Chopping Spree

The cocktail decorations were equally striking. The ceiling and walls glittered with strings of festive lights the color and shape of Easter eggs: sparkling lilac, brilliant green, bright pink. Lush flower arrangements blossomed out of strategically placed shopping bags. Scent was being pumped in from somewhere. The place had a magical air.

When Liz and I had come to do our table measurements, Barry had proudly pointed out that the lounge had been wired for surveillance, at the insistence of Pennybaker International. Placed overhead were innocent-looking mirrored globes, the kind that hide nests of cameras that a fellow in some far-off security room can focus on individual shoppers or suspicious-acting worker-bees. A moment of staring, as if at a visual puzzle, helped me make out the second set of cameras, which were wall-mounted. The cameras had been painted a creamy beige to match the wallpaper. Very clever.

Barry was nowhere in sight. I put down my box and hustled around the room to check the distances between the jewelry cases and buffet tables. As we’d planned, the buffet tables had been set up in a line to bisect the room lengthwise. They were topped with creamy beige satin tablecloths to match the walls. The shiny material billowed to the floor, like the skirts of ballgowns.

A stage had been set up in front of the picture windows. From there, Barry would give his sales pitch. Next to me, a glass case displayed an intricately constructed model of the finished mall, including the storybook-village boutiques and bistros. Minuscule shoppers were ranged along the tiny sidewalks. Stretching in front of the other two walls were the display cases, shiny ziggurats bursting with jewels. Just above the cases, yet more strings of tiny, suspended spotlights made the jewelry sparkle like firecrackers.

Nobody came rushing up to me, so I assumed that news of the truck debacle had not yet become public. I hightailed it toward the tiny kitchen tucked behind the lounge’s south wall.

The only box we’d lost was the one with the shrimp rolls, Liz had determined. The rest of the boxes were neatly stacked on the floors and counters. I went through one box until I found the buffet design, then hustled back out to the long table. I debated about calling Tom. Uh, sweetheart? I just avoided being squashed by a dump truck….

I punched in his office number and reached his voice mail. I left a hasty message about the “accident,” then told him that state patrol and the sheriff’s department were on site, so he didn’t need to worry.

Time to focus on the task at hand.

I studied my layout design, placed the dishes on the buffet, then hurried back to the kitchen. There I opened the box with all the cheeses, crackers, and breads. But I needed a pop of energy. To heck with my cut-back-on- caffeine resolution: I needed to make some coffee, even if it was instant. In the back of a cabinet, I finally unearthed a jar of instant Folger’s. Within moments, I was sipping a cup of the dark stuff.

Liz and I finished organizing the food and supplies by placing all the equipment we weren’t using in a coat closet outside the kitchenette. Then we hurried back out to the buffet, where we placed the serving pieces at strategic intervals before setting the tableware, plates, napkins, and glasses. When Julian raced in at four o’clock, I was dying to ask him how things had gone with the cops. But that would have to wait. From the bottom of one box, we pulled out plain white tablecloths and lofted them over the eating accoutrements set out on the buffet table— the best way to protect the flatware from sticky fingers. We agreed to finish our food prep before taking a dinner break at four-thirty. At five-fifteen, we would reconvene to check the cold dishes, heat up the meatballs and empanadas, and do our final setup.

In the kitchen, Julian washed the berries, then brandished my new paring knife to trim the strawberries and slice the star fruit. I worked on the cheese platter while Liz started arranging the crackers and breads.

“I’m not taking a dinner break, Goldy,” Julian announced, “until I hear how you met this Barry guy.”

I sliced into a hunk of Gorgonzola and gave him a look. Liz giggled.

I said, “OK, nosy crew. It started with a puzzle. Actually, it started with an exam review class, some class notes, and a fight with The Jerk.”

Julian raised a questioning eyebrow. “Go on.”

I moved on to a slab of fragrant Cheddar, and thought back. “In my college days, there was a single place close to campus where you could get espresso drinks: The Hilltop Cafe. I practically lived there. Clutching a foam cup of cappuccino, I’d quick-step down the Hill to Group Psych class. Barry Dean sat next to me in class, but since I had just become engaged to John Richard, I didn’t really notice him. Didn’t notice him, that is, until he asked me where I got that luscious-smelling coffee.”

Liz tossed her head of silver hair. “Goodness. That’s the best pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well,” I said drily, as the two of them grinned. “On the last day of class before the final, the professor was doing one of those you-need-to-come-if-you-plan-to-pass reviews. The night before, John Richard and I had our first fight.”

“Was this a fight of the physical variety?” Julian demanded, as he expertly moved aside a mountain of trimmed strawberries.

“No, all that came later.” I peeled the wrapper off the Camembert. “This particular time, John Richard barged into my dorm room. I’d left a message saying I couldn’t go to a med-school party with him because I was preparing for the Group Psych review and studying for the exam. He shouted and carried on and threw my books, mugs, shoes, and clothes all over the place. When he stomped out, I started crying and couldn’t stop. My eyes got so red and puffy that I couldn’t see well enough to go to the review class. I was sure I’d end up bombing on the exam.”

Julian and Liz had stopped working and were leaning against the counters, all ears.

“I cast my swollen eyes over the class list,” I said dramatically, “and who should be listed after yours truly but Barry Dean. It’s really not that big a deal, guys.”

“Wait a minute,” Julian said, snapping his fingers. “I know that name! Barry Dean had a TV show out in Long-mont, right? Not long ago, he was the answer to a trivia question in The Camera. What C.U. alum ran a short-lived quiz show in a nearby town?”

“Yup. Only it wasn’t a quiz show, it was a scavenger hunt. Follow the clues around Longmont, learn about the city.” I shook my head. “Barry used to love puzzles. Anyway, I stopped sniffling, called Barry’s room, and left a message with his roommate asking if I could borrow the review-class notes. Next morning, someone slipped an index card under my door. It said: ‘You can run but you can’t hide; don’t let your life go down the BLANK.’ And then he’d written HINT at the bottom of the page: ‘Check the field-house.’”

“Oh, I wish I’d had a boyfriend like that,” Liz said with a sigh.

“He wasn’t my boyfriend!”

“Go on,” urged Julian.

“So. I went to the C.U. field-house, and found a penciled sign with the Greek letter psyche on the door to the ladies’ room. I was afraid I’d find the notes in a toilet, of course, but taped on the other side of the ladies’ room door was a manila envelope. Writing on it said, let’s see, ‘First third of notes, Goldy. Everything will be just ducky if you BLANK.’ I thought for a few minutes, then zipped over to the campus duck pond, where another letter psyche was taped to the bridge, along with a second manila envelope that contained the second third of the class notes. This envelope’s message read, ‘Will just wake up and smell the… ’ So of course I dashed to The Hilltop Cafe, where Barry was sitting at a corner table and smiling like the proverbial Cheshire.”

“You can run but you can’t hide,” Liz repeated thoughtfully. “Don’t let your life go down the toilet. Everything will be just ducky if you wake up and smell the coffee?”

“Yeah,” I said with resignation, as I started on the last cheese. “Barry looked at my mottled cheeks and puffed eyes, then glanced at my engagement ring. He said, ‘I see your ring, and I see your face, and I say, don’t marry this guy.’ Which unfortunately brought a fresh outburst of tears from yours truly. And that’s how Barry Dean and I became coffee buddies, driving all over the Boulder-Denver area in his Mercedes with the basset hound in the back, looking for good coffee before I ignored Barry’s advice and married the doctor from hell.”

Both Julian’s and Liz’s faces looked sad, even stricken.

“Come on, guys, it’s not that bad. The Jerk is history, and now we’ve got a big gig, thanks to the Quiz King of Longmont Cable. So let’s do it.”

We finished at precisely four-thirty. Barry had not yet shown up. I figured that he must have decided after all