Never Trifle with Murder (Fresh-Baked Mystery Book 15)

Chapter 1

Phyllis Newsom watched as her friend Sam Fletcher intently studied the dominoes arrayed in front of him. He frowned in thought, put the tip of his index finger on one of them, then moved it to another. After a couple of seconds, he picked up that domino and placed it with the other two that had already been played in the center of the table.

The man to Sam’s left slid one of his dominoes out to join the others. Sam’s partner, seated across the table from him, sighed and turned all six of his dominoes face down, then began shoving them to the center. Sam and the other two players did likewise. The sound of the dominoes hitting the table and then clicking together was almost musical.

"That was the first play in that hand, Phyllis said. And it’s over?"

Well, we were set, Sam said.

His partner, former hardware store owner Ansel Hovey, shook his head and said, I shouldn’t’a bid on sixes. I knew better. He gave Sam a mock glare. I figured you’d have somethin’ better than what you threw out there.

The man to Sam’s left, who had played the decisive domino, grinned and said, Now, don’t give Sam a hard time, Ansel. You can only play the dominoes you’re dealt.

Thanks, Patrick, Sam said. He turned his head to look up at Phyllis, who stood behind his left shoulder. You see, once Patrick took that trick, there was no way we could make what Ansel bid. There wasn’t enough count left.

Carolyn Wilbarger, who stood behind Sam to the right, said, You don’t have to mansplain the game of Forty-Two to us. We’re all from Texas, you know.

And I’ve been playing Forty-Two for as far back as I can remember, Phyllis added. I understand the concept of what you’re saying, Sam. My brain’s just never been able to work fast enough to see how the whole rest of the hand is going to play out based on the first one or two tricks.

Your brain works plenty fast, Sam told her. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to solve all those murders.

The player called Patrick turned to smile up at Phyllis. That’s right, you’re the lady who’s famous for catching killers. I’ve heard a lot about you.

Most of it greatly exaggerated, I’m sure, Phyllis said.

Sam said, You and Patrick ought to get together sometime and compare notes. He used to be a homicide detective before he retired, you know.

Phyllis shook her head. No, I didn’t know that. Where did you work, Mr. Flanagan?

Several places. New York, St. Louis, and finally retired from the Dallas PD. Flanagan was a stocky man wearing a polo shirt and khakis. He still had a full head of brown hair streaked with gray, and a brush-like mustache that was a mixture of those shades, as well. He didn’t really look like a cop to Phyllis, but she had been around enough police officers and sheriff’s deputies to know that they came in all different varieties, including her son Mike, who worked for the Parker County Sheriff’s Department.

The fourth man at the table in the Weatherford Senior Center, Carl Benford, leaned forward and said, Well, if nobody else is gonna shake those bones, I will. He rested his hands on the cluster of face-down dominoes in the center of the table and started shuffling them.

Thank goodness, Carolyn said. There’s the man we’re here to see, Phyllis. Now we don’t have to stand around and watch these fossils play Forty-Two.

Sam chuckled and said, Don’t rush off. We might play straight dominoes when we finish this game. Or even Chickenfoot. Could get downright excitin’.

Carolyn said, Hmmph, and linked arms with Phyllis. She steered both of them toward the far side of the big main room.

Three people had just entered the senior center. The one in the lead looked a little out of place here. Not because of his age; his hair was silver and his deeply tanned face showed the weathering of years. He was old enough to be considered a senior citizen. He was the only man wearing a suit, though, in a roomful of casually dressed people.

And an expensive, three-piece suit complete with vest, at that. A stickpin glittered in his silk tie. Elegance, success, and sophistication seemed to radiate from him.

He glanced over his shoulder at the two much younger people following him and said, I’ll find out where we’re supposed to set up. His voice was deep, powerful, and self-assured.

His companions were a young man and woman, probably in their mid-twenties. The woman was very pretty, with blond hair pulled back in a long ponytail and a trim shape in jeans and short-sleeved knit top. The young man with her had dark hair, thick and a little floppy, and was well-built without looking athletic.

Two women who had been talking on the other side of the room hurried forward to meet the three newcomers. One of the pair was Eve Turner, a retired teacher who shared a big, two-story house on one of Weatherford’s tree-shaded side streets with Phyllis, Carolyn, and Sam, all of whom had had long careers as educators. The house belonged to Phyllis, and after her husband passed away, she had come up with the idea of renting out rooms to other retired teachers, instead of rattling around in the big old place by herself.

By this point, the foursome weren’t just housemates. They were family.

The woman with Eve was Darla Kirby, the director of the senior center. She held out her hand to the distinguished gentleman in the expensive suit and said, You must be Mr. Dorrington.

He took her hand, then clasped it with his other hand as well. His smile was warm as he said, Indeed I am. And you, without a doubt, are Ms. Kirby. I recognize your charming voice from our phone conversations.

Phyllis could tell that Darla wanted to giggle and flutter at the flattery, but she kept it under control as she said, Yes, I, uh, I’m the director of the center here.

Eve didn’t bother keeping her natural response to a handsome older gentleman under control. She swooped in and took Dorrington’s hand as soon as Darla let go of it, and she used the man’s own move on him by wrapping both hands around his.

And I’m Eve Turner, she introduced herself in a honeyed voice.

Ms. Turner, Dorrington said. Not to be outdone, he added his left hand to the mix and wrapped it around both of Eve’s.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Carolyn muttered to Phyllis as they crossed the room. Why doesn’t she just challenge him to wrestle?

Don’t give her any ideas, Phyllis responded quietly.

Dorrington extricated his hands from Eve’s and gestured vaguely toward his two younger companions. My assistant, Becky Thackery.

He didn’t introduce the young man.

Dorrington rubbed his hands together with a slight, papery whisper and went on, Now, where should we set up?

The kitchen is right here, Darla said, pointing toward a door next to a large window with a pull-down shutter closing it off from the main room. I hope it’s big enough to hold the class. If not, we can open that up and some of the ladies can watch from out here. I know you like to have your students get right in there and do the work themselves, though.

Hands-on experience, Dorrington agreed. By far the best way to learn anything.

That’s what I’ve always believed, Eve said. She looked over as Phyllis and Carolyn came up and put her flirting aside for the moment as she went on, Oh, you have to meet these two. Phyllis Newsom and Carolyn Wilbarger. Between them, they’ve won most of the cooking and baking competitions around here for the past few years.

Ladies, Dorrington greeted them. He stopped short of giving them a courtly bow, but Phyllis thought he looked like the idea crossed his mind. "It’s an honor to be in your presence, let alone to have you attend some of my classes. You are going to attend, aren’t you?"

That’s why we’re here, Carolyn said. And we’re just amateurs, not some fancy chef like you.

It’s been my experience that some of the best cooks in the world have never worked their magic outside their own kitchens. I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully, and I hope you enjoy and can make use of what little expertise I have to pass on.

That was false modesty if she’d ever heard it, thought Phyllis. Alfred Dorrington was an expert in the kitchen, and he darned well knew it. He owned a ritzy restaurant in Dallas, and even though he had retired from its day-to-day operation, he still had a reputation as one of the top chefs in Texas.

He was from England, originally, but had lived in the States for the past thirty years, as Phyllis had learned from talking to Darla Kirby, but that was all she really knew about the man other than the fact that he traveled around the North Texas area giving classes in British cooking and, in an intriguing twist, a cross between Texas and British cooking at places such as senior and community centers. He did that because he enjoyed it, according to Darla, not because he needed the money.

We’re looking forward to seeing what we can learn from you, Phyllis told him.

What’s on the agenda for today’s class? Carolyn asked.

If I wanted to be coy about it, I could say that you’ll find out soon enough, Dorrington replied. Then he leaned forward with a twinkle in his eyes and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. But I don’t mind letting you on it, my dear. Today we’ll be learning how to make the world’s best scones and a traditional Bubble and Squeak that’s to die for!

He turned, motioned toward the door, and told the two young people with him, Come along, children.

They disappeared into the kitchen. Eve watched them go, sighed, and said, I just love a man with a British accent.

You love a man with any accent, as long as he’s breathing, Carolyn said. Then she looked at Phyllis and went on, And I really wish he hadn’t said that about a Bubble and Squeak that’s to die for. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with here!

Chapter 2

The two young people spent the next ten minutes bringing things from a vehicle parked outside and carrying them into the center’s kitchen. Phyllis heard pots and pans clinking together as the young man placed a large, zippered fabric bag on the counter. The young woman brought in cardboard boxes that were probably full of ingredients for that day’s lesson. Through the open door, Phyllis saw them starting to unload the containers while Alfred Dorrington emerged from the kitchen and resumed chatting with Phyllis, Carolyn, Eve, and Darla Kirby.

When Carolyn could get a word in through Eve’s coquettish remarks, she asked, Did you have any formal training as a chef, Mr. Dorrington?

You mean, did I attend any of the famous cooking schools such as Saint Emilion or Le Cordon Bleu London? Dorrington smiled and shook his head. Alas, no. I got my start as a scullery lad at a fish and chips shop. But when I got a chance, I proved to have a knack for more than washing dishes and sweeping out the place. He laughed. Of course, there’s only so much you can do with fish and chips! But I experimented with various combinations of seasonings, and they proved popular, to the point that the owner began to resent me and fired me. Word had gotten around, though, and it didn’t take long for me to catch on as the cook at a small pub. Again, there’s only so much you can do with simple fare such as that, but it opened up a whole new world of intriguing possibilities for me. Eventually I started my own place on little more than the proverbial wing and a prayer and parleyed my success with it into opening a larger, more elegant establishment.

The story had a practiced air to it that made Phyllis think that Dorrington had probably told it numerous times before, probably at every one of these classes he gave. She knew from her years of experience as a history teacher that keeping your students engaged and entertained made it easier for them to grasp what you were trying to teach.

I suppose it didn’t take much to be more elegant than a fish and chips shop or a pub, Carolyn said.

Instead of taking offense at that, as he might have, Dorrington laughed and said, A blunt but very accurate assessment, Carolyn. With luck and hard work, I was able to turn my little endeavor into a successful restaurant.

Carolyn shook her head. No, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about restaurants in London. I’ve never been to England, or anywhere else in Europe.

Well…not to sound disloyal to queen and country, mind you… I’ve come to greatly appreciate living in America, as well. I consider myself an American now and have for quite some time. If fact, I’ve been in Texas so long I’ve adapted some spices popular in this great state to my staple foods at my restaurant, so that it’s becoming more Tex-Brit foods, shall we say. Dorrington smiled at his own cleverness.

Well, I hope we get to try some of those, Carolyn said. Phyllis could tell that Dorrington’s easy affability was beginning to have an effect on her friend, despite Carolyn’s naturally skeptical personality. She was hard to win over, but once she was on your side, she would stick by you, no matter what.

Dorrington smiled and said, Of course, but today we’re starting with very traditional British foods.

The shutter in the big window between the kitchen and the center’s main room rolled up, rattling a little as it did so. Dorrington’s assistant, Becky Thackery, looked through the opening and said, We’re almost ready in here, Alfred.

Excellent. Dorrington rubbed his hands together again and smiled at the group of four women gathered around him. I need to go and make my own preparations, ladies. The class will begin shortly.

We can’t wait, Eve said.

Are you going to take the class, Eve? Dorrington asked.

No, I’ll just be an interested observer. Eve waved a hand. I’ve never been that skilled…in the kitchen.

Well, it takes talents of all kinds in this world, doesn’t it? Dorrington returned with his already familiar twinkle. He went into the kitchen and left them standing there.

When he was gone, Carolyn asked Eve, Are you ever going to grow up and stop being such a shameless cliché?

Goodness, I hope not. What fun would that be?

A few minutes later, Dorrington came to the window. He had removed his suit coat but still wore his vest, snowy white shirt, and tie. He had donned an apron with what looked like some sort of British coat of arms emblazoned on the front. Phyllis didn’t know if it was an actual coat of arms or just a design made to look like that, but she had to admit, it seemed very appropriate on the apron worn by Alfred Dorrington.

He nodded to Darla Kirby, who turned and raised her voice above the usual hubbub. Will everyone who signed up for the British cooking class come to the kitchen now, please?

A dozen women, including Phyllis, Carolyn, and Eve, started toward the door. Before the three of them got there, however, a couple of the others moved to block their path.

You’re not going in there, Turner, one of those two said with a scowl.

Eve looked surprised, but she answered quickly, Yes, I am.

The other woman who had stopped them shook her head firmly.

We saw the sign-up sheet for the class, she declared, and your name wasn’t on it.

And we just heard you tell Mr. Dorrington that you’re just observing, not actually taking the class, the other one said. "That means you can observe from out here, through the window."

But I’d rather be up close where I can see— Eve began.

You mean where you can bat your eyelashes at that man and act like some…some high school cheerleader drooling over the star quarterback!

Hold on, now, Carolyn said. You shouldn’t talk to Eve like that.

Why not? I’ve heard you say worse than that to her when she starts chasing after men like some TV show caricature.

But I’m her friend!

What difference does that make?

Eve said coolly, It makes a difference, I assure you. Now, please, let’s all go in there and behave like civilized adults, why don’t we?

That sounded like a good idea to Phyllis, but she didn’t know if