A Nose for Justice (30 page)

Lonnie noticed, but his attention was drawn to Amelia Owen, Pete’s classmate. Buxom and brunette, with a curvaceous body, she attracted both admiring and envious glances from many of the guests.

“Pete Meadows.” Amelia threw her arms around him, kissing his cheek. “How are you?”

“Good. I’d like to introduce you to Lonnie Parrish. He’s not half bad. We work together.”

She appraised Lonnie, who exuded boyish appeal.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

“How’s business?” Pete asked, then informed his partner. “Amelia owns her own construction business.”

“Hard work,” Lonnie said.

“It is, but I love it,” gushed Amelia. “Just love it. I can’t sit behind a desk and you know, Mr. Parrish—”

“Lonnie.”

Pete smiled. “That’s what you should call him now. God knows what you’ll call him later.”

Amelia laughed. “Lonnie, the best part of my work is finishing the job and knowing someone will make a home in it. I just love it and”—her voice became even more animated—“I don’t have to answer to anybody else.”

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” said Pete. “I’m going to see if Mags needs a drink. She’s been standing in that line for over an hour. Jeep, too. Woman’s tougher than nails.”

Amelia touched Lonnie’s forearm and her voice softened. “Not one bank would give me a loan when I wanted to start my own company. They didn’t say because I was a single woman, but I knew. I tried every bank in this town. Then my grandmother suggested I talk to Jeep. Do you know she bankrolled me at two percent interest and gave me twenty years to repay the loan? That’s extraordinary. I paid it off this Christmas. Tell you what, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for that woman. The best part was when she handed me the check”—Amelia looked slyly at Lonnie—“Jeep said, ‘there’s an old boys’ network. To succeed we need an old girls’ network. Some future day, help another woman.’ ”

Lonnie’s eyes fell to her ample bosom during this story and he really was listening but he couldn’t help himself, which made Amelia laugh all the louder.

Pete put his forefinger to his temple, by way of salute, and walked across the crowded room to the receiving line. “Could I get anyone a drink?” He looked down. “Baxter, King?”

“God, yes.” Jeep fanned herself for a moment. “Scotch on the rocks. Tell the bartender it’s for me.”

“Mags?”

“Just tonic water, I think. Lime.”

Enrique nodded. “Corona Extra.” He looked to Carlotta. She nodded. “Two. Perhaps a glass for my bride.”

“Water,”
the dogs barked.

Pete found a waiter and told him to bring a table to put behind the receiving line so the folks there could put their drinks down. Then Pete asked him to bring two bowls of water for Baxter and King. After, he strode over to the bar and gave his order, handing over five dollars for a tip.

Just then Egon Utrecht burst from the kitchen, bellowing orders to someone who had forgotten a bowl of sauce. Egon, sweating profusely, saw Pete and nodded. The famous chef was nervous, shouting at staff, a real whirlwind. As he walked by, a pair of guests handed him glasses of champagne, which he downed in a gulp.

Given Jeep’s status, Egon had cause to be nervous. He wanted the guests to be talking about the food until next year when he’d try to outdo this year.

Within five minutes, Pete returned to the receiving line with drinks, a waiter in tow to help carry them through the crowd. He also brought napkins.

“Thank you.” Jeep reached for her scotch. “I’m parched.”

The dogs wagged their tails as they drank.

“How much longer will you all stand here?” Pete asked. “I can bring chairs. It’s a long time to be on your feet.”

Jeep looked down her small receiving line. Nearly all the guests had arrived. “How about another ten minutes and then let’s eat?”

Before Pete left, Mags said, “I liked meeting your parents.”

“Thanks. I was lucky. I got a good pair.”

People sat at the various tables, the head table had a small model of a P-47 on it. Once Jeep and her family finally sat down, they could barely eat as people kept stopping by to talk. Every time Carlotta threw her arms up to hug someone for the third, fourth, or fifth time, her bracelets jingled a happy tune.

Mags looked out over the room and thought what a tribute to her great-aunt. Sure, she had more money than Midas, but she had done so much
good with it. Mags knew she could never match her great-aunt that way, but she hoped she, too, would wind up making a good life, one that reached out to help others, one filled with friends and laughter, one filled with real people.

Jeep nodded to the band, now filing onto the dais. Soon the tables would empty and the dance floor would fill with people. The bandleader tapped his baton, the trumpeter stood and blew a few merry notes.

Escorted onto the stage by Enrique, Jeep acknowledged the crowd’s cheers. After wishing everyone a booming happy New Year, she cited by name those few veterans in the crowd. The room applauded thunderously. The women guests cheered especially for the three female veterans.

Jeep spoke in her characteristically clear, pleasant voice. “Folks, don’t listen to the naysayers, the crybabies, the special interests. Sure, times are hard but believe me and those of us in this room over seventy when we tell you, we’ve seen harder times than this.

“Forget Washington,” Jeep continued in her inspired oratory. “That’s the problem, not the answer.” At this, her speech was interrupted by people whistling and cheering. “We’ll pull through. Leave it to the people. I’ll do my part and I expect you’ll do yours. Forward!”

The cheers roared and men stomped the floor with their heavy boots.

She held up her hands for quiet. “Egon Utrecht, please come out here.”

It took a moment for a casino employee to fetch Egon from the kitchen. Emerging through the door, he looked around, then smiled as if by afterthought. He moved through the crowd.

Jeep extended her arm in his direction. “Our compliments to the chef.” Cheers followed.

He stopped and bowed to the hostess, put up his right hand like Mussolini used to when driving through the crowds, and bowed to the assembled guests before returning to the kitchen. He was again handed champagne glasses as he passed tables.

Jeep wrapped up her speechifying. “All right. This is Reno. Let’s party!”

At that, the band struck up “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” and the dance floor was flooded with enthusiastic couples, and a few singles.

Having eaten whatever was given them (or had fallen) from the table,
Baxter and King watched. Mags put the dachshund on her lap. Pete asked Jeep to dance. He was a good dancer, whirling her by his mother and father, who were also dancing. For the next song, he asked Mags.

When the band had started, Darryl Johnson and Craig Locke walked into the kitchen.

“Egon,” Darryl called to the surprised large man holding a ladle. “This is a triumph. If we can get a room here, would you be willing to oversee our annual company dinner?”

Egon, eyes nervously darting, calmed himself. “Of course.” A champagne glass, half full, sat by a pot.

“This really is the best banquet meal I’ve ever had.” Craig complimented him.

“Thank you.” Egon set down his ladle beside the large boiling pot.

“We’ll be in touch.” Darryl left, Craig in his wake.

One hour later, the party had reached a crescendo. The various dogs either ran around the room or had fallen asleep under their masters’ chairs.

Pete made sure to dance with his mother. Then he danced with ex-classmate Amelia, who pumped him about Lonnie, who was six years younger than they were. Next, he asked to dance with the three women veterans. Pauline Winters he wheeled onto the floor, and she waved her hands to the music. The other dancers came by, one by one, to seize her hand or kiss her on the cheek.

Mags watched Pete’s every move.

Jeep observed her great-niece. “Ever notice, sweetie, how a real man never has to advertise?”

“Aunt Jeep, I’ve met so few.”

This elicited a deep laugh, then Jeep said, “We’ve got ’em by the squadrons here in Nevada.”

At one point, Pete took Lonnie by the elbow, whispered a few words, then Lonnie also asked to dance with the lady veterans, as well as a few of the widows in the room. Somehow that’s when one minds being a widow the most, at a dance when you need a drink from the bar. If another man doesn’t notice, a polite older lady is out of luck. Then, too, so many husbands and wives of the older generation loved to dance. With her partner gone, many a widow sat. But not at Jeep’s party.

Having a strong mother and two independent sisters, Pete had learned early. He understood a woman’s need for attention—not the obvious sexual kind, but the small courtesies that made a woman feel wanted and special.

After a break filled with live rock music, the big band was up again, playing “The White Cliffs of Dover.” This sentimental song from the war could reduce anyone from the British Isles to tears and not a few Americans as well. After making his way back to Mags, Pete held her tight, but not too tight, as they glided around the dance floor.

“Did I tell you that you are the most beautiful woman in the room and the most fascinating?”

“Now I know you’re fibbing. Aunt Jeep is the most fascinating.”

“She’ll have to share that honor with you.” He put his cheek next to hers.

A scream from the kitchen stopped him short. Pete pulled away for a moment and saw one of the chef’s assistants run out from the back in a panic. Dr. Carl Detweiler, sitting this dance out, stood as the assistant reached him and gestured wildly. They both ran to the kitchen.

“Mags, I’ll be back.”

The band played on. Lonnie excused himself to Amelia and hurried behind Pete.

Baxter and King reached the kitchen first. Any scream will alert a dog, and now all the dogs in the place were barking.

Egon rolled on the kitchen’s spotless tile floor, his white chef’s topper a few feet away. In obvious pain, he foamed at the mouth.

Just inside the door, Baxter put his head down, did not touch the suffering man.
“Bitter. Bitter smell.”

“He’s dying,”
King said matter-of-factly.

Egon’s eyes rolled back, violent tremors shook his body, then the massive frame lay still.

F
riday’s
Reno Gazette-Journal
ran a well-written article about the collapse and suspected poisoning of celebrity chef Egon Utrecht. As the reporter actually had been at the party to cover it, the details proved accurate. The quotes from shocked eyewitnesses jumped off the page.

Egon’s assistant chef, Lisa Giogionides, said, “He clutched his throat, made a strangling sound, and collapsed.” A waiter who wished not to be identified reported, “Egon had been knocking back champagne most of the night. He had one temper tantrum after another.” What the reporter didn’t include was, “I hated the son of a bitch.” Jeep Reed was quoted: “What an enormous talent and sorrow to die so young. Our hearts go out to his family.”

Dr. Carl Detweiler, the pulmonary specialist on the scene, was quoted as saying, “His death is deeply suspicious. I do not think it was natural but, of course, we all await the autopsy report.”