Murder By Charlotte Russe

By Esta Fischer

In the sequel to Murder a la Russe, an unexpected medical condition temporarily interrupts Natalya Denisova's literary career. Her son Leo, using notes left on her computer, completes her book-in-progress, in which a Charlotte Russe, a dessert named Russe by its inventor for Czar Alexander, contains poison. Natalya was previously accused by the local Russian community of causing harm to real persons resembling her fictional victims by using the Evil Eye of Belarus. She is now intent on wreaking havoc rather than death on her current enemy. But when the book is completed by Leo, he reads an email from his mother's literary agent that confirms the murder of a pastry chef who resembles a character he created and he suspects that he, too, possesses the Evil Eye.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483597843

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Leo, my next murder mystery will be called Murder by Charlotte Russe, announced my mother Natalya Denisova. She drained her vodka-laced morning orange juice and put the glass on the table with a look of great satisfaction.

Charlotte Russe. The words brought back the wonderful creaminess of the filling, the spongy ladyfingers flavored with sherry (which I was not legally allowed to have, as it was alcoholic and I was underage). I had eaten Charlotte Russe when my mother received a writing award at a Sisters in Crime dinner. Now I recalled my mother’s remark that her next murder mystery would use a dessert as her poison vehicle.

I must find a recipe, my mother declared. She took several Russian cookbooks from the kitchen and stacked them on the dining table. Then she placed a glass of tea and a bowl of sugar cubes beside them, and sat down.

I was eating my breakfast bowl of whole grain cereal with skim milk, into which I had sliced a banana. This breakfast was a relatively new development. After my grandmother suffered a heart attack and was put on a strict diet that did not include her favored doughnuts, my mother decided we must all watch our waists. This meant I could no longer indulge in my weekday breakfast of a frozen waffle covered with syrup.

My mother opened a cookbook and turned to the index, then flipped pages and stopped. She frowned.

Chert poberi! she exclaimed. This recipe is very complicated! She popped two sugar cubes into her mouth and slurped a large amount of tea.

More complicated than borscht? I asked.

I remembered the borscht-making lesson at my Great Aunt Mottla’s apartment. I had been commandeered as kitchen assistant and did not look forward to another such assignment. However, although I hated borscht, I loved Charlotte Russe. Perhaps I would not mind learning to make the dessert. On the other hand, I was now beginning my final year of Intermediate school and had more difficult homework assignments than previously. In addition, I was scheduled to take my test for Brown Belt in martial arts school. And if my mother was going to write another book, I would have to surreptitiously correct her grammar and upgrade her plots as I had done in her four previous books. All of these activities did not leave much time for food preparation.

I believe it is more complicated than borscht, my mother finally said. She scrutinized a page of the cookbook. What is gelatin? she asked.

I had heard of this substance, but hesitated as I did not feel I could adequately explain its meaning.

Look it up in the big dictionary, please, my mother instructed me.

The big dictionary was located in my room, but had been given to my mother by my father when she began her literary career. After it arrived, I had actually used it on occasion to look up words. But it had become a great dust collector, and I had relegated it to the bottom of my closet. I now looked up words on Dictionary.com on my computer.

I quickly finished my cereal, put my bowl and spoon in the sink, and hurried upstairs. Although it would have been easier to simply print the screen with the definition, I had to copy the definition onto a piece of paper as my mother did not know the fate of the big dictionary. I went downstairs and read the definition out loud.

Gelatin: ‘a nearly transparent odorless and tasteless sticky substance made by boiling ligaments, bones, and skin of animals,’ I recited.

Natalya Denisova frowned.

That is disgusting, she finally said.

It’s actually no different from eating a lamb chop, I pointed out. You always like to gnaw on the bones to get the last bits. Too late, I realized I might have made a mistake by referring to my mother’s unrefined eating habits. However, she seemed to be thinking over my remark.

Perhaps you are right, she agreed. Although one does not expect a meat to be a part of a dessert.

Good point, I agreed.

Natalya Denisova again consulted the recipe.

The other ingredients are simple, she reported, and it does not require baking in the oven.

My mother had never used our oven. In fact, other than preparing the four Russian dishes that were featured in her books, I did not recall her ever using the stove other than to boil water to make tea and Turkish coffee. My father, an Italian-American, was an excellent chef and cooked all of our meals at home, most of them Italian dishes.

I must make a shopping list, and then we must go to the store, my mother decided.

My mother’s trips to the grocery store were rare, as my father was in charge of that task. In fact, he was in charge of nearly all the domestic tasks in our household.

Today is a school day, I reminded her. And directly after school I have two hours’ practice at the martial arts academy. By the time I get home it will be quite late.

I always referred to the Taekwondo school as the academy when speaking to my mother in order to give it more stature. Natalya Denisova had not been enamored of my training there and the decision to allow it was one of the rare instances in which my father put his foot down and refused to allow my mother the last word.

I will call your father, my mother decided, and give him a list. And he can bring home a bottle of good sherry to pour on the ladyfingers.

My father owned a wine shop, which provided our household with a steady supply of alcoholic beverages.

Good idea, I agreed, relieved to be released from grocery duty. I suspected my aversion to most domestic tasks was genetic, on my mother’s side.

So now that I have decided on a food, I must decide on a plot, said my mother. She stared at her computer screen. And a victim, she added.

The word victim sent a chill up my spine. There had been quite an uproar after my mother’s most recent novel, when the book’s publication coincided with the death of a photographer who had stalked her. This was the culmination of bad things happening in real life to real people who resembled the victims in my mother’s books. Natalya Denisova had been accused of possessing the Evil Eye of Belarus, and had even been interviewed by the local police. The escapade resulted in several months’ hiatus in novel-writing, during which my mother spent many hours daily practicing belly dance in her private basement studio. Although I was sure my father would be pleased that our house would no longer vibrate hour after hour with belly dance music, I was equally sure he would not be pleased with the creation of another book which might result in a visit from the police.

The victim will be a woman, Natalya Denisova declared suddenly and with conviction.

Her eyes appeared to glaze over and at the same time to stare into her own mind, as if she was flipping through a Rolodex looking at names. I had seen a Rolodex on the desk of the Intermediate School secretary. I thought it strange, as all resource material was now stored on computers. However, a fellow student explained that the secretary, Mrs. Kimball, was seventy years old and preferred the old-fashioned system of small hand-written cards in little plastic sleeves on a small wheel that could be spun around.

There are several possibilities, Natalya Denisova mused aloud. I will have to give the matter some thought.

Do you have a short list? I asked. I had heard of this term in connection with certain literary prizes, and thought it might be applied to the present situation.

I suppose so, answered my mother. But I cannot reveal the names on it. You will have to wait until the book is finished.

This exchange was merely a charade. My mother wrote, and then I went into her computer to correct grammar and spelling, and to improve plot. I had done this for each of her four previous books. We had never discussed the matter, as that would have amounted to my mother admitting she was not the great writer the public thought her to be. However, after the success of her last book, she had presented me with a special gift as a token of appreciation for my moral support during her literary career. The gift was a five hundred dollar gift certificate to Best Buy; she knew I was contemplating the purchase of a mini-tablet, and now I would not have to spend my saved-up allowance in order to get such a device.

Won’t you be late for school? my mother asked, pointing to the wall clock.

Yes, I answered, and I dashed upstairs for my backpack.

Chapter 2

For the next three days I ate my breakfast cereal in silence, while my mother sat at her usual place at the table, laptop open. She occasionally typed a few words. It seemed that not much writing was being accomplished, but I reminded myself that my mother had the entire day at her disposal. My father and I were agreed that what my mother did all day was a great mystery. She had not yet attempted to make the Charlotte Russe. My father had dutifully brought home the requested ingredients, as well as a bottle of good sherry, but the supplies remained untouched.

The ladyfingers might become stale if you don’t use them, I ventured after slurping up the dregs of milk from my cereal bowl. My mother disapproved of this habit but tolerated it.

I have put the ladyfingers in the freezer, Natalya Denisova informed me. In any case, we can always buy more.

I pictured the ladyfingers stashed between lamb chops and veal cutlets, as my father was a great believer in eating meat. I wondered if the ladyfingers would take on an animal aroma, which seemed completely contrary to their purpose. Then I remembered that the gelatin used for the Charlotte Russe filling was made from ground-up animals.

If they dry out, we can serve them with Turkish coffee when Babushka comes for Sunday dinner, my mother continued.

When I was still in Elementary School, Babushka, my grandmother, would come to our house on the afternoons I came directly home from school. She was supposed to give me my milk and cookies, which she did, and see that I completed my homework. Since she read and wrote only Cyrillic, her method of homework-checking had been to peer into my room and observe me sitting at my desk with open books. She would then ensconce herself on the living room sofa and watch the Food Network.

But eventually I had been deemed old enough to be in the house alone, and my mother had quit her computer day job following her literary success. Babushka’s weekday visits had stopped.

It is not proper for Russian families to be apart, my mother had decided. We must have a weekly family dinner. Babushka will come from Brighton Beach. Perhaps also Mottla, she added, referring to my great-aunt. And perhaps my brother and his family.

There followed a consultation with my father, as he prepared all of our meals.

I am not going to learn Russian cooking, my father declared. They will have to eat Italian. He paused. And I will not cook for your nephew David.

My cousin David was notorious for eating immense amounts of food. He was also totally uncouth in his table and all other manners.

Very well, my mother had agreed. It will be only my mother and Mottla.

I did not think Babushka would be happy eating stale, formerly frozen ladyfingers, but could not think of in immediate alternative.

I am going to practice belly dance in my studio tomorrow morning, my mother advised me.

This was the signal that I would be free to sneak into her computer and begin my literary work.

I was not surprised to learn that the main character was a pastry chef named Dmitri. My mother always used traditional Russian characters with Russian names, and used the pre-Communist time frame of old Russia. I immediately realized I might need a crash course in pastry-making, as Dmitri would be preparing a variety of confections. Russian confections. I would have to investigate traditional Russian desserts, which we did not consume at our house due to my mother’s preference for French crullers and gateaux, a French sort of cake. Of course, under the new regime of waist-watching there were few desserts served. However, after reading further, I was pleased to discover that Dmitri was a French pastry chef. His specialties were described as Genoise, Gateau Bretonne, Cream Cornets, and soufflés. I was not familiar with any of these except the soufflé, the preparation of which I had overheard being described while Babushka watched the Food Network. I had the momentary thought that Pastry Chef might be another possible career choice for me, although I already had under consideration editor, writer, international spy (my own choices) and attorney (recommended by my mother). My own favorite French pastry was the Napoleon. Dmitri and my mother had apparently forgotten about it, but I determined to add it to his repertoire. And it would be his duty to prepare the poisoned Charlotte Russe.

The plot was also typical of my mother, and boring. Dmitri was the employee of a Count whose daughter, Katarina, was very beautiful. The pastry chef was in love with Katarina, and she with him. This love had developed over the presentation to Katarina of special desserts: tiny individual soufflés flavored with orange or coffee, dessert crepes with pear conserve, and Eggs in the Snow, which actually consisted of meringues in a custard. Of course, a pastry chef had no hope of marrying a Count’s daughter. Therefore, he decided to poison the Count. Since the Countess had long since run off with the stable boy, Katarina would be left an orphan. Dmitri would then offer to marry her and take over the running of her estate, while continuing to provide delicious desserts.

I was mulling over the reconstruction of this plot when I was interrupted by the sound of our doorbell. As nobody ever rang our bell unless we expected a visitor, I was immediately on guard. I closed the laptop, went to the living room window and peered between two slats of the blinds. A familiar-looking woman stood in front of our door: Sari Potemkin, the Newsway reporter who had written several articles about my mother and her books. I went to the door and was about to open it when I heard my mother’s belly dance music abruptly stop. Then I heard the studio door open.

Leo, please let in Sari Potemkin, and then bring Turkish coffee here, knock twice, and leave it by the door! my mother shouted.

I opened the door and Sari Potemkin came in, carrying a tote bag which I knew contained a belly dance costume. She and my mother took the same belly dance class. I had uncovered this fact several years previously when I sneaked into the wine storage room next to the dance studio and peered through a crack in the wall to observe them performing a belly dance together. I wondered if they were now preparing for a performance. My father had forbidden my mother to perform in public. However, the appearance of Sari Potemkin with her belly dance costume was a clear indication to me that a performance was pending. Of course, my mother would not mention this until the last minute, so she could present such performance as a fait accompli, a term I found useful for situations in which a person expected resistance.

You can go downstairs, I told Sari.

I then proceeded to the kitchen to make the Turkish coffee. As I waited for the water to boil, I contemplated yet another possible career: barista. Although I did not see this as a long-range plan, if it were necessary for me to work during college, I was sure the job of barista would be interesting as well as potentially lucrative due to tips I would receive as a result of the banter I could provide. I was also considered good-looking by numerous girls at school (in my constant practice to be an International spy I frequently eavesdropped on conversations).

My mother had assured me that her novels’ success would allow me to attend college and even law school without the need for part-time employment. However, my martial arts training had caused me to consider all possible contingencies in life. I made the Turkish coffee, put the pot, cups and napkins on a tray and carried everything downstairs. I had the fleeting thought that in a pinch I could be a hotel room-service waiter, but felt this would not be necessary. I left the tray on the floor as instructed, knocked loudly on the studio door, and returned upstairs.

I waited until I heard the dance music resume. Then, in my International spy mode, I crept downstairs. I entered the wine storage room and peered through the small gap in the wall. Natalya Denisova and Sari Potemkin were dancing in identical movements, and it seemed they must have already completed much practice together for their movements to be so well-coordinated. Suddenly the music stopped. I held my breath and stepped silently away from my spy-hole.

I think our performance will go very well, said Sari Potemkin.

Yes, said Natalya Denisova. Let us do the number one more time.

As soon as the music resumed, I left the wine storage room and crept upstairs. I was both puzzled and shocked by the mention of a performance, particularly connected with the word our as that would seem to mean Sari Potemkin and my mother would perform together. Several years ago my father had forbidden my mother to perform the belly dance in public. She had managed to sneak in several belly dances of a semi-public nature after the publication of each of her books. But as there was now no publication pending, I could not imagine to what performance she referred. This development so preoccupied me that I could not return to Murder by Charlotte Russe. Instead, I put away the laptop, made myself a pot of Turkish coffee, and sat at the dining table. When I had finished several cups, the belly dance music stopped. Soon Sari Potemkin came upstairs and I saw her to the door.

See you soon, Leo, said Sari, and she smiled as she departed.

Chapter 3

Another week went by with no mention by my mother of a belly dance performance. She did not do much work on her book. This was just as well, as I was still rethinking the plot, and had numerous required homework assignments. As I was not at home during the day, I did not know if Natalya Denisova was practicing the belly dance. However, on Sunday before dinner, she made her appearance in the living room dressed in a manner I knew indicated some sort of announcement would be made. She wore a sapphire-blue low-cut blouse with a red leather mini-skirt and dangerously high heel red shoes. These items were accompanied by sapphire earrings that resembled small chandeliers, and a necklace of large sapphires. I suspected these jewels had been purchased with some of the proceeds of her last book.

Babushka and Mottla were already seated on the sofa when Natalya Denisova made her grand entrance. My father was in the kitchen putting the final touches on the dinner of chopped salad, white lasagna, and stuffed artichokes. I was standing by, between the dining table and the living room, as during these family dinners I was called upon to help serve the food.

I saw Babushka raise her eyebrows and frown, as she knew the meaning of my mother’s type of dress. Both she and I knew some controversial event was about to take place. Mottla, as usual, was oblivious to these nuances. Although my mother’s presumed belly dance performance would not affect me directly, the ensuing arguments about such a performance were highly unpleasant and did not enhance my digestion. I was especially concerned as the white lasagna was one of my favorite Sunday meals. Though the lasagna was high in calories and fat, my mother allowed us one weekly splurge. In addition, I had discovered a box from the French bakery located near my father’s Wine Shop half-hidden on the kitchen counter, so I knew we would have a good dessert rather than dried-up lady fingers.

Dinner is ready, announced my father. He placed a bottle of white wine on the table.

I loved white lasagna but I did not love white wine. I had been introduced to wine-drinking a few years previously. Although I was still considered a child, my father had pointed out that in Italy children were introduced to wine to allow them to build up tolerance to alcohol. I suspected the real motive behind this development was my father’s desire to have another person sharing the opened bottle so he neither drank the entire contents himself (obviously my mother drank only vodka) nor threw away any good wine. He was a wine connoisseur and maintained that once the bottle was opened, it could not be re-corked and used later. I now watered down my red wine and enjoyed it, but I had not yet developed the taste for white wine. On occasion, when my father felt a meal called for white rather than red, I had either begged off wine due to fatigue or persuaded him to open a mini-bottle of red that he kept on hand for cooking. On the present occasion, I decided to make the sacrifice and just drink the white wine so as not to cause my father additional stress. He would have enough of that shortly.

Natalya Denisova, Babushka and Mottla seated themselves at the table. I brought out the chopped salad and my father followed with a loaf of garlic bread.

Just like in Russia, Mottla commented in English, scooping salad onto her plate.

My father frowned, as if Mottla had insulted his salad, but said nothing. I recalled that there was a chopped salad in one of my mother’s novels, and as she knew only Russian food, I concluded that Russians ate chopped salad just like the Italians.

What is this? Babushka asked suspiciously as my father placed a wedge of white lasagna on her plate.

My father gave my mother a certain look that he used in hopeless English-Russian situations. My mother passed this look to me. I understood there was no way to explain white lasagna in Russian as there was no equivalent dish in Russian cuisine.

It’s a form of stroganoff, I finally told Babushka