The Chocolate Cat Caper Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mexican-Americans in the area pick fruit—and I knew Aunt Nettie thought a lot of him. I felt sure he didn’t remember me at all, but he pretended that he did. Every successful caterer is a born glad-hander, and Mike Herrera had the act down pat.
    He smiled broadly as he took my hand in both of his. “Lee. The little Texas lady who stayed with Jeanette and Phil and worked in their shop. Welcome back to beautiful Lake Michigan.” His accent was very faint.
    “This time I plan to stay through the winter, Mr. Herrera. Do you think a Texan can stand the snow?”
    “You’ll grow to love it, Lee. Brisk! Invigorating! And the summers—ah, yes. Life without air-conditioning. You know I grew up in Denton? But I’d never go back to Texas now that I’ve discovered this beautiful place.” He gave my hand a final pat, and a subtle change came over his face. When he spoke again I recognized it; Mike Herrera had moved from Warner Pier booster to businessman.
    “I can’t do your paperwork today,” he said. “But I’ll be in the office tomorrow. Can you bring your Social Security number by?”
    “Sure.”
    “Hokay.” He nodded. “Have you ever tended bar?”
    “A few times. I can manage highballs and martinis. If they get into anything more exotic . . .”
    Herrera smiled. “If they want anything more exotic, you’ll ask Jason to mix it.” He led, I followed, and I was finally inside the house.
    I could see why Lindy had described the interior as “ugly as sin,” but some interior designer had been paid a bunch of money to make it that ugly. The walls were white and completely bare. The ceilings were white, too, and they soared. The floor was bare wood, with a finish so dark it almost hit black. A stairway—dark wood risers with stark white balustrades—led to a balcony that loomed over the shortest side of the room. The south and west walls were lined with French windows, which showed off the views of the lake and the river. The windows were bare; no curtains, blinds, valances, or even lengths of fabric twisted around poles. If the room had a focal point—other than the views of river and lake—it was a severe stone fireplace at the narrow end. An unobtrusive area rug lay in front of that, and the fireplace faced a white leather couch—the kind you have trouble getting out of. All the other furniture was dark wood and looked spindly and uncomfortable.
    I pictured the room in winter, with all that bare wood, no comfortable chairs, and nothing to block the view of icy river and lake outside. Clementine Ripley must have to keep the thermostat set on ninety degrees, I thought. The room was beautiful, in an austere way, but it was a visual deep freeze.
    It was not a room I could imagine Joe Woodyard in.
    A half dozen men, women, and teenagers in black pants and white shirts were bustling about, setting up tables and dressing them with white cloths and silver dishes. I spotted two silver trays of TenHuis chocolates.
    Through a double door I could see a dining room—more dark wood and unadorned white walls. A man in a white undershirt was building a white linen nest for a steamboat round. I felt sure he’d put on a double-breasted jacket and a chef’s hat before the guests arrived.
    I hadn’t ever waitressed at a party like this, true, but in my role as Mrs. Rich Gottrocks, I’d gone to hundreds of similar events. Boooorrring. At least I wouldn’t have to make conversation this time.
    The last person I expected to see was Clementine Ripley herself. She should have been upstairs soaking in the whirlpool or treating her beautiful complexion to a last-minute facial. But as Mike Herrera and I crossed toward the bar, she came in the terrace door, still wearing her casual denim outfit. Herrera nodded and smiled his caterer’s smile.
    “Hello, Mike,” she said. “Everything looks fine.”
    “Thank you very much, Ms. Ripley. We wish to please in every way.” Herrera would have moved on, but Ms. Ripley touched his