By Cook or by Crook (A Five-Ingredient Mystery) by Maya Corrigan Read Free Book Online

moist breeze. “Nadia spent a lot of time playing tennis and made some enemies at the club.”
    “Arguments on the tennis court don’t lead to murder.”
    “Says who? The Italian painter Caravaggio got into a fight after betting on a tennis game. He killed his opponent in a duel.”
    Gunnar’s mouth turned down in skepticism. “You made that up.”
    “Did not. I OD’d on trivia games in my misspent youth. I remember a lot of random factoids.” And forget important things, like how she’d nearly killed the man who’d entrusted her with his life and his vintage car.
    “Okay, but that duel was over money, not tennis. Greed explains most crimes. The police will look into who benefits from Nadia’s death.”
    “Gee, you sound like an accountant. Don’t put your money on greed as the motive in this case. Nadia drove a Lexus to impress her clients, but she lived in a small house. I doubt she was rich.”
    Gunnar slowed down as the road narrowed and ran alongside the bay. “Rich is relative. Some people kill for running shoes or over a sports bet, like that Italian painter.”
    They lapsed into silence. Val expected him to show interest in the water views and the fishing prospects, but he didn’t. He just stared straight ahead. Maybe news of the murder had dampened his enthusiasm for the Eastern Shore as a weekend getaway.
    Monique’s sprawling ranch house came into view toward the end of the peninsula.
    Val’s shoulders tensed at the sight of the white van in the driveway. “Her car’s here.” Not necessarily good news. This morning Nadia’s car had sat in the driveway too.
    Gunnar parked on the road next to the mailbox. As they climbed from the Miata, Monique came around the side of her van and waved. “Hi, there.”
    Val waved back and spoke to Gunnar across the hood of the car. “Monique must not have heard about Nadia or she wouldn’t look so carefree. I’ll have to break the news.” Though she’d rather not have a witness when she warned her cousin about the police.
    Monique met them at the top of the driveway. She introduced herself to Gunnar and shook hands with him. “Nice to meet you. What brings the two of you out here?”
    “I’ve been calling you since this morning,” Val said. “Where have you been?”
    “My French conversation group and then a sidewalk sale in Salisbury. I forgot to turn on my phone after the meeting. You won’t believe the bargains I found for the kids.” Monique gestured toward the back of the van stuffed with shopping bags.
    Only Monique could go to a sidewalk sale in the heat and still look cucumber cool, long and slim in a green sheath dress. Her hair, golden brown like buttered toast, stayed put in its ponytail, not a wisp out of place.
    Val envied those tame strands. Her own hair spiraled down, coiled out, or frizzed up, depending on weather and whim. “How come on muggy days, you’re the poster girl for hair conditioner, and I’m modeling a fright wig?”
    Monique grinned. “You’re not even close to a fright wig.”
    “But if you want one,” Gunnar said, “we can drive back to town with the top down.” A buzz came from his shirt pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and glanced at it. “Excuse me.”
    He stepped away to stand under the shade of a tree and studied the display, apparently reading a text or an e-mail.
    Monique turned her back to him. “In case you were wondering, but afraid to ask,” she spoke in an undertone, “I didn’t burn the racket at Nadia’s house.”
    “Good.” Whew. “How did you hear about the fire?”
    “Chatty called me yesterday morning after talking to Nadia. You saw the whole thing. I’m surprised you didn’t tell me about it. What were you doing at Nadia’s place Sunday night anyway?”
    Val ignored her cousin’s accusatory tone. “Nadia needed a ride home from the club. She asked me to keep quiet about the burning racket. I wonder why she blabbed to Chatty.” The nickname suited Chatty Ridenour’s