Killer Pancake gbcm-5
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Killer Pancake
( Goldy Bear Culinary Mysteries - 5 )
Diane Mott Davidson
When Goldy, owner of Goldilocks' Catering, faces the challenge of whipping up a sumptuous lowfat feast for the Mignon Cosmetics' company banquet, she rises to the occasion brilliantly...only to discover just how ugly the beauty biz can be!
On the day of the banquet Goldy finds herself confronting an angry mob of demonstrators--"Spare the Hares"--who object to Mignon Cosmetics' animal-testing policies. As she struggles to carry forty pounds of lowfat fare from her van to the mall where the banquet is being held, she hears an ominous squeal of tires and a horrifying thump. Seconds later, a Mignon employee lies dead on the pavement. And soon the police discover that this hit-and-run was no accident.
Now Goldy is enmeshed up to her saute pans in a homicide investigation. Could the murder have had something to do with Spare the Hares--or with the exotic flower found near the dead body? Though busy serving up Hoisin Turkey and Grand Marnier Cranberry Muffins, Goldy decides to start digging at Mignon's million-dollar cosmetics counter. But when another murder takes place and Goldy herself is attacked, the caterer turned sleuth knows she must step up her search for a gruesome killer. For this time was only a warning. Next time she'll be dead--and it won't be pretty.
From the Paperback edition.
From Publishers Weekly
For Colorado's Goldy B. Schulz (last seen in The Last Suppers), the catering proves far less rewarding than the sleuthing when she's called on to prepare a banquet for the Mignon cosmetics company. Forced to forsake mayonnaise and butter in this low-fat luncheon, Goldy is in "caterers' hell." But that's a better place than where Mignon super-saleswoman Claire Satterfield ends up?which is dead. According to Julian Teller, Goldy's catering assistant, Claire had recently suspected she was being followed. Adding to the mystery is a local reporter who has taken to using Mignon's ultra-expensive potions while trying, none too subtly, to extract information Goldy might have gathered from her husband, homicide detective Tom Schulz. When Goldy's initial inquiries earn her an anonymous warning to clear off, she becomes more determined. As always, Davidson includes recipes as she brings events to a proper boil in this latest lively and satisfying outing for Goldy, who not only solves the mystery but also finds, much to her delight, that coffee can save your life.
Five-Star Praise for KILLER PANCAKE and the Nationally Bestselling Mysteries of Diane Mott Davidson
“If Dick Francis is the mystery writer par excellence for horse lovers, DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON IS MYSTERY’S CULINARY QUEEN.”
—Charleston Post and Courier
“A TREAT.”
—San Francisco Examiner
“A CROSS BETWEEN MARY HIGGINS CLARK AND BETTY CROCKER.”
— The Sun, Baltimore
“Diane Mott Davidson’s CULINARY MYSTERIES CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR WAISTLINE.”
—People
“THE JULIA CHILD OF MYSTERY WRITERS.”
—Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph
“DAVIDSON HAS FOUND THE RECIPE FOR BESTSELLERS.”
—The Atlanta Constitution
“MOUTHWATERING.”
—The Denver Post
“DELICIOUS … SURE TO SATISFY!”
—Sue Grafton
“If devouring Diane Mott Davidson’s newest whodunit in a single sitting is any reliable indicator, then this was A DELICIOUS HIT.”
—Los Angeles Times
“You don’t have to be a cook or a mystery fan to love Diane Mott Davidson’s books. But if you’re either—or both—her TEMPTING RECIPES AND ELABORATE PLOTS ADD UP TO A LITERARY FEAST!”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Mixes recipes and mayhem to PERFECTION.”
—The Sunday Denver Post
“Davidson is one of the few authors who have been able to seamlessly stir in culinary scenes without losing the focus of the mystery…. [SHE] HAS MADE THE CULINARY MYSTERY MORE THAN JUST A PASSING PHASE.”
—Sun-Sentinel Fort Lauderdale
“Goldy and her collection of friends and family CONTINUE TO MIX UP DANDY MYSTERIES AND ADD TEMPTING RECIPES to the readers’ cookbooks at the same time.”
—The Dallas Morning News
ALSO BY DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON
Catering to Nobody
Dying for Chocolate
The Cereal Murders
The Last Suppers
The Main Corpse
The Grilling Season
Prime Cut
Tough Cookie
Sticks & Scones
Chopping Spree
For my sisters and brother
Lucy, Sally, and Billy
Huckabucka beanstalk, Chumley!
And don’t forget the raft for
Allenhurst, Looie, and Sal!
O vraiment marâtre Nature,
Puisqu’une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusques au soir!(Truly, Nature is a cruel stepmother
Not to allow such a flower to live
Even from morning until evening.)—from “Ode à Cassandre” by
PIERRE DE RONSARD
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank the following people: Jim Davidson, Jeffrey Davidson, J. Z. Davidson, and Joseph Davidson, for their neverending love and support, and special thanks to Joe, who came up with the title; Sandra Dijkstra, for being an unbeatably enthusiastic agent; Kate Miciak, for being the phenomenally hardworking and brilliant editor she is; Katherine Goodwin Saideman and Deidre Elliott, for their insightful reading of the manuscript and their helpful suggestions; Mark D. Wit-try, M.D., Assistant Professor of Internal Medicine, St. Louis University Health Sciences Center, for the extraordinary amount of time he took to share information as well as read and comment on the manuscript; Heather Kathleen Delzell, makeup artist, for introducing the author to the world of cosmetics and answering many questions; Pete Moogk of The Ground Up Espresso Bar, Evergreen, Colorado, for giving the author space and electricity; John W. Dudek, Divisional Loss Prevention Manager, Payless Shoes, for painstakingly sharing information about his field of expertise; Nancy Reichert, Ph.D., Mississippi State University, for providing much-needed scientific data; Tom Schantz of the Rue Morgue Bookstore, Boulder, Colorado, for sharing horticultural background; Lee Karr and the group that assembles at her home, for their helpful comments; Carol Devine Rusley, for great weekly conversations; Karen Johnson and John Schenk of J. William’s Catering, Bergen Park, Colorado, for insights into catering; William Weston, M.D., for information on dermatology, and as ever, Investigator Richard Millsapps of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, for providing valuable expertise, assistance, ideas, and insights.
FALL INTO COLOR WITH
MIGNON COSMETICS!
Lowfat Luncheon Banquet
Wednesday, July 1
Hot Tin Roof Club, Westside Mall,
Furman County, Colorado
Crudités with low fat dips
Turkey with hoison sauce and pine nuts in lettuce cups
Creamed cold asparagus soup
Steamed sole with spa-style hollandaise sauce
Grilled mushroom and
Japanese eggplant on field greens with red pepper sherry miso dressing
Corn rolls, breadsticks,
and Grand Marnier cranberry muffins
Nonfat chocolate torte
I was in caterers’ hell.
I groaned and surveyed the spread of crudités on my kitchen counter. If looks could kill, I asked myself, would this tray of cauliflower do the trick? Actually, the crisp cauliflowerets, delicate buds of broccoli, slender asparagus spears, and bias-cut squash, celery, and carrots looked appealing enough. So did rows of crunchy bruss
els sprouts, bright-red cherry tomatoes, and small, musky-tasting mushrooms. But there wasn’t a drop of rich, homemade mayonnaise, not a puff of whipped cream, not a slice of tangy cheese in sight. And forget dimpled pats of sweet, unsalted butter or luscious dollops of sour cream. Behind the vegetables stood imposing jars of low-calorie dips with horrid colors like pink (raspberry) and orange (carrot). I dipped a spoon into the raspberry, tasted it, and shuddered. Made according to the client’s recipe, it was too thin and had the metallic taste of saccharine. A similar foray into the carrot spread revealed a chunky concoction that kindergartners might make for a project on vitamin A.
In other words: hell.
I steeled myself as I washed the last flecks of broccoli off my fingers. Sometimes the proprietor of a catering business has to give herself a pep talk. As the owner of Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! I was no exception. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I observed as I wiped my hands on my apron. I’d seen enough clients drool over six-layer fudge cake to know that folks eat with their eyes before the food ever reaches their tongues. But eating with the eyes was a concept I associated with chocolatey, creamy, and calories. Or perhaps flaky, fudgy, and fattening. Disheartened, I stepped away from the sink and cast another look at the entire first course to be served at that afternoon’s banquet.
“It looks great,” I reassured myself aloud, “… if you’re a rabbit.”
So much for the pep talk. Why on earth had I agreed to cater the July banquet introducing the fall line of Mignon Cosmetics? My irritation blossomed to frustration, a frequent occurrence when the rationale for taking a job melted away. The weather—cool in the beginning of June, when I’d agreed to cater the banquet—was now, at the beginning of July, unbearably hot. In the flat stretch of land that abutted the foothills west of Denver, the thermometer had topped 105 for the past three days. Although the mercury in our mountain town of Aspen Meadow, forty miles west of Denver, had fluctuated only in the upper nineties, that was still unseasonably warm. Definitely too hot, I had discovered, to be mucking around in the kitchen taste-testing food made with buttermilk and nonfat sour cream.
Not only that, but I had my doubts about the Mignon Cosmetics people, the same people who had provided the dip recipes. I mean, did they really think the cowboy-worshipping folk of Furman County, Colorado, longed for a lipstick named Fudge Royale? A blush named Lust? Could people truly be enticed to spend a hundred dollars an ounce for anti-aging cream fortified with kelp and placenta? Whose placenta, I wanted to ask rod-thin, pale-haired Harriet Wells, the senior sales associate who’d hired me to do the banquet. I agreed with Harriet that the more sophisticated, well-heeled customers would enjoy making their purchases in the magnificently refurbished department store of a remodeled mall, where the effects of aging, at least on a building, had been painstakingly eradicated. But structures, I pointed out to Harriet, could be restored. People are another matter.
On the other hand, maybe I was wrong. Women, Harriet Wells told me, crave the idea of fudge on their lips. And, she went on, the word lust makes them at least think of blushing. What was worse, my thirteen-year-old son Arch had recently watched a television special on advertising. To my dismay, he had dutifully reported back an ad maven’s statement: Make a woman insecure enough and you can sell her anything.
Well. I must have made Harriet Wells and the Mignon Cosmetics Company feel pretty insecure, because I was catering their banquet at an enormous premium over my cost. The high compensation I would receive had been a compromise over their strict lowfat requirement, and the fact that, over my objections, they’d supplied half the recipes for what they wanted, including the two horrid dips. For their requests for an unusual appetizer, an array of breads, and a chocolate dessert, I’d developed new recipes. At that, however, I’d put my foot down: No mashed lentils, no margarine, no egg substitute. To my delight, the appetizer and the muffin recipes I’d come up with were quite delicious, especially if no one mentioned they were lowfat. But the dessert effort had demanded a serious undermining of my cooking standards. I’d gone through seven dozen egg whites trying to develop a recipe for chocolate torte with no butter.
Perhaps hell was not strong enough.
“Goldy, it does look great,” said Julian Teller, my assistant Wallowing in fat-free self-pity, I had been oblivious of his entrance. Julian marched briskly toward the counter, dipped a spatula into the shocking-pink dip, leaned his broad shoulders and blond, sides-shaven head downward, and sniffed. The “mmm-mmm” noise he made deep in his throat was unconvincingly ecstatic. Compact and muscled from a stint on his school swimming team, nineteen-year-old Julian did not look like someone with his heart set on becoming a vegetarian caterer. Yet he was. Luckily for Goldilocks’ Catering, he wasn’t one of those fanatics who give you a dirty look if you don’t put grated carrots and soy flour in everything. Julian loved cheese, butter, and eggs as much as any traditional chef.
I let out an agonized sigh.
“It’s going to be fabulous,” Julian reassured me with mischievous eyes and an enthusiastic lift of the dark eyebrows that he had not bleached to match the hair on his scalp. He’d recently had his bright hair trimmed in a bowl shape to replace his old mohawk-style haircut. Now, instead of resembling a Native American albino, he looked like an ad for Dutch Boy paints. Ready to fulfill his function as server today, Julian wore a neat white collarless shirt and baggy black pants. The shirt had been a gift from me. The bagginess of the pants might have been thought stylish by those who did not know Julian had haggled for them, as usual, at Aspen Meadow’s secondhand store.
“Goldy,” he declared, “the Mignon salespeople are going to love you.” He grinned. “And better yet, they’re going to love me. Correction: One of them is going to love me.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let’s sauté the turkey.”
As mounds of ground turkey began to sizzle in wide frying pans, the scent of Thanksgiving filled my summery kitchen. I opened the first jar of hoisin sauce and took a greedy whiff. Like most people, I’d first encountered the dark, pungent stuff in a Chinese restaurant and fallen in love with it. Hoisin served a double purpose in the recipe I’d developed for the banquet appetizer: Its spicy taste and velvety texture would add richness without fat. I handed the jar to Julian, who energetically ladled it along with the contents of the other sauce jars and a mountain of cooked wild rice into a mixing bowl. I opened the oven and shook the large pan of roasting, golden pine nuts that was inside. At least this was food, I thought grimly.
“Hey, boss?” Julian’s blue eyes sparkled “If lowfat is what these folks want”—he gestured at the dips—“then give it to them! Claire says the diet stuff will be a huge hit. And it looks fabulous. Be happy. You’re going to make money! Go buy a vat of bittersweet chocolate! Buy ten pounds of macadamia nuts! Buy six kilos of—”
“Lie, lie, lie,” I replied. “You said these saleswomen subsist on a steady diet of caffeine, nicotine, and chocolate.” Which didn’t sound too bad, actually, if you took out the nicotine.
Julian shrugged dramatically and drained the turkey, then deftly stirred it into the hoisin and wild rice. Although he had been living with Arch and me for just over a year, I never tired of watching Julian cook. He was attentive without being fussy, and his ardor in food preparation was unmatched.
“Okay, okay,” he admitted as he stirred. Now the sharp smell of hoisin mingled appetizingly with the scent of sautéed turkey and buttery roasted pine nuts. “So say, today, the saleswomen slug down coffee with their chocolate torte, then step outside for a smoke. You still get paid, don’t you? Aren’t you always saying to me, what’s the bottom line here?”
“Chocolate torte? Chocolate torte?” I cried, gesturing in the direction of the desserts. “Who are you kidding? Ninety-nine percent fat-free chocolate-flavored air is more like it. I mean, what’s the point? I’m going to pack up the grilled vegetables. Want to start on the muffins?”
Julian’s high-top black sne
akers squeaked across the vinyl as he energetically nipped past the counters and clattered in the cooler for the cranberries we’d chopped the night before. Unlike me, Julian was in a very good mood. And it wasn’t because he—again unlike me—enjoyed the challenge of preparing a lowfat menu. It was not even remotely likely that Julian’s good humor came from working with roughage and ricotta; he was hardly conversant with nonfat milk solids. As he folded the cranberries into the delectable Grand Marnier-flavored muffin batter, I recalled how he generally lavished dollops of creamy-anything on every dish he prepared. No, it wasn’t the food. This budding vegetarian cook, now ladling spoonfuls of cranberry-studded dough into muffin cups, would have been excited today if we’d been serving steak tartare. Julian was in love.
The current object of Julian’s affection, Claire Satterfield, Mignon sales associate extraordinaire, was due at our door any minute. Julian had assured me that Claire would have no trouble finding her way from Denver to our place off Main Street in Aspen Meadow. Claire was intelligent, Julian maintained, in unnecessary defense of this woman who was three years his senior and who had opted out of a university education to work for Mignon Cosmetics. I certainly hoped her intelligence extended to geography. Claire had arrived from Australia with her work visa only nine months before, and during that time she’d lived in downtown Denver. The mile-high city was probably not that different from Sydney, as large urban environments go. But once you get off the interstate and head for Aspen Meadow, the roads become curvy and complicated. So much so, in fact, that the best-selling map book of our area is entitled You Use’ta Couldn’t Get There from Here. Did they have mountains in Australia? I couldn’t remember.