Chapter 25
A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host, who stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell.
—Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby
Zach wasn’t pleased with me for putting myself in harm’s way, but fortunately, because the text I had sent him was bland to the max, which was very unlike me—his words, his compliment— he had determined something might be up.
Concerned, he’d dispatched another officer to deal with the loose dog situation, and he and Bates had come directly to the recreation center.
During the course of the next week, Finette claimed I was wrong on all counts.
She had plenty of money. She was flush. She had no reason to want Jason Gardner dead.
But the facts proved out. She was in foreclosure.
She had received final notices. Her bank account was empty.
Also, after the police canvassed the neighborhood around the Sugarbaker estate, a witness came forward who’d seen Finette exiting the property through the rear gate last Monday night.
The witness hadn’t said anything until now, because she’d gone to Charlotte to take care of a sick sister.
According to her testimony, the intruder had dressed in all black and was hunched over and limping on her right leg, the leg Darcy had attacked.
“Are you ready?” Tegan asked me. She’d come to Dream Cuisine at noon to supervise the final preparations for the Gatsby party.
Vanna and I had started cooking at five a.m.
I tamped down a yawn. “Ready as we’ll ever be.
Deviled eggs.” I gestured to a platter filled with one hundred portions.
“Fixings for Waldorf salad.” Each was prepared in a bentostyle box.
Difficult to transport but easier for service.
“Five dozen orange-drop cookies and five dozen blood-orange crinkles. Ten pineapple upside-down cakes. Bowls of marinated olives and platters of cheese, as well as grilled shrimp. Four lemon-filled coconut cakes. Seventy-five salmon mousse cups. A hundred roast chicken wings with rosemary. Three sliced sugar-glazed hams. Five strawberry ladyfinger icebox cakes.” My back was aching, but I had to admit I was beyond pleased with the results.
“Stop!” Tegan pleaded. “My mouth is watering. I’m putting on pounds thinking about the feast.” She turned to her sister. “Vanna, did you bring your dress along, or are you going home to change?”
“I’m going to the bed-and-breakfast. I’ll get ready there and drive Mother over when we’re both ready.”
Tegan helped us load up the van and then left to let us finish up.
As the door to the kitchen closed, Vanna said, “Allie, we have to talk about something.”
“Your meeting with the mayor. Of course. I apologize for not asking how it went.”
“It went so well, um …”
I cocked my head and waited for her to continue. Vanna was rarely at a loss for words.
“I’m not sure I want to partner with you any longer,” she said in a rush.
“I’ll continue to do the literary dining parties, but not the day-to-day stuff.
” She motioned with her arm at the array of pots and pans needing cleaning.
“Would it be okay? I mean, you probably want to say I’m more disappointing than an unsalted pretzel—”
I snorted. “Good one.”
“Your one-liners are rubbing off on me.” She grinned. “But please know that simply because I want out doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I do.”
My eyes widened. She what? I thought she barely tolerated me.
“And I love books, mysteries in particular.”
Okay, now she was scaring me. Who was this woman, and what had she done with Vanna Harding?
“But I’m sort of a one-woman act, you know?
All these early mornings are, well, messing with my routine.
I need more sleep. I need my beauty rest.” Frantically, she motioned to her face.
“I’ve got bags under my eyes!” she wailed, after which she took a deep calming breath.
“Besides, I like doing nighttime soirees. Are you okay with my decision?”
Honestly, I was relieved. I’d decided recently that I didn’t want to expand the business. I was enjoying catering and working at the bookshop. If Dream Cuisine continued to grow, I would have to curtail my time at Feast for the Eyes or give up reading … and that wasn’t going to happen.
“Of course I’m okay with it,” I assured her.
“Really? Thank you for understanding.” She grabbed my hands and squeezed. “By the way, I loved the Agatha Christie book The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Who knew mysteries could be so much fun to read?”
“Glad to hear it.” I tamped down a laugh. I didn’t want her to think I was mocking her.
“Hercule Poirot is really clever. However, I must tell you I found a number of misspelled words. Like organise with an s, instead of organize with a z, and marvellous with two l’s, instead of marvelous with one l. You’d think the publisher would’ve caught the mistakes.”
“Some British English words are spelled differently from Americanized English versions.”
“Really? I had no idea.” She mimed her head exploding.
Three hours later I whisked home and grabbed my flapper dress.
I would change into it after we arranged the food at the bookshop.
However, I twisted my hair into a loose updo with tendrils, put on red lipstick—gloss simply wasn’t authentic for the period—and then plunked Darcy into his carrier.
I was bringing him along so he could observe from the office.
After all, being a tuxedo cat, he was already dressed for the party.
We arrived at Feast for the Eyes two hours before the party was to start.
Tegan and the servers we’d hired were in full swing, prepping tables, moving our modest lectern into place, and transporting “on hold” books to the stockroom.
Chloe, clad in a red tiered-tassel dress that swished with every step, was tweaking all the printed quotes from Gatsby that were tilting.
I studied one of Nick’s quotes, the one referring to wealth and class inequality, and thought of Finette.
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.
” I believed Fitzgerald wrote it to remind us, the readers, that much of a person’s success might be due to their wealthy upbringing and not their skill.
Certainly Nick had struggled with the principle.
Chloe rounded an endcap and stood beside me.
She pointed to a different quote. “I love this one. ‘Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope.’ It’s so Nick.
It sets him up for the reader as a truthful narrator.
We can trust he’ll continue to tell us the real story throughout.
” She sighed. “If only life were that way and everyone was honest.”
“If only,” I echoed.
Lillian and a team of designers from the community theater had come in earlier in the morning and arranged the décor.
Three brass torchiere lamps dripped with strands of pearls.
A number of oversized black vases boasted huge white plumes.
Lamé drapes adorned the front door and the stockroom entrance.
Each of the tables was covered with a gold tablecloth and set with platters of food.
Lillian had acquired exquisite Art Deco tiered cookie and cake stands.
On the sales counter stood a pair of gorgeous candlesticks fitted with white candles.
A bartender with a knack for mixed drinks stood at the bar near the sales counter, prepared to make old-fashioneds and sidecars. Those particular cocktails were all the rage in the 1920s. In addition, we were offering champagne, lemonade, and sparkling water.
To the right, in the open space, we’d laid out a ten-by-ten parquet floor in case anyone wanted to “cut a rug.” No longer thinking we should erect a coffee bar there, I began to fantasize about making the unused section of the bookstore a mini gift shop.
We could sell specialty bookmarks, book-themed jewelry, mugs, and other paraphernalia.
I hadn’t mentioned the idea to Tegan yet. It could wait for now.
Tegan moseyed to me. “We’re ready to go.”
“I love the music.”
“Me too.”
We hadn’t agreed to Vanna’s idea of hiring a band, but Tegan had had the brilliant idea of putting her sister in charge of the playlist. She’d embraced the responsibility. “Rhapsody in Blue” was playing through the speakers at the moment.
“I’m going to change into my gown,” she said.
At a quarter to three Reika strolled into the shop, looking bright-eyed and eager. Her elegant floor-length burgundy gown adorned with black beads and fringes swished as she walked. While adjusting the cap sleeves of the matching dress cape, she said, “Allie, it looks fabulous.”
“We couldn’t have done it without all the finishing touches the museum and the theater provided.”
She motioned to someone outside.
The weathered, silver-haired man I’d seen sitting at the town council meeting pushed a beverage cart into the shop and paused. On the cart were dozens of Prohibition-style glasses.
“Roy, this is Allie,” she said, confirming my suspicion.
“Pleased to meet you, miss.” His voice was filled with warmth. The quaint way he said miss was genteel. He smoothed the lapels of his pin-striped jacket and gave the hem a tug.
“Push the cart over to the beverage table, Roy,” Reika said. “Thank you, love.”
Roy fondly cupped Reika’s chin and pecked her on the cheek before following her directions to the letter.
I stepped closer to Reika and slipped a hand around her elbow. “He’s back?”
“Yes. We’re going to couples therapy.”
“Wonderful. Um, are you going to be okay around liquor?” I motioned to the bar area.