Free Dim Sum Dead by Jerrilyn Farmer

catering heap. Angry girlfriends/wives/lovers do not make for repeat business. And some people think the quality of the gourmet cooking is the most important ingredient to catering success. Ha!
    “Holly, can you help me in the kitchen?” I picked up my toolbox, filled with my personal collection of cooking implements and gadgets and accoutrements.
    “Right-o.” Holly slipped from the light grasp of our host.
    Just then, in a swish of taffeta, descending down the sweeping staircase came Quita McBride. How long she’d been standing at the top landing, I couldn’t say.
    “Party time?” Quita asked, swishing pink-tinted liquor in her crystal glass, pale eyes dancing from me to Buster to Holly.
    Well, wasn’t this interesting? Just a couple of hours ago, Quita McBride had told a heartbreaking story of her wonderful memories of old Dickey at the Wetherbee house, but she was now clearly marking her territory around her man.
    For his part, Buster easily seemed to share his huge home with a parade of beautiful women. They moved in, they moved out. Quita had only been on the scene a few months. Perhaps she had a more permanent arrangement in mind. What is it about men that the more interesting they are the more messed up their private lives seemed to be? Ah, well.
    In the looks department, Quita was quite a startling contrast to Buster, with her light hair worn long compared to Buster’s short shock of blue-black hair. And she was tanned a bit past the point of the current fashion in our health-conscious city, while Buster was quite fair. As for her long body, which was wrapped in a cream-colored slip dress, it was a knockout. Other than her overample chest, the rest of Quita was so wispy thin, she didn’t look entirely of thisworld, while Buster was powerfully built, although perhaps an inch shorter than Quita. They made an attractive couple.
    I watched as Quita stopped about two steps above us and took a sip of her brew.
    “Hello, again, Quita.”
    Leaning over the end of the railing, she said, “Hello, Madeline. How are you?” She held out her glass, still half-filled with the bright drink, in Holly’s direction without actually looking at her. “Would you mind?”
    “Would you like a refill?” Holly asked, taking it from her.
    “Not now, sweetie.” Quita slowly turned to her and narrowed her eyes. “Just take it away. I need to be alone with my guy.”
    We took our cue, quickly making the trip through the large house, arriving at the kitchen.
    “She’s thinner than…” Holly whispered, searching for just the right image.
    I tried to help out. “…string?” I suggested. We crack ourselves up, sometimes.
    “Thread,” Holly corrected.
    And then, we heard something.
    “What is that?” I asked.
    Holly turned slowly. We both strained our ears to catch the sound coming from the front of the large house.
    “Is that crying?” I asked.
    “Shh.” Holly said, trying to listen. She opened the kitchen door and the sound improved.
    “It sounds like a child’s voice—you know, very highpitched,” Holly whispered, as we tried to make out more.
    “Could it be Quita?” I looked at Holly. “What is going on out there?”
    “You’re right.” Holly grinned. “She’s yelling at him.”
    I, on the other hand, sighed. Quita McBride was all over the map. First that incredible scene at the Wetherbee house, with the tears and the memories of her dear old departed husband. Then the mysterious stories and her fears and the pleas for help. Now this. The night had barely begun, and already fireworks. I turned to Holly. “Keep your hands inside

Chapter 8
    B uster Dubin’s kitchen was cramped and old-fashioned, reflecting the lifestyle of a bachelor with little use for anything save a refrigerator to hold take-out leftovers and a microwave to reheat them. It was odd to still be able to find such an impressive older home with such a small kitchen. Remodels usually did away with the original narrow sculleries, which