Chicken Caccia-Killer (A Jordan McAllister Mystery)

CHICKEN CACCIA-KILLER

Liz Lipperman

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my amazing agent and friend for life, Christine Witthohn. There is no way I could ever, nor would I want to, do this without you. And to her husband Jeff who gives up precious time with her so that she can be my cheerleader, counselor, and task master, as well as my first line of defense against all the bullies in the industry.

To Joni Sauer-Folger, my critique partner. Our friendship goes beyond line editing, and for that I will be forever grateful. Wish you lived closer.

To my awesome beta readers, Chris Keniston and Sylvia Rochester. You make me a better writer. And to Melanie Atkins, Phyllis Middleton, and my nephew Dick Flanagan, who walked me through the correct police procedures and lingo.

To the sisters and brothers who made sure that I grew up surrounded with both love and laughter.

To the bunko babes who supply me with all the funny lines in my books, and to all my writer friends whose support and friendship I cherish.

To Rhodes Bake-N-Serve for allowing me to print one of their wonderful recipes. To Jennifer Batchelder for the awesome Chocolate Bread Pudding Recipe, and to my sister Lill Magistro (and Rose and Cathy Magistro) for the mouth-watering spaghetti sauce and pizza bread recipes.

To Martha Hovers, who runs ARF House, a no-kill rescue shelter in Sherman, Texas, and to her wonderful supporters, especially Sally, who bought all my books at an auction benefitting this wonderful program.

And lastly to my husband, Dan, and my beautiful children, Nicole, Dennis, Brody, and Abby and my awesome grandkids, Grayson, Caden, Ellie, and Alice. You all make me smile every day.

D
EDICATION

To all my Italian friends and relatives out there, for keeping me chunky with your great Italian cooking.

C
HAPTER
O
NE

“So this is the girl who stole my job?”

That was the first thing Jordan McAllister heard as Jackie Frazier led her into the editor’s office, and her jaw dropped at the venom behind the words. She didn’t recognize the woman who had spoken, but before she could defend herself, Dwayne Egan beat her to the punch.

“Now wait just a minute, Loretta. Nobody stole anybody’s job here. I distinctly remember you calling me the day you got out of rehab and telling me you’d quit. Did you forget that little detail?”

Jordan’s boss leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, making his huge ears look even bigger. She couldn’t help staring, thinking back on the first time she’d walked into his office a little over a year ago. Expecting to see a tall, distinguished looking gentleman, she’d been surprised by the fiftyish man with bushy eyebrows and big ears. Stifling a grin, she remembered how at the time she’d sworn he could have been Mr. Potato Head’s brother, minus the top hat.

“I did no such thing.” The woman sprang from her chair and sprawled over the desk, pointing her finger at Egan’s chest. “I called to tell you I was taking a little time off after rehab. That’s all.”

“Need I remind you it’s been close to a year since you broke your hip, Loretta? That pushes the limit of ‘a little time off,’ I’d say. You must have known I couldn’t hold your job that long.” He motioned for Jordan to sit.

Taking the chair next to the irate woman, Jordan sucked in a gulp of air.
So this is Loretta Moseley.
She snuck a peek at the woman who wrote the Kitchen Kupboard for the
Ranchero Globe
before the job had been handed to her, first temporarily and then permanently after Loretta skipped town. Rumor had it she’d run off to Las Vegas with her smokin’ hot physical therapist after she’d gotten the settlement money from a waterskiing accident. Seems the personal watercraft company decided that paying her off was easier than fighting, even though witnesses said the accident had more to do with Loretta’s alcohol intake than a defect of the machine as she’d claimed.

“Need I remind you that my uncle Earl owns this newspaper?”

Egan leveled her with an icy stare. “I am well aware of that, Loretta, but I can’t just yank the column from Jordan. She’s worked hard to build a readership, and she’s nearly doubled our sales.”

Loretta turned to face Jordan. “I don’t care what you say, it’s my job, and no skinny redhead is going to take it away from me.”

Skinny redhead? Excuse me?

Jordan tried to pull off an outraged look, but all she could think about was that it was the first time she’d ever heard her editor stand up for her. Since he never complimented her to her face, hearing him say that she’d worked hard was a surprise.

“At least this skinny redhead knows not to wear halter tops to work,” Jordan fired back, mentally slapping her head for the lame, totally-uncalled-for response.

For a few seconds the two women glared at each other, each one daring the other to say something else that would reignite the fire between them. Jordan used that time to study her competition. Loretta Moseley stood about five two and had a body that should never have been squeezed into a halter top. The exposed layer of tanned belly fat had probably come from several months of partying in Vegas. Her short blond hair, cut in a seventies Dorothy Hamill style, accentuated hazel eyes that now flashed with anger.

“Okay, let’s not get personal here,” Egan said. He punched the intercom button. “Jackie, get Earl on the phone.” Turning back to the two women who had finally quit giving each other the evil eye, he continued, “Let’s see what he has to say about all this.”

When his secretary buzzed back, he picked up the phone, leaving Jordan and Loretta sitting, quietly awaiting their fate while he talked to the owner of the newspaper—aka Loretta’s uncle. A million thoughts ran through Jordan’s mind as she tapped nervously on the arm of the chair, trying to pick out parts of the conversation without looking like she was actually eavesdropping. Most of those thoughts had the owner reinstating his niece as the culinary reporter and relegating Jordan back to writing only the personals again. That would not be a good thing, even if he let her keep the lousy hundred-bucks-a-month raise that had come with the promotion a year ago.

She’d really begun to enjoy the celebrity perks with having her own column, even though sometimes she felt like such a fraud masquerading as the culinary expert. When she’d first moved to the small town of Ranchero, Texas, located about seventy miles north of downtown Dallas, writing the personals was the only job she could get actually using her journalism skills. Truth be known, she had yet to make an edible grilled cheese sandwich on her own.

She could have stayed in Dallas and probably gotten a better job, but she wanted as far away from big “D” as she could get, bringing four suitcases, her goldfish Maggie, and a broken heart with her. The fact that she’d graduated at the top of her class at the University of Texas and had covered every athletic event while she was there apparently hadn’t influenced any of the editors of the many small newspapers she’d interviewed with. This job had been the only offer she’d received, and she’d jumped on it faster than a spider spying an unlucky fly caught in its web.

Although Egan dangled that sports writing carrot in front of her when he wanted her to do something he knew she’d balk at, the chances of that ever happening were slim to nil. Especially in this town where most of the people who worked at the
Globe
, including the acting director of sports, had grown up in Ranchero and worked there since high school. Loretta Moseley was one of those people.

Taking her mind off the angry woman sitting next to her, Jordan remembered the day she’d hobbled into Ranchero with her dreams shattered and her self confidence at a record low. She’d felt like such a fool, having put her own career on hold while she’d followed her fiancé all over Texas chasing his perfect job.

Never once had she anticipated that when he finally got his dream job—which ironically, was also hers—as a sports correspondent for one of the biggest TV stations in Dallas, her life would come crashing down around her. It was bad enough that he’d cheated with the sexy weather girl, but the jerk hadn’t even had the guts to tell her to her face and ended a four-year relationship with a ‘Dear John’ text.

How pathetic was that?

Moving as far away from her ex as she could, she’d been elated to land a job at the
Globe
even if it was only helping desperate people hook up. With her social life rivaling that of a nun’s, she’d been tempted many times to slip her own sob story in there and see what happened.

Incredibly stupid, single white female with a broken heart looking ...

Her life had changed dramatically when Loretta Moseley had broken both her hand and her hip and had to spend six weeks in rehab. Being related to the owner, she’d had a clause in her contract that required the newspaper to pay her full salary if she was ever disabled. When Egan offered Jordan the job with the promise of seeing her name on her own byline, it hadn’t come with a pay increase, even though she was still required to write the personals. The measly jump in her salary came later when she landed the job permanently, and it was basically no more than a cost of living increase.

When Dwayne Egan rapped on the desk with a pencil, Jordan was jolted from her inner thoughts. “Yoo-hoo, McAllister, are you still with us?”

She looked up, embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming, especially when she noticed the smirk on Loretta’s face.

“Okay, here’s the situation. Earl agrees this is a dilemma.” His eyes traveled from Jordan to Loretta. “But we think we have a solution.”

Here we go,
Jordan thought. S
he gets the Kitchen Kupboard, I get the personals—or the boot.

“For now both of you will write the column. Loretta, you’ll take one day, and Jordan will take the other.”

“I won’t do that,” Loretta interrupted, jumping out of her chair again. “And frankly, Egan, I find it hard to believe my uncle would agree to something like that.”

The editor pushed the phone toward her. “You’re welcome to call him yourself. Like me, Uncle Earl finds it difficult to discount how popular the column has become since Jordan’s taken over.”

Loretta huffed before sitting back down.

“Unless you’ve been living in a cave, you both know the Italian Festival is coming to Plainville next weekend. There’ll be vendors from all over Dallas, and some from as far away as California and New York. The Italian-American Foundation has invested a lot of money advertising this event, and it behooves us to show them some love. For the next two weeks, we’ll be covering the event from all angles.”

He paused when Jackie Frazier walked into the room and handed him a stack of papers. After taking two envelopes from the top, he gave one to Loretta and one to Jordan.

“These are press passes for all the festivities, including the parties before, during, and after. We’ve promised the foundation that we would give them top notch coverage. That’s where you two come in. I need both of you to attend everything—hell, pitch a tent and camp out there if you have to—then write about the food and all the activities. I’ve got Jim Westerville covering the bocce ball tournament and Sally Winters from Arts and Entertainment doing interviews.”

He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly as if he knew the next thing out of his mouth would create a stir. “As I said before, you’ll write the column on Tuesdays, Loretta, with Jordan taking Thursdays. When it’s all over, Earl and I will evaluate how the public responds to each of you, and we’ll make our decision about who keeps the column based on that.”

Loretta slammed her hand down on the arm of the chair. “I have never had to audition for any job in my life, Egan. I won’t start now.”

His expression remained unchanged. “Fine. Then that means Jordan will remain the culinary reporter permanently.”

Loretta jumped up and leaned so far over the desk that Jordan was sure she was going to fall on top of the mountain of papers strewn all over it. “And my uncle agreed to this?”

“Actually, he was the one who suggested it.”

“No way I’ll let this girl take my job.” She clucked her tongue. “I may not have a fancy college degree like she does, but I’ve lived in Ranchero all my life. We’ll see who the good citizens of my town prefer.” She stood and walked to the door before turning back once more to address Jordan. “Game on, Red.”