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

“It can’t be borne.”
    â€œTomorrow we start looking for a new chef.”
    â€œDone. Life is too short to tolerate the likes of such an arrogant, violent cad as that—five-star chef or not. Surely we can find a sane individual who doesn’t terrorize the staff.”
    Noticing that the last remaining guests were standing and gathering their things to leave, Ryan rose and hurried over to say good-bye and see them to the door.
    â€œI’m sorry things didn’t turn out as well as you’d hoped in all ways,” Savannah told John, “but overall, the night was a rousing success.”
    Tammy nodded eagerly. “I heard that at the end of Disneyland’s first day, Walt actually cried because of all the things that went wrong. And look how well that worked out in the end.”
    John reached over, took Tammy’s hand, and kissed it. “Thank you, love. Rave reviews from one’s nearest and dearest—that’s what matters most. And you’re right; all’s well that ends well.”
    Savannah smiled and picked up her fork, intending to pilfer the last bite of raspberry tart off Tammy’s plate when she wasn’t looking. But no sooner had she reached across the table to do so than a nerve-shattering scream came from the kitchen area.
    Savannah dropped the fork and leapt to her feet.
    So did everyone else. En masse they rushed, once again, to the double swinging doors at the back of the room.
    As they ran, they heard several more cries—each worse than the one before.
    During her time as a police officer, Savannah had heard more than a thousand screams. Screams of rage, pain, fear, and drunkenness. People screaming for all sorts of reasons, and sometimes for no reason at all other than to attract attention or express a minor annoyance.
    But there was only one reason for that sort of scream—a cry that went straight into the heart and the marrow of the bones, causing those who heard it to steel themselves for the worst life had to offer.
    Nobody screamed like that unless somebody was dead.

Chapter 4
    O nce through the double doors, Savannah needed only a couple of seconds to spot the body. It lay on its back in a dark red puddle of gore on the floor in front of the stove.
    She required a bit longer to identify the corpse.
    The white of the chef’s jacket was mostly stained crimson, but she could still discern the black buttons and piping. And the sheer bulk of the man alone told her it was Norwood.
    Even though she was the first one into the room, the first to kneel beside him, and the first to press her fingers against his still warm, blood-slick neck, Savannah needed no one to tell her there would be no pulse.
    The amount of damage that had been done to the body—multiple wounds that she could see on his chest and abdomen and several gaping slashes to his head—were some of the worst homicide injuries she had ever seen.
    No one could have survived such an attack.
    So absorbed was she by the gruesome sight that she was only vaguely aware of Dirk asking her, “Well? Is there a pulse?”
    â€œNo,” she replied. “None.”
    She rose and turned to the young woman nearby, who was still screaming hysterically. She seemed to be stuck in some sort of horrible, nightmarish mind-warp, repeating the same gut-twisting shriek over and over and over again.
    Savannah rushed to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. She shook her gently, trying to get her attention. But the woman was staring down at the gory figure on the floor, transfixed, her eyes wide with horror, as she continued to wail that terrible, shrill cry.
    Savannah whirled her around, forcing her to stand with her back to the body as Dirk, Ryan, and John examined it.
    Placing her hands on either side of the woman’s face, Savannah held her head tightly, compelling her to look straight into her eyes.
    â€œIt’s over now. Stop your screaming, sugar,” Savannah told