Éclair Case of Murder: A Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Rosie Kale Culinary Cozy Mystery Book 2) (15 page)

Murder She Typed

By

Sylvia Selfman

What does it feel like to die?

I guess I’ll soon find out.

I can hear the footsteps coming closer.

That’s what I get for being so nosy. I should have left well enough alone.

I can see the glint of a gun.

It’s strange what goes through your head as death approaches. Where are all the deep thoughts? Like I should have been a better, kinder, more giving person.

Instead I’m thinking why didn’t I finish off the chocolate cake at breakfast like I wanted? 

I’m cornered like a scared rabbit. And all I can think of is a line from 'Little Caesar'. ‘Is this the end of Rico?’

Is this the end of Izzy?

Chapter 1

I dragged myself into the kitchen and before I was able to figure out how to work my new coffeemaker, the phone rang.

My friend, Flo, has this uncanny seventh sense to know when I awaken––no small feat considering one of the few advantages of getting older was waking up whenever I felt like it. Or whenever my bladder dictated.

“Izzy, we’re walking this morning,” Flo announced in her drill sergeant voice.

“Outside?”  I balanced the phone between my shoulder and ear as I struggled with my new coffeemaker. It was a battle of woman versus machine that I was determined to win.

“No, on the moon.”

“Forget it then."

Yesterday I spotted at least three new wrinkles and another age spot. It took a candy bar plus the frozen remains of a Sara Lee pound cake to lift me out of my depression.

"Damn!” I punched the buttons on the machine. “How does this thing work?”

My twelve year relationship with my coffeemaker came to an abrupt end the other day, so I took it back to Bed Bath and Beyond. The clerk looked at it, raised one eyebrow and sniffed, "In what era did you say you bought this?”

I was about to offer a nasty retort when I spotted it––one of those shiny new pod coffeemakers just begging to be taken home. I toyed with the idea of obtaining its larger, more expensive sibling but quickly came to my senses. Who was I kidding? I opted for the small version––the one for a single user. It was a sign of the times––of my times anyway.

Flo interrupted my musings. “You’re mumbling to yourself again. Okay, don’t go walking. Keep running in place on your treadmill.”

Running in place––an apt description for what I’d been doing for the past three years, since Sam, my husband of thirty-five years, died.

“I was hoping you’d join me on a heart-healthy, twenty minute walk to Starbucks. I guess I’ll have to enjoy my latte with extra whipped cream and ultra rich, double chocolate muffin by myself.”

“Meet you in ten,” I said and slammed down the phone.

Ten minutes later, I was struggling to keep up with Flo. “Hey, slow down. I’m about to have a heart attack.”

“No time to waste,” she yelled back. “They’re going to run out of double chocolate muffins any minute now.”

Heart attack forgotten, I doubled my speed.

Flo and I carried our lattes and well-earned muffins outside. A modern day Lewis and Clark, we scanned the area for an empty table.

“Over there,” I pointed.

As we made our way over, I spotted a woman who obviously had the same idea. We locked eyes. Then-–as though a whistle simultaneously went off in our heads––the race was on.

By some miracle Flo and I managed to avoid smashing into an elderly woman with a walker and a gentleman walking two pugs.

Out of breath, we collapsed into the seats and avoided even a glance in the direction of our adversary. I’ve never been one to gloat over my victories––few as they are.

When our breathing returned to normal, Flo and I plunged into our double chocolate muffins with a religious fervor that a rabbi or minister could only wish for. After a few minutes I came up for air.

“By the way," I said, "I went to that new doctor who just joined Dr. Harrison’s practice. The one that everyone says looks like a cross between Liam Neeson and Steve McQueen?”

“Lucky you. Did you get to undress for him?” 

“I didn’t have to. I went there to pick up a prescription. However, I did come away with a diet that’s guaranteed to work.”

“You went for a prescription and he gave you a diet? Then he did see you naked!”

I ignored Flo’s comment and pulled a magazine page from my fanny pack and handed it to her.

“Check it out. I found it in a
Good Housekeeping
while I was waiting.”

Okay, I admit it. I’m one of those people who surreptitiously rips out pages from magazines in doctors’ and dentists’ offices. So go ahead and shoot me. Of course I’d never do that at my hairdresser’s––much too risky.

But I harbor no guilt—since I can’t tell you how many times I’ve flipped to articles about the ugly toes or cellulite-ridden thighs of glamorous movie stars, only to find them missing.

As Flo and I pored over the article,
10 Ways to Kick Start Your Weight Loss
, we decided to split another muffin—No sense depriving ourselves before the start of a new diet.

Chapter 2

Flo and I headed back to our condos. Before we parted, we vowed that we would stick to this diet, come hell, high water or three tier chocolate fudge cake.

I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower, willing myself not to dawdle, no matter how good the warm water felt against my skin. For me, a luxurious shower is second only to an afternoon nap in terms of pure pleasure.

But there was no time now for either a luxurious shower or a nap.

I dried off and ran my fingers through my damp hair, then pulled on a pair of jeans which seemed tighter than usual. Bloating, I decided as I rummaged through the drawer searching for a white tee that didn’t display evidence of all the foods I’d ever eaten. I finally settled on black––black being not only the ‘new black’ but also the new stain concealer.

I took one last glance in the mirror, then I grabbed my bag, locked the door behind me and raced to my car. Then I raced back to the house, unlocked the door, grabbed my papers from the kitchen counter and raced back outside.

I was determined not to be late to my writing group.

Chapter 3

You’re late,” Danny Markowitz whispered as I sank, exhausted, into the seat next to him. “Again.” He punctuated his comment with a sadistic smile.

I searched my brain for a withering response but I couldn’t think of one, so I pretended not to have heard him.

Frank Fields was in the middle of reading his story to the group. He stopped, handed me a copy and waited while I removed my papers from my bag and put on my reading glasses. “Sorry,” I mouthed as he resumed reading from his novel,
Lost in Outer Space
. Perfectly titled, since the story had lost me after the second chapter.

Scientific stuff never was my strong point.

When he finished reading, Dr. Linda, our group leader, asked for comments.

“A few love scenes would probably perk it up,” I said. “Maybe a sex scene or two. Or three.” Except for Yettah Finerman who rolled her eyes, no one else responded to my suggestion. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt,” I added.

“Every story doesn’t need to have sex,” Yettah said.

“Sex, shmex,” Yettah’s spouse, Nate Finerman, scoffed. “Writers throw that stuff in to cover up bad writing.” He looked at me meaningfully. I glared back.

“Let’s move on,” Dr. Linda said, attempting to avert a verbal brawl. “Nate, you read next.”

Nate passed around copies from his latest crime novel, which felt suspiciously thick. I counted eight pages, single-spaced. “I thought the limit was five pages––double spaced," I piped up. He ignored my complaint and began reading.

Similar to his previous two novels, this one was rife with scenes of torture and mutilation. Nate would, of course, be an expert on those sorts of things having been a dentist in his pre-retirement days.

When he finished reading, the class heaped its usual praise on his writing.

Yettah took the floor next and read the third revision of her pre-K book,
The Forgetful Elephant.
Since it had so few words she read it in its entirety. When she finished, the group offered suggestions which meant that the following week we’d be hearing it for the fourth time, and I dreaded to think how many times after that.

She was followed by Minna Moskowitz, who announced that since romance books were hot sellers, she’d decided to write one.

Good luck with that
.

Danny announced that he hadn’t brought anything to read since his computer was being repaired. He promised he’d bring in extra pages the following week. “Can’t wait,” I said, to get even for his comment about my being late.

“Izzy,” Dr. Linda said, “I hope you brought something. It’s been a while since you’ve read.”

“Yes, that’s true,” I nodded. “However I think I’ve finally overcome my writer’s block.”

“Writer’s block. That’s a good one!” Danny snorted. “More like chronic constipation.”

I passed around my copies. “I started a new story and you’ll notice, it’s five pages. Double-spaced,” I added, giving Nate a pointed look.

I finished reading and eagerly waited to hear the group’s opinion. However before anyone could comment, the door blew open.

A breeze––or what I later would come to think of as an ill wind––swept in, casting an ominous pall upon the room.

“I assume this is the writing group,” the woman said in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice. It matched her breathtaking Marilyn Monroe figure.

“My name is Sondra. Sondra Sockerman.”

Almost six feet tall, blonde, and well developed, she was the answer to every man’s dream. A pink mini skirt accented her long legs and slender hips. A delicate gold chain called attention––on the slight chance one might have overlooked it––to a well-turned ankle.

As she took long, sultry steps into the room, I was struck with a sense of foreboding that our comfortable little writer’s group would never be the same.

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