Murder Love on the Menu

by Dyann Love Barr

  The life he and Tilly had in New York was perfect. Perfect for him, until now. His fantasy had just been blown out of the water by her daughter.

  “Who is Mark?” Tilly pinched the bridge of her delicate nose with her fingers and pulled in a deep breath. “I take it he’s someone special?” She turned around and mouthed, I’m sorry. “No, I’m tapin’ every day this week. I can get home next Monday.”

  He heard another wail. There was nothing he could do, no suggestions to make that would help the situation. From what he could tell, from hearing Tilly’s end of the conversation, it involved a boy. He was out of his depth.

  “Can you Skype me later this evenin’? I’d like to see your pretty face when I talk to you. Okay? Can you do that for me?” She glanced up at him for confirmation. “Say, eight your time?”

  He knew what that meant. She would be a ball of nerves until then. He might as well forget about her staying the night, let alone cooking with him. It would be him and Hank, along with a six-pack or two of beer to keep them company.

  Damn kid.

  He put the demon raining havoc in his brain on mute the minute he saw Tilly’s lower lip wobble. A poke of panic from his demented little friend was hard to ignore, but he couldn’t ditch her now. His stomach burned. At this rate he’d be eating a whole bottle of antacid.

  She finished her call with a weary sigh and took a spot next to him on the wall.

  “Uh—what’s wrong?” His words came out in a tentative croak. He didn’t know what to say or how to make her feel better without touching her. Sex equaled comfort. It cleared the decks for him, but it would be the last thing she wanted or needed.

  “Boys. Is there any other kind of stress?”

  “I refuse to answer, since I’m on the male side of the equation. I’d say I’d help, but Sarah can’t stand me.” He crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his hands in tight to fight the temptation to hold her. “It would be like pouring gasoline on the old barbie.” His execrable Australian accent did the trick. A faint smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, and the itch at the base of his spine lessened.

  “That’s a surefire recipe for ending up burned to a crisp with no eyebrows.” She hung her head and picked at her thumbnail. “She doesn’t know you. You’ve only met her the one time. She said she likes you.”

  He couldn’t hold back a snort of disbelief. “She looks at me like I’m a serial killer.”

  “My last attempt at a relationship left her a little bit leery.” She heaved a small sigh as she pushed away from the wall. “First her daddy, and then there was John Jeffries in 2008. He sweet-talked me, got Sarah to love him before he took off with all my money from the restaurant. The rat even took my mama’s diamond ring. Trouble shows up every time I hook up with a man whose name has a J in it. They both lied to me—and to her.”

  “So, I’m the newest J on her shit list.” He straightened. Taking a chance that she might get angry and snap at him, he took her hand in his. “I can deal.” He had to if he wanted to keep her in his life. A few weeks of uninterrupted time away from the world would be paradise, but it wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

  “I meant to call her last night but got caught up in Juliette’s death and our stupid bet.” She opened the door to the studio. “Damn it. I knew there was a problem when she called Wednesday.”

  “Fourteen is a crazy time. I remember being all arms, legs, and hard-ons.”

  She threw a wan smile at him over her shoulder. “You still are.” She walked onto the set and exchanged greetings with the different tech people on the floor.

  He left for I & I to check in with his executive chef. The next few hours flew by in a flurry of cooking and conversation and making sure prep staff from the network had everything they needed. Once done, he headed back to the Culinary Channel to pick up Tilly.

  The red light was on, but he slipped through the door and sat at the back of the room.

  “Next we mix the cream into the broth to make the sauce for your turkey pot pie.” She whisked the ingredients together and finished out the recipe with her usual bright smile.

  He knew it hid a world of worry.

  When she finished, they quickly left the studio. Silence filled the cab on the way to his apartment. He could tell from the stiff set of her shoulders that her neck would be knotted with fatigue by the time they got there.

  “I’m ordering pizza. Sausage, mushroom, and olive for you. Chicken with Alfredo sauce and a garlic pesto for me.” He threw his keys into a wooden bowl on the table by the door.

  “What about the competition? Hank’s comin’ over, isn’t he?” She glanced up at him with tired eyes.

  “He’ll have to eat our leftovers.” He slipped his messenger bag from his shoulder and laid it next to the couch. “Come here.” A gentle tug had her in his lap. He gave the nape of her neck a soft squeeze. She rewarded him with a satisfied groan and sigh of pleasure. The manipulation of her muscles made her melt against him.

  “Umm, don’t stop.” She slid to the floor between his legs and leaned back. “I need more.”

  “You said the same thing last night.”

  For the briefest second she stiffened and slumped forward to allow him greater access to her back. “I’m easy. What can I say? I’m such a lousy mother.”

  “Tilly.” He stopped his massage.

  “What?” She turned and glanced up at him in confusion. “Why did you stop?”

  “Because I can’t stand to see you beat yourself up over enjoying yourself. You’ll know what to say when she calls.”

  “I can’t help it. Once a mama, always a mama.” She hung her head lower and pointed at her neck. “Back to work, slick.”

  A few minutes later, he’d finished easing the knots from her shoulders and ordered the pizzas. He took one glance at the clock. It was a quarter to eight. That gave her enough time to make her call before their dinner arrived.

  “Go make your call.”

  “Thanks. I should be finished by the time Hank shows up.”

  “Great.”

  He watched her grab her notebook computer and head to his bedroom. Hopefully the call would put her mind at ease, or at the very least, get to the bottom of her daughter’s high school drama. He’d only met the kid once, and he hadn’t a clue what made eighth-graders tick.

  The spring night beckoned, and he answered by opening the doors to his small balcony. He sat on one of the wrought-iron bistro chairs and scrubbed his face with his hands. The soft breeze, still carrying a hint of chill, whispered over his skin. He pulled it into his lungs in greedy gulps. Even the faint scents of the city, asphalt mixed with the tender green of leaves, soothed his ragged emotions. The thought of losing Tilly because of a kid or his past with Juliette ate at him.

  What am I going to do?

  …

  Sarah’s pixie face looked red nosed and puffy eyed. “Mark Guthrie is a turd.”

  “Sarah! Language. That is so unladylike.” Tilly couldn’t agree more about her daughter’s assessment of the punk, but she’d be damned if she’d tolerate Sarah’s swearing. Long-distance parenting sucked big and hard, but she couldn’t let her daughter see a bit of weakness, especially since they were over nine hundred miles apart.

  “Well, that’s what Ruby said.”

  She’d have to have a talk with her foster mother as well. “Ruby’s been swearin’ like a drunken sailor her whole life. You, on the other hand—well, rise above Mark Guthrie. We’ll go shoppin’ for a dance dress next week. One that will make his eyes pop clean outta his head.”

  “I thought I was on curfew and grounded for a month.” Defiance tempered the excitement in Sarah’s voice.

  Tilly remembered her own behavior at that age. Her stomach rolled into a knot of snakes at the idea of her child heading for trouble. “Have you sneaked out anymore?”

  “No.”

  “Sarah Jane Danes, there will be a shit storm of grief if I find out you’re fibbin’.” She’d been fourt
een once, and scooted out her window more times than she could remember to party with Jake’s crowd. Getting knocked up was the last thing her daughter needed, or to feel the anguish of heartbreak and betrayal. She had enough commotion in her life with the bullies.

  “You’re swearing, too. What kind of example is that?” Her daughter slouched in her desk chair with her arms crossed over her thin chest.

  “Don’t sass me. I’m not swearin’. I’m givin’ my testimony as to what will happen. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mama.” A small pout pursed Sarah’s pretty mouth.

  “Now, do you want to go to your junior high dance or not?”

  Her daughter’s eyes widened in horror. “I can’t go by myself!” She wailed so loud that Tilly was sure Jordan could hear it all the way into the living room.

  “Yes, you can. Walk in there all dressed up and show those guys what they missed. Especially Mark Guthrie. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I get Jordan to escort you to the dance?”

  “No! That’s worse than anything.” Sarah’s face puckered up in disgust. “He’s old. It would look—weird.”

  “Oh-kay. Let me think.” A name popped into her head. This person owed her a very big favor. She had saved Chad Carlisle—the newest teen country-pop sensation—from an embarrassing situation in her Memphis restaurant last summer. “What if I set you up with a date with, let’s see, Chad Carlisle?” The kid was seventeen, older than she’d like, but she’d make sure he knew Sarah was off-limits in every way.

  An eardrum-piercing scream followed her daughter’s initial stunned silence. “Chad Carlisle?” She jumped from her chair and danced around the room. “The singer?”

  “Yes.” Chad had every female under the age of twenty tied in knots. He made the Backstreet Boys craze in Tilly’s teenage years look like small potatoes.

  She could see her bouncing up and down on the floor like Tigger from Winnie the Pooh. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it. Chad Carlisle!”

  “Mark Guthrie will look like pig slop after that.” Now all she had to do was to phone Chad and call in her marker.

  “Mama, you are the best. Everyone will just die.” Sarah’s posh accent disappeared to be replaced by a sweet southern drawl that hinted of revenge. A dark light came into her pretty blue eyes. “Especially Mark Guthrie. His balls will shrivel to the size of peanuts.”

  “Sarah!”

  “Oops. Forgot.”

  “Why don’t you let me speak to Ruby?” There were going to have to be some new ground rules, especially with Jordan in the picture. The answer on how to meld the two halves of her life still eluded her. Tilly needed her foster mother’s advice and cooperation if she was going to make everything work out.

  “It’s canasta night. The Ladies of the Purple Hat Brigade are holding court in the living room, and Ruby’s team is winning.” Sarah flipped her curly hair over her shoulder and got up to open her bedroom door.

  “Hot damn! A wild card meld.” Ruby’s deep, raspy voice echoed through the doorway.

  “It’s not worth the grief to interrupt her card game. That’d be like pokin’ a badger with a stick. I’ll call her tomorrow.” Tilly felt better. Her heart was much lighter after talking with her daughter and resolving the great dance drama. “Well, bye-bye, sweet pea.”

  The call ended with all right in Sarah’s world—at least for tonight. Now Tilly could work at figuring out what to do about hers. There were too many puzzle pieces left out of the equation. They had to be addressed, and her child was one of those.

  She went back to the living room to find Hank talking to Jordan. He was dressed in running gear—a black Under Armour shirt and shorts. Instead of looking like he was ready to share pizza and a beer, his face was hard and his eyes like green chips of glass.

  Jordan’s expression didn’t fare much better.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Hank gave her a hard look. “David Hirschberg is dead. Lena McCoy left her phone at his apartment and went back to get it. She found him on the floor. Someone took a meat tenderizer mallet to his head.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jordan needed a whiskey, followed by a beer, with a whiskey chaser. Two deaths in two days. A sense of déjà vu hit full force. It was Kansas City all over again. He sat on the arm of his leather club chair and ran his hand over his face. “Holy shit. This is crazy. Just…fucking…crazy.”

  Tilly slumped into the chair and grabbed his hands. “Someone murdered him?” Her incredulous question echoed his amazement. “That can’t be.”

  “He sure as hell didn’t smack himself in the back of the head.” Hank turned to face him, his expression still grim and set. “The police found Lena leaning over his body with blood on her hands. That’s all I know for now.”

  “What would she be doing in his apartment?” He replayed the morning’s events and nothing made sense. “They weren’t on talking terms last time we saw them. Although Gretchen and Lena had a strange conversation.”

  “What did they say?” It was clear that he’d piqued Hank’s interest.

  Jordan wished he could give his friend something definitive. But all he could do was shake his head. “We couldn’t hear what they were saying—it was more how they were talking to each other.”

  “Explain.” The one word held a wealth of command.

  Tilly glanced up at Hank with her lower lip pulled between her teeth. “They seem like such an odd pairin’.” Her face scrunched up in thought as if working out a puzzle in her head.

  “Just for clarification, why did you think they were odd?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was the way Gretchen held Lena’s hand.” He wasn’t sure how to describe the weird vibe he got from watching the two women. “They aren’t the type to hang together. It felt off.”

  “Do you think they are in a romantic relationship?”

  “Lena doesn’t swing that way.” He shrugged. “If anything, I think she eats men for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Gretchen is—ah—she’s…I don’t know if she swings any way.” He finally gave up trying to explain the two women. He still hadn’t figured out Tilly, so he wasn’t inclined to snoop on anyone else’s love life.

  “Gretchen is needy.” Tilly twisted the hem of her chef’s jacket between her fingers. “Very needy. Everyone at the network knows she’d do just about anything to please her father.”

  “And Lena had walked off the set,” Jordan explained with a weary sigh. It had been a long day, and tonight wouldn’t be any better. The news of David’s death, riding on top of Juliette’s, was surreal. “No wonder Gretchen looked ready to get down on one knee and beg her to stay.”

  Tilly shook her head in disagreement. “No, it was something more than that—kind of like Francine and Jimmy Joe Jeeter, except with women. Their personalities are so different.”

  “Has he heard that story yet?” Hank pointed a thumb in Jordan’s direction.

  “Yes, I have.” He looked from Hank, to her, and back to his friend. He didn’t know if he liked Hank’s new free and easy manner toward her. They must have talked late into the night if she’d started telling him tall tales from back home. Little threads of jealousy worked their way into his guts. Tilly had a way of making people love her without even trying, and he didn’t want his best friend to have a run-in with his fist. They’d never fought over a girl in high school, or afterward. He had let Hank have any woman he wanted—but not this time. “What other stories did she tell you?”

  Hank held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “No-Hands Johnson. That one was a hoot. I might have to include it in one of my books.”

  “Your hero is a New York City cop. Since when does he get hooked up with a hillbilly?” He couldn’t help the snort of disdain that held a hint of jealousy.

  His friend’s face relaxed a fraction, and he shook his head. “I don’t think it’s impossible. No-Hands Johnson is the kind of story that could be set anywhere. Look, I’d love to discuss my literary career path with you, but I’ve go
t to get to the crime scene.” He dug his phone from his shorts pocket. “I need to call for a squad car to pick me up and take me to David Hirschberg’s apartment. It was such a nice night that I ran over here from my place.” He made his call and glanced over at them after he’d finished. “I could use your help.”

  “What do you mean?” Jordan had seen the same look in Hank’s eyes before. It meant trouble.

  “This reminds me a lot of Etheridge’s death when you two were consultants in Kansas City.”

  “No, no, no.” As much as Jordan enjoyed reading and watching murder mysteries, Kansas City had proven to be way too real. It was harrowing, especially being held at gunpoint and watching Tilly getting beaten half to death. “Don’t go there.” His gut twisted into knots at the memories. Sweat beaded his upper lip. The murderers had ended up in custody, and Tilly had landed in the hospital with a concussion and several broken ribs. She would never know of the prayers and tears he’d used up while waiting for her to regain consciousness. It was an experience he never wanted to relive.

  But Hank wouldn’t leave it alone. “I need you to be my eyes and ears at the Culinary Channel. You can tell me if something or someone doesn’t feel right, out of place, or hinky.”

  Tilly’s eyes lit up with excitement. She might have an aversion to finding bodies, but the mystery fascinated her.

  Jordan already knew her answer. She was even more fanatical about crime shows than he and TiVoed every one. They’d worked with the KCPD as consultants and found several major clues that revealed the identity of the killers—although maybe stumbled into the answer would be a better way to describe it.

  He hated to be the one to dim the light, but he wasn’t going to risk Tilly. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on. It was a good call about the missing soup. There was nothing in the refrigerator, either.” Hank stared at him, his face expectant and intense. “No garbage—just like you said. The cleaning crew would’ve found the body first if they’d come in to take out the trash. What do you say? You two are good together.” Hank had already figured out Jordan’s answer, but he pulled out the big guns by appealing to Tilly’s fascination with crime.