Clarissa huffed a laugh, flashing yellowed teeth. “You think I got money for a holding? Nah. These days, I’m barely keeping my head above water. Never heard of it. Weird name.”
Jamie nodded. “Okay. Thanks. Tell us about Laurel.”
Clarissa stopped mixing, dropping the spatula with a clatter. “I hired Laurel about seven, eight years ago, something like that. She was a freshie, right out of college. Whitney, I think. I remember because she still had that glow on her, that ‘I just spent four years living on campus’ shine. With all those brick mansions and ivy trellises, soaking in money, you know? She knew nothing about catering, but she seemed desperate for the job, and I figured I could use some of that college polish to class up the joint. Plus, she was pretty—a little frail, but pretty. Which is something.” Clarissa cast me a knowing look. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.”
“Shay went to Whitney, too, on a beauty pageant scholarship.” Jamie flashed me a grin. “You’re looking at Miss Texas 2009.”
You have no idea what it was like, I wanted to say. But that would only invite questions: So, what was it like? And Jamie had been the one who’d told me not to do it in the first place. He was being generous now, acting like he thought the pageants were something positive—an accomplishment, not an embarrassment.
“Good for you. Use what God gave you, I always say.” Clarissa raised an eyebrow. “I bet you didn’t tell your Whitney friends you were a beauty queen, though. I know the kinds of girls who go to that school. They’d eat you alive.”
I crossed my arms. “You said Laurel was desperate for the job. Why?”
Clarissa shrugged, moving to the large stainless-steel sink to wash her hands. “Don’t know. She practically begged me to hire her, said she’d do anything. At the time I figured she wanted to run her own catering firm one day and thought my shop would be a leg up. Back then, we were one of the most popular caterers in the area. Had some exclusive contracts.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “I was living high on the hog.”
“How long did Laurel work for you?” Jamie asked.
Clarissa pulled the batter out of the mixing bowl and began kneading it with strong, sure hands. I dropped my eyes, her movements triggering a flood of memories: a bright flash of molten shame, a twinge of arousal.
Once, I’d kneaded dough naked on my hands and knees, and I’d liked it.
“I got a good year out of her.” Clarissa’s voice broke the spell, and I swallowed hard. “Then she started missing work. She’d lie, tell me she was sick, and then people would see her out around town. She started getting off-balance.”
“What do you mean?” Jamie asked. I was grateful he was doing the talking.
Clarissa shaped the dough. “Moody. Irritable. Erratic. When you’re a waiter, you have to be charming. Hell, at least nice to your customers. I started cutting her shifts because she’d come in with bags under her eyes, all angry and sullen, and she’d back-talk the clients. I was starting to think she was on drugs, to be honest. They find any drugs in her system?”
None of this sounded remotely like sweet, accommodating Laurel. But maybe Clem’s death had broken something in both of us.
“None we know of,” Jamie said. “How’d she quit?”
Clarissa huffed, pulling open the oven and shoving her baking tray inside. “One day she completely lost her shit. We were out working an event. It was important, maybe our most important one, for one of our exclusive clients. And she just blew up, out of nowhere, over nothing, and stormed out. I never saw her again. It’s real sad how she ended up, but like I said, you could see trouble coming.”
“That was how many years ago?” Jamie asked.
Clarissa squinted. “Five or six, thereabouts. It’s been a while, but you don’t forget a meltdown like that.”