“Wipe the drool off your chin,” Eve advised, walking to the far end of the counter where a pretty girl of about twenty constructed more boxes.
“Need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, if there’s a problem, I…” She trailed off, big blue eyes going bigger as Eve palmed her badge, held it up. “Oh. Oh, gosh. Just a minute, okay? Just a minute.”
She bolted, down the counter and through a swinging door.
“I know you personally can go days without actual food—which makes no sense as you have no body fat stored—but I need to eat.” Peabody huffed out a breath. “I was going to settle for a yogurt bar and egg pocket from a cart or Vending, but jeez.”
“Get something when we’ve finished the interview.”
“They have cinnamon buns,” Peabody said reverently. “Cinnamon sticky buns.”
“Don’t bitch about your own sticky bun after you scarf one down.”
“They are not to be scarfed, the cinnamon sticky bun, but savored.”
The pretty young thing hurried back. “Ma’am,” she began in a stage whisper, “Jacko can’t come out of the kitchen right now, so if you could go back?”
“Sure. We’ll go back.”
At the girl’s direction, they moved down the counter. On the other side of the swinging doors, the baking smells nearly had Eve’s reputedly zero body fat moaning out loud.
Besides a wall of busy ovens, she spotted some sort of mixer nearly as big as the woman running it, a line of stainless-steel cabinets, what she took to be a mammoth refrigerator, and racks full of trays and supplies.
At one counter, a man in a skullcap used some sort of tool to add tiny petals and leaves to a towering cake. At another, a girl used a different tool to squeeze batter into a tray filled with pleated cups.
At the center of it all, at an island counter, a big, broad-shouldered man wearing a white trailing cap and smock rolled out dough while he sang about getting down to live it up. He had a voice like a foghorn.
“Uncle Jacko? Here’s the police.”
“Huh? Oh, okay, okay. You’re a good girl, Brooksie. Go on back out.” Still rolling, he gestured at Eve and Peabody with his chin. “Come on over. We got a run on the buns like always. Gotta see the badges.”
He worked as he studied them, nodded. “Okeydoke, what can I do for you?”
“You catered a dinner party last night.”
“Had four events last night—two dinner parties. Which one?”
“Anthony and Daphne Strazza.”
“Ah, Mrs. Strazza. Sweet thing, knows her party planning. Yeah, we catered that. Party of fifty. Appetizer course, served in the living area, lobster medallions in a piquant sauce. Main dining room, warm salad—seared scallops, haricots verts, and bell peppers in a walnut vinaigrette with a main of roast prime rib—”
“Got it. Don’t need the menu.”
“It sounds amazing,” Peabody put in, making him smile as he spread butter over the rolled-out dough.
“You gonna eat, you should eat good.” From a bowl he sprinkled a mixture—Eve could smell the cinnamon and sugar—over the butter. “What’s the problem?”
“The Strazzas were attacked by an intruder after the party.”
His hand stopped mid-sprinkle, and all the easy levity died out of his face. “Is she okay? Mrs. Strazza? I mean, are they okay?”
“Mrs. Strazza’s in the hospital, and she’s stable.”
“What hospital? Gula!”
The woman at the mixer looked over with a scowl. “In a minute, Jacko.”
“Gula, little Mrs. Strazza got hurt. She in the hospital.”
“Oh no!” She hurried over, and stood beside him. Her head barely reached his breastbone. “What happened?”
“These are cops here, and they’re saying she got attacked. They, I mean to say. Mr. Strazza, too?”
“Yes. He’s dead.” Eve said it flatly, watching reactions.
She saw shock in both as the woman gripped Jacko’s thick arm. “Oh, well, God! When? They were both fine last night.”
“You worked the party?” Eve asked Gula.
“We both did. Mrs. Strazza, she always asks for us to be there. Jacko heads the kitchen, I head the servers.”
“After the party,” she said. “An intruder.”
“That place is like a vault.” Gula shook her head. “Nothing’s ever safe, is it? Oh, that poor girl. How bad is she hurt?”
“She’ll be all right” was all Eve would say. “Can you both tell us what time you left the Strazza residence, and where you went? We need to establish a timeline.”
“We served the croquembouche just about ten, ten-fifteen, wasn’t it?” Gula rubbed her temple. “With the fancy mints, coffee, and liqueur. Jacko and I left about ten-thirty and went on home.”
“Together?”
“We’ve been married twenty-six years, so we go home together,” Jacko told Eve. “We left Xena, our daughter, and Hugh, he’s our nephew, in charge. She’s out front, you can talk to her, but she said this morning she and Hugh left about eleven—more like eleven-fifteen—turned it over to the house droids. Still guests there when they left, she said.”
“We’re going to need a list of your employees who worked that party.”