The Bridegroom's Mama

Sitting in the back of the squad car, watching the last of the ambulances trail away, Louisa reflected “murder is not an amateur’s game”. She remembers that line from one or another BBC crime series she watches on Netflix. “Motive and opportunity”, she repeats under her breath. It is clear to the police officers she has plenty of the latter, though there seem few reasons to consider this a crime or her a suspect - most likely an accident.

Louisa Martinez is exotically beautiful with the deepest brown eyes and hair color to match. For work, that hair is always pulled back and carefully netted. Unleashed it is a seductive nest of waves and curls. From the left profile, she looks all of eighteen, yet from the right all the experience of her thirty-odd years is apparent. The daughter of Latin America immigrants, Louisa was raised strictly and Catholic to be a good girl. Her father is a chef in a fine dining restaurant with enough talent to be in the top echelon, but such opportunity does not always come to the best. Her mother, when she was not raising Louisa’s seven younger siblings, cleaned houses.

Her parents strove to be middle class, an aspiration within the grasp of an excellent chef and his hardworking wife. They moved to a nice suburb with good schools, parks, and playgrounds. When Louisa graduated from the elementary parochial school, her parents felt it best she attends a public high school. For Louisa, it was exciting, frightening, and a bit overwhelming. She adapted well if not quickly to that new life. Pretty girls have an easier time fitting into new situations. By her junior year, she was popular, active in a few clubs – art (she is a more than adequate sculptress), cooking, drama. It was in drama club where she met Sean. Sean, a senior, was the Apollo of the high school. He was not merely handsome or virile, he was beautiful in a way few men are. He was the object of innocent pursuit by more than a few of his inexperienced classmates. They were like bitches chasing cars, “what to do if you ever caught one”. Yet pursue they did. Louisa was not immune to such fantasies, but she did not join the hunt. She was distracted by other priorities.

This Apollo, like his mythical counterpart, preferred the one who could not be had. Louisa became his Daphne, his Cassandra. Winter, such as it is in the Bay Area, ended, and the green of spring ushered in prom season. Whether wanton or demure, many of the feminine student body threw their charms, and often, their student bodies at Sean’s feet, in hopes of securing an invitation.

In addition to prom, spring is the time for the annual drama club play. Arguably, high school teachers have much of the creative and imaginative beat out of them by years of the insipid and rote. However, after their unexceptional vocal auditions, casting Sean as “Tony” and Louisa as “Maria” would make Sondheim and Bernstein roll their eyes. After a less than compelling rehearsal of Jets fighting Sharks, Sean, besotted with his “Maria”, invites her to prom. Such is that lottery for girls on the verge of womanhood.

Sean is not your run-of-the-mill Anglo. There are literally millions of those up and down the coast. He is a wasp with a capital W.A.S.P. His father is a Silicon Valley venture capitalist. His mother was a blonde debutante that dad met back East while attending Amherst. That the two of them joined forces to create a “Sean” is of little surprise. “One and done” was mom’s motto. Made little sense to try to improve on perfection. Mother doted on her little prince, spoiling him at every turn. He would have only the best, be only the best. Understatement defined her displeasure when prom night turned into a monogamous steady relationship. Her little boy having a dalliance with a hot Latin seductress, all fine and good. He had earned it and deserved it. But anything more was not in the cards. Sean eschewed Princeton to attend the close-by Stanford, dating Louisa throughout her senior year. Mother demonstrated more patience than anyone thought her capable, especially her husband who knew too much about her “storms”.

Louisa was a child prodigy in front of a stove or oven. Her father guarded her efforts dutifully, which served to add his skills to her natural ability. After high school, he had saved for her to go to the Culinary Institute, the Ivy League of cooking schools. The Hudson Valley was not her preferred destination. She had a different plan, different desires, ones that would keep her close to home and Sean, and ones that would allow all her talents to shine. Louisa enrolled in the pastry chef program at Cordon Bleu in San Francisco. She would tap into the creative, the artistic, and the precise chemistry of baking. She got an apartment downtown with three other girls, using BART to travel south to either Palo Alto or San Jose. She typically alternated weekends between Sean and her family. Sean had a one-bedroom apartment off-campus, which was much more conducive to their amours than the cramped San Francisco digs.

Louisa and Sean had settled into a comfortable couples’ routine. Their friends from high school could not imagine one without the other. No one bothered about whether or when they would marry, it was just a given they would always be together. Meanwhile, Mother was fuming. Brown grandchildren were not in her grand plan. Her pride-and-joy married to a (dare to think it!) Mexican baker. Her plan to remedy was borrowed right out of the nineteenth century (and the 20th, too often). She pulled some “legacy” strings at Amherst and finagled a spot for Sean in the fall. Then, she invited Louisa to lunch at the country club. After the mandatory insincere and casual “how are you?”, she adopted her most effective “Cruella” expression. She assured Louisa there was no place for her in Sean’s family or life. If she persisted with this foolishness, Mother would commit herself to making Louisa’s life a living hell. And then for the piece de resistance, “Sean has tired of you. He does not want to hurt you. So, he is transferring to college back East and this relationship will fade away. He might tell you otherwise, but only because we brought him up to be kind to the less fortunate.” The latter delivered with a sneer. Mother relished the moment.

Confronted, Sean denied everything, reaffirmed his love, just as Mother said he might. Ultimately, he proved weak. He could not stand up to his mother. He was in many ways exactly like his dad. They removed Stanford as an option. The autumn found him in Massachusetts. Louisa was left with the adage, “Actions speak louder than words.” She immersed herself in her studies.

As she stared through the police car’s glass, she wonders how it came to this. Louisa feels real regret. She did not wish other people any harm, but collateral damage was inevitable. The only saving grace is most will recover. She saves her real concern that the target might survive.

Louisa graduated from Cordon Bleu at the top of her class, winning the award for the most original and aesthetically delectable Croquembouche. It defied the traditional pine tree configuration. Using the caramel as glue, she constructed a dragon, fire-breathing, scales, and all. This won her a position in the kitchens of The Peninsula Hong Kong, where she honed her craft for the next seven years. The exotic adventure that is the Orient was losing its luster and homesickness was setting in when she was invited to participate in the Food Network program Cake Wars. She neither won nor made it to the finals, but her celebrity and résumé won her the top pastry spot at The Clement in Palo Alto. She had come full circle, or, more accurately, full upward spiral.

January is a traditionally slow time in the hospitality industry. It is a time to take a deep breath, reflect briefly on what is working, what is not. It is also a time when prospective brides, reservations in hand, get serious about reception menus, table floral arrangements, wines, and favors. Among the items of particular importance is that center of attention, the wedding cake. Louisa rarely gets involved with the details, all better left to the banquet managers. This sunny, but chilly January day she walked through a hotel dining room where father and daughter were in a heated argument specific to the cost of a wedding cake for 250 people. The wedding cake was to be no simple affair, (nothing ever is at The Clement) - no conventional tiered cake for this occasion, rather a Black Forest Cake. “I don’t even want the stupid cake. All I want is Sean. His mother says no other cake is good enough for her little boy.”, the daughter now screaming. “She is such a witch.” The father equally annoyed, and only a couple of decibels quieter, “I can barely afford this hotel and feeding 200 of their "closest friends”, but this cake is where I draw the line. If she wants a $3000 wedding cake, she can damn well pay for it herself.” What followed were tears, father consoling daughter, but no resolution. Setting aside The Clement making a nice profit on the “$3000 cake", Black Forest is time consuming and the ingredients expensive, especially with the number of tiers required. It is also bit of a mechanical engineering challenge as whip cream and cherry filling do not make for structural integrity. Selfishly, Louisa was not looking forward to guiding her team through the exercise of building this cake, the experience of which they would likely never reuse. She imagined more than a few failures. Waiting until calmer waters prevailed, she recommended, “Our traditional tiered wedding cake for 250 people is $1000. I will do yours for $900 and make the top layer a Black Forest Cake as a gift to the bride and groom and each of their parents.” Dad gave out a harrumph along with a reluctant sigh of relief. “I won’t eat a piece of the damn thing, anyways.” Louisa smiled and thought to herself, “Just as well.” Louisa had a hunch and a little reservation checking with the banquet manager confirmed it. This bride’s Sean was her Sean, and the Black Forest witch was her witch.

Adding rat poison, its cyanide almond flavoring mimicking the cherry filling for the special top layer, would sicken most who ate it. It was the triple dose of Orvaten, included in the batter, she hoped would do in the evil creature without doing too much harm to the others. Mother had erratic, uncontrollable high blood pressure. Add the excitement of the day and the anxiety of her little chick leaving the nest forever, a plentiful dose of drugs for chronic low blood pressure should do the trick. Rat poison is a restaurant staple. Unlikely any pathologist would test for Orvaten. Could all just be an unfortunate accident.

Louisa is a little shaken as she sits in the car watching the discussions outside. The officer assured her it is routine questioning as they believe the top layer of the cake, recently served, is the one food item consumed only by the five taken away to the hospital. True to his word the bride’s father had not touched a bite, most likely out of spite. God knows Mother can bring out spite in the kindest of people. After a bit of induced vomiting, bride and groom looked none the worse for wear – a wedding night to remember. “Mother did not seem well at all”, Louisa reflected. “The oxygen mask and tank along with being strapped to a gurney was not likely the “look” she was going for.”