Flamenco, Flan, and Fatalities (A Happy Hoofers Mystery) Page 10

  Denise followed the inspector into the lounge car.

  The buzz of conversation started up again. Dora tried talking to anyone who would listen. “I did hear her. I was right there. She did say that.” The other passengers moved away from her. Dora scurried out of the railroad car, looking down at the floor, muttering to herself.

  “I can’t stand that woman,” I said to my friends after she left.

  “Just ignore her, Gini,” Pat said. “She’s one of those ultraconservatives. She worshipped Shambless. You’re never going to agree with her or change her mind.”

  “You’re right, Pat,” I said. “But she got Denise in real trouble.”

  “The inspector will sort things out,” she said. “Speaking of the inspector, Jan, I hear he really likes you.”

  “I hope so,” Janice said. “There’s something about him that’s very exciting.”

  “I wish he’d hurry up and solve this murder,” Mary Louise said. “I want to get off this train and see this part of Spain.”

  “I might be able to persuade him to let us walk down to the beach together,” Mike said to her. “It’s beautiful. I’ve been there before. I want to show it to you.”

  “Oh, Mike, could you? I’d love that. Do you really think he’d let us go?”

  “Let me see what I can do when he comes back after talking to Denise. Why did she say Shambless was responsible for her son’s depression?”

  I told him what she had told Pat.

  “That poor woman. How terrible for her. She must have really hated Shambless.”

  “Who could blame her?” I said. “

  “Look—Javier is coming back,” Mike said. “Let me ask him. Wait here.”

  “Gini,” Mary Louise said. “Do you think I should go?” Her face had a worried expression. Not her usual everything-is-fine look.

  “You have to make up your own mind about this,” I said. I wanted to yell at her, “Don’t go! You’ll be sorry if you do this.” But you don’t tell a grown woman with three children not to do something.

  “I can’t decide for you,” I said. I couldn’t stop there, of course. I can never shut up when I’m supposed to. “You’re asking for trouble, hon. He really likes you. You don’t want to lead him on, do you?”

  “No, of course not. All we’re doing is going down to the beach. What trouble could I get into there?”

  My mind whisked me back to beaches on Cape Cod, the Jersey shore, and Florida where I got into plenty of trouble, but I didn’t bring that up.

  “I need to get away from the train for a while,” she said. “All this talk about murder and poisoning and throwing up and death is getting me down.” She looked so tired and sad. I wanted to tell her everything would be all right. But I didn’t.

  “I just want to talk to Mike and walk along the beach,” she said.

  “And . . .”

  Mike came back. “Javier said we could go, but we should sneak out so nobody sees us,” he said. “Oh, Gini, hi. Do you want to come with us?”

  The look on his face said, “‘Please don’t come.’ ”

  “I think I’ll stick around here, Mike,” I said. “Go ahead. Have fun.”

  He looked so relieved I almost burst out laughing. They managed to steal out of the train without the reporters seeing them. I joined Pat, Janice, and Tina, who were munching some tapas at the bar.

  “Hey, Gini,” Tina said. “Where’s Mary Louise?”

  “Don’t say anything,” I said, putting my finger to my lips. “She went down to the beach with Mike. Javier said it was okay. Nobody is supposed to know.”

  “Javier seems to break all the rules,” Janice said. “He gets more interesting all the time.”

  We watched him move from person to person, asking questions, listening, asking more questions.

  “He seems smart,” Tina said. “I wish he’d hurry up and solve this thing.”

  “What time are we going to dance tonight?” Pat asked.

  “Eduardo said about ten,” Tina said. “I think they’re going to feed us about eight o’clock. Then we perform. Is everybody okay with the New York number?”

  “What do we do about the part where we all line up and do kicks? Will we fit on that stage?” I asked.

  “Let’s go in there now and try,” Tina said. “Michele can fill in for Mary Louise. All she has to do is kick. We can see if the stage is wide enough.”

  “I’m glad I lost that ten pounds,” Janice said.

  “So are we,” I said. She punched my arm.

  I saw that Javier had finished talking to Michele and her parents, so I ran over to them.

  “Javier, is it okay if we rehearse in the next car? Do you have any more questions for us?

  “No, go ahead, Señora Miller,” he said. “I’m through for now.”

  I grabbed Michele’s hand. “Michele, can you help us, please? We want to see if we fit across that dance floor for our ‘New York, New York’ number and we can’t find Mary Louise. You said you wished you had the chance to dance.”

  “Are you serious?” she said. “I’d love to!”

  “Okay if I watch?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Come with us,” I said.

  I pulled Michele into the car with the dance floor and Geoffrey followed.

  Gini’s photography tip: Photographs of

  clouds are not good vacation shots.

  Chapter 8

  Have Another Orange Flan

  “Could you show me a couple of the basic steps?” Michele asked.

  “Why not?” Tina said. “The basic step is the time step, which goes like this. Stomp on your right foot—the whole foot stomps on the ground. Now hop on that same foot. That’s it. Stomp, hop on the right foot. Now flap the left foot . . . that just means brush the ball of your foot back and forth once against the floor. Got that? Great. Then do a ball change. That’s putting the ball of your left foot behind your right foot briefly and stepping down on your right foot. Try it.”

  Michele stomped, hopped, flapped, did a ball change and step the first time. She did it again faster, perfectly. She was having a great time. Stomp, hop, brush, ball change step. Faster and faster. Her shoulder-length dark blond hair moved with her, making her look even prettier than she usually did. Her blue and white skirt flipped around her long legs as she danced.

  “You’re a natural, Michele,” I said.

  “Okay, you’ve learned the time step,” Janice said. “The basic step. Next time we’ll show you the grapevine, the shuffle-off-to-Buffalo, the shim sham—all of them.”

  Michele beamed. You could tell that she loved every minute of this. I couldn’t imagine anything so totally different from her career as an executive in a technology company and dancing on a train with the five of us. She reminded me so much of myself when I was in my twenties. Energetic. Enthusiastic. In love with life. I knew she would grab this world by its heartstrings and try everything it had to offer. I still feel like that, but it takes a little more effort now.

  “Let’s line up and see if this is going to work,” Tina said. “Michele, all you have to do is kick from side to side. Easy. Ready, one, two three . . .”

  We lined up, and with only inches to spare, we could fit on this floor, so close together we could feel each other breathe. Eduardo appeared and sang along with us in Spanish. In spite of all he had to do to restore some kind of sanity to this out-of-control train trip, he relaxed and let his voice reflect the fun of the music.

  We kicked to the left and the right, higher and higher, like the Rockettes, really getting into it, laughing and singing along with Eduardo, “Nueva York, Nueva York,” in perfect sync with each other. Michele too. We danced backward, still in line, then forward, tapping and singing and having the time of our lives.

  A few of the Spanish passengers cheered us on. “Brava. Brava,” they yelled. They were soon joined by other passengers. Their enthusiasm urged us on to higher and higher kicks.

  Javier walked in, his face animated as he clapped
along with the others, and said, “Olé.”

  “Is he adorable or what?” Janice said out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Definitely,” I said. I could certainly see how she was attracted to him.

  We stopped, out of breath, and bowed. There wasn’t a lot of room, but we managed somehow. Our performance was more intimate because of the narrow floor. You could tell that we loved dancing together and had fun doing it. It was contagious. The crowd was enjoying it too.

  “That’s just a preview of what you’ll see tonight,” Tina said to the people watching us. “Please come back at ten for the show.”

  They clapped and cheered us again.

  Geoffrey came up and hugged his daughter. “You were excellent, sweetheart,” he said. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Oh, yes,” Michele said, her face glowing. “I want to do this forever. Think I’ll go back home, quit my job, and join these guys.”

  “Come on, hoofer,” Geoffrey said. “I’ll buy you a Kir Royale. Juan makes a great one.” He took Michele’s hand and pulled her toward the bar. It did my heart good to see this man enjoying his daughter so much.

  “Thanks, guys,” Michele said, over her shoulder.

  Javier could not take his eyes off Janice. You could tell he was trying to suppress his feelings, without any luck. He was hooked. Janice was so beautiful. Her face, which was always lovely, was glowing, slightly rosy, after the dance. She pushed back her hair, now curly and untamed. She looked so sexy, I knew Javier couldn’t resist her.

  “Señora—Janice,” he said. “Por favor. Come.” And he held out his hand to her.

  As if mesmerized, Janice took his hand and followed him into the next car, looking back wickedly at us. Her expression clearly said, “ ‘Don’t wait up.”

  “Hmmm,” Tina said. “Looks like something is going on there with Janice and the inspector. What happened at lunch anyway?”

  “He couldn’t take his eyes off her,” I said. “They definitely connected, Tina. We watched it happen over the best monkfish I’ve ever eaten.”

  “What do you think, Gini?” Pat asked. “Will she change to make him happy, or will he change to make her happy?”

  “A little of both, I think, Madame Therapist,” I said. “Janice is pretty sure of herself.”

  “So is he,” Pat said. “He’s Spanish, after all. Mucho macho.”

  Back in the lounge car, the other passengers were reading, sipping drinks, nibbling on tapas, and talking. Pat noticed Denise by herself at one of the tables. She was wiping her eyes with a tissue. “I’ll be right back,” she said, heading in Denise’s direction.

  “Well, Tina,” I said. “What do we do with the rest of the day? It’s only three-thirty.”

  “Let’s go find Mark and Sam. I’d love to know who they think did this. They’re fun to hang out with.”

  “Deal. I don’t see them in this car. Let’s ask Tom. He’s a friend of theirs.”

  We found Tom sitting with Sylvia at another table in the lounge. She was writing postcards and he was reading a book on financial management. He looked up, happy to see us.

  “Hey, hoofers,” he said. “What are you up to? I’m bored. The Wi-Fi isn’t working right now,” he said. “I can’t use my iPad. I don’t know what the market is doing or what anything is doing. I feel like I’m living in another century.”

  “We’re looking for Mark and Sam,” Tina said. “We’re bored, too, and they’re always fun.”

  “I think I saw them go into the galley behind the bar,” Tom said. “Come on. I’ll help you find them. Want to come, Sylvia?”

  “I don’t find them as amusing as you do,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  Tom looked like a little boy who had been let out of his room after a time-out. He almost skipped to the bar with us.

  “Buenas tardes, Juan,” he said. “We’re looking for our friends Mark and Sam. Have you seen them?”

  “They went in here, señor,” Juan said. He opened the door behind the bar where there was a narrow kitchen. Mark and Sam were watching one of the staff cooking something creamy and delicious looking.

  “Hey, Tom. Hi, hoofers,” Mark said. “Come watch this. Ricardo is making a new batch of orange flans. He’s got some already made and they are incredibly good.”

  “Can we watch?” I asked. “I love orange flan.”

  “Of course, señora,” Ricardo said. “Come closer and I’ll show you how I do this.”

  I don’t ordinarily care much about cooking. I avoid it whenever possible. But desserts are different. I wanted to learn how to make a flan so I could cook it for Alex when I got home. Must be love.

  Tina crowded in next to me. She actually likes cooking. Tom scrunched in behind us.

  Mark and Sam made room for us to watch as Ricardo explained each step as he went along. The counter was lined with ramekins.

  “First you have to make a caramel sauce to put in the bottom of these ramekins. It’s just sugar and water, but there’s a trick to it. You put them in a saucepan and cook them for about fifteen minutes until the sugar is a nice brownish gold. Stay with it and shake the pan while it’s cooking instead of stirring it. As you can see, it’s just about ready now. I was cooking it before you came in.”

  We peered into the pot and could see this lovely caramelized sauce that was the color of Ricardo’s hand, a yummy-looking golden brown.

  “This next part is very important,” he said. “You have to pour the sauce into the ramekins the minute it is done or the sugar will harden.”

  “Is it okay if I film you making the flan?” I asked, whipping out my camera.

  “Certainly, señora. Could you send the film to my phone?”

  “You got it,” I said, and focused my lens on his deft hands.

  He quickly and neatly filled each of the ramekins in front of him with the caramel sauce.

  “Now you make the custard,” he said. “You need both whole eggs and egg yolks.” He broke the eggs into a bowl, separated some more eggs and put the yolks in the bowl, added sugar, and, using a whisk, beat them expertly until they were thoroughly mixed and frothy.

  “Next,” Ricardo said, “you add some orange juice—has to be fresh, none of that frozen stuff—some heavy cream, a little Grand Marnier and some vanilla, and stir until it’s all mixed together in one delicious custard.”

  I was so hungry, I could barely keep filming this procedure.

  “Just before you pour this into the ramekins, you add some orange zest and you’re ready to bake these little beauties for about forty minutes in a 350-degree oven. You put them in a pan full of hot water that goes about halfway up the ramekins. I always test them after about thirty minutes because you don’t want them to overcook. They’re ready when the top feels done. Not hard, just done. You can either serve them warm or put them in the fridge for a couple of hours and serve them cold. I have some here that I took out of the oven a half hour ago. Would you like to try them?”

  I turned off my camera and eagerly took one of the ramekins Ricardo gave me. My first taste of this orange flan was so delicious I couldn’t speak. So you know it was good. I can almost always talk.

  “Ricardo, would you mind giving me the recipe for these?” Tina said. “My friend would love to make these for her husband.”

  We both knew Mary Louise would sacrifice her first child for a recipe like this.

  “Certainly, señora,” Ricardo said. “I’ll have Carlos put it in your suite.”

  “Muchas gracias, señor,” Tina said, cradling her little ramekin.

  “Por favor, señora,” Ricardo said.

  “Let’s go somewhere where there’s more room and eat these,” Tina said. Ricardo opened a door in the galley that led to the lounge car.

  As we walked into the car, we saw Javier and Janice dancing to music coming from our sound system. He was holding her close, his face against hers. Her eyes were closed, she was smiling. If this had been a Hollywood movie, this would have been the last scene befo
re the end. You knew they would live happily ever after.

  Janice opened her eyes and waved to us, slowly, languidly, unhurriedly, as if she would never leave Javier’s arms.

  We stood there holding our orange flans, not sure whether to go back into the kitchen or into the next car. Sam said, “Uh, maybe we picked a bad time for dessert.”

  At this, we all laughed. Javier and Janice stopped dancing, but he kept his arm around her.

  “We thought you might be hungry,” Tina said, offering her flan to Janice.

  “So thoughtful of you, Tina,” Janice said. “As you can see, I was just longing for something to eat.”

  Javier’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and kissed Janice’s hand. “Something’s up. I’ve got to get back to the lab. Will I see you later?”

  “Yes, we’re dancing tonight. Will you be there?”

  “Of course. And maybe we can continue where we left off?”

  Janice smiled. “Count on it.”

  When he was gone, I said, “Things are progressing fast, there, Jan. Looks good.”

  “Better than good,” Janice said. “He took my hand and led me in here. Then he put his arms around me and kissed me.” She smiled again “He’s a really good kisser.”

  “Then what?” Tina asked.

  “Then he said, ‘I want to dance with you. I want to hold you.’ I remembered that our CD player was in this room, so I turned on some music and he took me in his arms. It was as if we belonged to each other. Our bodies fit together perfectly. He’s a sensational dancer. Better than anyone else. And he didn’t say a word. Neither did I. We just danced and I never wanted it to end. Then you came with your desserts. Thanks a lot.”

  She wasn’t angry. She just looked happy. Happier than I’ve seen her in a long, long time.

  “It’s good to see you like this, Jan,” Tom said. Anyone looking at him could see that he wished he had been the one dancing with her. It was obvious that he still loved her.

  Janice smiled at him. “Thanks, Tom,” she said. You could tell she wanted to say something more, but stopped herself.

  “What happens next?” I asked.