Liver Let Die (7 page)

“Egan wants to see you before you get settled,” a middle-aged woman hollered from three cubicles over. “Great job on the article, Jaden.”

Okay, so the woman didn’t get her name right, but after the freeze-out she usually got from her co-workers, she didn’t care what they called her.

“Thanks. Know what he wants?”

The plump woman shook her head.

Time to face the music.

When Jordan locked her purse in a desk drawer, she was tempted to pop a chocolate antianxiety treat but staunchly resisted. She tried to limit her indulgence to afternoons. She’d look like a blimp if she ate one every time she got jittery. Some days, she felt like an alcoholic, watching the clock until a minute after twelve.

Jackie Frazier wasn’t at her desk when Jordan walked into the editor’s waiting room, so she settled in a chair against the wall. Grabbing a magazine from the stack on the table, she thumbed through it mindlessly before giving up and drumming her fingertips on the cover photo of Matthew McConaughey, naked from the waist up on a Caribbean beach. She stopped tapping and slid her fingers over his abs, imagining how it would feel to actually caress him.

When the secretary’s voice called her name, Jordan nearly jumped out of the chair. “What?”

“You can go in now. Mr. Egan’s waiting.”

She stood up, thinking if she didn’t get a grip soon, there would be a straitjacket in her very near future. Big mistake not eating that Ho Ho to settle her nerves. Heading toward Egan’s office, she noticed Jackie following close behind with a tray.

“Come in,” Egan bellowed when she knocked timidly on the door.

When he saw her, he slapped his desktop, hard enough to rattle her bones. “My, my, my,” he said, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Any idea how the good people of Ranchero reacted to your duck story?”

Here we go
, Jordan thought. She glanced up to see the secretary still standing beside her.

“How do you take your coffee?”

Jordan turned, half expecting to see someone else in the room. When she didn’t, her anxiety level skyrocketed. It was worse than she thought if Egan’s secretary was serving her coffee.

A going-away present?

“One Sweet’N Low,” she stammered, reaching for the cup along with the sweetener.

After Jackie left, Egan asked again. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about this?” His eyes sparkled like he’d just drawn a straight with his River card up at the Indian casino across the Oklahoma border.

Jordan bit back her smile, remembering the joy she’d felt seeing her name in Saturday’s edition. No matter what happened today, they couldn’t take that away from her, even if it was only fleeting. “Did they hate it?”

“Hate it? Are you kidding me?” He turned his computer screen toward her. “See this?” He pointed to the inbox folder on his Outlook Express. “Over three hundred e-mails. You struck a nerve, girl, just like I knew you would.”

Jordan swallowed. “Three hundred? And they all agree with me about how inhumane it is?”

Egan shook his head. “Not everyone. There are a few kooks out there who think you’re one of those flaming liberals who throw red paint on mink coats. One guy even suggested your lack of a love life is what makes you so cranky.”

“What does my love life have to do with anything?” she asked, stunned by the comment.

Egan sipped his coffee, prompting her to do the same. “No idea. The guy’s probably one of those weirdos who gets his kicks at that ranch outside of town, killing feral hogs for sport. I can picture him now, dressed in camouflage that barely covers his beer belly, thinking he’s saving the world with every wild pig he slaughters.” He paused. “Anyway, what you are or aren’t doing in the sack is your own business. But if he’s right, then I say put on that chastity belt and keep writing these great exposés.”

For the first time since walking into Egan’s office, Jordan relaxed, letting the breath slowly escape her lips. The man must be reading her mail. She might as well be wearing a chastity belt the way her social life was going. “So, does this mean I’m still writing the column?”

“Oh, yeah. You’ve picked up a following now, for sure. The only ones upset with you are the printing crew. You messed up their bowling league Saturday night when they had to stay late and do a reprint. We couldn’t keep up with the 7-Elevens clamoring for more.”

“What about Longhorn Prime Rib?” Jordan hesitated, unsure if she should even ask. “Have you heard from them?”

Egan scratched his chin. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

Jordan braced herself for what she knew was coming next. Something to the effect of never letting that blankety-blank talentless fraud near the restaurant again.

“Roger Mason called bright and early this morning. Seems he had no idea how they fattened up the ducks.” Egan huffed. “Like I believe that! Anyway, he wants another chance to prove his restaurant deserves four stars. He’s invited you back tomorrow night, and this time it’s on the house.”

Jordan gasped. There was no way she wanted an encore at the restaurant, especially without J. T. to save her. At the thought of the waiter, she fought off a feeling of guilt. There was no J. T. at all. She still had a hard time believing he was dead.

“Did you know my waiter at the restaurant was found stabbed to death under the stairwell at my apartment building Friday night . . . well, actually, Saturday morning?”

Egan shot up in his chair. “You live at Empire Apartments? Why didn’t you say so?”

She nodded. “He was on his way to talk to me.”

“What?” Egan reached for the phone. “Jackie, get Harold Dobson on the line. Tell him he needs to talk with Jordan before today’s edition goes to print.” When Jordan looked confused, he added, “Harold’s the lead reporter on that story. Anything you can tell him will help.”

Jordan shrugged. “I really don’t know anything. I’m not even sure why he was coming to see me.”

“Doesn’t matter. The fact he was coming to see you is a lead. Ranchero hasn’t seen anything this big since old man Watkins shot those two drunken wannabe thieves trying to shove one of his cows up a ramp into the back of their pickup. Fortunately, it was only buckshot, but the two idiots ended up sitting on soft pillows for a while.”

He moved his head in a slow circle as if to stretch out a kink, and Jordon could swear his left ear waved at her. She blinked to get the visual out of her mind.

“Back to Longhorn Prime Rib. Mason has it all set up for tomorrow night. You okay with that?”

She cleared her throat. “I think there’s something you should know about me, Mr. Egan,” she began. “I really don’t eat red meat. That’s why I tried the duck the other night. I’m probably the last person you should send out to review restaurants.”

Egan shook his finger at her. “You don’t give me nearly enough credit, McAllister. I knew that the minute you told me about your experience there. Why else would you pass up a forty-dollar filet at a restaurant famous for its beef?”

She stared, thinking now would be a good time to confess her addiction to fast food, too.

“I talked with Mason about this. He’s agreed to have his chef prepare you a dish that used to be on the menu before it closed a few months back. Rattlesnake Pasta, it’s called, and before you go getting all squeamish on me, it’s not really rattlesnake. It’s pasta with Cajun-grilled chicken, lots of vegetables, and Alfredo sauce. Said he was thinking about putting it back on the menu anyhow. So, you game?”

She closed her eyes, remembering the Chocolate Decadence Cake melting in her mouth. “And it’s all gratis?”

“Absolutely.”

Jordan tossed the idea around in her head for a few minutes. It might be the perfect opportunity to find out if anyone at the restaurant had any idea about why it was so important for J. T. to see her the night he was killed. Maybe he mentioned something to the other waiters or even to Mr. Mason about her. Feeling a little bit responsible for his tragic death, even though she knew that was utterly ridiculous, she owed J. T. something.

“Make the call.”

As Jordan stood in line at Mi Quesadilla, her mind flooded with the events of that morning. Not only did the article spark a lot of comments, she’d even received her first fan letter.

Dear Jordan
, it read.
You’re the bomb! Thanks for calling out the “quacks” in this town.

Okay, so it wasn’t thought-provoking and could have been written by a third-grader, but so what? It had been addressed to Jordan McAllister in care of the Kitchen Kupboard. That had a nice ring even though it was a far cry from her goal of being a sports diva.

“Ma’am, you okay?”

Jordan snapped back to reality as the skinny, pimply-faced kid stared at her like she was on drugs. When had she turned into a ma’am? She was only twenty-eight years old for heaven’s sakes. You’re not a ma’am until forty, at least.

“I’ll have a Grande Chicken Quesadilla with extra cheese and guacamole, an order of queso and chips on the side, and a Diet Pepsi.”

“I find it hard to believe you can eat like that and still maintain that girlish figure,” a soft male voice said behind her.

Jordan turned, fully expecting to go off on someone about minding their own business, but she stopped short when she stared into eyes the color of a cloudless sky.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Jordan caught her breath as she recognized the man behind her as Brooder from Longhorn Prime Rib the other night. He seemed taller than she remembered, forcing her to look up. “What I find hard to believe is that you actually pick up girls with that line.” She turned back to the skinny kid who was now tapping his long fingers on the counter.

Mentally, she scolded herself for not going to the restroom and fixing her hair before ordering. Mi Quesadilla was only two blocks from the newspaper, and she’d decided to walk. Although it was a gorgeous fall day with temperatures in the midseventies, the wind was blowing at a pretty good clip.

Instinctively, she reached up and combed her fingers through her hair, knowing full well it wouldn’t tame the wild red mess she’d been “gifted” with at birth, as her mother always proclaimed.

Gifted, my butt!

She’d listened to “I’d rather be dead than red on the head” all her life, and one of these days when she had a little leftover money lying around, she’d see about getting highlights to tone it down.

“What good is inheriting fifty million bucks if you have a weak heart?”

Jordan had just taken a sip of her soda while waiting for change and spewed it across the counter.

“That’s the line that usually works,” Brooder added.

The skinny kid sent daggers toward her before grabbing a cloth and wiping off the counter. Embarrassed, Jordan threw her last dollar at him to compensate, picked up her lunch, and quickly walked to a table.

In a few minutes, Brooder straddled the chair across from her. “Since I made you laugh, the least you can do is let me join you for lunch.”

Jordan held his stare. It was a free country, she told herself. He could sit wherever he wanted. It might even be fun talking to someone who didn’t act like she had a contagious disease for a change, although it was amazing the way her co-workers’ attitudes toward her had changed dramatically overnight. Four people had actually stopped by her desk to express their horror about the ducks and to congratulate her for being brave enough to write the article.

“Suit yourself,” she said, finally. “I’ve got to be back to work shortly, anyway.”

“Alex Montgomery,” he said, extending his hand across the table. “Where do you work?”

She shook his hand, making a mental observation that he definitely didn’t do manual labor for a living. His hand was as soft as hers. “Jordan McAllister. I’m a journalist at the
Globe
,” she said, thinking journalist sounded way better than reporter. “And you?”

“I sit around all day drinking beer and watching reality TV,” he quipped.

“What?”

“Did you forget about my fifty million already?” he added as she continued to look confused.

Jordan laughed. “So, you’re not gonna tell me?”

His eyes lit up; he was obviously enjoying making her laugh. “I’m the assistant manager at the Ranchero Commerce Bank. I was transferred from the Houston branch a few weeks ago, and I’m just getting settled in.” He paused and flashed that multimillion-dollar smile again. “Actually, I could use some help finding my way around this town.”

He was so going to hell for lying
. It had taken her all of a half day to navigate the town when she’d first arrived. But what would it hurt to play his game? He was definitely not hard on the eyes, and she’d always been a sucker for a guy who could make her laugh. She’d grown up with four older brothers, and though she’d never say it out loud, she missed their constant teasing.

“I think you’re full of it, but my social calendar isn’t exactly overflowing at the moment. I’ll be glad to introduce you to Ranchero someday.” She shoved the queso and chips toward him. “My eyes must have been bigger than my stomach,” she said, wondering what in the heck that meant, anyway.

And since when didn’t she finish off everything she ordered? Especially queso and chips, her favorite. Her dad always teased that she had the appetite of a lumberjack.

“Ah. My remark about keeping that pretty little figure worked. I get the leftovers,” Alex said, reaching for a chip.

The heat crawled up her cheeks, making her wonder if it was a pre–hot flash.

“Gotcha,” he said, obviously noticing the blush before both of them laughed out loud.

After what seemed like seconds but was actually a good ten minutes, Jordan glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get back. Except for the part where you got to see Diet Pepsi shoot out of my nose, this was fun, Alex.”

“Be forewarned. I never let a girl forget something like that,” he countered. “Unless of course, they break down and agree to let me buy them dinner.”

When he stood, Jordan couldn’t resist a quick scan. She’d never walked into a bank anywhere and seen an employee built like this guy. The man could have stepped out of a
GQ
magazine with his charcoal suit and a baby blue shirt that matched his eyes. There was definitely a gym membership with his name on it somewhere in the Houston Metroplex.