A Catered Mother's Day

A CATERED MURDER
A CATERED WEDDING
A CATERED CHRISTMAS
A CATERED VALENTINE'S DAY
A CATERED HALLOWEEN
A CATERED BIRTHDAY PARTY
A CATERED THANKSGIVING
A CATERED ST. PATRICK'S DAY
A CATERED CHRISTMAS COOKIE EXCHANGE
A CATERED FOURTH OF JULY
A CATERED MOTHER'S DAY

 

 

 

 

A Mystery with Recipes

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Thanks to Betsy Scheu, for her proofreading skills

Prologue

T
he first call came at ten o'clock on the Thursday evening before Mother's Day.

“I thought you'd like to know that I'm doing it,” Ellen Hadley said.

“Doing what?” Bernie Simmons asked as she headed over to the refrigerator.

“Doing what you suggested, of course,” Ellen replied.

Bernie wrinkled her forehead. “What did I suggest?” she inquired as she lodged her cell more firmly between her shoulder and her ear, opened the refrigerator door, and took out two pounds of butter and a dozen eggs.

“You know.”

“I really don't.”

“Ha-ha. Funny lady.”

“I'm being serious.”

There was a pause and some sort of noise in the background. Maybe a door closing? Or opening? Bernie wasn't sure.

Then Ellen said, “Gotta go.”

“Wait,” Bernie told her. But it was too late. Ellen had hung up.

“What the hell?” Bernie muttered. She put the butter and the eggs down on the counter and tried calling her friend back, but her call went straight to voice mail. Had Ellen turned off her phone? Was there some sort of interference with the signal? Bernie tried again and got the same result.

“That's odd,” Bernie reflected as she slipped her cell into her pants pocket and gathered up her supplies.

“What's odd?” Bernie's sister, Libby, asked as she studied the cupcakes on the cooling rack. They were perfect. They all had gently rounded tops. There wasn't a crack in sight.

Bernie told her, concluding with, “I don't have a clue what Ellen's talking about.”

Libby shrugged. “If you can't remember, it's probably not that important anyway.”

“Probably not,” Bernie agreed as she got out the sugar, vanilla, and cocoa for the cupcake icing. “But why did she turn off her phone?” she asked, unwilling to let the matter go.

“Obviously Ellen's in the middle of something. She did say ‘gotta go,' after all.” Libby paused. “Or maybe she didn't turn her cell off,” she suggested as she went over to the sink and began washing out the muffin tins. “Maybe her battery went dead.”

“Possibly.”
Heaven only knows,
thought Bernie,
it's happened to me often enough
. “But . . .” she began.

Libby turned her head. “You're overthinking this. Let it go.”

“But it makes no—”

“Let it go,” Libby repeated, a bit more emphatically this time. She placed the muffin tin on the dish rack to dry and started on the second one.

“You're right,” Bernie said after a moment, and began concentrating on the task at hand.

She started separating the eggs into different bowls and after a while she forgot about Ellen's call. It was late, she was tired, and Libby was right. How important could the call be? If it was, Ellen would have called back. She was most likely dealing with some domestic drama. But then, what else was new?

It wasn't until Ellen's second call came in two days later and Bernie and Libby were staring at a man's body splayed out on a bed in room twenty-one of the Riverview Motel, while Ellen whimpered in the background, that Bernie began to understand what Ellen had been referring to.

Chapter 1

B
ernie's mom had always told Bernie that she should think before she spoke, and Bernie decided her mom had been right—as per usual. It was true. Sometimes she didn't think, and what she'd said to Ellen had definitely fallen into that category. Boy, she wished she'd kept her mouth shut. That was for sure. But how could she have known their conversation would lead to such a disastrous conclusion?

She couldn't have. By any stretch of the imagination. Even her father and her sister agreed with that. But still, there was that small niggling voice in her head, the voice she kept hearing no matter what she told herself. The voice that kept telling her that if she hadn't mentioned Mother's Day, Ellen wouldn't have said what she said, Bernie wouldn't have made the suggestions she did, there wouldn't be a dead body on the motel bed, and Ellen wouldn't be in the trouble she was in.

It had all started so innocently too. When Ellen had walked into A Little Taste of Heaven, the noon rush was over, the day's baking was done, and the counter was manned. It was one of those picture perfect, Norman Rockwell kind of afternoons. The sky was a cerulean blue, the tulips and the daffodils were in bloom, the grass was a tender green, and the sun was streaming down through the leaves trembling in the breeze.

Shopkeepers had thrown their doors open and drivers were lined up at the car washes getting their rides spiffed up. Teenagers were running around in flip-flops and shorts while adults were parading around in T-shirts. When Bernie was recounting the details of the debacle to her dad, she remembered it had been a little after three in the afternoon when Ellen had come into the shop. Bernie had had a smudge of flour on her cheek and some flecks of it in her hair.

“Baking?” Ellen had asked, indicating the flour.

Bernie had laughed and brushed it off. “I'm through for the day.”

“Want to take a break and go to Skylar Park and watch the boats on the river?”

“By all means. I was just thinking that it's too nice to be inside.”

Ten minutes later, after Bernie told Libby where they were going, she and Ellen had headed out the door. When they got to the park, it seemed to Bernie as if the whole town of Longely had had the same idea. Kids were running after other kids, moms were chasing after them, and dogs were chasing after anything that moved.

She and Ellen had sat on one of the few unoccupied benches and began drinking the freshly roasted Sumatra coffee that Bernie had brought with her from the shop, black for Ellen, and a small amount of heavy cream and one lump of demerara sugar for herself. They ate the anise-flavored biscotti that Bernie and Libby had finished baking that morning and chatted about Arf, Ellen's burgeoning dog biscuit business.

“I think we have to decide whether or not to increase production,” Ellen had said.

Bernie took a sip of her coffee and watched as a pigeon waddled toward her. “Do you want to?”

“Lisa does.”

“And you don't?”

Ellen sipped her coffee. “I guess I'm not as ambitious as she is. But Lisa says it's the right thing to do. She says you either grow or die.”

“Sounds like something her husband would say.”

Ellen nodded. “But I think Jeremy may be right.”

“You don't sound very enthusiastic,” Bernie observed.

“I'm not,” Ellen confessed. “But I think it's the smart thing to do.”

The pigeon stared at Bernie. “That means you'd have to move the business out of your house,” she said.

“I know.”

Bernie decided Ellen didn't look happy about the prospect.

“So where would you go?”

“There's a commercial space near Croton that we can rent.” Ellen corrected herself. “Have rented.”

“So it's a done deal,” Bernie said.

Ellen sighed. “Yeah, it is. The place has lots of equipment. The ovens are good. Of course, it's not cheap.”

“Not compared to using your basement it isn't. And then there's the fact it's a half an hour drive from your house,” Bernie pointed out.

Ellen frowned. “There is that. Lisa wants to buy a new mixer, although there are a couple of twenty-gallon ones there we can use—at least for a while. They look as if they're on their last legs.” She reached in her bag and brought out a flyer from a restaurant supply house down on Canal Street. “What do you think?” she asked Bernie, pointing to a forty-gallon mixer. “This is what Lisa wants to get.”

Bernie broke off a tiny bit of her biscotti and threw it to the pigeon. “I think I'd look on Craigslist and get it used. It'll cost you one-third as much, maybe even a quarter.”

Ellen folded up the flyer and put it in her bag. “That's what I said to Lisa.”

Bernie threw some more biscotti crumbs out. Two more pigeons landed and started squabbling with the first one. “Expanding is tricky,” she noted. “You'd be working more hours.”

“A lot more if you count in the commute.”

“Did you point that out to Lisa?”

“She doesn't care. She has a live-in housekeeper, some Spanish lady that lives in a flat over the garage. It's a nice flat,” Ellen said in response to Bernie's raised eyebrow. “Nicer than my apartment after I graduated.”

“That's not saying much,” Bernie noted. Ellen had lived in a stereotypical cold-water flat on the Lower East Side. “So what does Bruce say?” Bernie asked, changing the subject. Bruce was Ellen's husband.

“He says it's up to me. Frankly, I don't think he cares what I do as long as he's not inconvenienced—meaning there's food on the table and the laundry is done.”

Ellen took another sip of her coffee, while Bernie watched a tugboat making its way down the Hudson. Then she introduced the subject she wished she hadn't. All she said was that A Little Taste of Heaven was running a special on French macaroons for Mother's Day. Harmless, right? One would have thought, but one would have been wrong.

Ellen's expression turned grim. “I hate Mother's Day,” she said, pulling at the hem of the faded brown T-shirt she was wearing.

“How come?” Bernie asked. She was curious. Mother's Day made her sad because her mom had died six years ago, but she didn't understand why Ellen felt that way. Her mom was alive and well.

Ellen laughed harshly. “Maybe because my family didn't get me anything for Mother's Day last year. Not even a card, or a bunch of flowers. Nothing. Zip. Zero.”

Bernie shook her head, puzzled. “But you said they took you out to dinner at La Coquette.” La Coquette was a trendy new French bistro that had opened one town over.

The corners of Ellen's mouth turned down. “Yeah. Well, I lied.”

“Why?”

Ellen looked at her hands and bit her lip. “Maybe because I was embarrassed.”

Bernie reached over and squeezed Ellen's shoulder. “They'll get you something this year.”

“No, they won't.”

“You can't be sure.”

“Yes, I can.” Ellen's voice started rising. “They didn't get me a Mother's Day card the year before that or the one before that either, for that matter,” she continued. “So why should this year be any different? Bruce says Mother's Day is a made-up holiday and he sees no reason to make the card companies rich.”

“All holidays are made-up holidays if it comes to that,” Bernie observed. “It's not as if they're encoded in our DNA.”

Ellen sniffed. “Try telling that to my husband.”

“I will.” Bernie looked down. Now she had five pigeons around her feet. She clapped her hands. They retreated.

“Do you know what he and the guys got me for my birthday last year?” Ellen asked.

“Socks?” Bernie posited. They were the worst thing she could think of—unless, of course, they were cashmere and came from Bergdorf's.

“Even worse than that. A ratchet set.”

Bernie crinkled her nose. “Isn't that a tool?”

“Yes. I mean really. You know what Bruce got me for our anniversary?”

“I'm afraid to ask.”

“A new iron and ironing board.”

Bernie rolled her eyes. “That's bad. You should stop ironing. That's what Chinese laundries are for.”

“I don't iron. This was his way of telling me I should. We didn't even go out,” Ellen continued. “Bruce went off and played golf with his buddies instead.”

“Nothing like being ignored,” Bernie observed.

Ellen sniffed. “I'll say.” Her eyes misted over and she turned her head away for a moment to get control of herself. “It's like I'm a piece of furniture.”

“Well, maybe expanding your business will be good.”

Ellen turned toward her. “How do you mean?”

“You'll be away more, so you won't have time to do all the stuff you do at home now.”

Ellen made a dismissive noise. “I'm still going to do everything around there.”

Bernie fed another crumb of biscotti to a second pigeon. “Why? How old are your boys now?” she asked. It was a rhetorical question. She knew the answer, but Ellen told her anyway.

“Ethan is twelve, Ryan is fifteen, and Matt is seventeen.”

“So they're old enough to help. They're more than old enough. You do everything around there. You clean, you cook, you food shop, you walk the dog.”

Ellen's shoulders slumped. “I know.”

“You should stop.”

“I don't mind doing it all,” Ellen protested.

Bernie snorted. “Yeah. I can see that.”

“It's true. I'd just like everyone to pick up after themselves and put their laundry in the basket instead of leaving it on the floor.” Ellen worried her cuticle. “And a thank-you once in a while wouldn't hurt either.”

“Well, I still don't see why they can't do their own laundry and take out the trash,” Bernie persisted. This was not the first time that she and Ellen had had this discussion. It annoyed her that her friend allowed herself to be treated like a dishrag. “After all, you
are
working full time now.”

“I've tried giving them chores,” Ellen replied. “But they don't do them.”

“So make them.”

“They don't listen to me.”

“My dad would have kicked our butts if we didn't do our jobs,” Bernie observed. “Maybe you should talk to Bruce.”

Ellen frowned. “Bruce is part of the problem. In fact, Bruce
is
the problem. His dad never lifted a finger because his mom did everything, and Bruce thinks I should do the same for him.”

Bernie sighed and stretched out her legs. By now she had a flock of pigeons milling around her. She should never have fed them the biscotti crumbs. She leaned over and waved her arms. “Shoo.” The pigeons retreated a couple of inches. “So what would happen if you didn't do everyone's laundry or take the garbage out or cook dinner?” she asked.

Ellen answered promptly. “The dishes would pile up and no one would have any clothes to wear and everyone would yell at me.”

“Eventually they'd get the idea.”

“No, they wouldn't.”

“How do you know if you don't try?” Bernie asked.

“I have tried.”

“Yeah, but for how long? One day? Two days?”

Ellen crossed her arms over her chest. “I don't want to talk about it anymore,” she declared. Which was the way most of the discussions she and Bernie had on this topic ended.

“Fine,” Bernie replied. “Your choice.” She would have killed Bruce by now, but then she never would have married a man like that in the first place.

“I like the biscotti,” Ellen said, changing the subject. “I like the texture.”

“They are good, aren't they,” Bernie replied, happy that her and her sister's hard work had paid off.

It had turned out that making the biscotti was trickier than Bernie and Libby had anticipated. They needed to be crisp enough to hold their shape when you dunked them in coffee, but not so hard that they hurt your teeth. Plus, there was the fact that they had to be baked twice. Then there were the flavors. She and Libby had been fiddling around with the biscotti for over a month, but in the end, aside from the ones they'd made with chocolate and a dash of chili, they'd settled on anise and almond, the old tried and true. Sometimes you couldn't beat the classics.

“So when are you going to move?” Bernie asked Ellen.

“We're in. We signed the lease two weeks ago. We just have to bring in our supplies.” Ellen lapsed into silence as she watched a sailboat out on the Hudson. “Bruce and I used to have one of those, a twenty-four footer. Then the kids came along and we sold it. You're lucky you're not married,” she said suddenly.

Bernie dusted the crumbs off her pink silk blouse, which caused the pigeons to surge forward. “You just need to find a way to make everyone pay attention.”

“I've tried,” Ellen wailed. “You know I have, but nothing I say seems to penetrate.”

Bernie stamped her feet and the pigeons retreated for the third time. “That's the problem. You have to stop talking and start acting.”

“And do what?” Ellen put both of her hands out palms up in a gesture of defeat. “Tell me. I've tried not doing the dishes or doing the laundry, but it didn't faze them in the least. Clearly my family has a higher capacity for dirt and disorder than I do.”

Bernie finished off her biscotti. “I might have a solution for you.”

Ellen leaned forward. “Tell me.”

“You could always fake your own kidnapping. That would certainly get everyone's attention.”