Stephanie Feagan - Run For The Money

“No, it’s fine,” I said, wishing the woman would leave off being so attentive. She looked like somebody who had just realized she’d boarded a plane to Cleveland instead of the one to Paris. “I’m just not very hungry.” Blame it on Steve, making my stomach do that squiggly thing.

Olga nodded and picked up my plate, then moved to the next guest.

As happens at all dinner parties, the ebb and flow of conversation created a dull roar, with no voice particularly audible. Until I heard Mom.

“You arrogant son of a bitch! You invited me and the IRS commissioner so you could get your own agenda front and center.”

“The only reason you’re so angry is that you know I’m right. Without people like you, CPAs on the front lines, standing up and demanding a simplified tax law, nothing will ever change. It’s your duty to do so, and your life is wasted if you shrug off the responsibility.”

“My life is a lot of things, buster, but it sure as hell isn’t wasted! I’m calling a cab because there’s no way I’m listening to any more of your bullshit. You’re crazy, Mr. Santorelli.”

I leaned forward a little bit and saw that she was no longer in her chair. Neither was Lou. Yet, I could hear her distinctive West Texas twang, along with Lou’s deep, clipped voice. Where were they?

Steve touched my shoulder and I turned to look at him. “This is a very old house and the ventilation system’s pretty rudimentary. I think they must have gone into the study, at the front of the house.” He glanced up at a register close to the ceiling of the dining room. “It’s like a P.A. system.”

Lou said, loud and clear, completely audible now because everyone in the room had fallen silent, “I’m probably crazy, but you should know I didn’t invite you because of the damn tax law. That was strictly shooting from the hip. We’ll discuss it later.”

“No, we won’t. I’m calling a cab. Where the hell’s the phone?”

“You’re not leaving, Jane.”

“Oh, no? Hide and watch me. Now get out of my way.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by the distinct sound of a slap. “Who said you could kiss me? Oh, my God! I have got to get out of here. If you don’t step aside I’m gonna scream, and won’t that be embarrassing for you!”

“I’m never embarrassed.”

“Yes, I can see how that might be. You’re too arrogant to be embarrassed.”

Ignoring the chuckles around the room, I rose from the table, intent on saving Mom from what would surely be the most embarrassing moment of her life, but before I could step away from my chair, Mr. Wu made a strange noise. I looked across the table and saw that his face was bright red and he was sweating profusely.

“Sir, are you okay?” I asked, moving around the table toward him.

Steve stood, calling for a towel from one of the waiters, while I loosened the ambassador’s tie.

“I…can’t…breathe,” he croaked, clawing at his throat.

“He’s choking!” someone yelled.

Hauling the man to his feet, Steve moved behind him and performed the Heimlich, but when Mr. Wu vomited it became apparent he wasn’t choking.

“Is he having a heart attack?” someone asked.

An attractive woman hurried toward us, shooing people out of her way. “I’m a nurse. Let me see.” She took one look at him and said, “Get him to the couch, and somebody call an ambulance.”

Steve and one of the generals carried the heavyset man into the living room and laid him on the couch, where he promptly threw up again. Dinner forgotten, the entire party crowded around the couch, anxiously watching. I noticed that Mom and Lou were there, but with everyone’s attention on the ambassador, they didn’t realize how public their private conversation had been.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and when I turned, Olga was gesturing me toward the kitchen. Evidently I had a phone call. As if I cared right now! But recalling her persistence in cleaning the salad dressing, I followed her to the kitchen. As I reached for the wall phone, I wondered who would call me at Steve’s. I said hello over the noise of the waitstaff, the cooks, water running and dishes clinking together.

“What do you want?” I heard Taylor Bunch say on the other end of the line.

“Shouldn’t I be asking that question? You called me.”

“Pink, what are you up to? I didn’t call. You did. So what’s this about? If you’re calling to apologize for this afternoon, save your breath. You’re going down, sister, and soon. When I got home from the office, I found a package on my doorstep that’s gonna put you away for the rest of your natural life.”

Thoroughly confused, I stared at a stack of plates. “Taylor, I’m at a dinner party, and I didn’t call you.”

“Well, somebody did. Told me to hang on, and here you are.”

I glanced over my shoulder but didn’t see Olga, or anyone else who looked out of the ordinary. The kitchen was a hive of activity and frantic chatter about the ambassador, and no one appeared to notice me. Turning back to the stack of plates, I asked, “What was in the package?”

“Everything I need to prove you ripped off CERF. I’m about to call Parker. Then I’m calling the police. Maybe the FBI.”

“I don’t know what you’ve got, or where it came from, but if it points to me, it’s fake. I didn’t do it, Taylor.”

“Yeah, well, tell the judge.” She hung up.

I returned the phone to its cradle, my mind leaping ahead, wondering what on earth Taylor could have that would hang me. And who had left it on her doorstep. Things were quickly spiraling out of control and I suddenly panicked. I felt an overwhelming need to see Taylor, to find out what she had, to talk her out of calling Parker, or the police.

Turning to leave the kitchen, I noticed Olga as she slipped out the back door. She wore a light jacket over her uniform and had a backpack slung over her shoulder, and an alarm went off inside me. I asked the waiter closest to me, “Why is Olga leaving?”

He looked confused. “Who’s Olga?”

“One of the waitstaff.”

“She’s not with us. Must be a regular of the senator’s household help.”

She wasn’t with the household staff. Steve had a housekeeper named Carla and a driver named Bill and that was it.

One of the catering staff rushed into the kitchen to announce that Mr. Wu was dead, probably from poisoning. I gasped.

My gaze went to the door where Olga had disappeared. Could she have had something to do with his death? Was that what the whole salad thing was about—she’d given Steve the wrong salad?

The thought made me breathless with terror.

I glanced at the telephone. Olga had to be the one who called Taylor, then brought me to the phone. Why? What did that have to do with Ambassador Wu?

My mind raced with possibilities, and it occurred to me that the quickest way to get answers was to ask Olga.

Not stopping to explain, or even to grab my handbag from the dining room, I took off after her, through the back door, through the garden gate and into the alleyway behind the row of houses along Steve’s street.

Running has never been my strong suit and my strappy high heels took my pathetic athletic ability to new lows. Taking them off on the rough ground would slow me even more, so I hauled it as best I could out into a side street, looking both ways. I caught a glimpse of a dove gray jacket turning the corner. I ran after Olga, my mind churning through what had happened, and no matter how I sliced it, I kept coming back to wondering if I was supposed to be Olga’s hit. Had my discovery that morning marked me as a dead woman?

I thought of the salad, of how disappointed Olga was when I failed to eat it. Had my salad also been poisoned? If so, it was no wonder that Olga had been upset. Someone had sent her to off me, and I had to go and be goofy over Steve, killing any desire to eat. I sent a quick thank-you to God for making me crush on Steve Santorelli.