Page 51 of The Stalker Snafu

Friday evening brought overcast skies and the promise of rain. With Noah out of town, Mr. Everton pulled in clutch by offering me a job Teresa was working. It guaranteed lots of tips, and I was in high spirits for the gig. After feeling productive for a night, I could embrace a week of relaxation with Noah, piano, and binge-watching my favorite babushka’s baking show.

The event was a super swanky party filled with flashy gowns and diamonds and men in custom tuxes. Better yet, the venue was the grounds of an opulent Spanish-style mansion bigger than my entire dorm building. Six different pairs of French doors opened to a spacious veranda, followed by a couple acres of manicured lawn filled with cocktail tables, open bars, and enough catering staff to match the guests two-to-one. Tennis courts, a golf course, a garden maze, and a pool resembling more of a lake completed the most luxurious backyard I’d ever seen. I could swear I’d seen the same maze in a movie once.

A pianist played slow waltzes on the veranda, and I swayed gently to the soft melody while patrolling the grounds.

Mr. Everton had assigned me the respectable duty of keeping the cocktail tables clean and clutter free, so I was on a continuous hunt for abandoned appetizer plates and an unsurprisingly large amount of empty liquor glasses.

In layman’s terms, I was on trash duty.

“Where’s Teresa tonight?” Trent—my fellow caterer and trusty trash partner—asked as we strolled along the edges of the gathering. His butt had fully healed from the ice sculpture incident, and it was a relief to have him back.

“She’s here, but she was assigned to appetizers.” I smiled, proud of my roommate for achieving such an admirable role. “She can be trusted with balancing the trays.”

“Lucky her,” Trent muttered as he picked up a stray napkin from the ground and made a face at it. “We’re on literal garbage collection. How is this fair?”

I didn’t mind. Picking up after people was safer than trying to serve them something and accidentally spilling lobster bisque all over the cream dress they’d paid out the wazoo for.

Not that I was speaking from personal experience, of course.

“We could turn it into a competition,” I suggested, perking up at the idea. “Whoever gets the most trash in the next ten minutes wins?”

Trent gave me an odd look before glancing across the lawn. “You know what? Maybe splitting up is a good idea. Why don’t you take the west side, and I’ll be… over there.”

He walked off without waiting for a response, and my eyes narrowed on his back.

Ditcher.

I smoothed the front of my black catering pants, wishing it weren’t so muggy. I scooped up a few crumpled napkins on a nearby table and dropped them in the discreet miniature trash bag attached to my belt loop. The next table over had a group of guests chatting over a clean tabletop, so I carried on.

My gaze trailed over the next few tables before honing in on the fourth one. The sight had my stroll stuttering to a halt.

A lone tray escargot sat stranded on the table. Dead snails. The fanciest appetizer one could find. A server’s dream to carry. They were light, low to the tray, and small enough that the risk of dropping them was slim to none.

The tray was completely deserted. No caterers nearby.

I rubbed my chest, pushing back the initial burst of elation as I considered my options. I could run back to the kitchen and warn them a server had gone rogue and abandoned their tray. But then Mr. Everton would award one of the other servers with the honor of carrying the holy grail of appetizers.

My second option was to track down Teresa. She’d already been cleared to handle appetizer trays since she passed the balance test required for an event such as tonight’s. She could handle this.

Or… maybe this was a sign. The tray had been abandoned in my designated trash-collecting zone. One could argue it was my responsibility to ensure the torch was carried on.

It was my time to shine.

Unable to fully muffle a squeal of delight, I power walked over to the lonely tray of dead snails. Taking a deep breath, I rubbed my fingers together before stretching each individual digit to make sure they were up for the task.

When I picked it up, the tray fit my hands like I’d been destined to carry it.

Showtime.

A grin fused itself to my face as I presented every guest I saw with an offering of snails. Trash-collecting was my past, along with van-unloading. Dead snails were my future, and I sashayed around the lawn party like I was born to do it. I was killing it out here.

When I spotted Teresa with her own tray across the party, I forgot about the snails for a moment and waved to her. A little fumbling ensued, but I got things back under control with only one little snail taking a nosedive into the grass.

I discreetly nudged him under a table with the toe of my shoe.

Teresa stared my way with parted lips.

“Snails!” I mouthed over to her excitedly, pointing at the little guys lying unmoving in pools of green goo.