Wine Dine and Christmas Crimes Read online

  Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes

  A Baker Girls Cozy Mystery

  Maria Grazia Swan

  Copyright © 2019 Maria Grazia Swan

  An Echo Canyon Press Publication

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  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the US Copyright Law.

  Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author and publisher.

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  Cover Design by Mariah Sinclair

  Formatting by Debora Lewis

  [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  BRENDA’S EASY CHOCOLATE PECAN PIE

  MONICA’S NO-BAKE CHOCOLATE PECAN MINI PIES

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  About the Author

  Other books by Maria Grazia Swan

  DEDICATION

  While writing this book I couldn't help remembering how it all started, back in the '80s, Saddleback College, Orange County, California. Creative Writing. The class where I met many of the people who cheered me through my writer's journey.

  Susan Hecht was our fearless leader.

  A thank you to all, the ones who are still writing, the ones we wish could still be with us.

  I love you all. Grazie.

  BRENDA’S EASY CHOCOLATE PECAN PIE

  The 9-inch unbaked pie crust is store bought.

  You will need

  3 eggs-slightly beaten

  1 cup of corn syrup, we suggest dark.

  1 cup of sugar

  2 tablespoons of butter-unsalted

  I ounce of semi-sweet chocolate (approx. 4 squares)

  1 teaspoon of vanilla

  1 ½ cups of pecan halves/pieces

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  Melt butter and chocolate in same small saucepan

  Stir eggs, corn syrup, sugar, vanilla and the melted combination butter+chocolate in the same large bowl until it looks well blended. Add pecans. Stir again. Pour into pie shell.

  Bake for 50-55 minutes, check by inserting knife halfway between center and edge of pie. Knife must come out clean.

  Let the pie cool before cutting.

  MONICA’S NO-BAKE CHOCOLATE PECAN MINI PIES

  To make these delicious pies super simple, instead of baking your own pastry, use frozen mini pie shells, 6 to a package, or Keebler Ready Crust Mini Graham Pie Crust, also 6 to a package, which you can find in the baking aisle of your supermarket.

  6 mini pies, one serving each

  1 cup of pecan halves.

  1 small box (3.4 oz) of cook and serve chocolate pudding (substitute instant if desired) 2 cups of milk needed.

  1 cup whipped cream or whipped dessert topping

  1. Prepare pudding according to package.

  2. Spoon pudding evenly into the center of the 6 shells.

  3. Divide the pecans into six servings and arrange each portion in a circle on top of the chocolate pudding.

  4. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

  5. Before serving, spoon a portion of the whipped cream or dessert topping on top of each mini pie. Top with a pecan if desired.

  ONE

  THOSE NUMBERS ON the computer screen.

  Magic numbers? Or not.

  Wow, this stuff could easily mess up a girl’s sense of reality, especially on this Thursday evening. I sat alone in my cozy little house engulfed by the early darkness seeping in as the December sun set. How long had I been staring at the screen? Too long. My right leg had gone to sleep.

  I felt frozen as a Klondike bar but not as sweet.

  Stop staring at the computer. I sensed a surge of—no, not happiness—more like satisfaction. Yes, that—the satisfaction of a job well done. Like it or not, those numbers looking back at me from the computer? Dollars in my bank account.

  I ran my finger over the sleek screen, over my name, Monica Baker. It didn’t say real estate agent extraordinaire next to it, but it should have because all that money was my commission from the closing of escrow of the Dumont’s horse ranch transaction. This was the largest amount of money I had ever earned in all my working days. Mercy.

  If only I could shout it from the rooftops—perhaps while standing next to the inflated plastic reindeer Officer Clarke, AKA Aunt Brenda’s good friend Bob, had installed as Christmas decoration. Part of me savored the euphoric rush, while the rest of me felt awfully aware that the money came from Tristan Dumont’s assets.

  In the real estate business, it’s customary for the seller to pay the agent’s commission, but without a buyer there would be no sale. And the buyer was Tristan Dumont, the married object of my desire. With the deal now closed, we no longer shared any ongoing business. He wasn’t my client, but he was still the man I pined for. I signed out of the bank’s site just as Aunt Brenda called my cell.

  Huh, Brenda? Wasn’t she catering the holiday dinner at Kay’s place? Had she forgotten to take Kay’s present I’d entrusted her with—a lovely personalized name plaque for Kay’s desk? Kay was my colleague at Desert Homes Real Estate, and at six thirty p.m. her dinner party should have been approaching the appetizers stage.

  “Monica, thank God. Are you home?”

  “Huh, yeah. Why? You okay?”

  “I need your help.” Music to my ears...I normally assisted Brenda in her business, B&B Catering, but Kay hadn’t wanted anyone from the office. So not only was I not invited to the holiday dinner, but I couldn’t join with the working crew either.

  “Monica, are you paying attention?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” It was an effort to keep my voice from betraying my excitement. “Should I wear the usual black dress? Did you forget Kay’s present?”

  “I don’t care what you wear, as long as you get here ASAP. I did forget something but not the box you gave me for Kay.”

  “Oh, okay. What did you forget?” Perfect, I had my excuse to go check out the party.

  “Walk over to my place and pick up the two large trays of finger foods I left in the refrigerator. Be very careful, they are tightly wrapped in clear plastic, but they can still slide around. Lay them on the back seats of your Fiat with something cushy so the trays don’t move around. I know how you drive.”

  “Sheesh, thanks. Why call me if you don’t trust me?”

  “It’s not that. Just want you to be careful.” She sighed. “I feel awful. I suppose that’s what happens when you haven’t done any catering for such a long time.”

  “Tell me about it.” I used my poor-little-me voice.

  “Monica, you know I had no choice this time. I like having you around. Anyway, please hurry. Most of the guests are already here. You know where Kay’s condo is, right? The Nest...and don’t drive to the main lobby. Go around, south side of the building, to the deliv
ery entrance. Leta or her helper Sue will meet you there. Thanks, Monica.” And she was gone.

  Leta, Brenda’s trusted supervisor. Hummh, Leta liked me. Maybe I could convince her to let me carry the trays upstairs to Kay’s place. All I wanted was a little peek; then I’d split. Couldn’t wear my catering dress, or my ploy would be obvious. I quickly slipped on my black jeans and black sweater before crossing the driveway to Brenda’s backdoor. I could hear Dior, her blue Great Dane, barking as I unlocked and let myself in. He was in the laundry room. Perfect. The last thing I needed was trying to control his rambunctious antics while I carried the trays to my car. I did however take a treat from the pantry, pitching it to him without lingering, afraid he would muscle his way out of the room. “I’ll take you for a walk when I get back,” I promised. Only loud crunching came from behind the Dutch door.

  Being so close to Christmas, even Thursday night traffic was heavy, and a joyful sense of anticipation filled the early evening. I had rehearsed my lines while driving. Had to sound convincing—Leta was no fool. The last time we worked together had been at the Dumont’s housewarming party a few months ago. Somehow it felt like a lifetime. The Nest, the high-rise housing Kay’s condo, sparkled in the advancing darkness, all lit up inside and out. Too bad I wouldn’t get to see the main lobby. I had been told it looked like a super fancy European hotel. I had never set foot in any fancy European hotel even if I was from Italy, but I had been to Vegas. Their over-the-top casinos with names like Paris and Bellagio served as a good point of reference.

  The delivery entrance was barely lit, and the dark surrounding walls felt a bit intimidating—quite a departure from the front of the building. I welcomed the sight of Leta’s grumpy face when she opened the heavy security door and walked over to my Fiat. I quickly got out and offered her my best smile. As for my well-rehearsed lines, I never got the chance to try them out.

  “I’m not letting you go up,” Leta said matter-of-factly. “Brenda warned me. Sorry, Tootsie, my job is on the line.” I’ll admit she sounded sincere. “You aren’t missing much. Trust me.”

  And with that, she ignored my pouting, grabbed the trays, turned around, and disappeared into the service entrance. The door slammed shut behind her. I moseyed back to my car, but instead of driving straight out, I decided to play dumb and—oops—made a few wrong turns and found myself coasting by the formal, brightly lit lobby.

  Parked at the curb was a Maserati Quattro Porte. A dark, shiny, bred-for-racing luxury sedan. Stupenda. My eyes were still admiring the cursive brand name on the back trunk when a burly doorman rushed to open the door to the driver’s side, and who came strolling out but Mister Double Wide. What? OMG! No wonder Kay didn’t want anyone from the office at her party. She was in cahoots with him? Our biggest competitor? Well, la-di-da, caught! It couldn’t be romantic. He had to be at least fifteen years her junior. And that brought images of Tristan and Angelique Dumont into my mind’s eye. Fifteen years? Peanuts compared to the Dumonts’ age difference.

  Would Kay leave Desert Homes Realty to join D. W. Brokerage? I sat in my idling car, sucking air, when I noticed the somewhat disheveled doorman walking my way while he buttoned up his jacket. That was a lot of gold buttons. And weird hair, too. Curly, like Shirley Temple wore her curls in the old black-and-white movies. I didn’t like the scowl on his face.

  Panicking, I accidentally revved up the engine while attempting a sharp U-turn, missed it, and ended up with my back tires on the sidewalk—the private sidewalk I might add. Somehow, I managed to get off it but not without scraping my rear bumper against the curb. The commotion attracted Double Wide’s attention, and the prick, all decked out in a dark, expensive-looking suit, walked over to check the back of his Maserati.

  Seeming to stagger a little, he ignored me and focused on the car. Seriously? I wasn’t anywhere near his precious Italian import. Oh...so tempted to give him the finger.

  Better not, better get out of here quickly before the doorman, in his stupid gold-buttoned uniform makes a note of your license plate.

  Funny Monica, very funny. How many hot pink Fiat 500s do you think drive up and down private sidewalks on Camelback Road on any given day?

  Hmph—good old Double Wide with his impeccably groomed hair and tailored dress shirt that was whiter than the wimple that topped off the habit of Sister Maria Rita, my old kindergarten teacher. Oh, and would you look at that? A breast-pocket handkerchief. This is the 21st Century, dude. Who wears a handkerchief a la Dean Martin and the Rat Pack Era anymore?

  For all his splendid attire, he still walked like a tipsy old man. Or maybe he really was old, but had a lot of, you know, upgrades. Couldn’t figure out how he earned that misleading nickname, Double Wide. He wasn’t heavy, au contraire, he leaned toward the hunky side, at least from the window of my Fiat. A slow-moving hunk.

  Flooring it to get the heck outta there, I zigzagged around, hardly able to concentrate on my driving. Too upset—because a glance in the rearview mirror had me convinced Double Wide snapped off a phone pic of my license plate.

  The rumors of Dale Wolf, broker extraordinaire, trying to get Kay to transfer her license to his company must have been true. The very idea brought me down. Not Kay. I liked her, a lot. She was my mentor, a shining example of charm, sophistication and professionalism. All the qualities I didn’t possess—yet.

  Something didn’t add up. Why hire B&B Catering? Certainly, Kay was aware of Brenda’s tight friendship with Sunny Novak, broker and owner of Desert Homes Realty.

  All that drama made me feel like a boiling pot of pasta about to spill over. I had to talk to someone—who? Kassandra, our office secretary, always knew everything that went on at work—in, out, and around. Except she hadn’t even set foot at the real estate office in the last eight days. Not with what that creep Bill Smith did to her when he broke into Desert Homes Realty. Considering he intended to kill her (and me too for being an accidental witness), we lucked out. Compared to her injuries, my cuts and bruises were nothing. And my ribs had healed nicely.

  Kassandra left the hospital two days ago, but because her condo didn’t have an elevator and she couldn’t climb stairs on her own, she ended up in a convalescent home across from the hospital. I had visited her once already, and we spoke on the phone. I doubted anyone else went to see her. The whole office did pitch in to get her flowers and Mylar balloons.

  I checked the time. By now visiting hours at the convalescent home were way over. Damn. Might as well go home and take Dior for a walk before it got to dark. Then I would wait for Brenda to get back and ask her what kind of cheating games our charming Kay has been playing on us, her trusting friends and colleagues.

  It was more Dior dragging me on a walk than the other way around. We circled the block where all the neighbors always looked out for each other, and we were back before nine. I fed the Great Dane and myself. No matter what day or time, I could always count on finding food and some chilled Pinot Grigio in Brenda Baker’s amply-stocked fridge.

  At some point I must have fallen asleep on her couch with Dior next to me and the television on. I woke up to the sound of a police car siren—coming from the screen, not from the street. I pushed on Dior to free my legs and rubbed my eyes. What time was it? And what cop show was I watching?

  Something looked familiar. A rerun? Hardly. Nooo, that was a live interview. A local reporter interviewing—Leta? Yep, Leta, Brenda’s number-one assistant. Both Leta and the reporter stood outside the entrance of the high rise, same spot where I’d crossed paths with Double Wide and his Maserati.

  “No, I can’t say I know the victim. A resident perhaps? I’m sorry. I was serving after-dinner drinks at a private party on the twenty-fourth floor when the cops—I mean the detectives came knocking and asking questions.” Leta paused and looked around, moving her head in short, quick motions like a nervous chicken. “I heard someone say a man drowned in the pool on the rooftop. Then it was like—oh, no it was a woman with cropped hair.” Leta shook her head
. I had to say, she was keeping both her composure and the B&B Catering logo on her shirt in full sight throughout the whole interview. The reporter nodded, and suddenly the camera angle moved to show dozen of cop cars and onlookers, and I caught a quick glimpse of Camelback Road. Then a commercial came on.

  The knock on Brenda’s back door sent my heart to my throat, and I couldn’t find my voice nor did I want to. That was when Dior barked, of course.

  TWO

  I OPENED THE door to the busybody widow from across the street, the one who always smelled like an open perfume bottle. The Great Dane pressed against my butt and the widow stretched her neck to the point of injury trying to peek over my shoulders. To see what?

  “Oh, hi, Monica”—her eyes squinting—“I wanted to tell Brenda that the reindeer on the roof, you know, the one your aunt’s boyfriend put up...”

  “Not her boyfriend.” I yawned.

  “Oh”—a little stretch of the lips—smiling, sort of—“Oh, well, whoever the nice gentleman who comes around so often is...” Waiting for me to volunteer information? Fat chance.

  “Officer Clarke.” I could be mean and keep this aimless conversation going ‘til the wee hours of the morning. Better not. “He’s a friend of—the family. Anyway, what about the reindeer—needs to be fed?” Good one, Monica.

  She opened her mouth, closed it again. If looks could kill... “No. It’s about to slide off the roof. Please make sure and tell your aunt Brenda.” She turned around and sashayed down the driveway as if a busload of men was watching. Nuts. I wondered what kind of performance she would have put on had the nice gentleman been present. Maybe this was a rehearsal.

  “Stop pushing me, Dior. Didn’t you hear how mean I am to people?” I blamed my bad mood on my lack of sleep, or sex...hadn’t decided which one I missed most, not yet.

  My phone chimed before I made it back to the couch. “Monica, can you give me a ride home?”

  “Huh? Brenda? What happened to your car? Where are you? What time is it?”