Dying for Dinner

by Miranda Bliss

  “I don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway. And our card games, they were always friendly.”

  “And Greg always won?”

  Len smiled. “Greg? Greg was the biggest loser to ever sit around our card table.” The smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. “Until last week, that is. Last week, Greg was the big winner. I wouldn’t even remember except that it was so unusual.”

  “Did anybody take it too hard?”

  His eyes snapped to mine. “You don’t think…?” Len clamped his ballcap back on his head. “You’ve been reading too many books. It’s a friendly card game. Just a friendly game, that’s all. Yeah, there was a little grouching last week. Somebody accused Greg of cheating and, being a math teacher, well, I guess he might have been doing something like counting cards. But really, Annie, I don’t think anybody took it too bad. Not bad enough to…” Again, his gaze roved the store.

  I knew I had to keep him on track. “You don’t seem too upset about Greg winning last week.”

  Len shrugged. “I’m not the guy who lost big,” he said, and he stepped back to the door. “I’ll bet Marissa would love to see you. We’re playing at our house next week. Stop by, why don’t you.”

  I told him I’d think about it, and I would. I did. Because even as I watched the cleaning crew pack up…

  Even as I said good-bye to Eve as she headed to Bellywasher’s for the dinner hour, and locked up and checked to make sure the door that led upstairs to where Monsieur used to conduct cooking classes was locked…

  Even as I went into the back office to look over the lay of the land and try to figure out what, exactly, was involved in running a high-end kitchenware shop…

  Even as I did all that, I thought about that Wednesday night card game.

  And about how even the mildest-mannered player might make an enemy or two if his fellow gamblers thought he was cheating.

  I was still thinking about all that later that evening when I parked my car in front of Guy and Gina Paloma’s house.

  All right, yeah, I hadn’t been invited to stop in until the next week, but that was just a technicality. On my way up the front walk, I reminded myself what I was going to say to explain my presence before I started asking questions about that big win of Greg’s:

  I just saw Len.

  I just learned he was a friend of Greg’s.

  I just wanted to say hello and express my condolences to the card players.

  I would have done all that, too, if when the front door snapped open, I wasn’t too surprised to speak.

  But then, I hadn’t expected to see Peter.

  Six

  NOT BEING PREPARED FOR THE SURPRISES THAT WERE suddenly popping up in my life-surprises like running into Peter twice in close succession-was turning into something of a theme. Which would explain why I wasn’t ready-again-the next morning when I opened Très Bonne Cuisine and was inundated with people.

  Notice I said people, not customers.

  I quickly picked up on the fact that the flood of folks who packed the store were mostly gawkers.

  “This is where it happened, right? Did you see the body? Was there a whole lot of blood?”

  I’d heard the same sort of questions so many times that morning from the morbid thrill seekers waiting out on the sidewalk when I opened the shop, that when I heard them again-this time from a kid in droopy shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with the name of a heavy metal band-I snapped.

  “Greg Teagarten was a nice, kind, gentle man,” I told the kid, and since he wasn’t expecting either the response or the vehemence in my voice, he jumped back and eyed me carefully. “How can you come in here like some kind of vampire, just looking for thrills and maybe the sight of a little blood? How dare you! How dare any of you!” OK, it might have been bad for business, but speaking my mind made me feel better. Since I was planning on speaking it some more, I raised my voice.

  “If any of you are here to shop, I’ll be more than happy to help you,” I said to everyone and to no one in particular. “If you’re here because you want to see where the murder happened, or if you’re from the press and you’re expecting a story… well, then, you’re not welcome, so just get the hell out.”

  Did I think this would work? Not really. So I was plenty surprised (see, it was a theme!) when a dozen or so people, including the kid in the droopy shorts, shuffled out and refused to meet my eyes.

  There were three shoppers left and while I still had their attention (OK, they were staring at me like I was some kind of nutcase), I took the opportunity for a little PR.

  “Sorry,” I said, and really, I meant it. “I didn’t mean to be rude, but-”

  “Hey, no apologies necessary.” A bald man, a little older than middle-aged and wearing jeans and a black-and-white-patterned golf shirt, stepped toward the front counter where I was standing. When I realized my fists were on my hips and that probably wasn’t the way to greet a customer, I pressed my arms to my sides and smiled.

  He smiled back. “Not to worry,” he said. He adjusted his thick glasses on the bridge of his nose, the better to see the other customers, who had gone back to browsing the aisles. “Everyone left is a regular. But you’re not.” He was a tall man, and he stepped back and looked me over. “I’ve never seen you in here before. Where’s Jacques?”

  I had expected that, sooner or later, someone would ask the question and I had a story of sorts all prepared. “He needed a couple days off. You understand. I mean, after all that happened here the other night…”

  “Of course.” The man was carrying a couple of pale green linen dish towels and a set of pot holders in shades of cantaloupe and watermelon. He set them on the counter. “I hope that means we’ll see you here more,” he said. “It’s nice to have a woman around. Adds a little class to the place.”

  I knew he was kidding, so when he laughed, I did, too.

  “Jacques should have hired you sooner,” he said. “Sure, the guy’s a cooking legend, and so many of the great chefs are men, but I’ll tell you what, for my money, nobody can cook like a woman. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, I don’t know, but I’ll bet you’re a dandy cook.”

  “Cook? Oh, you know…” I didn’t think this was the time or the place to admit that cooking and I really didn’t get along, but the last thing I needed this early in my gourmet-shop career was for someone to get the wrong idea. “I’m just a friend of Monsieur’s. I’m just helping out. As soon as he’s feeling up to it, Monsieur will be back. He’ll be in charge. And I’ll go back to my real life over at Bellywasher’s.”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s taking some time.” The man reached for the display of Vavoom! I’d moved to the front counter. I’d gotten there extra early that morning and before the store opened for business, I’d repriced all the Vavoom! at two dollars and ninety-five cents. It didn’t exactly make up for the exorbitant price of twelve ninety-five that Monsieur had been charging, but it made me feel less guilty about taking so much of his customers’ hard-earned money for the seasoned salt inside the jars. My display wasn’t nearly as artistic as the one Monsieur had designed. What it was, though, was very, very neat.

  The man plucked a jar from the even, careful Vavoom! pyramid I’d built and added it to his pile of purchases. “Jacques is a sensitive kind of guy. I can only imagine how much this whole thing has upset him. So tell me, where’s he hiding out? The Ritz? Or is it the Willard? Knowing him, I’ll bet he went for upscale. One look at this place and even somebody who doesn’t know him would figure out that he loves his creature comforts.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’s staying at either of those places,” I said, and since I’m not really much of a liar, I left it at that. “I only hope that I can handle things for him while he’s gone.”

  “You’re off to a good start. Only, when you talk to him, tell him his regular customers are worried about him and anxious to have him back. Not that I don’t trust you!” His smile was genuine. “But I always appreciate Jacques’ recommendations and his a
dvice.” Before I could wonder who in their right mind would spend twenty-two dollars for two dish towels and ten bucks apiece for pot holders, the man pulled out his wallet, paid for his purchases in cash, and left.

  He was barely out the door when Eve walked in.

  “Lunch can’t be over at Bellywasher’s!” I said, but when I glanced at the clock, I realized it was. That’s how fast the morning and the early afternoon had sped by.

  “Thought you might need some moral support of the good old chocolate kind.” Eve handed me a small white bag and I didn’t have to peek inside to know what it was. I could smell the heavenly aroma of Jim’s flourless chocolate cake. There were dishes and silverware in Monsieur’s office, and while she stayed up front to help the customers who’d just finished picking out their purchases, I went back and got them. The cake was supposed to be a single-sized serving, but I sliced it in half and put a hunk on each of our plates. Even at a half portion, we were flirting with caloric overload. I, for one, was willing to chance it.

  When I got back up front, I saw that the customers were taking full advantage of the sale on Vavoom! One lady bought three jars. The man in back of her in line was thrilled by this first-time-ever sale on the product he claimed he couldn’t live without; he promptly asked Eve to put four in his bag. As soon as she was finished with them and the customers were out the door, Eve got down to business.

  “Here’s what I don’t get.” She made herself at home behind the front counter. I stayed on the other side of it. “I mean, when you called last night and told me you’d run into Peter at that card game…” She took a bite of cake and rolled her eyes in a Man, this is the best thing since sliced bread sort of way. “It’s no wonder you’re crazy about the boy.”

  I knew she was talking about Jim, not Peter. “He was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.” I was talking about Peter, not Jim. I took a bite of cake and grinned, both at the taste and at the memory of the look of shock on Peter’s face when he opened the door of Guy Paloma’s house and found me on the front porch. “Imagine, he’d just gotten there for the card game and he was closest to the door. So when I rang the bell, he just naturally answered it.”

  Eve made a face. “I can’t picture Peter playing poker. He’s not that-”

  “Daring?” With a nod, I agreed. “He sure never was back when I was married to him. He said he started playing after our divorce. I guess it was all part of the new, cooler, expensive-aftershave-wearing Peter he became to satisfy Mindy. Or is it Mandy? Anyway, as it turned out, it was perfect that he was there. I was able to talk to him and find out about that card game last week. You remember, the one Greg won. The one I tried to tell you all about yesterday, only you didn’t give me a chance.”

  I looked at Eve hard when I said this. Too bad she was busy looking at her chocolate cake. She didn’t see that I was leaning forward just a bit, my eyebrows raised, waiting for her to explain herself.

  When she didn’t, I had no choice but to call her on the carpet. “You remember, Eve. We were on the phone together. We were talking. The way best friends-and fellow investigators-do. But then your phone beeped because you had another call coming in. And even though you told me to hold, you never came back on the line.”

  “Technical difficulties.” Eve finished the last of her cake and licked her fork clean. “It happens.”

  “So I hear.” I wasn’t buying it, but, hey, who was I to criticize? If Eve dropped my call because she was talking to Tyler (and I’d bet a lifetime supply of Vavoom! that she was), I’d spent part of the evening with my ex. I guess that made us even.

  “Peter was at last week’s game, too,” I said. “When I asked about what Len Dean had said… you know, about how Greg was the big winner and someone was the big loser and I wondered if the big loser was also a sore loser… well, Peter just laughed.”

  “It wasn’t him, was it? Oh, my gosh!” Beneath their dusting of Precious Posy blush, Eve’s cheeks paled. “Oh, Annie, I always knew he was a first-class weasel.

  Greg won all Peter’s money and then Peter…” She swallowed hard. “He had no choice. I mean, he had his honor to think about. And what was he going to tell Mindy/Mandy when he came home with no money? You said he was teaching summer school this year. He must be desperate. I mean, who wouldn’t be with huge gambling debts? He needed vengeance. That’s why Peter came in here and-”

  “Peter did not kill Greg.”

  “Oh.” Eve frowned. “I was sort of hoping he did. Wouldn’t it be fun to see him behind bars?”

  Maybe.

  “That’s beside the point,” I said because the thought of Peter in an orange jumpsuit was far more appealing than it should have been. “I asked, you know, in a roundabout kind of way. I asked Peter what he’d been doing Monday evening when the murder went down. He told me he was at a faculty meeting. You know, about summer classes.”

  “But he could have lied about it.”

  “He could have. He didn’t. Peter was never much of a liar. Even after he met what’s-her-name. He never lied about cheating, just came right out and told me about it. Besides, I called the school and checked. There really was a meeting that night. Peter really was there.” We were getting so far off track, I wasn’t even sure where we were headed anymore. I finished my cake, cleaned up the plates, and took them to the back room. When I’d put on a pot of coffee that morning, I’d realized there were perks (pun intended) to my job at Très Bonne Cuisine. Monsieur kept a personal supply of expensive Jamaican coffee on hand. It was leagues better than the off-brand stuff I bought at the grocery store, and I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about using it. After all, I was minding the shop.

  I made a fresh pot and, while it was brewing, I found a big earthenware mug for myself and I got out a matching one for Eve. I filled hers, then mine, and since there wasn’t anyone in the shop at the moment, I sat down at Monsieur’s desk.

  “Peter told me that another one of the players was the big loser last week. A football coach named Bill DiSantis.”

  Eve nodded. “And Bill is the killer.”

  “Bill lost twelve dollars and fifty cents.”

  “Huh?” She set down her mug, the better to prop her fists on her hips so she could quiz me. “What on earth are you saying, Annie? Are you serious? This Bill character killed Greg over twelve dollars and fifty cents? That’s sick. It’s twisted. It’s-”

  “Bill didn’t kill Greg, Eve. Don’t you get it? When Len told me that Bill was the big loser, he didn’t bother to mention that in their game, twelve dollars and fifty cents is high stakes. It’s penny-ante poker. That’s one of the biggest pots they ever had. That’s why Bill made a big deal about Greg cheating. Peter introduced me to Bill. He’s a regular kind of guy, and I don’t think he’d hold a grudge, not over twelve dollars. Heck, that’s what a jar of Vavoom! used to cost.”

  “So Bill didn’t kill Greg?”

  “You got that right.”

  “Then who did?”

  The bell on the front door sounded. “I wish I knew,” I said, hurrying to the front of the shop. “Really, Eve, I wish I knew.”

  ON THURSDAYS, TRÈS BONNE CUISINE IS OPEN UNTIL nine, and by eight thirty, I was beat. I was tired of fielding questions about Greg’s untimely end, sick of reminding people that murder is not a spectator sport, and so truly weary of selling Vavoom! that I thought I’d drop where I stood. Yeah, word had gone out that for the first time since Monsieur had introduced it to the culinary community, the seasoning was on sale. I can only describe the result as an epicurean stampede.

  When the crowds finally dispersed, I took the opportunity and headed into the back room. I grabbed a ladder and dug around in the boxes stored on the shelves above the work counter until I found what I was looking for-dozens of empty jars bearing the distinctive Vavoom! label, a five-pound box of bulk seasoned salt, and a note written by Monsieur that was, apparently, all there was of a proprietary Vavoom! recipe.

  To five pounds of seasoned salt, it
said in Monsieur’s twig-thin, soldier-straight handwriting, add one cup garlic powder, one-half cup dill, three tablespoons lemon pepper.

  Knowing that he actually altered the original product made me feel better about selling it. And still glad I’d put it on sale.

  A little more digging, and I found all the ingredients I needed to concoct my own batch of Vavoom!, as well as a little scoop and funnel. At just a minute before nine when I was all set to lock up and begin filling jars, the bell over the front door rang.

  “I’ll be right with you,” I called out. I hoped my exhaustion didn’t register in my voice. As I had learned in the restaurant business, customers were customers. Even late customers. I wiped my hands against my white apron and started out of the office.

  “No need!” came the reply.

  I’d recognize that voice-and that sexy accent-anywhere. In spite of my fatigue, I found myself smiling. There’s nothing like a visit from a honey of a hunk to brighten a girl’s evening.

  I greeted Jim with a kiss. Right before my throat tightened and panic closed in. “You’re here. You’re not busy at the restaurant tonight. What’s wrong? We didn’t get a bad review somewhere, did we? We couldn’t have. But it’s Thursday night. You should be slammed.”

  “And you shouldn’t be so worried about business all the time.” Jim was clutching a small bouquet of flowers in shades of pale mauve, purple, and cream. “The bride,” he said. “The one I quoted the wedding luncheon for. She had flowers shipped in, to see how the colors would look with our decor, and said I could use them on the tables. I thought you might appreciate them.”

  “They’re beautiful.” They were, and when I stuck my nose into the middle of the bouquet, I found that they smelled good, too. One of the cubbyholes behind the front counter featured a ten-inch crystal vase and I appropriated it and stuck the flowers in. I’d fill the vase with water when I went to the back room to get to work on the Vavoom!

  “So what’s up?” I asked Jim. “Why are you here?”