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  Murder Most Southern

  Books by Sarah Osborne

  TOO MANY CROOKS SPOIL THE PLOT

  INTO THE FRYING PAN

  MURDER MOST SOUTHERN

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Table of Contents

  Books by Sarah Osborne

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Southern Comfort Recipes

  About the Author

  Murder Most Southern

  Sarah Osborne

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Osborne

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: May 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0809-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0809-4 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: May 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0812-1

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0812-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my sister Margo

  who came up with the delightful idea

  of murder at a cooking contest

  Acknowledgments

  I’m indebted to my beta readers who tried to catch everything that wasn’t quite right in this story: Marjorie Bufkin, Lucy Davidson, Jayne Farley, Linda Newton, Laurie Pocius, Lynne Rozsa, Margo Schmidt, Kate Shands, Donna Shapiro, and Jean Wentzell.

  My wonderful writing group—Larry Allen, Mike Fournier, and BettyAnn Lauria—worked hard to catch the rest.

  A special thanks to the owners of The Cuthbert House Inn, Connie and Pierre-Edouard (Ed) Binot. I stayed in their bed and breakfast twice while I was doing research for the book. While their inn is located in Beaufort, South Carolina, Savannah’s plantation house is in the nearby and completely fictitious town of Veracrue. The Cuthbert House is not an exact replica of Savannah’s, but it does offer the same warmth and amenities including a manicured garden, delicious breakfasts along with wine, cheese, and conversation in the afternoons. If you visit Beaufort, which you should, this is a wonderful place to stay.

  I also want to thank Mary Rivers LeGree, for providing verbal comments and written information on Robert Smalls and the history and culture of the Gullah people. She is an Information Specialist and recipient of the 2018 Hospitality Employee award for the State of South Carolina. You can talk with her at the Beaufort Visitors Center located in the historic Beaufort Arsenal, “an 18th century structure built in 1798 to protect the town of Beaufort from ever-present caravans looking to conquer colonies in the New World.” I hope to use more of her expertise if Ditie, Lurleen, and the kids travel back to Beaufort for another story.

  My 241 Fitness buddies and our much-loved teacher, Wendy Bryant, keep me happy, healthy, and sane. That’s a lot to ask of one group of people!

  I’m also grateful to my tasters, all excellent cooks, who have helped me check the recipes in the book to make sure they work well and taste delicious: Jeanne Lee, Kathy Mosesian, and Lynne Rozsa.

  As usual, my thanks to John Scognamiglio, my publisher and editor at Lyrical Underground and Kensington Press. He is unique in the speed with which he responds to emails and sorts out problems. Thanks also to the other professionals at Kensington—Michelle Addo, Lauren Jernigan, Rebecca Cremonese, and Larissa Ackerman who help polish and promote my books.

  Finally, thanks to Dan and Alix who continue to provide their love and support for my writing.

  Fame is a fickle food

  Fame is a fickle food

  Upon a shifting plate

  Whose table once a

  Guest but not

  The second time is set.

  Whose crumbs the crows inspect

  And with ironic caw

  Flap past it to the Farmer’s Corn–

  Men eat of it and die.

  —Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886

  Chapter One

  Finally, I could breathe again after a long stifling summer. October in Atlanta had arrived!

  Each day brought a new crispness to the air, and I felt as if I could conquer the world. That was always how I felt in autumn.

  Lurleen found me in the kitchen working on a pumpkin pie with Jason and Lucie. Jason was scooping out handfuls of pumpkin glop and dropping them onto the tin foil that covered a good portion of my marble countertop. At five and a half he could now sit comfortably on one of the high stools as he worked. Nine year old Lucie sat beside him. She carefully picked out the seeds, rinsed them in a pan of water, and placed them in a bowl with olive oil and garlic. We’d roast the seeds to have whenever we felt like a snack.

  The children’s giggling added to my pleasure as I looked online for the best pumpkin pie recipe using fresh pumpkin. They weren’t officially my children yet, but with luck they soon would be. According to our social worker, the adoption papers could be signed within the year. No close or distant relative had expressed a desire to adopt them in the six months since their mother’s murder. And Ellie had left a note that I look after them should anything happen to her.

  Lurleen could see I was lost in some reverie. She waved a large envelope in my face.

  “Snap out of it, chérie. I have big news. An early birthday present!”

  She placed the envelope in my hand as if she were giving me a Fabergé egg: something she wanted to give me last Easter—until she found out the cost. Lurleen would have given me the moon if she could figure out a way to get it.

  She’d inherited a fortune from an aunt—enough money so she could quit her job as an accountant with Sandler’s Sodas. She already had a house near mine in Virginia-Highland with no desire for a grander one in affluent Buckhead, a neighborhood in north Atlanta.

  Lurleen remained frugal despite her new wealth. It was only with me and the kids that she splurged. I’m sure Danny, her live-in boyfriend, benefited from her generosity, but I suspect it took forms other than expensive gifts.

  “My birthday isn’t for months,” I said, balancing the heavy envelope in my hand.

  “One cannot celebrate an anniversaire too early or too often. Enjoy!”

  Her French accent was unique, so it took me a moment to register what she was saying.

  She stooped to kiss me. Lurleen stood a head taller than me and many pounds lighter. She was gorgeous with her wavy amber hair falling over her shoulders. People often stopped her on the street to ask if she were a model despite the fact she was in her late thirties. It never went to her head—just tickled her. “You are so sweet to say that,” she’d respond, either in a slightly exaggerated Southern accent or perhaps her own version of a French one.

  “Go on,” she urged me, “open it!”

  The kids stopped what they were doing to stare at us. Carefully, Lurleen gave them each a kiss on the tops of their heads, making sure to avoid Jason’s slimy hands and Lucie’s equally sticky ones.

  I opened the gilt-edged envelope. Inside was a gold-
embossed card, which announced that I, Mabel Aphrodite Brown, had been selected as a contestant on Savannah Evans’s Southern Comfort Cooking Contest.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  Lurleen could barely contain herself. “Don’t you see, chérie? You, the Mighty Ditie, will now achieve the fame you so desperately deserve. Your tea cakes will be famous. Your fried chicken recipe will create a million followers.”

  “Mighty Ditie?”

  “Something Jason suggested when we were giving superhero names to everyone in the family.”

  “I’m a pediatrician, Lurleen. I don’t want a million followers. I have patients to see, commitments.” I studied the invitation. “They want me available for a week of shooting. It’s impossible, I’m afraid.”

  Lurleen looked crestfallen. Then she shook back her auburn curls. “One week, just one week, sweet Ditie. And I will be your sous-chef if they let you have one.”

  “How would they even know I liked to cook?” I asked.

  “I had something to do with that,” Lurleen admitted. “I happen to know the producer of the show, Chris, and he happens to like me, and I suggested he try your tea cakes, which I happened to have saved from your last batch, and the rest as they say is histoire. He said they were the best tea cakes he’d eaten in his entire life, and believe me, that boy has eaten a few tea cakes.”

  I sighed. “Lurleen, what have you gotten me into this time?”

  “Rien du tout,” Lurleen said and folded her arms. “If you don’t want to go and be on national television and meet Savannah Evans, the person you claim is the best chef in the world, then who am I to care?”

  Obviously, I’d hurt her feelings. I studied the dates of the event—early November for the contest, which would be held at Savannah’s South Carolina estate. There was also a gathering at Savannah’s Atlanta penthouse in one week. A meet-and-greet in which the contestants could size each other up and visit with the illustrious Savannah. Desserts and wine would be served.

  “It would be wonderful to meet Savannah Evans,” I said. “I do have unused vacation time, and I might get a lot of good cooking tips.”

  Perhaps I could manage it.

  First, I checked with the kids to see how they felt about my being away for a week. I promised them that either Grandma Eddie or my brother, Tommy, would look after them. They were both excited.

  “Grandma Eddie and I will cook every day,” Lucie said.

  “I need a stick,” Jason said, “so Uncle Tommy can teach me magic tricks.”

  “A wand,” Lucie corrected.

  I called my boss, Vic, at the refugee clinic, and she had no problem with my being gone. She scheduled my vacation to coincide with the show’s taping.

  Lurleen jumped up and down and her luscious curls bounced with her. “I knew you’d do it. Chris Evans, the producer, said I could come along and have a front row seat.”

  “Does Danny know about Chris?” I asked. Danny wasn’t a jealous boyfriend, but he did sometimes have trouble with Lurleen’s many conquests.

  “Bien sur.” Lurleen paused. “It’s possible I forgot to mention that Chris was a boy, not a girl. But, he is only a boy—he can’t be more than twenty-two.”

  “Twenty-two and the producer of Savannah Evans’s Southern Cooking Show?”

  Lurleen nodded. “He’s Savannah’s nephew. I’m sure that helped.”

  I called Tommy to see if he could look after the kids for a week. I’d never have done that in the past, but my brother had changed. He made room in his life now for me and the kids. His boyfriend, Josh, had a lot to do with his transformation—Josh was as open and loving as Tommy had been secretive and closed off.

  Tommy agreed to stay in my house for the entire time I was gone so I wouldn’t have to disrupt the kids or Majestic and Hermione. My cat, Majestic, wouldn’t care either way—he interacted with humans only on his own terms—but Hermione was a different matter. I swear she was half human, although the vet swore she was a shepherd-collie mix. She needed us around.

  Tommy said he had no court cases scheduled for November, but if anything came up he and Eddie would work out the logistics.

  My boyfriend, Mason, agreed to help, but even though he’d do anything for me, as an Atlanta police detective, his schedule wasn’t his own.

  “You know my mom will love this,” Mason said. “She’s always saying how she doesn’t get to see the kids nearly enough.”

  Eddie was as enthusiastic as Mason thought she’d be. She was also curious about Savannah Evans. “I’ve always wondered if she was for real,” she said. “She’s lovely, but on her shows, you never actually see her doing much. She dumps ingredients into a bowl, stirs a little, and the next thing you know someone is commenting on how delicious the food is.”

  Eddie was a former cop, now retired. She noticed everything.

  “I’ve never thought about that,” I said. “I’ll let you know the truth when I find out.”

  Jason was beyond excited at the thought of spending time with his uncle, Tommy. “He’ll come stay with us? And Uncle Josh will come too?” Jason loved time with the guys. He’d come to think of Mason as a second dad, and that, of course, pleased Mason no end.

  Lucie looked uneasy when she realized I wouldn’t be sleeping at home.

  “I’m sorry, Luce,” Lurleen told her. “I checked. No kids allowed. But, Chris promised that, when Savannah does a cooking show for children, you can be one of the participants.”

  Everything fell into place.

  The evening at Savannah’s included an invitation for a second guest—that would be Lurleen, naturally. She was ecstatic.

  Mason offered to spend the night with Lucie and Jason. “That’ll be a lot more fun than schmoozing with people I don’t know and won’t see again.”

  “I’ll bring you back a sample of the desserts,” I said.

  “Deal.”

  The party was scheduled for the last Friday night in October, several nights before the thirty-first. The actual contest would take place two weeks later. In between, the kids and I could thoroughly enjoy my favorite holiday, Halloween, and I’d be back from South Carolina in plenty of time for Thanksgiving.

  The evening with Savannah Evans couldn’t come fast enough for Lurleen. “What will you wear to the party, chérie? I’ll wear my emerald green slinky number. Too much, do you think?”

  “Not on you,” I said.

  I decided on black pants and a shimmery purple jacket. Just enough pizzazz to be suitable for a penthouse gathering. My short curly hair always had a mind of its own. Lurleen offered to use gel to turn it into shiny spikes of dark brown. I declined her offer.

  Danny insisted on being our chauffeur, and Mason offered his vintage Jaguar so we could arrive in style.

  * * * *

  Danny dropped us off at Savannah’s midtown condo at eight. He’d be back when we were ready to be picked up.

  Savannah’s nephew Chris met us in the lobby. He looked like a cherub-faced college student and was obviously delighted to see Lurleen. “You look hot,” he said to her and blushed.

  Then he turned to me. “You must be Dr. Brown. So glad to meet you.” He ushered us into the waiting elevator. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  Lurleen and I joined two other couples in the elevator. We all introduced ourselves as the doors closed. Pepper and Peter Young were in their late twenties, sophisticated Atlantans by the look of them. Pepper had a brittle kind of beauty, shiny blond hair, well-styled and well-colored, straight, dazzling white teeth, and a forehead devoid of wrinkles even when she raised her eyebrows. Everything about her glittered and nothing looked natural. Peter matched her good looks—also tall, well-dressed, black hair stylishly unkempt, with a carefully razored stubble on his face.

  The second couple, Izzy and Frank Moran, were older, in their mid-forties I’d guess, well dressed in a more subdued way.

  The contrast between the two couples was striking. Pepper and Peter exuded a coldness that made me shiver. Izzy and Frank were more like a warm coat inviting us into their inner circle. It seemed as if the two couples knew each other, but I couldn’t tell if they were friends.