A Catered Birthday Party Part 2

Libby laughed.

"I have to say you're getting jaded in your old age," Bernie told her.

Libby ate another piece of chocolate. "Learned it from you."

Bernie was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Or maybe Annabel doesn't care what Richard's personal a.s.sistant looks like. Maybe she doesn't want to have s.e.x with her husband. Maybe she's happy to be relieved of the responsibility."

"I can't imagine that," Libby said.

"I can," said Bernie. "There are a couple of women at the gym like that." And she proceeded to fill Libby in on the details.

"Still. If he leaves her..."

"Maybe she has all the money," Bernie said as she started chewing on a carrot stick. "Richard doesn't look like someone who would leave his meal ticket."

"You just don't like him because he was wearing salmon socks," Libby said.

"No. I don't like him because he was rude and obnoxious and he was wearing salmon-colored socks," Bernie replied. "Of course," she reflected, "Annabel is no prize either. They're equally matched." She went back to unloading the carton. "I guess this is what Bree meant when she called Richard and Annabel Colbert an interesting couple." She held up her hand, forestalling Libby's comment. "Or words to that effect. Fortunately, we'll be out of here in two and a half hours so they're not our problem. I just hope that the other people who are coming are a little more enthusiastic."

"Well, even if they're not, their dogs will be," Libby said. She began laying bread slices out on the counter in preparation for cutting them into bonelike shapes. Not just any bread, mind you. This was bread made with 100 percent organic flour and baked in-house. As Annabel had said, nothing was too good for Trudy. "I just had this terrible thought," Libby went on. "It would be really bad if the dogs didn't like what we were serving."

"That's one of the virtues of the canine species. They eat virtually anything," Bernie observed. "Well, almost anything," she amended as she picked up a half-eaten dog biscuit still in its wrapper and threw it in the trash. "I don't think most dogs like citrus fruit."

"Maybe we should have taste tested the menu first?"

"For the species that eats from garbage cans," said Bernie as she thought of the neighbor's dog that had gotten into their trash last week. "Anyway, what's not to like? All the dogs will like the liver toast points, the peanut b.u.t.ter and bacon canapes, the steak and mashed potatoes. I'm not too sure about the carrot coins with ginger and the tossed salad, but under the circ.u.mstances I don't think it matters all that much."

"Well, I hope you're right," Libby said as she finished cutting out the bread.

Then while Bernie was putting peanut b.u.t.ter on the cutouts, Libby took the silver serving pieces that Annabel had laid out and filled the dishes up with the Kalamata and Nicoise olives, the spiced pecans she'd made yesterday, and the salted almonds she'd roasted this morning. Then she took everything into the room Annabel had indicated they'd be serving the hors d'oeuvres in.

The Eaton room, as Annabel called it, was painted a dark hunter green with white molding and had a white ceiling made of molded plaster. The walls were covered with pictures of dogs and horses in the British style, while the sofa and the armchairs were upholstered in chintz fabric. There were Oriental rugs over the dark wood flooring. The only thing missing, Libby decided, was a coat of arms.

In line with Annabel's wishes to limit wine to the main meal, the highboy along the left wall had already been set up with bottles of sparkling water, sparkling cider, and various kinds of soda. What had she said? Libby tried to remember her exact words. Something to the effect of trying to limit the things that the animals couldn't partake in so both species could have a more communal experience. Which was the rationale for not serving coffee or tea with dessert. Not that Libby was complaining. That just made things easier for her, since nowadays you had to serve both regular and decaffeinated coffees, as well as a variety of teas.

Libby looked around and decided to put the nuts and olives on the end tables where the dogs couldn't get at them, rather than on the coffee table, which was snout level. After she'd placed them to her satisfaction, she walked into the pantry to make sure that all the serving pieces she and Joanna had faxed each other about were out. Which they were. She'd give Annabel and Joanna kudos for that. They were efficient. Unpleasant, but efficient.

Out of force of habit, Libby moved the Limoges china platters and bowls slightly so they were all perfectly aligned, then checked on the gla.s.ses-Waterford-to make sure there were no smudge marks, which there weren't, and then she inspected the wine.

Three bottles of Lafitte plus one bottle of Annabel's wine, an obscure Spanish red, had been set out. She carefully moved them all a little farther down the counter so she'd have room to bring in the salad and the vegetables. Then she made sure that the corkscrew, although this was a way fancier device, was next to the bottles.

She was glad that Richard was opening and decanting the wine, because she always had visions of having the cork break off in a two hundreddollar bottle of the stuff. She gave the pantry one last look to make sure everything was in place-in catering it was all about the details-and left.

On her way back to the kitchen she could hear Richard and Annabel screaming at each other out in the main hallway. Richard was calling Annabel a stupid cow and she was calling him a t.u.r.d. Not a good sign, Libby decided as she quietly tiptoed behind them so they wouldn't turn around and see her. But she needn't have worried. They were too engrossed in their hostilities to be aware of anybody else.

Great, Libby thought. Host and hostess fighting. Dogs running all over the place. Probably on the table. Despite what Bernie said, in Libby's humble opinion the prognosis for this event was not good. She wondered how bad things were going to be as she watched a woman she presumed to be Trudy's tooth brusher come down the stairs and go out the side door. If she was done, that meant that Annabel and Trudy would be in the kitchen soon.

Libby could wait. But as she looked on the bright side, they'd already been paid enough to cover their materials and time. Even if worse came to worse and they didn't get their 20 percent, they'd still be ahead of the game. It would just be a trying couple of hours. Libby would remember that thought frequently in the days ahead.

Chapter 3.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Bernie and Libby heard the doorbell in the mansion chime, "How much is that doggie in the window?" That in turn was followed by footsteps, voices, barks, and squeals of laughter.

"The guests have arrived," Bernie said as she put slivers of tomato on the plate containing the goat cheese toast points, a last minute addition.

"At least they're on time," Libby noted.

It was especially bad when they were serving something like a roast, and guests were half an hour or more late. You could keep things warm, but the taste really suffered. At least here they were serving steaks, which were a lot less tricky. Libby was thinking about the timing when the kitchen door was flung open and Annabel and Trudy strode in followed by three women and a knot of snuffling, snorting pugs.

Trudy was dressed in a mink stole and pearl choker, while the other three pugs had on a tux and top hat, a pink tutu and tiara, and a fireman's coat and hat. Clearly, Bernie thought, Trudy was the grande dame of the group. As the sisters watched, the pug in the tux and the top hat ran over to the kitchen table, lifted his hind leg, and peed on one of the legs.

"Conklin," the tall, thin lady in frayed Chanel and black slacks shrieked as she scooped him up. "That was very, very naughty of you." She turned to Annabel. "I'm just mortified."

"Joyce, it's perfectly fine," Annabel said, even though her expression said that it wasn't. "Conklin is just a tad overexcited."

"If you ask me, he's a tad undertrained," an overly made-up woman dressed in jeans and a clean white T-shirt declared.

"Melissa, that is not true," the fireplug of a woman standing next to her snapped.

"That certainly is, Ramona. As well you know."

Ramona sniffed. "I know nothing of the kind. Conklin is one of my star pupils. I'm very proud of him. We've worked extremely hard to overcome his deficits."

Melissa rolled her eyes. "Deficits. Deficits?" she repeated in a louder voice. "That's a good one. My dogs don't have deficits. Every single one is a paragon of its breed. As my record attests to."

"Really," Ramona said, picking up the pug in the pink tutu and yanking its tiara back in place.

"Yes. Really," Melissa replied.

"What about the disqualification at the Hartford dog show last year for poor dent.i.tion?" Ramona asked. "That was your pug, wasn't it?"

Two spots of color appeared on Melissa's cheeks, but before she could answer Annabel stepped in and clapped her hands. "Ladies, ladies," she said. "Please. This is a special day. Let's maintain a festive mood."

Melissa swallowed. "By all means let's," she said with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Ramona added.

Were those notes of sarcasm Bernie detected? Yes indeedy. The two women looked as if they'd prefer to be having a root ca.n.a.l. The third one didn't look much happier, Bernie decided. Her mouth was smiling but her eyes weren't going along with the program. But if Annabel noticed her guests' reactions she gave no indication of that fact.

Instead she pointed to Libby and Bernie and said, "These are the wonderful people who are catering this little soiree for me. And they've made sure that everything being served today is both dog and human friendly, because as everyone here knows, I make it a point of pride to never feed Trudy anything that I wouldn't eat myself."

Then Annabel made the introductions. The woman whose pug had peed on the kitchen table was her best friend, Joyce; Melissa Geist owned Precious Pug, the kennel the redoubtable Trudy had come from; and Ramona was Trudy's trainer.

Everyone murmured polite, uninterested h.e.l.los, while the pugs ran around the kitchen looking to lick up any odd bits of food that had fallen on the floor. Trudy was in the middle of trying to hump the dog in the pink tutu when Annabel announced they'd start with the hors d'oeuvres in the Eaton room.

"Now there's a jolly little group," Bernie said when everyone was out of earshot.

"Add Richard, Joanna, and Bree and it's going to be a long two hours," Libby observed.

Bernie put a sprig of parsley on one of the plates. "I think it's going to be an interesting two hours."

"But not in a good way," Libby countered.

Bernie picked a speck of cheese off of her blouse sleeve. "I'm wagering there's going to be lots of drama."

"And it's not going to be the baked Alaska supplying it," Libby replied, not that they were serving that particular dish. It had just seemed like a good thing to say.

However, despite the sisters' misgivings, the appetizers went smoothly. Everyone seemed to like the toast points, the pugs particularly liking the bacon and peanut b.u.t.ter canapes.

Libby started to relax a little. Things were going to be all right after all.

Then they served the first course and everything went to h.e.l.l.

Libby and Bernie had just put the soup on the table. As per Annabel's instructions, they were serving the beef bouillon in the Limoges soup bowls. The bouillon was decorated with egg custard cutouts in the shape of half-moons and a sprinkling of chopped sorrel.

Both sisters were silently congratulating themselves on how well everything was going. Everyone, human and canine, was sitting in his or her chair. Everyone, human and canine, seemed to appreciate the soup. The humans were using their spoons, and the pugs, perched on baby booster seats, were using their tongues. Interestingly, Bernie noted that the rate of consumption for both groups seemed to be the same. She and Libby were turning to go back into the kitchen when Annabel stood up and lifted her winegla.s.s.

"I have two announcements I'd like to make today. Firstly, I'd like to propose a toast to my new product, Trudy's Treats," she said. "It's the first organic, venison and veggie-based, nongrain dog treat on the market."

Everyone stopped talking, although the dogs kept lapping.

Annabel lifted her gla.s.s higher. "To my new product. Trudy's Treats."

"Trudy's Treats," Annabel's best friend, Joyce, cried. "I can't believe you didn't tell me."

"I wanted this to be a surprise," said Annabel.

Libby and Bernie agreed later that judging by everyone's expression it was.

"I am hoping that, as befits Trudy, they are truly the best dog biscuit in the world," Annabel continued.

Joyce glared at Annabel. Later, both Bernie and Libby agreed that if looks could kill, Annabel would have dropped dead then.

"You're kidding, right?" Joyce growled.

Annabel lowered her gla.s.s slightly. "What a thing to say."

Joyce's eyes narrowed. "You're not kidding."

"Obviously," Annabel retorted.

"What recipe are you using?" Joyce asked.

"A good one," Annabel said.

"Is it mine?" Joyce demanded.

"Of course not. I would never do something like that," Annabel shot back, but Bernie didn't think that Joyce looked convinced. "First of all," Annabel went on, "I want to thank all of you for taking time out of your busy, busy schedules"-here she glared at Richard-"to honor me with your presence this afternoon. Secondly, I want to thank everyone here for accompanying me on this leg of the journey. I couldn't have done it without you. You've made me stronger. You've made me the person I've become."

There were some unenthusiastic expressions of "hear, hear" as Libby leaned in to Bernie, covered her mouth with her hand, and whispered, "It doesn't sound as if she means that in a good way, does it?"

"Nope. It sure doesn't," Bernie whispered back.

Annabel grimaced although Bernie was sure she meant the grimace to be a smile. "I've learned a lot from you. I've learned the meaning of backstabbing, for example."

Everyone froze. Ramona dropped her spoon, Joanna's eyes flitted from one person to the next, while Bree stifled a yawn.

"It's true," Annabel continued. "It's true for every single one of you. You thought I wouldn't find out about everything. But I have. And I'm making changes. Lots and lots of changes. Yes. Indeed."

Annabel turned a shade paler and ran her tongue over her lips. Her eyes glowed with hate. She raised her gla.s.s still higher. A drop of wine slipped over the side and slid down her arm. She didn't appear to notice. "Here's to treachery in all its many forms. What did Mach...Mach...whatever his name was say? Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer. I'm tired of doing that. It's a waste of my time." No one at the table moved, except for Trudy, who'd decided to climb up on the table and investigate the b.u.t.ter dish. Annabel burped. "Oops," she said and giggled. "What? No one wants to drink with me?"

"Annabel," Bree said, "I think you've had enough."

"For your information I haven't had anything to drink yet. I'm drunk from watching the expression on your faces."

"I don't believe that," Melissa said.

"Too bad for you," Annabel retorted, making a slight curtsey. "Here's to me and my new ventures and to h.e.l.l with all of you. I don't know where any of you are going, but if I had to guess I'd have to say to the bad place, and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." Annabel raised her gla.s.s to her lips and drank the wine down. A strange expression came over her face. Her eyes widened. Her hand went to her throat. "I've been poisoned!" she cried. "Someone has put something in this wine!"

"Now, dear," Richard said. "I'm sure you're fine. You know how you tend to exaggerate."

"Are you calling me a liar?!" Annabel screamed. "Are you telling me I don't know what my wine should taste like? For G.o.d's sake, call a doctor."

Trudy started barking. The other dogs joined in. The noise was deafening.

Richard made no move to get up. Instead he yelled, "No, darling, I'm not saying that you're lying! I'm simply saying that you tend to over dramatize certain events. Witness the little scenario you just pulled."

"It's true," Annabel's best friend, Joyce, said. "Remember when you thought that someone had put salmonella in your tomatoes and it turned out you had a bad case of the stomach flu?"

"Yes," Melissa chimed in. "How can you say what you just did after all the time I've put in on Trudy? If that isn't being paranoid what is?"

Annabel clawed at her throat. "Call the doctor," she whispered.

"I will," Bernie and Libby both said together.

"No. No. Not you." She waved her hand at them. "Don't leave. I want you to promise me..." She paused to gather her strength. "I want you to promise me you'll find out who murdered me."

"Annabel!" Richard cried. "Now, you've gone too far."

"Promise me," Annabel said.