Murder on the Bucket List (17 page)

He smiled and rattled off a bunch of things in Spanish. He leered at Francine.

She put her hands on her hips and looked at Marcy. “He says he's twenty-five. I don't think that's possible. I didn't catch the rest of it, though. What did he say?”

Marcy turned red. “Ummm. He saw the
Good Morning America
clip of you in the wet dress, and he … never mind. We don't have time for this. If we're going to get this recorded before the luncheon, we need to move.”

Francine was speechless.

“I can't film with you in the way, Francine,” Joy said.

She spun around. The large camera lens Joy was looking through was pointed directly at her. “When did you learn to operate one of those?” she asked.

Marcy waved her hand for everyone to be quiet. “Okay, open your baskets and see what your secret ingredients are.”

The two chefs opened their baskets. Both pulled out a mango, chili paste, and huge tentacle of some kind.

Francine could scarcely believe it fit in the basket. “That looks like squid!”

“It is,” Mary Ruth said, pulling a butcher knife out of her knife bag. “I haven't worked with fresh squid since chef's school, but I know what I'm going to make.” She slapped the tentacle on Francine's best cutting board and began chopping it into pieces. The sight of it almost made Francine sick. She couldn't look to see what Jose was doing with his.

Marcy frowned at them to be quiet. “I think I can mute that outburst when I edit the tape,” she whispered, “but you need to control yourselves.” She pointed at Joy. “Keep rolling tape.” Marcy took a deep breath. “For whatever other ingredients you need, you can use anything you find in Francine's pantry or refrigerator.” Jose ran to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. He opened it and took a drink, burped, then ran the beer back to his station.

Francine's breath came in short gasps.

Charlotte dragged her out of the kitchen. “I think it's better if we just let them do it. I've watched this show a lot. They only have twenty minutes for the appetizer round. Mary Ruth'll still have plenty of time to finish up anything for the luncheon. Let's get the house in shape.”

“I don't understand why Marcy is doing this. We didn't even invite her, did we? What does she think she's going to do here, film the luncheon?”

“She may want a crowd reaction to Mary Ruth's new appetizer. It's not how they do it on
Chopped
; that would be more like
Cupcake Wars
. But it might help with the audition.”

Jonathan pointed to a sheet of paper on top of a medium-sized buffet table that had been placed where the great room took an elbow bend into the open dining area. “Mary Ruth's instructions are there,” he said. “Maybe I'd better help.” He picked up the paper. “The smaller table in the dining room is for desserts. The table in the middle is for the buffet stations. Francine, why don't you work on the buffet? Here's the menu. They want our dining room table expanded all the way out to seat another ten, so I'll get the leaves and do that. Charlotte, why don't you start wrapping the eating utensils in the napkins?”

Francine started to breath easier. Jonathan was her rock. He would help her get through this.

Charlotte professed to needing help with the utensil-wrapping operation, so Francine took some time to get her organized. All the while the sounds of clattering and chaos arose from the kitchen, but she tried to ignore it, telling herself it would be okay.

When Charlotte was finally at work, Francine read over the list and studied the diagram for how to place the serving trays. She needed a station for the sesame chicken wraps, another for the pulled pork mini-sandwiches with a plate for buns ahead of the meat. Mary Ruth planned for three types of barbeque sauce so she needed to leave room for that. Then came the apricot-and-black-walnut chicken salad, served cold, and a vegetable tray with Mary Ruth's signature spicy southwestern dip. The dessert table would have chocolate fudge pecan brownies and an angel food cake drizzled with a cranberry/orange zest icing. The thought of that wonderful food made Francine's mouth water, and she momentarily forgot about the cooking challenge. Then she realized she would have to go into the kitchen to ask Mary Ruth about the warming trays.

At least, she rationalized, it wouldn't take long.

Francine entered the kitchen. Mary Ruth and Jose were elbowing each other trying to get something out of the freezer at the bottom of Francine's stainless steel refrigerator. Mary Ruth emerged triumphant, waving a package of puff pastry sheets Francine didn't know she even had. Jose ran over and stood in front of the microwave, blocking Mary Ruth from getting to it.

Francine cleared her throat to get everyone's attention.

“Stop tape!” yelled Marcy. “What are you doing in here?”

“I'm here for the warming trays so I can set up the buffet table.”

Mary Ruth put the puff pastry package down at her station. “They're in the van. I'll give you the keys.” She bent down to get her purse.

Mary Ruth came up in time to see Jose snatch the puff pastry. She threw her keys to Francine and grabbed the other end of the package. She and Jose played tug of war momentarily, but Jose had more strength. He rattled something in Spanish, then yanked it away from her.

Mary Ruth yelled, “Hey, that's mine!” She picked up a pan and whacked Jose in the head with it.

Jose was momentarily stunned. He dropped the package on the floor. Before Mary Ruth could retrieve it, he recovered. He swore at her in Spanish and brandished his butcher knife in front of her.

She held up the frying pan in a defensive position.

“Rolling!” called Marcy.

“I don't think so!” Francine marched over to Marcy. “I will not have this kind of behavior in my house. You get him out of here.”

Jose gave Francine the once over. He said something in Spanish.

She caught part of it. She narrowed her eyes. “Did he just say what I think he said?”

“Uh, umm, I don't think so,” Marcy stammered.

“I may whack him in the head myself.”

“Too late,” said Mary Ruth. With Jose distracted, she'd gotten close and gave the frying pan a flick with her wrist. It banged him in the head in the same spot and this time he went down. The knife clattered on the floor as he hit.

“That'll teach him to steal my recipe,” Mary Ruth said, standing over the unconscious victim. “He was duplicating my dish.”

“I don't get it, either,” Marcy said. “The beer-based batter he was making for the calamari looked good, even after he threw in some vodka and it accidently caught fire.”

“There was a fire?” Francine said.

“A small one. We were able to put it out with a fire extinguisher.”

Francine steadied herself against the bar.

“Did we get that on tape?” asked Marcy.

Joy looked sheepish. “I never stopped rolling.”

Jose stood. He wobbled for a moment. He babbled in Spanish.

Marcy said something back to him. His eyes went glassy, and then he fell forward onto Mary Ruth. She wasn't prepared for his weight, and the two of them careened back against the refrigerator. The appliance slammed into the wall.

“Get him off of me!” Mary Ruth screamed.

Jonathan came running into the kitchen. He pried Jose off of her and eased him onto the floor.

“I think he might have a concussion,” Marcy observed. “I hope you have a good insurance policy.”

Francine stared at her.

She rethought the situation. “Um. Maybe I'd better get him to the emergency care clinic.”

“Good idea,” Jonathan said. “Let me help you load him into your car.”

Jonathan put his arms under the young man's armpits and dragged him across the kitchen. Marcy went ahead and held the doors open.

“I can imagine how this is going to look to the paparazzi out front,” Charlotte said.

Francine looked out the front windows. She sighed. “They're still out there. You'll need to load him in the Prius in the garage so they don't see him.”

Jonathan glared at Marcy. “You're going to sit in the back seat and keep him propped up so he doesn't look unconscious.”

She shrugged.

“Is it okay if I go ahead and finish off the calamari dish?” Mary Ruth asked. “I need to serve it for the appetizers or we won't have enough. I'd planned on using whatever Jose and I created. I may use his original idea for a beer batter as an alternative.”

“Get it on tape,” Marcy told Joy.

“This has been way more exciting than anything they do on Food Network,” Charlotte said. “They need to rethink the
Iron Chef
competition. Mixed martial arts would be a dandy addition to the cooking battle in Kitchen Stadium.”

twenty-seven

After Jose had been
loaded into Francine's car and Jonathan and Marcy had driven it through the gauntlet of reporters, the tension eased but the activity picked up. They didn't have much time to get things ready for the event. Mary Ruth finished off the calamari puff pastry with mango chili sauce while Joy videotaped it, then she moved onto the beer batter version.

In the great room, Francine finished up the buffet and helped set the tables. “I've been thinking about your comment on mixed martial arts,” she told Charlotte.

“On
Iron Chef
? It'd be fun to watch, wouldn't it? I'd bet on Chef Morimoto. He probably knows karate.” Charlotte counted the number of places they'd set at the three tables.

“That's not what I meant. I was thinking about the way Friederich died. Who would know how to do a blood choke? It would have to be someone who was familiar with self-defense.”

“Not necessarily. I thought about that after I had my talk with Jud. A blood choke is a sleeper hold. They use those all the time in pro-wrestling matches. So anyone who's a wrestling fan—and who isn't?—would be familiar with how it's done.”

“Really? So familiar that they could lock a grown man expertly in a hold and keep it applied until he was dead?”

“I suppose you have a point.”

“Do any of our neighbors have that kind of experience?”

Charlotte mused. “The more and more I think about it, the less
and less it feels like any of our neighbors could have done it. On the other hand, who
couldn't
conceive of this plot? It's not like I'm the
only one who reads thrillers. And who needs books? This would be rejected as tame for any of those forensic crime dramas on TV.” She snorted. “In fact, this could have come out of a comedy like
Desperate Housewives
.”

“Didn't Jake Maehler wrestle in high school?”

“But that's a lot different than pro wrestling.”

Francine shut her eyes and tried to remember back to when her oldest son Craig wrestled. “I don't know that it's so different. A cradle hold is sort of like a submission hold, and it's legal. They wouldn't permit a dangerous one like a sleeper, but I wouldn't be surprised if the boys fooled around with it.”

Charlotte pulled Francine close. “Speaking of submission, have you told Mary Ruth yet about the appointment with Jake's trainer, or are you still planning to spring it on her?”

“I'm going with the surprise. This better work. I don't have another idea.”

“Good thing all of us are here to help. Listen, maybe you should find out from Brady if Jake knows how to slap someone in a sleeper hold.”

“I'm sure that will come up in regular conversation,” she said as they went back into the kitchen to see how they could help.

Jonathan and Marcy returned right before the guests started to arrive. Jose, his head bandaged like a mummy, was with them, still dazed. Jonathan parked him on a couch. Francine's eyes widened.

“Why is he still here?”

“It appears
someone
promised him he could stay for lunch if he participated in the competition.”

“Be glad he's agreed to do that and not press charges,” Marcy argued. “Mary Ruth may have done it, but it's your house and your frying pan. You could get pulled into civil lawsuit.”

Mary Ruth came out of the kitchen. She spotted Jose propped up against a couch pillow. “Jose!” she said. Though she was clearly delighted to see him, he held the pillow out to prevent any aggressive moves. “I'm not going to hurt you,” she said. “All is forgiven! The beer battered calamari you were working on turned out to be excellent. Want a taste?” She gently helped him up and encouraged him into the kitchen. His gait was slow but they got there. She called back to the rest of them. “Everyone's invited for samples. Come help yourselves.”

The studio camera was gone, and Joy, gloved, was working Mary Ruth's coleslaw dressing with her hands into a mixture of shredded cabbage, red cabbage, and carrots. She turned the stainless steel bowl and continued tossing. “The calamari is to die for. You all have to try them.”

“I love the brownies,” Charlotte said. She picked up several.

“I'm sure the rest of the group would love the brownies, too, but I saw you finger the pile. Did you wash your hands?” Mary Ruth dipped a beer battered calamari into the mango chili sauce and handed it to Jose.

Charlotte flashed a bottle of hand sanitizer she had in her pocket. “I did. And I'm just sugaring up for the inquisition. Once the neighbors get here, this is going to take a lot of energy.”

“I don't think
inquisition
is the right word,” said a male voice. The women all turned. Jud stood at the entrance to the kitchen, his arms folded. “Jonathan let me in,” he said.

A grin broke out on Charlotte's chocolate-smeared face. “Jud! Anything new in the investigation?”

“Nothing I'm at liberty to reveal.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

Francine took her by the arm. “We're not here to question him, dear. We're here to quietly find out what the neighbors know.”

“Help yourself to samples,” said Mary Ruth. “We're testing them before the guests arrive.”

“Thank you, but I'll have some when you start serving. My wife reminds me I need to watch my weight.”

Francine thought his comment was more polite than true, since the police uniform showed off his still athletic physique. Jud didn't swagger, but he did project a self-confidence that made people relax in his presence. Except Jose. Jose took one look at Jud and slinked out of the kitchen.

“Who's the guy with the bandaged head?” Jud asked Francine.

She sighed. “It's a long story. He won't be here that long. He's leaving after we serve lunch.”

“By the way, I thought you handled the press well this morning. I saw it on the news before I got here.”

The doorbell rang. When Francine went to answer it, she saw that Jose had returned to his semi-comatose position on the couch. Before she reached the door, it opened and Alice walked in. “It's just me.”

“I'm glad you're here,” Francine said, giving her a hug. “I was worried you'd decided not to come.”

“Larry is so depressed I can't stand to be around him anymore. I knew this would be way more fun.” She studied Jose sitting on the couch. “Who's he?”

“Part of the way more fun.”

Alice gave her a questioning look, but Francine didn't explain herself. The women went into the kitchen.

Jonathan took over door duties so Francine could mingle. More and more neighbors came. The biggest surprise was that Darla, clad in an outfit reminiscent of a Hooters waitress, arrived with her ex-husband Vince. Jonathan shook their hands and called Francine over.

“I hope you don't mind,” Darla told them. “Vince wanted to come along. He's been following the news in the papers and wanted to see all of you again.”

“How nice.” They shook hands with Vince. It had been a good ten or twelve years since the divorce, but age had been kind to him. He looked the same as when Darla had first thrown him over for a cast of successive boyfriends. His hairline had receded a little, but he had the same dark hair, wide smile, and bedroom eyes that had made the neighborhood women wonder what she was thinking in the first place when she divorced him.

The house filled with loud conversation. All twenty-five neighbors who'd confirmed their attendance showed as well as a few others, like Vince. Alice said she'd prefer to help with the food instead of chatting, so that left the rest to mingle.

Francine managed to question about fifteen of the neighbors, many of whom she discovered had already been questioned by Charlotte. She found herself dodging more questions about skinny-dipping than getting any information, though. She looked up and saw that Charlotte had Vince cornered and was chatting him up.

“Say what you will about Darla,” Charlotte told her as they caught up with each other over calamari appetizers, “but she knows how to pick up guys. Vince is still a hottie.”

Francine disagreed. “Her other boyfriends were never in the same league as Vince.”

“Not true. Darla would never date someone who wasn't good-looking. Her other boyfriends may not have been as robust, but they were all distinguished. And older.”

“And with money.”

Charlotte laughed, then got serious. “Did you know Vince worked with Friederich at Excalibur Racing?”

“No.”

“He said he only knew Friederich through work, though. He wasn't forthcoming about much else. I did ask about Sara and got around to the topic of her boyfriends. That put him off. He said she was too young to be dating anyone seriously, and then he found someone else to talk to.”

“I'm not getting anywhere either. If a neighbor was involved in killing Friederich, I'm not sure who it could be. They all seem clueless.”

The two split up again. Francine focused on the couple who lived behind Alice and Larry.
Those who saw Charlotte coming flocked elsewhere. Francine presumed they either had already been questioned by her or warned by those who had. There were three exceptions, however—Darla Baggesen in her low-cut top and an elderly couple who knew Francine was a former nurse and always wanted to talk about their latest ailments.

So when Charlotte dragged Darla over and the elderly couple followed, Francine considered bolting but it was too late.

“You've got to hear this,” Charlotte said.

The older man's head swung in toward Darla. He was practically staring into the V-neck that barely covered Darla's ample breasts.

“Hear what?” Francine asked politely.

“Darla thinks the police have it all backwards. She says they've become obsessed with what Friederich was hiding from Larry.”

Darla said, “I'm just making the observation that Friederich must have known something about Larry, something Larry didn't want known. I mean, he wasn't paying rent, and Larry threatened half a year ago to throw him out. So Larry must have been afraid to push Friederich's buttons. Why?”

“Isn't that a great observation?” Charlotte asked.

Before Francine could answer, the elderly man said, “Are those things real?”

The three women looked at him. His leering at Darla's breasts left no doubt as to what he was asking about.

She gave a short laugh and jiggled her torso. “Wouldn't you like to know.” She winked at him.

The man's wife yanked him toward the buffet table.

Francine shook her head at the retreating couple. “Larry said he was afraid he couldn't get another renter in this economy and hoped to work it out with Friederich.”

“Really?” Darla said skeptically. “Well, I think from all the rumors going around that Larry has no problem lying, even to Alice. So if the police focused more on what Friederich had learned about Larry that kept him in that building when he wasn't paying rent, they'd improve their chances.”

“Improve their chances of proving Larry is guilty of murder?” Francine's mouth tightened. “Is that what you believe?”

“He doesn't have an alibi for the night Friederich was killed. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck …” She stepped away.

No doubt in pursuit of someone else she can shake her tatas at
, thought Francine.

“How did Darla know Friederich wasn't paying rent?” Charlotte asked.

“How does Darla know anything?”

“I suppose it could be that she attracts gossip like she attracts men. She doesn't have to work at it very hard.”

Darla approached Jose on the couch. He saw her coming and stood—shakily, but he stood. He seemed very formal around her. “I don't know,” Francine said, “I think she
does
work at it. Does Jose know Darla?”

“Maybe she's a frequent customer at El Burrito Loco. Or maybe she hires them to cater events. They're cheaper than Mary Ruth if all you want is Mexican.”

“Do you think Darla has a valid point?”

“Who knows? She also suspects Jake Maehler.”

“So do we.”

“Which reminds me that we need to check his website to see if I'm right about the Molson being in that one photo.”

A shrill whistle sounded at that moment. Startled, they all turned to the doors that led into the kitchen.

Joy stood in front of them on a step ladder. She held out her arms like she was getting ready to conduct an orchestra. “Sorry for the whistle, but it was hard to get your attention with all the noise. Thank you all for coming. As you know, Francine McNamara is hosting this tasting for our very good friend, Mary Ruth Burrows, who I know you will all agree if you don't already know, is a wonderful chef and should be a bigger part of the racing industry. We hope you will support her getting more of this business. Now, let's eat!”

The crowd surged toward the buffet.

“Let's use the restroom first,” Francine said, pulling Charlotte out of the way. “The one upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” She indicated her cane.

“I have my reasons. And we all know you use that cane when it suits your purposes more than because of your knee.”

Charlotte had a twinkle in her eye, but she admitted nothing. “I'll come with you, but all I need to do is wash my hands. I went earlier when Andrew Starling farted loudly and tried to cover it up by acting like his wife had done it. She slapped him, and I nearly peed my pants trying to keep from laughing. So I headed as fast as I could to the ladies' room.”

Upstairs, Francine headed for Jonathan's office.