Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

“Barry Dean isn’t,” I muttered.

“Yeah, well, I figured that.” When Victor talked, it came out as a wheeze. “Look, I am really sorry. I have no idea what happened. Some nut tried to steal a truck, probably. It happens. Let me walk you to the back entrance. There’s a ladies’ room right inside.”

Still gripping his arm, I hesitated. Liz was telling Julian that she’d heard the crash and the yelling, so she’d quickly left the lounge. Some women in the mall told her about the truck. What had happened? As Julian filled her in, sirens announced the approach of law enforcement.

Victor guided me gently back to my van, where I gave Liz the key to the lounge kitchen, which had been unlocked when she arrived. She would double-time it, she promised me, transporting the rest of our equipment and supplies. She would also figure out how much we’d lost, and see how we could fill in with emergency back-ups of cheese, vegetables, crackers, and breadsticks. Victor insisted on calling two of his workers over to help with toting the remaining food boxes. I gingerly took my clothing packet as Victor and his crew accompanied me to the mall entrance. Three screaming, flashing prowlers—one state patrol, two sheriff’s department—roared up Doughnut Drive. Julian waved. The cop cars careened in his direction.

Victor deposited me at the ladies’ room door and told me to go slow, I didn’t look too great. He and the crew would make as many trips to the kitchen as they needed to so that we’d have our supplies. It was the least he could do, he said. Shoppers stopped to look at the hard-hatted construction workers with their raggedy paint-covered clothes. Victor gave the shoppers a defiant look. His crew stared at the floor. I thanked them all.

It took me almost fifteen minutes to strip off my ruined uniform, splash myself with water and soap, then more water. I wiped down with enough paper towels to fill an entire wastebasket. I downed half a dozen ibuprofen packed with my emergency clothing, wriggled into my clean outfit, then walked out into the bright light of Westside’s marble-paneled hall. I immediately smacked into Liz, who was coming in from the van. She reeled back, but somehow managed to keep her grip on a wrapped vat of meatballs.

“How’re we doing?” I asked grimly.

“Great. That construction guy and his crew brought up everything but the meatballs. I’ve hardly had to leave the kitchen at all. This is the last load. The van’s locked.”

“Wonderful. I’ll have to bring Victor some cookies. Maybe later in the week.”

As we made our way up the stairs to the lounge, Liz gnawed the inside of her cheek, as if she were pondering something.

“How old is Julian?” she asked abruptly.

“Twenty-two. Why?”

“Oh, nothing, just wondering,” she replied. She was avoiding my eyes. “Actually, I’d just like Julian to… talk to Teddy. If that’s OK.”

Was it OK for Julian to talk to her son Teddy? At this point in time, before an event and minutes after nearly getting squashed by a three-ton truck, who cared? I felt suddenly overwhelmed. Julian could talk to whomever he wanted. So could Liz. So could the cops. So could Barry. As they say, whatever.

Truck attack or no truck attack, I had a party to cater.

CHAPTER 4

The high-ceilinged shoppers’ lounge bustled with activity. The walls and ceiling sparkled with decorations. Jewelry salespeople (uniformly dressed in trim navy outfits, with keychains dangling from their wrists) hurried to and fro; portly security guys (straining the buttons of mustard-gold suits) paced, asked each other questions, and paced some more. A pair of tuxedo-clad bartenders clanked wine bottles onto a long table. In the far corner, a gaggle of long-haired, black-clad young men set up instruments. Ah, the band. Barry had told me what the first tune would be: “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

I remembered that Barry had also informed me he’d spent a small fortune decorating this new lounge, which didn’t even count the temporary decorations for the cocktail party. Even though I’d visited the lounge before, I was still impressed. Oriental-patterned wall-to-wall carpeting complemented creamy beige silk wallpaper and brass wall sconces. Floor-to-ceiling west-facing windows rose at the far end of the room. Those expanses of glass framed a breathtaking view of the mountains. The furniture had all been moved out to make way for the display cases and buffet tables.

The cocktail decorations were equally striking. The ceiling and walls glittered with strings of festive lights the color and shape of Easter eggs: sparkling lilac, brilliant green, bright pink. Lush flower arrangements blossomed out of strategically placed shopping bags. Scent was being pumped in from somewhere. The place had a magical air.

When Liz and I had come to do our table measurements, Barry had proudly pointed out that the lounge had been wired for surveillance, at the insistence of Pennybaker International. Placed overhead were innocent-looking mirrored globes, the kind that hide nests of cameras that a fellow in some far-off security room can focus on individual shoppers or suspicious-acting worker-bees. A moment of staring, as if at a visual puzzle, helped me make out the second set of cameras, which were wall-mounted. The cameras had been painted a creamy beige to match the wallpaper. Very clever.

Barry was nowhere in sight. I put down my box and hustled around the room to check the distances between the jewelry cases and buffet tables. As we’d planned, the buffet tables had been set up in a line to bisect the room lengthwise. They were topped with creamy beige satin tablecloths to match the walls. The shiny material billowed to the floor, like the skirts of ballgowns.

A stage had been set up in front of the picture windows. From there, Barry would give his sales pitch. Next to me, a glass case displayed an intricately constructed model of the finished mall, including the storybook-village boutiques and bistros. Minuscule shoppers were ranged along the tiny sidewalks. Stretching in front of the other two walls were the display cases, shiny ziggurats bursting with jewels. Just above the cases, yet more strings of tiny, suspended spotlights made the jewelry sparkle like firecrackers.

Nobody came rushing up to me, so I assumed that news of the truck debacle had not yet become public. I hightailed it toward the tiny kitchen tucked behind the lounge’s south wall.

The only box we’d lost was the one with the shrimp rolls, Liz had determined. The rest of the boxes were neatly stacked on the floors and counters. I went through one box until I found the buffet design, then hustled back out to the long table. I debated about calling Tom. Uh, sweetheart? I just avoided being squashed by a dump truck….

I punched in his office number and reached his voice mail. I left a hasty message about the “accident,” then told him that state patrol and the sheriff’s department were on site, so he didn’t need to worry.

Time to focus on the task at hand.

I studied my layout design, placed the dishes on the buffet, then hurried back to the kitchen. There I opened the box with all the cheeses, crackers, and breads. But I needed a pop of energy. To heck with my cut-back-on-caffeine resolution: I needed to make some coffee, even if it was instant. In the back of a cabinet, I finally unearthed a jar of instant Folger’s. Within moments, I was sipping a cup of the dark stuff.

Liz and I finished organizing the food and supplies by placing all the equipment we weren’t using in a coat closet outside the kitchenette. Then we hurried back out to the buffet, where we placed the serving pieces at strategic intervals before setting the tableware, plates, napkins, and glasses. When Julian raced in at four o’clock, I was dying to ask him how things had gone with the cops. But that would have to wait. From the bottom of one box, we pulled out plain white tablecloths and lofted them over the eating accoutrements set out on the buffet table—the best way to protect the flatware from sticky fingers. We agreed to finish our food prep before taking a dinner break at four-thirty. At five-fifteen, we would reconvene to check the cold dishes, heat up the meatballs and empanadas, and do our final setup.