If Mr. Endicott used the same catering service, I reasoned, he was gambling, but if he switched and nothing happened, it would prove only that one or more of the original staff may have been responsible.
When I went to pick Amanda up, the door was opened by a stunningly beautiful woman in a long white dress, long white gloves, high heels and a tiara. Was I at the wrong house? I was about to ask if Amanda was home when the woman said “Hello, Rock” in a familiar voice. She had been my first client. I had never before seen her dressed up. I wished that I had brought flowers or candy or both.
The Endicott house was, as I suspected, a mansion, surrounded by expensive cars, among which my old clunker was embarrassingly out of place. I wanted to park several blocks away, but I couldn’t expect Amanda to walk any distance in stilettos.
I rang the doorbell and the door was opened by an impeccably dressed man: this must be Joves, the indispensable butler. He looked at Amanda, obviously impressed. “Ms. Friend, please come in. And Mr. Tuff.” He looked at me, obviously unimpressed. Like my car, I clearly fitted in like Ronald McDonald at a state funeral. I realized that a better plan might have been for me to be part of the serving staff.
About thirty people were in the large room and the glitter of diamonds and pearls was almost blinding, but we found our way to the buffet to test the food. It was excellent, of course: six kinds of cheeses, pate de foie gras, caviar, smoked salmon. We sampled everything with no ill effects.
Mr. Endicott came over and I introduced Amanda to him. He eyed her carefully for a long time, but ignored me. No doubt he didn’t want to blow my cover. “Please try the champagne,” he said.
Joves was filling glasses which were then placed on trays and offered to guests by a trio of waitresses dressed in French maid costumes: black-and-white outfits with short skirts, net stockings, and high heels. I got two glasses from Joves, however. I longed to say, sophisticatedly, “Ah, jus de Bastille, 1942,” but my uneducated palate could as easily have distinguished one glass of Coke or ginger ale from another.
As we sipped, Mr. Endicott called for attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, listen, please.” He said “please,” but his manner was that of a lion tamer without a whip. “ We are pleased and honoured to have with us tonight the famous and talented tenor Signor Luigi Sgradevole, who will favour us with a singing of “O Sole Mio.”
“Grazie,” said Signor Sgradevole, putting down his glass. He had been abstaining from food; perhaps one can’t sing arias on a full stomach. An accompanist at the grand piano began to play. Sgradevole took a deep breath, like a diver about to dive for pearls, and opened his mouth. “O . . . O . . . Oh!” He grabbed his stomach with one hand, put the other over his mouth, and raced from the room. The pianist stopped playing.
