Murder Love on the Menu

by Dyann Love Barr

  The sound of women’s chattering turned his attention away from the sticky bind he found himself in. Tilly and Officer Bardwell were all smiles, acting as if they’d known each other forever. The policewoman carried a sealed plastic bag in her arms. Her attention was rapt as she watched Tilly explain how to fold into egg whites into batter.

  “You have to go easy.” Tilly gestured with a slow, easy mime of using a spatula. “It’s like powderin’ your face—you go gentle or end up with a bloody nose. Same with foldin’ egg whites or cream into a recipe. Gentle does it.”

  “Thanks.” The officer’s face lit up as if Tilly had given her diamonds. She glanced over at Hank and held up the bag containing the navy blue skirt. “I’ll log this and put it with the other evidence.”

  Hank nodded and turned to Tilly. “You don’t look like a clown act —perverted or otherwise.” His eyes raked over the turquoise-blue jersey with a rolling pin on the front that proudly proclaimed “That’s the way I roll” and down her jeans-clad legs to her hot pink high-tops. Her red blazer completed her rainbow-splashed outfit. “Colorful, maybe.”

  She cast a quick glance into the kitchen. “I see they’ve removed the—ah—Juliette.”

  “Yeah.” Jordan stood, went to Tilly, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “This wasn’t quite the evening I had planned.” He couldn’t resist touching her cheek with the back of his hand. “How are you doing?” This was what he should’ve asked earlier instead of getting his dick in a knot over Hank’s concern for her.

  She sighed and gave him a weak smile. “Okay.”

  No wonder she’d turned down his ring. All he could think about was Juliette’s death and how he’d have to confess to Tilly. He was no less selfish than Jake. Her possible hurt hadn’t been the first thing on his mind. It was the way that hurt would be directed at him. Next to tears, he hated to be made uncomfortable, and now he found himself right in the middle of an emotional quagmire. He’d have to man up big-time to get out of this mess. Maybe Juliette had been right all those years ago when she’d said he’d never amount to anything, as a man or a chef.

  Tilly’s bottom lip caught between her teeth.

  That’s all it took for him to pull her into his arms. “Come on, Matilda. Buck up.” He lifted her chin with a crooked finger and stared down into eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. “We have a date with the police, and then it’s back to my place for the rest of the foot massage and a good night’s sleep.” He brushed her mouth with his.

  Loud voices and the scrambling of feet thwarted the temptation to deepen the kiss. Greg Hirschberg rounded the corner, followed by his wife, Katherine, and his daughter Gretchen.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  …

  Tilly winced at Hirschberg’s booming voice. His business philosophy centered on yelling until the person on the other side of the table caved. She usually let him blather on until he ran out of steam before hitting him with whatever she wanted, but not tonight. She’d had a bellyful of his intimidation tactics.

  She pulled out of Jordan’s arms and stunned everyone by getting into her boss’s face. With one hand firmly placed on her hip, she wagged a finger at him. “Hush! There’s no use gettin’ all blowed up like a hoppin’ toad. Chef DuPres is dead. Detective Tapper here”—she pointed at Hank—“will answer your questions.”

  Hirschberg’s lips thinned while his wife gasped, clasped her hand over her mouth, and turned away. Tilly didn’t know if Katherine’s reaction was from the shock of someone talking back to her husband or the news of Juliette’s death.

  “She’s really dead? This isn’t a joke, is it?” Gretchen cast a quick glance at Jordan. Her brown eyes widened. “That can’t be. We invited Chef DuPres out for dinner, but she wanted to stay and perfect her recipe. She didn’t even want the development staff to stay late.” Gretchen’s shoulders slumped beneath her ill-fitting little black dress. “She was very protective of her work.”

  “This is remarkable.” Katherine Hirschberg sat on the bench with the stiff yet unsteady motions of a person in shock. “Juliette DuPres?” She fumbled in her evening bag and pulled out a small packet of tissues. “Juliette DuPres? Are you sure?”

  “She was identified by Mr. Kelly and Ms. Danes.” Hank nodded in their direction. “It was too late when they found her.”

  Katherine gave a quick hiccup of laughter, which she tried to hide behind her tissue. Tears streamed down her face. “I prayed for an end to your affair.” Her eyes scoured her husband’s reddened face. “But this will work.”

  “Shut up,” Hirschberg hissed between his teeth. “This isn’t the time to get into another fight.”

  His wife’s manic giggles filled the hallway.

  “Will you be quiet so I can think?” Hirschberg paced the floor and rubbed his chin with his hand. “We can’t afford this kind of publicity. I’ve got to figure out how to turn this around.”

  It surprised Tilly to hear the ever proper Katherine lose her composure.

  Was Hirschberg really having an affair with Juliette? The red flush on his cheeks and the way his eyes flitted from side to side was a dead giveaway. Tilly had had enough dealings with her boss to know Katherine told the truth. Was it possible that Katherine had come in without anyone knowing and spiked Juliette’s soup? Stranger things had happened.

  Gretchen sat next to her mother. “Father’s right. You mustn’t excite yourself.” She rummaged around in her purse for more tissues and handed them to her mother.

  Tilly cast a quick glance over at Katherine’s elegant designer dress. She might have stepped out of the Parisian edition of Vogue, yet she hadn’t bothered to help Gretchen achieve the same level of style.

  A moment of guilt zipped through her. How much time had she spent with her own daughter this last month? Sarah sounded so grown-up over the phone lately. She’d cultivated a new upper-crust accent that was at odds with either Tilly’s or Ruby’s homegrown variety.

  Ruby had whispered dark mutterings about a boyfriend.

  Boyfriend.

  Tilly rubbed the tattoo on the side of her neck and chewed on her bottom lip, tuning out the screwed-up Hirschberg family for the time being.

  Jake4Ever.

  Sarah’s father had left Tilly high and dry the moment she got “preg—” out of her mouth. He didn’t have to listen to the rest of the word to get the picture. Once she’d decided to keep Sarah, he’d signed the waiver of parental rights so fast it was as if he had a hot poker stuck up his ass. He left town and their lives, and it was good riddance.

  Sarah was fourteen. The same age Tilly had been when Jake had persuaded her that he loved her. She’d even let his best friend practice his tattooing skills, and later that night they’d made love. Or that’s what Jake had convinced her the quick, messy, and uncomfortable process was called. But her daughter had resulted from that botched first attempt at love, so it wasn’t a total loss.

  Boyfriend. Jake4Ever. She’d give Sarah a call tonight.

  Detective Crespo returned, his heavy footsteps pulling Tilly out of her thoughts. When he approached, Hank introduced him to the Hirschbergs. Hank’s phone rang. He took the call, and a minute later, turned to everyone. “I’ve got to go downstairs for a few minutes. I’ll be back.”

  Tilly watched him leave, and for the first time, realized how reassuring it had been to have him here. Detective Crespo was something else altogether.

  “What happened?” Her boss’s voice went back to its original volume, but it lacked the bite of command. “She was just fine a couple of hours ago.”

  “That’s for the ME to determine.” The detective pulled out a small notebook. “Old-school,” he muttered and scribbled for a few seconds. “There’ll be an autopsy, and once he has the results, we’ll let the next of kin know. Where can they be reached?”

  “Her parents are dead. There’s a brother out there somewhere,” Gretchen offered. “Last Chef DuPres heard was that he was backpacking in Australia.”

>   The detective scrubbed at his head with pencil. His lips thinned in frustration. “We’ll need whatever you have on her.”

  Gretchen nodded. “Of course. I’ll have our human resources department contact you with the information.” She pushed a strand of her short, choppy brown hair from her eyes. “Will first thing in the morning be okay, or would you like me to have the head of the department come in now?”

  Detective Crespo’s gray eyes went diamond hard. “Now would be better.”

  Gretchen cast a quick glance at her father. He gave her the faintest of nods. She hustled away to the end of the hall, pulled her phone from her purse, and turned her back to them.

  Tilly couldn’t make out what she was saying, but Gretchen kept casting worried glances at her father after she finished her call. She tapped her phone again and put it up to her ear. She paced back and forth. Gretchen’s expression hardened.

  “Get here now.” The frustrated command meant Gretchen had either reached her party or had to leave a message in urgent tones.

  Tilly watched as the detective’s sharp eyes caught the drama at the end of the hall. “Does your daughter work here?” he asked Greg.

  “Yes.” Hirschberg’s gaze settled on Gretchen while she made her call. “She’s the assistant producer of our lineup of shows. My son, David, is the producer.”

  Gretchen hurried back. “Ms. Hilliard will be here as soon as possible. She’ll assist you any way she can.”

  “Works for me.” The detective nodded his approval and smiled at her.

  Gretchen’s face flamed red, and she lowered her eyes. “My pleasure.”

  Her father tapped his foot in irritation and glared down at his watch. “David should be here by now.” His angry glare settled on Gretchen. “You did call him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” She slipped her phone into her small black purse. “I had to leave a message.”

  “Damn it. Try again.”

  “He’s probably with a date.” Gretchen pulled the gold chain strap of her purse over her shoulder and stood a bit straighter. “There’s nothing I can do to make him answer if he doesn’t want to pick up.”

  Hirschberg gave his daughter a pig-eyed squint. “Then why do I pay you?”

  She lifted her chin. “Because he can’t be relied on to do his job. I can handle it.”

  For the first time, Tilly heard a hint of steel come from Gretchen. Good for you. Don’t let that jerk of a father beat you down.

  Hirschberg should be thankful he had Gretchen to deal with her brother. All her boss could think about was bad publicity instead of the body of his new chef—and lover—lying in the morgue.

  Hirschberg ignored Gretchen’s heated remark and turned to Hank. “David will take over—once he gets here.” His tone wouldn’t brook any argument from anyone, let alone his daughter. He turned to her with a scowl. “I don’t care if you have to go to his apartment and drag him out of bed. Get him here.”

  Gretchen visibly wilted.

  So much for the quick moment of rebellion.

  Tilly wished she had a pair of pom-poms so she could cheer Gretchen on and give her a little bit of support. She glanced around at the small knot of people. Gretchen’s mother and father weren’t their daughter’s biggest fans; all of their hopes and joy were tied up in the absent David. Nobody else seemed to care for the poor woman.

  Tilly did.

  She decided then and there to be Gretchen’s cheerleader. No woman deserved to be treated like a doormat, but Gretchen needed to stand up for herself. That was one department Tilly knew hands-down.

  Hirschberg turned to the detective. “David will escort both you and Ms. Hilliard to the human resources office.”

  “Like I said. Works for me.”

  Gretchen sat beside her mother and put her arm around her shoulder, but her mother shrugged it away.

  “You want to make sure David covers your ass is what you mean.” Katherine slapped her tissue-filled hand into her lap. “Do you think I don’t know why you brought that woman here in the first place?”

  “Mother.” Gretchen tried once again to soothe Katherine by stroking her mother’s bare arm. “Please. Father is only try—”

  “Everyone is against me.” Katherine turned her hard ebony gaze at her daughter. “You unnatural child. Don’t you think I know you’d cut me off at the knees if you thought it would make a bit of difference to the way that man treats you?” She pointed at her husband. “He won’t love you—no matter how hard you try.”

  Gretchen turned red, and then paled to a pasty gray. “You’re wrong.” Her mouth took on the familiar flatness of her father’s.

  “No. It’s the truth. I’m going to get my freedom and take everything he owns.” Her mother clasped her hands together in an attitude of prayer. “Thank you, whoever did this.”

  “Mother!” Gretchen squeezed her mother’s hand. “That’s a horrible thing to say. Juliette is dead.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Please, you don’t mean what you’re saying. People will get the wrong idea.”

  “Would you stop mauling me?” She shoved Gretchen’s hand away and stood. “Is it okay for me to call my driver? I want go home.”

  Tilly’s heart went out to Gretchen again, and she strengthened her resolve to call Sarah first thing in the morning.

  “You can give a statement tomorrow.” The detective turned to Officer Bardwell. “How’s it going?”

  Several of the evidence collection team filed out of the prep kitchen holding bags of evidence in their hands.

  “Just about done.” Bardwell placed a strip of yellow barricade tape across the door.

  “Wait, wait.” Hirschberg marched up to the entrance to the prep kitchen and pushed past the officer. He reached out to tear the tape away from the door.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The detective’s low command held the faintest hint of a growl.

  Tilly knew her boss’s temperament. This wouldn’t go over well. She stepped closer to Jordan, who’d been unusually quiet and watchful.

  “We need to get in there for tomorrow’s prep.” Hirschberg planted his clenched fists against his hips, sputtering like Mt. Vesuvius.

  “The tape stays until we can make sure this wasn’t a crime scene.”

  Hirschberg’s eyes went round. “Are you suggesting Chef DuPres was murdered?”

  Tilly shot a glance at Jordan. She knew exactly what he was thinking.

  Murder? It couldn’t be. Not again.

  Chapter Four

  The possibility of murder had crossed Jordan’s mind. He could see from the look in Tilly’s eyes she’d entertained the notion as well. He hoped they were wrong. The memory of Juliette’s distorted face rose up to haunt him. She might have been a bitch, but she didn’t deserve to die like that or to be left on the floor for strangers to prod and poke.

  Detective Crespo stood between Hirschberg and the door. “We don’t know what the situation is, and until we do, you’re going to have to do a work-around.”

  “Do you think a multimillion-dollar corporation like the Culinary Channel can hold up production just because someone dies?” Hirschberg glowered at the detective.

  If Jordan knew anything about the head of the Culinary Channel, it would make anything Jordan pulled look like a kid’s temper tantrum.

  “We didn’t stop when Etheridge was murdered—we’re sure as hell not going to do it now. I’m friends with the police commissioner. One call, and you’ll be out of a job.”

  Detective Crespo shrugged off the threat. “Fine. You make your call. I could use a vacation.”

  Hirschberg’s face went from red to purple and back to red.

  An idea came to Jordan. He decided to step in before Hirschberg ended up in what Tilly liked to call “the stony lonesome.” The detective looked as if he were on the verge of having one of his officers escort Hirschberg down to a squad car. Although the image of his boss in an orange jumpsuit and banging a cup against the bars of his cell held a certain appe
al, it would be better to tamp down Hirschberg’s temper.

  “Greg.” He sauntered over to Hirschberg and crossed his arms over his chest. “I had a thought. There’s a way we can all get what we want.”

  “What?”

  His boss’s eyes were still fiery hot, but Jordan understood impatience with others. He hadn’t earned the title of Satan’s Chef without a good reason. His legendary temper and unbridled passion made for good television. Not so much for personal relationships, as he’d found out, but he didn’t mind taking slacker chefs to task.

  “They aren’t shutting down the studio. It’s only the prep kitchen—right?” He hoped his boss would see reason. “Why don’t you send the prep staff over to my restaurant? Give the recipe development team a couple of days of paid leave. That way you can get what you need ready for the shows and everything goes off as seamless and smooth as ever.”

  “Kelly has a point.” Detective Crespo’s facial muscles shifted into a semblance of thought. He nodded. “You can use the studio, but this kitchen is off-limits.”

  The detective’s words had the desired effect. Hirschberg’s coloring returned to normal. He paced in front of the door and rubbed his chin as he worked out the pros and cons.

  Jordan was sure of one thing—his boss always looked for any angle that would benefit him and the Culinary Channel. Etheridge’s death had turned into a three-ring circus. Hirschberg had added a clown car act, filmed it, and the ratings shot up like a man in a cannon. The fact that his two star chefs nearly died had made him giddy with glee. Now another chef was dead, and his big worry was loss of revenue.

  “You know—that might work for a few days.” Hirschberg turned, smiling and pointing at Jordan. “Maybe we can make a special out of this. The Culinary Channel Challenges. I’m thinking of one about you sharing your kitchen. Behind the scenes during this terrible time.”