Read Online Fatally Flaky by Diane Mott Davidson - Free Book Online

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    Marla said, “I got a call today from a secretarial service that Charlotte is using. All the guests are being notified of the new venue for the wedding. Gold Gulch Spa? Please. What are we supposed to do, stuff ourselves silly at the reception, then go work out, then relax in the hot springs pool?”
    “How ’bout,” Jack interjected, “we just pig out, then go rest in the hot pool?” After asking that question, though, he went back into the daze that had enveloped him since he’d arrived at the house.
    “Sounds good to me,” replied Marla. “But get this—directions are being e-mailed, faxed, or delivered by messenger to each and every wedding guest, depending on how technologically current you are. Changing where the festivities are being held must mess up your plans somewhat, eh, Goldy?”
    “I don’t even want to go there,” I replied. “I mean, I’ll go to the spa, but I sure don’t want to talk about how Billie’s addition of fifty more guests is screwing up my life. Charlotte’s coming over to night so we can hammer out the details. I have to drive to Gold Gulch tomorrow morning, to see what our flow is going to be, where the tables will be set up, all that jazz.”
    “And then there’s the dreaded Victor Lane to deal with,” Marla added. She knew all about my dealings with the man who thought women couldn’t cook.
    “Victor Lane?” Jack suddenly seemed to come out of his stupor, and his gray eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “Victor Lane? Why does that name sound depressingly familiar?”
    Oh, dear. I found it hard to believe that Jack, the man who’d been going out with Charlotte Attenborough virtually since he arrived in town, would not have heard of Victor Lane and his vaunted Gold Gulch Spa. Charlotte was well known as a Gold Gulch fixture. To forestall discussion of a subject that could upset Jack even more, I offered Jack and Marla something else to drink. When they declined, I poured myself another glass of sherry.
    But Marla didn’t take to forestallment. “Don’t tell me Goldy hasn’t told you about Victor Lane of Victor’s Vittles. Victor Lane told Goldy that women don’t know how to cook!”
    Jack nodded at me appraisingly. “That son of a bitch? That same guy from all those years ago?”
    I nodded and took a large slug of sherry.
    “All those years ago?” Marla asked in puzzlement. “This is the guy from all what years ago?” Marla shook a bejeweled finger at me accusingly. “Goldy, did you have a fling with Victor Lane and not tell me?”
    I laughed so hard sherry shot out of my nose and I started to cough. Marla took that as confirmation that I had not rolled in the hay with Victor.
    “I wonder why he would ever say that women don’t know how to cook,” Jack said. “Tell that to all the women across America who find themselves standing over a stove for much of their lives.”
    “Look, Jack,” I said soothingly, “if you hadn’t helped me see that Victor was as full of crap as he was of himself, there might well be no Goldilocks’ Catering here in Aspen Meadow.”
    The doorbell rang, and Marla groaned.
    “Just as I’m about to get some truly juicy gossip about Aspen Meadow’s renowned asshole spa owner,” she said, “my car-service guy arrives. Dammit! Now you two need to hold that thought, because I want to hear all about Victor Lane when we get together next.” She eyed the platter. “May I take a couple of crab cakes, Goldy? I’m so hungry.”
    “Yeah, sure. I made lots extra for Billie Attenborough’s shindig. And don’t forget your pie.”
    I loaded her down with goodies, and she took off for the front door, where whoever was there was persistently knocking.
    “Oops, it’s not my guy,” said Marla, as she checked the peephole. “It’s an Attenborough,” she singsonged, “incoming!” She put her platters of food down on the hall table.
    “Already?” I asked.
    “Yes yes,” Marla singsonged again.
    “I haven’t called her all