“Although I love sweetbread and I appreciate the rich white sauce you made, I found the glands to be overcooked and gristly. It would have worked so much better if you had spent a little more time sautéing them rather than frying them in the oil.”
Glands? Jordan squeezed her eyes closed, grabbed the napkin, and spit into it, but the morsels were long gone. Catching her breath, she looked up to see that everyone was staring, and she felt heat crawl up her cheeks.
“You cooked glands?” Her eyes begged Marsha to deny it.
“Yes. It’s one of my favorite appetizers.”
Jordan took several deep breaths in a row, hoping to push back the lump in her throat threatening to ruin her debut as a cooking judge. “What kind of glands?” she whispered, so low that only those close to her could hear.
Christakis twisted in his chair to face her, laughter in his eyes. “The thymus gland. What did you think sweetbread was?”
There was no way she’d admit she thought she had eaten chunks of fried chicken. “I figured it was glands, but I wasn’t sure what kind,” she lied.
Mentally, she slapped her head for the lame response. She knew it was glands but didn’t know what kind?
Crap!
This time Christakis couldn’t hide his glee and bit his lips in a futile attempt to keep from showing it.
And what in God’s name was a thymus gland, anyway?
“The gland is located in the neck vertebrae area of a young calf,” Christakis said, as if he had just read her mind.
“Don’t keep us waiting, Jordan,” Emily interrupted. “How did you rate Marsha’s sweetbread?”
Jordan searched the audience, trying to figure out some way to telepathically change her card. Victor was laughing so hard, he was doubled over. Even Lola, who was the most empathetic of the group, was smiling. There was nothing to do but show her score. The audience went wild when she held up the card.
“I gave her a 4.5. Congratulations, Marsha. I really liked your dish.” She reached for her water glass and chugged it, hoping to drown the little thymus glands floating in her stomach. She was positive they were down there plotting revenge on her for having eaten them. But this time even the water didn’t take the taste out of her mouth, and she swallowed several times to keep from gagging.
Feeling a tap on her pants leg under the table, she reached down and made contact with Christakis’s hand. Discreetly, he passed something to her. When she realized it was a mint, she glanced up at him to see him wink.
“I threw up all over myself the first time I ate sweetbread,” he whispered, before turning back to Emily as if nothing had happened.
“So, Beau, right now Phillip is in the lead with eleven points. With George’s and Jordan’s score, Marsha has 7.5. If you give her higher than 3.5, she’ll win tonight’s competition. Show us your card.”
Beau did a complete scan of Marsha’s body before finally settling on her face. Jordan could feel the sexual tension from where she sat and wondered if the intense stage lights had anything to do with the heat between the two of them.
Beau cleared his throat. “I found her sweetbread to be cooked just the way I like it, and I thought the mango dip added a distinct Caribbean flavor along with the wonderful Southwest touch to cut the sweetness. For that reason, I gave her a 5.” He held up the card, and the crowd erupted in applause.
“Congratulations, Marsha. Besides winning five thousand dollars tonight, you’ve also earned an added advantage. In the next round of the competition you’ll all be cooking scrumptious desserts, and Marsha, you’ll get to specify first the dessert you’d like to prepare. That main ingredient in your selection will no longer be available to any of the other contestants. If you know that one of your competitors has a specialty using a certain ingredient—say, chocolate—it could really be to your advantage to take that choice away from them. Think about it, and then give us your decision tomorrow night.” She turned to Thomas. “Unfortunately, with the lowest score, Thomas, you are eliminated from the competition.”
Emily turned back to the crowd. “That concludes tonight’s competition. Tomorrow morning we dock in Puerto Rico for ten hours. There are still several openings available for the land excursions, but if you prefer to tour the island on your own, have a great time. We’ll see you back here on Thursday at eight p.m. for the next leg of the contest.”
Beau stood and walked over to Marsha’s station to congratulate her.
“The man is so transparent,” George observed, almost in a whisper.
“I know,” Jordan replied, wondering if that’s why he’d given Marsha a low score himself. Was it because he knew in all likelihood that Beau would give her a high score? Or was it simply because he didn’t particularly like the way she’d cooked the sweetbread, as he’d mentioned?
“Thanks for the mint,” she said, deciding she definitely liked this man, no matter the reason he’d given Marsha the low score.
“Jordan, I nearly wet my pants when I saw the look on your face when you found out you had just eaten calf glands.”
She was never so glad to see Victor and the gang running toward her, along with the twenty-five tasters now flooding the stage to talk to the contestants. It meant they could say their good nights and head up to the Lido Deck grill for a nice big chili dog, overflowing with mustard and onions.
“What can I say? They tasted like Chicken McNuggets,” she said, giggling. But chicken nuggets or not, she was looking forward to taking the taste out of her mouth permanently. The sooner they got to the Lido Deck grill, the better.
“Jordan, are you going to introduce us to your friend?” Lola asked, coming up behind Victor. She shoved her hand toward George Christakis, obviously deciding not to wait on formalities. “I’m Lola Van Horn, Mr. Christakis, and I’m a huge fan of yours.”
George reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “And I’ve been told I can’t leave the ship without one of your fabulous tarot card readings, Ms. Van Horn.”
“Call me Lola, and I’m absolutely looking forward to finding out what my cards say about you. I’m giving a class on Friday when we’re at sea, but I’d be happy to come to your room and do a private reading for you anytime.”
Ray squeezed between Lola and George. “Ray Varga,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ll be coming with her for that private room thing.”
George threw back his head and laughed. “As adorable as your lady is, Mr. Varga, I can assure you she will be safe with me.”
“It’s Ray,” he advised, then winked. “I’m still coming with her, just the same.”
Before George could respond, Jordan heard Victor exclaim, “Sweet Jesus.” She turned toward the middle of the stage just in time to see Charlese Lincoln, all decked out in diamonds and emeralds as if she were at a gala instead of a cooking competition, hotfooting it directly toward her husband as fast as her high heels would allow. Beau, who was falling all over Marsha, had no clue his wife was now standing behind him taking it all in.
Marsha’s eyes widened in surprise as she tried to warn him, but he was so busy flirting that he either chose to ignore his wife or he didn’t realize how angry she could get.
Until it was too late.
He jerked around when Charlese cleared her throat, his flirty grin quickly changing to sheer panic.
“Lambkins,” he cooed. “Have you met—”
“Don’t Lambkins me, you horse’s ass. Did you think I couldn’t see you making all over this slut on stage?”
She turned her angry eyes on Marsha, her hateful expression reminding Jordan of the possessed girl in The Exorcist. She half expected the woman’s head to spin around like Linda Blair’s.
In a singular motion, Charlese reared back her hand and slapped Marsha across the face, causing an ugly red mark to sprout on the surprised chef’s cheek.
“Next time you decide to sleep with someone else’s husband, you’d better make damn sure it’s not mine, or I’ll kill you myself with my bare hands, you sk
ank,” she slurred.
Marsha, who had now recovered nicely from the assault, narrowed her eyes. “Bring it on.”
Even from far away, Jordan knew Charlese’s breath probably reeked of liquor, and she imagined the woman would put up a pretty good fight if it came down to it. But she’d lay odds Marsha Davenport would come out the winner if that scuffle ever materialized.
Little Miss Token Wife had no idea the woman she had just called a skank might very well be a killer.
CHAPTER 11
Beau pulled on his wife’s arm and dragged her away from Marsha’s station, just as Casey appeared beside her friend, arms on her hips and, apparently, ready to jump into the middle of the squabble, if necessary.
“Nothing like a good catfight to make me ravenous,” Victor whispered. “Come on. I’m starving. Let’s get out of here before they kill each other.”
Jordan could have kissed him right there on the spot. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be taken away from all the drama. “Let me find Emily and tell her we’ll meet up with her at the grill.”
“She’s coming again?” Victor scrunched up his nose as if he had just gotten a whiff of something rotten, like a bad egg.
Surprised by his comment, Jordan narrowed her eyes in question. “I thought you liked her.”
He shook his head. “She’s okay, I guess. It’s just that she’s always with us. I haven’t had two minutes alone with you to talk bad about everybody on the ship. You know how much I love to do that.”
Jordan patted his shoulder. “Ah, how sweet. You miss me.” She stole a look toward Emily, who was in an animated conversation with her friend George. “Let me tell her we’re going, and then we’ll sneak out of here before the rest of the gang. I’ll even let you buy me a margarita.”
“Ha! I knew there was a catch.” He winked. “You have no idea how much I hate it that Emily’s prettier than me. That’s the real issue here.”
Jordan laughed out loud. “Join the club. She’s prettier than all of us, but she’ll never be the friend that you are to me.”
His eyes lit up. “Hurry up and tell her we’re leaving. I have a million things to talk about.” He did a three-sixty. “And what’s up with that ugly rug on that obnoxious chunky dude over there?”
Jordan’s eyes followed his and settled on one of the tasters who had flocked to the stage. The overweight middle-aged man was so busy sneaking tastes of all the leftover food that he was unaware his toupee had shifted.
“Oh, yeah,” Jordan said, winking. “It gives a whole new meaning to getting your head on straight.” She kissed Victor on the forehead. “I’ve missed you, too, my friend, and I’m looking forward to hearing your snide remarks about everyone on board. Just give me a minute to say my good-byes.”
She turned and headed back toward Michael to make sure he didn’t need her for anything else. Next, she told Emily they’d meet her on the Lido Deck, and then she and Victor quietly exited the stage. They walked to the elevator, giggling like two schoolkids who had just gotten away with playing hooky.
Two chili dogs later, Victor was back to his old self again. By the time the rest of the gang showed up, they were on their second margarita, and the bad taste in Jordan’s mouth from the sweetbreads had finally disappeared.
Settling back in her chair, Jordan watched her friends chow down. She didn’t need Emily—who still had not arrived—to tell her how lucky she was to have them in her life.
Thinking about Emily, she stole a glimpse at the elevator in the middle of the ship, wondering what had happened to her. She’d said she wanted to chat a little longer with George before joining them, but it had been a good thirty minutes since the competition ended and Beau and his wife had stomped off to their room. Jordan figured she must have lost track of time talking with her old friend and secretly hoped he’d be with her when she finally did show up. George Christakis was someone she’d like to get to know better, especially after the mint thing.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Thomas Collingsworth alone at the bar.
“Be back in a sec,” she said, getting up and strolling that way.
It seemed like the perfect opportunity to do a little snooping. She hadn’t pegged Thomas as the brightest bulb on the tree, and she hoped that maybe without Marsha and Casey around, she could get him to slip up and say something he shouldn’t.
After sliding onto the bar stool beside him, she motioned to the waiter. Thomas finally looked up when he heard her order a margarita, his face showing his surprise at seeing her there.
“Hey there, sorry about tonight,” she began, hoping to break the ice. The man looked like he’d just been told his dog died.
“Thanks,” he mumbled before holding his empty glass up to signal for a refill.
Okay, this was not going to be easy. Obviously, he wasn’t the most social butterfly on the ship, either, keeping to himself most of the time. That was why his cavorting with Casey when his wife had just given birth to their newborn son seemed so out of character for him. Maybe if she got him talking about food, he’d loosen up.
“Is salmon one of your favorite appetizers?”
“Not really.”
Help me out here, Tommy boy. This is like pulling teeth. She decided to go straight to the heart of the matter.
“So, have you and Casey been friends long?”
If she’d wanted a reaction, she definitely got one. His head shot up and he glared at her.
“Don’t go judging me when you don’t know the whole story.” He slurred the words, challenging her with his eyes.
That was more like it. “Who said I was judging you, Thomas? Far be it for me to throw the first stone. I was only asking because you two seem so…chummy.”
“My relationship with Casey, or anyone else for that matter, is none of your business. Until you’ve walked in my shoes, you can’t know how I feel.” He turned back to his drink, effectively ending any further conversation.
But Jordan hadn’t graduated at the top of her journalism class for nothing. Her ex had always said she could sweet-talk the best of them while going straight for the jugular.
“Seems funny that you only remembered your friend Stefano had an allergy to nuts when he was on his way to the morgue. You’d think that little piece of information would have come to you long before it was too late.”
Jordan knew that was unfair, but she hoped to get a reaction. When she didn’t, she decided to take her drink and go back to her friends, who knew how to keep a conversation going. Let Thomas wallow in misery all by himself. She stood up and was surprised when he held out his hand to stop her.
“Wait.” He threw back his drink and gulped down the nearly full glass of liquor before turning to her, the anger fading from his eyes somewhat.
“You think Stefano was my friend?” He huffed. “A real friend doesn’t sleep with your wife.”
Jordan nearly spit out a mouthful of margarita as she settled back down on the bar stool. She had anticipated him admitting to being jealous because Stefano was a better cook. Or maybe even that he despised the Italian chef for his arrogance. But never in her wildest dreams had she been expecting that the anger was caused by his wife’s infidelity with Stefano.
“Stefano slept with your wife?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her voice.
He nodded, reaching for another drink from the bartender. “How do you think I knew about his allergy in the first place?”
Out of her peripheral vision, Jordan spied Victor standing up and waving for her to come back to the group, but there was no way she was leaving Thomas now. Not when the conversation was just getting juicy.
She turned back to the chef. “I don’t know. I assumed because you were friends—”
“I’ve already told you that we weren’t friends,” he interrupted. “Stefano didn’t care about anyone except himself.”
“So how did you know he was allergic to peanuts? Did he tell you?”
Thomas snarled. “Di
dn’t have to. Sarah called me one day and told me she was at the hospital with Stefano after he’d nearly died in our bedroom. She knew I’d find out the details and put two and two together, so she confessed she’d been having an ongoing affair with him for the past three months.” He lowered his head. “All that time I thought he was coming around the house so much to see me.”
“When did that happen?” Jordan asked, knowing she was crossing dangerously into mind-your-own-business territory. “Was it the first time he’d ever had a reaction?”
Thomas’s expression never changed. It was as if he were confessing to a priest and wanted if off his chest. “Nine months ago.” He turned and nailed her with a glare. “And no, he knew he was allergic to nuts—carried an epinephrine injector with him at all times. Usually, he managed to inject himself before his throat swelled so badly it cut off his breathing and—”
“Why didn’t he have the injector with him last night?” she interrupted.
“I have no clue. I do know he hated anyone knowing he had a weakness, as he called it. Maybe he didn’t bring it because he knew he would only be eating what he cooked. For whatever reason, his stupid pride cost him his life.” He stopped to take a swig before continuing, “Are you getting the picture here? Is it so hard to understand why Casey and I want to spend time together? She understands me and hated Stefano even more than I did.”
“What was her beef with him?”
He shrugged. “He screwed her over big time when she applied for a job where he worked. The head chef had been really impressed with her credentials when he’d set up the interview. But somewhere between that phone conversation and her actual face-to-face, things changed. She found out too late that Stefano had hinted to his boss that she was lazy and took shortcuts. Apparently, she was blackballed with all the good restaurants in Dallas and ended up at the Japanese steak house in Fort Worth—which she hates, by the way. She swore she’d get even.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a snicker. “Looks like the bastard got what he deserved, wouldn’t you say?”
Murder for the Halibut Page 10
