Liver Let Die Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  RECIPES

  Reporting Gone Fowl

  “The ducks are kept in tight cages so they can’t exercise or even move around.”

  “Geez! And they’re serving this right here in Ranchero?”

  “Yes,” she answered quickly. “At a price that would water your eyes.” She stopped, not sure she wanted to remind him how much she’d charged on the company card.

  Egan leaned back in the chair. “This is going to ruffle a few feathers at Longhorn Prime Rib.” He grinned, obviously pleased with his play on words.

  “I was totally complimentary about the restaurant in general.” Jordan thought about the Chocolate Decadence Cake that had doubled as breakfast that morning. “The desserts were phenomenal, and the service—fantastic.”

  Egan studied her face. “I had you pegged for a simple meat-and-potatoes girl. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why you’d order this when you’re obviously so outraged at how they get it.”

  Here it is! This was where she’d have to admit she was clueless when it came to fancy food. This was where he’d realize what a big mistake he’d made giving her the job. “The waiter recommended it. Said it was imported from Canada. Since I knew it was too expensive to ever try on my own, I went with it.”

  “I still find it hard to believe you’d even order the dish, knowing how you feel about it.”

  “I thought it was chicken,” she blurted, looking away for a moment, imagining the pink slip falling from this week’s pay envelope.

  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.

  LIVER LET DIE

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

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Elizabeth R. Lipperman.

  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 : 978-1-101-54475-4

  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.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Dan, my real life hero since high school.

  Without you beside me all the way,

  I could not have achieved my dreams.

  Te Amo.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Since this is my first novel, there are a lot of people I need to thank. Please indulge me as I mention a few. I promise, like at the Academy Awards, when I hear the music, I’ll stop.

  First, to my wonderful agent, Christine Witthohn of Book Cents Literary Agency, who is a friend as well as a business partner. Thank you for always being there as a counselor, a therapist, a critique partner, a taskmaster when I needed it, and more importantly, a cheerleader who gets as excited about my books as I do. Most of all, thank you for believing I could take my writing to another level even when I doubted it.

  To my fabulous editor, Faith Black, at Berkley Prime Crime. Thanks for making my first venture into publishing so painless. Your enthusiasm for my characters and their stories warms my heart. I only hope I live up to your expectations. And to all the talented people behind the scenes at Berkley Prime Crime, your dedication and hard work didn’t go unnoticed.

  To my critique partners, Joni Sauer-Folger and Shelly Kuehn, who never let me get away with anything. Thanks for always insisting on great instead of mediocre and showing me how to do it when I sometimes forgot.

  To my real life siblings, Jack Roth, Don Roth, Mary Ann Nedved, Dorothy Bennett, and Lillian Magistro, who taught me how to love and laugh, so I could create characters who do the same. To Theresa Pollack, Chuck Roth, and Bob Roth, who left us way too soon. I know you’re all smiling down from heaven with Mom and Dad.

  To my Sangria Sisters, aka Bunko Babes, many of whom I’ve known for over three decades. Your belief in me never faltered, even when mine sometimes slipped. Take a bow, Tami Ramey, Judy Neal, Nancy Dunsmore, Marilyn Pyhrr, Jane Helms, Linda McCraw, Anna Nelson, Barbara Valentine, and Vaneesa Cohen.

  To my fantastic beta readers, Chris Keniston and Sylvia Rochester, thank you for your honest comments and your contagious enthusiasm.

  To Kari Lee Townsend, Barbie Jo Witek, Danielle Labue (my plotting pals), and all the Book Cents Babes, who are so amazingly supportive with each other, and to my fellow writers on the GIAM loop, my RWA and DARA chapters, my MWA and my SinC loops. Your advice and support means a lot to me. And to every writer out there still waiting to be in my shoes, be patient. Someday your dream will come true like mine did.

  And lastly, to my children, Nicole and Dennis Bushland and Brody and Abby Lipperman, thank you for always being there to show me every minute of the day how important family really is. Special thanks to Brody for his ea
gle eye and for making me say this.

  And then there are my grandchildren, Grayson and Caden Bushland and Ellie and Alice Lipperman. You put the fun in my life. I love you all so much.

  And now I hear the music …

  CHAPTER 1

  Single white female stuck in a dead-end job who barely makes the rent on the closet she calls home—looking for tall, dark, handsome rich guy who loves …

  Jordan McAllister jumped, slamming her finger on the Delete key when the shrill ring of the phone on her desk jarred her from her daydream.

  “Personals,” she answered.

  “Ms. McAllister, this is Jackie Frazier. Mr. Egan needs to see you in his office.”

  Jordan frowned. She’d been at this job less than three months, and already she was being summoned to the editor’s office. Since the administrative offices were on the second floor, she hadn’t even met the man yet. “When?”

  “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—22,774 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 be
fore 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.”