CHICKEN CACCIA-KILLER
Liz Lipperman
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my amazing agent and friend for life, Christine Witthohn. There is no way I could ever, nor would I want to, do this without you. And to her husband Jeff who gives up precious time with her so that she can be my cheerleader, counselor, and task master, as well as my first line of defense against all the bullies in the industry.
To Joni Sauer-Folger, my critique partner. Our friendship goes beyond line editing, and for that I will be forever grateful. Wish you lived closer.
To my awesome beta readers, Chris Keniston and Sylvia Rochester. You make me a better writer. And to Melanie Atkins, Phyllis Middleton, and my nephew Dick Flanagan, who walked me through the correct police procedures and lingo.
To the sisters and brothers who made sure that I grew up surrounded with both love and laughter.
To the bunko babes who supply me with all the funny lines in my books, and to all my writer friends whose support and friendship I cherish.
To Rhodes Bake-N-Serve for allowing me to print one of their wonderful recipes. To Jennifer Batchelder for the awesome Chocolate Bread Pudding Recipe, and to my sister Lill Magistro (and Rose and Cathy Magistro) for the mouth-watering spaghetti sauce and pizza bread recipes.
To Martha Hovers, who runs ARF House, a no-kill rescue shelter in Sherman, Texas, and to her wonderful supporters, especially Sally, who bought all my books at an auction benefitting this wonderful program.
And lastly to my husband, Dan, and my beautiful children, Nicole, Dennis, Brody, and Abby and my awesome grandkids, Grayson, Caden, Ellie, and Alice. You all make me smile every day.
DEDICATION
To all my Italian friends and relatives out there, for keeping me chunky with your great Italian cooking.
CHAPTER ONE
“So this is the girl who stole my job?”
That was the first thing Jordan McAllister heard as Jackie Frazier led her into the editor’s office, and her jaw dropped at the venom behind the words. She didn’t recognize the woman who had spoken, but before she could defend herself, Dwayne Egan beat her to the punch.
“Now wait just a minute, Loretta. Nobody stole anybody’s job here. I distinctly remember you calling me the day you got out of rehab and telling me you’d quit. Did you forget that little detail?”
Jordan’s boss leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, making his huge ears look even bigger. She couldn’t help staring, thinking back on the first time she’d walked into his office a little over a year ago. Expecting to see a tall, distinguished looking gentleman, she’d been surprised by the fiftyish man with bushy eyebrows and big ears. Stifling a grin, she remembered how at the time she’d sworn he could have been Mr. Potato Head’s brother, minus the top hat.
“I did no such thing.” The woman sprang from her chair and sprawled over the desk, pointing her finger at Egan’s chest. “I called to tell you I was taking a little time off after rehab. That’s all.”
“Need I remind you it’s been close to a year since you broke your hip, Loretta? That pushes the limit of ‘a little time off,’ I’d say. You must have known I couldn’t hold your job that long.” He motioned for Jordan to sit.
Taking the chair next to the irate woman, Jordan sucked in a gulp of air. So this is Loretta Moseley. She snuck a peek at the woman who wrote the Kitchen Kupboard for the Ranchero Globe before the job had been handed to her, first temporarily and then permanently after Loretta skipped town. Rumor had it she’d run off to Las Vegas with her smokin’ hot physical therapist after she’d gotten the settlement money from a waterskiing accident. Seems the personal watercraft company decided that paying her off was easier than fighting, even though witnesses said the accident had more to do with Loretta’s alcohol intake than a defect of the machine as she’d claimed.
“Need I remind you that my uncle Earl owns this newspaper?”
Egan leveled her with an icy stare. “I am well aware of that, Loretta, but I can’t just yank the column from Jordan. She’s worked hard to build a readership, and she’s nearly doubled our sales.”
Loretta turned to face Jordan. “I don’t care what you say, it’s my job, and no skinny redhead is going to take it away from me.”
Skinny redhead? Excuse me?
Jordan tried to pull off an outraged look, but all she could think about was that it was the first time she’d ever heard her editor stand up for her. Since he never complimented her to her face, hearing him say that she’d worked hard was a surprise.
“At least this skinny redhead knows not to wear halter tops to work,” Jordan fired back, mentally slapping her head for the lame, totally-uncalled-for response.
For a few seconds the two women glared at each other, each one daring the other to say something else that would reignite the fire between them. Jordan used that time to study her competition. Loretta Moseley stood about five two and had a body that should never have been squeezed into a halter top. The exposed layer of tanned belly fat had probably come from several months of partying in Vegas. Her short blond hair, cut in a seventies Dorothy Hamill style, accentuated hazel eyes that now flashed with anger.
“Okay, let’s not get personal here,” Egan said. He punched the intercom button. “Jackie, get Earl on the phone.” Turning back to the two women who had finally quit giving each other the evil eye, he continued, “Let’s see what he has to say about all this.”
When his secretary buzzed back, he picked up the phone, leaving Jordan and Loretta sitting, quietly awaiting their fate while he talked to the owner of the newspaper—aka Loretta’s uncle. A million thoughts ran through Jordan’s mind as she tapped nervously on the arm of the chair, trying to pick out parts of the conversation without looking like she was actually eavesdropping. Most of those thoughts had the owner reinstating his niece as the culinary reporter and relegating Jordan back to writing only the personals again. That would not be a good thing, even if he let her keep the lousy hundred-bucks-a-month raise that had come with the promotion a year ago.
She’d really begun to enjoy the celebrity perks with having her own column, even though sometimes she felt like such a fraud masquerading as the culinary expert. When she’d first moved to the small town of Ranchero, Texas, located about seventy miles north of downtown Dallas, writing the personals was the only job she could get actually using her journalism skills. Truth be known, she had yet to make an edible grilled cheese sandwich on her own.
She could have stayed in Dallas and probably gotten a better job, but she wanted as far away from big “D” as she could get, bringing four suitcases, her goldfish Maggie, and a broken heart with her. The fact that she’d graduated at the top of her class at the University of Texas and had covered every athletic event while she was there apparently hadn’t influenced any of the editors of the many small newspapers she’d interviewed with. This job had been the only offer she’d received, and she’d jumped on it faster than a spider spying an unlucky fly caught in its web.
Although Egan dangled that sports writing carrot in front of her when he wanted her to do something he knew she’d balk at, the chances of that ever happening were slim to nil. Especially in this town where most of the people who worked at the Globe, including the acting director of sports, had grown up in Ranchero and worked there since high school. Loretta Moseley was one of those people.
Taking her mind off the angry woman sitting next to her, Jordan remembered the day she’d hobbled into Ranchero with her dreams shattered and her self confidence at a record low. She’d felt like such a fool, having put her own career on hold while she’d followed
her fiancé all over Texas chasing his perfect job.
Never once had she anticipated that when he finally got his dream job—which ironically, was also hers—as a sports correspondent for one of the biggest TV stations in Dallas, her life would come crashing down around her. It was bad enough that he’d cheated with the sexy weather girl, but the jerk hadn’t even had the guts to tell her to her face and ended a four-year relationship with a ‘Dear John’ text.
How pathetic was that?
Moving as far away from her ex as she could, she’d been elated to land a job at the Globe even if it was only helping desperate people hook up. With her social life rivaling that of a nun’s, she’d been tempted many times to slip her own sob story in there and see what happened.
Incredibly stupid, single white female with a broken heart looking ...
Her life had changed dramatically when Loretta Moseley had broken both her hand and her hip and had to spend six weeks in rehab. Being related to the owner, she’d had a clause in her contract that required the newspaper to pay her full salary if she was ever disabled. When Egan offered Jordan the job with the promise of seeing her name on her own byline, it hadn’t come with a pay increase, even though she was still required to write the personals. The measly jump in her salary came later when she landed the job permanently, and it was basically no more than a cost of living increase.
When Dwayne Egan rapped on the desk with a pencil, Jordan was jolted from her inner thoughts. “Yoo-hoo, McAllister, are you still with us?”
She looked up, embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming, especially when she noticed the smirk on Loretta’s face.
“Okay, here’s the situation. Earl agrees this is a dilemma.” His eyes traveled from Jordan to Loretta. “But we think we have a solution.”
Here we go, Jordan thought. She gets the Kitchen Kupboard, I get the personals—or the boot.
“For now both of you will write the column. Loretta, you’ll take one day, and Jordan will take the other.”
“I won’t do that,” Loretta interrupted, jumping out of her chair again. “And frankly, Egan, I find it hard to believe my uncle would agree to something like that.”
The editor pushed the phone toward her. “You’re welcome to call him yourself. Like me, Uncle Earl finds it difficult to discount how popular the column has become since Jordan’s taken over.”
Loretta huffed before sitting back down.
“Unless you’ve been living in a cave, you both know the Italian Festival is coming to Plainville next weekend. There’ll be vendors from all over Dallas, and some from as far away as California and New York. The Italian-American Foundation has invested a lot of money advertising this event, and it behooves us to show them some love. For the next two weeks, we’ll be covering the event from all angles.”
He paused when Jackie Frazier walked into the room and handed him a stack of papers. After taking two envelopes from the top, he gave one to Loretta and one to Jordan.
“These are press passes for all the festivities, including the parties before, during, and after. We’ve promised the foundation that we would give them top notch coverage. That’s where you two come in. I need both of you to attend everything—hell, pitch a tent and camp out there if you have to—then write about the food and all the activities. I’ve got Jim Westerville covering the bocce ball tournament and Sally Winters from Arts and Entertainment doing interviews.”
He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly as if he knew the next thing out of his mouth would create a stir. “As I said before, you’ll write the column on Tuesdays, Loretta, with Jordan taking Thursdays. When it’s all over, Earl and I will evaluate how the public responds to each of you, and we’ll make our decision about who keeps the column based on that.”
Loretta slammed her hand down on the arm of the chair. “I have never had to audition for any job in my life, Egan. I won’t start now.”
His expression remained unchanged. “Fine. Then that means Jordan will remain the culinary reporter permanently.”
Loretta jumped up and leaned so far over the desk that Jordan was sure she was going to fall on top of the mountain of papers strewn all over it. “And my uncle agreed to this?”
“Actually, he was the one who suggested it.”
“No way I’ll let this girl take my job.” She clucked her tongue. “I may not have a fancy college degree like she does, but I’ve lived in Ranchero all my life. We’ll see who the good citizens of my town prefer.” She stood and walked to the door before turning back once more to address Jordan. “Game on, Red.”
In a huff, she walked out of the office, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the autographed picture of Troy Aikman behind Egan’s desk.
“Well, that went well,” Egan said, a mischievous grin on his face. “You up for the challenge, McAllister?”
“What happens if I lose?”
His grin widened. “You really don’t want to know.”
* * * * *
“So I finally get to meet the girl who talked my son into moving away from home?”
Jordan was caught off guard for a second time in as many days before her boyfriend’s mother smiled. “Just kidding, Jordan. My daughter and I couldn’t wait to get a look at you, especially since Alex has always kept us from his other girlfriends. Even tried to sabotage our meeting with you today.” Natalie Moreland extended her hand. When Jordan reached for it, she grabbed her and hugged her instead. “You’re as pretty as he said.”
Jordan stole a quick glance toward Alex who merely shrugged as if to say he had no control over his mother. Turning back to the petite woman who had arrived earlier from Houston, she said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, as well, Mrs. Moreland.”
Liar!
“Call me Natalie.” She pointed to the younger woman standing beside her. “And this is Alex’s sister Kate.”
Staring at the tall, well-built blonde in front of her, it was easy to see the family resemblance. Dressed in a navy blue suit with a powder blue silk blouse and heels that made her appear much taller than her five-eight or so stature, Kate Moreland could have been mistaken for a librarian—until you studied her face. With olive skin that accentuated the deep blue eyes, a career modeling anything she wanted was not too much of a stretch.
Kate noticed her staring and smiled. “Alex tells us you write for the local newspaper.”
Jordan beamed. “I’m the culinary reporter at the Ranchero Globe,” she answered, loving the way those words rolled off her tongue.
Purposely, she’d left out the part about how she still had to write the personals along with the column. Somehow, it sounded more impressive if they didn’t know she was doing two jobs and only getting paid for one. And she definitely didn’t want them to know what went down in her editor’s office the day before.
Jordan lowered her eyes, not wanting Alex to see how worried she was just thinking about the possibility that she might be demoted. Here it was Saturday already, a day after the meeting with Egan and Loretta, and she still hadn’t told either Alex or the gang at Empire Apartments.
At the thought of her friends, Jordan smiled to herself. It had been one of the luckiest days of her life when she’d moved to Ranchero—population 22,000—and walked into the shabby apartment building owned by Victor Rodriguez and Michael Cafferty. She’d been greeted by the most loving group of friends she’d ever had.
Lucking into the temporary job when Loretta was in rehab was a gift from above, even though she knew absolutely nothing about cooking and hated most fancy foods. Since then she’d been biding her time until one of the sports writers either retired or moved on to the big arena in the sky, but that probably wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Jim Westerville was still in his forties and had lived in Ranchero all his life. The only chance of him leaving was if he met a hot physical therapist and bolted for Sin City like Loretta had done.
Remembering Westerville as a happy-go-lucky guy who was always bringing his ki
ds to work, she smiled. Not really the type to skip town with a floozy, but then again, she wouldn’t have thought her ex would crumble under a mass of big blond hair and fake boobs, either.
And the other members of the sports team were just as entrenched in their jobs.
If she were being truthful, though, she’d have to admit that writing the Kitchen Kupboard twice a week wasn’t a bad gig. Having people recognize her name and chat with her about the recipes she printed every week was exciting. But deep down she knew if her editor ever did give her the opportunity to move to the sports department, she’d give it all up in a heartbeat.
Sports had been her first love all her life. It was a given since she’d grown up in West Texas with four brothers who’d regularly counted on her to even out their flag football teams. When they’d discovered their baby sister could thread a touchdown pass between two defenders better than all of them, any chance her mother might have had at teaching her homemaking skills had gone out the window.
Had it not been for her weasel of a fiancé cheating on her after she’d followed him to Dallas like a loyal puppy dog, she wouldn’t have felt the need to get as far away from him as she could and put her career dreams on hold. Nor would she have met the wonderful people at Empire Apartments who had taken her under their wing that very first day and made her a part of their close-knit family.
“Your lasagna recipe made it into her column, Mom,” Alex blurted when there was a lull in the conversation.
Natalie Moreland perked up. “My great-grandmother’s recipe always gets rave reviews. Did you try it before you put it in the paper?”
Jordan looked away, wondering if now was the time to tell Alex’s mother that she was lucky she could boil water. She was positive Natalie Moreland, along with the rest of the good people of Ranchero, would wonder what the newspaper was thinking handing over the culinary column to someone like her whose idea of gourmet food usually came with fries. If it wasn’t for her neighbors giving her their personal recipes gussied up with fancy names, her tenure as a food connoisseur would have crashed and burned a long time ago.
Chicken Caccia-Killer (A Jordan McAllister Mystery) Page 1
