“God bless you for saying that.”
Jordan opened the door, waving one last time before she walked out. At the elevator, she slapped her head. What was the matter with her? She had just turned down a dessert that had to be ranked right up there in her top ten favorites of all time.
After stepping off the elevator on the first floor, she made it all the way to the exit, before suddenly turning back. Slipping past the desk clerk who was so engrossed in her computer game that she didn’t even bother to glance up, she bypassed the elevator and walked to the stairwell door beside it. This was where the cameras had picked up Ginny Bruno leaving with an unknown person the last time she was seen.
She followed the steps down to the basement where she heard what sounded like dryers going full blast and spotted the laundry room in the back corner of the huge room. Walking in the opposite direction toward a door that looked like it opened to the outside, she let out a squeal when an older man in a janitor’s uniform touched her arm.
“Sorry I scared you, miss. Are you lost? The guest rooms are all upstairs.”
She put on her best girlie face and giggled. “Guess I am. Since I’m here, I’ll just go out this way.”
“That door takes you right out to the alley. The only things out there are garbage cans and a few stray cats.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, walking away before he could stop her. She turned around, deciding to play a hunch. “Were you by chance on duty yesterday morning at the crack of dawn?”
“I live here, missy, and I work a split shift every day. Four hours in the morning and four in the evening. So, yes, I would’ve been here then.”
Her hope mounted. “And did you see a woman in her thirties with olive skin and dark hair leaving out this door?”
He rubbed his chin as if he had to think about it for a moment. “Sure did. She was with a man in a hooded tee-shirt, I believe. There was something on the back, but I couldn’t really see what it said.”
Her hopes skyrocketed. “Did you see maybe a picture or something else on the shirt?”
He looked pensive before replying, “I kind of remember the letters ON.”
“Did it appear she was being forced to leave?”
“Not really. Matter of fact I saw her smile up at him and say something as they went out the door, like she knew him.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The day dragged on until it was finally time to leave for the picnic. Jordan was going straight from the office to the fairgrounds and planned on staying only about an hour—long enough to get a few more recipes and maybe a good story or two before sneaking away. Even after drinking a beer the night before, sleep had evaded her, and she hadn’t been able to stop yawning since lunchtime.
“Late night, Red?”
She swiveled her chair around to face Loretta Moseley after another long yawn. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Staring at her nemesis, she remembered Victor’s idea of leaving the spaghetti bread recipe that he’d rewritten in the locked drawer of her desk. He’d been so excited about beating Loretta at her own game, there was no doubt he’d lecture her for hours if she forgot to do it. Turning her back to the other woman, she made a big production out of digging the envelope from her purse.
After unfolding the paper, she pretended to read it over, trying hard not to glance Loretta’s way to see if she was watching. As promised, Victor had left out the key ingredient—the spaghetti sauce. Without it, the entrée would just be dry noodles and cheese in the middle of a loaf of bread.
Jordan counted on Loretta having never actually tasted the finished product and not realizing something was missing. Sneaking a glance over her shoulder, she could see the woman pretending to be working away on her computer, yet watching her every move.
She leaned over, opened the drawer, and slid the envelope in. Then she locked it and threw the key into her purse, just like the last time. She glanced furtively over her shoulder to verify that Loretta was indeed still watching her. In that instant she knew Victor had been right and that her coworker would take the bait. After shutting down her computer, she turned out the light over her desk before gathering up her purse and walking toward the exit door.
Twisting around halfway there, she made eye contact with Loretta who was outright staring now. “Are you going to the picnic?”
Loretta shrugged. “Maybe later. Right now I have to finish up tomorrow’s column.”
Jordan waved goodbye and continued to make her way to the exit, biting her lower lip to keep from smiling. If tomorrow’s column included the spaghetti bread recipe, Loretta was in for a rough weekend as her readers baked it using her directions.
By the time she slid behind the wheel of her car, she was already checking her watch to see how long she’d have to spend at the picnic before heading home and crawling into bed. With tomorrow being opening day of the festival, tonight was more or less a test run for the food vendors and arcade employees to work out any kinks before tomorrow night’s opening. It was also the only time they’d be able to engage in a little festivities themselves.
Jordan and the Empire Apartments gang had already made plans to be there when the gates opened Friday at six. Alex had to be in Dallas all day on official FBI business, but he’d join them around seven. Kate and Natalie had elected not to attend on opening night and opted, instead, for a nice quiet evening with pizza and a salad.
She made a mental note to find some time to spend with Kate and her mother over the weekend to try and cheer them up. But that would have to wait until Saturday or Sunday since she planned on dragging Alex away from the gang on Friday after the festival for a little one-on-one time.
When she drove into the fairgrounds parking lot, there were already several rows of cars lined up. Pulling in beside an SUV, she thought about what she hoped to accomplish tonight. She wanted to try a few more of the food offerings and hopefully, talk the vendors into giving up the recipes. Although she might not be the Ranchero Globe’s culinary reporter come Monday morning, she fully intended to give it her best shot and make it as difficult as she could for the woman who would do anything to steal her old job back.
For a fleeting moment, she felt a little sleazy for setting the trap, but she had to be prepared to fight for her job. If that meant playing by Loretta’s rules, so be it.
She reminded herself that just like in war, you had to give as good as you got or go down in a hurry. She had no intentions of going away without a fight.
She walked across the parking lot to the entrance and handed her ID to the man at the gate. After checking it, he gave it back to her and waved her through. As soon as she got about a hundred yards into the fairgrounds area, she could already tell the picnic was going strong, probably the highlight of the weekend for the vendors. It was their only chance to let down their hair and party with their friends, since they’d work the booths the rest of the time.
And from the looks of it, Emilio had finally come through with the booze delivery. She hadn’t even made it to the first booth before a man carrying a tray shoved a glass of red wine into her hands.
After thanking him, she took a sip and sauntered down the fairway, feeling a gush of sadness pulse through her as she passed the empty booths where she’d first met the Bruno sisters. Since she hadn’t heard from Carlita she could only assume that Ginny had not returned to the hotel or called to say where she was. She looked upward and said a silent prayer to St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases, for Ginny’s safety.
Continuing down the fairway, she heard raised voices in a heated argument. She looked in that direction and saw Georgette Calabrese screaming at someone, her face scrunched in anger. The person on the other end of the petite woman’s rage was behind the booth and out of Jordan’s visual range. But whoever it was, he or she was getting a big dose of Georgette’s temper, as she used her hands for emphasis and reverted to what Jordan could only imagine were Italian swear words.
She stopped at a booth about thi
rty yards from where the argument was taking place and leaned against the wooden counter so as not to appear too obvious with her eavesdropping. She was able to pick out the words “outsider” and “a nobody,” but she was too far away to make out anything else Georgette was saying. She concentrated, wondering why the other person hadn’t said a word through all that screaming.
Before she could hone in on what they were saying, a plump fortyish man beckoned to her from inside the booth with a sample of some kind of food in a small Styrofoam bowl.
She shook her head and held up her hand to decline the sample and once again turned her attention to the heated action going on over by the next booth.
But the Italian vendor apparently had spied the press ID hanging from her neck and wasn’t about to be rebuffed. He came out from around the booth and stood directly in front of her, waving a steaming bowl of pasta in front of her nose. “Try this, miss. It’s the best baked ziti you’ll ever taste.”
Jordan glanced once last time to where Georgette had been standing only to see that Emilio’s wife had disappeared. Frustrated that she might have missed an opportunity to help Kate, there was nothing else she could do right now. Turning back to the vendor, she returned his smile and reached for the pasta sample. Knowing he was anxiously waiting for her to try his offering, she took a small bite, just in case she hated it.
After a moment of silence, he shrugged. “Well?”
Jordan licked her lips and ate the rest in record time. After the last bite, she looked up. “I believe you speak the truth, Mr....” Her eyes darted to the sign across the top of his business. DEZI’S BAKED ZITI. “...Mr. Dezi?”
He laughed. “I told you so. Now drop the mister and call me Dez.”
She reached across the counter and offered her hand. “Jordan McAllister. I write the culinary column for the local newspaper. What are the chances of you letting me print a copy of this recipe in tomorrow’s edition?”
His smile stretched across his entire face. “I’d be honored. It’s an old family recipe that my great grandmother brought over on the boat from Bologna.” He grabbed her empty bowl and refilled it from the casserole dish on the warmer in the back of the booth. “My ziti is like those potato chips they advertise. You can’t have only one serving.” After he set it down in front of her, he leaned on the counter to watch her eat.
She didn’t coaxing and finished off the entire bowl in a few bites. Giving him a thumbs up, she said, “My compliments to your great-grandmother. And you, Dez, are about to make my readers very happy. I’m sure after I print the recipe, they’ll be flocking to your booth this weekend to taste this awesome dish for themselves.”
After shooting the breeze with the man for a few more minutes while he wrote out the recipe, Jordan thanked him and moved on. By the time she’d reached the other end where she and Bernardo Petrone’s son had played flag football the day before, she’d sampled five other delicious Italian entrées and had scored recipes for all of them. Mentally, she high-fived herself for a job well done.
Glancing down at her watch, she decided she’d stayed long enough to be considered sociable. With the wine flowing like a downhill stream after a particularly wet rainy season, it looked like the party would go until well after midnight, and she needed to get home.
Setting her empty wine glass on a counter with a few others, she hastily declined the offer of a refill from a pretty Italian woman dressed in the traditional red, green, and white colors of the flag of Italy. Walking back to the entrance, she felt a tap on her shoulder from behind.
“Hey, beautiful, where’ve you been?”
She turned to face Frankie O’Brien who looked quite ridiculous in cutoffs and an NYU tank top. Skinny arms like his should never be on display in a shirt like that, she thought.
“It’s good to see you, Frankie, but I was just leaving. Tomorrow’s the big day for all of you, and I thought you’d want to party by yourselves. You all deserve to have fun without the press looking on.”
He ran his fingers up her arm, sending involuntary chill bumps all the way to her elbow. “You can’t go home yet. The real fun’s just getting started.”
“I see the liquor arrived,” she said, backing up when he moved closer and she got a whiff of breath that reeked of alcohol. She moved a few more steps to her left to get away from his fingers still doing a slow dance up and down her arm.
“You got that straight. I was beginning to worry about it before—” He stopped talking as three men approached and stood directly in front of him.
“What’s up, Frankie?” Speaking with a slight accent, the man sandwiched between two bigger ones had a smile on his face, even though his eyes remained hard when they zoned in on Frankie O’Brien.
If Jordan hadn’t been looking right at Frankie, she would’ve missed the sudden shudder that coursed through his body before he smiled up at the new arrival. “We’re partying, Romero. Let me get you a beer.” He turned to walk away when the bigger man held up his hand and stopped him.
“That can wait. Right now I want to know why I had to make a trip all the way out here to find out why you’re not holding up your end of the bargain.”
Jordan knew the polite thing to do would be to walk away and let the two men have a private conversation, but she couldn’t make herself do that. If there was even a smidgen of a chance that she’d learn something that might help Alex’s sister, she had to be rude and stay put.
While the two men talked, she sized up the new arrival. Standing about six-two with black hair and eyes to match, the man loomed over Emilio Calabrese’s much smaller stepson. Although he had on a T-shirt with sleeves, it was obvious he worked out because his muscles strained at the thin cotton covering his upper arms. Jordan couldn’t help wondering how he’d look wearing the tank top that was so pathetic on Frankie O’Brien.
When she heard Frankie begging the other man for more time, she was jerked out of her imagery. She leaned in closer, hoping they wouldn’t call her out for the overt snooping, but she needn’t have worried about that. They were so engrossed in the conversation, they wouldn’t have noticed a five hundred pound gorilla standing beside them.
“I think I made it perfectly clear what happens to people who don’t come through on their promises,” the big man was saying.
“It wasn’t my fault the shipment was stolen, but I’m going to get it back.” Frankie’s face reflected his fear.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass whose fault it was. All I know is I’ve got a lot of money riding on that delivery. I’m tired of listening to my customers griping at me.” He reached over and yanked Frankie’s upper arm, almost lifting him off the ground.
The fear on Frankie’s face escalated to terror. When Romero eased his grip and Frankie realized the guy wasn’t going to smack him around, his shoulders relaxed, and he tried to smile. “I need a few more days. Next week you’ll have the shipment. I promise.”
“Need I remind you of what happened to your partner the last time he didn’t deliver?”
Frankie shook his head, and Romero released his hold on his arm. “Okay, then, as long as we’re both aware of the consequences, you can get back to your celebration.” He turned without ever acknowledging Jordan and walked away with the two big men taking their positions on either side.
When the entourage was far enough away, Jordan stepped in front of Frankie. “Who was that?”
For a second, Frankie looked embarrassed, apparently realizing she’d seen him being bullied. “He’s a business associate. That’s all.”
“He seemed pretty angry about not getting his shipment.” She had no idea what that meant, merely repeating what she’d heard Romero say.
Frankie turned to her, his face now red with anger. “That’s none of your business, and you’d be wise to forget what you heard.”
“You’re right. It is none of my concern. I guess I’ll see you then.”
He reached for her arm. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice to you. It’s just that
Romero Ortiz did upset me a little, and I could use a stiff drink right about now. I’d love for you to join me.”
She wanted to say that since he was well on his way to the proverbial three sheets, the last thing he needed was more alcohol. Instead she pulled her arm away. “Sorry. I’m already getting a headache from just one glass of wine, plus I have a long day tomorrow.” Then as if to smooth things over, she added. “I’ll be here tomorrow night with my friends, though. We’d love to have that drink with you.”
He frowned. “I don’t do well with crowds. I was thinking more along the lines of something a little cozier with just you and me.”
She fought hard not to wrinkle her nose at the suggestion. “I’m not sure my boyfriend would be too happy about that.” Turning, she started toward the exit, wishing she could see his face after dropping that little tidbit.
When she was in the car on her way back to Ranchero, she began to think about what she’d just witnessed between Frankie and Romero. Frankie was definitely afraid of the man—and with good reason. Anybody who looked like Romero and showed up with two goons built like Sumo wrestlers was not to be taken lightly. His thinly veiled threat left Jordan searching her brain, trying to remember an earlier her conversation she’d had with Frankie.
And then it came to her. The first time she’d met him, he’d mentioned that he’d been in some kind of a business deal with Marco Petrone, then covered by saying he meant family business.
Hadn’t Romero Ortiz just said he didn’t want Frankie to end up like his partner for not delivering the goods? Could he be referring to Marco Petrone?
Holy crap! Had Romero just confessed to killing Marco? And who had Georgette Calabrese been screaming at?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“You’ve hit a home run with this recipe,” the tall blonde hollered across Jordan’s cubicle, flashing Loretta Moseley a thumbs up.
Jordan’s head shot up from the stack of personal ads she’d been working on since she’d walked into the building several hours before. She figured there must have been another sale on them because there was double the usual number waiting for her when she walked in the door. She’d had to put everything else on hold in order to get the ads ready for the weekend edition and hadn’t even stopped to heed nature’s call. That in itself was a miracle considering the huge amount of caffeine she’d already consumed since she’d arrived.
Chicken Caccia-Killer (A Jordan McAllister Mystery) Page 16
