Liver Let Die by Liz Lipperman Page A

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