Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic, Maria Swan [reading list TXT] 📗

back door so quickly I even surprised Dior. That was a first.

“Someone has been busy,” I declared loudly, making Brenda jump. She, who always relied on her dog’s alerts, reacted quickly, and not in a good way. I mean, the Dane was sleeping on the job. Bad doggie. And look at that. Someone cleaned the house. I could clearly see the floors. Hmmm. What happened to the home gym project?

“Hey, Monica, come here.”

Brenda walked to her pantry to die for. The place where her famous catered parties always came to life first. On paper I mean. It was like a ritual. Brenda standing at the center of her pantry, backed by her five corkboards, channeling her inner — chef? Nah, it was a lot more than that. She had a talent for taking the tritest of recipes and turning them into delicious new culinary creations. Often with the same ingredients. In part thanks to her Registered Dietitian background and the rest thanks to her genuine love of nutrition, food, or whatever you want to call it.

“Brenda, last evening your place looked like a disaster area. And now, it’s like a miracle.”

“Yeah, a $150 miracle. I hired some of the busboys from work and decided I would be better off with my treadmill and weights in my bedroom instead of messing with the perfect pantry.”

I nodded. “Wise investment. Hey, did you lose weight?”

“Hmmm, only two pounds. But it’s a start. By the way, I’m working on Kay’s Christmas party. It’s going to be a sit down affair, very elegant. I stopped by her place on my way home. Do you know she lives in one of the top floors of that tall building at the corner of Camelback and 24th street? The place is over 2,000 square feet with breathtaking views from every window. Unfortunately, the kitchen is a galley type, too inconvenient for us to do all the cooking there. I already spoke to Leta, my trusted, wonderful right-hand assistant, and we’ll do the main cooking here and finish up the details at Kay’s. Oh, and Leta says hi.”

“Thanks, I love Leta, too. But what’s a galley kitchen? Sounds awful.”

Brenda laughed, that raspy laugh I had missed so much. “A galley kitchen is a narrow space, characterized by two parallel countertops that incorporate a walking area in between. So while it’s a good layout under normal circumstances, it won’t do when you have several people working together. Especially cooks with wide hips,” she added, in self-mocking mode.

“Anyway, Kay is pretty set on the menu, which is a blessing and a curse. As we know, not all taste buds perform the same way.”

“Are you cooking something?” An interesting smell wafted from the kitchen.

“You just now noticed? What’s wrong with your nose? Do you have a cold?” Brenda chided me.

“What’s cooking, what’s cooking?” Dior’s ears perked up for an instant, then he went back to sleep. Must not be anything involving meat or he’d be sleeping sprawled in front of the stove.

“I’m trying out fat-free recipes, per Angelique Dumont’s request.”

Puff went my happy evening. No matter how hard I tried, I kept bumping into some Dumont-related news. Maledizione. At least we managed to avoid the Tommy subject.

“Tell me more, tell me more,” I hummed.

“I’m trying out a banana bread made with gluten free flour and apple sauce instead of oil. I’m also baking boneless pork chops brushed with mustard and mayonnaise as a substitute for oil and salt. That’s a brand new concoction I came up with. We’ll see. You’re welcome to stay and try out the results.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” I said, kicking off my shoes and heading for the couch, with a little detour to the refrigerator where the Pinot Grigio always waited patiently. Meanwhile, my mind churned away at all the news, good or bad, I should probably share with Brenda, especially about the man who may have killed Miss Fortune. Wait, her buddy officer Clarke had probably already told her all about it. What if he hadn’t? Proceed with caution?

“Hey Brenda, how is your friend, Bob?” There, that was neutral enough,

“Let me finish my notes for Kay’s party before I forget.”

“OK.” The oven bell went off.

“Perfect timing,” Brenda announced from the pantry. I didn’t move. It suddenly dawned on me that in spite of all the detectives’ good will, how could they be sure Smith, the creep, was after Kassandra? He followed me once when I drove the Kia. However, our second encounter at my listing, I was driving... nothing. J.S. had given me a ride in her van. Whoa! Big sigh of relief.

“What was that all about?”

I hadn’t seen Brenda coming from the kitchen, oven mittens on, showing me the wonderful golden crusty top of the banana bread hot from the stove. The smell alone had me drooling.

“We can have a slice for dessert. How about a pork chop and a salad first?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Do I tell her about Mr. Smith or do I keep my mouth shut?

This felt like casual night. We ate in the living room. I sat on the floor, my plate on the low coffee table and Dior slouching by my feet, looking at me with hungry eyes. What an actor.

“How is Officer Clarke?” I asked again between bites.

She stopped eating, fork in midair and turned to look at me square in the eyes, “Young lady, let’s get this out of the way once for all. Bob is a good friend. We are both single, never married. He knows my story, spent hours cheering me up and sharing his own troubles. He lives with his elderly mother who suffers from dementia. While we are good friend there is nothing romantic between us. Got it? Can we move past this?”

I found myself gulping air. Dior must have assumed I lost my appetite because he swiftly grabbed the last bite of meat left on my plate and rushed toward the kitchen. Brenda and I had to hide our surprised grins. She did