Steamed

by Conan-Park, Jessica

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  RECIPES

  Teaser chapter

  ONE

  Praise for STEAMED

  “This delectable collaboration between Jessica Conant-Park and her mother, Susan Conant, author of the Cat Lover’s and the Dog Lover’s mystery series, introduces an appealing heroine . . . This scrumptious cozy, the first of a new series, has it all—charming characters, sappy dialogue, and mouth-watering recipes.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Famous writer of mysteries involving cats and dogs Susan Conant teams up with her daughter to write a refreshingly charming chick-lit mystery.” —Midwest Book Review

  “Steamed is a gem. It grabs you from the start, as the heroine is witty, down-to-earth, and rolls with the punches. Great competition to anything Diane Mott Davidson has ever offered. I am thoroughly hooked. Top this already winning combination off with some decadent sounding recipes and I can guarantee Steamed will be topping the bestseller list in no time.” —Roundtable Reviews

  And praise for

  the novels of Susan Conant

  Award-winning author of

  the Dog Lover’s Mysteries and the Cat Lover’s Mysteries

  “[An] absolutely first-rate mystery. I loved it!”

  —Diane Mott Davidson

  “Mystery lovers know a champion when they see one.”

  —Carolyn G. Hart

  “A fascinating mystery and a very, very funny book . . . Written with a fairness that even Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie would admire.” —Mobile Register

  See the back of the book for a preview of

  Simmer Down , the next Gourmet Girls Mystery

  from Jessica Conant-Park & Susan Conant!

  Gourmet Girl Mysteries by Jessica Conant-Park and Susan Conant

  STEAMED

  SIMMER DOWN

  Dog Lover’s Mysteries by Susan Conant

  A NEW LEASH ON DEATH

  DEAD AND DOGGONE

  A BITE OF DEATH

  PAWS BEFORE DYING

  GONE TO THE DOGS

  BLOODLINES

  RUFFLY SPEAKING

  BLACK RIBBON

  STUD RITES

  ANIMAL APPETITE

  THE BARKER STREET REGULARS

  EVIL BREEDING

  CREATURE DISCOMFORTS

  THE WICKED FLEA

  THE DOGFATHER

  BRIDE AND GROOM

  GAITS OF HEAVEN

  Cat Lover’s Mysteries by Susan Conant

  SCRATCH THE SURFACE

  To my personal chef—and husband—Bill, and the best thing he ever helped to cook up, our son, Nicholas.

  —Jessica

  To my husband, Carter, and the best thing he ever helped to cook up, our daughter, Jessica.

  —Susan

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For generous help throughout the writing of this book, we are grateful to Alexa Lewis and Lillian Sober-Ain. We also want to thank our agent, Deborah Schneider, and our editor, Natalee Rosenstein, for their enthusiasm and support for our mother-daughter project.

  For their appearances herein, many thanks to everyone at Eagles’ Deli, especially Stein and Robert.

  ONE

  ON Saturday morning I woke up at eight, poured a nasty cup of coffee that had automatically brewed itself at 5:00 a.m. instead of the programmed time of 8:00 a.m., and plopped myself at my kitchen table to do some early morning people watching out the window. I sipped my coffee-sludge and peered down at the street. My hope was to catch sight of some miserable soul ambling home after a night of drinking or to witness a minor car accident followed by entertaining screaming and swearing. The good thing about my neighborhood in Brighton, Massachusetts, was the excellent opportunity it afforded me to spy on my neighbors from the safety of my apartment.

  Just yesterday I’d enjoyed a good fifteen minutes of bantering among three college kids attempting to move a massive seventies-style couch through their building’s small entryway, a space that was clearly too narrow to accommodate the gigantic sofa. After much debating and tilting of the couch at varying angles, the group made one final and admirably collegiate attempt to move the beast into the apartment. The effort, which involved bungee cords and ropes, was aimed at hauling the monstrosity up the side of the building and through a window. This misguided, if entertaining, plan failed. I later saw the couch on the curb with a pleading note written on cardboard, Please Take Me Away, and one of the students passed out on the cushions, gripping a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Higher education in Boston had officially begun for the year.

  Unfortunately, there was no activity this morning. Most of my college neighbors were sleeping it off on this Labor Day weekend, but since I was about to start my graduate studies, I felt obliged to behave like an adult and not spend most of the term in a drunken state while pretending to attend class and do schoolwork. I glanced through my Welcome to Boston City Graduate School of Social Work folder with the pointless abbreviation BCGSSW scrawled over every enthusiastic page. “Welcome, Chloe Carter,” the first letter began. There followed a tediously detailed breakdown of this Tuesday’s orientation, which ran from 8:15 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Right, like I was going to make it through an entire day of what would turn out to be a team of bright-eyed social work doctoral students leading mobs of us through soul-baring “trust falls” and, as the brochure promised, opportunities to “share our personal stories,” especially those that would lead us to “develop social work skills based on an understanding of the impact and influence of socioeconomic, biochemical, familial, and racial factors on mental health and social policy.”

  The welcome packet went on to assure me that I’d be given the chance to explore my own racist attitudes and the contributions I had made to the downfall of our society. The hour and a half allotted to lunch was supposed to afford me the chance to socialize and thus to begin developing relationships with my fellow students. And most of all, as luck would have it, I was informed that I would be learning to take many “proactive” approaches in my work over the next two years. Quick learner that I am, I immediately embarked on my very first act of proactivity by vowing never, ever to utter the word proactive aloud—and damn the consequences, which would probably include getting kicked out of social work school for my blatant failure to demonstrate fluency in the language of political correctness. Many students, I read, were eager participants in coalitions and committees that sent representatives to legislative meetings and protests at the State House. I could pretty much guarantee that I’d do whatever I could to avoid any sort of participation in any of those horrible-sounding groups. As liberal and feminist as I was in many ways, I was not someone who enjoyed engaging in overt displays of my political views.

  The letter ended with a “personal” invitation from the president of the school to drop by his office any old time to discuss how my year was progressing. I considered dropping by his office to say that after reading the welcome packet, I was not all that interested in attending BCGSSW. In fact, I was doing so only to get my inheritance from my late and loony Uncle Alan, whose will contained the following moronic clause: “If Chloe Carter wants her inheritance, sh
e must complete a master’s degree program in any field this fine young lady selects.” The will granted me a moderate monthly stipend during my years of graduate school hell—my term, not the will’s—and a lump sum should I actually manage to graduate. When I’d read through the packet, it became clear that social work was a less than ideal choice for me. But I had always enjoyed my undergraduate studies in psychology, and social work wasn’t that far off. And it was only two years of school. So, when Uncle Alan died last winter and I was forced to pick something to pretend to study for a few years, I did minimal research into choices, decided I liked helping people, and impulsively applied to this program.

  Now here I was, faced with phrases like “social policy,” “victims of a capitalist society,” and “disenfranchised youth.” Not that these weren’t important issues; I just didn’t want to be trained as some militant avenger of world evil. I’d simply have to avoid courses that focused on anything cosmic, global, or political. But when I examined the class schedule I’d been sent, I found it jammed with required classes, including Global Perspectives on Social Welfare, Peace, and Justice; and U.S. Public Policy Through the Eyes of the Social Worker. As far as I was concerned, the word eyes did not belong in a course title—except maybe in Ophthalmology and Therapy? At least I’d gotten into Psychopathology and Deviant Behavior, a course that should be full of juicy details about personality disorders and behavioral problems—I loved that stuff.

  So I continued to drink my thick and bitter coffee and plan my day. I definitely had to do laundry and dishes, but my Saturday was otherwise pretty free. I hoped to meet up tonight with my downstairs neighbor, Noah Bishop. It is a bad idea to date a neighbor, but it is really a bad idea to date someone who lives in your building, especially when you aren’t even dating but engaging in some sort of weird, undefined (I hesitate to say) relationship that is mostly built around occasional sex. So, of course, that’s what I’d been doing with Noah. And since we lived in an old house converted into condos, the floors creaked and all the tenants could hear who was coming and going, and when and with whom. Noah and I had agreed that we’d be up front if we were sleeping with other people. Well, truth be told, I had said that we would be up front, and Noah had made a vague remark about not wanting a relationship now or some such stupid thing that men say so that they don’t have to limit their carousing. But desperate for any hint of that boyfriend feeling, I let slide his comments about the need for freedom and not wanting to be exclusive. In other words, I managed not to hear what he was saying. He clearly wasn’t long-term material, but since no one else had come along in quite a while and since there was the convenience of only having to walk down a flight of stairs for a thrill, I went ahead and ignored all the monumental warnings that this was an idiotic pursuit. I’d just enjoy a little fling with no regard for the inevitability of disaster.

  And Noah was enjoying a fling, too. Just not one with me. Or not only with me, as indicated by the damned bleach blonde in a tight red tank top who was making her way out of our building. Following her was a shirtless Noah. He walked her across the street to her white BMW and planted a quick kiss on her lips as she started the car. I glanced down at my poor little silver Saturn Ion coupe, which I’d been so proud of leasing a few weeks before. Next to her luxury car, it now seemed pathetic. The lovers exchanged a few parting words, inaudible to me, and that sleazy Noah swaggered back toward our house. The pair of shorts he’d tossed on after his fun fest didn’t do much to cover his morning glee. Bastard! He knew I lived upstairs. He knew I could see the street from my condo. I was seething. And mortified and ashamed. According to our undefined and open agreement, Noah had been allowed to do whatever he wanted with whatever tacky woman he wanted. It just hadn’t seemed to be a real possibility. Why had he needed that twit last night when I’d been right upstairs watching the Discovery Channel until midnight? God, I’d been so dumb. So stupid. I just didn’t realize that men existed outside the FOX network who actually behaved in this stereotypical Playboy fashion. And now I was the stereotype of the girl who thinks she has enticed a reluctant guy into monogamy.

  I felt sick to my stomach as I debated the question of who was the bigger dope, Noah or I? I claimed the honor for myself. Idiot Suave downstairs had been the honest one; like some clever lawyer, he’d made the statements required to retain his legal right to go off skirt-chasing whenever he so desired. Jerk! I, on the other hand, had made a poor attempt to convince myself that I didn’t care what Noah did when he wasn’t with me. I mean, I’d gone to college, for Christ’s sake; I wasn’t naive. Or was I? I was in the sense that I hadn’t counted on Noah’s fooling around with anyone else. And I’d missed the possibility that he’d bring someone back to our building and, in essence, parade his female captive in front of me. Unfortunately for me, and probably for eighty or a hundred other women, the hitch was that he was pretty hot.

  I’d first met Noah last spring, a few weeks after he’d moved into his second-floor condo. I’d been out on my deck (okay, fire escape) watering my plants when my cat, Gato, had managed to push open the screen door and jet down the steps. I’d made a feeble effort to follow but knew it was a fruitless pursuit. When Gato escaped, he typically waited until sundown to return. Since I was on the second-floor landing and still clutching my watering can, I decided to water the one droopy and unidentifiable plant the new neighbor had placed on the railing. I’d caught only a glimpse of him from my window as he’d stood supervising his movers, but he’d looked attractive and, from my bird’s-eye view, I could see that he wasn’t balding or gray haired, and was thus more suitable for me than for AARP. So I was watering Noah’s plant, as a good neighbor should, when his screen door opened and that sexy mouth of his appeared and said, “I didn’t know a gardening service came with the condo fees.”

  “This isn’t really gardening,” I’d replied. “This is called ‘neighborly watering to prevent death’ and is free of charge.”

  That was the beginning of my spiral into sexual idiocy. The verbal flirtations soon progressed into physical flirtations, a touch here and there, until the night we rented Daredevil. As Ben Affleck began his ludicrous transformation into his superhero persona, Noah and I started a foolish liaison that would end with the bleach blonde and her BMW. With his dark hair and green eyes and the muscled body that he showed off by always wearing as few clothes as possible, Noah provided compelling relief from the dry spell I’d been going through. I’m a sucker for a good-looking guy, but who isn’t? Although charming and flirtatious, he had a style that I was pretty sure he’d copied from prime-time television shows. All in all, although Noah was an undesirable boyfriend, he was a sexy guy. And he lived a flight down from me.

  And we did have fun. We cooked romantic dinners together. Well, truth be told, I would make chicken simmered with fresh vegetables, wine, and herbs, and Noah would add a tablespoon of butter to the rice pilaf mix and ask the names of the strange ingredients I’d used. “That’s called thyme,” I’d explain. “This is a mango.” Food savvy he was not. Although he usually ate whatever I cooked, he exhibited minimal gastronomic satisfaction with my meals. But the illusion of romantic dinners was there, I suppose. It was for me.

  We went to the movies and walked to local wine shops to pick out bottles with the most artistic labels we could find—activities usually reserved for couples actually dating. So, although Noah said he didn’t want a girlfriend, he acted as if maybe I’d be the exception to that rule. And maybe he was protecting himself because he’d had his poor heart broken so many times before. And I bought that crap, by which I mean his phony charm and my rationalizations.

  I can see why I fell. Take the time we went to the grand opening of the Trader Joe’s grocery store up the street from our place. (“Our place” always sounded as if we actually lived together.) The store was packed with fabulous frozen health-conscious meals, gourmet sauces and chutneys, aromatic coffees, and miniature bamboo plants. Noah and I browsed the aisles together, but we got into
separate lines for the registers. In retrospect, I realize that Noah was so uncommitted to me that he didn’t even want us to be seen as a couple waiting in line together. Then there was the time I cajoled him into coming with me to my parents’ house to pick up an air conditioner. When my father innocently suggested that we all have dinner together, I believe Noah momentarily stopped breathing.

  But back to Trader Joe’s.

  “Noah,” I called over to him, “look what I found! Frozen gyoza!” This to a person who couldn’t tell Japanese dumplings from Chef Boyardee ravioli and would have preferred the taste of the latter.

  Noah looked innocently around at the customers in his line and then turned those green eyes on me. “Ma’am? You found some purchases you like? You’ve had a nice shopping experience?”

  “Look,” I continued, “and a bag of dried papaya!”

  “I’m not sure who she is, but I’m glad she’s so enthusiastic about this store,” he stage-whispered to the elderly woman ahead of him.

  “Noah, stop it!” I laughed. “Don’t pretend you don’t know me!”

  We developed a small audience, smiling at the playfulness of the young, happy couple. And so it continued for a few moments, Noah pretending I was some lunatic shopper raving about her finds, and me insisting to those around us that he did, in fact, know me and that, no, I didn’t typically shout about the joys of white-chocolate-covered pretzels to strangers. But it was fun and flirtatious and felt good, as if two weeks into our affair we were safe and secure enough to play around like this. I totally overlooked the significant feature of the episode, which was the boring barrenness of Noah’s shopping cart. One bunch of bananas and a box of cereal? I should have run.