Liver Let Die (5 page)

Lola Van Horn was the local psychic and tarot card reader who lived next door to Ray and shared more than a cup of sugar with him. “Ain’t that the truth?” She lowered her eyes, the pink flush spreading across her cheeks.

“Criminy!” Victor said. “Can you two make it through dinner?”

Ray laughed and gave his lady an adoring smile. In her seventies with blackish red hair one shade shy of maroon, Lola smiled back, licking her plumped-up, flaming, red lips. A freebie from a plastic surgeon who couldn’t make it through the week without one and sometimes two tarot readings.

“Come on, I’m starving. Jordan can tell us about last night while we eat,” Michael Cafferty said.

Rosie stood, still grinning. “I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall to watch you cram that mess into the tiny purse in the middle of that fancy-schmantzy restaurant. Bet you got a lot of strange looks.”

“Nobody saw me do it, except the waiter. That’s why he sent me home with an extra piece of cake.” Jordan giggled, suddenly remembering her goldfish and the rhinestones. “When I was cleaning your purse, several crystals dropped out. I put them in Maggie’s bowl for safekeeping. You’d think I had given her chocolate the way she swims around them. I meant to bring them tonight but forgot. After we eat, I’ll run over and get them.”

“Sweetie, crystals went out of style two or three years ago. I’m into turquoise and big colorful stones now. Let Maggie enjoy them.” She headed for the kitchen with Lola following close behind.

Jordan leaned back in the chair and glanced around the table. Michael and Victor were bickering back and forth, totally oblivious to the others in the room. Michael was the local DJ at Ranchero’s only radio station, and Victor had just opened an antiques shop downtown. They’d pooled their money and bought the apartment building a year ago, sinking every available penny they had into renovations. Empire Apartments had come a long way but still needed a lot of work. Apparently, something Michael said on the air about Victor’s frivolous spending habits wasn’t sitting well with his partner.

Ray, retired from the police force for several years, doubled as the maintenance man for the apartments and cooked a mean pumpkin pie. Despite his age, he looked like he could still take on a bad guy or two and come out on top. Religiously working out several times a week at the local gym with a couple of retired cops, he would roll up his sleeves when prompted and show off his “lethal guns.” As a widower with no children of his own, he had taken Jordan under his wing that first day, and God help anyone who messed with her.

These people had adopted Jordan from the start and still doted on her. Friday nights were potluck get-togethers at Rosie’s, followed by a serious card game of Screw Your Neighbor.

Since Rosie was the only one besides Ray who could actually cook, the others brought the fixings and pitched in on the meat. Jordan always stopped at the Food Warehouse on her way home from work and picked up a ninety-ninecent loaf of hot Italian bread, which suited both her budget and her culinary skills.

“Come and get it,” Rosie hollered.

Needing no coaxing, they surged to the kitchen, where Rosie and Lola had the dishes lined up, buffet-style, on the small countertop by the stove. Like Pavlov’s dog’s, Jordan’s mouth began to water with one look at the steaming dish in the center. She’d skipped lunch to finish her copy, and other than the cake and a Ho Ho, hadn’t eaten all day.

Okay, two Ho Hos.

Grabbing a plate, she scooped up a generous portion of the casserole and a small salad before heading back to the dining room table. When they were all seated, the chatter stopped as Rosie said grace before they pigged out.

“Mmmm, this is divine! What is it?” Victor asked. “I think I’ve died and gone to the great boutique in the sky.”

Rosie smiled. “Potato Chip Chicken. It’s one of my mother’s favorites.”

“And now, one of ours,” Lola said, reaching for a second helping from the casserole dish Rosie had positioned in the middle of the table. Lola loved food and didn’t mind anyone knowing it, covering her slightly overweight body in free-flowing caftans that swished when she walked.

Jordan finished hers in record time and also reached for a little more. “You outdid yourself, Rosie.”

The older woman beamed. “Thanks, dear. Nothing I like better than sharing my food with good friends like y’all.”

“I second that about the good food and good friends,” Victor said, licking his fingers, narrowing his eyes before shooting Michael a look.

When the casserole was completely gone, Ray got up and went to the kitchen, returning with his signature Pumpkin Pie Crunch. “So, Jordan, you never finished telling us what your editor said about your review. Did he like it?”

Jordan shoved the last bite into her mouth and dabbed her lips with the paper napkin. “That’s the best part, Ray. After I told him how they fatten the ducks, he went nuts.”

“What do you mean nuts? Like ‘You’re ready for the big-time’ nuts or ‘Go back to writing personals only’ nuts?” Michael asked, cocking one eyebrow.

Jordan laughed. “Don’t get carried away. It was only one review, but I did get promoted in the process.”

“Fantastic!” Victor reached over and high-fived Jordan. “No more bologna sandwiches for you.”

She scrunched her face. “Not exactly.”

Ray set a slice of the dessert in front of her. “Not exactly what, Jordan?”

She dodged the question. “Egan is convinced the people of Ranchero will be just as upset as I was about the inhumane treatment of the ducks. He thinks I’ll touch a lot of readers with the story.”

“Oh, you definitely will,” Victor said. “I’m ready to go down to the restaurant right now and boycott.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Michael said tartly, still not ready to make nice with Victor. “So how much of a raise came with this promotion, Jordan?”

She lowered her eyes. This was going to sound way worse than it really was. “Egan can’t afford to up my salary as long as he’s still paying the woman who used to write the column.”

“What?” Victor exclaimed. “Honey, I’m not trying to tell you how to run your life, but is this what you really want to do? Work harder for less pay?”

“Oh, leave her alone,” Lola said, coming to her defense. “This job obviously means a lot to our girl if she’s willing to do that. We need to be supportive.” She paused. “Besides, Jordan loves bologna.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be writing two columns a week now instead of just one.”

“Honey, that’s terrific,” Ray said. “Why the sour puss?”

Jordan thought about denying she was worried, then decided these people knew her better than any of her co-workers who were by her side forty hours a week. “I have to post recipes and write about fancy food.”

“So?” Ray shrugged. “How difficult can that be?”

“Hello. Remember me—the queen of the ‘I’ll have fries with that’ club?”

After a long pause, Michael finally verbalized what everyone else was thinking. “Yeah, that might be a problem.”

“Does Egan know you’re clueless in the kitchen?” Victor blurted, before slapping a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, Jordan. That didn’t come out right.”

“It came out perfect, Victor. I am clueless. I was so excited about seeing my name in the paper twice a week, I forgot what a fraud I really am.”

“First off, you’re not a fraud. You’re one of the most genuine people I know. Besides, I think I have the perfect solution,” Rosie said as all eyes turned her way.

“What do I love to do best besides making jewelry?” she asked. When nobody responded, she threw her arms in the air. “Cooking, you ninnies. I love to cook.”

“How’s that going to help Jordan?” Lola asked, her face showing her confusion.

Rosie leaned across the table toward Jordan. “What if you printed some of my recipes in your column?”

Jordan reached over and patted the older woman’s hand. “You are such a sweetheart, Rosie, but as much as I love your food, I can’t use it. Egan specifically mentioned fancy recipes.”

“Okay, back to square one,” Ray said. “Get your brains in gear, you guys. We’ve got to help our girl out.”

“I got it!” Victor leaped from his chair with enough force to send it backward. Michael caught it just before it crashed to the carpet. “Budin de Papitas Fritas con Pollo.” With all eyes looking at him as if he were on drugs, he added, “Potato Chip Chicken, an old-world recipe my grandmother brought over from Spain.” He winked at Jordan. “Nobody has to know my grandmother came from a little village outside Mexico City. It’s perfect.”

Jordan barely had time to think about it before her friends erupted with glee.

“That’s freakin’ brilliant, Victor, putting a fancy name to Rosie’s masterpiece,” Ray said. “What do you think, kiddo?”

Jordan rubbed her forehead, her eyes moving around the table from one friend to another. They were all smiling as if the Cowboys had just won the Super Bowl. Maybe it could work.

“Budin de Papitas Fritas con Pollo. I like it!”

“Problem solved,” Rosie said. “Now help me clear the table and let’s get on with the card game. I have a fistful of pennies, and I’m feeling lucky. Let’s see who’s gonna get screwed tonight.”

By the time the party broke up and Jordan returned to her apartment, she was twenty-two cents richer but exhausted. She decided she’d stay in bed until lunchtime tomorrow, errands or not. Another piece of Chocolate Decadence Cake to eat in bed in the morning would have made it perfect. She’d have to make do with a bagel.

On the way to the bedroom, she pulled the cell phone from her back pocket, surprised to see a voice message. No one ever called but her mother, and she’d already talked to her today. Listening to the playback, she was surprised to hear J. T.’s voice. She hadn’t expected him to move so fast. Most guys went all macho and played the make-the-girlwait game before the first few dates.

“Jordan, it’s J. T. I’m at work now, but I have to talk to you. It’s really important. I get off at ten, and unless you call back and tell me no, I’m heading your way.” There was a pause. “Jordan, I really need to talk to you tonight.”

How easy did he think she was? Did he seriously think an extra piece of cake entitled him to a late-night booty call? Did his mother never tell him girls liked dinner and a movie first?

She glanced at the clock over the couch. Ten fifteen. He should be there any minute. She’d let him know, in no uncertain terms, she was not the kind of girl he expected—or hoped for. Brad Pitt eyes or not, he’d have to at least feed her first.

She sprawled on the couch to wait and quickly fell asleep, dreaming of ducks with tubes down their throats. The machine feeding them made a rip-roaring noise as it pumped down the corn.

“Police, open up.”

What were the police doing in her dream? When the pounding grew louder, she sprang from the couch. This wasn’t a dream. Someone was banging on her door.

She made her way over to peek through the peephole. It really was the police.

“You have ID?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive. A while back, she’d seen a TV show where a rapist had used phony police identification to gain access.

The officer pulled a badge and ID card from his chest pocket and held it up to the small opening. It looked genuine.

Slowly, she opened the door, keeping the chain intact. “What do you want?”

The cop was short and a little on the stocky side, not much older than her. “We need to talk to you.”

A taller man about the same age emerged from the shadows, and Jordan jumped back in surprise, stifling a scream.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you. We just need to ask a few questions.”

She slid the chain latch and slowly opened the door. “What’s this about? What time is it, anyway?”

“A little after one in the morning, ma’am,” the short one said. “I’m Sergeant Calhoun and my partner here is Officer Rutherford. Do you know a gentleman named Jason Spencer?”

She thought for a moment. “No.”

Both men eyed her suspiciously. “You’re sure about that?”

“Positive. Why would you think I know him?”

“He had your name and phone number in his pocket,” Rutherford said.

She thought harder. “I really have no idea who the man is, Officers. Maybe he was making a delivery or something.”

Calhoun smirked. “At midnight?”

She was positive she didn’t like what he was insinuating. “Look, I had a late night and I have a busy day tomorrow. So, if there are no further questions, I’d like to catch a few more hours sleep before my alarm goes off,” she lied.

“Late night? Where were you?”

Jordan’s annoyance level rose, but it didn’t require an advanced degree to know getting cranky with the local cops wasn’t smart. She’d probably get a speeding ticket every day from now until next Christmas. “I played cards with my neighbors until after ten.”

“Then what?”

“Okay, I’m trying to be cooperative here, but you’re going to have to tell me why you’re asking all these questions—at two in the morning.”

“Jason Spencer was found stabbed to death under the staircase outside your door on the first floor of this building tonight. It’s a pretty big coincidence he had your name and phone number in his pocket, don’t ya think?”

She gasped, ignoring the sarcasm. “Someone was murdered in this building?”

“Yes, ma’am, and he had your information on his person.”

“Look, I’m telling you I have no idea who this man is.”

Calhoun reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a Polaroid. When he handed it to Jordan, she caught her breath. She’d never seen a dead man before, and if she were lucky, she’d never see another. The camera had caught rivulets of dark blood spreading over the concrete floor next to the young man. A closer look showed his eyes fixed in the same grotesque stare of death she’d often seen on cop shows.

“Ohmygod!” She dropped the picture and stepped back.

It was J. T.

CHAPTER 4