Free Coffee & Crime by Anita Rodgers Page B

long was I asleep?"

Chapter Twelve
     
    Thursday morning, Zelda and I rode with six other servers in Marsha Conroy's catering van. We all wore the universal catering uniform of tuxedo shirts, bowties and black trousers — hair pulled back into tight buns, no jewelry and unpolished fingernails. Marsha ran a tight ship and was a big fan of the seen but not noticed school of thought when it came to her servers. We were to blend rather than stand out — ubiquitous but unmemorable.
     
    I didn't mind, her approach generally prevented drunk guests from hitting on you and offering you big tips for items that weren't strictly speaking, on the menu. She paid well, so the lure of tips was inconsequential and the anonymity made it easier to do the job. It was a four-hour gig — three hours of serving and one hour of clean up. Then back in the van to her office, where we'd get two hundred bucks each and maybe a bonus if the service went well.
     
    The van bumped along on crappy L.A. roads and I hoped it was a short ride because riding in the back of a paneled van reminded me of that one time Zelda and I were sent to Juvie. The van slowed and turned, reducing its speed even further. Zelda squinted trying to see through the front windshield. "We must be here."
     
    The van came to a stop and the driver said, "End of the line ladies."
     
    A few seconds later, the driver slid the door open, and we stepped out onto a paved parking pad at the rear of the property. I stopped and shook my head. The large art deco house was pale yellow with chocolate trim. "It can't be."
     
    Zelda's mouth hung open. "Are you kidding me?" She whispered, "Am I crazy or are we working George's funeral?"
     
    <<>>
     
    Marsha greeted us in the kitchen, donning a headset and carrying a clipboard. She stood almost six feet tall and wore her usual red power suit, with a skirt so tight I wasn't sure how she managed to walk. Her dark her was cut in a chin length bob and shined like polished ebony. "Okay ladies, we're set up and ready to go. We're doing a buffet for the main course so service is for wine and hors d'oeuvres." On the counter behind her silver trays of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of wine stood waiting. "Grab a tray and circulate. And bus as you go. We have tables set up in the great room, solarium and the back patio so be sure to stay in the designated areas. This is a wake, so we don't want to do anything to upset the family." She smiled and clapped her hands twice. "Chop chop."
     
    Like a well-oiled pack of food robots we moved in unison, grabbed trays of wine and hors d'oeuvres and marched toward the door.
     
    "This is going to be fun," Zelda mumbled as we left the kitchen.
     
    "Yeah, fun, that's what I'd call it."
     
    <<>>
     
    If I didn't know better, I'd have thought the wake was a fund raiser for saving baby seals or starving children in a third-world country. We swooped in with trays of hors d'oeuvres and aperitifs, and the mourners broke off into cliques of specific interest.
     
    We couldn't work side by side but Zelda and I kept each other in sight, while keeping the other eye out for Maggie Manston. It would be difficult to explain ourselves if she recognized us. Although she was so unimpressed when we brought the flowers a few days earlier I doubted she would. Still, I didn't want to push my luck.
     
    There was also the problem of Lily. She'd made a point of seeking us out at the funeral home and clearly knew who I was, so avoiding her was going to be tricky.
     
    When our trays were empty, Zelda and I met at the buffet, under the guise of wiping spills and whisking away the random crumb or bamboo shoot.
     
    Zelda, who was forever hungry, eyed the food. "Damn, look at all this stuff." She stared at the puff pastries piled high in a heating tray. "I could eat that whole tray."
     
    "You could eat the whole of anything." I looked around, worried that guests would notice our lack of circulation. "But don't do what you're