Chapter 1.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the wide glass windows. Art exhibition parties were not quite my thing, but my sister, Rebecca, had been asked to cater cupcakes for the event.
And so, I stood in the small kitchen of the sophisticated building, dressed to the nines and feeling entirely out of place. After all, I had been raised Amish, and decades of living in New York with my then-husband had not quite gotten all the Amish out of me.
I spun around to somebody who had called my name. It was Eleanor. “I wish we could have brought Mr. Crumbles to the exhibition,” she said wistfully.
Her comment appeared to enrage Matilda. “Have you finally taken leave of your senses, Eleanor? You can’t bring a cat to an art exhibition party. Especially not an art exhibition with traps!”
Eleanor pouted. “Why not? I’m sure it would be considered quite avant-garde. At any rate, it would be in Paris,” she muttered.
Matilda waved her arms. “We’re not in Paris now, in case it escaped your notice, and we’re supposed to be helping Rebecca prepare the cupcakes. And what on earth have you done with that plate, Eleanor? The cupcakes were supposed to be arranged in a pretty and tasteful design. Your plate looks as though your goats have done it.”
“They’re your goats as much as they’re my goats,” Eleanor snapped.
I thought it time to intervene. “Both plates look lovely,” I lied. “At least they look artistic,” I added as an afterthought, “and it is an art exhibition.”
Rebecca had made smaller, mouth-sized portions of cupcakes for the opening, which was named, ‘Interactive Palate of Disorder: a Lively Approach to Snares and Deception.’
Rebecca appeared with a waitress and a waiter, who took the plates. Rebecca’s eyes followed them.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It will all go smoothly. Everybody loves your cupcakes.”
Rebecca ran her hand across her eyes. “I haven’t been asked to cater for such a big event before. I’m surprised Englischers wanted Amish cupcakes.”
“They’re all quite the thing now,” I told her, “and it’s so clever how you turn traditional Amish cakes into cupcakes—Whoopie Pie cupcakes, Wet-bottomed Shoo-fly pie cupcakes, Sugar Cream Pie cupcakes.” I rattled off a list.
Rebecca simply nodded and continued to look into the room. After an interval, she said, “Everything is done now. All the cakes are plated up. You three go and enjoy yourselves, and I’ll stay here in case any problems arise.”
I knew no problems would arise, but I also knew Rebecca wouldn’t be comfortable mixing with a crowd at a posh art exhibition. I nodded, and the three of us walked out to join the people milling around, eating tiny cupcakes and drinking champagne.
As a waiter wafted past, Eleanor reached for a champagne flute, but Matilda slapped her hand away. “You’re a very cheap drunk, Eleanor.”
“I am not!” Eleanor countered.
Matilda put her hands on her hips. “How can you say that? Remember what happened in East Berlin in 1962?”
A slow red flush traveled up Eleanor’s face. “I thought we were never to speak of that.”
Matilda ignored her and turned away to study a painting. “I think this one’s been hung upside down by mistake,” she said loudly, drawing stares from people standing nearby. “Shouldn’t those spikes point upward?”
I turned away to look at the art installation to my right. It was unusual, to say the least. It seemed to represent wire snakes entwined around a plastic dummy figure. A large red sign warned everybody to keep away.
I was still staring at it when Eleanor spoke in my ear. “Hardly interactive when we’re not allowed to go near these art installations,” she said. “At least everybody likes Rebecca’s cupcakes.”
I nodded. “Oh yes, of course they do. Rebecca is a wonderful baker.”
I looked around the room. It reminded me of one of the many business events my ex-husband had dragged me to over the years, where he would at once abandon me and speak to his colleagues. None of the other women had spoken to me, presumably as they knew Ted was having affairs. That was my best guess, at any rate. Maybe they were embarrassed to speak to me—who would know?
This space was as I imagined a high-end art gallery would be: shiny white walls, highly polished concrete floors with a subtle hint of granite sparkling in them, and huge windows through which could be seen the twinkling lights of the city below. People whispered as they tiptoed around the strange concoctions of wire and gadgetry. The scent of French perfume hung heavily in the air.
I turned my attention back to Matilda and Eleanor. I sensed, rather than saw, them freeze beside me. A nanosecond later, I wondered if I had imagined it, as they went back to chatting happily. I stole a look around the room to pinpoint the cause of their disquiet. Nothing seemed obvious, so maybe I had imagined it, after all. People were strolling around, eating the cupcakes and drinking champagne while admiring the artwork—at a safe distance, of course.
I decided to check on Rebecca and found her seated at a small table in the kitchen, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Your cupcakes are popular,” I said.
Rebecca simply nodded. “I’m all right sitting here, Jane. Why don’t you go and enjoy yourself?”
“If you’re sure.”
She shooed me away, and I walked back in the direction of Matilda and Eleanor.
I hadn’t quite reached them when one of the guests, a tall man around the age of Matilda and Eleanor, clutched his throat. I thought he was choking, so I ran to him.
As I hurried, I wondered why Matilda and Eleanor hadn’t gone to the man’s assistance. After all, they were slightly closer to him than I was.
I bent over him. He whispered to me, and then his eyes shut.
I stood up. “I think he’s dead,” I announced.
