Irish Stewed Part 26

"It wouldn't. If there wasn't a burglary ring operating in town. That's why you were so desperate to get this piece of paper back, isn't it"-I swung my gaze over the crowd-"Ronnie?"

The kid went as white as a sheet. "I don't . . . I don't know what you're talking about."

"You must, otherwise you wouldn't have gone through the trash here at the restaurant to find this piece of paper. And when you didn't, you thought I might have taken it home. That's why you were trying to break in. You were right, you know. I found it in with a bunch of receipts I was going to enter into Sophie's computer at home. I've been so busy, I didn't get around to it, otherwise I would have seen this piece of paper then."

"Somebody broke into the house?" Sophie fanned her face with one hand.

"Tried to break in," I repeated. "And no worries, the locks have been changed and you're getting a security system installed next week. Not that you'll need it now. The cops have this piece of paper, so Marvin and Ronnie, they won't have to try and get it back again."

Kitty Sheedy shifted left and right in her seat for a better look. "What is it?" she asked. "Why is it so important?"

"You want to tell them, Ronnie?" Since he clamped his lips shut, I had to. "It's a map of the Tollifer Electronics Warehouse over on the other side of town. And the security codes Marvin managed to get from one of the employees there."

"Don't bother to try and deny it." Detective Oberlin stepped forward. "We talked to a guy, Marvin. He admitted that he sold you the codes. You and Ronnie here were going to use them to break into the warehouse, and I'm guessing you were all set to do it this week when the new shipment of some big video game system arrives. Something all the kids have been talking about."

"You can't prove I had anything to do with it," Ronnie snapped. "Maybe he"-he stabbed a finger in Marvin's direction-"maybe he had that there map, but you can't prove I had anything to do with-"

"With the burglary ring?" I gave Ronnie a long look. "Maybe you weren't watching the video like we were, Ronnie. Or maybe you just thought no one would notice. Declan . . ." I looked his way and he knew exactly what I wanted. He queued the tape and played the scene.

"Imagine him on the big screen." On-screen, we watched Kim eat her Irish stew, but we heard Denice's voice in the background and we knew she was talking about Ronnie. "You know, one of those flat-screen TVs like they hang on the wall, forty-two inches wide."

"Forty-eight inches," Ronnie called out. "I'd look way better on a screen that was forty-eight inches wide."

"Forty-eight inches." Marvin chuckled. "Yeah, that sounds good."

Declan put the video on pause.

"You were putting in your order, Marvin. For a TV. Detective Oberlin here tells me there was a forty-eight-inch flat-screen taken from a home just the night before."

"There are plenty of TVs in the world." Marvin waved away my words. "That don't prove a thing."

"Your fingerprints on this map do." Gus took the evidence bag out of my hands. "Put that together with the guy over at Tollifer's who gave you the security codes and we've got you, Marvin."

Marvin swallowed so hard, I heard him gulp. "But not for murder. n.o.body ever said anything about murder."

"Kim did," I reminded him, and once again, we played the tape. When it was over, I said, "You saw it right there and then. Kim says she knows who murdered Jack Lancer. And she didn't say it for my sake, did she? She wanted the murderer to know she was onto him. So, was it you, Marvin?" I asked, then swung the other way. "Or was it you, Ronnie?"

Color shot into Ronnie's face. It was an ugly shade of maroon. He jumped to his feet. "No way you're going to pin that murder on me," he said. "I didn't do it. It wasn't me. No way I'm going down for something I didn't do. It was her. My mom!"

Okay, I admit it, I'd been so convinced that either Ronnie or Marvin was our perp, I was as completely at a loss for words as everyone else. Well, everyone except Denice.

I will not report the first words out of her mouth. She was no less angry when she lashed out at her son. "You ungrateful little creep. After all I've done for you!"

"And you want me to take a murder rap for you? She did it," Ronnie said, looking around at everyone gathered there in the Terminal. "She did it because she said Jack Lancer knew about what me and Marvin were doing, about how I was taking stuff out of houses and Mom was fencing it here through the restaurant."

"Oh my!" Sophie got so pale I hurried and got her a gla.s.s of water and waited until Elvis helped her drink a few gulps before I said, "You thought Jack Lancer was doing a story on the burglary ring?"

"Well, he was." Denice crossed her scrawny arms over her chest. "He told me so himself. He said that's why he was here every day. He said something hot was going on and he was going to break the story. What else could he have been talking about?"

Declan and I exchanged looks.

"She was afraid she'd end up in jail." By now, Ronnie was shaking. He braced his hand against the table to keep himself upright. "She said we had to do something about the Lance of Justice. She told him she had information for his story, and she told him to meet her here that night and she has a key, you know. She had it made a couple years ago."

"Shut up, Ronnie!"

Her son paid no attention to her. "She killed Lancer, not me," Ronnie said. "And that stupid Kim, that stupid woman, it turns out was following Lancer because she was trying to find out what story he was working on. She took a picture. Of my mother. My mother and Jack Lancer."

"She wanted money." I practically groaned. "That's why Kim Kline made such a big deal about knowing who the murderer was. She was blackmailing you, wasn't she, Denice?"

Denice pressed her lips shut. "Not saying another word."

But then, she didn't have to. It didn't take a Hollywood scriptwriter to imagine the rest. Kim had proof of the murder, Kim wanted money, Denice took care of Kim.

"A big TV star like that." As disgusted as the rest of us, Sophie shook her head. "What would a young woman like that need money for? Why would she take that kind of chance, just to blackmail someone?"

Denice barked out a laugh. "All you had to do is look at the chick. She said she wanted the money for a nose job. So she could be on network news!"

By now, the other cops who'd been in the kitchen with Gus Oberlin had Marvin, Ronnie, and Denice surrounded. They slapped the cuffs on all three of them and led them out the door to where three police cruisers waited.

"We did it." I felt as if all the air had been let out of me, and I dropped into the nearest chair and took Sophie's hand in mine. "It's all settled. There's nothing to worry about, Sophie. Not anymore."

"I'm so glad, dear." She smiled. "I'll sleep better tonight, and I know you will, too."

Before our guests filed out the door, we heated up a big pot of Irish stew so we could officially celebrate and the band played a couple tunes. When we were done, Elvis took Sophie back to Serenity Oaks, Inez left to pick up her son, George shuffled into the kitchen.

I stuck my head in there. "You okay?" I asked him.

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" He grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.

Declan and I watched him go. "Funny," he said, "George doesn't look okay."

"No, I don't imagine he is. George has still got the music of that waltz going on inside his head. And Denice, the only dance she's going to be doing is the jailhouse rock."

Recipe

ELLEN FURY'S GRANDMOTHER'S IRISH STEW.

1 pounds chuck beef stew meat, cut into 1 inch chunks 3 teaspoons of salt (more to taste) cup olive oil 6 large garlic cloves, minced 4 cups beef stock or broth 2 cups water 1 cup Guinness Extra Stout 1 cup hearty red wine 2 tablespoons tomato paste 1 tablespoon sugar 1 tablespoon dried thyme 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce 2 bay leaves 2 tablespoons b.u.t.ter 1 large onion, chopped (1 to 2 cups) 2 cups -inch peeled carrots cut in pieces 3 pounds russet potatoes, peeled, cut into -inch pieces (about 7 cups) teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 cup parsnips, peeled and cut in pieces Sprinkle the salt over the beef. Heat oil in a large pot and brown the meat. Add garlic and saute for 30 seconds.

Add beef stock, water, Guinness, red wine, tomato paste, sugar, thyme, Worcestershire sauce, and bay leaves. Stir. Bring to a simmer, then reduce heat, cover and cook for 1 hour.

While that is cooking, melt the b.u.t.ter in another pot and add onions and carrots. Saute until onions are golden, about 15 minutes. Add to beef along with the potatoes after the beef has simmered for one hour. Also add black pepper and salt to taste. Simmer until vegetables are tender, another 40 minutes or so. Because they're delicate, add the parsnips during the last 30 minutes.

Enjoy!

Serves 6.

KEEP READING FOR A PREVIEW OF KYLIE LOGAN'S NEXT ETHNIC EATS MYSTERY . . .

French Fried COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY PRIME CRIME!.

"Bone sue war!"

I was putting the last touches on the quiches about to go into the oven, so I didn't turn around when someone b.u.mped through the kitchen door of Sophie's Terminal at the Tracks and called out the greeting.

I didn't need to.

I'd recognize Sophie Charnowski's voice-and her lousy French accent-anywhere.

Then again, I should. It had been six months since I'd left California and arrived in Hubbard, Ohio, to run what I thought was Sophie's white-linen-and-candlelight restaurant while she had knee replacement surgery. Six months since I found out that the elegant restaurant she'd lied about for years was really a greasy spoon in an old train station that anch.o.r.ed a battered-but-trying-to-gentrify part of town.

Six months since I'd been embroiled as much in murder as I was in cooking.

The thought hit and a touch like icy fingers squirmed its way up my back. I twitched it aside and called over my shoulder. "Bonsoir, Sophie. Any sign of Rocky yet?"

"No! She is nowhere to be seen, yes?" Sophie tried for a French lilt that pinged around the tile and stainless steel kitchen and fell flat. With her usual good humor, she laughed it away and came up behind me so she could stand on tiptoe and peek over my shoulder at the six quiches on the counter.

"Oh, Laurel, they look fabulous!" Sophie breathed in deep. "Think six will be enough?"

I wiped my hands on the white ap.r.o.n looped around my neck. "We've got three more in the fridge and George will pop them in the oven if we need them," I told Sophie at the same time I glanced across the kitchen. George Porter was leaning back against the industrial fridge, his beefy arms crossed over his ma.s.sive chest and a scowl on his face that pretty much said all there was to say about what he thought of quiche.

In spite of the scowl-or maybe because of it-I gave him the kind of smile that said I was sure he was on board with my plan.

George didn't smile back.

But then, what did I expect?

The Terminal's long-time cook was a mountain of a man with more tats on his arms than I had fingers and toes, a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy who was as happy as a cholesterol-challenged clam cooking up the fried eggs, fried bologna, fried steak, and fried chicken that for years had been the staples of the Terminal menu. That is, before I arrived and started introducing healthier dishes and, in a flash of inspiration, featuring ethnic specials.

We'd started with Irish and that summer had tried j.a.panese (sushi did not exactly go over big with the Hubbard crowd) and Italian (popular, but there were plenty of Italian places in town and I gave up on a menu that seemed to me to be dej vu all over again). Now, in honor of a town celebration commemorating the day the French presented the Statue of Liberty to the people of America, we'd decided to go with the Tri-Color flow. French food, but not the fussy kind that's so off-putting to so many people. We were sticking with French country, French bistro. Delicious, accessible, and easy for a man like George to handle. Even if in his heart-of-fried-food hearts, he didn't want to.

I sloughed the thought aside and reminded Sophie, "There are tartines, too."

"Tartines." Her sigh hovered in the ether somewhere between Nirvana and Utopia. In the weeks since we'd started planning our French menu and I'd introduced her to tartines, she'd become something of an addict. And who could blame her! The knife-and-fork open-faced French sandwiches are delightful.

"We're going to use some of the heirloom tomatoes still coming in from the local farmers," I told Sophie. "We'll put those on some of the tartines along with eggplant. Then for others, we've got ham and Gruyere, and toasted Camembert, walnut, and fig."

"Walnut and fig."

I ignored George when he grunted.

"Now all we need . . ." I glanced at the quiches that looked decidedly naked. "Did Rocky say what time she'd be here with the herbs?"

"I'm late. I know. I'm sorry!"

For the second time in as many minutes, the kitchen door swung open and this time, Raquel Arnaud b.u.mped into the room. Rocky was a friend of Sophie's but there couldn't be two women who were more different. Sophie was short, plump, and as down to earth as her sensible shoes. Her hair was the same silvery color as Rocky's, but while Sophie's was short and s.h.a.ggy, Rocky's was long and sleek and as glorious as the woman herself.

But then, Rocky had the whole French thing going for her, including just a trace of an accent that hadn't disappeared in spite of the fact that she'd left her native country nearly fifty years earlier.

Rocky was almost as tall as my five-nine, willowy, and as elegant as her clothing. She was a farmer-herbs and speciality vegetables-a woman whose life revolved around the seasons and the weather and the acreage thirty minutes outside of Hubbard where she grew some of the best produce in the state, yet anyone meeting her for the first time would think she'd just stepped out of the house to shop on the Rue de la Pax.

Well, except for that Friday night.

I did a double take.

That evening, graceful and refined Rocky looked . . .

She was wearing the black A-line dress she claimed was a fashion must, but Rocky's hair was uncombed and her lipstick was smudged. Sure, she was running late, and that might account for the slapdash grooming, but nothing I knew about Rocky could explain- Sneakers?

Before I came to Hubbard, I'd worked as a personal chef in Hollywood. Believe me, I knew fashion trends, fashion faux pas, and plain ol' fashion disasters.

I'd never known Raquel Arnaud to dare something as unfashionable and as downright un-French as to wear tennis shoes outside of the house. Especially ones that looked to be encrusted with a week's worth of garden goo.

"I knew I was running late so I chopped the thyme at home."

Before I could even think of what to say or how to ask Rocky if she'd completely lost her mind, she raced over and put a basket on the countertop beside me. There was a white linen towel thrown over the top of it and when Rocky whisked it away, I forgot all about her smeared lipstick and her tennis shoes.

But then, who can resist the heavenly woody/lemony aroma of fresh thyme!

I took a deep breath and automatically found myself smiling.

"Always has that affect on me, too." Rocky gave me a playful poke in the ribs at the same time she reached around me to sprinkle thyme on the quiches. "I brought griselles, too," she said. "But since you're already done with these, they'll have to wait for tomorrow's quiche."

I stepped back to admire the finished quiches. "Bacon, onion, and Swiss today," I told Rocky. "Pretty traditional, I know, but I thought that might be easiest if we get a crowd after the book signing. Tomorrow after the big parade, we'll mix it up with spinach and the shallots in some of the quiches." I peeked at the French shallots-what Rocky called griselles-and took another deep breath and I swear, I could still smell the scent of autumn earth that clung to the shallots.

And to Rocky.

Carefully, I took another sniff.

A fragrant cloud of Chanel No. 5 usually enveloped Rocky.

That night, she smelled more like wet soil. And red wine.

Lots of red wine.

I guess Sophie noticed, too, because behind Rocky's back, she raised her eyebrows and gave me That Look. The one that said I was supposed to ask what the heck was going on.