[15] Fatally Flaky by Diane Mott Davidson

Author:Diane Mott Davidson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-05-10T22:00:00+00:00

15

I repaired back to the kitchen, where any crisis was worth dealing with as long as it didn’t actually involve the wedding. Boyd and Julian were engaged in a conversation that was important enough that they’d stopped washing the cake dishes. Julian finally faced me with the bad news.

“Four guests have come in saying they smelled pot smoke coming from the area of the Smoothie Cabin,” he announced.

I glanced at Boyd. “Do we have to do something about it?” I said, ever one to duck responsibility when it came to law enforcement at catered functions.

“You don’t,” he said simply. “How do I get to the Smoothie Cabin?” I told him. “Keep an eye on her,” he ordered Julian, “don’t let her out of your sight.” Then he checked that his cell phone was working and marched out the back door of the kitchen.

I eyed the remains of Julian’s cake. There wasn’t much left. “What should we do with this?”

“Charlotte came in and said we were to wrap it well and put it in our van. She didn’t want any hungry spa guests delving into it, and she wants to save some for a magazine staff meeting tomorrow morning.”

I sighed. “Of course.”

Five minutes later, Boyd had not returned, but Julian and I had wrapped the lowest cake layer in plastic.

“I can take this to the van,” I told Julian.

“The hell you say. I’m sticking to you like, well, what? Epoxy? Cement?”

“Dried royal icing.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “Let’s boogie.”

We, too, marched out the back door, with Julian holding the cake and me being, well, his escort. There was indeed a strong scent of marijuana drifting from somewhere, but it was hard to tell from where. Where was Boyd? Had he decided to get stoned with the party? Unlikely.

After we’d stowed the cake, Julian and I were walking back to the main house when we heard a soft, low moaning.

“Somebody having sex?” Julian whispered to me. “They needed the grass to get them going?”

“Wait. Listen.”

The low groaning was there again, along with faint coughing. It did not sound as if whoever-it-was was enjoying himself.

“Could it be Boyd?” I asked Julian fearfully. “Maybe he caught somebody smoking, and whoever it was hit him, or something.”

“I think Boyd can take care of himself.”

The moaning was there again, less distinct this time. But I was sure it was a man in pain.

“I want to find out who’s hurting,” I said firmly.

“We’ve got a lot of dishes still to do,” Julian warned as I set off in the direction of the newly landscaped area.

“They’ll keep!”

Julian cursed under his breath, but true to his promise, stuck close to me.

“Where are you?” I called into the night. “Boyd? Are you hurt?”

There was a kind of whimpering coming from the bushes. Oh, how I wished cheap old Victor Lane had installed some real perimeter lighting instead of relying on Christmas-in-summer strands of lights.

“Boyd!” I called again when the sounds stopped. “Where are you?”

“I’m right behind you,” Sergeant Boyd announced, and Julian and I almost jumped out of our epidermi.

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