Goldy Schulz 01 Catering to Nobody by Diane Mott Davidson Page B
Authors: Diane Mott Davidson
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club had been imported. Eastern snobbery gave Coloradans no end of psychic pain, and the natives produced a multitude of bumper stickers to express their attendant disgust. The most impudent declared, LOVE NEW YORK? TAKE HIWAY 40 EAST!
I looked down at the basket on the seat next to me. The cakes and container of soup glistened in cellophane wrap tied with bows of yellow and orange and brown. A small arrangement of flowers dried from my own garden last year echoed the fall colors. And speaking of bouquets, maybe I'd be able to find out this afternoon what it was Fritz deserved.
"Well now, Goldy honey," Vonette greeted me after the doorbell on the massive front door to their contemporary wood home had bing-bonged a la Big Ben. "Don't you look cute! You got a date or something?"
I winced. Was the fact that I was showered and coifed and sporting a seldom-worn black wool dress so very unusual? So very new?
Vonette's brilliant red hair was more disheveled than usual, but it just might have been the way it clashed with the purple Ultrasuede hostess gown.
She said in a confidential tone, "I got a batch of margaritas going. Want one before you see Fritz?"
I was tempted. I was about to see a doctor whom half the town thought I had tried to kill, and yet who merited something, according to an anonymous flower sender. Moreover, in a few hours I was going out on my first date in five years with the cop investigating the case. If I succumbed to the buzz from the first hit of salt, lime, and tequila, then it would be numerous margaritas later before the thirst left and the headache began. By that time I'd be knee-deep in egg rolls and moo-shu pork with my head swimming like the shreds of yolk in egg drop soup. This dismal prognosis made me ask for coffee.
Vonette, on the other hand, professed no worry about either Oriental cuisine or the hangover to come. I followed her out to the cavernous kitchen. She waved her free hand gaily as she beeped microwave buttons to heat water for coffee. After a long swig of greenish liquid she started to talk.
"I just don't know what to do with him being home. He's fussing and yapping all day about Lord knows what. That John Richard can't see all his patients. That they need him over there. The practice, the practice. Yappety yap. That some doctor on TV is an idiot. Lord! I wished they'd have given him an injection to make him shut up!"
"I know he's dedicated to his work," I said, thinking of Patty Sue and her mandatory twice-weekly appointments. "How soon before he's back in shape?"
"Tomorrow. Thanks be to God." She paused and looked at my basket for the first time. "Now look what you've brought. Aren't you just so sweet."
I explained the basket's contents and opened the refrigerator to put in the cake with cream cheese. The food of a noncook littered the shelves. Fancy sliced deli ham and smoked salmon, herring in sour cream, and little nibbled packages of Brie and Samsoe and Port Salut vied for space with beer and wine and every imaginable kind of mixer. It again occurred to me, as it had so many times, that John Richard had married a woman who could cook because he had been raised by one who could not.
"May I see Fritz?" I asked.
She nodded. "Just wait here a sec," she said. "Let me go see if he minds. He probably won't, but you know how ornery he can be. He was talking about taking a shower, so it might just be a little bit."
"I'll wait in the study," I announced, and slipped into the paneled room off the kitchen.
When Vonette had padded off, I slowly opened the drawers of the study desk. Take your shower, Fritz. My heart was knocking loudly and I felt cold. Vonette was not returning immediately. The business has to reopen, I said to myself. Schulz doesn't need to know about this. Start investigating.
Apparently Vonette liked to organize as little as she liked to cook. Letters and papers and photographs were crammed into each of the small drawers like dressing in a too-small turkey. I
I looked down at the basket on the seat next to me. The cakes and container of soup glistened in cellophane wrap tied with bows of yellow and orange and brown. A small arrangement of flowers dried from my own garden last year echoed the fall colors. And speaking of bouquets, maybe I'd be able to find out this afternoon what it was Fritz deserved.
"Well now, Goldy honey," Vonette greeted me after the doorbell on the massive front door to their contemporary wood home had bing-bonged a la Big Ben. "Don't you look cute! You got a date or something?"
I winced. Was the fact that I was showered and coifed and sporting a seldom-worn black wool dress so very unusual? So very new?
Vonette's brilliant red hair was more disheveled than usual, but it just might have been the way it clashed with the purple Ultrasuede hostess gown.
She said in a confidential tone, "I got a batch of margaritas going. Want one before you see Fritz?"
I was tempted. I was about to see a doctor whom half the town thought I had tried to kill, and yet who merited something, according to an anonymous flower sender. Moreover, in a few hours I was going out on my first date in five years with the cop investigating the case. If I succumbed to the buzz from the first hit of salt, lime, and tequila, then it would be numerous margaritas later before the thirst left and the headache began. By that time I'd be knee-deep in egg rolls and moo-shu pork with my head swimming like the shreds of yolk in egg drop soup. This dismal prognosis made me ask for coffee.
Vonette, on the other hand, professed no worry about either Oriental cuisine or the hangover to come. I followed her out to the cavernous kitchen. She waved her free hand gaily as she beeped microwave buttons to heat water for coffee. After a long swig of greenish liquid she started to talk.
"I just don't know what to do with him being home. He's fussing and yapping all day about Lord knows what. That John Richard can't see all his patients. That they need him over there. The practice, the practice. Yappety yap. That some doctor on TV is an idiot. Lord! I wished they'd have given him an injection to make him shut up!"
"I know he's dedicated to his work," I said, thinking of Patty Sue and her mandatory twice-weekly appointments. "How soon before he's back in shape?"
"Tomorrow. Thanks be to God." She paused and looked at my basket for the first time. "Now look what you've brought. Aren't you just so sweet."
I explained the basket's contents and opened the refrigerator to put in the cake with cream cheese. The food of a noncook littered the shelves. Fancy sliced deli ham and smoked salmon, herring in sour cream, and little nibbled packages of Brie and Samsoe and Port Salut vied for space with beer and wine and every imaginable kind of mixer. It again occurred to me, as it had so many times, that John Richard had married a woman who could cook because he had been raised by one who could not.
"May I see Fritz?" I asked.
She nodded. "Just wait here a sec," she said. "Let me go see if he minds. He probably won't, but you know how ornery he can be. He was talking about taking a shower, so it might just be a little bit."
"I'll wait in the study," I announced, and slipped into the paneled room off the kitchen.
When Vonette had padded off, I slowly opened the drawers of the study desk. Take your shower, Fritz. My heart was knocking loudly and I felt cold. Vonette was not returning immediately. The business has to reopen, I said to myself. Schulz doesn't need to know about this. Start investigating.
Apparently Vonette liked to organize as little as she liked to cook. Letters and papers and photographs were crammed into each of the small drawers like dressing in a too-small turkey. I
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