Dark Tort

blanketed our house and neighborhood. More snow, I thought. I’d been too preoccupied with disaster to check the forecast. Worse, I had an event to cater that day, a party that I’d be driving to in a van with only marginally safe radial tires. Then I remembered Dusty, and scolded myself for being upset about something as insignificant as the status of my wheels.

A sob erupted from somewhere in my gut. It took me more by surprise than it did Tom. Tom, immediately alert, pulled me in so that my back was warmed by his chest.

“It’s going to be okay, Miss G.,” he murmured. “You’re going to be all right. Everything will work out.”

I cried until I was too tired to cry anymore. Then I allowed Tom’s warmth to circle me like a mantle. Like the house, I fell into a deep hush.

When my alarm went off at five, everything outside was still quite dark. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to a window. About four inches of new snow nestled against the ledge. Not as bad as it could have been, I thought as my eyes inevitably sought out the little Habitat house where the Routts lived. A streetlight nearby barely illuminated the place, which was shrouded in darkness. Sally would be getting up this morning without her daughter there, without her daughter ever coming back. My mind jumped to the thought of the funeral. When would it take place? Too shocked with reality, no one had spoken of it the day before. I hadn’t a clue when the coroner’s office would release Dusty’s body. It was the weekend, so things could be backed up…

Liquid concrete seemed to be pouring into my chest again, so I turned away and sat on the navy, burgundy, and cream Oriental runner Tom had placed in our bedroom for me to do my yoga every morning.

“You should not face the world if you are unable to give to the world,” Andre, my catering mentor, had been wont to say. No question about it, I did not feel able to face the world this morning, much less give it a thing. But I needed to go forward. I closed my eyes and prayed for Dusty and her family. Then I crossed my legs and surveyed my narrow piece of carpet. A few minutes later, I began with the cleansing breath and started to move, slowly, slowly through my asanas. Whenever thoughts raided my head, I put them aside with another cleansing breath. It helped.

Something else that would help was a major dose of caffeine, I told myself as I took a quick shower and zipped myself into a clean catering outfit of black pants and white shirt. The house felt cold as I stole down the stairs, and I tried to recall if Tom or I had remembered to turn on the heat. If either one of us had, and the heat wasn’t working, that meant there’d been a power outage because of the snow. If we’d lost power, then the espresso machine would be out of commission, and if I couldn’t have a four-shot latte before finishing up the prep for the Ellis party, I was going to have to find a tractor to drive into the house of the power company’s CEO.

And here I’d been thinking that prayer and yoga had rendered me serene. Well, there were limits.

But the power was on. In less than two minutes I’d turned on the heat in the main-floor rooms and was sitting on one of our new kitchen stools, sipping a quadruple-shot latte made with whipping cream. I slurped down some more coffee and stared at the screen of the kitchen computer. For Donald Ellis’s birthday party, I’d already made the empanadas, guacamole, and stuffed Portobello mushrooms. Now I just had to pull together salad ingredients, crush herbs to sprinkle over the beef tenderloin, and prep the ingredients for the Parmesan mashed- potato mounds. The steamed broccoli, snap peas, and pattypan squash, along with their cherry-tomato garnish, could be prepped at the Ellises’ house, and the frozen homemade sourdough rolls just needed to be thawed. And there was the Old Reliable birthday cake, which Julian had wrapped and put in the walk-in, and I only needed to frost and decorate the thing.

The other eight H&J lawyers were still in Maui, ostensibly pursuing their continuing-education courses; Georgina, the firm’s paralegal, and Marilou, the legal secretary, were taking their notes for them. And Georgina and Marilou wouldn’t have been invited to Donald’s party, in any event. So the folks from the firm would be Richard Chenault and K.D., his soon-to-be ex-wife, whom Donald had asked Nora to invite, since, Nora had said, she was “such a wonderful person.” Claggs and his wife, Ookie, would also be in attendance, Nora had told me, although she warned me that “Ookie always gets plastered at these things, so watch the wine.” Oh yeah, right, between roasting the tenderloins and heating the potato puffs, I would just dash out and check on the levels of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. But I had said nothing as Nora had breezed on with the list of guests. Along with Nora and Donald and Nora’s father, Bishop Sutherland, there would be three other neighbor couples, “two attorneys and their wives, and a couple, the Odes, who are clients of Donald’s.” I had catered to a few of these folks, but knew none of them well… except for Michael Radford, the divorce lawyer whom Marla had hired when she’d wanted to protect her wealth from the Jerk. Michael Radford had been good at that.

Now, because that only made thirteen, Nora had asked if I knew of a single female around town who would be appropriate. I’d immediately supplied Marla’s name. Nora had barely been able to conceal a wrinkle of disgust— she knew Marla from St. Luke’s—before she drew her pretty, impish face into a smile and said that would be fine. Luckily, Marla, the self-proclaimed scourge of the country-club set, could usually be counted upon to keep one or another conversational group laughing. Or crying. But she’d liven up the party, no question. When I’d brightly told Nora this, she’d muttered, “I’ll bet.”

I removed the tenderloins from the refrigerator. Since the beef required just a short time to roast, I’d be cooking them at the Ellises’ house. I washed my hands, took out a batch of frozen homemade sourdough rolls, and started in on the potatoes. Julian had placed himself in charge of the vegetables and salad. I glanced at the clock: incredibly, it was six already. Julian had promised to be here by seven with his supplies, and he was unfailingly punctual.

While the potatoes were boiling, I pulled the sheet cake out of the freezer and placed it on the kitchen table. Nora had directed me to decorate it with something “lawyerly,” whatever that meant. But after staring at the large rectangle for a while and trying to think what she meant, I realized I should make the whole thing look like a legal pad. A frosted yellow rectangle covered with thin blue frosted lines shouldn’t be so difficult, I thought, as I softened unsalted butter and pulled out confectioners’ sugar, cream, and vanilla. Then on one of the lines I’d carefully write “No Law Against Having a Happy Birthday, Donald!” Honestly, the stuff caterers are called upon to do.

While the beaters were mixing the ingredients into a creamy melange, I hunted up my cake-decorating tools, professional food colors, and a plastic ruler. I could only find an old one of Arch’s, so I washed it three times in the hottest water I could stand, since I didn’t want any bits of dried school glue or old chewing gum sticking to Bishop Sutherland’s, or anyone else’s, teeth. Frosting the cake itself took concentration, but it was fun, sort of like an elementary-school art project. Once it was done, I snapped a hard plastic sheet-cake cover over my creation. It wouldn’t do to get my masterpiece smashed by an errant raw tenderloin. I whacked the walk-in door fully open and carefully placed the sheet cake on a shelf.

Julian was almost due to arrive, so I drained the potatoes and started gathering the serving platters and utensils we would need. Nora’s maid was setting the table and cleaning up; Nora herself had ordered Chardonnay to go with the appetizers as well as the Pinot Noir that I had suggested be served with the beef. We would arrive at ten to set up, finish the cooking, and serve, and everything should go like clockwork.

I stared at the steaming potatoes and tried to think, but couldn’t. I fixed myself another latte and sat down at the kitchen table. Why had Dusty told me she wanted to learn to cook so she could snag a rich dude? Had she had someone in mind? Did the bracelet that I wasn’t supposed to see mean she’d found that wealthy guy? I had no idea, and my memory of Dusty seemed to mock me. Every time she’d mastered a new dish, she’d thrown back her head and laughed with such innocence that I’d found myself smiling. Now I wondered why this had amused me.

Buck up, I ordered myself. But what if Sally called today asking if I’d figured anything out? Dusty’s computer, which might or might not yield up any secrets, was worthless until someone was able to fix it, and even that was doubtful. Please find out what happened to my baby, Sally had begged me. I banged my cup down on the saucer so hard that both of them broke.

I cursed and cleaned up the mess. Then I buttered my muffin tins, mashed the potatoes and mixed in cream, seasonings, and Parmesan, and carefully scooped out smooth balls of this mixture and dropped them into individual muffin cups. So now I was done until Julian showed up. I fixed myself a plain espresso—well, those last four shots had been mixed with cream, so they hardly counted, did they?—poured it into a plastic cup, and scooted back up to my computer screen. I would open a file on Dusty and put in everything I knew so far. I’d pose a few questions, too.

Sipping the dark stuff, I typed up the names and positions of every single person who’d been working at the law firm as of Thursday night, excluding the lawyers, paralegal, and legal secretary in Hawaii: Richard Chenault. Donald Ellis. Louise Upton. Wink Calhoun. Alonzo Claggett. Had Dusty had problems with