Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012)

by Bonnie S. Calhoun

  She completely ignored the obvious. I shut my eyes and prayed. Lord, give me strength so I don't choke her. "I think you should start by buying fresher eggs and practice using the timer. But stay at home so you can monitor the carnage."

  She stifled a smirk and pushed open the French doors, fanning the air with her hand. "Let's get the rest of the bags before the frozens start to drip."

  See? I was being totally ignored.

  "Can I get clarification on the bubbling fruit cocktail thing?" I tromped behind her, glad to inhale fresh air that didn't smell like burned eggs.

  "I was trying to tell you before we were interrupted. After the fruit cocktail debacle I had to have the element replaced in the oven, and the second element didn't exactly want to communicate with the thermostat, so it torched a chocolate cake." She put her hands on her hips. "Now that was a fire! It looked like a Roman candle."

  Okay, maybe this was a reasonable fire excuse. But then again, with her stories, the absence of details was usually what created the facade of normalcy with Verlene. She plucked more bags from the trunk and a jug of oil from the backseat. I lifted the two cases of tuna cat food.

  "And the fire marshall gave you a citation for the stove malfunction?" We walked back into the chicken pox–covered kitchen. I looked around for evidence of a cat.

  She lowered her head and made busy with the bag in front of her. Uh oh . . . I knew that move. Here comes the real story. I moved to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair to have a seat.

  Her fingers twisted her cloth grocery bag into a knot before she set about putting things in the freezer. "I sorta panicked when I opened the oven. It was full of flames. I tossed the cup of liquid I had in my hand at the flames and it turned the oven into a flamethrower."

  Verlene screwed up her face like she was sucking on one of the burned eggs, and lifted her hand to her forehead. "I lost my eyebrows in that, but the good part was I didn't have to torture myself plucking them for quite a while."

  I tipped my head to the side trying not to notice that her eyebrows hadn't completely filled back in yet. "What was in the cup?"

  Verlene huffed out a sigh as she jammed the last of the icy bags in the freezer and shut the door. "Booker's Bourbon."

  "Aunt Verlene! You don't drink. What would your ladies' group at church say?"

  "I wasn't drinking it, you silly. I was practicing the Cooking Channel's Bourbon Shrimp Flambé."

  "But why did you have a cupful? I've never heard of a recipe that calls for that much liquor."

  "I poured too much and was trying to get some of it back in the bottle."

  "But why didn't you just pour it from the bottle?"

  "The instructions said never pour liquor from a bottle into a pan near an open flame because the flame can follow the alcohol back up to the bottle and cause it to explode."

  "So why'd you throw it into the oven? What? You thought the bottle was flammable, then, and not the bourbon? So much for that bit of safety. Why did they give you a citation? It sounds like you just had an accident."

  Verlene sucked in her bottom lip, and for a split second, she looked like a petulant child . . . but then the Bride of Chucky reappeared. "How was I to know that using 129-proof bourbon was a fire hazard!" She walked to the stove.

  "Oh, good googa-mooga! It's a wonder you didn't burn the house down!" She could have done less damage using gasoline.

  "That's what the fireman said when he wrote out the citation. Ya know . . . one of them was really cute. I'm going to set you up on a date when I see them again."

  "Don't you dare!" Cute to someone Verlene's age meant he had two eyes and walked upright. I wasn't about to broach the subject of Andreas-my-boyfriend with her. Not for all the tea in China . . . or coffee in Brooklyn for that matter.

  Verlene smiled. My right cheek under my eye started to twitch. I didn't like that Cheshire cat smile. It always meant trouble for me. I could smell her brain burning—on second thought it was probably the eggs. Either way, something was rotten.

  She moved to the stove and rubbed her fingertips on the ceramic glass cooking surface. "I must admit the fire really did a number on that old stove."

  I just noticed that I was not looking at her original implement of destruction. This stove was a brand-new brushed stainless steel model that, if I actually liked to cook, might have made me drool. But in Verlene's hands, it had the potential of scaring me more than her counter appliances. "That looks really expensive."

  She bent over, rested her head on the cooktop, and wrapped her arms as far around the stove as she could. I recoiled, hoping that surface wasn't still hot. How would I explain that I stood here and let her cook her own face? Thankfully, the glass top apparently had an insta-cool feature and I wasn't facing a Southern-fried Verlene.

  "I saw this on one of my cooking shows and fell in love. It has two ovens, is self-cleaning—"

  "I don't want to hear about it unless I can just throw groceries in, and cooked meals pop out."

  Verlene straightened up and stared at me like I had two heads. "It's just not that easy to be an accomplished chef."

  "Yeah, I know, but you still keep trying . . . don't you?"

  She made a face at me, and turned to go back to the car for more groceries.

  I followed dutifully and we lugged in the last of the cooking oil and the leaking special sauce.

  "You see this?" Verlene held the jug of Sugah's Special Sauce. "I'm going to be rich and famous."

  Oh, bless the saints! She was on a roll with another new recipe. Let me out of here. "Auh breeze, look at the time." I snapped my fingers and pointed to my watch. "I need to get back to the store."

  "But Sloane, honey, I need to show you my secret."

  I headed for the door as fast as my feet would carry me. "Tell me about it on the way." I pulled her by the arm.

  "No, I need to show you. Half the fun is seeing it."

  Please let me make it to the car before anything semi-edible appears. Please let me make it to the car before anything semiedible appears. Please let me make it to the car before anything semi-edible appears . . .

  "Then you'll have to save this huge surprise and show me later."

  5

  I SULKED BACK INTO THE BOOKSTORE WONDERING WHY WAS I SUCH A wuss when it came to my aunt. Verlene had conned me into helping her carry casseroles to the Seniors Center later on this afternoon. She was all hyped up about showing me her secret. Somehow, I knew I would get sucked into tasting something. I envisioned her holding my nose and trying to shovel food in my mouth like Mom had done with that stupid castor oil when I was little.

  The delicious aroma of my favorite hazelnut coffee drifted by, beckoning with its promise to soothe my jangled nerves. I moved behind the counter to grab my oversized Beckham's Books & Brew mug. The computer monitor caught my attention. The inbox had a new e-mail with READ NOW! as the subject line. I clicked the envelope icon. The From box said it was from me. Ugh! Spam with address masking.

  The message simply said, "It's too bad you can't see reason." Great! Good marketing ploy. What was next? "You need to buy our used cars?"

  I hit the delete button and strolled to the coffee bar. "That smells great. I sure could use some." I looked around the store. "Where's Fifi ?"

  "She said she'd be in the storeroom if any customers came in. I brewed your favorite first, then the regular, and I just finished the decaf." Barbara looked pleased as she filled my triple B mug and reached into the under-counter cooler for the cream.

  For a split second I marveled. How could she have picked up so much attention to detail when I had barely noticed her in the store? "You've been a big help. Thank you. Why don't you help yourself to coffee and a pastry? It's on me."

  Barbara pulled the clip from her head and ran a hand through her disheveled hair. "Thank you. That is very kind. Could I use your bathroom to freshen up first?"

  "Sure, help yourself."

  Barbara scurried around the counter and into the corrido
r leading to the bathrooms.

  I closed my eyes, raising the fragrant brew to my lips. Peace at last. And the feeling lasted for about ten seconds. The doorbell sounded. Sometimes I felt like taking a hammer to that little silver thing and making it flat enough to slide under the door. I looked up.

  In traipsed a couple members of the Granny Oakleys book club. The name was a misnomer. They weren't just grannies; there were a few grandpas too. I don't know how that happened, but with old people I've learned not to ask. They get real crotchety when you question their reasoning. The first one up the aisle headed toward me was Kyoko Takahashi.

  This sweet woman at the age of sixty-nine had vision so bad that it looked like she was wearing a pair of magnifying glasses. Looking through her frames made her eyes look like an anime character's. I doubted that she could see her own hand let alone the pages of a book without the glasses. She wore the most magnificently detailed Yukata kimonos, and always had her hair flawlessly coiffed in a bun held by dangerously long hair ornaments that looked like she was ready to create shish kebabs at the slightest hint of hunger.

  I smiled. She smiled, then bowed at the waist, and scurried to her seat with tiny measured steps.

  Next in, though preceded by her aroma of food, was Greta Feinstein in her Marilyn Monroe blond wig and bright-red lipstick. Her black orthopedic shoes sounded like they were peeling away from the floor every time she took a step. As per her standard MO, she toted a quilted bag. It was filled with food and had a plastic-pocketed front showcasing pictures of her grandbabies. The food she carried, she insisted, was necessary because of her low blood sugar. I'd never seen the woman exhibit any ill effects of low blood sugar, but I sure have fought the ant colony effects that her trails of food crumbs have wrought. Sigh. I'll get the DustBuster out after she leaves. We can't have ants snacking on the books.

  I turned back to my coffee, leaned my elbows on the counter, and savored several more sips. They'd all be here within the next few minutes, but I didn't have to worry. Fifi sat in on their group. I really admired her patience with them.

  "Hello, my lady."

  My eyes opened slowly. That deep, throaty tone sent delicious shivers rolling up my spine. I smiled. A pair of strong, male hands gently massaged my shoulders, thumbs pressing in, loosening the muscle knot invading my neck. I rolled my head into the massaging fingers, glancing up at him before letting my eyes slide shut again.

  "Good morning to you too. One of these days I'm going to figure out how you sneak up on me without ringing that bell." I relaxed into his fingers. "I thought you had an early appointment at the clinic." The tall Greek with his charcoal-colored Armani suit covering an inordinate amount of hard muscle always pushed me to my limit of "dangerous man quotient." His slicked-back hair and swagger could pass for a mafia boss rather than a psychiatrist. I just grew goose bumps everywhere thinking of his gorgeous self.

  His lips brushed by my ear leaving a trail of warm breath as he spoke. "I do, but can't I stop by to get a coffee from my favorite lady?"

  I turned and looked into the adoring eyes of Dr. Andreas Comino. My skin prickled at the way he said "lady." "Of course you can, but I don't want you to be late."

  But I didn't want him to stop rubbing my neck either. I extricated myself from his grasp and hurried around the counter to pour him a coffee to go. Yikes! He needs to go or I'll never get any work done today.

  He chuckled. "BMC is only a stroll down the street." Andreas worked at the Brooklyn Medical Center in the next block and lived in a gorgeous brownstone a block in the other direction, over on South Oxford, putting Beckham's Books & Brew in the center of his world.

  I loaded the coffee with cream and sugar then snapped a plastic lid on it. "You need to go to work. I'll see you for dinner." Gag reflex. I had to go with Verlene. "Make it after seven, okay? I have to help my aunt."

  Andreas nodded. I placed the cup in his outstretched hand and shooed him toward the door, blowing him a kiss goodbye. He needed to leave before I became distracted.

  A prickling sensation ran up my nose. I sneezed.

  Andreas turned to look at me. "Are you getting sick?"

  I sniffled. "No, it's just my sinuses. Pollen count must be high this week."

  "Do you want a prescription for something?

  "No. I hate pills. This, too, shall pass." I blew him another kiss.

  Stavros Andropolis shuffled into the store with his head down. The old man must have an angel following him around, as often as he walked out into traffic without looking. He nearly plowed into Andreas's back as he stood making nice with me from a distance. Andreas artfully sidestepped the man's frail carcass.

  Stavros crossed to the group's table, removed his gray fedora, and tried his trick of rolling the hat down his arm and catching it. As usual, it plopped into the middle of the table. He sat down and pulled the hat over in front of him.

  Andreas appeared amused as he watched the old man. He gave me an exaggerated wink, then pursed his lips, blew me a kiss, and left.

  Two months of dates, and I was hooked. I couldn't resist him. He was like chocolate, without the resulting blemishes on my complexion or the extra weight on my behind.

  We met at a Neighborhood Concerned Citizen meeting over at the Seniors Center, which was called to discuss Coltrane Realty's efforts to buy up the block for another high-rise office tower.

  To the complete ticked-off dismay of my ex-boyfriend, Trey Alexander, Andreas and I had become an instant item. Could I have actually kissed enough frogs to have found a prince? Andreas felt like the answer to a long-suffering prayer. Even if Mom had voiced her ever-present opinion that he was wrong for me. I'm almost sure Mom was talking about his color.

  But I could never understand what made her act like that given I wasn't even the right color for my own color growing up. I've got a honey color that caused me to be called "high yellow" more often than I care to remember. So, okay, kids can be rude and hurtful, but my fair coloring was the result of our mixed African American and Sicilian ancestry. There wasn't anything I could do about it. Andreas was full-blooded Greek, which pulled in the Mediterranean part, but he had no AA lineage.

  Big deal. It wasn't going to stop me. I loved him.

  All I ever wanted was a good man. I'm not hard to look at. Or at least I've never caused men to run away screaming.

  Let me qualify that . . . I've never caused men to run away screaming from my face. Maybe that needs slightly more qualifying because I can most certainly look right mean and evil at times when my hackles are up, but my head doesn't spin around, split open, or spew pea soup in the same vein as the Exorcist. So I guess I should get big, fat, double-chocolate brownie points for that. The closest I've ever come to a physical transformation is having hazel eyes that turn brown when I'm angry.

  I have a lot to offer a man. The right man. Not another bozo who wants my money or to imitate a caveman by dragging me down the hall by my hair or who wants to slap me around. That ship has sailed. And at my age, I wasn't booking passage on the boat.

  Mom told me that I attracted those kinds of men by being needy. It hurt my feelings then. It still hurts now. I never figured out what needy meant because, unfortunately, Mom died of a heart attack the next day.

  Maybe Andreas and I have a chance at happily ever after. I couldn't think of anything better than having a good man— correction, let's make that a gorgeous hunk o' man with more muscle than any single man should ever have. With Mom gone, alone was a very sad song in the sound track of my future.

  Barbara walked up behind me. "You're very pretty."

  I turned to face her. "Thank you for being so kind. But age is catching up with me." Mom used to have a saying that "black don't crack" to explain why in her late fifties she still didn't have any wrinkles or laugh lines. I hope I'll be able to use that same quip when I reach that age.

  Barbara averted her eyes and gnawed on her bottom lip. "If I was prettier my husband might not have left me for another woman."


  At first, I didn't know what to say. I barely knew this woman and she's pouring her heart out to me like we were home girls. Very strange. Something in her eyes reached me, and compassion flooded my heart. "I'm so sorry." I touched Barbara's hand.

  Barbara turned away, and walked toward the coffee counter. "He said it was my fault. I was ugly and bored him."

  She looked at me as if I should understand her position.

  I winced. Those particular words were not unfamiliar. But I had overcome. Maybe I could help this poor soul. I had always been a sucker for a sob story. "Don't you dare believe him! The Bible says we are fearfully and wonderfully made. Men are . . . some men are just not worth the effort we expend on them."

  I had an instant thought that I'd like to meet this rude dude and slap a knot on his head the size of Manhattan.

  Barbara retrieved her coffee and pastry from the counter and walked to the table where she had deposited her laptop. "I should have been a better wife."

  "Well, he should have been a better husband." I gritted my teeth. I had once blamed myself with those exact same sentiments. But when I got my act together, the worm turned and my response was no longer self-recrimination, but self-preservation.

  She slid onto the chair, and slipped the laptop from the sleeve. Her slender fingers opened the lid. Abruptly she dropped her head into her hands and began to sob.

  Oh, Lord, help me with this one. I moved to touch the woman's shoulder but stopped short, pulling back my hand. I didn't want to scare her again. Then, a second thought, if I got too involved, I'd wind up sitting here with her all day. Change the subject. "So you said you wanted to get into here so that you could write. Are you a writer?"

  Barbara perked up. A slight smile crossed her lips. "Yes. I write suspense novels for women."

  She brushed the moisture from her eyes then pushed the button to turn on her laptop.

  "Do you have anything published?"

  "No, not yet. But I've got a couple of publishers that have asked for proposals."