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  Praise for

  LIVER LET DIE

  “Liz Lipperman delivers a sparkling new cozy star! Readers will cheer for Jordan, a Clueless Cook with charm and spunk in a mystery that really sizzles.”

  —Cleo Coyle, national bestselling author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries

  “Jordan McAllister heads up an appealing cast of characters in the fun new Clueless Cook series from Liz Lipperman… Plot twists, action, and lots of scrumptious food make this a mystery not to be missed!”

  —Misa Ramirez, author of the Lola Cruz Mysteries

  “A culinary critic mystery with good taste, charming characters, and plenty of delicious twists. It’s a recipe for a truly enjoyable story.”

  —Linda O. Johnston, author of the Pet Rescue Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Liz Lipperman

  LIVER LET DIE

  BEEF STOLEN-OFF

  BEEF STOLEN-OFF

  Liz Lipperman

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  BEEF STOLEN-OFF

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Elizabeth R. Lipperman.

  Cover illustration by Ben Perini.

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.

  Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58104-9

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  This one goes out to my children,

  Nicole and Brody,

  for making my life so much fun.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Penning a story is a solitary experience. However, the writing community is filled with many wonderful people who cheer when one of their own has a victory, offer help when it’s needed, and soothe when there are tears. I’ve been very fortunate to have a lot of these awesome people in my life, and they need to know how much I appreciate them.

  First and foremost is my agent, Christine Witthohn of Book Cents Literary Agency. I will forever be indebted to her for her loyalty and fighting spirit even in the face of adversity. I am proud to stand by her side as a friend as well as a business partner no matter what enemy we’re facing. Then there’s my editor, Faith Black. I can only say “wow!”—your faith in me and the gang at Empire Apartments never ceases to amaze me. Thanks for making my journey so easy.

  And I can’t forget all the hardworking people behind the scenes at Berkley Prime Crime, especially Sarah Oberrender, who designed my awesome cover; Ben Perini, who illustrated it; Laura K. Corless, who designed the interior; and Caroline Duffy, copyeditor extraordinaire, whose eye for detail astonished me.

  A huge thank-you to:

  The wonderful Cleo Coyle, whose generous spirit touched my heart, and to Misa Ramirez and Linda O. Johnston. These three wonderful authors graciously agreed to take time from their own busy writing schedules to read my book and give wonderful blurbs.

  The fantastic Book Cents Babes, who are always there for me—no matter what I need—and the ultra-talented Plotting Princesses (plottingprincesses.blogspot.com), who sat around the table one day and helped me plot this book.

  My critique partner, Joni Sauer-Folger, who never lets anything slide and who should have WTF after her name. I’m a better writer because of her.

  My talented beta readers, Chris Keniston, Sylvia Rochester, and Nora Friday Roth who helped me polish the manuscript.

  Debbie Sheuchenko at Lazy S’S Farm, who helped me find the perfect murder weapon, and Leo Garcia, my expert for the Hispanic names.

  The Bunko Babes, who keep me laughing, and my siblings, who shower me with support.

  My children, Nicole and Dennis Bushland and Brody and Abby Lipperman, and my grandchildren, Grayson, Caden, Ellie, and Alice. Oh God! I love you.

  And lastly to Dan, my real-life hero, who believed in me and made all my dreams come true. Te Amo.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  CHAPTER 1

  “You’re looking at the new permanent culinary reporter for the Ranchero Globe.” Jordan McAllister bent over in an exaggerated bow.

  “What? That old bat kicked the bucket?” Victor Rodriguez threw his arms in the air. “Yea!”

  “Victor,” his partner and co-owner of the apart
ments, Michael Cafferty, scolded. “You didn’t even know her. It’s mean to call her an old bat.”

  Victor shrugged, turning back to Jordan, unfazed by the reprimand. “Give it up, girl. Does this mean you can say good-bye to your four-times-a-week fried-bologna habit?”

  Jordan took a minute to observe the people who had become her second family since she’d arrived in Ranchero a few months ago with only a few suitcases, her goldfish Maggie, and a broken heart. The residents of Empire Apartments had taken her under their wing, offering her unconditional love in the process. There was no doubt in her mind all of them would risk their lives for her—and already had—as she would for them.

  “Who’s saying good-bye to bologna?” Ray Varga asked, walking into the dining room from the kitchen, carrying a clay pot.

  “Jordan’s about to,” Michael answered. He leaned over to get a better look at the concoction in Ray’s hands. “Good Lord, Ray, are those gummy bears in the middle of that—thing?” He poked the shovel jutting from the center of the chocolate dessert.

  Ray beamed as if the Cowboys had just kicked the winning field goal at the Super Bowl. “Cool, huh?”

  Lola Van Horn came up behind him and patted his bottom. “Yes, darling, you outdid yourself this time. How you ever talked Myrtle’s niece into sneaking you a copy of her aunt’s new recipe is beyond me.”

  Ray pulled the chair out for his lady and then plopped down beside her. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

  “Hogwash!” Rosie LaRue said, joining the group, her arms loaded with bowls and spoons. “Myrtle guards her recipes like a Rottweiler in a junkyard. She’s going to cut off your sneaky little fingers and feed them to the pigs behind the diner if she ever finds out you snuck around her to get this.” She pulled out one of the gummy bears and popped it into her mouth. “What’s this called, anyway?”

  “Dirt Cake, better known as La Suciedad Pastel for Jordan’s column.” Ray scowled, glancing down at his hands. “Now you’ve got me scared.”

  “Oh hush, dear. You should have thought of that before you stole her recipe.” Lola’s attempt to sound gruff couldn’t disguise her amusement. She pouted with her Angelina Jolie lips, compliments of a plastic surgeon who couldn’t go a week without one of her psychic readings.

  “Enough chatter,” Rosie chimed in. “Ray, you dish it up while Jordan tells us about her good news.”

  As the resident cook of the group, Rosie was the only reason Jordan ate at least one good meal a week, offsetting the effects of the fast food she consumed the other six days. Rosie, the femme fatale of the group, gave credit for her cooking skills to her third husband, who was really husband number four. She liked to forget about the night she and her first husband boozed it up in a little bar in Connor right after her divorce from hubby number two was finalized. She and “the love of her life,” as she liked to call him, ended up catching a red-eye to Vegas and repeating their “I do’s” at the Little Wedding Chapel. Once sober, they soon remembered why it hadn’t worked out the first time; the marriage lasted two months and didn’t count, according to her.

  Rosie settled into the chair between Victor and Jordan and patted the table. “So did the old bat die?” Turning slightly out of Michael’s view, she winked at Victor.

  “Loretta Moseley ran off with her physical therapist and the big chunk of change she got in her settlement with the personal watercraft manufacturer. She’s in Reno now, probably feeding it all to the one-armed bandits.”

  “What?” Victor rolled his eyes. “I never got any money when I flew off that Jet Ski I rented last year.”

  “You never broke your hip, either.” Michael wiggled his eyebrows. “And if you ever run off with a hot physical therapist, sweetie, I’ll hunt you down and break both your legs.”

  Victor’s scowl quickly turned into a smile. “Point taken.”

  “Mmm!” Lola moaned, closing her eyes after the first bite. “I can see why Myrtle guarded this recipe with her life. A person could be tempted to do anything for a bowl of this stuff.”

  Ray leaned over and wiped the small droplet of chocolate escaping out of the corner of her mouth. “Anything, dear?”

  “Oh, get a room, you two,” Rosie said affectionately before turning her attention back to Jordan. “So your cheapskate editor finally gave you a raise?”

  “Yes.” Jordan lowered her eyes.

  “Uh-oh. I know that look,” Michael observed. “The penny-pincher did the old ‘I’d give you more but the economy’s in the toilet and fewer people are buying newspapers’ song and dance, didn’t he?”

  Jordan looked up, breaking into a grin. “Yeah, how did you know?” She didn’t wait for his response. “I did get a small raise, but I still have to write the personals. Mr. Egan did throw in a bonus, though. I’m going to sit with Jim Westerville in the press box for a couple of Cougars home games next season.”

  “If memory serves, sugar, that press box nearly got you killed not too long ago. Surely you wouldn’t even consider going up there again, even if it is with the sports director at the Globe,” Lola commented.

  At the mention of her close call several months ago at Grayson County College’s football field, Jordan shivered. She’d come so close to getting herself killed playing amateur sleuth, she’d vowed never to go near another press box again.

  Until Dwayne Egan threw it in as a perk when he talked her into taking over Loretta Moseley’s job permanently at the Globe.

  Truth be told, she’d fallen in love with the job and the notoriety that came with it and would’ve taken it even without the hundred-bucks-a-week raise.

  Six weeks ago, she’d jumped at the chance to write the culinary column temporarily, along with the personals, seeing it as a step up the ladder to her dream of becoming a sports reporter, but somewhere along the way her attitude changed. She still missed the good old college days when she and her ex-boyfriend had covered all the events at the University of Texas, and she still longed for the excitement of being right in the middle of anything athletic. But she’d have to bide her time if she wanted a shot at sportswriting at this small local newspaper.

  The good news was, as of that very morning, the Kitchen Kupboard column was hers as long as she wanted it, even though her culinary skills and knowledge of fancy foods were nonexistent. When Egan first offered her the job after Loretta’s accident, she’d nearly turned it down, thinking there was no way she could pull it off. But with Rosie and the gang coming up with casserole recipes every week, then slapping fancy foreign names on them, she had fooled the good people of Ranchero into thinking she was a fine food connoisseur instead of the clueless cook she really was.

  She’d been ready to sign on the dotted line even before Egan dangled the press box carrot. At that point, her near fatal incident at the football field was conveniently forgotten. Growing up with four brothers, she’d loved anything athletic and still believed her sportswriting dream would come true one day. But while she waited for that to happen, having her own byline wasn’t a bad gig, despite her feeling like a fraud every time she posted one of Rosie’s or Ray’s recipes from their weekly card game and potluck dinners.

  “So, honey, have you told everyone where you’re going tomorrow night?” Rosie reached for a second helping of the dessert.

  Jordan shoved the plate toward her friend and licked her lips. “I will if you give me another spoonful.”

  “Ha!” Michael squealed. “Like one spoonful is going to satisfy you. We all know there’s a chocoholic inside that skinny little body of yours.”

  Jordan shook her finger at him. “Look who’s talking.” He was at least six feet tall and couldn’t weigh more than 160 pounds fully clothed. “I’m going to the Cattlemen’s Ball,” she announced, grabbing the bowl piled high with the chocolate dessert.

  “What? Why would you go there?” Ray asked.

  “Apparently Lucas Santana reads my column and called Egan last week to request that I be his guest at the party and then report on it. He
thinks it could boost the sagging beef sales in the county if I write a good review.”

  “Sugar, you hate beef,” Lola said, wrinkling her forehead. “I may be old but I remember reading about last year’s event, and I’m pretty sure prime rib was mentioned.”

  “I know,” Jordan replied. “But Egan says this year they’re making it less fancy, both to save money and to put more focus on cheaper cuts of beef. Some big barbecue joint in Dallas is catering the event. Unfortunately, less fancy only applies to the food. I still have to go out and buy a prom-dress lookalike that I will probably never wear again.” She paused before adding, “And for the record, I don’t hate all beef, just the undercooked stuff that bleeds all over my plate. I love brisket.”

  “I’m so jealous,” Victor said, jutting out his lower lip in a pout. “It doesn’t seem fair that you get to be with all those big hunky cowboys… Ouch!” He grimaced as Michael kicked him under the table.

  Ray shifted in his chair, his eyebrows hitched in a disapproving way. “You’re going with Lucas Santana? His reputation as a womanizer goes way back.”

  “Oh, I’m not going with him. He set me up with his ranch foreman—a guy named Rusty Morales.”

  “Hot damn!” Lola cried out, nearly spilling her iced tea on the brand new caftan she’d bought that afternoon at Wal-Mart to go with the twenty others hanging in her closet. “He is one good-looking hombre.”

  Ray nailed Lola with one of his icy ex-cop glares, taking the heat off Jordan, at least momentarily. “And you would know this how, darlin’?”

  Lola bit her lower lip in an attempt to wipe the smile from her face. “He came in with Santana not too long ago. Wanted to know if I could predict the future. Guess the old guy was upset because of the depressed beef market. Rusty wanted me to lie and tell him things were about to get a whole lot better. He even slipped me a twenty behind Santana’s back.”

  “Did you do it?” Michael asked.

  “Of course,” the older woman said, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off her shoulder. “Twenty bucks is twenty bucks.”