The Whole Enchilada (25 page)

I said, “He can't outsource catering.”

“What a relief,” Marla said. “Now, what else do we need?”

Neil Unger's maid had told me the Ungers had their own silverware, china, and crystal. The maid had also told me that Mr. Unger had ordered all the floral arrangements for “his little girl.” Like Julian, I picked up on vibes. The maid didn't like Neil Unger any more than Julian had. And Ophelia believed her father was hiding money that belonged to her . . . and she was having Brewster help her find it.

Marla asked if my leg was healed enough for me to drive my van. I told her it was, and she said she would keep me company. “The better to figure out a strategy for when the you-know-what hits the fan tonight,” she said lightheartedly, once we'd shoved the last box into Julian's Range Rover.

“Just give me a minute,” I replied. A quick phone call to Arch confirmed that he and Sergeant Jones had arrived at Goodyear. The cop was waiting patiently with him, and would accompany him to Gus's place.

“Does Sergeant Jones
have
to be with me tomorrow?” Arch whispered. “I've been thinking about it, and I'm afraid the other kids will laugh at me.”

“Tom says yes. Sorry. She knows how to be unobtrusive.”

Arch had not yet started AP English, but I was sure he knew the meaning of
unobtrusive,
especially since he had a mother who was decidedly the opposite.

Before Marla and I could chat, the cell rang: Tom.

“Are you all right?” he wanted to know. I assured him that I was fine. Boyd was with us on our way to the Unger mansion. Tom's tone turned resigned. “Our crime-scene guys are reporting to me in a little while.”

“We'll be okay,” I said. “Anything on George Ingleby?”

“He was in surgery. Then he lawyered up. I'm trying to think of a way to get his medical records, to see about this sterility business.” Frustration made Tom sound uncharacteristically anxious. “I'm just worried about you, Miss G.”

“I keep telling you, we'll be fine. Boyd's with us. And remember, Neil Unger is the fiercest gun-rights advocate in the county. He probably has a conceal-carry permit. If anybody tries to hurt someone at the party for
his little girl,
I'm sure he'll pull out a twenty-two. Maybe something bigger.”

Tom said, “That does not make me feel better.”

“I'm trying,” I said, and we signed off.

20

O
n the winding, seven-mile drive to the home where Ophelia lived with her father and stepmother, Marla gave me the background on the house, which I had visited only once, to see how we would set things up. The Unger place had been built fifteen years before. Craning her neck as we began our climb, she said the expansive stucco manse, from the Taco Bell School of Architecture, was only occasionally visible from the road. But it wasn't long before I could afford no glimpses upward; I was just trying to manage the dirt road.

“So,” Marla said, “you've seen the place already?”

“Just briefly, because Ophelia was due home from one of her clothes-shopping expeditions. We signed the contract. Neil gave me a check and ushered me out. Remember, this is, or was, supposed to be a surprise, so he didn't want me hanging around. But Neil thought she found out about the party, then figured it was still a go. Nevertheless, Ophelia told me at church that she knew the party was happening. She didn't seem to care much.”

“So you've never had to deal with Neil Unger before?”

“Just once, but not at his house. He paid me well, but didn't want to tip, which was what Julian discovered.”

Marla whistled. “He is a cheapskate. When I called to say I was helping you tonight, instead of being a guest, I made sure to say that I was
volunteering
.”

The switchbacks became acute. We were climbing an extra two thousand feet above Aspen Meadow to arrive at what old-timers simply dubbed The Peak. Tourist operators in the forties had christened the mountain Sunset Peak, because of the three-hundred-sixty-degree vista from the summit. Since the blazing sunsets were reputedly spectacular, busloads of tourists had started trekking up from Denver. But the mountainous road was perilous. No guardrails bordered its sides.

A bus was lost over the mountainside in the sixties, with thirty-two lives lost. The road was closed for years. There had been only muted local opposition to Neil Unger's acquisition of the top third of the mountain. The purchase had coincided with the death by cancer of Ophelia's mother and perhaps with Neil Unger making a killing in foreign-made uniforms. And—maybe with a bribe or two in place, I now surmised as the van's tires threw dust each time we made a hairpin turn—Neil had convinced some government department that it was much too dangerous for buses ever again to mount the road to the peak. With the advent of gambling in two historic Colorado towns, the tourists had taken their shekels elsewhere. Sunset Peak was renamed The Peak.

We finally arrived in a cloud of sun-glittered dust at a carved wooden sign, its background painted red, the letters white. It read
PRIVATE ROAD NO ENTRY.
The switchbacks had been emotionally draining, so I stopped to rest, then looked toward the Continental Divide. The sun slid toward the mountains between pink layers of cloud. I could just make out Aspen Meadow Lake, a tiny patch of silver far away. My cell phone buzzed: Julian.

“You all right, Goldy?” Boyd's voice.

“Fine. Traumatized by that drive, but fine.”

“Julian wants to know if you're aware of how to get to the service entrance.”

“Uh, no.”

“Let him take the lead, then. The Ungers' paved driveway starts a little ways up, and you can follow him to where we need to be.”

Julian overtook me. We wended our way carefully upward until we landed on pavement. I found myself breathing a bit easier. Eventually we came to the beige stucco residence, which looked more like a hotel than a house. It boasted a three-story, windowed main section flanked by two-story wings. Red-tile roofs and ornately carved double doors completed the imposing sight.

Two vehicles were parked in front. Brewster Motley's silver-gray BMW I knew. The other car was a silver Mercedes convertible. When we were ten yards from the Mercedes, Bob Rushwood got out, leaned against the hood, and crossed his arms. He'd showered and changed into a somber gray suit. Unfortunately he looked completely ticked off. He held out an arm. Julian ignored him and kept on driving. I stopped and buzzed my window down.

“Yes, Bob?”

“She still won't see me.”

Marla leaned across the space between the seats. “Do we look like advice columnists?”

“Could you take me around back and let me in through the kitchen?”

“No,” said Marla. “Do you have any idea how much trouble we would get into if we—”

“All right, never mind.” He shook his head. “I've already called Ophelia's father. He's on his way. I was supposed to keep Ophelia away from the house until the party, but I guess her father will have to convince her to come out.”

“Bob,” Marla said sagely, “if you're already relying on the father of your prospective bride to bring her into line, it might be a good time to rethink the whole marriage thing.” Before he could reply, she said to me, “Step on it, Goldy.”

Which I did, a bit too forcefully. We lurched forward and eventually came around to the back of the house, where Julian and Boyd were standing by a plain red door. Julian was speaking into an intercom. He shook his head at me, exasperated. Whoever was inside wanted our driver's licenses slid through a mail slot. I hadn't met the maid, only talked to her on the phone. Apparently, she was being very careful with the caterers her boss had hired.

Boyd, Julian, Marla, and I all extracted licenses and pushed them through. It must have been Boyd's sheriff's department ID that got the door quickly opened.

The gray-haired maid waiting for us was unsmiling. “I'm Violet. Mr. Unger is not going to be happy,” she warned.

“About what?” I shot back. “Us showing up on time? Us showing up at all?”

“He wanted the party to be a surprise,” she replied.

“I
didn't spill the beans,” I replied. After that drive up the mountain to get here, I was
not
going to be intimidated.

Talk about being surprised, though: Ophelia Unger, dressed in a dazzling, bead-embroidered, lime silk dress that actually fit her perfectly, shimmied down the hall. She apologized for the delay. “Don't be upset with us. I just don't want to see Bob yet.”

“Good plan,” said Marla as she slid past Ophelia. “Have you thought about not seeing him ever?”

“Actually—” Ophelia began, but then she stopped. By this time our team had arrived in a large kitchen where gleaming white-and-blue tiles covered the counters and backsplash beneath maple cabinets. Ophelia glanced nervously into one corner of this vast space. Brewster Motley stood leaning against the counter. He was totally relaxed, as usual. Dressed in a pink oxford-cloth shirt, madras cut-offs, and boat shoes, he shook his head at Ophelia.

“Wait until your father gets here,” he said calmly.

“Nice dress,” I said to Ophelia. “It looks new.”

“I just bought it.” Ophelia beamed. Then I noticed that her usually straggly dark hair had been fashionably highlighted and cut. Her face was impeccably made up. Tiny diamonds glittered in her ears.

“Turning twenty-one suits you,” I said. Maybe Ophelia was happy because Brewster had found her money. But she was glowing, and in my vast experience of catering to wealthy people, money usually didn't make you
glow
. I briefly wondered if what Bob had worried about was true: that Ophelia had taken up with Brewster Motley. Wasn't sleeping with clients what had gotten Warren Broome into such trouble?

Ophelia giggled nervously and put a shy hand over her mouth. I realized it was the first time I'd ever seen her smile, or, for that matter, express happiness of any kind. The metamorphosis was astonishing.

“Okay, Brewster, spill it,” Marla ordered as she whacked the cake box onto the center island, next to a neat pile of gold-edged plates. “What are you doing for our dear Ophelia here? I mean, now that she's reached her majority, are you taking advantage, and making her happy, in the process?”

Brewster allowed a small Cheshire-cat grin. “You know I would never do that. And aren't you supposed to be a guest at this party, not a caterer?”

“Light is both wave and particle,” Marla replied serenely. “I can be both guest and server. But I already called Neil and told him I was just helping Goldy.”

Ophelia giggled
again
. Violet cleared her throat.

“Uh, everybody?” Julian interrupted. “As cool and teen-slumber-partyish as this all feels? We have to know which refrigerators to use, and to see the table, the grill, the wine, the crystal, and everything else. Please,” he added.

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Ophelia, back to her usual solemn self. “We just have the one refrigerator.” The maid opened the door to it, and we got busy.

Over the next half hour, we were periodically interrupted by the sound of Bob ringing the doorbell or talking through the intercom. “Please, dear Ophelia,” he said. It was clear he was trying to sound calm and cool. “Please let me take you out for a drink. One drink. Then we can come back. This is supposed to be a
surprise
party.”

Ophelia lifted her chin in defiance and disappeared with Brewster to “iron out last-minute details,” whatever that meant. Violet seemed to smile. Or was I imagining it? Bob continued calling into the intercom, but no one answered. Violet shook her head, and offered no explanation.

Violet showed us the long table that she had set, on a glassed-in porch that overlooked the Continental Divide. I noted that one entire wall was constructed of moss rock, with a fireplace and TV built in. The grill was actually part of the massive countertop stove in the kitchen itself.

Julian had barely said, “Okay, we're ready,” when a low rumbling sound indicated a mechanized garage door being opened. “Uh-oh,” Julian said. “Beware the ogre.”

“Why?” asked Boyd, his first words in a while.

“The man is a terror,” Julian replied. Violet nodded in silent, but vigorous, agreement.

“Then it'll be interesting,” Boyd said mildly.

We could hear Neil Unger storming up a distant set of stairs. He was bellowing for Ophelia, who made no sign of responding. I wondered where the birthday girl and Brewster had concealed themselves.

Francie Unger, whom I knew only by sight, wandered into the kitchen, looking bewildered. Fortyish, with heavy blond hair and a slender build, she was well known in the gossipy, fund-raising, country-club set. She wore a tweed skirt, a pullover, and golf shoes, which she wrenched off. She asked, “Will somebody please tell me what is going on?” When none of us answered, she narrowed her eyes at our team. “Marla? Aren't you early?”

“I'm helping Goldy.” Marla's arm swept out in a courtly gesture. “Your caterer.”

Francie looked genuinely perplexed. “But why are you here
now
?”

“Uh, because Goldy's my friend and needed me? Didn't Neil tell you I was serving, and not eating?”

Francie still wore a mask of puzzlement. When Bob Rushwood began talking into the intercom again, she disappeared to let him in. Meanwhile, Ophelia hustled Brewster out the back door with a whispered warning that he should avoid Bob, drive down the hill, and wait. She would text him when she needed him. A moment later, she whisked back into the kitchen and winked at us, just as Bob came in and took in her dazzling appearance.

“Oh, my God,” he said, thunderstruck. “What . . . happened to you? Is this because of that . . . BMW guy?”

“That BMW guy was my fashion and beauty consultant,” Ophelia lied, smiling broadly. “Do you like what he picked out for me?”

“I do,” said Bob. He showed no remorse for his earlier ill temper, only bewilderment mixed with suspicion. “So . . . that's what you've been up to with him?”

“Of course,” said Ophelia. “I wanted to surprise you. Now, can you wait in the library while I go talk to Dad and Francie?”

“There aren't any books on fitness in there,” Bob complained. He recovered some of his usual smoothness, though, and warned Ophelia in a conspirational murmur, “Remember to tell them it wasn't my fault you figured out about the surprise party.” Ophelia nodded, and Violet led Bob away.

There was some thumping and door slamming in the far reaches of the house, and then, apparently, either reconciliation or acceptance of defeat. Ophelia had probably sold the fashion-and-beauty-consultant story to her father. When the noises of acrimony were replaced by the sounds of water gushing through pipes, I took it as a good sign. An even better one was the fact that nobody reappeared in the kitchen.

The doorbell rang at six, and Violet scurried off to answer it. Julian readied the iced champagne bucket and drinks tray. Boyd and I removed the appetizers from the refrigerator, something Julian had thought at the last minute that we would need: deviled eggs topped with halved Greek olives. Marla washed her hands and carefully placed the starters on a platter rimmed with the egg-and-dart pattern.

“Should I start passing these out?” she asked nervously.

“Sure,” I said.

And so the evening got going. The guests, who, I assumed, were friends of Neil and Francie's, hid in the living room and burst out with “Surprise!” when Ophelia appeared. She thanked them quickly, then walked purposefully to the porch. It was there that Neil held court, giving everyone a lecture about politics, whether they wanted to hear it or not. Ophelia did not reappear in the kitchen. Bob hovered around her on the porch, and I wondered if he'd bought her “fashion and beauty consultant” story.

There was no sign of Brewster.

When I went back to the porch to begin clearing the hors d'oeuvre plates, I saw Francie down the second half of what I sensed was not her first glass of wine. I overheard her murmur to Ophelia, “You look so nice, dear. And that is a welcome change. Did you finally use the clothing money your father has been giving you?”

“Yes,” said Ophelia.