Part 18 (1/2)
”You're feeling lonely.”
”Mom.”
”Okay, okay.”
He said he couldn't wait to see us Sunday afternoon. And no, he was not looking forward to the fireworks because Dad had met a new friend and they were taking her along. She was afraid of loud noises, though, so they might have to leave early. He sighed in disappointment and said, ”Peace, Mom.”
I hung up and banged my fist on the counter. If the new girlfriend didn't like loud noises, she'd better find herself a new guy to date.
I put in a call to Marla's house. The nurse said she was sleeping, but yes, she'd seen the lowfat pancakes. How was her frame of mind? I asked. Depressed, the nurse replied without elaboration. When could I come over, I wanted to know. Tomorrow. Marla was resting today after the trip home from the hospital; no visitors, no excursions. So much for Tony's push to get her to the Braithwaites' party. I even had the feeling the nurse had dealt with Tony in very short order. I said I'd be over tomorrow. You'll have to make it in the afternoon, she announced before hanging up. I wished I could send that nurse out to deal with the Jerk.
I braced myself and punched the phone b.u.t.tons again. If Tom wasn't there, what would I say to his voice mail? But he snagged it after less than one ring.
”Schulz.”
”It's me. I was at Prince & Grogan when Gentileschi-”
”I heard. He was strangled in the box up there. They call it a blind, where the security guys used to sit.”
”I know. Do they know who-”
”Negative. I'm going to be here late tonight working on this.”
”I saw the photos in his pocket, Tom. They're of Babs Braithwaite.”
He sighed. ”Goldy, you didn't touch them, did you?”
”No, of course not.”
”Did anybody besides you see them?”
I tried to remember: Who else was around? Stan White, the security man, had come down the escalator; Harriet Wells had been whimpering behind the counter. I'd been the only customer within close range. ”I don't think so, maybe the other security guy saw them. I was there buying some stuff for Frances and ... what was the deal with Gentileschi anyway? Did he always do that kind of thing? Spy on customers?”
Tom replied in a flat tone, ”You should see the pictures we found at his house. Had a thing for large women. Not that they would like to hear what he was doing back there behind the mirrors.”
”Did you ever get the message I left you, that Babs Braithwaite was certain she'd heard something back behind the dressing room mirror? It was when the security guy nabbed me for eavesdropping.”
”Yeah, Miss G., I got your message. We've got one team investigating at the store now, and another questioning Mrs. Braithwaite and her husband. Dr. Braithwaite spent quite a bit of time and money in that department store, the a.s.sistant security guy tells us.”
”Tom, do you remember that I'm catering at their place tonight?”
”Uh, Miss Goldy? I don't think so. Get somebody else. The Braithwaites are suspects in a homicide. Maybe two homicides. I don't want you going in there and starting to snoop around. Let us do our work. Please. Also, and this is official now, you're off the case. Thanks for your help, but it's too dicey for you to do any more digging in this thing. It's gotten too dangerous.”
”Oh come on, Tom. The Braithwaites are big wheels in the community. If I cancel, I'm sunk in my own hometown. Look, if either of the Braithwaites comes after me, I'll put a vat of cuc.u.mber-mint soup between us.”
Tom muttered something unintelligible, but said nothing further. I remembered guiltily that I hadn't even told him about the bleach water and the threatening note. Tom said he had two other calls coming in at the same time, general counsel for Prince & Grogan was having a stroke on line one, and his team at the Braithwaites' house was clamoring to talk to him on line two. He'd get back to me.
With the police team crawling all over the Braithwaites' place, I wondered if Babs still would even want to hold her annual party. I put in a phone call to her. A policeman I knew answered, and after some delay, Babs came on the line.
”Yes?” She was obviously unhappy to be interrupted.
”I apologize for calling,” I began, then stopped. What was I supposed to say? But I was just wondering if the cops would be done before the party? And by the way, I didn't think those pictures did you justice? ”Er, I was just wondering what the schedule was for tonight. When you needed us to set up, you know.”
Her voice became stiff with impatience. ”Your contract says set up for food service, then food service, followed by packing up from nine or so until you're done. The guests will start arriving at seven. How long do you need to set up for twelve people?”
”No more than an hour-”
”I won't be able to supervise you. I'm having my hair and makeup done from five to six forty-five.”
”Not to worry, we do a great job supervising ourselves.”
She paused. ”Will that boy be with you?” she asked curiously.
”My son? Or the nineteen-year-old fellow who helps me?”
”The teenager. The one who did all that damage to my car.”
I felt as if I were suddenly under the interrogation light, like the NFL coach who gets grilled on how many injured players will be in the starting lineup. I a.s.sumed an indifferent tone. ”Julian will be with me.”
”How's he holding up?”
I was very interested to know why she cared. But I merely replied, ”He's doing okay. Oh, Babs, by the way. My friend Marla says she didn't recommend my business to you. I mean, since you said that she did, I was just wondering who in fact did the recommending. Just out of curiosity. You know? I want to thank whoever it was.”
Her voice rose irritably. ”For heaven's sake, I can't remember who referred you to me!” She paused, then continued in an even higher tone: ”Why, you're not having second thoughts about coming tonight, are you? Don't tell me you're not ready. I don't know who I'd get on such short notice!”
”Not to worry, Babs. We'll be there. Around six.” Before she could start interrogating me again, I politely signed off and wished Arch could experience what it really meant to deal with someone hysterical.
I checked my watch: three o'clock. It was time to cook.
Like many wealthy clients, Babs Braithwaite wanted to host an extravagant catered dinner but did not want to pay much for it. ”Can't you make it look and taste sumptuous without using all those expensive ingredients?” she had demanded. ”Can't you cook without larding all the dishes with b.u.t.ter and cream? You know, the way caterers do?” As if she knew so much. Lowfat ingredients were usually more expensive and labor-intensive than traditional foods. In any event, after a lengthy discussion we had decided on a turkey curry served with raisin rice. Then Babs had loftily dismissed me with the announcement that since it was the Fourth, she would wear a red, white, and blue sari to go with the food. Everyone else was supposed to be decked out in red, white, and blue, she'd maintained in a resigned tone. I didn't protest. I had long ago quit trying to figure out wealthy clients' idiosyncrasies. At least she hadn't told me to wear a sari. Or demanded only red, white, and blue food.
I sauteed the turkey, drained it, then moved on to chop fragrant piles of onion and apple. When these were sizzling in a wide frying pan, I started the sauce. As the pungent scent of curry filled the kitchen, I began to feel the tension in my shoulders loosen. My hands stopped shaking as I drizzled in skim milk fortified once again with powdered nonfat milk. This silky concoction did indeed provide the rich, thick consistency of whipping cream without fat. I smiled and tasted the curry sauce. It was divine. Working with food is always healing. The ingredients, the smells, the flavors-the delight in experimenting and putting a meal together-all these bring joy, no matter what the circ.u.mstances. I had another spoonful of the hot, creamy curry sauce. Doggone, but it was good. I was going to have to try it out on Arch and Julian.
When I was halfway through grating the vegetables for the slaw, there was a loud banging on the front door. Again I looked at my watch: three-fifteen. It couldn't be either Tom or Arch. Alicia, my supplier, had made her visit and I had all the ingredients I needed. I turned off the blender and trudged to the door to peer through the peephole.
”No smoking,” I warned Frances Markasian when I opened the door. ”And no ballistic knives.”
”Okay, okay!” She held up her large black purse as if for inspection. I waved it away. ”Don't be so paranoid, Goldy, I just want-”
But I was already walking away from her. ”I'm working, so you'll have to talk to me out in the kitchen.”
She followed dutifully and took a seat in one of the oak chairs while I peered at my recipe for vegetable slaw. Swathed in her usual black trench coat, she waited until I'd finished grating the carrots, radishes, jicama, and cuc.u.mbers before asking, ”Where's my stuff?”
I took out plump, gorgeous scallions and began to slice them. ”What stuff? I don't have any of your stuff!”
She rummaged through her bag for her pack of cigarettes, belatedly remembered she couldn't smoke, and impatiently rapped the cigarette package on the table. ”Excuse me, Goldy, but I seem to remember giving you three crisp hundred-dollar bills and a list of cosmetics to buy? Did you get them or not?”