1 cup sugar
1? teaspoons vanilla extract
4 egg whites, unbeaten
2 cups confectioners’ sugar
2–3 tablespoons skim milk, approximately additional unsweetened cocoa powderPreheat the oven to 350°. Spray a large nonstick cookie sheet with vegetable oil spray.Sift the flour, cocoa, baking powder, and salt together; set aside. Mix together the oil, sugar, 1 teaspoon of the vanilla, and the egg whites until well combined. Stir in the flour mixture. Chill one hour. Using a ?-tablespoon measure, scoop the dough onto the cookie sheet, leaving 2 inches between cookies. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes or until the cookies are puffed and cooked through. Do not overcook.Transfer the cookies to a rack and; cool completely. Mix together the confectioners’ sugar, skim milk, and remaining ? teaspoon vanilla until pasty. Add skim milk if necessary. Spread a small amount of vanilla frosting on each cookie. Put the cookies back on the rack, dust lightly with cocoa powder, and allow the frosting to dry.
“Ah-ha. ‘Wife of homicide investigator asks newspaper about department store scandals. Declines comment on witnessing murder of store employee.’ Your husband the investigator is gonna love it.”
“What do you mean,
“Do you know anything about those demonstrators?” she demanded.
“Of course I don’t,” I replied, struggling to sound calm. Frances had the annoying ability to make me feel constantly off balance.
“Did they get in the way of the catering? Were they near the area where the girl was hit? Or can’t you talk about that either?”
“What makes you think that—” I waved my hand in the empty kitchen, unable even to articulate the thought.
“What makes me think that Claire was run down?” she finished.
“Yes.”
“Things I’ve heard.”
“Gosh, Frances, more rumors? Maybe I should have Tom come over and talk to you.”
“Great idea. We could have lunch and chat about the Bill of Rights. You could cook. That is, if you didn’t throw vegetables around beforehand.”
“Frances, don’t.”
“The way I heard it, the fellow you threw the red peppers on was an activist by the name of Shaman Krill.”
“Why, did he talk to you? All he did was yell at me.”
“That name, Shaman Krill,” she said thoughtfully. “Think it’s short for something? Maybe it’s an alias. We’re talking about a real short guy here? Dark curly hair pulled back in a ponytail? Gold earring? Sort of a cross between a leprechaun and a terrorist? Think he was one of Claire’s boyfriends? How long had Satterfield been going with this Julian guy?”
“How do you know Claire was involved with other men?” I countered. “Why did you say Julian was the latest in her batch of conquests?”
“First you tell me something, Goldy. Did you ever get something for nothing? Listen—I’ll come visit you at the food fair, okay? Maybe then you’ll be ready to have a
Before I could retort, she hung up. She wasn’t going to share anything she knew with me until I gave her information. And if I did that, I could just imagine the wrath of Investigator Tom Schulz. Still, he’d be interested to hear about bullying activist Shaman Krill, if he hadn’t already. Maybe you had to have a weird name to get into Spare the Hares. I slowly swished the spoon through the pot of dark barbecue sauce. There were two things Frances had been digging for: Had I known Claire was involved with other men? And who was Shaman Krill? I wondered if the two questions were related.
But that was speculation. I returned to my culinary duties to chop, boil, and beat my frustration away. I gathered cocoa powder, flour, sugar, and egg whites, and got out the recipe for the fudge cookies. The dark, delicious cookies had been one of two great inventions in my search for a lowfat chocolate torte. The other had been a lowfat chocolate souffle that had worked not in the oven but on top of the stove. I sifted the cocoa, flour, baking powder, and salt and beat egg whites, then stirred oil, sugar, and vanilla. After combining all the ingredients, I put the cookie batter away to chill. I had just retrieved the ingredients for icing when the doorbell rang. Oh good, I thought: Marla. Finally.
I looked through the peephole prepared to see my big-bodied, big-hearted friend triumphantly holding up the bags of gourmet goodies she always brought to ease tense or troubling situations. But anticipatory delight quickly froze to dread. The Jerk’s distorted mug grinned broadly into the peephole’s circular eye.
“Let me in, Goldy,” he bellowed. “I have to talk to you!”
Fear opened a hollow in my stomach. In the years since the divorce, my ex-husband had rarely demanded to talk to me. Looking for Arch, he either barged in angrily—pre-security system—or waited sullenly for our son on the doorstep. But this afternoon Arch was doing tie-dying with Todd. I looked out at John Richard, trying to decide what to do. He drew back in a dramatic gesture from the door and held his arms out. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, Polo shirt, Top-Siders without socks—the very portrait of a rich guy.
“I’ve got news,” he shouted, pressing his face in again at the peephole. “Bad news! You want to hear it or not?” He added snidely, “It concerns somebody you care about a lot!”
I really did not want to see him. The day had been awful enough. And yet here he was, doing a typical power-trip, teasing with the possibility of bad news. I hesitated. The security system was disarmed. I could go out on the porch to talk to him. All I had to do was unlock the dead bolt and walk out the door. But when I started to fumble with the bolt, the phone rang in the kitchen. Darn it all, anyway. I dashed for the kitchen.
“Goldilocks’ Catering—” I began breathlessly. The Jerk was banging on the front door. There was a smart
“It’s me,” Tom interrupted. “I’m at the hospital.”
“Boo!” said John Richard Korman as he walked up behind me. His breath smelled of whiskey. I shrieked and dropped the phone.
“Who’s that?” said Tom. Coming from the dropped phone, his voice was distant but clearly alarmed. “Goldy? Are you there?”
I stared furiously at my ex-husband, who gave me a wide-eyed mocking leer in return. Involuntarily, I glanced around for my wooden knifeblock. John Richard followed my gaze and wagged one finger at me. He moved in the direction of the knifeblock, scooped it up, and cradled it and its protruding black handles as he moved into the dining room. Goose bumps pimpled my arms. By the time John Richard walked empty-handed back into the kitchen, I’d managed to pick up the dangling receiver. “It’s … John Richard, and Arch isn’t home, but John Richard says that there’s bad—”
“For crying out loud, Goldy, what the hell is he doing there?” Tom hollered. “Get him out! Now!”
I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see the Jerk’s furious expression. “Tell me how Julian is,” I said firmly into the receiver. “Then I will.”
“I’m not calling about Julian—” Tom began.
“Hey, Gol-dy-y!” the Jerk said calmly. Nastily. “He’s not calling about Juli-a-n. He’s at the hospital and he’s calling about somebody
“This is bad news—” Tom began again.
John Richard grabbed the receiver out of my hand and slammed it down in its cradle. I closed my fists and glared at him.
“Listen to me, goddammit!” Dr. John Richard Korman shouted in my face. “Marla’s had a heart attack!”
A what?”
