The Whole Enchilada (15 page)

“Okay,” Julian continued. “It's going to be warm this evening until sunset, so the guests probably won't mind having all cold food. We'll start with vichyssoise, then move on to poached and chilled shrimp—you've still got lots of jumbo shrimp in the walk-in, remember, and instead of making something weird, I'll put together a sauce with zing that contrasts with the creaminess of the soup. And for those people with shellfish allergies, of which we have four? You have Cornish hens in there that we can roast. We can artfully arrange the shrimp or hens on the dishes, next to a salad of romaine lettuce with fresh tomatoes, scallions, and hearts of palm. We'll lightly dress those with sherry vinaigrette. Your supplier left you with lots of packages of early haricots verts. I can cook those quickly and chill them, then use a different dressing for them, for contrast.”

I had forgotten that my supplier had left perfect packages of those long, thin string beans so favored by the French. I had no idea where she'd found them this time of year. So now we were up to vichyssoise, poached shrimp or Cornish hens, romaine salads with tomatoes, steamed haricots verts vinaigrette, bread, and . . . what were we missing? Something slightly sweet. To Julian, I said, “My head's reeling.”

“It's all going to work out. But you're probably thinking we should have something slightly fruity. You've got lots and lots of strawberries and bananas. Do you have a recipe for molded fruit salad, to balance with the savory stuff?” I nodded. Julian said anxiously, “How does it sound so far?”

I swallowed. “Perfect.”

Julian went on, “We'll have butter on all the tables—”

Tom said, “No. The butter comes out with the rest of the food. You slice the bread in the kitchen, and it gets served by you all with tongs.”

Julian rolled his eyes, but said, “Okay, that'll give us a chance to warm up the bread. Then we'll bring out the plated-up food when we serve the bread and butter. We'll follow this with vanilla ice cream and your chocolate cookies. You or I can make a dark fudge sauce to go on the ice cream, if you think we need it. What do you think?”

“It sounds great.” I smiled and did not say,
It actually sounds like a ton of work
.

“Yeah, super,” Tom echoed. “Now you two, I have to take off. Sorry to be so difficult about the food.” I told him not to worry. He nodded to Julian and kissed my cheek. “Boyd's coming with you to church this morning,” he added. “He and his partner—and before you ask, yes, it's still Armstrong—are going to be here around half past seven. They'll be with you at church and while you set up. Then Armstrong goes off duty. Boyd and Jones will be with you tonight at the conference center. Just like yesterday, except you'll have a double escort. You're not going anywhere without at least one of them. Got it?”

“Yes,” I said. When Tom gave me a warning look, I added “
Yes!
I heard you. We have so much work to do, I couldn't go running around asking questions, even if I wanted to.”

“And you?” Tom pointed at Julian. “You shop? You take Armstrong. You work in the kitchen? Armstrong is at your side.”

“Yes, boss's husband!” Julian said with enthusiasm.

I sighed and checked in with myself. My leg still hurt, but it did feel better. I looked around the kitchen. Summer mornings in the mountains brought early light the color of nickel. So although it felt like eight o'clock, I was unsurprised that it was not quite half past six. There had been no rumblings from Arch and Gus, but when they did get up, they'd be hungry. Since St. Luke's had gone over to its summer schedule, the service in the meadow wouldn't begin until nine. I chugged the last of my cappuccino and typed up a plan for the cooking into my computer. Julian brought the containers of stock out to the counter to begin thawing, then started in on the long task of peeling potatoes for the soup.

Thinking the boys would drive us batty if they had to wait long for breakfast, I buttered a large pan and lined it with thick slices of thawed bread. Then I beat eggs with cream, added vanilla and nutmeg, and poured this mixture over the bread, to make a baked French toast. Once Arch and Gus were up, I would slide the dish into the oven.

I checked my favorite recipe for molded strawberry salad, and as it turned out, not only did we have plenty of fresh bananas and strawberries, but our pantry yielded up numerous cans of crushed pineapple. I got to work straining the pineapple and then measuring the juice to mix with the gelatin. But as I stared into the pot and waited for the juice to boil, I thought that even if the meal was going to be plated up individually, I did
not
want to put cafeteria-style squares of molded salad on each dish. Besides that, getting large sheet pans filled with gelatin to actually
gel
was a lot more difficult than getting small molds to do the same work. No doubt this had to do with some esoteric law of chemistry that I did not care about. What I
did
care about was the question of where we could get one hundred ten molds.

I shared my dilemma with Julian, who said he was sure he had that many individual china cups out in his boxes in our garage.

“You have china cups in your storage cartons?” I repeated.

“They're mismatched, but it doesn't matter. People think they're getting something special if it's in a china cup.
Any
china cup. Trust me.”

“I do trust you.” If I poured a judicious amount of the concoction into individual portions, all I would have to do was find space in the walk-in to put them all. I knew that would not be a problem. The molded salads would all gel, and best of all, there would be no need to unmold anything. We could just place one china-cup-filled salad on each plate, next to the shrimp or hens, dressed beans, and romaine salad.
Et voilà!
They would even look pretty.

Mindful of Tom's warning, I called Boyd on my cell. He was waiting out in his prowler, and promised to help us retrieve what we needed from the garage.

I watched Boyd lumber heavily up the driveway, and my heart constricted. He rubbed his crew cut, which was going from black to gray. After the trying events of the past twenty-four hours, he looked exhausted. But he was, as ever, stoic.

Although it was clear neither Boyd nor I relished the prospect of digging through Julian's storage containers—and early in the morning, no less—it wasn't a hassle. Julian had done an excellent job labeling each box. It took the three of us only ten minutes, first, to find and move the huge box containing Julian's cookbooks, and second, to lay our hands on the carton underneath, labeled only
Serving Dishes and Other Bits of China.
Boyd and Julian hoisted that box into our kitchen.

As we carefully unwrapped the mismatched pieces, I checked the bottoms of the cups and saucers, as Tom had taught me to do. They were all either French porcelain or English bone china. I asked, “How in the world did you find all this?”

“You know Maplewood?” he asked in return.

“Yes.” To Boyd, I said, “It's an area of old homes in Boulder—”

“I know it,” Boyd said.

Julian smiled. “I think the woman who died was a hoarder. Her heirs didn't like old stuff, and there were
crates
of dishes at the sale. Man.” He held up a gilt-edged cup to the light. “They sure don't make dishes the way they used to. But one thing you taught me, Goldy? People think they're getting something special if it's plated up on the real deal. Which this definitely is.”

I shook my head at Julian's memory of tricks of the trade. Once we'd counted out a hundred and fourteen cups—adding four for good measure—Boyd offered to wash his hands
and
all the cups. I thanked him, cleaned myself up, and went back to the fruit salad itself. I finished slicing the juicy strawberries and firm bananas, and folded it all into the liquid gelatin. Up to his elbows in suds, Boyd said he would rinse and dry the cups, then ladle out the mixture before placing everything into the walk-in. Julian and I thanked him again. Boyd hated culinary duties, so our profusely expressed gratitude actually made him grin.

I went back to Julian's recipe for vichyssoise. For one-hundred-ten-plus-four-for-good-measure people, we were going to need many piles of chopped leeks and onions. I retrieved one of my professional knives and got to work.

Just before seven, I started melting unsalted butter into golden pools in my stockpots. Julian tossed in the leeks and onions, and told me to go rest my leg. He would stir everything and make the fudge sauce at the same time.

“Better to have just one person standing in front of the stove,” he said. “Fix yourself another espresso and put your feet up.” He glanced at the ceiling. “When I hear the boys, I'll shoot the French toast into the oven.”

I agreed, then offered espresso to Boyd.

He said, “Thanks, but I only drink real coffee.”

“I can make that for you,” I said quickly.

“I'm good.”

I knew he meant that he was doing all right. He was also good. I sloshed whipping cream into a chilled glass, then pulled two shots of regular espresso and two of decaf on top.

I sat down, grateful for the rest. Try as I might, though, my mind would not stay still. I thought of Audrey Millard, the church secretary. Was it too early to call her, to make sure she was okay? What if she'd been up all night worrying, or been upset by the policewoman at her house? What if she'd only gotten to sleep this morning? In good conscience, I could not bother her. I also knew she would come to the service in the meadow, no matter how tired she was. She would need her community around her.

I wondered if there was any connection to St. Luke's that I was missing, apart from the fact that two homicides, Holly and Kathie, and an attempted homicide—Father Pete—had occurred so close in time. This was a small town, and Holly had only been coming back to St. Luke's for a while. Plus, she just hadn't seemed that involved, not the way she had been before, anyway.

I imagined the aftermath of someone attacking Father Pete and killing Kathie Beliar. That same someone had broken into Audrey's office and gone through the files. Why? What could possibly be in the church files that someone would want so badly? I wondered what files had been taken, if any.

As if in answer to my questions, a text from Tom buzzed through.
Church sec'y says only file missing is Counseling.

I stared at this missive. Father Pete was the essence of discretion. Wasn't he? There really was no way he would have kept the names, dates, and particulars of problems, much less sins, preying on parishioners' minds. Would he?

Episcopalians weren't that big on confession. But they
loved
counseling. People were always saying they needed to talk to Father Pete “about a pastoral issue.” Was it possible there had been details in some counseling files? I texted Tom back:
How does Audrey know that?

I had almost finished my iced latte when Tom replied:
Counseling drawer contents gone. AM didn't know what notes Fr P kept.

Would Father Pete have disguised people's names? I wondered if Audrey would even be aware of
who
Father Pete was counseling. No doubt, Tom and his team were trying to find that out right now.

Anybody around church see anything suspicious?
I typed.

No,
Tom texted right back.
Back entry shielded by trees.

I shook my head. My thigh began to throb. Worse, my heart felt as if it were in a vise. Unbidden, my mind conjured up Holly's happy face.
We'll get together soon, and talk . . .

I felt sorry for Kathie Beliar, but I hadn't known her. I had faith that Father Pete would get better. But Holly, dear Holly, had been my friend. Someone had killed her. I was willing to bet that same someone had booby-trapped her deck, maybe to hurt her, maybe to hurt Drew.

It also seemed clear—to me, anyway—that George and Holly had been struggling over child support. But why?

I texted Tom,
Did Drew say anything about Holly's $ issues?

I didn't hear back from him right away, which told me he'd gone into a meeting. Unfortunately, this meant my mind started spinning again.

Holly was barely making enough on the collages to keep herself and Drew going. Was that why she had turned to asking someone for money? Who could have sent that text back to her?

A collage client?

George, Edith, or Lena Ingleby? They were among the only people who knew Holly whom I could think of who actually
had
big money. Edith had not been present at the birthday party, but George and Lena had. Lena hated Holly . . . Was this normal aversion-to-the-first-wife, or was there something else going on?

Plus, if Holly needed money and was asking someone for it, why not take the cash Marla had offered her? Because she'd been too proud.

Did Warren Broome have access to big money? Would he tell me about his liaison with Holly? Somehow, I doubted it.

Had there been a connection none of us had uncovered between Holly and Neil Unger? He certainly had lots of money, and his showing up so unexpectedly the day before the party—and having access to the food while I ran a virus scan—made me nervous.

And how in the world did a reclusive artist named Yurbin fit into this?

I shook my head. Despite Tom's and my delightful lovemaking in the shower the previous night, I felt my mood sinking. Okay, I trusted Father Pete would be all right—he was a fighter in every sense—but I wished someone would call me and say he'd come out of his coma. I wished I could figure out what had happened to Holly.

Most of all, I wished Holly were still alive.

Boyd answered the door when Sergeant Armstrong arrived. I knew Tom was being extra protective. He'd been right, of course: Kathie Beliar had painted her van to look like mine, and had altered her appearance to look like mine . . . so perhaps he thought I was the target. But what made me the target? I'd
unwittingly
fallen through Holly's deck. And I didn't know anything. Did I?