Murder for the Halibut Read Online Free Page A

us again how you managed to get all of us involved
     in this shindig.”
    Michael sat in the chair by the window. “Jordan and I are working on the cooking competition.
     Ray is private security for Beau and—”
    “Who?” Rosie interrupted.
    “Beaumont P. Lincoln, Beau for short. He’s the founder and CEO of Sinfully Sweet.”
    “I love those,” Lola chimed in, giving her almost-maroon dyed hair a flip. “I gave
     this one guy a tarot reading a few months back and told him his luck would change.
     When he won a couple of grand on a scratch-off, he came back with a box of Baileys
     Irish Cream Fudge from Sinfully Sweet. He said they make goodies from all kinds of
     liquor. My mouth is watering right now just thinking about it.”
    “Cheapskate. He wins a potload of money, and all you get is candy,” Rosie said, clucking
     her tongue.
    “Oh, but not just candy, Rosie. A person can get a real buzz by eating an entire box
     like I did.” She giggled. “I may have forgotten to mention the C-note he slipped me.
     It does pay to give good readings.” She tapped her puffy lips, compliments of a plastic
     surgeon she counseled once or twice a week.
    “Anyway,” Michael continued, “Beau’s security guy left for Costa Rica to help his
     parents fight the localgovernment and keep their property. He has no idea when he’ll be able to return, if
     ever. Beau didn’t think he could properly train another person in that time frame,
     so he talked about backing out as a judge. When I told him about Ray, he met him and
     was impressed. He agreed to hire him for the cruise.”
    Jordan glanced at the retired cop, now grinning almost comically. She loved this man.
     When she’d arrived in Ranchero alone and frightened, the gods must have been watching
     over her, guiding her to Empire Apartments. Since it was the least shabby of the apartment
     complexes she could afford without searching for a roommate, she’d jumped on it.
    Her salary, first for writing the personals and more recently as the culinary reporter
     at the
Ranchero Globe
, would never make her rich—in fact, it barely paid her bills—but at the time it was
     the only job she could find that would actually allow her to use her journalism degree
     from the University of Texas.
    After following her boyfriend all over Texas and ending up in Dallas where he got
     a great job as a sports reporter for a TV station, she’d promptly been dumped for
     the petite weather girl who sported a humongous store-bought chest. Ironically, her
     ex was living
her
dream life (exclusive of the big-busted girlfriend, of course), which made his success
     even harder to stomach.
    Vowing never to return home to Amarillo with her tail between her legs, Jordan had
     snapped up the
Ranchero Globe
offer and moved to the small town fifty miles northeast of the Dallas metroplex.
     The last thing she needed on top of her broken heart was to listen to her parents
     and four older brothers say “I told you so.” They’dnever liked Brett in the first place and had warned her about putting her own career
     on the back burner while she moved all over Texas with him.
    Rosie, who was like a big sister to her, lived in the apartment next door. She’d introduced
     herself before Jordan even had a chance to unpack her four suitcases and her goldfish,
     Maggie. Along with Victor and Michael, who jointly owned the building, the rest of
     the first-floor gang had adopted her and quickly became her second family.
    Although she still dreamed about sitting in the press box at athletic events, she
     couldn’t complain about her job at the newspaper. When the culinary reporter broke
     her hip in a water-skiing accident two months after Jordan was hired, the editor had
     offered her the job.
    There had been only one huge problem. Dwayne Egan wanted her to post gourmet food
     recipes twice a week in her new column. Since her skills in the kitchen were limited
     to frying bologna and making Pop-Tarts,