[08] Prime Cut by Diane Mott Davidson

Author:Diane Mott Davidson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780307428820
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 1998-08-24T20:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

I walked quickly to the kitchen and scrubbed viciously at the scarred countertops. Why hadn’t Weezie told me about her engagement? Perhaps she thought I knew. Maybe she didn’t like me anymore; maybe I was just being paranoid. After all, I was catering her birthday party the next day. Still, you’d think she would have mentioned her upcoming nuptials, if only to refer to catering the wedding reception….

“I’m sorry,” Marla murmured.

“Me, too,” said Julian.

“I doubt Andy Fuller has any say over who caters the Soiree,” I said unconvincingly. I looked at Marla’s sad, round face and Julian’s square-jawed, stoic expression. “Will you two quit?” I demanded. I grabbed the platter of puddings. “I’m going to tell the museum people we’re leaving.” I rushed out of the kitchen, desperate to be away from them and their pity.

The dining room was empty except for a couple of dirty champagne glasses. I passed the living-room fire place where Santa and the child models had posed so unhappily, and arrived at the doorway to the historical society office.

“Hi,” I said brightly to a volunteer worker with buckteeth and loopy brunette curls. Four plump mixed-breed dogs lay coiled on the floor. The canines scrabbled to their feet at the sound of my voice and wagged happy tails. A plastic gate barred the entrance of the office. Probably this was to keep the dogs from wandering through the museum. “Uh,” I said, and offered the volunteer the leftover puddings, “I’m Goldy, one of the caterers from the party. These are for you.”

The woman spoke lovingly to her dogs. Denied immediate access to dessert, all four grunted and flopped around her desk. “Thanks, nice to meet you.” She bit into a pudding and looked ruefully down at her pets. “Mm-mw. Sorry about my sweethearts here. Sylvia puts up with them so I’ll come in and do her paperwork.”

“My helper and I just wanted to let you know we’re leaving.”

“Okay! I’m Annie,” she said brightly. “The back door is self-locking. Sylvia is out talking to a group of fourth graders in the parking lot, or I know she’d be in here thanking you.” She munched the pudding. “Did I ever need a break! This is super! Here, sweeties, taste this yummy treat.” The four canines scrambled to their feet. At least someone was eager to sample my cooking, I thought bitterly, then scolded myself for being a bad loser.

“Well, good.” If she needed a break, maybe she wanted to have a chat. “So … what kind of work do you do here?”

“Oh,” Annie replied in a friendly tone, “writing letters asking for money. Sometimes asking for a historical item.” She shared another cupcake-sized pudding with her dogs as she talked. Sylvia would have a stroke when she saw the mess the food was making on the floor. “Or answering a question about one.”

“Really! I catered here last Friday—”

“With the chef who had the heart attack! Were you close?” Her breath whistled between her gaping teeth.

“We knew each other,” I replied noncommittally.

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