Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

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New York Times _Chopping Spree
_For Colorado caterer Goldy Schulz, business isn't just booming--it's skyrocketing. But as her friend Marla is constantly warning her, "Success can kill you." Goldy knows she needs to slow down before she breaks down, and she vows she'll do it--right after her next booking: a cocktail party for the Westside Mall's Elite Shoppers Club.
It's the event of the shopping season: the Princess Without a Pricetag party for the wealthy shopaholics who drop at least a thousand dollars a week at the mall. Goldy has been hired by charming mall manager Barry Dean to cater the jewel-encrusted affair. But she has hardly begun setting up when she finds herself in the path of a truck that has no intention of stopping until both she and Barry are crushed beneath it. Muddied, bruised, embarrassed, but determined to do her job, Goldy manages to get the party started on time with the help of her trusted assistants Julian Teller and Liz Fury.
But with the outbreak of an ugly marital spat among the guests, the behavior of Barry's flighty young girlfriend, and Barry's own strange actions after the truck incident, the event is--by Goldy's standards--a catastrophe. And it's about to get worse. When she goes to pick up her check, she finds an old friend lying dead in a pile of sale shoes--stabbed with one of Goldy's new knives. Hours later, Julian is the prime suspect in the murder.To prove Julian's innocence, Goldy must catch the real killer. But to do that, she will have to figure out why the victim was carrying a powerful narcotic. And why was a private investigator called in shortly before the murder? Was the killer connected to a mall renovation project--or the eviction of a disgruntled tenant? Or was the villain the odd lover out in a violent love triangle?
Between whipping up Sweethearts' Swedish Meatballs, Quiche Me Quick, and Diamond Lovers' Hot Crab Dip, and digging up clues, Goldy knows this is going to be one tough case to crack. And her gourmet sleuth's instinct tells her that the final course will be a real killer.

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Before falling on my behind, I’d been working on a concoction I’d dubbed Shoppers’ Chocolate Truffles. These rich goodies featured a dense, smooth chocolate interior coated with more satiny chocolate. So what had I been looking for in the refrigerator? I had no idea. I stomped out and slammed the door.

I sagged against the counter and told myself the problem was fatigue. Or maybe my age—thirty-four—was kicking in. What would Marla say? She’d waggle a fork in my face and preach about the wages of success.

I brushed myself off and quick-stepped to the sink. As water gushed over my hands, I remembered I’d been searching for the scoops of ganache, that sinfully rich mélange of melted bittersweet chocolate, heavy cream, and liqueur that made up the heart of the truffles.

I dried my hands and resolved to concentrate on dark chocolate, not the darker side of success. After all, I had followed one of Marla’s suggestions: I had hired help. But I had not cut back on parties. I’d forgotten what taking care of myself even felt like. And I seemed incapable of being stricter with Arch.

I scanned the kitchen. The ganache balls, still wrapped, sat pristinely on the marble counter. Next to it, my double boiler steamed on the stovetop. OK, so I’d already taken them out. I’d simply forgotten.

I hustled over to my new kitchen computer and booted it up, intent on checking that evening’s assignment. Soon my new printer was spitting out lists of needed foodstuffs, floor plans, and scheduled setup. I may have lost my mind, but I’d picked it right up again.

“This is what happens when you give up caffeine!” I snarled at the ganache balls. Oops—that was twice I’d talked to myself in the last five minutes. Marla would not approve.

I tugged the plastic wrap off the globes of ganache and spooned up a sample to check the consistency. The smooth, intense dark chocolate sent a zing of pleasure up my back. I moved to the stovetop, stirred the luxurious pool of melting chocolate, and took a whiff of the intoxicatingly rich scent. I told myself—silently—that everything was going to be all right. The party-goers were going to love me.

The client for that night’s cocktail party was Barry Dean, an old friend who was now manager of Westside Mall, an upscale shopping center abutting the foothills west of Denver. I’d previously put on successful catered parties at Westside. Each time, the store owners had raved. But Barry Dean, who’d only been managing the mall for six months, had seemed worried about the party’s dessert offering. I’d promised him his high-end spenders, for whom the party was geared, would flip over the truffles.

Maybe I’d even get a big tip, I thought as I scraped down the sides of the double boiler. I could spend it on a new mattress. On it, I might eventually get some sleep.

I stopped and took three deep breaths. My system craved coffee. Of course, I hadn’t given up espresso entirely. I was just trying to cut back from nine shots a day to two. Too much caffeine was causing my sleeplessness, Marla had declared. Of course, since we’d both been married to the same doctor—consecutively, not concurrently—she and I were self-proclaimed experts on all physical ailments. (Med Wives 101, we called it.) So I’d actually heeded her advice. My plan had been to have one shot at eight in the morning (a distant memory), another at four in the afternoon (too far in the future). Now my resolve was melting faster than the dark chocolate.

I fired up the espresso machine and wondered how I’d gotten into such a mental and physical mess.

Innocently enough, my mind replied. Without warning, right after Valentine’s Day, my catering business had taken off. An influx of ultrawealthy folks to Denver and the mountain area west of the Mile High City had translated into massive construction of trophy homes, purchases of multiple upscale cars, and doubling of prices for just about everything. Most important from my viewpoint, the demand for big-ticket catered events had skyrocketed. From mid-February to the beginning of April, a normally slow season, my assignments had exploded. I’d thought I’d entered a zone, as they say in Boulder, of bliss.

I pulled a double shot of espresso, then took a sip and felt infinitely better.

I rolled the first silky scoop of ganache into a ball, and set it aside. What had I been thinking about? Ah, yes. Success.

I downed more coffee and set aside the porcelain bought-on-clearance cup, a remnant of my financial dark days. Those days had lasted a long time, a fact that Arch seemed to block out.

When I began divorce proceedings against the ultracute, ultravicious Doctor John Richard Korman, I’d been so determined that he would support our son well that I’d become an Official Nosy Person. Files, tax returns, credit card receipts, check stubs, bank deposits—I’d found and studied them all. My zealous curiosity had metamorphosed into a decent settlement. Wasn’t it Benjamin Franklin who’d said, God helps those who help themselves? Old Ben had been right.

I bathed the first dark ganache globe in chocolate. OK, I’d replaced marital bitterness with bittersweet chocolate and bitter orange marmalade, right? And my life had turned around. Two years ago, I’d married Tom Schulz. As unreal as my newly minted financial success might seem, I did not doubt the miracle of my relationship with Tom, whose work as a police investigator had actually brought us together in the first place. Tom was bighearted and open-armed toward both Arch and me. So far, Tom and I had passed the tests that had been flung our way, and emerged still together. In this day and age, I thought, such commitment was commendable.

And yet, I reflected as I placed the sumptuous truffle on a rack to dry, one of the reasons I’d been so happy about my sudden financial success was that I’d vowed never to depend on Tom’s income. My earnings were now on a par with Tom’s. After the money battles with The Jerk, financial independence was a phenomenon I’d sworn to attain and keep. Unfortunately, before marrying Tom, my profits had stayed in a zone between Can feed Arch and keep gas in van to Going down fast; write for law school catalogs.

I rolled ganache balls, bathed them in chocolate, and set them aside to dry. Scoop, bathe, set aside. Marla could grouse all she wanted; I savored my new success. I was even considering purchasing a new set of springform pans, since I’d already bought a new computer, printer, and copier, not to mention new tableware, flatware, and knives—a shining set of silver Henckels. I relished no longer renting plates, silverware, and linens! I laughed aloud when I finished the twentieth truffle, and made myself another espresso. The dark drink tasted divine. No wonder they called financial solvency liquidity.

I rewarded myself with a forkful of ganache, which sparked more fireworks of chocolate ecstasy. I did a little two-step and thanked the Almighty for chocolate, coffee, and business growth.

Roll, bathe, set aside. I was appreciative that I had scads of new clients. In hiring me, they offered testimonies from friends (Marla in particular), or claimed they’d caught the reruns of my short-lived PBS cooking show. Some even said they just had to hire this caterer they’d read about, the one who helped her husband solve the occasional murder case. Well, why they hired me didn’t matter. New clients were new clients, and glitzy parties paid the bills. It had been stupendous.

For a while.

Now I looked and felt like zabaglione, frothy after being beaten too hard. And I was unsure of what was going on with my son. I rolled, bathed, and set aside more truffles, all the while avoiding my reflection in the kitchen window. I knew what I’d see there: a haggard face with licorice-black bags under bloodshot eyes, not to mention a fretwork of worry-wrinkles. My freshly shampooed, too-busy-to-get-a-cut blond hair, which people had always likened to Shirley Temple’s corkscrew curls, now gave me the look of a soaked poodle.

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