Unfortunately, the tasting did not go well. The mushrooms were barely warm, not hot, as the Homestead oven labored to heat my pans as well as Litchfield’s. Broiled, the escolar was quite good, but absent the succulent grilled flavor, it merely tasted like high-quality fish. I’d had to turn the oven up to the highest temperature to kill any bacteria in the pork, and the result was dry, rather than juicy and tender.
And yet, although my meats were not as tasty as I would have liked, I was certain they beat Craig Litchfield’s braised salmon, stir-fried scallops with green peppers, eggplant and rice pilaf, and avocado salad. Many people do not eat salmon or scallops, and even Arch got indigestion from bell peppers. Surely the committee had to be mindful of food allergies?
By the time Marla finally showed up, we were halfway through the main course.
“Marla, you scamp!” squawked Weezie. “Are you starved, darling? Or does being audited make you lose your appetite?”
Marla complained that they had started the tasting early. Unfortunately, she was still sporting her gray housedress, and lacked the authority of power clothing. She did not dare look at me, nor I at her. Although the tasting was supposed to be silent, Edna and Weezie kept telling Craig Litchfield how cute he was.
At twelve-thirty, Julian took out the tray of bread puddings. To my chagrin, I realized I’d forgotten the truffles. Litchfield offered a low-fat lime dessert. While the women all were duty-bound to try both desserts, all except Marla gobbled the lime and only took small bites of the luxurious pudding. And Marla, of course, should not have been eating
“It’s over,” Julian informed me glumly when he brought the barely touched pudding tray out to the kitchen. “They don’t even want coffee.”
Craig Litchfield, triumphant and glowing, lofted his empty bowl of lime glop and swiftly packed up his serving platters. Before Julian and I had begun to gather our dishes, Litchfield was gone, claiming over his shoulder that he had a “huge” job at the country club and much as he longed to, couldn’t stay to chat. Yakking gaily, Edna, Leah Smythe, and Yvonne departed by the front door. The tasting had been a disaster.
“Sit down, Goldy,” Julian commanded. “Let me finish taking the boxes out. You look like hell.”
“Thanks, but I’ll work,” I replied as I rinsed off the pork roasting pan. I tried to console myself with the thought that even if we’d lost this booking, we still had Weezie’s party and Edna’s reception.
Marla hustled breathlessly into the kitchen. “God, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. She hugged me, and I was reminded once again that her current austerity program did not include deodorant. “We make the decision by conference call later in the week. You know I’ll call you. I’m sure you’ll get it.”
“It’s okay,” I said stoically.
“You know about Weezie?” she asked tentatively. “You know who’s picking her up?”
“She’s celebrating something,” I replied dully. “And no, I don’t know who’s picking her up.”
“Better come look out the dining room window.”
Marla and I went back to the dining room and peered through the wavy glass. A dark Furman County government car had pulled in front of the museum. Weezie ran out to it as a short man with strawberry-blond hair emerged from the car. The two embraced. The man was Assistant District Attorney Andy Fuller.
“Don’t tell me,” I said to Marla, my eyes fixed on the embracing duo.
“The day Gerald Eliot’s body was found? Fuller and Weezie got engaged.”
Chapter 14
I walked quickly to the kitchen and scrubbed viciously at the scarred countertops. Why hadn’t Weezie told me about her engagement? Perhaps she thought I knew. Maybe she didn’t like me anymore; maybe I was just being paranoid. After all, I
“I’m sorry,” Marla murmured.
“Me, too,” said Julian.
“I doubt Andy Fuller has any say over who caters the Soiree,” I said unconvincingly. I looked at Marla’s sad, round face and Julian’s square-jawed, stoic expression. “Will you two quit?” I demanded. I grabbed the platter of puddings. “I’m going to tell the museum people we’re leaving.” I rushed out of the kitchen, desperate to be away from them and their pity.
The dining room was empty except for a couple of dirty champagne glasses. I passed the living-room fire place where Santa and the child models had posed so unhappily, and arrived at the doorway to the historical society office.
“Hi,” I said brightly to a volunteer worker with buckteeth and loopy brunette curls. Four plump mixed-breed dogs lay coiled on the floor. The canines scrabbled to their feet at the sound of my voice and wagged happy tails. A plastic gate barred the entrance of the office. Probably this was to keep the dogs from wandering through the museum. “Uh,” I said, and offered the volunteer the leftover puddings, “I’m Goldy, one of the caterers from the party. These are for you.”
The woman spoke lovingly to her dogs. Denied immediate access to dessert, all four grunted and flopped around her desk. “Thanks, nice to meet you.” She bit into a pudding and looked ruefully down at her pets. “Mm-mw. Sorry about my sweethearts here. Sylvia puts up with them so I’ll come in and do her paperwork.”
“My helper and I just wanted to let you know we’re leaving.”
“Okay! I’m Annie,” she said brightly. “The back door is self-locking. Sylvia is out talking to a group of fourth graders in the parking lot, or I know she’d be in here thanking you.” She munched the pudding. “Did I ever need a break! This is super! Here, sweeties, taste this yummy treat.” The four canines scrambled to their feet. At least someone was eager to sample my cooking, I thought bitterly, then scolded myself for being a bad loser.
“Well, good.” If she needed a break, maybe she wanted to have a chat. “So … what kind of work do you do here?”
“Oh,” Annie replied in a friendly tone, “writing letters asking for money. Sometimes asking for a historical item.” She shared another cupcake-sized pudding with her dogs as she talked. Sylvia would have a stroke when she saw the mess the food was making on the floor. “Or answering a question about one.”
“Really! I catered here last Friday—”
“With the chef who had the heart attack! Were you close?” Her breath whistled between her gaping teeth.
“We knew each other,” I replied noncommittally. “Actually, I’m friends with the Burrs, too. I just … can’t accept that Cameron strangled Gerald Eliot here, just because Gerald was behind on a remodeling. It’s not the kind of thing you think of the president of a historical society doing.”
“Oh, I know, no way.” The shiny bark-colored curls flapped as she shook her head. “Old Cameron has a temper, that is true. I’ve seen him lose it at historical society meetings enough. And I guess he and Gerald could have broken the exhibit cases when they were fighting. But why would Cameron ruin display cases that he’d donated to the museum?”
“To make it look as if he didn’t do it?”
She shrugged skeptically. We both hesitated. I leaned back on a closet, trying to appear relaxed. In truth I was tense about being once again in the gray area between interest and nosiness. There was an item I wanted, and I didn’t know how convincing a lie I could develop on short notice to get it. “Since you mention Andre, the chef who died, I was wondering about something he mentioned … a photocopy of
“Well …” Annie cocked her head and gave me a doubtful look. “I’m really not supposed to let a whole facsimile go out, although Sylvia was going to make an exception for Andre. We could wait to ask her. But I don’t know how long that would take. If you told me a recipe or two you liked, maybe I could help you—”
“Isn’t this pudding to die for, sweeties?” I heard Annie call cheerfully as I departed.
