Crunch Time

I asked, “Do you know where he found the beagle pups to photograph?”

Rorry shook her head. “I don’t. There was a guy outside of town who was breeding. Sean took the pictures with the agreement that they were going to be used in advertisements for the breeder, but then he and Sean had a falling-out, which is what usually happens between Sean and other people.”

Outside, a siren blared. That was quick, I thought. Maybe emergency services responded more speedily if a cop called.

“Rorry,” Boyd called, “could you let them in? Goldy, can you get us more ice?”

Rorry opened the front door. I filled the bowl with ice and sprinted back up the steps. Yolanda had stopped crying. As gently as possible, I sprinkled the cubes over her legs.

“Goldy,” Boyd said sternly, “listen.” He took his keys out of his pocket. “Get some latex gloves out of your van and put that skillet and the handle into a paper bag. Then put it into my car next to the bag of stuff from the pot hanger. Got it?”

“Of course.”

“Then call Tom stat and tell him to get over here, to be with you.”

“I’m fine,” I said in protest. “I don’t need—”

“I didn’t ask your opinion,” Boyd said harshly. “Just do it!”

Within moments two paramedics were at the bathroom door. They told Boyd to move but keep the cold water going. Once they were beside the tub, they checked Yolanda’s vitals and commanded Boyd to get more ice. I said I would do it and raced to the kitchen, cursing inwardly.

After delivering the new batch of ice, I ran back to the kitchen, did as Boyd had directed with the pan and its handle, and locked it inside his car. When I returned, the paramedics were bringing Yolanda expertly down the stairs. Boyd clomped purposefully behind them. He wordlessly took his keys from me.

I went out the front door and pulled out my cell as the ambulance and Boyd’s car rolled down the driveway. I called Tom and gave an executive summary to his voice mail as to what had happened.

Back in the kitchen, I noticed Rorry had grabbed a pile of terry-cloth bath towels. On her knees, working on the oil mess, she told me she’d announced to the guests that there had been a kitchen accident and that dinner would be slightly delayed. Together, we swabbed the kitchen floor with her towels, which I noticed were monogrammed. I felt guilty about the broken china; the fallen pot ring; the fancy towels, now ruined; the dinner . . . but most of all, I was worried about Yolanda, who was in excruciating pain from burns. . . .

Sean’s face floated into view overhead. He asked if he could help.

“Yes. You can entertain our guests,” Rorry replied without looking up.

“Well, we’re out of food. Uh, can you give me a few more details as to what happened? Looks like more than a little kitchen accident.”

I got to my feet and said only that some hot oil had spilled. Then I washed my hands and asked him to do the same. Puzzled, he followed my lead. Rorry continued to work on the floor. Quickly, I taught Sean how to follow me, assembly-line style, as we put together the salades composees. As he was putting the last ingredients on each salad, I wrapped the focaccia in foil and put it into the oven. Then I whisked Yolanda’s dressing one last time and drizzled it onto each salad.

“You can manage four at a time on the trays,” I told Sean as I loaded him up. “Don’t stop to answer questions, don’t give them any details. Just serve.”

“People are going to ask me to tell them more,” he whined, “especially after the pot hanger came down.”

“Just tell them we had a mishap.” I was so angry with him over his affair with Brie, I felt no compunction about ordering him around. “Don’t embellish. Come back for more salads after you serve these four. I’ll try to salvage the Navajo tacos. Uh, Sean?” I asked. “Do you happen to remember who requested these tacos?”

He gritted his teeth and blinked. After a moment, he said, “I don’t remember. Sorry.”

“How about this,” I said. “Which breeder did you visit to get the beagle puppies? The ones you took pictures of?”

He colored deeply and looked away. “I don’t recall.” Then he hustled off.

You sure have one hell of a bad memory, I thought, but didn’t say. Instead, I looked at all the ingredients Yolanda had placed neatly on one of the counters: seasoned beef; chopped tomatoes, lettuce, and green onions; grated Mexican queso; a big bowl of sour cream. I counted out the pieces of fry bread that had not fallen onto the floor. I shook my head and said aloud, “We don’t have enough to go around.”

Rorry had squirted a degreasing disinfectant onto the floor and was starting in with more towels from her load. “I don’t need one, I know Father Pete would be more than willing to forgo his, and Sean can go without.” She concentrated on wiping the floor and did not look at me as she said quietly, “You know, don’t you? About him.”

“I, I—”

“That’s why you brought that white wine and those cheeses, isn’t it? They were for him, and for . . . her.”

“Well,” I said, anxious to conclude the conversation before Sean returned, “yes, okay, I figured it out. But it wasn’t because I was nosy, Rorry, or because I give two hoots about Donna and her rentals. I was just trying to find out who Ernest McLeod was working for. He’d been hired to find two adulterers.”

Rorry stood up and gave me the full benefit of her round brown eyes. “He was working for me.”

Before I could respond, Sean returned. He looked from Rorry to me and back again, then loaded up more salads and whipped out of the kitchen.

“Do you think Sean knows that you’re aware of what he’s doing?” I whispered.

“At this point, I don’t care.” She picked up all her monogrammed towels and tossed them down a laundry chute. She washed her hands and smoothed her wrinkled, slightly oily embroidered skirt. “I knew Sean was up to something, but he denied it and acted hurt when I asked him if he was having an affair. He kept asking if I had any proof for my suspicions. He acted like I was impugning his integrity. He insisted that he loved me, blah, blah, blah.”

I rubbed my temples. The Jerk had done the same thing, turning my doubts about his fidelity into my problem, my insecurity, my paranoia. He had not, however, insisted that he loved me. He’d said if I loved him, I wouldn’t be so suspicious.

Rorry said, “I only hired Ernest to get me proof. Ernest promised that if he discovered Sean with a mistress, he would take pictures of them. Last week he said he’d been following Sean, that he was sure Sean was cheating on me, and that he, Ernest, was sure he could get some photos. But he never got back to me.”

Sean had not returned, so I said quickly, “Why did you even hire Ernest? Don’t you have a prenup that allows you to file for divorce no matter what your husband has done?”

“I do,” she said sadly. “We do. My daddy made sure one was drawn up. He never trusted Sean. Turned out, he was right.” Tears welled in her eyes, but she shook them away. “I don’t care about the money, to tell you the truth. But that was what I wanted: the truth. I wanted proof Sean was lying. Before I filed for divorce, I wanted to show him that evidence. I pray to God I didn’t cause Ernest to be killed.” Here she broke down. Unlike Yolanda, who’d sobbed loudly when her legs were burned, Rorry wept almost soundlessly.

“What’s going on?” asked Sean when he returned to the kitchen. “Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

“She’s upset about Yolanda,” I said authoritatively. “She feels responsible, because it happened in her kitchen.” I loaded up four more salads on Sean’s tray, then put the last four, along with the warm focaccia and two sticks of butter, onto my own tray. “Let’s go, Sean. People are waiting.”

Sean stared wordlessly at his crying wife. Rorry kept her back to him.

“C’mon, Sean,” I said, urging him on. “The guests are hungry. With Yolanda on her way to the hospital, the one thing Rorry wants is for you to step up and help with the food.” I pushed his left arm a bit with my loaded tray. He gave me an exasperated glance, then turned with his culinary cargo and headed out to the porch.

Once we arrived, all eyes turned toward me. “Yolanda’s fine,” I lied. “A skillet handle broke. Just to be on the safe side, Yolanda’s on her way to the hospital with the policeman who was helping us.” I gazed at Kris Nielsen, who glared at me, then ran a hand through his white hair. I turned my attention to Humberto, who had his eyes fixed on one of the centerpieces. Was he avoiding my look, or was I imagining it? “That same policeman is keeping the skillet, just in case he needs it later.”

“Goldy?” asked Father Pete. “In case he needs it for what?”