Fatal Reaction

stuffing, and basting the bird, which was now roasted to succulent perfection. She and the head caterer planned to carry it out on a tremendous pewter tray where it would be carved at table side with great ceremony.
    When Mother rang the bell signaling that the great moment had arrived, two white-gloved waiters swung open the French doors for the arrival of the turkey. I had never seen anything that large. Mrs. Mason, her ample bosom encased in a crisply starched uniform, looked triumphant. The caterer beamed from beneath the tower of his white toque.
    Whether it was because he was nervous, or merely unfamiliar with the house, as they were passing through the doorway he tripped. For a moment I thought he’d recovered himself, but the big bird was too unwieldy. In one terrible moment it all came tumbling to the ground— the caterer, his starched hat, and the steaming roast bird.
    My first reaction was to burst out laughing, but the horror of our Japanese guests at this terrible turn of events was so apparent that the temptation quickly passed. Instead I found myself turning instinctively to Mother. Without missing a beat she turned to the cook with a reassuring smile.
    “Mrs. Mason, once you’ve cleaned up that mess why don’t you just go right back into the kitchen and bring out that second turkey.” She said it so calmly and with such confidence, she almost had me believing there was another one.
     

CHAPTER 24
     
    As soon as I got home I called Elliott Abelman. I didn’t care that it was after midnight. After we’d filled the limousines with tipsy Japanese I’d spent the ride back from Lake Forest reassuring Stephen about Childress’s absence, murmuring about missed planes and bad weather in Boston. What made it worse was that I hadn’t told him Tom’s story about Danny trying a bootleg experimental AIDS drug or what Elliott had learned about Childress’s seamy past. Now I felt consumed with guilt, terrified that in trying to shield Stephen from the anxiety during the Takisawa visit, I had actually set him up for an infinitely bigger shock.
    Elliott picked up the phone on the third ring. His voice was thick from sleep.
    “Are you okay?” he demanded immediately after I’d identified myself.
    “Michael Childress didn’t show up at the dinner tonight,” I reported miserably.
    “I thought he was supposed to be out of town this weekend. At least, that’s what he told my operative when he called her on Friday.”
    “He called her Friday?”
    “Yeah. He wanted to tell her about some big discovery he was on the verge of making. He told her she might want to hold off finishing the article for a couple of days so that she could take advantage of all the interest his work was going to generate.”
    I remembered what everyone had told me about Childress’s appetite for self-aggrandizement and was not surprised. “He was in Boston for some kind of conference, but he was supposed to be back in time for the dinner tonight,” I said.
    “Have you tried calling his house?”
    “No,” I replied, wondering if the pressure of the Takisawa visit was making me stupid.
    “Let me put you on hold for a minute and I’ll try calling him on my other line.”
    I waited through the dead air on the line, shifting the phone from one ear to the other in order to take off the Chanel earrings that I would never wear again.
    “No answer,” reported Elliott, coming back on the line. “Do you want me to send somebody over there?”
    “To do what?”
    “To check if his car is there, if the lights are on.”
    “No,” I replied, feeling ashamed for having jumped to conclusions. “For all we know he just missed his flight from Boston and is planning on catching an early plane to O’Hare in the morning.”
    “Do you know what flight he was supposed to take?”
    “No.”
    “Or where he was staying in Boston?”
    “No. I was just worried that one of your operatives might have done something or said something that spooked him.”
    “Listen, Kate. There’s no way he could have known we pulled his sheet. Besides, the woman who interviewed him really is a freelance journalist. The fact that he called her right before he left town only confirms that he believes she is what she says she is.”
    “Do you think there’s a chance he might have been arrested?” I asked. “Boston is his old stomping ground, after all. It would certainly explain why he might have missed his plane.”
    “As soon as we get off the phone