I glanced around the crowded restaurant. As the only caterer in a small town, I'd learned that it's not a good idea to frequent the local eateries. Then all the people who see you say, "Why do you suppose she's eating here? Think it's better than her own stuff? Is she here to spy? Or to be critical?" Experience made me doubt Sam Perdue would join us for the taste-test. Why submit your own wares for judgment from a rival? And how could I honestly evaluate his soups in his presence? Alas, he waved at Tony and me from his seat next to Marla. They were at the table in the middle of the restaurant that I guessed was our destination. At least Sam looked more composed than he had at the Prospect office four days ago. His baby-fine blond hair was neatly combed over his bald spot. His slight frame made him look much younger than the thirty-two years of age someone had once told me he was. If I criticized his food, I'd feel as if I were hurting a child. My heart sank.
Edna Hardcastle fluttered up to the table just as I was sitting down next to Marla, who greeted me with a grateful smile. "Oh, you're here, you're here," Edna gushed. She wore a two-piece beige herringbone knit. Her henna hair was swirled up in an intricate twist. "Now don't worry about a thing, Goldy," she admonished before I could say a word. "I know you're probably thinking, Oh, what can I do? I'm just a local person. In fact, we're all putting a great deal of faith in you, dear, and much is riding on your opinion. Of course, if we had only invested in food from the beginning..." Her voice trailed off "But never mind, here you are, and we're all going to be so interested in your opinion, it'll give us a chance to get in on the ground floor...."
As she blathered on, Tony sidled over to his seat and.gestured for me to pick up a spoon and dig into one of the blue porcelain bowls in the center of the table. Helpful sticky notes on the platter containing the soup bowls said: Terrapin Tom's Tomato, Moby Dick's Chicken, Cocoa Beach Chocolate, Cranky Crab, Big Cheese Chowder. Hold on. Cocoa Beach Chocolate soup? I didn't think I could get even the chocoholic General Farquhar to sample that. Mrs. Hardcastle was chattering about the cook she'd had in Wisconsin. You could just get the best cheese there, and had Tony ever tasted upstate cheddar?
Sam murmured placating noises to Mrs. Hardcastle, while Marla and Tony talked about soups they'd tasted at French restaurants. I suddenly recalled the late Victoria Lear, who had not liked Sam's Soups, despite the cute names. I should have been smiling and paying attention to Mrs. Hardcastle, or getting off a gentle barb that the only cheese Tony knew was from goats, but unfortunately, what went through my mind as I contemplated the blue bowl was, You can die doing a taste test. I scooped up a spoonful of Cranky Crab soup.
Flaunting risk, I lifted the spoon toward my lips. Suddenly all eyes in the restaurant seemed focused on my open mouth. I hesitated. Images of medieval poison tasters came to mind. One bite, and it might be my last.
"For crying out loud, Goldy," Marla admonished as the spoon holding the crab mixture trembled in my fingers. She waggled her head in reproof "When I taste-test, it's fun. It's just seafood. Don't think soup.
Think casserole. It's not going to kill you." Could Marla possibly still want to invest in a chain of soup-only restaurants, after all that had been happening with Prospect Financial? Apparently so. But not until I gave a thumbs-up to the Cranky Crab concoction. I noticed she wasn't having any soup-casserole, however. Trying to be careful about her diet. Mm-hmm.
"Let Goldy try the stuff will you?" Tony Royce advised as he shifted in his chair and glanced around at the other tables. "We have to make things appear normal," he added. He sounded nervous. Normal, his favorite word. "We're carrying on with business as usual. We're tasting. We're investing. Big crowd here, likes soup. Okay, let's go, Goldy. Eat."
There was no soup bowl in front of Tony, either, I noticed. Not a good sign. Sam Perdue ran his fingers through his thin blond hair. His eyes crinkled with anxiety.
Over my shoulder, Mrs. Hardcastle gabbed without a break. "... This is no ordinary soup, you know. Sam's is about to expand from its Denver and Aspen Meadow locations because this is really a singular creation, don't you think so, Tony?"
Tony waved his hands expansively. "They use all the freshest ingredients. All the restaurant critics are raving about this... what, Mrs. Hardcastle?"
"Light-tasting magic," she responded rapturously, with a hand on her throat. "Oh, how I do wish that Victoria had felt... oh, but never mind. And that awful Albert! Oh, Tony, Tony, I knew he duped you back with that goat cheese - "
I faltered and set the spoon down on the platter. "Maybe I should go back to my table," Mrs. Hardcastle murmured.
"Perhaps that really would be best," said Marla, with a frosty smile.
I gazed down into the soup bowl. Across the table, Sam Perdue squirmed in his chair.
"Listen, Goldy," Tony soothed. "This could be a marvelous opportunity for you. We could bring this place public and make a killing. They've got a recurring revenue base, which means people come back for the experience of eating soup here. Plus people order breads, salads, and cookies. Comfort on a grand scale. The concept has done extremely well in other locations, except Wyoming. My exit interviews at Sam's in Denver were fantastic. Am I making sense to you?"
I looked at him and said evenly, "Tony, I would be a much more amenable taster if you would not treat me like a complete idiot."
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," he said, with a huge phony smile beneath his manicured mustache. "Okay, listen. Sam's has plans for new restaurants in more cosmopolitan markets - Colorado Springs and Boulder. You know what an initial public offering is?" He regarded me patiently.
"Why don't you just give me a dunce cap, Tony?" Marla gargled with laughter.
But Tony, undaunted, continued sharing his financial expertise. "The company is expanding management to try new markets. Isn't that right, Sam?"
Sam, who appeared increasingly catatonic, nodded apprehensively.
Tony went on: "After opening locations in the Springs and Boulder, Sam wants to look northward, open a place in Fort Collins, but skip over Wyoming altogether. Try his luck selling soups in Montana- Missoula first, then Bozeman. I want to tell you, Goldy, I expect this is going to make us all rich."
Or at least recoup a million or two, I reflected. I picked up the spoon, with its load of Cranky Crab. I sniffed it; the aroma was bland-like a canned clam chowder. I assumed a studious expression. Tony and Marla exchanged an eager glance and leaned forward. Would I pronounce the Cranky indescribable? Luscious? One of a kind? Fortunately, the chef was sequestered in the kitchen. One of the things Mrs. Hardcastle had been at pains to inform me was that the poor chef couldn't stand the tension. Reportedly, he was anxious to learn my findings. I rolled the soup over my tongue. Sam, Tony, and Marla cocked their heads. What would.I say? Its texture is divine! Its taste unequalled! I'll take two--no--three bowls full!
"Hmm," I said. You guys are in serious trouble.
Outside of Sam's, another relentless rain had swept down upon us. Raindrops pelted Aspen Meadow Lake. I swallowed the tasteless, thin concoction, tried to think of how to phrase my assessment, and looked out at the inlet abutting the lake. A group of hardy members of the Audubon Society stood in the downpour peering through their binoculars. According to the Mountain Journal, rotten weather or no, the birders were making daily walks around the lake in hopes of a second sighting of a long-billed curlew.
Sam cleared his throat with a frightened squeak and twisted in his modified Adirondack-style chair. Tony consulted his sculptured nails, gnawed his bottom lip, brushed more imaginary dust off his white shirt, then shot me another questioning look. Clearly, Marla hadn't been as persnickety a taste-tester as I was turning out to be.
"Goldy?" said Tony. "I like to involve the common folk. A little nine-year-old kid next door told me to buy Clearly Canadian. I did, and made a mint on flavored water. Got another tip from Zane Smythe. Know who he is?"
I nodded. Zane is a local fisherman who teaches fly tying and writes articles on fishing for the Mountain Journal.
"Zane tipped me onto Timberland. I've done real well going long on backpacks and water." Tony lowered his voice. "Things aren't going so great now, as you know. And in addition to everything else, my taste buds are shot."
Sam murmured, "Yours and everyone else's in that firm." They were the first words he'd spoken.
Marla put a friendly hand on Tony's elbow. "Honey, if I'd put jalapeno jelly on English muffins every morning for the last ten years, my taste buds would be gone, too. It's one of the laws of food."
Tony removed Marla's hand from his elbow. "Will you stop?" Now he gave me the full benefit of his dark brown eyes. "I need you to be honest, Goldy. If you approve of Sam's offerings, I'll round up the cash so he can open two more locations." He paused. "Actually, you need to do more than approve...."
Marla flapped a hand in my direction. "You need to love it, Goldy. You need to say it's going to be the next nationwide rage. Like Mrs. Field's, right, Tone?" Tony shrugged. "Like Starbucks," she whispered.
I didn't dare look at Sam. Outside, rain fell. The birders gingerly trod through the soggy wetlands. I lifted the spoon and took another bite. No better. I tried the Big Cheese Chowder; it was lumpy and if there was cheddar in the soup, it was barely discernible. I moved on to Terrapin Tom's Tomato. My own homemade tomato soup boasts the rich, sweet smell of fresh tomatoes, combined with a thick, smooth texture. Sam's tomato soup was thin and indeterminately spicy. Well, I had my integrity. I'd finally tasted, and I'd found the soups wanting. I felt Tony's glare but said nothing. And Marla's best friend or no, I wasn't going to taste the chocolate.
I glanced back toward the kitchen, but the chef was nowhere in sight. At this very moment he might be concentrating on his commercial-sized Hobart as it beat ponds of cream sauce with broth into soups that he fervently hoped would make him a multimillionaire. Maybe he believed money would bail him out of being stuck in the kitchen. I doubted both.
Tony impatiently spread his fingers on the rim of the empty dish in front of him. "Look, Goldy. Just tell me. Everybody says these soups are great. Gonna be the next craze. Lowfat, rib-sticking, but..." He chewed the inside of his cheek to find the right word, then brightened. "Lowfat, rib-sticking, but delish. There've been articles in local papers. Pretty soon all kinds of venture capital folks will be itching to get in here. Once this thing takes off: it'll be too late. I want to get in on the ground floor. Know what I mean? Understand? Comprende?"
"I guess I don't," I said honestly.
Sam Perdue pressed his thin lips together. His terrified expression had turned resentful.
"I may have missed Boston Chicken," Tony continued insistently, as if I had not spoken. He picked up a three-pronged fork and tapped the table in time with his next words. "And I may have missed Outback Steakhouse. But I am not going to miss Sam's Soups. So tell me. Tell me that these journalists are right." He scrutinized my face, the dark mustache aquiver. I took another spoonful of the cheese chowder and closed my eyes. I rolled my tongue over the lukewarm melange of ingredients. There was a hint of cheese, yes, but the mixture was not smooth, creamy, or light, not to mention redolent of cheese, whether it was fine Swiss or sharp cheddar. Even I had a better recipe for cheese soup than this. I swallowed and sighed. Every muscle in Tony's taut, expectant face rolled, tightened, and rolled again, like cables on a high-speed ski lift. Should I take another sip of the tomato, I wondered, smile, close my eyes, swallow? Venture a fourth bite? What happened if I frowned and delicately set the spoon aside? Would he really holler at me?
"Well - " I began.
"She doesn't like it," Marla interrupted with a fluttering of bejeweled fingers. She put one chubby hand on Tony's forearm. He jerked away. "Give it a rest, Tony. Come on."
Sam Perdue, his face a mottled study of anger, scraped his chair back, stood, and silently marched away. Marla's efforts to mollify Tony were unsuccessful. When he made one short, fierce shake of his head, she sent a hopeful gaze around the restaurant.
"I want to lose money," she said brightly. "I know how to throwaway more than we've already allowed to slip past. Hey, Tony! All we have to do is invest in a restaurant producing food that Goldy thinks is garbage."
"Damn it, Marla!" Tony snapped. Then he relented and rubbed her hand. "Don't get in the middle of this, sweetie. If it's no good, we're not going to invest in it. Okay?"
I could practically hear her purr at his saccharine attentions. Fool! I wanted to shout, but did not. Tony sighed gustily and dipped a clean spoon into the chocolate soup. He didn't look at me as he put the spoon loaded with dark stuff on my plate.
"Hey Tony, what am I, a kid?" I demanded. "Don't you think I can feed myself?"
"No, you're not a kid," he said quietly, still not meeting my gaze. "In fact, I hear you're the right-hand woman to the county's number one investigator."
"Yeah, too bad he doesn't investigate soups, right?" I parried. I eyed the chocolate, which was dark and velvety-looking. When the Aztecs had named chocolate "food of the gods," they'd been onto something. I didn't want to imagine, much less experience, how Sam's chef had wrecked it.