Stevi Mittman - Why Is Murder On The Menu, Anyway?

“Humor, excitement, a good mystery and romantic uncertainty make this series a winner.” Top Pick! 4½ stars

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on What Goes With Blood Red, Anyway?

“A vibrant, funny story that wraps around your heart— Mittman makes you laugh, makes you think, makes you feel…and always makes you smile.”

—USA TODAY bestselling and RWA Hall of Fame author Jennifer Greene on Who Makes Up These Rules, Anyway?

“Don’t miss this book—it has all the heart that her historicals held, as well as Stevi’s wonderful and wacky sense of humor.”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Elizabeth Boyle on Who Makes Up These Rules, Anyway?

“Who Makes Up These Rules, Anyway? is filled with humor. Teddi jokes even while her life is falling apart, and there’s a great surprise ending. A keeper.” Top Pick! 4½ stars

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“If any writer is going to sit on the throne so recently vacated by the wonderful LaVyrle Spencer, it just may be Stephanie Mittman…. She can spin a story of real people dealing with genuine problems as love—not fantasy love, but true love—grows between them.”

—Barnesandnoble.com on A Kiss To Dream On

has always been a decorator at heart. When she was little she cut the butterflies from her wallpaper and let them fly off the walls onto her ceiling and across her window shades. She remembers doing an entire bathroom in black-and-white houndstooth patent leather contact paper and putting strips of trim on her cupboards.

The Teddi Bayer murder mysteries have allowed her to combine her love of writing and her passion for decorating, and she couldn’t be happier. As a fictional decorator she doles out advice on Teddi’s Web site, TipsFromTeddi.com, and receives and responds to e-mails on behalf of Teddi.

Decorating is a third career for the prolific Mittman, who is also a stained-glass artist with work in the Museum of the City of New York and private commissions around the country and, of course, an award-winning author. Watch for another of her Teddi stories in the NEXT summer anthology, coming later this year.

In her spare time (you must be kidding) she also makes jewelry and indulges in gourmet cooking. Visit her at www.stevimittman.com.

For those of you who are putting any TipsFromTeddi.com advice to use, please e-mail her your successes and failures at Teddi@TipsFromTeddi.com, and be sure to visit Teddi’s Web site, www.TipsFromTeddi.com, for more murder, mayhem and sage advice on decorating!

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This book is dedicated to all the usual suspects: my wonderful husband, Alan; my terrific agent, Irene Goodman; my fabulous editor, Tara Gavin; my oldest and dearest friend, Janet Rose; and especially to my Ithaca family, Miriam, Isaac, Glenn and Cathy, who helped me give birth to Why Is Murder on the Menu, Anyway?, named it and made me want to write it. Special thanks have to go to Janet, Miriam and Cathy for their ability to still laugh on the fourth and fifth reads, and to gently point out any inconsistencies the plot may have. I love you all.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

EPILOGUE

Design Tip of the Day

“Ambience is everything. Imagine eating foie gras at a luncheonette counter or a side of coleslaw at Le Cirque. It’s not a matter of food, but one of atmosphere. Remember that when planning your dining room design.”

—TipsFromTeddi.com

“Now, that’s the kind of man you should be looking for,” my mother, the self-appointed keeper of my shelf-life stamp, says. She points with her fork at a man in the corner of The Steak-Out Restaurant, a dive I’ve just been hired to redecorate. Making this restaurant look four-star will be hard, but not half as hard as getting through lunch without strangling the woman across the table from me. “He would make a good husband.”

“Oh, you can tell that from across the room?” I ask, wondering how it is she can forget that when we had trouble getting rid of my last husband, she shot him. “Besides being ten minutes away from death if he actually eats all that steak, he’s twenty years too old for me and—shallow woman that I am—twenty pounds too heavy. Besides, I am so not looking for another husband here. I’m looking to design a new image for this place, looking for some sense of ambience, some feeling, something I can build a proposal on for them.”

My mother studies the man in the corner, tilting her head, the better to gauge his age, I suppose. I think she’s grimacing, but with all the Botox and Restylane injected into that face, it’s hard to tell. She takes another bite of her steak salad, chewing slowly so that I don’t miss the fact that the steak is a poor cut and tougher than it should be. “You’re concentrating on the wrong kind of proposal,” she says finally. “Just look at this place, Teddi. It’s a dive. There are hardly any other diners. What does that tell you about the food?”

“That they cater to a dinner crowd and it’s lunchtime,” I tell her.

I don’t know what I was thinking bringing her here with me. I suppose I thought it would be better than eating alone. There really are days when my common sense goes on vacation. Clearly, this is one of them. I mean, really, did I not resolve just a few months ago that I would not let my mother get to me anymore?

What good are New Year’s resolutions, anyway?

Tony, the owner of The Steak-Out, approaches the man’s table and my mother studies him while they converse. Eventually he leaves the table in a huff, after which the diner glances up and meets my mother’s gaze. I think she’s smiling at him. That or she’s got indigestion. They size each other up.

I concentrate on making sketches in my notebook and try to ignore the fact that my mother is flirting. At nearly seventy, she’s developed an unhealthy interest in members of the opposite sex to whom she isn’t married.

According to my father, who has broken the TMI rule and given me way Too Much Information, she has no interest in sex with him. Better, I suppose, to be clued in on what they aren’t doing in the bedroom than have to hear what they might be.

“He’s not so old,” my mother says, noticing that I have barely touched the Chinese chicken salad she warned me not to get. “He’s got about as many years on you as you have on your little cop friend.”

She does this to make me crazy. I know it, but it works all the same. “Drew Scoones is not my little ‘friend.’ He’s a detective with whom I—”