Killer Gourmet (3 page)

Dirk thought it over for a long time. Then his face fell, his entire mood deflating to match hers. “You're right,” he said. “It would've been amazing. Damn.”

Yes,
Savannah thought, he's got it. He understands now.

She turned on her heel and marched back around the building toward the street. Dirk trudged along behind her, muttering to himself. It was something about “life opportunities wasted” and “never to return again.”

Finally,
she thought,
he feels just as rotten and disappointed as I do. Mission accomplished.

 

“You don't really think this is
all
my fault, do you?” Dirk asked Savannah as they walked up the sidewalk to the quaint little Spanish-style house that had been Savannah's home for years and Dirk's a matter of months.

Deciding he had suffered long enough, she laced her arm through his and gave it a companionable squeeze. “No, of course not. It was those scuzballs' fault. And if you'd busted them all by yourself, and I hadn't gotten a piece of it, I'd be a lot more bitter about that than I am over a lost tart.”

“Then why did you say it was all my fault earlier?”

She giggled. “A gal's gotta blame some stuff on her husband. There's only so much crap that you can blame on the government.”

He laughed with her, leaned over, and kissed the top of her gray wig. “That's true,” he said. “But that should apply to husbands, too, and not just wives. The next thing that goes wrong around here, it's going to be either your fault or the governor's.”

As Savannah passed beneath the lush arbor of crimson bougainvillea that arched over her front door, she glanced at the front window, instinctively knowing what she would see there.

Two black, matching silhouettes that were always visible when she returned home. Waiting, watching, eager for “Mom” to arrive.

Her pair of ebony fur-babies, her favorite felines in the world, Diamante and Cleopatra.

Before her marriage to Dirk these two had been her nearest and dearest family members. Together, they now held second place, but they didn't appear to mind their demotion. It meant having Dirk around all the time instead of once in a while. And that translated into extra treats and almost endless petting.

Dirk was one of those men who actually loved cats. So the girls hadn't found it all that difficult to train “Dad” in the finer points of kitty spoiling.

“Aw, look. How cute.” He pointed to the window. “The kids are waiting for us.”

“Of course they are,” Savannah replied. “It's past their dinnertime. We'll be lucky if the beasts don't gnaw our feet off the moment we get inside.”

Just as Savannah was sliding her key into the front door lock, she heard her next-door neighbor's door open and slam shut.

Then there was a scurrying of feet along the sidewalk, and a shout. “Hey! Savannah, Dirk. Wait a minute. I've got something for you.”

Savannah sighed and steeled herself. It was Mrs. Normandy, her nosy, intrusive neighbor with the lousy sense of timing. The dear lady had an uncanny ability to schedule her impromptu and unannounced visits at the most inconvenient times.

It wasn't that Savannah didn't like her neighbor. She truly believed that Mrs. Normandy had a good heart and meant well. But she always seemed to time her visits when Savannah was the most exhausted and wanted nothing more than a hot bubble bath, some sort of soothing beverage, and a bite of chocolate.

Pasting her best fake smile on her face, Savannah turned to greet the woman. “Aw, Mrs. Normandy, how lovely to see you, bless your heart. And at such a late hour. I'd have thought you'd be snug as a bug in a rug, snoozing away in your bed by now.”

“I should be asleep at this hour,” Mrs. Normandy said with a huff and a puff as she made her way up the few steps to the porch. “It's long past my bedtime for sure. But I made a promise that as soon as you two got home I'd bring this over and put it right in your hands.”

She held out a lovely wicker basket that was covered with a fine linen napkin. One corner of the cloth was embroidered with an elegant, scrolled
S
.

Recognizing both the basket and the cloth, Savannah felt her heart leap with joy. “Oh, you dear, precious lady,” she said as she took the basket from her neighbor and clutched it to her chest. “You have no idea how grateful I am at this moment.”

With eyes that were pretty sharp for a woman older than ninety, Mrs. Normandy looked Savannah over from head to toe, then scrutinized Dirk in the same manner. She lifted her right eyebrow, and one side of her lip curled a bit as she took in the gray wig and ratty clothes.

When Mrs. Normandy had first moved in years ago she had frequently questioned the fact that, from time to time, Savannah left home and returned wearing unconventional clothing. Tattered homeless-lady outfits. Garish hooker garb. Once in a while she even covered her hair with a baseball cap and dressed like a man.

On numerous occasions Savannah had attempted to explain the concept of undercover attire to her curious neighbor. Mrs. Normandy had failed to grasp the idea, and Savannah had given up trying to enlighten her. She suspected that the elderly lady somewhat enjoyed having eccentrics for neighbors. It added a bit of color to her otherwise mundane life.

“Thank you, Mrs. Normandy,” Dirk said. “We really appreciate your staying up late just to give that to us.”

Offering him a coquettish grin, the lady tossed her head and said, “Oh, I don't mind. I'd do about anything for one of San Carmelita's finest. I always did like a man in uniform.”

Savannah stifled a chuckle. Cop groupies, they were everywhere. They came in all shapes, sizes . . . and apparently, all ages.

Dirk cleared his throat and gave her one of his most flirtatious smiles and a quick wink. “Serve and protect, ma'am,” he said as he opened the door and ushered Savannah and the basket inside. “Serve and protect. If you need anything, you just give us a ring, and I'll be right over.”

Mrs. Normandy giggled as she minced off the porch and back down the stairs. “Oh, I will,” she said. “I most certainly will.”

Savannah shook her head as she entered the foyer and tossed her purse onto Granny's heirloom piecrust table. “You shouldn't have said that,” she told Dirk as he took off his shoulder holster and placed it and his Smith & Wesson on the top shelf of the coat closet. “Now you'll never get rid of her. She's going to be like a sticker burr on the back of your trousers.”

“Ah, I don't mind,” he replied. “She's still way nicer than any of my neighbors in the trailer park. They never would've stayed up late to bring me a basket with goodies in it. I'd have been lucky to find a Tupperware container on the ground next to my door with a few crumbs left inside.”

Savannah headed through the living room toward the kitchen, eager to turn on some lights and see the basket's contents. But suddenly, she found it difficult to walk. Two black cats, tracing figure eights between her ankles in a dark room, turned a simple task into a treacherous obstacle course.

“Di, Cleo, I swear one of these days I'm going to step on you and squash you flatter than a flitter. And when I do, don't you come running to me, howling about it, 'cause it'll be your own fault.”

Dirk hurried ahead of her and flipped on the kitchen light.

“Come on, girls,” he told the cats as he opened an overhead cupboard, took out some cat food, and began to fill their empty dishes. “Don't pay any attention to your cranky momma. She missed her gourmet dinner. She's never going to get over it, and we'll be hearing about it for the rest of our lives.”

Their mistress utterly forgotten and abandoned, they ran to him, purring like a couple of cheap, twenty-five-cent motel bed vibrators, and buried their faces in the bowls.

But Savannah took no offense, because she was likewise distracted. Placing the basket on the counter, she slowly peeled back the linen napkin as she savored the anticipation.

More than once in the course of their relationship, Ryan and John had left a basket such as this on her front porch. And it had always contained something delectable—something that, at least temporarily, made life delicious and well worth living.

Unfortunately, the last time they had left a batch of butter rum muffins beside her door, a family of raccoons had discovered them first. Upon arriving home Savannah had wept to see the carnage of what would have been a purely orgasmic weekend breakfast.

No doubt that was the reason they had chosen to leave this offering with her neighbor.

“Well, what is it?” Dirk asked as he made his way to the refrigerator to get his cold, I'm-finally-off-duty beer.

The napkin removed, Savannah looked inside. And what she saw, nestled there against yet another snowy white napkin, was enough to buttress her belief in a benevolent higher power.

There was a God. And, at least for tonight, she appeared to be on His good side.

Granny was right—one good turn deserves another. And as far as Savannah was concerned, she had just been celestially rewarded in a mighty way.

“It's a big ol' raspberry tart,” she told Dirk as he peered over her shoulder, trying to see the bounty. “And a jar of Chambord sauce and another one of Chantilly cream.”

He leaned down and began to nuzzle her neck, his warm breath giving her delightful little shivers.

“Does this mean I'm out of the doghouse?” he asked, nibbling her earlobe. “Off the hook, back in your good graces, and all that stuff?”

She turned, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pulled his body tight against hers. With her deepest, most sultry Southern drawl, she whispered, “Well now, that remains to be seen. It all depends. . . .”

He gave her a throaty chuckle. “Um-m-m. On what?”

“On how creative you can get with a jar of Chantilly cream.”

“I
'm so excited, I'm just about to pee my pants!”

Savannah looked at the young woman sitting across the table from her and decided that her friend Tammy Hart was telling the truth. Tammy might be the quintessential blond, svelte, golden-tanned California beauty, but she had a problem holding her water, and she was almost always excited about something. So this sort of declaration was nothing out of the ordinary, and Savannah wasn't worried.

But sitting beside the squirming, effervescent Tammy was Waycross Reid, Savannah's younger brother. And it was pretty obvious by the red flush on his freckled cheeks that he wasn't accustomed to such earthy candor—at least, not on the part of females. Recently, he had immigrated to San Carmelita from a small, conservative, rural town in Georgia, and he still got embarrassed easily. One mention of any basic bodily function in mixed company and his face would turn the same color as his ginger mop of curls.

Savannah found it one of his most endearing qualities. As far as she was concerned, the ability to blush was a virtue all too rare in modern society.

“How about you?” Savannah asked him.

“Naw. I took care of business before we left the house.”

Savannah laughed. “I was asking if you're excited.”

“Oh. Well, sure. Who wouldn't be?” he replied, rearranging the napkin on his lap for the tenth time.

Waycross was always a bit uneasy at gatherings of any kind. Thus far, his life hadn't included very many formal, or even informal, social events—except high school football games and their hometown's annual barbecue cook-off.

While Savannah had enjoyed those activities herself in days gone by and missed them from time to time, she was glad to see her little brother branching out a bit. It was good for him.

She took a quick glance around the packed restaurant. Every seat was filled and waiters scurried from table to table, taking orders. Meanwhile, Ryan and John moved calmly and with great poise among their guests—ever the charming hosts.

As Savannah soaked in the ambiance, she took a moment to enjoy the room itself. She could see both of her friends' tastes reflected in its décor.

John's love of the old British gentlemen's clubs showed in the reclaimed, antique brick walls; the enormous gilt-framed mirrors; and the leather club chairs with their nailhead trim that had been placed invitingly in front of the lit fireplace in the waiting area. Like Ryan's and John's home, there were bookshelves everywhere, lined with beautiful old books and interesting artifacts they had collected from their world travels.

She could see Ryan's contemporary touches here and there, as well. She was sure he had chosen the amazing water feature behind the bar. It was a large, continuous slab of exquisite green slate, lit from above, with water cascading over its surface downward into a line of flickering flame.

To Savannah, just being here, inside the physical manifestation of their combined dreams, felt like being hugged by both of those glorious men at once. And she reveled in the warm and loving sensation that evoked.

Then, to think that she was actually going to get to eat the famous Chef Baldwin Norwood's scrumptious food in this magnificent setting . . . it was almost more than she could stand.

But she wasn't the only one thinking about food.

Waycross leaned closer to her and said, “If this supper's even half as good as that tasting thingamajig the other night, we're about to be treated to a humdinger of a spread.”

Sitting beside Savannah, Dirk grumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?”

Savannah was almost afraid to ask. Dirk wasn't shy about making inappropriate comments, and the ones he mumbled to himself were often the worst.

“I just said we wouldn't know about that tasting thingamajig, 'cause we were protecting and serving and all that good stuff.”

Tammy gave him and Savannah her most sympathetic smile. “And we're so proud of you for it, too,” she gushed. “You got those horrible people off the streets, and I'm sure you saved lives. The way they were going, sooner or later, they would have killed somebody.”

“Thank you, sugar,” Savannah replied. “But tonight, it's Ryan and John we're proud of. Just look at this place. Look at this crowd! Everybody who's anybody is here for this opening.”

It was quite true that the beautiful and the famous had come to celebrate Ryan's and John's dream come true.

Everywhere Savannah looked, she saw celebrities: well-known actors, directors, and producers from the television and film industries ; media moguls; titans of industry; sports figures; stars of the music world; respected journalists; and powerful politicians galore.

Then there was their little table. Peopled with nobodies.

The Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency in all its lackluster “glory.”

Frequently, Savannah felt outclassed when attending a function hosted by Ryan and John, although her longtime friends did everything they could to make her feel comfortable. Years ago, after a stint in the FBI, the twosome had become high-priced bodyguards for those who could afford only the best personal protection. She could hardly hold it against them that they traveled in A-list circles.

Due to the amiability of the pair, many of their clients had become close friends. Tonight that impressive, if eclectic, group had assembled here in this one exquisite setting to enjoy the fruits of their friends' labors.

The promise of eating food prepared by a world-class chef didn't exactly hurt either. Judging from the smiling faces and the sound of laughter and excited chatter, the crowd was looking forward to an awe-inspiring culinary experience.

As Ryan made a circuit around the room, meeting and greeting, he spotted Savannah and her gang and headed straight for their table. Bending from the waist like a Renaissance courtier, he kissed Savannah's hand and set her heart atwitter. Many times she had thought Ryan Stone would look tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome in a barrel—or in her more exotic fantasies, a loincloth. But tonight, wearing an Armani tux, he was positively delicious.

Now that she was a married woman, she tried not to think about how delectable Ryan Stone was with his bright green eyes, black hair, perfect bronze tan, and the musculature that would make a bodybuilder proud.

She was pretty sure that Dirk had included “Lusting After Stone” as a “Don't” in the fine print list of “Do's and Don'ts” on the back of their wedding certificate.

Not that Dirk was jealous or anything. Heavens, no. So what if a man's wife was dear friends with a walking, talking, just-fell-from-the-heavens Adonis? What guy would get his boxers in a bunch over a little thing like that?

“I'm so happy you were able to join us tonight, Savannah,” Ryan said, his voice soft and rich as fine, claret velvet. He turned to Dirk, and with a tad less velvet in his tone he added, “And you, too, buddy. So glad you could make it.”

Ryan leaned over and planted a kiss on the top of Tammy's glossy, golden head. She wriggled with delight—or maybe because she still needed to pee; Savannah wasn't sure which. Tammy's wriggles were frequent and pretty much all the same.

As Ryan shook hands with Waycross, she heard the subtle tinkling sound of a cell phone. Ryan reached into his jacket pocket, and as he took out his phone, he said to them at the table, “Forgive me. Apparently, we have another issue of some sort brewing in the kitchen.”

His eyes scanned the text message, and he frowned. “Oh, man. This new chef and his team. . . .” He shook his head wearily. “I'm starting to wonder if we made the right choice. His food is amazing, but his personality sure leaves something to be desired.”

“He's a horse's patootie?” Savannah offered.

“Precisely.” Ryan stuck the phone back in his pocket and sighed. “I'll have to get back to you. Enjoy yourselves. This table's meals are on the house tonight, and I want you to sample as many dishes as you possibly can so that we can get a full report later.”

They watched Ryan rush to a set of double swinging doors at the back of the dining room and disappear into the kitchen.

Dirk said, “Let's see now . . . sample as many dishes as we possibly can. Hmmm. That's an offer I certainly won't refuse.” Picking up the menu, he gave it a quick scan and added, “Not that I can tell what any of this stuff is. What the hell is Crayfish Vol-Au-Vent?”

“Fancy puff pastry with crawdaddies inside. You'll like it,” Savannah told him.

Dirk looked doubtful. “Crawdads. I don't think so. Aren't those like a poor man's lobster, and they look like big, nasty bugs?”

Tammy laughed. “So do shrimp, but you devour them any time you get your hands on—”

A loud racket suddenly erupted from the kitchen. Metal clanging. Breaking glass. Shouts of anger and alarm.

The entire room hushed as the diners turned toward the double doors in the rear of the room, their eyes wide, mouths open.

Savannah glanced toward the bar area, where John stood, a champagne bucket in his hands. The usually calm, collected, and debonair Brit raised one eyebrow, cleared his throat, and set the bucket on the bar.

As he hurried toward the back of the room, Savannah saw him run his fingers through his thick silver hair and lightly tweak the right corner of his lush mustache. Savannah knew him all too well. And for her, those simple gestures said it all: John Gibson was alarmed. In fact, he was nothing more or less than horrified.

“Whoa,” Waycross said under his breath. “Sounds like a major fracas goin' down in there. Reckon we oughta go lend a hand?”

Savannah was already half out of her chair. “Yep, I reckon so. But just Dirk and me. Less of a stampede that way. You kids cool your heels and wait here at the table.”

Savannah and Dirk were about halfway across the dining room when another enormous crash resounded throughout the building. Several of the guests rose to their feet, and a couple of ladies cried out in alarm.

Savannah held up her hands, fingers spread as though directing traffic. And in her best authoritative cop voice she said, “Now, now, don't y'all trouble your heads about a thing. Just relax and talk amongst yourselves. Drink some wine, swig some beer, down your cocktail, and relax. Your dinner's on its way.”

Her admonition seemed to have a calming effect on the crowd, at least for the moment. They retook their seats, buried their noses in their beverage glasses, and resumed their conversations, though the tone of the place was certainly more animated than before.

Savannah wished she could heed her own advice and calm down. But as she neared the doors, the shouts from inside the kitchen only seemed to be escalating. Fast.

Dirk was the first one to burst through the doors. Immediately, he had to duck to avoid being hit in the head by a flying saucepan.

“Get out! Get out! Get out!” roared a deep, male voice. “I will not work this way! I told you, ‘No one is allowed in my kitchen except my team. No one! Ever! No exceptions!' ”

Savannah hurried into the room after Dirk, fully prepared to avoid any cooking utensils hurled in her direction. Her eyes scanned the chaotic scene, trying to make sense of the situation.

A woman wearing a white uniform jacket with red cuffs was squatting behind the counter—obviously taking cover.

A couple of male workers with stained aprons and terrified looks on their faces crouched beside some vegetable crates next to the rear door that opened onto the alleyway.

On the opposite side of the kitchen, near the stove, stood Ryan and John. They appeared to be in a face-off with an enormous hulk of a fellow, dressed in what even Savannah recognized as a chef's uniform—a white double-breasted jacket with black buttons and black piping. His long, curly silver hair was pulled back into a ponytail and his head was covered with a toque, the traditional hat worn by chefs the world over for hundreds of years.

Although Ryan Stone was exceptionally tall, this man was even taller. Savannah guessed Chef Baldwin Norwood must be six foot six or seven, weighing in at a tidy 350 plus pounds. His round face was flushed an alarming shade of crimson.

The last time Savannah had seen someone whose face was so red, that person had fallen at her feet a moment later, dead from a heart attack. She wouldn't have been surprised if the chef had suffered the same fate there on the spot in front of them all.

Granny Reid would have described his condition as “pitching a conniption fit.”

In spite of the fact that the chef had an enormous knife in his hand, Ryan stepped closer to him, until the two men were nearly nose to nose.

“Chef Norwood, we must ask you to gain control of yourself immediately,” Ryan said in a calm, but stern, voice. “We won't have you endangering the staff and upsetting our guests.”

“Then get out of my kitchen and stay out!” Norwood shouted.

In an instant John had slipped beside Norwood and wrenched the knife from his hand. The chef howled from pain as his wrist was twisted.

He raised his fist and shook it in Ryan's face. “And now you attack me? You injure me? I'm just about to leave this establishment and take my team with me. Let's see how you do then! I will not tolerate any form of disrespect in my own kitchen!”

“May I remind you, sir,” John said in his thick, aristocratic British accent, “this kitchen belongs to my partner and me. We are the employers and you, for all your expertise and grand reputation, are the employee. You will not resort to violence in this place, or you will be arrested. Do you understand, sir?”

Norwood gave a derisive snort and lifted his chin. “You're going to tell me how to run a kitchen? You two have been in the restaurant business, what, thirty minutes? And
you're
going to lay down the law to
me?
”