Jimmy opened two of them, situating one in front of the recliner, the other where he was stationed on the couch.
"You can put mustard on your knockwurst, if you want," Marino said, cutting into his omelet
"No, thank you."
"Let me know if you need more jelly."
"I like grape best," Jimmy confessed,
"Tough shit," Marino said.
9
Scarpetta arrived on US Airways flight 301 after a typical changing of planes and dashing to distant gates in the Charlotte airport, where one was certain to stop on his way to anywhere else, including the afterlife. She had left her Mercedes in long term parking at Richmond's International Airport, and she was not able to open the driver's door at first because it was frozen shut, icicles on the handle.
Nor had she worn boots, because it had not occurred to her to pack them for her trip to Miami. Snow caved in around her loafers as she slipped and tugged. Eventually the door opened with a jerk, and now she was faced with cleaning off her car. She started the engine and turned the heat on high. She swiped the snow scraper over windshield, side and rear windows, and mirrors, meticulously clearing every inch of snow and ice off glass, for she was the last person on earth to drive with an obstructed view. How many cases had she seen where the victim died because of a blind spot? She got in and buckled up, driving defensively because not everyone else on the road felt the same way she did, or cared, frankly. They peered through arches left by sluggish wipers, great clumps of snow blowing off their roofs onto the windshields of cars behind them.
Scarpetta took I-64 West to the Fifth Street exit, eventually winding around on the Downtown Expressway, passing her old building at Fourteenth and Franklin Streets. She did not miss working in the ugly four-story precast concrete building with its small windows and biological hazards, but reminders of the past brought so much to mind. She thought of stages she had passed through, of Lucy as a child, and relationships that had left their marks. Scarpetta thought of the dead, too, of those who had come under her care and once were front-page news. She could not remember every name, but she could still see her patients in her mind and recall the smallest details of what she had learned about them. The smokestacks on the roof of her old building were forlorn and cold. The crematorium had been quiet for years.
The streets of Windsor Farms were rutted and deep with slush that would turn to ice with the fading day. She moved slowly along Dover Road into the newer neighborhood, where she lived. The guard in his booth was named Roy, and he waved her through, always happy to see her because she appreciated why he was there and told him so regularly. She understood the dangers outside wrought iron fences and brick walls. More often than she liked to think, Roy had deterred the unsavory and the curious from finding her. It pleased her to see Lucy's old green Suburban and the cars of friends in the drive. Miami had been miserable, and sometimes snow made Scarpetta lonely. The thought of company lifted her mood.
She unlocked the front door and walked inside the foyer, setting luggage on the hardwood floor.
"We're in here," Lucy called out
"Welcome home!"
"Thanks for letting us stay!"
Scarpetta followed cheery voices into the great room, where the women were still worthless around the fire, their pistols and other weapons out in plain view. Blankets, pillows, beer bottles, and whiskey tumblers were a mess on the rug.
"All of us slept in here last night," Lucy explained to her aunt
"Sounds like fun," Scarpetta said.
"Too much fun."'
"The cookies are what did it"
"Try what they were dipped in. That's what did it"
"Dr. Scarpetta, we'll clean up our mess and be on our way. Thanks again."
"Don't rush off because of me," she said. "The roads will be freezing soon, and it looks like it might snow again. I don't think any of you need to be in your cars."
She meant this for reasons other than the weather.
"We've been good so far today," Lucy assured her. "Just coffee and diet sodas. But you're right" She looked at her friends. "I don't think you guys need to be heading back north."
Scarpetta glanced at her watch. It was not quite 3 P.M. There was just enough time to make her famous stew.
Scarpetta's Famous Stew
The sine qua non is a restaurant-size pot capable of holding twenty quarts. Usually-and this day was no exception-Scarpetta had two going at once, as the abundance of ingredients she used simply could not be contained in a single vessel. Meat was her first priority, and she pulled ground turkey, cubed tenderloin trimmed of all fat, veal, and chicken breasts from the freezer. These she placed in the microwave oven to thaw. Unlike Marino, she did not rush the process. There was plenty else to do.
Over Lucy's protests, Annie Lennox and Meat Loaf were replaced by Pachelbel, Beethoven, and Mozart. Scarpetta opened two bottles of red table wine and began raiding her refrigerator, cupboards, and pantry for whatever her imagination seized upon. Without a doubt, the most important clue when making Scarpetta's stew is that the essence of it comes from her; the rest belongs to you. Use what you have and make the best of it, but as is true of any homicide case, it's only as good as the evidence brought in. So if you're stingy with your time and what you invest in your stew, what you cook is what you'll get.
Without question, this spectacularly hearty and loving dish requires work. Scarpetta tied an apron around her waist and began chopping Vidalia onions, red and yellow and green bell peppers, fresh oregano, basil, and parsley. She sliced baby carrots, squash, asparagus, fresh mushrooms, and pulled the strings from snow peas. Peeled Hanover tomatoes she had canned herself were not something she parted with every day, for once they were gone there were no more until summer. She pried off lids and mixed them and everything else in a huge glass bowl. She painstakingly peeled husks from the cloves of two large garlic bulbs and got to work with the garlic press. This, and salt and fresh ground pepper she stirred in with the vegetables.
She poured no more than a tablespoon of olive oil into each pot and turned the heat to medium. By now the meat was thawed enough to work with, and she crumbled equal shares of ground turkey into each pot and cut the tenderloin and chicken into small pieces. While this browned, she began opening jars of V-8 juice and cans of tomato sauce. It is important to note that the three most important elements in her stew are the tomato base, garlic, and red wine. These should be used liberally to taste, but without an extravagant amount of each, the stew will not bear Scarpetta's signature.
By 4 p.m., she was pouring herself a glass of the table wine and dividing the rest of the bottle between the two pots. At five o'clock, the stew was bubbling and permeating the house, and she poured a glass of wine from the second bottle. The rest went into the pots, which she covered with lids, turning down the heat Even the slightest hint of scorching will ruin her stew. Again, patience is essential. It is true that the best things in life require a bit of a wait.
"It's going to have to cook for a while," Scarpetta told her guests, as she walked into the great room, drying her hands on her apron.
"I can tell you right now, it's worth it," Lucy promised her friends.
"A little later, I'll make bread," Scarpetta went on. "We'll eat around eight Tomorrow, if you're here for lunch, the stew will be even better."