Dark Tort

NBA. This fellow was at least six foot ten, with ink-black hair parted boyishly on the side. He wore a black shirt that matched his hair, but the effect would have been more appealing if the shirt had not had the first five buttons undone, revealing a dark, hairy chest. The guy had bright blue eyes and was drop-dead gorgeous, although it was a little hard to see his face without a telescope. And what if I trained the telescope on his chest? It would look like a rain forest. So I turned to the tall fellow’s right, where an ultraslender young woman stood. Like her tall companion, she was also quite beautiful.

The woman said, “I am Natasha Oat.” Oat? Oh, wait. Ode. So these were the famously beautiful Odes. One of the tidbits I’d learned working for the fashion photographer was that Natasha’s thick Russian accent, as much as her looks, gave away the fact that she was a model. The United States, I had observed on my former gig, imports a lot of beauty from the former Soviet Union. No doubt, modeling pays more here than it does, or ever did, over there. Natasha nodded upward. “And zis eess my husban’, Rock. He eess clien’ of Donal’.”

“I’m Goldy Schulz.” I lifted the platter of empanadas. To my great horror, Rock dipped two of his long fingers into the guacamole, then transported the load of green stuff up to his mouth, far, far away. Honestly. In the catering biz, something always happens to lower your already subterranean view of the human species.

“Rock’ eess also model,” Natasha rushed in to say, as if this explained everything.

“Goldy Schulz,” Rock boomed from above, “did Nora give you the key to her wine cellar?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, go ask Donald for it. Tell him I said it was okay. Then bring us a bottle of ’49 Chateauneuf-du-Pape. A thirty-fifth birthday is a time to celebrate!”

“Well!” I replied, swallowing. Could this really be the “New O.” of Dusty’s journal? Somehow, I doubted it very much.

“Are you going to get that key, or not?” demanded Rock.

“Let me just go, uh, uh…” I turned too quickly, and the bowl of ruined guacamole hemorrhaged down the front of Bishop Uriah Sutherland’s purple shirt.

“Oh my God!” I cried, then reddened, remembering that this was a clergy shirt I’d just wrecked. “Oh God, I’m sorry!” I plunged on. Shut up, I ordered myself, and used the napkins from my opposite hand to dab at Uriah’s chest.

But Bishop Sutherland was laughing, thank…well, heaven. He’d managed to snag the bowl before it had fallen to the floor, although all the rest of the green stuff was now plastered on his shirtfront like green clay. And now that wet clay was slithering downward. The bishop replaced the glass bowl on my tray and took the napkins from my hand. As he deftly wiped huge globs of guacamole off his shirt, I wondered what I was going to say to him besides sorry, sorry, so sorry, I’ll bet this doesn’t help your emotional issues with birthdays.

K. D. Chenault saved me by walking up to us. “Oh, dear, Goldy, looks like somebody goofed!” She smiled hugely. “Why don’t you offer me your last empanada there, and introduce me to this fellow whose shirt just got wrecked?”

From my tray, I handed her a small glass plate and one of my remaining napkins. She took both carefully with her left hand so she could have her right free for shaking Uriah Sutherland’s right hand, the one not holding the green-smeared napkins.

“K.D.,” I began, but then became confused, probably by everything that was going so badly. Maybe I’d go lock myself in that wine cellar. “Excuse me! Doctor Chenault, I should say. This is Bishop Sutherland.” I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. “Bishop Uriah Sutherland. I would have thought the two of you would have met by now.”

“Glad to meet you, Katy!” Bishop Sutherland said, his tone friendly. “I actually haven’t met—”

But that was as far as he got, because K.D. gasped and dropped the glass plate I’d just given her. She covered her mouth with one hand and her cheek with the other. Bishop Uriah beamed, as if he often had such a volcanic effect on women. But K.D. was wide-eyed, gaping at Uriah Sutherland as if he were a ghost.

The whole room moved at once, with people coming to see what was going on. K.D. was leaning against a wall, blinking. Julian had immediately set aside his tray and moved to help her. I shooed people away from the broken glass. Nora Ellis did not look happy. Ookie Claggett rolled her eyes and began to whisper to the people next to her.

Vic Zaruski, apparently accustomed to the sound of shattering glass, smoothly moved into an upbeat version of “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do.”

CHAPTER 14

Eighty-six on the glass plate,” Julian commented, once he’d retrieved some wet paper towels from the kitchen. Nora had walked carefully across the living room and shepherded K.D. down a long hall to a bathroom. Now Julian crouched next to me on the floor, picking up shards. The bishop had sidled off to change his shirt, and the rest of the crowd had gathered around the piano.

“I’m fine,” Julian and I heard K.D. protesting to Nora. “I just—I just remembered a file I need to check at the hospital.”

“Yes, yes, of course, K.D.,” Nora replied, “but just splash some cold water on your face anyway. Please.”

“Oh, Nora, for God’s sake—” But then we heard a door close. I beat a fast retreat into the kitchen for more mopping supplies.

When Nora’s heels came clickety-clacking back, Julian and I were almost through cleaning up the stray shards from the broken dish. The place where K.D. had dropped the plate was a hallway paved with slate. Stone, I had learned all too well at other catered affairs, will break anything that’s dropped on it. When Julian heard Nora approaching, he scooped up the last bit of glass he’d found and mumbled that he would check on the lunch.

Nora stooped down beside me. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing,” I protested. “I introduced her to your father, and then she—then she seemed to see something across the room, and dropped the plate. Is she all right?” I asked.

“Of course she’s all right. This is just one of K.D.’s typical drama-queen stunts. I told her Richard was going to be here, and that’s probably when she decided to pull something like this. I didn’t want to invite her anyway; Donald did,” she said under her breath. She glared at me, keeping a sweet smile on her face in case the guests, who were singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” around the piano, were watching. “Did my father say anything to upset her?”

“No, nothing.” I continued to wipe up glass and wished she would go away. I’d known K.D. a lot longer than Nora had. K.D. definitely was not a drama queen.

“What did my father say, exactly?”

“He said, ‘Nice to meet you, Katy.’ That’s it.”

“As if I didn’t have enough trouble with my father covered in guacamole,” she began, but then stopped short.

Hmm, I thought as I swept up the final bits of glass with a wet paper towel. Anyway, I had picked up a few interesting tidbits I hadn’t learned in my four months at the law firm. Donald Ellis, who was as far from a stud as anyone could imagine, had supposedly been putting the wood to Wink Calhoun the previous year. Dusty and Alonzo Claggett had been close friends. Ookie was a bitch, as I’d pretty much deduced. Today I’d learned she was also a loud bitch. Plus, Nora thought Dr. K. D. Chenault was a drama queen. Nora also was profoundly embarrassed by her father, although I’d been the one to spill the guac.

And I would never, ever cater for some people named Ode.

“Julian,” I said when I returned to the kitchen, “I need to get cracking on the salad service. Could you start the tenderloin and vegetables?”

He nodded and hustled across the kitchen.

What had made K.D. gasp like that? I wondered as I turned my attention to the salad. Then again, my awful ex-husband had made me squawk all the time, sad to say. I moved my concentration to the salad.

I’d already placed the plates in the refrigerator to chill. I shaved ultrathin slivers of Parmesan and set them