Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Isis Crawford was born in Egypt to parents who were in the diplomatic corps. When she was five, her family returned to the States, where her mother opened a restaurant in Upper Westchester County and her father became a university professor. Since then Isis has combined her parents’ love of food and travel by running a catering service as well as penning numerous travel-related articles about places ranging from Omsk to Paraguay. Married, with twin boys, she presently resides in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York, where she is working on the next Bernie and Libby culinary mystery. Readers can visit her website at www.isiscrawford.com.

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A CATERED ST. PATRICK'S DAY

KENSINGTON BOOKS

Chapter One

There'd been no crimes committed in Longely—at least none that they'd been called on to investigate—the shop was running smoothly, no strategic piece of equipment had broken, their staff was showing up on time and were not exhibiting the usual drama to which they were prone, and the shop's sales figures were more than respectable. In fact, it looked as if they could get a new delivery vehicle soon.

"It's almost boring," Bernie had told her sister as she went over to the cooler and took another portion of dough out. Their dough had so much butter in it that it had to be refrigerated until it was ready to be rolled.

Libby sprinkled a little more flour on the counter and flipped the piece of dough she was working onto its other side. "As Mom would have said, `Bite your tongue.'"

Bernie rolled her eyes and brushed a speck of flour off the black silk shirt she was wearing. She made it a point of honor to cook in clothes that she would wear outside the kitchen, unlike her sister, who preferred jeans, sweats, and T-shirts.

"What's wrong with saying that?" Libby demanded, noting her sister's expression.

"I didn't say anything was wrong with saying that," Bernie protested with mock sincerity.

"You rolled your eyes. It's the same thing."

"I just think it's a silly expression. I thought so when Mom used to say it and I think so now. It's like believing that knocking on wood will bring you good luck and walking under a ladder will bring you bad luck."

Libby gave the dough on the counter two more outward strokes with her rolling pin before slipping her rolling pin under the perfect circle she'd created and transferring the dough to the pie pan. She allowed herself a moment to admire her handiwork before speaking.

"You mean that's not true?" she asked her sister as she crimped the pie's edges.

Bernie closed the cooler door, put the dough she'd retrieved on the table, and gave it a couple of good whacks with her rolling pin to soften it up. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not," Libby said even though she had been. She was in a crabby mood and got a certain amount of satisfaction out of pushing her sister's buttons.

"It's a superstition."

"Well, sometimes there are reasons for superstitions," Libby pointed out. "Walking under a ladder isn't the smartest thing to do—something could drop on your head. And that thing about breaking a mirror bringing seven years bad luck ..." Libby's voice trailed off. She'd lost her train of thought. Damn. She hated when that happened.

Bernie peeled the wax paper off the dough. "And why is that?"

"I forget," Libby confessed. Then, as she moved the salt aside to make more room on the table, she remembered. "Because mirrors used to be very expensive. Like salt."

For some reason, today's shop feature, four-leaf-clover-shaped sugar cookies with green icing in honor of Saint Patrick's Day, sprang into Bernie's mind. "What about four-leaf clovers? Why are those good luck?"

"Because they're rare and rare connotes valuable," Libby said.

"They could just as easily be bad luck. Unusual is not necessarily good," Bernie mused. "Now if that were true," she said, thinking of all the cookies they'd baked and the cupcakes they'd decorated with four-leaf clovers, "we'd be out a fair chunk of change. No one would buy them."

Libby put her rolling pin down and went to pour herself another cup of coffee. It was an organic Guatemalan light roast. When she'd told her dad that was what she was giving him this morning, he'd snorted and said, "What happened to a plain old cup of joe?" And maybe he was right. After all, Starbucks had switched to Pike Place. Maybe she and her sister should try and find a signature brand of coffee to sell in the shop.

"On the other hand," Bernie continued when Libby got back, "we do touch the kitchen witch for luck every morning before we start working."

"Is that habit or superstition?" Libby asked.

Bernie thought for a moment, then said, "Learned behavior. We saw Mom do it every morning so we do it too." "She did, didn't she?" Libby said in a softer voice.

Bernie nodded her head. "Without fail."

Their mom had gotten the kitchen witch at a local craft fair when she'd first opened the shop and it had been hanging over the kitchen window ever since. It hadn't been particularly well made, so now the witch was tattered and shabby looking. Libby had resewn her seams and restuffed one of her arms and her hat several times, but both she and Bernie were loath to get a new one. She was irreplaceable in their eyes.

Funny how things go, Libby thought as she added a smidgen of heavy cream to her coffee and watched it swirl around in the cup, turning the liquid from an almost black brown to a pleasing shade of tan.

"Changing the topic ..." she said after she'd raised the cup to her lips and taken a sip. "I have a question about the coffee." But she never got a chance to ask it because Bernie's cell went off.

"I wonder what Brandon wants," Bernie said as she reached for it. "He should be asleep by now."

"Maybe he forgot to tell you something," Libby suggested.

"Maybe," Bernie said. But she couldn't think of what it could be that couldn't wait.

She knew that Brandon had closed the bar last night, which meant that he hadn't gotten home until after three in the morning, which meant he hadn't fallen asleep until around five because it always took him a couple of hours to wind down. It was now a little after nine. He should be snoring up a storm at this moment, not calling her.

Especially since the day was going to be nuts at RJ's, it being the day before Saint Patrick's Day, which meant that they would be serving green beer this afternoon. Couple that with the fact that it was Friday and you got chaos. They couldn't pay her enough to work behind the bar this weekend, Bernie decided. Not that anyone had asked her. In fact, she had absolutely no desire to go anywhere near RJ's until Saint Pat's Day was over. She could do without the puking and the fights and the crowds.

"Hi," Bernie said to Brandon as questions swirled through her mind. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"No," Brandon told her. His voice was hoarse. "It's not okay. It's not okay at all. Come around to the back of RJ's as soon as you can." And he hung up.

"What's going on?" Libby asked.

Bernie shook her head. "He wants us to meet him at the back of RJ's."

"Why?"

"He didn't say." Bernie hit speed dial.

Libby put down her coffee mug. "What are you doing?"

"Calling him back." This time the call went straight to voice mail. Bernie looked up. "He shut off his phone."

"He never does that," Libby said.

"I know." Bernie bit her lower lip. "Listen, can you take care of the pies? I'm going to see what's up."

The shop had a standing order for ten pies for Friday night for the after-theater event at the Longely playhouse.

"Don't be silly. I'm coming too," Libby told her sister. "Mrs. Saks isn't picking up her order until five o'clock. We've got plenty of time to...