“They’re brutal. I can absolutely see one of them trying to outdo Callan by marrying his ex-wife and giving her an even better life.”
“Exactly.”
Dee tapped her index finger against her chin as she thought about this. “Still . . . I do get Serena loves Callan. And they have a child. And a dog who’s like a child. She could have confronted Michael to protect her family, and he could have pushed her over the edge. I wish we knew her well enough to make a judgment call on her homicidal tendencies.”
“The solution to that is, get to know her better. Set up a one-on-one with Serena. Tell her you’re interested in her charcuterie.”
Dee groaned. “Ugh, that stuff is so pretentious. Where I come from, we call it food. Or if I’m on a set, craft services.”
“Lower your nose from the air to a non-snob level, friend. The proposal she sent me is worth considering. I’ll forward it to you. It’s your in with Serena, especially if you add some generally sucking up about being in awe of how she works her magic with cheese and cold cuts.”
Dee walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out another can of sparkling water, buying a few minutes before surrendering her unfounded resistance to what she had to admit was a good idea. “Fine. Forward what she sent. I’ll look at it and set up a time to meet with her.”
Dee pulled a stool up to the kitchen bar. She checked her laptop to see Jeff had already sent her the file from Serena. Dee opened it and scrolled through the photos attached to the proposal. Two represented different takes on breakfast boards and two featured platters appropriate for a wine-and-cheese happy hour. Dee had to admit they were tempting to the point of making her hungry.
She texted Serena about setting up a meeting to discuss the possibility of working together and instantly received a reply: YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How’s now? Emmy and Oscar napping!
The response included a link with instructions to the Callan-Katz home, which was located on Mirror Lake, one of the many lakes in the region. Dee gave the response a thumbs-up and texted back a yes.
The drive from the Golden to Mirror Lake proved short and scenic, like all the drives in the area. Dee made a left off the main road onto an unexpectedly wide side road. The road’s sparkling tar gave off the unpleasant smell that telegraphed it was only recently paved. The road ended in a cul-de-sac of new homes whose log cabin exteriors were a wan attempt to disguise their true status as McMansions.
Dee parked in the driveway of one of the cul-de-sac’s older homes, “older” meaning its construction dated back at most a few years. The Callan-Katz cabin was a massive two-story assemblage of logs and stone surrounded by pine trees and set on the uppermost point of the cul-de-sac to capture distant views of the Sierras. Dee climbed the steps leading to the home’s massive two-story double front door, arriving at it slightly out of breath. She was about to ring the bell, when Serena flung one of the doors open. She wore a filmy beige maxidress and delicate leather thong sandals in a complementary neutral shade. She held up her phone. “I saw you coming on the doorbell app. You should have texted from the driveway. I would have let you in through the garage so you could use the elevator.”
“Next time,” Dee said, hoping there wouldn’t be one.
Serena hugged her. “I’m so happy you’re interested in my proposal. I made a couple of sample boards. Come.”
She led Dee through a two-story foyer and almost comically large dining room into an expansive great room furnished in a rich person’s idea of rustic cabin décor. At the far end of the great room—and the end was indeed far from the great room’s entrance—sat an open kitchen that almost matched its neighboring room in size.
Serena gestured to a china platter shaped like an egg sitting on the kitchen island’s granite countertop. Mini bagels, croissants, and pastries shared the platter with a variety of condiments and cut fresh fruit. “I made a small version of what I pitched to Jeff as a possible breakfast board for your guests,” Serena said. “It’s basically what you’d serve as a continental breakfast, and the cost is about the same. But the layout will make guests think it’s much fancier than that. A trick of the eye.” Serena gestured to her own crystal-blue orbs and winked.
“Impressive,” Dee said, completely sincere.
“I source everything I can from independent farmers, butchers, and bakers all over California.” Serena handed her a plate. “Here. Try it. I’ll get the sample wine-and-cheese board I put together.”
She pulled open the door on one of the kitchen’s two state-of-the-art refrigerators. Dee helped herself to a chocolate mini croissant and took a bite. She almost swooned. “This is amazing. Definitely not from Elmira. I love her, but her pastries not so much.”
“Poor Elmira. No one has the heart to tell her how bad her baking is.” Serena removed a wooden serving board covered with plastic wrap, and laden with an array of high-end meat, cheeses, nuts, and dried fruits, and placed it next to the breakfast board.
Dee inhaled the heady combination of flavors. Focus, Delilah Annabel Stern! her inner voice reproached. You’re here to investigate, not nosh! Put down the incredibly delicious croissant, ignore the hand-carved prosciutto, and get to work!
“Serena, I’m so impressed. I don’t know how you can pull off such . . . artistry.” Serena’s porcelain complexion blushed a becoming pink, confirming she was buying Dee’s flattery.
Emboldened, Dee added, “Especially with the pressure you’re under.”
“Pressure?” Serena sounded puzzled and a little wary.
“Yes. You know, with Michael Adam Baker firing Callan and bad-mouthing him and . . .” Dee’s confidence began to wither. “I mean, it could affect his reputation and relationships with clients and . . . you know. That would be bad.”
And you know what else is bad? Me at investigating. Ugh.
Serena stopped laying out flatware for the new board. She narrowed her eyes at Dee. “You’re not here because you’re interested in my business, are you? Or even being friends.”
Mortified, Dee turned an unflattering beet red. “It’s just that you acted so strangely with me at the All-in-One. Like you were hiding something. And I thought, you know, that maybe—”
“You’d come here and try to sneak out of me whatever I was hiding?”
Serena glowered at Dee, who noted the angry expression didn’t detract from the charcuterie artist’s general beauty.
“Yes,” Dee said, giving up all pretext for her visit. “A guest we all have a connection to—Callan, me, you—was murdered. You and I barely know each other. I didn’t feel comfortable just coming out and asking you what was going on.”
“That’s too bad.” Serena’s expression transitioned from anger to sadness. “But I guess I get it.” She fiddled with the napkins she’d been arranging. “The reason I was acting strange is I overheard Michael fire Callan, and Callan did not take it well. Then Michael was killed, and you and Callan know a lot of the same people, and I got scared.”
“That I might start a rumor about Callan being the one who killed Michael?”
Serena gave a slight nod. Tears bubbled over lower eyelids and dripped down her cheeks. Dee couldn’t help noting that Serena even looked pretty crying, as opposed to the blotchy, swollen-lidded face that beset Dee when she blubbered.
“For the record,” Dee said, “I would never do that. Agents and clients break up all the time. Believe me, I’ve burned through enough of them to know.”
“I know. But this was different. Callan discovered Michael. He nurtured and guided his career. He was furious when he found out Michael was blaming his career problems on him. The only reason Michael got work at all lately was because of Callan’s agenting, so he took it more personally than I’ve ever heard him take a falling-out with a client. So . . . when I heard Michael had been murdered . . .”
She trailed off and stared down at the charcuterie, unable to make eye contact with Dee. Dee’s suspicions turned to sympathy for the woman’s anguish.
“Serena, you don’t have to worry about Callan. He has an alibi.”
The agent’s wife looked up. “He does?”
“Yes. He was at a fundraiser the night Michael was killed. There was a fight between a couple of Real Housewives—”
