French Fried

Poison’s on the menu in the second book in the national bestselling Ethnic Eats series featuring Laurel Inwood and the quirky residents of Hubbard, Ohio. The Statue of Liberty is 130 years old, and for the struggling residents of Hubbard, Ohio, any opportunity to bring in tourists is reason enough for a celebration. Laurel Inwood and her aunt, Sophie, are pitching in. Sophie’s Terminal at the Tracks, a former greasy spoon turned charming ethnic eatery, will be offering French cuisine for the entire week. For expert help with their quiche and escargot, the ladies turn to Raquel “Rocky” Arnaud, a former French chef and friend of Sophie. What looks like a match made in heaven turns rank as quickly as buttermilk on a summer’s day. Rocky turns up dead and when her nightly red wine shows notes of oak, cinnamon, and poison, Laurel turns from soufflé to sleuth. INCLUDES A RECIPE

Praise for the Ethnic Eats Mysteries

“A fun and intriguing read...cannot wait for the next in this series.”—Open Book Society

“A delightfully entertaining debut to a series that I hope is here to stay.”—Dru’s Book Musings

More Praise for Kylie Logan 

“Logan has fun with this unusual story, intimate setting, and feisty characters, and readers will, too.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch  

“One of my favorite cozy mystery writers...What great characters Kylie Logan has created.”—Fresh Fiction

Autorentext

Kylie Logan

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

"Bone sue war!"

I was putting the last touches on the quiches about to go into the oven, so I didn't turn around when someone bumped through the kitchen door of Sophie's Terminal at the Tracks and called out the greeting.

I didn't need to.

I'd recognize Sophie Charnowski's voice—and her lousy French accent—anywhere.

Then again, I should. It had been six months since I'd left California and arrived in Hubbard, Ohio, to run what I thought was Sophie's white-linen-and-candlelight restaurant while she had knee-replacement surgery. Six months since I found out that the elegant restaurant she'd lied about for years was really a greasy spoon in an old train station that anchored a battered-but-trying-to-gentrify part of town.

Six months since I'd been embroiled as much in murder as I was in cooking.

The thought hit, and a touch like icy fingers squirmed its way up my back. I twitched it aside and called over my shoulder. "Bonsoir, Sophie. Any sign of Rocky yet?"

"No! She is nowhere to be seen, yes?" Sophie tried for a French lilt that pinged around the tile and stainless steel kitchen and fell flat. With her usual good humor, she laughed it away and came up behind me so she could stand on tiptoe and peek over my shoulder at the six quiches on the counter.

"Oh, Laurel, they look fabulous!" Sophie breathed in deep. "Think six will be enough?"

I wiped my hands on the white apron looped around my neck. "We've got three more in the fridge and George will pop them in the oven if we need them," I told Sophie at the same time I glanced across the kitchen. George Porter was leaning back against the industrial fridge, his beefy arms crossed over his massive chest, and a scowl on his face that pretty much said all there was to say about what he thought of quiche.

In spite of the scowl—or maybe because of it—I gave him the kind of smile that said I was sure he was on board with my plan.

George didn't smile back.

But then, what did I expect?

The Terminal's longtime cook was a mountain of a man with more tats on his arms than I had fingers and toes, a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy who was as happy as a cholesterol-challenged clam cooking up the fried eggs, fried baloney, fried steak, and fried chicken that for years had been the staples of the Terminal menu. That is, before I arrived and started introducing healthier dishes and, in a flash of inspiration, featuring ethnic specials.

We'd started with Irish, and that summer had tried Japanese (sushi did not exactly go over big with the Hubbard crowd) and Chinese (popular, but there were plenty of Chinese places in town and I gave up on a menu that seemed to me to be déjà vu all over again). Now, in honor of a town celebration commemorating the anniversary of the dedication of the Statue of Liberty, a gift from France to the people of America, we'd decided to go with the Tricolor flow. French food, but not the fussy kind that's so off-putting to so many people. We were sticking with French country, French bistro. Delicious, accessible, and easy for a man like George to handle. Even if in his heart-of-fried-food hearts, he didn't want to.

I sloughed the thought aside and reminded Sophie, "There are tartines, too."

"Tartines." Her sigh hovered in the ether somewhere between Nirvana and Utopia. In the weeks since we'd started planning our French menu and I'd introduced her to tartines, she'd become something of an addict. And who could blame her?! The knife-and-fork open-faced French sandwiches are delightful.

"We're going to use some of the heirloom tomatoes still coming in from the local farmers," I told Sophie. "We'll put those on some of the tartines along with eggplant. Then for others, we've got ham and Gruyère, and toasted Camembert, walnut, and fig."

"Walnut and fig."

I ignored George when he grunted.

"Now all we need . . ." I glanced at the quiches that looked decidedly naked. "Did Rocky say what time she'd be here with the herbs?"

"I'm late. I know. I'm sorry!"

For the second time in as many minutes, the kitchen door swung open and this time, Raquel Arnaud bumped into the room. Rocky was a friend of Sophie's, but there couldn't be two women who were more different. Sophie was short, plump, and as down-to-earth as her sensible shoes. Her hair was the same silvery color as Rocky's, but while Sophie's was short and shaggy, Rocky's was long and sleek and as glorious as the woman herself.

But then, Rocky had the whole French thing going for her, including just a trace of an accent that hadn't disappeared in spite of the fact that she'd left her native country nearly fifty years earlier.

Rocky was almost as tall as my five-nine, willowy, and as elegant as her clothing. She was a farmer—herbs and specialty vegetables—a woman whose life revolved around the seasons and the weather and the acreage thirty minutes outside of Hubbard where she grew some of the best produce in the state, yet anyone meeting her for the first time would think she'd just stepped out of the house to shop on the Rue de la Paix.

Well, except for that Friday night.

I did a double take.

That evening, graceful and refined Rocky looked . . .

She was wearing the black A-line dress she claimed was a fashion must, but Rocky's hair was uncombed and her lipstick was smudged. Sure, she was running late, and that might account for the slapdash grooming, but nothing I knew about Rocky could explain—

Sneakers?

Before I came to Hubbard, I'd worked as a personal chef in Hollywood. Believe me, I knew fashion trends, fashion faux pas, and plain ol' fashion disasters.

I'd never known Raquel Arnaud to dare something as unfashionable and as downright un-French as to wear tennis shoes outside of the house. Especially ones that looked to be encrusted with a week's worth of garden goo.

"I knew I was running late so I chopped the thyme at home."

Before I could even think of what to say or how to ask Rocky if she'd completely lost her mind, she raced over and put a basket on the countertop beside me. There was a white linen towel thrown over the top of it and when Rocky whisked it away, I forgot all about her smeared lipstick and her…