Murder for the Halibut Page 4

  Jordan took her eyes off Michael long enough to glance over at Emily Thorpe, who was now chatting with Casey and Marsha. Next to her, even Marsha looked mediocre.

  “How’d she get involved in this competition, Michael? No offense, but it sounds like small potatoes next to her day-to-day life, if what you say is true.”

  “Oh, it’s true. Wayne was over the moon when she called out of the blue and suggested this whole contest thing. Seems one of her clients is from Ranchero and talks about the town all the time. Wayne saw it as a way to drum up listeners for the station.” He nodded. “It was a brilliant idea. People had to tune in to the station all day every day for the opportunity to call in at special times and win a chance for a free cruise as a taster. Our ratings shot up thirty points.”

  “I see why Wayne wanted her, but why would she want to do it? It doesn’t sound like she’s hurting for money or clients.” Jordan paused before adding, “Again, no offense, but these chefs aren’t exactly celebrities.”

  “I hear you, Jordan. I can only tell you that she worked it out to sign on the winning chef as a client and already has a TV campaign set up that will make both of them rich—or in her case, richer.”

  Jordan clucked her tongue. “Why didn’t I learn how to cook instead of playing flag football every day with my brothers?”

  Just then, Rosie rushed over and pulled Jordan away.

  “Come on. Let’s get you signed in so we can take a look at our room and get this party started,” she said, the excitement in her voice contagious.

  Jordan followed her to the counter, peeking over her shoulder one last time to see Emily throw back her head in laughter at something Casey said. If Jordan hadn’t already known Emily was rich and famous, she never would have guessed. She seemed so down-to-earth.

  So far Jordan liked most of the people she’d met, leading her to believe this might not be so bad after all. And watching the fireworks between Casey and Stefano could prove to be more fun than the time she and the gang went to a bar in McKinley to watch Rosie mud wrestle.

  If she could just squeak by without having to eat too much of the fancy food, she would pull off the con of the century. Dwayne Egan was counting on her to do the newspaper proud—and it would definitely take a well-executed con to do that.

  When the paperwork was finished, they went to find their rooms, which, thanks to Michael, were all together in the same corridor, perfect for late-night powwows or card games.

  The rooms were small but comfortable, and Jordan and Rosie quickly unpacked before meeting up with the others for lunch on the eleventh deck. Never had Jordan seen so much food in one place. Nor had she seen so many people filling their plates with more than they could possibly eat in a week.

  Spying a row with nothing but desserts, Jordan felt their sugary pull. She started that way before Rosie held her back.

  “Oh, no you don’t. It’s going to be several hours before you eat again. We have to get some real food into you before you go after all that chocolate.”

  Jordan snickered. “You know me so well. Okay, lead me to the fried chicken.”

  She was pleasantly surprised at how good everything tasted. Since the only chicken available was swimming in some kind of white sauce, she chose spaghetti and meatballs with lots of fresh-baked bread.

  Two chocolate mousses later, she was ready to take on the seafood at the competition, which was scheduled for seven that night. She’d already figured out how she could come out of this without totally embarrassing herself. Her plan was to take one small bite and then pretend to be a little nauseous. A little seasickness would be believable. Might even garner her sympathy.

  With their stomachs filled, the gang decided it was time for a tour of the ship. One look at the main pool with its huge waterslide and a Jacuzzi in every corner, and the miniature golf course on the upper level, and Jordan couldn’t help getting excited. This would be a fun week for all of them. She finally began to relax, mentally promising to make a genuine effort to befriend all the contestants, including Stefano.

  Nothing was going to ruin this trip, not even the Casanova chef.

  She gulped. Then why did she suddenly feel like something was not quite right?

  Carnation Theater was huge, and there was already a standing-room-only crowd. The twenty-five people who had been selected as tasters were seated in the first three rows when Michael led Jordan to the steps at the side of the stage.

  “Why can’t I sit with you and Wayne?”

  “Because we’re going to be emceeing the whole thing. Besides, they want you over there with Beau and George Christakis.”

  “Who?”

  “George Christakis. You don’t remember?” When she shook her head, he shrugged. “I can’t believe you forgot that the fabulous world-renowned chef from the Cooking Channel was going to be a judge with you and—”

  “I love his show,” Rosie interrupted. “How in tarnation did you manage to talk him into this?” She did a one-eighty, squealing when she saw him on the stage. “Ohmygod! He’s even more handsome in person than he is on television. Wonder if he’s married.”

  Victor playfully punched her arm. “He bats for the other team, dear. Sorry.” When Michael sent a look his way, Victor added, “Not that I noticed him or anything.”

  Michael turned back to Rosie. “Apparently, he and Emily are good friends, and she talked him into coming as a favor to her. Because of him the cruise sold out in less than a week.” He took a hold of Jordan’s elbow and led her to the steps. “Come on. I’ll introduce you. I got to spend a few minutes with him earlier, and he’s a great guy—nothing like the other judge, Mr. Beau ‘I’m rich and important’ Lincoln.”

  “Where is Beau, by the way?” Jordan asked, scanning the stage.

  Michael shook his head. “He’s already acting like a spoiled celebrity and barely made it to the ship before we set sail. Wayne sent one of the workers to his suite to escort him and his wife to the theater.” He led Jordan to the right side of the stage.

  When they were in front of the judges’ table, Christakis looked up and a smile tipped the corners of his mouth. “You must be the lovely food critic I’ve heard so much about.” He stood and extended his hand. “George Christakis. I’ve been told I should consult you for a few new recipes. I spent a little time talking with the crowd from Texas before I came on stage. They tell me your Budin de Papitas con Pollo would be a big hit with the New York crowd.”

  Jordan laughed out loud as she shook his hand. She couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or teasing her. Had he figured out that the recipe was really Potato Chip Chicken (Rosie’s, of course)? She decided to play innocent until she knew for sure.

  “Remind me to kiss whoever has been lying to you, Mr. Christakis, but I—”

  “Call me George.”

  “Okay, George. I’m sure my friend Rosie will be serving it this week, and you can try it, although I have to tell you it’s nothing like you’re used to.”

  He ignored that remark. “Your friend is serving it on this ship?”

  “Yes. She’s running a small diner on the upper deck called Ranchero Globe Kitchen Kupboard. It will be open for lunch only to the judges and the people involved in this competition. It’s my editor’s idea. He thought it would be nice if she served some of the recipes I’ve published in my column.” She stopped short of blurting that they were straight out of Rosie’s recipe files in the first place.

  He nodded. “That sounds like something I definitely don’t want to miss.”

  She decided even if he knew about the ruse, she couldn’t let him go to the restaurant thinking he was getting fancy food. “It’s not really gourmet food,” she confessed. “More like gourmet casseroles.”

  Okay, maybe “gourmet casseroles” was stretching it a bit, but the man should be forewarned.

  “All the more intriguing. I hope you’ll join me one day for lunch there.”

  Grinning, she pulled her hand out of his clasp. “It would be
my pleasure.”

  When she was sure it was safe, she did a hasty onceover of the middle-aged gentleman with the warmest brown eyes she’d ever seen. With his salt-and-pepper hair and the adorable dimple in his chin, he definitely was as handsome as Rosie’s first impression. Even though Jordan had never actually watched the Cooking Channel and had no idea how George Christakis stacked up against his fellow TV chefs, she gave the guy serious hottie points.

  She moved around the table to take the center chair, but before she even sat down, she heard a commotion on the opposite side of the stage. When she looked up, she got her first peek at the multimillionaire who had made his fortune selling alcoholic desserts. About six two, Beau Lincoln had slicked-back dark hair with equally dark eyes and a body that screamed daily workout. When he smiled, he resembled a young George Clooney.

  Dressed in navy slacks and a navy and gray polo shirt, he looked to be in his midthirties. It was only after he stopped to talk to Wayne Francis that Jordan noticed the petite blonde behind him. Five one or two at the most, the woman wore a red sundress that left nothing to the imagination and made one wonder if she had just left the Playboy Mansion.

  Wayne led the couple over to the table. “Jordan and George, meet the other third of the judging lineup, Beau Lincoln.”

  Shamelessly, the new arrival let his wandering eyes explore every inch of Jordan, his hand clinging to hers all the while and for far longer than she was comfortable with.

  Sheesh! Doesn’t the idiot know his wife is right behind him?

  “My job just got a little more pleasant,” he said when he finally released her hand.

  After his wife cleared her throat, he must have remembered he wasn’t alone and pulled her in front of him. “And this is my lovely wife, Charlese.”

  Jordan reached for her hand, noticing how clammy it was. “Nice to meet you.”

  Wayne reached for Charlese’s arm and pointed to where Rosie and the gang sat about four rows back. “We’re getting ready to start. Luca will take you to your seat now.” He handed her off to a steward dressed in a perfectly starched white uniform.

  “So, Jordan, tell me about yourself. How long have you been the culinary reporter at the Globe?” Beau asked after settling in beside her.

  When Beau inched closer, she moved slightly to her left, toward Christakis. “Just a few months.”

  “Michael said you were a chocoholic. Ever had one of my Sinfully Sweet desserts?” When she shook her head, his eyes lit up. “Then you must let me come to your room after the competition. I have a box of freshly baked Kahlúa brownies that has your name on it.”

  Don’t hold your breath. She wrinkled her brow. Wait! Did he just say Kahlúa brownies?

  Her attention was diverted when Marsha Davenport strolled up to the judges’ table.

  “I couldn’t wait to meet you, Mr. Lincoln. I’ve heard so many good things about you.”

  Jordan couldn’t miss the way the lady chef stretched across the table to shake Beau’s hand, giving both her and the entrepreneur a straight-to-the-belly-button view down her blouse. Even the chef’s apron didn’t hide the attributes she’d no doubt paid a chunk of change to enhance.

  Beau moved away from Jordan and settled back in his chair to take advantage of the peep show. Jordan imagined him salivating at the tasty morsel in front of him, but at this point, she was just grateful for the diversion.

  “Call me Beau. And who might you be?”

  Marsha pretended to be shy and fluttered her eyelashes. “Marsha Davenport. I intern in Hirasoto’s in Fort Worth.”

  “I know that restaurant well,” Beau said. “Like chocolate, Marsha?” When she nodded, he gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll bring some of my delicacies to your room later so you can sample them.”

  Hey, those are my brownies!

  Jordan wondered what the jerk planned on doing with his little Hugh-Heffner-castoff wife while he plied Marsha with God only knew what kind of “delicacies.”

  “I’d like that. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my station, Beau. Hope you like my salmon.” She stood and walked to where the other chefs were getting ready, making sure her backside wiggled just enough to cause him to drool a bit more.

  Suddenly thinking about Stefano, Jordan giggled to herself. The playing field had narrowed, and the arrogant chef now had his work cut out for him tonight. Instead of bragging about how he wouldn’t need the bonus ten points from the fishing trip, he should’ve been worrying about Marsha and her sexy little body that was already scoring points with Beau.

  “I’m glad to see all of you,” Emily said as she walked up the steps and over to them. Leaning down, she kissed Christakis on the forehead. “George, I’m so glad you made it. I owe you.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. It gets so stuffy in New York sometimes. It’s good to get out of the city and see how the real people live.” He pointed to Beau. “Like my fellow judges. I think I will be highly entertained this week.”

  Emily turned to Jordan. “And I’m delighted to have you as well, Jordan.” She stepped closer to stand directly in front of Beau. “Thank you for agreeing to be a judge also, Mr. Lincoln.”

  Jordan almost felt sorry for Beau, whose tongue was nearly hanging out of his mouth after his first glimpse of the entertainment lawyer. He must have thought he had died and gone to Hooter Heaven.

  “Jesus!” Jordan heard him say under his breath.

  “Are we ready to get this show on the road?” Emily asked without offering her hand.

  “Yes,” Jordan replied.

  Beau could only nod. Jordan couldn’t help thinking Marsha had just lost out on the Kahlúa brownies, too.

  Emily moved to the middle of the stage and took the mic from Michael’s boss. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to what we hope will be the first of many annual Lone Star Caribbean Cook-Offs. I’m Emily Thorpe, and along with Wayne Francis and KTLK in Ranchero, Texas, I have the privilege of being a sponsor for this wonderful event. First off, I want to thank the good people at Carnation Queen Cruise Lines for their help in putting this together, as well as the talented staff at KTLK for making it happen. Of course, we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for all of you wonderful listeners who chose to be a part of this fun cruise with us. So, are you all ready to see the chefs cook?”

  The crowd went wild, all except Beau’s wife, who definitely was not a happy camper and was sending daggers in Emily’s direction. Had she seen her husband’s reaction to the dazzling lawyer? And if so, why was she giving Emily the evil eye? Her only fault was looking gorgeous. She couldn’t help it if Beau was as sleazy as they come and just as horny.

  “Let’s start by introducing the talented chefs who came from all over the Dallas–Fort Worth area to show off their talents.” The crowd cheered after each name, rocking the house when Stefano was introduced. “The competition will take place only on the days we’re at sea so that y’all can enjoy the wonderful islands we’ll visit. Tomorrow night we’ll begin with appetizers, and then on Thursday when we’re on our way back to Miami, the chefs will give us their best dessert recipes. We’ve saved the most challenging part, main entrees, for Friday night, after which the points will be tallied and a winner crowned.

  “Tonight’s Greased Lightning Elimination Round will start us off. Our chefs have each chosen their own favorite fish to cook, but they’ll have to incorporate every ingredient from the baskets at their stations in their recipes.”

  She reached for an opened basket from one of her assistants and held it up. “Each basket has identical ingredients chosen by the executive chef on the ship. There are mangoes, pineapples, crab meat, a few exotic seasonings, and even guava berry liqueur. The chefs will have thirty minutes to prepare enough for the three judges and the twenty-five tasters.” She paused to allow the crowd to show their approval before she continued. “Now it’s time to meet the three people who hold the fate of our chefs in their hands.”

  Emi
ly turned toward Jordan and Beau. “The pretty lady with the great hair is Jordan McAllister from the Ranchero Globe. She writes the popular Kitchen Kupboard column, so we know she’s highly qualified to pick out great-tasting food.”

  Jordan nearly choked on the sip of water she’d just taken.

  “Sitting on her right is Beau Lincoln, owner and CEO of Sinfully Sweet, a Fortune 500 company that sells the most delicious cocktail desserts I’ve ever tasted.

  “And I don’t think I need to tell any of you who the distinguished gentleman to Jordan’s left is. Please help me welcome world-renowned chef and owner of the fabulous Chez Lui restaurant in New York City, George Christakis.”

  The man seemed almost embarrassed by all the hoopla. The crowd’s appreciation and subsequent standing ovation brought a half smile to his face. He stood and waved, causing another storm of applause.

  When the crowd finally quieted down, Emily continued. “So without further ado, let’s get started. Remember, chefs, one of you will be eliminated tonight, but you’ll still get to hang out and enjoy a great cruise. The final winner will receive a hundred thousand dollars, courtesy of Gourmet Kitchens, along with the opportunity to do a national ad campaign with me for Classic Cuisine.” Her assistant handed her a remote control. “You’re on the clock,” she said as a huge digital timer appeared over the chef stations and began the thirty-minute countdown.

  The chefs immediately opened the baskets and got down to business. Soon the smell of cooking fish filled the air as the chefs frantically chopped and mixed, poached and sautéed—and intermittently sprinted to the back of the stage to grab additional ingredients from a table laden with fruits and vegetables.

  With only five minutes to go, the atmosphere on the stage was near chaos; Jordan watched the contestants scurrying to and from their stations, as if the clock were a time bomb. Except for Stefano. In contrast to the other chefs, the cocky Casanova was jovial as he tasted his dish, added more seasoning, and nonchalantly tasted again.