Gossamer Ghost (30 page)

Down-Home Chicken Corn Casserole

⅓ cup butter

⅓ cup flour

½ tsp. salt

¼ tsp. black pepper

2 cups milk

2 cups cooked chicken, cut up

1 (11-oz.) can whole kernel corn, drained

⅓ cup bread crumbs

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Melt butter over low heat, then stir in flour, salt, and pepper. Cook until smooth and bubbly. Remove from heat and gradually stir in milk. Then cook to boiling point and let boil for 1 minute. Stir in chicken pieces and corn. Pour into a greased 1½-quart casserole dish. Top with bread crumbs and a few dots of butter. Bake for 30 minutes. Serves 6.

Super Simple Seafood Bisque

2 (10-oz.) cans potato soup

1 cup milk

½ cup cream

2 Tbsp. butter

1 (5-oz.) can shrimp, drained and rinsed

1 (5-oz.) can crabmeat, drained and rinsed

Heat potato soup, milk, cream, and butter together. Add in shrimp and crabmeat. Stir, season to taste, and serve. Serves 4.

No-Bake Peanut Butter and Cornflake Bars

½ cup sugar

½ cup corn syrup

1 cup peanut butter

5 cups cornflakes

Heat sugar and syrup together until sugar dissolves. Add peanut butter and mix well. Gently stir in cornflakes until mixed. Press mixture into a 9-by-13-inch baking pan. Cut into squares using a buttered knife while still warm. Cool until firm. Eat!

Carmela's Crazy Dump Cake

2 (21-oz.) cans blueberry pie filling

2 (20-oz.) cans crushed pineapple, about ¾ drained

½ cup sugar

1 Tbsp. cinnamon

1 box yellow cake mix

6 Tbsp. butter

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Pour blueberry pie filling into 9-by-13-inch dish. Pour crushed pineapple over blueberries. Mix sugar and cinnamon together and sprinkle on top of pineapple layer. Pour dry cake mix on top, breaking up any lumps. Melt butter and drizzle on top. Bake for approximately 40 to 45 minutes. Top should be bubbly and golden brown.

Southern Shrimp and Black Beans

8 Tbsp. butter

juice of 2 limes

1 tsp. garlic salt

1½ lbs. raw shrimp

1 Tbsp. hot sauce

1 (15-oz.) can black beans, drained

Melt butter in frying pan, add in lime juice and garlic salt. Add shrimp and sauté quickly until cooked. Add in hot sauce and black beans, then stir. Serve over cooked rice or in pita bread pockets. Serves 4.

Baked Pork Chops in Creamed Corn

4 pork chops

2 Tbsp. oil

1 can creamed corn

½ onion, chopped

¼ cup milk

salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Brown pork chops in oil, then place in baking dish. Mix together creamed corn, chopped onion, milk, salt, and pepper. Pour over pork chops and bake for about 2 hours or until fork-tender. Serves 4.

Party Shrimp Dip

1 3-oz. pkg. cream cheese, softened

¼ cup chili sauce

1 tsp. grated horseradish (or prepared)

1 tsp. lemon juice

¼ tsp. garlic powder

1 (5-oz.) can shrimp, diced

Mix all ingredients together, adding shrimp last. Chill for about 2 hours, and then serve with crackers or chips.

Baked Porcupines

1 lb. ground beef

½ cup uncooked rice

½ cup water

⅓ cup chopped onions

1 tsp. salt

⅛ tsp. garlic salt

⅛ tsp. pepper

1 (15-oz.) can tomato sauce

1 cup water

2 tsp. Worcestershire sauce

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Mix ground beef, rice, ½ cup water, onion, salt, garlic salt, and pepper together. Using a large spoon, take scoops from mixture and shape into round balls. Place balls in ungreased baking dish. Stir together tomato sauce, 1 cup water, and Worcestershire sauce and pour over porcupines. Cover with foil and bake for 45 minutes. Remove foil and bake for an additional 10 minutes. Serves 4 to 6.

Southern Spoon Bread

2 cups water

1 cup cornmeal

1 cup milk

2 eggs

1 Tbsp. melted butter

2 tsp. salt

Mix water and cornmeal in pan. Heat to boiling point and cook for 5 minutes. Beat eggs well, adding in butter, salt, and milk. Add egg mixture to cornmeal mixture. Beat well and bake in a well-greased pan for approximately 25 minutes.

New Orleans–Style Beignets

½ cup water

¼ cup butter

½ cup flour, sifted

2 eggs

1 tsp. vanilla

oil for frying

powdered sugar

Heat water and butter in large saucepan until water boils and butter is melted. Add flour all at once and stir until mixture forms a soft ball of dough in center of pan. Remove from heat and let stand 5 minutes. Add 1 egg to dough and beat well. Add second egg and vanilla and beat well again. Drop medium-sized spoonfuls of dough into about 1 inch of hot oil. Brown on both sides. Drain on paper towels and sprinkle generously with powdered sugar. Makes about 18 beignets.

Carmela's Homemade Cajun Seasoning

2½ Tbsp. salt

1 Tbsp. dried oregano, crushed to a fine powder

1 Tbsp. paprika

1 Tbsp. cayenne pepper

1 Tbsp. black pepper, fresh ground is best

Combine all ingredients, and then use mixture to spice up your meat and poultry!

Turn the page for a preview of Laura Childs's next Cackleberry Club Mystery . . .

Scorched Eggs

Coming December 2014 in hardcover from Berkley Prime Crime!

S
UZANNE
didn't know how she felt about Blond Bombshell No. 4 as a hair color, but she was about to find out. Especially since she was sprawled in a red plastic chair roughly the size of a Tilt-a-Whirl car, bravely enduring her “beauty experience” at Root 66, downtown Kindred's premier hair salon. Silver foils that looked like baked-potato wrappers were crimped in her hair, while a sparkly pink '50s-era bubble-top hair dryer hovered above her head, blasting a constant stream of hot air.

Yup, the foils were bad enough, but the droning dryer made Suzanne feel as if her head were being sucked into a jet engine.

Jiggling her foot, tapping her fingers, Suzanne knew she should try to regard this as “me time,” as so many women's magazines advocated.

But, all cards on the table, Suzanne felt restless and a little guilty about ducking out of the Cackleberry Club, the cozy little café she ran with her two partners, Toni and Petra. She'd dashed away this Friday afternoon claiming a dire personal emergency. And when you were a silvered blonde who was a tad over forty, the emergence of dark, scuzzy roots all over your head definitely qualified as an emergency.

But now, after all the rigmarole of mixing and tinting and crimping and blow-drying, Suzanne just dreamed of sweet escape.

She glanced around at the five other women, customers in the salon, who seemed perfectly content to sit and be beautified. But scrunched here, paging through an old copy of
Star Whacker
magazine and reading about the questionable exploits of Justin and Miley, didn't seem like the most productive way to spend an afternoon.

“How you doin', gorgeous?” cooed Brett. He bent down and flashed his trademark pussycat grin. Brett was her stylist and co-owner of Root 66. A man who wore his hair bleached, spiked, and gelled. “Are you in need of a little more pampering? Should I send Krista over to do a French manicure?” He cast a slightly disapproving glance at Suzanne's blunt-cut nails.

“No thanks, I'm fine,” Suzanne told him as she balled her hands into tight fists. What she wanted to tell Brett was that she had working-girl hands. Every day she muscled tables, swept floors, hauled in boxes of groceries, and then wrangled two unruly dogs when she finally arrived home at night. In her free time, she stacked hay bales, mucked stalls, and guided her quarter horse, Mocha Gent, through his paces at barrel racing. Oh, and last week, on an egg run to Calico Farms, she'd manhandled a jack and changed a flat tire on her Ford Taurus. Lifestyles of the rich and famous? Here in small-town Kindred? Like . . . not.

Suzanne poked a finger at an annoying tendril of hair that tickled the back of her neck.
Ten more minutes
, she told herself.
Gotta white
knuckle it for ten more minutes. Then I'm outta here.

She knew she should relax and let herself be coddled, but there were things that needed to be done. Kit Kaslik's vintage wedding was tomorrow and she had to figure out what to wear. Toni was babbling about launching a new book club. Her horse, Mocha Gent, still wasn't ready for the Logan County Fair. And Petra was all freaked out about the Mystery Dinner they had planned for this coming Sunday night. And what else? Oh man. She'd gone and invited her boyfriend, Sam, over for dinner next week. And hadn't he promised to bring a bottle of Cabernet if she grilled a steak for him? Yes, she was pretty sure they'd struck that particular deal.

Suzanne drummed her fingers. She wasn't high maintenance, but she was definitely a high-achieving type A. Even so, she projected a certain calm and sense of poise, looking polished but not prim today in a soft denim shirt that was casually knotted at the waist of her trim white jeans. But underneath that denim shirt beat the heart of a racehorse—a thoroughbred who was smart, kind, and the kind of crackerjack businesswoman who could drive a hard bargain or negotiate a sticky contract.

Suzanne shifted in her chair. She figured she had to be parboiled by now. After all, that wasn't her morning spritz of Miss Dior that was wafting through the air. In fact, it smelled more like . . . what?

A few inches of sludgy French roast burning in the back room's Mr. Coffee? A cranked-up curling iron? Someone's hair being fricasseed by hot rollers?

Suzanne peered around suspiciously. Maybe it was Mrs. Krauser, who was tucked under the hair dryer directly across from her. Mrs. Krauser with a swirl of blue hair that perfectly matched her light blue puffed-sleeve blouse.

Wait a minute. Now she really did smell smoke!

Suzanne wiggled her nose and sniffed suspiciously. Was it her? Was
her
hair getting singed?

Tentatively, she touched a hand to the back of her head. She was warm but not overly done. So . . . okay. Peering around again, she felt a faint prickle of anxiety. It had to be Mrs. Krauser over there, blotting at her pink cheeks with a white lace hanky.

But wait, Suzanne told herself. There was something definitely going on. Something cooking. And it wasn't Brett's complimentary snickerdoodle cookies from his back-room oven.

So where on earth was that smell coming from?

Suzanne ducked her head out from beneath the behemoth hair dryer and gazed around the salon, where everything seemed copasetic.

Still . . . it really did smell like smoke. And, were her eyes deceiving her, or did everything suddenly look slightly ethereal and hazy? Like she was peering through a gelled lens?

Holy crap on a cracker! That
was
smoke!

Suzanne scrambled to her feet so fast every pair of eyes in the place was suddenly focused on her.

“I think there's . . .” she said, and then hesitated. Standing in the middle of the beauty shop, with everyone staring at her, she felt a little unsure of herself now. No sense making a ruckus over nothing. But when she inhaled, she definitely detected a nasty, acrid burning scent. A scent that touched the limbic portion of her brain and sent a trickle of fear down her spine.

Smoke. I definitely smell smoke.

“Something's on fire!” Suzanne cried out, trying to make herself heard above the roar of the blow dryers and the blare of show tunes playing over multiple sets of speakers.

Brett looked up from where he was shampooing a client. “What?” He sounded puzzled as bubbles dripped from his hands. “Something's what?”

But Suzanne had already crossed the linoleum floor in three decisive strides and was pushing her way out the front door. On the sidewalk, smack-dab in the middle of downtown Kindred, the summer breeze caught her. It ripped the foils from her hair and sent her purple cape swirling out around her as if she were some kind of superhero.

And as Suzanne stood there, arms akimbo, knowing something was horribly wrong, she heard a terrifying roar. A rumble like the 4:10 Burlington Northern Santa Fe freight train speed-balling its way through Kindred. Within moments, the roar intensified, building to such a furious pitch that it sounded as if a tornado was barreling down upon the entire town. And then, without any warning whatsoever, the windows in the redbrick building right next door to Root 66 suddenly exploded with an earsplitting, heart-stopping blast. And a molten blizzard of jagged glass, chunks of brick, and wooden splinters belched out into the street!

Suzanne ducked as shards of glass shot past her like arrows! She felt the intense heat as giant tongues of red and orange flames belched from the blown-out windows as if they'd been spewed by World War II flamethrowers.

Fearing for her life, her self-preservation instinct kicking in big-time, Suzanne dove behind a large blue metal sign that proudly proclaimed
Logan County Historic Site
. She buried her face in her hands to shield herself from flying debris, hunched her shoulders, and prayed for deliverance.

A few moments later, Suzanne peered out tentatively and was
shocked to see that the entire building, the old brick building that housed the County Services Bureau, was completely engulfed in flames!

Like a scene out of a Bruce Willis action flick, people suddenly came streaming out of all the surrounding businesses. Realtors, bakers, bankers, and druggists, all screaming hysterically, waving their arms and pointing at what had become a roiling, broiling inferno right in the middle of Main Street. Everyone seemed hysterical, yet nobody was doing much of anything to help.

“Call 911!” Suzanne yelped to Jenny Probst, who ran the Kindred Bakery with her husband, Bill.

Jenny nodded frantically. “We called. We already called. Fire department's on its way.”

Two minutes later, a fire engine roared to the scene. A dozen firemen jumped off the shiny red truck even as they struggled to pull on heavy protective coats and helmets.

“There are people in there!” Suzanne cried to the fireman who seemed to be in charge. She pointed desperately at the building that was now a wild torrent of flames. “You've got to get them out!”

“Stand back, ma'am,” ordered one of the firemen, and Suzanne did. She retreated a few steps and took her place in the middle of the street along with the rapidly growing crowd.

A second fire truck arrived and a metal ladder was quickly cranked up to a second-floor window. To shouts of encouragement from the onlookers, a fireman gamely scrambled up. Then a siren blatted loudly directly behind Suzanne, giving its authoritative
whoop whoop
, and she was forced to move out of the way again. Sheriff Roy Doogie had arrived in his official maroon-and-tan cruiser, along with two nervous-looking deputies.

Sheriff Doogie, by no means a small man, hopped out and immediately began to bully the crowd back even farther.

“Get back! Give 'em room to work!” Doogie shouted as his khaki bulk quivered. “Get out of the way!”

Then a white ambulance came screaming into the fray and rocked to a stop directly next to Doogie's cruiser. Two grim-faced EMTs jumped out, pulling a metal gurney with them, ready to lend medical assistance.

Thank goodness
, Suzanne thought.

When Suzanne glanced up again, she was thankful to see a terrified-looking woman and a small child clambering over a second-story window ledge and into the waiting arms of the fireman on the ladder.

“That's Annie Wolfson,” said a voice behind her.

Suzanne turned around and found Ricky Wilcox, the young man who was the groom in tomorrow's big wedding, staring fixedly at the rescue that was taking place.

Good, Suzanne thought. Annie and her child have been saved. But what about the folks in the first-floor County Services Bureau? Bruce Winthrop, the county agent. And his longtime secretary, Hannah Venable. What about those poor souls? Were they still inside?

Suzanne's question was partially answered when Winthrop, looking bug-eyed and scared spitless, suddenly crashed through the crowd. Arms akimbo, he caromed off her right shoulder and then continued to push his way toward the burning building.

“Hannah!” Winthrop cried, frantically trying to charge through the surging crowd. “Hannah!” He seemed ready to rush into the burning building and save her single-handedly.

“Whoa, whoa!” Suzanne cried out. She dashed forward a couple of steps, snagged Winthrop's arm, and tried to pull him back. But the man was in such a blind panic that he simply shook her off. Suzanne made a final frantic grasp at the back of his tweed sport coat, found some purchase, and fought to reel him in backward. “Wait,” she cried. “You can't go in there. You've got to let the firemen do their jobs.”

Winthrop spun around to look at her, but was in such an anguished state that he didn't display a shred of recognition. His face contorted with fear as he tried to jerk away. “Let me go!” he cried. Then, in a pleading tone, “I've got to go in and get her.”

“No you don't,” Suzanne told him. She grabbed Winthrop's arm and gave a sharp tug that made him suddenly wince. But at least she'd commanded his attention. “Better to alert Doogie,” she said. “He'll send a couple of firemen in to rescue Hannah.”

“Gotta hurry hurry hurry,” Winthrop chattered.

Suzanne waved an arm over her head and cried out, “Doogie! Sheriff Doogie!”

Doogie heard his name called out above the roar of the fire and the nervous mutterings of the crowd. He swiveled his big head around, saw Suzanne, and frowned.

Suzanne pushed closer toward him, dragging Winthrop along with her. “Hannah Venable's still inside,” she shouted. “You've got to send someone in to get her.”

Doogie's eyes widened in surprise and he gave a sharp nod. Then, quick as a wink, he grabbed the fire chief and pulled him into a fast conversation.

“You see?” said Suzanne. She still had a firm grip on Winthrop's arm. “They'll get Hannah out. She'll be okay.”

Winthrop just nodded woodenly as if in a sleepwalker's trance.

The firemen shot thick streams of water at the building now, trying to beat back the flames. As water gushed from fat, brown hoses that crisscrossed the street, the fire hissed with fury but seemed to slowly retreat.

“I think they're gaining on the fire,” Suzanne said to Jenny, who'd taken up a spot in the front lines next to them.

“I hope so,” she said.

Two firemen hastily donned protective gear—full breathing apparatuses and special asbestos coats. Then, after a hasty conference with their fire chief, they plunged into the burning building to make the daring rescue.

They were the brave ones, Suzanne thought. They were the ones who risked their lives for others. God bless and keep them.

The firemen working the hoses were definitely gaining a foothold on the fire now. Flames were knocked back as charred beams and red-hot embers sizzled and hissed.

“Getting it under control now,” said Darrel Fuhrman, a man Suzanne recognized as one of Kindred's firemen. He was tall with slicked-back dark hair and eyes that danced with wild excitement.

Suzanne wondered idly why Fuhrman wasn't in the fray lending a hand, as she continued to keep her eyes fixed on the front door of the building, waiting to see Hannah Venable come staggering out. Hannah was the sweet-natured clerk who had manned the front desk at the County Services Bureau for the past fifteen years. She answered phones, kept the books, and handed out brochures on how to grow snap peas, raise baby lambs, and put up fruit jams and jellies without giving your family ptomaine poisoning.