CHAPTER 1
Sonya Dokter, my sous chef and best friend, perched in the passenger’s seat of our rented catering van, trying unsuccessfully to tune the radio to the weather report. Static blared, followed by a series of high-pitched snippets of Mariachi music, followed by more static.
“Can you turn it down?” I yelled.
She twisted the knobs, then jiggled them, but the noise continued to blast at full volume. “It’s not working,” she shouted.
Without taking my right foot off the gas pedal, I slipped off my left clog and used it to give the console a series of firm whacks. The radio let out one last shriek, then nothing but dead air.
As the van creaked out of the parking lot of Delilah & Son, my upscale pizzeria, the vehicle emitted a series of groans that made it seem bound for the scrapyard rather than its actual destination—Bluff Point, one of Geneva Bay, Wisconsin’s most opulent private residences.
“So much for our grand entrance,” Sonya muttered, idly tracing the cracks in the passenger’s side window with her perfectly manicured index finger. “Heater’s busted, too.”
“I know,” I said. “I wish we could afford our own van instead of having to take the rental company’s sloppy seconds. I’ll be mortified pulling through the gates of Bluff Point in this.”
Sonya lowered the visor, appraised her reflection in the dirty mirror, and sighed. She patted the sleek waves of her jet-black bob into place. “At least I look the part, even if this jalopy doesn’t.”
As I contorted myself to slip my shoe back on, I glanced over at Sonya’s beaded flapper dress, which glittered even in the weak sunlight streaming through the grimy windshield. Her signature glammed-up fifties-style makeup had been swapped for toffee-colored lipstick and penciled-in high, arched brows—a look lifted straight out of a Mae West movie. She pulled an iridescent wrap around her shoulders to guard her bare arms against the October chill seeping into the van.
All day, the sun had been fighting a losing battle against a thickening wall of steel-gray clouds. The previous weeks had served up a string of sunshiny days, with postcard-worthy vistas of red and gold trees crowning Geneva Bay’s glittering sapphire lake. Today, though, despite a daytime high poking into the sixties, the forecast predicted a plunge in temperatures, high winds, and a “wintry mix” kicking off around midnight. The storm would no doubt mark the start of our annual six months of hard weather. Typical Wisconsin winter, coming in like a planet-killing asteroid.
“You do look great,” I told Sonya. “But I still don’t get how you’re planning to cook in that getup.” I gave her outfit a skeptical once-over.
She flicked her wrist. “Pshh, catering is mostly just reheating. I once catered a wedding in a full-on Victorian steampunk cosplay dress with a bustle and lace-up boots. This”—she gestured to her Roaring Twenties costume—“is practically loungewear.” She eyed my standard-issue white chef’s jacket and black pants. A neat chignon corralled my long, chestnut hair at the nape of my neck, and the only adornment on my face was a hint of cherry-tinted ChapStick. “Isabel made a point of saying that when dinner service is over, we should stick around and enjoy ourselves. I can’t believe you’re not dressing up.”
“I’m dressed as a chef,” I deadpanned. “It’s a timeless look.”
“You might as well wear a nun’s habit for all the fun you let yourself have,” Sonya said, with a disapproving eye roll.
I wished I were the kind of person who could pivot from catering a fancy party to letting loose at one, but my focus remained firmly on the success of the restaurant. If I wanted to keep the business afloat, I couldn’t take my eye off the ball.
“We’ve been hired to cater the party,” I said. “The only reason we’re allowed to stay and mingle is that Isabel is too nice to tell us to get lost the second the last canapé is served.”
Isabel Berney, the head librarian at Geneva Bay’s iconic library, had indeed encouraged me and my staff to join in the festivities at the Friends of the Library fundraising gala. The theme, Speakeasy Soirée, would see the town’s upper crust turn out in their best gangster and moll getups for a dinner to aid in the preservation of the historic Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired lakefront library.
We’d provide a menu of Chicago-themed foods, like our signature deep-dish pizzas, along with Prohibition-era cocktails, to help turn back the clock to the days when Geneva Bay served as a hideout for the Windy City’s mobsters and a popular stop on the booze-smuggling route between Canada and the Lower Forty-Eight. In addition to the pizzas, which would be served during the sit-down banquet portion of the evening’s festivities, I’d crafted some portable snack options for the cocktail hour, including savory Italian beef crostini and my house-made version of the classic caramelly, nutty Chicago treat—Cracker Jack.
Tonight, I’d have a chance to show the who’s who of Geneva Bay what my team and I could do, and to position us for the slew of party catering I was counting on to get us through until next summer. Geneva Bay depended on the tourist trade, and with the exodus of fair-weather residents well underway, I was already seeing our weekly revenue trend sharply downward. A shift to private party catering would be essential to undergirding our bottom line as winter set in.
My phone vibrated. Since the van predated Bluetooth by at least twenty years, Sonya reached into my pocket to answer it. As she pressed the speaker button, I saw the screen light up with Isabel Berney’s name.
“Delilah, dear, I’m so glad I caught you. You haven’t left for Bluff Point yet, have you?” Isabel chirped. She was tasked with coordinating logistics on behalf of the gala’s wealthy sponsor. In the background, I heard the clink of glassware and other sounds of pre-party bustle.
“We have,” I replied. “Son and I are on our way to pick up Jarka and then we’ll head over. What’s up?”
“I know what a miracle worker you are, so I have every confidence you’ll figure out how to save the day,” she began. My muscles tightened, and I girded myself for whatever was coming next. “You see, we’ve had a request from one of our very special guests for a ‘free-from’ pizza.”
In my mind, I translated “very special” into “filthy rich.”
“You mentioned that the other day. I’ve got three gluten-free pizzas set aside for the guests who can’t eat gluten,” I said.
“I’m afraid this is an additional request that I only just became aware of,” Isabel explained. “The guest doesn’t eat wheat, but she also doesn’t eat meat.”
“No prob,” I said, glad I anticipated the possibility of someone needing a vegetarian and gluten-free option. “One of the gluten-free pies is topped with roasted tomatoes, Greek olives, and a mozzarella and feta blend. No meat. We should be good.”
I heard paper crumpling as Isabel seemed to shift to reading from a list. “Let’s see,” she mumbled. “No gluten. Oh, she doesn’t eat any dairy, either, or any animal-derived products whatsoever. And she avoids all nightshades, including tomatoes.”
Sonya let out a whistle. “That’s certainly ‘free from,’” she said. “It’s like an episode of Chopped, only the surprise ingredient basket’s completely empty.”
No question it would be a challenge, but I saw no reason to panic, certain I’d be able to figure out something from our planned menu that would meet this diner’s request. This wasn’t my first picky-eater rodeo.
“What about a warm root vegetable salad?” I said, in the direction of the phone’s speaker. “I can use some of the roasted butternut squash from the pizza toppings, drizzle in some black truffle oil, and toss it with wilted greens. That’s hearty enough for a main course.”
“I’m afraid she has her heart set on a ‘free-from’ version of pizza,” Isabel replied.
I glanced over to see Sonya’s arched eyebrows shoot almost all the way to her hairline.
“Let me make sure I understand.” I trained my eyes on the road but leaned closer to the phone. “No cheese, no wheat, no tomatoes. But she still wants to be served a pizza.”
“That’s right. She’s very well-connected, so I hope you can pull a rabbit out of your chef’s hat,” Isabel replied brightly. “Well, not an actual rabbit, of course. She doesn’t eat meat.”
“This woman does know what a pizza is, doesn’t she?” I muttered, unable to keep the sharp edge out of my voice. “Pretty much by definition, it’s crust with tomato sauce and cheese on top.”
“Of course, Delilah, and I can’t thank you enough for being so accommodating.”
I could almost picture Isabel’s encouraging smile. Just north of seventy years old, she still worked full-time at the library. With her high-cut bangs, blunt bob, and inquisitive blue eyes, she bore a disarming resemblance to the iconic little Dutch boy. She was a dynamo, and her ability to bend people to her will was legendary. Much of the library’s success over the decades rested on her shoulders.
“Pam already said that you can use anything you need from her kitchen,” she continued.
Pam Philips, the party’s sponsor and hostess, made her fortune by patenting a small feat of technical wizardry that allowed e-reader devices to wirelessly sync with phone apps and websites. She parlayed her innovation into a manufacturing company that supplied crucial internal components of almost every e-reader on the market. Unapologetically nerdy, Pam bore little likeness to the titans of industry and old-money families who comprised the bulk of Geneva Bay’s lakeshore-dwelling elite. She bought Bluff Point the previous year, sinking a chunk of her e-reader fortune into purchasing, renovating, and furnishing the behemoth mansion. Since Pam moved into the house a few months earlier, Isabel had roped her into joining the Friends of the Library board, and she’d recently been elected as the incoming board chair.
“Thank her for me, but that doesn’t really help,” I explained. “All the food is premade so we can heat and serve when we arrive. Even if I were in my own kitchen, I couldn’t create an entire recipe from scratch with this little notice. Recipe testing takes dozens of iterations sometimes. Plus, I don’t have the ingredients I’d need. To make another gluten-free crust, I’d have to go back home or to the store to get more gluten-free flour. I used the last of the restaurant’s stockpile, and we don’t get another delivery until tomorrow.”
I heard muted mumbling and then Isabel came back on the line. “We can send Pam’s boat to pick you up at your house. That should save at least forty minutes. It’s a straight shot over the water versus driving all the way around the lake.” Bluff Point, in addition to being one of the grandest properties on the lake, was also one of the most secluded. Only a single, narrow road accessed the house, and the last few miles of it twisted through thick forest. “Your place has a dock, right? If the boat leaves now, it would be waiting for you there.”
Time to shut this down once and for all. “Isabel, I can’t,” I said. “I want to make this work, believe me. I need to make a good impression on this crowd, and I appreciate you hiring me. But I can’t.”
Sonya gave me an appreciative nod, apparently impressed I’d been able to withstand the onslaught of Isabel’s inveigling.
Little did we know that was only Isabel’s opening salvo.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, but I understand,” she said. “You’ve already been so accommodating. I wouldn’t even have asked if this weren’t so important. You know the town budget is under pressure, and without donated funds for the library, it’s impossible to keep up with the preservation of such an architectural gem, much less undertake the needed renovations. Since the building was handcrafted, everything is custom—every door, every soffit, every toilet seat, for heaven’s sake. How many libraries have stained-glass reading nooks overlooking a lake, like ours does? It’s a true temple of the mind.”
Isabel let out a heavy sigh before continuing. “I’ve written grants until my fingertips blistered and of course the town contributes what it can. But without a significant bump in private donations, I’m afraid of what will happen. There’s been pressure to increase revenue, charging community groups more in rental fees and patrons more in fines. There’s even been talk of selling the building and moving the library lock, stock, and carrel out near the Walmart.” She paused and then added in a wistful voice, “No matter what happens, I can’t think of anything I would have rather devoted my life to. To be able to offer unlimited knowledge, in a place of such exquisite beauty, for free, to anyone who loves reading … But, of course, I understand your decision not to make this one pizza.”
A few beats of silence followed, as I felt my resolve crumbling. Damn Isabel Berney. She could convince the Great Wall of China to scooch ten feet to the right.
“Fine,” I muttered. “So long as this lady knows that what she’s getting is going to be ‘free-from’ actual pizza.”
CHAPTER 2
Isabel and I finished working out the details and hung up just as I pulled in front of a two-story apartment building. Jarka Gagamova, our thirtysomething Bulgarian server, was waiting for us out front. She approached the van sporting a black three-piece suit, her shirt buttoned up to her long neck. Two small paintbrushes peeked out of her vest pocket, and she’d tucked her crayon-red hair into a bowler hat.
Sonya scooted to the middle of the bench seat to make way and contemplated the outfit. “Loving it.” Her forehead creased. “Not totally getting it, though. Charlie Chaplin?”
Jarka straightened her spine indignantly. “I am Jules Pascin, most famous Bulgarian painter from my hometown. Everyone should know such great artist who creates so sensitive, so erotic, of pictures.” When we continued to meet her with blank looks, she added, “He suffers very much for his art. In 1930, Pascin dies of alcoholism, leaving romantic suicide note to his French mistress written with his own blood.”
Sonya’s eyes widened. “So not Charlie Chaplin.”
Jarka huffed loudly, pulled the seat belt across her thin torso, and snapped it into place.
“Change of plan,” I explained, heaving the van into gear. “You and I are going to my house to collect ingredients that I’ll somehow miracle into an acceptable free-from-pizza pizza, and Son will take the van to Bluff Point to meet the others. We’ll head over separately on Pam Philips’s yacht.”
“The others” were Melody, our hostess; Daniel, our bartender; and Rabbit, our dishwasher/busser/jack-of-all-trades, all of whom had gone ahead to Bluff Point to begin setting up.
“Okay,” Jarka said, imbuing her reply with the same level of enthusiasm she’d express if I’d asked her to put together a stack of cutlery roll-ups.
Her tune changed, though, when we pulled into the long, curving driveway of my Queen Anne mansion a few moments later. She inhaled sharply as the house’s elaborate carved wood details, impressive wraparound porch, and cupcake-shaped turrets came into view.
“This is your house?” she asked.
I felt myself blush. I’d forgotten that Jarka, who’d only been working for me for a few months, had never seen where I lived, and didn’t know the backstory of how I—a struggling small-business owner from a working-class family—came to reside in a glorious lakefront mansion with Melody and my great-aunt Biz.
“It’s not Delilah’s house,” Sonya explained. “It’s Butterball’s. The rest of them just live there.”
“Delilah’s cat has this house?” Jarka asked.
I launched into the boiled-down recap of the very long story of how my curvaceous, ginger tabby cat was, in fact, the legal owner of a multi-million-dollar property. “My ex and I have joint custody of Butterball. When we broke up and he left for California, I moved into his house so Butterball could stay put. But Butterball’s name is on the deed, or rather a trust set up in his name. I’m just here as his caretaker. And then my aunt and Melody needed a place to live, and there’s enough room here…”
I trailed off. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of the house. I’d been the one to oversee the renovations when my ex and I were still engaged, and I’d taken great pains perfecting every detail. However, the twin mantras of “no handouts” and “earn your own way in life” were deeply engrained in my psyche, and I couldn’t bring myself to believe that me taking care of my much-adored cat justified free rent in a mansion. Plus, while this house represented my dream, my aunt was only here because the sweet lakefront cottage where she’d lived for over fifty years had fallen into foreclosure. And you better believe she didn’t let me forget that living here wasn’t her choice. The living arrangement was a gift horse, and Biz was determined to inspect its every last tooth. Thank goodness for Melody, who officially filled the role of Biz’s live-in helper and unofficially kept the two of us from strangling each other.
As Jarka and I climbed out of the van and Sonya tooted a goodbye on the horn, my gaze was drawn down the gently sloping lawn toward the lake. Given the ominous sky and tanking air temperature, the lake was empty, save for the yacht gliding up to dock at my house’s private pier. The boat, with its flawless white finish and double-decker height, called to mind an elegant wedding cake.
“That must be the boat Pam Philips sent,” I said, observing the craft’s impressive proportions. “Either that or a Russian oligarch is stopping in for a friendly chat.”
Jarka and I hurried across the front lawn, bracing ourselves against the increasing force of the wind.
The boat’s imposing presence reminded me of how much was at stake. I never failed to be struck by the odd economics of these high-end philanthropic events—rich people lavishing vast sums of money on other rich people in the hopes that, what? A plate of buttery salmon en croûte and a chilled glass of Chenin Blanc would pry their wallets open a little wider? I supposed this was merely the fancy-pants version of the pancake breakfasts my parish held once a month when I was growing up.
Whatever my feelings about Geneva Bay’s peculiar sort of noblesse oblige, I knew I needed to capitalize on this opportunity to showcase every arrow in my culinary quiver. I’d held my first kitchen job at sixteen, but even with twenty years as a professional cook under my belt, tonight’s gig had my nerves winding themselves into knots.
I pushed my stress aside and opened the front door to my house. No sooner were Jarka and I inside than Butterball padded down the curving entryway staircase and sidled up to press his face into my shins.
“Hey, B-man,” I said, running my hands along his wide, soft body. He purred his return greeting.
I let his calm presence wash over me like a sedative. I can do this. I can cater an amazing event. I can see my staff safely through the winter months. I can create an enchanted friggin’ unicorn of a pizza that contains no real ingredients and is somehow still mind-blowingly delicious. I gave my cat’s head another rub. What a shame that it was against health regulations to bring an emotional-support cat to work.
Jarka squatted down to get her share of Butterball’s attention. “Khubavo kote,” she crooned. Then, switching to English, she repeated, “Pretty kitty.”
An appetizing, earthy aroma wafted down the hallway, beckoning us toward the kitchen. I plopped Butterball onto the floor, and the three of us headed into the kitchen. I’d designed the inviting space, arranging everything to my exact specifications—restaurant-quality appliances, expansive countertops, and plenty of windows. Today, they granted a starkly beautiful view of waving branches, a lake the color of molten lead, and Pam Philips’s big-ass boat, docked and waiting to whisk us across the lake.
My great-aunt, Elizabeth “Biz” O’Leary, stood in front of an open oven door, silicone mitts covering both her hands. She leaned down, extracting a tray of roasted baby beets. She gave the tray a gentle shake, which sent the amethyst-colored orbs colliding around the pan like miniature billiard balls.
Biz wore her usual stiff-collared blouse and slacks, and the white curls of her hair were arrayed in rows as orderly as the furrows in a freshly plowed field. She’d been petite all her life, and age had distilled her down to her bare essence. As with Isabel Berney, my aunt’s small stature and advanced age belied her impressive energy. She removed the oversized oven mitts from her tiny hands, like a kid coming inside after playing in the snow.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Bluff Point by now? You’ll be late,” she chided. “And whose ridiculous aircraft carrier of a boat is that?”
I took in a calming breath. I’d moved from Chicago to Geneva Bay in part to be closer to Biz. She’d never married or had children, so my sister and I were her only living relatives. However, I hadn’t envisioned living quite this close to her. Even in a house with plenty of square footage, we still found a way to step on each other’s toes.
“We had to take a detour to gather ingredients. There were some special dietary requests,” I explained.
“Hello, Miss O’Leary,” Jarka said. She regarded the beets with motherly tenderness. “These beets are very beautiful. Like jewels from the earth.”
Jarka wasn’t as much of an obsessive foodie as the rest of the D&S crew. She disdained the fussiness of most restaurant dishes and gave short shrift to what she saw as the American excesses of our menus—too much seasoning, too much cheese, extravagant portions. However, she had a special appreciation for quality produce.
“Thank you, Jarka. They’re very good, but they’re nowhere near as good as the ones I used to grow in my garden,” Biz replied. She shifted one of the beets onto a cutting board and sliced it for us to try.
I bit into the toothsome, perfectly cooked wedge. Biz had roasted it in a no-frills dressing, allowing the beet’s sweetness and earthy tang to take center stage. Comparing these little balls of vegetable perfection unfavorably to her garden beets was like saying a Rembrandt was prettier than a Michelangelo.
“All those years enriching the soil in that garden,” Biz said, as she swallowed her portion, “and the whole thing gets snatched out from under me by that tin-pot tycoon and his weather girl.”
I pressed my eyes closed. I was in no mood to relitigate the circumstances of Biz losing her cottage a few months earlier in a foreclosure auction. She’d been going on about it practically every day since she’d moved in, poring over the terms of the sale and obsessing over the new owners’ plans for the site. Even now, I could see a stack of records she’d copied from the town assessor’s office sitting on the kitchen table. The long and the short of it was that she hadn’t been able to come up with the money to pay the gargantuan property tax bill when it came due, and she had firmly rejected all offers of financial help. So off went her lakefront cottage to the highest bidders—her former next-door neighbors, Brian Lee “B.L.” Huddleston and Kennedy Criss, a onetime TV meteorologist who’d recently become his third wife.
It wasn’t that I expected Biz to fall down on her knees in gratitude simply because I’d offered her the opportunity to pass her golden years in a well-appointed lakefront mansion. Losing your beloved home of fifty years was hard. But I could do without the melodrama.
“Auntie Biz…” I began.
She held up her hand. “I know what you’re going to say. I need to yank on my big-girl panties and be thankful I’m still on the right side of the dirt and didn’t end up living in an old folks’ home.” She made her hand open and close like she was holding a sock puppet. “Blah, blah, blah.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” I began. Well, I was, but not in those exact words. To avoid further confrontation, I pivoted. “These beets are delicious.”
She nodded. “They’ll do. Roasted very simply with olive oil, salt, and thyme.”
A lightbulb dinged in my brain.
“Can you spare some of them?” I asked. “I need something to make a pizza sauce without any nightshade vegetables. No tomatoes, eggplants, or peppers.”
Biz tilted her head appreciatively. I was speaking our common language—the language of recipes—and suddenly all antagonism melted away. “Beets should be a good base, but where are you going to get the acid? Beets won’t have the tang of a tomato.”
I began to root through the cupboards and popped up with the bottle of red wine vinegar.
Biz nodded. “That and some spice ought to do it. You’ll have to watch what you use, though. No red pepper flakes or chili powders if you’re steering clear of nightshades.”
“Good point,” I said. “I’ll stick to black pepper.”
I stood for a moment, formulating the rest of my attack plan. From my previous forays into gluten-free crust making, I knew that almond flour would work to add bulk and sweetness to the crust, and in the absence of sticky gluten, xanthan gum could improve the texture and elasticity of the dough. But what could add the salty umami flavor of cheese, sans the dairy?
I rifled through my mental recipe cards, summoning up a recollection that vegan Parmesan could be fashioned from ground cashew nuts and “nooch,” i.e., nutritional yeast.
“Jarka, can you scour the pantry? I think I’ve still got some nutritional yeast and almond flour that Sam used to use for his energy bars. There should be a couple boxes of his stuff on the bottom shelves.”
Fortunately, my ex had been a devotee of various dietary trends and fitness fads. Plus, he’d shopped in bulk, meaning that I’d been left with a pantry full of the exact kind of whimsical hipster foodstuffs this situation required.
As Biz and I decanted the roasted beets into an oversized Tupperware container, Jarka emerged from the pantry carrying a large box. “Almond flour and nutritional yeast, yes?”
I peered inside. “Perfect.”
“Are you making dinner or wallpaper paste?” Biz muttered.
I ignored her. “Jarka, can you box up the Breville, too? I’ll need it to blitz the nuts for the vegan cheese.” I surveyed the kitchen, tapping my fingers against my lips. “And I want that stand mixer. Gluten-free dough is too sticky to knead by hand. There should be an empty box on the sunporch you can put it in.” I hadn’t planned to do much actual cooking at Bluff Point, so I hadn’t sent over many appliances, pots, or pans. Given our tight timeline, I couldn’t risk missing any necessary equipment. “Once you’ve got all that together, let’s start bringing things down to the boat. Oh, and watch that Butterball doesn’t slip out. He’s under house arrest for catfighting.”
Jarka addressed Biz as the two of them moved between the kitchen and the pantry, stacking boxes of ingredients and equipment. “Why you are not coming to the party?”
It was a fair question. Biz was an excellent amateur cook, and her extra pair of skilled hands often came in handy at the restaurant. But Biz had insisted on steering clear.
“A costume party with a bunch of preening Richie Riches? You couldn’t drag me with a tow truck winch,” Biz said. “The only thing I’ll be sorry to miss is Lola Capone’s performance. I used to have an LP of her back in the Eighties. That woman has a voice, I’ll tell you that.”
Jarka gave a nonchalant nod and headed out the back door. I, on the other hand, was squeezing the bag of carrots I was holding so tightly I was surprised the pressure didn’t form it into a diamond. “Did you say Lola Capone is performing?”
“Didn’t Isabel mention it?” Biz asked. “When I saw her at bridge club the other week, she was over the moon to book her. Lola Capone will be perfect for the Jazz Age theme.”
I swallowed hard, trying to contain the swarm of butterflies that materialized in my stomach at the mention of the Capone name.
Biz peered at my face. “What’s gotten into you? Do you still have the hots for that son of hers?”
“If you mean Detective Calvin Capone, I haven’t seen him in months,” I huffed. “Why should I care if his mother is singing at the party? I’m there to work. That’s it.”
In truth, I cared very much, as evidenced by the flocking tummy butterflies. Twice now, I’d fooled myself into thinking that Capone and I had the makings of a couple. But each time we got close, he pulled a disappearing act. I wasn’t falling for that again.
I turned back to the fridge, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror-like finish of its outer door. So Capone’s mom would be there. So what? I doubted I’d even see her, and if I did, she’d probably have no idea who I was. Still, I couldn’t help wishing I’d dressed for the occasion, or at least put on a little mascara.
I tamped down the butterflies and firmed up my jaw. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on regrets, romantic entanglements, or lost opportunities. I had work to do.
CHAPTER 3
By the time I finished gathering every ingredient I could possibly need and headed down to the dock, Jarka was already halfway up the gangway, lugging the last of the supplies. The wind had sharpened to a knifepoint, cutting through my clothes and portending the fast-approaching evening. I prayed that my team would have everything in hand at Bluff Point when we arrived.
A uniformed crew member with heavy black braids and a bouncy stride hurried down to meet me as I climbed aboard the ship. “May I?” she asked, unburdening me of the canvas tote bags I was hauling.
She stowed the bags, unhitched the boat from its moorings, and then escorted Jarka and me up a set of stairs toward the enclosed helm. As we mounted the steps, the full power of the wind rose to meet us, causing me to grasp the handrails for balance. I was suddenly grateful for the boat’s enormity. Even as the waves kicked up, it barely swayed.
“It was nice of Ms. Philips to send her boat to pick us up,” I told the crew member, shouting to be heard over the gusts.
“Happy to,” the woman, who’d introduced herself as Ciera, said, in a sunny Australian accent. “We’ll have you across this puddle in two shakes. Have a squiz and you can just about make out Bluff Point.” She pointed to a small dark speck on the far shore, set, as the name implied, on a bluff above the tree line.
I took a seat next to Ciera in the helm as Jarka explored the sizable interior of the boat. The room we occupied was roughly divided into steering, seating, cooking, and dining areas, all outfitted with high-end finishes. It had a leathery, pleasant scent, which I supposed was the boat equivalent of new car smell. Boat ownership was commonplace in Geneva Bay, but even the largest and nicest boats on the lake couldn’t hold a candle to Pam Philips’s yacht. It was Moby Dick in a school of minnows. Every time I thought I’d gotten used to the opulence of life in Geneva Bay—the thirty-bedroom mansions, the helicopter landing pads, the full-sized indoor basketball courts—the one-upsmanship found a new gear.
As the shoreline receded behind us, a knot of worry tightened in my chest. Had we brought everything we’d need? Once we were at Bluff Point, we’d be a good thirty minutes’ drive one-way from the nearest grocery store. Catering was always stressful that way—unfamiliar space, unfamiliar layout, unfamiliar equipment—but this gig was especially so due to the location’s remoteness. Something niggled. What had we missed? I tried again to still the whisper of worry that haunted the edge of my mind. You’re prepared. The feeling was probably just a reaction to running late and to the unexpected, last-minute frenzy of the free-from pizza request. No, there’s something …
Through the boat’s large front window, Bluff Point loomed ever closer. One of the most recognizable of the lake’s historic mansions, Bluff Point had been built as a summer getaway by a turn-of-the-century Chicago beer baron and had changed very little in the intervening hundred-plus years. A lighthouse-like turret, encircled by a 360-degree widow’s walk, jutted from the front of the house like a ship’s prow. The home was exquisite, a sumptuous jewel case of stained glass and carved wood. My own house hailed from the same genre of nineteenth-century architecture, and had its fair share of porches, balconies, and overhangs, but Bluff Point looked like a carpenter’s fever dream.
“Just hang tight a minute while we dock,” Ciera called out cheerily as we drew alongside the dock. She hadn’t been kidding about getting across the lake in two shakes. I reckoned we’d made it in one and a half shakes, if that.
Once we’d disembarked, Jarka and I stood on the dock for a moment, looking up toward the house. The main approach from the lakeside appeared to be a dizzying arrangement of interconnected decks and stairways straight out of an M. C. Escher drawing. Late afternoon shadows crept over the property. A damp, chilly wind swept through, wrenching crisp leaves from the trees. Panicked squirrels darted around, crazed in their last-minute preparations for winter. If the structure seemed imposing from out on the water, from this angle it looked as impregnable as a medieval fortress.
Ciera joined us, toting a box of the supplies we’d brought. “We can zip up the hill in the ATV,” she explained, gesturing to a small all-terrain vehicle parked beside the dock. “But,” she continued, “if we’re going to fit all this stuff in, I’m afraid there’s only room for one person. If one of you wants to wait here, I can run the other up to the house and then circle back. Or we can leave your gear on the dock, take you both up, and I’ll come back for it. Or one of you can take the stairs.”
“I competed ultramarathon six times,” Jarka said. “I will go by stairs. No problems.”
Much as my pride goaded me to reject Jarka’s offer, I knew I needed to save my energy for more important pursuits, like knocking this catering gig out of the park. With each minute that ticked by, my antsiness grew. Never one to leave things to chance, I’d started the day with a hefty time buffer, planning to arrive at Bluff Point at least two and a half hours before the six p.m. doors-open time. But little by little, those extra minutes melted away. It was four thirty-five, and I still had a brand-new pizza recipe to concoct from scratch.
Once all the gear was loaded, Jarka set off, taking the stairs two at a time. Ciera and I cruised around to the side of the house, where she pulled alongside a sturdy-looking oak door and cut the ATV’s engine.
“This is the old tradesmen’s entrance,” she explained.
“I remember from the pre-party tour. This will take us in just below the kitchen, right?” I asked.
The previous week, I’d been part of the advance team that scoped out the venue, along with Isabel Berney and the members of the library board.
Ciera nodded, and we headed for the house, opening the door to reveal a hallway with a series of utilitarian rooms leading off of it. The door to a laundry room stood open on our right. To our left was a storage room with rows of shelves for extra linens and cleaning supplies. The space smelled of furniture polish and floor wax.
“Unfortunately, there isn’t an entrance you can drive up to that’s on the same level as the kitchen. Clearly not designed for people with disabilities,” she said.
“Or for the convenience of the hired help,” I added.
She flashed a smile. “I’m afraid historical authenticity won out over accessibility. Luckily, we can avoid carrying everything up those”—she gestured to a steep staircase at the end of the hall—“by using this bad boy.” She opened the door of what appeared to be a built-in cupboard, revealing a large dumbwaiter. She pulled a lever and the box set off, drawn upward into its vertical shaft by a pulley system. “Goes up to the kitchen and then from there up to the second floor, where the bedrooms are. They used to use it to send the tea trays up for breakfast.”
“Not anymore?”
“No, Ms. Philips comes down and makes her own oatmeal in the kitchen like a normal person. It’s not Downton Abbey.” She laughed. “It hardly gets used, except to unload groceries.”
“Does Ms. Philips live here all alone?” I asked.
“In the spring and summer, there’s a full-time gardener who has a little cottage on the property. I’m Ms. Philips’s assistant. I come every day to do all the girl Friday errands, captain the boat during the season, and generally try to keep the place from feeling too haunted. Other than that, just two housekeepers who come a few times a week to clean.”
“Funny that she’d buy such a big house just for herself,” I observed. “I’d get lonely out here.”
“She wasn’t initially interested in this property,” Ciera explained. “Then she heard there was another offer on it, someone who was going to gut it and modernize it. She couldn’t stand by and watch that happen, so she outbid them and got it. Once she owned it, she went all in on its restoration.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, admiring the craftsmanship that was evident even in this “back of house” area. “Are you coming to the party?”
She shook her head. “Not my scene. Anyhow, I’ve got work to do. I’m heading to the marina as soon as you’re settled in to get the boat hauled out and help them start winterizing it. Just about everyone else is off the water already, but Ms. Philips loves the fall colors, so she wanted to wring out every last drop of the season. The weather’s been so nice up until today.”
Ciera offered to help carry my supplies up to the kitchen, but, not wanting to take further advantage of her kindness, I assured her that I could take over. After she helped me unload everything from the ATV, she said goodbye.
I hurried up the servants’ staircase and rounded the corner toward the kitchen so quickly that I nearly collided with a trim, elderly man.
“Ah, Ms. O’Leary. A pleasure.” Edgar Clemmons leaned heavily on a gilt-topped cane and gave a courtly bow.
Clemmons, the outgoing Friends of the Library board chair, straightened the striped tie of his dark wool suit. He had a precise, genteel voice and faultless manners, but his unexpected presence sent a little tremor of unease up the back of my neck. Sonya, who loved nothing more than playing mother hen to an odd duck, had struck up a friendship of sorts with Clemmons, based on their shared love of film noir. To me, though, his manner had always been unsettling. I’d seen a lot of him over the preceding months, since I’d convinced Isabel to move the Friends of the Library board’s regular monthly meetings to my restaurant by offering them a free bottle of wine at each meeting.
From my limited vantage point in the restaurant kitchen, the meeting during which the library board voted to replace Clemmons with Pam Philips seemed to follow the usual unremarkable bureaucratic orderliness of a small-town institution. However, when I’d popped out to say hello to the group, the mood was tense, and I sensed a barely repressed rage radiating off Clemmons. Since then, every time I saw him, I felt that he sat just a little too straight and measured his words just a little too carefully.
I surveyed his formal suit. Initially, I felt unsure he was in costume, given that his day-to-day attire tended toward the overly prim. Upon closer inspection, however, I noticed that he seemed to be dressed as a specific person, like Jarka was, rather than in a generic Prohibition-era outfit.
“Pretty Boy Floyd?” I ventured, basing my guess on his dapper attire and neat grooming.
“Hardly,” Clemmons bristled. “I’m J. Edgar Hoover. He was my namesake, and I’ve always felt an affinity toward him.”
What kind of whack-a-doodle parents named their kid after J. Edgar Hoover?
The only pictures I could ever remember seeing of the famous mob-busting federal agent were of a man with a paunchy, snub-nosed boxer’s face wearing a perpetually irritated scowl. Clemmons’s features were more refined, but I could make out a resemblance between him and the FBI director. That broad, intelligent forehead. That uncomfortable, penetrating gaze.
“A lawman. You’re expecting a rowdy crowd, then?” I said with a smile.
Instead of matching my light tone, Clemmons grew serious, and the creases around his mouth deepened. “It felt necessary tonight.” He paused and turned away, his face falling into shadow. “Certain matters need to be set to rights.”
“Have you come early to help with the party setup?” I asked. Maybe his melodramatic phrasing was merely his way of saying that he was going to double-check seating assignments or fluff up some centerpiece flowers.
“No,” he said. “I’m sure Isabel has planned everything perfectly.”
“Well, enjoy the party,” I said. I was anxious to get to the kitchen, and even more anxious to avoid hearing whatever was behind the bitter emphasis he placed on the town librarian’s name. I took a step to pass him. I knew from experience that Clemmons was a know-it-all who could make ordering an appetizer into a ten-minute monologue.
“I’ve been uneasy for some time,” he said, not taking the hint. “And finally the pieces clicked into place as I prepared for the event tonight. It was in fact Sonya who connected the dots for me. She and I share a love for old movies, you see.” There was something about Clemmons’s tone that crept under my skin like a slow-motion shiver. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “There are things in this house that concern me deeply. Things are amiss.”
“Amiss?” I asked. Yeesh, this felt more like a mind game than a conversation.
“Yes. I saw some things in Pam’s book collection that are of particular interest to me, to Pam herself, and to many others, I suspect. I have suspicions.” He lifted his chin haughtily. “That woman. As if it weren’t enough for her to degrade the written word with her technological innovations”—he scrunched his nose as he spoke the word—“she hoodwinked Isabel into letting her take over the library board, I’m sure of it. Isabel will get her comeuppance soon enough, once Pam starts replacing all the books with computer screens and trading human librarians for robots.”
“Riiight…” I said. “Should I tell Pam you’re looking for her? Or you could call her and tell her you’re here? I’m sure she’s around somewhere.”
“I don’t use a mobile phone. Opiate of the masses, designed to keep us from thinking. If you see Pam, tell her to meet me in the appointed place.” He paused, casting a dramatic gaze around the long hallway. With his prim suit and slicked-back hair, he looked so much like a B-movie actor that I began to wonder if he was intentionally jerking me around. I battened down my natural curiosity, refusing to take the bait, waiting for him to continue on his own. And waiting.
“Well, I’ve got to get to the kitchen,” I said at last. I was done playing twenty questions with this weirdo.
“It’s up to me to set matters to rights. The guilty must be held accountable,” he said.
“The guilty?” I asked. Dang it. He’d gotten me.
Now that he’d piqued my interest, though, he didn’t launch into one of his legendary monologues. Instead, he was already advancing toward the same staircase I’d just ascended, but upward toward the second floor. He leaned heavily on his cane with each step he took.
“Are you okay on those stairs?” I asked, watching him teeter slightly on the landing. “I think the staircase in the drawing room is less steep.”
“I can manage,” he said, waving me off.
“Great. Well, whatever is ‘amiss’ with ‘the guilty,’ I hope you get it figured out,” I called.
He turned and took a few steps back toward me, training his probing gaze on me once more. “Until I know for certain, I’d appreciate your discretion.” There was a note of reproach in his voice.
“I don’t really have a choice, since I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. I’m a cut-to-the-chase kind of gal, and I found Clemmons’s slow drip of innuendo irritating. Plus, the guy gave me the heebie-jeebies.
With a swift, formal nod, he headed off, leaving me just as in the dark as I’d been at the outset of the conversation.
CHAPTER 4
Bluff Point’s kitchen was one of the few areas of the house where convenience had taken precedence over historical authenticity. While the original wall of storage cabinets and plate rails had been preserved, the rest of the space was modernized with stunning black-and-copper-finish appliances and plenty of well-lit workspace. As I approached, I heard the familiar bass thump of our Chop and Bop prep playlist. I was relieved to smell the tantalizing aroma of roasted garlic and oregano, underlaid with a comforting waft of slow-cooked beef. Judging by the smell, our Italian beef crostini hors d’oeuvres were underway.
I found Sonya at the long center island, stacking bite-sized tamale apps into steamer baskets to warm through. Her hair and makeup still looked flawless, which at least signaled that the apocalypse wasn’t imminent. However, the fact that she wore an expression of grim concentration, rather than her usual carefree smile, hinted that the pressure was on. She prepped another round of tamales with the focus of a submariner loading a cache of torpedoes into their firing chutes.
“Where are we up to?” I asked, tying on an apron.
“Apps are on, but we’re way behind on thawing the pies,” she said, not looking up.
I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Okay, entrees don’t need to go out until seven. As long as the apps go on time, we can catch up on the entrees. Have you seen Melody or Jarka? We’re going to need their help.”
“No sign of Jarka,” Sonya said. “I thought she was with you?”
I shook my head. “She came up from the dock a different way.”
“Well, Melody went to change into her costume, and she didn’t come back,” Sonya said.
Where was everybody? I checked my watch. I couldn’t remember ever showing up at a catering gig with this little time to spare, and I still had an entire pizza recipe to invent. The extra servers we’d hired to supplement my staff would be arriving shortly, and we’d have to brief them on the menu. By now, Melody should’ve finished setting the tables and transforming a Chicago-style hot dog cart we’d rented into Delilah & Son’s very own “Haute Dog Cart,” offering the traditional fixings—mustard, chopped onion, relish, dill pickle and tomato wedges, pickled peppers, and celery salt—with our signature careful attention to high-quality, freshly prepared ingredients. Daniel, I prayed, would have his Prohibition-themed cocktails ready to go. And where was Jarka? At the pace she set off up the stairs, I’d expected her to beat me to the kitchen.
“Did you make sure the ovens are up to temp?” I asked. “They’ll need to be at three seventy-five by quarter to six.”
“Yeah, and for my next trick, I’m going to spin twenty plates while I juggle these tamales with my boobs,” Sonya snapped, as she shifted another batch of tamales into the steamer.
“Is that a no?” I asked.
“I’ve only been here a few minutes! Go look at the ovens yourself!” she shouted. Then under her breath she added, “I’m a sous chef, not a freaking magician.”
Whoops. It seemed as if I’d stepped across the fine line between micromanaging and signing my own death warrant.
By way of apology to Sonya, I hustled over and started cranking the dials on our battalion of rented ovens. When it comes to deep dish, moisture is kryptonite. Every step of the process is designed to cut your chances of ending up with the dreaded soggy bottom crust. Fat repels moisture, so we rely on low-moisture, high-fat cheeses, like Wisconsin mozzarella, to create a protective layer, and we also add fat to the crust itself in the form of both melted butter and olive or corn oil. Fresh toppings like spinach and mushrooms are precooked and wrung out or laid out to dry on racks before being added.
At the restaurant, high-temp cooking and immediate service did the trick to ensure a crispy, flaky finish to the crust. When filling a large catering order, though, there was no easy way to transport pizzas en masse without the moisture from the ingredients seeping into the crust. And obviously it would be impractical to assemble dozens of pizzas from scratch on-site and serve them all at once.
After some trial and error, I’d hit upon another method. We baked the pizzas in advance at Delilah & Son, then flash-froze them on rolling racks in our walk-in so we could load the racks straight into the catering van. When we got to the venue, we re-baked them on-site to bring them to serving temperature. Not the most elegant solution, but large-scale catering is rarely elegant. Hopefully we’d figure out a way to make our quick-bake method extra quick today.
Just then, Robert “Rabbit” Blakemore hurried across the kitchen carrying tubs of greens and quart-sized containers of sliced Granny Smith apples, dried cranberries, and crunchy pepitas for the dinner salads. He nodded toward me as he set them down.
“Hey, Chef,” he said. “We were startin’ to get worried that the boat had taken you and Jarka on one of them Gilligan’s Island three-hour tours.”
Rabbit wasn’t known for his sartorial style, usually showing up to work in black jeans and a backward-facing Milwaukee Brewers cap. Today, however, his wiry frame looked positively debonair in a starched white shirt with suspenders and a bow tie.
“Nice outfit,” I commented.
A smile creased his careworn features, causing the wrinkles next to his green eyes to fan out toward the prematurely gray hair at his temples. He removed the tweed newsboy hat from his head and ran a hand self-consciously over his closely cropped hair.
Rabbit had only a few years on me in age, but he wore them heavily. He’d spent the better part of a decade, on and off, behind bars, and had wrestled with a drinking problem in his younger days as well. Determined to make a better life for himself and his young daughter, he’d finally cleaned up his act and put his admirable work ethic to productive use. I suspected that among the many gangsters and molls who’d be in attendance at the party, Rabbit would be one of the few who’d actually lived a life of crime.
“Thanks, Chef. The hat and suspenders were my grandpa’s. Probably from the forties instead of the twenties or thirties”—he stretched the suspenders and let them snap back against his chest—“but it looks the part good enough.”
“Well, serving deep dish at a Prohibition party isn’t totally authentic, either. It wasn’t invented until the early forties,” I said. “And I doubt Bugsy Siegel ever saw a mini tamale in his life. Hey, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Jarka?” I scanned the room again, as if she might leap out of a cupboard. “I hope she didn’t fall down the stairs or something.”
Rabbit’s eyes trailed past me, through the glass patio doors that opened onto the lawn. “Jarka’s right there.”
Sure enough, about twenty feet beyond the glass, Jarka stood close to a man, beneath a pergola covered in dead vines. Her companion was tall and trim, with an athletic build and elegant carriage. He wore an exquisitely tailored suit, with a fedora low over his face.
The weather outside had grown even more ominous since my arrival. My slightly elevated vantage point afforded a far-reaching view over the rear garden and down the steep hill to the lake. Mirroring my unsettled mood, the wind gusted again and the trees frantically waved their browning leaves. The lake water swished back and forth, reflecting back the dishwater color of the sky.
“She’s been out there for a while with that guy,” Rabbit said. “They seem to know each other, but I don’t like the look of it.”
I could sense why Rabbit, with his built-in jailbird antennae finely tuned to lurking threats, had been keeping his eyes on the pair. Although much of the man’s face was veiled in shadow, I could make out a tight jaw and a sneer on his lips. Jarka wasn’t much for sharing personal information, but last I’d heard, she was in a serious relationship with the director of Geneva Bay’s Chamber of Commerce—a sweet, awkward man who was the total opposite of this dude. So who was he to her?
It was clear this wasn’t a casual chat. Jarka stood firm, her chin angled up, her gaze boring straight into the man as he carried on what appeared to be an impassioned, and unwelcome, soliloquy.
“Do you recognize him?” I asked.
“No,” Rabbit said, “but he looks like trouble.”
Confirming his assessment, the man lunged at Jarka, pulling her toward him by one arm. Before my brain could even piece together what I was seeing, my body was halfway out the door.
Copyright © 2024 by Mindy Quigley.