Read Online By Cook or by Crook (A Five-Ingredient Mystery) by Maya Corrigan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Maya Corrigan
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where the mud flew as fast as the tennis balls, Monique would be the obvious suspect. Her tirade against Nadia last week guaranteed that. Val would do her best to keep that mud off her cousin.
Her knife crunched through the oatmeal pastry. Even a small blade like this would have pierced Nadia’s flesh with ease. Yet someone had gone to the trouble of shaving down a racket handle instead of reaching for a kitchen knife. Why?
Bethany climbed off the stool. “It’s after four. I have to go home and make baked red beans for the teacher potluck. Can I start working tomorrow morning? I’ve worked a few weekends so I know the routine.”
“Sure.” Val could think of nothing she wanted more than to sleep in tomorrow. Today felt like the longest day she’d ever lived through, and it still had hours to go. “Call me if you have a question. The breakfast casseroles bake for forty-five minutes at 325 degrees.”
“Okeydoke. Thanks, Val.”
Val lifted the breakfast bars from the pan with a spatula and stored them away. She had the uneasy feeling she was supposed to be somewhere else. Her watch read four-thirty. Could she have forgotten an appointment?
No, Nadia had made an appointment. She’d written Tues430 in the notes Val had seen near the phone while waiting for the police this morning. The notes included an address on Maple Street and a long name starting with Z and ending with K. Val couldn’t remember the syllables that came between those letters or the exact address. Maple Street was only a few blocks long, though, and she could probably find the house from the description in Nadia’s notes—a brick ranch with a fenced yard. Someone might be waiting there for Nadia now.
If Val had a meeting scheduled with a person who would never show up, she’d want to know sooner rather than later. She grabbed her bag and rushed out of the club. She would keep Nadia’s appointment.
Chapter 6
Val drove along Maple Street, where most of the mailboxes had names painted on them. She braked when she saw a long name beginning with Z. She parked in front of a modest one-story house, a perfect size for Granddad if she could ever talk him into giving up the big Victorian. She studied the name on the mailbox for a few seconds, silently pronouncing each syllable. The name didn’t end with a K as she’d remembered from Nadia’s notes, but the mailbox probably couldn’t fit the full name. A window air conditioner hummed as she approached the front door.
She rapped on the door and, when a woman with permed gray curls opened it, she said, “Hi. Are you Mrs. Zach-ar-na-rov—”
“I told you to call me Mrs. Z, Nadia. Come on in.”
“I’m not—” A deliciously sweet aroma wafted toward Val and drew her inside. She followed Mrs. Z into a small, tidy living room.
The elderly woman bent herself into a straight-backed chair and gestured toward a sofa slip-covered in a worn floral fabric. “Sit down. Help yourself to some cookies and iced tea.”
The coffee table held a glass pitcher of amber liquid with lemon slices and mint sprigs floating amid ice cubes. The table’s centerpiece was a plate piled with golden mounds studded with brown-edged coconut flakes. They looked like macaroons but with a more intense color than usual. Val hesitated. Should she eat cookies under false pretenses? Maybe just one.
She perched on the sofa edge, took a cookie from the plate, and bit into the moist, sweet confection. “Umm. Whole eggs, not just the whites. That’s why they’re golden.” And sinfully rich.
Mrs. Z leaned forward, the skin around her eyes crinkling. “Very good, Nadia, picking out my secret ingredient. You enjoy baking?”
Val’s mouth felt suddenly dry, and the cookie stuck in her throat. “I apologize if I misled you. I’m not Nadia. She’s a . . . a friend of mine. I came here to tell you she can’t meet with you. She died very suddenly.”
The older woman clutched the arms of her chair. “Oh, I’m sorry.
Her knife crunched through the oatmeal pastry. Even a small blade like this would have pierced Nadia’s flesh with ease. Yet someone had gone to the trouble of shaving down a racket handle instead of reaching for a kitchen knife. Why?
Bethany climbed off the stool. “It’s after four. I have to go home and make baked red beans for the teacher potluck. Can I start working tomorrow morning? I’ve worked a few weekends so I know the routine.”
“Sure.” Val could think of nothing she wanted more than to sleep in tomorrow. Today felt like the longest day she’d ever lived through, and it still had hours to go. “Call me if you have a question. The breakfast casseroles bake for forty-five minutes at 325 degrees.”
“Okeydoke. Thanks, Val.”
Val lifted the breakfast bars from the pan with a spatula and stored them away. She had the uneasy feeling she was supposed to be somewhere else. Her watch read four-thirty. Could she have forgotten an appointment?
No, Nadia had made an appointment. She’d written Tues430 in the notes Val had seen near the phone while waiting for the police this morning. The notes included an address on Maple Street and a long name starting with Z and ending with K. Val couldn’t remember the syllables that came between those letters or the exact address. Maple Street was only a few blocks long, though, and she could probably find the house from the description in Nadia’s notes—a brick ranch with a fenced yard. Someone might be waiting there for Nadia now.
If Val had a meeting scheduled with a person who would never show up, she’d want to know sooner rather than later. She grabbed her bag and rushed out of the club. She would keep Nadia’s appointment.
Chapter 6
Val drove along Maple Street, where most of the mailboxes had names painted on them. She braked when she saw a long name beginning with Z. She parked in front of a modest one-story house, a perfect size for Granddad if she could ever talk him into giving up the big Victorian. She studied the name on the mailbox for a few seconds, silently pronouncing each syllable. The name didn’t end with a K as she’d remembered from Nadia’s notes, but the mailbox probably couldn’t fit the full name. A window air conditioner hummed as she approached the front door.
She rapped on the door and, when a woman with permed gray curls opened it, she said, “Hi. Are you Mrs. Zach-ar-na-rov—”
“I told you to call me Mrs. Z, Nadia. Come on in.”
“I’m not—” A deliciously sweet aroma wafted toward Val and drew her inside. She followed Mrs. Z into a small, tidy living room.
The elderly woman bent herself into a straight-backed chair and gestured toward a sofa slip-covered in a worn floral fabric. “Sit down. Help yourself to some cookies and iced tea.”
The coffee table held a glass pitcher of amber liquid with lemon slices and mint sprigs floating amid ice cubes. The table’s centerpiece was a plate piled with golden mounds studded with brown-edged coconut flakes. They looked like macaroons but with a more intense color than usual. Val hesitated. Should she eat cookies under false pretenses? Maybe just one.
She perched on the sofa edge, took a cookie from the plate, and bit into the moist, sweet confection. “Umm. Whole eggs, not just the whites. That’s why they’re golden.” And sinfully rich.
Mrs. Z leaned forward, the skin around her eyes crinkling. “Very good, Nadia, picking out my secret ingredient. You enjoy baking?”
Val’s mouth felt suddenly dry, and the cookie stuck in her throat. “I apologize if I misled you. I’m not Nadia. She’s a . . . a friend of mine. I came here to tell you she can’t meet with you. She died very suddenly.”
The older woman clutched the arms of her chair. “Oh, I’m sorry.
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