A Stewed Observation

by Karen C. Whalen

  “At least I didn’t get a tramp stamp.” Maybe she should have turned up with that fake pierced ring in her nose for a joke, but she was saving it for her next dinner party.

  Cheryl let go of her wrist. “You didn’t have time for one of those big tattoos, otherwise you probably would have. We barely caught the ferry as it was.” After leaving Ryan and Una’s they drove back to the castle for Jane’s luggage, then left to catch the midnight ferry to Scotland. Jane and the others had slept during the entire crossing.

  “Ha. You’re probably right.” She made the attendant aware they were ready for seconds. “Two more drinks, please.”

  From across the aisle, Doug raised his glass in a toast and they joined him. Yes, all was well, except Jane wasn’t sure how well it was with Dale.

  ****

  Jane splashed her face with water in the teensy, unisex restroom at the rear of the plane. The others were managing to sleep, but although Jane had closed her eyes, she did not feel as if she’d slept for even a minute.

  She groped her way to her seat in the dimly lit cabin and snapped on the overhead light before refastening her seatbelt. After rummaging around in her tote bag on the floor, she found her Bible and opened it for the first time on the trip. As often happens, words of comfort jumped out from the pages. All the feelings of abandonment fell away.

  At last the attendants told everyone to take their seats and buckle up for landing. Miles from the airport, the Front Range of the Colorado Rocky Mountains came into view, reflecting the bright sunlight. Bluish white snow encapsulated the summits, dark purple shadows cascaded down the valleys, and the white, tent-like roof of the airport appeared looking like small peaks at the foot of the mountains.

  She could never have left her beloved Colorado, not to mention her friends and family, to live in Ireland. Should she call Dale? Wait for him to call her? Give up or fight for him back? She clasped her hands in a tight grip in her lap and bowed her head, but relaxed when Cheryl stirred, and said, “It’s a great morning to be home, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  As soon as the attendants told everyone they could turn their phones back on, Jane texted her sons to let them know she was about to land, and Cheryl got busy texting, too.

  The Breewoods had a connecting flight to Portland, but the rest of them were at their final destination in Denver. After hugs and a few tears, Cheryl followed Bruce in the other direction to their next gate, and the Ladners, together with Jane, headed to baggage claim.

  Standing with all the other drained and disheveled passengers, Jane was watching the carousel, not moving and nothing coming out, when someone tapped her shoulder.

  “Dale!” Jane’s mouth dropped open. “And Nick…Nora.” She fell down to her knees as her dogs bounded up to lick her face. Nick, in his excitement, had a little accident. “Oops.” Jane stood and her gaze darted around for a restroom to grab some paper towels, but Dale stopped her. He held something behind his back. Standing next to her, Olivia and Doug stopped studying the carousel to stare at Dale. They greeted him and he nodded in return.

  He brought his arm around, and in his hand were a dozen red roses and a small gift wrapped box. “I have something to ask you, Jane.”

  “First, Dale, I have something to tell you…”

  Suggestions for Dinner Club Travel Overseas

  Discover great food and drink from around the world by traveling with a dinner club.

  Once you’ve chosen the destination for your club adventure, not only make advance reservations at hotels, but also scope out options for restaurants. For a true international experience, Jane suggests that your club arrange accommodations at locally owned hotels or B&Bs, not American owned hotel chains, so your club can enjoy regional flavor and cuisine. Break out of your comfort zone and try the traditional foods, even if they aren’t your preferences, even if the menus are limited (to stew). Obtain a restaurant guide for the cities your club will visit to find local pubs and restaurants with good ratings and menus. Many food and travel guides and blogs are available on the internet. But don’t stop there. The local residents can help with restaurant recommendations and tour guides, and steer you clear of the tourist traps or sights you may not want to visit, such as the Blarney stone.

  Discover not only the food but the art, music, and culture. Some excursions should be planned and reserved in advance, like the castle tour Cheryl booked six months before the trip, but leave time on your schedule for spontaneous sightseeing. You may come across something like the Bádóirí an Chladaigh Regatta with the unique Irish boats as Griff and Jane did in Galway, or simple street fairs or fragrant flower stalls or grand patriotic parades…or an authentic Irish wake…which are all a reflection of the country.

  Not everyone in the group will want to do the same thing. The men and women may want to split up (men fishing, women shopping—even though cliché, it was true for Jane’s group) or couples might want to go their separate ways occasionally (some to golf, some to Cong Village). Maybe if Jane and Dale had had more time to themselves, they might have gotten engaged and Jane could have avoided the whole fiasco with the captivating Irishman. But then again, what an adventure she’d had…

  Even while going separate ways during the day, plan to eat dinner together so that everyone can share the highlights of their sightseeing. Part of the fun of traveling is telling the stories to friends and family.

  Then, once home, let the international food you tasted inspire your menus and themes for your future dinner club events.

  A word about the author…

  Karen C. Whalen is the author of a culinary cozy series, the “Dinner Club Murder Mysteries.” The first three in the series are: Everything Bundt the Truth, Not According to Flan, and No Grater Evil.

  She worked for many years as a paralegal at a law firm in Denver, Colorado and has been a columnist and regular contributor to The National Paralegal Reporter magazine. She believes that it’s never too late to try something new.

  She loves to host dinner clubs, entertain friends, ride bicycles, hike in the mountains, and read cozy murder mysteries.

  Just What I Kneaded – A Dinner Club Mystery Coming Soon:

  Jane Marsh promised, no more lying or cheating.

  She swore not to pass off the bread from the bakery as her own creation. Buying bread for her dinner party was not cheating if she didn’t lie about making it herself, right? She stooped down to the bottom shelf where artisan table breads nestled in a wicker basket…yum…but as usual a clerk was nowhere in sight.

  The bell on the door rang as another customer entered the store. Before Jane could straighten up, the slim person—medium height, black pants, bulky, black leather jacket—as she later described to the police—rushed past. But she didn’t catch a glimpse of the customer’s face, since he, if it was a man, was oddly enough still wearing a motorcycle helmet with the dark visor lowered. Definitely wacky, but he was obviously in a hurry. He swerved around the checkout counter and banged open a door to a back room.

  Standing up a little too fast, she caught a head rush and a stabbing pain in her left knee. She stretched out her leg and rotated the ankle. Holy cow…she didn’t want to admit to being fifty, but really needed to get back into yoga for seniors.

  The door swung on its hinges, like a saloon door, exposing the largest wedding cake she’d ever seen, towering at least eight feet tall, with a dozen layers balanced on sparkly pillars, adorned with a fondant of white cascading flowers and lacey cream ribbons. A plastic bride and groom topper perched on the highest tier. The strong smell of sweetness scented the air…eight feet of sweetness.

  The cake was as extraordinary as the wedding cake in the movie, The Lady Eve. The ginormous kitchen could have been on The Food Network Channel. Maybe she could hire this bakery to bake the cake for her own wedding. A widow of several years, now engaged to be married, she was planning on a romantic ceremony and an elegant cake.

  The kitchen door swung forward and closed, then
opened again, and words slipped through the crack.

  “Be reasonable.” The voice may have been either a man’s or a woman’s, but if a woman’s it was low, even mannish like Lauren Bacall’s, and if a man’s, it was high. “You’re in the way.”

  A deeper, bass voice sounded. “I can’t…”

  The door rotated shut, then swiveled toward Jane once more.

  “What’d you say again?” The bass voice.

  “Taking care of business.” The higher, indeterminate voice. The door swung in its semicircle, opening smaller this time, then wobbled shut. Just as Jane was about to nab a loaf of pumpernickel off the shelf, startling sounds penetrated through the closed door, scuffling, feet scraping the floor, and a brisk slap…

  “No! No! Stop!” A long, terrifying scream, followed by a slam! like a body hitting the floor.

  That sounded bad, really bad, as if someone was hurt. What was going on in there? Was the motorcycle man a disgruntled customer? Was there a billing dispute? Or—her mind couldn’t help but imagine the worst—was it murder? Oh please, not that!

  The door banged open and she ducked down. Footsteps pounded out of the kitchen and paused behind the counter. Jane made herself small, her back shoved against the wall on the other side of the checkout. The drawer in the cash register pinged open, then the sound of the man’s tread crossed the bakery, and the bell rang as his steps went out the door. A robbery, then?

  Jane scrambled across the black and white checkered linoleum on shaky hands and knees, then peeked out from behind a table covered with a flowing white cloth. Outside the bakery window, the person in the black jacket jumped onto a motorcycle, hammered his left foot on the gear shift with an urgent vroom, VROOM, and hightailed it out of the parking lot.

  Was someone in the kitchen, in pain…bleeding?

  She jumped up, to heck with her sore knee, and ran through the swinging door. Her fist flew up to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  A white-clad baker had fallen onto the cake, flattening it underneath him. Mounds of white frosting billowed out around his face and shoulders, as if he were sleeping on a fluffy white down comforter on a snowy white feather mattress. He appeared short and rotund, lying prone in his white baker’s apron. A clump of cake adhered to his black handlebar mustache. The only color was a red circle on his round stomach, a red bull’s eye, with a knife plunged into the center.

  The rich aroma of vanilla mingled with the sugary-sweet smell of frosting. She drew in the overpowering scent as she struggled for even breaths and her heart pounded. She crouched down to lift the baker’s hand from the valley of frosting. His hand was warm, but no pulse beat beneath the skin. With the thumb of her free hand, she keyed 9-1-1 on her cell, then yelled into the phone, “Help! Ambulance! A man has been stabbed!” In a hurried, quavering voice, she gave the dispatcher the name of the bakery, Just What I Kneaded, and the address on Eisenhower Blvd. Trembling, she shoved herself to a shaky stand.

  She must have been in shock when the doorbell signaled someone coming back inside, since she didn’t even try to hide.

  A handsome young man, with thick blond hair and contrasting dark brows and eyes, strode into the kitchen. “Blimey! Look what happened to the cake!” He spoke with a British accent.

  Another man burst through the door and started shooting pictures with a large, professional-looking camera. The handsome Brit spun around and cuffed the photographer in the shoulder. “Get out of here you, you…wanker!”

  “You can’t hit me. I’ll get you for assault.” The cameraman shoved him back, and soon their feet were skidding in the cake, unbalancing them. The photographer’s hair was speckled with frosting. They were about to join the baker on the floor.

  “Stop it!” Jane held up a palm. “Time out. This is a crime scene. The police are on the way.” Her sharp words cut short their fist fight. The handsome Brit leaned against the door frame typing into his cellphone, while the photographer continued to snap pictures.

  Handsome said, “Wedding’s off at least.” In an about-face, his anger disappeared, and he smiled with white teeth flashing. He twisted his phone screen in their direction to show them his tweet: Vaughn and Felicity nuptials nixed #weddingoftheyear #weddingfiascos #getmeouttahere

  “Hey man, Felicity’s name should’ve been first.” The photographer thrust his chest forward, and Handsome’s face turned red and his cheeks puffed out, but the police siren’s wail in the distance caused both men to stand down.

  ****

  After several hours of police questioning, Jane was allowed to leave with a loaf of pumpernickel bread. At her party that night, she told the dinner club members the loaf had come from the bakery. They not only enjoyed the pumpernickel, but also the news that she’d met handsome British rock star Vaughn Zachman the day before his wedding to mega-celebrity Felicity Floyd, a country-western singing star. She had the photos to prove it, having gotten off a few snapshots of her own…not of the victim—pictures of the dying baker would’ve been insensitive—but of the handsome hunk. She hadn’t asked for an autograph under the circumstances.

  The story hit the tabloids the next day. The wedding had been cancelled as Vaughn Zachman predicted. The über-rich, celebrity-types had their reasons, she supposed, for stopping a wedding because of a cake, as incredible as it sounded. Felicity Floyd had cried, screamed, cussed, and thrown a tantrum over the destroyed cake that had the price tag of three hundred thousand dollars.

  Yes, three hundred thou! Jane almost dropped her Sunday morning cup of coffee upon reading that bit of news. Felicity Floyd had been much quoted that her cake would be over ten times better (and more costly) than Kim Kardashian’s cake (which cost $20,000) and four times Princess Kate’s cake ($78,000). She’d seen a spectacular wedding cake at the Luxury Bridal Show in Beverly Hills for several million dollars. So, she ordered one specially made where she was to be married in Loveland, Colorado, the Valentine’s Day capital of the world…for the bargain price of three hundred thousand. The article explained that the cake tiers were designed to be broken down. The baker was in the process of assembling the confectionary masterpiece at the bakery to make sure everything fit together perfectly before stowing each tier securely in a special carton for transportation.

  Photographs taken by the cameraman at the scene were on every news channel and the front page of major newspapers worldwide. The photo opportunity was too good to pass up with the rotund baker in his white apron and white toque and black handlebar mustache—the caricature come to life, or rather, death. The same articles included swoon-worthy Vaughn Zachman wearing sleeveless tee shirts to show off his muscles and tattoos. Felicity Floyd’s famous pout was splashed across the pages as well, usually on the opposite side of the fold from the photos of her former fiancé, so their faces met when the paper was closed.

  Not much was mentioned about the baker, except for his name buried in the last line—Xavier Del Orte. Jane’s name wasn’t mentioned at all, for which she was grateful.

  The murderer was ridiculed for stealing money out of the cash register instead of making off with the cake. He was never apprehended.

  ****

  Jane was sitting in her closet-sized, paralegal office at the law firm where she’d worked for too many years to admit when she got the call six months later.

  “Hello. This is Jane Marsh.”

  “Hi, Jane. Nash Truett here.” Nash Truett was the insurance adjuster she’d spoken with on the phone many times over the years, but had never met. His quiet voice was easy to place, since he always spoke in a low undertone. “I have a favor to ask. Immobile Equity was served with a Summons and Complaint today in a bad faith claim.”

  The deadline for the Answer would be in three weeks. Using a red pen, she circled June 16 on the flat calendar covering the top of her desk. “If you give me the plaintiff’s name I can start opening the file. What’s the claim about?”

  “Well, Jane, don’t open the file, yet. There’s a conflict because the suit involves that
homicide at the bakery, Just What I Kneaded. I saw from the police file that you were a witness.”

  She threw her pen down on the desk. “Right. I doubt we can take the case. Why is the insurance company being sued?”

  “I’ve got the Complaint in front of me. It says here, Yates Yarborough, on behalf of Just What I Kneaded, Inc., let me read it…it alleges…‘the failure to pay an insurance claim in violation of an implied covenant of good faith and fair dealing.’ As usual in these bad faith cases, he’s claiming treble damages. The amount of the demand is three hundred thousand dollars, plus interest, costs, and attorney’s fees.”

  Treble damages in a three hundred thousand dollar lawsuit meant the claim was actually for nine hundred thousand, plus interest, costs, and attorney’s fees. So, close to a million.

  “I’m assuming the three hundred thou’ demand is for the cake.” Her stomach rolled as the memory returned—the sweet smell of the towering cake, the voices behind the door. Her breathing became shallow and her office even more claustrophobic than usual.

  “Uh-huh.” Nash always spoke with the fewest words possible.

  “I read in the paper it really did cost that much, as hard as that is to believe.” She took a gulp of air. “I can assure you the cake was totally destroyed.” Is that why Nash called her? To verify the facts? She couldn’t help but be interested, even if the firm was unable to work on the defense. “So, why was the claim denied?”