A Fine Fix Read online




  A Fine Fix

  A Trudie Fine Mystery

  by

  Gale Deitch

  A Fine Fix

  First Edition

  Copyright©2013 by Gale Deitch

  Smashwords Edition

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or stored in any database or retrieval system without prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes in this book.

  eBook ISBN: 9781301885138

  www.gdeitchblog.com

  This is a work of fiction and should be treated as such. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any similarities to persons living or dead, real or imagined, are purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Design: www.earthlycharms.com

  To Stanley, my rock and my biggest supporter.

  “The only time to eat diet food is while you're waiting for the steak to cook.”

  Julia Child

  Chapter One

  When you hire Trudie Fine, you get the whole enchilada.

  Which is exactly what our clients got when my partner Zachary Cohen and I commandeered the stark stainless steel kitchen of a stately brick house in Embassy Row, filling it with spicy aromas and hot, festive colors.

  My signature purple apron with orange polka dots draped snugly around my ample form, and the matching headband kept my black bob tucked securely behind my ears. As I chopped peppers and onions, jalapeños and cilantro, preparing salsa for the Schwartzes’ backyard Mexican fiesta, I sighed at my plump, dimpled hands that rocked the Santoku knife back and forth across the cutting board. You’d think with all the slicing and chopping I did, at least my fingers would be svelte.

  I was keenly aware of the contrast between my partner and me: Zach, a lean six-foot-two with a head full of dark curls, and me, round and full-figured and an entire foot shorter. My friends and family have always told me I have a “pretty face” and warm brown eyes, but today, on this steamy Saturday in July as I wiped the perspiration from my forehead, I had my doubts.

  Zach carried baskets of tortilla chips outside just as Dana Schwartz clicked her way into the kitchen, her high-heeled sandals slapping the soles of her feet with each step. “Mel, are you in here? Melvin! Trudie, have you seen Mr. Schwartz? I’ve been searching everywhere for him.” She pulled her iPhone out of her pocket. “Never mind. I’ll just call him. I bet he’s in the media room watching the ballgame.”

  Mrs. Schwartz resembled a scarecrow in her white linen, cropped pants outfit, her neck and limbs thin as broom handles and bedecked with layers of gold and diamond bling. Her short and spiky platinum hair stood out against her skin, which was burnished to a mahogany color.

  “I saw him earlier. Maybe thirty or forty minutes ago. He came through the kitchen and went out on the patio to show the band where to set up the amplifiers.”

  “Maybe he’s watching TV in the pool cabana,” Mrs. Schwartz went on in her husky voice. “Tell me, Trudie. What was he wearing? The clothes I put out for him are still lying on the bed.”

  “Let me think.” I glanced at the ceiling. “Oh, yes. Very snazzy. He has on a pink shirt with bright green palm trees and hula girls.” To tell the truth, I thought Mr. Schwartz looked adorable.

  She scowled and scrutinized me with obvious doubt about my own taste. “Tacky, tacky, tacky. I’ll kill him.” She extracted a cigarette from the kitchen drawer and held it between her bony fingers, displaying a glittering rock the size of a garlic clove. “He loves that unsightly shirt. I told him ‘not tonight of all nights when everyone who is anyone is coming.’ And there he goes putting it on anyway.”

  She plopped onto a stool, shaking her head, the frosted spikes stiff as beaten egg whites. “Trudie, I need a drink.”

  “Sure. Water?”

  “Water is not a drink.”

  “Why don’t we start you off with a nice glass of sangria?” If anything would calm Mrs. Schwartz, I knew my knock-out sangria, with the apples and orange slices that had been marinating in red wine for the last several hours, would do the trick. I dipped a ladle into the punch bowl, filled a glass and handed it to her.

  After a few sips, Mrs. Schwartz sighed. “You know. That shirt is one of Melvin’s favorites. I guess it will lighten the mood tonight, maybe break the ice.”

  “Sure it will,” I said. “Especially with those coral pants. They picked up the color in the hula girls’ leis perfectly.”

  “Coral pants!” She slammed down her drink and vaulted off the stool. “Melvin!” she shouted. “Where are you? You’d better hope I don’t find you, because when I do, I will strangle you with my bare hands. Melvin!” She hurried out the patio door, heels clicking and soles clapping.

  Zach walked in from the patio, peering back over his shoulder. “What was that all about?”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know.” I checked my watch. “Okay, Zach. Twenty minutes until party time. I’ll get the margaritas going. If that new bartender isn’t here soon, you’re going to have to work the bar. We’ve never had trouble with this agency before.” I revved up the blender and boogied over to the refrigerator to retrieve the guacamole then nodded to the bowls of salsa. “Zach, put these out on the tables alongside the tortilla chips. Oh, and make sure all the plates, napkins and cutlery are laid out attractively—”

  “Trudie, slow it down a few gears. We have time. Everything’s organized.” He pressed the off button on the blender and arranged the hors d’oeuvres tray with crab-stuffed jalapeño peppers and portabella quesadillas.

  When I get hyper, Zach is the only one who can calm me down. I paused and took a breath. “I know. But this is our first full-priced gig. Did you hear that, Zach? No discounts. No coupons for first time customers. We’re in business now for real, with a signed contract and a twenty percent deposit. These are real clients, not friends or relatives.”

  Zach raised his eyebrows at me.

  “Okay, so they’re Ally’s parents.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Okay, so she was my college roommate. But we’re actually going to make a profit this time.” After two years of children’s birthday parties, family reunions, and business meetings that barely covered our expenses, I knew this job would get our catering company, A Fine Fix, out of the red.

  I lifted my arms high and wide, Santoku and all, and threw my head back, singing, “We’re gonna make it after all.”

  “Okay, Mary Tyler Moore.” Zach grinned and shook his head. “All you need is a hat to fling through the air.”

  “But we are going to make it. I know it. Here we are practically in the shadow of the White House, and seventy-five of the most prominent, wealthy people in the D.C. area have been invited to this party.” I shook the Santoku at Zach. “They are going to remember us. And next week or next month or next year they are going to call. Yessss!” I pirouetted on my eggplant ballet flats.

  “Trudi
e, put down that knife before you hurt yourself—or me, for that matter—and give me a high-five.” Zach put his hand up to meet mine.

  I smiled and slapped his hand.

  “I knew A Fine Fix would make it,” Zach said, grinning down at me. “Always believed in you.”

  “Not me, Zach. Us.”

  Zach had been my best friend since childhood, coming to my house every day after school. At age six, we’d started with an Easy Bake Oven, adding our own ingredients, cinnamon or raisins or chocolate chips, to improve the little cakes baked by the heat of a light bulb. My constant pleading finally convinced my mother to let us cook in a real oven. Zach and I made after-school snacks for our friends and soon were cooking dinners for my parents. Together we concocted all kinds of gastronomic creations, experimenting with whatever herbs and spices we could find in my mother’s pantry. For Zach, I think our kitchen provided a warm and nourishing environment that his own parents, professionals who were never home, could not. For me, I just loved to cook—and loved to eat.

  We’d had a plan. After high school, I went to Johnson and Wales, a culinary arts school in Charlotte, and Zach went to the University of Maryland to study business management.

  I had no desire to work in a restaurant preparing the same menu items night after night, but rather to own a catering business where Zach and I could tailor menus to our customers, to their tastes. Now, at twenty-nine, my dream of opening A Fine Fix had become a reality, and I knew that Zach was as excited about tonight as me.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Zach, are all the nachos and chips out on the table? Are the citronella torches lit?”

  As the guests arrived, Zach worked the bar while I wove through the crowd with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. I recognized some of the faces: a senator and two congressmen I’d seen in the press, a local TV news anchor, a socialite I’d often read about in the Style section of The Washington Post, and a best-selling author who wrote CIA thrillers.

  Where the heck was that bartender? Right now, I didn’t even have time to contact the agency to send someone else. We needed help so Zach could serve and I could be in the kitchen preparing the other dishes. Thank goodness the Schwartzes had volunteered their housekeeper to assist with the serving, clearing and washing up later.

  “Patio” was probably a misleading name for the massive terrace at the rear of the Schwartz home. One might describe it more as tiers of entertainment space. The top terrace level ran along the entire back of the house and could be accessed not only from the kitchen, but also from the dining room, family room, and library.

  Guests, dressed in cruise-like wear—flowing cotton dresses with sandals, khakis and polos with deck shoes—mingled over their cocktails on the top terrace and the lower level, just a few steps down. Interspersed on both levels were round tables where they would be seated later for their meal.

  Below the second terrace sat the pool deck, complete with lounge chairs and lighted umbrellas as well as a canvas-draped cabana outfitted with a dressing room, sitting room, bathroom and shower. Colored lanterns festooned the pool area, and a Mariachi band, wearing multicolor ponchos and sombreros kept the mood light and competed with the low murmur of voices and tinkling glasses.

  As the sun set, a mild breeze danced across the terrace, and I inhaled deeply and glanced around the patio once more for a last check. I noticed Mr. Schwartz holding out his hand to greet a guest, but the other man shook his head and kept his hand in his pocket. They leaned into each other with what appeared to be a heated discussion, their voices raised, but not loudly enough for me to hear their words. A woman approached, and touched the man’s arm in a calming gesture. She smiled at Mr. Schwartz and leaned in for a polite kiss.

  Mr. Schwartz gestured to someone across the lawn, and a young man in a white shirt and bow tie approached him. The bartender. Finally, I thought, making my way over to him. Then I realized that Mr. Schwartz was asking him to do something, pointing him toward the house. Following his directions, the young man walked down an outside flight of stairs and entered a basement-level doorway. So much for help arriving.

  With the party underway, I stepped back inside to assess the food. I’m not a person to brag, but I know which spices to use and how much. That night my highly evolved olfactory sense assured me each dish was seasoned to perfection. The Mexican lasagnas were heating nicely in the oven, the pollo asada almost done to its ideal moistness. I spent some time brushing the salmon fillets with a honey-chili glaze and setting the individual cups of flan into water baths, ready to go into the oven. It didn’t hurt to be able to do all our cooking in the Schwartzes’ Viking 60” dual oven. If my arms were long enough, I would have wrapped them around this stainless steel gargantuan and given it a big hug.

  Outside, the Mariachi band played on, its violins and guitars singing and its trumpets blaring. I smiled to myself. Except for that delinquent bartender, everything was just perfect.

  A woman’s scream pierced the clamor of voices and music.

  Then, silence.

  I gasped. Could there have been a cucaracha in the food? Had someone spilled hot cheese nachos on another guest?

  I rushed onto the patio. A crowd had gathered around the pool. Soft cries and questioning whispers lilted on the summer breeze. I scrambled down two levels to the pool deck and edged closer, rounding the crowd to get a better view. In the center of the pool floated the body of a man, face down, a rivulet of blood swirling from his head and the palm trees and hula girls on his shirt billowing to the surface.

  Chapter Two

  The next twenty minutes felt like hours. At the insistent buzz of the front door bell, I left Dana Schwartz with another glass of sangria and a box of tissues, and went to answer it.

  “Detective Daniel Goldman, Metropolitan Police,” the man said, flashing his badge. “Are you Mrs. Schwartz?”

  “No. I’m Trudie Fine, the caterer. Mrs. Schwartz is in the kitchen.”

  Outside, the ambulance sat in the driveway, and several squad cars had double-parked at the curb, their blue and red lights flashing, giving the neighborhood a disco-like feel. Uniformed cops streamed in behind Detective Goldman, while others navigated their way around either side of the house.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “Senator Davies called the station. He seemed to think an investigation was in order.”

  “Investigation? You mean like murder?” Why in the jalapeño would anyone think it was a murder? Obviously, poor Mr. Schwartz had some sort of heart attack or stroke and hit his head when he fell into the pool. When his body was discovered, two of the guests had jumped in and pulled him out. Their attempts at CPR just hadn’t been successful.

  Detective Goldman moved toward the kitchen. His eyes had that drowsy, just-got-out-of-bed quality, and I could tell he hadn’t shaved.

  “I’m not sure if Mrs. Schwartz is up to seeing you,” I said, thrusting my hand out to try to hold the detective back and getting an unexpected feel of his well-toned six-pack.

  Before I’d realized it, he’d grabbed my wrist and spun me around, bending my arm behind my back. The Santoku knife, which I didn’t even realize I still held in my other hand, clattered to the floor. He spoke quietly into my ear. “Miss, don’t ever do that again.” I felt his hot breath in my hair, and a whiff of spearmint drifted by my nose.

  “Hey, that hurts. I was just trying to give Mrs. Schwartz some time before you go in to question her. As you might imagine, she is distraught over her husband’s death.”

  “All right.” He loosened his grip on my arm. “We’ll give Mrs. Schwartz a little time. But I’ll need to interview her at some point tonight.” He picked up the knife and handed it to a uniformed cop.

  Detective Goldman gestured toward the living room. “In the meantime, let’s start with you…Trudie, did you say your name was?”

  “Yes.” I rubbed my wrist and lifted my chin to regain my dignity. “I’m the caterer, Trudie Fine. A Fine Fix. Heard of us?” I pulled a
business card from my apron pocket and handed it to the detective.

  Stepping forward, I didn’t notice the change from smooth marble foyer floor to plush living room carpeting, and lost my footing. Detective Goldman threw his arm out in front of me and around my waist to catch me from falling and pulled me up against him to steady me. His body felt solid and reassuring. I flushed at my clumsiness and peered up at him. The glimmer in his eyes and the slight grin told me he was enjoying my discomfort. He released me above the peach silk loveseat, and my body sank heavily into the sofa cushion.

  Detective Goldman sat down across from me in a floral wing chair. He pulled a notepad and pencil out of his inside jacket pocket, leaned back and rested his ankle across his knee, waiting.

  “Will this take long?” I asked. “I need to look after Mrs. Schwartz until her daughter gets here. What do you want to know?”

  Detective Goldman tapped the eraser end of the pencil on his shoe, staring at me. His dark eyes bored into me, and I wondered if this was some kind of technique used to get suspects to confess. Suspect? I wasn’t a suspect, was I? There hadn’t even been a crime.

  “Wait a minute. Shouldn’t you be talking to the people out back by the pool, the ones who first spotted the body? Isn’t that normal police procedure?”

  I detected another glimmer in his eye and the beginning of a smirk at one corner of his mouth. “You think you’re pretty knowledgeable about police stuff. Are you in the habit of catering crime scenes, Trudie?”

  “Of course not. But I watch police procedurals on TV all the time. They always talk to the suspects closest to the crime scene first. Anyway, this isn’t a crime scene. Is it? Who would want to kill Mr. Schwartz?”