Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

“I’ve heard stories,” Marla replied knowingly. Three beautifully outfitted women sidled up to the table. Marla’s eyes glided over to them. “I can’t talk about the Stockhams out here, Goldy,” she announced in a stage whisper, “with people eavesdropping. You know, I tried to warn you—”

I interrupted Marla by asking her to come back to the kitchenette after a few minutes. I picked up the empty chafer of meatballs and hightailed it back there myself.

When she pushed through the door, I was ladling meatballs into a sauté pan to heat them up. The rich smell of Burgundy sauce steamed through the small cooking space.

“If Shane is hell-bent on doing harm to his wife, then I’m not going to cater a party at his place on Wednesday or any other day,” I said. My voice sounded a tad more rancorous than I intended.

Marla shrugged. “Shane and Page have one of those love-you-one-minute, hate-you-the-next relationships. You watch, tomorrow he’ll buy her a ruby bracelet, or a round trip ticket to Paris, or maybe both. That’s the glory of numerous credit cards, yes?” Actually, I did not know, having limited myself to one about-to-be-canceled card. “Shane just received that eviction notice from Barry, although I think it’s been coming for some time now. You should have heard Page’s reaction, like a rich kid who’s been denied Christmas. By the way, she told me that they added folks to the guest list for the lunch you’re doing for them. Shane wants to include a group of potential investors to underwrite his moving the business on-line.”

I peered at her in disbelief. “He’s added to the guest list? Does he have some new caterer in mind?”

Marla popped a piece of Gorgonzola into her mouth. “Mm-mm.” She moved her hips in time with her chewing, then said, “Shane still thinks you’re his caterer, doll.”

“That son of a bitch told me the lunch was for his best customers.”

“Yeah, well, he told Page the eviction was just a tiny setback, and that he’d lease her something really gorgeous today.” Marla nabbed a morsel of Camembert. “You’d think losing your livelihood would mean cutting back on expenses. You can imagine how well Page would react, in fact, is reacting to that idea.”

As Marla bustled behind me on my way back to the buffet table, I recalled those long months when The Jerk had refused to pay the full amount he’d been ordered to give Arch and me. There’d been weeks of peanut butter, homemade bread, nonfat dry milk, chunk tuna, and noodles. When I was strung out beyond my ability to cope, our priest had come to visit. He only came once, admitting he didn’t want to jeopardize John Richard’s continued financial support of the parish by appearing to take sides. I was tempted to bring up John Richard’s current fling with a woman in the choir, but did not. In any event, the priest informed me that the most desperate folks he counseled were ones who went from having money to suddenly not having money. Most of them, he added, lived in denial for at least a year, unable to give up the high life. So they racked up debt that took decades to repay. And he certainly hoped, he concluded as he chomped into his sixth peanut butter cookie that I had made especially for his visit, that I would not bury myself in debt! I’d sat in silence as he swallowed the last of the cookie, then asked him to leave.

Well. Mustn’t grumble, as the Brits are wont to say.

I assessed the buffet table. If Shane and Page wanted to live in denial, that was their problem, not mine. At the moment, we needed still more refilled trays. I headed back to the kitchen. Marla made a wide U-turn and followed.

“OK,” she began as I pulled a new tray of beautifully arranged, succulent fruit from the refrigerator. “Here’s the scoop on why Barry kicked Shane out of Westside. First, are you aware of how they figure rents in a mall?”

I frowned at the fruit tray. How mall rents were figured. Wait—I did know this. “Yes, Barry told me. It’s a base figure plus extra for the—what’s it called?… CAM. Common area management,” I added, as I scoured the refrigerator for our Creamy Fruit Dressing.

“Very good,” said Marla.

I carefully placed dollops of the dressing—equal parts sour cream and mayonnaise—into a crystal bowl that fit in the center of the tray.

“That’s not quite all—”

“Hold on.” I paused before covering the large jar of dressing, long enough for Marla to grab a spoon and help herself to a large mouthful. I instantly prayed for the county health inspector to be a thousand miles away. “Rents,” I said, as I stored the jar. “OK. If a store is doing well enough, it’s supposed to pay a percentage of its sales to the mall. But The Gadget Guy shouldn’t have had a problem with that. That place is always mobbed!” I shouldered the fruit tray. “ Was always mobbed.”

“The Gadget Guy was a huge success,” Marla agreed, as she followed me out of the kitchen. “The place did so well that they should have been paying extra to the mall owners, but Shane cried poor. So Barry had his accounts audited, and guess what? The Gadget Guy owed the mall owner, what’s their name?”

“Pennybaker International.”

“Owed Pennybaker over a million dollars. Pay up in thirty days, Pennybaker said, or you’re out of here, forever. Shane didn’t even have a hundred thou, much less a mil. The eviction notice was delivered yesterday afternoon.”

I set my tray on the buffet, where women dripping with leased jewels dug in for second, third, or—was it possible?—fourth helpings of truffles. They squealed and wiggled and raved about the rich chocolate. Curse of the cocktail buffet: People eat too much, because it’s all right there in front of them. When I’d retrieved a load of glasses and plates, I stopped to scan the lounge. Barry was nowhere in sight.

Marla moved away. I unloaded the dirty dishes and glasses, then began a lap around the lounge to retrieve more of them. Liz and Julian, I noted thankfully, were bent on the same task at the room’s opposite end. The dregs of the buzzing crowd clustered around the jewelry display cases, doing last-minute deals. Marla waved at friends, pointed to her new necklace, earrings, and barrettes, and then nipped back toward me. She must have gleaned a final tidbit of gossip.

“More news,” she said eagerly. “Shane’s future is looking even dimmer.”

“Financially?” I replied. “Or legally, after he gets through with the cops for coming at his wife?”

“In the money department, Barry’s not backing off on demanding the mall’s million.” Marla’s voice was hoarse. “ Shane claims he wants more time to bring together the cash. That party you, uh, may be doing at his house? He’s hoping these potential investors will write him checks to bail him out of everything. So. How’s your shoulder?”

“It’s fine,” I lied, realizing my best friend wanted to get back to shopping and talking, not necessarily in that order. “Thanks for your company. And all the good info,” I added with a wink.

Marla nodded, gave me a huge smile, and skittered away to coo over someone’s diamond necklace.

It was almost seven-thirty, and the lounge was finally emptying. At least the platters had held up to the end. Liz and Julian appeared and also asked about my shoulder. I told them it was fine. Liz wondered if she and Julian could grab a quick cup of coffee, as they needed to talk. Then they would come back to do cleanup. I nodded. She didn’t mention the argument with Barry. I certainly hoped she didn’t want to visit with Julian so they could agree on a story.

Stop being paranoid , I ordered myself.