Dead at Breakfast by Beth Gutcheon Page B

Fall colors.”
    â€œWhat time are you all leaving?”
    Glory looked confused. Then she sorted it out and said, “Oh we’re not leaving. Until the end of the cooking class anyway. It’s a perfect place for us to be, really. Who’s going to come bother us, the Bangor Daily News ?”
    The morning class was all about soufflés. Savory ones, coffee ones, fruit ones, chocolate ones, of course, and crème anglaise to go with.
    Maggie was working with Lisa and Albie Clark, who couldn’t get the hang of separating the egg yolks from the whites. He poured the yolks back and forth between the broken halves of the shell, which Sarah had made look so easy, but he kept piercing the yolk and leaking yellow droplets into the bowl of transparent egg slime.
    â€œThe whites won’t whip if you do that,” said Lisa impatiently, and Albie snapped, “I know!” Putting these two together on this of all mornings might not have been Sarah’s best idea, Maggie thought. Meanwhile Lisa was on a talking jag.
    â€œMy husband’s had no sleep at all. We’ve been on the phone, getting our lawyers to try to stop this circus. Her goddamn manager is going to milk it for every dime. Death is a great career move, that’s his take. He’s busy arranging a tribute concert in I don’t know, the goddamn Hollywood Bowl or something. It’s disgusting. Meanwhile the children have gone all sentimental, Oh poor Jenny, and they want a funeral, with the body there. I’d go, I mean she is their sister, not that she ever did anything in her life except disappoint them. But Alex says absolutely not. It’s a sin, what she did. Life is all we have. He grew up very poor, you wouldn’t think it but I mean dirt poor. In Greece. He lived in like, a hovel. It’s hard for him, to see how much these kids have. He says he gave Jenny everything and she treated it all like garbage. Him, me, the children, herself, garbage. That’s what he says. I guess he’s broken up but he isn’t showing it, and you know what? I admire him. So we’re not going back. Not for some funeral circus, anyway. The children can do what they want. I remember when the twins had their Sweet Sixteen, it was out in Southampton. We had a tent, and some famous band, the Black Eyed Peas, have you heard of them? And all their boarding school friends came out for the weekend, it was the party of the summer, I mean it, and at midnight on the best night of theirlives my girls were in tears because Jenny wasn’t coming. They told all their friends she would be there. Jenny was in New York that weekend. It wasn’t like she was in Outer Oshkosh. It was always like that. Their birthdays, Christmas—she sent expensive presents. Tickets to her shows, backstage passes. But she was never there when it counted, when it wasn’t about her. I think that time her excuse was some guy had broken up with her. Please.”
    Albie said, “The music from that party went on until three in the morning.”
    Lisa looked at him. “Oh did you read about it? There was a lot of ink. My husband is very generous to the Suffolk County police, he says it always pays, and he gave them a really nice present the day of the party.”
    â€œI know,” said Albie. “I called them.”
    Lisa looked blank.
    â€œYou called the police?”
    â€œAt one in the morning, yes.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI live two lanes over from you.”
    There was a long silence. Finally Lisa said, “Oh.”
    Maggie found that Oliver, Sarah’s assistant, was with them. He said “Does anyone need any help here?”
    â€œHe does,” said Lisa, and pointed to the egg whites with splats of yolk in them. Maggie resumed shaving chocolate into a mound of fatty brown shards.
    Oliver set Albie’s bowl aside and said, “This will make a delicious egg-white omelet. Let’s start over. Go wash your