Murder Has a Sweet Tooth - By Miranda Bliss Page 0,40
who had proved herself a better cook than either of us would have imagined before that fateful class as Très Bonne Cuisine, probably could have made something if not incredible, then at least edible.
Annie Capshaw? Not so much.
After three tries (and a whole lot of wasted sugar), I finally got the pan caramelized. Only I don’t think caramelized sugar is supposed to be the color of a used tire.
I got the almonds and the cracker crumbs and the eggs and everything else mixed together, too. And if the dropped egg, the spilled milk, and the bottle of vanilla extract I knocked over doesn’t count, it all went without a hitch.
Finally, with the flan in the oven, Celia, Glynis, Beth, and I sipped wine and sampled the appetizers they were setting out on fancy plates so they’d be ready to serve when the husbands arrived. And when my flan came out of the oven, lopsided and smelling scorched, here’s the really amazing thing . . .
Nobody cared!
Celia, Glynis, and Beth really were as gracious as could be! They didn’t criticize, they didn’t complain. They didn’t critique my cooking technique (or lack of it). They simply complimented me, assured me that the guys (Michael especially) would be over the moon at such a wonderful dessert, and cooed and clucked over the flan as if they’d been the proud layers of the eggs that went into it.
The men arrived from their high-powered jobs and I was introduced all around. Beth’s husband, Michael, sprinted upstairs the moment he was through the front door, and when he reappeared, he was wearing a cotton sweater that perfectly matched the yellow in her sundress. Celia’s Scott was as quiet as he was tall and thin. Glynis and Howard (who everyone called Chip) barely kissed each other hello before Chip dived into two big glasses of wine in very short order. With barely more than a nod of his head, Edward Monroe acknowledged me, then disappeared into the great room with the rest of the guys.
“I’ll bet they’re already starting in on the hokey-pokeys. That’s what Sonny made in cooking class last week,” Beth confided with a wink at her friends. “The guys love them.”
Apparently, they did. By the time we walked into the spacious great room with its leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows, the women’s husbands were gathered around a table, chowing down from a plate of appetizers that included slices of little party bread loaded with what looked like sausage and melted cheese. Beth set down the fruit and cheese platter I’d brought and they dug into that, too. Edward Monroe, I noticed, was on the other side of the room, sipping a glass of bloodred wine and staring out the window.
When she was done making sure everything was perfect (need I mention that it was?), Beth turned to Edward. “Now that everything is ready, we can have our toast,” she said, and when he didn’t respond right away, she added, “Edward, you did want to offer a toast, didn’t you?”
Without a word, he came over to where we were gathered and I had a chance to look him over. That Friday night, Edward didn’t look a thing like the go-get-’em coach I’d seen at the soccer game. Unlike Scott and Chip, who’d discarded their expensive suit coats and loosened their Italian silk ties, Edward was buttoned up and buttoned down. All business, no casual. He was a good-looking guy, a little older than me, with dark hair shot with gray. His face was drawn and lined; his eyes were unfocused. He looked exactly like what he was, a man whose wife had been horribly taken from him, and before I could go and get all mushy about it, I reminded myself of my conversation with Tyler just the night before.
It’s always the husband.
Those might not have been Tyler’s exact words, but they were close enough. And chilling, too. Was Edward Monroe heartless enough to murder his wife and pin it on a stranger? I didn’t know, but I needed to find out.
I reminded myself to stay objective and watched while Edward set down his glass of wine and reached for a bottle of champagne that had been tucked into an ice bucket out of sight of the wine tasters. He showed the label to Beth, who nodded her approval, and then he popped the cork. Beth had crystal champagne flutes ready, and as Edward filled the glasses, she passed them around. When she got to