my own Tom had remembered Albert in connection with the goats and goat cheese, not Tony and Albert together. Maybe Eileen was indulging in some reputation-destroying back-stabbing, by exchanging the names and the players.
When the soup had cooled, I packed it into zipped plastic bags and wedged frozen ice packs between the bags in a large cardboard box. I also loaded in fruit, granola, yogurt, raw vegetables, nonfat sour cream dip, and homemade bread. As I revved up the van, I wondered if l should be the one to confront Tony about the goat story. Then again, Eileen had left out a few significant facts in her tale, including that she’d resumed dating Tony several years after the goat swindle. Nor, she said, had she alerted the consumer fraud people until after she and Tony broke up this year. Maybe Albert was the real swindler; that certainly seemed to be in line with the way he was acting now. No matter what, I thought as I pulled up in front of Sam’s Soups, I doubted this afternoon’s scheduled taste-testing would give me an opportunity for a business-oriented heart-to-heart with Tony.
“Here you are, finally,” he said, as he guided me through the tables by the bank of windows facing Aspen Meadow Lake. The bright navy-and-white interior of Sam’s Soups was meant to conjure up culinary memories of New England, I guessed, as I watched waiters and waitresses clad in sailor’s outfits zip between tables. A long fisherman’s net hung along one wall, while another festooned the ceiling. Framed posters depicting cross sections of seashells graced the other wall. And what did I hear? I moved close to a wall-mounted speaker. Yes: It was the piped-in sound of seagulls. Tony grinned proudly as I took all this in. He was his usual dapper self: white monogrammed shirt, navy pants, mustache freshly clipped, hair blown dry into a soft wave. “We’ve been waiting for you, Goldy. Sam’s chef has prepared a whole smorgasbord of soups just for you.”
I glanced around the crowded restaurant. As the only caterer in a small town, I’d learned that it’s not a good idea to frequent the local eateries. Then all the people who see you say, “Why do you suppose she’s eating here? Think it’s better than her own stuff? Is she here to spy? Or to be critical?” Experience made me doubt Sam Perdue would join us for the taste-test. Why submit your own wares for judgment from a rival? And how could I honestly evaluate his soups in his presence? Alas, he waved at Tony and me from his seat next to Marla. They were at the table in the middle of the restaurant that I guessed was our destination. At least Sam looked more composed than he had at the Prospect office four days ago. His baby-fine blond hair was neatly combed over his bald spot. His slight frame made him look much younger than the thirty-two years of age someone had once told me he was. If I criticized his food, I’d feel as if I were hurting a child. My heart sank.
Edna Hardcastle fluttered up to the table just as I was sitting down next to Marla, who greeted me with a grateful smile. “Oh, you’re here, you’re here,” Edna gushed. She wore a two-piece beige herringbone knit. Her henna hair was swirled up in an intricate twist. “Now don’t worry about a thing, Goldy,” she admonished before I could say a word. “I know you’re probably thinking, Oh, what can I do? I’m just a local person. In fact, we’re all putting a great deal of faith in you, dear, and much is riding on your opinion. Of course, if we had only invested in food from the beginning …” Her voice trailed off “But never mind, here you are, and we’re all going to be so interested in your opinion, it’ll give us a chance to get in on the ground floor… .”
As she blathered on, Tony sidled over to his seat and .gestured for me to pick up a spoon and dig into one of the blue porcelain bowls in the center of the table. Helpful sticky notes on the platter containing the soup bowls said: Terrapin Tom’s Tomato, Moby Dick’s Chicken, Cocoa Beach Chocolate, Cranky Crab, Big Cheese Chowder. Hold on. Cocoa Beach Chocolate soup? I didn’t think I could get even the chocoholic General Farquhar to sample that. Mrs. Hardcastle was chattering about the cook she’d had in Wisconsin. You could just get the best cheese there, and had Tony ever tasted upstate cheddar?
Sam murmured placating noises to Mrs. Hardcastle, while Marla and Tony talked about soups they’d tasted at French restaurants. I suddenly recalled the late Victoria Lear, who had not liked Sam’s Soups, despite the cute names. I should have been smiling and paying attention to Mrs. Hardcastle, or getting off a gentle barb that the only cheese Tony knew was from goats, but unfortunately, what went through my mind as I contemplated the blue bowl was, You can die doing a taste test. I scooped up a spoonful of Cranky Crab soup.
Flaunting risk, I lifted the spoon toward my lips. Suddenly all eyes in the restaurant seemed focused on my open mouth. I hesitated. Images of medieval poison tasters came to mind. One bite, and it might be my last.
“For crying out loud, Goldy,” Marla admonished as the spoon holding the crab mixture trembled in my fingers. She waggled her head in reproof “When I taste-test, it’s fun. It’s just seafood. Don’t think soup.
Think casserole. It’s not going to kill you.” Could Marla possibly still want to invest in a chain of soup-only restaurants, after all that had been happening with Prospect Financial? Apparently so. But not until I gave a thumbs-up to the Cranky Crab concoction. I noticed she wasn’t having any soup-casserole, however. Trying to be careful about her diet. Mm-hmm.
“Let Goldy try the stuff will you?” Tony Royce advised as he shifted in his chair and glanced around at the other tables. “We have to make things appear normal,” he added. He sounded nervous. Normal, his favorite word. “We’re carrying on with business as usual. We’re tasting. We’re investing. Big crowd here, likes soup. Okay, let’s go, Goldy. Eat.”
There was no soup bowl in front of Tony, either, I noticed. Not a good sign. Sam Perdue ran his fingers through his thin blond hair. His eyes crinkled with anxiety.
Over my shoulder, Mrs. Hardcastle gabbed without a break. “… This is no ordinary soup, you know. Sam’s is about to expand from its Denver and Aspen Meadow locations because this is really a singular creation, don’t you think so, Tony?”
Tony waved his hands expansively. “They use all the freshest ingredients. All the restaurant critics are raving about this… what, Mrs. Hardcastle?”
“Light-tasting magic,” she responded rapturously, with a hand on her throat. “Oh, how I do wish that Victoria had felt… oh, but never mind. And that awful Albert! Oh, Tony, Tony, I knew he duped you back with that goat cheese ? “
I faltered and set the spoon down on the platter. “Maybe I should go back to my table,” Mrs. Hardcastle murmured.
“Perhaps that really would be best,” said Marla, with a frosty smile.
I gazed down into the soup bowl. Across the table, Sam Perdue squirmed in his chair.
“Listen, Goldy,” Tony soothed. “This could be a marvelous opportunity for you. We could bring this place public and make a killing. They’ve got a recurring revenue base, which means people come back for the experience of eating soup here. Plus people order breads, salads, and cookies. Comfort on a grand scale. The concept has done extremely well in other locations, except Wyoming. My exit interviews at Sam’s in Denver were fantastic. Am I making sense to you?”
I looked at him and said evenly, “Tony, I would be a much more amenable taster if you would not treat me like a complete idiot.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” he said, with a huge phony smile beneath his manicured mustache. “Okay, listen. Sam’s has plans for new restaurants in more cosmopolitan markets ? Colorado Springs and Boulder. You know what an initial public offering is?” He regarded me patiently.
“Why don’t you just give me a dunce cap, Tony?” Marla gargled with laughter.
But Tony, undaunted, continued sharing his financial expertise. “The company is expanding management to try new markets. Isn’t that right, Sam?”
Sam, who appeared increasingly catatonic, nodded apprehensively.
Tony went on: “After opening locations in the Springs and Boulder, Sam wants to look northward, open a place in Fort Collins, but skip over Wyoming altogether. Try his luck selling soups in Montana-Missoula first, then Bozeman. I want to tell you, Goldy, I expect this is going to make us all rich.”
Or at least recoup a million or two, I reflected. I picked up the spoon, with its load of Cranky Crab. I sniffed it; the aroma was bland-like a canned clam chowder. I assumed a studious expression. Tony and Marla exchanged an eager glance and leaned forward. Would I pronounce the Cranky indescribable? Luscious? One of a kind? Fortunately, the chef was sequestered in the kitchen. One of the things Mrs. Hardcastle had been at pains to inform me was that the poor chef couldn’t stand the tension. Reportedly, he was anxious to learn my findings. I rolled the soup over my tongue. Sam, Tony, and Marla cocked their heads. What would .I say? Its texture is divine! Its taste unequalled! I’ll take two—no—three bowls full!
“Hmm,” I said. You guys are in serious trouble.
Outside of Sam’s, another relentless rain had swept down upon us. Raindrops pelted Aspen Meadow Lake. I swallowed the tasteless, thin concoction, tried to think of how to phrase my assessment, and looked out at the inlet
