The caterer’s kitchen was equally precise. Two ovens, wide oak counters, and stainless steel sinks glistened under bright fluorescent lights. A menagerie of pots and pans with burnished copper bottoms hung from a rack over the window. Beside the deep freeze gleamed a collection of knives that surely rivaled Galen’s.
“Is there any way that the mayonnaise you used Sunday could have been spoiled?” Plato cringed, waiting for her reply.
“I understand, Dr. Marley, that you have to ask that question. Still, I tolerate it only to preserve the good name of Reiss’s Nice Foods. It’s a scandal for my business.” She pressed a plump hand to her chest and sighed. “You can’t imagine how embarrassed I was Sunday night when people started getting ill. I hope you catch the scoundrel who’s responsible.”
From the tone of her voice, she seemed to feel that apprehending a murderer was purely incidental.
“Still, we all make mistakes,” Cal said. “Sometimes the unavoidable happens — power failures, for instance. What about last Thursday? Wasn’t there a thunderstorm then?”
“Oh, my dear! Of course I couldn’t make the mayonnaise on Thursday! You know that.”
Cal gazed at her blankly.
“Under those conditions, the mayonnaise simply won’t bind.” Mrs. Reiss’s pencil-thin brows formed a V on her forehead. “But then maybe you’ve never tried making mayonnaise during a thunderstorm.”
“I’ve been lucky that way, I guess,” Cal admitted, casting a warning glance at her husband. She hadn’t made mayonnaise during snow, heat, or gloom of night, either.
“Ordinarily, I make fresh mayonnaise on Thursdays because Francella brings the eggs straight from the hens that day.” She touched Cal’s arm. “I’ve found that the freshest eggs make the smoothest mayonnaise. In fact, when Francella delivers them, they’re often still warm and there’s no need to bring them to room temperature.”
“So you made the mayonnaise on Friday,” Plato concluded.
“No. Friday was the University Club luncheon. I didn’t need mayonnaise for that, so I made it Saturday morning.” Mrs. Reiss thought for a moment. “Even if my refrigerator was off a few degrees, mayonnaise doesn’t spoil that quickly. And it certainly didn’t smell bad.”
“Staph food poisoning can be very subtle,” Cal explained. “Especially with such a flavorful food as crab Louis.”
“My, my, my. This is certainly complicated.”
“Is there any way someone could have tampered with it Saturday? Did you leave the house at all?”
“No, I didn’t,” she assured them. “I’m certain of it.”
“You had visitors?” Cal asked.
Plato was shocked. Stern, broad shouldered, competent, and practical though she was, Mrs. Reiss actually blushed.
“Well, I...” For once, she was at a loss for words. She wrung her hands feverishly across the broad expanse of apron covering her middle. Finally she took a deep breath and explained. “He started calling on me when I took sick.”
“Who did?”
“Dr. Gage. It’s my stomach, you see. It’s so sensitive. Well, he was just wonderful — no other doctor made house calls any more. So I invited him over one Saturday, and it got to be a regular thing. Every Saturday afternoon for two years now.”
The portly cook sighed wistfully.
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” she begged. “It’s been our secret for a long, long time. Not even Leonard knows.”
“Leonard?” Cal asked.
“My son. You’ve probably read his articles in the Herald Press. He’s the medical editor,” she boasted.
“Yes, now I remember,” Cal said. “He interviewed me once about Seneca General’s pathology department. Strange that he hasn’t asked us about the case yet.”
“The life of a newspaperman,” Leonard’s mother chuckled. “He was very upset when I called to tell him what had happened. He’s been away this weekend, down at the capital. Looking at substances. Wait. Is that what he said? That’s awfully strange.”
“I imagine there are quite a few substances down there in the capital,” Plato agreed.
“I think it’s all a fable. He’s got a girl down there. I’m sure of it.”
“How about Sunday?” Cal asked. “Did anyone help you with the catering?”
“Just the maid — Felicia. She always helps when I cater at the Thorndykes’. Such a tragedy. Of course, she wasn’t involved.”
“Not likely,” Plato admitted.
The caterer turned to Cal again. “Now that we’ve finished, dear, there’s a dish of mine that you must try on Plato. I call it Sauce Simpliste because it’s so easy to make. Wonderful with beef dishes. I’ve got the recipe written down here somewhere.”
She led them to her living room and riffled through a drawer in the television stand. “Here it is, here it is. I want to submit it to the Grande Cuisine Home Cooking Show. Have you seen it?”
“I’m afraid not,” Cal confessed.
“Then I have to lend you one of my tapes.” On the shelf above the TV squatted a new VCR. Mrs. Reiss patted it proudly. “My Leonard bought it for me. We have the same kinds of VCR’s, stereos, and televisions. Even the same kind of cars. That way, Leonard can fix them when something goes wrong. He’s quite handy.”
Plato sighed. Years from now he and Cal would be discovered rooted to the floor, cobwebs swaddling their ankles and knees, Mrs. Reiss’s filibuster still in full swing.
Miraculously, the telephone rang, and they bolted for the door.
“Thank you for the tape. And the recipe,” Cal called.
“Certainly,” the caterer replied with a wave. “Come back again if you have any questions. Or just to talk...”
As they closed the door, Mrs. Reiss’s hearing aid gave a farewell squeal.
“This won’t take long,” Cal assured her husband. “Turn left here.”
Plato complied. “I don’t understand why we have to do this at all. What’s Ian up to? Why can’t he handle this?”
“He’s busy getting depositions from the guests,” she answered. “Callahan gave his statement at the courthouse this morning. But Ian wanted us to drop by the plant, just to get an impression.”
Mardyke Pharmaceuticals was a sprawling one-level brick and granite complex at the end of a mostly vacant industrial park. From its exterior, Mardyke’s prosperity was obvious. Perfectly manicured lawns, rolling hills, and shapely hedgerows were surrounded by a ten foot chain link fence topped with barbed wire. All around the grounds was the Mardyke trademark, an interlocking M and D.
The guard waved them in at the gate. As they drove the battered Nova down to the visitors’ lot, Plato lusted for a car with air conditioning. Black asphalt gathered the midday heat, focusing it on the underside of the car, where it passed through the seats to scorch their backs and legs.
At the main entrance, they were rescued by a wash of cool, dry air. The foyer had a polished slate floor and rough sandstone walls. Cal’s heels echoed in the darkness as the pair navigated the cave to a pink marble reception area.
“Drs. Plato and Calista Marley?” asked a platinum blonde receptionist. When they nodded, she rose. “This way, please.”
Plush pile carpeting replaced the slate, and tastefully neutral paintings under track lights lined the corridor. At the end of the hall, their guide opened a door. “Mr. Callahan will see you now.”
The chairman of Mardyke Pharmaceuticals stood with his back to the door. He pretended to admire the view through tinted windows that made the outside look cloudy, cool, and inviting.