Too Rich and Too Dead (6 page)

Carly glanced at her watch. “Oh, my! It's getting
late. I've got a show to do! I told Juanita it was crucial that tonight of all nights she serve dinner on time—” She took off across the room, screeching, “Juanita?”

Whatever she said apparently did the trick. Less than five minutes later, Mallory found herself sitting in the dining room with the Bermans and their other out-of-town guest. Just like the living room, the dining room was lined with nearly wall-sized windows. They offered spectacular views even though by now the colors of the glorious sunset had faded, leaving in their wake a cobalt blue sky strewn with twinkling stars.

The long dining room table and the fourteen chairs surrounding it were made of the same rough-textured wood as the Papa Bear chairs in the living room. Overhead, centered on the ceiling, was a chandelier large enough to illuminate the entire room. It looked as if it was made of real tree branches that had been cleverly intertwined, the narrow twigs at the end of each studded with tiny, twinkling white lights. And there was one more element of what Mallory was starting to think of as in-your-face rustic: an imposing pile of rocks in one corner, with water cascading over them to create an impromptu waterfall.

“Now isn't this nice,” Carly remarked pleasantly. Her voice instantly becoming gruff, she barked, “Juanita? Do you think you could bring in the first course before hell freezes over? And could you get Bijou out of here? She's underfoot, as usual.”

Whatever happened to please and thank you? Mallory wondered.

But she was less worried about her hostess's abrasiveness than she was about what that aforementioned first course might be. Surely a couple who'd built their fortune on a health tonic that they claimed was second only in effectiveness to bottled water from the Fountain of Youth carried their obsession into every other aspect of their lives as well.
Especially
food.

So as Juanita appeared from the kitchen, scowling as usual but this time bearing a large platter, Mallory nearly pulled a neck muscle in her efforts to see what she was going to be forced to eat in the name of politeness. Brown rice and veggies? Some tofu concoction that she would have to choke down with more of that dangerous headache-inducing wine than she cared to drink?

“I hope you like lobster,” Carly said before she'd had a chance to identify the whitish blobs on sticks that were piled high on the plate Juanita slammed down on the table.

Lobster? Mallory thought with relief. And then: In
Aspen?

After all, this wasn't exactly a seaside town. In fact, if geography had anything to do with menu planning, she figured that tonight's dinner was much more likely to revolve around mountain goat and snow cones.

“These are actually lobster lollipops,” Carly went on to explain. “One of the chefs in town, Matthew Zubrod at DishAspen, came up with them. He calls
them lobster corn dogs, but I think of them as lollipops. At any rate, I practically had to get down on my hands and knees to get him to give me the recipe.”

“Interesting image,” Brett observed. “In fact, if I didn't trust you completely, I might be thinking that—”

Fortunately, at that moment Juanita came sashaying out of the kitchen once again, swinging her abundant hips. From the way she carried herself, it appeared that she and not Carly was the true queen of the manor.

“What is it, Juanita?” Carly asked crossly.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mees Berm,” the housekeeper began.

Mallory observed that she didn't look the least bit sorry.

“There ees a phone call for you. That woman again—Sylvie Snow-something or whatever her name ees. She keeps calling and calling—”

“This is not a good time,” Carly said archly. “Take that Snowdon woman's number and tell her I'll get back to her.”

“She ees not so good at taking no for an answer,” Juanita grumbled.

The frosty look on her employer's face must have made an impression even on her, because she quickly added, “But I tell her again.”

“What's all that about?” Gordon asked once Juanita had strutted off, muttering under her breath.

Carly sighed. “Let's just say that when you're a ‘have,’ the ‘ have-nots’ never give up.”

Mallory was curious enough that she wished Gordon would pursue the issue a bit further. But being a good guest, and probably one who hoped to be invited back again, he just nodded and returned to his meal.

“Anyway, where were we?” Carly asked congenially. She'd gone back to playing the perfect hostess without missing a beat.

“You were painting a mental picture for all of us,” Brett replied, his expression changing to a distinct leer. “You on your hands and knees, doing whatever it took to get some chef to give you his recipe—”

“That's right,” Carly said, clearly determined to ignore her husband's innuendoes. “The story behind the lobster lollipops. I finally got Matthew to share his recipe with me, but not until I'd convinced him that I'd never tell it to a soul. I promised I'd take it to my grave—along with the recipe for Rejuva-Juice.”

The exact same line she'd used with the
New York Times
reporter, Mallory noted. She got the feeling it was something she said all the time.

“We have the lobster flown in directly from the Caribbean,” Brett noted as he bit into one of the lollipops. “A tiny island called Barbuda, a few miles off Antigua. It's the only place in the world where this particular variety is found. Unfortunately, the locals ship most of them to France. Damn frogs manage to get the best of everything. But I managed to talk them into overnighting us a few of the buggers once a week.”

Dr. Atkins's dream, Mallory thought as she reached for a delicacy that was solid protein—and
one that in the past twenty-four hours had logged even more frequent-flyer miles than she had. Of course, this poor unfortunate creature would never have a chance to redeem them.

Still, when she took her first bite, she decided the trip it had made was worth it. The moist, tender morsel tasted like butter in crustacean form.

“It's expensive, but I can't resist indulging my man,” Carly cooed. “Lobster is one of Brett's favorites.”

“It's true,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I'm afraid my wife spoils me something awful. She's the one who insists that even mountain folk like us should enjoy lobster once a week. Even if it costs us more than the payments on the Rolls.”

“Oooh, you know you deserve it!” Carly cried, her voice ascending a few octaves as she lapsed into baby talk. “You deserve anything your widdle heart desires.” Winking conspiratorially at Mallory, she said, “Brett's the love of my life. Number three—but at least I finally got it right! Didn't I, Mr. Huggy-Poo?”

Mallory forced a smile, even though she would have been tempted to retch if the lobster lollipops hadn't looked so darned tempting. This was one of the countless times in the past few months that she desperately wished David was with her. She could just picture the expression that would have been on his face as they'd exchanged horrified yet amused looks over the dinner table.

“The Bermans’ guests always eat well,” Gordon commented. “Maybe that's why I can't keep away.”

“Gordon lives in L.A,” Carly explained. Fortunately, she was back to talking like a grownup.

“Goodness, you didn't fly in just for dinner, did you?” Mallory burst out before she could stop herself. She already felt like a hayseed, largely because she generally thought of lobster as a special occasion food that could only be served with champagne and a cake that had words written on it.

“Not this time,” Gordon replied.

To hide how impressed she was that anyone she'd graduated with knew someone who
ever
flew to Colorado all the way from California just for dinner, Mallory took another bite of the succulent, perfectly cooked lobster. As if the meat itself wasn't something out of a seafood-lover's fantasy, the delicate sauce dripping off it raised the concept of appetizers to an entirely new level.

“To be perfectly honest, the food is just a bonus,” Gordon went on. Smiling mysteriously, he added, “I actually have an ulterior motive for allowing Carly and Brett to wine and dine me.”

“And here I thought you simply enjoyed our company, Gordo,” Brett said with a smirk.

Mallory glanced around the table, suddenly feeling as if she'd found herself on the outside of an inside joke.

“Are you in the—uh, a similar type of business, Gordon?” Mallory realized she didn't know exactly how to refer to the industry in which Carly had made her name. Health food? Vitamin supplements? Beauty aids?

Snake oil?

Carly answered for him. “Gordon is in a much more glamorous line of work. He's a film director.”

“Really!” This time, Mallory figured she was entitled to sound impressed. “What kind of films?”

“The big-budget Hollywood kind,” Brett boomed before his guest had a chance to respond. “Tell her the titles of some of the movies you've made, Gordo.”

“I'm sure Mallory isn't interested in hearing my life story,” Gordon said dryly, staring into his glass. “She's just being polite.”

Mallory was surprised to see a slight flush rise to his cheeks. From what she'd heard, directors had the largest egos in Hollywood—no small distinction in a place like Tinsel Town where egos routinely grew bigger than the Hollywood Bowl. So she couldn't imagine why Gordon would be the least bit reluctant to dazzle her with his list of film credits.

“This is no time to be modest, Gordo my man!” Brett insisted. “Here, I'll do it for you.” He rattled off the names of a half dozen movies. She not only recognized them; she also remembered that they had starred such big-name actors as Burt Reynolds, Jill Clayburgh, Ryan O'Neal, and George C. Scott.

It took her a second or two to realize that while all the actors who had starred in Gordon Swig's movies were famous, their superstardom dated back at least thirty years.

Which meant Gordon Swig was—for lack of a more graceful word—a has-been.

“How exciting!” Mallory remarked graciously. “I've seen every one of those movies.”

“Then you must own a DVD player,” Gordon replied with a sardonic smile.

“Gordon's gotten into some other things in more recent years,” Carly said, answering the awkward question, “So what have you done
lately?”
that hung in the air.

Fortunately, Juanita chose that moment to make another grand entrance.

“How ees lobster candy?” she asked, putting her hands on her broad hips and glancing around the table expectantly. “Ees good?”

“Lobster
lollipops,”
Carly corrected her. “And they were excellent, as usual.”

Juanita's eyebrows shot up as if receiving a compliment from the lady of the house was as much of a rarity around here as Dress-Down Friday.

“Then I bring out the next course,” she said as she began collecting plates.

What next? Mallory wondered. Lamb flown over from New Zealand—in first class?

Even though she was off by a few thousand miles, she wasn't disappointed that the evening's entrée turned out to be elk. True, it was so local that she could picture the main course while it was still on four legs, frolicking on the mountainside with those goats she'd been imagining not long before. But she'd already learned that the cuisine chez Berman was, indeed, worth flying in from L.A. for.

“So what about you, Mallory?” Gordon asked pleasantly as he passed her a massive plate piled high with slabs of meat. “What brings you to Aspen?”

“I'm a travel writer.” Mallory realized that even after four months on the job, she still surprised herself every time she said those words. “I'm doing an
article on Aspen for a publication called
The Good Life.

“In fact,” she said, nervously glancing at Carly, “I'm hoping that Carly won't mind being the main focus. I want to write about why entrepreneurs who target an upscale clientele choose Aspen as the location for their businesses, as opposed to Beverly Hills or Palm Beach or Greenwich. We have a meeting at Tavaci Springs set up for Thursday, and I'm hoping she'll agree to an in-depth interview that goes a bit beyond the usual questions and routine answers.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Gordon said, nodding. “And perfect for
The Good Life.
It's a magazine I know well. In fact, it's gotten me through many an otherwise boring plane ride.”

“That's because Gordo's flying coach these days, instead of in his own plane,” Brett wisecracked.

Carly cast her husband a dirty look. Gordon pretended not to notice either the comment or the expression.

“And I assume your article is geared toward skiers…?” he commented.

“Actually, I'm targeting nonskiers.” Mallory patted her mouth with her napkin. She'd suddenly found herself the focus of everyone's attention, and the last thing she wanted was to be caught with elk juice dripping down her chin. “I'm trying to find out if a visitor can have a good time in Aspen without setting foot—or ski boot—on a mountain.”

“And what's your conclusion so far?” Gordon asked.

“Mallory only got here this afternoon,” Carly explained
, sounding a tad cross. Mallory wondered if it was because she hadn't been the center of attention for at least three minutes. “She just checked into the Jerome a few hours ago. And I haven't given her a chance to do any sightseeing. As soon as she called me to say she was in town, I insisted that she come to dinner. She's coming to tonight's presentation, too.”

Smiling at Mallory prettily, she added, “As for that interview, I'll make sure I set aside enough time on Thursday to give you whatever information you need. I'd be happy to be the focus of your article.”

“What a surprise,” Juanita mumbled before picking up the last of the plates and vanishing back into the kitchen.

Surprisingly, Mallory didn't share Juanita's cynicism. In fact, she couldn't have been more pleased.

I got what I came for, she thought happily. Even more important, I got what I promised Trevor.

She knew, of course, that her next challenge would be getting Carly to let down her guard. She hoped to get past her defenses and uncover something more about what made this successful Aspen entrepreneur tick. Her ups and downs, any personal demons that may have plagued her along the way, events in her past, both positive and negative, that had gotten her to this point…