Irish Stewed (An Ethnic Eats Mystery)
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Praise for the national bestselling League of Literary Ladies Mysteries
“Logan has fun with this unusual story, intimate setting, and feisty characters, and readers will, too.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“This is one of my favorite series. What could be more fun than a mystery series that is about a reluctant book club? I love how the mysteries run parallel to the book the League of Literary Ladies is reading. Bea and her friends always rally together to solve the mystery—especially if the accused is one of their own. This well-plotted mystery will be a delightful treat for cozy mystery readers. I found I could not put this book down—I had to find out whodunit.”
—MyShelf.com
“One of my favorite cozy mystery writers . . . What great characters Kylie Logan has created.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Kylie Logan has created a cast of characters in whom readers will feel invested, as their histories are played out throughout the series . . . The plot, a surprisingly complex one in this third of the series, never suffers from the focus on character development. Literature, the struggle of authors, and friendship among women make this an absorbing read—a spookily good book with an even greater mystery.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan
Button Box Mysteries
BUTTON HOLED
HOT BUTTON
PANIC BUTTON
BUTTONED UP
League of Literary Ladies Mysteries
MAYHEM AT THE ORIENT EXPRESS
A TALE OF TWO BIDDIES
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HARLOW
AND THEN THERE WERE NUNS
Chili Cook-off Mysteries
CHILI CON CARNAGE
DEATH BY DEVIL’S BREATH
REVENGE OF THE CHILI QUEENS
Ethnic Eats Mysteries
IRISH STEWED
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
IRISH STEWED
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2016 by Connie Laux.
Excerpt from French Fried by Kylie Logan copyright © 2016 by Connie Laux.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
For more information, visit penguin.com.
eBook ISBN: 9780698159204
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2016
Cover illustration by Tom Foty.
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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For the Airedale Terrier Club of Northern Ohio— great dogs, great people!
Acknowledgments
Every year near Saint Patrick’s Day, our family hosts a huge party. There’s bagpipe music, of course, along with plenty of brothers, sisters, in-laws, cousins, and kids. Oh my, these days there are a lot of kids! There’s also always a groaning board of food. Irish stew, soda bread, corned beef, and cabbage. We’re in charge of bringing the colcannon and we make upward of fifty pounds of mashed potatoes as a basis for the dish. Delicious? You bet! And always a hit with the partygoers.
It was this sort of family tradition that gave me the idea for basing a mystery series on ethnic foods. To me, the foods traditionally served by family equal comfort food. In my own family, it’s things like stuffed cabbage, pierogi, and that wonderful bread my grandmother made at holidays that we simply called Sweet Bread.
In other families (like my husband’s), the comfort comes from the Emerald Isle. And that’s what makes ethnic food so interesting. We each have our own memories and our own traditions and there’s no better way to celebrate them than by honoring the dishes our ancestors cherished.
As with all books, there are plenty of people to thank for help with this one, including my great brainstorming group (Shelley Costa, Serena Miller, and Emilie Richards), the folks at Berkley Prime Crime, and my agent. I’d also like to thank Georgia Schuff, my expert and go-to person when it comes to Hubbard, Ohio, and my family—all umpteen of them—for carrying on the tradition. Na zdrowie and sláinte!
Contents
Praise for the national bestselling League of Literary Ladies Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Recipe
Excerpt from French Fried
About the Author
Chapter 1
“I can explain.”
At my side, Sophie Charnowski pressed her small, plump hands together and shifted from one sneaker-clad foot to the other. The nearest streetlight flickered off, then on again, and in its anemic light, I saw perspiration bead on her forehead. “It’s like this, you see, Laurel.”
“Oh, I see, all right.” Good thing I was wearing my Brian Atwood snakeskin ballet flats. In heels, I would have tripped on the pitted sidewalk when I spun away from the building in front of us and the railroad tracks just beyond. When I pinned short, round Sophie with a look, I meant to make her shake in her shoes, and it gave me a rush of satisfaction to realize the ol’ daggers from my blue eyes still carried all the punch I intended. Sophie flicked out her tongue to touch her lips, then swallowed hard.
While she was at it, I stabbed one finger toward the train station and the sign that hung above the door that declared the place SOPHIE’S TERMINAL AT THE TRACKS.
“This isn’t what I expected,” I said.
Sophie rubbed her hands together. “I know that. Really, I do. I can only imagine how you must feel.”
“No.” I cut her off before she could say anything else ignorant and insulting. “You can’t possibly imagine how I feel. I just drove all the way to Ohio from California. Because you told me—”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” Sophie was a full eight inches shorter than my five foot nine, and as round as I am slender. She had the nerve to look up at me through the shock of silvery bangs that hung over her forehead. Believe me, the hairstyle wasn’t a fashion statement. When I picked Sophie up at her small, neat bungalow so we
could drive across Hubbard and she could show me the restaurant, I had the distinct feeling I’d just woken her from an after-dinner nap. “I knew once you saw the place—”
“Once I saw the place!” Was that my voice echoing against the old train station and bouncing around the semigentrified neighborhood with its bookstore, its coffee shop, its beauty salon, and gift boutiques?
I was way past caring. “Sophie, you told me—”
“That I’m having my knee replaced tomorrow. Yes.” She took a funny sort of half step and pulled up short, one hand automatically shooting down to her right knee. She kept it there, a not-so-subtle reminder of the pain she’d told me was her constant companion. “And that I need someone to help out while I’m laid up. Someone to run the restaurant.”
“Which isn’t the restaurant it’s supposed to be.”
“Well, really, it is.” A grin made her look so darned impish, I almost forgave the lies she’d been feeding me for years.
Almost.
“The Terminal at the Tracks has been a neighborhood gathering place for going on forty years now,” she told me, and don’t think I didn’t notice the way she rushed to get the words out before I could stop her cold. “I always loved it here. We used to stop for breakfast on Sunday mornings after church. And after our Tuesday bowling league, we’d always get a bite to eat here. Only these days . . .” This time when she caressed her knee, she added a long-suffering sigh. “Well, I’m not doing very much bowling these days. But that doesn’t change how I feel about this neighborhood. It’s got the feel of history to it, don’t you think?” Instead of giving me a chance to answer, she drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly while she swiveled her gaze from the train station to the tracks behind it and the boarded-up factory beyond.
“When I had the opportunity to buy the Terminal fifteen years ago, I just jumped at it. So there’s my name up there on the sign.” Sophie made a brisk ta-da sort of motion in that direction. “And here I am.” She pointed at her own broad bosom. “And now . . .” It was spring and almost nine, which meant it was already dark. That didn’t keep me from seeing the rapturous look that brightened Sophie’s brown eyes and brought out the dimples in her pudgy cheeks. “And now here you are, too. So you see, everything is just as it’s supposed to be.”
Really? I was supposed to buy into this philosophical, all’s-right-with-the-world horse hockey?
My pulse quickened and my blood pressure would have shot to the ceiling had we been indoors instead of outside in front of the long, low-slung building with a two-story section built in the middle above the main entrance. When that streetlight went off and on again, it winked against the weathered yellow paint and the dark windows of the restaurant.
I hardly noticed the sparkle of the light against the glass.
But then, I was pretty busy seeing red.
I would have leveled Sophie right then and there if she weren’t thirty years older than me and limping, to boot. Instead, I followed along when she hobbled to the front door.
“What you did was low, underhanded, and dishonest, Sophie,” I told her.
“Yes, it was.” She didn’t sound the least bit penitent. She stuck her key in the front door. “But now that we’re here, you’ll look around, won’t you?”
I should have said no.
I should have put my foot down.
I should have opened my mouth and as so often happens when I do, I should have let what I was thinking pour out of me like the lava that spews from a volcano and incinerates everything in its path.
Why I didn’t is as much a mystery now as it was then. I only know that when Sophie pushed open the front door and stepped inside the Terminal at the Tracks, I followed along.
“Welcome.” She touched a hand to a light switch and the fixture directly over our heads turned on.
Sophie beamed a smile all around.
I did not share in her enthusiasm. In fact, I took one look around the entryway of the Terminal at the Tracks, and a second, and a third.
That’s pretty much when I had to remind myself to snap my mouth shut.
What I could see—at least here in the fifteen-by-fifteen entryway where customers waited for their tables—was a mishmash of kitschy faux Victorian, everything from teddy bears in puffy-sleeved gowns to posters advertising things like unicycles and mustache wax.
And then there was the lace.
Doilies and rickrack and bunting.
Oh my.
Brand spanking new, it would have been overblown and downright dreadful. With fifteen years of service under its belt, the lace was yellow and bedraggled. The teddy bear propped on the old rolltop desk that also served as a hostess station looked as if it could use an airing, and what had once been a magnificent floor made of wide, hardwood planks was scratched and dull.
“I knew you’d love it as much as I do,” Sophie purred.
Fortunately at that moment, a train rolled by, not twenty feet from the back of the restaurant, and the place shook the way LA had in the last earthquake I remembered. My sternum vibrated. My bones rattled.
By the time the train was gone and my body was done with its rockin’ and rollin’, I pretended I didn’t even remember Sophie’s last comment.
“There’s something special I need to show you.” She latched on to the sleeve of the silk shirttail tee I wore with skinny jeans and tugged me toward a glass counter with a cash register set on it.
“Right here.” Sophie said, and tapped the glass next to the cash register. That’s when her smile fell and her silvery brows knit. “Well, it was here.” She chewed her lower lip. “It’s always here. I must have left it”—she waved in some indeterminate direction—“in the office. I must have left it in the office when I took the day’s receipts in there to file. You know, on Saturday, the last day the restaurant was open before I had to close.” Another puppy dog look. “Because of my knee, you know. And my surgery tomorrow.”
Sophie gave the counter another pat. “The receipt spike,” she finally explained. “You know, the thin, pointy thing where we stick the receipts—”
“After they’re rung up on the register.” I’d worked in enough restaurants in my day; I knew exactly what she was talking about.
“This one is special,” Sophie confided. “About yay high”—she held her hands ten inches apart—“and made completely of brass. It was Grandpa Majtkowski’s. From his bakery shop in Poland. He brought it with him when he came to this country back in 1913. Imagine that, he came with one suitcase, one change of clothes, and less than twenty dollars in his pocket, and he still thought it was important to bring that receipt spike with him. And no wonder! It was all he had of home, all he had of the business he worked so many years to build, and—”
A tap on the front door saved me from any more of the history lesson.
Sophie didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when she looked toward the front entrance, she grinned.
“It’s Declan!” Quicker than a woman with a sore knee should have been able to move, she scooted over and opened the door. “It’s Declan,” she said again, and she moved back to allow a man to step into the Terminal.
Let’s get something straight here—I had spent the last six years of my life working as a personal chef to Meghan Cohan. Yeah, that Meghan Cohan, the Hollywood megastar. I wasn’t just used to catering to the culinary whims of the Beautiful People, I was comfortable rubbing elbows with them. When she was working on a film, I traveled with Meghan. All over the world. When she was bored, she’d take me along when she jetted to her place in Maui. Or the one in Tuscany. Or the villa in the south of France. I was in charge of Meghan’s diet regimen, and her parties and the late-night soirees that sometimes ended up getting talked about in Vogue or Elle or Cosmo.
Meghan was powerful. She was gorgeous. And she allowed only powerful and gorgeous men into her circle.
I wasn’t sure who this Declan guy was, but I knew that one look, and Meghan would have welcomed him with open arms.
>
Tall.
Dark.
I won’t say handsome because let’s face it, that’s a cliché and Declan’s looks put him far beyond platitudes.
His hair was a little too long and tousled just enough that had we been back in LA, I would have suspected he’d just come from some tony salon. He had an angular face defined by a dusting of dark whiskers, and he wore jeans and sneakers and a black leather jacket over a red plaid flannel shirt. Untucked. All of it was casual enough while at the same time it sent the message that whatever else Declan was, he was comfortable in his own skin.
None of which mattered in the least bit.
Not to me, anyway.
No matter how handsome the locals might happen to be, I’d already decided there was no way I was staying.
Declan came inside the Terminal and closed the door behind hm.
“I saw the light on,” he said to Sophie, “and no one’s usually here this late at night. I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.”
“Aren’t you just the best neighbor ever!” Sophie twinkled like a teenager. “Declan’s from the Irish store.” She looked out the window and I saw the lighted windows of the gift shop that was across the street and kitty-corner to the restaurant. From here, it was impossible to see exactly what was in the display windows on either side of the front door, but there was no mistaking the crisp green colors touched with a smattering of orange, or the wooden sign that hung above the front door, a gigantic green shamrock.
“Of course, everything’s fine. I was just showing off the place.” She closed a hand over the sleeve of his jacket and piloted him nearer. “Declan Fury, this is Laurel Inwood.”
Add a thousand-watt smile to that description of Declan. And a handshake that was warm and firm enough to send the message that he was no-nonsense, practical, and far more sure of himself than 99 percent of the actors (yeah, even the ones who play tough guys in the movies) Meghan had introduced me to over the years.
“So, you’re finally here.” Declan had a baritone voice that managed to caress even the most ordinary greeting. “I know your aunt’s been looking forward to your arrival.”