"Jordan McAllister's evening ends with her date going to the morgue."
Reviewed by Leanne Davis
Posted May 29, 2012
Mystery | Mystery Cozy
Jordan McAllister knows nothing about cooking. She wants
nothing more than to be a sports reporter but the only job
she could find has her writing personal ads. When the
cooking columnist gets hurt, Jordan is coerced into writing
the column. With the help her friends and neighbors in her
apartment, Jordan gathers recipes, gives them a fancy name,
and prints them for the readers.
Her column is so popular that she is asked to go to the
Cattleman's Association dinner. When her date ends up
dying, Jordan will find herself drawn into a second
investigation.
Her brother, who has just started investigating the upswing
in cattle rustling appears on her doorstep. Her new man is
even pulled from his undercover operation to consult on the
killing.
Highly entertaining and filled with unique and lovable
characters, Clueless Cook Mystery is a series to watch. The
first book was
very enjoyable with a good mystery. BEEF STOLEN-OFF is even
better.
SUMMARY
As the food columnist for The Ranchero Globe, Jordan
McAllister catches the eye of cattle baron Lucas Santana,
who invites her to the Cattleman's Ball, hoping a positive
review from the ball might boost the county's sagging beef
sales.
To ensure Jordan enjoys herself, Santana sets her up with
a prime cowboy companion for the event--Rusty Morales.
Jordan's delighted to go with him and two-step the night
away. But instead, she winds up in the emergency room where
her date is DOA.
When Rusty's mother begs her for help, Jordan knows she
needs to grab the bull by the horns and get to ...
Excerpt"How are we going to play this, Danny? Since I know
these people, I think I should ask the questions," Jordan
said, groaning when the pickup hit a bump on the back road
to Santana Circle Ranch and her head connected with the
roof. "You think you could slow down a bit, bro? I'm pretty
sure Rusty's not going anywhere, anytime soon." She added
an extra touch of sarcasm as she rubbed her head.
"I thought you'd lose that smart mouth when you became a
big time reporter." He chuckled. "Oh wait! I forgot. You
write personals."
She slapped his shoulder playfully. Too much time had
passed since her brother had teased her, and she'd missed
it. "I have my own column, loser."
"Yeah, writing recipes you've never heard of and have no
clue how to cook."
"Shut up! At least I didn't get my job because I came
cheap." She paused, and then laughed out loud. "Okay, maybe
that is how I got the job, but I still think you should let
me do all the talking."
"No way! I'm the one investigating this cattle rustling
ring, sis. My job, remember?"
"Yeah, but I'm the one who held my date in my arms while
he was dying." She huffed. "And I'm the one who got the
invite to come to the funeral and the wake. I was going to
bring Victor until you whined like you did when you were
eight and Mom wouldn't let you go hunting with Dad and the
Three Musketeers." She tsked. "Don't make me regret my
decision."
Danny pressed his lips together in a move Jordan
recognized as his retreat–and–rearm tactic. She
prepared herself for his zing back.
"You might have a point," he said, disappointing her a
little. She loved the back and forth, one–upmanship
they usually shared. "But for the record, Patrick was eight
when Dad took him on his first hunting trip."
"Mom always called you the sensitive one. When she
thought she'd never get her little girl, she decided to
keep you away from all that macho stuff." Jordan paused,
remembering how her mom had shifted all that focus onto
her, dressing her in frilly clothes like a baby doll. But
Sylvia McAllister had lost that battle when the
testosterone in the house had overpowered the estrogen, and
her brothers discovered Mama's little girl could throw a
precision touchdown pass in traffic better than any of
them.
"Okay, I get it. If any of Rusty's partners in crime are
there today, I'm sure the last thing they want is to get
chatty with me."
"My point, exactly," she interrupted. "That's why we
shouldn't tell them you're here on an investigation. Let's
just say you're hanging out with me while you job hunt."
He made a sharp right turn off the road and stopped in
front of an ornate gate with a huge, wrought iron banner
swinging above that read SANTANA CIRCLE RANCH.
"Whoa! You said this guy was rich, but you didn't say
how freakin' big this ranch was." He pointed to the clumps
of black cows grazing to the left of them in a pasture that
looked like it went back as far as the skyline.
"You obviously weren't listening when I said he was one
of the biggest cattle raisers in the state," she said, but
even she was impressed.
"And Rusty was his right–hand man?"
"Yes, and from what I gathered at the ball the other
night, the two were tight."
"Hmm. Wonder if Santana was in on the rustling?"
"You don't even know for sure if Rusty was involved."
Jordan turned to face her brother. "Why would he risk
ending up in jail when he had the prefect setup here? It
was crystal clear Santana thought of him as more than an
employee. And don't forget the male ego. Most guys would
flash that kind of money around to impress a date. He
didn't." She shook her head. "I'd bet money he wasn't
involved."
"Because he didn't pull out his wallet to impress your
skinny bones? Ha! Maybe he wasn't interested. Did you ever
think of that?" He snickered, and then got serious
again. "Our sources tell us his name showed up on several
questionable bills of sale for Wagyu bulls that were
probably stolen."
"Wagyu bulls?"
Danny turned down the gravel road, and a ranch house
came into view several miles away. "Wagyu cattle are like
the Rolls Royce of cows. Think Kobe beef and go one step
better."
"I thought Kobe beef was imported from Japan."
"It is, but plenty of ranch owners raise their own
around here."
Danny slowed down near a mass of cars lining the side of
the road. After parking the truck in the first available
slot about a mile from the house, he got out. Jordan
followed suit, pulling at the hem of the black jersey
number she'd worn on her first assignment at the newspaper,
swearing it had shrunk. Since it was the only black thing
she owned other than the long slinky skirt she'd bought for
the Cattleman's Ball, she hoped it wasn't too short for a
wake.
Nothing says white trash like slutty funeral clothes.
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