Recipe for Love (Entangled Select Suspense)

by Dyann Love Barr

  “Barrow’s Bites. We delight.” Anthony Barrows answered in his deep baritone.

  “Chef Barrows, this is Tilly Danes.” She kept her voice low for fear of someone overhearing what she wanted to say.

  “Ms. Danes, this is a pleasure.”

  “Oh, thank you.” She glanced around the room for any would-be journalist or curious people taking pictures on their cell phones. So far her camouflage had worked. “Would it be possible for you to meet me at the Starbucks just down the street from the hotel?”

  “I guess so.” Curiosity flavored his deep, melodious voice.

  “Great.” She sighed with relief and put her hand over her heart. She was startled to feel it racing. “How fast can you get here, or would you prefer to meet somewhere else?”

  “The coffee shop is fine. Let me check on something.” The phone went silent for a second or two before Barrows took her off hold. “I have a dinner party scheduled for this evening, but my sous chef says she can handle the prep while I’m gone.”

  She bit her lower lip. The last chef with a dinner party on his schedule was sliced up like so much sushi. She didn’t want Barrows skewered on the sharp end of a knife. “Oh, and wear a disguise.”

  “What?”

  “This is all very hush-hush. Take my word for it. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he chuckled. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  “Thank you.” She ended the call and decided to get something to eat. The thought of anything resembling pastry was out of the question. A breakfast sandwich and coffee with a giant slug of half and half sounded like the perfect thing to pass the time. She got her order and settled down with the local paper to wait for Barrows. The murders were front page news, featuring a picture of Olivia’s face caught mid-scream.

  Somehow, some way, she knew they could prove her innocence. It might be a small clue, a thing that everyone had missed so far.

  “Ms. Danes?” The deep voice told her that Anthony Barrows had arrived. She glanced up from her paper to see him standing next to her seat. He smelled of cold and vanilla. His signature dreads were stuffed into a rainbow striped knit cap.

  “Sit, sit. Can I get you anything? My treat.” She leaned over to pull out the chair next to her. “Call me Tilly. Ms. Danes makes me feel like my mother.”

  “It’s Anthony, and no, I’m fine. Never could drink coffee before catering a big dinner.” He blew on his hands to warm them. “It’s stone cold out there this morning.” He took off his coat and hung it over the back of the chair. “To be honest, I can’t stay long. Charlise, my sous chef, had a hissy fit when I told her I had a meeting with you—begged me to take her along. She’s a big fan. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  He pointed at her face. “What’s with the sunglasses?”

  “Oh.” She pulled them off and set them on the table. “I’ve been goin’ incognito. The Culinary Channel is filmin’ a special about the murders. They want Jordan and me to help the police as consultants. They’re always on the lookout for material. There’s the local and national media camped out in the lobby, just waitin’ to ambush us. I had to make a break for it.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Gone over the wall, have you?”

  “That’s about the size of it.” She picked at the edge of her half-eaten sandwich. “I wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “If it’s about the murders, I’ve told the cops everything I know.”

  “Same here.” She picked up her disposable cup with her left hand and sipped the cooling brew. “I don’t think Olivia killed Ethridge, and I plan to prove it. The police aren’t lookin’ at the big picture.”

  “That’s a tall order,” he scoffed. “How do you plan to do that? More to the point, there’s nothing I can do to help her.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.” She heaved a sigh and sat up straight. “Okay, here goes. Did Bolzano do anything out of the ordinary?”

  His brows furrowed in thought. “Not that I know of. He was angry Friday night. I told the police he hinted that he knew something about Vargas and Ethridge. I mean, the man was pissed. The night of the competition he hinted that Ethridge would have his face all over the tabloids.”

  “Interestin’. So that means he might have had contact with Ethridge prior to the competition.” She pursed her mouth in thought. Her finger scraped against the side of the Styrofoam cup while she worked to put the puzzle pieces together. “We know she slept with Ethridge on Friday afternoon to get an edge. That blew up in her face. Maybe Bolzano found out and tried to cut her out by blackmailing Ethridge.”

  Anthony’s eyes lit up, his face glowed as he snapped his fingers. “Wait, wait. I was at the bar with some of the other chefs after the contest. We were celebrating, and Bolzano walked in. He didn’t want to join in, but he did order a bottle of wine.” He leaned back in his chair with a groan. “Oh man, why didn’t I remember this when I was being grilled by the cops? He came back down about ten minutes later saying Ethridge was an asshole. The man took the wine and spit in his face. That’s when Bolzano laughed. He said he’d be surprised if our favorite food critic showed up to judge the competition the next day.”

  The hair on the back of her neck stood up. “What wine did he order?”

  “It was a red zin.”

  “Oh, oh. I’ve got to go.” She gathered up her purse and coat. “How would you like to be a guest on my show?”

  His eyes grew round with pleasure and surprise. “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. We kinda talked around it earlier. Consider it a done deal.” She slipped on the glasses. “I always mean what I say. Besides, you’ve got some awesome dishes to share with the world.”

  “Wow, oh wow.” He stood. “That would be—there’s no words—I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about thank you.” She smiled up at him. “You don’t know how much you’ve helped. I predict you will go places.” She rewrapped the scarf around her head and pulled on her gloves. “I’ve got to go. Good luck.”

  She sailed out of the coffee shop and back to the hotel. Miranda was in the hotel restaurant, but she managed to sneak past her without detection. A couple of reporters perked up and looked her way. Just then, a gaggle of romance authors intercepted them and Tilly scooted into the middle of the crowd. The heart-shaped glasses provided the perfect smokescreen as she followed the herd into the elevator. Once in her room she called Jordan.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to contact you until the press conference with Detective Iron Jaw.” He had his back up. Too bad. She had things to discuss.

  “Guess who bought a bottle of red zin the night of the murder?” She pulled off the sunglasses and threw them on the table by the couch. Her gloves and coat followed. She slumped down in the soft cushions. “Unless you’re not interested? I’ll call Tyler and tell him what I learned.”

  “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  She ended her call with a smile. There was nothing like a good clue to lure a man like Jordan out of a full-blown snit. It took less than two minutes for him to make his appearance.

  …

  He knocked, still miffed at the way she’d dismissed him earlier in the morning. The sparkle in her eyes set off eddies of lust that threatened to suck him under. He didn’t like the way she led him around by the short hairs. “What is it now?”

  “I had a brainstorm.” Her face glowed with excitement.

  It irritated him that she was so jubilant after she’d pushed him out the door. He leaned over until he was in her face. “Anything like Porky?” He didn’t bother to keep the snarkiness out of his voice. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and gave a snort of exasperation. “You didn’t steal any corpses or figure out how to make a homegrown forensics lab in your bathroom, did you?”

  “No.” She narrowed her eyes until the faintest glimmer of blue shone through the slits. “I’ll have you know that I did a little investigative work after you lef
t—”

  “After you told me to leave.” He wasn’t about to let it go—he’d earned a good sulk. The identity of whoever bought red zinfandel was intriguing, but he wasn’t about to let her know she had him hooked.

  “Oh, suck it up.” Her smile held the merest hint of humor. “I met with Anthony Barrows this morning.”

  “Why?” He didn’t like the fact she went out on her own. Hadn’t he already explained the danger to her, especially if the killer thought she might be on to something? He’d rather she’d taken Jericho with her than traipse off by herself on a one woman Scooby Doo mission.

  “Okay, I’ll play this game your way.” She grabbed him by the arm and hauled him toward the door. “Tyler will appreciate what I found out. See you later. Bye.”

  . He dug his heels in and made it hard for her to budge him from where he stood. “Okay, okay, you’ve piqued my curiosity.” He held up his free hand in surrender. “What’s so important that you have to interrupt my afternoon?”

  “Are you goin’ to quit gripin’, or what?”

  He shrugged and crossed his arms, doing his best to look bored and disinterested. “Tell me what’s got you so worked up.”

  “You’ll never believe this.” She actually had the nerve to squeal and do a little victory dance. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  The hurt evaporated. This time it was Jordan who trotted Tilly to the couch and pulled her down beside him. “Spill it.”

  “Bolzano bought the red zinfandel.” Her words tumbled over each other so fast it took a bit for them to register.

  “What?”

  “Barrows said he was in the bar downstairs after the first competition. Bolzano came in, distracted, drunk, and more than a little pissed. He bought the red zin and made a lot of noise about Ethridge missin’ the competition. I’ll bet if we go down to the bar and ask them to check their records they’ll find they sold one.” Her voice quivered with excitement. “That’s why it didn’t show up as bein’ ordered or delivered from room service. Bolzano gave it to Ethridge.”

  “Why would he do that?” He couldn’t figure out where she was going with her logic.

  “I have a theory.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” He shook his head in resignation. “It’s not a sin to buy a bottle of wine.”

  She held up her hand to quell any other comments until she’d had her say. “Hear me out.” She pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse. “I want to write down any ideas we might have as they come to us. Can you do it? The bandage makes it hard to hold a pen.”

  “Okay.” He took the notebook and readied the pen. “Start your dictation, but go slow, I’m lousy at shorthand.”

  “No one even knows shorthand nowadays.” She rolled her eyes but settled in by kicking off her shoes and sitting cross-legged on the couch. “Here’s what I think. Bolzano found out about Ethridge’s little tryst with Olivia.” She leaned over to read what he’d put down. “I can’t make out a single word. How am I supposed to read that later on? Better yet, how did you graduate from school with handwritin’ like that?”

  He waggled his eyebrows at her. “I knew how to get my way with the teacher.”

  “Eww.” Her nose wrinkled as if a bad smell filled the air. “That sounds wrong on so many levels.”

  “Matilda, you’re going to have to get over that dirty mind.” He chuckled and shook the notebook. “Back to this theory of yours.”

  She gave him a little sniff of disdain, but continued on. “Bolzano must have thought he could get some mileage out of the information. Sure, Olivia would take some heat, but I’ll bet he figured Ethridge couldn’t afford the bad publicity, especially with his new cookbook comin’ out later this month.”

  His eyes narrowed in thought as he absent-mindedly clicked the point of the pen in and out. “He decides to get even by spiking the wine. What would he have to gain by that?”

  “Revenge—pure and simple. I think he went to see Ethridge, knowin’ the man would laugh him off. He probably injected the date rape drug into the bottle. That’s how the cork got damaged, not when the bottle was opened.” She grabbed the pillow to pick at the fringe. He figured The Culinary Channel would have to replace most of the pillows on the couch by the time the investigation was done.

  “You think he wanted to blacken Ethridge’s reputation by making him sick enough to miss the competition?” He scribbled away with a nod. “I can see that. The media would’ve been all over it.” Excitement grew with each word he wrote. A picture began to form, not unlike the times he hashed over plot lines with Hank. She might be on to something. A few of the puzzle pieces didn’t fit, but all it would take was one little clue for everything to fall into place. Her line of reasoning began to make sense. It was a bit out there, but he’d go with it for a while. Still, he decided to play devil’s advocate. “What if he wasn’t the one who killed Ethridge?”

  “I’m thinkin’ here. Throwin’ out stuff and see what sticks to the wall, kinda like my mamma’s spaghetti.” She pushed the pillow away and sat with her knees drawn up to her chin.

  “Your mother threw spaghetti on the wall?” He glanced up from his note-taking. Surely he hadn’t heard right.

  She nodded and tilted her head to glance over at him with big, wide, blue eyes. “How else do you know if the noodles are cooked just right?”

  “Please tell me you don’t do that.” The gorge rose in his throat. A vision of Tilly flinging half-cooked pasta against the kitchen wall was too much to take. “No, no, no.”

  “Not anymore.” She burst out laughing. His horror must have shown on his face. She wiped the tears streaming down her face while she tried to catch her breath. “I’ve learned a lot since Ruby taught me how to cook,” she gasped between giggles. “You should’ve seen her face the first time I did that at the restaurant. Kinda like the look you’re givin’ me now.”

  “Who could blame her? That’s disgusting.” He shuddered. It might not be a manly reaction, but the idea of pasta hanging off a kitchen wall offended his sensibilities. “I won’t ask about the sauce.”

  “Good.” She slid him a sidelong glance and smiled. “I won’t have to tell you it was nothin’ more than hamburger and ketchup. Ruby calls it Hillbilly Goulash.”

  “I’ve could’ve gone all day without that mental image. Blah.” He winced. His tongue stroked the top of his mouth as if trying to rid himself of the imaginary taste of Hillbilly Goulash. “Let’s get back to the wine.”

  “Sure, where were we?” She tapped the notebook with her finger. “I thought you were writin’ this down.”

  “I got side tracked by Hillbilly Goulash.” He read over the notes with a frown. “You really think the drugged wine had nothing to do with the murder?”

  “Right. Here’s how I see it. Bolzano brings it to Ethridge’s room.”

  “And he wanted to disable Ethridge so he could kill him.”

  The expression on her face was transparent as glass. She didn’t believe for a minute that Bolzano had committed the crime. “Accordin’ to Barrows, he came back to the bar not more than ten minutes later. Remember what the body looked like?” She swung her feet to the floor. “It took longer than ten minutes to do that.”

  “Maybe he had some mad knife skills?”

  “Come on.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Remember how crowded the hotel was that night? It would take longer than ten minutes to get an elevator, and don’t say he ran up the stairs. It would still take too long. I think he planned for Ethridge to pass out after one or two glasses of wine and get sick enough to miss the competition.”

  “You’re right. I don’t think he planned to kill Ethridge, just mess him up.” He tapped the pen against the notebook. He tried to work the clues like a jigsaw puzzle, but nothing fit the facts. Frustration made him lay the notebook on the table and toss the pen down.

  “Of course I’m right.” She paced around the room. “And he didn’t hack off Ethridge’s winkie. A woman might. I don’t think he swung that way.” She hugged he
rself and chewed at her bottom lip.

  “Maybe he stumbled onto the killer.” His mind swirled with thoughts. “If Bolzano tried to blackmail the first time, what’s to keep him from doing it again?”

  “You’re thinkin’ that he knew who killed Ethridge?”

  He got up and stood behind her. “Possibly. It’s the only motive that makes sense.” The light fragrance of her shampoo tickled his nose, made him want her until his whole body became one giant mass of need. She’d made it clear she was confused, but so was he. He decided to take a chance and wrapped his arms around her shoulder, drew her closer until her warmth seeped into his body. He rested his chin on the top of her head.

  “You know what we need?” Her words came soft and low, filling him with images of champagne, strawberries, and a boatload of whipped cream. He’d never licked whipped cream from a woman’s body, but he’d be glad to give it a go with Tilly.

  “No.” He moved his cheek down to brush against hers, reveling in her scent of vanilla, spice, and woman. The softness of her skin never failed to amaze him. It made him restless in the best possible way. Desire ran in hot little bubbles through his blood. “Tell me.” His lips traveled along the line of her jaw. Yes, whipped cream and champagne bubbles would do just fine.

  She nuzzled him and leaned her head back to allow his mouth access to the length of her neck. “A white marker board. I’ll bet the hotel has one stashed away somewhere. We can set up our own timeline and it will be easier to read than that chicken scratchin’ of yours.”

  His hazy balloon of desire popped and fizzled. She might as well have been carrying around a chef’s knife of her own and slashing at his lust bubbles. He dropped his hands with a sigh and stepped back to regain his composure.

  “Do you still have the photos of the crime scene?”

  “They’re in my suite.”