Evil Eclairs by Jessica Beck Page A

Momma,” all three daughters present said in unison, as if by rote.
    Angelica studied them, each in turn, to see if they were having fun at her expense, but quickly saw that they spoke more from habit than anything else.
    “What makes her poison?” I asked.
    “She thinks the world owes her something, and she’s honor-bound to collect her payment in full. She runs a consignment shop in town and carries all kinds of things for sale. There are people around here who believe she charges much more than she should, and takes more than the percentages she promises.”
    “Have you ever sold anything with her?” I asked, fascinated by this woman’s practiced hands at work. Angelica shook her head as she slapped the ball of dough down and then began shaping it with a tapered maple rolling pin. It was much like the one I’d had, and ruined, saving myself from a murderer. I’d bought half a dozen replacements, but none of them were as good as the one that had been destroyed. Maybe, given enough time, one would form to my palms like the other had, but I doubted it.
    Once Angelica was satisfied with the thickness and consistency, she took out an automatic roller and set it to its widest opening. As she turned the crank and fed the dough through, it became more and more consistent in its texture. She ran the dough through, folded it once, and then gave it a half turn and did it again.
    “We stay away from her,” Angelica said. She turned to her daughters and asked, “Have any of you had any experiences with her?”
    “Besides the time she came in here and insisted on a free meal because we were three minutes later than she thought we should be?” Antonia asked.
    “That doesn’t count,” Angelica said.
    “How about when she tried to sell Bonnie Prescott’s freezer as new and keep the profit for herself?” Sophia asked.
    “Do you know that happened for a fact?”
    “No,” her daughter reluctantly admitted.
    “Then it’s nothing you can prove.” Angelica changed the setting on the machine, and the dough became thinner and thinner with each pass. When she was satisfied, she changed heads on the rolling machine and began cutting long strands of pasta out of the sheets. Wrapping them up loosely on her rolling pin, she went to a pot of boiling water and slid it all gently in. “Did you see that, Sophia?” she asked her daughter, who’d been watching carefully. “How delicately I introduced the pasta to the water?”
    “Yes, Momma,” she said, and I saw the other daughters mouthing the words as well, though this time they kept their chorus of responses to themselves.
    “We have three minutes,” Angelica said. Maria, Antonia, and Sophia swung into action, setting the counter with real butter and parmesan cheese, along with six plates and wine glasses.
    Angelica removed the pasta, drained it, added a touch of olive oil, some butter, and oregano, and then tossed it all together. There was plenty for all of us, and as we were served, Maria provided a touch of wine, as well.
    It was one of the best meals I’d ever had in my life.
    When we were finished, Angelica smiled lovingly at her daughter. “And that’s the way it’s done.”
    Sophia nodded, the understanding reflected in her gaze at her mother.
    “Can we pay you for this delicious meal?” I asked as I stood.
    Angelica looked hurt. “You would pay for friendship? No, not in my restaurant.”
    “Well, I can’t get you to come over and eat donuts at my place,” I said. “It’s not exactly fair, is it?”
    Angelica seemed to think about that, and then said, “You make a point. We will gladly accept your offer someday.”
    “Soon,” I said.
    “Soon.”
    As Grace and I stood at the door, I asked, “Where exactly is this woman’s consignment shop?”
    “You can’t miss it,” Angelica said. “It’s between Auntie’s Antiques and the barbershop. It’s called Second Acts. What a name.”
    “Thanks again.”
    “Come back anytime, and bring that