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One Taste Too Many
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THE PRIME SUSPECT
Sarah sighed. Her sister was the queen of avoidance. “RahRah and I are staying out of your way so you can do your Julia Child/Rachael Ray thing.” RahRah jumped up onto her shoulder and draped himself around the back of Sarah’s neck. “So are you going to tell me what happened tonight?”
“I wish I knew,” Emily muttered from back in the depths of the refrigerator. “Even though it’s too early for him to know anything for sure, Peter said Bill apparently ate a forkful of rhubarb crisp that killed him.”
“That doesn’t prove Bill was murdered.”
“I agree. Besides, if rhubarb crisp is what killed him, it couldn’t have been mine. It would have had to be someone else’s. You know as well as I do, Bill never touched my rhubarb crisp because I always use nuts in the recipe.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell Peter the same thing. After all, I was married to Bill for enough years to know which of your recipes he wouldn’t go near.”
“Thanks. I hope you don’t have to vouch for me.” Emily leaned against the now-closed refrigerator and used her free hand to tuck an escaping strand of blond hair back under her towel turban.
“To tell you the truth, I have a bad feeling about this,” Emily said. “The way Peter looked at me when I told him about someone else being in the Civic Center was like he was humoring me. I’m telling you, he believes I killed Bill. . . .”
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ONE TASTE TOO MANY
Debra H. Goldstein
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
THE PRIME SUSPECT
BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION!
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
RECIPES
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Debra H. Goldstein
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1947-8
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1947-6
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1950-8 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1950-6 (eBook)
To Joel, with love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Introducing a new series to the world is fun, but frightening. The Sarah Blair series went outside my comfort zone of lawyers and judges and embraced unfamiliar concepts like using the kitchen as more than a pleasant room to walk through when going from the garage to the den. Consequently, many people helped me find my way on this journey. Their encouragement and knowledge made this series possible, but any errors are my own.
I am thankful to friends Fran and Lee Godchaux, T.K. Thorne, Susan Robinson Bauer, Judi Schulman-Miller, and Jean Felts for reading many different versions of the book, educating me on topics ranging from pace to the behavior of cats, and giving me the encouragement to bring Sarah Blair to life. Editors Barb Goffman and Lourdes Venard made me expand my thinking and the dimensions of Sarah and her friends and family. Elizabeth Hutchins, using her expertise as a trusts and estates attorney, jumped on the bandwagon to research and explain animal trusts and how Alabama law has changed in respect to them.
A special thanks to my agent, Dawn Dowdle, for her support and work on my behalf and to John Scognamiglio, my Kensington editor, who has the vision to see where the Sarah Blair mystery series and my writing career can go.
I began this book with a dedication to my husband, Joel. It is only fitting to conclude the acknowledgments with him because Joel has been my love and my cheerleader for the entire journey creating Sarah Blair.
Chapter One
“Bill’s dead and, uh, I’m afraid the police think I killed him.”
Sarah Blair stared at the cell phone in her hand. She could not believe the words she had just heard over it. Bill cannot be dead. He was her ex-husband, but like the cat he let her keep after their divorce, she always thought William Taft Blair had nine lives. And what did Emily mean that the police thought she had killed him? No way her twin sister could have done anything like that!
Sure, Emily wielded a cleaver with deft precision in her job as a line cook and she�
��d threatened Bill a few times over his treatment of Sarah during their marriage and divorce, but Sarah refused to believe Emily could or would murder anyone.
“We were at the Civic Center. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t.” Emily’s voice cracked in a way Sarah knew tears were threatening.
“What were the two of you doing at the Civic Center after midnight?”
“The Food Expo, but that doesn’t matter now. I’m at the police station. Please, come.”
The call ended before Sarah could ask any of the questions still racing through her brain. The only thing she was certain of was Emily needed her.
She swung her lanky legs over the side of her bed and grabbed her jeans from the floor. It couldn’t be. At thirty-four, six years older than her, Bill was too young to die. He still had so much to do and so many more people to double-cross. She doubted she would ever know how many people, besides her, he’d hurt in Wheaton.
Bill might have had a presidential name, but he lacked any presidential qualities. She poked her foot under her bed, trying to find her shoes, among the scattered college brochures. Moving her foot over a few inches, Sarah successfully hooked a shoe with her toes.
Feeling sick to her stomach, she sat down hard on her bed, disturbing her cat’s carefully constructed burrow in the quilt. RahRah stretched one tan paw into the air. Sarah put her hand on his back, but he squirmed away and jumped off the bed. She was tempted to follow him for a quick comforting hug. Instead, she pulled a purple sweater from the remaining pile of clothing on the floor and yanked it over her head.
“RahRah, what could possibly possess Emily to be at the police station without a lawyer? Didn’t she learn anything all those years I made her watch Perry Mason?”
RahRah blinked but didn’t purr.
“So, you agree with me. If Em isn’t a suspect, they would have taken her statement during normal business hours.”
Sarah stuffed her other foot into its shoe and made up her mind. Whether Emily wanted it or not, she wasn’t going to let her sit in jail without representation. She dug her phone from beneath the covers, glanced at the time on its face, and scrolled to her boss’s number.
Hopefully, Harlan was home, alone, and willing to help his receptionist’s sister.
Chapter Two
Sarah dug her fingernails deeper into the leather handle of Harlan’s briefcase. Less than forty minutes had elapsed between Emily’s call and Harlan and Sarah’s arrival at the police station. Now they had been waiting almost the same amount of time to see Emily.
If she were in charge, Sarah would have already grabbed the portly officer manning the desk by his lapels and demanded he tell her where her sister was. Instead, Sarah forced herself to do what she’d promised her boss in the car—keep quiet and carry the briefcase.
“Harlan, I just relieved the desk man.” The officer took a sip of his coffee. “I’m not sure who’s here and who’s not. Don’t see anything with her name on it.” He waved his hands at the papers strewn on his desk and rumpled a few.
Sarah tightened her grasp on the briefcase’s handle. A ridge in the leather cut into her hand but she ignored it. Offices and other unguarded rooms were on this floor. Unless her sister was arrested, she couldn’t be too far away.
Harlan leaned forward and placed one manicured hand on the desk man’s computer screen and the other near the telephone on the desk. “Using one of these probably would be faster.”
The officer grunted but picked up his phone. He punched in a few numbers. “Emily? Emily Johnson?” He glanced at Harlan, who nodded. The officer cocked his thumb over his left shoulder. “Second door to the right.”
Harlan started down the beige hall, with Sarah behind him.
“Hey,” the desk man’s voice followed them, “where do you think she’s going?”
Sarah froze, but Harlan reached back for her elbow and tugged her forward. “She’s part of my legal team.”
He kept walking.
Keeping up with his brisk pace, Sarah hoped the desk officer didn’t see her smile. Harlan’s instant promotion from his law firm receptionist to a member of his legal team amused her, despite the situation. Not bad for someone whose education ended when she got married a week out of high school.
When Harlan stopped in front of a wooden door, Sarah stared from her higher vantage point at the balding spot atop Harlan’s head. She was surprised, as usual, to see it. Unless she was standing beside him, he always seemed taller than her and far younger than thirty-eight. She stood back as he rapped on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer.
From the doorway, Sarah saw Emily seated at a gunmetal-gray table. A pad, pen, Diet Coke can, and a cup of coffee were the only things in front of her. Peter Mueller, the Wheaton police chief, sat across from Emily.
Sarah realized that, except for campaign advertisements on television or in the newspaper, she hadn’t seen him since he graduated from their Birmingham high school a couple of years ahead of her. Obviously, moving to nearby Wheaton, Alabama, had been a good career move.
The rising level of Emily’s voice brought Sarah’s focus back to Emily. “There was somebody else in the Civic Center.”
“Who?” Peter asked.
“I don’t know. I was giving Bill CPR when I heard someone and called out for help.”
Sarah stared at Emily’s hands unconsciously pantomiming administering CPR. They were, like the top of Emily’s blouse, visible above the table and stained with red splotches. “Em, you’re bleeding!”
“Relax. It’s rhubarb,” Peter said.
“Rhubarb?”
Emily glanced at her blouse and hands. Spreading her red-stained fingers, she giggled. “Peter thinks it’s rhubarb from one of my rhubarb crisps. He doesn’t believe Bill wouldn’t have touched, let alone eaten, one of mine. I keep telling him . . .”
Sarah raised her hand. “Em, don’t say another word. I brought Harlan with me.”
She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything more, something sharp jammed into Sarah’s side, shoving her into Harlan. He grabbed Sarah’s arm and steadied her as a bottle-tinted redhead, the desk officer on her heels, barreled past them, straight toward Emily. Sarah recognized the iron-hipped woman as Jane Clark, a line cook Emily worked with and Bill’s latest bimbo.
“You, you killed him!” Jane yelled. “You killed Bill so he wouldn’t throw you out of the restaurant.”
The desk man grabbed for Jane, catching her arm, but the dynamo twisted free. She lunged at Emily, nails extended to scratch her face.
“Jane, stop it!” Emily sidestepped.
Peter and the other officer wrestled the angry woman into the chair where Emily had sat.
Sarah rushed to her sister’s side and gingerly touched her twin’s cheek, relieved the skin appeared to be intact.
“Jane,” Emily said, “are you crazy?”
The redhead glared at Emily and Sarah, tears in her eyes, as the police officers slowly released their grasp of her arms. Neither moved from her side.
“What’s going on here?” Peter said.
Jane pointed to Emily. “I caught her rifling through Southwind’s business records last week and told Bill what she’d been doing. He was furious and assured me he’d have her kicked out of the Food Expo. Bill swore she’d never work at Southwind or any other upscale restaurant again.”
Emily hesitated. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Jane.”
Sarah stared at Emily. The idea of Em searching through private business records didn’t make sense. Besides, even if she went through some Southwind files, why would Bill care? As chairman of the Civic Center, Bill would justifiably have exploded if Emily or anyone messed with his pet project, the Food Expo, but there was no personal connection between Bill and the restaurant where Emily worked, at least that Sarah knew about. Certainly, the rat wouldn’t deliberately hurt his former sister-in-law simply to appease his girlfriend of the week. Could Bill possibly have sunk that low?
Jane scowled at him but stood and started toward the door. The desk officer trailed, his hand firmly on her arm. Passing Sarah, Jane stopped so abruptly the officer almost tripped over her heels.
“Cat thief,” she hissed.
Jane’s spittle sprayed across Sarah’s cheek. She forced herself not to touch her face until after the officer had guided Jane from the room. Cat thief? What in the world was Jane talking about?
When the metal door closed, Sarah put her arms around her trembling sister and held her tightly, their long, dark and light hair entwined.
“Bill’s really dead?” Sarah asked.
Emily nodded.
Sarah wanted to quiz her twin about what was going on but thought it best to wait. She couldn’t read the line over her sister’s brow but knew Emily’s usually buoyant energy had leaked out like a deflated balloon at Jane’s mention of the Food Expo and Southwind.
Jane’s accusation couldn’t be true. Yes, Emily had thought and said unkind things about Bill during the divorce proceedings—as any loyal sister would—but Emily could never kill anyone, even Bill. She was too much of a straight arrow. Besides, when it came to the restaurant business, Emily was a true professional. She’d never do anything to risk her career.
From her first baby steps, Emily had been their mother’s shadow in the kitchen. She’d continued her singular focus, skipping college to attend the culinary institute and work her way up the chef ladder at restaurants in Birmingham, San Francisco, and now, Wheaton. Sarah knew how important working under Southwind’s Chef Marcus was to Emily. If it wasn’t, Emily would never have come back to Wheaton. No, there was absolutely no way Emily would have done anything to undermine her upcoming chance to be promoted from line cook to sous chef.
One Taste Too Many
Two Bites Too Many