Free Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery by Vicki Delany Page B

went to one of Lucky’s many friends on the odd occasion she went away. No one could be found to take him this time, and so he’d come to Molly and Adam’s place. She’d been nervous as to how Norman would react to this invasion of his territory, but the police dog didn’t seem to mind as long as Sylvester kept away from his food bowl.
The fat white turkey squatted in the sink, ready to be stuffed. It seemed to have thawed okay. She’d been able to wrestle the giblets and neck out. Good thing the Internet instructions said to do that. Why on earth would anyone put a plastic bag inside a turkey, anyway? She eyed the bird as she pounded pastry. Nothing more unappetizing than a naked uncooked turkey.
There. The recipe said to put the prepared pastry into the fridge for half an hour before adding the filling and baking it.
Why was all this taking so darned long, anyway?
Flour was sprinkled on the floor at her feet as though a snowstorm had blown through. Her fingers were coated in it along with sticky pieces of dough. She rubbed her hands together under the tap, leaving traces of flour all over the faucets, and put the prepared pastry into the fridge.
As she dried her hands on a dish towel, she checked her stack of recipes. Apparently you weren’t supposed to stuff the turkey until just before it went into the oven, but it was fine to make it ahead of time. First, she should start peeling and chopping squash. The squash casserole had to go into the oven before the turkey; not enough room for them both in there. It should be okay to cook the squash and the pie at the same time.
Forgot the pie filling. It was boiling rapidly, spitting sticky goo all over the stove top like lava from an erupting volcano. She thrust the wooden spoon into the pot and began to stir. Some of the guck had stuck to the bottom. She dug the spoon harder and scraped the pot. She switched off the heat and wiped her forehead with a sigh as she surveyed the disaster of a kitchen.
It was a wonderful kitchen. Adam had bought the house from an older couple looking to downsize and move closer to town. They’d been known far and wide for their parties, and the house had been built to accommodate that. The cupboards and island were painted fresh white and the cabinets inlaid with sparkling glass windows. The floors were pale hardwood, the countertops granite, the faucets pewter. The sink was square and deep. Wide French doors opened onto a spacious wooden deck and a view of sweeping lawn leading to the forest enclosing the property and tree-covered mountains beyond.
Right now, every pot and pan they owned was either on the stove or in the sink. Flour and pasty crumbs littered the countertops as well as the floor; the kitchen composter overflowed.
And she’d only just started.
Smith dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. It was ten o’clock. She’d finished work at three a.m., been curled up in bed with Adam by four. He’d risen an hour later and headed out the door with Norman for his day shift, trying to be quiet. She’d slept a bit more, and answered her alarm at eight. Somehow in the two hours since, she’d turned the kitchen upside down yet had only managed to slice onions, celery, and apples for the stuffing, make the pastry for the pie, and overcook the filling. Adam was due to get off work at six this evening. She’d told him dinner would be at eight. She planned to get everything ready, put the turkey in the oven, set the table with flowers and candles, and then nap for a couple of hours.
She eyed a bag of bright red cranberries on the table. She should have bought canned cranberry sauce, but her mom always used the fresh ones. Was she supposed to peel them or something? She found the recipe. It didn’t say anything about that.
This cooking business was harder than it looked in the glossy magazines.
For a moment she considered calling her mom. No, she wouldn’t phone for help. Her mom was on vacation—a romantic vacation. Smith hated to