Page 9 of Murder in the Lighthouse

“Thanks, Carla. I’ll do that.”

Brogan ended the call with an upbeat feeling as she drove out of the lot. She headed home via Ocean Street, pulling intoher garage in less than seven minutes. It was one of the benefits about living in Pelican Pointe versus Malibu—no long commute to the grocery store and back. A fact she intended to headline tonight at dinner with their newest neighbor—Theo Woodsong.

Lucien stepped out of the house to help her with her bags. “Is this it?”

“That’s everything I need. I can’t believe Theo accepted our invitation.”

“Are you kidding? It blew him away that we asked.”

“Aww. Really? That’s sweet. I’m glad. That makes me feel better somehow. Were you able to find out anything about Graeme’s mysterious stalker? You never mentioned it when you showed up this morning at the lighthouse. How long did you spend trying to discover who it is?”

A sheepish grin crossed Lucien’s face. “Look, it didn’t take long to track down the latest IP address they used. I narrowed down the location to the general vicinity of Santa Barbara. It’s probably one of his neighbors yanking his chain.”

Two dogs trotted over to greet Brogan as she stepped into the kitchen. One fawn-colored greyhound rescue named Stella, and one tiny snow-colored Bichon called Poppy. The dogs sniffed her pants leg, wanting a cuddle. “Sorry, guys, you’re out of luck. I’m on the clock here. I need to prepare tamales for a cop, who’ll likely arrest me for serving him crappy Mexican food. Give me three hours, and I promise to give you all the belly rubs you want. Deal?”

Lucien chuckled. “I don’t think Theo’s that bad. Besides, I have Longboard’s on speed dial.”

Brogan rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Great. So much for having any sort of confidence in my culinary skills,” she lamented, emptying the bags and lining up all the ingredients one by one on the counter.

Lucien spied one in particular and picked it up to study the label. “Crisco? Since when do we use vegetable shortening?”

She let out a sigh and took the can out of his hand. “Since I couldn’t find lard.”

“Lard? There’s lard in tamales?”

“Yes. Why do you think they taste so amazingly great? They aren’t made from tofu now are they? Shoo. Get out of here or help keep the dogs out of the way. Your choice. I need room to focus. Whatever you decide, know that I need my head in the game. So either help or get out. And set the table in the dining room for me.”

“I’ve never seen you so worked up over a simple—” Her deadly stare stopped him from continuing his thought. “Okay, I get it. I’ll take the dogs into my office and return to hunting down Graeme’s email stalker.”

She took her favorite chef’s apron from the kitchen drawer and put it on over her head, tying it around her waist. “That might be a good idea because stalkers are potentially dangerous. You should take it more seriously.”

“I will. I promise. Call me if you need me.”

“Set the table,” she called out behind him. “Use the good dishes in the hutch. And get out the cloth napkins.”

Lucien appeared in the doorway again. “He’s a new neighbor, not the King of England.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want the table to look nice.”

He puffed out his cheeks and blew out a breath. “Okay, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

She ignored the last part and got busy, running hot water and filling a large bowl to soak the corn husks. She set the timer. Next, she got out her phone with the recipe and wrote down all the instructions on a notepad for easier reference and to keep the directions fresh in her head.

She unwrapped the rotisserie chicken, picked up a sharp knife, and shredded what she needed for the filling. After dumping in a generous portion of the salsa, she blended the mixture together, hoping it stayed moist throughout the cooking process. After setting it aside to tackle the masa dough, she got her stand mixer and went to work. After peeling open the can of Crisco, she measured out one and one-third cups of shortening into the bowl before adding a little more and added two tablespoons of chicken broth. She turned the mixer on and let the dough work around the bowl until fluffy, making sure it was the consistency of frosting. But it looked as creamy as peanut butter before adding the dry ingredients. She doubled the salt, dumping in baking powder and cumin. Eventually, it all went into the bowl—even more chicken broth—producing a doughy, sticky mess. She added more masa to even out the texture.

Setting the dough aside, it was time to check on the corn husks. After pronouncing them ready, she put the glossy side up and began to scoop out the dough using plastic wrap to flatten it into place. The chicken filling came next as she spread it down the middle of the dough before folding and tucking the husk. It was like wrapping a Christmas gift but without the Scotch tape. She repeated that step over and over again until she had a dozen tamales tucked and wrapped.

She removed her Instant Pot from the cupboard, added water to the bottom, and began placing the tamales inside, standing them up on end, hoping they wouldn’t fall apart during the steaming process. She set the timer for twenty-five minutes and felt relieved.

While the tamales steamed, she put on a batch of white rice to cook on the stovetop and opened the two cans of refried beans, dumping them into a pan. She lowered the heat to simmer as the gloppy beans sizzled and bubbled in the hot skillet.

At seven on the dot, she heard the doorbell ring. She heard Lucien call out that he would answer the door. One glance around the stove told her everything had gone as planned. The timer dinged on the Instant Pot. Feeling a knot gather in her stomach, she leaned over to check the tamales and was horrified to see that some had fallen apart. Four had crumbled into a messy heap. Undeterred, she got down a serving dish and fished them out, one by one, until they were all lined up. She decided she wouldn’t waste food no matter what it looked like. She’d eat the messy heap and mix it with the rice and beans.

Taking a deep breath, she checked on the rice, pronouncing it tender and done. She dumped the contents of the pan into a serving dish and did the same with the refried beans.

After putting everything in the warming tray, she took off her apron and headed out to greet their guest.

The first thingBrogan noticed when she walked into the living room was that Theo Woodsong had changed out of his police duds into jeans and a sweater. His dark hair hung down almost shoulder-length. His coffee-colored eyes were less guarded and more relaxed. His entire body language seemed more at ease. Sitting in one of the upholstered chairs with his feet propped up on the ottoman and a beer in his hand, he looked less like an out-of-place big-city cop and more like the newcomer who had dropped by for a casual chat.

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