Crunch Time

into a canvas grocery bag and hightailed my way through the now-unlocked side door in an attempt to make it to the patio before the guests all arrived. The grass was icy in spots and wet right through my sneakers, which I wore to all catering gigs, regardless of their fancy factor.

I gritted my teeth and ignored the discomfort. The party absolutely had to be a success. The great sucking sound I imagined was not so much the noise my sneakers were making in the glacially chilly mud but the crash of the church budget if people stopped payment on their checks and we lost the thousands being raised by this little shindig.

And then my eye caught on something—not footprints, but something shiny, slim, and metallic. It was a wrench. Without thinking, I picked it up and dropped it in my pocket, intent on leaving it in the kitchen. I was pretty sure neither Sean nor Rorry did any home repairs, and some hapless handyman was bound to come back asking for it.

The party was being held on the winter porch, which boasted a gas fireplace that was flickering merrily when I squeaked open the screen door. I looked around, disoriented. I had no idea where the Juarezes, Father Pete, and Venla had gone. Maybe they were welcoming the new arrivals. The room’s tobacco-colored upholstered couches, plus an assortment of chairs, flanked the door I’d just come in. A long wrought-iron table surrounded with cushioned wrought-iron chairs stood in front of the fireplace. Dinner plates that Rorry had somehow located to replace the broken ones, silverware, napkins, and serving spoons were arrayed on a rolling tea cart. The main table itself sported three cornucopiae filled to bursting with gold, orange, and white mums, plus white roses and gold alstroemeria. When Rorry did a party, she did one.

I walked quickly to the table and was grateful to see that someone had already placed gold-rimmed crystal wineglasses, more napkins, and salad plates by each place card. Hallelujah. I squinted at the crystal and held it up to the light. It was the real deal, and Rorry was using it on her porch. I swallowed. No more accidents.

I rapidly moved one of the centerpieces over to the tea cart. I carefully plunked the bottle of white wine into an ice bucket labeled for that purpose, then placed both it and the bottle of red near the center of the table. As the rumble of voices approached, I scampered out the way I’d come.

I heard the unmistakable nasal voice of Paul Quarles. “Really, this is the time to invest. You have to believe me. What did you say your name was? Norman? Juarez? What kind of name is that?”

Really, sometimes people’s insensitivity surprised even me, and I’d often been the butt of tactless folks as well as sponges. But Norman was a big boy; he’d just have to handle it. Maybe, like me, he’d even be able to make jokes about it later.

When I came back into the kitchen, Marla was already regaling Yolanda and Boyd with tales of Paul Quarles.

“I’m telling you, Paul Quarles hadn’t taken two steps into the foyer before he found somebody he hadn’t yet hit up to buy stocks. He said everyone should be putting money into the market, because it’s so low. The mouths of the Juarez couple actually dropped open, as in, We just paid two thousand dollars to come to this dinner, and now somebody wants to talk to us about investing? They must think all Episcopalians are obsessed with money, which is more or less true, but never mind.”

“Guys,” I said, “we need the rest of the food from the van. Boyd, can you go out there?”

“Kris just arrived,” Marla said to Yolanda, her voice low.

“It’s all right,” said Yolanda without looking up from the bunch of keys in her hand.

“He’s brought a tall brunette,” Marla said. “Do you want to hear about her?”

“Marla,” I said, warning her. “Maybe this isn’t the best—”

Yolanda’s eyes flared as she gave me a steady look. “What, you don’t think I can handle it, Goldy? Tell me, Marla. Tell me about Kris’s new woman.”

“Well, she’s pretty,” Marla said, “but not nearly as pretty as you. When Paul was going on to Norman Juarez about investing in the stock market, I asked Kris’s date if she knew what it meant to short a stock. She said, ‘Does that mean you buy a stock from someone who isn’t tall?’ So one thing we know about Miss Dumb About Dough is that she probably isn’t an Episcopalian.”

“What’s this woman’s name?” I asked.

Marla raised her eyebrows. “Harriet. While Rorry was ushering everyone out to the porch, I asked Harriet if she had a job. She said she did modeling and odd jobs. Of course, I think modeling is an odd job, but nobody asked me. I guess in the current economy, you’ll do just about anything to make money.”

I tried to give Yolanda a compassionate glance, but she had turned resolutely to the sink. While she washed her hands, Boyd caught my eye and shrugged. I asked him, “Did you bring in the box with the lamb chops?” I turned my attention back to Marla. “Listen, girlfriend. How are your puppies?”

“Cute as can be. And yapping all the time.”

“Great. Listen, could you see if you can get the conversation over to Hermie Mikulski? See if anyone has heard anything about a local beagle puppy mill.”

Marla, who had discovered the pan with the enchiladas, gave me a skeptical glance. “You want me to change the subject from investing to dogs? How do you propose I do that?”

“How about this,” I said. “Tell people you’ve just adopted three beagle puppies. Then see if you can move the conversation over to whether you can make money breeding dogs. If so, what breeds work best? And has anyone heard about any mills in the area?”

Marla was still skeptical. “I thought you gave away all the puppies.”

“What I want you to do is see if anyone has heard any reports of rescuing abused beagles in this area. If so, from where?”

Marla placed the enchiladas on the counter. Then she ducked back into the refrigerator and hauled out two bottles of Humberto’s Dom. Doggone it. I’d remembered the other guests’ wine, but not Humberto’s. “Know what, Goldy? People do better with sudden shifts in topic when they’re well lubricated.” She peered at the bottles. “These were leaning against a bowl of salad in the refrigerator. Does that mean someone knocked them over?”

I sighed. It could indicate that, which could in turn lead to an explosion of bubbly in the kitchen, which was not what we needed at this point.

At that moment, Humberto himself slithered into the kitchen. He wore a pale blue sport coat and yellow pants. “Ah, my countrywoman,” he said silkily. When Yolanda ignored him, he drew himself up and gave me an expectant look. “I brought my champagne over myself, this afternoon. Would you please serve it?”

I said, “Yassuh,” before I could stop myself. Humberto trundled out. I wondered where Odette was.

Marla raised her eyebrows and opened drawers. “I’m looking for a cloth dish towel to put over this thingy they use to stop up champagne. Where in hell does Rorry keep things?” She slammed a drawer shut, frustrated. “I met Odette, Humberto’s date, or whatever he’s calling her. More like paid escort, I’d say. She’s a cute, busty blond who looks less than half his age.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I saw her this afternoon. Does she seem familiar to you?”

“Never having worked for an escort agency myself, I have to say no, she does not look familiar. I’m going to go ask Rorry where her dish towels are.”

I cursed silently. “Don’t. We’ll find some.” I began pawing through Rorry’s drawers, as well as the supply closet. Where would she keep cloth dish towels? She, or her cook, Etta, had hundreds of kitchen utensils and cleaning tools. They were clean and looked new. But they were in no discernible order.

Marla said, “So you want me to turn the conversation from cash to canines while you open the champagne?”

“Yes, please.”

“The things I do for you, Goldy, I swear.” She disappeared as Boyd reentered the kitchen hauling the box containing the lamb chops and Navajo taco ingredients. I asked him to start opening the shrink-wrapped packages of chops.

Yolanda, meanwhile, was bent on a new task: rolling out the balls of dough that would become the fry bread.

“If I can ever get this champagne open, I need to start the lamb chops,” I said to her. “And I was hoping you could get going on the Navajo tacos. We’re getting behind.” When Yolanda threw a ball of dough on the counter, I said, “No, scratch what I just said. Go home. Take Boyd. I can handle this dinner.”

Her face softened, and when she looked at me, her eyes were wet. “Oh, Goldy, no, thank you. No. I asked you for this job, and you’re paying me to do it. I’m fine. It’s just that . . . I haven’t really seen him since our