Free By Cook or by Crook (A Five-Ingredient Mystery) by Maya Corrigan Page B

racket display. He selected a wide-bodied orange racket. “You can try these rackets, you know. Take ’em out for a test drive.”
    Val hefted the racket he held out. “It looks like it could—” Val almost said kill somebody. “It looks heavy, but it feels lighter than most rackets. What’s it made of?”
    “Fiberglass and graphite.” He took down a banana yellow racket and held it up for Val’s inspection. “This one’s made of Kevlar and hypercarbon. Space-age materials.”
    Chatty called out from the shop door. “See you Thursday, Val.”
    Val glanced at two teenage boys who’d just entered the shop. She’d better get to the point fast before Darwin abandoned her for other customers. “I heard you fill special orders for older rackets. Do you ever get requests for wood rackets?”
    Darwin frowned. “There’s a wood core racket with graphite—”
    “I meant an all-wood racket, the kind people used to play with.”
    Darwin looked like a decorator whose client demanded an avocado shag rug. “Wood rackets are heavy. The head size is too small. Even the best players wouldn’t be competitive with that kind of racket.” And you, lady, are not the best, his intonation said.
    “So no one’s asked you to order one?” He shook his head, and she continued. “Where could someone buy a wood racket? Where did you get the ones hanging on the wall?”
    He put back the high-tech model he’d tried to sell her. “Flea markets. Garage sales.”
    Perfect places to pay in cash and leave no paper trail. Her hope of finding the source of the racket used in the murder dimmed. “I’ll have to think about what racket to buy. Thanks.”
    She left the shop. The humid air outside carried aromas of fresh bread, tomato sauce, and garlic. She glanced at her watch. Seven-thirty. No wonder her stomach was growling. For the first time in months, she didn’t have to go home and make dinner for her grandfather. He was eating out. Why shouldn’t she? She followed her nose to Bayport’s newest restaurant, the Tuscan Eaterie, half a block away.
    The restaurant had no free tables and a long waiting line. She snagged a seat at the bar, which offered the full menu. She studied it and ordered a risotto. The bronze-toned mirror behind the bar gave her an oblique view of the restaurant door, patrons leaving, others coming in. She glimpsed a couple as they exited, an older man in a white shirt shepherding a woman with a short gray pixie hairdo. From the back, the man resembled Granddad. Val swiveled to look directly at the door, but by then the couple had disappeared. The older guy couldn’t have been her grandfather. He wore white dress shirts only to funerals. Tonight he’d probably gone to the diner in his overalls to eat with his friend, Ned.
    Val had to wait so long for her meal she was tempted to walk out. The noise in the bar gave her a headache. Her food, when it finally arrived, covered barely a third of a square white plate. Three brown commas of salad dressing punctuated the arugula sprigs decorating a corner of the plate. Finding the morsels of seafood in her rice would have required a magnifying glass. She ate slowly, trying to identify the ingredients in the risotto.
    Midway through dinner she heard her cell phone ringing but didn’t bother climbing off the bar stool to fish it out of her bag. She couldn’t have heard the caller over the din anyway, and the ring was muffled enough that no one else at the bar noticed it. It rang again as she was wiping her plate clean with a piece of bread, and again she ignored it. By the time she left the restaurant, it was almost nine and darker than usual because of a thick cloud cover.
    She retrieved her phone messages.
    “Val, it’s Monique. Call me. It’s important. I’ll try you at home.” Click.
    “Where are you, Val? I have to talk to you. I need your help.” Click.
    Her cousin’s voice bordered on frantic. What could be wrong? She dialed Monique’s number. Maverick