Dark Tort (27 page)

“Not yet,” I lied. “It was pretty banged up after being dropped in the street. Listen,” I said as if it had just occurred to me, “did you make a police report about that attempted hit-and-run?”

He gave me a startled glance and blushed to the roots of his mop of curly hair the color of straw. “No, I just thought ...I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”

“I don’t suppose you had a chance to catch even a part of the license plate.”

He shook his head ruefully. “I didn’t even see the make of the vehicle. Or whether it was, you know, black or dark green or, uh, navy blue.”

“Right,” I said. I kept my voice sympathetic. His answer felt a bit too rehearsed. Had the police spent much time with him after I found Dusty? Did they consider him a suspect? Julian was out in the dining room arranging the serving utensils for the buffet, so I said quickly, “I heard you had a troublesome incident at Aspen Meadow Jewelers.”

Vic opened his brown eyes wide. His cheeks were still flaming. “Well, I guess I need to go set up my sheet music.” He quickstepped out of the kitchen.

I didn’t get a chance to ask him any more questions before the party, nor did I feel comfortable snooping anywhere in the house. I still had to unwrap the chilled cake, a job that had to be done at the last possible moment. It was a good thing it was my final task, because once I was done, two of the three neighbor couples appeared at the back door bearing gifts. I supposed the main entrance was so imposing, nobody wanted to use it. I ushered them into Louise’s waiting hands in the living room, then hustled back into the kitchen.

As Julian and I were passing around the first platter of appetizers, Vic began playing “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts’ Club Band.” Out the front window—one of them, anyway—I could see that Richard and K. D. Chenault were arriving in separate black BMWs. A nanosecond later, Alonzo and Ookie Claggett pulled up in their black Beemer, which they parked behind Nora’s, which was also black. What, did these people all go shopping for cars together? If so, did they get a discount?

I moved into the living room with a platter of stuffed Portobello mushrooms. Richard Chenault, wearing a silvery gray turtleneck and charcoal slacks, caught my eye and nodded. He looked ragged. When K.D. saw our exchanged glance, she sidled up to me and nabbed amushroom. Her chestnut hair was swept over to one side, and she wore a loosely cut black silk top and black pants. She looked ravishing, and I thought Richard Chenault was an idiot. Or maybe they were both idiots. K.D. whispered that she’d try to come into the kitchen to visit soon.

Unlike the Chenaults’ subdued appearance in the living room, Claggs and Ookie made a grand entrance, shouting their hellos so loudly all the guests could hear. Ookie, her shiny brown hair pulled up into a windblown coif, looked lovely in a slim black dress hemmed with a blue ruffle. Her noisy greetings to friends had caused heads to turn . . . and they stayed turned. I watched her for a moment as she seemed to pounce on one guest after another, like a bee buzzing impatiently from one blossom to the next.

To my great astonishment, she eventually sashayed forward, took a mushroom, and then called to Richard, “Hey, partner guy! How does it feel to have one of your associates living in a place that’s twice as big as yours?”

Richard Chenault merely pursed his lips and looked away. Had Ookie’s javelin hit its mark, or was the Chief just feeling so low about his niece’s death that he didn’t care what Ookie did?

Without missing a beat, Vic shifted into “Yesterday.”

Returning to the kitchen, I replaced the empty mushroom platter with a large glass platter that held smaller glass dishes, plus room for rows of empanadas and a glass bowl of guacamole. With a pile of napkins held snugly in my left hand, I began a lap of the enormous living room. Nora Ellis appeared, looking radiant. She had changed into a calf-length chocolate-colored corduroy jumper and matching long-sleeved turtleneck. She’d swept her blond hair up into a twist, and she wore more gold jewelry than a rap singer.

She smiled broadly until her glance fell on Ookie, whose strident voice was hard to miss. Nora’s expression became grim until she noticed I was right next to her, watching. Then she smiled.

“Empanada, Nora?”

“No, thanks. But they look wonderful.”

I was hurt, since she’d claimed to love them back at our tasting. I was about to move on when Bishop Sutherland, wearing a purple shirt and clerical collar, walked into the center of the living room. He put one arm around Nora and the other around Donald.

“My dear daughter and son-in-law have made every day in my life feel like a birthday!” he cried. Everyone clapped as Uriah hugged first Nora, then Donald, who appeared mortified, like Goofy when Mickey squeezes all the air out of him. Julian caught my eye and surreptitiously pointed to a large, elaborately framed needlepoint sign hanging on the wall behind me. It read: “Have You Hugged Your Lawyer Today?”

Once Uriah had released his son-in-law, I moved up to Donald and Nora and offered them empanadas, even though Nora had already refused them. Donald gave me a look that indicated what he really wanted was a shot of Demerol.

“Birthdays are rough,” I whispered conspiratorially.

His smile was resigned. “Yes, but consider the alternative.”

Nora’s expression hardened. “Goldy, don’t you want to make the rounds of all the guests?”

Instead of saying, “I was just getting to that,” I nodded deferentially and moved off with my tray. Nora had been exceptionally nice to me so far, and I didn’t want to ruin our chance of a supersize gratuity.

Alonzo Claggett, who looked dashing in khaki pants and a long-sleeved light blue shirt that complemented his Italianate features, olive skin, and dark curls, was talking to Marla. They were discussing tax-avoiding trusts. Bishop Sutherland was standing with them, his head leaned in to their conversation. Vic was playing “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”

Marla said, “I thought the IRS wouldn’t go for that unless the trust was irrevocable.”

“Why don’t you come over to my office sometime?” quipped Alonzo.

“Why don’t you come over to my house and see my etchings?”

“We could meet at my place in the Bahamas,” Alonzo countered.

“How about Trancas?” Marla asked. “It’s more upscale.”

“There’s always Lichtenstein.”

“But would the trip be deductible?”

At this juncture, Marla reached for my proffered tray. Bishop Sutherland drank from his glass. When Marla dipped her two empanadas into the guacamole, Alonzo winked at me. Of all the folks at H&J, Alonzo was the one person who didn’t seem broken up over losing Dusty. He’d acted upset at first, but then had bounced back with vigor. What was that about?

After Marla had finished chewing, she sucked in her cheeks and glanced in the direction of Donald Ellis, who was standing by the massive hearth. “The birthday boy looks as if he’s at a funeral.”

Alonzo followed Marla’s gaze. “He’s always like that.”

“Should I have him draw up my trust?” Marla asked playfully. “Would it cost less to have one associate do it than to have another associate do me? Oh, dear, did I just say that?” She opened her eyes wide and stuffed another guacamole-slathered empanada into her mouth.

Alonzo flashed his pearly whites. “I would love to do you, Marla. Come to think of it, Donald’s more of a generalist, while I specialize in trusts. I’d make it worth what you pay me.”

Marla finished her appetizer and assumed a disappointed tone. “You mean I’m going to have to pay?”

Only Bishop Sutherland laughed.

Alonzo and Marla moved off to greet some friends from Aspen Meadow Country Club, and I was left with Bishop Sutherland. Since caterers are fine-tuned to noticing when their guests’ moods have fallen off, I was suddenly aware that the bishop’s facial expression had turned bleak.

“Bishop Sutherland?” I inquired. “Are you okay?”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head of white hair. “Not really. Birthday parties always make me feel low, the way some people say they can’t stand Christmas. It reminds them, or us, I should say, of folks who aren’t around anymore.”

I nodded sympathetically. “You seemed so happy hugging your daughter and son-in-law.”

“I’m a good actor,” he replied, then was quiet for a few uncomfortable moments, during which I didn’t know if I should leave or stay.

“Well,” I said finally, “are you missing somebody in particular?”

His shoulders slumped. “Yes, Mrs. Schulz, I’m missing somebody in particular. Today was Charlie Baker’s birthday. My poor dear friend. I miss him. When he had shingles on his birthday, one of the nurses made him a cake, and we had a party in the hospital. It was one of the best celebrations I’ve ever attended, because everyone who was there—patients, nurses, even a doctor—was there because he or she wanted to be there. We sang and laughed and ate cake and ice cream . . .” He sighed. “Oh Lord. I miss my friend.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gave me a half smile. “Thanks. Most people don’t care about clergy . . . they want clergy to care for them. Sometimes I just ...get real lonely all of a sudden.”

“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” I said in a low voice.

“Yes, I do. But thanks for being nice.” And before I could say anything else, the bishop had moved off to visit with some people who were standing near the kitchen.

At this juncture, since neither Marla nor Alonzo seemed to want more empanadas, I moved off in the direction of the Ellises’ neighbors, who were standing near Donald beside the massive hearth.

“I’d love to have something from your plate,” came a sexy male voice from behind me. I turned, startled. “Please.”

I was facing a belt and a pair of white slacks. I looked up, up, up at a man as tall as any guy playing for the NBA. This fellow was at least six foot ten, with ink-black hair parted boyishly on the side. He wore a black shirt that matched his hair, but the effect would have been more appealing if the shirt had not had the first five buttons undone, revealing a dark, hairy chest. The guy had bright blue eyes and was drop-dead gorgeous, although it was a little hard to see his face without a telescope. And what if I trained the telescope on his chest? It would look like a rain forest. So I turned to the tall fellow’s right, where an ultraslender young woman stood. Like her tall companion, she was also quite beautiful.

The woman said, “I am Natasha Oat.” Oat? Oh, wait. Ode. So these were the famously beautiful Odes. One of the tidbits I’d learned working for the fashion photographer was that Natasha’s thick Russian accent, as much as her looks, gave away the fact that she was a model. The United States, I had observed on my former gig, imports a lot of beauty from the former Soviet Union. No doubt, modeling pays more here than it does, or ever did, over there. Natasha nodded upward. “And zis eess my husban’, Rock. He eess clien’ of Donal’.”

“I’m Goldy Schulz.” I lifted the platter of empanadas. To my great horror, Rock dipped two of his long fingers into the guacamole, then transported the load of green stuff up to his mouth, far, far away. Honestly. In the catering biz, something always happens to lower your already subterranean view of the human species.

“Rock’ eess also model,” Natasha rushed in to say, as if this explained everything.

“Goldy Schulz,” Rock boomed from above, “did Nora give you the key to her wine cellar?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, go ask Donald for it. Tell him I said it was okay. Then bring us a bottle of ’49 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. A thirty-fifth birthday is a time to celebrate!”

“Well!” I replied, swallowing. Could this really be the “New O.” of Dusty’s journal? Somehow, I doubted it very much.

“Are you going to get that key, or not?” demanded Rock.

“Let me just go, uh, uh . . .” I turned too quickly, and the bowl of ruined guacamole hemorrhaged down the front of Bishop Uriah Sutherland’s purple shirt.

“Oh my God!” I cried, then reddened, remembering that this was a clergy shirt I’d just wrecked. “Oh God, I’m sorry!” I plunged on. Shut up, I ordered myself, and used the napkins from my opposite hand to dab at Uriah’s chest.

But Bishop Sutherland was laughing, thank ...well, heaven. He’d managed to snag the bowl before it had fallen to the floor, although all the rest of the green stuff was now plastered on his shirt-front like green clay. And now that wet clay was slithering downward. The bishop replaced the glass bowl on my tray and took the napkins from my hand. As he deftly wiped huge globs of guacamole off his shirt, I wondered what I was going to say to him besides sorry, sorry, so sorry, I’ll bet this doesn’t help your emotional issues with birthdays.

K. D. Chenault saved me by walking up to us. “Oh, dear, Goldy, looks like somebody goofed!” She smiled hugely. “Why don’t you offer me your last empanada there, and introduce me to this fellow whose shirt just got wrecked?”

From my tray, I handed her a small glass plate and one of my remaining napkins. She took both carefully with her left hand so she could have her right free for shaking Uriah Sutherland’s right hand, the one not holding the green-smeared napkins.

“K.D.,” I began, but then became confused, probably by everything that was going so badly. Maybe I’d go lock myself in that wine cellar. “Excuse me! Doctor Chenault, I should say. This is Bishop Sutherland.” I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. “Bishop Uriah Sutherland. I would have thought the two of you would have met by now.”