Flipped For Murder (18 page)

Chapter 27

“How about a glass of wine?” I asked after I helped Christina unload the boxes of frozen appetizers.

She gave me a wistful look. “I wish. But it is Saturday, after all. And that wedding is coming right up. I expect I've messed up the schedule even bringing these by. Rain check?”

“Of course. Thanks bunches for taking the time. And tell the management we'll give them full credit.”

“Way ahead of you, girlfriend. That envelope”—she pointed with her car keys—“contains stand-up labels with the name of each appetizer, ingredients in microscopic print for the allergic and paranoid, and ‘Donated by the Nashville Inn' in bigger letters than the name of the food. The boss does not mess around when it comes to publicity.”

I laughed. “Do I ever know that. I should take a lesson from her.”

She headed for the door. “See you soon.” The bell clanged and she was gone.

I laid the boxes out in a single layer and checked them. Dozens and dozens of finger foods, exactly as Christina had described them. Mini quiches. Buffalo mini drumsticks. Tiny, spicy meatballs. All I needed to do was heat them up and arrange them on serving trays. But I figured I really ought to contribute something from my kitchen, too, for my own reputation, if nothing else. Christina had suggested mini tuna sliders. I didn't have any more tuna, but I could whip up tiny hamburgers and turkey burgers, and that would connect with my lunch menu. The vegetarians in the crowd, if there were any others besides Jim, would just have to settle for mini quiches.

What to use for slider buns, though? Biscuits would likely crumble. I checked the clock, which read three forty-five, and ran a couple cups of warm water into a stainless-steel mixing bowl. In five minutes I'd assembled a simple yeasted dough, with olive oil and a few snips of fresh rosemary, which came from the pot out front, added for smoothness and flavor. I gave the dough a quick knead until it was shiny and slid it back into the bowl, which I'd rubbed with oil. After I turned the soft, warm mass over, leaving a sheen of oil on top, I covered the bowl with a clean, damp tea towel. The dough wouldn't need more than an hour to rise, and less to bake. If I baked the buns in muffin tins, they'd be uniform little puffs, perfect for slicing and throwing a slider into.

In the name of saving time later, I decided to cook the small patties now. I could keep them in the warmer and assemble the sliders right before the guests arrived. Which was supposed to be when? I glanced at the poster that Corrine's flunky—I mean, intern—had taped to the wall, and groaned. In three hours is when. Nothing for it but to knuckle down, even though what I longed to do was return to my
Stella Murder
puzzle and see what else I could figure out. Instead, I switched on the opera, jacked up the volume, and began to roll golf balls of meat between my hands, pressing them flat onto a baking sheet.

But you can't keep a puzzler's brain down on the farm for long.
Ed. Don. Roy. Corrine.
Their images popped up and down in my brain like an old-fashioned arcade game, and
Stella
was the name written in bright neon lights on top, the unifying force. Ed, who'd been friendly with her in the past, but denied it, and was now having trouble with his own restaurant on a bunch of fronts. Don, who'd tried to kill my own father—with Stella looking on. The same Don, now arrested for the murder he claimed he didn't commit. Corrine, who owned guns. Corrine, who'd been investigated for killing her own husband and admitted to hating her difficult administrative assistant. And Roy. Was he off-balance enough to shoot his own mother? Why, to get her house? And if it was he who shot at me in the alley, why in the world? Did he really think knocking me off would finally get him my store? There was no way he'd be able to organize himself to run a place like this, I was pretty sure, unless he wanted to turn it into a gun shop or something.

When the timer for the rising bread dinged, I was almost surprised to see six dozen puffy round burgers resting lightly grilled on pans—three dozen of beef, three dozen of ground turkey, each no more than two inches in diameter. I didn't think my mind had produced anywhere near what my hands had during the same time. No clear answers came through. So I covered the pans of patties with foil and slid them into the warmer on its lowest temperature. Hot enough to fend off salmonella, low enough not to toughen them.

So my hands now fell to oiling six vintage muffin tins, their metal blackened by decades, perhaps centuries, of women wiping butter or lard around the insides of the cups and then baking mini spice cakes, savory corn muffins, delectable cream puffs, sweet blueberry muffins, decadent chocolate cupcakes. And today I'd follow in their hallowed footsteps by adding to the patina with yeasted slider buns. A couple of the pans featured different designs pressed into the metal of the cup bottoms: a star, a swirl, curvy lines, concentric circles.

I plucked off golf balls of dough and pressed each into its indentation in the pan, flattening the orb with the backs of my fingers. I'd just finished the last pan, miraculously coming out even with dough and cups, when the bell jangled. I looked up with a start, then relaxed.

“Welcome to the crazy house,” I called to Jim. “Is it already five?”

In a sky-blue T-shirt and faded jeans, he looked as delicious as the rising buns, but he was obviously prepared for the evening's activities, too, since he carried slacks folded on a hanger, with a black dress shirt draped over the top.

“Hear ye, hear ye. Let the record show it is five o'clock in the court. All rise. Ms. Jordan, what do you have to say in your defense?”

I laughed louder than I'd laughed in what seemed like months. “Mr. Lawyer, sir, I plead guilty to being hoodwinked and cajoled into hosting a community fund-raiser for which I am little prepared. Sir.”

He hung his hanger over a hook on the coatrack, aiming a mock frown in my direction. “Be forewarned, Ms. Jordan. You are in for a severe disciplinary action.” In four long strides he enveloped me in his arms.

I looked up into those emerald eyes and attacked him with a hungry kiss. We only surfaced when my phone set up a racket of ringing, amplified by the stainless-steel counter it rested on. I extricated myself, heart racing with lust, and reached behind him to answer it. I kept my gaze on his flushed cheeks and now tousled hair. He leaned back against the counter with a sexy smile and folded his arms.

I greeted Corrine. “Yep. The food is all set, and we're just about to arrange the space.”

“The lieutenant governor is a old friend of mine. She's going to stop by during the evening, so I've alerted the press,” Corrine said.

I whistled. “You have connections.”

“That I do. The drinks should be there any minute. Danna's going to help out, should be there by six-thirty. Anything else you need?”

“Who's bringing paperware? You know, cups, napkins, that kind of thing? And what about nonalcoholic drinks?”

“All covered. I ordered bottles of sweet tea and water. Gotta run, hon.” With that, she disconnected.

I stared at the phone in hand.

“What was that all about?” Jim asked.

“Oh, only Corrine bringing an old friend from Indy. Who happens to be the lieutenant governor.” I shook my head. “And the press, whoever that means. What do you think, the
Sentinel,
the
Democrat,
the
Indianapolis Star,
or the
New York Times
? That woman is a force of nature.”

“Oh, yeah. That's putting it mildly. Now, what do we have to do here?”

By the time the drink truck arrived, Jim and I had pushed all the tables to the periphery, stacking the larger ones double high in the corner to make more room. The smaller tables we arranged with chairs around them, and lined the rest of the chairs around the walls. We placed one long table in front of the drinks cooler so guests wouldn't feel they could help themselves to my inventory. Another table we arranged catty-corner for the food, and a third on the opposite side of the room for the silent-auction items. I laid my blue-and-white paper tablecloths on all three.

But the truck came late. It was already six and I hadn't started heating up anything besides baking the buns. When the timer rang, I pulled the rolls out of the big oven, and they looked awesome, all lightly browned and puffy. I set them on cooling racks as Jim helped the delivery guy haul in cases of beer, nonalcoholic drinks, and a dozen boxes of wine.

“How you doing?” I asked the burly man, whose thinning blond hair was pulled back into a skinny ponytail at the nape of his neck.

“A-l-l r-ight,”
he drew out into near about five lazy syllables. “Smells good in here,” he drawled with a smile.

I handed him a hot roll in a paper napkin and thanked him. “We need to keep the cold drinks cold,” I said to Jim after the man left, setting my hands on my hips. “Red wine's the only thing doesn't have to be served chilled.”

Jim fell to lining up boxes of Nashville Vintner's red on the far end of the drinks table, digging out the spigot on the first two. “Ice?” he asked, without looking up.

I snapped my fingers and strode to the shed out back, returning with a big old shallow galvanized-steel tub. “This'll be just the ticket.” I dusted it off, set it on the table, then started bringing big scoops of ice from the ice bin until it was half full.

When I began opening cases of beer, Jim elbowed me aside. “You must have cooking to do. Let me do this. And I'm assuming you're going to change, too? Not that you don't look great just like you are.”

“Huh.” I looked down at my black T-shirt and jeans, which I'd been working in all day. “No kidding. Back in a flash.” I hurried to my apartment, splashed water on my face, and peered into my closet. Where was my personal dresser when I needed one? Finally I grabbed a cap-sleeved black jersey dress I knew flattered my curves, pulled on black tights, added a chunky necklace in the colors of the rainbow with matching earrings, slid on a half-dozen silver bracelets, and ran a brush through my hair. I was cooking, so I couldn't wear it long. Instead, I twisted it up in a knot, securing it with a multicolored clip, and slipped on black ankle boots with heels.

Almost through the door to the restaurant, I heard a plaintive meow. “Oh, poor kitty cat. I have been neglecting you something fierce.” I bent to stroke Birdy, then made sure his food and water dishes were full and fresh before I headed back to the event at hand.

Jim emerged from the restroom, all spruced up, too, in his gray slacks and black shirt, his hair tamed with water and fingers, I wagered. I glanced at his feet, which were clad in the same running shoes he'd worn with his jeans.

“Nice choice of footwear, Counselor.”

“Forgot my dress shoes. Hey, people know me. It's not a job interview, then, is it?” He laughed. “You look awful nice, Robbie.”

I twirled for him and struck a model pose for a second.

“Got an apron I can wear to complete my outfit?” he asked.

I threw him a clean one and pulled one on myself. I glanced at the wall clock as I crossed the apron strings behind my back and tied them in the front.

“Help me out?” Jim was struggling to tie his apron in back. “I'm terrible when I can't see what I'm doing.”

“You're funny.” I moved behind him and took the ties in my hands. I resisted the sudden urge to pull him close to me, ignored the imperative to press my body against his and wrap my arms around him. He smelled alluring up close, and the smooth black cloth of his shirt would have made a silky pillow for my cheek. Instead, I tied a bow and gave him a little pat on the fanny.

“Let's get this show on the road,” I declared. “Folks are going to be here in half an hour.”

“Or sooner.” He pointed at the door, which opened to Corrine, Danna, and Turner, the intern, the last two with arms full of bags and boxes.

“Isn't this just a thrill?” Resplendent in a V-necked black dress with sliced sleeves above four-inch red-and-white Manolo Blahniks, Corrine waved as she sailed toward us. So far, it looked like we were all complying with a black-clothing dress code.

Danna, wearing a turquoise long-sleeved top and print peasant skirt over flat leather boots, only rolled her eyes.
So much for the dress code
. “Where do you want the plates and all?” she asked. She'd wrapped her dreads with a turquoise band into a long flow down her back.

“You can put plates and napkins on the food table and cups where the drinks are going,” I told her as I indicated the tables I meant. “I thought we'd put silent-auction items over there,” I told Corrine, pointing at the far table.