Flamenco, Flan, and Fatalities (A Happy Hoofers Mystery) Read online

  Whisk white vinegar and olive oil together in small bowl to make dressing. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

  Pour dressing over salad and toss. Serve at room temperature.

  Serves six.

  Calamari a la Plancha (Spicy Squid)

  cup olive oil

  1½ lb raw calamari rings

  4 cloves garlic, minced

  1½ tbsp chopped parsley

  ¼ tsp red pepper flakes

  Sea salt to taste

  4 lemon wedges

  Heat olive oil to sizzling in large skillet. Saute calamari for about three minutes and then add minced garlic. (I use four cloves, but you can use more if you like really garlicky calamari.) Cook until the calamari is golden brown and the garlic smells great but isn’t too brown, about seven minutes. Be careful not to let calamari get rubbery. Add chopped parsley and red pepper flakes. Add some sea salt and garnish with lemon wedges and serve immediately.

  Serves four.

  Bogavante a la Gallega (Galician Lobster

  with Potatoes)

  2 medium-sized potatoes, boiled and diced

  2 3-lb. boiled lobsters

  2 tbsps salt

  Sweet Spanish paprika to taste

  3 oz. olive oil

  2 bay leaves

  Black pepper to taste

  Keep potatoes warm. When lobster is room temperature, detach tails from lobster and put one on each plate. Using a sharp knife, take meat out of tails, slice, and put back in tails.

  Crack open claws with a nutcracker and remove meat with a cocktail fork. Arrange claw meat and potatoes around tails and sprinkle sweet Spanish paprika, salt and ground black pepper over all. Add salt and olive oil and enjoy.

  Serves two.

  Gini’s photography tip: Ask permission

  before you shoot someone in a foreign

  country—either with your camera or a gun.

  Chapter 2

  And Your Name Is?

  We started the music over again. The flamenco music set the mood of excitement. It was gypsy music from southern Spain. Guitar music started low and slow, and built to a climax. We felt the Spanish combination of sensuality and dark moods, the flash of color and movement, sometimes slow, sometimes whirling, often fulfilling the promise of great beauty. The news Eduardo had just told us about Shambless’s death added another dimension of danger to our performance.

  We swirled onto the floor, one hand on a hip, the other arm held up, our fingers seducing the audience. We danced forward and back, always turning around and around, sometimes clapping, sometimes clicking our fingers. Our heads turned from side to side, then snapped back in an arrogant pose, our smiles tempting and provocative. We leaned backward, our heads up, our arms moving. We danced, now slowly, now faster and faster, flashing our legs through the slit in our skirts, building the excitement until the whole audience was leaning forward clapping with us, cheering us on. With a final burst of movement, we flung both arms in the air, and shouted, “Olé!”

  The audience stood and yelled, “Olé!” with us, clapping and stamping their feet. We held hands and bowed, smiling, and said, “Thank you, gracias,” to our enthusiastic fans.

  People surrounded us, shaking our hands, some hugging us, others saying, “That was sensational.” Even the Spanish passengers complimented us. “Excelente!” They certainly had seen better flamenco dancing than ours, but they were nice enough to give us an A for effort. What we lacked in authenticity, we made up for in enthusiasm.

  I tried not to think about what Eduardo told us, but it wasn’t easy. I couldn’t forget that I had wished Shambless dead just a short time ago. I wondered if he had died from all that wine and food that had obviously contributed to his obesity. Much as I disliked Shambless, I felt like we had been dancing on his grave.

  We scurried behind a wide screen that had been set up at one end of the lounge car. We slid out of our tight, sequined dresses and dancing shoes into comfortable pants and blouses. My whole body said thank you. I know redheads aren’t supposed to wear red, but I was in the mood for my burgundy blouse and black tights.

  Somebody once told me you’re supposed to wear red for courage. I had a feeling I would be needing a little courage in whatever was to follow Shambless’s death. A few swipes of a comb and a quick shine of frosted watermelon lipstick turned me back into a woman ready for bear. The high that we got from dancing, especially flamenco stomping and clapping, did not go away when the music stopped. I was psyched. What’s next? my hyped-up brain asked.

  Tina, Janice, Pat, and Mary Louise were quick-change artists. They looked casual but sensational in long-sleeved silk blouses and tight black pants. We went back into the lounge car and headed toward the bar, stopping to talk to our enthusiastic fans along the way.

  A tall, chic woman, her dark hair cut short and smooth, worked her way through the crowd surrounding us. She wore a form-fitting black dress with a turquoise necklace and earrings that made her eyes seem even bluer than they were.

  “I’m Denise Morgan,” she said. She held out her hand. “I hear you’re from New Jersey—so am I. You guys are really good. I mean, I’ve seen a lot of dancers and you’re terrific. You’ve got so much energy, you’re so . . . sexy. Do you need an agent? I’d love to represent you.”

  “We’ve managed without one so far,” Pat said, taking her hand. “But maybe it’s time we had one. What do you think, guys? Should we hire this lady as our agent?”

  “You really think we’re good?” Tina asked.

  “Yes, I do,” Denise said. “I’m always looking for unusual acts, and five women in their . . .”

  “In their prime of life,” I said, finishing her sentence. I meant it. We looked good, had more energy than we’d had in years, felt alive and incredibly attractive.

  Denise laughed. “Exactly,” she said. “They wouldn’t have hired you to entertain on this train if you weren’t good. How long have you been doing this? Where else have you performed?”

  “First Community Church in Chatham, New Jersey,” I said. “The high school in Summit, New Jersey . . .”

  “Come on, Gini,” Tina said. “Cool it. Actually, Denise, we also danced on a cruise ship in Russia—the one that sails from Moscow to St. Petersburg—last year.”

  “I’ve been on that one,” Denise said, “Tiny cabins, a German fräulein terrorizing her whole crew and passengers. The food was great, though.”

  “Sounds like you had a fun time,” Pat said.

  “It was . . . uh . . . interesting,” Denise said. “Did you like it?”

  “Well,” Tina said, shuddering slightly, “The terrible British chef on our trip was fired. Tough for him, but great for us. A good Russian chef took over after him and we had excellent food. I mean, it was a fine cruise if you don’t mind a couple of murders thrown in.”

  “What!” Denise said. “What do you mean ‘a couple of murders’?”

  “I mean, people were actually killed,” I said. “Believe it or not, we helped solve the murders. I’d just as soon skip that experience this trip.”

  Then I remembered that Shambless was dead. What if we did have to go through that whole thing again on this journey? What if he didn’t die from too much eating and drinking? What if he was murdered? I thought of Sylvia’s look of hatred when she stopped at his table. She looked as if she wanted to kill him. A lot of people felt the same way. I tried to keep my face from showing the fear that overwhelmed me, but you know me. Everything shows.

  “Are you all right, Gini?” Denise asked. “You look strange.”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “It all came back to me for a minute.”

  “You kept dancing through murders and bad food?” Denise asked.

  “That’s us,” I said. “The Happy Hoofers. We dance and solve murders at the same time.” I tried to sound as if it were all one big adventure, but until I found out how Shambless had died, I was not exactly relaxed.

  “I would love to represent you,” Denise said. “If
only to have a more interesting life.”

  “We’ll talk some more,” Pat said. “I’d love to hear more about your being our agent.”

  “Let’s do that. You’re . . . you’re Pat, right?”

  “Right. Talk to you later, Denise.”

  Pat watched her go as if she were an old friend. Denise joined another group of passengers nearby, but turned to catch a glimpse of Pat one more time. My friend had a far-away expression on her face.

  “Pat?” I said.

  “What? Why were you looking at me that way, Gini? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter,” I said. “It’s just the look on your face—as if you knew her before. She knew your name, too, but not the rest of us.”

  “I know,” Pat said. “Weird, isn’t it? I feel like we were meant to meet on this train or she was the sister I never had or something.”

  “Knock it off, Shirley MacLaine,” Janice said. “She’s just an agent searching for clients. Maybe we should think about hiring someone, though.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Pat said, looking over at Denise talking animatedly to another group of people. “Maybe we should.”

  The bar car was full of other passengers. The train could only hold fifty people, but when all of them were gathered in a narrow lounge car, it seemed like there were a lot more. We heard snatches of Spanish, German, French, and Norwegian as we wove our way through to the bar.

  An unsmiling, stocky man somewhere in his forties was making martinis and cosmos for the Americans, pouring beer for the Germans, serving cava to the Spanish, and wine to the French travelers. I heard someone call him Juan. Nothing seemed to rattle him, no matter what people ordered. I asked him for a cava.

  “You’re American and you’re not having a cosmo or a margarita?” he said.

  “Is that all Americans drink now?” Mary Louise asked.

  “Ever since that show—you know, that TV show—with those women—making love in the city or something—that’s all they order.”

  “I still want a cava,” I said.

  “Good choice, señora,” Juan said.

  Lined up along one end of the bar were trays full of delicious-looking little hors d’oeuvres. My first bite of something crusty and spicy made me ask Juan, “Mmm, what is this? It’s fantastic.”

  Juan didn’t smile. I wasn’t sure if he ever smiled. “Those are called tigres, señora.”

  “I’m eating little tigers?” I asked, trying to get him to laugh a little.

  “Not tigers,” he said. “Mussels. Mussels stuffed with onion, pepper, tomato sauce, then breaded and fried.”

  “They’re incredible,” I said. “Mary Louise, you have to try one of these.”

  She bit into one of the tigres and closed her eyes in ecstasy.

  “These are heavenly,” she said, taking another one. “Juan, do you think I could get the recipe for these? My husband would love them.”

  “I will ask, señora,” Juan said. There was a hint of a smile on his face at her enthusiastic reaction to the tapas. He continued, uncharacteristically garrulous, “You might like to join the chef for a cooking class on tapas. He’ll show you how to make these tigres and several other tapas.”

  “Absolutely,” Mary Louise said. “When is he doing that?”

  “Probably tomorrow. They will announce it.”

  “If he makes these deviled eggs with shrimp, I want to come too,” Janice said. “And these too—red peppers with anchovies. They’re fantastic.”

  “You’d think we hadn’t eaten for days,” Pat said, reaching for a ham croquette. “But these are the best hors d’oeuvres—I guess I should call them tapas.”

  I squeezed in next to two women, the older one drinking a glass of wine, the younger a cosmo.

  “How’s the wine?” I asked.

  When the older woman turned to answer me, I recognized her from our encounter at the restaurant. The one with the French accent who had told me not to get upset by Shambless’s rudeness. She was stunning. Dark-haired. Beautiful complexion. High cheekbones. She wore a white lacy dress that clung to her figure, and delicate pearl drop earrings that were perfect with the dress. I don’t know what it is exactly, but many French women have a certain look that says, “I am my own woman. Don’t mess with me.”

  “It’s not bad,” she said. “Not quite as dry as I like, but it’s fine.”

  I’m a Francophile because of the year I spent studying photography in Paris, so I had to ask. “Are you French?”

  “I am,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Danielle, and this is my daughter, Michele.”

  Michele was in her twenties, blonde, very pretty with hardly any makeup on her smooth skin. She wore a lavender silky blouse with white pants. She had her mother’s warm personality.

  “I loved watching you dance,” she said. “You put your whole heart and soul into your performance. I love dancing, too, but don’t get much of a chance to do it.”

  “Michele cofounded a company that finances start-up computer companies. They specialize in wearable technology. I have no idea what that is, but she seems to love it.”

  Michele’s laugh was musical and delightful to listen to. She didn’t have a trace of a French accent, but there was something else in there that I couldn’t detect at first.

  “Your English is perfect,” I said to her. “Where did you learn it?”

  Danielle interrupted. “I’m married to an Englishman,” she said. “We live in England, but my husband spends a lot of time in France. That’s how we met. I was working at the UN as a translator. I acted as an interpreter for him when his work took him to Paris. After a while, he decided he couldn’t do without me and whisked me off to England. Michele grew up in England, but she lives in San Francisco now.”

  “Did your husband come with you on this trip?” Mary Louise asked.

  “Yes, but as usual he’s on the phone,” Michele said.

  Danielle frowned at her daughter.

  “My husband works very hard,” she said. “Sometimes it’s hard for Michele to understand that he loves what he does and it takes up a lot of his time.”

  “What does he do?” I asked

  “He’s a barrister,” she said.

  “My husband’s a lawyer too,” Mary Louise said.

  “Really?” Danielle said, looking at Mary Louise with interest. “Is he with you on this trip?”

  “No, he’s home,” Mary Louise said. “Like your husband, he’s always working. I guess it’s an occupational hazard with lawyers. They never get time off.” Then her face brightened and she clicked her fingers together, flamenco style. “Olé,” she said. “I miss him, but I love dancing on this ship.”

  “I can see why,” Danielle said. “You were—oh, what is the word I’m looking for, Michele—you were formidable.” She pronounced it the French way: for-mee-dah-bleu.

  “Formidable is right, Mom,” Michele said, pronouncing it the English way. “Unbeatable. I always wanted to be a dancer, too, but my father convinced me to follow a more serious career. Every once in a while, though, I sneak off and dance. He also thinks I should marry somebody in the royal family.”

  “I think there’s only one eligible royal left,” I said. “That cute Harry is still available.”

  Michele laughed. “Hey, I’d give up my career to marry him any day.”

  “I hope you’re not being irreverent about the royal family,” a man with a British accent said, coming up and hugging Michele and kissing Danielle. He was stunningly British, tall and polished, with lots of wavy dark hair, and good teeth.

  “Hello, darling,” Danielle said. “Meet Mary Louise and Gini.”

  “You were brilliant back there,” he said, pronouncing it breeyant. “I’m Geoffrey.” He held out his hand.

  “I thought you never left your phone,” I said.

  “You’ve been talking to my daughter,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “She thinks all I do is work.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Michele
said. “But I love you anyway.”

  “I’m glad of that,” Geoffrey said, smiling at his daughter. “What would you ladies like to drink?”

  Pat spoke first. “Just a lemonade for me, please.”

  Thud. I felt all the excitement dribbling onto the floor. Lemonade. After all that stamping and clapping and whirling and flirting. After all that seduction and lust in the air while we danced, I wanted champagne, or at least cava, which is the Spanish version of champagne. Bubbles and fun and the feeling that anything could happen.

  Come to think of it, what I really wanted was Alex Boyer, my Alex, whom I met on our cruise in Russia, where he was bureau chief of The New York Times in Moscow. He’s an adventure junkie like me. We fell in love on that trip. Alex left the Moscow Bureau to return to The Times office in New York to be near me. I missed him. I’d give him a call later on when our time zones meshed. Six hours’ difference made it difficult to keep up with each other.

  My friends seemed to have squashed their desire for a drink out of consideration for Pat. That was certainly the least I could do for our pal, who was trying her best to resist the urge for alcohol. I didn’t really want lemonade, though. That would be too boring.

  “Never mind the cava, Juan. I’ll have a ginger ale, please,” I said. At least it would be bubbly.

  The others ordered soft drinks or coffee.

  Pat saw the look on my face. I tried to stay expressionless, but it was no use. She knew exactly what I was thinking.

  “You don’t have to do this for me,” Pat said to us. “I’m fine. If I can’t go without alcohol in a place filled with people drinking, I haven’t really beaten it. Please, you guys, go ahead and order what you want. I won’t suddenly lapse into a crazed yearning for a drink.”

  “We know you won’t,” Mary Louise said. “You’re a lot stronger than the rest of us. But we don’t really need a drink. We’re still high on that music, the excitement of flamenco. The way the audience reacted. Sometimes I think I’m only truly alive when I’m dancing. I change somehow. I don’t know, I’m more than myself. I have . . .”