Murder Love on the Menu

by Dyann Love Barr

  The throbbing in his foot grew worse, and his head decided it didn’t want to be left out of the pain game. He squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his forehead with the back of his hands to silence the clanging bells in his brain.

  It was now or never. He sucked in a breath and shifted until he was on his hands and knees. His palms picked up tiny grains of glass on his journey back to the living room. Slowly, he made his way toward his chair. He pulled up and twisted until he dropped onto the cushion. He would’ve let out a whoop of victory the moment his ass met leather, but the spinning in his head convinced him otherwise.

  Hank’s ringtone chirped away in his pocket. He pulled it out and frowned before answering.

  What did he want?

  Jordan hit talk. “My head’s splitting, so make it fast.” He leaned back in his chair with a groan. Even to his own ears, his words sounded slurred.

  “I just got a call from Tilly.”

  “Why?” Hurt welled that she would talk to Hank but hang up on him.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just my lucky night.” Hank’s sarcasm slapped at him. “She asked me to look in on you.”

  “Don’t. There’s no need.” Jordan didn’t need pity, especially if the one person he wanted to feel sorry for him sent a surrogate, especially his best friend. He didn’t need anyone but Tilly.

  “She was mad as hell, and it sounded like she’d been crying. Said you were drunk.”

  A sick lump formed in the pit of Jordan’s stomach. “Yeah.” His hand went to the throbbing ache on his forehead. “I managed to bust my head open.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  He took a moment, swallowed to gain better control over his thick tongue. “I had a run-in with a pickle jar and a can of olives. I lost.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. You better let me in, or I’ll make a stink.” Hank’s threat had teeth. “The tabloids are always looking for fresh meat. I know someone who’d love a scoop.”

  “Bastard.” Jordan sighed and let his head drop back against the soft cushions of his chair again.

  “Fifteen.” Hank hung up without ceremony.

  Jordan waited, redolent of dill pickles and misery. True to his word, his friend buzzed him. It took a couple of minutes to hobble to the door and let him in.

  Hank recoiled. “You smell like shit.” He whistled between his teeth. “Your head is bloody.”

  “Fuck you.” He pointed at the door. “Now you can tell Tilly you checked up on me.” He turned, intending to stalk back to his chair, but forgot about the glass still lodged in his heel. It went deeper, searing every nerve with pain.

  His legs gave way.

  He tried to break the fall, but his hands and knee took the brunt. His stomach had finally had enough. Scotch and the last remnants of his lunch burned its way past his throat to spill onto the gray carpet. He fought against Hank’s help until another bout had its way with him. Too weak to protest, he surrendered.

  Hank lifted him onto his good foot, and he hobbled, with some assistance, to the chair. He caught the look of surprise in Hank’s eyes as his friend’s gaze traveled over the aftermath of his temper tantrum.

  “Doing a little redecorating?”

  “Something like that.” He shifted on the cushions to get more comfortable, but his heel protested. He hissed between his teeth and stared down at his foot. Blood continued to well around the glass.

  “Okay.” Hank followed Jordan’s gaze. “Let me take a look at that.” He crouched in front of Jordan and lifted it to his knee for inspection. “It’s pretty deep. It might need stitches, but I’m not taking it out right now. If I do, you’ll bleed like a stuck pig.” He reached out to touch Jordan’s head. “I’m more concerned about this. I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

  Jordan jerked back. “Go away.” The room began to spin again.

  “Nope.” Hank stood and went down the hall to Jordan’s bedroom. He came back with one of Jordan’s hoodies from the hall closet. “It’s a good thing I came over in the car. You’re going to spend a small fortune to get the smell out.”

  The fight went out of Jordan. He took the hoodie and remembered Tilly’s ring. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “What is it, now?” Hank’s sigh was a mixture of exasperation and resignation.

  “Do you see a topaz and diamond ring anywhere? I got mad and pitched it—it’s somewhere in the kitchen.” A sense of desolation curled inside his chest. As if he’d thrown Tilly away.

  Hank glanced around the room. “Not in this mess.” He helped Jordan on with a pair of flip-flops and hoisted him to his feet. “My main concern isn’t a ring. Now, let’s get you to the ER.”

  They made it as far as the front door.

  “Stop.” Hank reached down picked up the ring and held it in the palm of his hand. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  Relief flooded Jordan. “Yeah. Keep it safe for me. I’ve got a bad habit of losing important things.”

  …

  Two hours later, Hank opened the door to his apartment. “Here we go. I wasn’t about to take you back to your place. I can keep a better eye on you here without stumbling over furniture and broken glass.”

  Jordan stared in amazement. Hank’s apartment was clean. Carpeting covered the floor instead of books and magazines. He glanced over at the small kitchen. Immaculate.

  “What happened?”

  His friend chuckled and shrugged. “It’s that time of the month—and I had hoped to ask someone to spend the night. Luckily for you, it didn’t work out.”

  “Sorry.”

  “The first order of business is a shower. In case you don’t realize it—you stink.”

  Jordan glanced down at his jeans—still damp with pickle juice. “You’re right, but I’m not supposed to get my bandages wet.”

  “We weren’t Boy Scouts for nothing.” Hank went to the kitchen and came back with a roll of plastic wrap. “I’ll use this—easy as pie.”

  “Don’t say pie. It reminds me of Tilly.”

  “You can wallow in self-pity later. Right now you have a date with some soap and water.”

  He wasn’t about to turn down the chance to rid himself of the reek of vinegar and vomit. He followed Hank into the small bathroom.

  “Sit.” Hank put the lid down on the toilet.

  Jordan did as ordered and suffered through the indignity of having his friend swathe his foot and forehead in plastic wrap. “It’s like wearing a transparent turban.” He tested the wrap around his head to see if it was secure. “I feel ridiculous.”

  “Not as ridiculous as you look.” Hank twisted the shower on and adjusted the water. He pulled a towel and washcloth from the shelves above the toilet. “Do you need anything else?”

  “No, I’m good.” That was the lie of the century, but he didn’t want Hank to fuss over him. If anyone had that privilege it was Tilly.

  “I’ll get some sweats for you to wear.” Hank shut the door behind him and left Jordan to fend for himself.

  It took a few awkward moments to get his jeans over Hank’s overzealous wrappings on his foot. He stepped into the tiny shower, breathing in the steam and willing it to burn out the alcohol in his system. The stinging rain of hot water was a small penance to pay for his royal temper tantrum.

  He soaped up and rinsed off as fast as he could. True to his word, Hank had left a set of sweats on the top of the toilet. Jordan toweled off and reveled in the sensation of clean clothes against his skin. He unwound the wraps from his head and foot and tossed them into the waste can by the sink.

  His dirty jeans still held the odor of pickles, and he doubted he’d ever be able to eat his favorite salt and vinegar potato chips again. The world took a little spin, and his stomach lurched at the idea of food. He needed to lie down before he fell and ended up with more stitches added to the four the doctor had embroidered on his forehead.

  He hobbled down the short hallway, leaning against the wall for support.

  Ha
nk was in his small kitchen in front of his open refrigerator. He pulled out a jug of orange juice. “I’d offer you the hair of the dog and all that, but not with a concussion. Do you want anything to drink?”

  “No, thanks.” Jordan hesitated for a minute. “My stomach feels like crap.”

  His friend poured a glass of juice and chugged it down in one long drink, making Jordan shudder and his belly clench.

  “There.” Hank sat the glass in the sink and went in the direction of his bedroom. He came back with a blanket and two pillows and threw them on the couch. “I know you’re not supposed to sleep if you have a concussion.” He arranged a pillow at either end. “That’s to prop up your foot.”

  “This isn’t necessary,” Jordan muttered.

  Hank shot him a sidelong glance. “I told you—I’d rather you sleep here than find you passed out on the floor of your apartment. Don’t forget, I’m the one who has to check on your sorry ass every hour.” He returned to the kitchen. “I need coffee.”

  Jordan settled into the couch, thankful that the spinning sensation had slowed. He eased his foot onto the pillow without dying of pain. The same couldn’t be said for his heart. His chest thudded with its heavy blows. The world had collapsed about him, and it was his own damned fault.

  The smell of coffee filtered through the air and made his nose twitch. “How about some of that?” he called out. Maybe a shot of caffeine would dull his headache even if his belly rebelled at the idea.

  “Sure. Just a minute.”

  The sound of mugs clanking together sliced through his aching head like knives. He listened to Hank pour the coffee and his friend’s footsteps sounded like thunder even on the carpeting.

  “Here.”

  He opened one eye to find Hank standing over him with a steaming mug. He scooted into a half-sitting position and took the cup. The first sip burned his mouth. His stomach lurched, but he kept it down.

  “Oh, I almost forgot this.” Hank reached into his pocket and pulled out Tilly’s ring.

  He took the ring and sighed with relief. “Thanks.”

  “Had a fight.” His friend said it as matter-of-factly as if it were a foregone conclusion.

  Jordan stared down at the ring and twisted it in the light. Bright flashes of blue mocked him. “Something like that.”

  “I saw her face when she left with Sarah.”

  Jordan’s fingers curled around the ring until it bit into the palms of his hand. “You were right. I should’ve told her about Juliette from the beginning.”

  “But? I’ve interrogated enough people to hear a definite but.”

  “I’ve done everything I can to change for her, but it’s not enough.” A defensive surge of ill use swelled in his chest. “She hasn’t done a damned thing.”

  “Really?” His friend sat in an armchair and sipped at his coffee. “She doesn’t like New York, yet she’s made the effort to be here. Doesn’t she go to gallery openings, shows, and I think there were a few family get-togethers?”

  “That’s not changing.” He thumped his chest with his hand. “I’ve worked on my temper, at least around her. I went to Tennessee to meet her family—which was a total bust.”

  “One weekend.”

  “Whose side are you on?” He tried to swing his leg over the edge of the couch, but his head protested. “And then there’s all the baggage she brings. Sarah isn’t a bad kid. I got to know her a little better this afternoon and we clicked, but she’s so full of—”

  “She’s fourteen. Remember what it was like?”

  “Vaguely. I was full of hormones and all mouth.” The memory of his mother catching him sneaking in after a night of partying flashed through his mind. It was as clear as if it had happened only a few minutes ago, and to this day he still found her catlike smile unnerving.

  “Exactly.”

  “But I’m not ready to be a parent. Ruby is scary mean. Makes me look like an angel.”

  “All that’s bullshit, and you know it.” Hank glared at him. “Why didn’t you tell Tilly about Juliette?”

  Hank’s assessment was right. No matter how much he wanted to blame someone else for his mistakes, it wouldn’t work. Not this time. “I didn’t tell her because I was ashamed of how I let Juliette manipulate me.” Tilly had every right to be angry. He just hadn’t thought it would be this bad. Her parting words were more than the I need some space speech she’d given him in the past.

  “Aren’t you really afraid she’ll hurt you the same way?”

  “She already has…over something so irrelevant to our relationship.”

  “You did that by being stupid.” Hank pointed at him. “You lied to her.”

  “I think I may have done it on purpose.” Jordan pulled in a shaky breath. The admission stung. “I was angry when she asked me not to propose, but deep down, I think I was relieved at the same time. I love her. I want to marry her, yet…” He stared at the ceiling of his friend’s apartment. “Matilda Jane Danes, you were right about everything.”

  “She’s being stupid, too.” Hank stood and picked up his cup. “Try not to fall asleep. Clear your head. Let me know what you decide, because if she dumps you, I’m next in line.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Seeing Ruby’s face first thing this morning had been a lifesaver for Tilly. Everything would be all right now that her foster mother had arrived, safe and sound, in New York.

  “I swear, that Mabel Yoder is gettin’ gutsier ever year.” Ruby poured a cup of coffee and sat down at Tilly’s small dining table. “She says she’s got a secret weapon that will knock me clean outta the winner’s circle at the state fair.”

  “Really?” It was easier to let Ruby grumble on than to actually make conversation. Tilly wasn’t in a mood to talk, and Sarah was still asleep in Tilly’s bed. She dunked her tea bag into the cup of hot water Ruby had placed before her a few minutes ago.

  Her foster mother leaned back in her chair, a smile on her face and a gleam in her eye. “I plan to pull out the big guns—that white chocolate–peppermint cream pie recipe—kaboom. She won’t know what hit her.”

  “That’s nice.” Tilly didn’t care about the state fair, pies, or anything else. Right now she was worried about Jordan. The crazy man had injured himself because of her. At first she’d thought his call was a ruse to get her to come over to his apartment. She’d hung up before he could tell her he needed to go to the hospital. Her heart had sunk when Hank called from the emergency room to say Jordan had cut his foot and had a concussion. He’d assured her the doctors had said everything would be okay, but Tilly knew Jordan had been hurt in more than his body.

  “One thing I was wonderin’ about—how much mustard do you think I outta put in it?” Ruby’s voice barely filtered through Tilly’s worrisome funk.

  “I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

  “I’m thinkin’ maybe a whole jar. It’ll give it a kick.” Ruby stared at her over the rim of her cup. Bright red lips pursed.

  “Sure.” She understood the words, they registered as English, but right now the only thing she could concentrate on was the snarled tangle of her life.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Ruby’s wrinkled hand slapped the table with enough force to make the napkin holder shake.

  Tilly jumped and blinked. “What?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. No.” Tilly shrugged and wrung out her tea bag with a spoon. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s more than nothing. I could tell something was wrong from the way you and Sarah greeted me at the door. You were too brittle and bright, and the kid was quiet. She always has enough sass to spare. Last night it was ‘yes, ma’am,’ ‘no, ma’am.’”

  “Jordan wants to marry me.” There, Tilly let out her greatest fear out with a sigh and a frown.

  “Hallelujah.” Ruby waved her hands in the air as if the Holy Ghost had taken hold of her.

  “It didn’t get that far.” She hated to burst her foster mother’s rapture
, but Ruby had a habit of getting carried away—whether it be a religious experience or the idea of planning a wedding. “I asked him not to propose to me.”

  “Are you outta your mind?” Ruby’s hands fell to her side.

  “It’s just as well. I found out he’s been keeping secrets from me—he lied, even it was a lie of omission. I think I did the right thing. No, I know I did.” Her words sounded hollow and her heart was twisted in a vise of hurt and anger. Love was there as well, and that’s what made things worse. “He had an affair with the dead woman.”

  “That just ain’t right.” Ruby’s eyes widened in horror. She grimaced and gave a delicate shudder before she reached over and patted Tilly’s hand in consolation. “You’re better off, honey. I saw a show on cable TV about guys who like do the nasty with dead women.”

  It was hard not to laugh, even when she felt so down. “No, I meant before she died.”

  Relief flooded Ruby’s worn face. “Oh, you mean that Juliette LePeu?”

  “That’s Pepe Le Pew from the cartoons.” Sarah sailed into the kitchen and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator. “It’s DuPres.”

  “All that French stuff sounds the same to me.” Ruby got up for another cup of coffee then sat down again. All the while, her raisin-black eyes burned holes into Tilly. “Did he have an affair while he was courtin’ you?”

  “No!” She didn’t want Ruby to think Jordan was a womanizer on top of necrophilia. “It was a long time ago.”

  “You love Jordan, and you’re too afraid to admit it.” Sarah’s superior tone grated on Tilly’s nerves. “Mama is being a total jerk about the whole thing.”

  “No. I’m. Not.” She couldn’t believe her child had deserted to the dark side.

  “Sarah Jane Danes, I’ve half a mind to whoop your butt for sassin’ your mama like that.” Ruby shook her finger at Sarah. “Get me that carton of half-and-half while you’re up?”

  “Well, she is.” Sarah opened the fridge and plopped Ruby’s creamer onto the table with a pout on her face. “He’s crazy about you, and you broke his heart.” She sank into the chair next to Tilly with a heavy sigh.