Murder, She Barked

1 average wild-caught cod filet (about ¹/₂—³/₄ pound raw)

3 cups cooked barley

2 cups steamed green beans

Preheat oven to 400. Place the cod in a glass baking dish, and cook 20–25 minutes or until the fish flakes apart easily. Flake the fish and combine with barley and green beans. Serve slightly warm.

Sugar Maple Inn Travel-Tummy Dinner

For dogs. Makes 2–3 Gingersnap-size servings and 5–6 Trixie-size servings.

1–2 tablespoons olive oil

1 pound 4 percent fat ground beef

3–4 cups cooked white rice

1 cup cooked spinach, chopped

Heat the olive oil in a 3 to 4-inch-deep pan. Make rough burger shapes out of the ground beef, and cook on each side 3–4 minutes until the middle is red but not raw. Use a metal spatula to roughly chop the meat into pieces. (For picky eaters, chop the meat into tiny bits.) Add the rice and spinach. Mix thoroughly. Serve slightly warm.

Turn the page for a preview of Krista Davis’s next Domestic Diva Mystery . . .

The Diva Wraps It Up

Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!

Dear Natasha,

My son-in-law is quite a cook. I would love to give him a set of professional quality knives for Christmas. Can you recommend some good brands?

Hungry Mom in Turkey, Arkansas

Dear Hungry Mom,

Never give knives as a gift. The gift of a knife is believed to sever the friendship. In this case, it might even sever the relationship between your daughter and her husband! Unless, of course, that’s what you had in mind, in which case any old knives would do.

Natasha

Horace Scroggins poured hot chocolate into a mug. “It’s my own special blend.” He glanced out the door of his office as though he thought employees might be eavesdropping to hear his secret ingredients. “I add vanilla! Learned it from my true love.”

He was too cute. I accepted the mug and made a fuss like I thought vanilla in hot chocolate was very special indeed.

Horace had always reminded me of Santa Claus. A petite man with rosy round cheeks and a belly that jiggled, 364 days of the year he wore a bow tie and suspenders, and at Christmastime they were inevitably red. On the day of the Scottish Christmas Walk, he donned a kilt and proudly paraded through the streets of Old Town.

I had never heard Horace utter a bad word about anyone. In his early sixties, he had a head of fluffy hair as white as snow. He always smiled, amazing in itself since he was married to Edith Scroggins, the most odious and unfriendly woman imaginable.

As an event planner, I didn’t typically handle small company gatherings, but for the past few years, Horace had talked me into arranging his real estate company’s Christmas party. It kicked off the Christmas season in Old Town. Horace had bought a magnificent historical town house for his real estate business many long years ago. His staff delighted in decorating it with a towering balsam fir in the two-story foyer. Scottish tartan ribbons curled through wreaths in the most tasteful and elegant manner, and groups of ruby red poinsettias graced antique tables and mantels. The muted colonial green walls provided a perfect backdrop for the tartan ribbons and bold reds.

It was Horace’s habit to invite people to whom his company had sold homes in Old Town, Alexandria, which included half my neighbors.

He sat down in his desk chair. The weathered leather gave, soft and cushy under his weight. He drank from his mug like he was thirsty and smiled at me. “Always settles my stomach. There’s nothing like hot chocolate to cure whatever ails you.” He held an orange box out to me. “Peanut brittle?”

“No, thanks. Queasy tummy?” I asked. “The party is going very well. You needn’t worry.”

“You did a lovely job, Sophie. Just getting older, I guess. Can’t eat everything I used to.”

Luis Simon, a prominent psychiatrist who had bought a home on my street through Scroggins Realty, popped his head in the doorway. With prominent cheekbones and sultry bedroom eyes, Luis was worthy of posing for the cover of a romance novel. He carried a cup of English Bishop, a flaming holiday punch loaded with rum and oranges studded with cloves. “Horace! Where’s the Scottish dirk you were telling me about?”

“Dirk?” I asked.

Horace jumped up. He steadied himself briefly, his fingertips on his desk. “A traditional Scottish dagger, my dear.” He turned to the bookcase behind his desk, took a tiny key from a book, and unlocked a desk drawer. He removed the knife gingerly and proudly presented it in his open palms as though it were a prized possession.