Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

Hauling the bulky guitar, I trotted past the breakfast sculptures—still filled with screeching kids—and past window displays that I willed myself to ignore. When I reached the steak place, I realized I’d walked the wrong way and was at the opposite end of the mall from the lounge. If I tried to stash the instrument in the van, I wouldn’t get back to the lounge until after the jewelry event began….

I gritted my teeth and raced back toward Westside Music. It was hard to ignore the curious stares from adults and children alike. A singing caterer works both ends of the mall? I ignored their gapes and tried to imagine Arch looking happy when he opened his gift. That happiness might last less than an hour, but so what? Besides, I had something else to look forward to: canceling that damn credit card.

I arrived, breathless, at the Westside Music counter. I paid no attention to the salespeople, whom I’d mentally dubbed the Smirking Clerks. I announced to the salesman who’d handled the botched card sale that I needed him to keep the guitar for me, please, until later in the evening. He informed me icily that they closed at nine. I’d be back by then, I vowed, and took off.

I stopped running only when I arrived at the lounge entrance. It now boasted two beefy security guards. Swirling around them was a chattering group of beautifully dressed women. They seemed to be milling about with the sole purpose of assessing one another’s outfits, makeup, jewelry, and shoes. Putting my sweat-drenched and rumpled caterer’s garb out of my head, I ducked past the women, then rummaged through my tote for ID. I flashed it at one of the guards, who nodded. Then I pushed through the service entrance to the kitchenette, washed my hands, and sped out to the main room.

To my surprise, the jewelry cases had also been covered with white damask cloths. I sprinted to the tables and about fainted with relief. Julian and Liz had set out everything. The food-laden buffet looked stunning.

“Hey, Ms. Punctuality,” Julian said, straight-faced. “Aren’t you glad Barry had a spare key to the kitchenette?”

“Sorry, really, both of you. And… what? Barry opened up for you?”

Julian nodded at the stage, where Barry, in fresh clothes and moving as if he, too, had downed a few painkillers, stood holding court with the band.

“He was looking for you,” Julian told me. “Oh, but you should know that he only opened the kitchen when we promised him we’d give him something to drink. Something alcoholic. He wanted it from us instead of the bartenders, because he didn’t want any of the salespeople to see him taking a nip. Several large nips, if the truth be told. So much for him being a caffeine guy.”

Liz giggled. Julian grinned broadly, happy to entertain.

“So,” I asked as we sauntered back to the kitchen, “did Barry ever talk to the cops?” They both shrugged. “How did you do with them, Big J?”

“State patrol just asked me the basics—you know, what happened and when. I told them you’d seen the accident, too, but they said they had plenty of witnesses, and since nobody had been hurt, they didn’t need to talk to you. Anyway, state patrol and the sheriff’s department officers told Victor to take them down to the truck. They told me to come, so I did. Get this. They found a pair of cuff links on the cab floor. Did we know whose they were, they asked. Victor said no, and so did I. So the cops put ’em in one of those brown paper bags. You know, the kind Tom uses for evidence.”

I stopped and arched an eyebrow at him. He grinned. “They were gold cuff links, Miss Nosy. They had two sets of initials on ‘em and some writing on the back.”

“Whose initials? What did the writing say?”

“I don’t remember all of the initials,” Julian replied. “The writing said something about making money. I don’t really remember what.”

“Julian.”

“OK, OK, I remember one set of initials was B. D. So maybe they were Barry’s.”

I thought again of Barry’s paranoia, how he’d wanted to talk to me, how he’d freaked out over the truck incident, how he’d then decided not to chat with me, but hustled back to his office.

“Go figure,” I murmured.

Liz shook her head. “All Barry Dean could think about was getting a drink. He slugged that expensive Burgundy straight from the bottle. Said he couldn’t take much more for one day.”

Julian added, “He said you were his old buddy and it would be OK—”

“Don’t worry,” Liz told me, “I threw away the rest of that bottle. Thirty-four bucks a pop, though. We should charge him extra.”

I made for the stage. Barry was plugging in his microphone. No question about it, the man cleaned up well. In fact, he looked downright spiffy in his tuxedo. As I got closer, though, I noticed his face was red and sweaty. Worse, he was a bit too obviously chewing on a mouthful of breath mints.

“We’ve got a videographer here,” he began, once he’d swallowed the candy. He pointed to another tuxedo-clad fellow clutching a camera. “Every woman attending gets a video of the event,” Barry went on, “so she can see herself in her chosen necklace or earrings. You’re not camera-shy, are you?” I groaned. “Don’t be nervous, we’ll cut any food accidents.”

“Actually, old buddy , what makes me nervous is you drinking wine straight from the bottle.”

“Oh, sorry about that.” He paused and gave me the full benefit of his seductive brown eyes. He seemed to be struggling with words, thoughts, something. “Goldy, about that truck—”

“Did you talk to Colorado State Patrol?”

“Er, no, but I wondered if—”

Whatever he was wondering was cut short by the band striking up “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Barry muttered something that sounded like “Holy Moly” as the lounge doors opened.

The Army of Gorgeous Women streamed in. Clad in bright-hued silk, satin, and taffeta, they hiked up their skirts and flew to the shrouded jewelry cases. Exclamations of Damn! and What’s going on? rose above the music. Barry grabbed the microphone.

“Ladies,” he announced, “and gentlemen,” he added, acknowledging the sprinkling of men, “before we start with our serious business tonight, please help yourselves to drinks and hors d’oeuvres! Then I will explain how our event is going to work!”

I made my way to the kitchen while Barry flattered the women and charmingly described how easily and effortlessly they could wear these hundred-thousand-dollar pieces they needed and owed to themselves, for mere pennies per month. Julian and Liz hauled loaded appetizer trays out to the guests. I snagged a platter of empanadas and sailed after them.

“… And for those of you who are still in need of a bargain for that next big party,” Barry was announcing fervently, “look for the perfect pair of shoes at Prince and Grogan’s Red Tag Sale! Tonight, you Elite Shoppers are entitled to an additional fifteen percent off….”

“Barry Dean is so charming,” Marla said as she sidled up next to me. She winked and dunked an empanada into guacamole. She was wearing a stunning royal blue dress with a matching cape. Without her usual array of glittering jewelry, she looked different. She’d informed me she wanted to come to the event as a clean canvas. “I’d love to listen to Barry Dean all the time. In my car, in the bathroom, in bed… while looking at his picture.”

“How was the spa?”

“Fabulous! Plus, I have so much to ask you, especially about—”

“Marla, I have to—”

“Calm down, I’m having a couple of empanadas.” She grabbed her cape and folded it over her arm, then nabbed two more empanadas, downing one and then the other, while four other women helped themselves to my tray.