Case of the Muffin Murders

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  “We’re talking about a 10-55, and not a 10-54?” Vance asked, as if he had read my mind.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do we have any idea what the COD could be?”

  “Cause of Death is not confirmed, but it would appear to be carbon monoxide poisoning. The VIC was found inside a garage with a running car.”

  Tori covered her mouth in horror and whispered, “That’s horrible!”

  “It most certainly is,” Julie agreed, confirming she had overheard her friend. “Hi, Tori. I was very glad to hear Vance is okay.”

  Tori smiled and leaned over Vance’s cell, “Thanks, Julie. It means a lot. I certainly hope the reports are false. I hope there isn’t another death here in PV.”

  “You and me both. I’ll talk to you two later.”

  “It’s a brand new crime scene,” I said to no one. I looked back at my Jeep and the two corgis who had claimed the front seats. I looked over at Vance, who was already moving toward his wife’s car.

  “I’ll call you when I can,” Vance promised.

  Fast forward to five hours later. It was just before 5pm. I was dressed in a pair of black slacks, and – God forbid – a grey Polo shirt. I was walking in to what had to be my least favorite place to eat, Chateau Restaurant & Wine Bar. On my arm was my lovely date for the evening, none other than Jillian Cooper, owner extraordinaire of the specialty kitchen store, Cookbook Nook.

  “Good evening, Monsieur Anderson!” the tuxedoed host proclaimed, as soon as we neared the front entrance. He pulled the dark, smoked glass front door open and waited for us to enter. “Mademoiselle Cooper! It is a pleasure as always to know you will be dining with us this fine evening.”

  The host appeared to be in his late twenties, was clean shaven, and as I mentioned before, wearing a full tuxedo that didn’t have a wrinkle or a speck of lint anywhere on it. I tried to study the guy’s face without appearing too obvious. I hadn’t a clue who this guy was. I know I have never seen him before, and I’ve only eaten at this place one other time, so how could he possibly know who I was?

  Jillian smiled at the host as we entered the restaurant.

  “Hello, Anthony. It’s good to see you again.”

  “And you, Ms. Cooper. Shall I have a bottle of Crystal Rose sent to your table?”

  “Yes, please,” Jillian said, as she turned that fabulous smile on me. “And a bottle of Coke Zero. Thank you.”

  If the request was odd – which it was to my ears – the host didn’t show it. In fact, he didn’t even blink with surprise. He simply nodded, and then disappeared amongst the hustle and bustle of the waitstaff, who were all wearing tuxedos, I might add. Even the women, from what I could see.

  “That’s your favorite champagne, isn’t it?” I asked Jillian. I really didn’t have to ask that particular question. I knew full well Crystal Rose was her favorite champagne. And I also knew what the price tag was: $400 per bottle. I should know. I’ve purchased a few bottles since moving to PV.

  Jillian nodded, “It is. Don’t worry. I know it can be pricey. I’ll be more than happy to pay for it myself. In fact, I insist.”

  I tapped my right ear and grinned, “Sorry. You’ll have to speak up. I’m having trouble with my hearing lately. And if you like this stuff so much, I challenge you to make a believer out of me.”

  “Champagne is an acquired taste,” Jillian told me, as we followed a different host to a table. “I’m not sure I could make a believer out of you in only one night. Wait, are you saying you’ll have a glass of Crystal Rose with me?”

  I nodded. I already knew this dinner was a lost cause for me, but that didn’t mean Jillian’s had to be the same. This was her favorite restaurant. I had to find something here that I’d enjoy. The last time I was here, I had ended up trying some type of seafood Alfredo, figuring it’d be safe enough to eat.

  Trust me, it wasn’t.

  As we sat, chatting amicably about the events of the day, I couldn’t help but think how much I enjoyed spending time with Jillian. I enjoyed talking with her about current events and the deplorable state our government was currently in. I enjoyed arguing about which was better, Star Wars or Star Trek (for the record, it was Star Wars, hands down). And I enjoyed listening to all the different recipes Jillian was fond of, and how many she’s made, and what types of inspiration she has drawn from when creating her own variants of those recipes.

  Yeah, I know how I sound. And I admit it. I think I’m falling for her. Does it scare me? Hell yeah, it does. I never thought I’d care for someone this deeply again, especially considering how I had lost my childhood sweetheart nearly two years ago, in a horrible car accident. Now, I had a chance to find happiness again and I… scratch that. I have found happiness again and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I don’t think I’m ready to get married again. I’m pretty sure Jillian isn’t, either. However, that particular door – which I thought I had done a great job sealing up – was starting to open.

  I also wasn’t too sure how I felt about pursuing this relationship knowing that there was now a damn good chance that Samantha had been murdered. I had originally been told her death was an accident. The police said so, the investigators said so, and even her family had told me that it was just an accident and no one’s fault. Yet, I cannot ignore that fitful phone call, from some mystery woman, telling me Sam’s death had not been an accident.

  Every single night I was up at 3:30am, just to see if my unknown informant would try to call. I figure she’s tried to call me practically every night for nearly a year, so why would she stop now? Well, unfortunately, the early morning calls had come to a screeching halt. However, I wasn’t about to miss a chance to speak with this woman again, so I set an alarm every morning. Just in case.

  I looked across the table at my date for the evening. Jillian and Samantha were so much alike in so many ways it was scary. However, the same could be said for their differences. Samantha had been almost as introverted as I was. Jillian was about as extroverted as one could get. Samantha had preferred quiet nights at home. That’s not to say Jillian didn’t enjoy spending some private time together, quite the opposite. She enjoyed both. Jillian could be just as comfortable in the midst of a noisy crowd as she could be in a quiet library. And the interesting side note to this would be her influence on me. I was really starting to enjoy spending time outside the house. I enjoyed getting together with all of our friends on a weekly basis.

  I had Jillian to thank for that. Because of her, feelings I hadn’t felt since Samantha’s death were beginning to resurface. Do you know what? It felt pretty damn good.

  “So, what are you going to have?” I companionably asked Jillian as I opened the menu and, for the first time ever, looked down at the dinner selections.

  I felt the blood drain out of my face. My stomach sank, and I do mean sank. I had researched the menu online last week and had found a couple of entrees that I thought I might be able to keep down. However, I was pretty sure I must have been looking at the menu for lunch, not dinner, because the choices on this menu presented a whole new set of problems: they were in French. Clearly, those of us who are culinarily challenged should limit our exposure to gourmet food to lunch, and only lunch. What was I supposed to do now?

  I was halfway tempted to cover my eyes and start chanting ‘eenie, meenie, miney, mo…’

  “I think I’m going to have ‘Les Ravioles de Homard à l’Estragon’,” Jillian decided, after thoughtfully perusing the menu for a few minutes. I should also add that she was using what I thought was a perfect French accent. Perhaps she was bilingual? “What about you?”

  Wow. How was I going to respond to this one? I needed more time to try and work out the translation to each entrée. I had taken four years of Spanish, and one of French. I was fairly confident that I could deduce the main ingredients for each dish. So the question was, could I stall for time? And of course, right on cue, the waiter arrived, holding a silver tray with Jillian’s bottle of Crystal Rose and a
2 liter bottle of Coke Zero. I had to refrain from laughing out loud. If ever there were two drinks that didn’t belong on the same tray together, it was those two. However, the waiter pulled it off without giving any indication he thought the beverage choice strange. He expertly popped the cork from Jillian’s champagne, delicately poured her a glass, and then uncapped my two-liter bottle of soda to pour me a glass. While I was thinking of the absurdity of having a plastic two-liter bottle of soda and a $400 bottle of champagne on the same tray, another waiter appeared and placed a large ice bucket stand next to our table. Our waiter then placed the champagne and the bottle of soda in the same bucket.

  I picked up my drink, clinked it against my date’s, and took an appreciative sip. Yep, it was my favorite brand of soda. What were the chances they had it in stock? Slim to none, if you ask me. What do you want to bet they sent someone to the grocery store to pick up the bottle? Damn, these guys were good. However, before I could tell them so, the waiter faced Jillian, bowed, and politely inquired what she’d like for dinner. Jillian repeated the same phrase she had said to me when I asked earlier. After inputting the selection into what looked like a small electronic tablet, the waiter turned to me.

  Shitshitshitshit. What was I supposed to say? ‘Could you get me the English version of this so I know what the hell I’d be ordering, please?’ What would Jillian say to that? Come on, Zachary, I scolded myself. You’re better than this. Just open your mouth and order something!

  “Ummm, I was thinking about trying, hmm. Let’s see.”

  Let’s face it. I could be holding this menu upside down, and it would make just as much sense either way. At this point, it was a guessing game. I could only hope that I guessed correctly.

  “I’ll have this,” I said, as I tapped on one of the entrees.

  The waiter leaned forward to see what I had selected.

  “Ah. ‘Les Cuisses de Grenouilles Sautées Provençale’. An excellent choice.”

  A grin appeared on my face as the waiter moved off. He seemed pleased with my choice. Hah. Nailed it. Jillian suddenly laid a hand over mine and said something that wiped the smile off my face and would end up giving me nightmares for years to come.

  “Zachary, I’m impressed. I never would have pegged you for someone who likes frog legs.”

  It’s a good thing I didn’t have a mouthful of soda or else I’d be rinsing my nasal cavities with a carbonated beverage. I just ordered frog legs? Me?? My eyes widened as the consequences of what I had just done sank in. I was on a date. I wanted to impress Jillian, and that meant I was going to have to eat whatever was placed in front of me. Oh, God. I think I’m gonna be sick.

  I swallowed nervously, “Umm...”

  Jillian suddenly laughed out loud, “You had no idea what you ordered, did you?”

  “Of course I did,” I countered as I tried valiantly to save what dignity I had left. “You think I’d order something off a menu without knowing what it is first?”

  “Ordinarily, no. However, I saw your face when the waiter put those menus down. You’d think you had seen a ghost. I can only assume you didn’t realize it’d be in French. How am I doing?”

  I smiled at her. Damn, this was one smart, observant woman. No wonder I liked her so much.

  “I think I’ll take, ‘What are acceptable situations in which to plead the Fifth’, Alex.”

  Jillian giggled and placed her hand on mine to give it a gentle squeeze.

  “What are your intentions? Will you really try those frog legs, just so you don’t lose face? I’m sure there’s enough time to change the order. Would you like some help selecting a different entree?”

  I glanced over at the nearly full bottle of soda and kept my head held high, “No, thank you. I ordered the darn things. I’ll see it through.”

  Jillian turned to the ice bucket standing next to our table, extricated the bottle, and refilled her glass with her beloved Crystal Rose. She then took the empty champagne glass in front of me, poured me a glass, returned the bottle to the ice bucket, and then held her flute out to me. Recognizing she wanted to offer a toast of some sort, I took my glass and clinked it against hers.

  “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Zachary.”

  “It’s only starting,” I pointed out.

  “You’re here, with me. You’re trying some of my favorite champagne, in my favorite restaurant, ready to eat a dish that I wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. And, you’re doing this to impress me. Let me tell you something. Girls really like that type of thing.”

  I grinned, clinked my glass against hers one more time, and then took a sip. A nasty, vile flavor permeated my mouth. There was no way I could swallow this swill without gagging, so I had to wait - with that crap in my mouth - until Jillian looked away. Once she did, I took a deep breath and swallowed.

  Blech. Champagne is definitely not for me. I gotta tell you, gourmet restaurants like this are definitely lost on me. Oh, well. This was Jillian’s favorite place, so for her, I’ll suck it up. Maybe I’d be able to make it through this dinner after all. Sitting here, spending time with Jillian, had the intended effect of making me completely forget what the good chef was preparing for my dinner. However, fifteen minutes later, my brutal reality check came calling.

  The waiter reappeared, pushing a polished silver cart. Two additional waiters appeared. One topped off our drinks while the other prepared the table for our entrees. After our plates had been placed before us, and we were alone once more, I finally allowed myself to look down at my offerings.

  What I saw did not look – or smell – promising.

  Have you ever seen cooked frog legs? Of course not. Why? Because nobody in their right friggin’ mind would want to order these things. And if, for some reason, you have, and you actually enjoy these things, could you possibly swing by Pomme Valley and bail my ass out? I wasn’t too sure if I could do this.

  “You’ll have to let me know how you like them,” Jillian companionably told me after she took her first bite of her meal.

  “So, uh…” I swallowed a few times. My nose was reporting in that it didn’t care for my culinary choice for the night, either. I had to keep taking deep breaths. “What did you end up ordering? In English, if you don’t mind.”

  My date tapped a small pouch-looking thing made of pasta.

  “Lobster ravioli with Tarragon Beurre Blanc.”

  Ravioli? Seriously?? Her choice already sounded ten thousand times better than my own. I sure as hell didn’t remember seeing that as a choice on the menu.

  “Doesn’t sound too bad,” I decided.

  Jillian giggled, “You mean, it sounds better than frog legs, right?”

  I swallowed again, “Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Are you going to at least try them?”

  I looked down at the plate and counted four different legs du amphibian and groaned.

  “Yes. I, er, I’ll try them. Hmm. I wonder how you eat them. Have you ever had these things before?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” Jillian proclaimed as she vehemently shook her head. “I’ve never had any desire to eat a frog, or any part of it.”

  Great. That was just peachy. How was I going to play this? Either swallow my pride and ask for something completely different, or else suck it up and try to get one of these things down.

  Right then, I had a very clear mental picture of Samantha, laughing her butt off. She was way more tolerant of fancy food than I was. Still, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to eat this, either.

  My stomach rumbled. Not in the ‘hey, I’m hungry’ kind of way but in the ‘you put that in me and you’ll be sorry’ way. Steeling myself, I picked up my fork and knife. The frog leg had a similar overall shape as a chicken drumstick, only much longer and much more slender. Kinda. Maybe I could hold it steady with my fork and perhaps slice the meat off? I was pretty certain I wouldn’t be able to physically touch the thing.

  I managed to slice off a small sliver of meat and, before I co
uld talk myself out of it, popped the thing into my mouth. So, did it taste like chicken? My answer? No. However, the texture of the meat did remind me of chicken. No, wait. That wasn’t quite right. The texture also reminded me of fish. No, that’s not right, either. It’s almost like... if the two of them were to be put together… that’s it. If you want to know what a frog leg tastes like, imagine a cross between chicken and fish.

  What did I think of it? I rated it a solid ‘D’. While it wasn’t offensive, and the flavor of the meat was mild, I certainly wouldn’t order it again. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that most of my bad culinary habits are all psychological. It was the same in this case. Most normal people would have simply kicked back and analyzed the tastes and sensation of the new dish and decide whether or not they’d like it. Oh, no. Not me. My mind – unfortunately – wouldn’t shut the hell up and had already decided it didn’t like it. I couldn’t help but be reminded that I was eating a frog.

  I drained my glass of soda and reached for the bottle.

  “That bad, huh?” Jillian observed. “What was it like?”

  I pushed my plate towards Jillian.

  “Would you care to try some?”

  My cell phone rang. You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch, was suddenly blasting through my phone’s speaker. It was Vance. Surprisingly, Jillian was smiling.

  “Whew,” she sighed. “He couldn’t have timed that better.”

  Surprised, I turned to Jillian with a smile forming on my face, “What? And miss out on some of that wholesome goodness right there?”

  “By eating an amphibian?” Jillian shuddered. “No, thank you. I’ll stick with my very tasty lobster ravioli. You’d better answer that, by the way. You never know what Vance might need you to do.”

  “Hey, buddy. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Dude, where the hell were you about ten minutes ago?”