Mystery at Windswept Farm by Wendy Sand Eckel

Author:Wendy Sand Eckel [Wendy Sand Eckel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Level Best Books
Published: 2022-08-08T00:00:00+00:00

Marco and I stood side by side. He had placed a large rockfish on a cutting board in front of us. Although the fish had been cleaned, the head was still attached. Glossy, blank eyes stared from its sockets.

“This is a nice piece of fish,” I said.

“Alessa knew exactly where to find it. Seems a friend of her husband goes out on the river every day.”

“He’s a waterman,” I said. “And a good one at that. So, what do we do?”

“We are going to prepare an Italian salt encrusted fish. But first we must stuff it with an herb and lemon zest mixture.” He eyed my window boxes bursting with herbs. “What would you suggest?”

“Well, I’ve been reading a lot of Italian cook books lately. And I saw a tarragon sauce where you soak some crusty bread in vinegar. It had garlic, olive oil, a little basil. Does that sound familiar?”

“Ah, sí! I know this sauce. And it is unique to Toscana. It is perfect for this fish.” Marco clasped his hands behind his back.

“So we could put some tarragon in the herb mix. And maybe rosemary? Too strong?”

“Never, Signora.” His grin was wide, his eyes bright. “You harvest the herbs and I’ll retrieve the other ingredients.”

As I returned from snipping the sprigs, I glanced over at Janice and Oliver. Her phone was nowhere to be seen. Oliver stood close by as they topped their oysters with the grilled pancetta mixture. “I liked what you said earlier,” Oliver said to her. “About paying people to do what you hate. It’s what makes the world go ‘round in a way. For instance, I absolutely despise doing laundry. And nothing makes me happier than picking up a stack of neatly pressed clothing from Mrs. Lee. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure I whistle the entire way home.”

“Thanks. You’re a nice guy, Oliver.” Janice pushed down lightly on a strip of pancetta. She shifted an oyster so that it was perfectly aligned on the broiler pan. “These are going to be good,” she said and sniffed.

“Maybe I’ll run out and get some real champagne to pair it with before we have our feast.”

“I’ll buy.”

“Then let’s get two.” Oliver nudged her.

“Yeah, like that’s happening on my credit card, Oliver Finnegan, New York jet-setting kabillionaire.”

Marco returned from the kitchen. “Your friend. She’s smiling.”

“The magic of Oliver.”

“It runs in the family,” he said.

“I think that quality is unique to Oliver.” I spread the rosemary out on the counter. Its garden-fresh scent filled the air.

“Signora. You have work to do.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll zest the lemon. Did you—”

Marco stepped closer. I could smell the faint trace of his cologne. “Why do you think I agreed to do this?”

I resisted the urge to take a step back. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Because my cousin told me about you. About your passion for what you do. And now that I am here, I see what she sees. You are observant, you catch things others miss. And you are an excellent cook.

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