A Crust to Die For, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by T.C. LoTempio
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Eat, Drink and Drop Dead
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
From Tiffany’s Blog
Also by T.C. LoTempio
Tiffany Austin Food Blogger mysteries
EAT, DRINK AND DROP DEAD *
A CRUST TO DIE FOR *
Nick and Nora mysteries
MEOW IF IT’S MURDER
CLAWS FOR ALARM
CRIME AND CATNIP
HISS H FOR HOMICIDE
MURDER FAUX PAWS
A PURR BEFORE DYING
Cat Rescue Mystery
PURR M FOR MURDER
DEATH BY A WHISKER
Urban Tails Pet Shop Mystery
THE TIME FOR MURDER IS MEOW
KILLERS OF A FEATHER
* available from Severn House
A CRUST TO DIE FOR
T.C. LoTempio
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
This eBook edition first published in 2023 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © T.C. LoTempio, 2023
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of T.C. LoTempio to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1003-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1004-3 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
Praise for Eat, Drink and Drop Dead
“Captivating characters and plenty of intrigue … Delightful”
Publisher Weekly on Eat, Drink and Drop Dead
“This light-hearted series debut has oodles of charm, mouth-watering descriptions of southern cuisine, and a sassy, savvy heroine”
Booklist on Eat, Drink and Drop Dead
“It’s sure to satisfy fans of Lucy Burdette’s ‘Key West Food Critic’ mysteries”
Library Journal on Eat, Drink and Drop Dead
“Easy enough to appeal to a variety of cozy palates”
Kirkus Reviews on Eat, Drink and Drop Dead
“An exciting mystery – Tiffany and Hilary are a hoot! I was hooked from start to finish!”
Laura Childs, New York Times bestselling author of the Tea Shop Mysteries on Eat, Drink and Drop Dead
About the author
T.C. LoTempio is the award-winning, nationally bestselling author of the Nick and Nora Mysteries, the Urban Tails Pet Shop Mysteries, the Cat Rescue Mysteries and the brand-new Tiffany Austin Food Blogger Mysteries. Born in New York City, she now resides in Phoenix, Arizona with her two cats, Maxx and Rocco. Rocco prides himself on being the inspiration for her Nick and Nora series.
www.tclotempio.net
For my buddy Cathy Collette in Florida who always knew
I could do it. And I did!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my agent, Josh Getzler and his assistant Jon Cobb, and to my lovely editor, Rachel Slatter, whose insights and comments helped to make this book better! Also to the entire team at Severn House, whose dedication and professionalism are unparalleled! Thanks also to all the foodies and fans who embraced the character of Tiffany and wanted more!
And a special thank you to the late Carole Nelson Douglas, my friend and mentor. You and Midnight Louie will never be forgotten.
ONE
Lily woke me from a sound sleep, first with her rumbling purr and then with a gentle but insistent tapping of paw to cheek. I blinked my eyes open – reluctantly – and glanced at my bedside clock. Seven thirty. I threw back the down comforter, jostling Her Royal Highness out of her supine position on my chest. ‘Of all days to oversleep,’ I grumbled. I ran one hand through my hair, tousling my auburn curls even more, and ran the other along Lily’s glossy fur. ‘Thanks, Lil. Although you could have tried that an hour ago.’
Lily shot me a look that clearly said, Humans. Never Satisfied, and trotted out of the room, tail held high. No sooner had she departed than I heard a familiar woof and Cooper, my black and tan King Charles Cavalier spaniel, bounded in. He screeched to a stop next to my bed, limpid brown eyes fastened firmly on me as I swung my feet to the floor. I looked at him and waggled a finger. ‘And you,’ I said to the dog. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t get me up. Or did you decide you could do without your morning walk today?’
Cooper cocked his head, then let out a sharp yip. Apparently my two furry children had decided I’d been working too hard and deserved a break today. Cooper gave me two more short yips, and I laughed. ‘Yes, I know. Normally we sleep in on Sunday, but today’s special, remember? It’s the Bon-Appetempting Pizza Bake-Off!’
A few weeks ago I’d been bumped up from contract status to full time on Southern Style magazine. No one had been more surprised than me when the powers that be there decided to implement my first brainstorm, a pizza contest for home cooks. The semi-finals had been held last week at Branson High Auditorium, and today the three finalists would compete for the title of ‘Best Home Pizza Cook’ – and a ten-thousand-dollar prize.
I pulled on my robe and went downstairs to the kitchen, Cooper padding along right beside me. Lily was already sprawled comfortably across the counter. She watched me with her wide blue eyes as I spooned food into their bowls: yellowfin tuna for Lily, chicken with broccoli florets for Cooper. They hunkered down to eat while I went over to my Keurig. Usually I preferred to grind my own beans and make my morning coffee in my French Press, but since I was running more than a tad late a pod of Newman’s Special Blend would have to suffice.
While the coffee dripped into my mug, I saw my cell start to twirl madly on the kitchen counter where I’d left it the night before. I snatched it up before it could fall on to the floor and looked at the screen. The incoming text was from Dale Swenson, editor-in-chief of Southern Style magazine and my boss. Can you get to pre-contest gathering at ten? Something’s come up. We need to talk. My curiosity sufficiently aroused, I shot a quick text back: I’ll be there. As I pondered what crisis might possibly have arisen, I got a second text, this one from my BFF and fellow co-worker, Hilary Hanson. Arleen’s in a panic. Nerves! C U at the contest.
I sent a quick text back: Don’t worry. All will B Fine. And then went to grab my mug of coffee. Hilary’s sister, Arleen, was one of the finalists. There were five different categories of pizza: Traditional, Non-Traditional, Pan, Specialty, and Gluten-Free. Arleen’s Eggplant Pizza had won the Gluten-Free category, and she’d been selected as a semi-finalist last week. The other two semi-finalists were Colleen Collins and Kurt Howell, the winners in the traditional and the specialty categories, respectively. Colleen’s Margherita pizza had looked like a work of art, and Kurt’s pie, a decadent blend of smoked mozzarella, pancetta and butternut squash puree, had received the highest marks of any category. Advance buzz had it he was the one to beat, but Arleen was also determined to take home that ten-thousand-dollar payday.
I felt something furry brush my ankle and I looked down to find Cooper looking at me with his big brown eyes. I glanced over toward his food bowl, which looked spotless, and waggled my finger at him. ‘No seconds for you, little man. The vet said you put on a few pounds last time.’
Cooper gave his head a shake, then angled it in the direction of the far wall, wh ere his leash hung suspended from a peg. ‘Oh, ho. So you changed your mind? Want to take that morning exercise after all, huh?’ I asked the pup.
Cooper let out a short yip of assent and I bent down to give him a quick scratch behind one floppy ear. I cast a quick glance at the clock on the wall. I’d planned on taking the spaniel for an extra-long walk later, but if I got my rear in gear I could take him now, before I had to leave. I gulped down the rest of my coffee and started for my bedroom. As I replaced my PJs with running shorts, pink sneakers and an old Atlanta U T-shirt, I couldn’t help but puzzle over Dale’s summons. He wasn’t one to panic, and I hoped there wasn’t some sort of complication with the contest. I went back out to the kitchen, where Cooper was dancing around his leash, which dangled from a peg near the back door. ‘I know, I know,’ I told my eager pup as I grabbed my phone and slid it into my shorts pocket. ‘We’re leaving right now.’ I’d just snapped the leash on his collar when my phone pinged with another incoming text. It was from Hilary. PUT ON CHANNEL 21 NEWS. NOW.
I looked at Cooper, who didn’t hesitate to give another impatient yip. ‘Just another minute, OK? Then I promise we’ll take that walk.’ I had a small TV on the table in the kitchen. I went over and switched it on. Darla Gravesend, a local reporter, was in the middle of a news bulletin. ‘We repeat, esteemed food critic Pierre Dumont was rushed to Branson General late last night after collapsing in his home. So far the nature of his illness is undisclosed …’
My stomach did a flip. Pierre Dumont was one of our judges! No doubt this was the ‘something that’s come up’ Dale had referred to. I shut the TV off and looked down at Cooper, who let out an impatient bark. ‘Oh boy,’ I said. I dragged a hand through my auburn hair. ‘With Dumont sidelined, now what?’
Cooper let out another bark, then rubbed his head against my legs. I bent down to give him a reassuring pat. ‘Don’t worry, we’re leaving now,’ I said soothingly. ‘But then Mommie has to get moving. The sooner I meet with Dale, the sooner I’ll find out just what’s going to happen to my contest.’
I took Cooper for a quick walk. The spaniel wasted no time doing his business, not even stopping for sniffs along the way like he usually did. I figured he sensed my unease. We returned to the house. I unclipped Cooper’s leash and he ambled over to his doggie bed, stretched and lay down. I went upstairs for a speedy shower and dressed in khaki pants, a crisp white shirt, beige striped cardigan and beige Mary Janes. I sent Dale a quick text: On my way! Jumped into my trusty convertible and I was off.
Ten minutes later I slid my convertible into a prime parking spot right near the side entrance of the high school. We’d originally planned to hold the contest at City Hall, but a broken heating system had put the kibosh on that venue. Fortunately, the teachers’ convention was this week, so the school was in recess. I hurried up the back steps and into the auditorium. Two maintenance men were just leaving the stage, and I paused for a moment to look at it. Two of the five identical pizza-making stations of last week had been removed, leaving three complete with individual ovens, refrigerators and prep tables. Mazzo’s, a local restaurant supply outlet, had generously supplied all of the prep tools we’d need. I glanced around. It was nine forty-five. No one was scheduled to arrive before ten thirty, but Dale had to be around here somewhere. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than the man himself hurried through a side door. He bustled over, took one look at my face and said, ‘You heard.’
‘I got a text from Hilary. It was all over Channel Twelve news. What made him collapse, do you know?’ Please, don’t let it be a heart attack.
‘Gallstones. Not as bad as it could be, but bad enough. Last I heard he was out of surgery and doing fine, but he’ll be bedridden for a few weeks.’
I let out a sigh and pushed a hand through my hair. ‘Swell. I’m glad he’s going to be all right, but it sure puts a big hole in our premier panel of judges.’
I’d been extremely proud of our judging panel. We’d gotten them thanks to Southern Style’s newest board member, Frederick Longo. Longo was a former New York City chef with whom I had a brief acquaintance and who had already expressed an interest in judging the contest. Due to some other commitments, Longo himself wasn’t available to judge, but he’d been instrumental in bringing aboard some big names: Anastasia Ricci, a well-known chef who’d written several cookbooks on Italian cuisine and hosted a cable cooking show; Giovanni Ferrante, a chef who owned a string of pizza parlors and had written several cookbooks on the subject; and last but not least, Pierre Dumont, one of Georgia’s leading food critics, whose specialty was Italian cuisine.
Three jewels in a culinary crown. And then there were two.
‘Yes it does, but there might be a solution.’ He paused. ‘I got a call from Leon Santangelo.’
‘Santangelo? What did he want?’ My radar pinged instantly. Leon Santangelo was the owner of Santangelo Pizza Dough. No one had been more surprised than me when the man had offered to pony up the entire ten-thousand-dollar grand prize, in exchange for our using his pizza dough in the contest. I’d never met the man in person, but I knew he had a reputation for being somewhat of a letch. Anything he might have to say couldn’t possibly be good, and I paled as a sudden thought struck me. ‘Don’t tell me he wants to take Dumont’s place?’
‘Relax, Tiff. He couldn’t even if we wanted him to. As a sponsor, he’s ineligible.’ Dale paused. ‘He did, however, have a recommendation.’
My antennae rose again, stronger than ever. ‘He did? Who?’
Dale shifted his weight from one foot to the other and didn’t look me straight in the eye. ‘Bartholomew Driscoll.’
I felt sweat start to break out on my forehead. This was worse than even I’d imagined. ‘Bar-Bartholomew Driscoll? You’re kidding?’
Dale sighed. ‘I wish I were. Unfortunately, I’m not.’
I frowned. ‘Why on earth did he recommend Driscoll? I didn’t think the two of them even knew each other.’
‘Apparently they’ve known each other for some time,’ answered Dale. ‘Santangelo said the minute he heard about Dumont, he thought of Driscoll.’
I took a deep, calming breath. ‘Well, just because Santangelo recommended him doesn’t mean he’s available. Driscoll always had a busy schedule.’
‘Guess again,’ Dale replied. ‘Since Driscoll gave up reviewing restaurants on a full-time basis to concentrate more on restaurant management, he has more free time. According to Leon, he was very amenable to judging the contest.’
I balled my hands into fists at my sides. ‘Surely there must be someone else who’s available. What about some local chefs? Bob or Nita Gillette from Po’Boys, or maybe Henri from Bella Pasta?’
‘I thought of them too,’ Dale admitted, ‘But the board wants blockbuster names, ones that they feel will ensure this undertaking’s success.’ He reached out to cover my hand with his. ‘You know as well as I that if we want to keep this as a regular feature on your blog, not to mention the oh-so-generous winner’s prize, the first showing has to be nothing less than spectacular.’
‘We could postpone it until another big name is available,’ I suggested.
‘True, but who knows when that will be? I know the board would like it to continue uninterrupted.’
I let out a breath. ‘Sounds like there isn’t too much of a choice, right? We have to use Driscoll.’
Dale gave my arm a quick squeeze. ‘It’ll all work out, Tiff. You’ll see.’ He whipped out his cell and moved away. I figured he was contacting the board and letting them know Driscoll would be taking Dumont’s place. I eased myself into one of the aluminum chairs and just sat there, resting my chin in my hands. I knew this was what was best for the contest, but I felt like I was about to face a firing squad. I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes, and let my mind drift …
I’d only been working for Southern Style a few weeks when it had happened. For the first time in my short career as a food blogger slash critic, I’d had to write a negative review. I’d always prided myself on being able to spin some positive out of every negative, but this time I’d been unable to work any magic. I’d figured it was bound to happen sooner or later – unfortunately, in this case, it had been sooner. Branson had a ton of restaurants, which was why Travel magazine had once referred to it as a ‘foodie paradise’. But just like anywhere else in the good old US of A, along with the good meals came the bad. In culinary school and during my career as an assistant chef, I’d heard plenty of horror stories about critics suffering through horrendous meals. Reading about them, though, and actually writing one were two different animals. And, as a former chef, I couldn’t imagine ripping apart a horrible meal. I had visions of the chef sweating bullets over a stove, painstakingly plating the meal, and praying that his special dish was impressive. Oh, no, I’d told myself. I’d never diss some poor chef’s food. Not in a million years.
