“That front hallway, yup.” Boyd plucked his cell phone out of his back pocket and began taking pictures of the jagged opening overhead. When he was done, he pocketed the phone, came down the ladder, folded it up, and disappeared.
In despair, I looked at the jumble of pots and pans, plus the damn metal net with the dish towels that had been the cause of all this drama in the first place. Boyd was going to take all this? When he returned, he had paper bags under his arm—from the garage?—and was pulling on latex gloves. He began picking up the pots and stowing them in the bags. I wondered what Etta would think of a cop checking all her cooking equipment for signs of sabotage.
“Wait,” I said to Boyd as he methodically clanked pot after pot into the second bag. “Take this.” I reached into my apron pocket and brought out the wrench.
“Where’d you get this?” Boyd asked.
“It was outside, on the ground. If this was a case of sabotage, I think our saboteur dropped it between the locked side door and the porch.”
“Thanks,” said Boyd as he placed the wrench into a bag. “Too bad you touched it with your bare hands.”
I wanted this party to be over, but there was still work to be done. I asked Boyd to get the wine from the foyer. Then I gently picked up the tray with the Dom and made my way to the porch via the living room.
The space was lovely, filled with chintz-covered sofas and wingback chairs. On the cream-colored walls, enormous gilt-framed posters showed the evolution of marketing for Boudreaux Molasses: girls holding bottles of the dark liquid, bottles next to palm trees, bottles in meticulously kept kitchens, and yet more bottles next to piles of molasses cookies. Well, I thought, at least Rorry and Sean could have a constant reminder of where all the money came from.
I wondered what Sean thought of that.
A mirror in the living room reflected back to me how unappealing I appeared, even with Yolanda’s expert bandaging job. Part of the supernova of champagne had landed on my arms, hair, and face, and the expensive slick was hardening like splattered glass. I forced myself to glance away, then quietly took the tray out to the porch. I asked Father Pete—who looked at me with concern—if he would please pour the champagne. He nodded. I didn’t make eye contact with any of the other guests.
I walked quickly back to the kitchen and began opening the Riesling. Boyd was faster at the job than I was, so I cut slits in the lamb chops, stuffed in minced garlic, and popped them into the oven. Yolanda asked me to heat up the taco meat while she worked on the fry bread. With the pots and pans gone, though, she had nothing in which to actually fry the bread. But Rorry or Etta had left an old-fashioned electric skillet on the counter by the sink, so Yolanda poured the oil into that.
She said, “Do you want to serve the tacos along with the lamb chops?”
“Sure, right after the salads. It’ll work,” I said, reassuring her. “Thanks for thinking of that.”
“I should be thanking you,” said Yolanda as she turned up the heat on the oil. “I’m going to have to dump this oil when I’m done . . . do you suppose Rorry has an empty coffee can around somewhere?”
“I couldn’t find something in this kitchen if it was right in front of me,” I replied.
“I’ll find a can,” Boyd said as he handed me the bottles of Riesling. “And don’t worry about the salads,” he said to me. “I know how to make one, so I can make sixteen. Yolanda’s already done the dressing, so all I need to do is give it a quick shake.”
I thanked him, too, then hustled out to the porch to set my Riesling-and-cheese trap. The guests were speaking in a bit of a forced tone, which I’d noticed is the way it often is at parties where people don’t really know one another from work, or golf, or whatever. Marla gave me a helpless look: Clearly, she’d been unable to change the subject to puppy breeding. Maybe more booze was in order. The champagne bottles were empty, but there were four open bottles of red wine. Rorry was right; they needed the Riesling.
I began to circle the table, asking people if they preferred red or white wine. I couldn’t help but notice something odd, though, and it had nothing to do with Kris. What conversation there was was dominated by Donna Lamar, who, in addition to being the church treasurer, had clearly had way too much to drink. Not only that, but she was dressed in a manner that would have made my mother and her set back in New Jersey cringe: a way-too-low- cut bright red dress that revealed to what extent her cups were running over. She’d changed the place cards around so that she was sitting across from Humberto, at whom she aimed her cleavage and her voice, which had turned high and flirtatious. I looked at Odette, who was arching an eyebrow at her presumptive rival.
“Oh, Humberto,” Donna was saying, as if he were the only one at the table, “you should have been there.” She placed her hand suggestively on his forearm. “I wowed them. I told the teachers that they should aim to have three-fourths of their math students
“That’s not possible,” Odette said coolly.
“Oh,” said Donna, her voice huffy with indignation. “I suppose you are the one who was asked by the teachers to come give a motivational talk. Well,” she said, directing her comments and her boobs at Humberto, “then I spoke to the science teachers, and goodness knows, they need a pick-me-up, with all the budget-cutting that’s going on. They just loved me—”
“If you see eleven sunspots one day,” interjected Odette, “and eight the next, and then three the next, what do you think the median will be? Eight,” said Odette. “It’s not possible to have—”
“What’s not possible,” shrilled Donna, “is to get rid of sunspots so quickly, dummy! You have to use makeup or concealer—”
She was interrupted by a laughing Odette. Everyone else looked dumbfounded except for Donna, who was furious. Her face was flushed with that horrible mixture of rage and booze that I’d seen on far too many wealthy clients’ faces.
“Odette!” Donna squealed. “What in hell do they teach you at that escort service of yours?”
“I’m just correcting a common misperception,” said Odette, unmoved by Donna’s insult. Odette, still sheathed in her silver unitard, sent a twinkly smile at Humberto. Much to Donna’s dismay, the entirety of the guests were now staring openmouthed at Odette.
“My dear little smart girl,” said Humberto, patting her knee.
Marla said, “Remind me to give you a call, Odette, when I’m doing my taxes.”
Donna’s tone turned snarky. “Perhaps you’d like to take over as church treasurer, Odette. I mean, if that’s your real name.”
Father Pete murmured, “My dear Donna, no one could replace you.”
Donna Lamar’s eyes flashed in Odette’s direction. For my part, I was still getting that I-know-you-from- somewhere feeling from this young woman in the shiny unitard. I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and took a quick picture of her. I’d already known she was brilliant, but how did I know? I also knew she lived in Aspen Meadow, no matter what escort service she was working for. I slid my cell back into my pocket, frustrated that I could not pull the context of my acquaintance with this young woman from the recesses of my mind.
“Well, you’re right about that, Father Pete,” said Donna. “I have worked hard on the church budget, and that, Odette, takes considerable math skill.”
Odette said drily, “Really? Then how’d you get the job?”
Humberto again patted Odette’s knee, but this smart girl wasn’t finished.
“And hey, computer guy?” she said, addressing Kris. “If you’ve spent most of your life in California, how come you have a Minnesota accent?”
Kris blushed deeply, right to the roots of his pale hair. “Well, I—”
“Let me ask you something about computers, then,” said Odette, patting the top of her blond curls as she gave Kris a penetrating stare. “I want to upgrade my laptop so that I can plug in my external hard drive, a printer, a separate scanner, a custom keyboard, and a microphone. How could I expand my number of USB ports?”
Kris, dumbfounded for once, gaped at her. “That wasn’t my area—”
“How ’bout this, then,” Odette said, continuing. “Right now, I’ve got a dual-core processor, and—”
“Stop this!” squealed Donna. “You’re boring!”
Kris, his cheeks still flushed maroon, had definitely not expected a technical interrogation at a church fund- raising dinner, from a young woman who was clearly a prostitute.
“Sweet one?” said Humberto, once again patting Odette’s knee. “Back off a bit.”
“I am not boring,” said Odette in protest. “And anyway, I was wondering if Donna, when she was talking to the science teachers, talked about medical isotopes—”
