Mystic Mayhem (25 page)

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Chère
,

If y'all want to savor some of Valentine's N'awlins cooking, try this on for size. Yum, f'true.

Valentine's Shrimp Creole

Ingredients:

6 to 8 slices bacon, diced

1
⁄
2
cup chopped sweet onion

1
⁄
2
cup chopped green onion

1½ cups chopped green bell pepper

1 cup chopped celery

1 clove minced garlic

2 (14½ ounce) cans diced tomatoes, with juice

3 Tablespoons tomato paste

1
⁄
2
cup chicken broth or stock

1
⁄
4
cup red wine vinegar

1
⁄
2
teaspoon mustard

Splash of Tabasco sauce

Salt and pepper to taste

1
⁄
2
cup dry red wine (plus some to splash in if sauce gets too thick)

1 lb large raw shrimp, peeled and deveined

Total time: about 50 minutes

(Prep: 10 minutes / Cook: 35-40 minutes)

Fry the bacon until crispy over medium-high heat in a large skillet. Set it aside, leaving 2 tablespoons bacon drippings in the skillet. Reduce heat to medium. Add the onions, bell pepper, celery, and garlic. Sauté until tender, 5-6 minutes. Add tomatoes, tomato paste, chicken broth, vinegar, mustard, Tabasco sauce, salt, and pepper. Return bacon to pan. Simmer it all over low to medium heat, uncovered, for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add wine and shrimp, and cook until shrimp turns pink (don't overcook), about 4-5 minutes. If sauce is too thick after, splash in some red wine to desired consistency.

Serve over rice or biscuits. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

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Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens, are partners in crime—crime writing, that is. They live in Scottsdale, Arizona, awesome for eight months out of the year, an inferno the other four. They write bloody murder, flirty romance, and wicked humor all in one package. When their heads aren't together over a manuscript, you'll probably find them at a movie or play, a hockey game or the mall, or at one of the hundreds of places to find a great meal in the Valley of the Sun.

To learn more about Sally & Jean, visit them online at:
http://www.smithandsteffens.com

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Mystic Isle Mysteries
:

Mystic Mayhem

Mystic Mojo (short story in the
Killer Beach Reads
collection)

Jordan Welsh & Eddie Marino novels:

Stealing the Moon & Stars

Stealing the Golden Dream

Other works:

An Off Day (short story by Sally J. Smith)

The Night Before Christmas (short story by Jean Steffens)

* * * * *

If you enjoyed this Mystic Isle Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:

ONE GARISH GHOST & BLUEBERRY PEACH JAM

by

JENNIFER FISCHETTO

CHAPTER ONE

I drop my purse on the dark hardwood floor and giggle. I'm not really a giggler, more of a boisterous chuckler or even a rib-aching laugher, but in this moment a giggle trickles up from my chest and bursts in front of me like tiny bubbles. Or maybe that's spittle. The apartment is small, the bathroom so tiny there's only room for a shower stall, not a tub, and the toilet is close enough to the sink that I think they're married. But it's all mine. I don't have to share one single square foot.

I half-twerk, half-chicken dance across my new space. Yes, it's as bizarre as it sounds, but I only do it in private.

Having my own place is a first for me. Of my twenty-six years, I spent the first twenty-three living at home. Then I moved to Connecticut and lived with my very chatty, absolutely self-absorbed cousin for two years. She got married, and what did I do? I moved in with the super hot, super new boyfriend, Julian, hereafter known as Douche Nozzle. I should've immediately known we weren't soul mates. Who finds true love and moves in with them after one week?

I moved back home to South Shore Beach, New York four days ago and it's been super awesome. I forgot how entertaining it is listening to Ma sing show tunes while she cooks and cleans. This week's theme is
My Fair Lady
, and yes, Ma, it would've been lovely if I could've danced all night in the rain in Spain. The only down part about being back home is my sister and niece are staying with my folks, too, and I've had to endure sleeping on their lumpy couch. But I've missed my family tremendously, and being home simply feels so right. And the cream cheese icing on the pumpkin cupcake—I'm craving sweets—is that the folks handed over the keys to the apartment above the family deli. The one my parents lived in when they first married. The one my siblings and I were conceived in. There's irony there. I know it. Despite the pungent stench of salami and Pine-Sol, and what an eye-watering combination that is, I choose to believe this twist of fate, this full circle, is the universe's way of pushing me down the right path. Hopefully I'm correct and the universe isn't mocking me. Or worse, giggling.

I open my arms wide and take in a long, deep breath. Then immediately gag, sputter, and choke like a dying car. Dear God, my brother lived here for five years. How did he stand it? Stupid question. This is the same person who left a pepperoni and Swiss cheese sandwich in his backpack in the trunk of the car during a camping weekend with Pop. In June. Not only does he have seriously odd taste buds, but he could live in a can of sardines and not be bothered.

I rush forward and open each of the three windows facing the street out front. I press my nose to the middle screen and breathe in lungfuls of clean air until I'm lightheaded and almost pass out. That would be one way to not notice the smell.

My phone plays Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Want to Have Fun," which means it's my sister. I swipe the green flashing circle while making a mental note to use the rest of my credit balance on cases of Glade PlugIns.

"Izzie, I shouldn't be much longer," I say. She and I have a night of drink, dance, and darts ahead of us. This will be our first night out since I've been back. I'm just waiting for my bed to arrive.

"Why are my husband and his buddy hauling a mattress out of his truck?" Her words are garbled, as if her mouth is directly pressed against the phone.

The answer seems pretty obvious to me. "Where are you?" I ask, and spot her car parked down the street by Park Place Bakery.

"In the deli. Pop's cleaning the front counters, and I'm in back."

No doubt peering through the peephole in the door. I don't know what's wrong with her marriage. When Ma and I pressed her on it, she said something about lonely nights and cabana boys. She gets muddled when upset. This was two days ago. I figure a pitcher of margaritas, a few hip thrusts to the latest bebop, and she'll be spilling her guts.

Ma gave me explicit instructions to report all findings back to her pronto, but I won't betray Izzie's trust. Ma knows this. All those times Ma tried bribing me with ice cream or cookies so I'd spill about Izzie's latest crush or whether she really went to the library after school. Not once did I tell what I knew, and I knew tons. Izzie was not a reader. Despite her being five years older than me, she's my sister, and I'm not a tattler. Besides, Izzie knows a wild shopping cart didn't dent Pop's car when I was in twelfth grade. I accidentally inhaled some secondhand marijuana smoke—that's my story anyway—and got slightly high. Then I volunteered to go on a munchies run. I didn't see the Return Carts Here sign when backing out of the space. I only tapped it. Nine years isn't long enough though for that truth to come out. Not that Pop is violent or easily angered. I just don't want to see the disappointment on his face. He restored and adored that car.

"You couldn't ask someone other than Paulie to help you move?" Izzie's voice penetrates my memories.

Heavy boots clamor up the back steps.

"Pop asked him. I couldn't very well say no. Ma and Pop aren't bringing the rest of the furniture until tomorrow after Sunday dinner. As appealing as it sounds, sleeping in the shower stall is out of the question."

I turn to let Paulie and his buddy in and spot an unfamiliar guy standing by the breakfast bar
.
I scream and freeze, because that will save my life.

The phone slips from my hand as I remind my heart to beat.

"What is it?" Izzie shrieks from beside my shoe.

Something hard hits the door. "Gianna?" Paulie calls through it. He sounds concerned. Good brother-in-law. No matter what's going on between him and my sister, he has a lifelong duty to help me move, kill spiders, and protect me from murdering, raping, stealing home intruders.

Technically the guy doesn't look threatening, but I read that Ted Bundy didn't either. How did this guy sneak up behind me? The downstairs entrance has a dim light bulb, but it's only two walls and a narrow staircase. How didn't I hear him?

He's wearing khaki shorts, a light blue polo shirt, and beige flip-flops. He holds his skull. "Whoa, dude, you can see me?" He looks barely legal and sounds like he's spent one too many hours surfing waves.

What is he talking about? Of course I can see him. Did he accidentally inhale secondhand weed smoke?

Paulie manages to open the door without letting go of the mattress and knocking his buddy down the stairs.

Izzie still calls my name. If she was a loving sister, she'd run up with Pop's cleaver, regardless of the fact that her husband is making his way in.

"Are you okay?" Paulie asks as he turns the corner. His sweaty face is pink, and his eyes are wide. He stares wildly around the room, which is really one half-stretch of the neck, and looks straight through Surfer Dude.

Oh crap. I take a step closer and realize Surfer Dude isn't standing but hovering. Well isn't this interesting? My brand new apartment comes equipped with its very own ghost. How many have I seen in my lifetime now? Close to a thousand? What is he doing up here? And does he do windows? That's the worst chore in the world.

"Gianna?" Paulie asks again, dragging the mattress farther in and allowing me to catch a glimpse of his buddy—six-feet, bleached blond, light green eyes, and a back so broad he won't need shoulder pads when they come back into fashion. All the weird things do.

I instantly blush, already knowing the fantasy I'll have tonight on that very mattress. "Um, yeah, sorry. It was just a spider."

I snatch up the phone, say, "I'm fine. See you in a bit," and disconnect the call.

Paulie nods. "This is one of the paramedics, Harry. And this is my sister-in-law, Gianna Mancini."

I hold out my hand, anticipating his warm flesh against mine, and practically purr, "You can call me Sally."

Harry and I exchange smiles bright enough to put the sun out of work. While he checks me out from head to toe with a slow, smoldering gaze that almost singes my black mini dress to ash, I do my best not to lick my lips. It may have been only be two weeks since Douche Nozzle and I officially broke up, but it's been four months since I got freaky. That's not very long, but since that time has been filled with a
hide-in-your-bed, sobbing, snotting
,
Ben & Jerry
emotional meltdown and an out-of-state move, it feels like a stint in a nunnery.

Paulie smirks. "So, uh, bedroom?" He tugs the mattress forward, almost pulling it from Harry's grip.

As soon as they're out of earshot, I wave Surfer Dude over and whisper, "You know the freezer's downstairs, right?"

"Yeah, I know, but I don't need it now."

I do my best
what'chu talkin 'bout, Willis?
pout. "But you're dead, and all good dead beings leave this world through the freezer." For some reason our deli freezer is the portal to the other side. I don't know why this is, and none of the ghosts I've ever encountered know either. I've often wondered if there was something special about our freezer or if there were freezers all over the country acting as rotating doors to the great beyond. Whatever that is.

He shrugs. "I'm not ready to go yet. Is there a deadline? The freezer's not disappearing, right?"

I cock my head and frown. "Exactly how does a freezer disappear?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I haven't exactly died before. But you can see ghosts, so anything's possible."

He has a point. "No. Leave when you're ready, but this is my place, and I didn't sign up for a roommate." I don't mean to sound stingy, but an Italian girl with an adequately big butt shouldn't twerk in front of people, especially since my technique is laughable.

He flashes a smile that would put the Cheshire cat to shame. "You won't even know I'm here."

I roll my eyes. I doubt that.

Paulie and Harry step back into the living area. "We'll get the box spring and set it up."

As much as I want to drool over Harry, I don't have time. Izzie's known for her impatience. We both are, and I need to get downstairs before Izzie explodes and Pop has to clean up bits of her off the back door. "Don't bother. Just prop it up against the wall, and I'll do it later."

"Are you sure?" Paulie asks. He chews his bottom lip, which means he wants to talk to me—probably about Izzie. I wish I could pat him on the head, rub his belly, toss him a treat, whatever will make him feel better, but when I gotta go, I gotta go.