Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (15 page)

Careful to keep my speed exactly where it belonged, I moved over to the far right lane to stay out of the way of the speed demons on the road with me. The driver of the dark sedan behind me must have been gauging his own speed against mine. He slipped right behind me into the lane.

I gave Eve a sidelong glance. "You've been seeing Tyler."

"That's exactly why I haven't told you. I knew this was how you'd take it."

"Take it? Take what?" My heart thumped like the bass line in the music of the overloud stereo of the Hummer that whizzed by us as if we were standing still. "Eve, you and Tyler . . . you're not . . ." I swallowed hard. No easy thing, seeing as my mouth was suddenly so parched I could barely get the words out. "You're not engaged again, are you?"

Eve's only reply was a squeal of laughter.

It wasn't much, but it did make me feel better, and my heart rate ratcheted back. If Eve was laughing at the very idea of marrying Tyler, then it couldn't really happen.

Right?

I never trust cars that actually drive slower than me. Or maybe I should say more accurately, I never trust the drivers of those cars.

As I was thinking all this, I checked my mirrors--twice--before I passed the red Camry crawling along in the right lane. The car behind me did the same. It wasn't until I settled back in the lane and well in front of both the red Toyota and the dark sedan that I felt safe giving Eve another probing look.

"You didn't answer me."

"About being engaged? To Tyler?" Eve picked at her white linen pants. Not that there was any lint on them or anything. "Don't be silly, Annie. Tyler is still engaged to Kaitlin. Technically. And even if he wasn't . . . my goodness, Annie! Even if he wasn't, a man who's been engaged, then gets unengaged, he wouldn't be ready to get engaged again."

"Would you?"

"To Tyler? My goodness, you don't have any faith in me at all, do you?" Eve sniffed in the way she always does when she's put out.

I guess I couldn't blame her.

Tyler had sliced and diced her heart. He had pureed her self-esteem, stir-fried her self-confidence, and served it all up on the platter of his own huge ego.

Maybe I was starting to think like I worked in a gourmet shop after all.

"So let's go over our plan." I figured I owed Eve for questioning her judgment, and I engineered the change of subject without any fanfare. "I'm glad you're investigating with me, Eve. Want to grab that file folder I gave you when you got in the car?"

She did, flipped it open, and squinted at the copy I'd made of one of the licenses we'd found at Monsieur's. "The name on the driver's license is Bill Boxley." Thinking, Eve cocked her head. "Do you think Monsieur's real name is Bill Boxley? If it is, I can't say I blame him for changing it."

"I think it's a distinct possibility that Bill Boxley and Jacques Lavoie are one and the same person. That would explain why he has the license, right?"

"Yeah, but . . ." Eve hesitated.

I was negotiating my way past a van driving too slowly in the left lane and an eighteen-wheeler in the right that didn't seem to recognize that such things as speed limits exist. Only when we were safely by the van and watching the truck disappear into the distance in front of us, did I feel safe getting back to the conversation.

So safe, in fact, that I barely noticed that when I maneuvered my way between the van and the truck, the dark car behind me did, too.

I'd heard the uncertainty in Eve's voice, I knew where she was headed. "Yeah, but . . . ," I echoed her comment. "You don't think Monsieur might really be Bill Boxley? Or Bill might really be Monsieur?"

"I don't know what to think. And I'm not sure I understand what you're thinking. What are we trying to prove with a trip to Fredericksburg?"

The answer was simple enough. "Fredericksburg . . ." Without taking my eyes off the road, I pointed to the photocopy of the driver's license. I'd meant to point out the address, but instead, I poked Bill Boxley in the nose. "Fredericksburg is the home of Bill Boxley. Of all those driver's licenses we found at Monsieur's, Bill Boxley's is the most recent. Check it out. It expired just a couple years ago. All those other licenses are older."

Eve squinted at the picture of Monsieur that graced the license. In it, his hair wasn't quite as silvery, and he was a little thinner than the man we knew. "And . . . ?"

"And I chose the newest license because it seems to make more sense starting there than it does starting with the older ones. My guess . . ." I paused here because, after all, it was something of a ta-da moment. "My guess is that we're going to go to the address on that license, and we're going to find Monsieur Lavoie there."

"You mean Bill is Monsieur? Or Monsieur is Bill? But why?"

I knew Eve's question had nothing to do with my logic, and everything to do with why people thought the way they did and did the things they did. That's why I shrugged. "Who knows. I mean, maybe Monsieur has a wife and seven kids living out here in Fredericksburg. Though why he wouldn't want anyone to know it, I can't imagine. Maybe he's gay. Or maybe--"

"Maybe he's a spy or an agent for a rogue government."

Just like the first time Eve had raised these possibilities, I was not about to let them distract me. "It's the whole Vavoom! scam thing that got me thinking in this direction, Eve. I'll bet Monsieur is up to something. Maybe not something as illegal as being a spy or the agent of a rogue government, but something he shouldn't be up to. I'll bet that's why he's got a couple of different identities. Theoretically, I suppose it's none of our business. Unless Monsieur's involved in something that's going to get him into a whole bunch of trouble. Considering what happened to Greg, I think that's a very real possibility. And even if it isn't . . ." I chose to think of the problem from this angle because thinking about the myriad illegalities I didn't even understand scared me so. "We can at least talk to him. We need to let him know we're worried about him. And if there's anything we can do to help him get out of whatever trouble he's in, we need to do that, too."

"We should also tell him the police still want to talk to him."

I bit my tongue. It was better than bringing up Tyler's name again and, besides, our exit was fast approaching. I had Eve consult the MapQuest directions I'd printed out before I left the house and we found Bill Boxley's address with no problem. It wasn't until I pulled my car into the driveway that I realized the dark car that had been behind us on the freeway was still on our tail.

Suddenly uneasy, I craned my neck, hoping for a look at the driver, but when he passed the house and continued down the street and around a corner, I reminded myself we were not the only ones allowed to drive the freeway between Arlington and Fredericksburg. My nerves calmed by a dose of common sense, I told Eve to stay put so as not to irritate her swollen ankle and walked to the front door, wondering as I did exactly what I'd say when Monsieur answered it.

I guess I shouldn't have worried.

Because Monsieur Lavoie didn't answer the door.

A Confederate Civil War soldier did.

"YOU'RE BILL BOXLEY?" NOT THE BEST WAY TO START
a conversation. I shook away my surprise and tried again. "Hi! I'm looking for Bill Boxley."

"You found him." The man who answered the door was as round as he was tall. He had a shock of salt-and-pepper hair and a beard to match. It hung down to his chest, brushing his gray wool coat with its crimson cuffs and gold curlicue embellishment.

"My goodness, aren't you hot in that thing?" Leave it to Eve not to miss a trick. Especially when it comes to overlooking the big picture so she can glom on to the fashion consequences. She rolled down her window and called out, "It's the middle of the summer, sugar, you must be roasting in that big ol' coat!"

Bill Boxley laughed. I guess there's nothing like the thick accent of a true Southern belle to warm the cockles of a Confederate officer's heart. "Now that you mention it, young lady, I am a tad uncomfortable out here in the heat," he called back to her at the same time he opened the front door wider so that I could step inside. "Come on. Come on in," he said. "Your friend is welcome, too. The AC makes it much easier to tolerate this scratchy wool. On my way to get some regimental photographs taken," he explained, glancing down at his uniform. "You know, reenactors."

I was glad he told me. Then the house wasn't as much of a surprise. It was a medium-size Greek Revival, complete with white columns and a covered front porch. Inside, it was furnished with antiques. The walls were dotted with tintypes of men in uniform and women holding umbrellas and wearing bustles. From where we stood in a foyer papered with cabbage roses and violets, I could see into the living room. A musket hung over the fireplace.

"So . . ." Bill looked at me closely. "You with the Prize Patrol?"

I guessed he was going for funny so I laughed. "That's not it at all," I told him. "We just . . ."

Just what?

I'd been so certain the door would be opened by our friend Jacques Lavoie, I hadn't even planned for this contingency.

Like I was going to let that stop me?

I was on the trail, and, like any good detective, I wasn't going to lose the scent this early. "My friend Eve and I . . . she waited in the car because she hurt her ankle . . . we're just doing a little research," I said, trying to look and sound more professional than any gourmet-shop/restaurant business manager had the right to. "Has your driver's license ever been stolen?"

Bill had eyes the same nondescript color as the mousy brown in his hair. They opened wide. "It has. It has, indeed. But my goodness, that was years ago. You're with the police, right? I can't believe you'd care about a crime so old."

"Oh, you know how it is." I smiled widely at the same time I was careful about not answering Bill's question. "No one ever found the license?"

"Well, no." Leaning against a nearby wall was a sword hanging from a belt, and Bill reached for it and strapped it on. "Why does it matter after all these years? I got a new license. And that one's not expired or anything. If you'd like to see it . . ." He made a move, but I stopped him, one hand briefly brushing the elegant gold cord trim on his jacket.

"That won't be necessary," I told him. "We're just confirming the information. Tell me . . ." Considering that Bill wasn't Monsieur, Monsieur wasn't Bill, and Bill's license had been stolen, a whole new world of possibilities presented themselves--all of them with
fraud, felony
, and
identity theft
written on them in letters three miles high.

Almost afraid to ask, I eased into a new avenue of questioning. "Your license, was it taken from your wallet? Or did the whole wallet go missing?"

"The whole wallet. You can read that part in the police report if you look it up. If they even keep reports as old as that."

"And were there . . ." I told myself not to lose heart. Whatever Bill had to tell me, it might be important to the investigation. Even if I didn't want to hear it. "Were there credit cards in your wallet? Were those missing, too?"

"Well, that's the strange part, isn't it? All the credit cards and the wallet itself . . . they were all returned to me. Sent right here to me at home in a big manila envelope. I called the police and told them. They came and took the envelope away. Never heard another word about what they did with it, or what they found out. But I guess you know that, too, right? The only thing I never found again was the driver's license."

I breathed a little easier. "And your credit card accounts . . . were there ever any charges associated with them from the dates they were missing? You know, purchases you hadn't authorized and couldn't explain?"

"Nah, nothing like that! I told the cops I'd call if there were. Believe me, I went over my credit card statements with a fine-tooth comb. Still do." Bill took out a pocket watch and checked the time. "You will have to excuse me," he said. "I've got to get over to Marye's Heights before the photographer decides he can't wait around any longer." He checked his reflection in a nearby mirror and fluffed a hand through his beard. "You've got all the information you need?"

I did.

But notice I said that what I'd gotten from Bill Boxley was
information
.

I was still no closer to finding any answers.