Perhaps it wasn't the lollypop as much as it was the fact that Lucy had been rewarded with it for enduring a tongue depressor halfway down her throat or waiting forever in line while her aunt deposited her state paycheck. The list of verboten foods and safety concerns got longer with time as her aunt discovered yet one more way someone could die. But Lucy's life with Scarpetta was not so severe as it might seem. Scarpetta had always given Lucy her time; Aunt Kay had enlightened and educated her with books, computers, and, now and then, church.
She had taught Lucy about good and evil, and had not tolerated selfishness, for it was, in Scarpetta's words, the root of all that was heartless and bad in the world.
Lucy formed small balls out of the cookie dough, which she first tasted raw, remembering when she was a kid and fat and had sneaked enough of it to make her sick. She flattened the balls just a little and placed them several inches apart on the cookie sheets.
"Someone get the Bailey's out of the bar. And glasses. Whiskey tumbler size," she directed from the doorway leading into the great room.
"You're sure your aunt doesn't mind us squatters wrecking her house?"
"We're not wrecking it," Lucy said.
"Not yet."
"When's she coming back?"
"Tomorrow, if planes can get in."
"What if we're still here?" An ATF agent, who knew all about bombs, laughed. "I mean, we might all be right here in this same spot, especially if we eat anything else."
"She won't care," Lucy said.
A second ATF agent eyed the holstered pistols and extra magazines scattered over tables.
"Wouldn't be a smart time for a burglar to show up," she matter-of-factly commented.
"OHHHH, all us women alone," Lucy said in a silly tone, as if she were ready for the fainting couch.
Normally, the cookies needed a good ten minutes in the oven, but Lucy always rescued them somewhat earlier than that, while they were still soft in the middle, because she liked them chewy and moist. With a spatula, she slid them onto a platter, eating one while it was hot.
"God," she groaned. "You're gonna die!" she called out to her friends. "They're so good they're bad!"
They dipped them into tumblers of Bailey's Irish Cream, sitting close to each other in front of the fire, the shadows of flames dancing on their faces.
8
* * *
The next morning, Marino did not serve Jimmy Simpson snow, as threatened, although he did jerk the boy around a bit by carrying a bowl of it into the house. He dribbled Mrs. Butterworth's maple syrup over it and stuck a soupspoon in the middle. Jimmy was warm with sleep and tangled in blankets on the couch when he opened his eyes and found Marino hovering over him, holding out the disgusting concoction.
"Snow cream," Marino told him.
Jimmy sat up, his dark tufts sprouting in different directions. He blinked several times, shifting into consciousness.
"Yuck," he said.
"How 'bout an omelet?" Marino asked. "Or you never had one of those, either?"
"I don't know."
Marino clicked on the TV. He opened the Venetian blinds to let the overcast morning into his cramped, slovenly living room.
"I think it's going to snow again," Jimmy said, hopefully.
"Clouds aren't low enough," said Marino, the weather expert. "When they get low like fog and you can't see the sky anywhere, that's when you know. I can feel it like rain coming. Could happen before the day's out, though."
"Will I stay here again if it does?"
"One of these days your mother might want you back," Marino said.
Marino's Southern-Style New Jersey Omelet
Marino was in a gray FBI sweat suit that did not completely cover his girth, and the feet of his white tube socks were stained orange from the insoles of his Cortex boots. He made his way into the kitchen, and soon enough had coffee brewing and was cracking eggs with one hand into a Tupperware juke container. The cast iron skillet was on the stove, and he wiped it with paper towels. He never washed the skillet with soap, and it was seasoned so well he didn't need to grease it
The bacon had been used up the night before in the chili, so Marino had to be a little more creative about breakfast meat. He decided on Hebrew Brothers kosher knockwurst, splitting two and browning them in the sillet These he put on a plate, which he covered with aluminum foil and placed in the oven on warm. He poured several dollops of half-and-half into the juice container of eggs, added salt and pepper; and vigorously shook the mixture until it was frothy. He poured it into the skillet, and instantly the eggs began to cook around the edges and bubble in the middle.
The secret was to cook slowly and wait until there was no raw egg left. Then he turned the burner down to 150 degrees. He sliced cream cheese into thick squares and placed them in the middle of the omelet, which he expertly folded. A minute later, he turned the burner off entirely, and several minutes later the cream cheese was hot, the omelet ready to serve. He divided it, but certainly not equally, and, with a nod to the South, spooned strawberry preserves on top. He added the knockwurst to each plate and carried breakfast into the living room.
"How 'bout setting up those TV trays," he said, nodding at a rack of metal folding trays parked in a corner near the window.
Jimmy opened two of them, situating one in front of the recliner, the other where he was stationed on the couch.
"You can put mustard on your knockwurst, if you want," Marino said, cutting into his omelet
"No, thank you."
"Let me know if you need more jelly."
"I like grape best," Jimmy confessed,
"Tough shit," Marino said.
9
* * *
Scarpetta arrived on US Airways flight 301 after a typical changing of planes and dashing to distant gates in the Charlotte airport, where one was certain to stop on his way to anywhere else, including the afterlife. She had left her Mercedes in long term parking at Richmond's International Airport, and she was not able to open the driver's door at first because it was frozen shut, icicles on the handle.
Nor had she worn boots, because it had not occurred to her to pack them for her trip to Miami. Snow caved in around her loafers as she slipped and tugged. Eventually the door opened with a jerk, and now she was faced with cleaning off her car. She started the engine and turned the heat on high. She swiped the snow scraper over windshield, side and rear windows, and mirrors, meticulously clearing every inch of snow and ice off glass, for she was the last person on earth to drive with an obstructed view. How many cases had she seen where the victim died because of a blind spot? She got in and buckled up, driving defensively because not everyone else on the road felt the same way she did, or cared, frankly. They peered through arches left by sluggish wipers, great clumps of snow blowing off their roofs onto the windshields of cars behind them.
Scarpetta took I-64 West to the Fifth Street exit, eventually winding around on the Downtown Expressway, passing her old building at Fourteenth and Franklin Streets. She did not miss working in the ugly four-story precast concrete building with its small windows and biological hazards, but reminders of the past brought so much to mind. She thought of stages she had passed through, of Lucy as a child, and relationships that had left their marks. Scarpetta thought of the dead, too, of those who had come under her care and once were front-page news. She could not remember every name, but she could still see her patients in her mind and recall the smallest details of what she had learned about them. The smokestacks on the roof of her old building were forlorn and cold. The crematorium had been quiet for years.
The streets of Windsor Farms were rutted and deep with slush that would turn to ice with the fading day. She moved slowly along Dover Road into the newer neighborhood, where she lived. The guard in his booth was named Roy, and he waved her through, always happy to see her because she appreciated why he was there and told him so regularly. She understood the dangers outside wrought iron fences and brick walls. More often than she like
d to think, Roy had deterred the unsavory and the curious from finding her. It pleased her to see Lucy's old green Suburban and the cars of friends in the drive. Miami had been miserable, and sometimes snow made Scarpetta lonely. The thought of company lifted her mood.
She unlocked the front door and walked inside the foyer, setting luggage on the hardwood floor.
"We're in here," Lucy called out
"Welcome home!"
"Thanks for letting us stay!"
Scarpetta followed cheery voices into the great room, where the women were still worthless around the fire, their pistols and other weapons out in plain view. Blankets, pillows, beer bottles, and whiskey tumblers were a mess on the rug.
"All of us slept in here last night," Lucy explained to her aunt
"Sounds like fun," Scarpetta said.
"Too much fun."'
"The cookies are what did it"
"Try what they were dipped in. That's what did it"
"Dr. Scarpetta, we'll clean up our mess and be on our way. Thanks again."
"Don't rush off because of me," she said. "The roads will be freezing soon, and it looks like it might snow again. I don't think any of you need to be in your cars."
She meant this for reasons other than the weather.
"We've been good so far today," Lucy assured her. "Just coffee and diet sodas. But you're right" She looked at her friends. "I don't think you guys need to be heading back north."
Scarpetta glanced at her watch. It was not quite 3 P.M. There was just enough time to make her famous stew.
Scarpetta's Famous Stew
The sine qua non is a restaurant-size pot capable of holding twenty quarts. Usually – and this day was no exception – Scarpetta had two going at once, as the abundance of ingredients she used simply could not be contained in a single vessel. Meat was her first priority, and she pulled ground turkey, cubed tenderloin trimmed of all fat, veal, and chicken breasts from the freezer. These she placed in the microwave oven to thaw. Unlike Marino, she did not rush the process. There was plenty else to do.
Over Lucy's protests, Annie Lennox and Meat Loaf were replaced by Pachelbel, Beethoven, and Mozart. Scarpetta opened two bottles of red table wine and began raiding her refrigerator, cupboards, and pantry for whatever her imagination seized upon. Without a doubt, the most important clue when making Scarpetta's stew is that the essence of it comes from her; the rest belongs to you. Use what you have and make the best of it, but as is true of any homicide case, it's only as good as the evidence brought in. So if you're stingy with your time and what you invest in your stew, what you cook is what you'll get.
Without question, this spectacularly hearty and loving dish requires work. Scarpetta tied an apron around her waist and began chopping Vidalia onions, red and yellow and green bell peppers, fresh oregano, basil, and parsley. She sliced baby carrots, squash, asparagus, fresh mushrooms, and pulled the strings from snow peas. Peeled Hanover tomatoes she had canned herself were not something she parted with every day, for once they were gone there were no more until summer. She pried off lids and mixed them and everything else in a huge glass bowl. She painstakingly peeled husks from the cloves of two large garlic bulbs and got to work with the garlic press. This, and salt and fresh ground pepper she stirred in with the vegetables.
She poured no more than a tablespoon of olive oil into each pot and turned the heat to medium. By now the meat was thawed enough to work with, and she crumbled equal shares of ground turkey into each pot and cut the tenderloin and chicken into small pieces. While this browned, she began opening jars of V-8 juice and cans of tomato sauce. It is important to note that the three most important elements in her stew are the tomato base, garlic, and red wine. These should be used liberally to taste, but without an extravagant amount of each, the stew will not bear Scarpetta's signature.
By 4 p.m., she was pouring herself a glass of the table wine and dividing the rest of the bottle between the two pots. At five o'clock, the stew was bubbling and permeating the house, and she poured a glass of wine from the second bottle. The rest went into the pots, which she covered with lids, turning down the heat Even the slightest hint of scorching will ruin her stew. Again, patience is essential. It is true that the best things in life require a bit of a wait.
"It's going to have to cook for a while," Scarpetta told her guests, as she walked into the great room, drying her hands on her apron.
"I can tell you right now, it's worth it," Lucy promised her friends.
"A little later, I'll make bread," Scarpetta went on. "We'll eat around eight Tomorrow, if you're here for lunch, the stew will be even better."
Ideally, it needed to simmer for at least five hours.
"Can't we help with something?" one of the ATF agents asked
"No." Scarpetta smiled. "It's no good unless I do it myself . If any other hands get involved, something goes wrong. It never fails. And by all means don't ever use expensive wine," she added, as she returned to the kitchen, "It doesn't like that, either."
"It?" the FBI agent puzzled
"Every stew has its own personality," Lucy explained, "like people. It's really strange, but each batch kind of reflects where Aunt Kay is coming from."
"You mean she projects herself onto it?"
"It channels through her?"
"Some kind of Taoist thing?"
"Kind of like that," Lucy said
"Makes sense, really. The same way someone's domes or the way they decorate their house fits who they are."
"Yeah," Lucy said "And the more peppery it is, the more you'd better run for cover."
"What about garlic?"
"Wards off bad spirits. The more she uses, the more stuffs going on that she probably hasn't told you about," Lucy replied.
"What if she chops up more raw meat than usual?"
"Or puts on surgical mask and gloves to cut up vegetables?"
"Or sections the gizzards?"
The women were getting silly.
"We should invite Marino over," Lucy suggested
"I thought you said the roads were bad."
"He's got a truck with chains," Lucy said
10
* * *
Marino had picked up Mrs. Simpson and was dropping Jimmy and her off at their home when Lucy rang his portable phone.
"What 'chu doin', dude?" Lucy loudly asked.
"Who's this?" Marino demanded, as if he didn't know.
"Your snitch, man."
"Which one?"
"Can't tell you over a cellular phone, dirt bag. Ten-twenty-five me in the West End at the usual spot."
"Hold on a minute," Marino said, covering the phone with a big meaty hand.
Jimmy and his mother were sitting in the truck, the boy in front, she in back.
"You guys have a good night, okay?" Marino said. "And listen here, you little runt." He poked his finger at Jimmy. "One more snowball at my house, and it's all over. Juvenile court. Death row. Get it?"
Jimmy wasn't the least bit scared, but suddenly he looked sad. His mother was very quiet and seemed too young to have a child of any age. She was bundled in an old corduroy coat with a fake fur collar, her face tired and pale.
Marino changed his mind.
"Hold on," Marino said to them. "Hey, listen up," he then said into the receiver. "Get the doc on the phone."
Scarpetta got on the line.
"Where are you and why aren't you here?" she asked. "I'm cooking stew."
"Shit. I'm gonna have the big one," Marino said, and he might have meant it. "I knew you'd be cooking something. You always do after you been around your old lady and whacko sister."
"Please watch your language," Scarpetta told him.
"You got enough for two more people?"
"Have you done background checks on them?" she asked.
"I'm not too sure of the kid," Marino said, giving Jimmy a look that was supposed to be hard and terrifying. "But I'll keep my eye on him."
This was fine. In fact, Scarpetta k
new Marino well enough to sense that his guests were special and in need of warmth and nourishment. He had brought strangers over before, but never anyone who might harm her.
Chains cut into ice, clanking rhythmically as he pulled out of the Simpsons' driveway and followed the street to Midlothian Turnpike and soon was chopping through I-95 North and taking the West Gary Street exit. Very few people were out, and really, no one should have been. Marino kept his speed down to no more than forty miles per hour.
"Why are you doing all this for us?" Mrs. Simpson quietly asked.
"You got your seat belt fastened?" It was more an order than an inquiry, as he eyed her in the rearview mirror.
"Just like it was a minute ago," she said.
"He made me an omelet this morning," Jimmy bragged to his mother. "With cheese in it and jelly. And he likes Cocoa Puffs, too. I saw a box on top of his refrigerator. He's really cool!"
"Cocoa Puffs aren't good for you." Mrs. Simpson sounded tired when she spoke.
"Sure they are, if you slice a banana on top of 'em," Marino answered, as he carefully turned onto a narrow, tree-lined street.
He stopped at the guard booth and rolled down his window to greet Roy, who was still on duty this snowy winter's night
"Keeping trouble out?" Marino asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Just these Cadillacs sliding everywhere." Roy shook his head. "One of them's gonna hit the gate, I just know it."
"I guess if you live in a high-dollar neighborhood like this, the weather don't affect you, right?"
Roy laughed, glad that none of the homeowners, who paid his salary through their monthly dues, could hear him having fun at their expense.
"You eaten yet?" Marino asked him.
"Not 'til I get off at midnight"
"You hungry?"
"I can't go anywhere," Roy reminded him.
Scarpetta's Winter Table Page 4