Sweet as Pie Crimes (7 page)

Recipe #6

Sticky Pecan Pie

1 1/2 cups pecan pieces

3 eggs (organic, cage free)
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1 cup sugar
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3/4 cups
dark corn syrup

2 tablespoons melted butter
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2 teaspoons vanilla extract
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1/2 teaspoon salt

1 deep-dish unbaked pie shell

100% Maple syrup (optional)

Spread pecans on a baking sheet.
  Bake at 350° for 10 minutes or until toasted.  Stir together eggs and all other ingredients.  Pour filling into pie shell.  Bake at 350° for 55 minutes.  Serve warm or cold.  Drench with maple syrup for even more decadence!

Recipe #7

Refreshing Summer Berry Pie

1 cup of fresh blueberries

1 cup of fresh blackberries

2 cups of fresh strawberries
2 1/2 tablespoons of cornstarch
3/4 cup of sugar
2/3 cup of water
Whipped cream for garnish
2 tablespoons of butter
1 tablespoon of lemon juice
1 baked pie shell

Mix 1 cup berries with cornstarch, sugar and water. Cook over medium heat, stirring gently until thickened. Remove from heat; stir in butter and lemon juice. Chill in refrigerator for 30 to 45 minutes. Fold in remaining berries and pour into baked pie shell. Refrigerate for several hours. Serve with whipped cream.

Recipe #8

Smooth Lemon Chiffon Pie

1/2 cup of
sugar
3 egg yolks (organic, cage-free)
3 tablespoons of water
Rind and juice of 1 fresh lemon

Baked pie shell

Beat yolks until lemon color. Add sugar, juice and rind. Cook in double boiler until thick like custard. Cool yolk mixture. Whip egg whites until stiff. Add 1/2 cup sugar, 1 teaspoon vanilla and 3 drops
of lemon juice. Fold half of egg white mixture into yolk mixture. Pour into pie crust. Put remaining egg whites on top for a meringue effect and bake at 325 degrees until brown.

Recipe #9

Exotic Coconut & Macadamia Pie

7 eggs
(organic, cage-free)
3/4 cups of melted butter
3/4 cups of honey
3/4 cups of sugar
1 cup of coconut flakes
1 unbaked pie shell
1 1/2 cups of chopped macadamia nuts
1 cup of heavy cream, whipped

Sliced fresh pineapple

Preheat oven to 325. 
Mix eggs, butter, honey and sugar until smooth. Sprinkle coconut over pie shell; top with egg mixture. Sprinkle macadamia nuts over filling. Bake for 60 minutes. Garnish with whipped cream and sliced pineapples.

Recipe #10

Dreamy Banana Cream Pie

1
baked pie shell
3 bananas
1 (8 oz.) pkg. soft cream cheese
1 can of sweetened condensed milk
1/3 cup of fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
Whipped cream for topping

Slice 2 bananas, arrange in pie shell.
  Beat cream cheese until light and fluffy.  Stir in milk.  Beat in lemon juice and vanilla.  Pour into pastry shell.  Refrigerate until firm, for about 2 hours.  Slice remaining bananas. Arrange as desired on pie (in a heart shape, etc.)  Serve with whipped cream to taste.

Mystery #2

A PASTRY THIEF

IN PARIS

Prologue

Paris, France

Sometime after Midnight…

Forget all the romantic images of Paris where starry-eyed tourists climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower and kissing lovers sail along the River Seine.  Make no mistake.  Paris after dark is a ruthless jungle, and it’s no place for a woman to be roaming the streets alone.  Fatefully, on one chilly night when the moon was full and the air was thin, I learned this truth the harsh way.

Strolling outside my apartment by Collette’s Pastry Shop, where I worked part-time during daylight hours, I gasped to see a sleek figure dressed from head to toe in black.  Donning a ski mask and carrying a burlap sack in one hand, the figure slipped away into the Parisian night before I could make sense of what had just happened.  Creeping over to the shop, I flinched to see the door wide open.  The figure in black had been inside the shop! 

Softly, I made my way inside, holding my breath as though another criminal were about to jump out and attack me.  But the door hadn’t been broken or disturbed at all.  Oddly, the cash register was also in tact and not a single Euro was missing.  The shop hadn’t been looted and nothing appeared out of place.  Slithering into the kitchen, I used the moonlight drifting in to illuminate my view of the room.  All the appliances were in their proper spot and, again, nothing had been ransacked.

Opening up the refrigerator door, I blinked, wondering if my eyes were deceiving me.  Several trays of pre-made pastries were tidily lined up for the next day’s sales.  Thick orange mousse filled up cannoli shells and glazed strawberry tarts were in their designated place.  But one shelf of the refrigerator was conspicuously empty. 

“The cream puffs!” I exclaimed, realizing that an entire tray of the French sweets was missing.

Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, I groped around in my purse for my phone and called the police to report a most unusual robbery. 

Chapter 1

The Next Day

Collette’s Pastry Shop

Paris after midnight is perilous, but the city can be even riskier during broad daylight.  At every street corner, rich, buttery temptations lure hapless victims in.  Just a bite of a toasty croissant.  Can’t hurt.  One nibble of a fresh fruit tart.  Won’t do any harm.  Until you find yourself ten pounds heavier after being in Paris for just a month.  Multiply the temptation by 1,000 if you happen to work in a pastry shop like I do.  All morning, I had tried to keep my sticky hands off the sweets as I conveyed to my boss, Collette, what I had witnessed the night before.

“And he just evaporated into the night.  Like something out of an American spy movie!  Just completely vanished in the dark!” I completed my story with a dramatic wave of my arms for effect as the older woman squinted at me skeptically.

“Did you drink too much Pinot Noir last night, Isabelle?  Really this is a crazy tale you tell.  No wonder the police didn’t believe you!” She addressed me in my native English even though I was also fluent in French.  Growing up in Barbados with a Caribbean mother and French father had made me perfectly bilingual.

“
Mais non
! It’s not that they didn’t believe me,” I argued.  “They just didn’t have time to investigate a tray of stolen pastries.” I felt foolish as I spoke, wondering if my evening glass of wine
had
actually caused me to hallucinate.

Collette rolled her eyes.  “What were you doing walking the streets by yourself at that hour anyway?  That’s a very stupid thing for a pretty young woman like you to do.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I replied honestly.  My obscenely difficult classes at the University of Paris Law School were interfering with my sleep cycles and making me so jittery that sometimes I couldn’t even shut my eyes.

“Well next time you should try counting sheep,” Collette scoffed as I forced a tight smile.

“I’ll try,” I replied through pursed lips.

“Isabelle Nouvelle!” She chided, using my full name like I was her daughter.  “Get back to work.  Yves needs help in the kitchen.” She pointed in the direction of the ovens as I woodenly walked away from the counter to help Yves, the head baker.  In his early sixties and with a rotund belly that resembled a jiggling bowl of custard, Yves was an unfriendly man who barked out orders as nastily as Collette did.

“
Bonjour Yves
,” I greeted with as much cheerfulness as I could muster.  Vowing to start crossing days off my calendar until I received my shiny law degree, I tried not to dwell on how demeaning it was to be everyone’s gopher.  Working at Collette’s Pastry Shop was a necessary evil if I wanted to support myself and not get evicted from my third floor walk up apartment in the heart of the chic 6
th
arrondissement
. 

Chronically domineering, Yves directed in his posh Parisian accent, “These pastries need decorating.  Get some berries and cream from the refrigerator. 
Vite
!  Quickly!”

Robotically, I performed every task that was tossed at me until 4 pm arrived and my shift finally ended.  Sighing as I crumpled up my apron and shoved it into my purse, I waved a curt goodbye to Yves and Collette before stepping out into the Parisian afternoon.  Clouds were obscuring the sun, and the sky carried a strong threat of rain.  Buttoning up my light jacket, I headed down the
rue
towards my apartment. 

As I hastened my speed, eager to beat the pending rainstorm, I heard a familiar male voice call out to me.  “
Mademoiselle
, wait!  Won’t you let me paint you today?”

I glanced over my shoulder at the scruffy man in tattered pants and a loose fitting button down shirt.  At least half a foot taller than me, (always a treat considering I stand at 5’10” and many men are shorter than me) the painter was relentless.  In spitfire French he kept calling to me even as I shrugged my shoulders and turned my back to him.  My father had warned me about men like him in Paris.  Men who pose as artists with the unsavory objective of taking nude photos of women.  Something in the stranger’s soulful eyes and casual clothes told me that maybe he was an authentic artist, but I couldn’t take the risk.  In less than a year, I would be a licensed attorney, and I couldn’t let anyone interfere with that goal.  Not even a handsome and mysterious “painter” who called out to me from his easel every time I passed by.

Safely inside my apartment, I yanked my shoes off and threw them across the room.  Stuffing my gelatin-stained apron into an overflowing laundry basket, I untied my ponytail holder and let my raven curls flow freely.  The balcony beckoned to me to snatch a whiff of fresh air as the clouds darkened more with each passing moment.  I pinched my nose at the distinct stench of cigarette smoke as I walked onto the balcony.

“So much for a breath of fresh air,” I complained sulkily as my roommate fixed an unsympathetic stare on my scrunched up nose.

“This is France, Isabelle.  People smoke here.  Get used to it.” Taking a long, indulgent drag of the cigarette, Xavier rolled his eyes at me in the same pretentious fashion as Collette had hours earlier.  I loved Paris, but it was moments like this that made me miss the carefree, smiling faces of my island friends.

“I thought we agreed that you would smoke
outside
the apartment building,” I argued.

“I
am
outside,” Xavier retorted with an arrogant narrowing of his bold brown eyes. 

“I meant out on the street!  Not the balcony!” I raised my voice in frustration.  I had specifically chosen a male roommate thinking that he would be less fuss than a female one, but Xavier was proving to be more high maintenance than even the snottiest, brand name-obsessed city girl.

“Tough day at the bakery?” Xavier surmised as I stayed stubbornly mute, leaning over the edge of the balcony and trying not to breathe in his vile cigarette smoke.  As raindrops finally trickled down from the clouds, I closed my eyes and imagined I was on my favorite beach in Barbados, warmed by the tropical sun.  “Everyone around here knows Collette is a bear to work for.  I could help you get another part-time job if you want. The bookstore where I work is hiring part-time cashiers and you could get an employee discount on your textbooks…”

Xavier’s offer surprised me as I reflexively snapped, “No, I don’t need your help!”  I didn’t mean to sound so harsh but, at 24, I was living on my own for the first time and desperately wanted to prove that I could make it in a slick city like Paris.  That I could graduate
summa cum laude
from law school while holding down a tiring part-time job.  Accepting help from others simply wasn’t an option.

Affronted, Xavier put out his cigarette, smashing it with his foot and wearing a scowl as he walked back into the apartment.  Oh well.  I could smooth things out with my roommate later.  For now, I had a massive exam on property and inheritance law to study for.  Inhaling one more breath of cool, misty air, I hurried to my bedroom to crack open the books and study until consciousness was no longer an option.

***

I woke up with a jolt, finding my estate law textbook spread open across my chest and an uncanny fear coursing through my veins.  Why had I woken up so suddenly?  The apartment was eerily quiet except for the irritating sound of Xavier’s snoring in the next room.  Rain continued to crash against my window panes, and I wondered if a rumble of thunder had woken me out of my sleep.  Closing the textbook and creeping out of bed, I walked over to the balcony where a fierce wind was blowing through an open door.  Had Xavier gotten up in the middle of the night for another cigarette and forgotten to close the door?  Or was the wind so strong that it pried the door open?  Shivering, I closed the door to the balcony and headed to the kitchen for a snack.

Pulling a hunk of cheese out of the fridge and slapping a few slices onto sesame crackers, I tried to calm my nerves.  Silky red wine slid down my throat as my pulse raced.  Something in my gut didn’t believe that the wind had blown the balcony door open.  And I didn’t believe Xavier had been so careless as to leave it open either.  My brain now fully awake, I crammed an extra large chunk of cheese into my mouth as I contemplated the idea that someone had been in our apartment…or maybe was still there!

Swallowing the cheese with an audible gulp, I ran to Xavier’s bedroom and burst through the door.  “Wake up!” I yelled as he instantly opened his eyes and looked at me as though I were certifiably insane.

“What’s going on?  What’s wrong?” He demanded, sitting upright in bed. 

Trying not to notice that he slept shirtless and that his chest was a spectacular display of muscles and masculine hair, I blurted out, “The balcony door was open!  I think someone was in our apartment.” Hushing my voice to a hissing whisper, I added, “Or maybe still is!”

Leaping out of bed and throwing on a cozy bathrobe that looked like chocolate velvet, Xavier walked ahead of me and proceeded to investigate.  After checking every room and even ducking his head under a few pieces of furniture, he halted his inquest and looked at me again like I was a lunatic.

“No one is here, Isabelle, and I don’t think anyone
was
here either.  What’s that English expression?  Raining cats and dogs?  It’s raining so hard right now that even a fish would drown.  Nobody is going to break into someone’s apartment on a nasty night like this.”

“But look at the floor!  It’s covered with wet footprints!” I insisted as he smirked at me.

“It’s been raining for hours, Isabelle.  Those are probably our footprints.”

Not ready to back down, I spilled the story of the pastry heist I had witnessed the night before as his appraisal of me turned even more critical.  “Someone stole a sack of cream puffs?  Seriously?  Are you going to law school or clown school, Isabelle?”

Stung, I shook my head and stormed back to my room, slamming the door behind me.  As the door vibrated in its frame, a nervous sneeze shook my system.  Unable to hold back, I let the sneeze go in a massive sound wave as Xavier laughed uproariously through the wall.

“Wow, Isabelle, that sneeze could wake the dead!” He taunted.

Pouting, I mentally prepared my agenda for the next day: ace my exam, get through my shift at the bakery, find out who had stolen the pastries, and find a new apartment.

***

The next time my eyes opened, a vivid dawn was casting its glow over Paris.  Feeling invigorated, I rose from bed and skipped over to the balcony.  Xavier must have already gone to work at the bookstore as I found myself
alone and savoring the solitude.  Just the sight of the sun made me feel better and ready to face the day.  No rude roommates or demanding bosses or sadistic professors.  And no rainclouds.  Only the sun shining over my face and giving me the slightest
déjà vu
sensation of mornings in Barbados.

Back inside my bedroom, I pulled open my closet door and selected a long, white sundress with a pair of strappy sandals and a few bangle bracelets.  Arranging my tresses in a loose bun and sweeping on some ruby red lipstick, I packed my books into my duffel bag and grabbed a quartet of fresh figs for an express breakfast.

Bouncing down the stairs, I resolved to keep my perspective as sunny as the sky and not fret so much over pesky little problems.  As my heels clicked on the cobblestone sidewalk, the rich voice of my not-so-secret admirer filled my ears. 

“
Mademoiselle
, won’t you just stop for a minute?  You are
si belle
! So beautiful! And exotic!  Just let me paint you!” His tone sounded more urgent than usual, and I wondered why he was so hooked on the idea of painting me.  True, I was tall and kind of pretty, but I was no supermodel.  And Paris was teeming with young fashion models who would clamor to oblige his request and pose for a portraiture.  Why did he keep fixating on me and trying to twist my arm?

Shaking my head a cold and clear “NO” as I did each time he approached me, I kept walking towards the metro station to catch my train to the university.  As I reached the steps of the station, I could still hear him calling out to me:

“You can’t keep running,
Mademoiselle
!  One of these days I will get you!”