He adjusted it on the ground and checked it for steadiness. “There, that seems to be pretty level.” He thumped it with his fist and it let out a muted bong. “All we have to do is to climb on the barrel and see if he’s inside.”
“What do you mean we?” She backed away when he looked at her with expectation in his eyes. She shook her head and waved her hand in the air. “There is no we.”
“I’ll get on top of the barrel and you climb on my shoulders.” He glanced up at the large window at the back of the building. “That should be the right height.”
“No. No. No.”
“Come on, Matilda. What if he’s hurt?”
“I refuse to be part of a Cirque du Soleil act.” Her guts turned to water. Irrational as it was, it made her sick to ride in glass elevators or sit at the top tier of stadiums. “I’m afraid of heights.”
“I can’t do this by myself.” He did a graceful jump onto the barrel and tested it again. It looked solid enough but her knees wobbled in sick anticipation. His dark eyes begged and he held out his hand. “I’ll help you up.”
Tilly bit her lower lip and took a step forward.
“That’s my girl.” He smiled encouragement and waggled his fingers for her to come closer.
Another step. She took a deep breath and grasped his hand. Jordan scooted forward until his chest touched the wall.
“Get behind me and crawl up.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” She pulled back, but he held tight.
“Don’t worry, I’ll help.”
He didn’t give her time to wuss out. He gave her arm a pull and she clamored behind him. There was barely enough room for both of them to stand on the top of the barrel. “I don’t know what you have planned, but it won’t work.” She wrapped her arms around his chest and held on for dear life.
“It will.”
She pulled in a deep breath to steady herself and did as he instructed. For a few seconds she allowed herself to relish being close to him, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t last long.
“Hold on,” he commanded. “Keep as close as you can.”
She let out a whoop of surprise when he bent forward. “Wait. Wait.” A swirl of panic sucked her lungs dry.
“I want you to climb up on my shoulders.”
“Are you insane?”
“Just do it.”
“I—ah—I,” she sputtered and collapsed against his back. “Okay—but don’t get crazy if I wet my pants.”
“Noted. Now climb on board.”
She scooted up his body until she could wrap her legs around his waist. The world took a dizzying spin and she held onto his shoulders. Slowly, an inch at a time, she managed to climb higher. He straightened up until she was able to hold on and brace herself against the wall and get her legs around his neck.
“Okay,” He grunted and held on as he stood all the way up.
She couldn’t help letting out a little shriek as he wobbled for a second before he got his balance.
“Easy.” His hands clasped hard onto her thighs. The wild dreams she had last night included having Jordan’s head between her legs, but not like this.
She sucked in a deep breath, grasped the window sill, and pulled up to get a good look at the inside of the kitchen.
“Oh my God!” She clasped one hand over her mouth to hold back the gorge rising in her throat.
“What is it?” He bobbed and wove to keep his balance. “What do you see?”
Cesare Bolzano lay sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood.
Chapter Eight
Bolzano’s death added a nasty wrinkle to the investigation. What had started out as a three day convention for The Culinary Channel turned into a trip down the rabbit’s hole. Strange and crazy, not to mention a tad dangerous.
Jordan concentrated on the Ethridge crime scene photos he’d taken to his room last night. Yesterday had been a circus with the news of Bolzano’s death and Miranda and Nick sticking tighter than ticks. He and Tilly gave their statements to the police. Jericho hadn’t been happy with their snooping, especially after stumbling over a second body in three days.
They had made it back to the hotel late in the evening. The local news channels vied for interviews and he and Tilly had been trotted out for one-on-ones with every station in town, even the one that aired 24/7 sleaze TV.
He’d hoped to spend the evening with Tilly but she held him off, saying all she wanted was a hot bath and a call home.
He rubbed the back of his neck to ease the knots of tension. He’d barely slept at all and a frantic call from Tom Green, at six this morning, had left him in a bad mood. Tom needed to catch an early morning flight back to New Orleans for a family emergency. He’d begged Jordan to intercede with Hirschberg. If it weren’t for a seven-year-old kid with a broken arm, he would’ve told Tom bite me.
Now, Jordan sat on the couch in his suite while he drank lukewarm coffee and willed himself to remember anything else that might help. Nothing came to mind.
Someone had a thing for chefs, and he didn’t plan for Tilly or himself to be the next on the killer’s menu.
He looked at his watch. It was close to ten in the morning and Jericho hadn’t contacted him. Maybe the detective had called her instead and left him out of the loop. The thought turned his gourmet coffee into bitter acid.
Damn it.
He slapped the pictures onto the table and jumped off the couch. He couldn’t stop worrying about her or thinking about bright white and yellow daisies on shiny purple toenail polish. It distracted him from the task at hand. The phone call to the hotel’s kitchen and her enigmatic comment about committing murder bothered him as well. Unable to stand it anymore, he called her room for the sixth time.
No answer.
He paced the floor while he thumbed her cell number into his phone again and waited. It rang five times before she finally answered.
“Tilly here.”
“Where are you?” He heard the clattering of pots and pans along with the familiar sounds of people yelling at each other. A “yes, chef” response told him that she had to be in the hotel kitchen. “Sounds like you’re in the middle of lunch prep.”
“Not me. Oh, wait, my victim just arrived. Gotta go.”
The call went dead. He stared down at his phone as if it bit him in the ear. “Victim?” What the hell was she up to now?
He stuffed his phone in his pocket and headed down to the kitchen. He walked through the swinging doors and saw her standing over the carcass of a whole pig. It lay belly down on a stainless steel table. A plethora of long knives were set out on the counter behind her.
“Hi.” She picked up one of the slender knives and stabbed the pig with great gusto. She turned to him with a slight frown. “Phew.” She shook out her wrist before she pulled the blade from the pig. “That’s harder than I thought it would be.”
“Why are you killing that poor thing for a second time?”
“I’m tryin’ to figure out what kind of knife the murderer used to kill Ethridge and Bolzano.” She held up the Santoku and placed the curved tip against the pink skin of the pig. “Nope. That one won’t work. This would be the one I’d use if I were goin’ to slice someone to pieces, but it won’t stab worth a damn.” She picked up a long filet knife. “I thought you and your cop friend were the crime experts. I remember watching a show where the CSI guy used a pig to figure out which knife was used in the murder. Meet Porky.”
Porky looked none too happy to be taking part in her experiment but then, he’d been slated for bacon anyway.
She moved to the opposite side of the animal, her mouth pursed as she contemplated her next move. “Darn it. This isn’t the same as the chest.” She lay the knife back down with a tsk. “Come over here and take a look at the wound. It doesn’t look anything like the picture.” She pointed at a photograph lying next to the knives. “Too narrow. What do you think?”
He came closer. He recognized one of the autopsy photos, probably sneaked out of
the batch, lying next to Porky. “Isn’t this something the M.E. should be doing?”
“They’re takin’ their own sweet time. I don’t plan to wait around for everyone to hang the murder on Olivia. I’m more convinced than ever that she didn’t do it.” She pressed her lips together in a determined grimace. Her eyes narrowed. “It seems too pat, too convenient.”
“Maybe it is as simple as that.” Her stubbornness grated against his nerves. Why couldn’t she see the truth, instead of tilting at windmills? “Boy meets girl. Boy screws girl over. Girl kills boy.”
“You and Porky must be close cousins.” She gave the pig’s side a good, hard slap that resounded with a meaty echo. “There is one difference. He’s going to prove my point.”
“Your friend here isn’t about to squeal.” He picked up the photograph and held it closer to the small wound in Porky’s pink hide. She was right. It didn’t match. He looked over the array of knives. “Did you borrow every knife in the kitchen?”
“Some of them. The others I bought from the vendors who were packin’ up earlier this mornin’. Most had closed up shop after the murder.” She circled the table, brow wrinkled in thought. “I think a few hung around in hopes of makin’ a few sales before everyone went home.”
“You are certifiable if you think you can clear her by stabbing a dead pig.” He couldn’t help the niggling doubt that Tilly had stumbled on to something. She rocked his comfortable conviction that Olivia was the killer. She had to be—evidence spoke the truth.
She pulled back her arm, took aim, and lodged a ten-inch chef’s knife in the pig’s back.
“Oow.” She stared down at the gash running across her palm. “My hand slipped.”
Bright red blood welled from the cut.
A sick sensation slithered over his body as if the razor sharp knife had sliced his flesh as well. “Do you have a first aid kit?” he shouted over the noise in the kitchen. No one answered. “Chef!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs as her blood threatened to drip onto the floor. “Here.” He led her over one of the three compartment sinks and turned on the faucet.
She hissed as the water ran over the cut.
The sight of blood never bothered him before, but watching hers going down the drain made him gut sick.
One of the kitchen helpers came running with a large blue box. “I’m sorry. The chef’s outside on a cigarette break.”
“Thanks.” Jordan lifted her hand from the water. “Does it hurt?” The cut was deep and still bled quite a bit. Too much for his taste.
“Duh. Of course it hurts. I’m just glad it was a sharp knife. I can’t believe I did something so stupid.” She tried to pull her hand from his. “Just slap a Band-Aid on it and it’ll be fine.”
He wasn’t letting go of her wrist. “Sharp knife or dull one, it still did a job on you. This looks like it needs stitches.” His stomach rolled into a hard knot of worry. “Call a cab,” he ordered the guy with the first aid box. He pulled paper towels from a dispenser to make a pad and placed it against the palm of her hand. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
“No you’re not.” She shook her head even as her face paled. The bleeding started up again, soaking through the paper towel. He grabbed more towels and pressed them against the cut.
“Yes, I am.” He could be just as stubborn as the feisty redhead. What he really wanted to do was to pull her into his arms, to soothe her pain, but he knew if he did, he’d probably end up with a frying pan upside his head. He let go of her hand. “Don’t even think about running away. This is a serious cut. You don’t know what kind of damage you’ve done.” He opened the first aid kit and pulled out a large compress. “I’m going to pull off the towels and put this on the cut. It should do until we get to the ER.”
He took her hand in his and carefully removed the bloody paper towels.
A sous chef ran to the hotel phone and came back in a matter of seconds with several kitchen towels. “There’s a cab waiting at the back of the hotel. You go through that door, down the corridor, take the left turn, and go through the door. Tell them to take you to St. Luke’s.”
“Thanks.” He wrapped another towel around her hand to hold the compress in place and rushed her to the waiting cab. “Keep the pressure on that.”
“You’re overreactin’.” She pressed the compress tight against her palm and rolled her eyes. “I’ve cut myself worse than this.”
“You can give me all the attitude you want, I know what I’m talking about. I thought I wanted to be a doctor when I joined the Marines. Serving as a medic in Iraq cured me of that.” Anger and fear warred inside Jordan’s chest at the sight of blood seeping through the towel. “You’re still going to the hospital.”
She let out a shaky laugh and shook her head. “You’d make a lousy doctor. I told you before that your bedside manner sucked, didn’t I?”
“You got that right. I got a bellyful of men getting their arms and legs blown off.” He removed the blood-soaked towel and replaced it. “Shit.”
The look on her face said she knew it was more serious than she let on. “Oh, all right.” Her voice sounded shaky in spite of her defiance. “You win.”
“Good.” He sighed in relief. Why did she have to be so stubborn? “I’m glad we’ve got that settled.”
The cab stopped in front of the ER. He helped her out and wrapped his arm around her waist to hold her upright.
“I’m not goin’ to faint, you know.” She stiffened against him, her back ramrod straight.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood.” He refused to let go of her. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d let the police department do their job. Instead you jumped the gun, or in this case used Porky as a pin cushion.”
She didn’t have time to give him any lip. A frazzled looking nurse’s aide led them to an examination room. The purple dinosaurs dancing over a bright yellow background of her scrubs made Jordan’s stomach do flips that would make an Olympic gymnast proud.
“Hi, my name is Tisha.” She tried to be cheery, but the way she looked at her watch said it was close to the end of a long shift. “I need to get some information from you before the doctor comes in.” She went about the business of taking Tilly’s vitals and history while he paced the small space by the gurney. She gave them a tired smile when she’d finished up. “Dr. Skellengard will be with you in a few minutes.” With that, she left.
Another hospital official, this time from admissions, asked a butt-load of questions about insurance. There was nothing to do but wait after she left. “What the hell is taking so long? You could bleed to death by the time the doctor gets here.”
The minutes on the overhead clock continued to tick away with amazing lethargy. The smell of antiseptic and the underlying, sickly sweet scent of illness amped up his antsiness.
“Calm down. You’re makin’ me crazy.” Tilly held her injured hand in her lap, keeping the towel pressed tight to the wound.
“Crazy!” He whirled to face her. “I’m making you crazy? You know that’s not the proper way to handle a knife. What were you thinking?” He ran his hands through his hair to keep from strangling her. “Only an idiot would play Norman Bates with a pig.” He made a chopping motion in the air, accompanied by the engh, engh, engh sound effects from the shower scene in Psycho.
He waited for a snarky reply. Instead, he heard a sniffle.
One lone tear slid down her cheek.
“Oh no. No. No. Oh, hell, don’t do that.” Panic shot through him at light speed. Sparring with her was one thing; making her cry was another. This was the second time in two short days. That had to make him the number one jerk of all time. Jericho would probably have her laughing and smiling—after he’d beaten him to a pulp for bringing on the waterworks again.
“No, you’re right.” The words came out, each one punctuated with a small hiccup of sobs. “It was a stupid idea.” More tears shimmered in her eyes, rolled down her face. She reached up with her good hand to dash them away.
“Keep the pressure on that.” His throat turned thick with emotion as he placed her good hand back on the bandage. His thumbs brushed away the still streaming tears. “Hey, don’t cry.”
“It throbs and I feel like such a, a—weenie.” Another little sob tore through him like shards in a glass plant explosion.
“That better not be another word for penis.”
She glanced up at him and let out a small, watery laugh. “No. It means I’m an idiot, just like you said. I should’ve let the police figure out on their own that it was a chef’s knife.”
Having his words thrown back at him made him wince. He sat next to her on the narrow gurney and put his arm over her shoulder to draw her close. Her head fit perfectly in the crook of his neck—like a missing piece to a puzzle. “No, I’m the idiot. You’re hurt and I yelled because you scared the crap out of me.” All the starch went out of Tilly as she relaxed against his body.
“It didn’t look that bad at first.” Her voice sounded small and weary.
“Yes, it did. You don’t have to be so contrary all the time.” He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze.
She glanced up at him. Her eyes narrowed, but a suspicion of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I am not.”
“Are too.”
She shook her head. “Am not.”
“Too.” At least she wasn’t crying anymore. He took a chance and planted a quick kiss on top of her head. “And you know it.”
“Okay, so maybe you have a point.” She started to move away, but he held her close. “I wonder what’s takin’ so long.” A baby’s shrill cry came from the adjoining room. “Guess that answers my question.”
A cute blonde popped into the exam room with the name Annie Johnson, R.N. printed across her name tag. “The doctor will be with you in a few more minutes.” She came over to inspect the cut. “It looks like the bleeding has stopped. I think it will need a couple of stitches. Is there anything I can get for you? A warm blanket? They keep it kind of cool in here.”
Tilly shook her head. “I’m fine.” Her hair brushed against his cheek, the floral scent of her shampoo tickled his nose. The rush of arousal forced him to shift a bit to keep his condition hidden from the nurse’s observant eyes.
Recipe for Love (Entangled Select Suspense) Page 10