haven’t been smoking funny cigarettes again, have you?”
Good grief .
“No, I haven’t been smoking anything, funny or otherwise.”
My God, were all my past indiscretions common knowledge?
“Listen, Janet”—I watched her raise the toast point to her lips and realized desperate situations called for desperate measures. So I made a noise like I was about to hack up a furball and feigned lobbing it into the pâté. “Get it now?” I asked her.
“You’re tellin’ me that somebody spit in this stuff?”
I touched a finger to the tip of my nose.
She made a face. “Ugh. That’s unsanitary. Shouldn’t we hide the pâté? Or tell Marilee?”
“Tell Marilee?” I choked. “Do you really want to see the offender stuffed and roasted in her double-wide oven?”
“You’re right. Bad idea.” She set down the spreader and slipped the tainted toast point into a napkin, balling it up in her fist. For a moment, I feared she’d stick the wad into the pocket of her tangerine-colored pants suit, but instead she casually dropped it on the floor and nudged it under the serving table with her heel. As for the bowl on the buffet, she pushed it behind a vase of lilies and draped a linen napkin atop it. “Do tell me what’s safe to nibble on, Andy? And, please, say the caviar canapés are free of bodily fluids?”
So far as I knew .
I nodded.
“So what’s the dirt?” She asked as she feasted on fish eggs. “Did Marilee make somebody mad in the kitchen? Like that’d be the first time she ticked off someone on her staff. She’s got a turnstile on her employee door, they come and go so fast.”
“She pissed off a guy named Carson. He does something with food on her show.”
Her eyes got as wide as shooter marbles. “Carson Caruthers?”
“If we’re talking about the same man, then he’s bald as a cue ball.”
“Right-o.”
“She reamed him out in front of the rest of her crew,” I dished. “Something about putting the foie gras out too soon and using water crackers instead of toast points.”
“Good Lord.” Janet appeared about to swoon. “He’s the hot young chef that Twinkle Productions imported from Manhattan to take over the job as Marilee’s food editor. I can’t believe she’d risk yelling at him in front of the staff.”
“They’ve got to be paying him an arm and a leg,” I opined. “That’s the only way she seems to keep people around.”
Janet scanned the room before leaning nearer to whisper, “Marilee’s on a power trip that she didn’t pack for, Andy. It’s like she’s bound and determined to make as many enemies as she can. You should’ve seen her at Mrs. Perot’s luncheon last week. I swear on my mama’s grave that I haven’t seen anyone put on such diva airs since that cut-rate duchess came to town. Marilee might as well have a tiara soldered to her forehead.”
I snagged a champagne flute from a passing tray and sipped, the bubbles tickling my nose. “What’d she do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Tried to steal the spotlight, is all. Well, she did more than try, she succeeded,” Janet said, her gaze roving about the room all the while. “She played demure until Mrs. Perot was about to hand over a nice-sized check to the Salvation Army fellow, all dressed up in his uniform. Then right as the Morning News photographer was about to snap a photo, Marilee popped out of her seat, flung herself in front of Mrs. P., and whipped out a big ol’ check of her own. Bigger than Mrs. Perot’s by at least a zero. So guess which picture made the paper?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Janet drew an X across her heart to prove it was no lie.
Marilee might’ve mimicked my mother’s style of dress, but she certainly lacked Cissy’s finesse.
“Unbelievable,” I said between sips.
“I’ve been doing some research on Marilee’s rags-to-riches story, and there’s a lot more to her than anybody knows,” Janet went on, keeping her voice low.
“Like
Good grief .
“No, I haven’t been smoking anything, funny or otherwise.”
My God, were all my past indiscretions common knowledge?
“Listen, Janet”—I watched her raise the toast point to her lips and realized desperate situations called for desperate measures. So I made a noise like I was about to hack up a furball and feigned lobbing it into the pâté. “Get it now?” I asked her.
“You’re tellin’ me that somebody spit in this stuff?”
I touched a finger to the tip of my nose.
She made a face. “Ugh. That’s unsanitary. Shouldn’t we hide the pâté? Or tell Marilee?”
“Tell Marilee?” I choked. “Do you really want to see the offender stuffed and roasted in her double-wide oven?”
“You’re right. Bad idea.” She set down the spreader and slipped the tainted toast point into a napkin, balling it up in her fist. For a moment, I feared she’d stick the wad into the pocket of her tangerine-colored pants suit, but instead she casually dropped it on the floor and nudged it under the serving table with her heel. As for the bowl on the buffet, she pushed it behind a vase of lilies and draped a linen napkin atop it. “Do tell me what’s safe to nibble on, Andy? And, please, say the caviar canapés are free of bodily fluids?”
So far as I knew .
I nodded.
“So what’s the dirt?” She asked as she feasted on fish eggs. “Did Marilee make somebody mad in the kitchen? Like that’d be the first time she ticked off someone on her staff. She’s got a turnstile on her employee door, they come and go so fast.”
“She pissed off a guy named Carson. He does something with food on her show.”
Her eyes got as wide as shooter marbles. “Carson Caruthers?”
“If we’re talking about the same man, then he’s bald as a cue ball.”
“Right-o.”
“She reamed him out in front of the rest of her crew,” I dished. “Something about putting the foie gras out too soon and using water crackers instead of toast points.”
“Good Lord.” Janet appeared about to swoon. “He’s the hot young chef that Twinkle Productions imported from Manhattan to take over the job as Marilee’s food editor. I can’t believe she’d risk yelling at him in front of the staff.”
“They’ve got to be paying him an arm and a leg,” I opined. “That’s the only way she seems to keep people around.”
Janet scanned the room before leaning nearer to whisper, “Marilee’s on a power trip that she didn’t pack for, Andy. It’s like she’s bound and determined to make as many enemies as she can. You should’ve seen her at Mrs. Perot’s luncheon last week. I swear on my mama’s grave that I haven’t seen anyone put on such diva airs since that cut-rate duchess came to town. Marilee might as well have a tiara soldered to her forehead.”
I snagged a champagne flute from a passing tray and sipped, the bubbles tickling my nose. “What’d she do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Tried to steal the spotlight, is all. Well, she did more than try, she succeeded,” Janet said, her gaze roving about the room all the while. “She played demure until Mrs. Perot was about to hand over a nice-sized check to the Salvation Army fellow, all dressed up in his uniform. Then right as the Morning News photographer was about to snap a photo, Marilee popped out of her seat, flung herself in front of Mrs. P., and whipped out a big ol’ check of her own. Bigger than Mrs. Perot’s by at least a zero. So guess which picture made the paper?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Janet drew an X across her heart to prove it was no lie.
Marilee might’ve mimicked my mother’s style of dress, but she certainly lacked Cissy’s finesse.
“Unbelievable,” I said between sips.
“I’ve been doing some research on Marilee’s rags-to-riches story, and there’s a lot more to her than anybody knows,” Janet went on, keeping her voice low.
“Like
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