heaven.”
“Maybe,” Marla said thoughtfully, “but we also like to be authentic, you know, to the theme of the party. So if there’s going to be a hayride or anything involving straw bales, folks will pop five or six hundred for cowboy outfits, right down to the red and white bandanas and Billy the Kid fringed leather jackets.”
“The decorating theme is Abundance of Fall. You could come as a cornucopia.”
“Are you making fun of my size?”
“No, silly. I’d say this will be more fancy-pants, because the Breckenridges are loaded and their house is huge.”
“Excuse me,” said Marla knowingly, “you’re wrong, the Breckenridges are not loaded. Rorry is wealthy, remember? I heard they live on her money. That’s why Sean doesn’t have to work, although he calls himself a professional photographer, which is bull. Do you know anyone who’s ever hired him?”
“Nope.” I pulled into the parking lot of Aspen Meadow Liquors, where tire tracks crisscrossed in the slush. “Listen, girlfriend, I have to hop.” I parked and threw on the brake. “Say, do you know Hermie Mikulski, from church? She used to be in charge of the Altar Guild, but I don’t think she is anymore.”
Marla sighed. “Oh, yes, now she’s into making sure people take care of their animals. There was a woman in my neighborhood who was renting a house that was for sale. According to Hermie, this woman was keeping too many cats. Hermie got her evicted, and the cats were put up for adoption. I still don’t think they’ve sold that house. They couldn’t get rid of the, you know, scent.”
“Thanks, Marla. See you tonight.”
“In my abundance outfit. And much as I’d like to, don’t worry, I won’t say a word about Sean.”
I ducked into Aspen Meadow Liquors. When I was starting out in catering, I’d bought wines and liquors from Harold, the beefy proprietor. But then Alicia, my supplier, had been able to get me better prices on everything, so I’d switched. I didn’t know if Harold would care or even remember me. He’d been known to dip quite extensively into his own stock.
“Well, speak of the devil!” Harold, white haired, red nosed, and stooped, cried when I came through the door. My heart plummeted when I saw he was talking to Humberto Captain. Humberto was still wearing his duck suit, but the sartorial effect was ruined by the mud on his trouser hems. And then I noticed that Humberto, who was probably in his early fifties, was accompanied by a young woman, a svelte, top-heavy platinum blonde who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. She didn’t look like his daughter. And anyway, she was wearing a skintight silver unitard that didn’t exactly say I
’m out with Daddy doing errands.
“Humberto’s buying Dom Pérignon to serve at your dinner tonight!” Harold called to me. His speech was slurred, and his head waved slightly on his neck, as if a breeze were blowing in the store. “Aren’t you lucky?” Harold asked, his voice petulant now. “Don’t you feel fortunate?”
I smiled at Humberto and hoped it did not look fake. “I’m thrilled. I feel like, well, like ten million bucks!”
Humberto did not bat an eyelash. Nor did he introduce me to the woman, who turned away from me. Her face in profile, though, seemed familiar. Who was she? I didn’t know any young women in Aspen Meadow who would purposely dress in a silver unitard while doing anything except trick-or-treating. And anyhow, I had the feeling that what this young woman did was, actually, turn tricks.
I moved up to them and offered my hand to the young woman. “Don’t I know you? You seem familiar. Do you live here in town?”
“This is Odette,” Humberto interjected. He put a protective arm around the young woman’s waist. “Is she not beautiful?”
“That she is,” I replied. And smart, too, I remembered distantly. Very smart, but without much money. How did I know her? “Do you have a voice, Odette?”
“Zat I do,” she said, winking at me. When she did so, I noticed long fake black eyelashes. Her eyelids were dusted with silver.
All right, enough was enough. I reached into my pocket, felt for my cell phone, and squinted at it. Somehow, I managed quickly to maneuver over to Take Photo. “Smile!” I commanded, holding up the phone.
Humberto pulled Odette even closer, and grinned widely. Odette again turned away, so all I could snap was her profile. What was with this mystery woman? She whispered something in Humberto’s ear. He blushed and shifted his weight. Dang! Too bad my cell phone couldn’t pick up sexual tidbits on distance audio.
“We need to go get ready,” Humberto said, his cheeks still red. “We’ll see you tonight,” he added.
Good, I thought. Maybe I’d be able to get a cell phone photo of Odette’s face.
Harold heaved up the case of Dom and waddled out to Humberto’s black Mercedes, which he’d parked illegally at the curb.
“Say, Harold,” I said when he returned. “For this party tonight? I’ve had a last-minute request.”
Harold’s rheumy eyes regarded me unhappily. “I hope it isn’t something weird, because I didn’t get a delivery today. The truck driver was afraid of the snow. My wife’s coming to get me early, too.”
I certainly was glad his wife drove him to and fro, as I didn’t want more drunk drivers on the Aspen Meadow roads. But I kept mum about that. Instead, I repeated the words I remembered from the bottle of white wine.
Harold relaxed and nodded. “No problem.”
“You have any chilled?”
“Yeah, sure.” He headed toward the wall of refrigerators. “Who’s giving this party? The Breckenridges?”
“One and the same,” I said. “Is it Sean or Rorry who likes this wine?”
Harold faced one of the cold doors. “How many bottles?”
“Three ought to do it. So, is it Sean or Rorry who buys this from you?”
“Uh, he buys it.” Harold hugged the bottles to his wide chest as he trundled ahead of me to the cash register. “But maybe she sends him to the liquor store to get it for her.”
“Did he say he got it for her?”
“He never says much, Goldy.”
“Ah.”
I paid and had him staple the bag shut, then placed my load into a cart and maneuvered through the slush to the grocery store next door. In the deli section, I noticed someone else I knew, a longtime deli worker named Lena. She was heavy and wore lots of makeup, including formidable black eyeliner. It didn’t look quite as good on her as it had on “Odette,” but never mind. Lena had dyed her hair black at the roots and blond on the ends, which gave her kind of a “Jersey summer” look. Maybe when my hair turned gray, I’d have to think about doing something similar.
“Goldy!” Lena cried. “Long time no see. We’ve got some smoked turkey on special.” She changed plastic gloves.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Actually, I have to ask you about one or more of your customers.”
“Well, could you at least buy something, so my manager doesn’t get suspicious?”
“Absolutely. I need two more cheeses for a dinner I’m doing tonight. One’s a Gouda, ’s-Gravenhage. The other’s a Camembert, Le Roi et la Reine. Do you have either one?”
Lena rocked her head back and laughed. “I have both of them, you sly dog. And I know what you’re up to.” She moved to the cheese section of the case and pulled out the Gouda first, then the Camembert. “How much of this would your clients like?”
“A pound of each, thanks. Could you please slice the Gouda? All right, I confess. I’m being a busybody and I need to know who usually buys this.”
Lena’s fifty-year-old face wrinkled as she placed the cheese on the scale. “Don’t you know?”
“Not exactly.”
Lena grinned. “Sean Breckenridge comes in and buys them. About two or three times a week, and never with his wife. He doesn’t buy a pound each, though.”
I feigned confusion. “So how much does he usually buy?”
Lena moved the Gouda out of the way, tucked it into a plastic bag, and slapped on the price tag. Once she had the Camembert up on the scale, she said, “He usually buys a quarter to a third of a pound each time. I told him he should buy more, so he’d have it in his home fridge when he wanted it.” She measured out the Camembert and handed me the second plastic bag.
“And what did he say?” I asked.
“That’s the weird thing,” Lena said. “I’ve asked him a couple of times, and it’s like I told him his fly is down.”
Well, it is. I said, “Maybe his wife has him on a cheese-free diet, and he’s sneaking it.”
“Goldy, please. A cheese-free diet? Sean’s skinny. And if he’s lactose intolerant, he shouldn’t be eating cheese at all.”
“Is he ever with somebody when he buys the cheese?” I asked. “Somebody who isn’t his wife?”
Lena wagged an index finger at me. “You think he’s fooling around, and I think you’re right. And that’s, if you’ll pardon the expression, cheesy.”
“Lena, come on. Has he ever come with someone or not?”
Lena exhaled as someone called to her that they wanted to taste Braunschweiger. “I’ve never noticed anyone with him. Just the acting-ashamed routine.”
“Keep this under your hat, okay?”
“Keep what under my hat?”
“Don’t kid a kidder, Lena.”
“Rorry is worth millions, Goldy.”
“Well, then, once we know what’s going on, you can sell your story to the tabloids.”
Lena rested her large body against the glass on her side of the case. “But I don’t know anything,” she whispered.
“Neither do I,” I protested, as I gathered up the bags of cheese. “But I’m hoping to be able to find out.”
“Will you tell me, when you know?” she asked breathlessly.
“No,” I said.
Lena harrumphed and quick-marched over to the person wanting liverwurst.
I raced back to the house. It was just after three, and I was consumed with guilt for being so behind our schedule. But when I came inside, it was Boyd who was placing foodstuffs into boxes. Yolanda was spooning the ground beef with seasonings into a container, and the house was filled with the heady scent of a Mexican restaurant. Zippered bags of chopped tomatoes, shredded lettuce, chopped scallions, and grated cheese stood in rows on the kitchen table.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “How’s Ferdinanda?”
Yolanda gave me an exasperated expression. “When the doctor told her it would still be Thanksgiving before she was done with her cast, she pulled out her baton and was on the verge of popping it open when Boyd yanked it away from her. The doctor told us not to come back! He insi
sted he was done with us and that we needed to get another orthopedist. Ferdinanda said she wouldn’t come back if he paid her to. Then she made loud quacking noises all the way out through the waiting room. She didn’t stop until we got to my van.”
“Where is she now?” I whispered.
“Sleeping. She said that quack tired her out.” She hesitated. “I might need a recommendation to another orthopedic surgeon.”
“No problem. Are we ready to start loading the van?”
She nodded, so I went back outside, where the weather was beginning to turn chilly. I was in the process of reversing the van up the driveway, so that it would be as near as possible to the deck next to the kitchen door, when my eye caught on something. Cursing under my breath, I threw the van into Park and walked quickly to the curb.
Snowmelt had caused a rapidly rushing stream on either side of our road. Without my willing it, I looked up. There were brown curtains hanging in the front room of my godfather Jack’s house. The cold, moist afternoon air closed in on my heart. I tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t. Even though I hadn’t seen a moving van, someone was either living in Jack’s place or fixing it up before occupying it. That would mean he really was gone.
I chewed the inside of my cheeks to get feeling back into them. Soon, someone else would be living in Ernest McLeod’s place, or at least on his property, whether or not the will held up. First we’d lost Jack, then Ernest had been shot and killed. I blinked, tried again to inhale, and felt a moment of dizziness. I turned and walked slowly back to my van. I pulled the sack of lovers’ detritus out of the back, opened the garage door using the code, and tossed the bag of trash inside. Then I closed the garage door and walked back up to the house.
In the kitchen, I helped Yolanda finish the packing. Rorry was providing her table linens, china, crystal, and silver, all of which she had told us her live-in maid would wash the next morning, and that we were not going to have to bother with it that night. She’d also told me the Abundance of Fall flower arrangements would be delivered that afternoon.
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