Dying to Get Published (2 page)

"I hear a
but
. What's the
but
?"

"You're new to the business?"

"Yes," she whispered in the innocent voice.

"Are you old enough to drink?"

"Why no, and I wouldn't even if I could. But I can vote."

"No one should be dealing with Penney Richmond unless they can have a stiff martini afterward. That woman will have you for breakfast. Stay away from her. There're too many good agents out there for you to get mixed up with her. And if you repeat any of this to anyone, I'll deny it." The phone went dead.

A smile twitched at the corners of Jennifer's mouth. She ignored the nibbles Muffy was directing at her bare toes dangling from the edge of the bed. She had something far more important on her mind. Penney Richmond passed condition four. She was a true career S.O.B.

Chapter 3

Jennifer grasped the sleek handle of the meat cleaver and lifted it above her head. In one swift, clean motion she brought it down, slicing through sinew and splattering the whiteness of her apron with blood.

"What a mess!" Dee Dee exclaimed. "Don't put so much strength into the blow. You need to keep most of the motion in the wrist. If you do, you won't get blood all over my kitchen."

She took the cleaver from Jennifer, picked up a large knife, and carefully sliced the boneless beef roast, placing each piece in a large baking pan.

"I told you I wasn't any good at this," Jennifer complained, wiping her hands on a paper towel.

"You're acting like a three-year-old. I bet you used to break the dishes to get out of washing them."

"I only tried it once. I didn't get an allowance for two months, and I still had to do the dishes. But I never signed on to do beef. Our agreement was clear—I do most of the vegetables and appetizers; you take care of the meat and the potatoes. You can't expect a vegetarian to warm up to roasted flesh."

Dee Dee threw her a soapy dish rag. "We've only got four hours to get this order done. I'll throw the sauce on the beef, and you start on the vegetable tray. Our clients aren't vegetarians. They don't want any of your tofu or soy substitutes."

"Then they're barbarians."

"That's Mr. and Mrs. Big Bucks Barbarians to you, my dear friend. So get with it!"

Jennifer carefully blotted the blood with the wet rag. Was human blood so easy to clean up? A simple wipe and all evidence disappeared into the warm cloth, leaving a perfectly clean counter. If she could only catch Penney Richmond reclining on Formica.

"Are you doing the parsley wreath with carrot and radish roses and turnip daisies?" Dee Dee asked.

"You don't use both kinds of roses on the same wreath. It leads to sensory confusion. Roses have to taste the same. You give each vegetable the shape of a different flower."

"Fine. Whatever. Create and be done with it. I'll put the potatoes on to boil."

Jennifer took a twelve-inch foam ring, covered it in plastic wrap, and placed it atop a bed of lettuce on a silver tray. Deftly, she transformed the circle into a parsley wreath. She could make a larger one and drape it with a sash: REST IN PEACE, PENNEY. She could send it to the viewing and leave her card under the doily. The police would find it amusing, clever. They'd talk about her down at the precinct. That would be just the beginning of her fame.

But first, she had to devise a plan to rid the world of Penney Richmond—a plan that would lead the police straight to her door and to her arrest. The hard part would be creating an alibi that would clear her of the crime.

She would be arrested, her name and face splashed across every newspaper in the city. The wire services would pick it up.  Diane Sawyer, Brian Williams, and Katie Couric would utter her name in disbelief. An aspiring novelist, a victim of the system, had temporarily lost her mind. And then a week later—two, tops—the police would uncover irrefutable evidence that Jennifer Marsh could not have committed the crime. Unjustly accused, martyred for her cause, she'd be the hottest topic in the media. Her books would be published and sell wildly. She would be famous and all would be right with the world.

"You're plotting again, aren't you?" Dee Dee said. "Every time you start a new book, your eyes glaze over, you go deaf, and you fade into slow motion like one of those action heroes in a movie. Three o'clock—that's when the reception is. Three o'clock. Today. In four hours. You and me in those cute little white tuxedo shirts and black ties and black skirts. Got it?"

"I've got it. I've got it, already. I'm curling carrots, see? I'm putting them in ice water, see?"

"Come on, Jennifer. You've always got to make me out the bad guy. We need the work. Business has been really slow this winter."

"I don't mind it when business is slow."

"Of course, you don't. You don't have a husband in a dead-end job or a daughter who takes piano and dance lessons. No clients mean you have more time to write. But the books aren't bringing in any money, Jen, money for trivial things like rent, food, electric."

"I do all right."

"Jen, it's time to take a look at yourself. Writing is fine, but it can't be your whole life." Dee Dee spoke quietly, like a sage calling down to her from some high mountain. 

Get off it, Jennifer thought. Dee Dee was only two years older than she.

"You owe it to yourself. You owe it…" Here it comes, Jennifer thought—Dee Dee's about to play her trump card. "…you owe it to Jaimie."

"Don't bring Jaimie into this!"

"Jaimie needs a father."

"Jaimie doesn't exist."

"You talk like it does."

"Don't call Jaimie an
it
."

"Just how do you expect me to deal with Jaimie's gender ambiguity? Jaimie needs a pronoun, and the only way for him, her, whatever, to get one is a process we call conception and birth, and that's one process you can't intellectualize. If that egg of yours doesn't meet the right sperm before it shrivels up, there will never be a Jaimie. You don't even date. You're always going to your critique group or off to some writer's conference—that is, when you're not holed up in that depressing little apartment of yours typing away. The only time you get out is when you go on a job with me."

"Writing is something I've got to do. I don't know any other way to explain it."

"Then do it—just do something else, too. And keep yourself open to possibilities."

"What possibilities?"

"This wedding we're going to this afternoon. Weddings always have lots of eligible men. Promise me—just keep your options open."

Jennifer rolled her eyes. It'd be a cold day in hell before she picked up some man at a wedding.

Chapter 4

He was beautiful—tall, muscular, with chiseled features and a head of sandy blonde hair—the most beautiful man Jennifer had ever seen. She could hardly take her eyes off him as the warm, afternoon sun made his hair sparkle.

"Have you ever seen anyone more gorgeous in your life?" she whispered to Dee Dee as they arranged canapés on four large, round trays at their shaded work station.

"I can't believe you!" Dee Dee sighed. "We cater a wedding and
you
fall in love with the groom. What kind of self-destructive behavior is that? But at least you're looking. I'm glad you're looking." She surveyed the wedding guests from the brick patio of the rolling ranch-style house.

"Can't you feel the electricity?"

"The only electricity you're feeling is a wayward spark from the very complete circuit that's running between the newlyweds. John Allen could have any woman he wants. Everyone knows that—including him—and he chose Lily Dawber, first runner-up in this year's Miss Georgia pageant."

"He looks even better in person than he does anchoring the news on Channel 14, don't you think?"

"He's hungry."

"What?"

"He's hungry. They're
all
hungry."

"How do you know that?"

"It says so right here on the order. Bride and groom arrive at reception site. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres served. The bride's family says they're hungry, so they're hungry. Don't blow this one for us, Jen. It's spring, an especially warm spring, and the beginning of the catering season. There're a lot of important people here, even if it is a small wedding. We could get jobs from this."

Jennifer shouldered a large platter and tacked on an artificial smile. "I'm smiling. I'm serving. I'll be back when the hungry hordes have devoured these delicacies."

She moved into the crowd clustered around the edge of the oval-shaped pool. Dee Dee was right. They were hungry. In less than five minutes she returned with her tray stripped of its contents and retrieved a second salver. "I just hope we brought enough with us," she said over her shoulder to Dee Dee. "They act like they skipped lunch."

She headed out to a group chatting next to the cherry trees which were in full bloom. "Canapé?" she asked. The cluster broke and regrouped with her at the center as they made their selections.

One distinguished-looking, white-haired man, only two inches taller than Jennifer's five foot, six inches leaned close to her ear. "These are mighty good," he told her, taking a third sample. "Do you have a card?"

"I know you," she said, her eyes widening. "You're Steve Moore, twelve o'clock news."

The man smiled, the charming, worldly smile she'd seen so often on her TV set. "That's right, little darlin', and you are…"

"Jen, that is, Jennifer Marsh of DD Catering." She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a business card.

"And I can reach you here?"

"We offer a full range of services," she stated. 

His face was a little too close to hers, and the smell of champagne on his breath suddenly engulfed her as he moved even closer to her shoulder. "You don't say."

Jennifer blushed hotly. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get some more canapés." She escaped back down the other side of the pool where she offered two guests the last of the hors d'oeuvres.

As she headed back toward the work station, she heard a voice behind her.

"Moore scare you off? Don't let the rest of us starve because some old lech was breathing down your blouse."

The heat that was fading from her face returned with full force. She whirled, the tray almost clipping the ear of a dark-haired man who looked to be in his early thirties.

"Whoa! Watch it with that thing, will ya? I can just see the headline my editor would put on that story. 'Brash Reporter Decapitated by Beautiful Caterer Wielding Unbelievably Large Tray.'"

All of the blood in Jennifer's body had now accumulated in her cheeks. "Look, I'm sorry, really sorry. Did I hit you?"

"Just grazed me was all." 

They stared at each other. There was something in those eyes, some kind mysterious inviting quality that said if she'd only give him a chance, she just might find him irresistible.

Fat chance! she thought and turned to head back to Dee Dee.

"You should watch out for Moore," he called after her, catching up to her side. "He's got a reputation for using his status as a TV anchor and that perfect smile to impress the ladies."

"You needn't worry. I'm not easily impressed."

"So I noticed."

She dropped the tray onto the table next to Dee Dee who was frantically spreading cream cheese on tiny bits of bread. The other three trays sat full.

Jennifer pulled at the elasticized bow tie at her neck. It plopped back into place. "What do you think about getting some other uniforms, something a little less revealing?"

Dee Dee stared at the crisp, pleated tuxedo shirt that was buttoned all the way up to the mandarin collar. "What did you have in mind? A gunnysack? You're an attractive woman, Jennifer, and there's nothing more appealing to a man than a woman offering food. Who was hitting on you this time?"

"Some old man from TV," she grumbled.

"And who's your friend that followed you home?" Dee Dee asked.

"Sam Culpepper,
Macon Telegraph
." He extended his hand toward Dee Dee. She opened hers. It was smeared with spiced cream cheese.

"Sorry. Dee Dee Ivers."

"You feed them," Jennifer interrupted. "I'll spread cream cheese and you feed them."

"All right," Dee Dee agreed, wiping her hands on a towel. "We'll open the buffet in about forty minutes. We only need one more tray full. And don't forget to add the prosciutto."

Dee Dee hefted a platter onto her shoulder and took off toward the crowd.

"I'd be glad to help," Sam offered.

"You can't. You're not licensed, and you haven't had a TB test." Jennifer slapped the spread onto a small rectangle of bread, added black olive slices, rolled it up, and stuck a tooth pick through it.

"You forgot the ham," Sam said.

"No, I didn't," Jennifer assured him.