Into the Frying Pan
Also by Sarah Osborne
Too Many Crooks Spoil the Plot
Into the Frying Pan
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Table of Contents
Also by Sarah Osborne
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Old Recipes from the North and South
About the Author
Into the Frying Pan
Sarah Osborne
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
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Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Osborne
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Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: May 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0808-4 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0808-6 (ebook)
First Print Edition: May 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0811-4
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0811-6
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To Dan and Alix
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my beta readers who reviewed this book in different iterations and helped improve it each time: Marjorie Bufkin, Jayne Farley, Abigail Gilman, Mary Louise Klimm, Ann Komer, Linda Newton, Laurie Pocius, Lynne Roza, Margo Schmidt, and Kate Shands.
A special thanks to my technical experts. They patiently explained and re-explained what could and could not happen on the battlefield, during an investigation, and in a refugee clinic. Chris Burns, Georgia Division Infantry Commander, was my expert on reenactments. I took liberties with the reenactment dates for the sake of the plot but otherwise tried to stay true to the facts. John Smith, my dear brother-in law, now deceased, was a Deputy Sheriff and then Investigator for the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department in Forsyth, Georgia. He described how an investigation involving county sheriffs and investigators would proceed. A pediatrician friend, who wishes to remain anonymous, helped make scenes with sick children true to life. All inaccuracies are my own.
Once again, I am indebted to the usual suspects: my writing group, which includes Larry Allen and Mike Fournier, and my 241 Fitness buddies led by Wendy Bryant.
And a new thank you to my recipe finders: Jeanne Lee and Judy Alden. I found some old recipes, but they found the rest on family recipe cards or tucked away in journals. I tested them each more than once. Mandy and Paula Haddon (Molly’s Tea Room in Falmouth) tweaked the soup recipe to make it more flavorful. Marjorie Bufkin, a remarkable cook, and I did our best to make Mrs. Cornelius’s Molasses Apple Pie work, but our attempts failed, i.e., the non-molasses variety of apple pie remains superior. I was sorry to give up such a simple recipe with such a wonderful name.
Thanks also to John Scognamiglio and the staff at Lyrical Underground Kensington Publishing Corporation who helped me with every stage in the publication and publicity of the Ditie Brown Mystery series. They include Michelle Addo, Lauren Jernigan, Karen Auerbach, Rebecca Cremonese, Amy Boggs, Marketing Intern James Akinaka, and Maryanne Lasher.
Chapter One
Car horns bleated, tempers flared, and people were as prickly as the sweat that beaded on their bodies. It was the usual muggy July in Atlanta, Georgia.
Every summer I wished for a condo by the sea, but the kids seemed content with the public Glenlake Pool in Decatur, ten minutes from our house. I made sure they got in the water every day it wasn’t raining.
We’d just returned, and the shade of my giant magnolia gave us a moment’s relief from the oppressive heat. Jason, age five, was becoming a swimmer, and Lucie, almost nine, already was one.
Four months since the death of my childhood friend Ellie—their mother—Lucie was beginning to act like a kid again and not a second mom to Jason.
“Stop hitting me with your water wings, Jason. It’s not funny. Make him stop, Aunt Di.”
“Jason, come here. Let me have those wings. You hardly need them anymore.”
Jason looked at me as if he were debating the possibility of running into the house, but I was too fast for him. As a pediatrician, I knew how to capture children, if not with my charm, then with the speed of a firm hand.
I took the water wings and scooted him inside to take a bath.
“You can use my shower upstairs, Lucie.”
I entered the house two steps behind them. The swim had been refreshing but already I was perspiring from the sultry air.
The air conditioning took my breath away. I started when I saw Mason settled on my sofa with my dog Hermione lounging beside him. I didn’t work Fridays, but Mason did.
“Why aren’t you tracking down murderers?” I asked.
“I got time off for good behavior.” He must have seen me shivering. “I hope it’s not too cold in here.” He held out his hand and tugged me, wet suit and towel, onto his lap. Hermione jumped down—she wasn’t fond of anything or anyone that might get her wet. Mason wrapped a throw around me.
&nbs
p; “That will get soaked,” I said.
“You have a dryer—I’ll take care of it.”
“Really, why aren’t you at work?”
“I pulled two all-nighters. They’ll call me if they need me. Right now, I just wanted to see you.” He pushed my short dark curls away from my face. “You look good enough to eat.”
I probably did look like a nice plump muffin, but no matter how I looked, Mason made me feel gorgeous. I slipped off his lap, so I could see him clearly.
“What are you up to?” I asked.
“A man has to be up to something because he wants to see his girlfriend in the middle of the day?”
“Yes, if that man is a detective with the Atlanta Police Department.”
For a moment, Mason looked hurt. “You really don’t know what day this is?”
I searched my memory and shook my head. “It’s not my birthday or yours. Jason had his, and Lucie’s is in September. I give up.” I looked into his warm gray eyes, rubbed his bald head and gave him a kiss. “I really don’t care why you’re here, I’m glad you are.”
“It’s exactly four months since we met,” he said. “You forgot.”
“I’ll never forget that,” I said.
It was the worst night of my life and my children’s lives. It was the night their mother was murdered. Mason Garrett, the detective on the case, gave me the news. He was kind and gentle, and my view of him had never changed.
I cuddled up to him, wet bathing suit and all.
“I can’t believe it’s only been four months,” he said. “I feel as if I’ve known you all my life.”
“I feel the same way.”
“You mean that?”
“Of course.”
As soon as I said that out loud, I realized where Mason was headed. When would be the right time to ask me to marry him or at least to move in together? The children, I’d say, as I said every time he brought up the issue. The children needed stability right now, no new upheaval.
We were spared this conversation by Jason who ran into the room with his mitt in one hand and a bat in the other.
“You didn’t wait for me to run your bath,” I said.
“Uncle Mason is here,” he said, as if that justified never taking a bath again. “Wanna play ball?”
“You got a ball?” Mason asked looking around.
Jason searched the room. “Hermione,” he shouted.
My wonderful patient shepherd-collie mix trotted into the room, head held high with a softball in her mouth.
“Jason,” I said. “I told you to put that up where Hermione couldn’t get it. She thinks it’s her toy now and she’ll chew it up.
Jason pulled it from her mouth. “It’s fine, see?”
It was fine except for a few toothmarks.
“If it gets chewed up,” I said, “the next one comes out of your allowance.”
Mason stood up. “I think we men better leave, before your Aunt Di starts yelling at us.” He ushered Jason out in front of him.
Hermione trotted after them into the front yard. From the porch I watched Mason lob the ball to Jason who threw it back with the fierce attention of a five-year-old. After Lucie appeared, ready to play shortstop, I went inside and took a shower. I was barely dressed when I heard Hermione barking.
Mason shushed her and said, “Can I help you?”
“Is Ditie available?”
I recognized a familiar voice.
I ran downstairs and out to the porch, a towel in one hand, trying to do something with my curly hair.
Before me stood Phil Brockton IV…in a Civil War uniform. Despite my best efforts not to notice, he looked incredibly handsome. Six feet tall, one hundred eighty pounds, straight brown hair that fell casually over one eye—elegant in his gray uniform.
“Phil? I thought you were going to call when you were coming to town for a reenactment.”
“I did call and emailed as well, but you never responded, so here I am.”
It was all true. Phil had emailed me a few weeks earlier and given me the date he was coming. I hadn’t responded because I didn’t know what to say. He’d called, and I’d deleted the message almost as soon as I received it. Somehow I’d managed to ‘forget’ those communications.
“I’m on my way to a pre-battle planning party and thought I’d stop by,” he said. “I hope you can come to the Battle of Resaca tomorrow. It’s the biggest of the Atlanta Campaign reenactments.”
Before I answered, I introduced him to the three people clustered around me.
“Philip Brockton, this is Mason Garrett and these are my children Lucie and Jason.”
“Your children?” Phil looked shocked.
“Long story. They’re my children now and forevermore.”
Mason and Phil reluctantly shook hands.
“You’re the boyfriend police detective, right?” Phil asked.
Mason raised one eyebrow and nodded. “You’re the doctor obsessed with the Civil War who took off for New York abruptly after residency.”
This wasn’t going well.
Phil looked at me. “What have you told this guy about me?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Why are you here, Phil?”
“When I didn’t hear back from you, I assumed you hadn’t gotten my messages. I’m hoping you can come tomorrow. For old time’s sake.”
“Like Civil War old time’s sake?” Mason asked. “Or something else.”
I gave Mason a look meant to say I could fight my own battles. Phil was the only man I ever thought I might marry before Mason. He’d stood me up seven years earlier—not at the altar—but by leaving town and moving in with an oncology nurse.
“Why didn’t you just call me again today?” I asked.
“I thought you might be avoiding me, and I wanted to see you. Can you come tomorrow? All the action starts in the afternoon, around two.” He looked at the family group. “Everyone’s invited.”
I wasn’t sure he meant that. It sounded more like his polite Southern upbringing speaking. “I don’t know, Phil.”
“A lot of the old gang from med school will be there—Harper and Ryan Hudson, Sally Cutter, Andy Morrison. I don’t know if you remember Frank Peterson—he was in the class ahead of us, but he and I stayed friends.”
“To be honest, Phil, the only person I’d really like to see is Andy. I haven’t kept up with your other friends, and didn’t Sally drop out of school second year? I’m surprised you’re still in touch with her.”
“We’re friends, and she loves this reenactment stuff. Please come.”
I looked at Mason. He didn’t look happy.
“I’m not sure I can.”
Why couldn’t I just say no? What was wrong with me? He’d hurt me more than any man ever had before or since. Did I need him to take responsibility for what he’d done? I’d fallen hard for Phil. Do you ever get over your first love or do you always imagine how it might have ended differently?
I felt an old longing mixed with hurt.
“I’ll see if Lurleen can stay late with the kids, and I’ll have to see if I can leave a little early from the refugee clinic. I work there Saturday mornings, so I don’t know if I can make it.”
“You’ll have a great time. Maybe we could visit before things get started.”
“I’ll see.”
Phil left and Mason turned to me. “Are you seriously thinking about going tomorrow? I thought you were over this guy. Do you still have feelings for him?”
I looked at the children, who were staring at us.
“Let’s go inside,” I said. “I think we all need to cool off.”
I headed for the kitchen. “How about some lemonade? We’ll make it fresh. Jason, get me six lemons from the bowl by the sink. I’ll cut and you can squeeze, Lucie.”
Stan
ding in my cool white kitchen with its tin ceiling and gray quartz countertops helped me calm down. It was always my go-to place when I needed comfort. I ran my hand over the marble island and waited for Jason to bring me the lemons.
Mason remained in the welcoming archway between my kitchen and breakfast room, but there was nothing warm in his look.
I turned to him. “Maybe you can find a family movie for us to watch unless you need to check in at the office.”
Mason didn’t say a word, just headed for the family room.
Lucie leaned toward me and whispered. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it Aunt Di? You have that look.”
“That look?”
“You know, the look you get when you’re worried and don’t want us to know. You get those wrinkles in your forehead and your mouth goes all serious.”
“Lucie, it’s nothing to worry about.” I hugged her. “It’s just that a man I knew years ago turned up on my doorstep, and it shocked me a little.”
Jason was walking toward the island trying hard to balance lemons in his small hands, intent on not dropping any. I placed them on the chopping board, and he counted them out.
“Look Aunt Di, six.”
I smiled at him. “Perfect.”
“That man who came to see you,” Jason said, “was he wearing a costume for Halloween?”
“That’s months away,” Lucie said, “in October.”
I could see Jason’s lip start to quiver. He never liked being criticized by his sister.
“He was dressed in a Confederate Civil War uniform,” I said. “He came to Atlanta to play a part in a pretend battle.”
Jason looked completely bewildered.
“Jason, you remember how much Danny likes to talk about the Civil War, the war that took place over a hundred and fifty years ago.”
Danny was the live-in boyfriend of my best friend Lurleen, and he’d become an important part of the children’s lives.
“Uncle Danny calls it the War of Northern Aggression,” Lucie said proudly, “where the Northern states got mad at the Southern states and everybody fought everybody. We read about it in school, and they called it the Civil War.”
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