“She came in early this morning.” Libby took a closer look at her friend. Her eyeliner was smeared, her eyes were red, and there was a coffee stain on her T-shirt. “Are you all right?”
“I'm fine.” Tiffany sniffed. “Really. It's just that something's come up.”
Libby gestured towards the kitchen.
“Come inside and we can talk while I work.”
Tiffany shook her head and took a step back.
“No. It's all right,” she reassured Libby. “I should have remembered you'd be busy.”
“If it's really serious . . .”
“It's fine. Honestly.”
Then, before Libby could say anything else, Tiffany got in her car and sped off. For a minute Libby thought about going after her, but then she thought about how much she had left to do and changed her mind.
“What was that all about?” Bernie asked Libby when she came back in.
“She wanted to talk to me.”
“About what?”
“She wouldn't say.”
Bernie wiped her chopping knife off on her apron.
“It was probably nothing. You know the way Tiffany gets.”
Libby bit her lip. “I think she's started drinking again.”
“Oh, dear.” Both sisters were quiet for a moment; then Bernie said, “You know what? Let's change the subject to something a bit less serious. Let's talk about nail polish and whether you should get your hair streaked.”
“It's just . . .”
Bernie shook her head.
“Drop it. If it's that urgent, Tiffany will come back. She always does.”
“I suppose you're right,” Libby said doubtfully.
“You know I am.” Bernie paused for a second, then said, “Lionel's last three books topped the
New York Times
best-seller list.” She picked up the metal bowl sitting next to her and swept the mound of chopped parsley into it with the edge of her knife. “Which just goes to prove that the masses have no taste. Did you know that the vampires we see in the movies are a strictly literary invention? That folklore vampires are usually bloated and ruddy, not thin and gaunt?”
“Sounds like Lionel to me,” Libby said getting into the spirit of the conversation. “Okay, he's fat, not bloated, and he's kinda pale. At least he was the last time I saw him.”
“Actually,” Bernie continued, warming up, “today's vampiresâthe aristocratic vampireâhark back to the eighteenth century Gothic revival. Some people think Lord Rutherford is based on Byron . . .”
“Fascinating,” Libby interrupted, hurriedly changing the subject before her sister got going. “I've been thinking,” she said, “that I should start doing Moroccan salads in the store. They'd make a nice change for the summer. Like the carrot one with the lemon juice and cinnamon and the baby beets with cloves.”
“How about something with couscous?” Bernie suggested. “There was a salad they made out at Ahmed's that everyone in Brentwood loved. It had raisins and almonds and slivers of orange and lemon rind and chopped coriander with just a little oil to moisten it all. I think I can recreate it if you're interested.”
“I'd love it,” Libby said. As she watched a smile creeping over Bernie's face, she made a vow to herself that she'd work on being more patient with her younger sister.
“Great. What do you want me to do next?”
Libby consulted her list. They still had to prepare garnishes for the aspic and finish cutting up the blood oranges for the salads and toast the almonds. The potatoes had to be sliced and peeled as did the asparagus. They also had to arrange the cheese and fruit platters, plate the olives, and peel the celery stirrers for the Bloody Marys. Fortunately, dessert was pretty much done. The devil's food cakes were baked and sliced and the finger bone cookies were in their baskets.
Three hours to count down and so far they were on schedule. Knock on wood. The one thing Libby had learned about catering was that Murphy's Law absolutely held. Anything that could go wrong would.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Amber and Stan, two high school students who helped Libby out on her bigger jobs should be there any minute to help with the last-minute stuff.
Seventeenth Annual Clarington High School Reunion, here we come,
Libby thought as she touched the underside of the kitchen countertop three times.
For some reason, doing this event was making her more nervous than the fancier parties she'd catered down in New York City. She'd once heard a famous author say that nothing made his stomach flip-flop like giving a reading in his hometown. Well, her stomach was certainly moving. For sure. She knew why she felt that way too. Because her old boyfriend, Orion Clemens, was coming.
Orion. Her stomach had definitely clenched when she'd seen his name on the acceptance list. Thank God Bernie hadn't seen it. Libby closed her eyes for a second. She wondered what Orion looked like now. She hoped he'd gotten fat and bald and lost all his teeth and smelled bad. Suddenly she was aware that Bernie was talking to her.
“Why do you always do that?” Bernie was asking her.
Libby shook her head to clear it. “Do what?”
“Touch things three times.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, you do.”
“It's a habit.”
“It's OCD.”
“I'm not obsessive compulsive.”
“You're borderline. Have you thought about getting treatment?”
Libby pointed a finger in Bernie's direction.
“Show me a caterer who isn't slightly OCD and I'll show you a bad one. Catering is all in the details,” Libby said as she walked out into the cafeteria and surveyed the scene in front of her. “You should know that.”
“So is everything else,” Bernie said, trailing after her. She could tell, though, that Libby wasn't listening to her. She was studying the room in front of them.
And Bernie had to admit, given the constraints Libby was operating under, she'd done a good job, even though she privately thought that themed dinners were incredibly tacky. So were theme restaurants for that matter. If there was one thing she'd learned as a restaurant reviewer out in L.A., it was that palm fronds and tribal masks on the walls spelled bad food on the plates.
Libby ran her eyes over the cafeteria. Last night she and Stan and Amber had spent almost four hours getting it ready. They'd set up the guest of honor table, then moved in large round tables and covered all of them with black tablecloths. Next they'd done the place settingsâwhite chinaâand arranged tableaux of little skeleton men playing instruments, eating food, and riding on donkeys on each table. Libby had gotten the figures from a supplier who handled candy skeletons and skulls for the Mexican holiday,
El Dia de los Muertos,
The Day of the Dead.
They'd been an overstock item from last November so she'd gotten them at a good price. But her biggest coup had been the gold foil-wrapped milk chocolate coffins. She was just thinking what a good table decoration they made when the doors to the cafeteria banged open.
Laird Wrenn swept in, trailed by his publicist, Lydia Kissoff. Three men carrying a shiny black coffin followed.
Wrenn looked around the room and frowned.
“And where,” he said, pointing to his coffin, “am I supposed to put this?”
Chapter 3
L
ibby leaned towards Bernie.
“He's kidding, right?”
“Not from what I heard.”
“He reminds me of a pigeon,” she whispered in Libby's ear as she watched Laird Wrenn and Lydia Kissoff advancing on them.
“A pigeon?” Libby repeated.
“You knowâall chest with skinny little legs. And that cape he's wearing doesn't help. No wonder the dust jackets on his books feature head shots.”
Libby put her hand up to her mouth to smother a giggle. “Well, he doesn't exactly look like Keifer Sutherland in
The Lost Boys,
does he?”
“I loved that movie. I especially loved the guy with the blond curls. The one that looked like a Botticelli angel.” Bernie wound a lock of her hair around her finger. “If I had all the money Lionel has and a body like that, I'd get my shirts tailor-made.” She shook her head. “Boy, that cape looks hot. Maybe he has little electric fans in it.”
“Stop it,” Libby pleaded.
“And get a load of Lydia. I never thought she'd age well.”
“Way too much makeup,” Libby noted. Then she said, “We shouldn't be bitchy.”
“Why not? It's fun.”
“Quiet.” Libby gave Bernie a poke in the ribs with her elbow as Laird Wrenn closed the distance between them. “Laird,” she said when he was about a foot away. “I don't know if you remember me, but . . .”
“Are you the one in charge here?” he barked.
“Yes, I am.”
Libby could see the sweat pouring down Laird Wrenn's face. He took a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and mopped his forehead with it. Then he snapped his fingers.
“Yes. Of course I recall you. You're the cop's daughter. The frumpy one who always had her nose buried in a romance novel.”
Libby could feel her cheeks reddening with anger, but she couldn't think of anything to say. Especially because it was true.
Laird tucked his hankie back in his pocket.
“What I want to know,” he said, “is where do you plan to put my coffin?”
The obvious comment jumped to Bernie's lips, but out of deference to Libby, she said, “How about in the ground?” instead.
Wrenn's eyes drifted over Bernie's body.
“The sister,” he said when he'd taken the complete tour. “The party girl with the fondness for tequila. How could I forget?” He leered. “Yes. The Simmons girls. So you two are cooking now. How sweet.”
He's making it sound as if we're cleaning out toilets in Motel 6,
Libby thought as she took a deep breath and reminded herself that this man was the guest of honor. No matter how much she wanted to, telling him to go take a flying leap would not be good for business.
“I run a catering service out of our store, A Little Taste of Heaven, and my sister writes a restaurant review and food column for one of the L.A. papers,” Libby told him through gritted teeth. Which wasn't strictly trueâthe tense was wrongâbut what the hell.
Laird Wrenn stifled a yawn and looked around the room. “How interesting.” Then he drew himself up to his full height, all five feet, eight inches of itâthat was with the platforms in his shoesâflung one side of his cloak over his shoulder, and scowled. “Surely you know I always travel with my coffin.”
“No, I didn't,” Libby said.
“Doesn't everyone?” Bernie said speaking at the same time as her sister. “It was so complicated getting mine back from L.A. I almost left it behind, but then I said to myself, âNow, Bernie you know you're not going to sleep nearly as well without it.' Does yours have air conditioning in it, because I'm thinking of having it installed in mine.”
“I was on Letterman,” Wrenn said to the girls.
“Now there's a non sequiter,” Bernie retorted.
Wrenn glowered at Bernie before turning to Lydia Kissoff.
“I thought you said you were sending the caterer my interview in
People
magazine.”
Kissoff's yellowish complexion took on a whitish hue around her eyes and mouth.
“I did.”
“Obviously she didn't receive it, because if she had we wouldn't be having this discussion,” Laird replied.
“Sorry,” Libby said. “I must have missed it.”
“I don't see how,” Lydia snapped. Libby noticed she had begun peeling the nails on her left hand with her thumb. “I sent you a copy of the article last week along with Laird's special dietary requirements.”
“Really?” Libby said as she guiltily thought of the unopened pile of mail on the dining room table. “We've been having trouble with deliveries lately.”
“That's not acceptable.” Laird patted his stomach. “I have a delicate constitution,” he informed the girls. “Always have had. That's what drew me to vampires in the first place. The specificity of their needs.”
“The specificity of their needs? Wow. I'm impressed,” Bernie said. “And here I thought you were the one that won the pie-eating contest at the county fair when you were a sophomore in high school and then puked all over the judge, but obviously I must have been mistaken.”
“You are.”
“Bernadette,” Libby said.
“What?”
“Don't you have things to do back in the kitchen?”
“Not really.”
“You have to string the celery.”
“A difficult chore.”
“I think you should do it now.”
Before she could reply, one of the men holding the coffin coughed.
“Hey, mister,” he said. “Where do you want this to go?”
Laird looked around.
“There.” He pointed in front of the dais. “Put it there.”
The men started forward.
“But we'll have to rearrange some of the tables if you do that,” Libby protested. “The wait staff won't be able to walk through.”
Laird raised an eyebrow. “That's your problem, my dear, not mine.”
“How about putting it over there?” And Libby pointed off to the left side of the room.
The men stopped and looked at Laird. “Keep going,” he told them. “Are you seriously suggesting,” he asked Libby, “that I deprive my fans of the chance to experience something unique?”
“God forbid,” Bernie said.
As Libby glared at her sister, she wondered if she could get close enough to her to kick her in the shins without anyone noticing.
“I think it would be just as unique over to the left,” she told Wrenn.
“Well, I don't. My coffin is an integral part of my personality. You're not suggesting I sit in the corner.”
“No,” Libby said. “But it's . . .”
“Good. It's settled,” Laird said as the men set the coffin down and turned and looked at him. “Yes?” he said.
The men shuffled their feet.
“Ah, yes. A tip,” Laird said and pointed to Libby and Bernie. “The caterers will take care of it.”
Libby was just about to say, “No, we won't,” when Bernie reached in her jeans pocket and took out a twenty. “Here you go,” she said, handing it to one of the men.
“Where did you get that?” Libby asked. “I thought you were broke.”
“Broke is a relative concept.”
“And by the way,” Lydia Kissoff chimed in as the men were leaving the room, “I hope you have Laird's water on hand.”
“Water?” Libby asked.
“Yes. Bottled water.”
“Of course we do,” Bernie lied. “My sister has clearly labeled each bottle with his name.”
“That'll be fine,” Lydia Kissoff said shortly.
Libby was just saying, “Good,” when the door banged open again and Bree Nottingham, real estate agent extraordinaire and organizer of the reunion, sashayed into the room.
“Oh, Laird,” she gushed, heading straight for him. “I'm so excited to have you here. I couldn't wait to come and see Longely's most famous author.” Then she turned and air-kissed Lydia Kissoff's cheek. “Darling, you look wonderful,” she lied. “Simply wonderful. I love those skull earrings. They're so you.”
She turned to Bernie and Libby next. “You two have done such a nice job. The place looks so sweet. Black tablecloths? Halloween in June. How adorable,” she said to Libby. “And those little skeleton men. How did you ever come up with those? But I think you may need some flowers . . . something. . . I don't know . . . daisies . . .”
“But . . .” Libby said. “Daisies will . . .”
“No. No.” Bree held up her hand. “You're right. Daisies would be too . . .” She gazed off in the distance for a second, apparently lost in thought. Then her eyes widened as an idea struck her. Playing to the balcony, Libby was sure her father would have said. “Black roses,” Bree stage-whispered. “That's what we want. Half a dozen to a table. And of course a dozen of them on the coffin. It will tie everything together.” She put her hands on Libby's shoulders. “Now, Libby, I know how you get, and I don't want you to worry about a thing. I'll have my girl take care of it and charge it to your account.”
“What a wonderful idea,” Lydia Kissoff gushed.
“Inspired,” Wrenn agreed.
Libby took a deep breath and tried to get the situation back under control. “I'll get them,” she said. If Bree Nottingham did it, the roses would cost a fortune and the store wasn't turning a profit on this job as it was.
“No. No,” Bree insisted. “I feel responsible. You have way too much to do.” And she whipped out her cell and called her assistant. “Done,” she said as she slipped her phone back in her bag. She looked at the coffin in front of the dais. “Are you going to put it there?” she asked Laird.
He nodded.
“Perfect.” She waved her hands in the air. “I want everyone to have the full Laird Wrenn experience. Don't you agree, Libby?”
“Definitely,” Libby said, trying to get some enthusiasm into her voice.
For some reason Bree always made her feel as if she was the last pick at the high school dance. Maybe that was because Bree weighed a hundred and ten pounds. Her hair was always perfect. So were her nails and her makeup. Her pants were never wrinkled; her shirts never got stains. She could probably garden in the middle of a monsoon and she'd look as if she'd stepped out of the salon after the storm passed.
Libby should have been more assertive about the roses, Libby thought. Now they'd be lucky if they cleared a couple of hundred dollars profit for all the work they'd been putting in. You'd think she would have learned by now. Bree had been doing the same thing to her since eighth grade. She watched her point to the coffin.
“It's wonderful,” she gushed to Wrenn. “All that black mahogany. I'm wondering if we should move it a little to the right. It would get a little more light that way.” Then she turned back to Libby.
“How wedded are you to the tomato aspic?” she asked.
“They're already made,” Libby told her.
“Oh. I know I approved the menu, but I was thinking that it might be fun . . .” she began to say when Bernie jumped in.
“You know, they're all the rage in L.A. now.”
Libby shot Bernie a grateful look as Bree said, “I didn't know that.”
“It's mentioned in this month's
Food.”
“Then I suppose we should keep them.”
“Absolutely,” Bernie said. “And anyway, tomatoes were emblematic of Vlad the Impaler. That's why Libby put the dish on the menu in the first place.”
“They were?” Laird Wrenn said. “I didn't know that.”
“It's true,” Bernie said, grinning at Libby. “Isn't it?”
“One hundred percent,” Libby replied as she struggled to keep a straight face.
At that moment she could have kissed Bernie.