Liver Let Die (2 page)

“Now would be good,” Jackie said, inserting a touch of sarcasm and ramping up Jordan’s paranoia another notch.

Hanging up, she leaned back in the chair, trying to guess where she’d screwed up. Other than allowing an ad to run several days past its contract, nothing popped into her mind, but she was still on probation, which meant they didn’t need a reason to fire her.

Jordan glanced around the room at her co-workers, all either chatting with one another or busy at their cubicles. Since the only person who bothered to talk to her was the chubby guy in the mail room who hit on her every chance he got, there was no one to calm her fears.

Why was the editor summoning her to his office?

Yanking her purse from the bottom drawer of the desk, she powdered her face. If she was going to get tossed on her butt, she didn’t want to have a shiny nose. Shoving her purse back in, she locked the drawer. She didn’t know these people well enough to trust them with her lunch, much less her purse.

Jordan smiled. First of all, everyone stayed clear of her, acting like she was a leper after their jobs. And second, there was a grand total of $6.52 in her wallet. She knew this because when she’d paid for the crunchy chicken sandwich at the deli on the corner an hour ago, she’d sacrificed adding a latte so she’d have enough money to buy a package of bologna on her way home.

How pathetic was she? Big-city college graduate with dreams of becoming a sports columnist for a famous city newspaper, wasting away in a small-time newsroom writing personal ads for desperate people looking to hook up. Even more pathetic was that the one she’d been working on before the phone rang was her own.

She reached in the top drawer and pulled out a Hostess Ho Ho, thinking this was the drawer that should be under lock and key. God forbid she go through a day without one or two of these suckers. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, she unwrapped one and popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes as the chocolate immediately elevated her endorphin level. Common sense told her it couldn’t possibly work that fast, but there was something to be said for the placebo effect.

Standing, she blew out a calming breath and shut the drawer. She’d save her last chocolate treat for when she was cleaning out her desk. She walked down the aisle to the other side of the room, feeling twenty pairs of eyes on her. The newsroom was small, and it was a given that everyone knew she was on her way to getting canned. Kind of like at NFL training camp when a player got called to the head coach’s office and was told to bring his playbook.

Still, she kept her head high and tried to convince herself the editor was doing her a favor. Now she’d be forced to go out and find the job of her dreams.

Who are you kidding?

After Brett dumped her for the cute little weather girl with perky clouds of her own before she’d even had time to find gainful employment after the move to Dallas, Jordan had spent two months searching for this miserable job. Seems the metroplex had as many wannabe sports reporters as it did cowboys driving pickups. Her only shot at a career that didn’t include flipping burgers had brought her to Ranchero, a small town north of Dallas. The short, squatty human resources director at the
Ranchero Globe
had offered her the “opportunity of a lifetime” writing personal ads until “something else opened up.”

After a month on the job, Jordan realized “something else” was never going to open up. This was Ranchero, Texas, population 22,773—22,77
4
after she rolled into town with four suitcases and Maggie, her goldfish. Most of her co-workers had worked at the newspaper since high school, some even before. Unless someone got reassigned to the big newsroom in the sky, there would be no job openings anytime soon.

She stopped at the desk in front of the editor’s office and got her first look at Miss Sarcasm herself. “Jordan McAllister. I’m here to see Mr. Egan.”

Jackie Frazier looked up from a stack of papers, her eyes scanning Jordan before her lips curved in a half smile. “He’s waiting.”

With dark curly hair that looked like it had a mind of its own and small, beady eyes, Egan’s secretary could have easily passed for Gilda Radner’s alter ego Roseanne Roseannadanna.

Jordan took a deep breath, then pushed through the door to where Dwayne Egan sat behind a large desk piled high with newspapers and file folders. Expecting to see a tall, distinguished businessman, she was surprised to find the fortyish editor short with a receding hairline, looking more like Joe Pesci than the Michael Douglas she’d imagined.

Make that Joe Pesci with huge ears!

She stifled a giggle as she took a closer look. With his bushy eyebrows, dark mustache, and big ears, Dwayne Egan could be Mr. Potato Head’s brother, minus the black top hat. She tried to concentrate on something other than his ears, but it was a losing battle. She wondered if he could hear the whispers of disgruntled employees from across the room.

“Sit down, McAllister,” Egan said, pointing to a chair piled high with newspapers.

Moving the stack to the carpet beside the chair, Jordan did as instructed.

Egan waited until she was settled before he opened the file in front of him. “Says here you graduated with honors from the University of Texas six years ago. That true?”

Who lies on a résumé? And even if she had, would she be dumb enough to fess up now? “Yes.”

“Says you worked as a copy editor at the
Del Rio Gazette
.” He shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would someone with your credentials do a job any Tom, Dick, or Harry off the street could do?”

She opened her mouth to lie, then thought better of it. If she was about to get fired, who cared if he knew her life history? “I moved with my boyfriend there where he worked as a sports intern at the local television station. With the economy the way it is, the only job I could get actually
writing
for a newspaper was in a town about two hundred miles north of Del Rio. I chose not to do that.”

“Surely with all your smarts you could have stayed in Austin and written for one of the bigger papers.”

She lowered her head. Talking about her personal life with a total stranger was getting uncomfortable. She swiped at the sweat beads forming under her collar. “I could have, but I hoped my job at the newspaper was only temporary. Unfortunately, they weren’t lining up to hire a female sports reporter in a small town full of good old boys.”

“So, you wanna be a sportswriter. Why’d you stay in Del Rio so long if you didn’t think you had a shot at that position? And why move to Ranchero?”

Jordan tapped her fingers on the armrest. If he was going to fire her, she wished he’d get on with it. This twenty questions thing was starting to annoy her. She didn’t need Dwayne Egan to remind her how shortsighted she’d been when it came to Brett. She’d put her own dreams on hold for over six years, only to find out his long-term plans didn’t include her.

“My ex was offered an entry-level position in Dallas at one of the bigger TV stations, and I followed him.”

Egan shifted in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. “How’d you end up here? This is a pretty good commute from Dallas.”

“We split up before I had a chance to start my own job search. I wanted as far away from big D as I could get.” Okay, maybe that was a little lie, but Dwayne Egan didn’t have to know his was the only offer she’d gotten. She was grateful his bionic ears were limited to hearing and not reading minds.

He eyed her suspiciously. “Got dumped for a newer model?”

Startled by the question, she tried to find the right words to tell him it was none of his frickin’ business, then decided once again, who cared? “One loaded with bigger equipment.”

She watched as he assessed her before smiling. “I like your attitude, kid.” He leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “So, you’ve been here about three months, right?”

She nodded, expecting his next words to send her to the unemployment line on the way home.

Instead, he opened another file. “Ever meet Loretta Mosley in those three months?” When she shook her head, he continued. “Loretta is our culinary reporter. Writes a popular weekly column called the Kitchen Kupboard.” He stopped to take a drink from the cup on his desk. “Know anything about cooking?”

“A little,” she lied, thinking about last night when she’d microwaved a TV dinner a tad too long and ended up sneaking it out to the stray dog that hung around in the alley behind her apartment building, filling up on chips and salsa instead.

“Well, Loretta went and broke her hip on Saturday. Looks like she’ll be in rehab for six weeks. We need someone to write her column until she returns.”

“Why can’t she write it from rehab?”

Egan laughed out loud. “That’s exactly what I asked before I found out she also broke her right arm. Apparently, there’s a clause in her contract that says we have to pay her full salary for three months if she can’t work. Do you really think she’s going to make an effort?” He paused. “There are benefits to being the owner’s niece.”

He shoved a piece of paper across the desk. “So, do you want the job or not?”

Jordan stared at the contract. Was this her golden opportunity to finally eat something other than bologna sandwiches three nights a week? “How much of a pay increase will I get?”

His expression never changed, although she swore there was laughter in his eyes. “Let’s look at it as an opportunity to get your name out to a lot of households. Did I mention Loretta’s column is very popular?”

She sighed. “I guess that means a very small one.”

“Worse. I can’t pay you anything extra since I have to keep paying her. And you’ll still have to write the personals every day.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to take over this woman’s job and still do my own without compensation?”

“Pretty much. You’re the first person I’ve offered this to, but if you’re not interested, I’m sure I can find someone who is.”

Jordan pretended to mull it around in her head. Given she had zero culinary skills, she wasn’t sure which scared her more, writing a weekly column about food or having her name in print for the whole world to see. Okay, maybe not the whole world, but at least the twenty-two thousand plus in Ranchero.

“I’ll take it,” she said, reaching for the contract. “When do I start?”

He cleared his throat. “Actually, tonight. I need you to run by a new restaurant that just reopened off Highway 82 and write a review.”

Her hand stopped midway through her signature. “You never said anything about working at night. With my nonexistent pay raise, I can’t afford fancy restaurants.”

“That’s the good part. Everything’s on the newspaper. The restaurant caters to the Dallas crowd looking for dining by the lake. The locals can’t afford it, so Loretta was looking forward to a four-star meal with all the fixings. That was before she hopped on one of those personal watercraft things, slammed into a buoy on Lake Texoma, and went airborne.” He paused and slid a credit card across the desk. “Your job’s simple. Chow down on a free steak and write about it.”

Jordan looked away so Egan wouldn’t see her facial expression. “It’s a steak house?”

“Is that a problem? You’re not a vegan or something, are you?”

“Ah, no,” she answered too quickly.

The fact was, she hadn’t eaten steak since her dad forced her to try a rare one when she was a teenager. She still had nightmares of the cow mooing as she bit into it. Ground beef was the only red meat she ate now and even that had to be burned to a crisp.

“You said it was reopening?”

Egan walked around the desk and reached for the contract. “Yep. About six weeks ago, one of the owners was killed in an after-hours robbery. The place was a crime scene for a long time, but the new owner is finally reopening with higher-quality food, supposedly.”

“What’d you say the name was?”

“Longhorn Prime Rib.”

She groaned, then coughed to cover it up.

“Have a great meal on the
Globe
tonight. The owner knows you’re coming, so introduce yourself when you arrive. The service will be a lot better that way. I’ll expect to see your review sometime tomorrow.”

Jordan stood and walked to the door, hesitating briefly before exiting. Could she pull this off? She’d need a lot of help and a little luck. When she finally made it back to her desk, she plopped down on the chair, praying that Longhorn Prime Rib served chicken.

Jordan glanced at Rosie bent over a tray of jewelry. Rosella LaRue was the first person she’d met when she arrived at Empire Apartments three months ago. Fiftyish with long bleached hair worn in braids, Rosie was the last person Jordan expected to befriend.

The woman who lived in tie-dyed T-shirts and made her living selling handmade jewelry on eBay had taken her under her wing that first day. She’d introduced Jordan to the other residents on the first floor, who had helped carry her meager belongings up the front steps and into her apartment. Rosie even made sure her stomach was full before Jordan fell onto the couch exhausted.

She turned 180 degrees in front of the mirror to get a glimpse of her backside as Rosie approached with a jade and black necklace.