Murder Has a Sweet Tooth (14 page)

“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.