Liver Let Die (10 page)

Flipping back to her homepage, she Googled the McKinley white pages, hoping to find only one or two Prescotts listed. No such luck: there were six. Glancing at her watch, she decided it might be easier to catch Brittney at school to see if she would answer questions.

Grabbing her keys and her notebook, she left the apartment, making sure the door was locked behind her. Momentarily, she contemplated rigging a device to let her know if someone entered while she was gone. That was before she realized she had no idea how to do that and would probably scare herself silly when she returned home.

McKinley was a small town about forty miles south of Ranchero, and the high school was a sixty-minute drive from Empire Apartments. She stopped at Sonic for a cherry limeade, adding an order of fries to munch on until the high school let out for the day.

By the time she pulled into a visitor’s space in front of the entrance, the mass of teenagers held too long behind closed doors streamed from the building toward the students’ parking lot. Jordan knew if she missed catching Brittney on campus, she’d have to call all the Prescotts in the phone book trying to find her.

She turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car, and a boy running past nearly knocked her to the ground. Regaining her balance, she made her way to the principal’s office without further incident.

“Excuse me,” she said to the office assistant. “Do you know where I might find Brittney Prescott at this time of day?”

“At cheerleading practice,” the young woman answered without turning away from a filing cabinet. “In the gym.”

When Jordan cleared her throat, the receptionist twisted around to face her, pointing to her right. “Who did you say you were?”

Jordan pulled out her
Globe
ID and showed it to the woman. “I’m here to talk to her about a story I’m doing.”

“Go that way down the hall and take the stairs to the lower level.”

Jordan thanked her and headed in that direction, dodging at least four more kids who were too busy talking to notice her in their path. She spotted Brittney the minute she walked into the gym. That old saying about standing out like a blonde in a roomful of brunettes popped into Jordan’s head. Only this time, Brittney was the only brunette in the crowd. Either there were a lot of natural blondes in McKinley or Miss Clairol was making a fortune in this town.

Jordan ambled up to the group and tapped the young girl on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” When Brittney turned to face her, she said, “I’m Jordan McAllister from the
Globe
. I’d like to talk to you about J. T. Spencer.”

Hearing his name, the young girl teared up. “I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

The sadness in her eyes showed the girl cared a great deal about J. T. “I’m not writing a story, Brittney. I met J. T. a few nights ago at the Longhorn. He was on his way to my apartment to tell me something when he was killed. I’m trying to find out what—and why me.”

When Jordan saw the surprise in the girl’s eyes, she added, “We were only friends, nothing more.”

Brittney stared for a few minutes before whispering something to the girl beside her. “Let’s go over there.” She motioned toward the bleachers. “But like I said, I don’t think I’ll be much help.”

Jordan followed her across the gymnasium and sat beside her on the shiny wooden bleachers.

“What do you want to know?”

Might as well be blunt. “A waiter at the restaurant said J. T. spoke to you several times on the phone that night. Is that right?”

Brittney lowered her head. “Yes.”

“That friend also remembered seeing J. T. really upset over whatever you talked about.”

Brittney kept her head down. “Yes,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper now.

Deciding this was like pulling teeth, Jordan jumped right to the point. “Kenneth mentioned J. T. talked to you a lot on the phone. Apparently, the night he was killed, some big guy in a Grayson County College jacket came to Longhorn Prime Rib shouting for him to leave you alone.” Jordan paused. “Were you seeing two guys at the same time, Brittney?”

The young girl finally looked up, tears rolling down her cheeks. “It wasn’t like that. I loved J. T. but not the way you think.” She took the tissue Jordan offered and blew her nose. “He was more like a brother. Ever since Eric went off to A&M, J. T. took care of me, like he’d promised.”

“Eric?”

“My brother. He and J. T. were best friends.”

Jordan remembered the picture of J. T. and the other football player from the Internet, guessing that other guy was Eric Prescott.

“So, you weren’t involved romantically with him?” Jordan knew she was crossing a line but pushed forward anyhow. “You weren’t having a lovers’ quarrel?”

“No,” Brittney said emphatically. “I’m with someone else.”

“A big guy who lettered at Grayson County College?”

The brunette nodded. “Derrick Young. He’s the quarterback.”

It was obvious this young girl was in a lot of pain over J. T.’s death, and Jordan had the sudden urge to take her into her arms. She held back. “Why would Derrick go after J. T. and tell him to back off if he knew the two of you weren’t in a romantic relationship?”

Brittney sniffed and looked away. When she turned back to Jordan, a fresh set of tears had formed and were threatening to spill. “Derrick and I had been fighting. When I told J. T., he said if I didn’t break it off with him, he’d be forced to tell my parents.”

“Tell your parents what?” Jordan interrupted.

Brittney blew out a long breath. “You have to know, Ms. McAllister, Derrick is a sweetheart. He treats me like gold most of the time.”

“What was J. T. going to tell your parents?” Jordan pressed for an answer.

Without changing expressions, Brittney pushed up the sleeve on her sweater to expose several large bruises on her upper arm in various shades of purple and yellow.

“Good heavens! Did Derrick do that to you?”

“It was my fault.” Again Brittney lowered her head. “He caught me talking to one of his football buddies, laughing over something I can’t even remember now. Derrick grabbed me and pulled me away. Called me a whore and said I had humiliated him.” She sniffed back more tears. “I wasn’t flirting, really, but I can see why he might think that.”

This time, Jordan couldn’t stop herself and took Brittney into her arms. “Of course, you weren’t,” she said, massaging the young girl’s back, knowing nothing she did would stop the agony she was going through.

“Because of me, J. T.’s dead,” Brittney managed between sobs, burrowing her head further into Jordan’s chest.

“That isn’t true,” Jordan assured her. “His death had nothing to do with you. You have to believe that.”

Jordan continued holding her until the sobs dissolved into an occasional hiccup.

Although Brittney might be right, Jordan couldn’t let her carry the guilt that she was somehow responsible for J. T.’s death.

“Right now, I don’t know why J. T. was killed, but I do know you weren’t even remotely responsible, Brittney. I’m going to find out who did this, and I promise, when I do, you’ll be the first person I call.”

As Jordan continued to hold the young girl, her mind was already racing ahead to tomorrow after work. She intended to take a short ride into Connor to see an angry young man in a letterman jacket who might very well be more than a bully who manhandled innocent girls.

The next few days seemed to fly by as Jordan prepared for the second edition of her new gig—posting fancy recipes. Budin de Papitas Fritas con Pollo, otherwise known as Potato Chip Chicken, was an instant hit with the readers, and she’d had to endure Dwayne Egan and his “told you so” attitude all day. He’d pranced around the copy room like a rooster who had just satisfied the hussy of the henhouse, as if he’d been the one to come up with the recipe idea.

Okay, maybe he deserved a little of the credit, but the Potato Chip Chicken casserole was Rosie’s baby with Grandmother Rodriguez’s so-called old-world touch.

It hadn’t taken long for the reaction to hit, turning the newsroom into a madhouse. All day Friday, calls and e-mails poured in by the dozens. Seems the good people of Ranchero had no idea fancy food could taste so good.

Jordan didn’t have the heart to tell them otherwise.

By the time she wrapped things up at the office late Friday night, she was already in a panic about the next week’s offering, hoping whatever Rosie was cooking for tonight’s potluck would be worthy of a fancy fictitious name.

This was her week to bring the salad, and after a quick trip to the grocery store, she headed home. The pent-up stress of the entire week began fading with each mile that brought her closer to friends and a relaxing night of cards.

Her visit with Derrick Young had gotten postponed, mostly because of time constraints. But that wasn’t the only reason. The more Jordan thought about the bruises on Brittney’s arm, the more she wondered if she shouldn’t take Ray with her when she talked to the quarterback.

The problem was, if it looked like a cop and talked like a cop, it probably was one, and Ray definitely fit the bill on both counts. Derrick would no doubt clam up the minute he figured it out.

She’d have to go alone, bat her eyelashes a few times, and pretend to be a newbie reporter looking for a story. Still, the thought of facing Derrick without Ray made her heart pump. She decided the meeting would have to take place with a lot of witnesses around. Out in the open with the entire team watching, the football field qualified as the perfect place.

Besides, she’d wanted to check out the Grayson County Cougars ever since Michael had gushed about how good they were. She missed football—missed sports in general—and vowed to get back into it one day.

Rosie met her at the door and pulled her in, squeezing her shoulders. “See, kiddo, even before you called today, I knew people would like your recipe.”

Jordan handed her the bag of salad with the bottle of dressing. “You mean your recipe, Rosie. And they didn’t just like it, they loved it. People who haven’t spoken to me once in the three months I’ve been at the
Globe
are now treating me like I’m the new Paula Deen.”

“I love that woman!” Michael exclaimed, coming through the door with a loaf of bread. He eyed Jordan suspiciously. “Exactly how would you know about Paula Deen?”

“Egan mentioned her this morning. Said I ought to watch her show. I quickly fired back that if he paid me a decent salary, I could afford cable.”

“What’d he say to that?” Victor asked, coming up behind Michael, suddenly drawn to the conversation.

Jordan grinned. “He decided I was doing so well, there was no need to watch Paula.”

“Ha!” Rosie said. “Sooner or later that cheapskate is gonna have to pay you what you’re worth.”

Jordan sighed. “A girl can only dream.” She turned to Victor and winked, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Ranchero apparently loved your grandmother’s recipe.” Rising on her tippy toes, she did the same to Michael.

“So, what’s for dinner, Rosie?” Michael asked, picking the slightly plump woman up and whirling her around. “It smells divine.”

“It’s a surprise. Now put me down so I can take it out of the oven before it burns.”

“Knock, knock.” Lola pushed through the door and walked in, followed by Ray and a man Jordan didn’t recognize.

“I tried a new dessert,” Ray said when everyone stared at his contribution to tonight’s dinner. “After an incredible amount of begging, Myrtle down at the coffee shop gave me her recipe for Mandarin Orange Cake. I finally had to give up the Pumpkin Pie Crunch recipe that’s been in my family for years.” He placed the cake on the counter and held up his hands. “I thought we needed a change. Hope it was worth making my dear old aunt Sally roll over in her grave. She guarded that recipe like it was for Neiman Marcus’s famous cookie.”

“It looks yummy,” Victor said, reaching in to snag a fingerful of the fluffy icing before Lola slapped his hand.

“All good things are worth waiting on, Victor.” She turned to the man who came with her and Ray. “That reminds me. I’d like to introduce y’all to my friend, Quincy Dozerly.”

“The lawyer?” Michael asked, extending his hand.

“In the flesh,” the man responded. “My friends call me Dozer.”

After shaking Victor and Michael’s hands, he stopped in front of Rosie. “My my, Lola dear. You never told me our hostess looked like an angel.”

The older woman blushed before shaking her head. “And she forgot to tell me what a silver-tongued devil you were.”

Everyone laughed, effectively erasing the awkward moment before Quincy moved to Jordan. “And here we have a younger version of an angel.” He lifted her hand to his lips.

“Cut the crap, Dozer,” Lola reprimanded, playfully punching his arm before her expression turned serious. “This is Jordan, the girl I told you about.”

“Missing-knife Jordan?” He focused his attention back on her. “Sounds like you and I need to have a private conversation later.”

Jordan eyed the man still holding her hand. Not much taller than her, Dozerly looked nothing like a lawyer. Dressed in jeans and a Cowboys T-shirt, he could have been any other good old boy in Ranchero.

“Any conversation I have with you will include my friends,” she insisted. She stopped before adding that she had no intentions of being alone with this man.

His dark eyes held hers before he tilted his head and winked. “Smart girl. I like you already.”

Jordan wished she felt the same about him.

CHAPTER 8