The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK TM(27)

                with a side dish of

                Asparagus Wrapped in Poached Alligator Tail



                God. A person should get a warning before opening a message like that. At the very least, there should be some kind of gross-out filter that captured unsavory email until you can face it.

                Holding my breath, I sat down to read the rest of the nightmare that was to be my life for the foreseeable future. When I got to the phrase “mince the squirrel meat,” I closed my eyes and let the held-breath out slowly. Eventually, the universe stabilized enough for me to continue reading the distasteful document, even though I skimmed it like gravy.

                At “scald, dress, and pick the hair off the ’possum,” however, I headed to the bathroom, hanging my head over the toilet bowl until the wave of nausea passed. The office toilet—which the public used. Where does one go to recover from that?

                Gumshoes grumbling their way across television and movie screens suddenly made sense. The monosyllabic responses of down-and-out private eyes, the drinking, the bitterness. Call me a house dick, I’d be surly too. Knock me in the head with a gun butt, and I’d be cranky. Already, getting people to tell me things they never meant to tell anyone, snooping into matters that weren’t any of my business, and pretending to be someone I’m not had frayed my last nerve.

                * * * *

                I’d never been on this side of town, with its boxy little houses, all the same, all in a row, and it took getting lost twice to find the address. The driveway ended in a ratty hedge instead of a garage. Behind the glass of the front door, a dark-haired woman nearly filled the frame, and didn’t speak until I was on the porch right in front of her.



                             “You must be Ms. Pennington from the Turnbow Agency.” She moved aside and opened the door to let me in. “I’m Denise Quay.” We sat down on a settee in the foyer.

                “You called our agency to voice a concern about—”

                “The disappearance of Pilar Heinz. My friend did not just wander off, no matter what the police say.” She sounded angry instead of concerned.

                “You mentioned to Ms. Turnbow that a Gastronomic Gambles chef might be involved.”

                “Clyde Shelbee. He’s gotten away with so many things in the past, why not murder this time?” The woman was wringing her hands as if a neck was between them.

                “Murder is a very serious accusation,” I said as softly as I could so I didn’t rile her any further.

                “If you’d had dealings with the famous Chef Clyde in the past… Pilar finally saw him for the jealous and petty little man he is. She wanted something in writing this time guaranteeing she’d get credit for her contributions.”

                “If he refused, maybe Pilar finally said enough is enough and took off.”

                “No. Pilar might quit, but not until after the competition. She believed if she could get Shelbee to acknowledge that the recipes were hers, it would launch her career.”

                “It’s my understanding that Chef Clyde is going ahead with using Pilar’s dishes in the competition.”

                “What? And the network is going to let that bastard get away with it?”

                “With what? If you have evidence that a crime has been committed, you need to go to the police.”