Just dropping by to announce that I have finally—after three long, long, long years—finished a sequel to Entree to Murder! It’s called Recipe for Trouble. Here’s a excerpt from the beginning.

Chapter One

On Wednesday night at six forty-five Deputy Cormac “Big Mac” Mackenzie walked into my restaurant. He was tall, just over thirty, dark-haired, handsome in a “rough-hewn from solid oak” way. Except for the days that some idiot had committed a crime, he darkened my door at this same time every Wednesday then sat at the same small table in the front window with his back against the wall and waited.

Without taking his order, the waitress, Savannah, brought him a beer. Likewise I started cooking, since I knew his order by heart—his order was whatever I cooked him AKA the Wednesday night special.

Today it would be crispy duck breast with tamarind rice and green papaya salad. It seemed summery and exotic without being aloof. I hoped he would like it.

It had been eight months since I started secretly sleeping with this cop and I still got nervous making him a plate of food.

I shouldn’t have worried. Three hours later I was laying beside him on the ruckled, twisted sheets in his dilapidated old mansion on the hill, taking in the warm summer night, breathing heavily, sweaty, nude, limp as a fish. Mac’s chest heaved and he reached to lace his hot fingers with mine.

A pang passed through my chest. I tried to figure out when I started wanting him to fall in love with me. It wasn’t right away. At first I just enjoyed the novelty of his massively strong body and was fascinated by his stoic, self-deprecating nature. Then, gradually I started wondering what he thought of me. Did he like me back? What could be my appeal, apart from convenience and proximity? Camas Island was not so big that other gay guys were a dime a dozen. So I tried to keep the conversation light and focus on an area where I felt comfortable—the twin carnal pleasures of food and sex.

Mac seemed happy to follow my lead and over the weeks we fell into the habit of simply meeting on Wednesdays. There was no prior agreement and Mac didn’t text if he wasn’t showing up. A couple of months later Mac began appearing on different nights—giving me rides home from work, mostly. We both worked all the time so neither of us ever spent the night at the other’s place.

At some point I started getting disappointed if I didn’t see him and that’s when I knew I was in trouble. Like an idiot, I’d fallen in love with a cop who I was pretty sure was in the closet—or if he was out, only he knew it, which amounted to the same thing.

When I was alone in my crappy trailer I could access my self-respect and resent him for taking up so much space in my brain. But when he lay beside me in the hot timeless present I didn’t even know what the word ‘pride’ meant, I guess.

I’d never been a sucker like this before. Ever. I needed to know our status because if he thought of me as the sexual equivalent of the gas station burrito then I needed to take some evasive action before I became completely pathetic.

So I rolled over onto my side and leaned my forehead against his shoulder. I thought maybe it would be better if I took some initiative and just asked him if he was my boyfriend now. I could absorb the blow if he said no . . . probably.

And then his phone rang.

And then he let go of my hand and answered it.

And then he had to go.