Crunch Time

people, apparently, felt guilty about coming at the last minute, so they would be bringing platters of extra food. If that was all right, she’d added. She was apologetic. One person had already brought over some caviar and put it in her refrigerator. Another was bringing enchiladas, and someone else was bringing several bottles of champagne.

I shook my head at the irony. The church wasn’t managing to make its budget, but guests were outdoing themselves bringing goodies. Go figure.

Plus, enchiladas? Did this mean the Juarezes were coming? Oh, I so didn’t want a scene between them and Humberto at the party.

I didn’t call Rorry back, because really, what could she do? It sounded as if this party was becoming more and more like a potluck, anyway, albeit a fancy-schmancy one. How far this all was from the simple but elegant dinner we had initially envisaged, back when the party was going to be outside in the Indian summer air, on the Breckenridges’ enormous deck.

My cell rang: Marla.

“Okay, so I’m bringing beer to this shindig tonight,” she said without preamble, “and now I’m wondering, if we’re having Navajo tacos, should I bring Mexican beer? Wouldn’t you rather have the Dutch variety?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. My friend’s voice warmed my heart. “Any kind would work.”

“Where are you?”

“On my way to Aspen Meadow Liquors.”

“Not to buy beer, I hope.”

“No, I need some more white wine. German white wine, in case you’re wondering.”

“Why German white wine?”

“If I tell you, you cannot tell anyone.”

“About German white wine?”

“Marla? I need information, the kind you can often get. But you can’t tell anyone what I’ve found out.”

“Okay, okay. But satisfy my curiosity. Does this big secret refer to Riesling or Liebfraumilch?”

“Riesling.” I took a deep breath. “Donna Lamar told me a couple is breaking into her rentals to have sex. So I went out to a cabin where they’d supposedly been. Get this—one of our lovers is Sean Breckenridge.”

“Oh my God. Poor Rorry.”

I summed up the trip out to the cabin and finding the credit card, which, I admitted, might have been stolen from Sean. I told her about hearing the gunshots and going through the bag of evidence. “And now I’m going to buy the stuff that our loving couple had to eat and drink. I’m hoping that if Sean did indeed drop his own card out at the cabin, his girlfriend will be one of the guests and they’ll both indulge tonight.”

“I simply cannot wait for you to expose these people. Should I have some of each of those cheeses, so it’ll look like it’s no big deal?”

“What you should do is act uninterested.”

“Uninterested? All right, all right,” she said to placate me. “Speaking of tonight, I’m already ravenously hungry. Now, don’t worry. My cardiologist has given me a bunch of rules, and much as I’d like to, I’m not going to pig out.”

I said, “Uh—”

“Oh,” she said dismissively, “you know how it is with your parties. As long as one of the people at the dinner is cooking, like a hostess, guests hold back from gorging themselves. But when we have to buy a ticket or pay for the meal ourselves? It’s full speed ahead on the stomach stuffing.”

“You’re right in your observation, I’m sorry to say. That’s why I never, ever sell tickets to an all-you-can-eat buffet. Folks will come to that kind of meal pulling a cooler.”

“What do you suppose the guests at the Breckenridges’ will be wearing?” she asked. “I mean, it’s a church event, but does that mean folks will wear churchy clothes?”

“The way I’ve seen it work, the more swish the locale, the more people tend to get dressed up, even in Aspen Meadow, which is Denim Heaven.”

“Maybe,” Marla said thoughtfully, “but we also like to be authentic, you know, to the theme of the party. So if there’s going to be a hayride or anything involving straw bales, folks will pop five or six hundred for cowboy outfits, right down to the red and white bandanas and Billy the Kid fringed leather jackets.”

“The decorating theme is Abundance of Fall. You could come as a cornucopia.”

“Are you making fun of my size?”

“No, silly. I’d say this will be more fancy-pants, because the Breckenridges are loaded and their house is huge.”

“Excuse me,” said Marla knowingly, “you’re wrong, the Breckenridges are not loaded. Rorry is wealthy, remember? I heard they live on her money. That’s why Sean doesn’t have to work, although he calls himself a professional photographer, which is bull. Do you know anyone who’s ever hired him?”

“Nope.” I pulled into the parking lot of Aspen Meadow Liquors, where tire tracks crisscrossed in the slush. “Listen, girlfriend, I have to hop.” I parked and threw on the brake. “Say, do you know Hermie Mikulski, from church? She used to be in charge of the Altar Guild, but I don’t think she is anymore.”

Marla sighed. “Oh, yes, now she’s into making sure people take care of their animals. There was a woman in my neighborhood who was renting a house that was for sale. According to Hermie, this woman was keeping too many cats. Hermie got her evicted, and the cats were put up for adoption. I still don’t think they’ve sold that house. They couldn’t get rid of the, you know, scent.”

“Thanks, Marla. See you tonight.”

“In my abundance outfit. And much as I’d like to, don’t worry, I won’t say a word about Sean.”

I ducked into Aspen Meadow Liquors. When I was starting out in catering, I’d bought wines and liquors from Harold, the beefy proprietor. But then Alicia, my supplier, had been able to get me better prices on everything, so I’d switched. I didn’t know if Harold would care or even remember me. He’d been known to dip quite extensively into his own stock.

“Well, speak of the devil!” Harold, white haired, red nosed, and stooped, cried when I came through the door. My heart plummeted when I saw he was talking to Humberto Captain. Humberto was still wearing his duck suit, but the sartorial effect was ruined by the mud on his trouser hems. And then I noticed that Humberto, who was probably in his early fifties, was accompanied by a young woman, a svelte, top-heavy platinum blonde who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. She didn’t look like his daughter. And anyway, she was wearing a skintight silver unitard that didn’t exactly say I’m out with Daddy doing errands.

“Humberto’s buying Dom Perignon to serve at your dinner tonight!” Harold called to me. His speech was slurred, and his head waved slightly on his neck, as if a breeze were blowing in the store. “Aren’t you lucky?” Harold asked, his voice petulant now. “Don’t you feel fortunate?”

I smiled at Humberto and hoped it did not look fake. “I’m thrilled. I feel like, well, like ten million bucks!”

Humberto did not bat an eyelash. Nor did he introduce me to the woman, who turned away from me. Her face in profile, though, seemed familiar. Who was she? I didn’t know any young women in Aspen Meadow who would purposely dress in a silver unitard while doing anything except trick-or-treating. And anyhow, I had the feeling that what this young woman did was, actually, turn tricks.

I moved up to them and offered my hand to the young woman. “Don’t I know you? You seem familiar. Do you live here in town?”

“This is Odette,” Humberto interjected. He put a protective arm around the young woman’s waist. “Is she not beautiful?”

“That she is,” I replied. And smart, too, I remembered distantly. Very smart, but without much money. How did I know her? “Do you have a voice, Odette?”

“Zat I do,” she said, winking at me. When she did so, I noticed long fake black eyelashes. Her eyelids were dusted with silver.

All right, enough was enough. I reached into my pocket, felt for my cell phone, and squinted at it. Somehow, I managed quickly to maneuver over to Take Photo. “Smile!” I commanded, holding up the phone.

Humberto pulled Odette even closer, and grinned widely. Odette again turned away, so all I could snap was her profile. What was with this mystery woman? She whispered something in Humberto’s ear. He blushed and