Chaos Girl Rewrites the Script novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Dressing

Tilda tags the salad dressing and questions every guest's allergies in front of Marguerite, and Posy's epinephrine pen turns up in Tilda's handbag as Quincy watches.

I got to the club forty minutes early with a drugstore clipboard and a roll of orange stickers.

Each sticker said HAZARD in black capitals.

There is no bus to the club, so I took the bus to the end of its line and walked the last mile in heels.

The kitchen manager tried to stop me at the swinging door.

"Members aren't allowed in here."

"I'm not a member today. I'm an inspector," I said, and kept walking.

It was the first time in my life I had said that without a badge, and it worked on the first try.

The chef was cutting lemons at the long steel counter.

"I'd like to see the dressing for the lunch on table four."

He pointed with his knife.

The tub on the shelf was labeled in marker: house dressing, cold-pressed peanut oil.

"Who ordered the peanut oil?"

"Phone call Monday morning, from Miss Ellerby's office," the chef said. "For Miss Linden's welcome lunch. Her favorite, the house nut dressing."

"I don't have an office."

"We don't have a house nut dressing," he said slowly. "I thought it was a new thing."

I stuck a HAZARD sticker on the tub, one on the ladle and, with his permission, one on his apron.

My place card in the dining room read Ms. Ellerby, guest.

It put me between a lawyer and a potted palm, at the end of a table for six.

I asked the waiter to move the palm.

"It's a pollen risk for the bread," I said.

He moved the palm.

Marguerite Moncrieff arrived in pearls and sat at the head of the table without saying hello.

Quincy came in behind her and sat across from me.

Posy came last, in a cream cardigan, with a bright smile and a bag over her shoulder.

"Tilda! I'm so glad you came," she said, and squeezed my hand.

Before anyone could lift a fork, I stood up.

"Before we eat, I'd like everyone's allergies."

Marguerite put her napkin in her lap.

"I don't have allergies, Tilda. I have standards."

"Noted. I'll put you down as none."

The lawyer said, "Penicillin," and looked relieved to be asked anything.

Posy said, "Oh, peanuts. But I always carry my pen."

"Thank you," I said, and wrote it down.

The salads came a minute later, glossy and green.

I leaned across the table and took Posy's plate.

Then I took the lawyer's, then Marguerite's.

"Tilda," Marguerite said.

"The bread's fine. The salad is a hazard."

"Sit down."

"I'm in the middle of a recall."

The waiter was standing frozen with the fourth plate in his hand.

I asked him to bring me the bottle of oil from the kitchen, and when he did, I read the label aloud to the whole room.

"Cold-pressed peanut oil. Ordered by phone on Monday in my name, from an office I don't have."

At the next table, a man in a blazer put down his fork and checked his own salad.

Nobody in the dining room was eating.

Marguerite's mouth went flat.

"You are making a scene."

"I'm making an incident report. It's different. A scene has a villain."

Posy stood up so fast her chair rocked.

"You saved me," she said, and she hugged me for a long time, her hair against my cheek.

"How did you know to ask? You've never asked me anything."

"I ask everybody now," I said. "It's new."

"Quincy, did you see that?"

"I saw," Quincy said.

He had not touched his water.

Posy let me go and laughed, a little shakily, and patted her cardigan pockets.

"Oh no. My pen. I thought I put it in my purse."

She opened the purse and shook her head.

It wasn't in there.

I reached for my own bag to get the pen I'd use to sign the incident report.

The side pocket was zipped.

I never zip that pocket.

Inside it was a plastic epinephrine pen with Posy's name printed on the label.

I held it up where everyone could see it.

"Found it," I said. "In my bag. Which means somebody put it there."

Marguerite said, "How very convenient," and a few members at the next tables turned to stare.

Posy covered her mouth with both hands. "Oh, Tilda, I'm sure it fell in by accident."

It was a kind thing to say, and it was too quick.

Across the table, Quincy Moncrieff did not look surprised.

He looked at the pen in my hand, and then at me.

"It's always in your bag," he said quietly.

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