Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic
Foods,
Fools
and a
Dead Psychic
Maria Grazia Swan
Free Italian recipe for Hot Chocolate
Sign up for my occasional newsletter to be the first to know about new releases, deals and giveaways. As a thank you I will email you a link to this old family recipe for hot chocolate. Mille Grazie
www.mariagraziaswan.com
Copyright © 2018 Maria Grazia Swan
* * *
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.
* * *
Helen Cassidy Page at: Editing Services
http://dailywritingcoach. weebly.com
Cover Design by Mariah Sinclair
Formatting by Debora Lewis
deboraklewis@yahoo.com
Table of Contents
Low Fat Banana Bread
Gluten Free Recipe
Monica’s 3 Minute No Bake Desert
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
More books by Maria Grazia Swan
About the Author
Remembering
little no name girl
so loved–so missed
RIP
LOW FAT BANANA BREAD
Heat oven to 350 degrees F
Coat a 9”x5”x3”baking pan with a light coat of non-stick cooking spray
1 ¾ cups of unbleached all purpose flour
2 teaspoons double acting baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1/2 cup unsweetened applesauce
2/3 cup granulated sugar
2 whole eggs, beaten
1 cup mashed ripe bananas, approximately 2-3 medium
Sift flour, baking powder, soda and salt together and set aside.
With an electric mixer on medium speed mix applesauce and sugar until well blended, and then add eggs until mixture is light and fluffy.
With the electric mixer at low speed or by hand to be sure you don’t over beat, fold in flour mixture, alternating with mashed bananas until smooth.
Pour into prepared baking pan. Bake 1 hour or until cake tester inserted in center comes out clean. Do not overbake. You can cool for 10 minutes and remove from pan or you can let it cool an hour and slice directly from the pan.
FOR GLUTEN FREE RECIPE.
If you want a gluten free recipe you can substitute the regular flour with gluten free flour and if you want to avoid binders, bake banana muffins instead of banana bread. Makes one dozen muffins. Use baking cups to avoid using grease for the muffin pan.
Bake muffins at 400 degrees for 25 minutes or until done.
MONICA’S 3 MINUTE NO-BAKE DESSERT
Frozen organic silver dollar pancakes
Nutella
Canned whipped cream
Place 2 silver dollar pancakes on a microwave safe dish. Approximately 25 calories per pancake.
Microwave for 15 seconds or until just warm.
Spread 1/3 teaspoon Nutella (approximately 25 calories) on each pancake with butter knife, squeeze a tablespoon whipped cream on each pancake (approximately 15 calories).
Total calories for each complete pancake is about 65 calories. And it’s good for you... Enjoy.
ONE
FIVE O’CLOCK AND Desert Homes Realty exuded the quietness of day’s end. I grabbed the chance to find my boss, Sunny Novak, alone in her office and seek her advice regarding Aunt Brenda. Sunny and Brenda had been close friends for so long I couldn’t think of a more qualified person to diagnose my aunt’s sudden obsession with food.
I slipped into one of the chairs opposite Sunny’s desk and explained, “I blame it on her incident — you know — after the hospital emergency. It’s like she traded one obsession for another. She lost her lover but found solace in eating.” God, I hated revisiting such a painful event. Even if the overdose was accidental, it had distorted Brenda’s personality. Gluttony didn’t become someone getting big bucks to tell wealthy, retired folks, how to eat healthy, gourmet meals.
“Life changer.” Sunny shook her head, one of her brunette curls falling over her forehead. “Think about it Monica. Twenty years. Gone. Her youth and then some, for that bastard who dropped her without so much as goodbye and then married some Barbie-looking kid half his age.”
She slammed the stack of papers on her desk with way too much enthusiasm. Was this hitting close to home? Sunny had just started covering the gray in her lush hair and it couldn’t be easy having a sexy twenty-one year old blonde daughter prancing around the office on a show-up-as-you-please basis.
Voices filtered in from the lobby. I hadn’t heard the door chime, and apparently neither had Sunny. She frowned then glanced at me. I shrugged, stepped toward the glass wall dividing her private space from the rest of the office area and tried to see who would show up at such a late hour. Whoever it was certainly couldn’t expect a tour of available houses for sale. Not after five o’clock and without an appointment. Plus, I was the only licensed realtor still there. My boss worked exclusively with her regular high rollers. The only other soul left in the building was Kassandra who didn’t have a real estate license. She took care of the phone, the greetings and other office duties.
Two people stood a few steps outside Sunny’s office busily talking to Kassandra. A couple? It was hard to tell because they had their backs to me. Kassandra seemed flustered. Why? Size, spunk and youth were on her side. I quickened my pace.
“Hello,” I said, apparently catching them off guard.
The walk-in couple turned at the same time and stared at me like I’d grown a horn on my forehead.
“They’re cops, detectives,” Kassandra spit out in a hurry as if to get rid of the bad taste the statement left on her lips. “Something happened to Miss Fortune,” she added, in a softer tone.
I moved closer to the front lobby. “Miss Fortune? Who’s she? A client?” I could feel the detectives’ visual assessments volleying between Kassandra and me. And there was nothing playful in the volleying.
“No, not a client. She’s — was — the psychic from Tucson? Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, yeah, the séance? Yeah I remember. That’s when you — uh — lost your...” I stopped. What was I saying? Did I just get Kassandra in trouble?
“She lost what?” the woman cop asked in a forced but sweet tone of voice.
It was my turn to glance from one face to the other.
“It’s okay Monica, they know about the bra,” Kassandra sighed.
The man stared at me openly and I wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“Perhaps we could get a brief report from both of you?” the she-detective suggested with the same sweet-sour voice as before.
“Sure, over a drink? I mean, it’s happy hour isn
’t?” I heard the man chuckle, but the she-cop wasn’t amused.
“Coffee and water are free at the precinct.” Her tone was not as cut and dried as her hairdo, but close enough. Mercy me.
“Do you know Officer Clarke?” My feeble attempt at clearing the adversarial atmosphere I’d helped create. Clarke was the only local policeman I knew.
“Miss...” She stared at me and waited.
“Oh, Monica, I’m Monica Baker. I’m a realtor here at Desert Homes Realty.” I offered my hand. She ignored it.
“Miss Baker, we are detectives, Homicide detectives.”
“How exciting...” Fingers crossed, she’d buy my joyful act. “Like Blue Bloods. I just love that show.”
Nope, didn’t work on her, but her male counterpart fought to keep a straight face. Maybe he liked watching his partner getting all worked up over nothing. Me being the nothing, at least in this case. Was there a connection between Miss Fortune and Kassandra’s bra? Returning it to the owner? Poor woman, trying to be helpful and something happened to her? Something? These two were h-o-m-i-c-i-d-e cops as in dead, murdered. Poor Miss Fortune. That’s when it hit me, Miss Fortune? Say that fast, what do you get? Misfortune... a bad omen for sure.
I hoped Sunny would make an appearance and tell the detectives to leave so she could lock up. What was keeping her?
“This séance? You two went together?” the detective asked.
“No, no.” Why did I rush my answer? “I’ve never done, I mean, been. Never been to a séance. Kassandra told me about it that morning when — you know, she — I — she had no bra and since she’s the receptionist.” I was babbling and Kassandra didn’t seem too happy about it.
“How do you know she wasn’t wearing a bra?” The tone of the female detective could freeze an erupting volcano.
How did I know? Seriously? Was she blind? I gave a sideways glance to Kassandra and put my hands up to my flat chest as if gripping a large watermelon. Kassandra rolled her eyes in disbelief, the she-cop shook her head in disgust, and the guy just snickered. Luckily Sunny interrupted my brief miming performance. “What’s going on?”
Thirty minutes later, after the detectives collected enough information, or so they said, we locked up the office and headed home.
The instant Sunny’s Cadillac left the parking lot, my cell chimed. “Yeah, where to?” I asked.
I followed Kassandra’s beat-up Kia to North Italia for their $20 happy hour special. It got a bit complicated because parking at North is strictly valet and the poor kid who rushed over for Kassandra’s car couldn’t get the Kia to move without a lot of strange engine noises. And the other young man had problems fitting his long legs in my Fiat 500.
But once inside the place, twenty dollars bought us a bottle of their house wine that happened to be an excellent Pinot Grigio, and their chef’s board to share. We were in a splurging mood and for three dollars more we got to feast on their bowl of paper-thin fried zucchini chips.
We sat on the outside patio. The tall shrubs and potted plants that shielded us from the engine noise of the cars zipping by on 40th Street didn’t stop a lingering setting sun from accenting Kassandra’s cinnamon colored hair, if only for a nanosecond.
“I’m giving you the short version, and then we’ll forget all about it, deal?” Kassandra said.
I shrugged, “It’s your bra, your séance. I’m a spectator. And your friend. Go ahead, spill the beans,” I said, gingerly stuffing my mouth with crispy zucchini.
“I can’t believe the poor woman is dead. I hardly knew her, except for Facebook, but in person? Only met her that evening. Where has she been all this time? She’s from Tucson, according to the detectives, her body was found in the canal a week ago, with my bra tied around her neck.”
Kassandra stopped to breathe just as our server arrived with the wine. Lucky for us I had my mouth closed when she shared Miss Fortune’s — misfortune — or I would have sprayed out my food. Instead, I tried to chew quietly, out of respect for the poor dead woman.
“What else did detectives Adam and Eve tell you?” I fought to wipe the mental image of a dead body floating in a canal wearing someone else’s bra around her neck.
“Monica, cops don’t tell, they ask. Supposedly it was all over the news because they treated the case as a Jane Doe. Did you hear about it?”
I shook my head no and spread some of that soft cheese on my grilled bread. Apparently the mental image wasn’t affecting my appetite. “How can they not know who she was and yet track the bra back to you? Makes no sense.”
“You’re right. I didn’t think about that. There was nothing special about the bra. I usually buy them when they go on sale at Macy’s. You buy one at regular price and you get the second half off. I think I’ve lost my appetite.”
She drank her wine and played with one of the olives that were part of the offerings on the chef’s board. I don’t like olives, something that always makes me the subject of snide remarks because I’m Italian and apparently liking olives should be part of my DNA.
“That’s it. Your DNA.” I said it a little louder than I meant to, and I could see more than one head turning to stare at our table. Great.
“Get real Monica. The body had been in the water for at least a week according to the detectives. That means my bra soaked in the disgusting canal waters for the same length of time. DNA? Seriously? You watch too many cop shows.”
“Hey, just trying to help. So what’s next?”
“What’s next about what?” Kassandra was still pushing the olives around on her plate. I’m ashamed to confess I ate all the crescenza cheese and had now started my attack on the prosciutto. I shouldn’t be enjoying the food, instead I should be sad and depressed like Kassandra. And not knowing the dead woman personally was a poor excuse.
“Wait,” I said before biting into a prosciutto-laden bruschetta. “Was she plucked out of a local canal? Like our canal? The one running about thirty feet from the back of this restaurant?” And suddenly I did feel awful, probably for the wrong reasons.
“Ah. Now that you mention it... it’s possible. I’m not sure if it’s the same canal. How many canals are there in Phoenix?”
I shrugged, had no clue. Besides, we weren’t talking Venice’s Grand Canal. In Phoenix they all looked alike to me.
“You know what? I bet that’s why we decided on North Italia... it’s that thing, you know, mind association? The body in the canal and the restaurant by the canal. Ewwww. I’ve also lost my appetite,” I said while scooping up the last of the prosciutto. My grandma must be turning in her grave. I had become totally jaded. Blamed it on all the cop shows I watched.
“Let’s change the subject.” Kassandra sipped more wine, “I need a car, and so do you. You can’t seriously expect to drive prospects around in your hot pink Fiat, right?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. I took criticism of my beloved car very personally. “It hasn’t hurt me yet,” I declared.
“Come on, Monica. Who do you think you’re fooling? So far you’ve been able to meet clients at the properties. Your luck will run out sooner or later...”
I knew she was right. “I’m waiting until we close on the Tucson horse ranch.” Carefully avoiding his name.
“Oh, that’s right. You’ll get a big fat check when Tristan Dumont’s escrow closes.”
Noooo. She mentioned his name. Let the heartache begin.
TWO
DECEMBER BROUGHT SHORTER days. By seven o’clock sunset was history. Driving east on Camelback Road on my way home, I had to cross over the canal. It felt creepy, even without knowing if this was the canal where Miss Fortune’s body had been found. Creepy or not, I planned on Googling the ghoulish story the minute I got home. Between the dead psychic and the mentioning of Tristan Dumont, that flurry at the pit of my stomach wasn’t food-related, that was for sure. Another ironic reminder that even going to happy hour with a good friend doesn’t guarantee happy anything.
As for Tristan, or to be fair, my ob
session with Tristan, I had lulled myself into believing I had built immunity to his charm. This was in theory, of course, because we hadn’t spoken since I visited him back at the beginning of November while he was bedridden due to our car accident.
One of his friends drove him to the office after that visit. Tristan moved slowly, walking with a cane. I waved at him, from a safe distance, and then left the real estate office with some lame excuse. Kassandra winked as I walked out the door. Was I so transparent? When I drove out of the parking lot, I had the feeling someone was watching me. Could it be him? From the office window? Why? He was a married man. Nothing good could happen between us... except the obstinate crush I fought hard to keep in check.
I thought of Tristan as a sinful temptation, a residual from my Catholic upbringing, I guess. And I couldn’t help comparing that temptation with poor Max every time he came near me. Sheesh, like comparing French bubbly to soda water.
Max — fingers crossed he wouldn’t show up at my place tonight. Between Miss Fortune and Tristan... well, the only thing I looked forward to this evening was getting into my pajamas and watching television while searching for details of the mysterious drowning of the psychic. Drowning? There I was, assuming again. Who would tie a bra around the neck of a drowning woman? And why? So she wouldn’t catch cold? Stop it, Monica, that’s very disrespectful.
But that brought a lot more questions to the surface. Was Miss Fortune naked or did she end up in the canal with her clothes on? I could spin scenarios in my mind all night and still find no logical explanation regarding the bra.
My friend Kassandra’s bra.
She hadn’t said much to the detectives about why she left it behind at a stranger’s house, the same house she had gone to for the séance. There had to be some connection, however, it had been what? Seven weeks since that day? It happened before Tristan’s house warming and the house warming was before Thanksgiving. Now here we were, early December although every inch of town was already decked out as if Christmas was but a stroke of the clock away.