Killer Gourmet by G.A. McKevett Read Free Book Online Page A

aren’t going to man themselves.”
    She hurried over to a computer screen and glanced over the orders listed there. “Five Chateaubriands, four lobster thermidors, seven beef Wellingtons. Let’s get crackin’, people.”
    Savannah turned and saw a small cluster of waiters and waitresses staring through the windows of the double doors. She hurried over to them, swung the doors open, and said, “Everything’s fine. Just ducky, in fact. Go back to your tables and tell everybody there was a small accident. A few pans dropped, that’s all. Their suppers will be up before they know it.”
    As the waitstaff scurried away to do her bidding, Savannah glanced over her shoulder once more at the chef and his team. She crossed her fingers, mentally knocked on an imaginary piece of wood, and hoped to high heaven that—for Ryan and John’s sakes—they wouldn’t make a big honkin’ liar of her.
    Because at the rate the kitchen staff was going, the guests of ReJuvene could consider themselves lucky if their delicacies were served blood-spatter-free.
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    â€œGee, that was fun.”
    Savannah looked across the table and saw a version of her debonair friend that she had never seen before. Ryan’s appearance belied his cheerful words that had been uttered with an unmistakable note of sarcasm.
    His dark mane, usually without a hair astray, had escaped the confines of its liberally applied gel and was now hanging down over his eyes. A tuft in the back stood on end like a child’s rebellious cowlick.
    His face glistened with a sheen of sweat that Savannah had seen only once before—at the end of a particularly grueling tennis match.
    Ryan looked positively worn to a frazzle.
    So did John.
    He was slouching in a chair beside Ryan’s. His face had the same haggard, dejected expression, and his arms hung down at his sides as though he were too weary to lift them.
    â€œYes, bloody good fun,” John replied with even less enthusiasm. “Let’s do it again tomorrow.”
    Ryan picked up a napkin from the table and wiped his brow. “And the next day and the next and the next.”
    John gave him a derisive half-grin and a poke in the ribs. “Whose idea was this—you and I becoming restaurateurs? I seem to recall you first broaching the topic one summer evening over a cup of granita in Salinas.”
    â€œUgh, don’t remind me.” Ryan reached across the table, grabbed Dirk’s by-now-warm beer, and drank nearly half the glass in one long draft.
    â€œAt least the party’s about over,” Dirk said as he shoveled the last bite of raspberry tart into his face, snatched the glass back from Ryan, and washed the mouthful down with what remained of his beer.
    â€œAnd everybody seemed to have had a great time,” Savannah added in her best cheerleader voice.
    Tammy nodded enthusiastically. “That table where the press was sitting for sure! I saw them taking pictures of all the dishes. They were superimpressed. I could tell.”
    â€œHow could they not be?” Waycross said as he carefully folded his napkin and laid it next to his empty plate. “That was a meal fit for a king . . . or a guy on his way to the electric chair.”
    He looked around the table and saw everyone giving him a strange look. Shrugging, he added, “Just sayin’. If I was on my way out of this world, that’d be my choice for a last meal. Okay?”
    Ryan smiled, reached over, and patted the kid’s broad shoulder. “Thank you, Waycross. That’s about the nicest compliment we’ve received tonight.”
    Turning back to John, Ryan sighed and said, “Seriously, though, what are we going to do about Norwood?”
    â€œThe food was fantastic,” John replied. “The service impeccable. Top drawer, all the way.”
    â€œBut the attitude. That level of drama every night?”
    John shook his head wearily.