Recipe for Love (Entangled Select Suspense)

by Dyann Love Barr

  Jordan took several more pictures from the pile on the coffee table and sifted through them, one by one. One showed the salad where it had been thrown across the room. “I suspect the killer caught him mid-meal. Looks like one hell of an argument took place.”

  The detective pulled his phone from its holder on his belt and brought up his notes. “At nine p.m. he called room service to order a sparkling water with lemon, steak, baked potato, no butter, extra sour cream, and a salad with mixed greens, tossed with light vinaigrette.” His stone-cold eyes scanned the screen. “The medical examiner’s report states that the deceased had eaten a few bites of the steak, no salad, but his stomach contents also contained goat cheese and crackers. There were no orders from room service for cheese and crackers. Or the wine.”

  The excitement made Tilly’s eyes bluer than blue. “The botulism had to be in the goat cheese.”

  Jordan could picture Ethridge sitting down to his meal and being more than a little upset at having it interrupted. “So the murderer knocks on the door. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry for—whatever—let’s crack this open for old times’ sake. More blah, blah, blah—stuffs him full of tainted cheese and drugged wine, then whammo—goes in for the kill.”

  She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Maybe the murderer paid one of the staff a few extra bucks to have it sent to his room. Viewers of The Culinary Channel knew he had a passion for the stuff. Even Gilmore made a goat cheese dish last night.”

  “Whoever killed him had to be an idiot.” He sat on the arm of the couch and dangled his hands between his knees as he tried to think. “I don’t care if he was dosed with enough drugs or toxins to drop an elephant, it wouldn’t kill him right away.”

  “How do you know?”

  “GHB takes at least fifteen to thirty minutes to take effect. Hank wrote a book last autumn where a serial killer drugged his victim with GHB. Botulism is a nasty way to go, but it doesn’t kill instantly.”

  “Sounds more and more like a Three Stooges movie to me.” She plopped down into the green and white striped chair and pulled her feet up. “None of it makes sense.”

  “Maybe the killer staged it to look like a crime of passion.” He studied the photos, trying to piece together another scenario. He’d thrown the idea out there, but he honestly couldn’t see Vargas as the type to go to the trouble. She’d snuff the man, cut off his dick, and leave without a backward glance. Could it have been someone else? The evidence said no.

  The detective nodded as he considered. “Possibly.”

  “Staged?” She shook her head in disagreement. “Well, I’d call anyone who’d cut off someone’s winkie pretty riled up.”

  “Winkie?” Jericho’s confused expression was priceless.

  “Really, Matilda.” Jordan rolled his eyes and slapped his hands on his knees. “Are we back to that now?”

  “Jordan.” She drew his name out in warning, but it went unheeded.

  “She has a problem with the word penis.” He couldn’t keep the smirk out of his voice.

  “I do not.” She crossed her legs, swinging the one on top back and forth in agitation. “Okay, his erectile tissue, or would you prefer throbbing man-root? How about Buster McThunderstick?” She jumped to her feet, her hands on her hips. “And it’s Tilly. Be careful, or you might be the one who ends up missing a winkie.”

  “What the hell is going on?” the detective demanded.

  “What?” Jordan gave a dismissive snort. “We do this all the time.” Detective Iron Jaw needed to understand the nuances of his relationship with Tilly.

  “Not while I’m around.”

  “Let me go.” She jerked away from Jericho and rounded on Jordan. “I don’t know why I thought we could work together.”

  The glint of tears in her eyes, the pugnacious set of her shoulders, her clenched fists, sucked the air from his lungs. The world collapsed into a black hole of confusion. What happened? When did everything spiral out of control? The kiss. It had to be that damned kiss. It had fried his brain.

  Never once had he taken Gemma’s, or any other woman’s, feelings into consideration. Except his mother’s. If they got mad, that was their problem. He wasn’t put on the planet to make them happy.

  He panicked the second her lower lip wobbled. A hard knot of shame burned in his chest, the same one he got whenever he’d hurt his mother. He rubbed the spot over his heart as if it would take away the ache building there. “I’m a total shit for hurting your feelings. I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not. This is the great Jordan Kelly at his finest.” She swiped at the tears under her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’re a bully with a spatula.”

  She turned to Jericho. “Call me in the morning if you still want to go to the Nelson.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He skirted the coffee table but halted the instant Jericho held up his hand.

  His knee-jerk reaction to verbally strike back stuck in his throat. He didn’t have a good response to her accusation. He’d been cruel and hurtful just to get the upper hand.

  The guy rounded on Jordan and pointed to the couch. “You—sit.” The command in his voice made him think twice about arguing. Jordan took another quick glance over at her. Why, oh why did she push his buttons? He’d apologize when they were alone. If she ever allowed him within ten feet of her again.

  “Each minute you two spend taking shots at each other is one less I have to find the killer.” The detective started for the closet to get his coat. “I don’t have time for this bullshit. You’re going to have to work this out with each other and The Culinary Channel boss. Tilly, I’ll call you tomorrow.” He glared at him. “I better not find out you’ve upset her again. Is that clear?”

  “As glass.” Jordan bit back another pithy remark. “I have no desire to end up in the stony lonesome.”

  “Good.” Jericho’s phone rang. He jerked it off his belt with a growl. “Jericho here.”

  Whatever the news was, it couldn’t be good. He ran his hand through his hair and muttered a curse. “Yeah, I got you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes or less. I’m at the hotel with our consultants.” He snapped his phone shut and replaced it back on his belt. “It seems like I’m back on duty.” He thrust his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. “I’ve got to go.” He glanced at Tilly, then Jordan. “Try not to kill each other. I don’t need any more chefs going belly up.”

  “Call me.” She held the door open for Jericho.

  His answer was a quick peck on her cheek. “I’ll do that.”

  Jordan watched her close the door behind the detective and pause for a second before turning back to face him.

  “You need to go, too.” She walked to the desk in the sitting area.

  “I’m sorry about the Wicked Witch of the West comment. It was a knee-jerk reaction.” He hurried behind her until he managed to put himself between her and the desk. “Let me stay. Someone killed Ethridge and everyone knows we’re working on the case. Why don’t I spend the night?”

  “You have got to be kiddin’. I’m a big girl. I know how to take care of myself.” She pushed him out of her way, her face set, with her lush lips thinned into a stubborn line. “Besides, the only way I’m gonna feel safe is for you to leave.”

  He didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Besides, I thought of something and I have things to do before the mornin’.” Tilly picked up the hotel phone on the desk. “Hello, this is Tilly Danes in VIP Suite 1012. I’d like to speak to the night chef.”

  “Surely you can’t be hungry again?” He glanced at the half-eaten food on the table. Confusion added to the emotional mix rumbling around in his brain and heart. He leaned closer to catch the conversation on the other end of the line. “What are you doing?”

  “Go away.” She pointed toward the door. “I mean it. If you don’t leave, I’ll call security.”

  “Tilly,” he growled her name. He put one hand on her shoulder to turn her
around. She jerked away from his touch. Her sidelong glare made him drop the hand and take a step back.

  “If you must know, I’m gettin’ ready to commit murder.”

  Chapter Seven

  Tilly’s enigmatic comment about committing murder played over and over in his mind. There was no telling what she was up to, but he had a plan of his own. They’d go to each of the contestants and talk to them. Being chefs, maybe they saw or heard something that didn’t feel right. One of them might be the killer. He intended to find out.

  The bright morning light belied the gruesome murder committed two days ago. He needed to get out into the fresh air and sunshine. A road trip was the perfect way to start the day. He made the short walk to her room and knocked.

  “I’m comin’. I’m comin’.”

  His mind went into a tailspin. Fantasies of Tilly screaming out those two little words hit him smack-dab in the libido. His long-sleeved black shirt grew hotter by the second while his jeans grew tighter.

  The door opened to reveal her standing in front of him in a fluffy white robe, courtesy of the hotel, and a pair of matching scuffs. Gemma had never looked as sexy, even draped in bits of lace and nothing else. He pulled in a soft breath of appreciation.

  Tilly ran her hand through her tousled curls. “What do you want? It’s not even seven.” Her whiskey voice was morning deep and inviting.

  “We’re getting out of here before Miranda and Nick can catch us.”

  She opened the door wider and motioned him inside. “Exactly where are we goin’?” She went to the mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. “I’ve got things to do besides runnin’ off with you.” She twisted off the top and took a delicate swallow. “Although it would sure put a wrinkle in Miranda’s schedule.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “I’m not your girl.” She picked up her cell phone and looked at the time. “I can give you two hours tops.”

  “I’ll take it.” He turned her around and pushed her toward the bathroom. “Get dressed. And don’t dawdle. There’s one hour and fifty-eight minutes left on the clock.”

  She pulled several things from the dresser, zipped into the bathroom and came out in less than five minutes. She wore a bright red sweater, jeans, and a pair of running shoes.

  He frowned and pointed at the sweater. “Do you have anything less conspicuous?”

  She frowned at him and picked up a matching red hooded sweatshirt. “Why?”

  “We’re trying to make a getaway.”

  “I’m a chef, not a ninja. Take it or leave it.”

  “Okay.” He zipped up his black hooded jacket. “Just keep your head down. I had the concierge rent a car for me. She phoned a few minutes ago and said it was ready in valet parking.”

  “You’re certifiable.” She grabbed up her huge lime green purse. “Do you know that?”

  “Come on.” He grabbed her by the hand and led her to the stairway.

  “Jordan—” She tried to tug her hand away.

  “It’s all down from here.”

  “But—”

  “Think of your thighs.”

  She gave him an exasperated snort but followed him down eleven flights of stairs to the garage. He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the parking kiosk next to the curb. One of the valets had earbuds firmly implanted in his ears and was lost in another world. He gyrated to whatever song played on his MP3 player, executed an impressive 360 degree turn, and snapped his fingers to the beat.

  He touched the guy on the shoulder. “Great moves, man, but I need to pick up a rental car.”

  The valet’s eyes shot open and he yanked out the earbuds. “Sorry man. Beyoncé, you know.” He patted down his vest and straightened his tie. “What can I do for you?”

  “Jordan Kelly, room 1011. The concierge said my rental car was ready.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He went behind the counter and pulled a key fob off the wall. “One swipe of your room card and it’s all yours.”

  He handed the attendant the card and took the key fob.

  “It’s the red mustang next to the entrance.”

  She smirked and covered her mouth. She was laughing at him.

  “What?” He tried not to sound defensive as he unlocked the car but failed miserably.

  Her snort ended in a fit of giggles. “I thought we were supposed to be inconspicuous.”

  “Maybe the concierge thought I’d like a Mustang. I left it up to her.”

  “You should’ve asked for a mini-van. Miranda would never spot you in a soccer mom’s car.”

  “Get in.” He pulled the passenger side door open for her. “We’ve got an appointment with Bolzano at eight.”

  She settled in her seat and looked up at him. “Where?”

  He closed the door and went around to the driver’s side. Once he’d buckled his seat belt he glanced over at her. “We’re supposed to meet him at the commercial kitchen he rents.” He put the key into the ignition and the car roared to life.

  She plopped her bag on her lap. “Let’s go.” She leaned over to check out the clock on the dash. “You’ve got an hour and thirty-five minutes left.

  He programmed Bolzano’s address into the GPS. Fifteen minutes later, he parked the car near the front door of a rundown warehouse that was stuck between an auto body shop and a funky looking building advertising theatrical costumes.

  “Are you sure this is it?” She craned her head around to scan the parking lot.

  “That’s where the satellite directed us.” He pulled a piece of hotel stationery from his pocket. He glanced at the address and over to the reflective numbers by the door. “And what he gave me. Let’s check it out.”

  They came to a short flight of concrete steps. Galvanized iron pipes formed the railing and the front of the building sported ringlets of peeling white paint. He whistled between his teeth. “Classy.”

  She shook her head in disagreement. “If it’s clean and the chef can cook—who cares.”

  She had a point and he didn’t feel like arguing. He tried the door. It was locked. He glanced down at his watch. Eight o’clock. “That’s weird.”

  “What?”

  “He said to come in when we got here—he’d leave the door unlocked.” He frowned and his eyes made a quick sweep of the area. “Said the kitchen was in the back.”

  “Maybe he’s not here yet.” She edged a bit closer to him.

  “No, he told me that he had to make an early start to get everything done for a big job this evening.”

  She knocked on the door. “He could’ve locked it out of habit.” She glanced around while they waited. “This isn’t the best neighborhood.”

  A minute passed. He let out a sigh of exasperation and banged on the door until the steel grate–covered glass rattled.

  Still no response from inside.

  It was her turn to frown. “I’m gettin’ a bad feelin’ about this.” She covered her forehead with her hand to block out the glare of the morning light and peered inside. “Nothing.”

  “I’m going around to the back.” He started down the front porch steps. “You stay here in case he comes to the front.”

  “Oh no you don’t.” She raced down the stairs after him.

  …

  She grabbed his arm and cast a worried glance at the torn newspaper flitting on the breeze and an empty vodka bottle lying next to a dumpster. Bits and pieces of cigarette butts and torn condom wrappers decorated the parking lot.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Matilda—”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like this.” Her insides turned to jelly. She couldn’t explain to him, or herself, how she knew something bad was going to happen. Her guts twisted and her legs shook. “I don’t like this at all.”

  Jordan frowned at her, but nodded. “Okay. But keep your bad-mojo detector in check.”

  Her hand slid into his. “Bad mojo gone.” It was a lie. But she didn’t care as long as she didn’t have to wait by herself. The war
mth of his hand and the way his fingers curled around hers gave her courage.

  They rounded the corner of the building to find a white mini-van, with a Cucina di Amore Personal Chef Service sign on the side, parked near the back door. He put his hand against the hood.

  “It’s barely warm.” Jordan pursed his lips in thought. “It’s a few minutes after eight, it’s chilly out so he hasn’t been here that long.”

  Dread swept over her. She tightened her hold on his hand until he gave it a little shake.

  “Easy there. I need that for book signings.”

  She eased up but didn’t let go. “Sorry, but the bad mojo meter just spiked.”

  He flexed his fingers. “No doubt.” He walked to the driver’s side and tried the doors. “The doors are locked.” He frowned again. The passenger side and rear hatch produced the same results. “Let’s try the back door.”

  She bit her lip and watched him jiggle the knob on the solid steel door. “I’d say this was the basement based on the difference in elevation between the front and back.” He pointed to the windows. “The kitchen has to be on the first floor.”

  “How are we going to get up there?” It would take a ladder or someone on stilts to get high enough to take a look inside.

  He banged his fist on the door and shouted, “Bolzano! It’s Kelly. Open up.”

  She hugged herself as she waited for any sign of life. The sun might be out, but the chill on the breeze held an ominous touch. She shivered and stamped her feet to ward off the fingers of fear dancing over her body.

  This can’t be good.

  “We need to find a way to look in the windows.”

  “How?”

  He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got an idea.” He ran to the back of the lot and rolled a fifty-five gallon steel drum out of the overgrown grass.

  She watched him dump the contents and place it, upside down, under the window.

  He gave her a smug grin. “There, that ought to do it.”

  “Do what?”