Recipe for Love (Entangled Select Suspense) (8 page)

Jordan scooted away from Tyler as he reached for the bottle she handed him. Discretion being the better part of valor, at least according to good old Willie Shakespeare, she sat in the chair. A small smile quirked at the corner of Jordan’s mouth as dark eyes met hers in challenge.

She returned the dare with a smile and popped the top of her soda.

…

The smirk on Tilly’s face meant one thing. He had struck out—big time. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d failed to charm a woman, but she proved to be a tough nut to crack. Why? She wasn’t immune to him. The kiss had proven that much.

The kiss.

It bowled him over. She grabbed him by the guts, squeezed his lungs until he couldn’t breathe, and left him hungrier than he’d ever been in his life. How could one short, voluptuous woman pack such a wallop? He didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to let Jericho find out, either.

The only way to get rid of the man was to focus on the damned pictures. Then Jericho would leave. Jordan couldn’t allow her to be alone with the guy.

“The preliminary autopsy report suggests he was stabbed with a large knife.” Jericho pulled the picture of the body from Jordan’s carefully organized display. “The M.E. said he was dead before the killer mutilated him. We don’t have a murder weapon. Also, the victim had ingested a large amount of gamma hydroxybutyrate. You’ve probably heard of it as GHB, the date rape drug.”

“Date rape?” She turned to the detective in surprise. “I can imagine him using the drug on someone else, but not the other way around.”

The detective leaned forward with a shrug. He gazed at the bottle he rolled back and forth between his hands. “The M.E. is still working the evidence, but it’s not like television where he can run all the tests in a matter of minutes.” He took another swallow. “The deceased also had a massive amount of botulinum toxin in his system.”

“Botulism?”

“Yes.” Jericho leaned back in the couch. “It’s the crap you get on the Internet. Unscrupulous doctors buy it cheap and charge a bundle or some women host Botox parties.”

“Okay, this is gettin’ weirder by the minute.” She rested her elbows on her knees with her chin nestled in her hands. She gave Jericho one of the incandescent smiles that Jordan coveted. “You’ve got your hands full.”

“The fact that the victim is a celebrity makes it harder. Everyone wants instant results.”

“I don’t envy you. Drugged, poisoned, and stabbed.” Jordan shook his head in wonder at the lengths someone went to kill Ethridge. “Sounds like our murderer is an overachiever.”

“Or someone who wanted to make sure he was dead.”

“Really, most sincerely dead.” She let out with a falsetto warbling. “As they’d say in Kansas.”

“That was Oz.” Jordan motioned his thumb toward the draped windows. Jericho’s chuckle rubbed him the wrong way. How could he even consider her execrable Munchkin imitation the least bit funny? It was sad, really sad, to watch Jericho jockey for second place. He couldn’t blame the man. That tiny redhead got under a guy’s skin with all the stealth of a tick.

“And the last time I looked we were east of the state line. That means we’re in Missouri, not Kansas.”

“Close enough for a house to fall on your head.” She jumped up to pace the room. “Where’s a wicked witch when you need one?” She snorted.

“Why bother looking when there’s one wearing a hole in the carpet.” He glanced down at the picture in his hand for something to do to keep his blood pressure under control. It showed a cork from a wine bottle lying on top of the table. The cork was mangled on the bottom and along the right edge.

“You—you—you,” She sputtered like an old lawnmower on its last legs.

He jumped to his feet and thrust the photograph into her hand. “What do you see?”

“Besides a class-A jerk?”

“Okay, so I’m a jerk. Nothing new there.” He tapped the picture with his index finger. “Look.”

“A
Class-A
jerk,” she reiterated as she stared down at the photo. She turned her head this way and that and studied it for a while. “I don’t know what I’m lookin’ for. All I see is a broken cork.”

He knew the instant she realized what he saw in the photo. Excitement lit her face. “That’s it, isn’t it—the cork.”

“Exactly.” A rush of adrenaline raced through his veins. It was better than a good shot of whiskey. Just like brainstorming on one of Hank’s stories where one clue built upon another, until the murderer was caught in the end. Antsy with excitement, Jordan got to his feet to join Tilly in pacing the room. He wondered if a real life killer would be as easy to catch as those in his friend’s novels.

“Why is that important?” The detective took the picture from her, giving them a puzzled look. “What does a cork have to do with the murder?”

“Maybe nothing, or everything.” He walked over to Jericho and pointed to the portion of the picture showing the mangled cork. “The guy was a fanatic about wine. This was done by someone who didn’t know the first thing about how to open a wine bottle. Either that, or they were in such a hurry that they bungled it.” His head raced with images as he tried to place the faceless killer in the room. “Believe me, Ethridge might have been a total asswipe, but he wouldn’t have done such a shoddy job of opening a bottle of wine.”

“I’m a beer drinker myself. Wouldn’t that—what’s it called—cork the wine—leave bits of cork floating in the bottle?”

“Yes, but technically it’s not ‘corked’ in that sense.” Jordan shook his head. “That’s a popular misconception, but it’s something entirely different.” He glanced over at Jericho and wondered how detailed to get in his explanation. It would be the same as if he was trying to teach the theory of relativity to his cat, Sam. Tilly grabbed the ball and left him in the dust.

“It’s like this.” She paced the floor again as if she would burst if she didn’t move around. “Sometime corks can become contaminated when the wine is bottled. It can develop an off taste, like cardboard or, well, imagine suckin’ on someone’s old sweat socks.”

“I get the picture. There was nothing wrong with the wine, just the cork.” Jericho ran his hand along the edge of his jaw. “The preliminary autopsy report indicated that he’d ingested about five ounces of a red zinfandel wine. That matches the bottle we found at the crime scene. GHB doesn’t have a smell or taste, so he wouldn’t have known it was in the wine.”

Jordan took several more pictures from the pile on the coffee table and sifted through them, one by one. One showed the salad where it had been thrown across the room. “I suspect the killer caught him mid-meal. Looks like one hell of an argument took place.”

The detective pulled his phone from its holder on his belt and brought up his notes. “At nine p.m. he called room service to order a sparkling water with lemon, steak, baked potato, no butter, extra sour cream, and a salad with mixed greens, tossed with light vinaigrette.” His stone-cold eyes scanned the screen. “The medical examiner’s report states that the deceased had eaten a few bites of the steak, no salad, but his stomach contents also contained goat cheese and crackers. There were no orders from room service for cheese and crackers. Or the wine.”

The excitement made Tilly’s eyes bluer than blue. “The botulism had to be in the goat cheese.”

Jordan could picture Ethridge sitting down to his meal and being more than a little upset at having it interrupted. “So the murderer knocks on the door. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry for—whatever—let’s crack this open for old times’ sake. More blah, blah, blah—stuffs him full of tainted cheese and drugged wine, then whammo—goes in for the kill.”

She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Maybe the murderer paid one of the staff a few extra bucks to have it sent to his room. Viewers of The Culinary Channel knew he had a passion for the stuff. Even Gilmore made a goat cheese dish last night.”

“Whoever killed him had to be an idiot.” He sat on the arm of the couch and dangled his hands between his knees as he tried to think. “I don’t care if he was dosed with enough drugs or toxins to drop an elephant, it wouldn’t kill him right away.”

“How do you know?”

“GHB takes at least fifteen to thirty minutes to take effect. Hank wrote a book last autumn where a serial killer drugged his victim with GHB. Botulism is a nasty way to go, but it doesn’t kill instantly.”

“Sounds more and more like a Three Stooges movie to me.” She plopped down into the green and white striped chair and pulled her feet up. “None of it makes sense.”

“Maybe the killer staged it to look like a crime of passion.” He studied the photos, trying to piece together another scenario. He’d thrown the idea out there, but he honestly couldn’t see Vargas as the type to go to the trouble. She’d snuff the man, cut off his dick, and leave without a backward glance. Could it have been someone else? The evidence said no.

The detective nodded as he considered. “Possibly.”

“Staged?” She shook her head in disagreement. “Well, I’d call anyone who’d cut off someone’s winkie pretty riled up.”

“Winkie?” Jericho’s confused expression was priceless.

“Really, Matilda.” Jordan rolled his eyes and slapped his hands on his knees. “Are we back to that now?”

“Jordan.” She drew his name out in warning, but it went unheeded.

“She has a problem with the word penis.” He couldn’t keep the smirk out of his voice.

“I do not.” She crossed her legs, swinging the one on top back and forth in agitation. “Okay, his erectile tissue, or would you prefer throbbing man-root? How about Buster McThunderstick?” She jumped to her feet, her hands on her hips. “And it’s Tilly. Be careful, or you might be the one who ends up missing a winkie.”

“What the hell is going on?” the detective demanded.

“What?” Jordan gave a dismissive snort. “We do this all the time.” Detective Iron Jaw needed to understand the nuances of his relationship with Tilly.

“Not while I’m around.”

“Let me go.” She jerked away from Jericho and rounded on Jordan. “I don’t know why I thought we could work together.”

The glint of tears in her eyes, the pugnacious set of her shoulders, her clenched fists, sucked the air from his lungs. The world collapsed into a black hole of confusion. What happened? When did everything spiral out of control? The kiss. It had to be that damned kiss. It had fried his brain.

Never once had he taken Gemma’s, or any other woman’s, feelings into consideration. Except his mother’s. If they got mad, that was their problem. He wasn’t put on the planet to make them happy.

He panicked the second her lower lip wobbled. A hard knot of shame burned in his chest, the same one he got whenever he’d hurt his mother. He rubbed the spot over his heart as if it would take away the ache building there. “I’m a total shit for hurting your feelings. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. This is the great Jordan Kelly at his finest.” She swiped at the tears under her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’re a bully with a spatula.”

She turned to Jericho. “Call me in the morning if you still want to go to the Nelson.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He skirted the coffee table but halted the instant Jericho held up his hand.

His knee-jerk reaction to verbally strike back stuck in his throat. He didn’t have a good response to her accusation. He’d been cruel and hurtful just to get the upper hand.

The guy rounded on Jordan and pointed to the couch. “You—sit.” The command in his voice made him think twice about arguing. Jordan took another quick glance over at her. Why, oh why did she push his buttons? He’d apologize when they were alone. If she ever allowed him within ten feet of her again.

“Each minute you two spend taking shots at each other is one less I have to find the killer.” The detective started for the closet to get his coat. “I don’t have time for this bullshit. You’re going to have to work this out with each other and The Culinary Channel boss. Tilly, I’ll call you tomorrow.” He glared at him. “I better not find out you’ve upset her again. Is that clear?”

“As glass.” Jordan bit back another pithy remark. “I have no desire to end up in the stony lonesome.”

“Good.” Jericho’s phone rang. He jerked it off his belt with a growl. “Jericho here.”

Whatever the news was, it couldn’t be good. He ran his hand through his hair and muttered a curse. “Yeah, I got you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes or less. I’m at the hotel with our consultants.” He snapped his phone shut and replaced it back on his belt. “It seems like I’m back on duty.” He thrust his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. “I’ve got to go.” He glanced at Tilly, then Jordan. “Try not to kill each other. I don’t need any more chefs going belly up.”

“Call me.” She held the door open for Jericho.

His answer was a quick peck on her cheek. “I’ll do that.”

Jordan watched her close the door behind the detective and pause for a second before turning back to face him.

“You need to go, too.” She walked to the desk in the sitting area.

“I’m sorry about the Wicked Witch of the West comment. It was a knee-jerk reaction.” He hurried behind her until he managed to put himself between her and the desk. “Let me stay. Someone killed Ethridge and everyone knows we’re working on the case. Why don’t I spend the night?”

“You have got to be kiddin’. I’m a big girl. I know how to take care of myself.” She pushed him out of her way, her face set, with her lush lips thinned into a stubborn line. “Besides, the only way I’m gonna feel safe is for you to leave.”

He didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. Besides, I thought of something and I have things to do before the mornin’.” Tilly picked up the hotel phone on the desk. “Hello, this is Tilly Danes in VIP Suite 1012. I’d like to speak to the night chef.”

“Surely you can’t be hungry again?” He glanced at the half-eaten food on the table. Confusion added to the emotional mix rumbling around in his brain and heart. He leaned closer to catch the conversation on the other end of the line. “What are you doing?”

“Go away.” She pointed toward the door. “I mean it. If you don’t leave, I’ll call security.”

“Tilly,” he growled her name. He put one hand on her shoulder to turn her around. She jerked away from his touch. Her sidelong glare made him drop the hand and take a step back.