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working on the party menu for weeks and have Gianni show up and steal his thunder.
    â€œObviously, it’s fabulous that you’ll be cooking Saturday,” Holly told Gianni. “But aren’t you supposed to be opening your restaurant in California in, like, four days?”
    â€œIt’s gonna be delayed a ­couple weeks,” Gianni said, waving dismissively. “ ’Cause my camera guys and busboys been complaining they need a day off every three weeks! Those guys all whiners! And someone tip off Department of Labor out in California, so I get some stupida warning letter about employees working too many hours.”
    â€œUh-­huh,” said Holly, nodding, while Bootsie and I exchanged an eye roll. Gianni was widely known as the world’s worst boss. “Well, anyway, poor Mrs. Potts has had a really hard day. She had her favorite painting stolen.”
    â€œShe lose a painting—­big deal!” opined the chef. “Gianni fly in from California, then I find out some report a suitcase of pancetta and soppressata I checked, and it got seized by the FDA!” Gianni told us, handing off his crate of birds to a passing Trendy Tent employee, who wisely didn’t argue that it wasn’t his job, and headed toward the kitchen.
    We all sighed. Gianni’s in negative range on the empathy meter—­not that Mrs. Potts cared. I noticed her shrugging and preparing to leave via a side entrance. She doesn’t deal with the Giannis of this world. “I’ll drive you, Aunt Honey,” said Mike Woodford, who’d returned with Jared. He offered the doyenne his arm and they disappeared—­but not before I caught a glimpse of his long-­lashed brown eyes.
    â€œI had to have big fight with guys at baggage claim over my secret stash of meat!” complained Gianni. “Someone call to complain that it’s not sanitary to bring uncured pork products on a flight. Big deal. Everyone jealous of Gianni, and trying to screw him over!”
    This was interesting, I thought. The Colketts came to mind as possible tattletales about Gianni’s skirting California labor laws, though they were said to be earning a hefty fee from Gianni for their design work, plus they were getting paid to be on his Food Network show. And any one of his staff might have made the calls to the FDA, since probably every one of them had some beef with the chef.
    â€œUh, boss?” Skipper came back from the kitchen, his polo shirt damp around the collar with perspiration and his handsome face registering anger. “Listen, Ronnie, I can’t work like this. This guy”—­here, he indicated Gianni—­“told my staff to pack up our equipment and take it out to the golf shed. He’s bringing in his own pans and has his staff moving all our meats and vegetables to the back of the walk-­in fridge to make room for his ducks.”
    Ronnie, the club manager, normally the most unflappable and low-­key of men, manages with a seemingly effortless style that keeps everything from the chicken salad to the golf greens in perfect working order. The only time I’ve ever seen him frazzled was when my elderly neighbor Jimmy Best moved into the club for a few days last spring, and drove the staff crazy with constant demands for Scotch and fresh towels.
    Today, though, Ronnie showed a slight sheen of perspiration around his temples, his hair was slightly ruffled, and there was a wrinkle in his Lands’ End khakis.
    â€œTry to ignore him,” Ronnie said, sotto voce. “I’ll deal with him tomorrow.”
    â€œI am so sorry, Skipper,” Holly told him. “Also, are we suspects, Walt?” she added. “Because I wouldn’t mind being considered a possible criminal mastermind, but if not, I need to get out of here and away from Eula Morris.”
    â€œI doubt you’d steal a painting from a party you’ve been planning for