Dark Tort (28 page)

“Glad to meet you, Katy!” Bishop Sutherland said, his tone friendly. “I actually haven’t met—” But that was as far as he got, because K.D. gasped and dropped the glass plate I’d just given her. She covered her mouth with one hand and her cheek with the other. Bishop Uriah beamed, as if he often had such a volcanic effect on women. But K.D. was wide-eyed, gaping at Uriah Sutherland as if he were a ghost.

The whole room moved at once, with people coming to see what was going on. K.D. was leaning against a wall, blinking. Julian had immediately set aside his tray and moved to help her. I shooed people away from the broken glass. Nora Ellis did not look happy. Ookie Claggett rolled her eyes and began to whisper to the people next to her.

Vic Zaruski, apparently accustomed to the sound of shattering glass, smoothly moved into an upbeat version of “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do.”

Eighty-six on the glass plate,” Julian commented, once he’d retrieved some wet paper towels from the kitchen. Nora had walked carefully across the living room and shepherded K.D. down a long hall to a bathroom. Now Julian crouched next to me on the floor, picking up shards. The bishop had sidled off to change his shirt, and the rest of the crowd had gathered around the piano.

“I’m fine,” Julian and I heard K.D. protesting to Nora. “I just—I just remembered a file I need to check at the hospital.”

“Yes, yes, of course, K.D.,” Nora replied, “but just splash some cold water on your face anyway. Please.”

“Oh, Nora, for God’s sake—” But then we heard a door close. I beat a fast retreat into the kitchen for more mopping supplies.

When Nora’s heels came clickety-clacking back, Julian and I were almost through cleaning up the stray shards from the broken dish. The place where K.D. had dropped the plate was a hallway paved with slate. Stone, I had learned all too well at other catered affairs, will break anything that’s dropped on it. When Julian heard Nora approaching, he scooped up the last bit of glass he’d found and mumbled that he would check on the lunch.

Nora stooped down beside me. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing,” I protested. “I introduced her to your father, and then she—then she seemed to see something across the room, and dropped the plate. Is she all right?” I asked.

“Of course she’s all right. This is just one of K.D.’s typical drama-queen stunts. I told her Richard was going to be here, and that’s probably when she decided to pull something like this. I didn’t want to invite her anyway; Donald did,” she said under her breath. She glared at me, keeping a sweet smile on her face in case the guests, who were singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” around the piano, were watching. “Did my father say anything to upset her?”

“No, nothing.” I continued to wipe up glass and wished she would go away. I’d known K.D. a lot longer than Nora had. K.D. definitely was not a drama queen.

“What did my father say, exactly?”

“He said, ‘Nice to meet you, Katy.’ That’s it.”

“As if I didn’t have enough trouble with my father covered in guacamole,” she began, but then stopped short.

Hmm, I thought as I swept up the final bits of glass with a wet paper towel. Anyway, I had picked up a few interesting tidbits I hadn’t learned in my four months at the law firm. Donald Ellis, who was as far from a stud as anyone could imagine, had supposedly been putting the wood to Wink Calhoun the previous year. Dusty and Alonzo Claggett had been close friends. Ookie was a bitch, as I’d pretty much deduced. Today I’d learned she was also a loud bitch. Plus, Nora thought Dr. K. D. Chenault was a drama queen. Nora also was profoundly embarrassed by her father, although I’d been the one to spill the guac.

And I would never, ever cater for some people named Ode.

“Julian,” I said when I returned to the kitchen, “I need to get cracking on the salad service. Could you start the tenderloin and vegetables?”

He nodded and hustled across the kitchen.

What had made K.D. gasp like that? I wondered as I turned my attention to the salad. Then again, my awful ex-husband had made me squawk all the time, sad to say. I moved my concentration to the salad.

I’d already placed the plates in the refrigerator to chill. I shaved ultrathin slivers of Parmesan and set them aside. Then all that was left was the lettuce and the croutons.

Homemade croutons are the best way to make yourself a beloved caterer, even if you do have to fuss over them at the last minute. I measured out cubes of homemade French bread, then melted a stick of butter in a wide frying pan I’d brought. When the butter had just begun to sizzle, I dropped in the croutons and began stirring. The bread cubes soak up an unbelievable amount of butter. But that’s what makes them taste so great. I preheated the oven and went back to my stirring. A heavenly scent bathed the kitchen . . . just the thing to get appetites juiced, I’d found. When the croutons were golden brown and crispy, I put them into the warming oven.

Next I ran cold water over the cleaned heads of romaine, carefully separated the dark green leaves, and patted the best ones dry with clean towels I’d brought. People often comment on how delicious salads made by a caterer are, and it’s because our ilk rely, once again, on several tricks. The cold salad plates are one. Another is picking out the youngest, best-looking heads of organic lettuce. After rinsing the cleaned heads under running water, we wrap the separated, cleaned, patted-dry leaves in cloth towels, then put the whole kit and kaboodle in a plastic bag and place it in the refrigerator. The cloth wicks away any remaining moisture, and the resultant leaves retain an almost magical crunchiness.

This done, I preheated the oven for the Parmesan Potato Puffs while Julian finished trimming the broccoli and snap peas for the veggie dish. Here again, many people at catered functions want to be able to look at the food and say, “I could do that. Why bother to hire a caterer?” And since that is the very last thing a caterer wants a guest to think, we gussy up even the plainest of green vegetables with something. Preferably with several lovely somethings.

In this case, Julian was using fresh cherry tomatoes from Tom’s hanging-upside-down plants in our basement, and tiny pattypan squash that he’d brought from Boulder the previous day. Barely steamed along with the broccoli and snap peas, the juicy, bright red tomatoes and crunchy yellow squash would look lovely against the deep green broccoli and snap peas. Tossed with salt, pepper, and just a hint of finely grated lemon zest, then topped with melted unsalted butter and tossed again, it was the kind of vegetable dish that guests look at and taste longingly and say, “I would never go to all this trouble.” Which is precisely what the folks in our biz want them to say.

I put the prepared tenderloin in to roast alongside the potato puffs. When we were checking to make sure everything was moving along, K.D. slipped into the kitchen.

“K.D.!” I cried, but she put her finger to her lips. I whispered, “What happened? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I sort of did. Maybe. Anyway, I was just rattled.” She bit her bottom lip. “May I call you later? I’m hoping we can talk.”

“You can’t tell me what it’s about?”

“I’ll speak to you after I get something at the hospital.”

“What at the hospital?”

“A name. Then I have a shift.” She was already making for the kitchen door. “Maybe we could talk tomorrow morning, before the christening.”

I didn’t have time to say that that was when I was supposed to see Wink, because no sooner had she left than Nora opened one of the other doors to the kitchen. “We’re ready to start.” She looked at both of us. “Richard’s got a little something planned, and he wants everybody, even you two, out there to witness it.”

“Okeydoke!” Julian replied cheerfully.

“Does either of you know if K.D. will be returning?” she asked, her voice high and querulous.

“Uh, no, she won’t,” I said. “She suddenly remembered something she had to do down at the hospital.”

Nora sighed. “And she told you this, but not me?”

“I guess so,” I said, putting on a meek tone.

Nora scanned my face for signs of sarcasm. Seeing none, she shook back her curtain of blond hair and went on, “Would you all like Louise Upton out here to help you? She’s been pouring the wine, but if you need her, she could come back.” Nora pressed her hands with their long tapered fingers together and began wringing them. “I just wanted this celebration to be a success—”

I stopped placing the broccoli in the steaming basket and gave her a reassuring look. “Oh, it’s going to be a great party. Trust me. Everyone seems to be having a super time. I mean, everyone is having a great time. Really. Several guests have already commented on it, and Julian and I see all kinds of parties. This is fantastic. A-plus.”

A tiny smile crept onto Nora’s lips. “Do you really think so? Several guests have commented?” When Julian and I nodded vigorously, she said, “Well, then, I suppose everybody should see what Richard has planned. I already know what it is; it took him forever to get it set up.” She eyed the island. “Are you ready to go with the salads?”

“Give us one minute.”

“All right,” she said, her mood suddenly charitable. “Come out to the living room as soon as the salads are on the table.” Then she disappeared.

“Several guests have commented?” Julian remarked. “Who, exactly?”

I checked the meat thermometer. “Nobody. I was just trying to reassure her.”

I pulled the crisp, buttery croutons from the second oven while Julian laid out the chilled plates. Then I nabbed the bag of lettuce and handed Julian the cheese. We began to circle the island. I placed chilled romaine leaves on each plate; Julian sprinkled on the Parmesan slivers as well as judicious amounts of chopped chives—never scallions, as this was another thing the do-the-catering-yourself crowd kept their eyes out for. We’d top the salads with the warm croutons after we’d sprinkled on the dressing.

We placed the salads around the table. I noticed Nora had whisked away K.D.’s plate and place card and rearranged the dishes so that nothing was amiss. So then what had Nora been upset about? Then again, what were catering clients ever upset about? I put most of their tantrums down to preparty nerves.

When Julian and I were done, I nodded to Nora, who raised an eyebrow at Richard, who in turn moved over to the wall beside the hearth. From there, Richard gave a signal to Vic Zaruski, who began playing “Autumn Leaves.” At the same moment, Richard tugged on a nylon string I hadn’t noticed before. From overhead, hundreds, thousands of yellow and red leaves came cascading down, sort of like balloons at a political convention. The guests squealed with delight . . . all except for Donald, who had looked up too soon. Now he was carefully trying to remove a batch of sycamore leaves from his mouth. But apparently they had become stuck deep in his throat. Involuntarily he hawked, then spit.

Unfortunately, this sputtering occurred just as Vic ended the first verse of “Autumn Leaves.” As a result, the coughing-up was much louder and more emphatic than Donald had anticipated, and the guests watched in fascination as Donald disgorged a bouquet of half-chewed leaves glued together with saliva onto one of Nora’s white sofas. I watched in horror. First the guac, now this? What was next?

Richard clapped Donald on the back. He hollered, “Take it easy, little guy. Just keep spitting till you get it all out. My soon-to-be ex-wife was the only doctor here, and I don’t know the Heimlich maneuver.”

Nora clenched her teeth, but managed to pull herself together. She trilled, “The birthday lunch has begun! Please take your seats, folks!”

And so they did. While Richard continued to whack Donald between the shoulder blades, Julian managed to snag a couple of maple leaves that had drifted onto several plates of romaine. Was maple poisonous? I hoped not. Eventually they both found their way to the table.

Following Nora’s directions, I had lit the candles at the table, even though it was the middle of the day. But she was right; this did make things look more festive, and luckily none of the leaves had caught fire. Vic had moved into playing some easy-listening versions of Beatles songs that were, I was surprised to admit, good dining music. Julian moved around the table filling wine and water glasses. Good thing most folks lived nearby and could walk home. While the guests were working on their salads, I removed the tenderloins from the oven so that they could rest. Louise Upton said she had to leave for a doctor’s appointment. I thanked her sincerely for her help, and since I didn’t know whether Nora had given her anything extra, I handed her two twenties from my purse. She could barely conceal her astonishment.

“Why, thank you, Goldy. I don’t really need this. I work for H&J.”

“Today you did double duty for Goldilocks’ Catering, and you deserve the gratuity.”

When I returned to the dining room to collect the salad plates, the guests were discussing Dusty Routt.

“Do you think one or more thieves might have murdered her?” asked Michael Radford, the divorce attorney.

“I wonder if she could have been helping the thieves,” Ookie Claggett said. I wanted to drop a plate of vegetables in her lap, but refrained.

Richard Chenault shook his head. “That’s my niece you’re talking about.” He sighed. “She worked hard, but she wasn’t always able to keep up. So I guess it’s possible she fell in with the wrong crowd, but I hate to think that might have been true. I just hate to think it.”

“She didn’t fall behind when she was working for me,” Donald piped up. “Richard? She labored endlessly for me over a very complicated case—”