There was some intuitive deductive system at work, triggered by something missing. His eyes roamed, lingered, inspected. ‘Little Red Riding Hood,’’ his voice boomed out. Little Red Riding Hood was missing. This was different. He rushed to the phone and dialed Goldstein’s number.
‘Little Red Riding Hood is missing,’ he shouted into the phone.
‘I know, the wolf ate her.’
‘Don’t you understand, Goldstein? She stole it to pay for the dinner party. It’s a Staffordshire figure.’
There was a long pause.
‘You should take a long vacation, Rose.’
‘She stole it. Don’t you understand? She’ll get at least two grand.’
‘I’m taking a long vacation. You should, too. As fast as possible. We’ll worry about it when I get back.’
‘How can you go on vacation?’
‘I go when Thurmont goes. Don’t worry. It’s only for six weeks.’
‘Six weeks?’
‘We’re entitled, Rose. We work hard.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘You call me late at night to tell me about Litde Red Riding Hood missing. What don’t I understand?’
It seemed futile to explain. The words hung in his throat.
‘That’s where the money is coming from, Goldstein.’ There was no response on the other end.
‘The money…’ Oliver began again.
‘I’m going on vacation, Rose,’ Goldstein said finally. ‘Which reminds me. You’re behind on my retainer.’
Oliver hung up, staring at the phone in its cradle. So it’s every man for himself, is it? he thought, feeling a charge of adrenaline stiffen his resolve. He’d show them what resolve really meant.
22
She had to polish all the silver herself. It was difficult work, particularly the rococo centerpiece, a copy of a de Lamerie. She was absolutely determined that nothing, nothing would go wrong.
She hoped, too, that he had gotten the message. She had heard the weird noises. It was not, the pusher had said, much of a dose. Just a short trip. Painting Benny was an afterthought. By now Oliver must realize that he couldn’t attack her with impunity. She was just as clever, just as resourceful. All he had to do was move out. Then it would be over.
And she was entitled to take the Little Red Riding Hood. She had never really admired the piece. And, if the truth were known, she wasn’t that fond of collecting Staffordshire. They were crude figures, had no intrinsic beauty, and the expressions on their faces were insipid. All because of Cribb and Molineaux. She was sick to death of the memory. Getting two thousand for the Litde Red Riding Hood was ridiculous. And the Cribb and Molineaux were now worth five thousand. She hoped he wouldn’t discover the missing figure for a while. At least until Thurmont had returned from vacation. But Oliver, too, was at a disadvantage with Goldstein away as well.
She was proud of her pluck and ingenuity. The name of the game was survival and she was determined to survive. She had debated with herself whether or not to pay the utility bills with the proceeds of the figure sale, but nothing could make her forgo the opportunity to show her wares to both her regular and potential customers. Also, they would get an opportunity to see her house. And she’d show them what style was all about. Then, perhaps, they wouldn’t dare be slow to pay their bills. A little enterprise, Barbara, she told herself as she went about the elaborate preparations for a dinner for fourteen. Thirteen, actually, since she had chosen not to have an escort, as if to assert her singleness.
She picked the menu and her guests carefully, determined to prove to them she could enhance the traditional, a challenge in itself. It was the beginning of summer and the ambassadors she wanted had not yet left for their summer vacations.
She even invited the Greek ambassador, accompanying the invitation with a little note urging both him and his wife to reassess her culinary skills. Their acceptance overjoyed her. The Thai ambassador, whom she regularly supplied with pate and who was considered something of a gourmet, also accepted, as well as the Fortu-natos, who were fast becoming two of Washington’s most prodigious hosts.
With a nod to public relations, she also invited a food editor of The Washington Post and his wife. His name was White and he had written a number of cookbooks, including one cataloguing famous recipes of former White House chefs. She could not come up with a Cabinet minister but settled instead for an undersecretary of the Army, whose wife she had met casually at parent meetings at Sidwell Friends. To round off the list, she invited the military attache of the French Embassy and his wife, an attractive young couple who were present at most parties given by the French Embassy.
The plan was, she knew, a bold stroke and she was determined to make a lasting impression, to start people talking. It would be the first of many, an advertisement of herself. With the children gone, she was less harried, although the tension between her and Oliver continued. She would just have to live with that, she decided, hoping that, once and for ail, she had foreclosed on any more harrassment from him. Soon, she was sure, he would come to his senses and move out of the house.
Naturally, she would do all the cooking herself. A vichyssoise to begin with, followed by crab imperial, beef Wellington with pate de foie gras, a delicate salad of watercress, mushrooms, and endives, and for dessert, custard-filled eclairs with a warm chocolate sauce. For wines, she picked a Chablis Grand Cru for starters, followed by a 1966 Saint-Emilion. And for a dessert champagne, a good brut.
For a moment she felt tempted to break into Oliver’s wine vault, but she resisted that. At all costs she must avoid any confrontations. Also, this was her show. Hers alone. She would prove to herself that she was capable of offering a complete dinner service. She checked her china, counted out her silver and crystal glasses. So what if she was being blatantly commercial? She was in business.
She made a long list of ingredients – crabmeat, fillet of beef, potatoes, capers, endives, mushrooms, eggs, chocolate. On and on. And she haunted the markets for perfect choices. Without the children to worry about, she was able to work at her own pace, largely ignoring Oliver’s comings and goings. He seemed to be keeping out of her way, and she was thankful. She put financial problems out of her mind as well. She found she enjoyed working on projects with specific goals. It gave her life more structure, more purpose. It was delicious to savor such freedom. To be sure she got a good night’s sleep, she took a strong sleeping pill. It made the nights go faster. Shut out all anxieties. She also devised a plan to thwart any malicious interference by Oliver, just in case the matter with Benny hadn’t taught him a final lesson.
On the day before the party, she moved a cot into the kitchen. Her idea was to prepare everything that day and to spend the night in the kitchen, working right up to the point when the three in help she had hired would arrive. Carefully, she inspected the food she had purchased for any signs of tampering. The wines as well. Satisfied, she began the job of preparation.
For some reason, the one arm tap in the stainless steel sink would not run cold. She tried the other sink and the same condition prevailed. It wasn’t a serious problem, but when she moved the tap arm to hot, it came out scalding and scorched her hand. She screamed in pain. It had never happened before, but after the initial shock, she countered the problem by emptying ice cubes into a large stock pot and used the resulting cold water for washing the various ingredients.