Recipe for Love (Entangled Select Suspense) (9 page)

“If you must know, I’m gettin’ ready to commit murder.”

Chapter Seven

Tilly’s enigmatic comment about committing murder played over and over in his mind. There was no telling what she was up to, but he had a plan of his own. They’d go to each of the contestants and talk to them. Being chefs, maybe they saw or heard something that didn’t feel right. One of them might be the killer. He intended to find out.

The bright morning light belied the gruesome murder committed two days ago. He needed to get out into the fresh air and sunshine. A road trip was the perfect way to start the day. He made the short walk to her room and knocked.

“I’m comin’. I’m comin’.”

His mind went into a tailspin. Fantasies of Tilly screaming out those two little words hit him smack-dab in the libido. His long-sleeved black shirt grew hotter by the second while his jeans grew tighter.

The door opened to reveal her standing in front of him in a fluffy white robe, courtesy of the hotel, and a pair of matching scuffs. Gemma had never looked as sexy, even draped in bits of lace and nothing else. He pulled in a soft breath of appreciation.

Tilly ran her hand through her tousled curls. “What do you want? It’s not even seven.” Her whiskey voice was morning deep and inviting.

“We’re getting out of here before Miranda and Nick can catch us.”

She opened the door wider and motioned him inside. “Exactly where are we goin’?” She went to the mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. “I’ve got things to do besides runnin’ off with you.” She twisted off the top and took a delicate swallow. “Although it would sure put a wrinkle in Miranda’s schedule.”

“That’s my girl.”

“I’m not your girl.” She picked up her cell phone and looked at the time. “I can give you two hours tops.”

“I’ll take it.” He turned her around and pushed her toward the bathroom. “Get dressed. And don’t dawdle. There’s one hour and fifty-eight minutes left on the clock.”

She pulled several things from the dresser, zipped into the bathroom and came out in less than five minutes. She wore a bright red sweater, jeans, and a pair of running shoes.

He frowned and pointed at the sweater. “Do you have anything less conspicuous?”

She frowned at him and picked up a matching red hooded sweatshirt. “Why?”

“We’re trying to make a getaway.”

“I’m a chef, not a ninja. Take it or leave it.”

“Okay.” He zipped up his black hooded jacket. “Just keep your head down. I had the concierge rent a car for me. She phoned a few minutes ago and said it was ready in valet parking.”

“You’re certifiable.” She grabbed up her huge lime green purse. “Do you know that?”

“Come on.” He grabbed her by the hand and led her to the stairway.

“Jordan—” She tried to tug her hand away.

“It’s all down from here.”

“But—”

“Think of your thighs.”

She gave him an exasperated snort but followed him down eleven flights of stairs to the garage. He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the parking kiosk next to the curb. One of the valets had earbuds firmly implanted in his ears and was lost in another world. He gyrated to whatever song played on his MP3 player, executed an impressive 360 degree turn, and snapped his fingers to the beat.

He touched the guy on the shoulder. “Great moves, man, but I need to pick up a rental car.”

The valet’s eyes shot open and he yanked out the earbuds. “Sorry man. Beyoncé, you know.” He patted down his vest and straightened his tie. “What can I do for you?”

“Jordan Kelly, room 1011. The concierge said my rental car was ready.”

“Oh, yeah.” He went behind the counter and pulled a key fob off the wall. “One swipe of your room card and it’s all yours.”

He handed the attendant the card and took the key fob.

“It’s the red mustang next to the entrance.”

She smirked and covered her mouth. She was laughing at him.

“What?” He tried not to sound defensive as he unlocked the car but failed miserably.

Her snort ended in a fit of giggles. “I thought we were supposed to be inconspicuous.”

“Maybe the concierge thought I’d like a Mustang. I left it up to her.”

“You should’ve asked for a mini-van. Miranda would never spot you in a soccer mom’s car.”

“Get in.” He pulled the passenger side door open for her. “We’ve got an appointment with Bolzano at eight.”

She settled in her seat and looked up at him. “Where?”

He closed the door and went around to the driver’s side. Once he’d buckled his seat belt he glanced over at her. “We’re supposed to meet him at the commercial kitchen he rents.” He put the key into the ignition and the car roared to life.

She plopped her bag on her lap. “Let’s go.” She leaned over to check out the clock on the dash. “You’ve got an hour and thirty-five minutes left.

He programmed Bolzano’s address into the GPS. Fifteen minutes later, he parked the car near the front door of a rundown warehouse that was stuck between an auto body shop and a funky looking building advertising theatrical costumes.

“Are you sure this is it?” She craned her head around to scan the parking lot.

“That’s where the satellite directed us.” He pulled a piece of hotel stationery from his pocket. He glanced at the address and over to the reflective numbers by the door. “And what he gave me. Let’s check it out.”

They came to a short flight of concrete steps. Galvanized iron pipes formed the railing and the front of the building sported ringlets of peeling white paint. He whistled between his teeth. “Classy.”

She shook her head in disagreement. “If it’s clean and the chef can cook—who cares.”

She had a point and he didn’t feel like arguing. He tried the door. It was locked. He glanced down at his watch. Eight o’clock. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“He said to come in when we got here—he’d leave the door unlocked.” He frowned and his eyes made a quick sweep of the area. “Said the kitchen was in the back.”

“Maybe he’s not here yet.” She edged a bit closer to him.

“No, he told me that he had to make an early start to get everything done for a big job this evening.”

She knocked on the door. “He could’ve locked it out of habit.” She glanced around while they waited. “This isn’t the best neighborhood.”

A minute passed. He let out a sigh of exasperation and banged on the door until the steel grate–covered glass rattled.

Still no response from inside.

It was her turn to frown. “I’m gettin’ a bad feelin’ about this.” She covered her forehead with her hand to block out the glare of the morning light and peered inside. “Nothing.”

“I’m going around to the back.” He started down the front porch steps. “You stay here in case he comes to the front.”

“Oh no you don’t.” She raced down the stairs after him.

…

She grabbed his arm and cast a worried glance at the torn newspaper flitting on the breeze and an empty vodka bottle lying next to a dumpster. Bits and pieces of cigarette butts and torn condom wrappers decorated the parking lot.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Matilda—”

She shook her head. “I don’t like this.” Her insides turned to jelly. She couldn’t explain to him, or herself, how she knew something bad was going to happen. Her guts twisted and her legs shook. “I don’t like this at all.”

Jordan frowned at her, but nodded. “Okay. But keep your bad-mojo detector in check.”

Her hand slid into his. “Bad mojo gone.” It was a lie. But she didn’t care as long as she didn’t have to wait by herself. The warmth of his hand and the way his fingers curled around hers gave her courage.

They rounded the corner of the building to find a white mini-van, with a
Cucina di Amore
Personal Chef Service
sign on the side, parked near the back door. He put his hand against the hood.

“It’s barely warm.” Jordan pursed his lips in thought. “It’s a few minutes after eight, it’s chilly out so he hasn’t been here that long.”

Dread swept over her. She tightened her hold on his hand until he gave it a little shake.

“Easy there. I need that for book signings.”

She eased up but didn’t let go. “Sorry, but the bad mojo meter just spiked.”

He flexed his fingers. “No doubt.” He walked to the driver’s side and tried the doors. “The doors are locked.” He frowned again. The passenger side and rear hatch produced the same results. “Let’s try the back door.”

She bit her lip and watched him jiggle the knob on the solid steel door. “I’d say this was the basement based on the difference in elevation between the front and back.” He pointed to the windows. “The kitchen has to be on the first floor.”

“How are we going to get up there?” It would take a ladder or someone on stilts to get high enough to take a look inside.

He banged his fist on the door and shouted, “Bolzano! It’s Kelly. Open up.”

She hugged herself as she waited for any sign of life. The sun might be out, but the chill on the breeze held an ominous touch. She shivered and stamped her feet to ward off the fingers of fear dancing over her body.

This can’t be good.

“We need to find a way to look in the windows.”

“How?”

He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got an idea.” He ran to the back of the lot and rolled a fifty-five gallon steel drum out of the overgrown grass.

She watched him dump the contents and place it, upside down, under the window.

He gave her a smug grin. “There, that ought to do it.”

“Do what?”

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.”