The Chocolate Cat Caper (5 page)

“I can’t do your paperwork today,” he said. “But I’ll be in the office tomorrow. Can you bring your Social Security number by?”

“Sure.”

“Hokay.” He nodded. “Have you ever tended bar?”

“A few times. I can manage highballs and martinis. If they get into anything more exotic . . .”

Herrera smiled. “If they want anything more exotic, you’ll ask Jason to mix it.” He led, I followed, and I was finally inside the house.

I could see why Lindy had described the interior as “ugly as sin,” but some interior designer had been paid a bunch of money to make it that ugly. The walls were white and completely bare. The ceilings were white, too, and they soared. The floor was bare wood, with a finish so dark it almost hit black. A stairway—dark wood risers with stark white balustrades—led to a balcony that loomed over the shortest side of the room. The south and west walls were lined with French windows, which showed off the views of the lake and the river. The windows were bare; no curtains, blinds, valances, or even lengths of fabric twisted around poles. If the room had a focal point—other than the views of river and lake—it was a severe stone fireplace at the narrow end. An unobtrusive area rug lay in front of that, and the fireplace faced a white leather couch—the kind you have trouble getting out of. All the other furniture was dark wood and looked spindly and uncomfortable.

I pictured the room in winter, with all that bare wood, no comfortable chairs, and nothing to block the view of icy river and lake outside.
Clementine Ripley must have to keep the thermostat set on ninety degrees,
I thought. The room was beautiful, in an austere way, but it was a visual deep freeze.

It was not a room I could imagine Joe Woodyard in.

A half dozen men, women, and teenagers in black pants and white shirts were bustling about, setting up tables and dressing them with white cloths and silver dishes. I spotted two silver trays of TenHuis chocolates.

Through a double door I could see a dining room—more dark wood and unadorned white walls. A man in a white undershirt was building a white linen nest for a steamboat round. I felt sure he’d put on a double-breasted jacket and a chef’s hat before the guests arrived.

I hadn’t ever waitressed at a party like this, true, but in my role as Mrs. Rich Gottrocks, I’d gone to hundreds of similar events. Boooorrring. At least I wouldn’t have to make conversation this time.

The last person I expected to see was Clementine Ripley herself. She should have been upstairs soaking in the whirlpool or treating her beautiful complexion to a last-minute facial. But as Mike Herrera and I crossed toward the bar, she came in the terrace door, still wearing her casual denim outfit. Herrera nodded and smiled his caterer’s smile.

“Hello, Mike,” she said. “Everything looks fine.”

“Thank you very much, Ms. Ripley. We wish to please in every way.” Herrera would have moved on, but Ms. Ripley touched his arm, and he stopped politely, still smiling professionally.

Her voice was almost flirtatious. “Don’t you approve of my home? Now that it’s built? Isn’t it better than an auditorium?”

“It is truly beautiful, Ms. Ripley.”

She laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Then she walked on.

Herrera moved on, too, but he muttered as he walked. He spoke in Spanish, but all Texas kids learn a few Spanish swear words in junior high. I was pretty sure I understood him. “Bitch,” he said. “Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

Herrera showed me to the built-in bar, which was about eight feet long. It was under the balcony and was located between the kitchen and this big black-and-white whatever-it-was room—you couldn’t call it a living room, certainly. A lifeless room, maybe?

Herrera introduced me to Jason, who was the head bartender. Around fifty, Jason had dark, dramatic eyes, but his hair was his most striking feature. He had a high forehead and a long tail of salt-andpepper hair, which he wore just like I usually wore mine—in a clump at the back of his neck. The combination of bare forehead in front and long hair behind made him look as if his scalp had slipped backward. He smelled of some spicy cologne or aftershave. Jason asked me a few questions about my bartending experience, and while he talked, his hands kept busy arranging glasses. I went around the bar, knelt, and started handing him glasses from racks on the floor.

Herrera left us, and Jason leaned closer. “I saw the Ripper talking to Mike,” he said. “What did she have to say?”

“Something about how she hoped he liked the house better than an auditorium. What did she mean by that?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “I’d better not say.”

“Look,” I said. “Is there something going on here that I need to know about?”

“I’d better shut up.”

“Whatever you think,” I said. Then I kept my mouth shut—a method I’ve found works like a charm when somebody says they don’t want to tell you something. If you act as if you don’t want to know—they’ll tell you.

It took Jason thirty seconds to start talking again. “You know that Mike is mayor of Warner Pier?”

“No, Aunt Nettie had never mentioned it.”

“Warner Pier is too small a town to have a village idiot, you know. We all have to take turns.”

I laughed. “So it’s Mr. Herrera’s turn to be mayor?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. Or I think that’s what he said. To a Texan, the Michigan “yeah” sounds a lot like the Dutch “ya.” But they think I’m the one with an accent.

Jason was still talking. “Mike’s been mayor for five years. Warner Point was one of the last bits of undeveloped land inside the city limits, and Mike had this great plan for it. He wanted to build a conference center that would attract business in the winter, as well as the summer.”

“Get rid of the off-season slump?”

“It might have helped. A lot of us have to go on unemployment.”

“But Clementine Ripley got the land instead?”

Jason nodded. “Oh, she’d owned the land for several years. She’d acted interested in selling it—Mike was about to propose a bond issue. Then all of a sudden she built this huge place. And she employs a grounds service, a housekeeping service, and a maintenance service—all out of Grand Rapids.”

“Tough on Mr. Herrera’s plan to increase year-round employment.”

“If she just wouldn’t keep rubbing it in.”

Jason and I finished the glasses. Then he handed me a box knife, one of those gadgets that holds a razor blade, and told me to start opening cases of soft drinks and mixers. “This’ll be a wine crowd,” he said. “Maybe some beer. I don’t think we’ll have many requests for mixed drinks, but we’d better have several mixers out. Then you can slice the lemons and limes. Not too many. I’m going into the kitchen to chill wine.”

I was kneeling on the floor, ripping open the first soft drink box, when I heard Marion McCoy’s voice. “Here, kitty! Kitty, kitty, kitty!” I saw no sign of the cat, so I kept working with the box knife. Suddenly Ms. McCoy’s face poked around the end of the bar.

“Oh!” I jumped up.

“Is that cat back there?” she said. Now I could see her dress. It was a basic black, and it hadn’t come cheap, but it hung on her. She still looked weatherbeaten and skinny, though she wasn’t exactly flatchested.

“No, Ms. McCoy. I haven’t seen him.”

She looked at me narrowly. “I know you—oh, you’re the young woman from the TenHuis Chocolade. What are you doing here?”

I resisted the impulse to go into a detailed explanation. “Mr. Herrera needed an extra waitress.”

“You’re a waitress?”

“I was when I was in college. Now I’m an accountant. But all the Warner Pier merchants try to help each other out, and Mr. Herrera needed an extra set of hands. If I see the cat, I’ll try to catch him.”

“We wanted to shut him up in the office until he makes his appearance for the donors. He always jumps up on the tables and tries to get in the food.”

I smiled, still determined, in my Texas way, to be friendly. But she was making me nervous. “I’ll tell the others, and we’ll try to keep him from sampling the bubbly—I mean, the buffet!”

Ms. McCoy sniffed, straightened up, and left. I heard, “Here, kitty, kitty,” from the dining room.

I had the box open by then. So I stood up, leaned over, and took two two-liter bottles of Diet Coke out of their box.

“Here. Lemme hep you.”

A handsome, gray-haired man came around the corner of the bar. He took the bottles out of my hands, put them on the counter, then turned back with his hands out, ready for more bottles.

“Thanks,” I said. I opened another box and handed him two club sodas, and he lined them up neatly at the left end of the work counter.

All the time I was trying to figure out who he was. He wasn’t with Herrera Catering; I’d figured that out from his blue knit sports shirt. All us worker bees were wearing black and white. But he did seem familiar—a lean face with a grin that made him look rakish and with serious glasses that made him look reliable. But his most eye-catching characteristic was a gorgeous head of gray hair . . .

“Oh!” I said. “You were in the Mercedes convertible.”

He looked at me narrowly, then smiled. “And yew were in the van.” He definitely had a Texas accent. I had tried hard to get rid of my Texas accent, but this man had evidently tried to emphasize his.

“Right,” I said. “And I think you’re a guest, not an employee of Herrera Catering, so maybe you’d better get out from behind the bar before I get in trouble.”

“Ah don’t want yew to git into trouble!” He moved around the end of the bar. “I was about to ask for a favor, and I thought if I did one first . . .” He grinned, and it was a grin nobody could resist.

I didn’t even try. “I do appreciate the help, and I’ll be happy to do you a favor. Anything that’s legal.”

He leaned over the bar and dropped his voice. “I know you’re not open yet. But do you hev any bourbon back there?”

“Sure. On the rocks?” I looked around for ice and found none. “Actually, I don’t have any rocks yet. But I can get some from the kitchen.”

“Straight up will be fine. I kin git my own ice.”

I found a bottle of bourbon—a very good brand—and used the tip of the box knife to break the seal. I found a shot glass, filled it, and poured it into an old-fashioned glass. Then I lifted my eyebrows and looked questioningly at the gray-haired gent. “Double?”

“Why not? I’m staying in Clementine’s guest cottage, so I won’t be driving, and I’m as dry as a west Texas toad frog.” He stuck his hand over the bar in shaking position. “I’m a cosponsor of this wingding. Clementine Ripley is one of my clients. Duncan Ainsley.”

“Oh, that’s why you look famous!” Oh, God, I’d done it again. “I mean, I mean”—I was stammering “I mean, familiar! You look familiar. I read an article about you in
Business Week
, Mr. Ainsley. I should have recognized you from your pictures.”

Now he was the one who seemed surprised. “You read Business Week?” He kept holding my hand.

“I have a degree in accounting. Someday I’ll take that CPA exam.”

“Don’t want to spend your whole life behind the bar? Good fer yew! And many thanks.” He squeezed my hand, grinned again and moved toward the kitchen.

Well, this might turn out to be an interesting party. Duncan Ainsley! Investments weren’t my specialty, but the things I’d read about him sounded fascinating. Colorful Texan famous for his parties. Investment counselor to stars of stage and screen. And apparently to Clementine Ripley, too. No wonder she could afford the house at Warner Point.

Now I understood his accent. If Duncan Ainsley was operating out of Dallas or Houston, he’d try to sound like he’d been to Harvard. Since he was a Texan operating out of Chicago, he used his Texas talk to make himself stand out from the crowd of Harvard MBAs. The thought of Duncan Ainsley kept me pepped up while I sliced the lemons and limes, then put olives and cherries in little dishes on the bar.

In a minute I scented Jason’s spicy cologne, and I looked up to see him walking toward me. Then there was a flash of white fluff, and Jason screeched as he was attacked by a giant ball of fur.

Champion Myanmar Chocolate Yonkers had jumped down, apparently from the balcony, and landed on Jason’s shoulder, barely missing the long queue. Using Jason as a springboard, he bounced on over to the bar.

It was hilarious, but I tried not to laugh. Jason didn’t look amused, for one thing, and for another, the cat was now reaching a languorous paw out toward the dish I had just filled with olives.

“Oh, no!” I said. “Those are not for cats. Even gorgeous champion chocolate cats.” And I grabbed.

I guess Champion Yonkers didn’t expect to be denied his little treat. Anyway, he didn’t dodge in time, and I was able to scoop him up. He gave a low snarl, and he kicked, but I had him.

“Into the office with you, fella,” I said. “If I only knew where it was.”

I carried the enormous cat out from behind the bar and started looking. I assumed Ms. McCoy had meant the office I had visited earlier that day, somewhere at the east end of the house. So I went past the kitchen and into a hall that seemed to lead in the right direction. At least I’d get to see a few more rooms of the house.

Almost immediately I found myself in a covered corridor, maybe forty feet long, with windows on both sides and a room at the far end. A parabola? Pergola? I was a little hazy on the name of this architectural feature. I was beginning to figure out that the house wasn’t really one big building. It was a series of little buildings strung together. I’d heard a couple of people call it “the village,” and that name was close to the feel of the thing. The tower—the “sore thumb”—was a sort of village church steeple.

As I entered the room at the end of the passageway, I called out, “Ms. McCoy!” She didn’t answer.

This was obviously not one of the public areas of the house. It was too pleasant and homey, with some comfortable-looking chairs and a couch covered in a nubby fabric in front of a rustic-looking fireplace. The color scheme was still severe, but it had texture. I could remember my Dallas decorator talking about “texture.” Texture is good.