French Fried Read online

  Praise for Irish Stewed, the First Book in the Ethnic Eats Series

  “A fun and intriguing read . . . cannot wait for the next in this series.”

  —Open Book Society

  “A delightfully entertaining debut to a series that I hope is here to stay.”

  —Dru’s Book Musings

  A Gallic Getaway

  I left Declan somewhere behind me in the crowd when I inched my way to the curb.

  By the time I got there, MacLain’s car was already stopped at the grandstand, and the historian—book still raised; his arm must have been getting tired—was just getting out.

  “So?” I wound an arm through Rocky’s and made sure to keep my voice light. “What do you think? Does he look like the kind of guy who knows everything there is to know about the Statue of Liberty?”

  “He looks . . .” When Rocky turned away from the grandstand, her eyes were wide and her face was pale. “He looks . . . exactly . . . he looks exactly like I thought he would look,” she said. She untangled her arm from mine and she didn’t bother trying to negotiate her way through the crowd. Rocky took off running down the middle of the street, away from the grandstand and the parade and the Statue of Liberty expert, as if her life depended on it.

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan

  Ethnic Eats Mysteries

  IRISH STEWED

  FRENCH FRIED

  Button Box Mysteries

  BUTTON HOLED

  HOT BUTTON

  PANIC BUTTON

  BUTTONED UP

  League of Literary Ladies Mysteries

  MAYHEM AT THE ORIENT EXPRESS

  A TALE OF TWO BIDDIES

  THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HARLOW

  AND THEN THERE WERE NUNS

  Chili Cook-off Mysteries

  CHILI CON CARNAGE

  DEATH BY DEVIL’S BREATH

  REVENGE OF THE CHILI QUEENS

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Connie Laux

  Excerpt from Irish Stewed copyright © 2016 by Connie Laux

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780698159211

  First Edition: June 2017

  Cover art by Tom Foty

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book have been created for the ingredients and techniques indicated. The Publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require supervision. Nor is the Publisher responsible for any adverse reactions you may have to the recipes contained in the book, whether you follow them as written or modify them to suit your personal dietary needs or tastes.

  Version_1

  My friend Joan is no longer with us, but I can’t help but think of her when I think about Rocky and Rocky’s home in this book.

  Joan had the same panache as Rocky, the same love of place, and the same style.

  Yes, she displayed everything she owned! It was one of the reasons visiting her was such a treat. Miss you, Joan, our long talks on your screened porch, and sharing a glass (or two) of wine!

  Acknowledgments

  How often you’ll hear an author say that no book is written alone!

  It’s true. In spite of the fact that we sit here in isolation in front of our computers for months and months, there are bound to be other people who help us and influence us every time we write a book.

  This time, like always, I’d like to thank them all, especially my agent, Gail Fortune, the folks at Berkley Prime Crime, and the members of the Northeast Ohio chapter of Sisters in Crime. Great people, all, sisters and misters!

  A special thanks to Georgia Schuff, who in addition to being the world’s best knitting teacher just happens to be my expert on all things to do with Hubbard, Ohio.

  Thanks to my brainstorming group, Shelley Costa, Serena Miller, and Emilie Richards, for always being there to listen and to offer advice. And of course to my family, both the people and the fur kids, merci beaucoup!

  Contents

  Praise for Irish Stewed

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Recipes

  Preview of Irish Stewed

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “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 bumped 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 anchored 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 apron 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 massive 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 longtime 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 baloney, 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 Japanese (sushi did not exactly go over big with the Hubbard crowd) and Chinese (popular, but there were plenty of Chinese places in town and I gave up on a menu that seemed to me to be déjà vu all over again). Now, in honor of a town celebration commemorating the anniversary of the dedication of the Statue of Liberty, a gift from France to the people of America, we’d decided to go with the Tricolor 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 Gruyère, 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 bumped 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 shaggy, 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 specialty 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 Paix.

  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 effect 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.

  Before I could, Rocky pulled a bottle of wine out of the basket she’d brought with her.

  “We need to have a glass before we head out, eh?” She didn’t wait for us to agree, but reached for the corkscrew she’d also brought along and opened the bottle. “You have glasses, George?” she asked, and since we didn’t have a liquor license and there weren’t any appropriate wineglasses around, he brought over water glasses. Four of them.

  Rocky didn’t mind sharing. She poured into each of the glasses and she was just about to take a drink when Sophie stopped her.

  “What about a toast?” Sophie asked. “We always have a toast.”

  “Oh.” As if this were a new thought, Rocky blinked and stared into her glass.

  This time, Sophie augmented That Look with a scrunched-up nose and a tip of her head in Rocky’s direction.

  I knew a losing cause when I saw one.

  I put a hand on Rocky’s arm and couldn’t help but notice that when I did, she flinched.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. “You seem distracted.”

  She made a face that would have been convincing if I hadn’t spent the last few years of my career as the personal chef of Hollywood megastar Meghan Cohan. I knew actors. Good actors. Bad actors. Rocky fell into the latter category.

  “I get so flustered when I’m running late.” I guess Rocky forgot all about the toast, because she downed her wine. “We should probably get going, huh? We don’t want to miss the book signing.”

  “Imagine, Aurore Brisson here in Hubbard!” It looked as if Sophie knew a losing cause when she saw one, too, because she gave up on the toast, took a quick sip of wine, and set down her glass. She stepped up beside Rocky. “How exciting it must be for you to have a Frenchwoman here in town. And such a famous one! That book of hers—”

  “Yesterday’s Passion. Yes, yes.” Before Sophie could pilot her to the door, Rocky poured another glass of wine and slugged it down. “I’m anxious to read it. I’ve always been interested in my country’s history but really, I don’t know all that much about the Middle Ages. The story sounds so . . . so romantic. Knights, ladies, castles—”

  “And t
hat gorgeous hunk, Sam Baker, who’s going to play the lead role when the book’s made into a TV series!” Sophie grinned and leaned closer to Rocky, speaking in a stage whisper I couldn’t fail to hear. “Laurel knows him.”

  Rocky raised her eyebrows.

  “Not well,” I admitted because it was better than letting anyone know that Sam Baker had once had an affair with Meghan Cohan and had come on to me one morning while I was getting breakfast ready for the two of them down in the kitchen of Meghan’s Malibu mansion. “We’ve met.”

  “Is he as gorgeous in person as he is in the movies?” Rocky asked.

  He was, and I admitted it. Without adding that he was also a little too much into recreational drugs and other men’s wives.

  “It’s only natural that he’s playing the lead. Isn’t that right, Laurel?” Sophie asked. “Meghan Cohan herself is producing and directing and starring. She’s playing Cecile. The tabloids say they’re having an affair, Meghan and Sam.” Sophie paused, waiting for me to fill in the blanks. When I didn’t, she breezed right on. “Oh, I can’t wait to read the book and see the show and see if they stick to the original story. Is that how it works, Laurel? When they make a film or a TV show, do they usually stick to the original story?”

  In this case, only if the original story involved late-night fights of epic proportions, accusations thrown back and forth like rocks from a catapult, and a huge and ugly breakup the tabloids had yet to get wind of. No doubt the network had squelched the truth to get as much mileage as they could out of what they were touting as both an on-screen and an offscreen romance.

  “Well, I’m buying a copy of the book, that’s for sure,” Sophie told us. “And I can’t wait to get Aurore Brisson’s autograph. How clever it was of John and Mike over at the Book Nook to get her here just in time for the Statue of Liberty celebration. She’s such a superstar, so young and pretty. I bet there will be a line out the door of the bookstore. Let’s get over there fast.”

  Fast, of course, is a relative word when it comes to Sophie, who always has a patron to stop and say hello to or a neighbor to greet. Then, of course, there was the matter of Sophie’s knee. Oh, she didn’t move at a snail’s pace because of that replacement surgery back in the spring. She’d recovered from that and gone through rehab and all was well. At least for a few weeks. That’s when she twisted her knee. While she was on a Mediterranean cruise. On an island. Drinking ouzo and doing the Zorba the Greek dance with some hunky fisherman who emailed her regularly now and called her his little baklava and promised to come visit sometime soon.