Read Online The Cereal Murders by Diane Mott Davidson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diane Mott Davidson
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Romance, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Cooking, Large Type Books, Colorado, Caterers and Catering, Cookery, Bear; Goldy (Fictitious Character), Women in the Food Industry
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an anonymous call, third one of the morning."
He snorted. "The ex up to his old tricks?"
"He says no. The security alarm went off when the rock came through, and Arch handled it. The calls worry me."
"You going to let the phone company know?"
"Yes. yes, of course. But what scares me is that these things happened right after the Keith Andrews thing. Maybe there's a connection. I wish I'd never found him. I wish I'd never gotten involved. But I did and I am, in case you don't recall."
"I do, I do, Miss G. Take it easy, that's why I called you. There was a message on my voice mail from you, remember? You didn't want to wake me up, but you'd found something."
I told him about the credit card in the pocket of the raccoon coat. He asked for the number. I fished around for the card, then repeated the numerals. He said, "Don't return the card with the coat. Can you bring it over tomorrow? Stay for dinner?"
"Love to." I felt guilty for speaking sharply to him. Softening, I said, "Why don't you come here? I'll probably have a ton of leftover bratwurst. Then if we get an anonymous call, you can bawl the person out yourself."
"How about this... give the sausage to the boys and come out to my place around six. I need to talk to you alone."
His tone made me smile. "Sounds interesting."
"It would be if it were about us," Schulz replied reluctantly. "But this is about Julian."
Great. I said I'd be there and hung up. Packing up the choucroute, I remembered Audrey Coopersmith. Doggone it. Support, support, I told myself, and punched the numbers for the bookstore, where I asked for the self-improvement department. Part of psychology, I was told. Hmm.
"Oh, God, Goldy," Audrey said breathily when we were connected. "I'm so glad you called. I'm a wreck.
First the police and then those damn Dawsons at the church, plus I got this terrible letter yesterday from Carl's lawyer - "
"Please," I interrupted, but nicely, "you know I've got this Bronco thing at the Dawsons - "
"Oh, well, I've got a huge problem. We're having a seminar, Getting Control of Your Life, tonight and I promised to do a little stir-fry for the staff after the store closes at five and before we reopen at seven, and what with the police asking all those questions, I forgot all about the stir-fry, and they have plates and stuff here, but I don't have any food and I was just wondering if you'd..."
Fill in the blank. I stretched the phone cord, opened the door to my walk-in refrigerator, and perused the contents. "How many people?"
"Eight."
"Any vegetarians?"
"None, I already checked. And we've taken up a collection, five dollars per person. I'll give you all the money and buy you any cookbook you want, plus do the serving and cleanup myself...." Relief and glee filled her voice, and I hadn't even said yes.
"Okay, but it'll be simple," I warned. "Simple is what they want, it's part of getting control of your life."
I made an unintelligible sound and said I'd be down after the Bronco game. After some thought I got out two pounds of steak, then swished together a wonderfully pungent marinade of pressed garlic, sherry, and soy sauce. Once the beef had defrosted slightly under cold running water, I cut it into thin slices, sloshed them around in the marinade, and finished packing up the choucroute and trimmings. I couldn't shake the feeling, however, that it was going to be a long half-time luncheon.
At the Dawsons' enormous wood-and-glass home, there was much discussion of the artificial turf inside Minneapolis-domed stadium. My appearance caused only a momentary pause in the downing of margaritas and whiskey sours and the assessment of Viking strategy. Caroline Dawson, still wearing her red suit, waddled in front of Arch, Julian, and me out to the kitchen.
It was the cleanest, most impeccably kept culinary
He snorted. "The ex up to his old tricks?"
"He says no. The security alarm went off when the rock came through, and Arch handled it. The calls worry me."
"You going to let the phone company know?"
"Yes. yes, of course. But what scares me is that these things happened right after the Keith Andrews thing. Maybe there's a connection. I wish I'd never found him. I wish I'd never gotten involved. But I did and I am, in case you don't recall."
"I do, I do, Miss G. Take it easy, that's why I called you. There was a message on my voice mail from you, remember? You didn't want to wake me up, but you'd found something."
I told him about the credit card in the pocket of the raccoon coat. He asked for the number. I fished around for the card, then repeated the numerals. He said, "Don't return the card with the coat. Can you bring it over tomorrow? Stay for dinner?"
"Love to." I felt guilty for speaking sharply to him. Softening, I said, "Why don't you come here? I'll probably have a ton of leftover bratwurst. Then if we get an anonymous call, you can bawl the person out yourself."
"How about this... give the sausage to the boys and come out to my place around six. I need to talk to you alone."
His tone made me smile. "Sounds interesting."
"It would be if it were about us," Schulz replied reluctantly. "But this is about Julian."
Great. I said I'd be there and hung up. Packing up the choucroute, I remembered Audrey Coopersmith. Doggone it. Support, support, I told myself, and punched the numbers for the bookstore, where I asked for the self-improvement department. Part of psychology, I was told. Hmm.
"Oh, God, Goldy," Audrey said breathily when we were connected. "I'm so glad you called. I'm a wreck.
First the police and then those damn Dawsons at the church, plus I got this terrible letter yesterday from Carl's lawyer - "
"Please," I interrupted, but nicely, "you know I've got this Bronco thing at the Dawsons - "
"Oh, well, I've got a huge problem. We're having a seminar, Getting Control of Your Life, tonight and I promised to do a little stir-fry for the staff after the store closes at five and before we reopen at seven, and what with the police asking all those questions, I forgot all about the stir-fry, and they have plates and stuff here, but I don't have any food and I was just wondering if you'd..."
Fill in the blank. I stretched the phone cord, opened the door to my walk-in refrigerator, and perused the contents. "How many people?"
"Eight."
"Any vegetarians?"
"None, I already checked. And we've taken up a collection, five dollars per person. I'll give you all the money and buy you any cookbook you want, plus do the serving and cleanup myself...." Relief and glee filled her voice, and I hadn't even said yes.
"Okay, but it'll be simple," I warned. "Simple is what they want, it's part of getting control of your life."
I made an unintelligible sound and said I'd be down after the Bronco game. After some thought I got out two pounds of steak, then swished together a wonderfully pungent marinade of pressed garlic, sherry, and soy sauce. Once the beef had defrosted slightly under cold running water, I cut it into thin slices, sloshed them around in the marinade, and finished packing up the choucroute and trimmings. I couldn't shake the feeling, however, that it was going to be a long half-time luncheon.
At the Dawsons' enormous wood-and-glass home, there was much discussion of the artificial turf inside Minneapolis-domed stadium. My appearance caused only a momentary pause in the downing of margaritas and whiskey sours and the assessment of Viking strategy. Caroline Dawson, still wearing her red suit, waddled in front of Arch, Julian, and me out to the kitchen.
It was the cleanest, most impeccably kept culinary
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