astonishment, it didn’t. I looked down at my legs: my stockings were torn; bloody scratches crisscrossed my knees. I wished I had a change of clothes, but of course I did not. Amy continued to dab salve on the cuts. When she finished, she told me to hold out my hand. I did, and she shook a handful of the tablets into my palm.
“Take two more now, then another four in half an hour. Then four more every hour until you go to bed. Okay?”
“Okay.” I was still trying to calm the chaos in my head. “Do you have a card or something? I mean, so I can pay you? I doubt the McCrackens will cough up the money for your time and supplies.”
Amy shook her head and chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. Patricia is a customer of mine. Come see me, though, on … say, Monday or Tuesday. At the store. I want to take a look at your eyes. You know where I am? By the lake?”
I nodded again. Hesitantly I said, “Do you… did you hear about Suz Craig?”
Her face darkened. “Don’t bring up negativity now. You can’t digest it. You need to get better. Focus on healing.”
I sighed deeply. Focus on healing. I’d discovered the corpse of a murdered woman, my violent ex-husband was screaming threats from his jail cell, my I son was furious with me, I’d been hit in a roller hockey derby, the party I was catering was going down the tubes, and my scratched and bloodied body would be covered with bruises for weeks. Focus on healing? No problem.
After Amy left, I ordered myself to stand up. Then I checked in the mirror. Not as bad as I would have thought. There were three separate but relatively small cuts on my face and neck. My right eye was already pink and beginning to swell. My right shoulder hurt. The headache still echoed darkly in the back of my skull. I popped in a couple more arnica tablets and tried to concentrate on setting up the salads.
The guests were fully engaged in watching one of the playoff games between the Avalanche and the Chicago Blackhawks. I scanned the room for Ralph Shelton. Apparently he’d gone home. But questions nagged. Had he deliberately run into me? Had he meant to hurt me? Or was it just difficult to stop on in-line skates? I refused to ponder these questions until I was safely at home. First, I had a dinner to serve.
I tiptoed past the noisy living room to the security of the kitchen and spooned the salads into their bowls. My spirits began to revive as I poured the marinade over the tuna and heated the Mexican eggrolls I’d made the day before. The smell of hot south-of-the-border food was marvelous. I sliced one of the eggrolls to make sure it was suitably hot and crispy, then dipped it into an avocado-lime mixture and took a bite. The eggroll skin crackled around the chile-laden stuffing of chicken, black beans, cumin, and melted cheese. Yum. I was feeling so much better it was amazing. Now alI needed was a Dos Equis, a hot shower, and a leap into bed. Fat chance.
I slipped the biscuits and potato rolls into the oven, passed around the eggrolls, and received a gratifying chorus of oohs and ahs and I’ll have another one of thoses. No one commented on my bruised and battered face. I put the fish on the grill and checked on the heating biscuits. Frowning, Patricia devoured half an eggroll. Her face softened. Could she be feeling remorse for scolding me after I’d been slammed nearly senseless by one of her guests? I wondered. Maybe she’d realized I could sue her. Maybe she just liked Mexican food. I tested a corner of the grilled fish: flaky and deliciously flavored with the marinade. Apparently I could still do my job correctly.
The guests, some still wearing in-line skating attire, others clad in Avalanche gear, boisterously tumbled out to the buffet line after the buzzer sounded in the Blackhawks game. One or two eyed me curiously, but no one bothered to ask how I was. At this party, they expected injuries. Nor did they ask me what the story was on the Jerk’s arrest. Okay by me: the invincible caterer had work to do.
Soon the guests had munched their way through the main course and I put on coffee to brew. Eventually, the guests were drinking their coffee and eating Stanley Cupcakes topped with slices of ice-cream rink, while lamenting that the beginning of the NHL season was over a month away. I glanced at the clock over the kitchen window. Ten to eight. The sun slid slowly behind the mountains. Just above the jagged, deeply shadowed horizon, thin striations of gray cloud lay in perfect, straight lines. It’s a giant comb, Arch and I would have said, back when he was little. I ran hot water into the sink and put in the first batch of dishes to be rinsed. I couldn’t wait to finish this job.
Just after nine o’clock I heaved the first of my heavy boxes across my deck. Tom was waiting. As soon as he saw my face, he shook his head. He opened the back door, came out, and took the box from me. A huge dark green apron swathed his body. He’d been cooking, as usual, because he knew I would not have had time to eat.
“Miss G!” His face furrowed with worry. “What happened to you?”
“Don’t ask. It’s not that big a deal, anyway.”
He sighed. “You get into more scrapes in a day than I do in a year. And I’m the one with the dangerous job.”
“You’ve never catered to hockey fans,” I muttered glumly.
“True.” He set the box on the counter and chuckled as I flopped into a chair. He stooped to give me a kiss, then eyed my cut cheek. Instead he kissed the top of my head.
Later, when we’d brought all the supplies inside, I asked, “Where is the rest of this family?”
He smiled and started the food processor grating potatoes. “Upstairs. Macguire’s had quite a day, his most active in the last month. He’s had a long shower. But I think he may be running a bit of a fever. Arch took the dog and the cat into his room and the four of them are laughing over dolI-collecting magazines.”
“What?”
Tom deftly beat an egg, dipped in a flour-dusted fish fillet, then rolled it in shreds of potato. I suddenly realized I was starving. “Don’t worry,” he went on, “I gave Macguire some ibuprofen. He had an incident over at the lake with Arch. Oh, and Arch isn’t going to the Druckmans’ tonight, he wanted to stay here and make sure Macguire was okay.”
“Back up. What incident? Why were the boys at the lake?”
Tom took a deep breath, not a good sign. “Apparently the health-food store was closed. Macguire was too tired to walk any farther, so the two of them, went over to the LakeCenter looking for someone to give them a ride home. One lady ? what’s her name, Rodine? ? said she would if the two boys could bring in some tables. Do you believe that? Why wouldn’t she just give the kids a ride home?”
I sighed. “Because she’s a gold-plated bitch, that’s why.”
“Of course Macguire was too weak to lift a table, and Arch was too small, so they asked if they could do something else to earn their ride. So Mrs. Rodine had them carry in some cartons full of boxed dolls. They hauled a crate up on one of the stands inside the LakeCenter while Mrs. Rodine and her pals were yelling directions to some other underlings outside. So Arch and Macguire, trying to be helpful, started to take the doll boxes out of the crate. Once they had them all out, Arch got worried about Macguire, so he went to a soft-drink machine to get the two of them some pops. Meanwhile, Macguire started to take the dolls out of the boxes ? “
“Oh, no. No, no, no. The collectors don’t want the dolls out of the boxes. The collectors want them NRFB. Never Removed From Box. It makes a huge” difference ? “
Tom held up a hand. “When Arch came in with the drinks, he tried to warn Macguire, but it was too late.”
I repeated, “Too late. Oh, God.”
Tom seemed resigned to telling this tale of human folly. Yet his green eyes were merry as he drizzled olive oil on the griddle. “Three women screamed and chased Arch and Macguire out of the LakeCenter. Then a guy, one of the helper-husbands, called the sheriff’s department on his cellular phone ? “
I moaned. Tom slid the potato-crusted fillets on the hot griddle, where their sizzling sound made my mouth water. “Since I was on my way home from the hardware store, I was the closest.” Another smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “So I answered the call. I’ve done a lot of strange duties in my day. But trying to convince a hysterical trio of women that removing a 1994 Holiday Babsie from its original box is not a chargeable offense-now that was perhaps the most challenging job I’ve had yet.” He chuckled.
I moaned again. “These women didn’t actually. do anything to Arch and Macguire, did they? Why does Macguire have a fever?”
Tom pursed his lips and flipped the fish. “The Babsie ladies chased our boys to the end of the old pier, where unfortunately Macguire lost his balance and fell into the water. A woman in a shell rowed over and held on to him until someone from the LakeCenter could throw out a life preserver.” Tom
carefully scooped the golden-brown fish pieces into a buttered pan and eased the whole thing into the oven. I rubbed my aching skull. “I … know that doll collecting is a bona fide hobby. Son of like be-ing a hockey fan. But I
