Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (14 page)

I wasn't worried. Tres Bonne Cuisine was in good hands.

Of course, that didn't stop me from freezing in my tracks when I saw who stepped into the shop.

"Hello, Annie."

Tonight, Peter was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt the color of the paprika in little containers on our herb and seasoning shelf. He glanced at the bag I was carrying. "You're leaving."

"I've got to get to Bellywasher's for a cooking class. Raymond will take care of you." I motioned toward Raymond, who was just coming up the aisle from the back office where he'd gotten one of our white aprons and was tying it around his back. On him, the apron looked as if it came straight from the store's Kids Cook section.

"Oh, that's OK." Peter barely looked at Raymond before he turned his attention back to me. He stepped toward the front counter. Since I was standing directly between it and him and the displays all around us made it impossible to get by without getting too close, I had no choice but to step back. "I just need a couple of things," he said. "I won't keep you long."

I wanted to say,
You won't keep me at all since I'm leaving
, but I remembered what Eve had said last time Tyler came to Bellywasher's. Paying customers were paying customers and as caretaker of his establishment, I had an obligation to Monsieur Lavoie to treat everyone who walked through the door with respect. Even a weasel like Peter.

I motioned to Raymond that I'd take care of things and watched as his eyebrows rose in an expression that clearly said he realized I knew Peter--and that he couldn't wait until we were alone so we could dish the dirt.

I ducked back behind the counter and from there, I saw that Raymond was straightening the shelves of stainless-clad cookware that was not so far away that he couldn't hear exactly what was going on.

"I didn't realize you were into cooking," I said, watching as Peter took a quick look around. "Is it like poker, another new hobby?"

"Oh, you know how it is." Peter stepped closer. "Everybody cooks." His eyes lit. "Everybody but you. What are you doing here, Annie? The most cooking you ever did was grabbing a box of Hamburger Helper and--"

"Ancient history." It wasn't that I was ashamed of my cooking skills, or my lack of them. It was just that I didn't need to be reminded. Not by Peter, anyway. And not in front of Raymond. I sloughed off his comments with a laugh and a lift of my shoulders. "You learned to play poker. I learned to cook."

"Amazing." He said it in a way that made me feel a little queasy. Like he really meant it. Like he was impressed.

I pretended to fiddle with the cash register.

"But what happened to the restaurant?"

Peter's question snapped me back. "Bellywasher's?" He looked at me with those melting brown eyes of his. "You told me you were the business manager there."

"I am the business manager there. And I'm the business manager here. It's a long story."

"And again, I say, amazing. You're . . ." Peter took a step closer to the counter. Call it instinct. Even though there was a slab of polished granite between us, I took a step back. "You're like a different person," he said. "You're so accomplished. So professional."

"Which means I wasn't accomplished and professional before."

"Not what I meant."

"What you said." There was a time this would have cut me to the quick. Now, I simply cocked my head and stared at him, expecting him to back down not because he had to, but because it was my due.

It was.

He did.

And somewhere deep down inside, I actually felt a little sorry for him. "I've got to get going," I said, stepping to my right so that I could move around to the front of the counter. "We've got a cooking class at Belly-washer's tonight, and--"

"I won't be another minute." Peter grabbed a pig-shaped wooden cutting board from a nearby shelf and plunked it on the counter. From another display near the front window, this one intended to attract mothers and grandmothers for those last-minute impulse buys, he reached for a tube of pink cake icing. As if that wasn't enough, he added two boxes of the red, white, and blue citronella candles I'd put out in honor of the upcoming Fourth of July holiday.

"That ought to do it," he said.

I look at the disparate assortment. "You're sure?"

"Sure."

"You don't need anything else?"

He reached for his wallet. "Nope."

"Then how about if you tell me what you're really doing here."

Just as my professionalism and business acumen apparently had done, my question caught Peter off guard. I would have known that even if we hadn't been married for eight years. It was the uneasy, embarrassed way he smiled, I guess. Or maybe it was the uncomfortable way he shifted from foot to foot.

"I was just passing by," he said, and I actually might have believed it if he didn't push a hand through his dark hair when he said it. I remembered that gesture. I'd seen it a thousand times. Always when Peter was feeling guilty about something.

Oh, how well I remembered that he'd never once resorted to that gesture when he fessed up about Mindy/Mandy!

Keeping the thought firmly in mind, I wrapped the pig cutting board in tissue and tucked it into a shopping bag along with the candles and the icing. "You were just passing by and you decided you couldn't live without a wooden pig cutting board? Or maybe it's Mindy/Mandy who needs the cutting board. What, is it some kind of romantic anniversary for you two? Maybe you're commemorating the first time you cheated on me with her? There are some who would see the pig as wonderfully symbolic."

In my peripheral vision, I saw Raymond give me the thumbs-up.

That was far more encouraging than the pained look on Peter's face. "That's not fair, Annie," he said. Leave it to Peter to try to defend the indefensible. "I didn't come here to argue with you. I just wanted to . . ." He was never the hemming and hawing type. He hemmed and hawed. "Actually, I just wanted to see you."

I was about to ring up his purchases, and my hands stilled over the keys of the cash register. "That's not a good idea," I told him.

Peter shrugged. "You can't blame a guy for trying."

"I can blame a guy for not trying back when we were married and you didn't give a damn."

At this, Raymond's eyebrows rose even more, and his eyes went wide. He had given up all pretense of not eavesdropping, and he stood with his colossal arms folded over his enormous chest, just listening.

I don't think Peter noticed. He wasn't looking at anyone or anything but me. "That was a long time ago, Annie. You haven't forgiven me?"

I'd like to say I took Peter's cash from him gracefully. It was more like I yanked the money from his hands. I punched the keys on the cash register, fished out the proper change, and shoved it in Peter's direction. "If you're looking for forgiveness, you've come to the wrong place. That's not my job."

"But--"

"Thank you for shopping at Tres Bonne Cuisine." I gave Peter the smile I offered every customer as they left.

Right before I stepped around the counter, grabbed my shopping bag, and called a good night to Raymond.

"You're making a mistake, Annie." Peter's words followed me to the door. "You're forgetting that not everyone is what they seem."

Yeah, I already knew that. Peter had taught me that lesson.

But as I got to my car and headed over to Belly-washer's, the truth of what he said hit like a ton of bricks.

"Not everyone is what they seem," I mumbled to myself, and I knew exactly why it bothered me in the context of Monsieur's disappearance.

It was exactly the reason I hadn't done more to pursue that stack of suspicious IDs. Or the telltale information I'd received from Monsieur Brun, the innkeeper, the day before.

Not everyone was what they appeared to be, and if I dug a little deeper into Monsieur Lavoie's background, I was afraid I wasn't going to like what I found.

Did it matter?

Personally, yes, it mattered a whole bunch. To me, to Jim, to all Monsieur's other friends.

Professionally . . .

I knew exactly when I made up my mind, because my hands tightened on the steering wheel and my spine stiffened with resolve.

Professionally, I had to find out what was going on.

No matter what the consequences.

Nine

THE BAD NEWS WAS THAT ON MONDAY, HER DAY off, Eve twisted her ankle.

No, it didn't happen at the gym. Eve and sweat are not on a first-name basis.

She told everybody that the accident happened as she was chasing after Doc, racing to save him from meeting a tragic and horrible end under the wheels of an oncoming bus.

I knew better.

Number one, because Doc is too lazy and far too spoiled to ever think about running away from Eve. I mean, why should he? The dog lives better than a lot of people. He certainly has a bigger wardrobe than mine.

Number two, I knew that just like Eve and sweat, Eve racing anywhere is a statistical improbability.

Unless she's racing to a sale at Nordstrom.

She finally fessed up with the truth--I knew she would--and the truth was that my instincts were right on. It was her own fault, Eve admitted. She had tried to outpace a woman who had her eye on the same pair of alligator slingbacks Eve saw from the other side of the shoe department. Eve darted. The other woman rushed forward. Eve sidestepped, pivoted, slipped.

The good news?

Well, according to Eve, the good news was that she got to the shoes first. Even though by that time, she was limping.

As far as I was concerned, the good news was that the injury wasn't serious. However, Eve had been ordered by her doctor to stay off her feet for a couple days. And that was the second piece of good news. Because she is the hostess at Bellywasher's and because a restaurant hostess is always on her feet, Eve was forced to take a couple days off. That meant she was free to investigate with me.

After all, Eve riding in the passenger seat while I drove qualified as staying off her feet, right?

Eve pulled down the visor on her side of the Saturn and peered at herself in the little mirror, checking to make sure her makeup was just right. Of course it was. "So, you think Raymond will work out well?" she asked me.

The way I grinned at the very mention of his name should have been a clue, but since Eve was so busy looking at herself, she didn't notice. "He practically begged me to let him work today," I said. "This is my first real day off in as long as I can remember. Raymond is my hero! He's going to be perfect. I talked to him before I left home, and he's in his glory. He actually thinks working at Tres Bonne Cuisine is the best job in the whole, wide world."

"You don't." Eve snapped the visor back into place. "I don't know how you're doing it, Annie. I mean, with the way you feel about cooking and all. And I miss you at Bellywasher's."

"I miss being there." Who ever would have thought I'd say that about working at a restaurant! My grin stayed firmly in place. "I just don't fit in at Tres Bonne Cuisine. Sure, the shop is gorgeous, and most of the customers are nice. Except for the ones who come in just to see the place where Greg died."

After a week, I should have been used to the scenario, but it still gave me the creeps. We were headed south and the early morning sun was blazing through my window. My air-conditioning was on the fritz so it wasn't nearly as cool in the car as I would have liked. Still, I shivered.

"We need to get to the bottom of this," I told Eve. As if she didn't know. "The whole thing is weird, and it's driving me crazy. Has Tyler said anything . . ."

OK, so subtle, I'm not. Since Eve was being less than forthcoming about her contact (or lack of it) with Tyler, it was only fair for me, as her best friend, to force the subject.

"You mean about Greg? About Greg's murder?" Even though she'd just checked her makeup, she checked it again. "The only thing he's said--"

"Aha! You have talked to him again!" I was so proud of my detective skills and so jazzed about catching Eve in my little trap, I didn't realize how hard I was pressing on the accelerator. It wasn't until I saw my speedometer inch up to seventy-five that I caught myself, and slowed right down. Sure, everybody on I-95 exceeds the speed limit. All the time. But I am not everybody. Especially when it comes to driving.