Crunch Time

14

I said, “Thanks for all your help,” then hugged her and hustled out to my van.

On the way back to town, my cell phone began beeping. I had three messages. Three? Why hadn’t my cell rung?

Tom’s voice said, “Miss G.? Where are you? I’m just getting back to you now, sorry, it’s been a firestorm at the sheriff’s department. Please call me.”

Then Yolanda announced, “Hi! We finished at the doctor’s office. I’m driving back up from Denver now. When we get to your place, I’ll check your schedule to pack everything up. See you soon.”

Once again, Tom’s voice implored me: “Miss G.? I know I didn’t answer your earlier message, but now I’m getting worried that you haven’t called me back. Are you all right? Please call me as soon as you get this message. This morning I had meetings, and then I was out of cell range.”

I called him back immediately, and he picked up on the first ring. “Sorry, Tom,” I burst out. “I was out at Sabine Rushmore’s place. She lives near the wildlife preserve.”

“Goldy, what in hell were you doing out there?”

“Tom, look. I was just trying to figure out who broke into—”

“Miss G., we’ve been having reports of shots fired out there for weeks. It’s what I was working on when Ernest was killed. And in case you didn’t know, it’s not hunting season—”

“I know, I know! Sabine and I heard gunshots—”

“Oh, Christ.” Tom groaned. “You weren’t out in that area where we had the big wildfire a couple of years ago, were you?”

“But . . . that’s less than a mile from where we were. Why?”

“Please listen.” Tom’s tone turned guarded, as if someone were hovering nearby. “I don’t want you out there anymore.”

“Listen, Tom! Sabine saw a bald guy who might be running a puppy mill. I didn’t see him, though, and Sabine didn’t know where he might be—”

“Goldy! Will you please not go out to the preserve?”

“Oh, Tom. Sabine and her husband live right—”

“Please? We have a big problem in that area that I’m not at liberty to discuss. In fact, I don’t want you going to any remote locations at or near the preserve.”

Okay, somebody really was standing right next to Tom. I asked, “Will you tell me later?”

He said, “Maybe,” and then announced that he had to go.

“But I need to talk to you! Did you reach Hermie Mikulski? Did you talk to Charlene Newgate? Because I thought I saw—”

“You’re breaking up,” said Tom through static. Then his voice was gone.

Damn it. I hadn’t been able to tell Tom about how Hermie had lost her fingers. Nor had I shared the details of Hermie’s suspicions of a guy running a puppy mill on his property, with a legit breeding operation as cover, a guy Sabine might have encountered, who was bald. And then there was that car that I thought had been Charlene Newgate’s BMW, also on its way out to the preserve.

Speaking of which, what was going on out in the preserve that Tom had been so secretive about? And how was I going to discover more about these privacy-loving adulterers—presumably the very married Sean Breckenridge and his girlfriend—if I couldn’t trek to remote cabins in the woods?

I called information and got the Mikulskis’ home number. Like Tom, I was connected to voice mail. I identified myself and said I didn’t know any more about the investigation into Ernest’s death. I said I really would like her to call me on my cell, as soon as possible, about a puppy mill situation. I left my number and closed by saying I hoped Brad was recovering from hurting his nose.

It had been a long afternoon, with lots of frustrations. The formerly poor Charlene Newgate had struck some kind of gold with her new boyfriend. I was almost positive that one of them had been driving that silver BMW out by the preserve. Where had he or she been going? And if the boyfriend had a big fancy house and I didn’t know his name, how was I going to find out?

Donna Lamar was also suddenly rich. How had that happened? She was having trouble with a lustful couple that was breaking into her unsecured rentals. How could anyone catch such wily sinners?

As I was coming up on Aspen Meadow Lake, my mind said: Wait. There was more than one way to catch people with their pants down. I didn’t have the DNA of Sean’s lover. But I had their garbage. And I knew Sean would be attending the party that night. Maybe his girlfriend would be, too. If there were wrappers in their trash, I could figure out what food they liked. It might be like one of those algebra problems where you know the values of two variables, and an equation puts them together. With food, I was definitely in the putting-together business.

I checked my rearview mirror. No one was following the van, for which I was thankful. My mind was soaking up Tom’s and Yolanda’s paranoia. Plus, Tom’s words had unnerved me. Someone was shooting guns out in the preserve? Why? People hiked out there. What if a stray bullet hit one of them? Was that what had happened to the bleeding beagle puppy brought in by a hiker to a local veterinarian?

I set this troubling thought aside. The rubbish, their rubbish, was what I needed to concentrate on.

There was no shoulder on this part of the road, only a high stone wall on the far side. Next to my lane, stretching as far as the eye could see, was a deep, snow-filled indentation. I pulled the van over to the edge of this ditch. The van still stuck out a bit into the road, but drivers in Aspen Meadow were used to swinging around horses, cyclists, and runners. With luck, they could steer past a caterer’s vehicle. I eased the van up to a trash can, just in case I needed to explain myself to a roving sheriff’s department deputy or worse, a state patrol officer. The sheriff’s department tended to indulge me, but the state patrol was something else altogether. I mean, I’d gotten in their way in one or two traffic accidents. They had not been amused.

As I dug into the smelly plastic bag of trash that Donna Lamar had collected, I tried to look like any tourist wearing catering clothes who decides to dump camping detritus while standing ankle-deep in snow. I turned a pair of sleeping bags inside out. They were somewhat mangy, but a woman’s pair of underpants dropped out of one. I picked it up. Donna, I thought, you really do need a detective. The panties were from Victoria’s Secret, black and lacy, size four. She was either small and slender or medium height and skinny. Well, I couldn’t exactly ask to see women’s underclothes when they came through the door at the Breckenridges’ place. But it was a start.

There was nothing in the other sleeping bag, so I set them both by the side of the road. I picked up first one, then a second plastic glass and held them to the sunlight. One had a semicircular tinge of mauve lipstick, but not enough to be able to tell what the exact color had been. The other just had the vague, vinegary scent of old wine.

Donna had put the cheese wrappers into a separate paper bag, and the stench when I opened that sack practically sent me into the ditch. I dumped the litter onto the snow and examined it carefully.

There were shreds of scarlet and gold foil from a package of an expensive Camembert I knew: Le Roi et la Reine. My king and queen of romance had fancy tastes. A red wax globe held a bit of moldy Gouda with the brand name ’s-Gravenhage. I knew that Dutch word meant “the Hague,” but I wasn’t familiar with the brand of Gouda, although I probably should have been . . . unless Sean and his girlfriend got them from mail order? Maybe. The box of water crackers was Carr’s, found in most supermarkets.

There was only one thing left in Donna’s bag: an empty wine bottle. I didn’t recognize the brand, but it was a Riesling Auslese Kabinett, with the further indication that it was a Qualitätswein mit Prädikat, the highest grade given to German wines. A partially missing price tag indicated the bottle had come from—hallelujah—Aspen Meadow Liquors. Would Harold at the liquor store be as privacy-conscious as the library, the schools, the church, or doctors’ offices? I certainly hoped not.

I stuffed the sleeping bags, undies, wine bottle, and all the wrappers back into Donna’s big plastic bag. I’d store it in the garage for Tom, just in case he needed it for evidence, although there was no chain of custody, and my fingerprints were all over everything. But having something tangible sometimes helped in interrogations, if things got that far. I cleaned my hands with disinfecting wipes from the glove box, wheeled the van away from the shoulder, and gingerly pressed on the accelerator. In catering terms, it was getting late, and I really, really didn’t want Yolanda stuck with all the packing.

As I drove back toward town, I tried to unwind from the cabin incident by concentrating on that night’s dinner. The cooking was largely done, except that I had to arrange the composed salads on whatever china plates Rorry wanted us to use. The lamb chops could easily roast over at Rorry’s. Yolanda had volunteered to make the Navajo tacos, which would involve deep-frying pieces of dough—what the Navajos call “fry bread”—then quickly splitting these flat rolls and stuffing them with prepped ingredients. I was dreading serving something at a catered party that I had never actually prepared before. But Yolanda had said she knew how to make them, and I trusted her. Plus, if the tacos didn’t work out, they didn’t work out, period. As Julia Child had been fond of saying, “Never apologize.”

My cell phone beeped with a message, probably sent while I was outside the van checking through the lovers’ garbage. It was not from Tom, as I hoped, but from Rorry Breckenridge. She’d announced to my voice mail that the Hanrahans and the Bells were snowed in and had canceled, but that Father Pete had added two guests. Some people, apparently, felt guilty about coming at the last minute, so they would be bringing platters of extra food. If that was all right, she’d added. She was apologetic. One person had already brought over some caviar and put it in her refrigerator. Another was bringing enchiladas, and someone else was bringing several bottles of champagne.

I shook my head at the irony. The church wasn’t managing to make its budget, but guests were outdoing themselves bringing goodies. Go figure.

Plus, enchiladas? Did this mean the Juarezes were coming? Oh, I so didn’t want a scene between them and Humberto at the party.

I didn’t call Rorry back, because really, what could she do? It sounded as if this party was becoming more and more like a potluck, anyway, albeit a fancy-schmancy one. How far this all was from the simple but elegant dinner we had initially envisaged, back when the party was going to be outside in the Indian summer air, on the Breckenridges’ enormous deck.

My cell rang: Marla.

“Okay, so I’m bringing beer to this shindig tonight,” she said without preamble, “and now I’m wondering, if we’re having Navajo tacos, should I bring Mexican beer? Wouldn’t you rather have the Dutch variety?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. My friend’s voice warmed my heart. “Any kind would work.”

“Where are you?”

“On my way to Aspen Meadow Liquors.”

“Not to buy beer, I hope.”

“No, I need some more white wine. German white wine, in case you’re wondering.”

“Why German white wine?”

“If I tell you, you cannot tell anyone.”

“About German white wine?”

“Marla? I need information, the kind you can often get. But you can’t tell anyone what I’ve found out.”

“Okay, okay. But satisfy my curiosity. Does this big secret refer to Riesling or Liebfraumilch?”

“Riesling.” I took a deep breath. “Donna Lamar told me a couple is breaking into her rentals to have sex. So I went out to a cabin where they’d supposedly been. Get this—one of our lovers is Sean Breckenridge.”

“Oh my God. Poor Rorry.”

I summed up the trip out to the cabin and finding the credit card, which, I admitted, might have been stolen from Sean. I told her about hearing the gunshots and going through the bag of evidence. “And now I’m going to buy the stuff that our loving couple had to eat and drink. I’m hoping that if Sean did indeed drop his own card out at the cabin, his girlfriend will be one of the guests and they’ll both indulge tonight.”

“I simply cannot wait for you to expose these people. Should I have some of each of those cheeses, so it’ll look like it’s no big deal?”

“What you should do is act uninterested.”

“Uninterested? All right, all right,” she said to placate me. “Speaking of tonight, I’m already ravenously hungry. Now, don’t worry. My cardiologist has given me a bunch of rules, and much as I’d like to, I’m not going to pig out.”

I said, “Uh—”

“Oh,” she said dismissively, “you know how it is with your parties. As long as one of the people at the dinner is cooking, like a hostess, guests hold back from gorging themselves. But when we have to buy a ticket or pay for the meal ourselves? It’s full speed ahead on the stomach stuffing.”

“You’re right in your observation, I’m sorry to say. That’s why I never, ever sell tickets to an all-you-can-eat buffet. Folks will come to that kind of meal pulling a cooler.”

“What do you suppose the guests at the Breckenridges’ will be wearing?” she asked. “I mean, it’s a church event, but does that mean folks will wear churchy clothes?”

“The way I’ve seen it work, the more swish the locale, the more people tend to get dressed up, even in Aspen Meadow, which is Denim Heaven.”

“Maybe,” Marla said thoughtfully, “but we also like to be authentic, you know, to the theme of the party. So if there’s going to be a hayride or anything involving straw bales, folks will pop five or six hundred for cowboy outfits, right down to the red and white bandanas and Billy the Kid fringed leather jackets.”

“The decorating theme is Abundance of Fall. You could come as a cornucopia.”

“Are you making fun of my size?”

“No, silly. I’d say this will be more fancy-pants, because the Breckenridges are loaded and their house is huge.”

“Excuse me,” said Marla knowingly, “you’re wrong, the Breckenridges are not loaded. Rorry is wealthy, remember? I heard they live on her money. That’s why Sean doesn’t have to work, although he calls himself a professional photographer, which is bull. Do you know anyone who’s ever hired him?”

“Nope.” I pulled into the parking lot of Aspen Meadow Liquors, where tire tracks crisscrossed in the slush. “Listen, girlfriend, I have to hop.” I parked and threw on the brake. “Say, do you know Hermie Mikulski, from church? She used to be in charge of the Altar Guild, but I don’t think she is anymore.”

Marla sighed. “Oh, yes, now she’s into making sure people take care of their animals. There was a woman in my neighborhood who was renting a house that was for sale. According to Hermie, this woman was keeping too many cats. Hermie got her evicted, and the cats were put up for adoption. I still don’t think they’ve sold that house. They couldn’t get rid of the, you know, scent.”

“Thanks, Marla. See you tonight.”

“In my abundance outfit. And much as I’d like to, don’t worry, I won’t say a word about Sean.”

I ducked into Aspen Meadow Liquors. When I was starting out in catering, I’d bought wines and liquors from Harold, the beefy proprietor. But then Alicia, my supplier, had been able to get me better prices on everything, so I’d switched. I didn’t know if Harold would care or even remember me. He’d been known to dip quite extensively into his own stock.

“Well, speak of the devil!” Harold, white haired, red nosed, and stooped, cried when I came through the door. My heart plummeted when I saw he was talking to Humberto Captain. Humberto was still wearing his duck suit, but the sartorial effect was ruined by the mud on his trouser hems. And then I noticed that Humberto, who was probably in his early fifties, was accompanied by a young woman, a svelte, top-heavy platinum blonde who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. She didn’t look like his daughter. And anyway, she was wearing a skintight silver unitard that didn’t exactly say I’m out with Daddy doing errands.

“Humberto’s buying Dom Pérignon to serve at your dinner tonight!” Harold called to me. His speech was slurred, and his head waved slightly on his neck, as if a breeze were blowing in the store. “Aren’t you lucky?” Harold asked, his voice petulant now. “Don’t you feel fortunate?”

I smiled at Humberto and hoped it did not look fake. “I’m thrilled. I feel like, well, like ten million bucks!”

Humberto did not bat an eyelash. Nor did he introduce me to the woman, who turned away from me. Her face in profile, though, seemed familiar. Who was she? I didn’t know any young women in Aspen Meadow who would purposely dress in a silver unitard while doing anything except trick-or-treating. And anyhow, I had the feeling that what this young woman did was, actually, turn tricks.

I moved up to them and offered my hand to the young woman. “Don’t I know you? You seem familiar. Do you live here in town?”

“This is Odette,” Humberto interjected. He put a protective arm around the young woman’s waist. “Is she not beautiful?”

“That she is,” I replied. And smart, too, I remembered distantly. Very smart, but without much money. How did I know her? “Do you have a voice, Odette?”

“Zat I do,” she said, winking at me. When she did so, I noticed long fake black eyelashes. Her eyelids were dusted with silver.

All right, enough was enough. I reached into my pocket, felt for my cell phone, and squinted at it. Somehow, I managed quickly to maneuver over to Take Photo. “Smile!” I commanded, holding up the phone.

Humberto pulled Odette even closer, and grinned widely. Odette again turned away, so all I could snap was her profile. What was with this mystery woman? She whispered something in Humberto’s ear. He blushed and shifted his weight. Dang! Too bad my cell phone couldn’t pick up sexual tidbits on distance audio.

“We need to go get ready,” Humberto said, his cheeks still red. “We’ll see you tonight,” he added.

Good, I thought. Maybe I’d be able to get a cell phone photo of Odette’s face.

Harold heaved up the case of Dom and waddled out to Humberto’s black Mercedes, which he’d parked illegally at the curb.

“Say, Harold,” I said when he returned. “For this party tonight? I’ve had a last-minute request.”

Harold’s rheumy eyes regarded me unhappily. “I hope it isn’t something weird, because I didn’t get a delivery today. The truck driver was afraid of the snow. My wife’s coming to get me early, too.”

I certainly was glad his wife drove him to and fro, as I didn’t want more drunk drivers on the Aspen Meadow roads. But I kept mum about that. Instead, I repeated the words I remembered from the bottle of white wine.

Harold relaxed and nodded. “No problem.”

“You have any chilled?”

“Yeah, sure.” He headed toward the wall of refrigerators. “Who’s giving this party? The Breckenridges?”

“One and the same,” I said. “Is it Sean or Rorry who likes this wine?”

Harold faced one of the cold doors. “How many bottles?”

“Three ought to do it. So, is it Sean or Rorry who buys this from you?”

“Uh, he buys it.” Harold hugged the bottles to his wide chest as he trundled ahead of me to the cash register. “But maybe she sends him to the liquor store to get it for her.”

“Did he say he got it for her?”

“He never says much, Goldy.”

“Ah.”

I paid and had him staple the bag shut, then placed my load into a cart and maneuvered through the slush to the grocery store next door. In the deli section, I noticed someone else I knew, a longtime deli worker named Lena. She was heavy and wore lots of makeup, including formidable black eyeliner. It didn’t look quite as good on her as it had on “Odette,” but never mind. Lena had dyed her hair black at the roots and blond on the ends, which gave her kind of a “Jersey summer” look. Maybe when my hair turned gray, I’d have to think about doing something similar.

“Goldy!” Lena cried. “Long time no see. We’ve got some smoked turkey on special.” She changed plastic gloves.

“Thanks, but no thanks. Actually, I have to ask you about one or more of your customers.”

“Well, could you at least buy something, so my manager doesn’t get suspicious?”

“Absolutely. I need two more cheeses for a dinner I’m doing tonight. One’s a Gouda, ’s-Gravenhage. The other’s a Camembert, Le Roi et la Reine. Do you have either one?”

Lena rocked her head back and laughed. “I have both of them, you sly dog. And I know what you’re up to.” She moved to the cheese section of the case and pulled out the Gouda first, then the Camembert. “How much of this would your clients like?”

“A pound of each, thanks. Could you please slice the Gouda? All right, I confess. I’m being a busybody and I need to know who usually buys this.”

Lena’s fifty-year-old face wrinkled as she placed the cheese on the scale. “Don’t you know?”

“Not exactly.”

Lena grinned. “Sean Breckenridge comes in and buys them. About two or three times a week, and never with his wife. He doesn’t buy a pound each, though.”

I feigned confusion. “So how much does he usually buy?”

Lena moved the Gouda out of the way, tucked it into a plastic bag, and slapped on the price tag. Once she had the Camembert up on the scale, she said, “He usually buys a quarter to a third of a pound each time. I told him he should buy more, so he’d have it in his home fridge when he wanted it.” She measured out the Camembert and handed me the second plastic bag.

“And what did he say?” I asked.

“That’s the weird thing,” Lena said. “I’ve asked him a couple of times, and it’s like I told him his fly is down.”

Well, it is. I said, “Maybe his wife has him on a cheese-free diet, and he’s sneaking it.”

“Goldy, please. A cheese-free diet? Sean’s skinny. And if he’s lactose intolerant, he shouldn’t be eating cheese at all.”

“Is he ever with somebody when he buys the cheese?” I asked. “Somebody who isn’t his wife?”

Lena wagged an index finger at me. “You think he’s fooling around, and I think you’re right. And that’s, if you’ll pardon the expression, cheesy.”

“Lena, come on. Has he ever come with someone or not?”

Lena exhaled as someone called to her that they wanted to taste Braunschweiger. “I’ve never noticed anyone with him. Just the acting-ashamed routine.”

“Keep this under your hat, okay?”

“Keep what under my hat?”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Lena.”

“Rorry is worth millions, Goldy.”

“Well, then, once we know what’s going on, you can sell your story to the tabloids.”

Lena rested her large body against the glass on her side of the case. “But I don’t know anything,” she whispered.

“Neither do I,” I protested, as I gathered up the bags of cheese. “But I’m hoping to be able to find out.”

“Will you tell me, when you know?” she asked breathlessly.

“No,” I said.

Lena harrumphed and quick-marched over to the person wanting liverwurst.

I raced back to the house. It was just after three, and I was consumed with guilt for being so behind our schedule. But when I came inside, it was Boyd who was placing foodstuffs into boxes. Yolanda was spooning the ground beef with seasonings into a container, and the house was filled with the heady scent of a Mexican restaurant. Zippered bags of chopped tomatoes, shredded lettuce, chopped scallions, and grated cheese stood in rows on the kitchen table.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “How’s Ferdinanda?”

Yolanda gave me an exasperated expression. “When the doctor told her it would still be Thanksgiving before she was done with her cast, she pulled out her baton and was on the verge of popping it open when Boyd yanked it away from her. The doctor told us not to come back! He insisted he was done with us and that we needed to get another orthopedist. Ferdinanda said she wouldn’t come back if he paid her to. Then she made loud quacking noises all the way out through the waiting room. She didn’t stop until we got to my van.”

“Where is she now?” I whispered.

“Sleeping. She said that quack tired her out.” She hesitated. “I might need a recommendation to another orthopedic surgeon.”

“No problem. Are we ready to start loading the van?”

She nodded, so I went back outside, where the weather was beginning to turn chilly. I was in the process of reversing the van up the driveway, so that it would be as near as possible to the deck next to the kitchen door, when my eye caught on something. Cursing under my breath, I threw the van into Park and walked quickly to the curb.

Snowmelt had caused a rapidly rushing stream on either side of our road. Without my willing it, I looked up. There were brown curtains hanging in the front room of my godfather Jack’s house. The cold, moist afternoon air closed in on my heart. I tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t. Even though I hadn’t seen a moving van, someone was either living in Jack’s place or fixing it up before occupying it. That would mean he really was gone.

I chewed the inside of my cheeks to get feeling back into them. Soon, someone else would be living in Ernest McLeod’s place, or at least on his property, whether or not the will held up. First we’d lost Jack, then Ernest had been shot and killed. I blinked, tried again to inhale, and felt a moment of dizziness. I turned and walked slowly back to my van. I pulled the sack of lovers’ detritus out of the back, opened the garage door using the code, and tossed the bag of trash inside. Then I closed the garage door and walked back up to the house.

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.