The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  It had been at Adele and Bo Farquhars’ house, where I’d briefly been a live-in cook, that I’d met Julian. “You’re telling me Edith never figured out that it wasn’t Holly making the food on her cook’s night off?”

  Julian shrugged as we zoomed through the stone walls marking the entrance to the Meadowview area of Aspen Meadow Country Club. “Maybe Edith knew it wasn’t Holly cooking, maybe she didn’t. But if Edith suspected her daughter-in-law wasn’t actually making that meal each week, she didn’t say anything about it. Holly wasn’t a very good cook, I guess. It was worth it to Edith to keep mum, if she was going to get a decent dinner on the one night a week when the cook wasn’t there.”

  I reflected on all this as my van turned onto Arnold Palmer Avenue, and we sailed past gigantic gray, beige, and white homes, all dusted with pollen. Holly had lost her house after refinancing. I had not known that. What I had known was that she’d transferred Drew from Elk Park Prep to the Christian Brothers High School, and had not been forthcoming about her reasons. I’d put it down to a problem caused by Edith, not something related to money. The tuition for the Christian Brothers High School was half that of Elk Park Prep. But . . . could Holly really be having financial problems? How could Marla not have told me? And anyway, how was it possible?

  After all, Holly was an artist whose works reportedly commanded large sums. She’d been at pains to point out to me that she had lots of clients. Plus, Drew was only seventeen. Holly had told us—I knew it was in the Amour Anonymous notes somewhere—that George had had to give her a big settlement, and was duty bound to pay child support until Drew was through college. And George made loads of money. There was always the Ingleby oil fortune, just in case. So what was going on?

  “Boss, you just passed the turnoff to Marla’s. Yo,” he howled, “look out!”

  A man darted out from behind a chokecherry bush beside the road. I swerved to avoid him. With a fierce thud, the van hit a boulder. I shrieked to Julian to check if the guy was okay.

  “Hey!” Julian shouted. He jumped from the van. The sandy-haired, beefy man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, ran off. Julian tried to give chase, but the guy had too much of a head start. “Are you all right?” Julian hollered after him.

  “Come back!” I cried. I yelled at the disappearing figure, “I’m sorry!”

  The man did not come back, or even turn around.

  Cursing, I returned to my van, which had sustained damage to the bumper. Worse, at that moment, someone’s ground-level irrigation system started up.

  I said, “I feel so stupid.”

  “It’s okay, boss,” said Julian. “It was my fault. I should have waited until we got to Marla’s to ask you about Holly. Or really, I shouldn’t have told you any of that stuff at all. I mean, obviously, it upset you.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I should be able to listen and drive.”

  Water was pelting both of us, so we stopped arguing. We kept entire changes of clothes in the van, for just such eventualities. Julian insisted I go first, so I got back inside and quickly slipped into my dry outfit. There was nothing I could do about my bedraggled hair, but we were less than a block from Marla’s place. I leaped from the van, thanked Julian, and told him to go ahead.

  Meanwhile, I sat on a patch of grass well away from the sprinkler system. I puzzled over what Julian had told me. But I was not about to wonder aloud about Holly’s financial situation, even to my trusted assistant.

  When we got back in the van, I asked companiably, “Did Holly have a favorite dish that you made?”

  He grinned and shook his head. “She loved chile relleno torta. Said it was better than actual chiles rellenos from the best Mexican restaurant in Denver. That’s why I made four of them for tonight. Not that she’ll eat that much. She never does.”

  I turned around carefully, made it onto Marla’s street, and signaled to pull into her driveway. The pitch diggers, riding in the back of an enormous, exhaust-burping truck, waved to us as they left.

  “Hoo hoo!” Marla called, waving from her garage doors. After losing forty pounds on a low-carb diet, she’d been “forced,” she’d told me dramatically, to buy all new clothes. Today she wore a royal-blue short-sleeved turtleneck and black pants. Sapphire barrettes sparkled in her hair. She looked us up and down as we hopped from the van. “Did it rain and I missed it?” she asked, smiling. When she caught sight of my face, she said, “Uh-oh, you’re pissed. Look, I know I should have gotten that mystery guest’s name, but I just . . . what happened to the front of your van?”

  “I almost hit a guy when Julian was telling me about your friend and mine, Holly Ingleby, and her recent financial problems.”

  “What guy?” Marla peered at my van. “You hit something.”

  “Yeah. A boulder. Then somebody’s sprinkler system started up. That’s why we’re soaking wet.”

  “Think I’ll make myself scarce,” Julian said quickly. He slid open the van’s side door and heaved up the first ice-cream cooler. “Front open?” he called to Marla.

  “Yes. Look, Goldy,” Marla began, “don’t you want to have a shower? Julian?” But he had disappeared. “I’m sorry you hit a boulder, and I’m sorry I called you so early, but I figured you would want to know—”

  “About some guy who may or may not turn up, looking for Holly? D’you suppose he’s a creditor? Maybe he’s the one I just about killed, down on Arnold Palmer Avenue.”

  We were interrupted by yipping, barking, and howling from the three beagles Marla had adopted from a puppy farm. The trio of females—named Madly, Sadly, and Gladly—had grown exponentially in the past year. As they raced outside, they greeted me with enthusiasm and sniffed the air, hoping for treats. But with their canine sixth sense, they knew something was wrong. After I gave them obligatory pats, they looked to Marla for a signal.

  Marla’s face, meanwhile, had turned bright pink. “Holly didn’t want me to tell you about her money issues.”

  “Why not? The three of us were, and I hope still are, friends, Marla. Besides, you told Julian. What’s with that? Holly isn’t paying me to do this dinner tonight, so it’s not as if I would worry her check would bounce.”

  Marla put her hands on her newly slim hips. The dogs began to whine. “Julian wasn’t supposed to say anything to you. It’s just . . . I learned these things, and when Julian asked me about Holly as soon as he moved in with you, I told him. Next time I saw Holly, I asked if I could tell you. She said no. She didn’t want anyone to be aware of her financial issues.”

  “But why is it a secret, even from me? You and Holly and I were in Amour Anonymous together. We took care of each other and talked about everything. We just had a reunion, for God’s sake.”

  Marla held out her hands. “She’s ashamed.”

  “Of what? Why isn’t she going to a lawyer and demanding a bigger child-support check from George?” I pulled out the cake and made for the front door.

  “She is, I think. Or I’m guessing. I know she sold her Audi, as well as Drew’s, to raise cash. Plus, don’t think I haven’t asked if I could help her. I did. She refused. All right, girls,” she said to the dogs, “let’s go.”

  I held the door open for the beagles as Julian came back out. The house, or the property it sat on, had belonged to Marla’s sister, Adele Farquhar, now deceased. That had been a different, sad story. The residence next door, empty and unsold for years, had been reputed to be jinxed. That house, Marla had plowed under. I shuddered.

  Marla’s new home only resembled the Farquhars’ in its footprint. The exterior was clad in creamy beige stucco, the roof topped with copper-colored steel tiles. Inside, Marla had chosen soaring ceilings, three stories of windows overlooking the far mountains, acres of blond wood, a river-rock fireplace and hearth, and of course, a state-of-the-art surveillance system. In all, the whole place was as soothingly modern as Adele’s had been green-and-pink traditional.

  In the kitchen, Julian had already stored the second ice-cream cooler.
He marched in behind us with boxes that he piled on the granite-topped island, then threw me a quick glance. I still must have looked thunderous, because he opened a box and began moving silently between it and Marla’s oversize, stainless-steel refrigerator. Marla, meanwhile, shooed the beagles into their fenced dog run outside.

  “Look, Marla,” I said when she returned, “Holly is my friend, too. She was in our group. She belongs to our church. Why keep her problems secret from me?”

  “You can ask her if you want,” Marla said flatly. “She absolutely, positively will not tell me anything more about it. And, Julian, you shouldn’t have said anything, either.”

  “Sorry,” muttered Julian. “I guess I thought Goldy would know, like from Arch or something. I mean, don’t Arch and Drew carpool to school?”

  “Yes,” I said acidly, “but Arch doesn’t keep me up-to-date on the real estate market. He also refuses to share any gossip at all.”

  Marla held out her hands again in explanation. “The only reason I found out about Holly’s house in the club is that it’s a matter of public record. When I was thinking about moving over here, the house I was selling had to compete, pricewise, with her attempted short sale. You want a shower? Then some coffee?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks. Decaf.” I groaned.

  “Killing a boulder, getting soaked, and no caffeine. No wonder you’re in such a bad mood.”

  I had a quick shower, dried my hair, and drank Marla’s iced decaf, which was marginally better than what I had at home. Julian said he would shower after he’d had a swim in Marla’s pool. By the time I came back to the kitchen, he’d schlepped in all the boxes.

  As we unpacked, Marla said that at the country club, she had gleaned the tidbit she had told Julian, who in turn had shared it with me. Yes, Holly was living almost rent-free in a house over by Aspen Meadow Lake. It was a place she just had to move her nice furniture into and keep tidy, in case potential buyers dropped in. Marla added that she’d learned from me about Drew transferring to CBHS from Elk Park Prep. And how come I hadn’t asked Holly the reasons for her actions?

  “Oh,” I replied, “I assumed Edith had gone on one of her ball-busting campaigns. I asked Arch, and he refused to grill Drew. Plus, I . . . was trying to be polite.”

  “A-ha.” Marla pointed a red-painted nail at me. “And after all, I am famed for my rudeness.”

  “Marla, I didn’t mean—”

  She grinned. It was noon. She asked, “Would you and Julian like some salads for lunch? I just bought some fresh Chilean sea bass—”

  “I’ll fix it,” Julian interrupted.

  Half an hour later, we were diving into thick slices of bass poached in butter and garlic, topped with a chiffonade of basil, and perched on a salad of microgreens dressed with a freshly made lemon vinaigrette. I felt revived. Julian asked if he could do the dishes, then swim his laps. Marla told him to skip the dishes and go ahead.

  After Marla and I cleaned up, I checked in with Tom. He’d gotten the all-clear, and would be at Marla’s at five. I put my previous funk aside and concentrated on the coming party.

  The slap-slap of Julian’s methodical swimming gave me extra energy as I bustled around checking my lists, fluffing linens out over rented tables, and setting the buffet with what Marla had insisted on: china and flatware, with plastic cups for drinks, so that the kids and parents could have their beverages out by the pool.

  The sun began its long slide between thin layers of pink cloud on its way to the Continental Divide. Those jagged peaks above the timberline, still sheened in snow, glowed in the afternoon light. When I answered the door—to pick up sword-shaped floral decorations thick with red carnations and dark blue delphiniums—playing children were calling to each other from the street at the end of Marla’s driveway. The sweet mountain air was cool, perfect weather for energetic teenagers wanting to par-tay.

  Marla nodded at the arrangements before placing them on her long dining room table. “I told the florist to make them masculine. Okay, look, Holly called. Afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Not about the party.”

  “No. You know a local caterer named Kathie Beliar?”

  “I thought Kathie Beliar was a substitute teacher.”

  Marla shook her head. “Not anymore. She’s opened a catering company she’s calling Goldy’s Catering.”

  “What?”

  “She phoned Father Pete when Holly was in his office, and offered to do the church dinner for half of whatever you were charging.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “I know. Holly told Father Pete, who was confused, that I was still paying for that meal. So Holly left a scurrilous message on Kathie’s voice mail, telling her not to try to undercut you. Kathie then called Holly back, saying she would do tonight’s party, which she’d heard about from somebody at the club, for half of whatever you were charging.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Wait,” said Marla, motioning to her own laptop, which she kept on a desk in her kitchen. “Did you not register your business as a domain name?”

  I shook my head while looking in wonder at www.goldilocks

  catering.com. There was Kathie Beliar, whom our local librarians had often said looked like me, with her hair cut and curled like mine. Why anyone would want to look like an aging Shirley Temple was beyond me. But there was my doppelgänger, standing in front of a van that had been decorated to look like mine, with a phone number only one digit off mine.

  I said, “But her name’s Kathie.”

  Marla said, “So? Your actual name is Gertrude.”

  I sighed. “I can’t deal with this right now. My business is almost booked for the summer anyway.”

  Marla said gently, “I know. I just thought you should know, in case anyone brings it up tonight.”

  “Thanks.” I swallowed and tried to refocus my attention. “Now, where are you going to put the drinks?” That’s when we discovered that each of us had bought plastic cups. Unfortunately, we both thought the other one was providing beverages.

  “Not to worry,” Marla trilled, as she bounded off for her Mercedes. She called over her shoulder that she would buy cases of nonalcoholic drinks for the kids, and beer and wine for the adults. She promised to be back before the food was served.

  Tom, handsome and smiling, appeared just before five. Julian, his hair wet from his shower, joined us. A few moments later, Arch piloted his Passat up the driveway, and the first batch of his pals spilled out.

  “Drew’s mom is bringing him,” Arch announced. He wore flip-flops, khaki cutoffs, and a T-shirt featuring the logo of a band I’d never heard of. “The rest of the guys are parking down on the street.” He nodded to me, but his eyes contained a warning: Hug this birthday boy at your peril.

  I hadn’t been paying attention to my driving and had almost hit a guy in Marla’s neighborhood. I’d run my van into a boulder. A rival caterer in town was trying to steal my business, starting with the name.

  But at least I hadn’t strung up a piñata.

  3

  By half past five, most of the fencing-team parents and kids, plus assorted girlfriends, had shown up. The boys’ bald heads always gave my heart a jolt. They’d all shaved their scalps in sympathy with one of their teammates. He’d been stricken with leukemia and was going through chemo. The boy was doing well, but wouldn’t be at the party.

  The parents marched through to Marla’s kitchen, proudly holding their favorite Mexican dishes aloft. Tom asked them how long their entrées needed to heat, and if anything ought to be refrigerated. Then, as carefully as he took notes at a crime scene, he wrote down everything in his notebook.

  Marla honked the announcement of her arrival. Parked behind other vehicles in her own driveway, she called for Tom to push out a dolly so he could haul in three cases of Dutch beer, two of nonalcoholic brew, a case of wine, and several twenty-four-packs of juice, water, and pop. Tom placed all the drinks in Marla’s second refrigerator, located
in the garage.

  “I’m having a shower and getting dressed,” she said, then disappeared. Fifteen minutes later, while Julian and I were assembling the chips and guacamole, she trotted into the kitchen. That had to be another record. She flicked her highlighted gold-and-brown hair back from her ears to reveal dangling chocolate diamond earrings. She cocked a hip and presented herself, swathed in a leopard-print pantsuit with a sequined belt.

  “You look fantastic,” I told her. “Anyone who can lose that much weight—”

  But I didn’t finish the thought, because Marla wasn’t listening. Suddenly distracted, she gazed over my shoulder, through the kitchen windows with their magnificent view of her pool and her flat land, and beyond, the mountains. She asked, “When did Bob Rushwood and Ophelia Unger arrive?”

  “Bob Rushwood?” I asked, puzzled. “The trainer from Aspen Meadow Country Club? What’s he doing here? Why is Ophelia Unger here? Her party isn’t until Monday night.”

  “They came while you, boss, were helping the Smythes bring in their dishes. You were out getting the drinks, Marla.” Julian tilted his head to indicate the windows. “Ophelia is engaged to Bob. They’re going to do their pitch when I’m trying to make my first round with the appetizers the parents brought.”

  “What pitch?” I asked.

  “Okay, this was not my idea,” Julian said defensively. “Arch came in and said Drew had worked with Bob last summer digging trails. You know, Pails for Trails?”

  I nodded, recalling the bright red pails beside cash registers in every store in Aspen Meadow. Glued on the front were photographs of kids in wheelchairs being pushed up mountain trails that had been widened by a large cadre of volunteers whose tools were bought with the change people dropped into the pails. Okay, great idea. But I didn’t want anyone making a pitch for anything at my son and his friend’s party.