Free Grilled for Murder by Maddie Day Page A

the new fingerprint powder they’d left. I locked the service door after them, put away my bucket, and headed into my apartment to figure out what I owned to wear that was suitable for contra dancing. As I stared into my closet, my cell rang from the other room. I dashed in and connected.
    â€œRobbie, hon,” Adele said. “Phil’s home again. Samuel got him the best lawyer in town. They didn’t arrest him or anything.”
    â€œWhat a relief. Thanks for letting me know. So they didn’t have any real evidence against him, right?”
    â€œNot that they told us. Now, what are you doing tonight? Want to come by for a bite of dinner?” she asked.
    â€œI actually have a date for dinner and contra dancing.”
    â€œWith your Jim, I assume?” Adele’s voice held the sound of a smile.
    â€œYou got it. He said contra is fun, that I’ll be able to learn how to do it, and that I don’t need a special outfit.”
    â€œI’ve been plenty of times. You’ll love it.” She blew me an audible kiss and hung up.
    It would take a lot of fun to get my brain off the puzzle of an unsolved murder, but if anybody could do it, it would be the green-eyed dancer. Jim and I were still figuring out our relationship. I liked him, and he was cute to the point of hot. But I’d been so burned by my rotten ex-husband in California, I still wasn’t quite sure how entwined I wanted my life and Jim’s to be. Luckily, he wasn’t pushing me to commit to anything.
    Now for my closet. I dug around, finally locating a knit dress in a bright flowered print, with short sleeves and a flared skirt that flattered both my slender waist and my ample hips. I could pair it with leggings and a light sweater I could always shed if, indeed, I grew hot contra-ing. Dancing with Jim usually heated me up, anyway, so his caution about wearing layers hadn’t really been necessary.

Chapter 8
    I studied the menu at the Uptown Cafe. After Jim had picked me up, he’d admired my swingy dress. Guess I nailed that one.
    â€œEver eaten here?” Jim asked. We were there early before the dinner rush, and it was Sunday, but all the barstools behind us were full and other customers clustered standing around it, holding drinks, talking, laughing. I’d never been to Bloomington on a Sunday at happy hour.
    â€œNo. What do you recommend?” I tucked my hair behind my ear. I’d chosen to wear it down, since I never got to at work, and I loved the feeling of my full-bodied curls hanging loose and bouncy. It was kind of a pain to keep it long, what with how much time it took to shampoo and comb it out. I gladly spent the time for evenings like this, letting my hair do as it willed and being able to savor the sensation.
    â€œCheck out the section called Cajun-Creole Cuisine .” He pointed to my menu. “That’s my favorite. In fact, I already know I’m going to have the gumbo.”
    â€œOoh, shrimp and grits sounds yummy.” I read from the menu, “Jumbo shrimp and andouille sausage, atop cheddar cheese jalapeño grits. That’s what I’m having.”
    â€œThe grits are pretty spicy.” Jim closed his menu and smiled. His pale green long-sleeved shirt matched his eyes, which also smiled.
    â€œI can do spicy. I’m a California girl, remember? I grew up on chilies.”
    The waiter wandered over looking very much like a college student, with a pierced eyebrow and bleached-blond hair slicked to a kind of Mohawk peak atop his head.
    â€œWhat can I get you tonight?” he asked.
    I told him I wanted the shrimp and grits.
    â€œI’ll have the gumbo,” Jim said, handing him his menu.
    â€œWant that Hoosier style?” the waiter asked.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I asked.
    Jim laughed. “It means with mashed potatoes instead of rice. No,” he said to the waiter. “I’ll take it Louisiana style. And can we get