Although the hours for evening dining had passed, silhouettes framed in the Arcade Hotel’s amber-lit windows spoke of one or two couples still seated. As they savored their last few bites of an excellent meal, Scott stood outside appreciating his last few puffs of an excellent cigar.
Ho-HO, Lancer. You’re standing and stalling by pulling on a stogie while the lovely head chef awaits?
Stogie? This is a fine Cuban smoke, George, not to be hurried. Puff. So, I’m not stalling. Besides, haven’t you heard? Anticipation is only exceeded by the actual event.
Why, yes. I do believe my silver tongue has uttered those insightful words on many occasions.
MacCallister, when are you going to stop taking credit for my whip-smart blarney?
YOUR blarney? Indeed. Well, sir, I beg to differ. It can’t be helped.
And I, sir, rest my case.
Cigar finished, the stride familiar to Harlan Garrett’s ears carried Scott across 2nd Street and into the lobby of the Arcade Hotel.
“Mr. Lancer!”
“Good evening, Simon.” Scott initiated a smile and vigorous handshake. The maître d', with his clipped British accent, had adopted Scott and Seth with their late hours of working meals during the viticulturist conference. The man continued to be a welcome sight. “It’s good to see you.”
“Whatever are you doing in Sacramento? The wedding is only days away.” Concern creased the gent’s brow. “All is well, I hope.”
“Quite well. The engaged couple send their regards and look forward to having you as a guest. Regarding my visit, a business matter or two have brought me into the city.”
“Ah.” Simon’s arm swept toward the back table where The Vino Boys had devoured midnight-served roast beef sandwiches christened The Usual. “So, like old times, yes?”
“Thank you, but I’ve already dined at The Ebner’s this evening.”
“Mr. Lancer, I must say I’m rather disappointed.”
“Hold up.” A raised palm warded off the maître d's scowl. “Before you brand me a traitor, my hunger’s preferred choice for supper was never given consideration.” Attention drifted in the direction of the hotel’s kitchen. “However, I may have room for a small slice of yellow cake with chocolate frosting.”
“Ah.” Simon’s wink suggested that could be a possibility. “Perhaps the gentleman wishes to inquire about the availability of his selection with our head chef?”
Scott approached the door of Chef Browning’s domain and peered through its oval window. Emily sat at a small table scattered with menus and recipes, preparing a list for tomorrow’s hungry patrons. She appeared unaware of the last remaining member of her staff, a tall lanky busboy elbow-deep in soap suds scrubbing dirty pots and pans. Stepping back, a mischievous grin surfaced as Scott signaled the maître d' to join him. “Simon, is it possible to have the lad come out here without too many questions from Miss Browning?”
“Of course, but for what reason, sir, if I may ask?”
“The Old Switcheroo.” It was Scott’s turn to wink while he rolled up his sleeves.
“Oh! Good show.” The rascality reflected in his eyes confirmed the man was a willing participant as he entered the kitchen.
Remaining behind and out of sight, Scott listened to his cohort’s murmured request with the busboy’s eager reply to assist. As the door began to open, Emily’s voice rang out loud and clear. “Simon, why are you stealing this young man from me and his destiny with washing cooking utensils?”
“It will be for just a moment, chef. We have a late arrival for a room and their amount of luggage compares to a traveling circus. An extra pair of hands would be greatly appreciated.”
An eyebrow arched. Obviously, Scott had chosen well for his partner in crime. Hustling the lad into the lobby, Lieutenant Lancer issued an order. “You’re relieved of duty, private. Hand over your apron.”
After seeking the maître d's approving nod, the doubtful busser slowly untied and surrendered his dishwasher bib. “I dunno if Chef Browning is going to like this. You know what they say about a woman’s scorn.”
“Oh, I'm quite familiar with the subject.” Donning the apron, Scott plucked the white cap off the young man’s head and pulled it low on his own brow. “However, nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“Mister, I just got this job.”
“Simon.” A hand of reassurance landed on the busboy’s shoulder. “Pour this brave gent a drink. I’m buying.”
With chin down, the dishwashing imposter pushed through the kitchen’s swinging door, walked behind the studious chef and claimed his soapy vocation.
Focus on menus delayed verbal acknowledgment. “That didn’t take long, William.”
“No, ma’am.” Would the mumbled response pass inspection? Hearing Emily’s pencil return to its list-making implied success. Grin. Let the caper commence.
Still floating amongst dishwater bubbles, Scott eyed the soup pot that had been abandoned by the busser. Tackling his new assignment, a musical rendition seemed appropriate. For tonight’s entertainment, ladies and gentlemen; Yankee Doodle: whistled in the key of B flat… very flat.
The audience of one shifted in her wooden chair with a slightly annoyed sigh.
The clatter of a greasy pan joined the soup pot while the evening’s next musical arrangement, Goober Peas, bounced about the room in a lively off-key riff.
A polite cough heralded in the chef’s optimistic request. “William, could your melodious interpretation of the classics be performed at another time? Perhaps on your way home?”
Grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
Grabbing a scrub brush, Scott tackled the next dirty pot with the grace of a drunken ship captain walking the deck on rough seas. A soapy renegade wave sloshed out of the sink and splashed onto the floor. Man overboard!
The sound of writing ceased. “William, when you’ve finished there you’ll find a mop in the storage closet.”
A glance from the devious dishwasher showed his employer remained unmoved from her list-making. “Yes, ma’am.” This woman’s tolerance was making a prank much harder than intended.
Scott studied the haphazardly stacked mountain of various pots and pans. Strategy was key. Selecting a pan’s handle near the top of the pile, an abrupt yank was given to create a small cascade of copper-metal clanking.
“William!” The little lady’s slapped palm on the tabletop followed by her rising movement from a chair signaled the bucket of patience had emptied. “Why are you insisting on treating those pots like a child’s game of Kick the Can?”
“Well, ma’am… ” A tossed scrub brush into soapy water created a sloppy plop. “I guess I’m better at corralling cattle than cookware.” Turning around, Scott gifted the wide-eyed young lady with an apologetic shrug of the shoulders.
“Scott!” Without hesitation, a chef’s warm hug and kiss on the cheek gifted the impromptu dishwasher. Blushing, Emily stepped back and covered her embarrassing spontaneity with fake annoyance. “Mr. Lancer, you devil! Why on earth are you standing in my kitchen creating chaos?”
Soap-foamed arms crossed. “I was hoping for a slice of cake.”
“I see.” Flour-dusted hands rested on hips. “Well, here there is no free ride. I have menus to plan and you, sir, have pots to wash. Afterward, perhaps you will have earned a delectable dessert for a job well done.”
“Earned? Delectable? Well done?” Scott grinned. “Are we still talking about cake?”
“Cad!” A flung dish towel served as an exclamation point. “Get to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Shiny copper pots of various sizes lined up on the counter, reflecting the glow of flickering gas lights. Neatly stacked lists and menus occupied a small portion of the table in order to make room for two slices of yellow cake with chocolate frosting. At the ranch, whenever Scott read a newly arrived letter of Emily’s with its graceful cursive writing, he swore it carried the scent of warm sugar cookies or freshly baked bread. Although satisfying then, at this moment his senses agreed; nothing compared to breathing in the kitchen’s aromas and admiring the charming woman sitting across from him. Yes, anticipation could certainly be exceeded by the actual event.
“You never answered my earlier question?”
“Which was?” Scott forked the remaining morsel of cake and plopped it in his mouth. He knew her question. He also knew he selfishly wasn’t ready to share this lovely lady’s company while in Sacramento.
“Why am I witnessing you seated at the Arcade Hotel tonight instead of our plan of standing at the Stockton Station several days from now?”
“Right.” Not wanting to bald-faced lie, words were chosen carefully. “There are two slightly complicated entities here in the city that must be resolved before my business partners set sail for their honeymoon.”
Suspicion tilted the chef’s head. “That’s a mysteriously vague answer.”
“Better than the tediously detailed one. Trust me.” Scott’s fork pushed around the cake crumbs dotting his plate. “Emily, I have a suggestion which may be rather forward.”
“Forward?” Snagging the napkin from her lap, the chef leaned toward her kitchen guest and wiped his cheek. “I believe, sir, one of us is already guilty of the crime.” The white linen displayed a smudge of rose lipstick.
“Hmmmm.” A judging nod concurred. “That is damning evidence. Very well. I shall state my case. In three days’ time the court is requesting that Miss Emily Browning accompany Mr. Scott Lancer to Westcott Winery where she will serve out a relaxing sentence of poured wine and moonlight strolls through vineyards; all under the watchful eye of the previously mentioned Lancer. Security reasons, of course.” The barrister’s voice lowered in seriousness. “We can’t have Browning attempting a daring escape once realizing her inevitable scrutiny and questioning by curious family members at the Westcott-Furlong nuptials.”
“Yes, of course.” Fingers tapped the table in deliberation. “Very well.” A delicate smile surfaced. “Does counsel wish to present a closing statement before a decision is given?”
“As a matter of fact, he does.” Scott rose and, grasping Emily’s hand, guided the lovely lady from her chair to his embrace. Brushing lips, the couple sensed each other’s eagerness, encouraging their gentle, lingering kiss to slowly evolve with a deeper desire before ending as softly as it had begun.
“You present a very compelling argument, sir.”
“I have a very beautiful inspiration.” Scott’s approach for another taste of rose-colored lips with a hint of chocolate frosting was interrupted by the unexpected bang of a swinging kitchen door.
“Mizzzz Cheffff Browning?” The busboy’s slurred speech suggested Scott’s bar tab could be substantial. “I apologize for leaving my station.” A blaming finger pointed out the villain. “But he made me. Do I still have a job?”
Emily’s head rested upon the culprit’s chest. “William, not only is your job still intact, I’m giving you a raise.”
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