OTHER TITLES FROM ST. MARTIN’S
MINOTAUR MYSTERIES
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BIG EASY BACKROAD by Martin Hegwood
ROOTS OF MURDER by Janis Harrison
THE COMPANY OF CATS by Marian Babson
DEAD SOULS by Ian Rankin
A COMEDY OF HEIRS by Rett MacPherson
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH by Caroline Graham
RUBICON by Steven Saylor
BONE HUNTER by Sarah Andrews
IRISH TENURE by Ralph Mclnerny
ZEN AND THE CITY OF ANGELS
by Elizabeth M. Cosin
DRAG STRIP by Nancy Bartholomew
MURDER ON THE LUSITANIA by Conrad Allen
THE BLACK BOOK by Ian Rankin
GUMBO LIMBO by Tom Corcoran
MURDER IN GEORGETOWN by Elliott Roosevelt
THIRTEENTH NIGHT by Alan Gordon
THE CORNBREAD KILLER by Lou Jane Temple
THE DOCTOR MAKES A DOLLHOUSE CALL
by Robin Hathaway
HUNTING THE WITCH by Ellen Hart
THE LAKE EFFECT by Les Roberts
St. Martin’s Paperbacks is also proud to present
these mystery classics by Ngaio Marsh
DEATH AND THE DANCING FOOTMAN
DEATH IN A WHITE TIE
ENTER A MURDERER
FALSE SCENT
SUDDENLY, THE LIGHTS WENT DIM.
TWO FLICKERS, THEN DARKNESS.
Heaven was closest to the door. She opened it and looked down the hall. “Come on, it’s brighter out here. Maybe the workers cut a cable or something.”
All the committee members trooped out into the hall. As they passed the open door of the concert hall, the lights flashed back on. The stage was bathed in fuchsia, purple, and midnight blue light.
“They must have been looking for the perfect lighting colors for Tony Bennett,” Mona said.
“Wait a minute, honey,” Miss Ella barked. “That sure don’t look like old Tony up there on the stage.”
Next to the lighting board a figure lay crumpled on the floor. Everyone ran down the aisle. Mona leapt onto the stage. She stopped short.
“It’s Evelyn Edwards,” she said softly.
The smell of singed hair was not a good sign.
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Lou Jane Temple
The Cornbread Killer
Bread on Arrival
A Stiff Risotto
Death by Rhubarb
Revenge of the Barbeque Queens
THE
CORNBREAD
KILLER
Lou Jane Temple
St. Martin’s Paperpacks
THE CORNBREAD KILLER
Copyright © 1999 by Lou Jane Temple.
Excerpt from Red Beans and Vice copyright © 2000 by Lou Jane Temple.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-15931
ISBN: 0-312-97427-2
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / December 1999
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / December 2000
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my grandson, Ramsey Wilson Walker,
with special thanks to his mother, Kelly
Acknowledgments
I hope you can all visit the revitalized Eighteenth and Vine district in Kansas City. I know you can all read Buck O’Neil’s fascinating book, I Was Right on Time: My Journey from the Negro Leagues to the Majors (Fireside Press, 1996). Buck is the president of the board for the Negro Baseball League Museum on Eighteenth and Vine and has done so much to tell their story. Thanks to Pam Whiting, then of the mayor’s office, now of the Chamber of Commerce, for providing vital information about the Eighteenth and Vine project. Thanks to Steve Westheimer for providing vital information about jazz and Charlie Parker lore. Art Kent, lighting designer, electrified the subject of theater power for me.
Kansas City Star reporter James Fussell wrote an interesting article about the Kansas City African-America social clubs. Crisis magazine, the magazine of the NAACP, ran a great piece about jazz as a Cold War weapon. Both of these pieces helped me very much, as did reading The Carolina Rice Kitchen: The African Connection, by Karen Hess (University of South Carolina Press, 1992).
A special thanks to writer Cort Sinnes for looking at my pages with his editor’s hat on.
With the writing of every book, my friends seem to take turns nurturing me when I need it in a dozen different ways. Special thanks this time to Lennie and Jerry Berkowitz, Sally Uhlmann, and Bonnie Winston.
Very special thanks to my editor, Joe Veltre, who has the patience of Job.
Contents
Cornbread
One
Escargot with Pernod
Two
Plum Tart
Three
Chutney-Cream Cheese Spread
Four
Hoppin’John
Five
Greens with Leeks and Apples
Six
Eggplant Roll-ups
Seven
Stuffed Cabbage
Eight
Chicken with Green Dumplings
Nine
Banana Pudding Trifle
Ten
Kansas City Chili
Eleven
Sweet Potato Pecan Pie
Twelve
Duck and Sausage Gumbo
Thirteen
Recipe Index
Cornbread
1 10″ cast-iron skillet
1 egg
2 cups buttermilk
1 ½ cups stone-ground yellow or white cornmeal
½ cup coarse ground yellow cornmeal
2 T. melted butter
1 tsp. each kosher salt, baking powder, baking soda
Optional: 3 strips bacon, cooked and crumbled, and 2 T. melted bacon fat
After testing dozens of versions of this batter bread, I’ve come to the conclusion that a cast-iron skillet or cast-iron cornbread molds are the key to delicious cornbread. I also rejected the recipes with wheat flour and sugar. Using the two kinds of cornmeal gives the bread wonderful texture, but you could make cornbread with just stone-ground meal and it would be fine. You can also add a ¼ cup of sugar for a sweeter taste or ¼ cup of all-purpose flour for a lighter crumb. If you don’t have a 10″ cast-iron skillet, use an 8″ skillet and only use two thirds of the batter, baking the rest in muffin tins.
Spray the skillet with Pam or another non stick spray. Place in a preheated 400 degree oven and let heat while you make the cornbread batter. Combine the dry ingredients, then add the egg, buttermilk, and melted butter and mix. Put batter in the hot skillet and bake at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. For a more soulful version, replace the butter with the bacon fat and add the crumbled bacon. Cracklings of duck skin or pork fat are good in this, too. To make cracklings, put strips of duck or pork skin with fat attached on a baking sheet with a rim and roast at 350 degrees until the skin is crisp, stirring occasionally so the strips in the middle of the pan get moved.
One
The street had ghosts. Every once in a while she would see the tail end of one, just a wisp of someone’s leftover spirit, out of the corner of her eye. She always recognized them; the apparitions looked like the hepcats who used to play on the street, Bennie Moten or the Count, sometimes Charlie Parker with so much sa
dness in his eyes. One day she saw a young Duke Ellington, elegant in white tie and tails, stop and look up, then tip his silk top hat at her before disappearing around the corner of 18th and Vine. Sometimes the ghosts brought a sound track with them, short snatches of laughter and music that filled the room and then were gone.
Evelyn Edwards stared out the window of her cramped office. The city had found this space for her to use while she was putting together the big dedication weekend. It was on the second story of a building not yet officially restored; a dusty, old-fashioned billiard hall was still open on the first floor. Next weekend, the Eighteenth and Vine Historical District would be up and running. Where would she go then? Sooner or later someone would ask her when she would have her belongings moved out. If Nolan Wilkins had anything to do with it, it would be sooner.
Why had she burned so many bridges to get here? She was filled with such urgency to sort out her past, she forgot about good common sense and fair play. Nothing seemed as important as this, certainly not the consequences of some of her recent stunts. She had, in the last few days, been compelled by events to admit she might have taken a more prudent path. Some of the things she’d done could be ready to come back and bite her on the ass. But she’d been driven, and now she was here and committed and that was that, however it played out.
Evelyn Edwards looked around at her reflection in the old mirror she had nailed up on the office wall so she could put on makeup. Beautiful? Maybe. Skin the color of coffee with real cream in it. Long hair made longer with extensions. She had three good suits and lots of accessories. Surely he would be proud when he saw her. She looked away from her image, disgusted with herself for such a thought, such a weakness.
Evelyn pulled the telephone toward her. She had some damage control to do if she was going to survive this latest crisis. And survive she must, so she could be here in the middle of things for the dedication. Right in the middle of the action, where he would be as well.
As she fiddled with her electronic address book, looking for a number, the door opened behind her. When she organized her office, she’d debated over whether to be able to see the door or to look outside. Outside won. She continued to dial, not looking around. “Well, big sister, I hope you brought me some of that cornbread you’re so famous for.”
Mona Kirk stepped up next to the desk. “I don’t know who you’re expecting, but I haven’t brought you anything but a warning.” Mona’s eyes were blazing with anger.
“Mona, I’m busy here. What’s your problem?”
Mona snorted. “You’re the one with a problem, miss. You have been dishonest and now you’re caught. And I, for one, am steamed about it. You’re jeopardizing a project that is near and dear to my heart.”
She tried to get up but Mona had her wedged in her chair. “Get off me, woman,” Evelyn protested. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mona pointed her finger at Evelyn and leaned toward her. Evelyn was surprised at the old girl. She’d taken Mona for a widow with too much time on her hands, not a crusader.
“You,” Mona declared, “have been demanding kickbacks from the vendors who are helping us with the gala dedication. And that’s not right. That’s stealing from the people of Kansas City.”
“I really don’t have time for, this, Mona. I don’t know who’s been lying about me, but I’m sure there’s not a speck of proof that I’ve asked anyone for money to be a part of your little ol’ dedication.”
Mona straightened up with a look of triumph in her eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong, young lady. You better start packing up your stuff, because after tonight, I’m betting you’ll be gone from Eighteenth and Vine. You have been found out!”
Evelyn twisted her way out of the chair and stood up to face her accuser. “I don’t think so. Now, beat it. I’ll see you at the meeting this evening, and you better not be making these silly accusations then. We still have a lot of work to do before next week. You certainly don’t have time to fire me and hire another event planner, so if I were you I’d just shut up and mind my own business, which is finding volunteers, as I recall.”
“I won’t let you take advantage of this town and this committee. We can dedicate this district without you,” Mona snapped. “I intend to make sure of that.”
“Get out.”
“I’m going,” Mona said as she swept out and slammed the door.
Evelyn sat back down and fiddled with the pages of her desk calendar. She was so close. It was that florist. She knew she’d made him mad when she asked for ten percent of the gross. But Evelyn didn’t intend to stay in Kansas City, so she couldn’t very well ask him to landscape her yard or something like that. Besides, she needed the cash.
The door opened again, and Evelyn turned angrily. But it wasn’t Mona Kirk, back for a second round. It was a beautiful black woman dressed in vintage clothing. Her hair was marcelled; her platform shoes and gloves and hat all matched her burgundy-colored 1940s gabardine suit. “I didn’t know when to expect you,” Evelyn said.
“Surprise is always a good weapon, don’t you think, sister? And now is as good a time as any for you to explain why you think we are sisters.”
“Half sisters,” Evelyn amended, still mesmerized by the physical presence of this other woman. She filled the room with her energy. Evelyn thought she saw one of the Eighteenth and Vine ghosts dart into the room and out again. Even the dead were attracted.
Evelyn slipped two photos out of the desk drawer and held them up. The other woman took them in her hand and stared at the images intently. “There the bastard is. One with you and your momma, one with me and my momma,” Evelyn said.
“Where’d you get these?”
“Just last year, when Momma passed, I found them in a box, along with some other things that belonged to our long, lost father. He must have left them behind and forgot about them, like he forgot about me and my mother,” Evelyn said, the pain of remembering all there in her voice.
“But what brought you to me? That could be any little black girl.”
“Don’t give me that shit. That’s you, and you know it. And I’ve done my homework. I didn’t just call you up out of the blue,” Evelyn said with more confidence in her voice than she felt.
“Were there any letters?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Calm down, Mona,” Heaven said. “Haven’t I been working on this celebration for months now? I’m not going to leave you in the lurch, not when we’re this close to the finish line.”
Mona Kirk tugged at her glasses—cat eyes, of course—and sat down beside Heaven Lee. They were at Sal’s Barber Shop, across Thirty-ninth Street from Mona’s cat gift shop and Cafe Heaven. Mona had put a Be Back in Five Minutes sign on the door and gone across the street when she saw Heaven heading for Sal’s. “You have worked like a Trojan, H, but I just want you to be prepared for the meeting tonight. It’s getting close to the big gala weekend and everything is all in an uproar, believe you me. The mayor’s office is mad at the Ruby Theater people. The Ruby Theater people are mad at the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum people, and everybody is mad at the Parks and Recreation people, who are supposed to have had the parking lot paved but it isn’t. And don’t get me started on Evelyn Edwards.”
“What’s she done now?” Heaven asked.
Mona pinched her lips together. “You’ll find out tonight, and I’m hoping it will be the last act for that little crook. I just can’t abide what she’s done. After so many people have worked for years to get Eighteenth and Vine renovated, we can’t let some party planner ruin it.”
Sal d’Giovanni looked up from the sink. Sal kept tabs on his whole shop through the mirrors that covered the walls. He rarely turned toward the person he was talking to. Now he chewed on his unlit cigar and grinned at the same time. “That’s what happens when you volunteer for stuff, Mona, you have to contend with the fact that most people are incompetent. Heaven, what’s your part of this wingding? Are you catering?”
Heaven rolled her eyes and shook her head, looking embarrassed and proud at the same time. “Of course not, nothing that would actually produce income. I am the volunteer chairman of the food committee for the dedication of the Eighteenth and Vine Historic District.”
Mona looked around for something to eat. It was the middle of the afternoon, so there was no thought of drinking Sal’s coffee, which was frightening even in the morning. She spotted a bagel in a see-through plastic bag, gave it a poke. It was impervious to her touch, so she put it back on the counter. “Now, Heaven, remember we asked you to cater the fancy party Friday night, the opening gala. And, Sal, she said that the black community should do the catering because this was celebrating the history of the black community. She was right, of course.”
Sal started scrubbing his combs and brushes. “So she works just as hard for free. Smart move, H.” Sal knew Heaven had been so busy at the restaurant she barely had time to go home and change her clothes. Folks in Kansas City came out of the woodwork in the spring, going out to eat, listening to music, enjoying the good weather that would end when summer and the humidity hit. Now she’d taken on a big volunteer job. Sal would have to ask Murray to keep an eye on her. Heaven never knew when to say no.
“Who’s Evelyn Edwards?” Sal asked.
“A smarty-pants party planner who has been hired to coordinate the entire gala weekend,” Mona said tartly.
“And?” Sal said. “Don’t give me a one-sentence description, especially when I can hear from the tone of your voice that there’s more to the story.”
“Mona doesn’t like Evelyn, Mona doesn’t like Evelyn,” Heaven chanted in a singsong voice.
Mona got up and looked over at her shop. There was a small gray kitty sitting in front of the door. “Sal, it isn’t that I don’t like Evelyn. I just don’t trust her, and it turns out I’m right. Something’s not kosher, and as the chairman of volunteers for the entire weekend, I’m not about to put up with it. Oh, look, a new kitty. I better go feed it.”
The Cornbread Killer Page 1
