Double Shot

her glass as if she needed a refill. I sidled up to her.

“What?” I said under my breath.

“You need to explain who Boyd is and why he’s here. Somebody just said that as soon as Cecelia Brisbane got here, she was going to tell Ye Olde Gossip Columnist that you were having an affair with a guy who thinks a mimosa is a flower.”

I blew out air and glanced around the room. Maybe I should have called in sick.

At ten to eight, the women decided not to wait for their three missing members. As they sat down to eat, I introduced Sergeant Boyd as one of my new helpers. The women squinted at him. Boyd and I set about serving coffee, iced tea, and juice, then began fielding demands for low-cal sweetener and skim milk, apple juice instead of orange, and no fresh fruit in the parfait, but on the side.

No question about it, Priscilla Throckbottom—actually one of my longtime catering clients—was in a bad mood. I knew from experience that she could be difficult without trying very hard. Plus, I had forgotten to call her back the previous day. When elegantly coiffed, white-haired Priscilla, dressed in an exquisite red linen suit with white piping, began to lay into Boyd about something, I quickly stepped in.

Priscilla was holding up her parfait glass by her fingertips, as if it were a dead snake. “Goldy! Please bring me some eggs and bacon.”

Boyd, immobilized, gave me a blank look. We didn’t have eggs and bacon. I tilted my head knowingly toward the kitchen; Boyd followed me. I told him we weren’t a restaurant and not to worry about any off-the-wall demand. This kind of thing happened. You just nodded, ignored the request, and went on with the event. If possible, you also stopped serving booze to whoever was making demands.

Boyd smiled and saluted.

Within moments, Boyd and I were again circling the table, this time with platters of the hot slices of quiche and the crab-and-cheese croissants. All the food was a huge hit. Courtney still hadn’t shown up, and I didn’t care. But I did feel sorry for Cecelia Brisbane and Ginger Vikarios, the other two missing members of the committee. Cecelia came for the gossip—that was why she’d been at the bake sale—and the women were afraid of what would be printed about them if Cecelia wasn’t included. Poor Ginger Vikarios was the one who’d asked Holly Kerr to join. Holly, dressed in a black suit and looking miserable, undoubtedly wondered how a group of women could be so famished that they wouldn’t wait for all the guests to arrive before plunging into their food. And really, it should not have surprised me that these women did not wait before plunging into something else.

“Goldy!” called Priscilla when I appeared with a pitcher of iced tea for refills. “We have some questions for you!”

Winks raced around the table. Only Holly Kerr appeared perplexed. Marla opened her eyes wide in warning. Too late, I realized I should have sent Boyd out with the tea.

Priscilla adjusted her oversize eyeglasses to get a good look at me.

“Do the police know who killed your ex-husband?” she demanded.

“No.”

“But surely your new husband, that…that policeman”— she waved a hand—“has told you something,” Priscilla persisted. “Or at least has provided you with some theories. Some ideas.”

The women waited, forks poised.

I stared at the pitcher in my right hand and the glass in my left. I resolutely poured in tea. “Ah, no. I wish it were so, but it is not.”

“I heard John Richard Korman fathered half a dozen bastard children in several states,” Priscilla hissed to her colleagues. “I also heard he owed over two million dollars to creditors, and that there was a malpractice suit pending against him.”

Say nothing, I ordered myself. Keep your eyes down. Avoiding eye contact, I’d always noticed, was the best way to become invisible. Not only that, but a humble, servantlike pose was a good way to learn interesting facts. But were these stories fact or fiction? I hoped for the latter. Still, in matters pertaining to the Jerk, I’d learned to expect the worst.

Holly Kerr’s face was drawn into a look of horror. Her hands had gone to her throat, as if she were choking on a chicken bone. I noiselessly walked over to her.

“Holly, are you all right?” I whispered.

“More tea, please?” she squeaked. I poured some into her almost-full glass.

“Now,” Priscilla went on, “has anybody else heard about Dr. Korman’s outstanding house loan—”

“Uh, ex-cuse me!” Marla’s voice was shrill. “Whatever happened to our agenda? I thought we were here to discuss planting trees! How about a few aspens along that ugly concrete wall they’ve put up next to those new condos—”

“And that reminds me, speaking of bastards!” Priscilla interrupted. Her eyes widened behind the huge glasses. “Will someone please tell me who appointed Ginger Vi kar ios to this committee? I thought I was the chairwoman, and then Ginger showed up at the bake sale with baklava, and I didn’t know what to do!”

Marla interjected, “Oh, Priscilla, for heaven’s sake! Ginger is trying hard to reconnect with the community since Ted’s empire went belly up. Let’s not be uncharitable.”

Since being uncharitable was just a stone’s throw from being called un-Christian, the women frowned. They seemed deep in thought, pondering ways to gossip about Ginger while still appearing charitable.

Priscilla said, “In her column a few years back, Cecelia said Ginger Vikarios had a child out of wedlock.”

“Goldy?” Holly Kerr squeaked from nearby. “Do you know where the ladies’ room is?” I gestured, and she tip- tapped away.

Another woman announced, “Ginger didn’t have a child out of wedlock. Her daughter did. Not many people in Aspen Meadow remember, although some of us think they should.”

Marla, sensing approaching chaos, sighed and flicked a glance in my direction. I quickly busied myself with the rolls and butter.

“Hey, girls!” Courtney MacEwan called from the door. “Who said you could start without me?”

There was a collective intake of breath as the women gaped at Courtney, who looked sexy and chic in a black linen pantsuit with an embroidered bolero jacket. Her shiny brown hair was swept up in a French twist, and she was draped with more gold chains than a professional wrestler. After pausing a moment for effect, she strutted to an empty seat and glared at me. I gave a questioning look, as in, What can I bring you? In response, she held out a muscled arm and snapped her fingers at me.

“Get me a mimosa and black coffee. Now.”

I stared at her, immobilized. Back in my doctor’s wife days, Courtney and I had played tennis together. We’d gone to hospital parties with our then-spouses. Even the day before yesterday, at the Roundhouse, she’d joked with me about having sex after funerals. And now she was giving me orders?

I said, “Whatever,” then turned and walked toward the kitchen.

Priscilla Throckbottom began to hyperventilate. “Girls! Girls! Has anyone else heard this rumor about the Vikarioses—”

The kitchen doors swung closed. I turned on the fans—I was sure steam was coming out of my ears—and wondered if Boyd could finish the breakfast. No, I couldn’t do that to him…

“You bitch!” Courtney hissed from behind me. “What do you mean, whatever?”

“Get out of this kitchen.” I faced her and made my face impassive. “You’re violating county health regulations.”

Her cheeks flared. “You implicated me to the cops. Who do you think you are? I didn’t kill John Richard!”

I picked up one of the cookie sheets we’d used for the croissants and checked it for crumbs. “Then you have nothing to worry about. Now leave.”

“You’re the one who made his life miserable,” Courtney insisted. She placed her hands on her hips. Clearly, she’d determined to have a fight and wasn’t planning on going anywhere.