Recipe for Murder (Sue Thomas FBEye)

Intro

A recipe for disaster. That's what this is turning out to be.

Jack dropped the pan of burnt cookies in a yelp of pain and rushed to the sink where he yanked the faucet on. A sigh of reprieve whooshed between his lips as cascading cold water eased the red streaks across his fingertips. Even his oven mitts conspired against him. The last time he'd used them, he could have sworn they bared no gaping hole.

His latest baking spree had turned into a weekend long marathon dotted with disasters, each attempt worse than the previous one, but then accidents were bound to happen when two opposite ingredients shared the same texture and colour. Jack was convinced he wasn't the first person to put a cup of salt into a batch of cookies. And who knew there were so many kinds of sugar anyway? White, yellow, dark, brown, fine, extra-fine, coarse, confectioner's, powdered, cane... They looked different, felt different and definitely yielded different results when added to a batch of cookie dough. And how was he supposed to know that rolling out the cookie dough meant flattening it out with a rolling pin and not rolling it into a ball? Or why didn't his mother ever warn him that baking soda and baking powder were not interchangeable? And that eggs came in different sizes but recipes didn't specify which size was called for?

His head spinning, Jack muttered his exasperation in unflattering terms as he turned off the tap and set out to clean the kitchen. Again. He'd done little else in the past two days. He was no closer to finding the perfect recipe, and the contest was this week. Cursing the collective bad luck of the 'bullpen boys' as Lucy had dubbed them, he took out some of his frustration on the hapless charred remains of what were supposed to be his grandmother's never-fail hermit cookies. After this fiasco, he'd likely become a hermit too.

"Eleanor Rippendorf!" Her name rolled off his tongue like the vilest of curses as he took great delight in toppling the cookie tray into the garbage. If only Eleanor could be dismissed that easily.

The devious woman had cornered Jack's team at the restaurant, just as she had in previous years, and caught them off guard while they wolfed down a hasty lunch without the girls to ensure their protection. Sue and Lucy had chosen the wrong day to run an errand at Charlie's and Tara couldn't have booked a worse ill-timed dental appointment, which had left the men of the team vulnerable to Eleanor's feminine attack. She'd swooped in, a chilling combination of coos and trills as she launched into her latest charity project. A celebrity bake off.

As team leader, Jack had pointed out, with a false sense of relief, that it was a great idea, but they were not celebrities.

Her answer as she batted long eyelashes and pursed her lips still haunted him. You are to me, fellas.

Jack had experienced a moment of blind panic when he feared she might lean over and kiss him, but Dimitrius had deftly distracted her by lamenting his unavailability due to his marital status. Unfortunately, D wasn't able to extricate himself, or any of them, from the bake off.

This time it doesn't matter, handsome. We're looking for the best cooks DC has to offer from all walks of life. I'll put you in our Community Service Worker division. All I need from any of you is a plate of your very own home baked cookies and the recipe, written out in your own manly script.

Her sultry voice still rang in Jack's ears. Nauseating and discordant.

Our discerning judges— I just happen to be one of them— will provide the necessary taste buds. She'd rolled her tongue and poked it out the side of her mouth along with a suggestive wink. Thirty finalists will be chosen, and on the Fourth of July, they will bring their cookies in the park where the public will taste their samples and vote for their favourites. The twelve lucky winners will be featured in our Hunk of the Month calendar, photo and recipe included. All proceeds go to the children's hospital. How can you say no to that?

Despite her plea, a hearty round of nays had echoed through the restaurant and Jack thought they'd dodged the bullet. The next day, a memo from the upper brass had crushed his resistance. In the interest of improving public relations, it was deemed beneficial if at least one male agent volunteered his service to a charitable cause.

In the interest of not alienating his superiors, Jack had been baking every weekend ever since, but he had yet to find an edible recipe. Now time was running out.

He picked up the phone and added flour prints on the handset.

"Mom, answer the phone." His frustration grew exponentially with each ring as he begged her to answer.

"Hello?" A hint of panic resounded at the other end. "Son? Is that you? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, dad." The lie would come true as soon as Jack talked to his mother. "How did you know it was me?"

"Call display." His dad sounded annoyed. "Your mom's idea of wasting money every month. So, what's up?"

A chuckle tickled Jack's throat. Unlike his mom, his dad couldn't care less about missed calls. "I need to talk to mom, it's urgent."

"Well, son..."

Jack's heart sank upon hearing his dad's hesitation. His mother had to be home, she could not not be there. "Please, tell me mom is home."

"Remember that spa retreat she and her two crazy walking friends wanted to book?"

No, this cannot be happening, not this weekend. Despite what he read between the lines, Jack forced himself to remain calm. "When is she coming back?"

"She left this morning, son. She's gone for three days."

"Three day?" Who in their right mind spent three days at a spa in June when the weather outside was gorgeous, not that he'd been able to enjoy the outdoor since he'd wasted his free time baking.

"Sorry, son. Is there something I could help you with?"

"How good are you in the kitchen, dad?" As far as Jack remembered, he'd never seen his dad near a cooking utensil unless it was attached to the barbecue, but he had to ask.

"I'm good at eating what your mother is cooking."

The witty remark sank his last hope.