Maybe Murder

                                        Maybe Murder

My Newest novel is now available on Amazon, the kindle edition.  Paperback will be out in a few days.

John D "Jack" Hudson is back! Once more he's getting in over his head and this time it's blackmail...his blackmail. A deputy sheriff in Cassavora County has been running drugs and now is turning state's evidence. Someone wants the deputy killed before he testifies. Jack is supposed to do the job, but Jack is no killer. Now he's in a race to sort out friends from enemies, figure out who's behind the game and keep himself alive. Meanwhile, his old girlfriend's ex-husband turns up dead in Jack's house. Another girlfriend has second thoughts about losing him. As with the previous novel, Lowdown. Dirty. Shame., it's set in the quirky, small town south, with a cast of oddball characters. And, nothing is as it seems.

Amazon. Maybe Murder by William Stroud

Chapter 1

The End of the line

I park my white Honda on the other side of the street, get out, and stand in the shadows, waiting for the show to begin.  Tall pines rise up behind me, but it’s a thin copse, with houses and businesses clearly seen past the roughly barked trunks.  My Glock is in my shoulder holster and the other, untraceable pistol rests in the outside pocket of my dark leather jacket.  I’m as nervous as a tethered goat facing a pride of lions. 

A cream and brown patrol car pulls up in front of the house and drives onto the thin, weedy lawn. No sirens or flashing lights, and no hesitation. Car doors slam.  Everything seems to be going according to somebody’s plan.  I don’t know whose. I’ve heard so many different versions. Nobody shoos me away or tells me to get back in my car and move on.  Nobody even looks my way.  That part of the plan is on track. 

Darkly smudged, foreboding clouds drift over, temporarily hiding the sun and casting somber shadows.  I tell myself to stay calm.  Myself doesn’t listen well.  My heart’s pounding like an epileptic snare drummer.   I’d like a cool sip of water and there are any number of places I’d rather drink it and any number of people I’d rather be with.

The former Chief Deputy of Cassavora County, now the star witness in a grand jury investigation, steps out of the backseat of the patrol car and is escorted to the house by both of the deputies.  The escorts wear matching dark brown khaki trousers and crisp, light brown shirts with patches on the sleeves.  They’re bare headed.  Their thick, black belts are shiny leather, with the butts of their pistols and radios clearly visible.  The former chief deputy stands straight, has on civilian clothes and walks with confidence. 

Elton Krebs, the former Chief Deputy is the only one I recognize.  The rest could be from anywhere.  In this state, sheriff’s deputies look like sheriff’s deputies. They don’t have Krebs handcuffed.  He walks like he’s in charge, instead of a jail inmate, facing charges, and waiting to testify.

An unmarked car pulls up and a man and a woman in civilian clothes get out and walk toward the group of three who are just about to enter the house. 

I know these two. The woman turns and motions for me to hurry up.  I hesitate, then start to walk.  I get only a few feet when the crack of what sounds like a pistol comes from inside the house. Krebs and the two escorts drop to a knee.  The deputies draw their guns and aim them nowhere in particular.

Instinctively, I drop down also, but don’t pull a weapon.  Nobody seems to know exactly what’s going on.  Clearly the plan is soggy and already swirling down the toilet.

I glance over where the woman and her partner have taken refuge behind their car.

Something just isn’t right.  Hasn’t been right from the beginning. This is not the way it’s supposed to happen.

Blender Banana Cream Pie by The Careless Chef

 

Blender Banana Cream Pie by The Careless Chef

 

I’ve had so many people writing and asking questions about the Lemon Pie recipe.    Now I’ll answer all three of them.

 

1. You said you use a whole lemon in the recipe.  How do you get the seeds out?

Well Daphne, the secret is in the list of ingredients and I specifically refer to the lemon:  chopped.  Then look for the little hard white thingies.

 

2. What if I don’t like lemon because they hurt my stomach and I break out in hives, but my husband likes lemons and they don’t hurt his stomach?

I offer two solutions:  The first, is don’t make a lemon pie, Mildred!  Option II, which I think suits you better:  Sacrifice yourself for the good of mankind and continue to complain.

 

3.  Can you use fruit other than lemon?

Yes, Chrystal.  In fact, the other day I used moldy tangerines.  Just be sure to brush your teeth afterwards.

 

But, now, showing his magnanimity The Carless Cook will toss you another blender delight:  Banana Cream Pie!  Hint for Daphne:  Peel the bananas.

 

Blender Banana Cream Pie

Heat the oven to 350ºF, 180ºC

 

Ingredients

 

¾ cup sugar

3 tablespoons cornstarch

½ cup heavy cream

1 ½ cups milk

3 egg yolks

4 bananas, PEELED and broken into pieces (I used very dark, overly ripe bananas because that’s what I had in my frig)

a pat of butter

a nine inch graham cracker piecrust

 

Now comes the really difficult part:  Put everything but the piecrust in a blender and blend until it is the consistency of pudding. 

 

Pour the contents of the blender into a saucepan and cook until it begins to thicken.  Stir constantly or you will have lumps at the bottom of the pot!  Cook a couple of minutes more.

 

Pour the mixture into the piecrust and slip it in the oven for 15-18 minutes.  In my oven it took the full 18 minutes.  You can tell the pie is done when you only get a tiny bit of wiggle in the middle.

Allow the pie to cool, then cover and put it in the refrig.  It will thicken up nicely as it cools and will be easy to cut into slices.

 

For serving, you can top the pie with lightly sweetened whipped cream, or decorate with extra rounds of banana, or do as I did and just lightly sprinkle the whole pie with cinnamon.  OR, you can use the egg whites to make a merengue, pile the merengue the top and then bake the pie. 

Merengue is not a favorite of The Careless Cook.  He thinks it detracts from the fruit flavor.  This is one of the lesser known of his personality flaws.

 

I tested my creation on a women’s Sunday School class and got rave reviews, along with proposals of marriage, and several phone numbers.

 

Only kidding.  No one proposed marriage.

 

 

A Sadness of Desire

 A Sadness of Desire

 

He never wanted it to be this way.  Sad.  Alone.  He sat at an avenue cafe, a table for one, sipping a reasonably pleasant Primitivo.  His creative well, once overflowing and teeming with ideas, had become a deep darkness of soft mud.  He could barely see the bottom.  Didn’t bother to lower the bucket.

 

“Would signore care for another?”

 

Would he care for another?  A perplexing question.  Another dose of youth?  A lover who couldn’t get enough of him?  Another idea for a novel?  Or, just another glass of wine?

 

“Signore?” asked the patient waitress.  The gentleman came in often, every afternoon at four to be exact.  He ordered wine and stared at blank pages of his notebook, gazed at passers by and generally took up space, while other crowded tables buzzed with conversation and laughter.

 

“Ah….sì, per favore.”  Well, at least that settled that.

 

Why come here when it took solitude to tease and channel the creative thoughts into submission?  The question had long since ceased to roll in the meadows of his mind.  He came here because this noisy gathering offered a sense of measured order in a disordered life.

 

The questions and the answers twisted like unruly children, while his pen lay flat on the unopened notebook.  He wasn’t strikingly handsome, but neither was he plain.  The blush of youth had long ago faded into a cloudy, distant memory. 

 

Three young men passed on the street, smartly dressed, coats falling casually and fashionably off their shoulders in the Italian manner, full heads of dark hair, the thinness of GQ models, smiles as bright and reflective as newly fallen snow.  The waitress smiled back in a shy, yet fully cognitional manner.

 

“Come with us!” One of the young men yelled out, still flashing his smile, while beckoning with a waving palm.

 

The waitress spread her arms wide.  Oh the abundance of patrons.  A hopeless situation.

 

“I’ll be back,” the young man called, “with flowers and wine!”

 

The waitress laughed demurely in a “We’ll see,” kind of way, but at the same time opening a floodgate of possibilities.

 

The man at the table picked up his pen and opened the black notebook, filled with blank, unlined pages.  A story passed through his head as though already written.  The story of Vincenzo and Paula wandered in, line by line.  The meeting at the spilling of red wine on Vincenzo’s white slacks that had cost him nearly a week’s wages.  Her dark eyes and the way her black hair spilled over her shoulder, when she leaned toward him with the offer of a red cloth napkin and a basket of soft apologies.

“What is that cologne?” he asked.  

 

She wore no cologne. Only the fragrance of love, which descended upon him so quickly and carelessly, like a spring bouquet of mountain flowers.

 

From the table behind the man, a female voice called out.  “David?” which she pronounced in an Italian accent, Da-veed.

 

The spell was broken.  Vincenzo and Paula disappeared in the smoky vapor of torched ideas.

 

The voice was familiar.  He turned.  Clara.  His former lover’s friend.  The memories floated back, wrapping him in creative chains.  

 

Clara, had the air of a know it all, a gossipy woman, ten years his senior, whom he trusted less then an angry boar. Always a quick smile and a brush of her hand on his wrist, as if she longed to have met him before Pané had dragged him into a dreamland of late night adventures, and train rides to the coasts of beauty, and an intro to Italian culture one would never find in a classroom, or even a very naughty book.  It was the Italy of carefree coupling, stays in stone, vineyard-based accommodations, and sleeping until noon, and introductions to more Italians then he could remember.  Pané seemed to know everyone, everywhere. Artists, writers, patrons who clung to their long lost royal heritage.  It was a dream world where David could be himself.  Being himself meant writing profusely.

 

That all changed, when…well, he need not think of it now.

 

He had never been remotely attracted to Clara.  Not even in passing.  Not even drunk. Certainly not now. She was one of those women for whom the phony was reality. 

 

“So, how have you been?”  Clara crooned in Italian.  She had a preconceived sorrowful look of knitted eyebrows, and thin lips, always halfway hopeful she would hear a tearful tale she could repeat to anyone who would listen.

 

“Have you heard from Pané?” she continued, her smile regaining the advantage.  “You know she’s still with that horrible man.  He treats her so roughly and you were so loving.”

 

David made a split second decision not to slap her hard enough to stun a bull and impale a picador with his own pica.

 

“Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” David said, with the underlying promise to snuff out her unbearable life if she didn’t change the subject.

 

“Perhaps we could meet for a wine? Do you come here often?” Clara breezed on as if the time and date had been sculpted by Michelangelo.

 

Instead, let’s meet in a more private place, he thought, where I could watch you molested by Jojo, the silver back gorilla, but the words came out so civilly even he was surprised.  “I can’t tomorrow.”  He let the last word drift into a chasm of uncertainty.  “Normally, I don’t come here,” he lied.  “I don't live close.”  He felt safe, knowing she didn’t live here either.

 

“Where do you live?” She persisted, her dark eyes boring like a drill press.  He was surprised she didn’t lick her lips at the mere thought of scraping up more manure to spread around her gossipy garden.

 

David glanced at his watch.  “Would love to chat, but…..” another sentence trailed into oblivion. He stood.  “Nice to see you, Clara.”  About as nice as a doctor telling you herpes isn’t fatal.

 

They kissed on both cheeks. He felt a heavy dose of powder on his lips, but stifled the urge to wipe it off.

 

God, he had to get back to his apartment!  The vision of Vincenzo and Paula and now her evil, intrusive, psycho mother was tumbling out in whole paragraphs.

Pork and Apricot Stew from The Careless Cook

 

Pork and Apricot Stew from The Careless Cook

 

As my three loyal readers know, my meal planning usually involves no planning.  Well, except for wine. There will be wine.

 

But, when visions of pork stew began to float through my head, my next step was on the accelerator as I headed to the grocers.  Yes, a big pile of  chopped pork stew meat was first on the mental list.  See, I prefer mental lists because there’s no trouble changing and rearranging things, which came in handy when the grocer had no pork stew meat.

 

I was a man on a mission and a little thing like that was no deterrence for The Careless Cook.  I spotted cubed pork steaks and my fingers twitched.  Then my agile mind pictured dried, but still juicy apricots, which I remembered from days long past. Then one by one the other ingredients (I have thoughtfully included a photo) popped loudly and found their way into my basket.

Time to cook!

 

Ingredients

 

1 ½ pounds of pork, chopped into cubes, or whatever.

1 onion roughly chopped

1 green bell pepper, also chopped      I think we got a rhythm going!

1 package of sliced mushrooms

1 package of sliced carrots

1 large handful of dried apricots

32 ounce carton of chicken broth

A hefty sprinkle of herbes de Provence or herbs of your choosing

Fresh basil leaves for garnish (I sliced some and left some whole)

Salt and pepper to taste

 

Putin’ It Together

 

Slosh some olive oil in a large pot and add the pork.  Cook until it loses color, then add the onions and cook until the onions wilt. 

 

Add the remainder of the vegetables, along with the apricots, chicken stock and herbs.  Put a lid on it and bring to a boil.

 

Reduce heat and cook until the vegetables are soft.

 

Serving suggestions:  Serve over rice or couscous.  White wine of choice.  I served my stew with Pinot Gris.

 

Ever thoughtful of my guests, I baked some flat bread.  Recipe below.

 

Note:  If you like your stew thicker, I suggest a mixture of butter and flour.  I added a couple of tablespoons to the stew.

Flat Bread

 

2 cups flour (all purpose or bread flour are both fine)

1 teaspoon yeast (I use the TLAR method….That Looks About Right)

1 teaspoon sugar (TLAR)

olive oil – check the recipe for use

½ teaspoon salt – plus rough salt for sprinkling on top

¾ to 1 cup of very warm water  (How warm?  Not boiling but uncomfortable for your fingertips)

 

Makin’ and Bakin’

 

Add all ingredients to a bowl, except the oil and mix well.  I used a handheld electric mixer, then formed it into two balls.

 

I oiled my palms and coated the balls with oil, placed them back in the bowl, covered the bowl with plastic wrap and put the bowl in a cool oven, with the oven light on.

 

The dough needs to rise about an hour.  Remove from the oven.

 

Heat oven to 450ºF

 

On a floured surface, stretch and flatten the risen dough to about half an inch thick, spray it, or brush it with olive oil and sprinkle on a sparse amount of rough salt.

 

Bake for 15-20 minutes, depending on your oven. Bread should be barely browned in spots.  Bake it too long and you can use it for a ping pong paddle.

Slosh some more wine in your guests' glasses.  You won't be sitting long before you hear bellowing cries for more.

Lemon Pie in a Blender by The Careless Cook

 

Lemon Pie in a Blender by The Careless Cook

 

By now you know I’m a big believer in the serendipity of cooking.  Being precise only slows a cook down!  Why use a teaspoon measure for this or that.  Use a teaspoon measure once and pour the salt or sugar or whatever in your hand.  After that you know what a teaspoon-full looks like!  And do a few grains of sugar or salt make a difference?  I think not, but then I’m a careless cook.

 

But, how about liquids?  Hey, do you measure exactly how much wine you’ve just poured in your glass?  And when you bring it to your pouty lips, does it taste good?  Taste is the key.

 

So in this recipe, which may call for a teaspoon of vanilla, does a small slosh do just as well as a teaspoon certified by the National Institute of Standards and Technology, a part of the U.S. Department of Commerce?

 

I say “Down with government interference in my lemon pie!”  I shall slosh and sprinkle if I wish!  And by golly, it will taste great!

 

“But, oh treasured Careless Cook,” you of slight courage may ask, “How can you be sure it will taste good?”

 

Because I taste tested it, you ninny!  

 

Now have another slosh of wine and let’s get started making Lemon Pie in a Blender.

 

Ingredients

 

1 whole lemon, NOT PEELED, washed, seeded, and chopped (no need to overdo the chopping.  That’s why we use a blender!) 

4 large eggs

½ cup butter, melted (1 stick)

1 teaspoon of vanilla (just in case you’ve not perfected your sloshing technique)

1 ½ cups sugar, or two generous hand-fulls

 

1 deep dish piecrust, either store bought or home made….recipe below.

 

Heat the oven to 350ºF or 180º C

 

Toss all the ingredients, except the piecrust!, in the blender and blend well.

 

Pour the lemon mixture in the piecrust and entrust it to the oven for 40 minutes.

 

NOTE:  If you’re using a store bought piecrust, follow the package directions for thawing or not thawing.

 

 

Because I am not a greedy man, I shared this pie with my significant other. She got one piece.  No sense in overdoing this sharing stuff.

 

Pastry Crust:

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

large pinch of sea salt

8 tablespoons of butter, cut into bits

6 tablespoons cold water

 

Put all the ingredients, except the water, in a food processor and pulse until all is blended. Should look like coarse meal.

 

Put the water in by spoon-full to spread it around.  Pulse again until the dough clumps together.  Roll it out thinly on a surface dusted with flour. 

 

So simple!  You will find yourself using this flaky crust over and over.

 

 

How to rid yourself of culinary inhibitions and become a careless cook:

 

Your training begins with a big glass of wine…..

 

“Well,” you ask, “what if I’m making breakfast?”

 

In that case you have two choices. Either postpone the time you choose to break your fast, or slap your face to jar your memory that wine is really only grape juice that has been carefully cared for.

 

Chicken Stew from The Careless Cook

 

Chicken Stew from The Careless Cook

 

I thought of calling myself The Careless Chef, but that is a little too haughty and my significant other assures me I have no reason to be haughty…and besides, calling me a chef is akin to calling me an artist after I spilled catsup down the front of my white shirt.

 

And besides, I look at a chef as a general manager, while a cook works at the stove with burned fingers and a dirty apron.  The cook is the one you ought to thank, but the chef is the one writing cookbooks and passing out autographs. 

 

The careless part, however, is well placed.  I enjoy being in the kitchen, sloshing and sipping a generous pour as I ponder….I don’t know exactly what’s for supper.  Let’s see what we’ve got.

 

In the case of Chicken Stew, the chicken part first grabbed my attention last night, when it was still a whole, nicely baked bird.  Tonight, it is to be boned, skin removed, and the meat shredded. Once I got to that point, there were several ways to go, paths to take, taste buds to satisfy.

 

Memories of Robert Frost were there to guide me.  I pictured good ole Bobby, reaching for his pen and scratching out, the first line:  The Recipe Not Taken.  Well, that was certainly helpful.  Are you ready?  Here we go!

 

Chicken Stew

 

Ingredients

 

Half a baked chicken, deboned, skin off, shredded, or the raw equivalent

(If using raw chicken, chop and sauté it in a little bit of olive oil or butter)

4 stalks of celery, diced

2 carrots, peeled and diced

1 ½   cups sliced mushrooms

1 baking potato, peeled and chunked

1 handful of spinach

1/2 onion (I used a sweet onion), peeled and diced

2 cloves garlic, peeled and diced

tarragon to taste (I used 3 large sprigs of fresh tarragon)

4 pats of butter

1 32 oz box chicken broth

2-3 tablespoons of flour for thickening

 

For those careful cooks, as well as the nervous stutters attached to painting by the numbers and staying within the lines, I will answer a few questions.

 

How much is a pat of butter?  It’s right between a love tap and a slap in the face.

 

What size eggs?  I think mine were large, but then every man thinks his are large.

 

How big were the celery sticks and carrots?  Not too large, but then again they may have been large.

 

What if I don’t like garlic?  Substitute vanilla wafers.

 

What brand of chicken stock did you use?  The one that clearly states, chickens were at first astonished and then alarmed when making this broth.

 

How much spinach is a handful?  Depends on what else you’ve holding in your hand.  I usually put down my wine glass, but only for a moment.

 

When you say to chunk the potatoes, how big is a chunk?  A chunk is small enough to fit in your mouth without making your eyes pop, as you gasp for breath.

 

Now, let’s get started!

 

Puttin’ It All together

In a large pan, over medium heat, toss in onions, garlic, carrots, mushrooms and celery.  Pour in just enough chicken stock to cover. 

When the celery and onion are translucent, add the butter and chicken.  Dust the chicken with 1 heaping tablespoon of flour and stir well.

 

Add the rest of the chicken stock and the tarragon.  Taste and add more tarragon if it suits you.  

 

Cook until the stock is slightly reduced.  Add the potatoes and cover.  Cook until the potatoes are lightly softened, then stir. 

Add the spinach.

 

Uncover and allow the broth to reduce a little more.  Still too juicy and want a thicker sauce?  Dust with a second heaping tablespoon of flour and stir well.  Repeat if you want it thicker, BUT, the sauce will naturally thicken as it cools.

 

Too thick?  Add more chicken stock.  You may have to play with it to get it to the exact thickness you want.

 

I served mine in bowls with a side of basmati rice.  I also sprinkled the stew with finely chopped basil.

 

Wine:  A soft, dry Alsatian Pinot Gris, or another light white wine.

 

This was so delicious, this cook was kissed several times….but thinking back, it was not until after I’d opened the second bottle….

After this photo, I added more chicken stock.

 

 

Curry Adventure in London

 

This piece was written much earlier, on one of my London adventures.  You see, my brother and I meet there every couple of years.  I don’t remember the date of this visit, but I remember the food.

 

My first night in London, I spent roaming the streets of the area called Soho.  Not the most picturesque parts of London, but certainly one of the most colorful.  There is an ever abundance of ex-colonialists, mainly Indians, but also many blacks and Chinese as well.  Only the Indians, at least the women, have any hold on their national dress; everyone else has made the conversion to western attire.

 

You have to listen carefully to the other foreigners who live in London, since most have learned their English from Englishmen and speak with a kind of Hindustani- Oxfordian accent, with as many twists and turns as a chased rabbit.  Soho is especially blessed with these converts to cradle to grave security, and the area features as many Indian and Chinese restaurants as there probably are in Madras, or Hong Kong.  Each promises “authentic cooking,” Peking Style,” with rows of barbecue ducks hanging on hooks to prove it, or  “Best Curry and Tandori.”

 

On some streets, the spicy zest of curry overpowers everything else, which is fine if you like curried dishes, which I do, but may be a bit much for those with McDonalds conditioned taste buds.

 

Anyway, with my brother still a day away, and me being both hungry and needing to kill some time, I breezed into The New Curry Centre, stared at the menu handed me by a stubby, olive complexioned Indian man  with flashy white teeth, and under his supervision I ordered Moglai Meat and a dry vegetable curry.

 

As I passed the waiter on my way to washing my hands, I casually mentioned I like my curry very hot.  He yelled down the dumbwaiter to the cook, and when the food got to me it was spicy hot enough to dissolve the silverware.  Christ, I bit into that stuff and tears came to my eyes.  The waiters were standing by the bar to see me go up in smoke and I’m sure they were taking side bets on whether I would be a one alarm or a two alarm fire.

 

Now, I do like hot food, but this stuff was like treating heartburn with a bottle of Tabasco. Nevertheless, pride prevailed and I ate every bite without ever reaching for my water glass.

 

The waiters were greatly impressed and besides offering me some “special ice cream,” which I turned down since it was probably made with dry ice, they gave me a standing ovation on my way out the door.

 

The next day was much like the day after a party, when you swear never to drink again.  But, my brother was hungry for curry and of course I had to impress him….