Killer Pancake

I said, “Let’s try to have run in spite of Tom’s stunt. We’re still going to make a lot of money tonight.”

“Then it’s fun by definition,” he said grimly.

When I came out to the living room with the loaves, the guests, all clad in some variation of red, white, and blue, were chatting amiably. Tony Royce, resplendent in a bright red shirt, navy bandanna, and white pants, had had the guts to invite another woman to replace Marla. His date was plump and fortyish, her bleached-blond hair held up in two perky pigtails. Her outfit matched Tony’s. Although I didn’t know her, something about her said wealthy widow. Too bad for Tony that his brownies were still in my walk-in refrigerator, along with the turkey curry. Reggie Hotchkiss, playing the part of casual cool rich guy, wore blue jeans and a shirt printed with a collage of the American flag. In my role as servant, I didn’t dare tell Reg that his apparel came off as unpatriotic But I couldn’t have enlightened him anyway, as Reg made a great point of giving me his back when I offered him the platter of focaccia wedges. La-de-da, I thought. So much for sympathizing with the proletariat.

I did feel sorry for Charles Braithwaite, however, who had either forgotten or not cared to dress in the national colors mandated by his wife. Well, I thought the dress code was a pretty corny idea too. Charles didn’t appear to have an opinion. With his long, lanky frame still completely clothed in khaki, he seemed oblivious. It was clear Charlie-baby would rather be in his greenhouse, or on safari with the French Foreign Legion—anywhere but here. By the time I reached him with the focaccia tray, he was slumped by a silk-draped corner window listening with a pained expression to Tony Royce’s date. She was complaining about how impossible it was to grow orchids indoors in Colorado. They just seem to know they’re not in a rain forest, she lamented. Charles groaned sadly, as if he’d give anything to be in the rain forest.

I whisked back out to the kitchen, added broth to the Arborio rice speckled with garlic and onion, stirred, and then helped Julian ladle chilled, chunky gazpacho into cold soup bowls. After sprinkling the soup with chopped scallions, I placed the bowls around the dining room table, then hustled back to the kitchen to add more broth to the risotto. I wiggled a spoon through the mixture, tossed homemade croutons for the salad in a mixture of olive oil and melted butter, stirred the risotto again, tossed the salad, and stirred more broth into the risotto. When Julian headed off to move the guests through the soup course, I stepped out on the deck to grill extra Portobello mushrooms and curse Tom Schulz. Forget the idea of making up over a romantic dinner. He’d have to pay for this little trick with a weekend at the Broadmoor.

In the fading light, the view of Aspen Meadow and the lake was even more spectacular than when we arrived. As the sun slipped rapidly behind the mountains to the west, a few rays backlit brilliant pink skeins of cloud. Darkness, and the fireworks, were just over ah hour away. I flipped the large mushroom caps and allowed my eyes to rest on the gently sloping acreage around the house. Two paths led from the house to the lower grounds. About a hundred yards down, Charles’s greenhouse was separated from a small garden filled with lawn chairs by a split rail fence twined with rosebushes. It was these, I surmised, that must have provided the blooms for Babs’s bedroom. Beyond the knoll, the roads coming into Aspen Meadow were already clogged with firework spectators from Denver.

Julian had cleared the soup bowls and finished arranging the salads when I returned with the mushrooms. He served the salads while I stirred the remaining ingredients into the steaming risotto. Plump shrimp were nestled invitingly between chunks of sherry-soaked Portobello mushrooms in the bed of luscious, creamy rice. Julian had steamed fresh broccoli to a bright green, and I artfully surrounded the risotto with the emerald-colored florets. Reggie Hotchkiss finally acknowledged my presence by giving me an angry, wide-eyed stare when I offered the platter. Of course, I was eager to tell him how much I disliked him, his procedures, and his silly outfit, but I kept my lips firmly sealed. When the guests had polished off the risotto and Julian had begun clearing the plates, I came out to the kitchen to get the fudge cookies. Unfortunately, Reggie Hotchkiss followed me.

I switched on the coffee urn and tried to ignore him as I reached for the cookie tin. I didn’t want to get upset on a festive occasion, especially a festive, lucrative occasion. Let the mood fit the food, we always say in the food business. But when Reggie marched up in his gaudy print shirt and edged between me and the dessert-plate platter, my mood turned decidedly dark.