Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (2 page)

Jim is so terrific, he doesn't even complain (at least not too much) when I investigate a murder or two.

Oh, yeah, he's a sweetie, all right, and since Belly-washer's means the world to him, it means just as much to me, too. Our customers are important to both of us. So are our employees, and our place in the community of businesses along King Street in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia. I know I am part of something wonderful, and I am grateful for every bit of it, even things like the photograph just over my left shoulder, the one that is supposed to show the Loch Ness Monster. Call me cynical, but unlike the customers who marvel at the gray and grainy picture and swear they can see Nessie as plain as day, I'm not so sure. To me, the photo is just a jumble of blurred images. It looks like whoever was holding the camera had aimed it toward the loch just as he or she sneezed. Or maybe the person was just so jazzed about being in the Highlands and maybe actually catching sight of the beast, he or she was having a fit of nerves.

Just like I was at that very moment.

So much for keeping my mind occupied and steadying my jitters. The moment I let down my guard, my doubts closed in on me. My stomach tied into familiar knots. The rat-a-tat of my heart thumping against my ribs started up in full force, and I gulped down my misgivings.

"Today
is
the first day of the rest of your life, Annie," I told myself again, just so I didn't forget. "Make the most of it. Enjoy. Learn all you can. And stop being such a wuss. You did what you had to do. More importantly, you did what you wanted to do. Nobody made you. You did--"

"There's the lady of leisure!" Eve DeCateur was no stranger to Bellywasher's, either. Eve is our hostess. She's also my best friend. I'd locked the front door (what security-conscious business manager wouldn't?), but Eve had her own key, and she breezed into the restaurant and called out her greeting right before she set her Kate Spade bag on the bar and put one arm around me for a quick hug.

"You are not looking as happy as you should be today." Eve's hugs were like everything else about Eve--fast and furious. Almost before she had loosened her hold on me, she was leaning forward for a better look. "Annie, you're not having regrets, are you?"

I could lie to myself. I could even lie to Jim when it was for his own good. I could never lie to the woman who'd been my best buddy since forever.

I tried anyway.

"Regrets?" I'd learned a lot from Eve in all those years. Like I'd seen her do a million times in a million different situations, I tossed my head and laughed. "Why would I be feeling any regrets? Today is the first day--"

"Of the rest of your life. Yeah, I know." She didn't sound convinced. Which pretty much meant I wasn't fooling her. She stepped back, her weight against one foot and the bright yellow stiletto that encased it, her hands on her hips and the short, short black skirt that looked just right with her buttery yellow blouse. Her head tipped, she narrowed her brilliant blue eyes and looked into my ordinary brown ones, her Southern accent suddenly as thick as the humid summer air outside.

"Why, Annie Capshaw, I do believe you're trying to pull the wool over my eyes."

My shoulders drooped. "I was. I did. I thought--"

"That if you fooled me, you might also fool yourself."

I hate it when Eve is insightful. Not that a best friend doesn't appreciate honesty from another best friend, but Eve and insightful . . . those two words don't exactly belong in the same sentence. Eve is kindhearted, sure. She's funny and unselfish. She's as good as anyone I've ever met, and twice as supportive. If I could pick anyone--anyone at all--to help me out with my investigations, believe me, it would be Eve. That's how much of a team player she is. What she's not, usually, is insightful, and when she is, I know she's always right on the money.

I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, and my sneakers squeaked against the hardwood floor.

"It's that obvious, huh?" I asked.

"Pooh!" When she tossed her head, it was far more dramatic than when I'd done it. Of course, she made that little hand gesture to go along with it, the one that was dismissive and spectacular all at the same time and just happened to show off her perfect manicure and her slender, elegant fingers. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out what's going on with you, honey. Even before I took one little look at you, I knew you'd be a basket case today. Of course you are. Who wouldn't be?"

"You. You wouldn't be."

Another toss of the head, and Eve's blonde hair gleamed in the glow of the overhead light. "I am not nearly as dependable and responsible as you. Never have been, never will be. My goodness, Annie, do I have to remind you? I've had more jobs in my lifetime than I can count on both hands. And you--"

"I've been a teller at Pioneer Savings and Loan since I got out of high school. Until . . ." I couldn't help it, I gulped. "Until today."

"That's the spirit!" There was no spirit at all in my words, but Eve didn't let that stop her. She clapped me on the back. "That's old news, honey. This is where your future begins." She made a broad gesture toward the darkened restaurant. "Think of how much easier your life is going to be now that you've quit your job at the bank. No more working all day there, then rushing over here for the evening so you can take care of everything that needs to be taken care of."

"That's right." It was one of the things I'd been reminding myself about since the day I gave notice at Pioneer and, hearing it spoken out loud, some of the weight lifted from my shoulders.

"No more working yourself to a frazzle. Now you can focus on the restaurant and your head won't be filled with all that boring banking business."

"Right again." I nodded. Sure, it was the same ol' rah-rah speech Eve had been giving me since the day I announced I was thinking about quitting my job at the bank so I could devote myself full time to Bellywasher's, but I never tired of hearing it. And more importantly, I needed to hear it. Especially at times like this when my resolve was wavering and I was questioning what I'd done. It was, of course, exactly why Eve was saying it.

"The bank was boring," she said. She was reading my mind. "The bank was dull."

Truer words were never spoken.

"Now you can concentrate on other things. Like murder investigations."

I'd been so busy finally feeling good about my decision and everything it meant, I never saw that coming. Eve's words hit me somewhere between my stomach and my heart and automatically, I balled my hands into fists and pressed them there. Like that would actually help.

"Oh, no," I said, but even before the rest of my objection could form on my lips, Eve stopped me.

"Don't kid yourself, honey. You're good at being a detective."

I was.

Some of the tension inside me uncurled.

"You're smart and you're clever and, so far, you haven't got yourself killed."

This was supposed to make me feel better?

That knot of stress wound tight again.

"Come on, Annie. Admit it. You like the excitement of investigating."

I did. This was one thing I could never lie about, so I didn't even try.

"It's just that I don't want anyone else to die." This was the honest-to-gosh truth, and though I realized with a start that I'd been thinking about it for months, I'd never actually put it into words. "If I have to investigate, it means someone near and dear to us is in trouble. Like you were last winter when you were a suspect."

"Pish-tush." Eve is the only woman I know who can actually say this and not sound ridiculous. She pouted. "I'm not going to get accused of murdering anyone ever again. You don't have to worry about that."

"Good." I drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. "I do like investigating," I said. "I like stretching my mind and my skills. I like solving the puzzle. But even that . . ." Another long breath. This one couldn't still the butterflies that fluttered through my stomach. "I don't want to get that close to murder. Not ever again."

"Agreed." Eve grinned. "I'll tell you what, then. You just forget I ever mentioned murders and investigations. Think about all the other things you'll be able to concentrate on now that you've quit your job at the bank. Not just Bellywasher's." Her eyes lit. "Think about Jim."

A smile blossomed across my expression. Eve always knew how to get to the heart of the matter.

"You're right." The pep talk bolstered my spirits and, feeling better, I turned to go into the kitchen. "I've been through all the doubts and all the worries. A hundred times."

"Oh, honey, more like a million." Laughing, she fell into step beside me. "But don't worry, nobody holds that against you. You're not the type who looks before she leaps. We all understand that. We knew once push came to shove, and you actually gave notice and quit, you'd be a little--"

"Obsessive?" I was afraid if I didn't supply the word, she might pick one that was more to the point--and more bruising.

"I was going to say crazy out of your mind." She laughed. "But yeah, I guess obsessive about covers it. If you weren't, if you didn't worry about walking away from that nice, steady paycheck and that benefits package and that big ol' pension plan--"

"Stop!" I clamped a hand on her arm. "There's no use going over it again. I looked. I leapt. Or is it leaped? Either way, that's the past and what's done is done. It felt weird not going into the bank today. It's going to feel weirder tomorrow coming here first thing in the morning. But I'm done agonizing over the decision. I know I did the right thing."

"Absolutely!"

"I'll just go into the kitchen and tell Jim I'm done checking the students in, see if he needs anything, and straighten my office. That way when I come in tomorrow morning for my first full day on the job, everything will be ready."

"You go, girl!" Eve said and ducked into the ladies' room, no doubt to make sure her makeup was perfect and her lipstick just right before she popped into the kitchen to meet our newest crop of students, even though her makeup was always perfect and her lipstick was never anything but just right.

Cheered, I didn't wait for her. I stepped into the kitchen of Bellywasher's feeling as self-assured and as confident as anyone could upon entering the scene of so many culinary disasters. Not on Jim's part, of course. Jim is a consummate cook, and his assistants, Marc and Damien, were learning quickly. My own efforts in the kitchen left a little more to be desired, and just so Jim didn't forget, I made sure I kept my distance and stayed near the door. He was up at the front of the room near the rolling cart he kept there for cooking demonstrations. He looked my way, and I waved.

"You've met Annie." Jim said this to the dozen students gathered around him, their crisp white aprons over their street clothes, their expressions eager. "Last time we held a cooking class here at Bellywasher's, she was my assistant."

I didn't need the reminder, and had Jim been thinking clearly and not caught up in the heady excitement of a new class and the aromas of chopped garlic and fresh herbs that permeated the kitchen, he would have known that. Of course, I couldn't hold it against him. Not when he smiled at me and that little dimple showed in his left cheek.

"I won't be calling on her to help this time," he told his students, and I let go a breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding. "That's because we have something new and different planned this time around."

Of course I knew exactly what Jim was talking about. After all, I'd helped him plan the class. That didn't make me any less eager to stand there and listen to his opening speech. For one thing, Jim's got that wonderful Scottish accent that I never tire of hearing. For another . . . well, I never get tired of watching Jim, either, and while he talked, I stepped back and simply enjoyed the way the light gleamed against his mahogany hair and sparked in his hazel eyes when--now and again--he glanced my way.

"I've got a new assistant this time around," Jim said, at the same time glancing toward the swinging door that led back into the restaurant. "Some of you may have heard of him. He's Monsieur Jacques Lavoie."

"You mean the chef who owns that fabulous gourmet cooking shop over in Arlington?" A man up front spoke these words with as much reverence as if he'd been told that Julia Child had risen from the dead and was going to be sitting in on the class. I shouldn't have been surprised. Jim's classes were popular, and he'd already gained attention from the local cooking crowd for his insistence on proper cooking procedures and his emphasis on fresh ingredients and innovative recipes. The people who signed up for Bellywasher's Cooking Academy were cookaholics, and anyone who knew anything about food also knew that in Washington, D.C., Arlington, and beyond, Jacques Lavoie was a legend.

Monsieur Lavoie was the proprietor of Tres Bonne Cuisine, the gourmet shop where I'd taken my first cooking class, where I'd met Jim, and (not incidentally) where I'd first come across a murder and learned that though I might not be much of a cook, I have a better-than-average talent for detecting. In addition to being a larger-than-life figure, a vocal opponent of fast food and shoddy cooking technique, and the face on the label of Vavoom! the pricey, addictive seasoning he sold at his shop, Monsieur is a regular at Bellywasher's, sometimes stopping by to help out on nights we're slammed, other times dropping in for a glass of wine or a quick meal. For this series of classes, I knew that Jim had arranged for Monsieur to provide the kitchen gadgets he'd feature and teach the students how to use each week. Like Jim, I'd been expecting Monsieur to arrive, but I'd been so busy checking the students in, and so focused on my own oh-no-what's-going-to-happen-now-that-I've-quit-my-job in-securities, it hadn't registered that Monsieur had yet to make an appearance.

When Jim looked my way with a question in his eyes, I simply shrugged.

"And isn't that just like a Frenchman!" Jim said this with so much good humor, everyone laughed. "We're depending on Monsieur Lavoie to help us out this evening, but no worries. We've got some prep work to do before we start with the cooking, so if you'll all adjourn to your stations . . ." With a sweep of his arm, he directed his students to their proper places. A pair of students was assigned to each area: the grill and industrial stove behind Jim, the salad table, prep and side dishes, desserts, presentation, and drinks. It was the same setup he'd used in the last class he'd taught and it had worked well. Aside from the fact that one of the students in the class was murdered and another was the murderer, of course.