1 Catered to Death (15 page)

“It suppose it would be a difficult thing for a wife to admit,” I said. “I know I couldn’t handle it if Steve was like that.”

Veronica laughed. “Steve! Your husband is absolutely nuts about you and everyone in town knows it. But you’re right—it would be hideous to have to face. Well, what a coincidence that you catered that luncheon and now you’re catering this one. You know, Sylvia positively worshiped Frank so this has been quite a blow for her. I simply can’t imagine what Sylvia is going through or what she’s thinking.”

The doorbell rang and Veronica excused herself to greet her guests with one last admonition to me to be sure and let her know if I needed anything. I promised her that I would but as I finished setting the food out, my mind went over the possibilities of how this new scenario might play out. Maybe with a little artful eavesdropping combined with a drop or two of luck I’d gain another clue as to why anyone would want Frank Ubermann dead.

I felt a flash of guilt over the fact that I was about to unabashedly spy on a guest at a party I was catering but quickly tempered it with logic. If I was able to see something that might help me solve the murder, then good for me. It wasn’t like I was being a voyeuristic sneak just for the thrill of it. I looked over the food and then washed my hands one more time. My second catering job was good to go and so was I.

Veronica had laid out the schedule for the meeting to me earlier. First, the group would discuss the book of the month. I was to have drinks and nibbles available for that time. When the discussion concluded it would be time to eat. Although the group seemed to be wrapping their discussion time up, I still hadn’t been able to quite figure out who Sylvia Ubermann was. The women didn’t wear name tags and they all had an annoying habit of calling each other ‘sweetie’ or ‘dear.’ I had narrowed it down to a couple of likely candidates: a petite blonde with large blue eyes and bright red lips and a brunette stunner who looked a little bit like Wonder Woman. Whoever Mrs. Frank Ubermann was, I was positive that she had to be a looker. Someone like Frank would never settle for anything less.

From the kitchen I heard Veronica’s voice rise over her guests. “Ladies, what’s the consensus on
Valley of the Dolls
?”

“I loved it!” a voice called out.

“It stunk!” another one responded.

Listening to them, I resolved to dig out my own copy of the 1960s classic as soon as I got home. Truthfully, I couldn’t remember much about it other than being scandalized over the active sex lives of all the characters. It probably seemed like a Mother Goose rhyme compared to the kinds of books that were out now.

“Let’s agree to disagree on this one,” Veronica said graciously. “Now if you’ll all adjourn to the dining room, lunch is waiting for us.”

That was my cue. Carrying a platter of freshly made sandwiches stacked artistically on a plain white platter, I eased my way into the dining room too and set the platter down in the center of Veronica’s enormous walnut table. I had fanned the rest of the food out but it looked a little lost on the vast expanse of wood. Maybe I should have brought something else to go with the sandwiches and potato salad. Well, it was too late now and Veronica hadn’t requested anything else. I knew that I was going to have to stop second guessing myself whenever I did a catering job. It was just that I wanted everything to be perfect.

The book club guests slowly surged into the dining room, chatting in small clusters of twos and threes. Standing near the door that led to the kitchen, I did my best to blend in with the beige and white wallpaper and put my ears into Bionic Woman mode.

“DeeDee, I think we’re going to need more sandwiches,” Veronica said, appearing at my side and I saw that the platter I had set out all of two minutes earlier was almost empty. For a group of skinny, intellectual readers these gals were putting away an amazing amount of calories.

“Of course,” I said as I rushed back into the kitchen. I began to make more sandwiches while straining my ears to hear the conversation that was flowing in the dining room. As I worked, a few women wandered in and out of the kitchen, taking the time to nod to me but not engaging me in their conversation. That was fine with me since I knew I’d learn a lot more from listening than I ever would from talking.

“How are you doing, Syl?” a sympathetic voice suddenly asked.

I froze and looked up. Two women were helping themselves to coffee. I had set the coffee urn up in the kitchen where there wasn’t any chance that the heat from it would harm anything. The women were both strangers to me. One was tall with dishwater blonde hair and one was short with a haircut reminiscent of Moe of the Three Stooges fame. While they were both nice looking, neither was a knockout.

“I’m all right,” the shorter one with the Moe haircut responded. “It’s not getting any better though.”

I studied her out of the corner of one eye. The woman was dressed in a navy blue jumper sprinkled with tiny flowers and was wearing a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar underneath. All in all, she was fairly unremarkable. I didn’t get it. From what I’d seen of Frank Ubermann and from what I had heard about him after his death, he’d been a middle-aged metrosexual with a healthy twist of mountain man tossed in. Frank had been tall, handsome and very virile looking whereas his widow looked almost drab. I simply couldn’t picture this woman on Frank’s arm.

The taller woman patted Sylvia gently on the arm. “Give yourself time, hon,” she instructed. “It’s been a very short while since you lost Frank. I’m surprised that you’re here tonight.”

“Oh, I couldn’t miss tonight’s meeting, not when we were all reading the title I chose.”

“You’re very brave,” the first woman said.

Sylvia grabbed for a paper towel and dabbed at her eyes. “Not really but it’s not like I have a choice to be anything else. It’s so terrible, getting up in the morning and seeing his slippers next to mine, seeing his maroon silk robe hanging next to my pink flannel. Frank and I were such a unit. It doesn’t seem right that he’s no longer there.”

“Does it help if I say that he’s in a better place?” The first woman asked.

Sylvia shook her head. “Not really. I don’t want him in a better place. I want him back here, with me. It was a pretty good place here when Frank was still alive. I miss him so much, Martha.”

My heart ached for this poor woman. It was obvious from the way her shoulders were slumped and the vacant look in her brown eyes that she’d been dealt a serious blow. I heard once that losing a spouse was the most difficult thing for a person to go through, harder even than losing a child. Even if Frank Ubermann had been something of a creep and a player, he had been Sylvia’s husband and that was all that mattered. I only hoped that Sylvia hadn’t heard any of the rumors that seemed to have swirled around her late husband like smoke hovering over a campfire. Maybe Sylvia didn’t know that Frank might not have been the most faithful of spouses.

“Is there any cream?” Sylvia suddenly asked, making me jump an inch or so in the air.

“Oh, yes. Let me get it for you.” I went to my cooler and pulled out a small container of cream that I’d forgotten to set out and handed it to Sylvia.

“This is plain,” Sylvia said after sniffing the cream. “Don’t you have anything flavored? I like caramel.”

“No, I’m sorry but I don’t.”

Sylvia looked sadly at the cream container before pouring a large slug into her coffee. “I suppose it will have to do,” she said as she stirred in three teaspoons of sugar. “I don’t know why but lately I can’t seem to find the energy to do anything. I keep on thinking that if I have a few more calories and a lot more caffeine, I’ll be able to wake up and this will all be a nightmare.”

Martha softly tsked-tsked under her breath. “I wish that could happen for you, dear, I truly do.”

“Me too,” Sylvia whispered as her eyes filled with tears again.

I couldn’t stand it. I
had
to say something. “Excuse me but I just want to say that I was so sorry to hear about the loss of your husband, Mrs. Ubermann.”

The look on Sylvia’s face instantly morphed from woebegone to suspicious as she eyed me from across the granite countertop. “Did you know my husband? How would
you
know Frank?” in a tone that clearly implied that she couldn’t imagine when someone like Frank would have crossed paths with someone like me, the lowly kitchen help.

“I didn’t—not really. I mean, I met him once but I didn’t know him. I’m sure he wouldn’t know who I was if we’d ever had the opportunity to meet again.”

“When did you meet him?” Sylvia asked.

“I met him at Eden Academy.”

Sylvia’s dull brown eyes swept over my blue jeans and the brand new red T-shirt I had on that had Classy Catering written across the chest. “What were
you
doing at Eden Academy? Do you work in the lunchroom?”

“No, I was catering a lunch there the day…the day it happened.” I should have kept my mouth shut. This conversation clearly had nowhere to go but straight downhill.

“You were there the day Frank died?” Sylvia asked.

“Yes. He seemed like a very nice man.”

“Oh, he was a wonderful man,” Martha gushed. “Everyone loved Frank Ubermann and I mean
everyone!
I always said that he reminded me of Burt Reynolds playing an intellectual. The man simply oozed charm.” She blinked a little coyly. “And sex appeal. I hope you don’t mind me saying that, Sylvia.”

“Of course not,” Sylvia murmured. “It’s the truth. Frank had a great deal of appeal to women. I was always aware of that fact. But I also knew that he was always faithful to me.”

I busied myself cutting the sandwiches, taking care not to lop off one of my fingers. So I wasn’t the only one who had noticed the resemblance between Frank Ubermann and Burt Reynolds. Not raising my head, I managed to glance at Martha to see how she was reacting to Sylvia’s la la land remark. Martha looked a bit flustered and also more than a little guilty. Interesting.

“I wonder if there’s any wine in the house,” Martha said. “I would love a glass of Merlot. I know it doesn’t go with turkey sandwiches but it definitely goes with
Valley of the Dolls.
”

“Martha, don’t you agree that Frank was always faithful to me?” Sylvia demanded. “I mean, it was obvious to anyone who ever saw the two of us together that neither of us fooled around, wasn’t it?”

“I really wouldn’t know, Sylvia. I didn’t know Frank all that well.”

“Martha, you’ve known us for twenty years! You had to be able to see that Frank was devoted to me.”

“I’m sure he was,” Martha murmured, her eyes looking desperately toward the kitchen door and freedom. An awkward silence filled the kitchen that was fortunately broken by Veronica Everly’s entrance. “Come on, Sylvia, Martha! We’re about to start in on round two of the book.”

Martha looked relieved. “I thought we were finished, Veronica.”

“I thought we were done too but there’s a battle brewing between the members who think Nealy O’Hara was a misguided heroine and the ones who think she was nothing but a conniving little tramp. What are you two doing in here?”

“I was just thinking that a glass of wine might be nice,” Martha said. Her cheeks had turned rosy, so rosy that DeeDee was hit with an uncomfortable thought: surely Frank hadn’t been bopping her too? “Do you have any, Veronica?”

“Sure. I could open a few bottles but it might spoil what DeeDee has planned for dessert.”

“You ladies go ahead. I brought along apple pie but I also have fresh fruit and a selection of cheeses that would go well with Merlot.”

“Yum,” Veronica said. “I think we hit the jackpot when we hired you, DeeDee.”

I smiled my thanks but as I looked from Veronica, who seemed sincere, to Martha, who seemed desperate for that glass of wine, to Sylvia, I noticed that Sylvia seemed suspicious. Of me.

“I don’t get it,” I said later that evening as Steve rubbed my aching feet. “Ooooh, don’t stop. That feels heavenly.”

“What don’t you get? Did you know you have a callus?”

“Yes, I know. It’s from the elliptical. I’m firming my thighs and wearing out my feet. I don’t get why Sylvia acted like I had been sleeping with her husband. That was how she looked at me—like I was lying about having just met him.”

“She was probably mad because that Martha woman didn’t say right away that Frank was the good and faithful hubby that his wife has apparently deluded herself into thinking that he was.” Steve started in on my left foot.

“I’m sure you’re right but why be mad at me? I told her that I’d only met Frank once but every time I went into the living room with food or to collect plates she was glaring at me. It was unnerving.”