Can you find a process server who knows how to make an entrance?”

Vanessa gave a low, appreciative laugh. “Oh, I have just the guy. He’ll be there at 7:30 sharp.”

By one o’clock the house was full of professionals. Four cleaners scrubbed every inch of the colonial until it smelled of lemon and wax. At four, Chef Maria’s white catering van pulled in, and her team turned the dining room into a five-star buffet — silver chafing dishes, crystal platters, an extravagant bar.

Maria noticed my heavy cast as I signed the invoice with my left hand.

“Honey, you look exhausted,” she said, her maternal instinct kicking in. “Why on earth are you hosting a gala with a shattered arm?”

I met her eyes. “Maria, tonight isn’t a party. It’s an eviction. And I want the food to be spectacular when the curtain drops.”