'Tis the Season to Be Murdered Page 4

  Kathleen picked a raspberry-jam tart, and Susan chose a crooked rectangle of cream, sponge cake, and lemon curd.

  They munched happily for a few minutes before anyone spoke. “Did you catch up with the Kents?”

  “No, I had to leave the bill in their mailbox. I decided to head back here. I don’t want the entire town wondering about this eye.” She gently touched the purple skin. “You’re probably wondering why I lied about how I got it.”

  “I …,” Susan began.

  “It’s just what we were talking about before. The reputation of The Holly and Ms. Ivy is very important. I didn’t want anyone to know that Z and I were arguing. It was entirely personal. It had nothing to do with the company, but it could still be damaging to us.”

  “Of course. You always seem very together,” Susan said.

  Gwen leaned back in her chair before answering. “We are. We started this business twelve years ago.”

  “That’s when you met?” Kathleen jumped in to ask, helping herself to a piece of plum cake at the same time.

  “No, that’s when we graduated from college. I was a psychology major, and Z was American studies.”

  “Well qualified to do nothing in fact,” Susan said. “I know. I was English lit.”

  “Yes, but I had always loved to cook, and I’d taken cooking classes up on Cape Cod the summer between high school and leaving for college. Then I worked at a cooking school for three summers, so I had a skill. And Z …” She paused for a moment. “Z had style.”

  “Style?”

  “Style,” Gwen repeated. “His clothing, his writing, everything about him said style—and that’s pretty unusual on a college campus. His dorm room was actually decorated, and he gave parties. Real parties. Not just passing around paper cups and buying a keg. He had a theme. He sent out handwritten invitations. He decorated. And at the last party of our senior year, he asked me to cook for him. He called it the penultimate party. You know, the next to the last, assuming that graduation would call for a real blowout, but with families. I was living in an apartment on campus, so I had a kitchen but almost no equipment. And that was true of all my friends. Most college students don’t buy a large batterie de cuisine. But I begged, borrowed, and improvised enough to create a huge pot of boeuf bourguignnone and another of ratatouille for the vegetarians. I created loaves and loaves of braided bread made from twining egg, whole wheat, and rye batters together. I cut up tons of salad stuff, and Z tossed it in vinaigrette. And for dessert, Z and I made everyone three jam-filled crepes—raspberry, apricot, and damson.”

  “Sounds fabulous,” Susan said. Kathleen was busy trying to remember the last party she’d attended in college. She thought it was the one where her date threw up on her. She had kept her stomach steady with handfuls of popcorn and Fritos.

  “It was,” Gwen said. “And we had a great time doing it. After the fifth or sixth guest said that we should go into business, we started to listen.”

  “You said something about a phone booth,” Susan reminded her.

  “Starting to listen was one thing; deciding to go ahead was another. We knew that we loved giving parties, but we were also acutely aware of how little we knew about business. And we didn’t have any cash. So, after exams and three days before graduation, Z and I took the train down to New York City, looking for financial backers.”

  “You went to banks?” Kathleen asked.

  “We weren’t that naive. I went to visit a venture capitalist who was distantly related to someone who had been at the party. Z went to see a wealthy aunt.” She shook her head. “It was some day. I was turned down immediately, of course. I didn’t even know how much money to ask for. I spent the rest of the day wandering around Bridge Kitchenware and the Broadway Panhandler and feeling depressed. By the time I was scheduled to meet Z at the station to return to school, I was in a stew, wondering if I should go to graduate school, or try to get a job cooking in a restaurant, or what. Z was waiting at Grand Central Station.” She smiled at the memory. “When he saw me coming, he got up from his seat and just beamed. His aunt was not only going to give him the money to get started, she was giving us our first job.”

  “Lucky you,” Susan commented.

  “More than we knew at the time. His aunt died recently, but she was an old-time society dowager, and she was giving a wedding shower for a daughter of one of her wealthy friends. We prepared an elegant spring dinner party for three dozen of her nearest and dearest in the large kitchen of her prewar apartment. I look back on it now and know that it was a miracle that everything went so well. We certainly had our share of disasters that first year. But that party was perfect: the food, the decorations, the drinks, everything. And our success was seen by a lot of people who used caterers regularly. In twenty-four hours we had three more jobs and a half-dozen inquiries about the future.”

  “You were on your way.”

  “Yes.” Gwen nodded. “We drank the two bottles of champagne that hadn’t been consumed, decided on our rather silly name, and we haven’t stopped for a deep breath since.”

  Susan was just thinking that she didn’t have to worry about her party Saturday night, when Gwen finished.

  “Until Z disappeared.”

  FOUR

  “Disappeared?”

  “When did this happen?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Did he leave a note or anything?”

  Susan and Kathleen could probably have gone on asking questions for an hour or so, but the door opened and a serious-looking woman, with a long braid falling from the chef’s hat she wore, appeared in the doorway. “Gwen? I’m sorry to bother you, but I can’t find the schedule that Z left last night.”

  Gwen excused herself to her guests and hurried out the door. Susan turned to Kathleen, who was helping herself to another tart.

  “These are wonderful.”

  “Kathleen! How can you eat? Z is missing!”

  “You’re kidding.” Kathleen finished chewing and picked out a shortbread this time. “Did you hear what that woman said? She said Z left some sort of schedule here last night. It’s not even ten a.m.. How missing can he be?” She closed her eyes while she chewed. “You know, I thought your shortbread was the best there is, but this is fabulous. I think there are tiny slivers of nuts, almost crumbs.…”

  “Kathleen, would you stop eating and pay attention? This could be serious.”

  “No, what’s serious is that I have to buy new linens for the guest room before Jerry’s parents arrive tomorrow. His mother is such a perfect housekeeper, and I want everything to be just right for their visit.”

  Susan frowned.

  “Her tastes are very feminine. I’ve been thinking about those Martex sheets with all the ruffles, and maybe a paisley comforter. I really loved the Italian linen sheets that we saw at Bloomingdale’s before Christmas, but they’re so expensive, and I don’t think she would like them. Although they would go awfully well in the guest room. I’ve made that the most tailored room in the house with all the mission oak furniture and … And you’re not listening to me, are you?”

  “Of course I am. Sheets for your mother-in-law. Italian linen versus ruffles. You like the shortbread here better than mine.” She turned and gave Kathleen her complete attention. “We have to find Z.”

  Kathleen picked up a tart with a slightly scorched crust. “He’s not missing,” she said seriously.

  “He’s not missing,” echoed from the doorway. Gwen had returned to her office. “I’ve been so silly. I guess I just need a vacation.”

  Susan stood up and looked at the other two women. “What do you mean?”

  “I jumped to conclusions. Z left the day’s instructions just like he was supposed to. And that means he was here early this morning,” Gwen said, turning her back on the others to pour more coffee.

  “That young woman said last night.”

  Gwen turned and frowned at Susan. “Last night?”

  “The girl with the chef’s hat
and the long braid said that Z had left the directions last night. You just said he was here early this morning.” Susan insisted on pursuing the subject.

  “Yesterday was Christmas. We work on Christmas. We cater on Christmas. We don’t do the usual paperwork. We try to get home in time for our own small celebrations. So Z dropped off the plans for today’s work early this morning.” Gwen was speaking slowly. “I just wasn’t thinking. He’s probably out at the florist’s right this minute. The flowers for the tea party today are going to be spectacular: hundreds of miniature bulbs have been forced in the hostess’s own collection of celadon bowls and pots.”

  Kathleen, ever interested in gardening, asked a question about forcing fritillaria that lost Susan immediately. And she realized that they were being urged out of the office as gently as possible. “Ah, now you can see what this place usually looks like,” Gwen said, as the trio achieved the top of the stairs. She waved down on the no-longer-deserted room.

  A couple of dozen people, many wearing chef’s hats and green aprons, were busy at various tasks. Previously empty countertops overflowed with fruits, jams, bowls of eggs, butter, and the like. Chocolate melted in copper double boilers. Strong young arms whisked egg whites in copper bowls. Mixers hummed, and food processors chopped. And the smells! Spices and herbs mixed with the scent of bread baking. As they started down the steps, there was a loud shattering of glass, and the rich aroma of bourbon filled the air.

  “Do we have enough of that to saturate the bourbon cakes, Lulu?” Gwen called down the stairs. Her employee reassured her, and the women parted in the middle of the room. “I have to get back to work. There are two large dinner parties tonight as well as the tea. I have to call our fishmonger. The salmon should have arrived already.” She started back up to her office. “I’ll see you late Saturday afternoon,” she said to Susan.

  Susan just smiled. Kathleen was watching a bearded young man pipe green leaves on tiny sugar cubes. “They decorate the sugar?” she asked incredulously.

  “With holly and ivy leaves,” Susan answered absently. “You must have seen it at parties.”

  “I don’t think so,” Kathleen said, walking back down the center aisle of the room. “I’m really looking forward to Saturday night.

  “Well, I hope sheets are on sale,” she continued, following Susan back out into the cold. “January white sales usually begin right after Christmas, don’t they?”

  “Probably,” Susan agreed, pulling her coat up around her ears. There were clouds on the horizon, and she wondered for the second time that morning if a storm was coming.

  “Do you want to return the sweaters first, and then we can look for sheets or …” Kathleen realized that she didn’t have an audience. “Susan?”

  “Sorry, just thinking. You asked me about the shopping, didn’t you? Why don’t I return the sweaters, and then I’ll help you pick out sheets?”

  “Good idea,” Kathleen said, starting her car.

  They traveled to a large, nearby shopping center in silence. It was still early, but the lot was almost as full as it had been forty-eight hours before. That got Susan’s attention. “I’ll bet there are going to be long lines at the service desks,” she said as Kathleen pulled into one of the few parking slots left.

  “Maybe it would be better if we split up. I’ll meet you for coffee in the bookstore in about an hour?” Kathleen suggested, locking her car after Susan had pulled her packages out.

  “Coffee in the bookstore?” Susan called out to Kathleen’s departing back. Sounded good to her. She slung her purse over her shoulder and marched off, determined to finish her errands as quickly as possible and with a minimum of fuss.

  Two hours later she almost fell into an elegant, wire soda-fountain chair across a tiny marble table from Kathleen.

  “Coffee? I’ll get it,” her friend offered.

  “Please. Black.” Susan tucked her packages under the table and leaned back, closing her eyes.

  Kathleen was back almost immediately, two tiny cups slopping espresso onto their saucers in her hands. “They only have espresso and cappuccino, not plain American coffee.”

  “Goes with the Lilliputian theme here,” Susan said, pouring in a packet of sugar and stirring her cup. “Maybe that’s why they located the cafe next to the children’s book department.” She took a sip and sighed. “Wonderful. I was beginning to fade.”

  “Did you get everything exchanged?” Kathleen asked, watching a woman juggle twelve rolls of Christmas wrapping paper that had just escaped their bag.

  “Not quite. I stood in three different lines for over an hour, and I got exactly what Chad wanted, almost what Chrissy wanted, and Jed is going to have to wait for a new ski sweater this year, unless I buy one someplace else. The ones they have left in his size are hideous.” She took another sip of coffee and continued. “Do you think navy is preppier than charcoal gray?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. Why?”

  “They didn’t have any black silk turtlenecks for Chrissy. There was a choice between dark gray and navy—and the pink that I bought before. I think she’d prefer the gray, don’t you? Navy is pretty preppy.”

  “I suppose so. Does she have anything to wear with it?”

  “Probably black leggings. That’s what she wears with everything.”

  “Then the gray is much better,” Kathleen agreed.

  “Good point. How did your shopping go?”

  “Not bad. There aren’t a lot of people shopping for sheets the day after Christmas. I decided on a compromise. Tailored sheets on the bed and pillows, and four ruffled throw pillows for decoration on top. But I want to look for a comforter—the saleswoman said that new store at the other end of the mall has wonderful ones on sale. And you said something about a coat you’d seen at Saks?”

  “Yes, but I was wondering if I should get home, or maybe …” She stopped talking.

  “Maybe what?” Kathleen asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking that I might call The Holly and Ms. Ivy and ask to speak with Z.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Kathleen said. “If you’re worried about him, you may as well. I’m sure you can come up with an excuse to call.”

  Susan drained her cup and looked seriously at her friend. “You don’t think I’m being silly?”

  “I think you’re worried, and if making one phone call will end that, you should do it. There’s a phone by the rest rooms—right behind historical romances.” She pointed.

  “I’ll be right back,” Susan said, standing up. “I’ll just ask for Z. I wanted to check about the bar for Saturday night. I think we should have something nonalcoholic, but more festive than Perrier to offer guests who don’t drink.…” She was out of sight before she finished speaking.

  Kathleen sat back and finished her coffee while looking around the room. She had given a lot of books for presents and had stood in line for almost forty-five minutes at this huge superstore only a week ago, waiting to get the autograph of one of Jed Henshaw’s favorite thriller authors. There hadn’t been a lot of holiday cheer in that line, and there didn’t seem to be a whole lot around her now. Most of the customers were tired women, and many of them were accompanied by unhappy children. Kathleen would have been tempted to do a little bah humbugging if she hadn’t remembered the look on her son’s face yesterday morning when he discovered all the packages under the tree. It made the work before and the letdown afterward worthwhile.

  “So what are you smiling about?” Susan had returned.

  “Just thinking about how much I like Christmas now that I have my own family. Did you get through to Z?”

  “No, but everything’s okay. I spoke with one of the young women who works there, and she said she’d leave a message for him. So everything’s okay.”

  “I thought you wanted to talk with Z about drinks … ?”

  “I guess I really wanted to be sure that he hadn’t disappeared,” Susan admitted. “So, do you want to check out those quilts?” she asked
in a perkier voice.

  “Great.”

  “Where are your packages?” Susan asked, gathering hers together.

  “I took them out to the car already. Sheets are heavier than you would think.” She noticed Susan looking at a shelf of sale novels. “Do you want to look around first?”

  “No. I have enough to read at home. I got some great books for Christmas this year. Tonight we’re having leftovers for dinner, and I’m going to take an early shower and curl up on the couch next to the Christmas tree and start reading. I don’t have to worry about my New Year’s party this year, so I can really sit back and enjoy the holiday.… Maybe I will buy this one though,” she added. “I’ll have lots of time this week after all.”

  So they joined another line.

  “They also serve who only stand and wait,” Kathleen commented with a sigh.

  “But who do they serve?” Susan asked, thumbing through another book from a nearby shelf.

  By the time they had reached a cashier, Susan had four mysteries and a collection of Alice Adams short stories, and Kathleen was clutching a large missive on English cottage gardens.

  “I can show this to my mother-in-law. She’s always enjoyed gardening,” she explained as she handed over her credit card.

  Susan, having gained the attention of another cashier, just nodded. As soon as they were done making their purchases, she grabbed Kathleen’s arm and pulled her from the store. “Shhh. Wait until I tell you who I saw over at the exchange desk.”

  Kathleen did as she asked, but no more. “Why were you rushing me?” she asked when they were standing in the middle of the mall again.

  “Did you see the woman in line at the service counter? Well,” Susan continued as Kathleen nodded, “that’s Chad’s music teacher. She was exchanging the book I bought for him to give her for Christmas. I thought she would be embarrassed if she saw me.”