{"product_id":"french-fried-isbn-9780425274897","title":"French Fried","description":"\u003cb\u003ePoison’s on the menu in the second book in the national bestselling Ethnic Eats series featuring Laurel Inwood and the quirky residents of Hubbard, Ohio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Statue of Liberty is 130 years old, and for the struggling residents of Hubbard, Ohio, any opportunity to bring in tourists is reason enough for a celebration. Laurel Inwood and her aunt, Sophie, are pitching in. Sophie’s Terminal at the Tracks, a former greasy spoon turned charming ethnic eatery, will be offering French cuisine for the entire week.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor expert help with their quiche and escargot, the ladies turn to Raquel “Rocky” Arnaud, a former French chef and friend of Sophie. What looks like a match made in heaven turns rank as quickly as buttermilk on a summer’s day. Rocky turns up dead and when her nightly red wine shows notes of oak, cinnamon, and poison, Laurel turns from soufflé to sleuth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eINCLUDES A RECIPE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for the Ethnic Eats Mysteries\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A fun and intriguing read...cannot wait for the next in this series.”—Open Book Society\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A delightfully entertaining debut to a series that I hope is here to stay.”—Dru’s Book Musings\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMore Praise for Kylie Logan\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Logan has fun with this unusual story, intimate setting, and feisty characters, and readers will, too.”—\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch  \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of my favorite cozy mystery writers...What great characters Kylie Logan has created.”—Fresh Fiction\u003cb\u003eKylie Logan\u003c\/b\u003e is the national bestselling author of The League of Literary Ladies Mysteries, the Button Box Mysteries, the Chili Cook-Off Mysteries, and the Ethnic Eats Mysteries.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bone sue war!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was putting the last touches on the quiches about to go into the      oven, so I didn't turn around when someone bumped through the      kitchen door of Sophie's Terminal at the Tracks and called out the      greeting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didn't need to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd recognize Sophie Charnowski's voice—and her lousy French      accent—anywhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then again, I should. It had been six months since I'd left      California and arrived in Hubbard, Ohio, to run what I thought was      Sophie's white-linen-and-candlelight restaurant while she had      knee-replacement surgery. Six months since I found out that the      elegant restaurant she'd lied about for years was really a greasy      spoon in an old train station that anchored a      battered-but-trying-to-gentrify part of town.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Six months since I'd been embroiled as much in murder as I was in      cooking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The thought hit, and a touch like icy fingers squirmed its way up      my back. I twitched it aside and called over my shoulder.      \"\u003ci\u003eBonsoir\u003c\/i\u003e, Sophie. Any sign of Rocky yet?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No! She is nowhere to be seen, yes?\" Sophie tried for a French      lilt that pinged around the tile and stainless steel kitchen and      fell flat. With her usual good humor, she laughed it away and came      up behind me so she could stand on tiptoe and peek over my      shoulder at the six quiches on the counter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh, Laurel, they look fabulous!\" Sophie breathed in deep. \"Think      six will be enough?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I wiped my hands on the white apron looped around my neck. \"We've      got three more in the fridge and George will pop them in the oven      if we need them,\" I told Sophie at the same time I glanced across      the kitchen. George Porter was leaning back against the industrial      fridge, his beefy arms crossed over his massive chest, and a scowl      on his face that pretty much said all there was to say about what      he thought of quiche.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In spite of the scowl—or maybe because of it—I gave him the kind      of smile that said I was sure he was on board with my plan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e George didn't smile back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But then, what did I expect?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Terminal's longtime cook was a mountain of a man with more      tats on his arms than I had fingers and toes, a meat-and-potatoes      kind of guy who was as happy as a cholesterol-challenged clam      cooking up the fried eggs, fried baloney, fried steak, and fried      chicken that for years had been the staples of the Terminal menu.      That is, before I arrived and started introducing healthier dishes      and, in a flash of inspiration, featuring ethnic specials.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We'd started with Irish, and that summer had tried Japanese (sushi      did not exactly go over big with the Hubbard crowd) and Chinese      (popular, but there were plenty of Chinese places in town and I      gave up on a menu that seemed to me to be déjà vu all over again).      Now, in honor of a town celebration commemorating the anniversary      of the dedication of the Statue of Liberty, a gift from France to      the people of America, we'd decided to go with the Tricolor flow.      French food, but not the fussy kind that's so off-putting to so      many people. We were sticking with French country, French bistro.      Delicious, accessible, and easy for a man like George to handle.      Even if in his heart-of-fried-food hearts, he didn't want to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I sloughed the thought aside and reminded Sophie, \"There are      tartines, too.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Tartines.\" Her sigh hovered in the ether somewhere between      Nirvana and Utopia. In the weeks since we'd started planning our      French menu and I'd introduced her to tartines, she'd become      something of an addict. And who could blame her?! The      knife-and-fork open-faced French sandwiches are delightful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We're going to use some of the heirloom tomatoes still coming in      from the local farmers,\" I told Sophie. \"We'll put those on some      of the tartines along with eggplant. Then for others, we've got      ham and Gruyère, and toasted Camembert, walnut, and fig.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Walnut and fig.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I ignored George when he grunted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Now all we need . . .\" I glanced at the quiches that looked      decidedly naked. \"Did Rocky say what time she'd be here with the      herbs?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm late. I know. I'm sorry!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For the second time in as many minutes, the kitchen door swung      open and this time, Raquel Arnaud bumped into the room. Rocky was      a friend of Sophie's, but there couldn't be two women who were      more different. Sophie was short, plump, and as down-to-earth as      her sensible shoes. Her hair was the same silvery color as      Rocky's, but while Sophie's was short and shaggy, Rocky's was long      and sleek and as glorious as the woman herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But then, Rocky had the whole French thing going for her,      including just a trace of an accent that hadn't disappeared in      spite of the fact that she'd left her native country nearly fifty      years earlier.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rocky was almost as tall as my five-nine, willowy, and as elegant      as her clothing. She was a farmer—herbs and specialty vegetables—a      woman whose life revolved around the seasons and the weather and      the acreage thirty minutes outside of Hubbard where she grew some      of the best produce in the state, yet anyone meeting her for the      first time would think she'd just stepped out of the house to shop      on the Rue de la Paix.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Well, except for that Friday night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I did a double take.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That evening, graceful and refined Rocky looked . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was wearing the black A-line dress she claimed was a fashion      must, but Rocky's hair was uncombed and her lipstick was smudged.      Sure, she was running late, and that might account for the      slapdash grooming, but nothing I knew about Rocky could explain—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sneakers?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Before I came to Hubbard, I'd worked as a personal chef in      Hollywood. Believe me, I knew fashion trends, fashion faux pas,      and plain ol' fashion disasters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd never known Raquel Arnaud to dare something as unfashionable      and as downright un-French as to wear tennis shoes outside of the      house. Especially ones that looked to be encrusted with a week's      worth of garden goo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I knew I was running late so I chopped the thyme at home.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Before I could even think of what to say or how to ask Rocky if      she'd completely lost her mind, she raced over and put a basket on      the countertop beside me. There was a white linen towel thrown      over the top of it and when Rocky whisked it away, I forgot all      about her smeared lipstick and her tennis shoes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But then, who can resist the heavenly woody\/lemony aroma of fresh      thyme?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I took a deep breath and automatically found myself smiling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Always has that effect on me, too.\" Rocky gave me a playful poke      in the ribs at the same time she reached around me to sprinkle      thyme on the quiches. \"I brought griselles, too,\" she said. \"But      since you're already done with these, they'll have to wait for      tomorrow's quiche.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stepped back to admire the finished quiches. \"Bacon, onion, and      Swiss today,\" I told Rocky. \"Pretty traditional, I know, but I      thought that might be easiest if we get a crowd after the book      signing. Tomorrow after the big parade, we'll mix it up with      spinach and the shallots in some of the quiches.\" I peeked at the      French shallots—what Rocky called griselles—and took another deep      breath, and I swear, I could still smell the scent of autumn earth      that clung to the shallots.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And to Rocky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Carefully, I took another sniff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A fragrant cloud of Chanel No. 5 usually enveloped Rocky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That night, she smelled more like wet soil. And red wine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lots of red wine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I guess Sophie noticed, too, because behind Rocky's back, she      raised her eyebrows and gave me That Look. The one that said I was      supposed to ask what the heck was going on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Before I could, Rocky pulled a bottle of wine out of the basket      she'd brought with her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We need to have a glass before we head out, eh?\" She didn't wait      for us to agree, but reached for the corkscrew she'd also brought      along and opened the bottle. \"You have glasses, George?\" she      asked, and since we didn't have a liquor license and there weren't      any appropriate wineglasses around, he brought over water glasses.      Four of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rocky didn't mind sharing. She poured into each of the glasses and      she was just about to take a drink when Sophie stopped her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What about a toast?\" Sophie asked. \"We always have a toast.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh.\" As if this were a new thought, Rocky blinked and stared into      her glass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This time, Sophie augmented That Look with a scrunched-up nose and      a tip of her head in Rocky's direction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I knew a losing cause when I saw one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I put a hand on Rocky's arm and couldn't help but notice that when      I did, she flinched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Are you all right?\" I asked. \"You seem distracted.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She made a face that would have been convincing if I hadn't spent      the last few years of my career as the personal chef of Hollywood      megastar Meghan Cohan. I knew actors. Good actors. Bad actors.      Rocky fell into the latter category.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I get so flustered when I'm running late.\" I guess Rocky forgot      all about the toast, because she downed her wine. \"We should      probably get going, huh? We don't want to miss the book signing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Imagine, Aurore Brisson here in Hubbard!\" It looked as if Sophie      knew a losing cause when she saw one, too, because she gave up on      the toast, took a quick sip of wine, and set down her glass. She      stepped up beside Rocky. \"How exciting it must be for you to have      a Frenchwoman here in town. And such a famous one! That book of      hers—\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"\u003ci\u003eYesterday's Passion\u003c\/i\u003e. Yes, yes.\" Before Sophie could pilot her to      the door, Rocky poured another glass of wine and slugged it down.      \"I'm anxious to read it. I've always been interested in my      country's history but really, I don't know all that much about the      Middle Ages. The story sounds so . . . so romantic. Knights,      ladies, castles—\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"And that gorgeous hunk, Sam Baker, who's going to play the lead      role when the book's made into a TV series!\" Sophie grinned and      leaned closer to Rocky, speaking in a stage whisper I couldn't      fail to hear. \"Laurel knows him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rocky raised her eyebrows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Not well,\" I admitted because it was better than letting anyone      know that Sam Baker had once had an affair with Meghan Cohan and      had come on to me one morning while I was getting breakfast ready      for the two of them down in the kitchen of Meghan's Malibu      mansion. \"We've met.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Is he as gorgeous in person as he is in the movies?\" Rocky asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was, and I admitted it. Without adding that he was also a      little too much into recreational drugs and other men's wives.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's only natural that he's playing the lead. Isn't that right,      Laurel?\" Sophie asked. \"Meghan Cohan herself is producing and      directing and starring. She's playing Cecile. The tabloids say      they're having an affair, Meghan and Sam.\" Sophie paused, waiting      for me to fill in the blanks. When I didn't, she breezed right on.      \"Oh, I can't wait to read the book and see the show and see if      they stick to the original story. Is that how it works, Laurel?      When they make a film or a TV show, do they usually stick to the      original story?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In this case, only if the original story involved late-night      fights of epic proportions, accusations thrown back and forth like      rocks from a catapult, and a huge and ugly breakup the tabloids      had yet to get wind of. No doubt the network had squelched the      truth to get as much mileage as they could out of what they were      touting as both an on-screen and an offscreen romance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Well, I'm buying a copy of the book, that's for sure,\" Sophie      told us. \"And I can't wait to get Aurore Brisson's autograph. How      clever it was of John and Mike over at the Book Nook to get her      here just in time for the Statue of Liberty celebration. She's      such a superstar, so young and pretty. I bet there will be a line      out the door of the bookstore. Let's get over there fast.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eFast\u003c\/i\u003e, of course, is a relative word when it comes to Sophie, who      always has a patron to stop and say hello to or a neighbor to      greet. Then, of course, there was the matter of Sophie's knee. Oh,      she didn't move at a snail's pace because of that replacement      surgery back in the spring. She'd recovered from that and gone      through rehab and all was well. At least for a few weeks. That's      when she twisted her knee. While she was on a Mediterranean      cruise. On an island. Drinking ouzo and doing the \u003ci\u003eZorba the Greek \u003c\/i\u003e dance with some hunky fisherman who emailed her regularly now and      called her his little baklava and promised to come visit sometime      soon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To say this new injury annoyed me no end makes me look      small-minded when, in fact, it makes sense that I'd be irritated.      See, I had no intention of staying in Hubbard and I'd told Sophie      that from the start. I promised I'd stay only until she felt      better and could take over the management of the restaurant      herself again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Only that didn't look like it was going to happen anytime soon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I held on to my temper along with the thought that this, too,      would pass. And when it did . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We had just walked out the front door of the Terminal and a brisk      autumn breeze ruffled my hair along with the French flag we were      flying from a post out front, and I made sure to keep a smile off      my face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sophie had an uncanny way of reading into my smiles, and for now,      what I knew about how long I was staying and where I might be      going when I waved adios to the town that time forgot was my      business and mine alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We fell into step behind the throngs of people milling in front of      the bookstore and slowly making themselves into some sort of      orderly line, and while Sophie and Rocky chatted about people I      didn't know, I had a few minutes to look around. What was now      called the Traintown neighborhood had once been at the heart of      Hubbard's industrial center. There were railroad tracks that ran      along the back side of the restaurant and six times a day, a train      still rumbled by and shook the Terminal to its nineteenth-century      foundation. Across the tracks was a factory, long shuttered, just      one of the many businesses that had gone south\/closed their      doors\/given up the ghost in what had once been a vibrant      community.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302775247077,"sku":"NP9780425274897","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780425274897.jpg?v=1767727687","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/french-fried-isbn-9780425274897","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}