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  I pursed my lips, recalling what Wink had said about Bishop Uriah being an old friend of Charlie Baker’s. The bishop and I had chatted briefly at Charlie Baker’s last show in March, the night before Charlie died. That night, Uriah seemed much less of his usual charming self. In fact, he appeared downright upset, swallowing and looking from picture to picture, as if paintings of cookies and brownies were more indecipherable than quantum theory. I thought of the bishop’s arrhythmia, and of Charlie’s incurable cancer. Maybe Uriah was contemplating his friend’s coming death. When I asked if he was all right, he assured me he was fine.

  Charlie Baker, his moon face shining, his body weak from failed chemotherapy, laid his hand on mine and patted it.

  “Don’t worry, Uriah’s just a worrywart,” Charlie said in his soft voice that always sounded as if he had a slight lisp.

  “What’s he worrying about?” I asked.

  “Me, probably,” Charlie replied, his voice low and cheerless. “I’m going to die soon, and Uriah knows it. But he’s a clergyman, and he’s not allowed to show his distress the way other people are.”

  “Oh, Charlie, please forgive me for being so insensitive,” I protested, feeling like a heel. “Now, what can I bring you? Some of my ginger snaps? Or how about some chips and dip, the recipe for which is none other than our favorite food artist’s?”

  His gaze had been forlorn. “Oh, Goldy, I wish you’d let me leave you a painting in my will.”

  “Charlie, would you quit being so morbid? I’ve already told you, I can’t afford the insurance. But you’re sweet.”

  I’d wanted desperately to get Charlie’s mind off of dying, but I’d been unsuccessful.

  And then, without warning, Charlie was gone, and I was awash with the grief one feels when a dear friend dies suddenly, and you’re left with all the things you didn’t say. You’re such a great friend, Charlie. This is the best dip I’ve ever tasted. The next time we cook together, we’ll make your chicken piccata…

  Don’t, I reprimanded myself, as Julian slowed the Rover. Charlie had been more than a friend, he’d been a culinary comrade-in-arms. I swallowed and told myself to snap out of it. Caterer’s rule for parties: Let the mood fit the food. It was time to act festive, even if I didn’t feel it.

  “What are you thinking about?” Julian asked. “You don’t look so hot.”

  “I’m fine, thanks. I’m just concentrating,” I reassured him as he turned onto Woods’ End, the cul-de-sac where the Ellises’ manse was located. I certainly did not want to depress Julian by talking about Charlie. Then we’d both be down, and that was not what we needed before doing a big—and, if Nora Ellis was generous with gratuities, potentially quite profitable—party.

  The Ellises’ enormous stucco residence sat on the top of a gentle slope that received enough southern exposure for the sun to have melted most of the snow on their front yard. Between the remaining patches of white, the grass was lushly green, even in October. The perfectly trimmed aspens, plethora of fruit trees, and long serpentine rock wall topped with stunning shrubs all screamed Professional Landscaping Service. The house itself, which was at least twice the size of the Chenaults’ mansion, boasted numerous jutting spaces capped with red tile roofs. There was a massive, three-story entrance. The whole place looked as if six Taco Bells had been used as building blocks: four on the bottom, two on top.

  “We should have brought burritos,” Julian mused as the Rover crunched over some residual melting ice on the long driveway. When he’d pulled the Rover halfway up the driveway, he craned his neck back to check out the underside of one of the tile roofs. “I didn’t know lawyers made this much money. Isn’t Donald Ellis just an associate at H&J? Not a partner, right?”

  “Not yet,” I replied. “But Nora’s the one with the dough, as she told me at least fifteen times when she was booking this event. She inherited twenty million from her mother. And if we do a great job today, maybe some of that dinero will come our way. Are you up for it?”

  Julian gave me a high five and pushed open his door. We were still a ways from the arched entrance to the kitchen, which boasted a new carved sign over the lintel: “Welcome to Our Cucina!” it screamed. Cute, very cute. I wondered if Donald Ellis had received it as an early birthday present.

  A shout from the end of the driveway interrupted my musings.

  “Hey, you two!” came Marla’s voice. “Wait up, okay? I’ve got something to tell you!”

  “Hey, Marla!” Julian and I called back in unison. I was happy to see her, but puzzled. It was not quite ten. The party was not set to start until one. Was Marla’s news so compelling that she couldn’t even wait an extra couple of hours?

  “Anyway, I thought you might want some company,” she called, in answer to our unspoken question. “Maybe some help, too!” she added. Carefully carrying a stringed shopping bag, she was stomping up the driveway in a politically incorrect mink coat and even less correct mink-trimmed black Italian leather boots. I could only imagine what kind of Halloween-colored outfit she would be wearing. Whatever clothes she wore, they were sure to be made of silk, fur, or something else highly destructible, and there was no way I was letting her near the butter, wines, lemon vinaigrette, or any other of the food necessary for today’s lunch prep. Still, Marla’s aid was usually of the emotional variety, anyway.

  “Hello?” said an accented voice from the hacienda doorway. It was a heavy, older woman with short gray hair and an easy smile. Judging by her black uniform with its white apron, she was the maid. I hadn’t met her the last time I was here. She introduced herself as Lorraine, and said she worked for Mrs. Ellis. She was here to help, she told me. And Miss Upton would be here shortly. Miss Upton would be helping, too.

  “Oh, marvelous!” I replied, trying to sound enthusiastic instead of sarcastic.

  “One thing, though,” Lorraine said, indicating the Rover. “Won’t your work be easier if you pull your SUV into the garage, close to the kitchen? Then you could open the back?”

  “Sure, that would be great. Thanks.” As Julian traipsed through the ice back to the Rover, I noticed that one of the Ellises’ BMWs was parked out on Woods’ End. Had that been intentional, too? So that people driving up could see how rich the Ellises were? Somehow, I thought so.

  Julian moved the Rover into the end spot of the four-car garage. We shouldered our first loads. Marla, chatting merrily about how snow seemed to melt faster in some parts of town than others, trailed along behind us. I gritted my teeth and told myself to be upbeat.

  The kitchen, which I had scoped out on my earlier visit, was a huge, high-ceilinged, light-filled space that featured a rosy, wide-paneled oak floor, expanses of black-and-silver granite, two bay windows, and long lines of gleaming cherrywood cabinets. The Ellises, or Nora anyway, had spared no expense on two top-of-the-line ovens and a six-burner stovetop. I heaved my first box on the granite-topped center island that was the size of a small barge. I also wondered for the umpteenth time why people who had money for big kitchens almost never actually cooked in them.

  “Gosh,” Marla trilled as she followed me inside, “I feel as if I’m in a naked centerfold for House & Garden!” She placed her enormous gift bag on the island and shrugged her mink coat into Lorraine’s waiting hands. Sure enough, Marla’s Halloween-appropriate attire was a pale orange silk dress trimmed in horizontal strips of black silk fringe. It looked great on her, complementing her brown-blond hair and twinkling, diamond-crusted barrettes. But it would look awful splashed with vinaigrette before the party even began.

  To Lorraine, Marla said, “Thanks a million. Could you please show me where you’re going to put it? Just in case I want to beat a fast exit.”

  “A fast exit?” cried Louise Upton, whom I hadn’t even heard come in. Under a tentlike white apron, she wore a beige turtleneck and a dark gray skirt. Her black shoes were the wide tie-up variety with sensible low heels. “Why would you be making an exit, Mrs. Korman? And since you’re one of the guests, why are yo
u here so early?”

  “Trying to help,” Marla replied under her breath, surreptitiously rolling her eyes at me.

  “That’s quite a dress,” said Louise. Marla obliged by twirling in the black-fringed dress. Louise made her voice caustic. “So for Halloween, you’re going as a jellyfish?”

  “You work for H&J, right?” Marla replied evenly. “Doing something? Do you really think your employers would be happy about you interrogating their guests? Why don’t you see if you can be useful somewhere else?”

  “Uh!” cried Julian, as he heaved two boxes through the doorway and dumped them on the island. Sensing the tension in the kitchen, he looked from Marla to Louise Upton and exclaimed, “Wow! That’s such a pretty dress, Aunt Marla.” He nodded at Louise Upton. “You look nice, too, ma’am.”

  Louise said, “Thank you, young man.”

  “His name is Julian Teller,” I offered. “He’s my assistant, Miss Upton, and—”

  “Yes, this is Louise Upton,” Marla informed Julian, “and she doesn’t have to wait until Halloween to be a witch!”

  Why is this happening to me? I thought. But I was spared an all-out catfight by the appearance of Donald Ellis. He slid into the kitchen wearing a gray sweatsuit and high-top sneakers, his hair damp either from exertion or a recent shower.

  “Happy birthday, Mr. Ellis!” I called.

  “Would you please start setting up the buffet?” Louise Upton demanded of me. To Donald Ellis, she said sweetly, “Mr. Ellis, your wife had to go out to pick up a few things she forgot. She said she’ll be home before the party. Don’t worry, I’m taking care of things here in the kitchen.”

  “G-g-goodness,” Donald Ellis stammered, sweeping his bright red bangs off his forehead. “Well, that’s great.”

  “Maybe you want a sip of this wine I brought you, Donald,” Marla offered, pulling a bottle from her gift bag. “You could have a happy birthday now, quickly, before this witch starts swooping through this great big house, cackling and—”

  The slicing look that Louise Upton gave Marla could have bisected a pumpkin.

  “Oops!” Marla chuckled. “Guess I shouldn’t have been such a bitch. Hey! That rhymes! Bitch! Witch!”

  But her words were lost as Donald Ellis slithered out of the kitchen, with Louise Upton fast on his heels.

  “Are we having fun yet?” Julian asked.

  We managed to get started on the prep. Julian busied himself unwrapping the potato puffs. I pressed cloves of fresh garlic and kneaded them into unsalted butter along with dried herbs. When the concoction was thoroughly mixed, I placed it into the refrigerator until it was time to coat the tenderloins.

  “You told me to keep my ears open for things about Dusty,” Marla said, when she returned from a sneaky trip into the living room, where she’d managed to pour herself a rather hefty brandy snifter full of what looked like sherry. I certainly hoped it was sherry, because if it was brandy, we were all going to be in trouble even sooner than I’d thought possible. And also…had I asked her to keep her ears open for news about Dusty, or did Marla just imagine I’d asked her? After taking a long sip of the golden liquid, she said, “And I did. Keep my ears open, that is. Now, though, I’ve been witness to an actual event. But you won’t ask me what it is.”

  “I’m asking,” I said eagerly, as I began to wash the vegetables.

  “Vic Zaruski took a diamond ring back to Aspen Meadow Jewelers when it opened today. I know, because I was there, too, looking for some earrings with orange in them. Did you know there are no precious gems that are orange?” She took another slug of liquor. “Anyway, Vic talked in a real low tone, which made me edge closer to the conversation, of course. Vic said that the ring had never been worn, and he wanted to return it. ‘Please,’ he said, ’cuz he didn’t have much money. Our town jeweler, who, remember, is not the most tactful person in the universe, said, ‘So things didn’t work out, eh?’ And Vic, who needed the money from the ring, let’s remember, threw that little velvet-covered box through the window of Aspen Meadow Jewelers. Do you know how hard it is to break plate glass? Oh, well, I guess you do, Goldy. In any event, even if a diamond is the hardest substance on earth, it was still inside that little box, so it couldn’t have helped—”

  I turned away from the vegetables. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Nah. There was glass everywhere, and the jeweler yelling, ‘You’re going to have to pay for that, buddy! And I don’t take back used jewelry!’ Vic was outside searching in the debris for his little box, which I guess he eventually found, ’cuz then he took off.”

  “Oh, man, he’s playing the piano for the birthday party today,” I said mournfully, thinking now we had one more person not in a party mood. I felt guilty, too, because I’d precipitated the wave of glass-breaking that was now taking place in our little town. “Do you know who the ring was for?” I asked. “Dusty?”

  Marla took another long pull on her drink, then smacked her lips. “Well, you know what I always say: ‘One can only presume.’ But yes, I’d say it was for Dusty.”

  “Doggone,” I said, the vegetables momentarily forgotten. Luckily, Julian picked up where I’d left off.

  But wait. Since Vic was playing the piano today, why couldn’t I ask him myself about the ring? How deeply had he been disappointed by his breakup with Dusty? And did he happen to catch the license plate of the SUV that supposedly tried to mow him down when he was carrying Dusty’s computer?

  “And there’s more.” Marla’s husky voice indicated something of a sexual nature was about to be divulged. “Donald Ellis? Our birthday boy?” she whispered. “According to one of my friends who called after I asked for info at Creekside Spa, Donald had an affair with Wink Calhoun last year.”

  I turned to her. “You’re kidding. Donald and Wink?”

  Marla drew herself up. “I am not kidding, or at least my friend isn’t. She’s not the most reliable person in town, but she does pick up a lot of scuttlebutt.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said, thinking of Donald Ellis’s short stature, unappealing red hair, completely nonathletic build, and poor-me demeanor. “Did Nora know? Is she the jealous type?”

  Marla shook her head and downed more of her drink. “Neither, according to my friend. Nora was and is clueless. Rich, but clueless.”

  “I just hope she’s rich and generous,” Julian said.

  “Maybe that’s why Wink wasn’t invited to the party today,” I commented. “Nora didn’t want to see her.”

  “Wink is staff, Goldy,” Marla said, before draining her snifter. “She wouldn’t have been invited anyway.”

  Julian, intent on the vegetables, said, “You never know.”

  And indeed, you never do know, because when I tried to call Wink back on my cell, there wasn’t any answer. Swallowing hard, I left what I hoped was a benign-sounding message. I really needed to talk to her, and could she please meet me in the St. Luke’s kitchen the next morning, at half past eight? The christening ceremony didn’t begin until ten, but I needed to be there early because of the food. And because I want to see the expression on your face when I ask why you conveniently left out a big chunk of H&J gossip, I thought, but of course didn’t say.

  As I energetically juiced the lemons for the vinaigrette, I was kicking myself for not wondering why Wink had had so much time to visit with a supposedly inebriated Donald at the H&J Christmas party. Was it possible Donald had actually told Wink that whole long story about Uriah…as pillow talk? Was it possible she’d said Uriah was always poking around at H&J because the bishop had once caught them in flagrante delicto?

  I twisted the last lemon down hard on the juicer. Of course, Wink’s sex life, and what she might have done with Donald, was none of my beeswax. But I had to pose another, more troubling question: Was there any chance meek, mild Donald was “New O.,” and that Dusty had supplanted Wink, thus making Wink murderously jealous? If so, how in the world was I going to ask Wink such a thing?

  I groaned. Dusty and Uria
h. Dusty and Alonzo. Dusty and Donald. And then there was the client, Rock Ode, whom I was set to meet today. These were definitely too many possibilities to contemplate.

  I resolved to turn my attention back to the party, even though this was becoming difficult. But then Marla announced she was going next door to visit a friend from the country club. Louise Upton was nowhere to be seen or heard. So Julian and I finally had a chance to finish the setup, uninterrupted. Better yet, we eventually mustered up pretty good moods.

  At half past eleven, tall, blond Nora Ellis, looking juicy in raspberry-sherbet-colored Juicy Couture sweats, came into the kitchen looking harried. She dropped off four bottles of wine and called for Louise Upton, who made a silent appearance by the island. Nora said she was dashing up for a shower and could Louise please greet the guests? Louise responded in the affirmative, then disappeared again. If I’d been Louise, I wouldn’t have wanted to risk another encounter with Marla either. I decided not to tell Louise that Marla had gone next door.

  At half past twelve, Vic Zaruski, looking solemn, knocked on the kitchen door. He wore an impeccable white shirt and perfectly creased black pants. In his right hand, he was clutching what looked like sheet music.

  “Um, is this where I’m supposed to be?” he asked, smiling nervously. “I’m playing the piano for the party.”

  “You’re in the right place,” I assured him. “Have you had anything to eat?”

  He eyed the tenderloins and potato puffs, and shook his head. “I haven’t been hungry since, since…you know.” He lowered his voice and avoided my eyes. “Were you able to get any information off of Dusty’s computer?”

  “Not yet,” I lied. “It was pretty banged up after being dropped in the street. Listen,” I said as if it had just occurred to me, “did you make a police report about that attempted hit-and-run?”