out if the Jerk had been killed for his part in a money-laundering scheme? Would Sandee be willing to tell me anything? Sandee Blue was most emphatically not the brightest bulb in the box, but maybe she’d know enough to share information. I left a message for Marla—did
Time to concentrate on food.
I tiptoed out of the bathroom—just in case the reporters had their ears pressed to the walls to see where I was—replaced the phone, and started on the pies for Nan Watkins’s retirement picnic. I’d been experimenting with crusts this summer, and for this event I’d concocted a crunchy mixture of butter, toasted filberts, confectioners’ sugar, and flour. I’d already made these crusts and frozen them. I set them aside to thaw while I whipped cream into soft, velvety clouds. Then I beat cream cheese with vanilla and a bit more powdered sugar into a thick, smooth melange, folded the cream into the cream-cheese mixture, and carefully spooned this luscious-looking concoction into the crusts. Wrapping the pies to chill overnight, I checked that I had plenty of irresistibly fat, fresh strawberries that would be cooked into a topping for the pies. I did. In fact, I washed one strawberry and popped it into my mouth. My excuse? Caterers need to test everything.
Without warning, John Richard’s face loomed in my mind. All my aches and pains began hurting at the same time, while rage and anxiety again reared their noxious heads. What was going to happen to me? To Arch? Gooseflesh ran up my arms. I pulled the phone off its cradle and tried to reach Tom on his cell. Hearing his voice would help. But as with everyone else, there was no answer. I slammed the phone down without leaving a message. The municipal golf course was in cell phone range. Where was he?
Once again, I saw movement and heard rustling in the lilac bushes outside our kitchen window. I cranked the window open even wider.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Beat it! I’m married to a cop! He eats reporters for lunch!”
The lilac bushes were still.
I crossed my arms and stared out the window. Should I call 911? No; whoever it was would make a fast retreat as soon as the police showed up. Unfortunately, those detectives still had my thirty-eight…and I really wasn’t sure I wanted to go find one of Tom’s guns so I could shoot into the bushes. What if the movement was from a fox or a family of birds? Then I’d feel terrible. How would I feel if I shot a reporter?
In any event, I kept a sharp eye out the window. I was
I returned to picnic prep. The pork chops were brining. The dough was rising. Whoever-it-was-in-the-
bushes had been yelled at. I made the cooked strawberry topping for the pies and set it aside to cool. Was I done? Alas, no. I remembered that I had one more dish to think up for the committee breakfast.
I washed my hands and reflected on the inherent problem in serving food to any group of women: One has to deal with dieters and non-dieters. The dieter demands low-cal food; the non-dieter feels deprived if she isn’t served a three-course meal complete with guacamole, bearnaise sauce, and creme anglaise. Complicating matters was the current popularity of high-protein diets. Any caterer worth her sea salt had to provide a protein source that could be lifted or scraped from its carbohydrate base. I had promised the head of the committee, Priscilla Throckbottom, that I could provide three such dishes. The entrees would appeal to dieter and non-dieter alike. I had two kinds of quiche. Now I just had to come up with one more recipe.
At first I had thought I would fry bacon and alternate it with strips of cheese on top of the split mini- croissants I had ordered. But the funeral lunch debacle had left me with numerous packages of untouched Gruyere and Parmesan cheese. Another rule of catering: Waste not.
I preheated the oven and split a croissant. After some thought, I sliced some juicy, fresh scallions Liz had brought from the farmers’ market. Checking the walk-in, I realized I had many cans of luscious pasteurized crabmeat and, oh joy, jars of marinated artichoke hearts. I chopped the artichokes, flaked the crab, and grated the cheeses. Then I bound those ingredients with mayonnaise and spread it on the croissants. For a finishing touch, I crushed a garlic clove and gently sauteed it in butter along with fresh bread crumbs, then added judicious amounts of chopped parsley and dried herbs. I sprinkled this crumb topping over the crab-slathered croissant, and slid the pastry into the oven. I kept checking on my creation until the cheese was melted and bubbling, and the croissant looked crisp and brown around the edges. Even the scent was enticing. How long had it been since my lunch at Holly’s? I couldn’t remember.
Someone started banging on the front door.
“What is it?” I yelled.
“Look, Goldy,” Frances pleaded, “we’re
I suppressed a giggle. “All right, I suppose. Just give me a minute to do a taste test!”
I raced back to the kitchen and sank my teeth into the pastry. It was heavenly: The rich crab, creamy mayonnaise, and tang of cheese melded perfectly with the crispy croissant and crunchy herbed crumb topping. I swooned, composed myself, and began carefully splitting croissants and slathering them with the crab mixture. Funny how the little crescents, when you put them next to each other, resembled a tool from law enforcement. Oh, dear. Maybe I wasn’t repressing things as well as I’d hoped.
The croissants looked just like handcuffs. Well, I had a name for my recipe, anyway: Handcuff Croissants. It had a ring to it, somehow. A metallic one.
Once I had the croissants baking, I took out one of the cream pies. I’d made plenty of them, and I knew a sweet treat should follow a savory one. These people were reporters, after all, and even if they printed, “No comment,” they might preface it with “After Mrs. Schulz generously served the press some delicious snacks courtesy of Goldilocks’ Catering…”
I spooned the strawberry topping onto the pie, then pulled out the croissants. They emerged puffed, flaky, and golden. I placed them next to the pie on a large wooden tray, along with piles of plastic forks, paper plates, and napkins, and headed for the porch.
“Oh my God!” Frances cried when I swung through the front door.
“Will you look at this!” another one yelped.
“I could eat all of these myself!”
And so on. I placed the tray on the porch table and glowed. Twenty-four mini-croissants disappeared faster than the hail had melted. I worried that the journalists might get sick. But I didn’t say anything; I just beamed.
“Mrs. Schulz,” said one, his mouth full, “do you think the killer might be a former patient of your ex-husband? Say there was someone with a medical gripe who couldn’t sue because of his HMO or something? Maybe she’d be waiting for him to get out of jail so she could kill him?”
My mouth fell open in surprise. Why hadn’t I thought of that? All the reporters stopped chewing, waiting for me to reveal—
“Now, just a minute! Just a minute!” Someone was screaming, pushing through the lilac bushes at the side of our house, then crashing into the front yard. “Stop! Stop eating this second!” He was covered with leaves and tiny branches, which he was trying to brush off with his clipboard. Clipboard?
Oh holy God. Please, let it not be. But it was. Roger Mannis, the district health inspector, was making a surprise visit! To do a surprise inspection!
He straightened his back and marched up the steps to the porch.
“I insist that you allow me to inspect that food that you are serving to the public!” he announced. His dark hair, usually slicked back, was mussed from his time in the lilacs. He wore shiny, silvery-gray polyester pants that were an inch too short, black socks and shoes, and a short-sleeved white shirt complete with plastic pocket- protector, all of which still had bits of twig, leaf, and lilac clinging to them. His bladelike chin trembled, a meat-slicer about to fall.