Her mind made up, Myrtle pulled the spinach out of the freezer. There was really nothing to cooking. She didn’t understand why people struggled so much with it. When it came to the carb for the casserole, however, she discovered she had only a few uncooked spaghetti noodles and about a quarter cup of rice. The store wasn’t close to being open yet, and Miles would likely fuss if she called him this early to borrow something. Myrtle frowned and then opened her freezer. There she found a bag of French fries, the really skinny kind. Figuring a carb was a carb, she heated up the oven to cook them. They could line the bottom of the dish.
The only problem, Myrtle decided later, was that she had too many things cooking at once. The milk for the soufflé, which was supposed to be steaming, was boiling instead. The French fries had gotten quite crisp while Myrtle had been attending to whisking flour into the over-hot milk. She realized in the middle of the whisking process that she’d been intended to whisk the flour into some melted butter and the milk was supposed to stay separate until later. The frozen spinach appeared to want to stay frozen at all costs and was not cooperating whatsoever in the melting process in the microwave.
She must have lost track of time because she was surprised when there was a knock at the door. She hurried over and let Miles in.
“You’re a little early, aren’t you?” she asked as she hurried back to the kitchen.
“Only by twenty minutes. You wanted me to be unobtrusive with my donation for the breakfast, remember?” He lay a bag down on the kitchen table that appeared to be overflowing with bread.
“That’s quite a lot of bread,” said Myrtle. “There are only three of us, remember?”
Miles said, “I figured too much was better than not having enough.” He took a seat at the kitchen table and then looked over at the stove with trepidation. “What’s going on over there?”
Myrtle peered into the saucepan. “For some reason, the mixture turned brown.” She shrugged. “It’s all chemistry, you know, Miles. Some sort of chemical reaction happened.”
“With our breakfast,” said Miles slowly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Miles, I really don’t have time to talk about this right now. I have a casserole being constructed alongside the soufflé. And now I’m supposed to use the electric mixer on the eggs.”
Miles glanced at the counter. “Where is the recipe you’re following?”
“It’s in my head,” said Myrtle, tapping her forehead before pulling out her mixer from a cabinet.
Miles frowned. “For the soufflé? It’s not as if you cook those all the time.”
Myrtle sighed. “I looked up the recipe on the internet and paid very careful attention to it.”
Miles shifted again in his seat. “Is the recipe still up on the screen? I might print it out.”
“Why on earth would you want to do that? I’ve got this all under control.”
Miles considered his answer to this carefully. “I might like a copy of it to take home. Maybe I’ll cook a soufflé myself sometime.”
Myrtle looked doubtful at this, but shrugged. “Suit yourself. The recipe is still up on the computer.”
Miles quickly returned with the printed recipe in under a minute. Myrtle was busily mixing the eggs as Miles peered over her shoulder.
“It says here,” he said loudly over the roar of the mixer, “that you’re only supposed to beat the egg whites.”
Myrtle looked into the bowl at the eggs. “Well, that’s just for people who are trying to lose weight,” she hollered over the mixer. “Lt. Perkins is always very trim.”
Miles studied the printed recipe. “I don’t think that’s why you’re supposed to use the egg whites. It says here that the egg whites are supposed to get stiff. I don’t think that will happen with the whole eggs.”
Myrtle said, “Don’t be a worrywart, Miles. It will be fine. And the soufflé will have extra protein.”
She stopped the mixer and said, “Now I should add the cheese.”
Miles glanced at the recipe again. “Gruyère.”
Myrtle gave him an impatient look. “Or not.”
He looked back at the recipe. “It doesn’t say ‘or not.’”
Myrtle said, “Yes, but everyone knows the point is to be creative.”
“I thought the point was to eat something tasty,” said Miles slowly.
“Which we will be. Look, the reason the recipe says gruyere is because that’s one of those cheeses that melts well,” said Myrtle.
“I’m rather impressed you knew that,” said Miles thoughtfully.
“Sure. It’s in all those croque madams or croque monsieurs or whatever it is the French eat that’s like a grilled cheese. Anyway, the idea is simply to put a cheese in that melts really well.”
Miles now glanced at the fridge with concern. “I’m a little afraid to ask what cheese you decided was up to this challenge.”
She shrugged. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Velveeta. Processed cheese melts much better than any kind of French cheese. And it’s made in the USA.”
Miles walked to the fridge and removed the Velveeta. He carefully read the box the cheese was in. “Technically, Velveeta isn’t cheese at all.”
“Of course it is, Miles! Don’t be difficult. Everyone uses it for cheese dips, for heaven’s sake.”
“But not, perhaps, for soufflés,” said Miles stiffly. He turned and looked longingly at Myrtle’s front door. He turned back and said, “It says here on the box that it’s ‘Pasteurized Prepared Food Product’.”
“You’re being such a stickler. The fact of the matter is that it’s cheesy. It will lend the taste of cheese to the soufflé. That’s all I’m looking for.”
Miles rubbed his eyes.
Myrtle said crossly, “And please fix yourself some coffee. It looks like you didn’t sleep last night again and I can’t have you dropping off to sleep in front of Perkins as if my breakfast was boring or something. I’m putting too much time into this meal.” She frowned and looked at the casserole for Lillian’s son and daughter. “Let’s see. The casserole should go in at 350 degrees and the soufflé was something like 400 degrees.”
Miles gazed hopelessly at the oven.
“It’s best to compromise in situations like these and set it for 375 degrees,” said Myrtle decisively as she set the temperature.
Twenty minutes later, there was a light tap at the front door. Miles leapt up. “I’ll get it,” he said, rushing for the door as Myrtle opened the oven door and frowned at the soufflé.
There were words exchanged between Miles and Perkins in a low voice and then Perkins walked into the kitchen with a bright smile. Myrtle gave him a hug, which always knocked Perkins somewhat off-balance.
“Good morning!” she said, beaming at him. “I’m so glad you’ve made it for breakfast. Can I get you a cup of coffee? We actually have a few minutes to talk because this soufflé hasn’t risen yet.” She glared at the oven as if the soufflé was being intentionally difficult.
“A cup of coffee would be wonderful,” said Perkins, folding himself into one of Myrtle’s kitchen chairs. “I just take it black. This is so nice of you, Mrs. Clover. And the table looks beautiful.”
Myrtle smiled at him again. “I can tell your mama raised you well. I thought this was definitely an occasion for my nice china. I’ve wanted to have you over for a meal for so long.”
She brought over the coffee and sat next to him. “I’m just glad you were able to find the time to come over with everything going on. Tell me all about how things are going with the case.”
Perkins said mildly, “Now, Mrs. Clover, you know I can’t really discuss police business with you.”
“Oh, pooh. You can make an exception in my case, surely! You know how many cases I’ve helped you and Red solve. I’m practically indispensable.”
Miles cocked an eyebrow at her.
Perkins said, “You h
ave definitely been helpful in the past, but I’m still somewhat constricted in terms of what I’m allowed to say. Tell you what—ask me a question and I’ll see if I’m able to answer it.”
“Do you know who did it?” asked Myrtle with an innocent smile.
Perkins gave a slight smile. “Not yet.”
“Was there any physical evidence left behind?”
Perkins said, “Unfortunately, there have been plenty of people in the victim’s house. It does make the physical evidence a challenge. But to answer your question, there was no smoking gun, so to speak, in terms of forensic evidence or other evidence.”
Myrtle frowned. “These criminals certainly are getting sneaky.”
Miles said anxiously, “Should you check the soufflé again?”
“I swear, you’ve been quite fretful over this breakfast. It looked as if it had a few more minutes . . . it hadn’t risen.” Myrtle turned back to Perkins with a sweet smile. “Besides the family, who might be the most-likely suspects?”
His lips quirked and then he said, “Unfortunately, that’s information I can’t reveal.”
“Was it only one attacker or were there more than one?”
Perkins said, “That’s confidential information, I’m afraid.”
“What were the terms of Lillian’s will?”
Perkins gave her an admiring look. “That would be something else I can’t answer.”
Myrtle paused. “Would you like another cup of coffee?”
“That would be marvelous, thank you, Mrs. Clover.”
Myrtle walked back to the coffeemaker and vigorously made him a coffee, this time with lots of cream and sugar. He took it without complaint, drinking an experimental sip.
Miles pushed his chair back. “I’ll volunteer to check on the soufflé.”
Myrtle rolled her eyes as Miles opened the oven door and peered solicitously inside. He grimaced. “I don’t think the soufflé will be rising anytime soon. But it needs to come out.”
“If it hasn’t risen, it shouldn’t come out,” said Myrtle crossly.
“It’s starting to burn. And there’s no sign of it rising.”
Pasha looked in through the kitchen window and Myrtle absently shoved it open and fixed Pasha’s breakfast. “Well, that’s very odd. Let’s go ahead and eat it, then, if it’s trying to burn. It’ll taste the same, after all, even if it doesn’t look like it’s supposed to.”
Miles appeared doubtful on this point. He and Perkins exchanged glances.
Pasha stared unblinkingly at the oven.
Myrtle got out her rooster-themed oven mitts and carefully took out the soufflé. She studied it through the glass dish. “That’s very odd. It’s done on the top and liquidy on the bottom.”
Miles closed his eyes briefly.
Perkins said smoothly, “Isn’t there a French breakfast dish like that? Sort of a custard?”
Myrtle said in a thoughtful voice, “I believe you might be right. Well, we’re going to have an international-themed breakfast.”
Miles looked suspiciously at the quasi-soufflé. “Is it safe to eat uncooked eggs?”
“People eat custards all the time,” said Myrtle with a shrug.
“Aren’t the custards set, though? Aren’t they more of a solid?” Miles watched with horror as the custard sloshed around the bottom of the glass bowl as Myrtle placed it on the kitchen table with a flourish.
“Ta-da!” she said, ignoring Miles’s questions.
Perkins said, “May I slice the soufflé?”
Myrtle beamed at him. “You may have the honor!”
The top of the soufflé/custard was quite firm indeed. Myrtle had to fish a steak knife out of a drawer and Perkins sawed vigorously at the breakfast dish for several minutes before serving the three of them a slice each. He looked at the bottom of the bowl at the nebulous liquid. “It’s very cheesy,” he said politely.
“Maybe we should pour the custard part on the top of our soufflé slices,” said Myrtle, feeling very innovative. “I should really post this recipe online with all of my substitutions.”
Miles muttered something unintelligible under his breath while Perkins carefully drizzled the cheesy custard on the top of the crunchy soufflé slices.
Pasha took this opportunity to leap onto the counter and back out the kitchen window as if concerned some of the soufflé might end up in her own bowl.
“Bon Appetite!” said Myrtle cheerily as she sawed off a mouthful of the soufflé.
Miles cut off the smallest possible taste of the breakfast dish and gazed at his fork with immense distrust before delicately putting a bite in his mouth. He quickly brought his napkin to his mouth and unobtrusively deposited the mouthful into its welcoming depths.
Perkins was apparently made of sterner stuff. He swallowed his bite of food, praised Myrtle’s cooking and effort, and then continued eating with discipline and determination.
Myrtle took a thoughtful bite. “It’s rather rich, isn’t it?”
“Very filling,” agreed Perkins. “It’s good we had small slices.”
Miles looked miserably at his slice, which wasn’t going to become any smaller than it already was, and willed it to disappear.
Myrtle said, “And perhaps it needs something. Do you think it needs something, Perkins?”
Perkins smiled tightly at her. “I think it’s quite perfect the way it is right now.”
Myrtle gave a contented sigh. Then she glanced over at Miles. “What’s going on, Miles? Are you unwell?”
Miles pressed his lips together and then said, “It might be that the lack of sleep is catching up with me.”
“And affecting your appetite?” asked Myrtle with a frown.
Miles shrugged. “I’m not a medical person.”
“I thought you’d have picked up some medical information after all your years in hospital administration,” said Myrtle.
Miles gave her a cold look. “I was an engineer.”
Perkins’s lips twitched. Then he quickly said, “Mrs. Clover, I’m interested in the work you’ve done for the newspaper. It looks like you have a front-page story today. Could you tell me all about it?”
Myrtle preened, launching into a narrative about her role at the newspaper while Miles continued pushing his soufflé incrementally farther away from him. Perkins cleaned his plate.
As Myrtle started wrapping up her story, Miles broke in. “Myrtle, is something burning?”
“The soufflé is here on the table,” said Myrtle crossly.
“Is there anything else in the oven?” asked Miles.
Myrtle snapped her fingers. “The casserole!”
She put on her rooster oven mitts again and reached into the oven, pulling out the casserole. Myrtle studied it carefully and then said, “Oh, it’s just fine. It’s simply nice and firm.”
Pasha stared at the oven distastefully from outside the window as thin black smoke wafted toward her.
Myrtle frowned. “But I think I forgot an ingredient.”
“Which one?” asked Miles.
Perkins’s shoulders appeared to shake for a moment before he quickly got himself under control again.
“The cream-of-something,” she muttered, still evaluating the casserole.
“Cream?” asked Miles. “In a casserole?”
“No, cream-of-something soup. You can choose mushroom, chicken, cheese, or broccoli. It never really matters which one. But I didn’t mix it in,” said Myrtle.
Perkins stood up and walked over to gaze at the casserole in question. “I think you could smooth it on top, couldn’t you? It would almost be like cake icing since the casserole itself is so firm.”
Myrtle gave him an approving look. “Excellent point, Lt. Perkins!”
Perkins glanced down as his cell phone rang. “Excuse me.”
He picked up and said, “Perkins. Oh, hi Red.” He listened
for a moment. “No, everything is fine.” He gave Myrtle a reassuring smile since Myrtle had immediately become grouchy at the mention of Red. “All right. Yes, I’ll be right over.”
He put his phone back in his pocket and gave Myrtle and Miles an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I have to get going. Thanks so much for the lovely breakfast, Mrs. Clover. It was good to see both of you.”
He picked up his plate, rinsed it, and put it carefully into the dishwasher.
“Bread for the road?” asked Miles with alacrity, shoving a plate of croissants at him.
“Thanks,” said Perkins quickly, grabbing a couple before giving Myrtle another smile and heading swiftly out the door.
Chapter Seven
“W ell, that was very nice,” said Myrtle.
Miles merely gave a relieved sigh.
“He really is such a nice young man. I’m glad I finally had the chance to have him over for a meal. I should do this every time.”
Miles closed his eyes briefly. “Can I help you clean up?” he asked.
Myrtle looked around the kitchen and made a face. “I’ve half a mind to drag Puddin back over here and have her do it. It’s amazing how a couple of simple recipes can make for so much mess. Puddin definitely owes me one. That silly Bitsy called and Puddin didn’t even have the chance to do any cleaning at all.”
Miles looked at the clock. “I’d say your chances of getting Puddin over here at this time of the morning are slim to none.”
“It’s not even that early anymore! But I know what you mean. Puddin is so slovenly, she probably is still buried under the covers.” Myrtle looked at the clock, herself. “I think we should head over to Martin’s house with the casserole. I’ll just have the dishes sit in some dish soap for a while. That should make clean-up easier for either me or Puddin.”
Miles said, “Are you sure Martin wants to be faced with a casserole at this point of the morning?”
“Faced with it? What a peculiar turn of phrase, Miles. And, yes, I think he would want it early so he could even have it for lunch if he wanted. Or he could have it for lunch and supper.”
Hushed Up Page 5
