Life With Riley. Laurey Bright
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she’s not to think of that, and if you need anything…Give me your number, I’ll be in touch.” He scribbled on the margin of the paper he’d been reading. “And your address? Thank you for contacting me.”
Frowning, he pressed a button on the phone before putting it away.
“Trouble?” Riley asked.
“My housekeeper’s had an accident. That was her daughter.”
“Is she badly hurt?” Riley asked in concern.
“Cut her head on a piece of furniture. She’s been stitched up, but they suspect she may have had a small stroke and that’s why she fell.”
“Oh, poor thing. If you want to go to the hospital I’ll drive you.”
“No. She’s sleeping, apparently. I’ll phone the daughter tomorrow.” He rubbed at his chin, grimacing, and muttered something she didn’t catch. “Excuse me.” He consulted his watch, then looked up a number in the notebook and dialed it. From the brief conversation that followed she gathered he was ordering flowers for the housekeeper.
“Are you fond of her?” Riley asked when he’d finished. “Has she been with you a long time?”
“Nearly four years, and we get along. She’s excellent at her job and a great cook—dammit.”
“Dammit?”
“I’m expecting guests for a dinner Mrs. Hardy was apparently preparing when she fell. I’ll have to find a caterer at short notice or book a table in a restaurant.”
“What will happen to the food your housekeeper was going to serve?”
“If it can’t be frozen or something, I’ll throw it out, I suppose.” He sounded as if that was the least of his worries.
“That’s a terrible waste! How many people are you expecting?”
“Seven.” He held the pencil in two fingers, absently drumming it on the papers.
“I suppose you don’t cook.” She tried not to sound critical.
“Not well enough for this.” He closed the folder and stretched his legs out over the briefcase, then lapsed into silence.
When she pulled up at his house he turned to her. “If any of that food’s any use to you, you’re welcome to it.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“I don’t like waste, either.”
She followed him along a broad path between immaculately mown lawns and onto the tiled front porch that was almost a carriageway. He pressed a button on his key tag, inserted a key into a polished brass lock and pushed open the huge paneled door.
Benedict parked his briefcase under a telephone table standing on a pale marble floor. “The kitchen’s through here,” he said, leading her along a red-and-black carpet runner that looked sumptuous against the gold-flecked marble.
Louvered saloon doors opened at his touch, displaying gleaming ceramic tiles and stainless steel.
An enormous refrigerator stood next to a matching upright freezer, and a bumpy cotton cloth covered a table in the center of the room. Riley deduced someone had hastily thrown it over the food preparations.
Benedict said, “Have a look and see what’s there.” He turned to another telephone on the wall, pulled out a volume of yellow pages from the phone books sitting beneath it and began leafing through.
Riley lifted the cloth, peeking at mounds of vegetables and a bowl of flour, a block of cheese, some serving plates—and an open recipe book.
Benedict dialed a number, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Look in the fridge and the pantry too. It’s over there. Anything that’ll spoil, you’re welcome to—yes, hello?” He turned to speak into the receiver. “Could you do a dinner party at short notice?”
Riley went into the pantry, which was about the size of a normal kitchen and was stacked with packets and cans and bottles, and wire baskets of vegetables. She took a couple of neatly folded plastic bags from a shelf, returned to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, finding chicken pieces in a marinade, a couple of dozen oysters in their shells, and a covered dish of raw cubed fish in lemon juice.
Benedict was dialing another number. “Hello, I need a rush job…tonight…. I understand, thanks anyway.”
Holding the phone, Benedict was running a finger down the page in front of him. Riley lifted the cover from the table, folding it back.
Benedict slammed the receiver back on its hook, letting fly an expletive that made her turn her head.
“An answering machine.” He returned to his perusal of the phone book, and reached again for the handset. “Hello? Yes…can you do a dinner party tonight? Yes, I did say tonight. I know, but—A nice evening to you too.”
When he cut the connection, Riley stifled a giggle. “You mean,” she suggested, “May your soup be watery, your main dish burnt to a crisp and your dessert melt on its way to the table.”
Benedict gave a reluctant laugh. “Something like that. I might have better luck with restaurants.”
As he closed the book and reached for its companion volume, she said, “Why don’t I do it?”
“I’m capable of finding a decent restaurant, thanks.”
She cast him an impatient look. “I mean I could cook dinner for you—call it a part payment for the repair to your car.”
“You?”
“I can cook. Ask my roommates. I mean housemates.” She still had trouble with some Kiwi idioms.
“This is a bit different from cooking for your housemates, Riley.”
“I know.” She decided to ignore his patronizing tone. “But with these ingredients—” she indicated the laden table “—I promise you I can do it. I even know what Mrs. Whatsit was going to cook.”
“Mrs. Hardy,” he said automatically. “This dinner party is rather important to me. I really don’t think—”
“I’ve worked in restaurants.” She wasn’t a great academic, but she was good at picking things up by watching, and some of the chefs had encouraged her desire to learn. “If you’re not satisfied you don’t need to pay me—or rather, I’ll still pay you. Do you want me to serve, as well?”
“Mrs. Hardy would have, but—”
“Okay.” She put down the plastic bags. “I won’t turn up in your dining room like this,” she assured him, catching his dubious survey of her. “I’ve got decent clothes in the car. Oh, you’d better show me where the dining room is. You’ll want the table set if Mrs. Hardy hasn’t already done it.”
“Don’t you have responsibilities of your own?” he said slowly. “I mean, what about your—”
“Nothing to worry about,” she said breezily. “If I can use that phone, I’ll just let my housemates know I’ll be late home.” It was Harry’s turn to provide dinner and he usually bought a take-out meal, anyway. Purposefully she moved toward the phone.
Benedict shifted aside. “Won’t you need to arrange—”
She put a hand on his chest and gave him a small, reassuring pat before she picked up the phone and began dialing. “Look, it’s not your problem, okay? But it will help to solve mine if you let me take it off what I owe you. Tell you what,” she added, fishing Snoopy and her keys from her pocket, “you could go and get the bag that’s on the back seat, for me. It’s got my good clothes in it.”
Looking rather stunned, he took the keys from her, opened his mouth to say something, closed it again and walked out.
By the time he returned with the