“Thank you, I will, if I see him, I mean. Bye.”
“Wait, Brynne, don’t you need my address?”
“Yep, you betcha.”
Sherry gave Brynne her address and, with a push of a button, the call was ended. Sherry stared at the phone as she considered the conversation.
“What was that all about?” asked Marla. “You were talking to her like she was your oldest friend. And what an accent she was sporting. I don’t remember her talking that way at the cook-off.”
“Sounds like the upper Midwest to me, don’tcha know. While I had her on the phone, I just thought maybe there was a tidbit of information to be learned from her.” Sherry raised one eyebrow. “I wasn’t half bad at getting her to talk.”
“And was there?” asked Amber. “Any new information?”
“Hard to say. I’m not really sure I’d know a clue if it hit me in the face. But if I’m going to clear my name, I better be a fast learner. I wonder if Brynne knows who won. She seems pretty tied to Mr. Andime, and he must know.”
“I bet the name of the winner is a closely guarded secret,” said Marla.
“I agree,” said Amber. “Word would get out fast if more than a few people knew. You know the old saying—”
All three women recited simultaneously, “Too many cooks spoil the broth.”
“Did you hear Brynne say my dish was the murder weapon?” Sherry groaned.
“What are you talking about? None of us did,” said Marla. “Because she didn’t say it. So just get those negative thoughts out of your head.”
“If the investigators don’t feel like looking any further beyond who cooked the chef’s last meal, the one he ate moments before his death, well, I’m in big trouble.” Sherry crossed her arms across her chest.
“The detectives are in no hurry to catch the wrong person. The investigation has only begun. You have to let it play out.” Marla stared in her sister’s eyes.
“The whole world’s about to know my food was the last thing the poor man ate.” Sherry began pacing the room. “I can’t go to jail. Who will help Dad at the store? How would he manage? And what about me? I was just beginning to start thinking about my new life, doing my own thing, for better or worse, for the first time ever.”
“Calm down, Sher. You’re not going to jail.” Marla’s tone was unconvincing. “You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. The investigators will sort things out soon enough. And, by the way, you aren’t even happy to be working for Dad, so going to jail would at least get you out of a dead-end job.”
“Marla, what a terrible thing to say. I’m perfectly happy working with, not for, Dad.” Sherry spun around and faced her sister.
“How nice it is you’re able to work with your father. What kind of store is it?”
“Thanks, Amber. It is nice. I work twenty hours a week at his ruggery. Oliveri’s Ruggery. It’s one of the oldest shops in Augustin. His father ran it and his father’s uncle started it. Hooked rugs, hand-painted canvas, and hand-dyed wool. Just beautiful. People come in with an idea for the canvas or sometimes only with a color scheme they want to match, and we take it from there. I guess it may all fall to me after Dad retires, unless my brother jumps in sometime soon. Which I wouldn’t mind at all, actually.”
“How long have you worked with your dad?”
“I lost my job assisting Charlie in his law practice when we split up, so not really that long. Working for my dad pays the bills.” Sherry checked her phone for the time. “Back to Brynne’s reason for calling, I’m not really thrilled about the idea of an apron arriving with festering food fungus all over it after days in an envelope. If you think about it, it was kind of weird Brynne had to ask for my address. I know the contest has it on file.”
“I really don’t want my dirty apron back, except to use it to line the kids’ rabbit hutch,” said Marla. “I’m going to say ‘no thanks’ when she calls me.”
“I’d like mine,” said Amber.
“In the meantime, I need to keep busy, get my mind off things or I’ll go crazy. What would you ladies like to do about dinner?” Sherry headed toward the kitchen.
Marla and Amber followed.
“Hey, Sher. I have an idea.” Marla sidestepped Sherry and searched the depths of her sister’s kitchen storage cabinet. She brought out a large mixing bowl. “Game on?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not really in the mood. How about takeout?” Sherry opened a drawer and pulled out a handful of restaurant menus.
“What game are you talking about, Marla?” asked Amber.
“It’s a traditional game the Oliveri family likes to call Recipe Piggyback.” Sherry stared straight ahead and sighed. “We played it growing up.”
“Come on. You can’t break tradition. It’ll make you feel better. Amber, in this game, you’ll be playing the role of our brother. We forced him to participate when we were all together, so it’s only right we force you.”
“Okay, why not? It might be the last fun I have before they lock me up.” Sherry put the menus back in the drawer and closed it firmly. “I’ll get what we need while you explain the rules to Amber.” Sherry shuffled across the kitchen to the storage cabinet.
“Okay, listen up.” Marla spoke with a stern tone. “Rules of the game are the following: we take turns adding an ingredient to an empty bowl. We each get just two turns in the ‘bowl add-in’ phase. On your turn, you’re basically piggybacking off what others have placed in the bowl before you. You do have the power to change the recipe with your addition. Then we get two turns adding to the preheated Dutch oven, the contents of which will be finished on the stove. So, to review, the bowl blend will be the topping, the Dutch oven contents will be the filling. It should all result in a yummy mystery dinner. Today’s theme: casserole!”
Sherry placed a large bowl, spatula, spoonula, measuring cup, three mixing spoons, and a medium-size Dutch oven on the granite counter.
“Amber, here’s the spice rack.” Sherry pointed to the carousel filled with alphabetized small bottles. “These two cupboards contain my dry goods. And you’re familiar with the common household refrigerator, I’m sure.”
Sherry carried the heavy pot to the stovetop, added olive oil, and turned the burner to low.
“After we finish adding ingredients in here, the lid goes on and it gets popped into the oven.” Sherry put her fingers up to her lips and kissed their tips with a loud smack. “There’s to be no conversation during the entire game.” She put her index finger to her lips.
“Why not?” asked Amber.
“It makes it fun. You’ll see,” laughed Marla. “This game always makes me feel eight again. I didn’t cook a thing until I was married, except for the times Sherry made us play this game!”
“You can only indicate it’s the next person’s turn with a hand gesture or some other signature move. You’ll get the hang of it when we get rolling. There are no winners or losers. It’s just a game of creativity but not necessarily cooperation. The important thing to remember is we’re eating this for dinner, so don’t try to poison us.” Sherry put her hand across her mouth.
“Sherry!” Marla grabbed a wooden spoon and banged it on the counter.
“Oops, I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth!” Flustered, Sherry took a moment before resuming. “Any questions?”
“This sounds ridiculously fun.” Amber clapped her hands. “Thanks for adopting me, Oliveri family.”
“It’s best if we draw names to decide our turn order,” said Sherry. She put their names on pieces of paper into a bowl and drew for the order they’d cook in. “Okay, girls, let the game begin! Silence, please.”
Sherry’s name was drawn first. I have no idea where to begin. This never happens to me in the kitchen. It’s usually my happy place. My brain is fried. Sherry ran her fingers across the spice rack. She shook her head. After opening the refrigerator, panic set in when the familiar inspiration for a great recipe eluded her.
Behind S
herry, Marla cleared her throat. Conceding to her indecision, Sherry shut her eyes, thrust her hand forward and grabbed the first thing her hand touched. It was a soft log of goat cheese. She crumbled it into the mixing bowl. When she was done, Sherry snapped her fingers, indicating it was Amber’s turn.
Sherry ignored Amber’s silent plea for guidance. Sherry pursed her lips and displayed a solemn poker face. Amber rolled her eyes and opened the refrigerator. After searching the shelves, she decided on a bowl of mashed sweet potatoes. She tasted it then spooned the fibrous flesh into the mixing bowl. Amber clapped her hands to summon Marla.
Chutney began barking.
“Oops, sorry boy.” Sherry smoothed Chutney’s raised fur. “Clapping gets him worked up.”
“Shhh!” warned Marla.
Sherry gave an exaggerated stink eye to Marla as she approached the mixing bowl. Marla moved toward the spice rack. She held up pumpkin pie spice.
Marla’s trying to create some drama. What’s she trying to make with that flavor? It kind of limits the possibilities. I guess sweet potatoes go with pumpkin pie spice. But do I want it for dinner? I don’t think so. Sherry was relieved when Marla placed the seasonal savory spice blend back on the rack. She’s just messing with me. Tricky girl. She knows I have other things on my mind.
Instead, Marla picked up an Italian seasoning blend of basil, garlic powder, and oregano. She stirred some into the bowl and then dramatically pointed to Sherry to proceed with her second and final addition to the bowl mixture.
The ingredients in the bowl aren’t really steering me in an obvious direction. I’m going to have to take control, get this recipe on track, and figure out where it’s headed. A little like a murder investigation. Oh, Marla! You’re a smart one! No wonder you wanted me to play this game.
Sherry strolled to the refrigerator, searched for a moment, and returned to the counter with a small bottle of maple syrup. She stirred some together with the goat cheese, mashed sweet potatoes, and Marla’s choice of seasoning, then used her interpretation of a yoga warrior’s pose to point to Amber to begin her turn. It was impossible for Sherry to stifle a giggle because her warrior pose was so unstable she fell over.
On her next turn, Amber added pats of butter. Marla finalized the blend with a conservative sprinkle of Himalayan pink sea salt she’d found tucked away in the spice rack with the other S’s. Sherry cringed at the sight of the exotic salt being added because of its robust price tag, but after giving it a second thought, what was she really saving it for anyway? She pushed the full bowl off to the side.
Sherry opened the refrigerator and brought out diced pork belly. She placed it in the Dutch oven. She clapped twice to give Amber the go-ahead to begin her turn.
Chutney began barking again.
“Sorry again, Chutney.” Amber patted Chutney’s head then went to the sink and washed her hands.
“Shhh!” Marla tempered her scolding with a smile.
Amber followed up Sherry’s pork belly choice with a healthy handful of chopped shallots that she found in labeled containers in the refrigerator. The olive oil and rendering fat from the pork belly in the hot Dutch oven enlivened the shallots and they began to sizzle and dance. Marla diced a sweet red pepper and added it to the pot, which amped up the recipe’s aromatics. On her final turn, Sherry cubed two chicken breasts and tossed the poultry in the pot to brown.
Started with nothing and now there’s a clear vision.
Amber searched the storage cabinet and found a can of organic cream of mushroom soup and poured it over the chicken.
Marla found her final ingredient, white wine. She measured out one half of a cup then added it to the Dutch oven and turned up the heat. Marla took a swig of the bottle when she was done.
Sherry gasped in mock displeasure before grabbing the bottle from her sister and tipping back a swallow. I can do this.
“Can we talk now, please?” Amber interlaced her fingers and rocked them back and forth, as if begging.
“Yes.” Sherry applauded. “Great teamwork, girls! Let’s just spoon the topping on and in the oven it goes.”
“Winner, winner, casserole dinner!” said Amber. “That was fun!”
“Yep, I really needed to play a game.” Sherry winked at her sister. “It’s been a while since I’ve made a casserole to share. They were too big for just Charlie and me, let alone just me. But I’ll get this living-alone thing down some day. Just have to believe in myself.” Sherry tore off a paper towel and blotted the counter. “While the casserole is baking, want to see my garden?”
“Sure.” Amber ran to the front hall to collect her shoes.
“Let me just finish wiping the counter.” Sherry held the patio door open for the others. “Chutney and I will be right there.”
Sherry shut the door, double-checked she was alone, and pulled the casserole from the oven. She removed the lid and drizzled olive oil on the sweet potatoes before sprinkling them with smoked paprika.
“Even the best recipes can be improved. It just needed the perfect finishing touch.” Sherry put on her shoes but, before she could exit the back door, her cell phone rang. “Be right there, girls. I just need to answer this.” She removed her shoes and raced back to find her phone. Charlie’s name was flashing on the screen when she picked it up.
“Hey, Sher. Just calling for a cook-off update. I assume it’s over, although I can’t exactly remember what time it was set for. You know, I miss going to those things with you. I consoled you when you lost and helped you spend the prize money when you won.”
“Hi, Charlie. Yes, the cook-off is over. It’s a long story, but the winner hasn’t been announced yet. It was an unusual event, to say the least. But I don’t really have time to give details right now. I have Marla here and a new friend from the cook-off.” Sherry squinted and let out a low groan. She knew what was coming.
“What’s the friend’s name?”
“I’m under no obligation to tell you, but it’s Amber.”
Either Charlie was standing in a windy area or he blew out a puff of air. “Amber sounds nice.”
Nice because she’s not a man. Actually, who am I kidding? He probably doesn’t care if I’m dating yet or not.
“Okay, just checking in. I’ll be by for my clothes soon.”
“Would you please? I need that room for houseguests. I feel like you’re leaving them here just to torture me.” Sherry nodded once with her eyes shut. There, I said it. She balled up her free hand and summoned up a morsel of the anger she felt the day Charlie uttered the words, “I met with a lawyer today.” Charlie’s transitions from husband to villain to recent friend were a roller-coaster ride Sherry didn’t buy a ticket for but rode, nonetheless.
“Of course. Whatever you say. Bye.” His parting words were as smooth and alluring as crème fraîche. Why was it so easy for him to be nice? Because he got what he wanted, that’s why. And to top it all off, it’s impossible to stay mad at this guy.
Chapter 7
“It says right here the top three reasons for murder are, ‘number one, crimes of passion,’ you know, like a bad break-up or jealousy. ‘Number two, money disputes’ and ‘number three, revenge.’”
Sherry trotted up to Amber. “Sorry, guys. That was Charlie on the phone. What you were reading sounded interesting. What else did I miss?”
“Must have been a quick conversation. Was it just a check-in?” Marla cocked her head to the side.
“There was a little more to it. He wanted the details of the cook-off. I told him I was busy right now and would get back to him soon. But that’s not important. What you were reading is.”
The ladies walked across the terrace and descended three slate steps toward the small, tidy backyard. Tall oaks and maples framed the well-manicured lawn and created dappled light throughout the space. A mulched border of low-growing perennials butted up against the edge of the lawn.
Marla picked up a stick and tossed it a few feet in front of her. “What’s Charlie’s deal?
”
“No breaking news here.” Sherry retrieved the stick Marla threw and placed it on the lawn’s edge. “We’re still friends, that’s it.”
“Well, I think you’ll never move on unless you two make a clear cut. Like Dad always says, ‘If your dreams are only about the past, your future will be a nightmare.’”
“I’d be interested in meeting your father one day,” Amber commented. “He sounds sage.”
“I have to make an appearance at work in the morning, so maybe you could come with me. Plus, you can use my car while I’m there for a few hours. Just don’t forget to come back and give me a ride home. Now, let’s get back to the motives for murder you were outlining.”
Marla was massaging the blades of grass between her bare toes, and the sight sent a shudder down Sherry’s spine.
“From what I heard you say, it sounds like the investigators need to learn more about Chef Tony Birns’ relationships. Things like his financial dealings and who he may have crossed in a bad way.”
The late-afternoon sun was squeezing out its last rays of warmth for the day as the three ladies approached Sherry’s garden. Chutney loped along behind.
At the gate, Sherry kneeled down and picked up a piece of thick twine. “It finally gave out.” She put the cord in the palm of her hand. “I asked Charlie to replace this before he moved out, but he thought it could wait. Guess it’s time to stop delegating and start doing.” She held the twine up, and it disintegrated further. “I’m not sure we can get the door open without the pull-cord connected to the latch.”
“Let me try,” offered Amber. “My fingers are like shish kebab skewers. Skinny and long. I think I can get in there.”
Amber wiggled her slim index finger through the door’s mesh screen. “Got it. Quick, pull before the spring fires.”
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