Uncle Henry strode up behind Cassidy as the EMT checked her vitals. “Looks like a fun night at the track. Sorry I missed it again. You okay, Cassidy?”
“I’m much better than Zac. Pearl shot him when Oliver knocked her down. Do you all need anything else? I’m going to take Oliver home. He’s had quite a night, and I need to check on the office. Somehow, Oliver got loose.”
“I’m done here. Your numbers are all good. If you feel bad tonight, go in and get it checked out. You should feel better after some liquids and a good night’s sleep,” the EMT said.
“I’ll call you if we need you,” Todd said.
“Let me go with you to check the office. Knowing Oliver, he moved heaven and earth to get to you when he sensed danger,” Uncle Henry said.
“Come on Oliver. Let’s go see what you did.”
As they turned the corner at the office, Cassidy gasped. The wooden door looked like something the coyote and roadrunner had run through. There was an Oliver-sized hole with splintered wood on the steps.
Uncle Henry chuckled. “It was an old door. It looks original to the building. It’s probably time we replaced it with something sturdier. Oliver, you did a number on that one, but nobody’s mad at you because you saved Cassidy.” He patted Oliver who panted and drooled on the sidewalk. “I’ve got some plywood. I’ll nail that up until I can get a new door tomorrow.”
As he disappeared into the darkness, Todd strode over and patted Oliver. “Wow. Did he do that? He splintered the middle part.”
Cassidy smiled. “I guess he heard me scream.”
“Remind me not to ever tick him off.” Todd smiled. “After they finish at the hospital, we’ll take Pearl and Zac into custody. Good work in detaining them until we got here. You busy tomorrow night?”
“Why? You have more questions?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I thought we could have dinner.”
Cassidy felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Oh, I thought you wanted to interview me some more.”
“Nope. I think this is pretty clear-cut case unless they change their story. Zac couldn’t stop talking. He spilled everything and ratted out his grandmother after she shot him. He’s probably still talking all the way to the hospital unless they sedate him. I’ve got a bunch of paperwork to do, but I’ll be free by dinner. How about if I pick you up tomorrow around six?”
Cassidy smiled. “It’s a date.”
THE END
BONE APPÉTIT By Jayne Ormerod
Molly Perkins has landed her dream job as the personal chef to the Wades, wealthy inhabitants of a five-thousand square-foot “cottage” on the Atlantic Ocean. With their support and encouragement, Molly has also launched a private catering business. For the first time in her life, she is financially independent. She owes her success to Mrs. Wade, a mildly eccentric woman who champions the causes of the underdogs, mostly single women trying to succeed in business.
Trouble arrives in the form of Tater, a large Newfoundland dog who is dealing with issues of abandonment and boredom. He takes a liking to Molly. The feelings are not reciprocated, as Molly has yet to find a recipe that calls for dog fur as a primary ingredient.
Trouble is magnified exponentially when someone at the Wades’s dinner parties drops dead at the table. Was it something they ate? Something Molly cooked? Or was it murder? With Molly, her bestie Becca, and mutt Tater on the case, the answers will be dished up faster than you can say Bone Appétit.
_____________
JAYNE ORMEROD grew up in a small Ohio town then went on to a small-town Ohio college. Upon earning her degree in accountancy, she became a CIA (that’s not a sexy spy thing, but a Certified Internal Auditor.) She married a naval officer and off they sailed to see the world. After nineteen moves, they, along with their two rescue dogs Tiller and Scout, have settled into a cozy cottage by the Chesapeake Bay. Jayne’s publishing credits include two novels, five novellas, and eight short mysteries, with more coming soon. A complete list can be found on her website.
Website: http://www.jayneormerod.com
CHAPTER ONE
Get out of my kitchen!” I yelled at Tater, the one-hundred and thirty-pound Newfoundland dog who had burst into my workspace and taken an interest in the crown roast of pork sitting on the counter.
“Molly, put the knife down before you hurt someone!” Becca Kilpatrick yelled to me as she burst through the kitchen door in Tater’s wake.
I hadn’t realized I’d been brandishing my Wustof’s classic chef’s knife, my pride and joy. I slipped it onto the counter before any blood was shed, especially mine. It was that sharp. But something needed to be done about that mongrel. Ten movers-and-shakers from our small seaside town of Sea Haven were expected for Mrs. Wade’s dinner party, and she would not be a happy camper if the main course was in the dog’s belly.
“I’ll get him.” Becca dropped her purse on the slate floor. She was my best friend and server for this evening’s event and had just arrived to help with set-up. The dog must have barreled through the door when she’d opened it, as that dog had a habit of doing. She grabbed Tater by his red collar and pulled with all her might. She may be tall, willowy, and strong as an ox, but she was no match for the mutt.
I ran to assist in banishing the beast from my kitchen. My shorter, stockier build gave me leverage as I pushed the brute from behind. We battled that stubborn mutt a good five minutes. Some cuss words may have passed my lips, as happens when I lose control of a situation. Eventual success, but not due to our efforts. No. Credit goes to the squirrel prancing across the backyard. Tater raced off in pursuit, yapping happily.
I slammed and locked the French door, sliding the security bolts at the top and bottom, just to be sure.
Becca bent at the waist, put her hands on her knees and drew deep breaths of air.
I leaned against the kitchen counter and did the same.
“We’re too old for this,” she said.
I nodded in agreement. Forty-something was too old for a lot of things, I’d learned.
“That is one strong dog!”
“And stubborn. Can’t blame him though, after what he’s been through lately.” What Tater had been through, in a nutshell, was being dumped by his dog dad, Dustin Wade, while the college dropout went in search of himself. I think his primary motive was to find a sexy signorina somewhere along Italy’s Amalfi Coast. That was three weeks ago. The poor dog now exhibited signs of severe separation anxiety. Partly because the human Tater had attached himself to was no longer around, but perhaps more so because nobody in the Wade household paid a bit of attention to the mutt, let alone took him for a romp on the beach every day. The five-year-old puppy-at-heart was starved for attention and acted out by chewing anything that didn’t move, to include but not limited to, high-end furniture and expensive leather shoes.
Mrs. Wade had threatened to ship the dog to the glue factory. Yes, he might be the size of a small pony, but I don’t think he would have been accepted at the Elmer’s processing plant, so don’t worry.
Mr. Wade, on the other hand, had a soft spot for his only son, and by extension, his only son’s dog. He’d threatened to ship Mrs. Wade to the glue factory.
Yes, there was trouble in paradise here at Casa Wade.
The family fighting—mostly yelling which a few times had devolved to wine-glass throwing—might be the third contributing factor in Tater’s unruly behavior. I know I’d been tempted to gnaw on something when the shouting commenced.
“Hey,” I said to Becca once we’d both caught our breath. “We need to get crackin’. There’s much to be done and less than two hours to do it. The florist should be here any minute with fresh flowers for the front room and dining table.”
“Who’s the florist?”
“I don’t know for sure, but Mrs. Wade usually uses Happy Petals.” Rose Campbell owned Happy Petals, a small florist on the outskirts of town. My boss had a soft spot for small, struggling businesses owned by single women. I had the honor of b
eing one of her “projects.” I will forever be grateful to her, as I have now achieved financial independence working as a personal chef, which I absolutely love.
“It’s a big night for the Wades,” I told Becca, “so think classy not flashy. Can you please work your tablescape magic to match the mood?”
Becca was a natural in creating beautiful table settings. I mean Pinterest-worthy type displays. In my honest opinion, she wasted her talents serving bangers and mash at McGuffy’s, her uncle’s Irish pub. But she loved working there, so I guess that’s what’s really important in life, right?
There came a scratching at the back door. I knew without looking that Tater’s sad shaggy face would be peering in. “Ignore him,” I said before Becca made eye contact with the mutt. No need to give him false hope.
Becca started opening cupboards, taking inventory of the Wade’s collections of beautiful Polish pottery. “What’s the cause du jour?” She slammed one cupboard and moved on to the next. “Wait. Let me guess. Pretend Friends are Real People, Too. Or some such nonsense.” She rolled her eyes.
I laughed.
“Don’t laugh. It’s a real thing.”
My turn to roll my eyes. “You need to stop believing everything you read on social media.” Granted, Mrs. Wade had been involved in some unusual charities over the years, like one that was dedicated to improving the life of African Pygmy hedgehogs, which I guess if you’re someone’s pet hedgehog it’s important, but in my opinion the world had bigger issues. But at least her causes benefited a small, real, segment of the planet.
“The cause?” Becca prompted me.
“A political fundraiser.” I opened the largest of the three ovens in Mrs. Wade’s professional-grade kitchen and slid the crown roast in. After an hour or so I’d pull it out and fill the cavity with my special sausage and potato stuffing. Before serving, I’d put a little paper hat on each of the ribs. Presentation was everything to Mrs. Wade. This was by far the fussiest dish I’d ever prepared, but when Mrs. Wade wanted something, she got it.
“Must be something big if you’re doing a crown roast. And it’s kinda a miracle that Mrs. Wade found ten people in this town who still eat meat.” Becca held out two plates next to each other and then shook her head and put them back in the cupboard. “So many pretty patterns I can’t choose just one. Okay with you if I mix and match?”
“Just keep it classy,” I instructed.
“But of course,” Becca replied.
I lifted my head at the tippity-tappity sound of heeled shoes rushing down the hallway. The door opened and in rushed Rose Campbell, her arms overflowing with flowers in a riot of colors and textures. The blooms were pretty in their own way, but not quite the understated elegance Mrs. Wade expected this evening. But that was Rose’s problem, not mine.
After pleasantries had been exchanged, we gabbed about local events as we each focused on our tasks at hand: Rose bustling between the kitchen and the florist van as she arranged her blooms; Becca coming and going as she mixed and matched plates and tinted glassware; and me focusing on preparing my signature dessert, Death by Chocolate Trifle, as simple to make as crown roast is fussy.
“What’s the big to-do for tonight?” Rose stepped back and surveyed her last arrangement.
“Mrs. Wade is going to launch her political career,” I said, keeping a close eye on the mixer because the whipping cream was seconds away from turning into butter. “She’s running for mayor.”
“Oh, god!” Rose screamed.
Not exactly the reaction I expected.
“No,” Becca shrieked.
Not the expected reaction at all. Mrs. Wade was generally well tolerated in the community.
Crash!
I winced at the unmistakable sound of delicate pottery smashing against a slate floor. After turning off the mixer, the room settled into an eerie silence. I opened one eye to survey the damage. Rose and Becca stood in shocked stillness amid a sea of colorful pottery shards. Their gazes were not focused on the shattered stoneware, but instead on a large fuzzy beast standing in the corner. He must have snuck in with the florist.
Tater finished his snack, licked his chops, and then flashed a self-satisfied smile our way. A plastic bulk-sausage wrapper, licked completely clean, lay under Tater’s front paw.
No big surprise that a dog named after the main ingredient in Boyd and Blair Potato Vodka (yes, he was named by a fraternity boy) always acted like he was two shots into a good-time party.
I swear, that dog was going to be the death of me.
CHAPTER TWO
Cooking usually relaxed me, but not against the ticktock of the clock moving toward the guests’ arrival time. Without an extra roll of sausage on hand, a trip to the grocery store was in order. No way around it, dinner was gonna be late. Maybe no one would notice. Well, Mrs. Wade would notice, but since I’d put an extra shot in her pre-party whiskey sour, maybe she wouldn’t care. Too much.
It also didn’t help working against the soundscape of Tater’s mournful howls. I’d banished him to the garage for the duration of the event. He let us know that he was not happy about that. If it hadn’t been for the kitchen’s sound system blaring 80s rock music to drown out Tater’s complaints, I may have hung up my chef’s toque and moved to Timbuktu. Make that Tucson. It’s cooler there.
Rose agreed to stick around to provide an extra set of hands until I got things back on track. She needed the money, and I needed the help. I had a rumbling in my tummy about tonight. My money was on a Tater-related catastrophe. It’s not like I’m a physic or anything, but sometimes I did get prescient feelings, and sometimes they proved accurate. Scary, I know. Fingers crossed I was wrong about tonight.
Becca ran the store for me. “You won’t believe who I ran into,” she said as she handed me the grocery bag.
“No time for guessing.” With one whack of my knife, I sliced the sausage open and then squeezed the contents into my pre-heated pan.
Becca tossed the grocery bag into the recycling bin and joined me at the stove, lured, no doubt, by the intoxicating scent of sizzling sausage. “Freya Norris.”
“Wealthy people need groceries, too.”
“Her cart was loaded not with food, but with wine. The cheap stuff. Clearance.”
Oh lord, I hope she wasn’t planning to present a bottle of that to Mrs. Wade as a hostess gift tonight. Mrs. Wade was a wine snob of the worst sort. No low-level stuff from her. And it’s not like Freya can’t afford the good stuff. She was the Elizabeth Taylor of our peninsula, beautiful and rich, with a knack for divorcing well. Rumor had it she was on the prowl for her next sugar daddy, preferably one who had already stopped buying green bananas. She’d as much as admitted that to me when I’d catered a small gathering at her home. Well, she’d have her pick tonight with four eligible bachelors and one married man whose only promise at the altar was “ ’Til divorce do us part.” (He was on wife number six.) This could turn out to be a party worth the price of admission.
Once the sausage had cooked through, I added it to the bowl of stuffing, giving it all a good stir. Hints of onions, garlic and fennel filled the air. I worked quickly to spoon the mixture into the cavity created by tying the pork ribs in a large circle. They’d roasted for over hour already and smelled divine.
The next four hours flew by in a blur. We worked hard, but the guests ate—and drank—harder. Finally, the end was in sight. Rose packed up her things and headed for home. My cleanup crew of two (one of my contractual demands for dinner of more than four guests) worked quickly to wash dishes, scrub pots, and tidy up the kitchen.
The highlight of the evening was not my crown roast, but Haley Grant falling into the Koi pond. Those darned six-inch Loubotins may look good, but they don’t do well on a cobblestone path. Thankfully Mrs. Wade kept a supply of elegant Kimonos for just such occasions. And yes, there had been many such occasions over the years. Mrs. Wade is fond of saying, “It isn’t a party until someone swims with the Koi.” She’s been known to
offer a gentle push, just to get things started, but I’d never actually witnessed it.
The guests were enjoying the chocolate trifle and after-dinner drinks, under the watchful stewardship of Becca. She made sure libations kept flowing and dirty dishes kept disappearing. Mrs. Wade’s appeal for money would begin any minute.
I offered up a mental “good luck” to everyone before slipping out the back door, goblet of high-end cabernet in hand. (It’s also in my contract that I may enjoy a glass or three of the superior wines that Mrs. Wade served at her events.)
The beach lay a few steps along a sea-grass lined path leading to the bay. I slipped off my Dansko clogs and let my feet sink into the soft, cool sand. The tension from the past few hours eased out of me. I followed the sound of churning water to the shore, sipping as I went. Talk about the good life.
No moon tonight, too cloudy for that. A storm was brewing far off the coast and would blow through overnight and be gone by morning. I tugged my sweatshirt tighter against the fall breeze and took a step toward the water’s edge, intending to cool my toes in the salty sea. Ahh, serenity. What is it about the sound of waves that soothes a troubled soul?
BAM!
Something hit me right between the shoulder blades and slammed me to the ground. My face burrowed into the sand. A moment of panic rose in me as breathing was impossible. I lifted my head and in the same motion rolled over, lashing out with my arms and legs like some sort of Tasmanian Devil jacked up on five venti lattes.
My bare feet met repeatedly with wet, sandy hair. I kept kicking, until my attacker barked at me. Literally barked.
Tater?
The wet licks on my cheek confirmed my guess. “How did you get loose, boy? I thought you were locked in the garage.”
He licked me again, giving me opportunity to smell him. “Oh, gawd. What did you roll in?” Something that had been dead a long time. This was one of many reasons I was not a dog person. I found the aroma of wet dog nauseating.
To Fetch a Killer Page 16
