Crunch Time

There should be plenty.”

When Yolanda left, Rorry cleared her throat. “Sean’s also talking to a couple I don’t know. They signed up today, through Father Pete. The man’s first name is Norman, and I think his last name is Juarez, but I didn’t catch his wife’s name. They’re Catholic, so I don’t know why they’re here.”

My shoulders slumped. I knew why they were there. Church dinner notwithstanding, I prayed again for no fireworks between Humberto Captain and Norman Juarez. When Boyd returned with his box, I made a mental note to tell him we might be having an altercation that night.

Rorry waved her hand over the island and toward the kitchen table. “When people came by today with more food and wine, I told them to put it over there and in the refrigerator. That foil-covered pan is enchiladas from the Juarezes. Venla brought a homemade cheese ball with crackers. And then earlier, Humberto brought champagne, which he put in to chill. Kris Nielsen, who’s bringing a date, brought caviar, which is also in the—”

She didn’t get a chance to finish. Yolanda, precariously carrying the Limoges china into the kitchen, heard Kris’s name and dropped the china she was carrying. The dishes hit the tile floor with a deafening clatter.

I thought, Oh, hell.

15

“My Lord!” cried Rorry as she raced to Yolanda’s side. “Oh, my dear, are you all right? Did you cut yourself?”

“Where’s the bathroom?” asked Boyd. He’d deposited his box and was holding Yolanda’s elbow. That was the only part of Yolanda’s body that wasn’t shaking.

“Let me show you,” said Rorry, and she clip-clopped efficiently down the hall.

I looked for a broom and dustpan. I finally located the cleaning closet, grabbed the necessary tools, and started sweeping. Kris was coming. He was bringing a date. Upon hearing the news, Yolanda had broken what I estimated to be about a thousand dollars’ worth of china.

While Boyd and Yolanda were in the bathroom, I swept the shards into a pile. Father Pete had said Kris was so generous to the church. Really? Was that the actual reason he was coming to the dinner tonight, bringing caviar and a date?

I looked for paper towels and could find none. Worse, I was so addled I couldn’t remember which of our boxes contained our stash. Desperate, I searched under the sink, where two new, large sponges had been tucked into zipped, labeled plastic bags. One said Floor, the other, Counters.

As I wet the floor sponge, I swallowed hard and reminded myself that I couldn’t be sure of everything Yolanda had told me about Kris. But since I was thinking about Kris and had an actual sponge in my hand, it wasn’t too much of a leap to place Kris—fairly or unfairly—into the sponge category. Father Pete had told me how Kris had paid for all the Sunday school rooms to be painted and carpeted, even though he didn’t attend church services. And I’d just found out from Father Pete that in June, Kris had sought to secure the priest’s help in getting a woman who sounded a lot like Ferdinanda involuntarily committed to an institution. That movement from generosity to demand was the way of the sponge. I’ll spend a couple hundred bucks on paint and cheap carpet, so you’ll owe me.

Call me a cynic, but I’d seen a lot of sponges in the church. They gave in expectation of receiving something, usually something much larger than their initial gift.

Using Rorry’s damp sponge, I briskly swept the bits of broken china into the dustpan.

I washed my hands savagely in the sink and hoped I wasn’t becoming a cynic. Still, just ask one of these sponges to teach Sunday school, or visit a handicapped parishioner in a nursing home, or bring meals to a family that had been in an automobile accident. Forget it. I’d catered for sponges; I’d had their checks bounce; I’d lived in a state of rageful humiliation when they refused to do the right thing unless they got a reward. Unlike actors with the fake southern accents, human sponges were difficult to detect.

I dumped the broken bits of china into the trash. I wasn’t sure I had gotten them all, so I rinsed the sponge, got down on my knees, and wiped the floor with careful, even strokes. Then I threw the floor sponge in the trash.

Boyd and Yolanda returned to the kitchen. Yolanda’s complexion was still pale, but she wasn’t shaking anymore. Did she know that Kris had tried to have Ferdinanda—if that was who it was—involuntarily committed? Was that why she had reacted so negatively toward Father Pete in the grocery store? Or had she been so much on edge that an accidental brush by our preoccupied priest in the pickle aisle had made her lose her cool? I suspected the latter, and I didn’t want to upset Yolanda any more than she already was by asking about the former.

Boyd was still holding Yolanda’s arm. “Rorry’s out with the guests. Yolanda says she slipped on something.” He eyed the damp kitchen floor.

“Sorry, I just wiped it.”

“Give Yolanda something to do, then.”

I said, “No problem. The rest of the guests should be arriving soon. How about if you two open some red and white wine from this lot here? I’ll put together an appetizer tray and start ferrying stuff out to the porch.”

While they busied themselves lining up the bottles people had brought, I put together the cheese, fruit, and cracker trays. Rorry had said she would do it, but I felt so guilty about the broken Limoges, I wanted to do it myself. Besides, I had a bit of an ulterior motive in being in charge of the cheese. Venla’s walnut-covered cheese ball, surrounded by crackers, went on one tray. I placed the Gouda—part of my trap for Sean and his girlfriend, if she showed—and a large wedge of sharp cheddar, a peppered goat cheese, and a block of Gruyere around a tumble of red and green seedless grapes. I carefully cut the Camembert, which had turned creamy, into four wedges. Around it, I carefully spread different types of crackers.

“Christ,” said Marla when she popped into Rorry’s kitchen. Yolanda was startled again; this time, though, she dropped only the keys to my van. Marla, who wore a shimmery gold-and-brown dress and shawl, looked around the kitchen in astonishment. She lifted the ruffles of the cafe curtains and smoothed her hand over the flowered wallpaper. “Who decorated this kitchen, Betty Crocker?” Then she caught a look at Yolanda’s pale face, disheveled hair, and shaking hands. “Uh . . . did I come at a bad time? Hey, Boyd, how’re you doing?”

Boyd gave a single shake of his head.

“Goldy?” asked Marla. “Do you need me to help with anything? I think some guests are already here.”

I’d moved on to spooning Kris’s caviar into a soft nest of creme fraiche that I’d brought just in case we needed it. I adore creme fraiche, as does Marla, who plucked a spoon out of a drawer and helped herself to a small mouthful.

“Mm-mm. Don’t tell my cardiologist,” she said. “So, do you need me to take stuff out?”

“Yes, thanks.” I handed her the platter with Venla’s cheese ball and crackers. “You can help by asking Rorry if she has more dishes. Also, please look at place cards, if Rorry’s filled those out, and see exactly who’s coming.” I added in a low voice, “Don’t mention Kris Nielsen. We didn’t know he would be here, and now Yolanda’s very fragile.”

Marla took out another spoon and ate a second dollop of caviar with creme fraiche. “Take out cheese ball. Check on dishes and place cards. Got it.”

She returned a few minutes later holding a sheet of paper. “Had to take notes, sorry. Including me, there are sixteen. And there are some folks who are here already. Rorry introduced me to some new people. They’re Norman and Isabella Juarez. Isabella offered the information that she brought homemade enchiladas, so you better serve me some of those before anybody else gets any! Humberto Captain is coming, and the name of his date is Odette, no last name. Father Pete is already here with Venla Strothmeyer. Tony Ramos from CBHS is coming, along with his wife, Franny. Last, there are Donna Lamar and yours truly. Plus there’s the couple you mentioned,” she said in a low tone, “and Sean and Rorry and Brie and Paul Quarles.” Marla made a face. “Paul Quarles always looks as if he swallowed a canary six years ago and has yet to digest it.”

The doorbell gonged, and Marla disappeared. I moved over and closed the door to the kitchen. High-pitched voices, clearly eager for a party, filtered in from the foyer.

“Crunch time,” I said under my breath, then cursed silently that there was no open wine out on the patio yet. “Keep her here,” I ordered Boyd, who nodded once. Yolanda looked at the floor.

The guests would be coming through the house. That meant I had to go around it. I tucked the open bottles