Murder Has a Sweet Tooth Read online

  “He’s a redhead?” For one terrible moment, I thought Glynis had made some unlikely and mistaken connection between me and Alex. He, after all, had the flaming hair that cousin Fi inherited from the Bannerman side of the family and her children had gotten from her. If these women thought I had anything to do with the man who’d been charged with killing their friend . . .

  I swallowed down the worry. Alex wasn’t the only red-haired man in the world. “It’s their Scottish ancestors,” I said, as truthful as can be. “They got the whole package: the red hair, the freckles, even the tempers. From my family—” A man over on our right attracted my attention, and I didn’t have to worry about bringing my family into this. I was so startled, I blurted out, “Is that Edward Monroe? He’s the soccer coach?”

  “The best in the league.” Glynis slid me a look. “At least he’s always been the best in the league. Today, I’m not so sure.”

  “Well, the fact that his wife just died might have something to do with it.” I shouldn’t have had to point this out. “Isn’t it a little weird that he’d be here coaching? I mean, after what happened?”

  Celia shook her head. There was a folding table of refreshments set up nearby and maybe it was almost halftime or intermission or whatever it is they have in soccer games. She went over to the table, and because it looked like she might talk if I encouraged her a bit, I followed. When she opened a giant bottle of Gatorade, I held out paper cups for her to fill—just like any seasoned mom would have done at a child’s sports event.

  Celia was neat and efficient. When she finished with one bottle of Gatorade, she opened another. “Like Glyn said, Edward is the best in the league. He’d never let the boys down and not show up for a game. Even if it means setting his own grief aside for a while. Henry’s on the team . . .” Celia looked over at the boys and I did, too, and spotted Vickie’s son. “It’s good for Henry to be with his friends. He needs the break, too.”

  “Of course.” Celia ran out of paper cups and since there was a new bag of them nearby, I opened it, slipped more cups from the plastic sleeve, and got back to work. We were far enough away that Glynis and Beth couldn’t hear us, so I took a chance at being nosy. “What did Glynis mean, about Edward usually being the best coach in the league except for today? Is there a problem?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, the problem is Jeremy.” On cue, the ball careened Jeremy’s way and he reacted instinctively. He caught it in his hands. Jim is a fan of what he calls football and those of us in the United States call soccer. Me? Not so much. But I guess I’ve sat beside him as he watched enough games on TV that some of the rules and regulations have seeped into my brain through osmosis. Even I know that, except for the goalkeeper, none of the players is allowed to touch the ball. Celia knew it, too, of course. She cringed. “I love the kid to pieces. Honest. But when it comes to soccer, he’s hopeless. He’s so bad, Edward doesn’t even usually let him play.”

  “And today he did?”

  Finished with the Gatorade, she shrugged and reached for a box of donut holes. She arranged them by flavor on paper plates, each little round donut precisely set against the other so that by the time she was done, the arrangements looked like stylized flowers. “Maybe Edward’s just feeling soft and sappy. You know, because of the funeral and all. I hope it doesn’t last. My Carter is a talented athlete. I’d hate to see his college scholarship chances dwindle because he’s on a losing team.”

  I laughed, and when I saw Celia’s lips thin, I knew instantly that I shouldn’t have. “I just didn’t think . . .” It was scramble to apologize or look like a complete fool. “I don’t think I’d be worried about college right now. These kids are in, what, first grade?”

  Celia’s smile was stiff. “Carter is in kindergarten. But it’s never too soon to think about college. Not if you expect your kids to get into a good school. Your girls, what kinds of activities are they involved in?”

  “Dance class for one. And music.” It was the only thing I could think of. “We’re waiting to be a little more settled before we get involved in too much else.”

  “There’s a great girls’ team.” Apparently, it was break time. The boys streamed off the field, and as they did, Celia handed each a paper cup. Glynis came to help. Though from my experience I would have said little boys didn’t need to be directed toward donut holes or any other sweets, she gestured toward the plates and told the boys they were each allowed two.

  Beth, I noted, waited for Jeremy to walk off the field and when he did, she brought him over, her arm around his shoulders.

  “Didn’t he do great?” she asked no one in particular.

  “I did not.” Jeremy scuffed the toe of his shoe on the ground. “I stink.”

  “You need practice. Everyone needs practice,” Celia assured him.

  “Everyone has their own special gifts,” Glynis added. “You’re a good artist, Jeremy. I’ve seen the pictures you draw. You can’t expect to be good at everything.”

  Jeremy’s bottom lip protruded. “Carter is,” he grumbled.

  “It’s true,” Celia whispered to me, and said to Jeremy, “But you’re not Carter. And you can’t measure yourself based on what Carter does. You can only be the best Jeremy you can possibly be.” I doubt the kid noticed the sour expression that pinched her face. “If you are, then maybe Coach will let you play in another game.”

  “As a matter of fact, Edward already said Jeremy could play the second half,” Beth announced and, jazzed by the news, Jeremy grabbed four donut holes and headed for the spot where the rest of his team was gathered. Parental pride gleaming from her eyes, Beth watched him. “Edward says Jeremy is going to play in every game for the rest of the season. Isn’t that wonderful news?”

  Before anyone could come up with an answer that was truthful or hurtful, I figured it was the perfect time to change the subject. “So . . .” I had questions I wanted to ask, plenty of them. The trick, as always, was figuring out how to get information without looking too obvious. “Any more news about Vickie’s murder?” I asked.

  OK, it may have been obvious, but honestly, if I didn’t ask, that would have been obvious, too.

  For a couple moments, I thought nobody heard me. Celia kept busy rearranging the donut holes. She consolidated them so there were two flavors per plate. With a practiced eye, Glynis looked around the area to make sure there were no paper cups thrown on the ground. That left Beth, and I knew she heard me because at the mention of Vickie’s name, she got as pale as the white blouse she was wearing with her jumper.

  “There’s nothing else to know,” Beth said, her voice suddenly breathy. “The police say they have the killer. Once he’s tried and convicted, we’ll all get the closure we need.”

  Not all of us.

  I, of course, did not point this out.

  Instead, I snapped up a donut hole. Glazed. No, I hadn’t been offered one, but just as Eve couldn’t be close to beautiful clothing and not go into covet mode I couldn’t be within sight of sweets and not go for it. Fortunately, these ladies didn’t hold it against me.

  “What I don’t get”—I popped the donut hole in my mouth—“is why Vickie was hanging out with the guy they say killed her in the first place. And at that bar so far from home. Did you know she went there every Tuesday?”

  “Every Tuesday?” Glynis’s face took on a color that matched her eyes. “That’s impossible. How do you—”

  “Read it in the newspaper. Don’t ask me which one; we get a few different papers at home. But I know one of them mentioned that the guy they arrested . . . Alex somebody, I think the newspaper said . . . and one of them said that he told the cops that he and Vickie met at the restaurant every Tuesday.”

  “Look, they’re about to get started again!” Jeremy was back on the field, and I might as well have been invisible. Beth completely ignored me and zoomed right by. She went to stand at the edge of the field, cheering for Jeremy with all her might.

  Celia rolled her eyes.
r />   “Something tells me that look has nothing to do with Vickie and everything to do with soccer,” I said.

  “You got that right.” When Jeremy never moved a muscle and a kid from the other team kicked the ball away from him, she sighed. “Here we go again.”

  “So Vickie never said anything to you? I mean, about going out with this Alex guy every Tuesday night?”

  If Celia was surprised that I was so single-minded, she didn’t show it. Carter did something she considered spectacular and she applauded. “The only things Vickie ever talked to us about were friend things. You know, school and parties, our houses and our husbands.”

  I dared to push it, just a little. “Friends talk about lovers, too.”

  “But he wasn’t a lover,” Glynis said. She sounded like she knew what she was talking about, which to me meant that Vickie had told these women about Alex. Otherwise, how would they know he was not a lover? “Vickie wasn’t the type to step out. In fact, the only place she ever went was the only place all of us ever go. Cooking class.”

  Good thing I’d already swallowed my donut hole, or I might have choked. Talk of cooking does that to me. I pasted a smile on my face. “Cooking classes? I’ve taken cooking classes, over at Très Bonne Cuisine in Arlington.”

  “We go to Sonny’s in Reston.” Glynis sounded as if this was something to be proud of and for all I know, it may have been. It’s hard to think past the brain freeze that always gets to me when the subject of cooking comes up. She smiled at Celia.

  “Annie knows how to cook,” she told Celia. “She’s taken cooking classes.”

  Celia grinned. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked her friend, and apparently, Glynis was.

  Celia closed in on me. “The next wine tasting is at Beth’s house Friday,” she said. “I know what you’re going to say. Isn’t it a little soon after Vickie’s passing? But really, Annie, you didn’t know her. She would have wanted it this way. Beth won’t mind you joining us. You’ll come?”

  It was exactly the kind of in I was hoping for. I nodded my consent.

  “Good.” Celia gave me the address. “This week we’re tasting zinfandels, so bring a bottle and an appetizer and your husband, too, of course.”

  “If you could come a little early . . .” Glynis leaned in.

  “Five?” Celia asked the question, but didn’t wait for an answer before she added, “Beth’s helping out at school that day, but she should be back in time. If not, no worries. We all know where each other’s hide-a-keys are, so someone will be there to let you in. We’re officially making you our designated cooking expert.”

  The Tigers scored and it was a good thing they did. Otherwise they would have heard me squeak, “Designated? Expert?” When the crowd finally settled, I told them I was looking forward to the wine tasting.

  After all, what else could I do?

  I sure couldn’t tell them the truth.

  In my experience, the only thing cooking classes led to was culinary disasters.

  Oh, yeah, and murder.

  Six

  “ME? DESIGNATED COOKING EXPERT? YOU CAN SEE why this is a bad thing, right? I mean, what if they actually ask my advice about cooking? Or . . .”

  Yes, I’d been obsessing, practically since the moment Celia, Glynis, and Beth invited me to join them at their next wine tasting. But I’d been stuck on the whole meaning of what, exactly, a designated cooking expert was. Now I had a whole new worry and, thinking about it, panic filled me like ice water. My hand was already on Jim’s arm, and it tightened like a blood pressure cuff.

  “What if they actually expect me to cook?” I squeaked.

  He laughed. But then, Jim is a predictable kind of guy. It’s one of the reasons I love him. Except when it comes to talk of cooking, of course.

  One by one, he pried my fingers from his sleeve and shook his arm. I think he was trying to get the circulation back. “Have I taught you nothing?” he asked. “When it comes to cooking, you can hold your own.”

  “I can’t. You’re just saying that because—”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Because you love me and you’re trying to make me feel better.”

  “I love you.” He gave me a quick kiss. “I’m trying to make you feel better.” Another kiss, a little longer and a little slower, and I was actually beginning to believe him. “You can hold your own when it comes to cooking. With anyone.”

  Even another kiss wasn’t enough to make me believe that. It was Thursday evening, and Bellywasher’s had just closed. The only ones left in the restaurant were Larry, Hank, and Charlie, three of our usuals, who’d stopped in late after their bowling league and ordered the day’s blue plate special: hot dogs, beans, and fries. (Just for the record, the blue plate special is never on the menu. No one besides Larry, Hank, and Charlie even knows about it. Jim keeps a supply of hot dogs just for them because they’ve been coming to Bellywasher’s for, like, forever. See? Didn’t I say that Jim was the greatest guy in the world?)

  We were standing in the kitchen, and I pushed away from Jim, the better to wring my hands and pace. “They take classes, Jim. Over at Sonny’s. I’ve heard you talk about Sonny’s. It’s a good cooking school.”

  “Sonny Fleming has a reputation, that’s sure enough. He’s got good technique. He’s excellent when it comes to presentation. I hear his shop isn’t nearly as well stocked as Jacques’ . . . er, Norman’s . . .” Force of habit. Jim twitched away the slip of the tongue and continued. “Sonny’s gaining a reputation. He’s a fine, skilled chef and a marketing genius, as well. He’s making a name for himself.”

  “And these ladies are actually interested enough to take lessons from him. Go figure.” I couldn’t, because I’d never wanted to take that first cooking class back when Eve signed us up for it. She was trying to cheer me up after my divorce, and in the great scheme of things, I guess it worked. That class was where I met Jim, and got my first introduction to murder and to being a detective.

  Even that wasn’t enough to lift my spirits.

  I thought of the stove that had once exploded right in my face at Très Bonne Cuisine. “What if they ask me to bake bread?”

  “It takes hours to make bread. There’s no time for that at a wine tasting.”

  I remembered all the foods I’d taken to new heights of crispness. “Then what if they want me to cook the main course or something? What if it’s a rack of lamb? Or fondue? Oh, my gosh, do you remember right after we first started dating and you came over for dinner and I was trying to impress you so I made dessert fondue?”

  No doubt Jim did. But then, it’s hard to forget an evening where we spent hours getting the chocolate splatters off the countertops, the cupboards, and the kitchen floor. Even that, though, wasn’t enough to deter him. “A wine tasting means cheese and nibblers. Nothing more. And you know a thing or two about cheese, don’t you?”

  “I know that when I don’t burn it, Velveeta melts well.”

  Jim rolled his eyes. “You dinna learn that from me, that’s sure enough. Concentrate, Annie, and think of all you’ve picked up here at Bellywasher’s. Try again. Tell me what you know about Asiago.”

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “Fresh Asiago is smooth,” I said. “Aged is crumbly. You sprinkle it on salads and soups and pasta.”

  When I opened my eyes again, Jim was smiling. But he wasn’t done with me yet. “Neufchâtel,” he said.

  I concentrated. Food was something I liked, even if I wasn’t very good at preparing it. If I thought of Neufchâtel simply as something to eat, rather than as an ingredient . . .

  “Soft and slightly crumbly,” I said, and when Jim’s eyes lit, I was inordinately proud of myself. “I know the rind is edible, and that some people say the cheese tastes like mushrooms. Sometimes it’s called farmers’ cheese.”

  “One more.” He narrowed his eyes, and I knew he was going to try to stump me. “Mizithra.”

  That nearly did me in. But hey, I mig
ht not be much of a cook, but that doesn’t mean I give up easily. For some reason, his mention of the Greek cheese made me think of the mountain of invoices currently on the desk in my office. A lightbulb went off and I beamed at Jim. “You just ordered some,” I said. “A lot, in fact. Mizithra is made from sheep or goat milk. You can serve it as an appetizer with olives or tomatoes, or as a dessert with honey. Or you can serve it with pasta. With the amount you ordered, I’m thinking that you’re adding it to the menu.”

  “In pasta and as a dessert.” He made me a showy bow. “You know far more about food than you give yourself credit for. And as a reward for answering all my questions right, I’ll prepare some of each cheese for you to take to the wine tasting with you.” He moved toward the big industrial refrigerator that took up most of one wall of the kitchen. “A nice platter of Asiago and Neufchâtel with fresh fruit and some crusty bread. How does that sound? And I’ve been looking for an excuse to make some mizithropita. Mizithra with butter and honey, baked in phyllo. Sound good?”

  He knew anything made with honey and phyllo was right up my alley. I knew that we were done talking about food when Jim’s expression grew serious.

  “I’ve talked to Alex’s attorney,” he said. “A trial date’s been set.”

  Talk of a trial made what Alex was going through all too real. I felt guilty for worrying about my cooking skills (or lack of them) when we had something so much more serious to think about. I wrapped my arms around myself. “And bail?”

  Jim’s mouth pulled into a frown. “No luck. But the attorney—Melanie—she says she’s going to keep trying. If Alex surrenders his passport and I vouch for him, she says there’s a chance he’ll be able to make the wedding.”

  “But that’s not good enough, is it?” There was a high stool nearby and, suddenly feeling drained, I leaned back against it. “I want to have Alex here for the wedding, of course, but—”

  “Did somebody say the magic word?” I swear, Eve has radar when it comes to talking about weddings. She burst into the kitchen looking like a ray of sunshine in a lemon yellow taffeta dress with a swingy skirt and spaghetti straps. It wasn’t what she’d been wearing last time I saw her out in the restaurant, and I realized that sometime after we’d locked the front door, she must have ducked into my office to change her clothes. That could only mean one thing—Eve had a date.