“What is that fantastic aroma?” Nikki quickly pecked her mother on the cheek and gave Charles a hug.
“Charles has been fussing with a new secret recipe.” Myra was only half kidding. Charles was the equivalent of a Michelin-star restaurant chef. She didn’t know how he had learned to create such fine cuisine, but she appreciated it, nonetheless. There were a number of things in Charles’s background about which Myra knew very little, but she knew more about it than most. And she trusted him with her life, the life of her adopted daughter, Nikki, and those of the “sisters.”
Fergus had been an “associate” of Charles when Charles was in MI6 and Fergus was a high-ranking official at Scotland Yard. She did not know all that much about Fergus’s early career, but if Charles trusted him, and Annie adored him, well, that made him someone Myra could trust completely.
“Mmm . . .” Maggie took a big inhale. “If dinner is as good as this smells, well, I hope you have enough for everyone besides me!” The women giggled at the ongoing joke about Maggie’s appetite.
At that moment, Isabelle called from the dining room, “Which dinnerware?”
“The Hermès Mosaique will go nicely with the Waterford,” Myra answered. She was fidgeting with her pearls again.
Charles came up behind her and asked in a whisper, “What are you fussing about? The girls, Fergus, and I have everything under control.”
She gave him an affectionate pat on his cheek. “I want to know what Nikki and Alexis found out about Dr. Wonderful.” Myra was referring to Charlotte’s Aspen physician, Dr. Steinwood.
“Speaking of which, Avery should have the intel on Dr. Marcus any minute now,” Charles added. “I know you wanted to have some background before Charlotte arrives. Let me check the oven. Then I’ll go downstairs and see if Avery has sent anything.”
Avery Snowden had been involved in many counterintelligence operations back in the day, and the Sisterhood now considered him their full-time private investigator. His small army of professional operatives could find out almost anything about anyone and could track them in ways that would make Sherlock Holmes blush.
“Oh, Charles, you know the rules. You made this one yourself—no business during cooking or dining,” Myra reminded him.
“Yes, dear girl. But I promise I won’t do anything. I’ll just check.”
Nikki gave her mother a nod to indicate she needed to speak to her in private.
Myra lifted one finger, as if to say, Give me a minute.
There were no secrets among the women. If anyone had come across a situation that she thought needed to be addressed, she would bring it to the table, and the sisters would take a vote. If they agreed to deal with it, they would lay out a strategy for the mission, with each sister getting an assignment. At the moment, Myra, Annie, Nikki, Alexis, and Charles were in the preliminary stages of finding out what they could about the two doctors and their “longevity protocol.” If Myra’s instincts were correct, and they usually were, the group would be convening for a vote lickety-split.
But all of that would wait until dinner had been served, followed by dessert, tea, and coffee, and the twelve-foot walnut dining-room table was back to its pristine state, the dishes and pots and pans were gleaming, and not a crumb was in sight.
For now, the preparations for their arriving guest were proceeding apace.
Chapter 5
The girls stepped back to admire the gorgeous table they had arranged for the dinner party. Myra was correct. The beautiful Waterford crystal complemented the stunning Hermès china, both sitting upon the crisp white Pratesi tablecloth. The centerpiece of cherry-blossom branches and white peonies made a statement that could be described only as exquisite. Small votive candles were scattered throughout. The girls engaged in high fives and a lot of whooping. Even the dogs barked in approval.
Charles peeked around the corner and walked in holding a small tray of popovers in one hand. “You certainly outdid yourselves, girls! This deserves a treat.” The dogs went wild at the word treat. Charles reached into his pocket with his free hand and produced a handful of doggie biscuits. His pockets were seldom without them.
Maggie snatched a popover before anyone else did. “Oh my. This is heaven. Charles, I don’t know how you do it.” The girls elbowed their way to the silver platter on which rested the airy, fluffy pastries.
“We prefer to call it Yorkshire pudding, but you Yanks call them popovers. This