“No,” Jack said suddenly, draining his drink and setting the empty glass on the counter. “Don’t ruin her special day with her daughter. Let me go talk to Dodie, tell her Finn was unaccountably delayed because of some…medical thing, I don’t know what, and does she want me to make the toast. Now, Goldy, don’t go getting stubborn on me, because I’m much more stubborn than you are, and I’ve been at it a lot longer. Dodie can learn what actually happened once the reception is over. And, godchild,” he said tenderly, “you need to get into some dry clothes, take care of yourself for a change instead of everyone else.”
Julian and Jack disappeared through the swinging doors. Two of the servers came back and said the guests had moved to the far end of the dining room for picture-taking, and all the tables had been moved back into the main dining room. Could they take out the shrimp cocktails, to start putting them on the plates? I gratefully said that would be super, then headed off to retrieve the clean uniform I kept in the restroom closet.
Somehow, we got through the next two hours. Jack did a wonderful toast, holding little Lissa with one arm and his glass with the other. Marla showed up as lunch was being served, and told Jack he was going home with her, no argument permitted. Besides, she added, she had a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, which he needed to open with her. Jack even managed a smile. He hugged me and said we’d talk later.
The lunch, a chilled curried chicken salad recipe I had been working on for a while, was served on a bed of baby lettuce alongside cold raisin-rice salad, and was a big success. The cake—which Julian had miraculously frosted with our back-up supplies into a replica of Keystone Mountain—was enjoyed by all. By the time the DJ started playing the music, I was ready to collapse with relief.
Guests at wedding receptions don’t like to hear the sound of dishes being clanked around as they’re washed. But I had asked the servers I had hired for the event to bring all the dinnerware and flatware to the kitchen as soon as the guests were done. I gave them their pay, told them I needed them to come to Gold Gulch Spa, and not my event center, for Billie Attenborough’s wedding the day after next, and hustled them on their way. Julian and I then used our patented ability to clean silently, and washed, rinsed, dried, and packed up all the dishes, serving platters, trays, and flatware. By the time Dodie O’Neal appeared in the kitchen and handed me an envelope stuffed with bills, the cooking space was sparkling.
“Dodie, please, you’ve already given us the gratuity. It was part of your contract.” I looked inside the envelope and realized the number of twenties she’d given us amounted to nearly a thousand dollars. “This is way, way too much extra money.”
“Goldy, don’t protest.” Like some other women her age, Dodie managed to look older than her forty-five years. Her thin face was perpetually lined with wrinkles of worry, and she dyed her short blond hair at home. I didn’t know if the cops had talked to her yet, but I doubted it. “I feel as if I ignored you throughout the proceedings,” she went on, frowning.
“Have you, I mean, did you—,” I faltered.
“Yes. After Ceci threw the bouquet, I finally asked the two policemen why they were guarding the French doors, since I’d hired security guards. They told me. What a disaster, and so sad.”
“Yes,” I said, remembering the times Doc Finn had treated me for bruises and cuts, all caused by my horrible ex-husband. Doc Finn had tried, in vain, to get me to report John Richard to the police, but I’d been too afraid. This had all taken place before doctors were required to inform law enforcement of suspected abuse, and I knew in my heart that Doc Finn never would have had any fear of the Jerk. A rock seemed to be forming in my chest. Poor, poor Doc Finn.
“Well,” Dodie said now, “I want you to take the tip. Both of you. Give a good extra chunk to your servers, too. God knows you all deserve a big gratuity, since I understand Norman did show up, and caused a ruckus. And where were the security guards, I’d like to know? I didn’t give them an extra tip.”
“Please, Dodie, don’t worry. Norman was just a nuisance. He created a temporary disturbance.” I kept my tone nonchalant. Behind Dodie, Julian opened his eyes wide and cocked his head at me, as in, You’re kidding, right?
“Where is Norman now?” Dodie asked nervously. She licked her lips and glanced around the kitchen as if Norman were going to jump out of the walk-in refrigerator. “Did he leave?”
“Yeah, he’s gone,” I said with a dismissive wave.
“But…where did he go?” Dodie pressed. “I suppose I should have checked on him before, but what with Cecelia being so upset, and Lissa starting to cry, I just didn’t have the heart to come out and look for him.”
“Your ex-husband, ah, became ill,” I told Dodie. “He’s on his way down to, oh, one of the area hospitals, I think.”
“He’ll probably try to sue somebody.” Dodie’s voice was resigned. She pinched the bridge of her nose, sighed, then brushed the pleats of her beige dress. “That’s what he always does when things don’t go his way.”
I thought of Tom’s imposing presence, not at all diminished by the fact that he was wearing an apron as he towered over Norman O’Neal. I thought of Father Pete, the priest with the deadly swing. Norman was going to sue somebody? Who would that be, exactly?
“Well, he can try to sue people,” I said. “But considering the forces arrayed against him, I don’t think he’d have much chance of winning.”
“LISSA STARTED CRYING? Remind me who Lissa is?” Julian queried once we’d packed up the dishes—I’d given the leftovers to Dodie—and were walking through the rain back to my van. The precipitation had diminished to a whispering drizzle, which blended with the tumble of water over rocks in Upper Cottonwood Creek. The gray light made everything seem like dusk, even though it was not quite four in the afternoon, and the sun would not set until after eight.
I gave Julian an abbreviated version of Ceci’s trip to Romania. He was impressed, and said he hoped to be that good-hearted one of these days.
“You already are,” I said.
Julian pushed his boxes into the back of my van, and the two of us walked through the light rain to the kitchen door. When we arrived, Julian unlocked our storage door and brought out a shovel and a bag of sawdust. He dug into the bag and sprinkled it over the area where Norman O’Neal had hurled. We’d learned from unfortunate past experiences that the sawdust and shovel were necessary accoutrements for any catering venue where guests might be tempted to overindulge.
Julian stopped to lean on the shovel. “And, boss, what are you going to do about Billie Attenborough changing the venue for her wedding? She’ll have to pay a cancellation fee for renting your space, too, right?”
“Absolutely. Charlotte knows that.”
“Looks like you don’t want to discuss it at the moment,” Julian said with a kind grin.
“You’re right.” I really did not want to think about Billie Attenborough and her latest crisis. I could envision my entire evening—when I had wanted just to go home and cook for Tom—going down the proverbial tubes as I called the florist and all the other vendors. Of course, if Tom was involved in an investigation of Doc Finn’s death, the evening was already shot. My heart squeezed again. Poor Doc Finn.
After a moment, I said to Julian, “Gold Gulch Spa is located at the old Creek Ranch Hotel.”
“Yeah, the one with the hot spring. Way out Upper Cottonwood Creek. Near the Spruce Medical Group’s building, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I replied, “but Spruce Medical has relocated to town, and their old building is up for lease.”
Julian shook his head. “This town is changing too fast.”