Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

“But we ought to be able to do something !”

“You could call Detective Sawyer, to see if they’ve impounded Julian’s car or Barry’s Saab. If not, get a couple of friends to take you to Westside, then find the Rover and drive it up to your place. Could you do that? Do you have keys to the Rover?”

“Absolutely. It was my sister’s car, remember? And I never throw anything away. How about Tom? Can he help?”

I retrieved a pie crust from the freezer side of the walk-in. I needed to keep cooking if I was going to stay even remotely rational. “They’ve taken Tom off the case, because there’s family involvement. Look, Marla, I’m going to look into this—”

“Well, thank God for something!”

“—but you can’t tell anyone what I’m doing. You can’t spill any details to your pals. If you do, Hulsey, the cops, and Tom will all have a fit. Now, tell me everything you know about Barry’s social life. Was there a Significant Other in the picture?”

She blew out air. “Of course. Barry was seeing Ellie McNeely, didn’t I tell you? Ellie hooked up with him the second she got that bank job. I heard it had become très, très serious. But Ellie had this suspicion that Barry was seeing somebody else on the side. According to her, Barry would go places and not tell her where he’d been. He wouldn’t show up when he promised. She’d see him at the doctor’s when he said he was skiing. She spotted him at the bank when he’d said he had an all-day meeting in Vail. And he skipped a dinner they were supposed to attend, claiming he’d been caught in a traffic jam west of the Eisenhower Tunnel. So I told her to hire a private investigator—”

“You did what?” Sometimes Marla’s meddling knew no bounds.

“Not too long ago, Ellie’s purse was stolen at the mall. Louis Vuitton, of course. It had her car keys in it. In her wallet, there was a picture of Ellie’s daughter, Cameron, standing beside the rear of their silver Lexus. The photo included the Lexus license plate, sorry to say. The thief found the car in the mall parking lot and tried to steal it, but instead rammed it into Barry Dean’s gorgeous old Mercedes. Totaled it, too. The Mercedes, not the Lexus.”

“What?”

“Is there an echo on this phone line? Didn’t Barry tell you why he had to buy that new Saab?”

“Not really,” I mumbled. Barry had mentioned his beloved old Mercedes had been wrecked. That was all. And I considered Ellie a friend. Why hadn’t I heard about all this? But I knew the answer, as usual. I’d been too busy catering. Finally, I said, “Sorry to be so skeptical, but if Ellie was mad enough to hire a private investigator to follow Barry because she suspected him of dallying, isn’t it possible that she faked the theft and drove her Lexus into his Mercedes herself?”

“Well,” Marla shot back, in the tone she used when the gossip became especially juicy, “there’s all kinds of speculation, of course. Maybe her bag was never stolen, but I wouldn’t sacrifice a Louis Vuitton anything to fake a theft. I’d claim someone had stolen some tote I got free with a perfume purchase. But the most prevalent theory is that that brat Teddy Fury swiped Ellie’s bag. Everyone knows that kid’s a klepto. The cops didn’t find Ellie’s LV purse when they discovered what was left of his stash of stolen goodies, though.”

“How do you know all these things?” I demanded, exasperated.

“Well, unlike you, I’m not spending all my time cooking. I’m eating lunch out and hearing all the latest. Or I’m hustling out for a bite after the midweek church service, where people go when they just can’t wait until Sunday for news. I go to the athletic club every day and wave my arms around, so I can please my cardiologist and catch up on more news that I missed at lunch or church. And when I’m not on the phone with you, I’m on with someone else, finding out stuff to share with you.”

I didn’t reply. I was still recovering from Marla’s revelations.

“So did Ellie’s P.I. find out damaging stuff?”

“Goldy, all I did was recommend that she hire someone. After all, Ellie’s older than Barry is… was. Since she finally got her divorce settlement, she has money, lots and lots more than Barry. So she had to find out if he was getting serious so he could get his hands on her money. She also wanted to know why he was lying to her about being in Vail and whatnot.” She paused and crunched on something, probably a cookie. “So. You want to call Rufus Investigations?”

After I jotted down the number, I signed off. I washed my hands and reflected a bit, then fluted, pricked, and baked the pie crust. I would make a quiche, I decided, and use up this morning’s leftover bacon. The pie would be rich, creamy, and soothing, and would go perfectly with a field green salad dressed with raspberry vinaigrette and defrosted homemade baguettes. Goodness, but I was glad Liz was doing that wedding reception this afternoon.

No one can recover from a head injury—much less investigate—on an empty stomach, I reminded myself. I would have a salad, baguette, and slice of quiche before donating the rest to the neighbors, since it wouldn’t keep for Tom and Arch. The neighbors would be thrilled.

Quiche Me Quick

7 pieces thick-sliced bacon

4 ounces Gruyère cheese, grated

8-inch baked pie shell (a baked9-inch shallow frozen pie crust is fine)

3 large eggs

⅞ cup whipping cream

2 tablespoons milk

¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmegCook the bacon until crisp, drain thoroughly, and pat with paper towels. Cut each slice of bacon into 4 equal pieces. Evenly distribute first the bacon, then the cheese, over the pastry crust. Set aside.Preheat the oven to 350°F.In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs until they are thoroughly combined. Beat in the cream and milk, then sprinkle on the nutmeg and stir until combined. Pour over the bacon and cheese, and set carefully in the preheated oven.Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the quiche has puffed and browned slightly and is set in the middle. (Check with a spoon to make sure there is no uncooked liquid in the center of the quiche.)Serve immediately. Makes 6 servings

I tucked the phone beneath my ear, started grating Gruyère, and put in a call to Rufus Investigations. I was told that John Rufus had left that morning for Africa, on an extended assignment. I swallowed hard and begged his secretary to look up something about a client of theirs. Ellie McNeely had hired Mr. Rufus to have somebody surveilled, and now that person has been murdered. The secretary let out an exasperated breath.

“Let me have the name of the victim, then,” she said, as if my call were ruining her day. Which it probably was.

I gave her Barry’s name, then testily explained that a young friend of mine had been arrested for the murder, and whatever Mr. Rufus had discovered would help this innocent young man get out of jail…. At that point, the secretary interrupted me and brusquely read the tenets of Rufus Investigations’ confidentiality policy. When law enforcement contacts us, we will be sharing information with them and them only —

I thanked her and said good-bye before slamming the phone down. Then I cracked three eggs, whacked on my big mixer, and beat the eggs with almost a cup of whipping cream. Whipping cream, so aptly named. In cooking, you could take out your frustrations by whipping, folding, beating , and smothering.

And here folks thought the home cook was so docile.

I piled the chopped bacon and grated Gruyère into the cooled crust, sloshed the eggs and cream over all, then artfully grated nutmeg on top. After sliding the luxurious concoction into the oven, I phoned Ellie McNeely.