Obsession Falls (11 page)

Taylor found herself prodded around mobile refrigerators and marble countertops, around cooks wielding knives and long spoons, past stovetops filled with boiling pots and sizzling pans, and into a dim hallway and the servers’ bathroom. She’d taken enough speedy showers in strange bathrooms; she knew what to do. She stripped out of her grubby clothing, leaped into the shower, used a scratchy loofa with scented soap, leaped out, covered herself with hand lotion—sure, she was in a hurry, but her skin was parched and cracking—and dressed herself in black slacks, a black shirt, a black vest, and a red bow tie. She picked up the black jacket and carried it with her as she returned to the kitchen. She didn’t know what to do about shoes; her boots wouldn’t work here, but somehow she thought Sarah would have a solution.

Sarah did. She pointed at Taylor’s feet. “What size?”

“Eight.”

“I need a size eight black oxford!” she shouted.

Someone else’s shoes were shoved into Taylor’s hands. Taylor donned them, grimacing at the feel of used bowling shoes. But the plate of food Sarah placed in her hands distracted her.

“Sit.” Sarah pushed her toward an empty corner of the long table surrounded by yet more slicing, dicing sous-chefs. Placing her hand on Taylor’s shoulder, she pressed her into a chair in front of a plate overflowing with a variety of cheeses, breads, hors d’oeuvres, and exotic tidbits. “Eat. It’s bad advertising for Georg when his server looks like a starving child from a third world country.”

Taylor nodded. She sat. She ate. She looked up.

Sarah was watching her shrewdly.

“The crab cakes are oversalted,” Taylor told her.

“You’re not from around here. I didn’t think so.” Sarah turned, chins jiggling, and shouted in her deep voice, “Griffin! Pull the crab cakes apart and start over, and this time, put down the saltshaker!” She turned back to Taylor. “Anything else?”

“Everything exemplary, especially the steak bites dusted with dried morels and peppercorns.”

“My creation,” Sarah said with satisfaction. “And kudos to you for recognizing the morels. What’s your name?”

Taylor should have thought of this, but getting hired, actually talking to people … when she walked up the driveway, she hadn’t dreamed
this
would happen.

“Come on.
Come on.
You’re going to make me think you’re an escaped convict.” Sarah was far too shrewd for Taylor’s comfort.

“Summer. My name’s Summer.” Not much of an alias, but one Taylor would respond to.

“All right, Summer. Finish your food. We’ve got another fifteen minutes before we have to be out there with the trays.”

Taylor slowed down. It was all delicious, and rich with flavors she hadn’t tasted for too long. She didn’t dare overindulge. And, she suspected, refreshments would be provided throughout the evening. These caterers—they fed people.

She put her half-finished plate on the counter by the dishwashers, and joined the lineup of servers beside the array of silver platters.

To her surprise, Georg himself handed them out, telling each server what was on the tray, making them repeat it back. “This is the first big event of the holiday season. Mr. and Mrs. Brothers were my original clients. You will not fail me.” His dark gaze swept around the waitstaff.

Everyone murmured, “Yes, Georg.”

Taylor felt a tremor of stage fright. She was going into a party. With people. Would someone recognize her?

Georg paced before them, never still, gesturing deliberately, pointing at one server, then the other, snapping his fingers for emphasis. “Whatever you do, keep moving. You look for guests to signal you, you offer the tray when you get a chance, but you glide through the crowd. You are unobtrusive. You dress alike. You look alike. You are alike. You are Georg’s servers. After the party, no one even remembers you were there.”

“Right,” Taylor murmured. These were wealthy people. She was staff. No one would even look at her. She followed the others up the stairs, down the corridor, and into an enormous ballroom of shining hardwood floors, crystal chandeliers, and lofty flower arrangements. A band played background music from the stage in the corner. This room, this home, was arrayed as gloriously as any in a formal Washington, D.C., event.

On the other hand, the guests wore western chic. The men wore black leather dusters, black cowboy hats, and big belt buckles. The women wore fringed leather dusters in jewel tones with fur trim and snap-front shirts. Everyone wore jeans and cowboy boots. Expensive jeans, and expensive cowboy boots.

The bar was busy. Servers with champagne were hopping. And Taylor found her tray of chicken satay emptied almost at once. She returned to the kitchen and this time brought out nacho bites with fried oysters. Then Brie served on croissants smeared with butter.

After the first rush of consciousness at being in a room with so many people, Taylor settled down to work in the crowd. She overheard broken bits of conversations. She gathered that this was the annual fund-raiser for the local rodeo given by Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Brothers of the Brothers Resorts and Dude Ranches, and for the first time Taylor realized how dangerous her appearance here could have been. She had once bid on the redecoration of their western-style luxury hotels. At the time she had cursed the loss; now she thanked her lucky stars she hadn’t won the contract. If she was recognized … her skin crawled on the back of her neck, and she turned to see who was watching her.

It was an old man, out of place in his formal tuxedo, and he beckoned her.

She hurried to his side.

Once he had been much taller, but now he had shrunk until he was about her height. He was fragile and bony. His shoulders were bent; he looked as if he were about to fall over. And he sported a mass of white curling hair and overgrown white curling wizard eyebrows over bright, inquiring blue eyes.

She liked him. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

“Yes. What’s that on your tray?”

“Bacon-wrapped jalapeños stuffed with shrimp and cheese.”

He hummed with delight as he helped himself. “Are you allergic to shrimp?”

“Not at all.”

“Then sit down and eat the whole tray.” He waved the jalapeño in her face. “My God, you girls. Always dieting to within an inch of your lives. How are you going to catch a man, looking like that?”

She couldn’t help it. She grinned. “They already fed me in the kitchen, and I don’t want a man.”

“Are you gay?”

“No, sir.”

“Divorced?”

“No, sir. I’m currently unattached, and happy to be that way.”

He clicked his tongue in disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous. All women should be married.” He took a hearty bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I shouldn’t be eating this. Heartburn will keep me up all night. But I love ’em, used to eat ’em by the train-car load. Goddamn, that’s great. Don’t tell my wife.”

“I won’t.” Taylor offered him a napkin.

He took it. “So … you were disappointed in love.”

“Several times.”

“It’s like riding a horse. Gotta get back in there. You don’t want to die alone.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She’d faced death too often lately to be able to joke about it.

The old man saw something in her face, because his blue eyes narrowed. Then he looked past her and said, “No, I am not allowed to eat such spicy food, but thank you for offering.” He shoved the half-eaten jalapeño into Taylor’s hand.

She slipped it into her vest pocket.

A woman’s strong voice came from behind Taylor. “Joshua, do not try to bullshit me. After so many years, I know exactly what you’re up to before you even think to do it.”

“Pain in the ass,” he muttered, and dabbed at his lips.

“I told you not to harangue this child.” The brilliantly gowned old lady slipped her hand through her husband’s arm. “Don’t pay attention to the old coot,” she said to Taylor. “He’s always trying to save the world.”

“It could be worse. He could be trying to destroy it.” Two months without making polite chitchat, and already Taylor had lost the knack.

Joshua elbowed his wife. “See there? This young girl likes me.”

“Even if you do tell her she’s too skinny.”

“Too damned much dieting these days. I like a woman with meat on her bones. Like Lorena.” He patted his wife’s rump.

Lorena calmly removed his hand and held it in hers. “What’s your name, dear?” she asked Taylor.

“Summer.” The lie came more easily this time.

“Beautiful name,” Lorena said.

“You know,” Mr. Brothers said, “before we hit it big with the resorts, Lorena here used to be a hairdresser. You might get her to cut your hair. I’m not trying to be mean, gal, but you look like you backed into a lawn mower.”

“That was rude, Joshua. True, but rude. And I am
still
a hairdresser. Never know when this being wealthy thing might take a header and I’ll have to go back to work.” Lorena glared at her husband.

He glared back at her.

Taylor could tell they’d gone over this ground multiple times, and their fight was nothing more than affectionate sparring. She started backing away. “I should go back to work, too, before Georg fires me.”

“If he tries, tell him to speak to me,” the old man said gruffly. “Anyway, it looks like they’re hailing me to do my little song and dance, and start the auction.” He straightened his coat.

Lorena straightened his tie.

He walked toward the stage to increasing applause.

Of course. He was Joshua Brothers, the host of the party and the owner of the house. All the clues had been there. Taylor had simply become so socially inept she hadn’t recognized them.

Mrs. Brothers patted her arm. “When the party’s over, come and find me and we’ll trim that hair of yours. It’ll improve your chances to find steady work.”

Mr. Brothers took the microphone and announced Lorena’s name in proud tones.

“There’s my cue,” Mrs. Brothers said.

Taylor watched her walk toward the stage.
Keep a steady job.
Is that what she should be doing? Tonight, no one had recognized her. Instead of skulking in the mountains with no plan and no future, should she go into Ketchum and see about becoming a … a waitress?

Yes. She could continue to work. Because no one ever looked at the servers. But for any kind of work, she needed a first and last name and a Social Security number. Not everyone was going to look at her and assume she was registered with an employment agency, nor would they be willing to hire her with no documentation. Georg had been reluctant, and Taylor had no guarantee she would receive money for her stint tonight. On the other hand, she’d had a hot meal and a shower, so it was worth taking the chance.

At the party, cocktails, hors d’oeuvres, and the auction gave way to dancing, and then a generous buffet and circulating trays of dessert. Summer carried the bite-sized lime cheesecake in a chocolate cup, and found herself very popular. She was serving two women, smiling and saying, “I’m sorry, if you’re lactose intolerant I’m afraid the cheesecake is not your best choice. But the cotton candy cups are not far behind, and—”

Behind her she heard a man say, “You know the Renners had a false alarm on their security system, right? Now Dick Harbo insists his place got broken into.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Taylor froze like a statue, tray balanced, expression fixed. “—and I tested them myself,” she finished in a hurry, and turned to offer the cheesecake bites to the three couples behind her. “Lime cheesecake bites,” she said, and willed the man to keep talking.

“How would Harbo know? Since his divorce, that place is a junkheap.” The female speaker could not have been more disdainful of Dick Harbo, or more enthusiastic about the cheesecake. She took two.

“Maybe so.” The man spoke; Taylor recognized his voice. “But he knows everything he has and where it is. He’s missing a one-man tent, a survival guide, some dried rations, his ex’s backpack, some other stuff.” He waved off Taylor and her tray.

Now Taylor knew the name of the guy she’d stolen the tent from, that he was obsessive-compulsive about his possessions, and her suspicions of his divorce were confirmed. Great.

“Did the burglar destroy anything?” another man asked.

“How could you tell?” the first woman asked.

Everybody laughed.

Everyone except Taylor, who hoped she didn’t have that deer-in-the-headlights expression.

A third man said to Taylor, “Sure, honey. I’ll take one of those.” Then, “Was anything messed up?”

“Clean as a whistle,” the first guy said.

“What kind of burglar breaks in and cleans up after himself?” the third guy asked. “Sounds to me like Harbo is drinking too much.”

Another woman came from behind and joined the group. “Yes, but
we’re
missing our pistol.”

With a jolt, Taylor realized that everybody here knew each other. These were the neighbors in Wildrose Valley.

Taylor offered the new woman the dessert tray.

“I already had one, thank you.” This lady was impatient, determined to speak her piece.

Everyone in the group had either taken cheesecake or refused. Taylor was supposed to move on. So she turned away and pretended to be offering her tray to the same group as before.

“Since Valerie shot Macalister with the BB gun, we have been absolute freaks about keeping guns in the safe. But this was a brand-new Glock I had bought for Peter for Christmas. I hid it in the—”

“Excuse me, could I have one of those?”

It took a minute for Taylor to register that the tall woman to her left was hovering, waiting for dessert.

“Of course!” Taylor handed her a napkin, and waited for her to make her choice from among all the identical desserts.

“These are low calorie, right?” The woman winked. She was tall, blond, in her forties, with a pleasant expression.

“… finally thought it was me … I’m so absentminded … had to ask … everyone denied…”

Taylor smiled. “Calories are relative, aren’t they?”

“They’re my relatives, for sure. At least, they hang around like they are!” The woman laughed and stroked one hand down her hip.