Murder Love on the Menu

by Dyann Love Barr

  The door creaked open to reveal his best friend standing there, wearing nothing but boxers and marine tattoos.

  “Yeah? What’s up?” Hank’s gravelly voice sounded more tired than usual. “It’s six fucking thirty in the morning, man.” His morning personality was best left under a rock. He scraped his hand over the stubble on his jaw and blinked the sleep from his eyes. “Not cool. What if I’ve got company?”

  Damn! It had never occurred to Jordan that his friend might have a woman spend the night. “Did I interrupt something?” He screwed his face up in apology, but he needed to know if he had to split and find somewhere else to nurse his hurt and confusion.

  His friend held the door open wider and motioned him into the apartment. “I wish. I stayed up late going over forensic reports of the DuPres and Hirschberg murders. Then I spent two hours doing revisions on my book.”

  “Here.” Jordan handed Hank a carrier with two large Americanos and the bag of bagels he’d bought from his friend’s favorite bakery. He followed Hank into the small kitchen. “A peace offering.” He glanced around the apartment and decided most women would take one look at Hank’s apartment and run away screaming. It was a sty. Potato chip sacks and empty to-go cups littered the floor around his desk. Magazines, books, and boxes from Chester’s Pizza filled the tables and sofa.

  “You’re living dangerously—you know that, don’t you?” Hank set the cardboard carrier down on the counter and picked up a coffee. He took a quick sip. “Black and hot. You can still live.”

  He headed back to his living room with the bag of bagels and sank into a tweed couch. It might have been a nice piece of furniture in a past life. A tear on one arm had been repaired with duct tape. With a sweep of Hank’s hand, the pile of magazines and books lying on an armchair ended on the floor.

  “Have a seat.” Hank picked up a T-shirt that had been tossed onto the back of the couch and gave it a sniff. Satisfied, he yanked it over his head.

  Jordan dusted what he hoped were little pieces of peanut hulls off the seat of a threadbare chair. “You need a maid.” He sat and put his drink on the scarred coffee table.

  “Nope. Tried it once. They’re nosy, and I can never find anything where I left it. I wash my dishes when the sink’s full and hose everything down once a month, whether it needs it or not.” He took a long drink from the coffee and let out satisfied sigh. “This wasn’t your lucky day in the housekeeping sweepstakes.” Hank’s eyes narrowed over the top of his Styrofoam cup. “What’s up?”

  “Sarah showed up on Tilly’s doorstep early this morning.”

  “And?” Hank opened the brown paper bag and fished out a bagel, along with some cream cheese spread.

  The scene at Tilly’s replayed in Jordan’s head, up to the part where he’d bugged out. “It got ugly.”

  “How so?” Hank looked up, plastic knife in hand. He scooped out a large dollop of cream cheese.

  Jordan grimaced and let out a snort of exasperation. “The kid started up with a snotty attitude.”

  “Oh, you mean she objected to you boinking her mother?” He spread the cheese over the bagel and took a bite. “What did you do?” he mumbled around a mouthful of bagel.

  “I told her to ease up on Tilly.” Jordan shrugged and leaned forward with his hands clasped between his knees. The turmoil in his gut returned with a vengeance. “I wanted to set her straight and tried to be as diplomatic as I could.”

  “I’ll bet Sarah appreciated that.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Jordan got up and paced the small space that wasn’t covered in stacks of books and mail. “The kid hates me. You would’ve thought I was Bluebeard and Ted Bundy rolled into one vicious, mother-stealing monster. I keep telling Tilly she doesn’t like me, but Tilly won’t listen. What am I supposed to do?”

  “I got nothing, man.” Hank shook his head and brushed the crumbs of his breakfast onto the hardwood floor. “Child psychology isn’t my specialty. Give me a murder any day.” He lounged back on the couch and put his feet on the coffee table. “Sounds like a real cluster fuck.”

  “Thanks.” Jordan flopped back down in the chair and glared at his friend. “For nothing.”

  “Not a problem.” Hank crumpled the top of the paper bag closed and stood. “That’s what I’m here for.” He tossed the bag with the remaining bagels on the kitchen counter. “You’ve heard me bitch and moan more than once.”

  “I don’t bitch,” Jordan snapped. “I came for advice.”

  “I said I don’t know jack squat about kids.”

  “I know.” Things usually made more sense when they were aired—not that it worked in this case. Jordan’s emotions were still bruised by Tilly’s agreement that it would be best if he left. He’d wanted her to beg him to stay and fix things. “Sarah isn’t really a bad kid. She’s dealing with some things at school. Maybe she’s afraid I’m going to take Tilly away from her.”

  “You’ve never liked to share your stuff. You don’t have a choice now. Get over it.”

  “It’s hard.” Jordan didn’t usually spill his guts all over the place—even with Hank. “I’m trying.”

  “Yeah. I’ll just bet.” Hank rolled his eyes in disbelief. “At least I got breakfast out of this little talk.” His friend sat back on the couch and propped up his feet again. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing. I’m all bitched out.” A smile tugged at Jordan’s lips. Hank had a way of letting him yammer on until he ran out of steam. Even the famous Kelly temper left him unfazed. Jordan noticed the open laptop on the coffee table. “You said you were up late working on the murders?”

  “The lipstick found next to DuPres’s body was Katherine Hirschberg’s.”

  That was a wrinkle that Jordan hadn’t expected. Although he shouldn’t have been too surprised given her reactions to Juliette’s death. Everyone knew Hirschberg was notoriously unfaithful. Maybe Katherine had had enough.

  As much as he disliked the idea of working for the police, he was intrigued. He’d caught the scent of the chase. Tilly would love this, but he couldn’t call her up right now. Sarah was there. “DNA gave it away?”

  “No. The case is solid gold, inlaid with diamonds, and has KH engraved on one side. Crespo’s report shows she said she lost it during the meet and greet.”

  “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know.” Hank frowned. “It muddies the waters. I can see her cold-cocking DuPres with a skillet, but killing her with shrimp paste? I don’t know.”

  “I wished I’d paid more attention when we had the meeting with Juliette.” Covering his ass had been more important than paying attention to Katherine Hirschberg’s lipstick issues. “My attention was focused on getting Tilly out of there.”

  Hank sat up straight and stared at him. “What did she say when you told her about DuPres?” His tone edged on interrogation. It made Jordan antsy to have his friend questioning him like a criminal.

  Jordan shot him a sidelong glance laced with guilt. “I haven’t.”

  Hank gave him a look of disgust. “And you thought Sarah was the problem.”

  “I didn’t tell her—not now when she’s got the kid to deal with, especially on top of the work Gretchen dumped on us.”

  “That’s so chickenshit.”

  Hank might be right about the chickenshit part, but Jordan had his reasons. “It’s the truth. I wish Tilly hadn’t volunteered us to work with you.” It didn’t help that he sounded like he was whining instead of laying out his case.

  “Do you want me to tell her that she’s out as a consultant?”

  “And have my balls deep-fried and served with a side of hash browns and scrambled eggs? No, thanks.” Jordan shook his head and waved away Hank’s offer. “She’d figure it out. She’s determined to help the Hirschbergs find Juliette’s and David’s killers.”

  “Her assistance may not be needed anyway.” Hank reached over and closed the top of his laptop. “Crespo said they’re looking at Lena McCoy as a suspect in both
murders.”

  “What makes him think she did it?” The situation made him angry and sick at heart. For a brief second he actually considered Lena was guilty, but he pushed the possibility aside.

  “Her fingerprints were the only ones found on the murder weapon that killed Hirschberg.” Hank’s face went pure cop. Nothing shone in his eyes except what he wanted Jordan to see. “She said she picked up it up without thinking.”

  “Wait. That doesn’t make sense.” Jordan didn’t want to think of Lena as a murderer. “She might be a loose cannon, but I’ve known her for a while—even before she came to the Culinary Channel. I can’t see her as a killer.”

  “Why not?” Hank sat up straight, his face hard. “She had an issue with DuPres taking over the primetime spot. Everyone heard her threaten David Hirschberg, and her fingerprints were on the murder weapon. She knew her way around the Culinary Channel’s prep kitchen.”

  “So does everyone at the studio.” Jordan didn’t like the direction the investigation was taking. He’d heard the argument, and it was vicious, but he’d have sworn she’d just learned the news that David had no intention of following through on their apparent agreement. Juliette was already dead by then. As for David…maybe in an act of passion, but still it didn’t feel right.

  “Are the police going to arrest her?” he asked.

  “It’s a good possibility.”

  “She didn’t do it.” This had to be the same sensation crawling through his brain that Tilly had experienced in Kansas City when everyone had decided Olivia Vargas had killed Maxwell Etheridge. It twisted his insides. Lena might be kick-ass, but she always had someone else dispose of bugs in the dressing rooms or studio. How could she kill one person, let alone two?

  …

  Tilly puttered around on autopilot, getting coffee made and mixing up a batch of Sarah’s favorite blueberry muffins. If she didn’t cook—do something, anything with her hands—she’d go crazy. Tears streamed down her face. It was a good thing Jordan wasn’t here. Tears made him crazy, and one crazy person, that being herself, was enough to deal with this morning.

  She knew she was a failure as a parent. Sarah had finally gone to sleep after a horrific scene of crying and shouting. Nothing was resolved. And she’d slapped her daughter.

  The heartsick knot in her chest grew with each breath. She gripped the edge of the sink and pulled in a shaky breath. What do I do next? The memories of her own misspent youth, the rebellious child who had pushed so hard against her father’s harsh upbringing, surged through her. All she’d wanted was love. Instead it had been nothing but beatings and lectures.

  Was she any different than her father?

  The buzzer sounded on the last batch of muffins. She pulled them out of the oven and straightened to find Sarah standing there, wrapped in one of Tilly’s robes. Sunlight shone through the window of her tiny kitchen, glinting off Sarah’s red curls. She looked so terribly young and fragile.

  “Morning, Mama.”

  The diffident greeting, along with the purple hollows under Sarah’s eyes, tugged at Tilly’s heart. “Morning.” Her tongue dried up in her mouth. Her next words could make or break their relationship. She gingerly picked the muffins from the pan and set them on a cooling rack. The scents of warm blueberries and sugar filled the air. It was homey and comforting. “You ought to eat these while they’re still warm.” It surprised her how calm her words were despite the ache in her heart.

  Her daughter remained at the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other. Her emotions flickered in her eyes and were as easily read as a book. Hurt, shame, pride, reluctance, love, pain, and regret warred with each other. Which would win?

  “I can’t eat anything.” Sarah bit her lower lip and kept her eyes trained on the floor.

  “Why not?” Tilly poured a cup of coffee and added a large dollop of half-and-half. “Are you sick?”

  “No.” Sarah didn’t move from the doorway, but stood there as if trying to find to a reason to step over the threshold. “Yes—maybe, I don’t know.” She sniffed the sweet-scented air. “The muffins do smell good.”

  “Taste even better.” Tilly sipped her coffee and nodded toward the cooling rack. “Help yourself.”

  Her daughter pulled a small plate from the cabinet and put a muffin on it.

  Tilly’s first impulse had been to rush over to Sarah and gather her into her arms. Instead, she waited to see what Sarah would do. “Do you want coffee?”

  “A cold glass of milk and a couple of your blueberry muffins is all I need.”

  “Okay. I have to be at work by ten.” Tilly glanced at the retro-red teapot clock on her kitchen wall. “I’m goin’ to get dressed. You better hustle into the shower, because you’re comin’ with me.”

  “What? It’s Sunday.” Sarah’s voice squeaked around a mouthful of muffin. She swallowed hard and chugged half the milk to wash the muffin down. “I’ll be fine staying here.”

  “I understand, but you need to come with me.”

  “I’m not a baby.” Sarah’s lower lip went out.

  Tilly’s first instinct was to grab hold of it and hold tight. Instead, she decided to choose her battle wisely. A pout might be infuriating, but there were bigger issues at hand.

  “I never said you were, but I want to make sure you’re safe.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Finish your breakfast. I need to call Ruby while you’re gettin’ dressed.”

  Sarah shoved the rest of her muffin into her mouth and glared at Tilly, but she headed into the bathroom. Soon the sound of running water told Tilly she’d won the skirmish, but the day had only started.

  She sat on the small bistro chair and glanced down at her phone. Nothing from Jordan—no missed calls or texts. A sense of betrayal hit her square in the chest at his desertion.

  What did I expect? I told him to go, and he couldn’t get out of here fast enough—just like Jake. When would she ever learn she couldn’t depend anyone but herself?

  If he wasn’t going to call, well, neither was she. There were other matters that demanded her attention. She sucked in a breath, hoping Sarah was telling the truth about Ruby’s wild night at the VFW. Her finger hesitated over Ruby’s number, but she sighed and hit speed dial. The phone rang three times. With any luck, Tilly could put off this chore until later in the afternoon after taping.

  Ruby picked up on the fourth ring. “’Lo?” Her deep, smoke-ravaged voice sounded as if she’d just awakened.

  Her foster mother was usually up when dawn was merely a suggestion. A rush of worry left Tilly with a sense of foreboding. “Hey, Ruby, it’s me.”

  “Hey, you. Why you callin’ at eight—dear Lord—eight in the morning? I gotta get dressed for church.” Tilly could hear the rustle of sheets. “Whoa! My head is spinnin’ like crazy. I must be comin’ down with somethin’.”

  Tilly held the phone so tight her fingers turned white. “I want you to promise me you won’t go nuts.”

  “Honey, I passed nuts a long time ago. I think I’m in bat-shit crazy territory.” There was a grunt on Ruby’s end. “Damn legs feel like spaghetti. So, what’s wrong? I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Sarah showed up here at three in the morning.”

  “What?”

  Ruby’s shout exploded hard and painfully in Tilly’s ear. She jerked the phone away from just in case Ruby decided to shout again.

  “Is she all right?” Fear laced Ruby’s voice.

  Tilly nodded, even if Ruby couldn’t see her. “She’s safe and sound—and in a boatload of cow pucky.” She tried the old smile and it will come through the other end of the line trick. It didn’t work. Instead, she resorted to biting her lower lip. “Apparently, she bought tickets online and made her way here.” The memory of last night burned hot and moist behind her eyes. “She said you came back tipsy from your Ladies of the Purple Hat Brigade meeting and went to bed to sleep it off.”

  “I had one beer. Mabel Yoder and her big mouth ruined my fun
, so I came home early.” Ruby let out an angry huff. “You wait here just one minute.”

  Tilly heard the shuffle of feet and fumbling sounds.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Ruby’s indignant screech came through loud and clear, even from her bathroom in Tennessee. “That little shit slipped a mickey in my hot cocoa. One of my sleepin’ pills is missin’. I have to keep count so I won’t take too many. She needs a good lickin’.”

  Hurt and disappointment clogged Tilly’s throat. “I’ll take care of it. Stay home today and don’t cuss so much. The church has enough hymnals.”

  “Don’t count on it. I’m workin’ on some monkey bars for the playground after this stunt. The girl needs a good talkin’-to. She won’t listen to jack shit from me.”

  Tilly was thankful that Ruby couldn’t see her dash away the tears streaming down her face. “I’ll handle it.”

  “You do that. I’m goin’ back to bed to sleep this off.” Ruby sounded as tired as Tilly felt. “The good Lord’s gonna have to take a rain check after all.”

  “Okay.” Tilly drew in a shaky breath. “I want you to come to New York for a couple of weeks.”

  “Now, you know I don’t care for that stinkin’ Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  “Sarah and I need you.” It was the truth. Ruby had been her rudder for almost fifteen years. “I’ve been hammered at work. On top of everything else, I’m working with the police to find Juliette DuPres’s and David Hirschberg’s killer.”

  “More murders! I swear, it is Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  “Sarah called me a slut because Jordan was here when she showed up.” Tilly went into the living room and glanced over at the rumpled sheets on the sofa bed. Sarah must have had as much trouble sleeping as she had. “Ruby—I slapped her.”

  “Oh, honey.” Compassion and censure were rife in those two words. “Monkey see, monkey do,” came Ruby’s dark prediction.

  “I’m tryin’ to keep that from happenin’.” Ruby wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t already told herself, but her words stung like crazy.

  “Okay. I see you can’t get anything done without me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”