Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) Read online

  Avery shot me a look that had "are you nuts?" written all over it. She swallowed hard, and said, "I'm pretty sure Bobbi Jo uses garlic and onion powder, and maybe celery salt, instead of your unique variation of the recipe."

  "Of course she does," I assured her. Oops! "As do I, after the other spices crucial for making this barramundi dish extra special. This highly-regarded recipe I'm preparing has a very specific mixture of seasonings that, as my ol' buddy Puckie would say, 'treats the palate with a delightful surprise'." Heavy on the surprise part, I wanted to add. As Avery handed me the spices she'd mentioned, I applied twice as much of them as I had the first three spices. I was hoping to cancel out the original flavor I'd created. Or, at the very least, tame it down with heavy doses of the proper spices.

  "Okay. If you say so," Avery relented, clearly skeptical about delighting anyone's palate with this conglomeration of spices. "I'm sure you know best, ma'am."

  I don't know squat, I said under my breath. To Avery I said, "I can guarantee you, young lady, the critic will want to know what's in Maxim's secret recipe once she's sampled this Blooming Barramundi."

  "You think?" Avery asked with a curious expression.

  Of course, dear. She'll need to know those kinds of details when she files her lawsuit against this bar and grill. A potential outcome, but not one I wanted to share with Avery Curry. I was really glad I hadn't formally introduced myself to her or anyone else in this joint.

  "No worries. Wolfgang let me in on it, but I had to promise Puckie I'd keep it to myself. In other words, mum's the word," I said with a wink. I'd made up such sensational lies already, I couldn't see any real advantage to stop. "More importantly, dear, if this secret recipe were to get out, every restaurant in the Coastal Bend area would add this dish to their menus. And we can't have that, can we? Trust me; every great chef keeps his masterpiece creations to himself. I only shared this with you so you could soak up some really worthwhile knowledge."

  Avery looked pleased and honored at my remarks. As the fish was browning, I thought I needed to get a few questions in, knowing it'd be my only opportunity. I'd be making haste a split second after this order was ready to serve.

  "See, you've learned something already, Avery," I said in a cocky manner, as I watched the young lady scribbling notes on the back of a deposit slip. Then my tone turned to one of deep concern. "Say, sweetie. When I first came in the kitchen, I noticed you looked kind of down. Why so glum, chum?"

  "I lost my boyfriend Saturday."

  "Oh, goodness, dear. Have you found him yet?" My attempt at humor failed miserably, as Avery's eyes began to mist over.

  "No, ma'am, I meant he's really gone." Sniffle, sniffle.

  "Oh, I see. That's a rotten deal, all right. Did the rat bastard dump you for some big-breasted bimbo like my first husband did me?" I asked. Of course I lied about having an ex-husband, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And my Levi's were already smoking, anyway. Besides, one more falsehood wasn't going to make a whole lot of difference once I departed.

  "Well, er, no." Avery gave me a judgmental glance and began to sniffle even more profusely. She pulled a wadded-up Kleenex from a pocket on the front of her apron and blew her nose. She sputtered as she continued. "I meant... somebody killed him."

  "Oh, my, my, my! That's downright awful! Are you referring to that Cooper Claypool dude someone shot an arrow into?"

  "A spear, actually. But yes. It seems like the grapevine is in full operating mode, cuz that's all everyone in the entire county's talking about."

  "Word travels fast around here. The murder of a Rockport resident is a big deal because it just doesn't happen every day."

  "Yeah, I know. But you never think it could actually happen to someone you love, like I loved Cooper. I don't care what anyone says, I loved him for himself. More than I've ever loved anyone before. And I don't think I'll ever find a guy again who I'll love the way I did him. My ex-husband couldn't even begin to compare to Cooper."

  Were a lot of people claiming you didn't love Cooper for himself? I wanted to ask. What else would you love him for if not himself?

  It seemed as if she was trying to convince herself of her love for her late boyfriend rather than me. I'd have to consider that aspect later, however. I had listened politely, but knew my time was running short so I needed to veer her off this topic. I had turned the flames under the fish fillet down low so I'd have more time to pull potential clues out of the mourning wanna-be chef. Archie could stick his "chop, chop, need it yesterday" demand where even the oven light don't shine.

  As far as I was concerned, solving a violent crime would always trump whether or not some silly broad thinks there's enough salt on her stupid fish. As I turned the fillets over on the grill, I asked innocently, "You're ex the jealous type, maybe hot-headed with a hair-trigger temper kind of guy?"

  "Very. He's practically stalking me now, determined to win me back. But when I finally walked out the door, it was 'adios amigo' as far as I was concerned," she replied.

  I wanted more, so I gasped dramatically and prompted her with, "Oh, my! You don't reckon he whacked Cooper in a jealous rage, do you?"

  "Nah," she said, shaking her head. "I don't really think he'd be capable of taking another human being's life. He's a doctor. Pat's in the business of saving lives, not ending them. He may harass and annoy someone half to death, but I don't think he could actually kill anyone."

  "Who do you reckon would kill your boyfriend?"

  "I don't know anyone who'd want to do something like that to Cooper. Everyone liked him, as far as I know. Well, except maybe my ex and this Julio Sarcova dude Cooper talked about," she replied.

  Bingo! I thought. Now I'm getting somewhere. I continued to grill her in a friendly chat while I grilled the fish in a very unfriendly kind of fashion. "Who's Julio Sarcova?"

  "Oh, some guy in town who's ram-rodding the protest in front of city hall tomorrow morning. Pardon my language, ma'am, but he's a real shit-stirrer, if you know what I mean. He'd been harassing Cooper relentlessly, threatening to file some lawsuit."

  "A lawsuit?" I asked. "Why would anyone sue Cooper?"

  "He said he'd sue MC Hammerheads, not Cooper specifically. It was about some settlement involving one of the houses they flipped a few months ago. Didn't make no sense to me to get so riled up over a little black mold."

  "Hey!" Archie bellowed, looking over the top of the swinging doors into the kitchen. "What part of 'yesterday' didn't you ladies understand? The columnist is beginning to fidget and look at her watch. Chop, chop, I told you! I need it now!"

  "Chop, chop? Really? Give it a rest, dude. It'll be out in a second! Did you want it quick or delicious? 'Cause you can't have it both ways!" I hollered back. Actually, I wanted to add, you ain't getting it either way. I wasn't in fear of losing my cooking job, so I added, "Take a chill pill, buster!"

  It was evident by Avery's wide-eyed reaction she was in fear of losing her job, and worried my comments might reflect badly on her. "Relax, dear. Archie needs you more than you need him right now. Put some sides on a plate so we can get this fish out to the dining area before the boss wets his pants."

  "Thanks for covering for me, um... I just realized I don't know your name."

  "Mabel. Mabel Hicks, dear. Now we better build a fire under our bums and get this out to the food critic."

  I looked down at the fillet as Avery piled a small mound of rice pilaf on the plate and added three measly stalks of asparagus. The barramundi was on the verge of burning to a crisp. I'd been so focused on garnering beneficial information from Avery I'd forgotten all about the fish I was grilling. Oh well, at least the asparagus looks good, I thought. There just ain't enough of it.

  "Oh, no!" Avery gasped in panic, staring down at the crispy fish filet. "What are we going to do?"

  Like I said before, I had nothing to lose. I wasn't out to please anyone. Nor did I plan to be around when the pile of poo-poo hit the fan. But I thought I should at least try
to quell the nearly hysterical gal's fears. "Do about what, honey? This barramundi turned out splendidly. Just look at it! It's a real beauty, by George. I believe I've actually outdone myself."

  Her "Really?" reply was accompanied by that same "Are you nuts?" expression she'd worn earlier.

  "It's blackened perfectly, just like this closely guarded secret recipe calls for. You'll be amazed at how the critic will respond to this dish. Now you get working on that new order for three Mug's combo baskets while I see that this masterpiece is delivered to the critic. Trust me, dear. It's fit for the finickiest of appetites."

  "Okay, great." Avery appeared to be relieved, but still dubious. She was no doubt praying that if a student of the renowned culinary school in Paris—and a close personal friend of Wolfgang Puck, I might add—thought it had turned out flawlessly, it must be so.

  As Avery grabbed several frozen hamburger patties out of the freezer, she said, "I want to get the combos out fast so I can spend a few minutes discussing a delicate subject with my ex. I couldn't locate Pat last night, so I stopped by his office this afternoon and asked him to meet me here at five-thirty. I'd like to speak with him while no one else is back here in the kitchen."

  Who's stalking whom? I wanted to ask. "You go, girl. Give it to him good! I'll give you all the time you need with him before I return to the kitchen." Literally, my dear. All the time you need, and more.

  I didn't take the time to wait for a response. I was rushing out of the kitchen, anxious to pass off the plate and get the heck out of Dodge, and didn't notice the bare-chested waitress behind the right swinging door carrying four glasses of ice tea. And, unfortunately for Patrick O'Keefe's sake, he'd arrived a moment too early for the rendezvous with his ex-wife. The door hit the backside of the waitress, who tumbled forward as the tray of teas tilted to the right.

  My first thought was that Patrick O'Keefe had the potential of getting drafted by the Texas Rangers if the doctoring thing didn't work out. He made a golden glove catch of one of the glasses without spilling a single drop. However, his golden glove catch didn't prevent the other three glasses from spilling all over him. He caught those glasses with the front of his crisp, wrinkle-free breeches. Every bone-chilling drop.

  He looked up at me, studying my face for about two seconds before exclaiming, "Aha! Now I remember where I'd seen you before!"

  I didn't have time to reply, apologize, or even look back at the soaked man. A second waitress had taken the Blooming Barrmundi out of my hands and was setting it down in front of a very proper-looking woman with spectacles balanced on the end of her nose.

  I ran right past Rip, who stood next to the portal leading into the bar, obviously trying to get a better view of the hubbub going on in the dining section. As I passed him, I hissed, "Run! Run!"

  I flew out of that joint like there was a bomb about to go off inside. But the only explosion apt to occur in Jugs 'n Mugs was going to be at table seven when the unsuspecting food critic took her first bite of her recently delivered meal.

  Chapter 10

  I arrived at the bunko party being hosted by Mabel Hicks promptly at seven-thirty. We had ended up only having a short time to eat in order for me to get to Mabel's house on time so had decided to pick up a couple of six-inch meatball sandwiches at Subway. We ate them while sitting on the steps of the beautiful Bayfront, along Shoreline Boulevard in Corpus, before returning to Rockport.

  I had planned to segue into a discussion about the murder of Cooper Claypool once the bunko party got into full swing. That proved unnecessary, however. Instead, I was eagerly met at the door by Gracie Parker who greeted me with, "Are your ears burning, Rapella? The girls and I were just talking about how they threw your son-in-law in the slammer for brutally executing his best friend."

  I really should have anticipated being hit with this upon arrival. Naturally, everyone had heard about it and knew of my family's connection to the victim. A murder in a town this size was front-page news, and usually continued to be for the next fifteen to twenty issues of the newspaper.

  I debated about how to respond for a few seconds and decided a straight-forward approach was the best option. I told them about the hot mess my son-in-law had landed himself in, due to his relationship with Claypool and the battering Milo had given his friend the night before his death. I stressed that Rip, a seasoned lawman, and I, believed Milo to be innocent of the crime and had launched our own private investigation to prove it.

  I probably should have given more thought to what would happen after I shared the particulars with the bunko club members. Most of the ladies there gossiped incessantly, exaggerating and twisting details as they passed the news on to anyone who'd listen. I was certain that by morning Milo would be infamous for being Rockport's first serial killer, and was soon to be on death row after being caught red-handed harpooning his most recent victim.

  Too late now, though. I thought ruefully. I'd already let the irresistibly juicy cat out of the bag that I should have kept closed. Might as well make the most of it.

  "Does anyone here know a Julio Sarcova?" I asked the group.

  "Isn't he that hothead who organized a protest to take place in front of City Hall tomorrow?" Gracie Parker asked. Several women nodded their heads. I asked Gracie what the man was upset about.

  "It's to protest the newly proposed ordinance that would ban smoking in every public building in the city of Rockport, including every establishment that serves food and beverages," she replied. "Also beaches, parks, and anywhere else the public gathers."

  "Oh, curses!" I said in disappointment. "This is not going to be an easy rally to attend, but I'll have to do it, I'm afraid."

  "And why is that, Rapella? I thought you'd be all for an ordinance like that."

  "I am, Gracie. In fact, I couldn't be any more pleased about the proposal. But attending the rally is the only way I'll have any believable excuse to speak to Julio Sarcova. And that's only if I get lucky. Unless any of you gals have a better idea," I added, hoping one of them would come up with an easier way to gain an audience with the man.

  "I have the perfect solution," Adelaide Hall, our newest member, exclaimed. "He owns the Brass Button Barber Shop on Cactus Street. Barbers hear about everything that goes on in town from their customers. Sarcova may know something useful regarding another suspect no one else has even considered. Send Rip in for a haircut. You can tag along and engage Sarcova in a conversation while he works on Rip."

  "Good idea, Adelaide. Unfortunately, it'd take Sarcova about six seconds to cut Rip's hair. He only has about seventeen hairs left, and he's very attached to every single one of them. In more ways than one."

  "What could you possibly want to speak to that belligerent fool about, anyway?" Mabel Hicks asked, as she placed her cocoa and caramel cookies on the refreshment table. I'd have bet she'd already locked the coveted recipe back up in her husband's fireproof gun cabinet.

  I explained what I'd learned from the victim's girlfriend earlier in the evening. I told the group I needed an opportunity to feel the man out on just how angry he'd been at Cooper, and how far he might have gone to wreak havoc on the guy. "Besides, I've always enjoyed being part of a zealous mob involved in a rowdy demonstration, even if it's not a cause I'm passionate about. Or in this case, one I'm not even in favor of. Don't you girls agree?"

  There was a lively debate following my question, and it was at least half-an-hour before the chit-chat at the various tables returned to the usual topics, like, how could Claire Higgins not see that her new hairdo made her look like a skanky call girl; why the teller at the credit union didn't have that hideous growth removed from her hand; and why did Mona Ray put up with that no-good drunken husband of hers when everyone in town knew he was running around on her with the mayor's cousin. As always, it was a fun and enlightening evening with friends.

  And just in case you're wondering, I'm happy to report I won the prize for most losses at the end of the game. The "booby prize" it's called. It's not real
ly a category to brag about unless, as in my case, you win a bobble-head doll depicting George Strait. Strait had a vacation home on Key Allegro Island, just blocks from Regina and Milo's place, which he and Norma had owned for years. He'd been one of Rockport's most notable residents, and it was a safe bet there was not one woman in my bunko club who wouldn't risk their marriage for one evening with George.

  * * *

  "Second-hand smoke is a joke! Second-hand smoke is a joke!" I chanted along with everyone, including Gracie, Mabel, Adelaide, and four other members of my bunko club who'd decided to join me in my quest to converse with Julio Sarcova. When it came to meting out justice, us bunko-mates were thick as thieves.

  Naturally, we had to look as if we were earnestly contesting the new ordinance so as not to blow our cover. The dark-skinned, very slender, Hispanic man in question was leading the chant from his location behind the podium on a makeshift stage someone had haphazardly thrown together.

  One thing that hadn't occurred to me was that the people most apt to oppose a smoking ban were smokers. I could barely bellow out the chant about the "ridiculous" premise of second-hand smoke being harmful due to the overabundance of second-hand smoke I was inhaling.

  My eyes were burning and my throat was irritated. I had at least two burn holes in my new sweater before the demonstration even commenced, from mingling with the dense crowd. I'd have been more upset about the sweater had I not already realized the poor stinky thing would reek so badly by the time I returned to the trailer, I'd probably have to abandon it in the dumpster near the entrance of the RV park. I had a blouse on underneath that hopefully would avoid at least some of the overwhelming stench.