Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) Read online

  Killer Kitchens

  By Jean Harrington

  Book three of Murders by Design

  Interior designer Deva Dunne just may have hit the jackpot. Sure, her new client Francesco Grandese talks tough and has shady friends, but he has the eye of a connoisseur, and a huge, empty mansion he wants her to decorate.

  Deva’s boyfriend, police lieutenant Victor Rossi, has misgivings about her promising job—especially when he accompanies her to one of Francesco’s dinner parties. After Francesco returns a dish to the kitchen untasted, the chauffeur promptly scarfs it down and drops dead from cyanide poisoning.

  Has the killer made a terrible mistake and murdered the wrong person? Or was the dead man the intended victim? The only thing Deva knows for certain is someone present that night committed murder. And it seems everyone—from the dinner guests to the kitchen help—has a motive.

  71,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  April is when the romance conference season really starts to get busy for me. Every spring, I attend the RT Book Reviews convention, a gathering of about 500 authors, readers and publishing professionals who come together to celebrate their love of both romance and genre fiction. Each year, I come away from that conference, and the many others I attend that are focused on the love of books (like the Lori Foster Reader Get Together in Ohio), with a renewed enthusiasm for diving back into my to-be-read pile. As well as a long list of authors and books to add to that to-be-read pile! But because it’s a busy travel time of year for me, that also means more time on the plane and in airports for reading.

  Maybe you’re like me—traveling to conferences and in need of some plane reading. Or maybe you just need one more book to add to your to-be-read pile. Possibly you’ve got a newborn baby who keeps you up at night and gets you up early in the morning, and you need something you can read on the ereader in one hand while the baby is in the other. Or perhaps you’re just in search of a good book. You’re in luck; our April books can fill all those needs!

  The first book in our newest genre addition, New Adult, releases this month. If you love contemporary romance, sports romance, a (mostly) Jewish, spunky heroine and a hero who will make your heart melt, you’ll want to read Rush Me by debut author Allison Parr.

  This month, I’m pleased to introduce the first book in a six-book series written by four authors. Ginny Glass, Christina Thacher, Emily Cale and Maggie Wells kick off a series of contemporary romance short story collections with Love Letters Volume 1: Obeying Desire. Each volume will center around a different seriously sexy theme. I’ll bet you can’t guess what the theme of the first volume is, with a title like Obeying Desire! Look for the second volume, Love Letters Volume 2: Duty to Please, releasing in May 2013.

  Fans of contemporary romance will enjoy Saved by the Bride, the first book in a new trilogy by RITA® Award-winning author Fiona Lowe. Who knew that being a klutz and combining it with a distrust of wedding bouquets could lead to a black eye?

  Joining Fiona and Allison in the contemporary romance category is Kate Davies, with Cutest Couple, book two in Kate’s high-school reunion trilogy, Girls Most Likely to… Look for the conclusion of the trilogy, Life of the Party, in May 2013.

  Co-authors Anna Leigh Keaton and Madison Layle deliver another scorching Puma Nights story with Falke’s Renegade, while Jodie Griffin joins them in heating up your ereader with her third erotic BDSM Bondage & Breakfast book, Forbidden Fires.

  On the paranormal and science fiction front, we have a number of titles for fans. Veteran author Kate Pearce begins a new series with Soul Sucker, in which Moonlighting meets The X-Files in San Francisco Bay and two worlds collide. Kat Cantrell, winner of Harlequin’s 2011 So You Think You Can Write contest, joins Carina Press with her first science fiction romance, Mindlink, while returning author Eleri Stone gives us another jaguar shifter in Lost City Shifters: Rebellion, book three in this compelling series.

  Clockwork Mafia by Seleste deLaney brings us back to the Western steampunk world of Badlands. Inventor Henrietta Mason is retiring from airships and adventuring to return home to Philadelphia. Determined to erase all trails leading to her late father’s duplicity, she dismantles his lab and removes all records of the Badlands gold. And last but certainly not least in the paranormal category, Night of the Dark Horse by Janni Nell continues the adventures of Allegra Fairweather, paranormal investigator.

  This month, Bronwyn Stuart follows up her fantastic debut historical romance, Scandal’s Mistress, with her unique regency romance, Behind the Courtesan, featuring—you guessed it—a courtesan heroine.

  On the non-romance side, Jean Harrington brings us the third Murders by Design cozy mystery installment, Killer Kitchens.

  And joining Carina Press with an epic fantasy trilogy, Angela Highland tells the story of a half-elven healer with no control over her magic. Faanshi has always been a pawn of the powerful, but after healing two mysterious and very different men, she faces a choice that may decide the fate of a whole kingdom. If you love fantasy, pick up Valor of the Healer, book one in the Rebels of Adalonia trilogy.

  As you can see, April is full of books to distract you wherever you are, whatever you’re supposed to be doing, and even if you have a baby in your arms. I hope you enjoy these titles as much as we’ve enjoyed working on them.

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

  www.facebook.com/carinapress

  Dedication

  To Irma, Mary and Elsie

  who ran killer kitchens all their lives

  Acknowledgements

  My heartfelt thanks to Design Group West of St. Louis for their creative interior design ideas, to American Rare Coin Inc. for U.S. currency facts, and once again, to Attorney Carolyn Alden for her legal expertise.

  Thanks, too, to Lethaladies of KOD for their many thoughtful online critiques. To Carina Press’s Executive Editor Angela James for encouraging Deva Dunne to enjoy yet another romp with Lieutenant Rossi. And to my gifted developmental editor, Deborah Nemeth, for all her skill and patience.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Rossi sniffed the air and grinned. “Smells great in here. Chip’s secret sauce?”

  I nodded, watching his reaction, waiting for more.

  “Looks
great too,” he said glancing around. “You did a wonderful job.”

  Perfect. I threw my arms around him and hugged him tight. My friend Chip’s restaurant, La Cucina, was the first commercial space I ever designed, and to be honest, I needed a little reassurance.

  As we strolled into the dining room, a server sprang to attention and led the way to an intimate, white-topped table. He unfolded our napkins and placed them on our laps. “I’m Enzo. Chip sends his apologies for not greeting you personally but—” he winked, “—he’s going crazy in the kitchen.”

  “We understand,” I said. Before opening his doors to the public tonight, Chip had invited Rossi and me to an early private dinner. That he was now backstage making sure everything would be perfect for showtime wasn’t surprising.

  Enzo held up a bottle of pinot noir for our inspection. “With the chef’s compliments.”

  We nodded and in no time at all, Rossi and I were clinking glasses. His eyes, all liquid Italian fire, did what they always did when he looked at me. They tuned out everything else within range. At the moment that included the menu, and with the aroma of secret sauce in the air, no easy feat.

  I used to think Rossi’s habit of concentrating solely on the object of his attention was a detective’s ruse for gaining something. I still did. He used those penetrating eyes of his like a secret weapon to squeeze out the truth. For sure, I had never been able to lie to him about a thing. Damn it.

  He raised his glass. And an eyebrow. “To Deva Dunne, the best interior designer east of the Rockies. West of them too.” He took a celebratory sip before adding, “Seriously, the place looks terrific.”

  “You really like it?” I guess I needed to keep the compliments coming.

  “Yeah.” He grinned, showing me a flash of even white teeth.

  Damn. Rossi always knew what I was thinking, what I needed. A trait that made him maddening, not to mention rather irresistible at times.

  I blew out an exasperated breath and hoisted my wineglass. As I sipped, I glanced around, enjoying the view all over again. To tempt the appetite of anybody who strolled in, I’d painted the dining room Tuscan tomato and the bar area merlot. Striped carpeting in merlot, tomato and taupe echoed the wall colors. For drama and bling, I’d filled ornate gold frames with black and white photographs of Italian street scenes and hung them everywhere. And to enhance the photo colors, black Chiavari chairs surrounded tables draped in white linen. No checkered cloths for La Cucina.

  Startup costs had been high, so I insisted Chip pay me only when he could. If that never happened, it would be okay. We were friends, and besides, I owed him for giving me such a high-profile project to add to my design portfolio.

  Rossi picked up one of the brand new menus and handed it to me. “Food? Red walls make me hungry.”

  “That’s the whole idea.” Pleased, I took the menu from him and leaned in closer. “You know something?”

  He flashed a wicked smile. “Yeah, your neckline looks great when you do that.”

  I sat up straighter. “This is like being on a date with a Mafia don.”

  He frowned. “Why’s that?”

  A while ago he’d told me his Uncle Beppe had mob connections, but he’d refused to tell me how Beppe died. So right away you think concrete overshoes. But on that particular topic Rossi wouldn’t give out details, so who knew? “There’s no one else here except Enzo. It’s like you reserved the restaurant just for the two of us.”

  Rossi sampled the pinot noir again. “I don’t get it. What’s the Mafia connection?”

  “Remember the scene in The Godfather when Al Pacino takes Diane Keaton to the empty restaurant?”

  “No, I never saw it.”

  “Unbelievable. You’re the only person I know who didn’t.”

  He shrugged. “I hate mob movies.”

  “Well, anyway, Pacino’s booked the whole place for the night, and there’s nobody there except the wait staff.” I spread my arms wide. “Like here.”

  “You have a very fertile imagination,” Rossi said, poker faced. “Now how about we pick an appetizer?”

  Not wanting Chip to think I couldn’t find anything I liked, I wasted no time scanning the offerings. “How about the Dynamite Shrimp?”

  “How’s that Italian?” Rossi’s brow creased.

  “Think Italian-Thai. Chip isn’t doing the same old, same old. He’s innovating on the traditional dishes.”

  Rossi glanced up, giving me the full impact of those eyes. “Italian movies are one thing. Italian food’s another. I like traditional.”

  “Right.” Funny, too, coming from a guy who all by himself kept the frozen pizza industry going.

  As Rossi studied the menu, I stole a glance at him sitting there handsome as sin in one of his signature Hawaiian shirts. Like his taste in food, it was awful. Purple and yellow hibiscus blooms against a cloud blue sky. He wore his Hawaiians as a ploy so he’d seem less intimidating to crime suspects, and he’d gotten into the habit of wearing them all the time. His philosophy was if it worked with suspects, why not with everyone? He was a superb detective, but still, his shirts were so appalling I loved busting him about them.

  “So, Mr. Traditional, tell me something. Did your grandfather wear Hawaiian shirts?”

  He eyed me over the top of his menu. “Point made. Dynamite Shrimp it is. And how about an antipasto?” He skimmed the selections and sighed. “No tomatoes. Water chestnuts. Jeez.” His glance dropped farther down the page. “Ah,” he said as if he’d just discovered a murder clue. “Look under entrees.” He tapped the page. “For the Traditionalist. Mama Luigi’s Sunday Lasagna.” He slapped the menu onto the tabletop. “That’s for me. I hope Mama Luigi didn’t innovate a damn thing.” Then he looked up, stricken. “She didn’t do fusion, did she?”

  “You have nothing to fear, Rossi, except your own lack of taste buds.”

  “That isn’t true. I have superb taste and a subtle appreciation for the finer things in life.” His eyes went darker than ever. “Which is the reason I’m sitting across from a gorgeous redhead.” He took my hands and, holding them steady and firm, stared across at me with those dark, hooded eyes. “You’re very—”

  Whatever he was about to tell me never got said. An earsplitting blast cut off his words, and the building rocked on its foundation. The explosion sent the kitchen doors ricocheting into the dining area and the tables and chairs spinning in the air. The impact flung me out of my seat and hurled me across the room.

  I landed on the floor with a bone-jarring thud and lay there stunned, too disoriented to move. In shock, trembling with fear, I watched smoke billow out of the kitchen.

  Ears ringing, eyes stinging, I ignored the pain in my backside, gripped the leg of an overturned table and pulled myself into a sitting position. Where was Rossi?

  Rossi. Omigod, Rossi.

  I wanted to scream, but the blast had knocked all the air out of my lungs. I couldn’t breathe, never mind yell. Suddenly, his face bloodied, Rossi bent over me and yanked me up. His arm around my waist, we stumbled past overturned tables, crunching on shards of glass and smashed gilt wood frames. Blown off its hinges, the front door lay in the middle of the street. Trying not to inhale the smoke, we staggered out through the opening and gulped in the clear, fresh air.

  Fire trucks wailed in the distance. Enzo, so suave a few minutes ago, sat hunched on the curb with his head in his hands, staring into space.

  Rossi cradled me in his arms. “It’s over now, Deva,” he murmured in my ear. “It’s over.”

  I looked up. A thread of blood trickled down his cheek, and his eyebrows were gone. I held him tight, afraid if I let go the rest of him would disappear along with his eyebrows.

  “We made it out alive, Rossi. But oh my God, where’s Chip?”

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, feeling as if someone had taken a hammer to every muscle in my thirty-three year old body, I leaned on Rossi’s right arm and together we limped into Naples Community Hospital
to see Chip. He’d survived the explosion, but just barely. Second-degree burns covered his chest, and he’d inhaled so much smoke he was in danger of respiratory failure.

  In addition to a mild concussion, Rossi had ten stitches in that gash on his head, thanks to the fancy bottle of wine we’d been enjoying at La Cucina. It struck just above his right eyebrow or what was left of it. Not only was he sans eyebrows, his lashes were singed to stubs. The force of the explosion had thrown me clear of the flames, so I was still the proud owner of eyebrows and lashes, but I had some spectacular purple bruises, one the size of Rhode Island on my left thigh.

  We rode the elevator to the second floor in silence. I hadn’t had much sleep, and from the look of Rossi he hadn’t either. Somewhere around midnight, it had occurred to me that the explosion might not have been accidental after all. But if not, then what? A deliberate act of violence? That didn’t make sense. A big teddy bear like Chip didn’t have an enemy in the world. Who on earth would want to vandalize his brand new business? For that I had no answer, and head aching, body aching, I followed Rossi off the elevator and down the hospital corridor.

  Outside Chip’s room, a red No Visitors sign hung on the door. I pushed it open a few inches and peeked in. Chip lay flat on his back on a narrow hospital bed. A tube fed into one hand, and another snaked from his nose into an oxygen tank. I caught my breath at the sight of him lying there so lifeless, so—