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  DEATH BY PORK LOIN

  “Well, the lab reports are in,” Detective Bease said. “Cause of Death was a lethal irritant in the victim’s throat. The speed with which the test results were returned speaks to the victim’s high level of intolerance to whatever it was.”

  Sherry pondered the repercussions of this revelation. Detective Bease and Detective Diamond whispered a conversation between themselves before redirecting their attention back to the women.

  “An allergic reaction to an ingredient?” Sherry shrugged.

  “Not exactly. The substance was something not found in the traditional food pyramid. Another fact was just brought to my attention. The last dish the deceased victim consumed was”—Detective Bease glanced at his scribbled notes—“Chutney Glazed and Farro Stuffed Pork Tenderloin.”

  Sherry gasped. She shook out her hands, which had suddenly grown ice cold. “Mine?”

  “You said we should hold off mentioning that,” Detective Diamond hissed at his partner.

  Overhearing the comment, Sherry slowly drew in her breath. Her sister shook her head subtly. Marla put her index finger up to her lips.

  “Mr. Andime and the other two judges all gave statements to the police at the scene corroborating the fact Ms. Frazzelle’s food was the last thing Chef Tony Birns, now deceased, was seen consuming.”

  Both men kept their eyes on Sherry until she felt as if she was being fried in a hot skillet like a catfish fillet . . .

  Expiration Date

  Devon Delaney

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  DEATH BY PORK LOIN

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Recipes from Sherry’s Kitchen

  Teaser chapter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 Devon Delaney

  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.

  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 BOOKS and the K logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1443-5

  First electronic edition: May 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1444-2

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1444-X

  Chapter 1

  Sherry watched with curiosity as the woman wearing a press credential used two fingers and her teeth to open her OrgaNicks Cook-Off brochure. In her other hand, the woman juggled a recording device and overstuffed carryall. When the brochure slipped out of the woman’s grasp, she sighed and watched it float to the well-worn linoleum floor. Before Sherry could offer assistance, the woman proceeded down the hallway, leaving the paper behind.

  Having just left the ladies’ room, Sherry inspected the hem of her apron to ensure she hadn’t tucked it in to her pants. Satisfied she was presentable, Sherry reached down and recovered the abandoned brochure. She trotted up behind the woman and tapped her on the back. “Did you drop this?” Sherry asked as the woman turned around.

  “Yes, thanks,” the woman replied. “How do these kids ever get to class on time? The high school has tripled in size since I was a student here. Guess that’s why the cook-off is being held here, plenty of room.”

  Sherry rolled her shoulders and shuffled her feet. She glanced at the giant clock on the wall. Her eyebrows shot up when she calculated six lost minutes.

  “Wow, it’s still here.” The woman pointed at a trophy case along the wall. “Didn’t know my high school accomplishments would stay relevant so many years later.” She waved Sherry forward to join her, before putting her nose up to the glass. “That plaque’s in honor of all the Hillsboro High School Yearbook Editors. Can you believe they didn’t spell my name right? It’s Patti with an I not a Y. Pretty ironic for an award given to kids whose job it was to find typographical errors. Why was it they always got my husband Rafe’s name correct?”

  Sherry transferred her weight from one leg to the other, then back again. She took a second look at the clock.

  “I’m sorry, I see by your nametag you’re a cook-off contestant. I’d better let you go. By the way, I’m Patti Mellit. I’m reporting on the cook-off for the paper. I’ll be talking to you inside as you cook.”

  “I’m Sherry Frazzelle. Nice to meet you. Got to get cooking!”

  “Don’t mind me. I’m just strolling down memory lane. My husband and I were co-editors of our yearbook a million years ago. Time to get back to reality.”

  “Congratulations. The only award I ever got at school was for baking the most creative cupcake in Home Economics,” Sherry called out as she turned toward the kitchen.

  “Wait. Can I follow you?”

  Without turning to answer, Sherry motioned Patti forward with a sweep of her arms. With Patti in tow, she jogged down the hallway. As she passed the school auditorium, Sherry paused, peeked in, and saw a large audience watching three chefs seated at a table on the brilliantly lit stage. Her heartbeat quickened. She ran her hands down the front of her apron and resumed her trot. When she reached the kitchen entrance, the beefy security guard standing vigil uncrossed his arms and broadened his stance.

  Patti stepped around Sherry until she was face-to-face with the man. “Hey, Mike, good to see you again. I’m following my new friend, Sherry, inside to the kitchen.”

  Behind Patti, Sherry displayed her official cook-off contestant ID badge clipped to her apron. The guard nodded his approval.

  “You’re fine, Ms. Frazzelle, but I’m sorry, Ms. Mellit, I don’t see your name on my list. You can’t go in there.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Patti tossed her brown curls to the side to provide a clearer view of her press pass. “Right here, it says ‘V.I.P.’ Very important person. Where’s Nick Andime? He’ll vouch for me.”

  “The kitchen’s off limits to anyone but the six cook-off contestants and event staff.” The compact, yet imposing, man folded his arms and turned his body to better block the entrance. “Ms. Mellit, if you could just remain here while I find Mr. Andime, we can resolve this situation. I’m just following the instructions I was given.”

  Patti lowered her head, slithered past the guard, and passed through the double doors. Sherry threw a glance at the man, whose jaw dropped open, mouthed an apology, and followed Patti. Sherry made her way back to the table that housed her recipe ingredients. The reporter stopped a few feet away. Sherry picked up her knife, checked her recipe sheet, and opened a bag of baby spinach leaves with the sharp blade. She spread the vibrant green leaves across her cutting board and began chopping.

  “Hello, Patti. Better late than never.”

  Sherry peered up between knife cuts and recognized Nick
Andime, the CEO of the OrgaNicks Corporation. His light blue suit screamed, “recycled groomsman attire.” Sherry noted his shiny hair was closer to black than brown, but neither color could claim dominance. She settled on its similarity in hue to the burnt ends of a smoked brisket. All the strands of Nick’s hair were held rigidly in place, reminiscent of a Lego figurine’s snap-on hairstyle.

  “I shouldn’t have taken the Interstate,” Patti explained. “Ridiculous backup on it. An overturned produce truck. What a mess! Vegetables all over the pavement! Anyway, let me get to work. I’ve got an article to write. And call off that Mike guy, will you? He’s a little overzealous about his job. He tried to keep me out of the action.”

  Sherry quashed an involuntary snicker that bubbled up like vinegar when introduced to baking soda.

  “He’s harmless.” Nick turned his head and peered at the doorway. “Don’t forget the contestants’ display table around the corner. It’s where you can try a bite of the cooking when the contestants have completed their recipes. Don’t let anyone see you, though. The audience won’t get a chance to view those plates until after the judging is concluded, and I don’t want anyone to think you’ve influenced the contest’s outcome. I’m just doing you a special favor. It’s our little secret.”

  “I owe you one then, thanks. That’s going to make my job a whole lot easier if I can taste the contestants’ food.”

  Sherry cleared her throat when Nick Andime underscored the word “secret.” She stuffed her spinach in the measuring cup to the one-cup line and removed two leaves that sprang up in defiance. If Patti was going to watch while she prepared her recipe, Sherry wanted details to be perfect. As she held the cup up to check the measurement, she caught Patti’s eye. Sherry’s hand wobbled until she steadied it with a double-fisted grip.

  Patti pressed the red button on her recorder and began dictating. “The tension is as thick as an over-floured roux here in the cook-off kitchen. With less than twenty-five minutes to go, it appears a food-nado has swept through the contestants’ workstations. But I know better than to second-guess a competitive cook. From seeming chaos, delectable edibles will undoubtedly emerge. Right in front of me is a contestant furiously preparing pork tenderloin. This home cook is checking the accuracy of her ingredients down to a leaf of spinach. There’s no pinch of this and a dash of that from these contestants. If their recipe says one cup of something, you can be sure that’s the amount that lends to the perfect flavor and consistency.”

  Sherry smiled and returned her attention to her table. A ripple of panic hijacked her grin when she lost track of where she was in her recipe. She picked up the typed sheet of instructions but couldn’t find her place. She ran her finger three-quarters of the way down the paper before things looked familiar. “Please let her move on to interview someone else,” she whispered. Sherry puffed out her cheeks. “Come on, girl, just concentrate.”

  Patti clicked off her recorder but, much to Sherry’s chagrin, stayed put. “So, Nick, how’s my favorite brother-in-law? Do you mind if I include a biographical profile on you and your recent entry into the organic food market in my article?”

  Nick groaned. “The focus should be on the contest itself, Patti. Nothing else is necessary.”

  “But it’s so interesting how well your new venture is doing. I can see your gravy train pulling into the station any day now. And it’s destiny your cook-off is held at the very same high school where you were voted ‘Biggest Dreamer.’ Here you are, living your dream!”

  Patti leaned in closer to Nick. “You have a little something in your soul patch. Is that parsley?”

  Sherry snorted, this time unable to restrain her laughter.

  “It’s a goatee, not a soul patch, and keep me out of the article.” Nick turned his back to Patti.

  “No problem, but your story would sell papers, if you ask me.”

  When Patti and Nick walked away, a sense of calm blanketed Sherry with the swiftness of a chug of brandy. Back on track, Sherry scanned the kitchen and felt a twinge of admiration that over two dozen people were functioning with relative proficiency in a room designed for half that amount. All the cook-off finalists performed their culinary magic side by side, in equally size-restricted prep areas. Men and women in OrgaNicks-logoed aprons moved seamlessly between cutting boards, refrigerators, and ovens. People were weaving around each other, like the latticework crust created by bakers to top the best fruit pies. Cooks were carrying everything from mixing bowls to sizzling skillets. Event staffers were dodging contestants while monitoring activities and offering assistance.

  A wisp of Sherry’s hair blew across her face, tousled by the breeze generated by a very familiar contestant.

  “Hey, Sherry! Hot pan coming through.” A woman in a T-shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, and an apron approached. “Don’t back up, Kenny, or you’ll get a hot cheese facial.” She rushed from her workstation, deftly transporting dangerous cargo.

  “Your sister’s a gem. I’ve never seen a cook move as fast as her,” Kenny Dewitt remarked from the neighboring table as Marla Barras scurried by him. He moved closer to Marla’s unoccupied table. “You two don’t seem at all alike. She’s a bit scattered. You know, all over the place. Look at her table compared to yours. How can she find anything in that disaster zone?”

  “We all have our certain style. Whatever way gets the job done is the right way. Marla can shimmy and shake with the best of them.” Sherry cringed as she examined her sister’s workspace. “Be careful. Marla’s not going to like you crowding her space.”

  Before Kenny could step back, Marla appeared. “Can I help you? Why are you handling my ingredients?”

  The can of organic chicken broth Kenny was holding slipped out of his hand, which Sherry noted was missing its pinkie finger, and crashed to the floor. Kenny reached down with his other hand and retrieved the dented can.

  “Don’t worry. It’s mine.” He pointed to Marla’s chicken broth can that was obscured by bags of produce. “I know enough not to touch anyone else’s stuff. Just checking out the competition. No harm, no foul.” Kenny raised both hands in mock surrender. He left in a hurry with his ponytail swishing behind him.

  The speakers mounted on the wall above Sherry’s head crackled to life. “Approaching the seventy-minute mark, contestants. Twenty minutes and counting remaining in the OrgaNicks Cook-Off. Keep in mind, your dish will be judged equally for adherence to the contest theme, which is ‘quick and easy entrees,’ along with appearance, taste, of course, and creative use of at least one OrgaNicks product.”

  “Can you believe that Kenny guy?” Marla asked as she passed behind Sherry’s prep table. “Hey, where did you go a few minutes ago? I didn’t think we were allowed to leave the kitchen.”

  “My bladder is more active than yeast in warm water. I had to beg until the officials let me run to the bathroom.” Sherry patted her stomach as if she were shaping pizza dough. “I met Patti Mellit, the reporter, in the hallway. She’s covering the cook-off for the newspaper. There she is, right over there.” Sherry pointed down the row of contestants. “She’ll be by for an interview, no doubt, so be prepared to multitask. Anyway, must go. See ya.”

  Sherry strutted to the refrigerator, opened the stainless-steel door, and pulled out her specified ingredient bag. Confident she had a few minutes to spare, Sherry took her time returning to her workstation, hoping to check the progress of her fellow competitors. In front of her a woman wiped her brow with a dishtowel. The soiled towel left a leaf of some green produce just below her hairline. Another contestant held a timer at eye level while she babysat a simmering saucepan. The only other man in the competition, besides Kenny, was drinking a tall glass of something. As he lowered his glass from his mouth, his hand quivered, splashing the liquid in all directions. Sherry’s gaze caught his. He greeted her with a lukewarm smile, which Sherry returned. He managed his drink safely down to his table, wiped his eyeglasses with a napkin, and returned to his cooking as Sherry carried her ingredient
bag back to her table.

  Chapter 2

  As the final minutes of the cook-off ticked by, Sherry’s center of attention was back on her knife and cutting board. Just as the final blow of the shiny blade minced the last of the parsley, someone careened into her table. The table vibrated, and the knife loosened from her hand. She tightened her grip to keep it from jettisoning toward her feet. Greens and metal measuring spoons tumbled to the floor. Sherry set down her knife, taking care to aim the blade away from her, and began picking up the debris.

  Peering up from her squatting position, she caught a glimpse of Nick Andime as he brushed parsley bits off his seersucker pants. Sherry rose and involuntarily grumbled. She caught his eye, but he made no apology. After he passed her table, she watched him walk to the middle of the kitchen, where he took the microphone from the cook-off hostess. He clicked it on.

  “Okay, cook-off contestants, finish up your dishes. It’s almost time to get your food to the judges’ table.”

  “Excuse me. I was told I was the timekeeper.” Brynne Stark, the event hostess, approached Nick, hand outstretched. Her comment resonated across the airwaves.

  Nick lowered the mic. The sudden jerk of the microphone created a screech that battered all eardrums in the vicinity. From her front-row seat to the exchange, Sherry backed up a step to lessen the impact.

  “Well, if you recall, this is technically my contest, so who best to ring in the final thrilling moments but me?” Nick’s sarcasm appeared to sting its recipient. “You might want to check the mirror. Your mascara is dripping.”

  Brynne dabbed her eyelid with the back of her finger. “I was hit with the mic during an interview. I’m not even sure how it happened. Let’s just say the California contestant, Kenny Dewitt, was very enthusiastic about being interviewed. The eye that was hit started watering and only stopped a minute ago. Hazards of the job, I guess. By the way, you have parsley in your hair.”