I thanked him, hung up, and unwrapped the biscuits. To Patricia I said, “The cake’s on its way.”
Using two chips, Patricia scooped up another precariously balanced load of dip from the plastic bowl. “Mm- mm,” she exclaimed as she delicately wiped an errant glop of sour cream from the side of her mouth. My words registered and she gave me a puzzled look. “The cake is on its way? So are my guests! We’re starting the hockey game earlier than we’d planned, in case we need overtime!” Her voice was full of panic.
“Patricia! Are you sure you’re okay?”
“No, I’m not okay, thank you very much. Am I ever going to see John Richard in civil court now, do you think? Unlikely. I sold my car to pay my lawyer’s retainer. Your ex-husband is sucking me down a drain.” She sounded very bitter.
Captain Ahab, I thought again, and cocked an ear toward the hallway. “I think either the cake or some of your guests might be arriving.” I loved catering. Occasionally, though, while placating a nervous hostess, I ended up burning the butter or committing some other faux pas culinaire. I wanted her to leave the kitchen, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
“Clark can greet the guests,” she rejoined excitedly. “I want to talk about what happened this morning. What did you see? Were you in on the ? “
Mercifully, she was interrupted by dark-haired, handsome Brandon Yuille. Banging through the kitchen door, Brandon balanced an enormous white box on his outstretched arms. The cake. I motioned to the kitchen island and he expertly slid the box to safety. With his eyes twinkling, Brandon swept his long hair off his forehead. Of medium height and slightly ? but appealingly ? chubby, he wore a loose yellow oxford-cloth shin with no tie, khaki pants, and loosely tied brown leather boat shoes. He was good-looking and single, although somewhat too young for Marla, much to her chagrin. With a flourish, he opened the top of the cardboard box.
“Oh, Brandon, it’s super,” I said admiringly.
The rink-shaped cake was actually made of two thick layers of ice cream topped with a thin layer of yellow cake. Mickey had icing-painted all the right red and blue lines and the Avalanche logo. He’d even placed tiny plastic hockey players at various places and miniature goals at each end. “The cupcakes will look perfect surrounding it. Let’s get it into the freezer.”
Patricia was staring at Brandon. “Don’t you work for ACHMO?” she demanded suspiciously.
He reddened. “Yes, I … I’m just helping my father… .” His look grew puzzled. “Wait a minute. You’re the one who’s suing… Oh, I’m sorry, ? I know you’ve had a hard time ?”
“You all are spying on me,” Patricia responded hotly. “Don’t think I don’t know about all the records you’ve been trying to get your hands on or have destroyed. You can leave my home now.”
“I apologize for coming,” Brandon mumbled as he slid the cake into the freezer.
“Patricia, please,” I soothed. “Mickey Yuille is the new proprietor of the pastry shop. Brandon works for ACHMO during the week and helps his father on the weekends. Brandon, I’m sorry about this ? ?
But Brandon’s leather shoes were already making squeaking noises as he hastened out of the kitchen. So much for asking him any questions about ACHMO’s response to the recent demise of their vice-president.
Patricia sniffed. “If I’d known the pastry shop guy was related to an ACHMO guy, I would have had you make the centerpiece cake.” She made it sound as if that was the last thing on earth she wanted.
One of the guests, a slender, energetic woman with curly black hair, crashed into the kitchen. Her blue eyes shone with anticipation as she hurtled toward us. “Listen, Goldy, what’s the real dirt on your husband?” Two more women crowded in behind her, whispering and staring at me avidly.
Oh, brother. Every bone in my jaw ached from being clenched. I leaned against the refrigerator and glanced longingly at the fish fillets. Should I pretend I didn’t know what was going on? With my husband?
Actually, ladies, my husband is a cop who spent the afternoon running errands. That is, after he arrested my ex-husband
“Out, out, out,” Patricia commanded with surprising authority. To my relief, her noisy friends backed out of the kitchen. “And it’s her ex-husband!”
I could hear a muffled whine: “But we want to hear about…” The door closed on them.
“Your poor son,” Patricia said, suddenly remorseful. “He must be in agony. And how embarrassing it’ll be when his friends start talking about all this. I’m so glad Tyler’s not here. I certainly don’t want him asking questions. Keep right on with your work, Goldy. I’m staying with you until Clark starts the hockey game. You need protection from those busybodies.”
Of course, she was right. So was Marla. I should have worn a shirt that said I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING.
“It’s ACHMO.” Patricia said it dismissively as I steadfastly organized my supplies. She munched another dip- loaded chip reflectively. “You ever try to talk to somebody on the phone there? ACHMO re minds me of a church I went to once. Everybody hates everybody. The institution doesn’t function and it’s everybody else’s fault. The more you try to replace people, the worse it gets. Better to just burn the place down and start over.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what they did to me,” she said. Actually, I had never asked for the litany of volleys in Patricia’s negligence lawsuit against ACHMO. I knew she had lost her baby. I was not so interested that I had to hear all the details of the legal battle. Nor did I want to. “You heard ACHMO canned Ralph, of course,” she continued conspiratorially. “He’ll be here tonight, poor thing.”
“I did hear he had been fired.” I could sound as sympathetic as the next person. “Did Ralph find a new job?”
She nodded. “He was lucky to get something with another HMO, but it’s in administration. I’m sure there are many, many people Suz Craig fired,” she stated in the same offhand tone. “But two in Aspen Meadow? Please. We should get federal funds.” She lifted another chip as she raised an eyebrow.
“The other person she fired is Amy Bartholomew?”
“So you know about Amy. Yes. The woman’s a real healer, Goldy. Amy’s the one who told me to have this parry. Suz lost a gem in her. But Amy sees people at her health-food store now. I don’t believe she ever supported six slot machines in Central City, the way they said.”
I placed the biscuits on a buttered cookie sheet and covered them with foil to reheat later. “Well,” I said hopefully, “the police are bound to sort it out. Maybe you’d like to check on your guests… ?”
Unfortunately, Patricia still seemed to be in no hurry to leave. “So are they… going to put your husband on the case? The investigator? That would be something, wouldn’t it? I can’t imagine ? “
“No, Patricia.” I peered out the window that overlooked the driveway. The male guests had divided themselves into two teams: one wearing Tshirts, the other not. A half-dozen men sat on the wooden retaining wall strapping on in-line skates, while another three-helmeted, padded, bare-chested ? were taking tentative gliding turns around the drive. Their faces were hostile and they appeared to be yelling. Hurling insults at each other already? “Uh, do you have a doctor around? I mean, just in case there’s a problem with the hockey game outside?”
Alarmed, Patricia stepped up to the window beside me. “Oh, for crying out loud, they’ve started? Uh-oh, there’s Drew Herbert. He’s got the logo of the Detroit Red Wings tattooed on his chest.” She rapped on the glass. No one outside paid the slightest attention. “Who is …” One of the skaters took a spill and Patricia yelped. “Oh, Clark’s going to get us sued!” With this, she rushed out of the room.
Two nets abutted opposite ends of the driveway. One goal stood by the paved edge that gave way to the sloped front lawn and Tyler’s swing set, the other had been pushed up against a high retaining wall made of four- by-fours. Transfixed, I watched from the window until all twelve men were skating at a dizzying speed. Wielding lethal-looking hockey sticks, they bunched and raced, bunched and raced, all the time weaving past one another in furious pursuit of a bright purple tennis-size ball.
The score seesawed between the Shirts and the Chests, with the Shirts leading in high-fives and the Chests in sweat-production. About ten spectators, including the three women who had barged in on me, gathered on the driveway sidelines, hollering and laughing and swilling what looked like large gin-and-tonics in what I hoped were plastic ? not glass ? cups. What had happened to the beer? Had Clark brought it down to the end of the driveway?
When the score was two to one, a fight broke out over whether one of the Chests had skated out-of-bounds. First two, then four, guys started jostling one another. Unfriendly shoulder shoves accompanied open-mouthed braying.
Squawking, Patricia dashed into the fray. We were still twenty minutes from when I was supposed to bring out the first batch of appetizers for two dozen people. But if this squabble heated up much more, I’d have fewer
