By Diane Mott Davidson
It may be the happiest day of Goldy the caterer's existence. After years of placing the catastrophe of her first marriage at the back of her, she has finally found the braveness to like back. quickly she'll be walking down the aisle of St. Luke's Episcopal Church to wed the fellow of her goals, Tom Schulz, a homicide detective who stocks Goldy's passions for preparing nutrients and fixing crimes.But moments after Goldy's placed the completing touches at the scrumptious wedding dinner party, and prior to the rite begins, she gets an pressing telephone name from the groom. The marriage ceremony is off, and the reason being a killer.In The final Suppers, Diane Mott Davidson mixes impossible to resist suspense with delectable humor to create a five-star deal with for readers and cooks alike. integrated are Goldy's unique recipes for such scrumptious dishes as her heavenly Dark Chocolate marriage ceremony Cake with White Peppermint Frosting, savory Shrimp on Wheels and zesty Fusilli in Parmesan Cream Sauce. The final Suppers is a secret with a connoisseur twist--recipes no one can withstand!
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Additional resources for The Last Suppers
Sample text
We’re not sure about the actual events. ” His face was fierce; he held his rotund body in a tight, aggressive stance. “It looks as if Schulz was hurt. But we’re going to find him. ” This was not the matter-of-fact Officer Boyd I had met the previous spring, the Boyd who had proudly announced in January that he’d given up smoking. This wasn’t business-as-usual. This suddenly ferocious Boyd took Tom Schulz’s disappearance as a personal affront. ” I demanded. Helen Keene put a hand on the quilt that covered my shoulders.
He quickly slunk out the door without answering. I wanted to tell him that someone should load the cake in the van and drive it over to Hymnal House. Filled with resolve to check on doings in the kitchen, I reseated the hat, stalked after Arch, and promptly collided with Lucille Boatwright. She glared up at me. “Goldy! Where do you think you’re going? Your hat isn’t even on straight. ” “I’m going to check on the cake and—” “You are doing nothing of the sort—” The pealing of the church phone cut short her scolding.
Look, I have to go. You know the drill. ” “But, how …? Are we going to get married? ” Despair thickened his voice. “Probably not. ” He paused. ” “Do I—” I did not. Not a hurry-up ritual. Like it or not, I was an Episcopalian, what they call a cradle Episcopalian, the Anglican equivalent of the American Kennel Club. If I was going to get married again, then it was going to be in front of God, the church, and everybody, and the wedding was going to be performed by an Episcopal priest. Oh, Lord. My hands were suddenly clammy.