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.
When I’d talked to Rorry, she’d said Etta, her live-in maid and factotum, had a set of paring knives, but she had only one roasting pan. I stuffed my knives and several pans into one of our last boxes. The big problem, equipment-wise, was a deep fryer. Once everyone in the country had decided not to eat fried chicken anymore (unless it was from takeout), I’d donated my electric frying pan to the church rummage sale. But Yolanda had told me it would be helpful if she could use one, to make the Navajo fry bread. I’d put in a call to Rorry that morning, and she had said she would ask Etta if they had one. If not, we would make do with some kind of pot, of which Rorry assured me they had plenty.
Once everything on our list was checked, I was in the mood for an espresso, as was Yolanda. Boyd announced he had to find an outfit suitable for catering, so I pulled Yolanda and myself double shots. She doused hers with sugar, I did the same to mine with cream, and we sipped amiably until Boyd returned to the kitchen.
I had to suppress a smile at his impeccable black pants and freshly ironed white shirt. When had he gotten hold of them? Had he gone back to his house? When I asked, he confessed that he had taken to keeping clean catering clothes in the trunk of his car, just in case Tom wanted him to come help me with an event—one where I might need protection.
I said, “Oh, for crying out loud.”
Poor Boyd. He hated catering. But he clearly was head over heels for Yolanda. Bless his heart, I was sure he’d do whatever it took to make sure no harm came to her.
I wondered if that desire would be enough to keep Yolanda safe. Then I shook that thought away, too.
The Breckenridges’ long, meandering driveway rose from Flicker Ridge’s main road to a palatial estate that was perched on an east-facing granite outcropping. This made for a breathtaking view of Denver. But the drop-offs were so steep, I couldn’t even look down as we got close to the house. I wondered how Sean and Rorry had been able to train their son to keep away from the edge of the cliff.
The answer was plain enough when we pulled into the driveway. Surrounding the large, flat, sodded yard was a ten-foot-high fence made from sections of thick plastic. If I was not mistaken, this was the same kind of plastic used to fabricate doors in newer upscale houses. The plastic for the doors is stained and painted to look like wood, and it is free of the upkeep wood requires. But here it was clear, like the edge of an infinity pool. Hmm. I wondered if the fence acted to deter strong-minded elk from jumping into the yard to eat the Breckenridges’ flowers, shrubs, and grass.
The yard boasted an expansive wooden swing set and slide, a sandbox, and a metal jungle gym. At one edge of the property was a brown playhouse with the word Saloon painted over the doorjamb. I smiled and wondered if Sean and Rorry’s son would be allowed to attend the dinner.
Several cars were already parked in the driveway. I checked my watch: It had just turned four, which was when we were due to start setting up. Was this like a kids’ birthday party, when the invitees were so excited they often showed up early?
I couldn’t remember Rorry telling me if our catering team was supposed to come in through a side door or the front. With guests already arriving, a side door would have been preferable. I found the side door and knocked on it. There was no response. Rorry was probably busy entertaining her early arrivals.
We marched to the front door and rang the bell.
A long singsonging echoed into the interior. After a few moments, Rorry appeared to usher us in.
“Sorry, so sorry.” She smiled, but she sounded wretched. Fortyish, short, dark haired, and very pretty, Rorry nonetheless had dark circles under her brown eyes. She hid her wide hips under a flared, embroidered purple skirt and a puffed-sleeve white blouse, which gave her a designer-homemaker kind of look. Marla said Rorry was one of the nicest, most generous people in the church, but that she kept her munificence quiet. She’d kept the misery she was undergoing quiet, too . . . although perhaps not from Ernest McLeod.
“People have been coming in and out all day to bring food,” Rorry explained as we hauled our first boxes across the threshold. “It’s been like a train station. I’m so sorry I didn’t have a chance to open the side door for you.” She eyed me apologetically. Rorry’s accent was elegant, only slightly distinguishable as southern. Having attended boarding school in Virginia, I’ve had a pet peeve over the years at how Hollywood folks trying to portray a Southerner affect an ear-grating, bumpkin-from-the-farm style of speech. Those actors make me wish they’d actually visit the places whose accents they’re trying to imitate. Listening to Rorry speak in her genteel, soft voice, one would know she was the real deal.
“You must be an incredible cook!” she said now. Perhaps she knew she was projecting unhappiness, so now her smile was wide and sincere. “I’ve never had so many extra people decide they have to come to an expensive dinner at the last minute. We even advertised for this supper in the Mountain Journal, with no takers except church people. It’s lucky we had cancellations! Folks seem to have gotten wind that you were doing the cooking. The people Father Pete and Sean and I talked to? When they asked if they could come? They all asked if you were catering.”
“Well, that is flattering,” I replied. I wasn’t that popular, was I?
Rorry led the way across the large, marble-floored foyer. The tawny walls were lit by brass and crystal sconces. A cherry bench upholstered with gold brocade stood between a pair of dark cherry cabinets. Both brimmed with pink-and-beige Limoges china, French crystal, as well as polished silver platters and bowls. It certainly did not look like any of the contemporary mountain homes where I usually catered, which were uniformly stuffed with heavy lodge-type furniture and cabinets. In the dinnerware department, I usually saw only stainless-steel cutlery and nondescript dishes.
Rorry said over her shoulder, “Sean’s entertaining four people already. First to arrive were Father Pete and Venla Strothmeyer. To bring an elderly widow like that? He is such a sweet man. He even said Venla bought the tickets for them both.”
I could hear voices, Father Pete’s low rumble, Venla’s occasional gravelly comment. Even Sean’s high-pitched voice was sometimes audible. They must have been outside, or in a section of the house so well upholstered that all sounds were muffled. I said that Father Pete was indeed a wonderful man, even though Yolanda rolled her eyes.
“And to think it snowed last night,” Rorry said. “Our son is in heaven. Etta took him up to our condo in Beaver Creek to spend the night, even though the lifts aren’t open. They’ll be back early tomorrow. Remember, I don’t want you cleaning up tonight! Etta would have a fit if you put things where they didn’t belong. Anyway, Seth was so excited about seeing snow. Those ski resort owners must be hoping the blizzards never stop.”
“They must be,” I murmured.
Rorry said, “Follow me,” and turned. Her leather flats made soft clopping noises on the part of the foyer that was floored with stone and not Kirman rugs. Rorry seemed hassled, but not so self-centered that she didn’t want to make us feel welcome. I appreciated that.
When Boyd, Yolanda, and I entered the kitchen, I gulped. The ceilings were at least twenty feet high. I bet someone had to build a scaffolding to change the lightbulbs. The decorating scheme of the enormous space was yellow cabinets with brass pulls; blue and yellow tiles on the island, countertops, and backsplashes; and a tiny flowered print of blue, yellow, and red for the matching wallpaper and curtains. I was pretty sure the kitchen table and chairs were solid cherry. The whole effect was like something you’d see in a fifties magazine for living in the South, not Colorado in the twenty-first century.
“This is a gorgeous kitchen, Rorry,” I
said as I put my box on one of the counters. Especially for someone who doesn’t cook, I added mentally.
Rorry blushed. “It’s an exact replica of our kitchen in New Orleans. Sean thought I was crazy, but I missed home so much, I wanted it to be the same.” Tears appeared suddenly in her eyes, but she blinked them back. She still misses home, I thought. Maybe she’ll go back there, if and when she gets rid of Sean.
“I’m going to get another box,” Boyd announced.
“Shall I get the plates out, the way I usually do?” Yolanda asked me. When I nodded, Yolanda said to Rorry, “Do you want to show me which ones you want to use?”
Rorry waved toward one of the cherry cabinets in the front hall. “Just the pink and gold Limoges in there. There should be plenty.”
When Yolanda left, Rorry cleared her throat. “Sean’s also talking to a couple I don’t know. They signed up today, through Father Pete. The man’s first name is Norman, and I think his last name is Juarez, but I didn’t catch his wife’s name. They’re Catholic, so I don’t know why they’re here.”
My shoulders slumped. I knew why they were there. Church dinner notwithstanding, I prayed again for no fireworks between Humberto Captain and Norman Juarez. When Boyd returned with his box, I made a mental note to tell him we might be having an altercation that night.
Rorry waved her hand over the island and toward the kitchen table. “When people came by today with more food and wine, I told them to put it over there and in the refrigerator. That foil-covered pan is enchiladas from the Juarezes. Venla brought a homemade cheese ball with crackers. And then earlier, Humberto brought champagne, which he put in to chill. Kris Nielsen, who’s bringing a date, brought caviar, which is also in the—”
She didn’t get a chance to finish. Yolanda, precariously carrying the Limoges china into the kitchen, heard Kris’s name and dropped the china she was carrying. The dishes hit the tile floor with a deafening clatter.
I thought, Oh, hell.
15
“My Lord!” cried Rorry as she raced to Yolanda’s side. “Oh, my dear, are you all right? Did you cut yourself?”
“Where’s the bathroom?” asked Boyd. He’d deposited his box and was holding Yolanda’s elbow. That was the only part of Yolanda’s body that wasn’t shaking.
“Let me show you,” said Rorry, and she clip-clopped efficiently down the hall.
I looked for a broom and dustpan. I finally located the cleaning closet, grabbed the necessary tools, and started sweeping. Kris was coming. He was bringing a date. Upon hearing the news, Yolanda had broken what I estimated to be about a thousand dollars’ worth of china.
While Boyd and Yolanda were in the bathroom, I swept the shards into a pile. Father Pete had said Kris was so generous to the church. Really? Was that the actual reason he was coming to the dinner tonight, bringing caviar and a date?
I looked for paper towels and could find none. Worse, I was so addled I couldn’t remember which of our boxes contained our stash. Desperate, I searched under the sink, where two new, large sponges had been tucked into zipped, labeled plastic bags. One said Floor, the other, Counters.
As I wet the floor sponge, I swallowed hard and reminded myself that I couldn’t be sure of everything Yolanda had told me about Kris. But since I was thinking about Kris and had an actual sponge in my hand, it wasn’t too much of a leap to place Kris—fairly or unfairly—into the sponge category. Father Pete had told me how Kris had paid for all the Sunday school rooms to be painted and carpeted, even though he didn’t attend church services. And I’d just found out from Father Pete that in June, Kris had sought to secure the priest’s help in getting a woman who sounded a lot like Ferdinanda involuntarily committed to an institution. That movement from generosity to demand was the way of the sponge. I’ll spend a couple hundred bucks on paint and cheap carpet, so you’ll owe me.
Call me a cynic, but I’d seen a lot of sponges in the church. They gave in expectation of receiving something, usually something much larger than their initial gift.
Using Rorry’s damp sponge, I briskly swept the bits of broken china into the dustpan.
I washed my hands savagely in the sink and hoped I wasn’t becoming a cynic. Still, just ask one of these sponges to teach Sunday school, or visit a handicapped parishioner in a nursing home, or bring meals to a family that had been in an automobile accident. Forget it. I’d catered for sponges; I’d had their checks bounce; I’d lived in a state of rageful humiliation when they refused to do the right thing unless they got a reward. Unlike actors with the fake southern accents, human sponges were difficult to detect.
I dumped the broken bits of china into the trash. I wasn’t sure I had gotten them all, so I rinsed the sponge, got down on my knees, and wiped the floor with careful, even strokes. Then I threw the floor sponge in the trash.
Boyd and Yolanda returned to the kitchen. Yolanda’s complexion was still pale, but she wasn’t shaking anymore. Did she know that Kris had tried to have Ferdinanda—if that was who it was—involuntarily committed? Was that why she had reacted so negatively toward Father Pete in the grocery store? Or had she been so much on edge that an accidental brush by our preoccupied priest in the pickle aisle had made her lose her cool? I suspected the latter, and I didn’t want to upset Yolanda any more than she already was by asking about the former.
Boyd was still holding Yolanda’s arm. “Rorry’s out with the guests. Yolanda says she slipped on something.” He eyed the damp kitchen floor.
“Sorry, I just wiped it.”
“Give Yolanda something to do, then.”
I said, “No problem. The rest of the guests should be arriving soon. How about if you two open some red and white wine from this lot here? I’ll put together an appetizer tray and start ferrying stuff out to the porch.”
While they busied themselves lining up the bottles people had brought, I put together the cheese, fruit, and cracker trays. Rorry had said she would do it, but I felt so guilty about the broken Limoges, I wanted to do it myself. Besides, I had a bit of an ulterior motive in being in charge of the cheese. Venla’s walnut-covered cheese ball, surrounded by crackers, went on one tray. I placed the Gouda—part of my trap for Sean and his girlfriend, if she showed—and a large wedge of sharp cheddar, a peppered goat cheese, and a block of Gruyère around a tumble of red and green seedless grapes. I carefully cut the Camembert, which had turned creamy, into four wedges. Around it, I carefully spread different types of crackers.
“Christ,” said Marla when she popped into Rorry’s kitchen. Yolanda was startled again; this time, though, she dropped only the keys to my van. Marla, who wore a shimmery gold-and-brown dress and shawl, looked around the kitchen in astonishment. She lifted the ruffles of the café curtains and smoothed her hand over the flowered wallpaper. “Who decorated this kitchen, Betty Crocker?” Then she caught a look at Yolanda’s pale face, disheveled hair, and shaking hands. “Uh . . . did I come at a bad time? Hey, Boyd, how’re you doing?”
Boyd gave a single shake of his head.
“Goldy?” asked Marla. “Do you need me to help with anything? I think some guests are already here.”
I’d moved on to spooning Kris’s caviar into a soft nest of crème fraîche that I’d brought just in case we needed it. I adore crème fraîche, as does Marla, who plucked a spoon out of a drawer and helped herself to a small mouthful.
“Mm-mm. Don’t tell my cardiologist,” she said. “So, do you need me to take stuff out?”
“Yes, thanks.” I handed her the platter with Venla’s cheese ball and crackers. “You can help by asking Rorry if she has more dishes. Also, please look at place cards, if Rorry’s filled those out, and see exactly who’s coming.” I added in a low voice, “Don’t mention Kris Nielsen. We didn’t know he would be here, and now Yolanda’s very fragile.”
Marla took out another spoon and ate a second dollop of caviar with crème fraîche. “Take out cheese ball. Check on dishes and place cards. Got it.”
She returne
d a few minutes later holding a sheet of paper. “Had to take notes, sorry. Including me, there are sixteen. And there are some folks who are here already. Rorry introduced me to some new people. They’re Norman and Isabella Juarez. Isabella offered the information that she brought homemade enchiladas, so you better serve me some of those before anybody else gets any! Humberto Captain is coming, and the name of his date is Odette, no last name. Father Pete is already here with Venla Strothmeyer. Tony Ramos from CBHS is coming, along with his wife, Franny. Last, there are Donna Lamar and yours truly. Plus there’s the couple you mentioned,” she said in a low tone, “and Sean and Rorry and Brie and Paul Quarles.” Marla made a face. “Paul Quarles always looks as if he swallowed a canary six years ago and has yet to digest it.”
The doorbell gonged, and Marla disappeared. I moved over and closed the door to the kitchen. High-pitched voices, clearly eager for a party, filtered in from the foyer.
“Crunch time,” I said under my breath, then cursed silently that there was no open wine out on the patio yet. “Keep her here,” I ordered Boyd, who nodded once. Yolanda looked at the floor.
The guests would be coming through the house. That meant I had to go around it. I tucked the open bottles into a canvas grocery bag and hightailed my way through the now-unlocked side door in an attempt to make it to the patio before the guests all arrived. The grass was icy in spots and wet right through my sneakers, which I wore to all catering gigs, regardless of their fancy factor.
I gritted my teeth and ignored the discomfort. The party absolutely had to be a success. The great sucking sound I imagined was not so much the noise my sneakers were making in the glacially chilly mud but the crash of the church budget if people stopped payment on their checks and we lost the thousands being raised by this little shindig.
And then my eye caught on something—not footprints, but something shiny, slim, and metallic. It was a wrench. Without thinking, I picked it up and dropped it in my pocket, intent on leaving it in the kitchen. I was pretty sure neither Sean nor Rorry did any home repairs, and some hapless handyman was bound to come back asking for it.
Crunch Time Page 27
