Sally Berneathy - Death by Chocolate 03 - The Great Chocolate Scam (20 page)

I sat down between the two men and rested my elbows on the table.
“I can’t think of one single thing you’ve done good with your life.”

“
And I have no chance of doing anything if I don’t have you in my life. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Please don’t give up on us.”

Fred cleared his throat.
“In light of new data, Lindsay’s reconsidered her demands for the settlement.”
I had?
“If she has to go to court, she’s going to ask for exactly what she’s entitled to, fifty percent of everything.”

Rick laughed and leaned back in his chair.
“Considering how much money I invested in those properties for that shopping center that’s not going to happen now because nobody’s going to want to buy clothes or ice cream on top of a crime scene, she’ll be lucky to get what she’s already asking for.”

Fred quietly slid a couple of sheets of paper from the back of the file.
“With the addition of these three bank accounts I found plus the one in the Cayman Islands, the condo on Padre Island and the two season tickets to the Chiefs games, I think Lindsay stands to come out quite well on a fifty/fifty settlement.”

Rick shot forward to the edge of the chair, the blood visibly draining from his face.
“How did you…?”

I folded my arms and glared at Rick. Suddenly
I’d like to take him to court and get half of everything, not because I wanted it but just because I didn’t want him to have it. “We know everything,” I said. “If you want to keep the shirt on your back…which is pretty dirty, by the way, but I guess that happens when you have a son…you need to sign these papers right now.”

Fred whipped out a pen.

Perspiration beaded on Rick’s upper lip. He drew a hand over it and shook his head. “Those have to be signed in front of a notary and witnesses.”

Fred set a stamp on the table beside the pen.
“I’m a notary, and we have a yard full of witnesses. I’m sure they’ll all be happy to get Lindsay out of your life just in case you die again and they can get their hands on your estate without having to share with her.”

Fred was right. Rick did make me a happy woman. I walked out that door clutching that folder with the signed papers, smiling a bigger smile than I could remember.

However, after I called Trent and told him the news, I expected him to put an even bigger smile on my face before the night was over.

THE END

Read on for some of Lindsay’s favorite recipes and the first chapter of the fourth book in the Death by Chocolate series, Chocolate Mousse Attack.

*~*~*

Cookie Dough:

3 Tbsp. butter, softened

1/2 c. brown sugar

1/2 egg (approximately 2 Tbsp.)

1/8 tsp. baking soda

Dash of salt

3/4 c. flour

1 tsp. vanilla

1/2 c. (rounded or heaped) miniature chocolate chips

Cream together butter and sugar. Stir in egg. Mix flour, salt and baking soda and add to mixture. Add vanilla. Stir in chocolate chips.

Put mixture into refrigerator while mixing cheesecake. 

Cheesecake:

4 (8-oz) packages cream cheese, softened

1-1/2 c. sugar

1/4 c. flour

Dash of salt

4-1/2 large eggs

2 c. sour cream

1/4 c. cream

2 teaspoon vanilla

Line the bottom of 2 loaf pans one standard spring-form pan with parchment paper.

Beat cream cheese until smooth. Add sugar and continue beating until well mixed. Add flour and salt and mix well. Add eggs, one at a time, beating continuously. Add sour cream and mix well. Add cream and vanilla and beat until smooth.

Pour approximately half inch of batter into each pan. Dot with pieces of cookie dough. Add another half inch to cover, then dot with pieces of cookie dough again. Add remaining batter to each pan.

Bake 350 degrees for 60 minutes. Turn off oven and open door slightly, leaving cheesecake in the oven for another hour.

Remove and cool half an hour, then remove from pans. Store covered in refrigerator for at least 8 hours to allow cheesecake to ripen.

Slice and serve. Drizzle with Chocolate Ganache or serve plain.

Chocolate Ganache:

9 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped

1 c. cream

Heat cream in sauce pan until it steams but does
n’t boil. Add chocolate and stir until it dissolves. Remove from heat and cool.

*~*~*

(naturally gluten-free)

Meringue Shells:

4
e
gg
whites, room temperature

1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar

2 teaspoon vanilla

1 c. sugar

Preheat oven to 275 degrees. Line 2 baking sheets with ungreased parchment paper.

Beat egg whites on low speed until foamy. Add cream of tartar and vanilla. Continue beating until whites begin to hold their shape. Increase speed to medium high and gradually add sugar. Beat until whites form stiff peaks.

Plop onto parchment paper in dollops of about 1/3 cup, roughly the size of a tennis ball cut in half, at least an inch apart. Spread with back of spoon to make a shell, indenting in the middle and building up the sides.

Bake for 1 hour. Turn off oven, leaving shells in the oven with the door closed for an additional 1-1/2 hours. Remove baking sheets to wire racks. Let meringues stand 15 minutes then carefully loosen with a spatula and transfer to wire racks. Let cool completely.

Fill with chocolate meringue filling, Nutella or chocolate mousse. You can even fill with non-chocolate things…but why would you want to?

Chocolate Filling:

(with thanks to Ruth Waller Jones, my cousin)

1-1/2 c. sugar

1/3 c. cornstarch

2 Tbsp. butter

2 squares (2 oz.) unsweetened chocolate, melted

1/4 tsp. salt

3 c. milk (whole or half and half)

4 egg yolks

2 tsp. vanilla

In saucepan blend sugar, cornstarch and salt. Stir milk into beaten egg yolks. Stir milk/egg mixture into dry ingredients. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly. When mixture begins to steam, add chocolate and butter. Cook until mixture thickens. Add vanilla. Cool, stirring intermittently to keep it smooth.

*~*~*

2 c. sugar

3 or 4 Tbsp. cocoa powder

3 Tbsp. flour

3/4 milk

1 Tbsp. butter

1 tsp. vanilla

Mix sugar, cocoa and flour in saucepan until there are no chocolate lumps. Stir in milk. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until mixture thickens to the consistency of gravy. Add butter and vanilla. Serve over hot, buttered biscuits.

I will not include a recipe here for biscuits.
That’s Paula’s forte, not mine. When left to my own devices, I use Pillsbury Grand frozen biscuits. I’m especially partial to the buttermilk and the southern style. Don’t tell Paula.

*~*~*

2 eggs

1-1/4 c. milk

3 Tbsp. butter, melted

1-1/2 c. flour

1/2 tsp. salt

2 tsp. baking powder

3 Tbsp. sugar

1 c. mini chocolate chips

Mix flour, salt and baking powder and set aside. Beat eggs and milk until well-mixed and foamy. Stir in melted butter. Add dry ingredients and mix until just blended. It will be lumpy. Do not over-mix. Fold in chocolate chips. Drop onto heated griddle. Cook until bubbles start to form. Flip and cook another minute, until lightly brown.

Serve with butter and chocolate syrup or maple syrup.

*~*~*

Prepare pie crust. Prick all over with fork to prevent air pockets from forming. If
you’re really OCD, place another pie pan on top of crust. Bake at 400 degrees until edges brown, approximate 10-12 minutes. Allow to cool while preparing filling.

Filling:

1-1/3 c. sugar

Dash of salt

1/3 c. cornstarch

1-3/4 c. water

5 egg yolks

1/2 c. lemon juice

2 Tbsp. melted butter

1 Tbsp. lemon zest

2 tsp. vanilla

Mix together lemon juice and egg yolks. Set aside.

Combine sugar, salt and cornstarch in saucepan, stirring until well mixed. Add water and cook over medium heat, stirring frequently. When mixture becomes clear and thick, slowly add egg yolk and lemon juice mixture, pouring a small stream and stirring constantly. Cook until mixture boils and becomes thick. Remove from heat. Stir in lemon zest, butter and vanilla. Cool slightly and pour into crust. Cool completely.

Chocolate Topping:

9 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped

1 c. heavy cream

1/4 c. corn syrup

Place chocolate in glass or metal bowl. Heat corn syrup and cream to point of steam but not boiling. Pour hot mixture over chocolate. Let stand without stirring until chocolate begins to melt. Stir until mixture is smooth. Cool, stirring occasionally, until mixture is thick.

Pour chocolate mixture over cooled pie and spread to completely cover the top of the pie. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

*~*~*

(This pie crust does not contain chocolate. It is merely the device that allows one to lift chocolate pie from the pan. Therefore, I see no point in wasting time on all that cutting the grease in until
it’s the size of mutated peas. This crust is quick and easy and always flaky…and allows you to spend more time with your chocolate.)

1-1/3 c. flour

1/2 tsp. salt

1/3 c. oil

3 Tbsp. cold milk

Mix flour and salt. Add oil and milk. Mix.

Put between two sheets of wax paper. Roll out to something vaguely resembling a circle.

Remove top layer of paper, then lay it gently back onto crust. Flip crust over and remove new top layer (old bottom layer) and discard. Lay pie tin upside down on crust. Flip crust and pan right side up. Remove and discard remaining layer of wax paper.

Flute edges of pie crust by pinching between thumb and forefinger of one hand while pressing finger of other hand between said thumb and forefinger. (Use first knuckles if you have long fingernails.) Some people think this fluting makes it pretty. The truth is, it assures that none of the filling will spill out in case of overfill.

*~*~*

Chocolate Mousse Attack

Chapter
One

Kansas City in August. People vacation in hell because it’s cooler there.

The air conditioning in my kitchen at Death by Chocolate shot craps just before noon on a 102/90 day…a hundred and two degrees, ninety percent humidity. My shop is actually in Pleasant Grove, a suburb of Kansas City, but it’s all the same in terms of weather. By the time I got home that afternoon my tee-shirt, shorts and face were streaked with sweat and chocolate and my ponytail was a mass of red frizz.

The thought of meeting somebody new ranked way down on my wish list, somewhere between sitting in a sauna for an hour while wearing a fur coat and going on a date with my ex-husband.

When I saw Fred, my next-door neighbor, standing on the porch of the formerly vacant house across the street, talking to a woman, I hesitated, torn between curiosity and a desire to rush into my house, strip off my clothes and stand in a cold shower until the cold water ran out.

The house across the street had been vacant a lot of years except for assorted rodents and roaches and, of course, the time Paula’s ex-husband hid in the attic to spy on her. But I guess that last part’s redundant. He qualifies for either of the first two categories.

A couple of months ago workmen had suddenly converged on the three-story structure and launched into an extensive renovation. The jungle of trees, bushes and weeds became a sedate lawn. They painted the house a blue gray color then the fish scale siding white and the gingerbread trim maroon. The house used to remind me of an elegant, aging dowager. After the redo, it looked like a regal Victorian lady in her best ball gown.

And Fred, who was half hermit, half nerd and half mystery man (yes, I know that equals one and a half, which is a perfect description of Fred) was standing on the front porch of that house, talking to a beautiful woman, probably the new owner.

For a fleeting instant I considered giving in to curiosity, dashing over and insinuating myself into the conversation in a friendly, welcome-to-the-neighborhood sort of way. But then a gust of oven-hot wind blew a stray wisp of hair onto my cheek where it stuck. I took that as a sign.

I ducked my head and kept walking from my doddering garage toward my slightly more stable house. There’s a time for curiosity and a time for hiding. Hair stuck to the cheek is a time for hiding. 

I had my foot on the first step of my front porch when I heard Fred call my name. I won’t say he has eyes in the back of his head because that would be silly. His hair would still get in the way. But he does have a way of seeing everything going on around him.

I peeled the bit of hair from the sweat on my face, tucked it into my pony tail, squared my shoulders and walked across the street, down the brand new sidewalk and up to the brand new wraparound porch with pristine white columns. 

The afternoon sun glinted off the lenses of Fred’s black framed glasses as he turned to me. I preferred his old wire frames but he listened to my opinion about as often as my cat did. “Lindsay Powell, this is our new neighbor, Sophie Fleming.”

Sophie smiled, teeth white and sparkling against olive skin, and extended a slender, well-manicured hand. She was beautiful, even up close. She had flawless skin and a smooth curtain of long dark hair with no sign of frizz even in the heat and humidity. Although she’d obviously been unpacking, her beige shirt and khaki shorts looked fresh and barely rumpled. I, of course, had dirt, grease and lots of chocolate on my sweaty tee-shirt and cutoffs. Standing next to Sophie, I felt even grungier than a few minutes before.

I accepted her hand. Cool and dry. Of course it was. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” I smiled, hoping I didn’t have spinach stuck in my teeth. I hadn’t eaten any spinach that day, but Sophie’s perfection made me worry that I might have it in my teeth anyway. “Place looks great.”

“Thank you.” She glanced back at the house. “This has been a labor of love. My parents and I lived here when I was a little girl before…” She hesitated for a brief instant, and it seemed a cloud passed between the sun and her face. Of course it didn’t. Not in August. “Before we moved to Nebraska,” she continued. “It broke my heart to find it had become so rundown.”

We knew all that, of course, thanks to Fred’s prowess on the Internet. Well, we knew she and her family moved to Nebraska when she was five. We didn’t know why that cloud came over her face when she talked about it. Assuming there really was a cloud. Maybe I was just looking for some slight imperfection in my new neighbor so I wouldn’t have to hate her.

“We’re very glad you’ve returned,” Fred said.

Dirty old man.

“Yes, we are.” I really was. I liked her instinctively in spite her being gorgeous and having straight hair and enough money to restore the house to showplace condition and not sweating in the heat.

“As soon as I get everything unpacked and set up, I’d love to have both of you over for dinner and a tour of the place, if you’d like.”

“We’d like! Fred will bring wine because he’s a connoisseur and I’ll bring dessert because I’m chocolatier.”

She beamed. “Wonderful.”

Fred and I left her to enjoy her new home.

“She seems nice,” I said as we strolled across the street.

“Yes, she does.”

“You like her.”

He frowned. “Of course I like her. She’s done nothing to merit my dislike. I even like you in spite of the number of things you’ve done to merit my dislike.”

I shot him a scowl. “Name one thing I’ve done that my chocolate doesn’t compensate for.”

“Did you bring home anything?”

“Chocolate chip cookies. Your favorite.”

“I’m making spaghetti with homemade pasta and garlic bread. It should be ready in about two hours.”

“I’ll be there with chocolate on and sweat off.”

I went to my house and Fred went to his.

King Henry, the cat who adopted me a year ago, ran to greet me as soon as I opened the front door. He rubbed against my leg and looked up with big blue eyes. He didn’t care if I was stinky and sweaty. Fred loves me for my chocolate and Henry loves me for my can opener. It’s good to be loved.

*~*~*

I slept really soundly that night. Meeting Sophie and knowing she was living in what used to be a creepy old house somehow made the neighborhood feel safer. Being in an air conditioned bedroom after the heated kitchen probably helped too.

When the sound of
Wild Bull Rider
pulled me from a deep sleep, I sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, and grabbed for my phone.
Wild Bull Rider
is Fred’s ringtone. I don’t know that he’s ever ridden any wild bulls, but I don’t know that he hasn’t.

One thing I did know, he never called after ten o’clock at night or before nine in the morning, and my clock clearly said two a.m. No good news ever comes at two in the morning.

A thousand possibilities, none of them good, flitted through my mind in the seconds it took to grab the phone and accept the call.

Aliens had come to take Fred back to his home planet and he was calling to say good-bye.

A burglar had broken into his house, stolen his phone and was pocket-dialing me.

Fred had awakened with a sudden craving for brownies.

All that was ridiculous, of course, but nothing compared to the reality.

“Lindsay, I need you to come over here.” As always his voice was firm, his words precise, but I detected an edge of panic.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt? Have you fallen and can’t get up?” Fred wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old either. He’d always seemed ageless and invulnerable. The thought that he might be hurt and need my help clenched my heart into a cold, painful knot.

“Do you remember Sophie Fleming, the woman who moved into the house across the street?”

“Did you call me at two a.m. just to test my memory? Yes, I remember her. Tall brunette with hair down to her butt and no perspiration on her brow. Can I go back to sleep now?”

“No. I told you I need you here. Sophie Fleming won’t come out of my closet.”

It’s often difficult to tell if Fred’s being funny or serious. His expression and tone rarely change. I couldn’t see his expression at that moment, and his tone was calm but with just a hint of desperation. I decided to play it straight.

“Why is Sophie Fleming in your closet?”

“If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be calling you.”

“Which closet is she in?” I didn’t suppose it made a lot of difference, but I was trying to get a picture of what the heck was going on at Fred’s house.

“My bedroom closet.”

“Is this some kind of kinky sex thing?”

“Lindsay, if you ever again want me to help you break into somebody’s house or hack into a website illegally or get a speeding ticket erased from the system, you need to stop asking stupid questions and get over here now.” He hung up.

That was the closest I’d ever known Fred to get to all-out panic mode. He’s more than capable of dragging one or more people out of his closet and tossing them on their butt in the street, but a beautiful woman apparently had him completely freaked out.

I swung my feet out of bed and onto the hardwood floor. Henry, sleeping off a catnip binge on the foot of my bed, lifted his head, opened one blue eye and gave a questioning meow but was back asleep before I could answer. Good thing. I didn’t relish trying to explain something to him that I didn’t understand.

I sleep in an old tee-shirt Rick left behind because it was old and ratty. The years haven’t improved its condition, but it’s big and comfortable and would do for a night time visit. I grabbed a pair of shorts and pulled them on then hurried downstairs, making a quick detour through the kitchen to grab a Coke and a plastic container of chocolate chip cookies. I needed the Coke, and it sounded like Fred might need the cookies.

As I crossed Fred’s yard where every blade of grass is always three inches long and the flowers never have wilted blooms, I took a moment to look for the elves I’m sure do his yard work in the middle of the night. I thought I caught a glimpse of one skulking in a car parked in front of my house, but everybody knows there’s no such thing as elves in the Kansas City area. It gets too cold in the winter. Probably just my scuzzy ex-husband stalking me. He does that when he’s in between bimbos.

The street was lined with mature trees and the car was parked in the shadows, as far away from streetlights as he could get. Nevertheless I was pretty sure the elf’s hair was blond. Definitely Rick though the car wasn’t familiar. A mid-size white sedan. Not his style but it could belong to a new bimbo. I considered going over to confront him and yell at him for a while, but Fred’s crisis was more important than a moment’s pleasure.

Fred met me at his front door. His immaculate white hair was mussed, his glasses were slightly askew, and he wore white cotton pajamas that were somehow unwrinkled despite the hour. He looked more like he’d come from a Karate workout than the bedroom. 

“Please tell me you didn’t iron those pajamas,” I said by way of greeting.

He glared at me. Yes, Fred actually glared at me. That was a lot of emotion for him to display. Then his gaze dropped to my hands. “Are those cookies for me?”

I handed him the container.

“Thank you.” He turned and I followed him into his immaculate home.

Like his yard, his house is always immaculate. His hardwood floors are always shiny and no speck of dust mars his furniture. Elves again. They come in the middle of the night to clean, then they dump his dust in my house.

“Do you want to tell me how Sophie Fleming got into your bedroom closet in the first place?” I asked as we started up the stairs.

“She walked in there. Actually, it was closer to a run. Speed walk, to be specific.”