Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree (33 page)

“You still haven’t explained why you’re making eggnog.”

“I’m making a whole Christmas dinner. Got one of Buster Gwyn’s turkeys in the oven. I told him I wanted one that won a race, but he probably sold me a loser.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Have you ever seen that old movie
City Slickers
?
One of the men says his life is a ‘do- over.’ That’s what I’ve decided to do. We’re having a Christmas do-over.”

I was about to ask him if that meant we’d all be receiving more gifts from him when my ringtone sounded.

“Callie Parrish here,” I answered.

“It’s so good to hear you.” No mistaking the smooth tone of Jetendre Patel. I needed a minute to think of a response. My heart sped up, but I wondered if he’d called to say goodbye.

“Good to hear you, too.” I said. Daddy kept right on cooking.

“As Ricky Ricardo would say, ‘I got some ’splainin’ to do.’”

“Go right ahead. Did you meet someone else, or did you think we were moving too fast?” Okay, I said it in a snarky tone, but sometimes my feelings control my mouth. That’s not all bad because my brain certainly doesn’t always do a good job of it.

“The last time we spoke, I planned to call you back after closing the restaurant when I got home that night. I haven’t gotten there yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was mugged while making the night deposit at the bank. I’m in the hospital. Been here since then. I was in a medically induced coma some of the time, but I’m alert and thinking straight now—thinking about you. I hope you didn’t run off and marry someone else while I was unconscious.”

“No,” I laughed, “but I was worried about you.” I didn’t add that I’d been as angry as I’d been concerned.

“I want to come see you as soon as I’m out of here.” His voice was
so
smooth. “I hope things have been better. The last time we talked, you’d found a corpse under your Christmas tree.”

“It was interesting,” I answered, “very interesting.”

“May I call you later?” he asked. “My doctor just came in.”

“Yes, call me tonight.” I felt like I was grinning all over when I disconnected.

“Who was that?” Daddy asked. I know that’s rude and he knows it’s rude, but my dad thinks my business is his business no matter how old I am.

“J. T. Patel, that man I met at the fair.”

“The one who owns the curry place in Florida?”

“It’s not just a curry restaurant, and he also owns a major food concession with Middleton’s Midway.” For some reason, Daddy’s question made me jump to the defensive.

“He’s not one of those people who think cows are sacred, is he?”

“I’ve never asked him that, but he serves all-beef frankfurters in his corn dogs, and he wished me a Merry Christmas.” I picked one of the green and white swirly pieces out of the candy dish and slipped it in my mouth.

“Well, ask him next time you talk to him, and don’t eat all that candy. I bought it for Ellen. She likes it.”

“Then why did you put it out here where everyone can get to it?”

“I didn’t know you’d gobble it up.” He slipped two oven mitts over his hands and pulled a steaming roaster pan from the oven. I love the smell of roasted turkey.

“I can’t believe it.” I sounded like a little girl who’d just found the doll she wanted under her Christmas tree instead of a grown woman who’d found a corpse there. “I didn’t have plans for New Year’s Eve, and now I have three men who want to date me. My life is raining men.” I pondered that for a moment. “That would be a good song title. Maybe Mike will make up a song called ‘It’s Raining Men’ for me.”

“No need.” Daddy grinned. “There’s already an old song named that. Look it up on YouTube.”

“Is it bluegrass or country?” I asked. Daddy just laughed.

I went to Daddy’s computer in his room and listened to “It’s Raining Men” on YouTube. Buh-leeve me, I love that song, and it’s definitely not country or bluegrass.

When I returned to the kitchen, Mike and Miss Ellen were coming through the back door.

She wasn’t carrying a casserole dish. For years Daddy’s friends have teased him about the “Casserole Parade” after my mother died. Around here, widowed and divorced ladies carry peach cobblers, homemade fudge, and especially chicken casseroles to men whose wives die. It’s an indication they want to become friends—better friends, maybe even more than friends. My three older brothers say Daddy didn’t cook a meal for his first year of widowhood because there was always some woman over at the house babying us kids and feeding the whole family. My personal thought is that they must have been desperate to chase a man with six kids all under twelve years old. Or, who knows? Maybe Daddy was a hunk back then.

Mike set a liter of spiced rum on the table beside the punch bowl. I noticed Miss Ellen might not have brought a casserole, but she held a bag from the liquor store in one hand. She placed it on the counter and took out two bottles—one sherry and one top-shelf bourbon. She smiled at Daddy and said, “I hope it’s all right to put these here. You said not to cook anything to go with dinner, so I brought something for the music session or you can save it for another time.”

“You’re one sweet lady,” Daddy said and gave Miss Ellen a little hug. He grinned.

Mike rolled his eyes, but it was okay because neither Daddy nor Miss Ellen was looking at us. They were gazing at each other like two kids during their first infatuation. My brain still felt discombobulated as a result of the concussion. Poetry popped into my mind, specifically that famous line from Ogden Nash:
Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Everyone who’s ever read a Callie Parrish Mystery knows that I never write a Chapter Thirteen because I think the number thirteen brings bad luck. Since there are already twelve chapters, I debated skipping over thirteen and calling this chapter fourteen, but instead I’ll call it:

AFTERWORD

When I decided to write about what happened when I found Santa Claus dead under my Christmas tree, it kind of worried me that everything happened
after
the body was found on Christmas night.

I went to my now favorite quick reference, Wikipedia, to check, and found that the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas” refers to the twelve days
after
Christmas, which was a lot more suited to this story than a nursery rhyme title, so I tied the chapter titles to Mike’s version of the song. Mike sings it all the time. I won’t write out all the lyrics, but I’ll give enough for you to sing it if you want. Everyone knows the pattern. It begins with the first verse:

On the first day of Christmas,

My true love gave to me,

A corpse under the Christmas tree.

The second verse is:

On the second day of Christmas,

My true love gave to me,

Two broken hearts,

And a corpse under the Christmas tree.

Each additional verse adds a new present and then repeats all the previous gifts. At the end, it goes like this:

On the twelfth day of Christmas,

My true love gave to me,

Twelve eggs a’nogging,

Eleven axes grinding,

Ten turkeys trotting,

Nine guns a’smoking,

Eight collards cooking,

Seven doggies howling,

Six tongues a’wagging,

Five stolen rings,

Four falling flakes,

Three red wreaths,

Two broken hearts,

And a corpse under the Christmas tree.

• • •

I just heard about a scientific study that determined that carrying cell phones in bras increases chance of breast cancer. I’m moving mine right now and hope you will, too, if you’ve been keeping yours conveniently between the girls.

The End

RECIPES FROM FRANKIE

By Frankie Parrish

Not being much of a reader, I never read a cozy in my life, but some folks call my sister Callie’s stories that kind of books. I also understand that a lot of popular cozies include recipes. I talked to Callie about adding some throughout this book, but she flatly refused. That’s not surprising because Callie’s cooking is—well, it’s not so good.

Pa, now, is top-notch in the kitchen. Being unemployed and dumped again by my girlfriend at the time
Callie was writing
A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree
, I took it upon myself to watch and write down how Pa cooks the foods Callie wrote about in the book. Of course, Pa triples and sometimes quadruples these recipes, but I doubt that Callie’s readers want to cook the quantities Pa does. Readers will notice that I seldom give a number of servings for each recipe because I never figured out the number of normal servings compared to the portions that Pa’s big, strapping sons (including me) eat all the time.

PA’S RECIPES

BOURBON BALLS

I’ve eaten lots of these made with rum or whiskey, and they were all good, but Pa always makes them with bourbon—his good drinking bourbon. He cautions, “It’s like wine. If you wouldn’t drink it, don’t cook with it.” These Bourbon Balls aren’t hard to make, but they go so fast that Pa always doubles this recipe. He also warns, “If you’re gonna munch on many Bourbon Balls anywhere but at home, better get you a designated driver.”

PA’S NO-BAKE BOURBON BALLS

Ingredients

12 ounces gingersnaps, completely crushed*

1 cup confectioners’ sugar

1½ cups finely chopped pecans**

¼ cup light corn syrup

2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa

½ cup bourbon

½ cup granulated sugar

Directions

Stir everything together except the granulated sugar in a large mixing bowl. Shape into one-inch balls. Pour granulated sugar in a paper plate with an edge. Roll each ball in the sugar, then store in an airtight container for up to two weeks. These are actually better a day or so after making them, but they don’t freeze well.

*
Pa has also made these using different kinds of cookies—vanilla wafers or animal crackers, but he prefers gingersnaps or sometimes graham crackers. Regardless, be sure to crush them real fine. The way he does it is to put the cookies in a gallon-size zipper bag. It needs to be big because the sandwich-size bags are thinner plastic. Close the bag real tight and use a rolling pin to crush the cookies inside.

**The recipe calls for pecans, which Pa usually has from his own pecan trees, but if he has to buy nuts for them, he uses walnuts because they’re cheaper.

AUNT CUTIE’S PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES

Pa got this recipe from his sister who was called Cutie Pie when they were growing up. She lived in Eastover, South Carolina, and died when I was a little boy, but I do remember Aunt Cutie as we kids called her. She was a very sweet lady, and Pa makes these cookies to honor her.

PA’S PEANUT BUTTER BLOSSOMS

Ingredients

½ cup shortening

½ cup peanut butter

1 cup granulated sugar

3 tablespoons molasses

1 egg

1 teaspoon vanilla

1½ cups sifted all-purpose flour

¾ teaspoon baking soda

¼ teaspoon salt

Additional sugar for coating cookies

48 Hershey’s Kisses, unwrapped

Directions

Preheat oven to 375° F. Cream shortening, peanut butter, sugar, molasses, egg and vanilla. Sift together dry ingredients. Blend into creamed mixture. Shape in 1-inch balls or use cookie press. Roll in granulated sugar if using balls, sprinkle with sugar if using press. Place 2 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 375° for 10 to 12 minutes. Gently place and press a candy in the center of each cookie. Cool slightly; remove from pan. Makes 4 dozen.

PA’S VERSION OF WILLENE’S SUNDAY CAKE

Pa told Callie that this is the cake our mother, Willene, cooked for every Sunday dinner. I don’t remember that and, of course, neither does Callie, but John says he remembers her cooking this cake except that she never used a cake mix while Pa does.

Ingredients

Yellow cake made from your favorite scratch recipe or from a cake mix

2 cups white granulated sugar