The Whole Enchilada

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Ophelia lifted her chin in defiance and disappeared with Brewster to “iron out last-minute details,” whatever that meant. Violet seemed to smile. Or was I imagining it? Bob continued calling into the intercom, but no one answered. Violet shook her head, and offered no explanation.

  Violet showed us the long table that she had set, on a glassed-in porch that overlooked the Continental Divide. I noted that one entire wall was constructed of moss rock, with a fireplace and TV built in. The grill was actually part of the massive countertop stove in the kitchen itself.

  Julian had barely said, “Okay, we’re ready,” when a low rumbling sound indicated a mechanized garage door being opened. “Uh-oh,” Julian said. “Beware the ogre.”

  “Why?” asked Boyd, his first words in a while.

  “The man is a terror,” Julian replied. Violet nodded in silent, but vigorous, agreement.

  “Then it’ll be interesting,” Boyd said mildly.

  We could hear Neil Unger storming up a distant set of stairs. He was bellowing for Ophelia, who made no sign of responding. I wondered where the birthday girl and Brewster had concealed themselves.

  Francie Unger, whom I knew only by sight, wandered into the kitchen, looking bewildered. Fortyish, with heavy blond hair and a slender build, she was well known in the gossipy, fund-raising, country-club set. She wore a tweed skirt, a pullover, and golf shoes, which she wrenched off. She asked, “Will somebody please tell me what is going on?” When none of us answered, she narrowed her eyes at our team. “Marla? Aren’t you early?”

  “I’m helping Goldy.” Marla’s arm swept out in a courtly gesture. “Your caterer.”

  Francie looked genuinely perplexed. “But why are you here now?”

  “Uh, because Goldy’s my friend and needed me? Didn’t Neil tell you I was serving, and not eating?”

  Francie still wore a mask of puzzlement. When Bob Rushwood began talking into the intercom again, she disappeared to let him in. Meanwhile, Ophelia hustled Brewster out the back door with a whispered warning that he should avoid Bob, drive down the hill, and wait. She would text him when she needed him. A moment later, she whisked back into the kitchen and winked at us, just as Bob came in and took in her dazzling appearance.

  “Oh, my God,” he said, thunderstruck. “What . . . happened to you? Is this because of that . . . BMW guy?”

  “That BMW guy was my fashion and beauty consultant,” Ophelia lied, smiling broadly. “Do you like what he picked out for me?”

  “I do,” said Bob. He showed no remorse for his earlier ill temper, only bewilderment mixed with suspicion. “So . . . that’s what you’ve been up to with him?”

  “Of course,” said Ophelia. “I wanted to surprise you. Now, can you wait in the library while I go talk to Dad and Francie?”

  “There aren’t any books on fitness in there,” Bob complained. He recovered some of his usual smoothness, though, and warned Ophelia in a conspirational murmur, “Remember to tell them it wasn’t my fault you figured out about the surprise party.” Ophelia nodded, and Violet led Bob away.

  There was some thumping and door slamming in the far reaches of the house, and then, apparently, either reconciliation or acceptance of defeat. Ophelia had probably sold the fashion-and-beauty-consultant story to her father. When the noises of acrimony were replaced by the sounds of water gushing through pipes, I took it as a good sign. An even better one was the fact that nobody reappeared in the kitchen.

  The doorbell rang at six, and Violet scurried off to answer it. Julian readied the iced champagne bucket and drinks tray. Boyd and I removed the appetizers from the refrigerator, something Julian had thought at the last minute that we would need: deviled eggs topped with halved Greek olives. Marla washed her hands and carefully placed the starters on a platter rimmed with the egg-and-dart pattern.

  “Should I start passing these out?” she asked nervously.

  “Sure,” I said.

  And so the evening got going. The guests, who, I assumed, were friends of Neil and Francie’s, hid in the living room and burst out with “Surprise!” when Ophelia appeared. She thanked them quickly, then walked purposefully to the porch. It was there that Neil held court, giving everyone a lecture about politics, whether they wanted to hear it or not. Ophelia did not reappear in the kitchen. Bob hovered around her on the porch, and I wondered if he’d bought her “fashion and beauty consultant” story.

  There was no sign of Brewster.

  When I went back to the porch to begin clearing the hors d’oeuvre plates, I saw Francie down the second half of what I sensed was not her first glass of wine. I overheard her murmur to Ophelia, “You look so nice, dear. And that is a welcome change. Did you finally use the clothing money your father has been giving you?”

  “Yes,” said Ophelia.

  Francie put on a simpering expression. “Couldn’t you have acted happier when our guests surprised you?”

  Ophelia did not turn to her stepmother when she said, in a low, fierce whisper, “Leave me alone for once, will you?”

  “Ex-cuse me,” said Francie, too loudly.

  Ophelia sat almost motionless. She had not touched the egg I’d put in front of her. I wondered how far down the hill Brewster had driven. After half an hour, Ophelia began to act agitated. Her hands fluttered about and she dropped her glass, which shattered on the floor. Bob Rushwood’s protective stance at her side was clearly making her nervous. I wondered if he was afraid she was going to bolt—from her own party.

  “Julian,” I said mildly, once I’d cleaned up the broken glass and we were back in the kitchen, “could you please check to see if Brewster’s BMW is where you can see it?”

  He took off, then returned a moment later. “Nope.”

  We had, as we say in food service, bigger fish to fry. Julian lit the gas grill burners. Marla, Boyd, and I served the Greek lemon soup. Although the porch conversation felt a bit stilted, it did seem as if some of the folks were genuinely concerned with asking Ophelia polite questions: What was she going to do now that she was twenty-one? Did she have plans? Was she going to travel before she and Bob got married? Where were they going on their honeymoon? She blushed and fielded the questions by saying she hadn’t made up her mind.

  I, meanwhile, kept a covert eye on Neil Unger as he alternately charmed and lectured the guests. He could have been Holly Ingleby’s lover in the distant, and maybe even the recent, past. Could he be Drew’s biological father? I tried to concentrate on his facial features: did Drew look like him? Hard to tell.

  Would Neil have submitted to being blackmailed by Holly?

  Could Neil have put the Loquin in the tortas when they were on the counter in our kitchen?

  I stared at his big hands. Could he have attacked me on my own back porch the night before?

  Nothing was clear, and I shook my head to rid it of the buzz of questions. Soon the hiss of shish kebabs hitting the grill, and the resulting heavenly scent, got me focused on the dinner.

  We placed the luscious kebabs onto the steaming rice and sprinkled chopped fresh herbs over it all. Everyone seemed grateful. I was still keeping a close eye on Neil Unger. What was I hoping to learn? I didn’t know, but after a while my observation seemed to be making him wary, and I could see that he was watching me out of the corner of his eye. I cleared my throat and went back to smiling and serving, lowering dishes from the left and raising them from the right.

  The guests, meanwhile, continued to interrogate Ophelia, and my heart bled for this shy, studious young woman.

  When people complimented her on her new look, she self-consciously touched the ends of her gorgeous new hairstyle and thanked them. When women asked her where she’d gotten her “new do” done, she answered simply, “In Denver.” When they asked where she’d bought the dress, she said, “In Denver.” She’d always faded into the background before, and wasn’t used to being the center of attention.

  “What in the hell is going on?” Marla demanded. “We have to go through a secur
ity nightmare to get in, Brewster sneaks out, Bob comes in, Ophelia is all beaming and gorgeous when we arrive, and now she looks like she’s afraid of her own party.”

  “You never know with catering clients,” I said. “Let’s just clear the dinner dishes and light the candles.”

  It was when we were poking the candles into the cake that Ophelia rushed into the kitchen. She pressed buttons on her cell phone, then retrieved what were clearly two heavy suitcases from the pantry. Julian offered to help. She gave him a small smile, but said she was fine. All that time working out with Bob had clearly made her biceps and triceps strong. She did ask nervously for Violet to go to the front door and let Brewster in.

  The maid disappeared, and it wasn’t long before Brewster Motley sashayed into the kitchen, toting his own briefcase. He looked even more like the canary-swallowing cat than he had earlier.

  “Why, Brewster,” said Marla, “you never told me you were a fashion consultant.”

  He flicked her a glance. “I’d lose the apron, Marla. It’s not you.”

  “Hungry, Brewster?” Julian asked, his tone teasing. “We could have saved you some food.”

  “I’m good,” said Brewster. He snapped open his briefcase and turned to Ophelia. “Ready?”

  “No,” she said, her voice shaking. “But I want to get this over with.”

  I asked, “Does that mean I should or should not light the candles on the cake?”

  “Not,” Ophelia and Brewster answered in unison.

  A shiver ran down my back. Did this have to happen right now? I couldn’t bear the thought of another party being ruined by tragedy, conflict, or some other untoward event.

  “Goldy,” said Ophelia, “could you please ask my father to come in here?”

  “To the kitchen?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  “I want to spare him the embarrassment of having this confrontation in front of his guests.”

  His guests, I noted. Not hers.

  So I went and got Neil, who responded by looking confused. Bob Rushwood followed us into the kitchen. Neil’s complexion was more florid than I’d ever seen it, either from the wine served during the evening or because he was ticked off.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he said as he took in his daughter and her suitcases. “Who are you?” he demanded of Brewster.

  Bob, who had turned stone-faced and cold, said, “He’s supposedly Ophelia’s fashion consultant. He’s been spending an awful lot of time with her.”

  At the moment, Brewster was leafing through papers in his briefcase. Neil said to him, “You don’t look like you have anything to do with fashion.”

  Ophelia stood resolute. She stared at the cake and the neat pile of gold-edged plates beside it. Finally she said, “He has nothing to do with fashion. He’s my attorney.”

  “Your what?” Neil exploded.

  Brewster Motley introduced himself and offered his hand to Neil Unger, who refused it. So did Bob Rushwood. Well, well. So much for civility and all those values you say you care about, Neil. As if he were used to dealing with difficult people, Brewster said smoothly, “Your former wife, Athena Unger, inherited a fortune that she wanted passed down to her daughter. It was left in a trust for her. Thirty million dollars.”

  I felt my mouth drop open. Had Holly been aware of this? The voice of my attacker grated in my ear. Who knows?

  “Why, you ungrateful—” Neil Unger turned to address his daughter, but Brewster held up his hand, interrupting him.

  “Since Ophelia was so young when her mother died,” Brewster continued, “she did not know about this money. Nor, of course, did she know about the provisions of the trust. And Quentin Laird, the cotrustee along with you, the other cotrustee, never told her. But Laird, Athena’s attorney, has an excuse. He had a stroke ten years ago, has mild dementia, and had to give up practicing law. He’s been in a nursing home for the past decade.” Brewster paused. “When Ophelia turned eighteen, you were duty bound to tell her about the trust, its provisions, and its management. Last time I looked, that was breach of trust by a trustee. Not to mention failure as a parent.”

  Neil hurtled toward Brewster, but Boyd got between them. “Sir,” he said respectfully, “I am a sergeant with the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. You will not touch anyone, do you understand?”

  “It’s. My. House,” said Neil.

  “I. Don’t. Care,” replied Boyd.

  Chastened, Neil stepped back. Violet, the maid, came back into the kitchen. She took in everyone’s expressions and scooted over to a bank of cabinets. She stood very still there, as if to make herself invisible. Bob Rushwood was glancing from Brewster to Ophelia to Neil and back again. I put my gaze back on Neil Unger. If Holly had known about this trust, couldn’t that have made Neil a tempting blackmail target?

  I wondered.

  Brewster was saying, “Something your current wife said to Ophelia a while ago tipped her off. Along the lines of her not being college material? The fact that you hushed your wife made Ophelia suspicious, as well she should have been. So she hired me. We went to see Quentin Laird, who was lucid enough to tell us which files to check from the boxes in his basement.” Brewster took a deep breath and pulled a packet of clipped papers out of his case. He read, “ ‘The trust shall terminate and be distributed, free of any trust or other restrictions, to Ophelia when she turns twenty-one and has completed a college degree.’ ” He handed a document of numerous pages into Neil Unger’s hands. “As you can see, she just finished her bachelor’s.”

  “You never—” Neil Unger began again.

  “But I did,” Ophelia declared, defiant. “All that shopping money you gave me? It was used for tuition at the University of Colorado. With my AP credits from high school, I was able to complete a degree in architecture in two years.” She eagerly reached into Brewster’s case and pulled out what looked like a transcript and a diploma. “You see, Dad? I’m not so dumb after all.”

  With a look of barely controlled fury, Neil Unger grabbed both the diploma and the transcript and tore them in half.

  “Those were copies,” Brewster said mildly.

  “I don’t care, and I don’t care about her having gone to college.”

  “Obviously you do care,” Brewster countered, “since you forbade her from getting a college education and fulfilling the terms of the trust.” When Neil said nothing, Brewster went on: “Now, the only thing that would prevent Ophelia from assuming control of her own money was if she had a child. Because of her large fortune, she would have to support the child, and probably its father, too.”

  “She’s pregnant,” Bob announced triumphantly. “With my child.”

  “Ophelia!” Neil Unger looked apoplectic.

  Ophelia stood her ground. “I am not pregnant. Sorry, Bob. I know you thought I was hormonal when I stopped sleeping with you.”

  “I thought you loved me.” Bob’s voice had turned plaintive.

  Ophelia shook her head. “I liked you when we first met. Being with you was fun, and made me forget my former fiancé being in prison, and my father refusing to pay for my education.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “But then I learned that you’d been trying to find things out about me. Did I have money of my own? you asked Francie. She told you I did, but that the only way you would get any of it was if you and I got married and I had a child. Once I got wind of that conversation, our relationship was over. But I only needed a few more weeks to finish my degree, so I agreed to marry you, to keep my father off my back until I could graduate from CU.” Ophelia glanced at her father, but Neil was clearly so choked with rage that he could not talk. “Engagement’s off, Bob,” the young woman continued calmly.

  “You little shit,” Bob said, his voice low and flat.

  “Here’s your ring,” said Ophelia, retrieving the item from her elegant dress’s pocket. “I know my father bought it for you to give to me, just like he bought you that Mercedes. See, one thing I learned in my college finance class was how to read the bil
ls.” She shook her head sorrowfully at her father. “And checkbooks. And the investment reports that you locked up in your files in your office—”

  Neil suddenly whirled on Violet. “You helped her! You . . . you . . . you’re fired!”

  “Okay,” the maid replied calmly, and winked at Ophelia. “I’m working for somebody else now. Who do you think overheard Bob asking Francie about Ophelia having money? And who do you think told Ophelia? Just because I am a maid doesn’t mean I am invisible—or deaf.”

  At this point, Brewster again took over. “The great thing about this trust is that before Quentin had a stroke, he filed paperwork with the state. I spent the entire day tracking down those documents . . . so Ophelia could claim her money.” He waggled a reproving finger in Neil’s direction. “I’ll bet the only reason you didn’t drain the trust yourself is that the Bank of Aspen Meadow is named as an alternate trustee, in case either you or Quentin died. If you’d tried any worse funny business, the bank would have discovered it in an audit and had you prosecuted faster than you could cry ‘thief.’ Unfortunately, you did get Quentin to sign over management of the trust to you. So you were able to appropriate one percent of Ophelia’s trust every year. Hmm, arithmetic. That’s three hundred thou a year. Lucky for Ophelia the stock market has done well recently, so her trust has grown.” He tried to hand another paper to Neil, who let it flutter to the floor. “That is a notarized copy of Ophelia’s intention to manage her own trust from now on.”

  “Okay,” said Ophelia, who seemed suddenly exhausted by the proceedings. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Here are your copies of the trust papers, Mr. Unger,” Brewster said, laying them on the counter. He paused. “You can tear them up, too. I have copies. But the bottom line is that Ophelia now controls her own fortune.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Neil blustered, “the money was always being held for her. Quentin and I worked it out—”