"What are you two doing?" I asked brightly. "I mean, I guess this table isn't a place where we can put trays of dumplings."
Shockley ignored me, and Macguire gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. Don't ask. But I didn't need to inquire again, because within a minute Tony and his partner reappeared at the mine opening, each with a knapsack slung over his back. When they approached the display table, Macguire tugged me aside.
"It's supposed to be a surprise for the clients," Macguire said in a low voice. "They made it a surprise mainly for security reasons," he added. "The partners didn't want anyone to know in advance about a display of samples from the mine safe." I watched Shockley open the top of the glass case. Tony and Albert Lipscomb began to place chunks of streaked rock inside. "That police captain? Shockley? He said they're doing a, like, before-and-after exhibit. You know samples of ore on one side, ingots of refined metal on the other. The partners are giving Shockley the key to the case. You know - for safekeeping during the party."
The partners opened the second knapsack and carefully lifted out thick, gleaming bars of gold. For a moment, Macguire and I did not speak. We were transfixed by the sight of the precious yellow metal glimmering seductively in the light of the tent lamps. I was sure the bars were worth a fortune.
"But," I said finally, "I thought they already gave the investors chunks of ore. Marla said she got one when they came up for their tour."
When Macguire didn't answer right away, I looked at him. The same uncertainty I'd seen earlier again clouded his face. "Maybe I just shouldn't talk about it." He gestured to the makeshift parking area that was bathed in icy rain. "Anyway, here come some more guests."
And indeed, car after car was pulling into the parking lot. Macguire and I hustled off to the serving area and loaded up our trays with bottles, glasses, and napkins. Have a good time, I warned myself. Guests can always read your mood! So forget the weather and buck up! Unfortunately, a caterer's worries are as contagious as measles.
But my apprehensions proved groundless. Despite the rain, despite the recent loss of the firm's investment officer, the atmosphere among the partygoers soon vibrated with joviality. Wave after wave of guests extricated themselves from muddy Range Rovers and Jeep Grand Cherokees and greeted each other with loud cheers and high fives. We made it through the Red Sea, doggone it, and now we're going to party! Just as heartily, they hailed Macguire and me with demands for drinks. We were happy to oblige.
Once the first batch of thirty-five-dollar-a-bottle Belgian ales was gone, the party became more like a bash at the end of exams than a dignified gathering of wealthy investors. Fine with me. I am ecstatic when rich people celebrate anything, as long as I supply the food. With these folks in such excellent humor, maybe I'd even be able to wangle a couple of July Fourth bookings.
Then again, I reasoned as I served another round of ales, these guests certainly had reason to whoop it up. Tony Royce and Albert Lipscomb had made them a bundle. Tony's job was to come up with investment ideas and bring in clients. Albert analyzed the companies' balance sheets and managed the money. The investment officer ran - or rather, used to run - interference between the clients and the partners. And they'd all done spectacularly. Year before last, Prospect had infused money into Medigen, a regional biotech company. This year, Medigen had gone public and made the Prospect clients a widely reported packet. Now they were trying something new. Contrary to their usual pattern, Albert Lipscomb had been the one who'd pushed the idea of investing in the Eurydice Gold Mine. A lifelong Coloradan, Albert had inherited the mine from his grandfather, who'd vehemently insisted up to his death that the mine contained untapped gold ore. Prospect had hired a geologist who agreed with the grandfather, and the high-rolling clients had piled in. Coloradans can't resist gold. When they climb the peaks, they kick over rocks to search for untapped veins. When they picnic, they scan the creeks for shiny nuggets. Mention gold, and people go wild. Let them, I say, especially if it means they'll need catered functions to celebrate their strikes.
Once everyone was flourishing a third or fourth crystal glass full of brew, I brought out the crab quesadillas with chili cilantro salsa. Macguire offered the hot mushroom caps stuffed with savory chicken sausage. Guests were all too happy to drool and consume. Fantastic! Scrumptious! Who cares about calories? We're all going to get rich! It was great.
For a while after the display case was set up, I didn't spot Mr. Magnetic, Tony Royce. Marla took time from her chatter with friends about her upcoming travel plans with Tony to wave me in the direction of bald Albert Lipscomb. With the miner's hat and heavy jacket off, Albert appeared unexpectedly lithe and well-built. His slender chest was covered with a pale blue monogrammed shirt. His madras tie, seersucker jacket, yellow pants, and hand-sewn loafers couldn't have screamed preppy more loudly if he'd been wearing a sign. While Macguire stopped to talk to Marla, I scooted toward Albert to offer the tray of quesadillas the first pass. Suck up to the high rollers, my cooking instructor had advised, or you're going to have a brief career in catering.
"Marla tells me you're recently married?" Albert said slowly after I'd introduced myself His light brown eyes regarded me seriously. "To a police officer? Is this true?"
I felt myself frowning. Was this a trick question? "Ah, yes. My husband works for Captain Shockley over there."
Albert smiled painfully, showing small, even white teeth. "And will your husband be happy when Captain Shockley gets enough money in his Prospect account to retire?"
"Well...."
"Never mind." Again the pained grin. Lipscomb was trying, unsuccessfully, to find some common ground where we could banter. "So." He took a deep breath. "Do you find yourself catering a lot of policemen's picnics?"
"In this weather," I replied sincerely, "I'd be happy to cater any picnics."
"In that case... we'll certainly keep you in mind," he drawled, chuckling and giving me that same agonized smile. Kip yew ian mahnd. Although he was from Colorado and not the South, he apparently had picked up a southern accent during his years at the Citadel, where Marla mentioned Albert and Tony both had gone to school. Albert rubbed his free hand over his bald pate and droned on: "We're always needing wonderful food like this. My grandfather was particularly fond of smoked meat. Is that Smithfield ham I smell?"
I mumbled something along the lines of "Not exactly," and wondered if Macguire was listening to his Walkman instead of taking the bacon-wrapped artichokes out of the oven.
Albert Lipscomb moved past me to talk to Eileen Tobey, the new president of Aspen Meadow Bank and a loyal client of mine. Eileen winked at me and held up a glassful of raspberry-flavored beer in a silent toast. I smiled, nodded, and gave her a thumbs-up, even though I'd drink liver-flavored lemonade before indulging in raspberry beer. But I did treasure Eileen's business. In the midst of my current downturn, she'd booked me for a small, regular catering job at her bank. If this Prospect party was a success, perhaps Eileen would want me to do a businesswomen's luncheon event later in June... inside, that is....
"Oh, Goldy!" gushed a nearby female voice. I turned from Albert and Eileen in time to see a gnarled hand reach out to stop me. "These Mexican pizza things are out pf this world! Did you make them? For someone with no formal chef training, you amaze me." My heart sank. It was Edna Hardcastle.
Under the current slender-bookings circumstances, I decided to be eager to please. I turned a blinding smile toward Mrs. Hardcastle, a willowy, sixtyish woman whose swept-up henna hair and bright yellow polka-dotted suit with matching pumps were a vision of scarlet and yellow. Both the suit skirt and the pumps had become muddy en route to the tent. Her white-haired husband Whit - short for Whitaker, I'd learned when I catered at their cabin by Bride's Creek last fall - shuffled uncomfortably and craned his long neck inside a I knotted tie that appeared to be decorated with spackling compound. On the other side of Edna stood a short, blond man I recognized as restaurateur Sam Perdue, the proprietor of Sam's Soups in Aspen Meadow.
Sam's Soups, a year-old eatery by the lake that I had not yet visited, must be doing awfully well, I thought. Sam had prepared the soup for the Hardcastles' party in the fall, while the bulk of the preparation had fallen to me. But if Sam Perdue could afford to park his cash with Prospect Financial Partners, that meant he'd anted up the minimum investment of a hundred-thousand-dollars. Digging out my soup recipe file seemed suddenly appealing. "Sam?" I tried not to sound envious, merely curious. "Are you getting lots of orders for soup these days? I mean, because of the bad weather?"
"No," he said softly. He didn't appear to be eating anything, and his slender fingers held an iceless glass of water.
Mrs. Hardcastle, undeterred, raised her voice. "Usually the Prospect Partners have Cherry Creek Caterers. But... I understand CCC couldn't make it all the way up here, so the partners called you, instead, Goldy." Her tone made it clear who her first choice would have been.
"Oh, ah, well," I started to reply apologetically, "actually it was Marla Korman..."
"On the other hand, you and Sam did such a lovely job last fall, catering the land preservation fund-raiser at our cabin. People are still talking about that roast pork with... whatever it was."
"Cumberland sauce. I'm so pleased to hear this." I tried to sound gracious, humble, and deserving of more bookings.
Mrs. Hardcastle went on wistfully, "The weather's so dreadful this spring, I don't know when we'll get up to the cabin again...."
Here it comes, I thought. You did a great job last year, but this year we can't use you.
"It's a lovely setting, Mrs. Hardcastle." I wanted to say, Do the words Bride's Creek make your daughter think of anything relating to her future? Instead, I assumed a concerned tone. "How is your daughter?"
"Let's not talk about it, shall we?" Edna Hardcastle's face twisted. "Let's talk about..." Her pained gaze shifted to the mine opening, and she shuddered. She didn't want to talk about investing in the Eurydice, either. Perhaps it was those nauseating memories of claustrophobia. She sniffed. "Oh, dear..."
"I'm sorry, I was just hoping that - "
"Goldy?" Edna Hardcastle's voice was once again drenched with false cheer. "Are you an investor? I mean, do you invest in food concepts?" She paused, and her face became solemn. "Do you even understand food concepts?"
"Er, well, sort of." I glanced at the gaggle of Prospect clients oohing and ahing over the gold bars in the display case. Maybe they hungered for some concept hors d'oeuvre. "It looks as if I might need to check the chafing dish and portable ovens - "
Edna dismissed my protest by waving a quesadilla in my face. "Tony Royce said you were going to taste the soups at Sam's place. It's a concept restaurant," she said, with a knowing look at Sam Perdue. "And Tony's thinking of bringing Prospect in. Have you done it yet?"
"Concept restaurant?" Sweat trickled down the inside of my caterer's uniform. I knew the restaurant Sam managed was one in a chain. A very short chain, as in two. What was Edna talking about? This was not the time to figure it out, for the bacon smell was getting stronger. "Ah, no. Tony hasn't mentioned my doing any tasting. Marla does his testing, anyway, or she used to - "
I looked at Sam for help. He was obviously miserable. "I'm hoping the Prospect partners will take my chain public," he murmured. "If Albert and Tony like my restaurant, it'll mean I can stay in business."
I nodded. So soups weren't doing so well, either. I didn't hold out much hope for Sam. Marla said people were always approaching Tony and Albert looking for investors. Which usually meant needing a quick cash bailout.
Edna quirked hennaed eyebrows that matched her hair. "I told Tony that food was a better investment than an abandoned mine!"
"Well, perhaps you should tell him again," I murmured sympathetically as I scanned the tent for Macgulre.
"I did! I told him -"
"Excuse me," I interrupted, "Mrs. Hardcastle? Thanks for the kind words and your... confidence in... food." It was lame, but it was the best I could do. "I do need to be off now because I've really, really got something burning back here."
With another sniff that didn't speak well for my get- ting future bookings, Edna Hardcastle grasped one of Sam's elbows, turned on the heel of one of her splattered yellow shoes, and strode away with Sam in tow. Whit Hardcastle patted his white hair, straightened his spackled tie, and waddled after her. Some rich people can't abide it when a servant terminates a conversation, I'd found. They want the honor of doing that themselves. If I snubbed Mrs. Hardcastle, it would become town news. And I could not afford any bad news with my business in peril.
At the back of the tent, Macguire was cautiously removing the sheet of bubbling bacon hors d'oeuvre from the oven and muttering, "Uh-oh. I couldn't tell how long they'd been in. There's no timer on these ovens."
"They're okay," I said as I eyed the glistening appetizers. I held up a paper-towel-covered platter. "Just use a spatula to scoop them out to drain."
