nothing there. I knew there was no one in the house, after a quick circuit, and there was no one by the water. That left the road and the trees where someone could come in.
“Here,” Brian said, handing me a glass of champagne. “Settle down, there, killer. You look like a guard dog running the perimeter.”
I nodded. “Yeah, well. Don’t forget, Meg was the one responsible for stopping Tony that night at the Point.”
“Drink the wine, Em. Try to have a good time. I’m here, we’re both keeping our eyes open, it’s okay. I’m going over to see if Meg needs a glass of water or a snack to keep going.”
“She’d probably prefer a beer,” I called after him.
There was so much hubbub at the tree line on one side of the lawn, where the buffet was, that I went over to see if I could help. I found Fee, Fiona Prowse, there, run off her feet. She was so often the picture of the unflappable and competent accountant that I knew she was in trouble—one of her ringlets had escaped its lacquered fastness and stood up like a question mark over the rest of her helmet head. She looked like a character for Dr. Seuss that I had to stop myself from staring.
“Emma…?” She wasn’t greeting me, and not really asking what I wanted. She didn’t trust me, though long ago, I’d kept secrets for her.
“What can I do to help, Fee?” I really didn’t like her, but I would do almost anything to keep the wedding going smoothly. Once in charge of the books, she now also managed the Chandler house property. Something was bothering her, as she hadn’t even gotten the groundskeeper there on time.
“The caterer. She’s got several more trips. Just wait here to answer any questions she might have. And she’s arrived late.”
“Fine, no problem.” As if I knew anything about the plans.
“Excuse me, I’ve got to make a few quick calls.” And she was off, without another word.
I looked at the tables. Beautifully simple, ivory cloths with pale lilac plates that were the colors Meg chose for her “backup,” as she called her bridesmaids, darker purple flowers in simple-to-the-point-of-starkness arrangements that suggested formality, kept from being flouncy or stuffy, and yet were gorgeous. Meg had succeeded in keeping her wedding from looking like what Bucky had once described as “an explosion at the potpourri factory.”
There was one thing that didn’t match, I noticed. One of the platters didn’t match the others. Pretty enough, white china, but wrapped in plastic wrap and not the little mesh tents, or silver chafing dishes, or plastic containers that the caterer was using. Frowning, I went over to check it out.
I had just picked it up when I heard a sharp voice. “Can I help you?”
A harassed young African-American woman in immaculate chef ’s whites was behind me, setting down a large blue plastic insulated box.
“Uh, I was just…”
“You can’t leave that here, I’ve already discussed the set up with Ms. Garrity, the bride. Perhaps you could keep it at your table; but I don’t have enough space for guest’s dishes.” Her name tag said CHEF VICTORIA.
I shook my head. “It’s not mine. I wanted to check it…” Shit! What the hell could I tell her? “I’m worried someone’s trying to hurt the bride.”
She looked at me, her face immobile, clearly assessing my sanity. “Oh?”
“Look, it sounds crazy, but…” I told her briefly about the situation at the site. No reason to go into elaborate detail. “I’ve been trying to keep an eye out for her. I just didn’t want anything to spoil today. This didn’t fit here, but it could be…I dunno. Aunt Minnie’s Swedish meatballs or something. I just don’t want anyone to eat it, until we know for sure.”
She cast an expert eye over the plate. “It looks like phyllo to me. It might be Aunt Melina’s spanikopita, but I don’t want it here, you don’t want it here. I’ll stick it in the hot chest, and when someone squawks, I’ll pull it out, say I was keeping it warm. But only if it looks like Aunt Melina, and not some head case.”
“Thank you!” I didn’t bother keeping the relief from my voice. “I know how crazy—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Chef Victoria didn’t have time for thanks or debate. “Like I said, I don’t want it here, and you’ve given me the perfect excuse to hide it. Besides, anyone gets sick at one of my jobs,