Murder Has a Sweet Tooth Page 10

  “He’ll be along after work,” Beth said. “His kids came home from school with mine.”

  “He needs to relax,” Glynis said.

  “He needs to be with friends,” Celia added.

  “And Edward has to be here. He’s got an announcement to make, and we’ve all got something to celebrate,” Beth said rather cryptically, and when her friends questioned her, she put a finger to her lips. “You’ll all find out soon enough,” she said in that singsong sort of way people do when they can’t wait to spill a secret.

  Before any of us had a chance to say another word, the kids raced across the second-floor landing again.

  “If you all settle down, you can go down to the media room and watch your movie,” Beth called up to them. “If not . . .”

  The unspoken threat was enough to bring them in line instantly. They streamed down the steps, and Glynis told them to stop in the kitchen on their way to the media room. She had popcorn, sodas, and cookies all ready for them.

  “Mine, mine, mine,” Beth said, patting the heads of Jeremy as well as two girls who looked to be twins. “You know Eli,” she said, pointing out Glynis’s son, “and these are her Isabelle and Connor.” The little girl ignored me; the boy smiled and turned pink.

  “And these are my Jackson and Mitchell,” Celia added. They were clearly the oldest kids there and even though I wasn’t a mother, I knew exactly what Celia was going to say next. “Keep an eye on the little ones,” she told her sons. “No roughhousing! And if anyone spills anything—”

  “We know,” the oldest boy rolled his eyes in a way that said he wasn’t being disrespectful so much as he was just teasing. He’d heard it all before. “Wipe it up and let you know if there’s a stain.”

  “Beautiful kids,” I said, because it was true and because I know that’s what mothers are supposed to say to each other.

  Glynis still had a hold of my arm. She tugged me toward the kitchen and I just naturally went along. “I suppose you’re wondering why we asked you to come so early,” she said.

  “Sonny made flan in cooking class this week,” Celia added, though what this had to do with me arriving early for the wine tasting, I don’t know. “Flan Caraqueño. It’s a recipe from Venezuela.”

  “And Celia . . .” Beth slid her friend a look. “Celia mentioned it to Michael. Michael loves flan. And since the celebration has something to do with Michael . . .”

  Again her friends questioned her, but again, Beth clammed up like a . . . well, like a clam. We trooped into the kitchen (where I didn’t see a trace of flan) and Beth bustled to the refrigerator and took out eggs, butter, and milk. She set it on the quartz countertop while Celia brought over almonds and crackers, and Glynis went into a walk-in pantry as big as the kitchen in my apartment to get a bottle of vanilla extract.

  “Thing is,” Beth said, “Michael doesn’t like flan when it’s really cold. You know, the way you usually get it when you order it in a restaurant. Go figure. He’s got this weird thing about flan. He likes it when it’s had just enough time to chill to set up.”

  “That’s . . . nice.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “We’ll serve it after the appetizers and the wine,” Celia informed me. At the same time she grabbed a green linen apron embroidered with bunnies and looped it over my head. “You know, when we bring out the coffee.”

  “What a surprise!” Beth clapped her hands together in excitement. “Fresh flan, and not too cold. Just the way Michael likes it!” Beth was smiling when she ducked around behind me to tie the apron strings behind my back.

  And me? I was standing in the middle of the kitchen, feeling a little like Cinderella in that cartoon scene where the mice get her dressed for the ball. Like those mice, Celia, Glynis, and Beth stepped back and gave me their nodding approval.

  I plucked at the apron. “I would have brought my own, but—”

  “No need!” Beth’s smile was a mile wide. “No problem at all with you using one of mine. I mean, it’s the least we can do for you.”

  I looked from one woman to the other. I might have been more encouraged if they weren’t all smiling. “It’s the least you can do for me because I’m going to . . .”

  Celia laughed. “You’re going to make the flan, of course.”

  My heart thudded to my toes, then bounced up again. It wedged in my throat. At the same time I scrambled for something to say that might save me from the fate worse than death, I told myself I’d never believe Jim MacDonald again. Not ever again. He was the one who assured me there would be no cooking involved in tonight’s festivities. And now that I thought about it, he was the one who’d been too busy at Bellywasher’s to come along. If he had taken a couple hours off and joined me in McLean, I would have gladly given over the apron to him and he would have just as gladly produced a flan to be proud of. Me?

  I didn’t have the strength to even think about it.

  Automatically, I reached around my back to untie the apron. “I really don’t think this is a good idea. I mean—”

  “But you said you took classes at Très Bonne Cuisine,” Glynis protested.

  Beth pouted. “And flan is Michael’s favorite.”

  I forced myself to smile while I tried to think of a way out, and while I was still smiling, a sneaky suspicion formed in my mind: Celia, Glynis, and Beth all loved to cook. I knew this because they all took classes at Sonny’s. If I was going to be one of the crowd, I had to prove I loved to cook, too. And if I was going to find out anything about Vickie Monroe’s life—and more importantly, her death—I had to be one of the crowd.

  Since my hands were still behind my back, it was no effort at all to cross my fingers when I announced, “Flan just happens to be one of my specialties.”

  HERE’S THE THING ABOUT FLAN: IT DOESN’T HAVE very many ingredients. That meant when I looked over the recipe Beth handed me, it all seemed pretty straightforward. A second look, though, and the all-too-familiar rat-a-tat of culinary doubt started up inside my brain. There’s this whole process of caramelizing sugar in a pan, see, and then coating the pan with the caramelized sugar, and then baking the custardy flan in the caramelized pan while the flan in the caramelized pan is set in another pan of hot water.

  Just thinking about it leaves me light-headed and out of breath.

  Sure, Jim could have done it with his eyes closed. Norman could have produced a magnificent flan with his hands tied behind his back. Even Eve, who had proved herself a better cook than either of us would have imagined before that fateful class as Très Bonne Cuisine, probably could have made something if not incredible, then at least edible.

  Annie Capshaw? Not so much.

  After three tries (and a whole lot of wasted sugar), I finally got the pan caramelized. Only I don’t think caramelized sugar is supposed to be the color of a used tire.

  I got the almonds and the cracker crumbs and the eggs and everything else mixed together, too. And if the dropped egg, the spilled milk, and the bottle of vanilla extract I knocked over doesn’t count, it all went without a hitch.

  Finally, with the flan in the oven, Celia, Glynis, Beth, and I sipped wine and sampled the appetizers they were setting out on fancy plates so they’d be ready to serve when the husbands arrived. And when my flan came out of the oven, lopsided and smelling scorched, here’s the really amazing thing . . .

  Nobody cared!

  Celia, Glynis, and Beth really were as gracious as could be! They didn’t criticize, they didn’t complain. They didn’t critique my cooking technique (or lack of it). They simply complimented me, assured me that the guys (Michael especially) would be over the moon at such a wonderful dessert, and cooed and clucked over the flan as if they’d been the proud layers of the eggs that went into it.

  The men arrived from their high-powered jobs and I was introduced all around. Beth’s husband, Michael, sprinted upstairs the moment he was through the front door, and when he reappeared, he was wearing a cotton sweater that perfectly matched the yellow
in her sundress. Celia’s Scott was as quiet as he was tall and thin. Glynis and Howard (who everyone called Chip) barely kissed each other hello before Chip dived into two big glasses of wine in very short order. With barely more than a nod of his head, Edward Monroe acknowledged me, then disappeared into the great room with the rest of the guys.

  “I’ll bet they’re already starting in on the hokey-pokeys. That’s what Sonny made in cooking class last week,” Beth confided with a wink at her friends. “The guys love them.”

  Apparently, they did. By the time we walked into the spacious great room with its leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows, the women’s husbands were gathered around a table, chowing down from a plate of appetizers that included slices of little party bread loaded with what looked like sausage and melted cheese. Beth set down the fruit and cheese platter I’d brought and they dug into that, too. Edward Monroe, I noticed, was on the other side of the room, sipping a glass of bloodred wine and staring out the window.

  When she was done making sure everything was perfect (need I mention that it was?), Beth turned to Edward. “Now that everything is ready, we can have our toast,” she said, and when he didn’t respond right away, she added, “Edward, you did want to offer a toast, didn’t you?”

  Without a word, he came over to where we were gathered and I had a chance to look him over. That Friday night, Edward didn’t look a thing like the go-get-’em coach I’d seen at the soccer game. Unlike Scott and Chip, who’d discarded their expensive suit coats and loosened their Italian silk ties, Edward was buttoned up and buttoned down. All business, no casual. He was a good-looking guy, a little older than me, with dark hair shot with gray. His face was drawn and lined; his eyes were unfocused. He looked exactly like what he was, a man whose wife had been horribly taken from him, and before I could go and get all mushy about it, I reminded myself of my conversation with Tyler just the night before.

  It’s always the husband.

  Those might not have been Tyler’s exact words, but they were close enough. And chilling, too. Was Edward Monroe heartless enough to murder his wife and pin it on a stranger? I didn’t know, but I needed to find out.

  I reminded myself to stay objective and watched while Edward set down his glass of wine and reached for a bottle of champagne that had been tucked into an ice bucket out of sight of the wine tasters. He showed the label to Beth, who nodded her approval, and then he popped the cork. Beth had crystal champagne flutes ready, and as Edward filled the glasses, she passed them around. When she got to Michael, she whispered something in his ear. His cheeks got dusky.

  Beth held her glass in front of her with both hands. “I’m going to let Edward do the honors,” she said.

  Call it my imagination running away with me, but I had the distinct feeling that Edward would have rather done just about anything but. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here today,” he said, and we all laughed on cue. He didn’t smile when we all did, so his expression didn’t exactly get serious. It got more serious. Determined. I had a feeling that if I was standing next to him, I would have heard the bones in his jaw grind together. When he finally forced a smile, the corners of his mouth were as stiff as my meringue never was. “Since this is a surprise to most of you, I’ll explain that I called Michael into my office this afternoon.” With his champagne flute, he gestured toward Beth’s husband. “Michael’s been . . . well, he’s been a real asset to the company. I’ve known him since I purchased Macro-Tech seven years ago, and I can say with some authority that we wouldn’t be where we are today without him leading the charge down in the accounting department. You know I’m much too obsessive to ever loosen my hold on the reins of the company completely, but since everything that happened to Vickie . . . well, I’d like to back off a bit, to free up some time for the kids. I’m happy to tell all of you that as of this afternoon, Macro-Tech has a new chief financial officer.” Edward raised his glass. “To Michael!”

  At the announcement, the women squealed their delight and hugged Beth. After they drank down their champagne, the men offered Michael their congratulations and handshakes.

  “That’s great news,” I said to Beth, and honestly, I don’t know if she heard me since she was so busy beaming a mile-wide smile at her husband. Michael, too, was looking pretty starry-eyed. Who could blame him? I might not be a mover or shaker when it comes to big business, but I’d done my homework. Macro-Tech was Edward Monroe’s software firm, and it was a mighty successful one at that. The company handled any number of huge government contracts, and unlike a lot of businesses these days, his always turned a profit. Macro-Tech had made Edward millions. It was nice to see he was sharing the wealth, and even nicer to know that Beth had a husband who was well-thought-of enough to be handed the new responsibility. I couldn’t help but be as pleased as everyone else. I sipped my champagne, enjoying the moment.

  At least until I realized that in spite of the fact that Edward’s toast had been gracious, his expression never changed. For a man who was loosening his hold—just a bit—on his company, to spend more time with his motherless children, he didn’t look relieved, happy, or even content.

  I was curious. And like it or not, thanks to everything I’d been through since that first, fateful cooking class I took and that first murder I’d solved, I was suspicious, too. First Jeremy, the kid who gave nonathletic a whole new meaning, was playing soccer. Then Michael gets a promotion? Sure, I knew good things happened to nice people, and from what I’d seen, Beth and Michael and the rest of them were really nice people. Still, it all seemed a little too fishy.

  Eager to find out if my detective instincts were right on, or if I was just letting my imagination run wild, I leaned toward Beth so I could whisper, “It’s such good news and it makes so much sense for Edward to take some time to recuperate from everything that’s happened. I wonder why he doesn’t look happier about it.”

  I hoped for a reaction. But not one that involved the need for a cleanup crew.

  No such luck. Beth winced as if she’d been slapped, the blood drained from her face, and, as if in slow motion, her champagne glass slipped out of her hands.

  Eight

  BETH’S CRYSTAL CHAMPAGNE FLUTE HIT THE CORNER of the table and from there, the hardwood floor. Champagne rained down on everything, and the glass shattered into a million pieces.

  “I’m so sorry.” No, it wasn’t exactly my fault. Or maybe it was since I’d apparently startled Beth with my comment. Whatever the case, to prove how awful I felt, I set down my own glass and went into the kitchen. There were bound to be paper towels in there, and a broom and a dustpan, too.

  Of course, finding everything in a kitchen the size of my apartment was no easy thing. I finally took a chance on the walk-in pantry where, earlier, Glynis had gotten the vanilla extract. Success! I found a roll of paper towels.

  I was just about to head back into the great room, when a stack of magazines on the kitchen desk caught my eye. They were cooking magazines and—do I need to say it?—cooking magazines usually send chills up my spine. Except the magazine on top had a headline across the front of it that said, “Foods of Scotland.” Honestly, all I meant to do was take a peek and get some kind of idea for a wedding dinner surprise that didn’t involve skinning fish or cooking their heads in seawater.

  But when I heard someone coming, I suddenly felt guilty for paging through Beth’s magazine. Maybe because I felt guilty about being in her home under false pretenses? Psychology aside, I caught sight of the carry bag I’d brought along with me, and automatically tucked the magazine inside it. By the time Celia walked into the kitchen, I was standing there holding the paper towels and trying not to look like the thief I felt I was.

  “Paper towels.” As if she couldn’t see them, I held them up. “I can’t believe what a mess I made in there.”

  “You didn’t do a thing. Don’t worry about it. Drinks spill. Glasses break. Besides, Beth’s walking
on a cloud. She couldn’t care less about any of it.”

  Just as I’m sure Celia intended, this made me feel better. While she gathered up a broom and a dustpan from just inside the laundry room, I took the chance of sticking my nose just a little further into these people’s lives. “Beth’s very proud of Michael, isn’t she?” I asked, as innocent as can be. “And Michael must be thrilled to take on such a prominent position. I wonder why Edward doesn’t look the least bit happy about any of it.”

  Celia shook her head and clicked her tongue. “I swear, the man has lost his mind. I guess it’s only natural. I mean, considering what happened to Vickie and all. I just don’t understand—”

  “What?”

  Her gaze darted to the doorway, and seeing that no one was around, she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “First he lets Jeremy play in the soccer game. Now it’s Michael’s promotion. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Because Jeremy’s a lousy soccer player, and Michael . . . ?” I held my breath and waited for her to say more.

  She did. But not until after she’d looked at the doorway again. “A couple weeks ago, Beth called me in tears. There was a rumor going around Macro-Tech and she caught wind of it from Michael’s administrative assistant. Something about Michael screwing up a really big account. Beth was worried sick because there was talk of Michael being let go.”

  “And today, he was named CFO.” This was curious, and I chewed over the thought for a moment while I drummed my fingers against my chin. “Maybe,” I suggested, “Edward found out it was all a big mistake. You know, about Michael messing up that account. Maybe he’s trying to make it up to Michael.”

  Celia shook her head. “Edward isn’t the type to kiss and make up. Not with anybody. You don’t get that powerful by being a marshmallow.”

  “Then maybe he’s just feeling warm and fuzzy. You know, because of Vickie.”