Midlife Blues - Victoria Danann Page 0,6

a good thing I’d once had a friend who catered dinner parties for people with deep pockets or I wouldn’t have known my way around a complicated table setting. We began with a lobster souffle paired with chardonnay and worked our way up to Beef Wellington with claret. Then came a cheese and apple offering with port.

John David had provided six waiters in addition to however many people were working in the kitchen behind the scenes. The waitstaff had plenty of room to move around easily without bumping into each other. The space was so large that the table, which could have seated twenty-six, almost looked small centered in the room with three ten-foot stone fireplaces on one side and a bank of leaded glass windows on the other.

Keir was seated across from me, which couldn’t have been better because, gosh, he was scrumptious. Ivy was on his left and Lorca Scarlet on his right. She was wearing a champagne-colored satin dress. Very plain but elegant in its own way. I was seated between Lochlan and Colonel Connolly.

I turned to the Colonel, looked between him and Ms. Scarlet, and said, “So, you’re actors?”

They were really, good actors because both looked at me like I was crazy.

“I don’t know what you mean, young lady,” said Colonel Connoly. “I’ve just recently come home from India.”

Lorca Scarlet said, “I’ve been on the continent with my cousins for a season. When I received an invitation to visit my old friend, John David, I couldn’t resist.”

“You’re friends with John David?” I asked.

“Oh yes. We’re old friends.”

I wondered if the repetition of her claim that they were old friends was a clue because I it was my understanding that all John David’s ‘old’ friends had passed away long ago.

“Save room for dessert. And coffee, if you wish,” John David said loudly enough to be heard over conversation and the clinking of silver on china.

Keir and I looked at each other and said, “Dessert,” at the same time. He was saying it like he couldn’t wait. I was saying it like eating another bite of anything was impossible.

When the dishes from the cheese and fruit course had been cleared away and fresh dessert plates were delivered, John David stood and lightly wrapped his water stem with a silver spoon. Everyone looked his direction as if compelled.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the hour has arrived to learn the identity of the investigator. Who will it be?” He looked around letting the words lend an air of drama that didn’t need the support of significant emoting. “Open your envelopes.”

There was a rustle as people reached for their place card envelopes. The paper was heavy cotton of a quality rarely experienced by ordinary folk. Each name had been expertly handwritten in black calligraphy with a suggestion of the art deco style of the era.

I didn’t know about the others, but I was keeping mine as a souvenir.

All around I heard people asking each other, “What does your say?”

Eventually silence fell and everyone looked to John David for direction.

He held up his envelope and said, “It’s not me. But perhaps it should have been because, by the process of logical deduction, I conclude that means it’s one of you.”

Light laughter accompanied my amazement that John David attempted a joke.

“Well?” he asked.

“I, um… I guess it’s me?” All eyes turned toward me. I held up the card. “It says Inspector Hayworth?”

“Well done, Rita!” John David almost emoted. “You’re our sleuth.”

I wasn’t sure why I was getting a, “Well done.” I hadn’t done anything but open an envelope.

“Let’s have dessert,” John David said as he motioned to the man who appeared to be in charge of the waitstaff. “We have a special treat. If you’ll all come to this end of the room, Chef Alain Dupere, from Rive Gauche in London, is going to demonstrate the process of creating perfect crepes la orange flambé.”

That sounded fun. Not that an attempt at perfect crepes la orange flambé was in my future, but I hoped Olivia was watching closely. On second thought, Olivia could probably take over the demonstration and teach Chef Dupere a thing or two.

Dutifully following instructions, we pushed back our chairs and made our way to the end of the room to stand in a horseshoe cluster around the flaming dessert station on wheels. Elbow to elbow so that everyone could see, the chef put on a show that would rival hibachi theater. We laughed at his jokes, oohed and ahhed at his antics,