A Catered Tea Party

A CATERED MURDER
A CATERED WEDDING
A CATERED CHRISTMAS
A CATERED VALENTINE'S DAY
A CATERED HALLOWEEN
A CATERED BIRTHDAY PARTY
A CATERED THANKSGIVING
A CATERED ST. PATRICK'S DAY
A CATERED CHRISTMAS COOKIE EXCHANGE
A CATERED FOURTH OF JULY
A CATERED MOTHER'S DAY
A CATERED TEA PARTY

 

 

A Mystery with Recipes

ISIS CRAWFORD

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Longely is an imaginary community, as are all its inhabitants. Any resemblance to people either living or dead is pure coincidence.

 

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

 

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

 

Copyright © 2016 by Isis Crawford

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

 

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016933902

ISBN: 978-1-6177-3333-8

ISBN-10: 1-61773-333-4

First Kensington Hardcover Edition: September 2016

 

eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-334-5
eISBN-10: 1-61773-334-2

First Kensington Electronic Edition: September 2016

 

 

L
udvoc Zalinsky looked at his creation and saw that it was good. It had taken him seven months to create The Blue House instead of seven days, but then God hadn't had to contend with the Longely Planning Commission or the unions. Zalinsky smiled as he rearranged his top hat on his head. The thing was heavier than he thought it would be, but the costumer he'd bought it from had assured him that this hat was the one that had been used in the 2008 off-off Broadway production of
Alice in Wonderland
.

He gave the hat another tap, then readjusted the lapels of his waistcoat. Yes, indeedy. This was going to be the opening to end all openings, the gala to end all galas, the art event of the year. The Blue House was going to become The Place to Be. People would come from the city to experience the art exhibitions, the plays, the concerts, and he would be remembered as the man who created it. Zalinsky frowned briefly as he remembered what that twit had said to him after he'd won the bidding for the Yixing stoneware teapot.

So what if he'd paid two million dollars for it? For heaven's sake, what was the point of living the life if you couldn't get what you wanted? He had wanted the teapot for his collection, and he'd acquired it. Simple as that. He'd wanted it to be showcased in his production of
Alice in Wonderland,
and it was. Who cared what that idiot Cumberbatch, his director, said? So what if it didn't fit in with the set design? It fit in with his plans, plans Cumberbatch knew nothing about.

Zalinsky made a rude noise as he remembered the conversation. Set design! What kind of garbage excuse was that? Ridiculous. Where was it written that you couldn't set the table with Chinese pottery and English sterling silver? Nowhere, that's where. The whole idea of this production was to showcase the damned teapot. To let everyone admire it. And it was a draw. A big draw.

People were coming to see it. I mean how often did a two-million-dollar teapot turn up in a play? Never. That's how often. This was a first. Why else would people be coming? It certainly wasn't to see
Alice in Wonderland,
for God's sake, and to insure that nothing happened to the Yixing he'd hired two guards to keep an eye on it for the evening, which added to the drama. Zalinsky smiled when he thought about what was going to happen, the thing that only he and one other person knew about—and that person wasn't Casper Cumberbatch. Cumberbatch. A man with ideas above his station. He'd only hired him because he was cheap.

Alice in Wonderland
as a live play. It was brilliant. The actors would be drinking tea and eating onstage. Then the audience would have their meal and have a chance to interact with the cast, an event he was looking forward to since he'd cast himself as the Mad Hatter. After all, he'd written the play. Or should he say rewritten the play? No, he'd improved the play, giving it a more modern feel, so why shouldn't he be in it as well?

And he was pretty good as the Mad Hatter, if he did say so himself. He was a regular . . . what was that fancy French word . . .
auteur
. He'd recreated himself. He'd gone from starving in Moscow to major success in America. America, the land of opportunity. And how had he done it? By being smarter than everyone else, that's how. Look how he'd financed The Blue House. He rubbed his hands together, thinking of what was coming next. The pinnacle of his career, really.

It just went to show that appearance was everything. It was the appearance of wealth that mattered, not the actuality. People thought he was a billionaire, so he was, even if he wasn't. Why? Because he was confident. Because he behaved the way a billionaire would behave. Because he dressed the part.

Art, writing, acting—they weren't so hard. He didn't know what all the fuss was about. From what he could see, anyone could do those things. All you had to do was make stuff up. It wasn't like juggling all the balls in the air the way he was doing. If he made a mistake, he'd go to jail. Not that that would happen because he had that eventuality covered as well.

All this criticism from the cast and crew. All this negativity. Those people were giving him a headache. He wished they'd just shut up and do what he told them to, which, come to think of it, they were! After all, everyone, and that included that idiot of a director, was in the play because he told them they were going to be. Except for the Simmons sisters. Them he'd had to pay. Unfortunately. Because they were impossible.

They just went on and on and on about the cohesion of menu choices, but he was damned if he wasn't going to have the kind of food he wanted served. So what if he'd kept on changing the menu around? Wasn't that the sign of a great mind? Anyway, the sisters were being paid enough to deal with it. More than they were worth, actually.

Zalinsky consulted his watch. Six-thirty. One hour before the theater doors to the house opened and the audience trooped in. It was time to adjourn to the backstage lounge, the lounge he'd been kind enough to build, and give the cast members a pep talk before the play began. But before that he had to find his damned gloves. He knew where he'd put them, but they weren't there now. Which was aggravating because he absolutely needed them. He took a deep breath to calm himself down. It wouldn't hurt if he practiced his welcoming speech one more time either. He wanted it to be perfect. After all, there was a chance it might be quoted in Sunday's
New York Times
.

And it was, though not in the way Zalinsky had in mind.

S
ean Simmons, Bernie and Libby's father, was sitting front row center in The Blue House theater watching the amateur theater production of
Alice in Wonderland
. It was twenty minutes into act one, and Sean was not a happy camper. Of course, the fact that he hadn't wanted to be here in the first place, that he was just doing this as a favor to his daughters, might have something to do with his reaction to the play, but judging from the whispering he heard going on around him, the rest of the audience felt the same way he did. If he were a reviewer he'd give the play a minus zero.

For the last ten minutes, Sean had watched Alice chase the March Hare and the Queen of Hearts around a table set for tea, and the only reason Sean could see for that piece of stagecraft was that it highlighted Zalinsky's teapot. Why anyone would pay two million dollars for that thing was beyond him, but then he wasn't a billionaire.

While Sean was thinking about what he would do if he was a billionaire, he watched the two rent-a-cops who had been guarding the doors to the house march down the aisles and take up new positions on the top steps that led up to the stage. Now they stood facing the audience, arms crossed over their bulletproof vests, at the ready to deter anyone from doing a run-and-grab with the teapot. Like that was going to happen.

In Sean's professional opinion, the whole security drama being enacted was ludicrous, but he supposed that the thing about being a billionaire was that you could do whatever you wanted, hence the pierogies being distributed to the audience. The pierogies! Good God, he'd heard about them for the last two weeks. He'd heard about how bad serving them would make his daughters look, about what a jerk Zalinsky was, about what a bad recipe Zalinksy's mother had used. And then there'd been the tastings. Endless. If he never saw another one of those damned dumplings again, it wouldn't be a moment too soon.

Sean sighed and looked at his watch. He was just thinking that maybe he could find an excuse to leave after act one when Ellen Crestfield turned and whispered in his ear how much she was enjoying the play. Then she squeezed his hand. He mustered up a smile, but he didn't squeeze Ellen Crestfield's hand back. Instead, he freed it and began studying the playbill.

It wasn't that he didn't like Ellen Crestfield. Ellen Crestfield was a very nice woman, but she was, as the saying goes, dull as dishwater, and he had no intention of entering into a relationship with her. He wouldn't have even cared about going to the gala with her if Libby hadn't arranged it to get him away from Michelle. Sean knew that Libby thought she was being clever. She thought he didn't know what she and Bernie were up to; she thought he didn't know what they thought of Michelle, but she was wrong on all counts.

Sean knew alright. His daughters didn't like Michelle—not even a little bit—but Sean was damned if he could figure out why. He would have thought that all of them being in the same business would have given Michelle and his daughters something to talk about. Michelle said his daughters were just jealous. Maybe they were. Maybe Michelle was right, although he didn't think so, but what did he know? He fanned himself with the playbill. He'd admit it: when it came to women he didn't know a lot. He'd been married to Rose for almost thirty years, and he hadn't understood her any better on the day she'd died than on the day they'd gotten married. He'd loved her, but he hadn't understand her.

As Sean turned his attention back to the stage and watched Alice, the March Hare, and the Queen of Hearts do what must be their tenth lap around the stage, he noticed Libby and Bernie peeking out at him from the curtain on the left. Libby waggled her fingers back and forth, and Sean reciprocated and forced a smile.

* * *

“Dad's not happy,” Libby said to Bernie as she let the curtain drop.

“Told you that you shouldn't have foisted Ellen on him,” her sister replied.

“Then what would you suggest?” Libby demanded.

“Waiting,” Bernie said. “Michelle will screw up.”

Libby shook her head. “I can't believe Dad is that dumb. What does he see in her?”

Bernie wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead. God, it was hot in there. “What do you think he sees in her? She laughs at his jokes, and she's twenty years younger than he is.”

“Eighteen.”

“Whatever.”

“She's using him!”

“I don't think Dad sees it that way, and even if he did, I don't think he cares. In fact, let me go further. In this particular instance, I think he's happy being used.” Bernie looked at her watch and cursed under her breath. They had to get going. In fifteen minutes, Erin (aka Alice) and Hsaio (aka The Dormouse) were going to pick up platters of pierogies from the prop table, re-enter stage right, walk down the steps into the audience, and offer the pierogies to the people sitting in the front rows.

While that was happening, the stage would go dark, and Zalinsky would take his teapot to the kitchen, fill it and a thermos up with hot water from the electric kettle, return to the stage, and start brewing the tea for the tea party. That was the plan.

Originally there had been no eating and drinking onstage, but Zalinsky had insisted that the tea party be “realistic.” He wanted to both brew tea in his teapot and drink it, which of course created a whole slew of logistical problems for poor Casper. Bernie just hoped that Zalinsky didn't trip getting to and from the kitchen because it was going to be pitch-black backstage, and there were wires and cables snaking all over the floor.

“Can you imagine if Zalinsky dropped the teapot?” Bernie asked Libby, making sure to keep her voice low so it wouldn't carry out to the audience.

“Poof.” Libby made a disappearing gesture with her hands. “Two million dollars gone, just like that.”

“I don't think I'd drink out of it.”

“I don't think I'd buy it.”

“This is true. But you're not a collector.”

“Even if I was . . .” Bernie's voice trailed off as she looked at her watch again. “We have to get going.” They had two more scenes before it was time for the tea party. In scene number one, Alice bopped the Queen of Hearts with a croquet ball, and in scene number two, Tweedledee and Tweedledum recited their poem.

“I know,” Libby said as she fanned herself with a playbill. She figured it was over ninety inside the theater. It was dark enough backstage as it was. When the lights went out they wouldn't be able to see anything. “I just hope we don't drop those damned platters.”

“You and me both, sister,” Bernie said as she turned and headed toward the galley kitchen.

Not only did she and her sister have to deal with the pierogies, they had to finish setting up for the high tea they were serving after the play. By Bernie's reckoning, they just had enough time to heat up the pierogies, arrange them on the platters, pour the milk into the silver creamer, which was also going on the tea table, and make sure the electric kettle had been plugged in before the stage went dark.

Five minutes later, Libby and Bernie were out the kitchen door. They were halfway to the prop table when the stage lights went out. Libby cursed under her breath.
Please don't let me drop the pierogies,
she silently prayed. She bit her tongue in concentration as she walked. She'd taken about twenty steps when she saw something in front of her that looked even darker than the surroundings. An object? Maybe a table? She wasn't sure.
It doesn't matter what it is,
she told herself.
Just go around it
. Which she did. She was just congratulating herself on not banging into it when she tripped on something on the floor.

“Damn,” she cried as the platter tipped.

“Sssh,” Bernie said.

“I'm trying,” Libby replied as she righted the platter. She didn't think any of the pierogies had fallen on the floor. At least she hoped not. It was hard to tell because she couldn't see them. She'd just taken another step when someone brushed by her, jostling her arm. “Watch it,” she hissed.

“Then get out of the way,” a person Libby decided must be a techie hissed back.

Libby bit back her retort and concentrated on getting to where she was supposed to go. She was almost at the prop table. By the time she got there, Bernie had already arrived and Erin and Hsaio were waiting for her.

“The lights are about to go on,” Erin whispered as Libby put the platter on the table.

“I know,” Libby whispered back.

A moment later they did.

Erin looked at the stage. Her eyes widened. “Where's Zalinsky?”

Bernie shook her head. She had no idea.

“He's supposed to be onstage by now,” Hsaio noted, a hint of panic in her voice.

“Maybe he's still in the kitchen,” Bernie suggested.

“Why the hell should he be in the kitchen?” Erin demanded. She was pissed. She hadn't wanted to do this play in the first place. “He should be sitting at the damned table brewing tea in that stupid teapot of his.”

“I'll go look,” Hsaio volunteered. Her tone was placating.

“Why don't you ask Casper what he wants to do in the meantime?” Bernie said to Erin. She could hear the audience getting restless.

Erin put her hands on her hips. “Do you see him around here?” she asked, jutting out her chin.

“No,” Bernie allowed, which she thought was odd. She could have sworn she'd seen him near the prop table fiddling around with the Caterpillar's hookah ten minutes ago.

“Good, because neither do I,” Erin replied. She turned to Hsaio. “Hurry up so we can start giving out the pierogies.”

“I'm going, I'm going. No need to be unpleasant,” Hsaio told her.

“I wasn't being unpleasant,” Erin countered. “But we need to get this show on the road.”

“Like I'm not aware of that,” Hsaio huffed as she turned and headed toward the kitchen.

Great, Bernie thought as she watched Hsaio retreating into the backstage gloom. Now the pierogies will be cold on top of everything else. She peeked out around the curtain. The audience was definitely restless. They were leaning over and talking to one another while they fanned themselves with their playbills. She could hear phrases like “a waste of my time” and “when will this be over?” floating in the air.

Libby bit at her nail, realized what she was doing, and stopped. “I hope Zalinsky hurries up,” she said.

“Me too,” Erin agreed, shifting the platter of pierogies from one hand to another so she could pull down her skirt. Every time she moved, the dratted thing rode up. It was extremely annoying.

“I'll go see what's happening,” Bernie offered.

“Hsaio already went,” Erin pointed out.

“Maybe she needs help,” Bernie replied. She couldn't stay still any longer. She had to do something.

She was halfway to the kitchen when someone screamed.