Charlotte narrowed her eyes at Yolanda, unsure whether she was being made fun of, which of course she was. But clearly, Charlotte had more important things to do at that moment than force Victor to punish Yolanda again. Everyone departed for various dressing rooms, Julian announced he was going to start the grill for the artichoke skewers, and I was glad once again to be working with Boyd and Yolanda.
Various servicepeople arrived. Boyd showed the bartender to his lair in the dining room. The bartender, a tall, slender fellow with a bald pate, began arranging the glasses, ice, sliced fruit, and bottles of wine and hard liquor to his liking. To my question when Boyd returned to the kitchen, he announced that the bartender was sober. This in itself was cause for rejoicing.
Father Pete poked his chubby face into the kitchen. “I’m looking for a handout.”
“Ooh, the priest!” Yolanda trilled. “You like quesadillas, Father?”
“Do I!”
While Father Pete was feasting on Yolanda’s offerings, Boyd once again checked every table; every place card; every setting of china, silverware, and crystal in the dining room. He reported that everything looked A- OK.
Billie had insisted on a miniature organ being set up in the room’s far corner. When the opening strains of Jeremiah Clarke’s “Trumpet Voluntary in D Major” startled me, I asked Boyd to make another quick check. He disappeared and returned, saying the organist was just warming up.
“Still, though,” he cautioned, “one of the ushers warned me that the guests will probably start arriving in about ten minutes. You ready?”
I surveyed the kitchen. Yolanda’s offerings of empanadas, quesadillas, and fish minitacos were ready to be slid into one of the spa’s large ovens. The enticing scent of wood smoke drifted through the windows; this meant Julian’s fire would be ready in time for the artichoke skewers. Like the caviar-topped deviled eggs, the remoulade sauce was still in the spa’s enormous walk-in refrigerator, as were the crab cakes—also on baking sheets, ready to be heated—the new-potato salad, and the haricots verts, with their vinaigrette only needing a final shake. The butter and baguettes were covered with plastic wrap on the center island. And the cake, another of Julian’s phenomenal creations, was on a separate wheeled cart, along with a stack of plates, napkins, and dessert forks.
“We’re ready,” I said under my breath, just as the organist started in on Jeremiah Clarke in earnest, and the murmurings of guests being led to their seats beside the makeshift aisle began. Before long, the strains of the processional indicated the bridesmaids were making their way toward Father Pete. And, at long last, Wagner’s “Wedding March” commenced.
Julian popped into the kitchen through the back door. “Fire’s ready. Oh, man, you should see Billie. That dress does not fit her. She looks like a whale inside a white girdle that’s, like, two sizes too small.”
I groaned. “Don’t say that. If she thinks the guests are judging her, she’ll be in an even more vile mood than usual.” I gave him a worried look. “Will they notice?”
He shook his head confidently. “Not if they’re blind.”
Boyd snickered. “Man, I’d like to work with you people every day. You’re certainly a lot more fun than the sheriff’s department.”
Yolanda tilted her chin provocatively. “We would like to have you work here. In fact, I would like it very much.”
“Is that so?” Boyd asked. “How are your cheese enchiladas?”
This banter went on for about twenty minutes as we worked. When we took a short break, I handed out the tip money from Dodie O’Neal, including Yolanda and her servers in the disbursement. Then, suddenly, from out in the dining room, Father Pete’s sonorous voice announced something, and the guests clapped.
“Boy, that was quick,” Julian said in surprise. “Guess the bride and groom didn’t write their own long, elaborate vows. I’ll go start the skewers.”
As prearranged, Boyd and the rest of the servers worked to move the chairs away from the aisle. That side of the big room would be the dance floor, while the dining tables and their chairs would be reserved for people who just wanted to sit and relax. The wedding party, meanwhile, was outside having their photos taken.
Yolanda worked with alacrity on her appetizers, while out in the dining room, the sound of popping corks came in quick succession. Luckily, the weather was cool, so guests wouldn’t be tempted to down multiple glasses of champagne just to slake their thirst. I’d seen that happen more times than I wanted to count, and the vision of guests passed out in the spa’s flower beds—newly mulched by Boyd—was not something I wanted to contemplate.
Jack made an unexpected appearance in the kitchen. “How you doing, Gertie Girl? Anything I can help with?”
“Oh, thank you, but no,” I said quickly, intent on the tray of Deviled Eggs with Caviar in front of me. “We’ve got everything under control. Why don’t you just go enjoy the party?”
“I’d rather not. Where’s your bodyguard?”
I gave him a quizzical look. “You mean, Sergeant Boyd? What makes you think he’s my bodyguard?”
“Gertie Girl, I may have been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night. Where is he?”
“Moving chairs,” I said impatiently.
“I want to talk to him,” Jack said.
I took the remoulade out of the refrigerator and stirred it, then began to spoon it into small crystal bowls. “Jack, please. If you want to talk to Sergeant Boyd, he’s out there somewhere. But please, please don’t give him a lecture on taking care of me. He will.”
Jack held up his hands in protest. “Okay, okay!” He grinned widely, then disappeared.
I forgot about Jack, Billie, Charlotte, Victor, and everyone else as our crew worked quickly to serve the appetizers, then start the crab cakes heating and get everyone seated. I didn’t know who was making the first toast and didn’t care. Julian gave me the high sign when it was time to start serving the dinner, and the servers whisked away with their trays.
The satisfying clink of silverware against china mixed with the incidental music being provided by Aspen Meadow’s one disc jockey, who had arrived without my noticing. The organist had apparently been dispatched, and this had not made a ripple in my consciousness, either.
“How’re we doing?” I asked Julian when all the dinners had been served.
“Great. The guests are loving the food. When we were serving the appetizers, several people asked if you’d share the recipe for the deviled eggs. I’ve never had that happen before.”
“Julian!”
“I mean, they’re great, boss.” He colored, then smiled. “It’s just that people don’t go to the trouble to make deviled eggs so much anymore, that’s all.”
When the conversational noise rose again, it was a sign that the meal was coming to a close. The servers zipped out of the kitchen with trays and began what I hoped was a subtle clearing of the tables. Yolanda filled the kitchen’s tublike sinks with scalding water and soap, and, with one of her coworkers, began a quick, quiet, professional dishwashing enterprise. After ten minutes of clearing, one of the servers announced that the tables were ready.
“I’m taking out the cake,” Julian announced as he rolled the cake stand toward the dining room.
“The ice cream!” Yolanda shrieked as she peeled off her rubber gloves. “We never have it here in the spa, and I forgot to let it soften!”
“If that’s the worst that happens during this meal,” I said, “then we’ll be in good shape.”
But it was not the worst that could happen. The toasts did not take long, nor did the serving of the cake, which was a miracle, considering Julian had to use his swimmer’s arm muscles to dig ice cream out of the big containers. I helped Yolanda with the dishes, and soon the dance music began. I didn’t see Billie and Craig perform their first waltz, which was probably just as well.
But I was genuinely surprised when Lucas Carmichael slammed into the kitchen and marched right up to me. I pulled away from him, which only made him lean in close to my face.
“Did you sic the cops on me?” he demanded. He wore a pale blue suit that must have had heavily padded shoulders. Instead of making him appear more fit, which was probably the effect he was after, the suit made him look like a kid who’d been dressed up for a Sunday School presentation. “I’m really tired of you and your manipulations, Goldy. I mean, we both know my father’s an easy touch. So you worm your way into his affections,”
