Authors: Liz Lipperman
“When���s the last time you saw the knife?” Quincy asked as Ray dished up the Mandarin Orange Cake.
Nothing like jumping right to the point
. “I don’t know.” She glanced away, hating having to admit an utter lack of culinary expertise. “It’s not one I used very often.”
“Ha! Like never!”
Jordan shot Victor a don’t-make-me-hurt-you look. “It’s no fun cooking for one,” she added, sending another glare Victor’s way.
The lawyer rubbed his chin. “And the police have no idea it’s missing?”
Jordan shook her head, positive he shouldn’t know about Ray hiding it.
Dozerly leaned back in the chair, a slow grin snaking across his face. “Well, okay then. Until they find out and actually charge you with something, there’s really nothing else we need to do.” His expression turned somber. “Tell me again how you knew the man who was killed.”
“He waited on me at Longhorn Prime Rib.”
“So, why was J. T. coming to see you?”
Jordan shrugged. “He never made it here, so I don’t know. Whatever his reason, it was important enough to stop by after his shift at the restaurant.”
No way she’d mention her initial reaction to the phone message. Nobody needed to know she’d assumed the guy was looking to trade sex for chocolate cake. “You knew him?” she asked, suddenly realizing the lawyer had called him J. T. when all the newspapers listed him as Jason.
Dozerly looked uncomfortable before smiling. “Not really. I’ve eaten at the Longhorn several times since it reopened, and he waited on me.”
“Oh,” Jordan said, suddenly sad because she would never have the opportunity to get to know J. T. better.
“And you never spoke to him at all?”
“No. I was here playing cards when he left a voice mail.” Jordan reached for the plate Ray handed her and took a bite of the cake. “Aunt Sally would be proud, Ray. This is absolutely scrumptious.”
For the moment, she put the real reason the lawyer was here out of her mind and finished her dessert. As they loaded the dishwasher and readied the table for the card game, Jordan sneaked a peak at Dozerly, wondering how a sweet woman like Lola knew a guy like him.
Then she remembered the tarot card readings. The man was attractive enough, if you liked the cocky, suave type. She didn’t. Apparently she was only attracted to the blond, sexy ones who broke her heart—or died.
“Hey, Rosie, my sweet, can you turn on the TV? I’d like to catch the scores on ESPN.” Dozerly rested his hand intimately on the older woman’s. He’d been flirting overtly with her since he’d walked through the door, and the weird thing was, Rosie seemed to be enjoying it.
Rosie, who’d been married three times before—four, if you counted the last time, when her third husband whisked her off to Vegas for a quickie wedding five days after the divorce became final. The woman who’d sworn off men more times than Jordan could remember now pinked up like a teenager each time the lawyer said something outrageous to her.
Jordan didn’t get it and was glad Dozerly was only there the one night and not as a regular. With a little luck, the police wouldn’t discover the knife rack, and she’d never have to sit across the table from him again. She couldn’t put her finger on why he made the hairs on her arms bristle, but he did. Something nagged at the back of her mind, something that wasn’t quite right. She chalked it up to an unexplained intense dislike for Quincy Dozerly.
“Yes!” the lawyer exclaimed when the Dallas Stars’ score flashed on the screen. “What? I like hockey,” he explained when everyone turned to look.
Who was he kidding? Everyone knew he’d probably just made a fortune from some poor schlub who’d bet his baby’s college fund on the game.
Picking up the empty dessert plates from the table and carrying them to the kitchen, Jordan decided her intense dislike of the man was justified. Dozerly followed and once again flirted openly with Rosie. This time, they touched hips by the sink while Rosie loaded the dishwasher and laughed like he was as funny as Conan O’Brien.
Eew!
Jordan looked away, hoping to get
that
visual out of her head forever.
She thought about the recipe she’d use for the week’s column. Côte de Porc á la Cocotte. Compliments of the mouthwatering pork chop casserole Rosie had served and the brilliant French name Lola had given it. Pleased with the choice, Jordan breathed a sigh of relief. The recipe would give her at least one more week of seeing her name on a byline.
When the dishes were finished, the group gathered around the table to begin their game. As if she wasn’t already uncomfortable enough around the lawyer, Jordan now found herself sitting next to the man.
How fitting. She reached for her first hand of Screw Your Neighbor. She didn’t know which one would screw the other ones first, but she had the sinking feeling Dozerly had a lot more practice.
“Shazam, McAllister,” Dwayne Egan said, giving her a thumbs-up. “The women of Ranchero absolutely love your new recipe. My old lady is even going to give it a whack, and she never cooks.” He attempted to wiggle his bushy eyebrows Groucho Marx–style, but only his right ear managed to move.
Jordan turned her head so he wouldn’t see her smile, then decided to find out if he had bionic ears or not. “Can you hear me, Mr. Egan?” she whispered.
“Speak up, Jordan,” he bellowed.
Apparently, they were just for show, she decided. “I said I’m glad.”
“Yep. You’d think these people had never tasted pork chops before.” He motioned for her to sit. “By the way, Loretta called this morning from rehab. She’s a little concerned about her job. Apparently, she’s heard the buzz.”
This was the perfect opportunity to tell him she wasn’t interested in writing Loretta Mosley’s column on a permanent basis. With Egan in a good mood, she should pounce on the opportunity.
“I hope you told her she had no worries.” Jordan shook her head to strengthen her statement. “I’m more interested in the sports column.”
Egan eyeballed her for a second before leaning in. “You do know Jim Westerville has been the top guy in that department for years, right?”
“And wasn’t Loretta at her job for years?” Jordan fired back. “Yet here I am writing the Kitchen Kupboard column for her.”
“You’ve got a point,” he said, frowning. “I’ll keep that in mind in case Jim ever decides to crash one of those personal watercraft deals.” His eyes were unable to conceal his obvious amusement.
Jordan knew he was not taking her seriously. “I’m only saying that’s where my passion is, and I’d like to be considered if something ever opens up in that department. I’d even be wiling to work under Mr. Westerville for the same money you’re paying me now.” She paused. “And I’d still do the personals, too.”
The editor’s brow furrowed. “Lemme see. You’ve been at the new gig for two weeks now and you’re already coming to me with demands?”
“No sir,” Jordan answered quickly, realizing she’d better backpedal fast or she might find herself without her own byline. Or worse. “I meant I would jump at the chance. I’m perfectly happy doing Loretta’s job while she’s out.”
“She’d prefer you weren’t so good at it.”
“Yeah, well, I would have preferred to be in the press box watching Ranchero High slaughter their rivals last night instead of writing about the Frito pie at the concession stand. But you know what that old Stones’ song says: ‘You can’t always get what you want.’ ”
He laughed. “Get out of here, McAllister. You’re lucky I’ve taken a shine to you.” He paused, the pensive look on his face turning to a slow grin. “That and the fact that we’re selling twice as many newspapers as we were two weeks ago.” He walked around his desk and shooed her out the door.
On the stroll back to her cubicle, her step had a little more bounce. There. It was out in the open that she wanted the sports column, and Egan hadn’t erupted like Mount Vesuvius over it. Maybe her life was changing for the better.
Sitting down at her desk, she noticed a yellow phone message propped against her computer. Scanning the newsroom for a clue as to who had left it there, she was disappointed when no one bothered to look up or acknowledge her. She’d thought she’d broken through the wall of invisibility at the
Ranchero Globe
since her culinary column had become a hit, but apparently she hadn’t.
Yet!
Picking up the slip of paper, she bit her lip to hold back the grin. It was a phone message someone had taken from Alex that simply said,
He wants you to call him
, along with his number. Thinking he probably wanted to press her for more information before breaking into her apartment again, the fool-me-twice mantra her daddy always preached meandered into her mind. She crumpled the note and slam-dunked it into the trash can.
The rest of the day was uneventful if you disregarded the personal ad she rewrote for a certain woman who posted weekly, with an ever-changing profile. Loves to cuddle in front of the TV, loves to two-step, loves children, single and loving it.
Please. How desperate could someone get?
At five fifteen, she finally shut down her computer, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. Halfway there, she turned back and scrambled to her desk, hoping no one noticed her retrieving the phone message from the trash.
Apparently that’s how desperate one could get.
Jordan sat in the bleachers, her eye on the quarterback as the Grayson County Cougars worked out without pads. She missed this, thinking back to when she and Brett used to go to every athletic event on the Texas campus. Remembering how writing the inside stories together had always ended with beer and Cheetos and a raucous roll in the hay to see who could turn the other the most orange. She’d lost every time on purpose.
She turned her attention back to the young men on the field. Grayson County College, she’d learned, had a large percentage of out-of-state students and was considered one of the finest liberal arts schools in the area, with an equally lauded business program. The football team consisted of players recruited from all over the United States. Despite the fact that entry into the program required above-average SAT scores, the team consistently turned out winning seasons with postseason playoff runs.
She’d done her homework last night and had discovered that Derrick Young had been lured away from some big-name Division I schools offering more lucrative scholarships. This after he’d led his hometown school to three state titles with the best quarterback rating in San Antonio’s history.
So why had he rebuffed the scholarship offers and settled on this Division II school? An article from the
San Antonio Gazette
noted the kid had offers from the University of Texas, A&M, and even from the University of Oklahoma, Texas’s biggest rival.
She pulled out her notebook and jotted a reminder to double-check that fact. What could have coerced a talent like that to kiss off the big-name schools and head to Connor, Texas?
“Can I help you?”
Jordan nearly dropped her notepad, gasping as the voice caught her deep in thought. She glanced up to find the coach beside her in the bleachers.
“I’m just watching the team work out,” she stammered. “I’m a fan.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “I’m glad to hear that, but it’s hard on the concentration with a woman who looks like you in the bleachers. I need my boys focusing on me when they’re out there.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Spare me!
“First off, if all it takes for you to lose control over your practice is a girl in the stands, I’d seriously think about changing the workout routines. And second, last time I checked, this was a free country.”
She sized him up, guessing he was in his early thirties and had played some form of athletics before joining the establishment. When he reached down and rubbed his left knee absently, she mentally high-fived herself for being right. An old knee injury had probably sidelined him and was responsible for the extra forty pounds he carried, along with the large beer belly protruding over the waistband of his black soccer-style shorts.
That and one too many cheese fries.
His furrowed brow eased back into place, and he pointed at her notebook. “You a reporter?”
“You could say that.”
“And what would you say?” He sat down beside her, giving her an up-close look at his tanned left hand with the white circle around his fourth finger. Either this guy was divorced—like yesterday—or he’d taken the ring off for practice. Or he was a sleaze.
She’d reserve judgment on that for later.
“I’m a reporter,” she said, scooting over to put a little distance between them. He smelled of sweat and the outdoors, an odor that was normally an aphrodisiac to her. She scolded herself for even going there, especially because her evaluation of this guy was leaning toward scumbag.
He extended his hand. “Larry Trevelli. I’ve been coaching the Cougars going on five years now.”
She reached for his hand, noticing it was as smooth as hers. “Jordan McAllister. I work at the
Globe
.”
His eyes brightened. “You doing a story on us?”
“Kind of,” she lied. The less he knew, the better. “I’d like to interview your quarterback.”
Trevelli put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. “Young, get over here,” he hollered, before turning back to Jordan. “You should have said that in the first place. I would have given you locker room access.”
Jordan gritted her teeth, remembering how she’d had to get used to male nudity a long time ago when she’d covered the Texas Longhorns. What was it about men that gave them the green light to flaunt their junk to anyone passing by? Women, even women athletes, might let you see them in a bra and panties but not their birthday suits.
“Yeah, Coach?”
Jordan stared up at Derrick Young. He didn’t look like a girl beater, although she had no idea what one actually looked like. The quarterback stood about six two with sixpack abs not entirely hidden under his half shirt. His thick brown hair curled on the ends and framed his hazel eyes, highlighted with eye black to stop the glare. No wonder Brittney was so enamored of him.