Killer Pancake gbcm-5

by Diane Mott Davidson

  1 ¼ cups Arborio rice

  1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh thyme

  4 cups broccoli floretsPour the sherry over the chopped mushrooms, stir, and set aside to marinate while you prepare the risotto.In a large saucepan, bring 1 cup of the chicken stock, the water, and the Old Bay Seasoning to a boil. Add the shrimp and poach for 3 to 5 minutes or until just pink. Remove and shell; set aside.Heat of teaspoons of the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed skillet. Add the onion and sauté over medium heat for 2 to 5 minutes or until it is limp. Add the garlic and rice. Cook and stir for 1 minute or until the rice just begins to change color. Continuing to stir over medium-low heat, add the remaining chicken stock ⅔ cup at a time, stirring until the liquid is absorbed. Continue the process until the rice is tender and the mixture is creamy (this can take up to 30 minutes).Heat the other teaspoon of olive oil in a small sauté pan and briefly sauté the marinated mushroom pieces over medium-high heat until they release their liquid. Remove from the heat.Steam the broccoli for 5 to 6 minutes or until it is bright green and tender.Stir the cooked shrimp, fresh thyme, and mushrooms into the cooked risotto and stir over medium-low heat until heated through. Place the broccoli around the edge of a large platter. Fill the center with the risotto.

  Serves 4 to 6

  I struggled for my bearings. In the midst of the bower, two figures were visible in front of a lighted bank of mirrors at the far end of the room. It took me a moment to realize that the seated person was Babs Braithwaite. With her hair full of rollers, her face covered with pasty-looking goo, and her large body swathed in a pink terry-cloth robe, she looked like a matronly alien in a science fiction movie. Standing next to her, an impeccably restored Harriet Wells wore a crisp white knee-length smock. Below the smock, her legs emerged long and ballerinalike. Harriet turned her sparkling smile on me and I saw a small bandage on her forehead. She sure didn’t look like someone who was sixty-two, much less someone who’d been surprised earlier by a dead body tumbling down on the glass counter in front of her.

  “Well, come on in!” Babs called gaily into the mirror. “Have one of Harriet’s herb rolls! I don’t suppose you’d better have any Asti Spumante though. Well, we’ve got juice. Lowcal!” Babs cried impatiently, “Well, come on, Goldy, we’re not going to bite! Where’s that young fellow who works for you?”

  “Getting the food set up. Aah, there’s something I need to talk to you—”

  “Don’t you think your assistant deserves a snack too?” Babs’s speech was already slurred. When she talked, the facial paste moved up and down.

  “Julian’s fine,” I assured her. “He really needs to work on getting things going. As do I, actually.” Call me old-fashioned, but I didn’t think it would be appropriate to bring Julian into a rose-filled boudoir where the partially clad hostess was halfway to being plastered, in more ways than one. If Julian was still intent on a career in food service, he’d have plenty of time to discover just how idiosyncratic clients could be. And just how idiosyncratic errant spouses could be.

  “Well, you come on, then,” said Babs, disgruntled. “This’ll just take a minute. Have a little snack and come on over, I want to talk to you about tonight.”

  Babs allowed Harriet to start wiping off the pink goo. From my newfound knowledge, I recognized that it was a cosmetic masque. I strolled over to the silver teacart. The cart’s top shelf held a globe vase of white and pink roses, a silver ice bucket containing a large green bottle set at a rakish angle, two tulip champagne glasses next to a stack of luncheon plates, a woven silver basket of puffed, delectable-looking rolls, and a silver plate piled with scoops of chèvre and pats of butter. My stomach growled in reproval, so to be sociable I reached for a plate, a roll, a dollop of chèvre, and one of those inviting pats of butter. When I pulled the roll apart, I was surprised to see it was speckled with bits of green.

  “The rolls contain rosemary from my garden.” Harriet shot a quick, shy smile in my direction. “You don’t have to guess this time.”

  I took a bite. The soft, herb-flavored roll was feathery and light. “Out of this world,” I told her.

  Harriet nodded as she told Babs to close her eyes and relax. With her lids shut, Babs asked, “Did you know the police were here all afternoon, Goldy?”

  “Aah,” I said, and stalling, took another bite of my roll. Babs was a gossip who was always digging for nuggets, it seemed. I needed to be careful. Not only that, but how I would steer the conversation from the cops visiting to shrimp risotto was going to be tricky. “Seems to me I did hear about that. Harriet probably told you about the terrible thing that happened at the store.”

  “You’re damn right she did,” Babs said gruffly. “Don’t you remember that day I told you somebody was back in the dressing room when I was changing into a bathing suit? I told you!” Tears trickled out over the remaining goop on her face. “I’m so embarrassed!”

  Harriet patted her shoulder. “Don’t upset yourself, it’ll just make your nose red. Come now, dear.” More patting. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  I nibbled more roll and tried to think of what to say. Well I sure am glad I never bought a bathing suit there would be kind of crass.

  Babs sniffled mightily, grabbed the tissues Harriet offered, and dabbed at her closed eyes. She said, “So how are the police doing in their investigation?”

  “I really don’t have a clue,” I replied truthfully, “I’ve been too busy even to talk to my husband.” And when I do talk to him, it’s not going to be about the investigation, you can be sure of that. It’s going to be about what a pain-in-the-behind preparing shrimp risotto from scratch is….

  Babs opened one eye. “Yes, I’ve been hearing from one of our guests just how busy you’ve been. That’s why I was wondering if you were doing a little undercover work for the Furman County Sheriff’s Department.” The eye glared at me accusingly.

  “Excuse me?”

  Harriet’s shoulders slumped in frustration as Babs slapped her hand away impatiently. “Reggie Hotchkiss is an important member of this community, Goldy,” Babs said. “He’s not someone you or I or anyone else can afford to alienate. If there’s police work to be done, leave it to the police.”

  “I didn’t alienate Hotchkiss,” I said defensively. “I haven’t even seen him today. And the last thing I would want to do, believe me, is get in the way of police work.” And of course now, I wasn’t going to have a chance to. “And Babs, I do need to talk to you about the menu—”

  “Reggie called just an hour ago,” Babs accused. She pointed a freshly manicured nail. “He said you’d gone to his boutique and pretended you wanted a facial, then went snooping all around and sneaked out when no one was looking!”

  I finished the roll and put the empty plate down on the tray. “I had an appointment for a facial, which I kept. When the technician started poking me with a needle, I told her to stop and I left.” All of this was technically true. “That’s it. And I paid in advance, too, for a procedure they didn’t even have to finish.”

  Babs leaned back and allowed Harriet to smoothe moisturizer on her cheeks and throat. “Look, Goldy, I’m just trying to calm things down before the party. You understand that, don’t you? I used to be a client of Hotchkiss, but now I’ve gone over to Mignon, because Harriet just makes me look so much better. And I’m sure I’m not the only one. Reggie’s green with envy, of course, and he’s always been a big sponsor of our playhouse fund-raisers, so I have to keep a good relationship with him. Don’t upset him, will you? You know he has such a temper.”

  “I won’t upset him,” I said acidly. “But I think he knows a lot more about Mignon Cosmetics than he’s revealing.” Did I know Reggie had a temper? All I knew was that he was a pretty smooth industrial spy. Harriet stopped putting on Babs’s makeup and gave me a very puzzled look, which I ignored. “Please, Babs,” I blurted out. “There’s something I have to tell you. My … er … shipment of ground turkey didn’t come in. I substituted large, very expensiv
e shrimp, and I’m absorbing the cost difference myself. I’ll be making a risotto, and it’s a very delicious—”

  “I know what risotto is,” she snapped. “I love it.” She pondered my announcement for a moment, clearly glad she’d be getting prime shellfish for a ground-poultry price. “Fine, then, change the menu if you have to. I guess I’ll have to find something to wear besides my sari.”

  “Well, I regret—”

  “How’s your assistant fellow doing?” she asked abruptly. Since this was the second time she’d asked about him, I grew wary.

  “He’s in the kitchen starting the—”

  “I didn’t ask what was he doing,” Babs interrupted as Harriet dotted concealer under her eye. “I asked you how he was doing.”

  “He’s doing fine,” I said evenly.

  “But I thought he was involved with that girl who was run over at the mall. Wasn’t he? I’m sure I heard that somewhere.”

  “He was,” I said, again careful. I wanted to protect Julian from Babs’s tongue, and I was afraid we were getting into uncharted territory.

  Babs lifted her chin for Harriet to dab green stuff on her reddish nose. After Harriet had rubbed the green in, her swift fingers deftly distributed foundation over Babs’s face. Presto: The green disappeared and there were no more dark bags under Babs’s eyes, no more red nose. Her face was a smooth, even tone, I was impressed.

  Babs turned around again in her white leather chair. Her eyes didn’t have any makeup on them yet, but they still bored into me. “Was Julian going steady with Claire Satterfield?” she asked icily.

  “Going steady?” I asked. Now, there was a term I hadn’t heard in a long time. “You mean, were they seeing each other to the exclusion of all others?”

  “Whatever.” Babs’s voice was scathing. Her eyes never left my face.

  “Yes, Babs, I think they were going steady. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I do need to get back down to the kitchen if you want to have your party tonight.”

  Without another word Babs turned back to the mirror. Harriet gave me a quick sympathetic glance. Actually, I felt sorrier for her than she did for me. If it was up to me to make Babs Braithwaite beautiful on a regular basis, I’d find some new line of work.

  Within twenty minutes, Harriet Wells had finished her makeup miracle and departed. While Julian busied himself shelling the shrimp—he dared not look at me—I stared at the menu Tom had written up and some Denver chef had assembled the ingredients for:Fourth of July Ethnic Celebration

  Cucumber Gazpacho

  Grilled Focaccia with Garlic

  Shrimp Risotto with Portobello Mushrooms

  Caesar Salad

  Vanilla-Frosted Fudge Cookies

  Well, now, wasn’t that nice. I noted that Tom had had the chef make a batch of the fudge cookies from my recipe. Maybe his hired cook used the kitchen down at the sheriff’s department. I could imagine Tom insisting he had done the right thing. The bowl of dark red gazpacho, thick with chunks of cucumber, was snuggled next to nuggets of focaccia dough. Once I’d patted the dough out into satiny rounds, brushed them with olive oil, and inserted slivers of garlic at judicious intervals, Julian showed me where in the Braithwaites’ three refrigerators he’d found spots to chill the other courses. The first kitchen cooler was devoted to food, the second to liquor, the third to flowers. While I was working on the focaccia, he’d sandwiched the gazpacho between bottles of Vouvray and wedged the salad underneath a bowl of roses. On the deck off the kitchen he had also lit off the gas grill without incident. Soon the focaccia loaves were sizzling merrily and sending up clouds of succulent smoke.

  I looked out at Aspen Meadow Lake and wondered if Tom was feeling even remotely remorseful for sneaking around getting food switched on me. Despite my anger over what he’d done, I felt a pang from missing him on the holiday. Although I’d never thought the Fourth of July was very romantic, a little candlelit dinner around one A.M. would have been nice … once we’d had our argument about the food and the investigation and done some delicious making-up. Then I thought about Marla. I hoped she was resting comfortably, and not worrying about Tony Royce. And then there was Julian, who’d had great plans to take a nighttime picnic to the lake tonight after he’d helped me set up for the Braithwaites. He and Claire had planned to watch the fireworks together. I searched his face for a sign of what he was thinking, but he was inscrutable.

  Now that we both knew the layout of the house and kitchen, we quickly discussed how we would orchestrate cooking and serving. When the guests began pulling up in their Porsches and Miatas, we were trying to remove the last focaccia loaf without burning our fingers. Suddenly, I saw Charles Braithwaite, his white-blond hair shimmering in the late afternoon sun as he trudged up from his greenhouse. His face was downcast. With no obvious enthusiasm he removed his gloves and headed for the living-room side of the house.

  “Guess he’s not really a party kind of guy,” Julian observed.

  I tsked. “With us catering his Fourth? Crazy. Look out, I need you to grab the other side of the platter so that the loaves don’t go skittering off the deck.” He did so and I added, “Gotta say, Big J., I think Charlie-baby is more than a little crazy, anyway.”

  “No, no, he’s not,” said Julian defensively as the tray of fragrant grilled loaves teetered between us, “he’s a good guy. I told you the time he had our senior bio class over to look at how he does genetic engineering. It was cool. Like a spy mission.” Julian smiled wryly through the plumes of garlic-scented barbecue smoke.

  “Great.” I looked back, but Charles had disappeared through a side door. The last thing I was going to do was mention to Julian that not only had Charlie been obsessed with secrecy; he’d gone mad over Claire Satterfield. “Better arrange the soup, we should be serving it in half an hour.”

  “O captain, my captain, wherefore art thou, my captain?” Julian said as he did as directed. I lifted the platters of bread and tried not to smile. He bowed in my direction and doffed a pretend hat Maybe he would recover. Maybe he was just acting.

  I said, “Let’s try to have run in spite of Tom’s stunt. We’re still going to make a lot of money tonight.”

  “Then it’s fun by definition,” he said grimly.

  When I came out to the living room with the loaves, the guests, all clad in some variation of red, white, and blue, were chatting amiably. Tony Royce, resplendent in a bright red shirt, navy bandanna, and white pants, had had the guts to invite another woman to replace Marla. His date was plump and fortyish, her bleached-blond hair held up in two perky pigtails. Her outfit matched Tony’s. Although I didn’t know her, something about her said wealthy widow. Too bad for Tony that his brownies were still in my walk-in refrigerator, along with the turkey curry. Reggie Hotchkiss, playing the part of casual cool rich guy, wore blue jeans and a shirt printed with a collage of the American flag. In my role as servant, I didn’t dare tell Reg that his apparel came off as unpatriotic But I couldn’t have enlightened him anyway, as Reg made a great point of giving me his back when I offered him the platter of focaccia wedges. La-de-da, I thought. So much for sympathizing with the proletariat.

  I did feel sorry for Charles Braithwaite, however, who had either forgotten or not cared to dress in the national colors mandated by his wife. Well, I thought the dress code was a pretty corny idea too. Charles didn’t appear to have an opinion. With his long, lanky frame still completely clothed in khaki, he seemed oblivious. It was clear Charlie-baby would rather be in his greenhouse, or on safari with the French Foreign Legion—anywhere but here. By the time I reached him with the focaccia tray, he was slumped by a silk-draped corner window listening with a pained expression to Tony Royce’s date. She was complaining about how impossible it was to grow orchids indoors in Colorado. They just seem to know they’re not in a rain forest, she lamented. Charles groaned sadly, as if he’d give anything to be in the rain forest.

  I whisked back out to the kitchen, added broth to the Arborio rice speckled with ga
rlic and onion, stirred, and then helped Julian ladle chilled, chunky gazpacho into cold soup bowls. After sprinkling the soup with chopped scallions, I placed the bowls around the dining room table, then hustled back to the kitchen to add more broth to the risotto. I wiggled a spoon through the mixture, tossed homemade croutons for the salad in a mixture of olive oil and melted butter, stirred the risotto again, tossed the salad, and stirred more broth into the risotto. When Julian headed off to move the guests through the soup course, I stepped out on the deck to grill extra Portobello mushrooms and curse Tom Schulz. Forget the idea of making up over a romantic dinner. He’d have to pay for this little trick with a weekend at the Broadmoor.

  In the fading light, the view of Aspen Meadow and the lake was even more spectacular than when we arrived. As the sun slipped rapidly behind the mountains to the west, a few rays backlit brilliant pink skeins of cloud. Darkness, and the fireworks, were just over ah hour away. I flipped the large mushroom caps and allowed my eyes to rest on the gently sloping acreage around the house. Two paths led from the house to the lower grounds. About a hundred yards down, Charles’s greenhouse was separated from a small garden filled with lawn chairs by a split rail fence twined with rosebushes. It was these, I surmised, that must have provided the blooms for Babs’s bedroom. Beyond the knoll, the roads coming into Aspen Meadow were already clogged with firework spectators from Denver.

  Julian had cleared the soup bowls and finished arranging the salads when I returned with the mushrooms. He served the salads while I stirred the remaining ingredients into the steaming risotto. Plump shrimp were nestled invitingly between chunks of sherry-soaked Portobello mushrooms in the bed of luscious, creamy rice. Julian had steamed fresh broccoli to a bright green, and I artfully surrounded the risotto with the emerald-colored florets. Reggie Hotchkiss finally acknowledged my presence by giving me an angry, wide-eyed stare when I offered the platter. Of course, I was eager to tell him how much I disliked him, his procedures, and his silly outfit, but I kept my lips firmly sealed. When the guests had polished off the risotto and Julian had begun clearing the plates, I came out to the kitchen to get the fudge cookies. Unfortunately, Reggie Hotchkiss followed me.