Crunch Time

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 returned 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.

The party was being held on the winter porch, which boasted a gas fireplace that was flickering merrily when I squeaked open the screen door. I looked around, disoriented. I had no idea where the Juarezes, Father Pete, and Venla had gone. Maybe they were welcoming the new arrivals. The room’s tobacco-colored upholstered couches, plus an assortment of chairs, flanked the door I’d just come in. A long wrought-iron table surrounded with cushioned wrought-iron chairs stood in front of the fireplace. Dinner plates that Rorry had somehow located to replace the broken ones, silverware, napkins, and serving spoons were arrayed on a rolling tea cart. The main table itself sported three cornucopiae filled to bursting with gold, orange, and white mums, plus white roses and gold alstroemeria. When Rorry did a party, she did one.

I walked quickly to the table and was grateful to see that someone had already placed gold-rimmed crystal wineglasses, more napkins, and salad plates by each place card. Hallelujah. I squinted at the crystal and held it up to the light. It was the real deal, and Rorry was using it on her porch. I swallowed. No more accidents.

I rapidly moved one of the centerpieces over to the tea cart. I carefully plunked the bottle of white wine into an ice bucket labeled for that purpose, then placed both it and the bottle of red near the center of the table. As the rumble of voices approached, I scampered out the way I’d come.

I heard the unmistakable nasal voice of Paul Quarles. “Really, this is the time to invest. You have to believe me. What did you say your name was? Norman? Juarez? What kind of name is that?”

Really, sometimes people’s insensitivity surprised even me, and I’d often been the butt of tactless folks as well as sponges. But Norman was a big boy; he’d just have to handle it. Maybe, like me, he’d even be able to make jokes about it later.

When I came back into the kitchen, Marla was already regaling Yolanda and Boyd with tales of Paul Quarles.

“I’m telling you, Paul Quarles hadn’t taken two steps into the foyer before he found somebody he hadn’t yet hit up to buy stocks. He said everyone should be putting money into the market, because it’s so low. The mouths of the Juarez couple actually dropped open, as in, We just paid two thousand dollars to come to this dinner, and now somebody wants to talk to us about investing? They must think all Episcopalians are obsessed with money, which is more or less true, but never mind.”

“Guys,” I said, “we need the rest of the food from the van. Boyd, can you go out there?”

“Kris just arrived,” Marla said to Yolanda, her voice low.

“It’s all right,” said Yolanda without looking up from the bunch of keys in her hand.

“He’s brought a tall brunette,” Marla said. “Do you want to hear about her?”

“Marla,” I said, warning her. “Maybe this isn’t the best—”

Yolanda’s eyes flared as she gave me a steady look. “What, you don’t think I can handle it, Goldy? Tell me, Marla. Tell me about Kris’s new woman.”

“Well, she’s pretty,” Marla said, “but not nearly as pretty as you. When Paul was going on to Norman Juarez about investing in the stock market, I asked Kris’s date if she knew what it meant to short a stock. She said, ‘Does that mean you buy a stock from someone who isn’t tall?’ So one thing we know about Miss Dumb About Dough is that she probably isn’t an Episcopalian.”

“What’s this woman’s name?” I asked.

Marla raised her eyebrows. “Harriet. While Rorry was ushering everyone out to the porch, I asked Harriet if she had a job. She said she did modeling and odd jobs. Of course, I think modeling is an odd job, but nobody asked me. I guess in the current economy, you’ll do just about anything to make money.”

I tried to give Yolanda a compassionate glance, but she had turned resolutely to the sink. While she washed her hands, Boyd caught my eye and shrugged. I asked him, “Did you bring in the box with the lamb chops?” I turned my attention back to Marla. “Listen, girlfriend. How are your puppies?”

“Cute as can be. And yapping all the time.”

“Great. Listen, could you see if you can get the conversation over to Hermie Mikulski? See if anyone has heard anything about a local beagle puppy mill.”

Marla, who had discovered the pan with the enchiladas, gave me a skeptical glance. “You want me to change the subject from investing to dogs? How do you propose I do that?”

“How about this,” I said. “Tell people you’ve just adopted three beagle puppies. Then see if you can move the conversation over to whether you can make money breeding dogs. If so, what breeds work best? And has anyone heard about any mills in the area?”

Marla was still skeptical. “I thought you gave away all the puppies.”

“What I want you to do is see if anyone has heard any reports of rescuing abused beagles in this area. If so, from where?”

Marla placed the enchiladas on the counter. Then she ducked back into the refrigerator and hauled out two bottles of Humberto’s Dom. Doggone it. I’d remembered the other guests’ wine, but not Humberto’s. “Know what, Goldy? People do better with sudden shifts in topic when they’re well lubricated.” She peered at the bottles. “These were leaning against a bowl of salad in the refrigerator. Does that mean someone knocked them over?”

I sighed. It could indicate that, which could in turn lead to an explosion of bubbly in the kitchen, which was not what we needed at this point.

At that moment, Humberto himself slithered into the kitchen. He wore a pale blue sport coat and yellow pants. “Ah, my countrywoman,” he said silkily. When Yolanda ignored him, he drew himself up and gave me an expectant look. “I brought my champagne over myself, this afternoon. Would you please serve it?”

I said, “Yassuh,” before I could stop myself. Humberto trundled out. I wondered where Odette was.

Marla raised her eyebrows and opened drawers. “I’m looking for a cloth dish towel to put over this thingy they use to stop up champagne. Where in hell does Rorry keep things?” She slammed a drawer shut, frustrated. “I met Odette, Humberto’s date, or whatever he’s calling her. More like paid escort, I’d say. She’s a cute, busty blond who looks less than half his age.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I saw her this afternoon. Does she seem familiar to you?”

“Never having worked for an escort agency myself, I have to say no, she does not look familiar. I’m going to go ask Rorry where her dish towels are.”

I cursed silently. “Don’t. We’ll find some.” I began pawing through Rorry’s drawers, as well as the supply closet. Where would she keep cloth dish towels? She, or her cook, Etta, had hundreds of kitchen utensils and cleaning tools. They were clean and looked new. But they were in no discernible order.

Marla said, “So you want me to turn the conversation from cash to canines while you open the champagne?”

“Yes, please.”

“The things I do for you, Goldy, I swear.” She disappeared as Boyd reentered the kitchen hauling the box containing the lamb chops and Navajo taco ingredients. I asked him to start opening the shrink-wrapped packages of chops.

Yolanda, meanwhile, was bent on a new task: rolling out the balls of dough that would become the fry bread.

“If I can ever get this champagne open, I need to start the lamb chops,” I said to her. “And I was hoping you could get going on the Navajo tacos. We’re getting behind.” When Yolanda threw a ball of dough on the counter, I said, “No, scratch what I just said. Go home. Take Boyd. I can handle this dinner.”

Her face softened, and when she looked at me, her eyes were wet. “Oh, Goldy, no, thank you. No. I asked you for this job, and you’re paying me to do it. I’m fine. It’s just that . . . I haven’t really seen him since our breakup.” Her full mouth pulled into a tight smile. “There’s a first time for everything, and this is it. And besides, you don’t know how to make the Navajo tacos.”

“Didn’t I just hear you say there’s a first time for everything?”

She barked a laugh. “You don’t want to be learning how to make fry bread when you have a whole party to serve it to.”

“O ye of little faith. Just help me find some dish towels, would you, please?”

It was stupid, really. How could you have a retro kitchen but no cloth towels? Boyd offered to help, but I said it was more important to get the racks of chops open.

“You’ve checked the cupboards?” Yolanda asked.

“Yup.” I began to look along the walls, where Rorry, or Rorry’s architect, had put open shelves. There were no linens anywhere. “I should drive out and get one,” I said.

“I’d say to use towels from the guest bathroom, but all she has in there are monogrammed paper guest towels,” said Yolanda.

“Just give me one more minute,” I said, “and then I’ll go look for a linen closet. Sergeant Boyd, could you go out to the porch and make sure people’s glasses are filled?” He nodded and disappeared. I preheated the ovens for the lamb, then looked up the walls of the kitchen.

Over the center island, Rorry’s architect had used chains to suspend one of those heavy oval rings, the kind that cooks hang all their pots and pans on. Rorry’s were all copper, and polished to a high sheen. A metal net filled with dish towels dangled from the far end. I thought, Finally, then walked over and reached for it. I couldn’t quite see how to unhook the net, so I tugged on it gently to see where it was attached.

And then the whole ring of pots, pans, and dish towels crashed down on my head.

Later, I judged that at least twenty pots came cascading down, along with the heavy metal oval, the screws, even chunks of the ceiling. Two tubs for poaching fish hit me on the head and shoulders, and I careened sideways on the floor. The banging and clattering mixed with the sound of Yolanda screaming. A corkscrew caught the side of my face. When the skin on my cheek tore open, I cursed vociferously and struggled to get up, but could not.

“Goldy!” Yolanda shrieked. “Goldy, are you all right?”

“Listen to me,” said Boyd calmly. When had he returned to the kitchen? He leaned close to my face. “You’re cut. Do you think any of your bones are broken?”

“No,” I said curtly. “I’m fine. Just pissed.”

I blinked back blood and could just make out Sean Breckenridge as he raced into the kitchen. “What the hell was that?” he hollered. He caught sight of me on the floor. His wide eyes fixed on my bloody face. At that point his mouth dropped open, his eyelids fluttered closed, and he keeled toward me.

“Damn it!” I screamed, but it was no use.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Boyd said as he reached out in an effort to catch Sean. With blood dripping into my eyes, I could make out only enough of Sean’s trajectory to hold out my arms.

“Oof,” I cried as he landed more or less on top of me.

Rorry’s voice sounded faraway, I realized, because blood was streaming into my left ear and Sean was blocking my right one. “Sean!” Rorry screamed. “Get off of Goldy! Did he see blood?” Rorry demanded.

As Boyd, Yolanda, and Rorry yanked and tugged an unconscious Sean off me, I wondered how often Rorry had had occasion to holler at her husband to get off a woman to whom he was not married.

Five minutes later, Rorry had revived Sean, although he still lay on the kitchen floor. Rorry kept pellets of ammonia salts in every room and in the car, she told me when I returned from the guest bathroom, pressing a wet paper towel to my cheek.

Yolanda gestured to one of the kitchen stools. “Sit down, Goldy. Let me clean that up for you.”

“I’m okay.”

“Sit down.” She ran water over one of the searched-for dish towels and squirted dish soap onto it.

I took a seat. “You sound like Ferdinanda.”

“Stubbornness runs in the family.” She gently dabbed my torn skin.

“Sean?” I asked. “How’re you doing down there?”

He groaned. Rorry said, “When Sean was in middle school? He thought he wanted to be a doctor—”

“Honey, don’t tell this story again,” Sean said, his voice just above a whisper.

“—right up to the point when a friend accidentally sliced his thumb with a knife in biology,” Rorry said, continuing. “When the friend’s blood spurted out?”

“Sweetheart,” Sean whined, “you’re going to make me sick.”

“When the blood spurted out,” Rorry said, her voice raised a notch, “Sean passed out and hit his head on the lab counter.” The look she was now giving her husband was somewhere between disgust and sympathy. “He got a concussion. He dropped biology, studied physics, majored in business in college, then became an accountant.”

“And are you still one, Sean?” I asked as Yolanda carefully rinsed my cheek. “I mean, do you keep up with your certification, or whatever it’s called?”

When he didn’t answer, Rorry said tersely, “He doesn’t.” At this point, Sean, looking dazed, sat up and leaned against one of the cabinets. “He did people’s taxes for a while, hated it, and wanted to become a professional photographer. He, um, we decided to travel around the world after we got married, so he could take pictures. Then we settled here, so he could take more pictures. He never went back to being an accountant. Am I telling the story properly, Sean?”

Sean did not look at his wife. He said, “Yeah, that about sums up the life of Sean, according to Rorry.”

Could this marriage be saved? Somehow I doubted it. I glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s Boyd?” I asked Yolanda.

“While you were in the bathroom,” Yolanda said in a low voice, “he asked Rorry if he could get a ladder from the garage. He wants to take that whole metal oval and all the pots and pans and whatnot into evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” I whispered.

“He wouldn’t tell me,” she murmured. “He asked Rorry for permission to take it, and she said yes. He also asked her who had access to the kitchen today, while she was getting ready for the party.”

“And?”

“Just about everybody, apparently, except for Tony and Franny Ramos. They all brought food, wine, even beer, which was from Marla. According to Rorry, it was because they all felt guilty about adding to the dinner party. Except for Venla, of course, who says she always brings her cheese ball. For all these food donors, Rorry said she was either out on the patio setting it up or upstairs getting ready. Etta had already taken off for Beaver Creek with their son. Rorry said she was only in and out of the kitchen from time to time.”

I tried to count. That meant that Kris and his girlfriend, Harriet, Marla, Donna Lamar, the Juarezes, the Quarleses, and Humberto and his young blonde had all been in here. I shook my head.

“Sean?” Rorry put her face in front of her husband’s. “Are you ready to go back to our guests?”

Sean cleared his throat, tried to get up on his own, and couldn’t make it.

“C’mon, Sean honey,” Rorry said, pulling on her husband’s elbow. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t need you!” Sean said fiercely. He jumped to his feet, wobbled, then stopped, perplexed, at the sight of Boyd walking in, carrying a stepladder with one hand. Boyd ignored him and opened the ladder under the hole in the ceiling.

Rorry turned back to me. “If you’re up to it, could you bring Humberto’s champagne out to the porch? He’s been asking about it. And could somebody carry out some more white wine? We’ve finished what we had. And white wine usually helps Sean.”

I nabbed a spare cotton apron I’d brought, placed it carefully over the stopper in the Dom, and cautiously turned it. But it was no use: the champagne had become shaken up in the refrigerator, and the stuff spurted everywhere. Well, tough tacks. I opened the second bottle, which also exploded. I cursed vociferously, if silently, and put both bottles on a wooden tray. Next I looked around for the bottles of Riesling I’d brought.

“I already moved the box with the bottles of white wine out of here,” Boyd said. He was perched at the penultimate step of the ladder and was gazing at the ceiling. “How they survived all that metal crashing down on them, I do not know.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the foyer. “It’s out there.”

“In the foyer?” I asked, gingerly touching the bandage Yolanda had taped to my cheek.

“That front hallway, yup.” Boyd plucked his cell phone out of his back pocket and began taking pictures of the jagged opening overhead. When he was done, he pocketed the phone, came down the ladder, folded it up, and disappeared.

In despair, I looked at the jumble of pots and pans, plus the damn metal net with the dish towels that had been the cause of all this drama in the first place. Boyd was going to take all this? When he returned, he had paper bags under his arm—from the garage?—and was pulling on latex gloves. He began picking up the pots and stowing them in the bags. I wondered what Etta would think of a cop checking all her cooking equipment for signs of sabotage.

“Wait,” I said to Boyd as he methodically clanked pot after pot into the second bag. “Take this.” I reached into my apron pocket and brought out the wrench.

“Where’d you get this?” Boyd asked.

“It was outside, on the ground. If this was a case of sabotage, I think our saboteur dropped it between the locked side door and the porch.”

“Thanks,” said Boyd as he placed the wrench into a bag. “Too bad you touched it with your bare hands.”

I wanted this party to be over, but there was still work to be done. I asked Boyd to get the wine from the foyer. Then I gently picked up the tray with the Dom and made my way to the porch via the living room.

The space was lovely, filled with chintz-covered sofas and wingback chairs. On the cream-colored walls, enormous gilt-framed posters showed the evolution of marketing for Boudreaux Molasses: girls holding bottles of the dark liquid, bottles next to palm trees, bottles in meticulously kept kitchens, and yet more bottles next to piles of molasses cookies. Well, I thought, at least Rorry and Sean could have a constant reminder of where all the money came from.

I wondered what Sean thought of that.

A mirror in the living room reflected back to me how unappealing I appeared, even with Yolanda’s expert bandaging job. Part of the supernova of champagne had landed on my arms, hair, and face, and the expensive slick was hardening like splattered glass. I forced myself to glance away, then quietly took the tray out to the porch. I asked Father Pete—who looked at me with concern—if he would please pour the champagne. He nodded. I didn’t make eye contact with any of the other guests.

I walked quickly back to the kitchen and began opening the Riesling. Boyd was faster at the job than I was, so I cut slits in the lamb chops, stuffed in minced garlic, and popped them into the oven. Yolanda asked me to heat up the taco meat while she worked on the fry bread. With the pots and pans gone, though, she had nothing in which to actually fry the bread. But Rorry or Etta had left an old-fashioned electric skillet on the counter by the sink, so Yolanda poured the oil into that.

She said, “Do you want to serve the tacos along with the lamb chops?”

“Sure, right after the salads. It’ll work,” I said, reassuring her. “Thanks for thinking of that.”

“I should be thanking you,” said Yolanda as she turned up the heat on the oil. “I’m going to have to dump this oil when I’m done . . . do you suppose Rorry has an empty coffee can around somewhere?”

“I couldn’t find something in this kitchen if it was right in front of me,” I replied.

“I’ll find a can,” Boyd said as he handed me the bottles of Riesling. “And don’t worry about the salads,” he said to me. “I know how to make one, so I can make sixteen. Yolanda’s already done the dressing, so all I need to do is give it a quick shake.”

I thanked him, too, then hustled out to the porch to set my Riesling-and-cheese trap. The guests were speaking in a bit of a forced tone, which I’d noticed is the way it often is at parties where people don’t really know one another from work, or golf, or whatever. Marla gave me a helpless look: Clearly, she’d been unable to change the subject to puppy breeding. Maybe more booze was in order. The champagne bottles were empty, but there were four open bottles of red wine. Rorry was right; they needed the Riesling.

I began to circle the table, asking people if they preferred red or white wine. I couldn’t help but notice something odd, though, and it had nothing to do with Kris. What conversation there was was dominated by Donna Lamar, who, in addition to being the church treasurer, had clearly had way too much to drink. Not only that, but she was dressed in a manner that would have made my mother and her set back in New Jersey cringe: a way-too-low-cut bright red dress that revealed to what extent her cups were running over. She’d changed the place cards around so that she was sitting across from Humberto, at whom she aimed her cleavage and her voice, which had turned high and flirtatious. I looked at Odette, who was arching an eyebrow at her presumptive rival.

“Oh, Humberto,” Donna was saying, as if he were the only one at the table, “you should have been there.” She placed her hand suggestively on his forearm. “I wowed them. I told the teachers that they should aim to have three-fourths of their math students above the school median.”

“That’s not possible,” Odette said coolly.

“Oh,” said Donna, her voice huffy with indignation. “I suppose you are the one who was asked by the teachers to come give a motivational talk. Well,” she said, directing her comments and her boobs at Humberto, “then I spoke to the science teachers, and goodness knows, they need a pick-me-up, with all the budget-cutting that’s going on. They just loved me—”

“If you see eleven sunspots one day,” interjected Odette, “and eight the next, and then three the next, what do you think the median will be? Eight,” said Odette. “It’s not possible to have—”

“What’s not possible,” shrilled Donna, “is to get rid of sunspots so quickly, dummy! You have to use makeup or concealer—”

She was interrupted by a laughing Odette. Everyone else looked dumbfounded except for Donna, who was furious. Her face was flushed with that horrible mixture of rage and booze that I’d seen on far too many wealthy clients’ faces.

“Odette!” Donna squealed. “What in hell do they teach you at that escort service of yours?”

“I’m just correcting a common misperception,” said Odette, unmoved by Donna’s insult. Odette, still sheathed in her silver unitard, sent a twinkly smile at Humberto. Much to Donna’s dismay, the entirety of the guests were now staring openmouthed at Odette.

“My dear little smart girl,” said Humberto, patting her knee.

Marla said, “Remind me to give you a call, Odette, when I’m doing my taxes.”

Donna’s tone turned snarky. “Perhaps you’d like to take over as church treasurer, Odette. I mean, if that’s your real name.”

Father Pete murmured, “My dear Donna, no one could replace you.”

Donna Lamar’s eyes flashed in Odette’s direction. For my part, I was still getting that I-know-you-from-somewhere feeling from this young woman in the shiny unitard. I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and took a quick picture of her. I’d already known she was brilliant, but how did I know? I also knew she lived in Aspen Meadow, no matter what escort service she was working for. I slid my cell back into my pocket, frustrated that I could not pull the context of my acquaintance with this young woman from the recesses of my mind.

“Well, you’re right about that, Father Pete,” said Donna. “I have worked hard on the church budget, and that, Odette, takes considerable math skill.”

Odette said drily, “Really? Then how’d you get the job?”

Humberto again patted Odette’s knee, but this smart girl wasn’t finished.

“And hey, computer guy?” she said, addressing Kris. “If you’ve spent most of your life in California, how come you have a Minnesota accent?”

Kris blushed deeply, right to the roots of his pale hair. “Well, I—”

“Let me ask you something about computers, then,” said Odette, patting the top of her blond curls as she gave Kris a penetrating stare. “I want to upgrade my laptop so that I can plug in my external hard drive, a printer, a separate scanner, a custom keyboard, and a microphone. How could I expand my number of USB ports?”

Kris, dumbfounded for once, gaped at her. “That wasn’t my area—”

“How ’bout this, then,” Odette said, continuing. “Right now, I’ve got a dual-core processor, and—”

“Stop this!” squealed Donna. “You’re boring!”

Kris, his cheeks still flushed maroon, had definitely not expected a technical interrogation at a church fund-raising dinner, from a young woman who was clearly a prostitute.

“Sweet one?” said Humberto, once again patting Odette’s knee. “Back off a bit.”

“I am not boring,” said Odette in protest. “And anyway, I was wondering if Donna, when she was talking to the science teachers, talked about medical isotopes—”

“Isotope?” said Donna loudly. “I know that’s some kind of frozen dessert. You can’t use it in medicine.”

“Actually,” interjected Kris, still smarting from his lack of computer knowledge, “medical isotopes are used for—” But just as quickly as he’d started speaking, he stopped.

Donna sniffed proudly and glanced around the table. It was clear she was looking for a new topic of conversation, something that wouldn’t make her appear quite as drunk or stupid as she already did. When her eyes lit on me, my stomach turned over. I couldn’t remember the difference between the median and the average, but I had heard that sunspots were related to business cycles. Had they predicted the current recession?

Donna raised her brows and pointed a red-painted fingernail in my direction. “Aha, Goldy! Maybe you can bring us up-to-date on the investigation into the murder of our dear fellow Aspen Meadow resident Ernest McLeod! I’ll bet Odette doesn’t know anything about that.”

Odette exhaled and looked down. Father Pete turned redder than Donna’s nails. But he was not one to tell people to back off.

“Oh my goodness,” I said. To cover my embarrassment, I picked up the wines and began circling the table again. “I, well, I don’t know anything. Uh, Tom doesn’t tell me that much. Tom Schulz is my husband,” I said to Norman and Isabella Juarez, who so far had seemed completely at sea over the entire conversation. “He’s an investigator at the sheriff’s department?” I said with a stern look at Norman. Please don’t indicate we’ve talked about Ernest. He seemed to get it.

“Goldy’s a real detective,” said Donna, wagging her finger at me.

That reminded me. I stared at the cheese platter. It was about half-denuded, but at that moment, I saw both Sean and Brie Quarles exchange a look. He reached for the Gouda. First he cut her a slice, placed it on a cracker and a napkin, then handed it across the table. Then he cut himself a wedge. With their eyes locked, they put the cheese into their mouths simultaneously. And Brie, I noticed, was wearing a lilac silk outfit and mauve lipstick. I thought, Well well well. Is this a gotcha moment? I glanced over at Tony Ramos, who, in typical Calvin Coolidge style, hadn’t said anything during the dinner. What did he think of Brie and Sean’s locked eyes? The last time I’d seen him, Brie had been showering her attentions on him.

“Are you going to pour Brie some of that Riesling, Goldy,” Kris asked, “or are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and poured the Riesling—the adulterers’ Riesling, their favorite—into her glass. Again simultaneously, they picked up their glasses and made just the slightest movement, a silent toast to each other. Yup. Gotcha.

“Oh, yes,” Donna said in a loud, querulous voice. “I know all about Goldy’s detecting skills. In fact, I sent her on a mission! And it had to do with illicit sex!”

Father Pete choked on his cracker. Venla Strothmeyer’s cheeks turned pink. But the rest of the table turned toward Donna. She preened. I thought, Doggone. She didn’t want me to talk to the paper, and now she’s making a public announcement.

“Do tell,” said Marla. Showing remarkable forbearance, she did not look at me.

“So here’s the scoop,” Donna hissed conspiratorially. “People wanting to have sex have been sneaking into my rentals. It’s a couple, always the same couple, judging by the glimpses from neighbors. Except now they might be using disguises. At least, that’s what my assistant says. Anyway, these two are always looking for places without security systems. In remote areas. It just pisses me off! Oh, sorry.” She glanced at Father Pete, who was trying to wash down the aberrant cracker with some red wine. “Anyway, one day, a neighbor who lives not far from one of the places—out by the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve?—called to alert me. Then she shouted at them that the cops were coming, which wasn’t true, unfortunately,” Donna said, continuing breathlessly. She slugged down some wine. “But the pair had to skedaddle. They left behind their sleeping bags, wine bottle, cheese wrappers, and other trash. So I just handed it all over to Goldy. I suppose she wanted to help, since her husband works for the sheriff’s department, and they won’t do jack to help me. I said, ‘You get ’em, girl!’ ” This was not what she’d said, but I knew by now that Donna was in the embellishment business. “So,” she said to me expectantly, “did you figure out who they were? Did that stuff I gave you yield any clues, Sherlock?”

I was painfully aware of all eyes turning to me. Sean’s and Brie’s mouths dropped open. Brie blinked, turned away, and moved her wineglass several inches from her place setting. Sean gave me a malevolent, accusing stare.

“I didn’t find anything,” I lied. “I have no idea who they are. Between getting ready for this party and all my other work, I didn’t really have time to investigate.”

“But you went out there, to the cabin,” Donna said, protesting. “What kind of detective are you?”

“Not a very good one, apparently,” said Kris Nielsen, who up to then had said nothing. “Why, just yesterday, Goldy barged into my house, on false pretenses, mind you—”

Whatever it was he was going to say got lost as an unearthly series of screams issued from the kitchen.