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.”
“Sure, sure.” Shaking his head, Jacko began to roll the sheet of covered dough into a tight roll. “But I can tell you nobody who works for us would hurt anybody.”
“That’s the truth.” Gula patted his arm. “But I’ll get you a list.”
“We work in a lot of high-end homes and event areas,” Jacko continued and, taking a lethal-looking knife, cut the roll into slices.
The girl who’d been filling paper cups brought him a saucepan. “Perfect timing,” she said.
“Thanks, sweetie. She didn’t work the party,” he added when she had walked away, then he poured something that smelled obscenely delicious into a pan. “I have to trust who works for me, so I have to know them. A lot who do are family. And nobody works an event for Jacko’s until they’re trained. I’ve been doing this for better than fifteen years. Never had an employee so much as take a napkin from a client. Nobody who works for me and Gula is going to hurt somebody.”
“They might have impressions, might have seen something, someone. You might have,” Eve added.
“I stick to the kitchen mostly.” He covered the pan with a cloth.
“And you know everyone who worked the event? Every server, every cook, every valet.”
“Every one. Know a lot on the guest list, too. Not all, but more than a few. Professionally. Dr. Hannity snuck back into the kitchen. We did his daughter’s wedding a couple years back. He had a beer and some samples. And Mrs. Wyndel came back for a bit. We do all her catering. She wanted to talk to me about a party next month—baby shower for her niece. Like that,” he said with a shrug. “Otherwise, I don’t much mingle. Hate parties.”