Pub keeper that he is, Jim knew exactly where. He poured a glass of white wine for me, a glass of red for Eve (her current favorite was Shiraz), and a bitter, dark beer for himself. He put the glasses on the tray, carried the tray to a nearby table, and pulled out chairs for Eve and me.
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he said. “And that’s going to accomplish nothing at all.”
“But-”
He stopped me with a look. “It isn’t like you to get so discouraged,” he said. “You’ve never lost faith in yourself and your detective abilities before. Not with any of your other cases. You’re feeling down because you’re worried about Jacques.”
“Sure. Of course.” I dropped into the chair and when Jim put the glass of wine in front of me, I took a sip. “He’s our friend. And so far, nothing we’ve done has brought us any closer to finding out what happened to him. What if…” I took another sip of wine. When it slid past the lump of emotion in my throat, it hurt. “What if he’s dead?”
“If he’s dead, the police would have found his body by now.” This comment came from Eve, and I turned her way. It wasn’t the time to bring up Tyler so I kept my mouth shut on that subject and simply listened. “They’ve looked in all the logical places,” she said. “I mean, they checked the parks and the Potomac. They even took a close look at all the johns in the morgue.”
“That’s John Does,” I told her, but I don’t think she saw the difference.
“So all that’s good.” Jim licked a bit of beer foam from his lips. “Until we hear differently, we’re not going to panic. We’re going to assume Jacques is alive and well.”
“And all we have to do is find him.” I plunked my elbows on the table and cradled my head in my hands. “We could always look into what the waitress in Allentown told me,” I said, thinking out loud. “She said Norman Applebaum came to a bad end in Las Vegas. What do you suppose that means? Does it mean Norman died there? If he did, and if we could get some kind of confirmation about that, then we’d know for sure that Norman’s not Jacques and Jacques isn’t Norman.”
“That’s a good start.” Jim had an order pad in his shirt pocket and he pulled it out and scribbled a note.
Back when we met at that cooking class at Très Bonne Cuisine and I got involved with my first case, Jim had opposed the very idea of me sticking my nose into a murder investigation. Don’t get the wrong idea; he’s not the Me-Tarzan-You-Jane type. Even back then, he tells me, he knew I was smart and capable (I love it when he says things like that). But like most regular people-me included before that fateful cooking class-Jim had never been so close to a murder. He knew nothing about investigating. And he was worried about my safety.
Recently, he’d learned to be more tolerant. Oh, I suspected that he still worried, but I knew that if I kept him in the loop and bounced my ideas and theories off him, it made him more comfortable. It was also a no-brainer from my point of view: If Jim knew where I was going and who I was going to see, it provided me with a safety net. I liked that, too, especially since Jim had already proved himself something of a superhero when it came to saving me.
There was the time he raced into a dark alley to whisk me away from danger and keep me from getting arrested. And the time he dove into the path of a giant vase that was headed right at me. And… well, I could go on and on. The point being that when it comes to my well-being, Jim is fearless.
It seemed even the perfect boyfriend could get better and better. Jim had never done anything as tangible in regard to one of my investigations as keeping a list for me, and watching him scribble on the order pad, my heart warmed.
“So you’ll do the computer work, right?” He pointed my way with the pen he was holding. “What do you want me and Eve to do?”
“Well, while we’re at it, we should all take a look at these other pictures. We might as well start there.” I’d flagged the pages with sticky notes, and I flipped to the one that showed the drama club arranged on the gym bleachers. “There.” I poked a finger at Norman, standing in the back row. “What do you think?”
“It looks more like Jacques there, for sure,” Jim said, and I wondered if he really meant it, or if he was just trying to boost my spirits. I appreciated it, but really, I was searching for the truth.
He glanced at the photos on the opposite page. They showed scenes from a school production of Our Town, and according to the caption on the photo of the curtain call, Norman Applebaum had played the Stage Manager. Norman stood in the center of the line of teenage actors to take his bows.
“There’s no denying that looks like Jacques,” Jim said. “I’ve seen him smile that way dozens of times, usually when he’s being interviewed by the press or when he’s onstage at a food show. He loves being the center of attention.”
“And Norman loved writing, too.” I turned to the page that showed the school newspaper staff. In that particular picture, Norman was wearing a cardigan sweater. He was seated at a desk in the newspaper office.
“On this picture…” Jim examined it closely. His expression fell. “Not so much,” he said.
He was right.
I sank back in my chair. “Well, I’ll make copies of the pictures, just in case we want to refer to them. For now, I guess it’s all we can do. I’ll work the Las Vegas angle, too. If MaryAnn’s right about Norman going out there and we can find out what really happened to him, we can take it from there. Only…” I glanced at the clock above the bar. “I can’t do it tonight. I’m whooped, and I have to stop at Très Bonne Cuisine on my way home. I know there isn’t much change in the cash register and I’ll need to get some for the morning, but I need to get some tens and twenties out of the drawer and I’ll pick up the day’s deposit while I’m at it. That way I can stop at the bank on my way in tomorrow.”
“I’d come with you, but-”
The same apology came from both Eve and Jim at the same time.
I looked from one of them to the other.
“I’ve got to meet someone,” Eve said.
I didn’t ask who. I didn’t want to know. Besides, I already did.
That left Jim. He grimaced. “We’ve got a hell of a mess in the kitchen that needs to be cleaned up before anyone can go home,” he said. “I can’t leave Marc and Damien high and dry.”
“Of course you can’t.” I popped out of my chair. “And you don’t need to. I can certainly go over to Très Bonne Cuisine on my own.” I reached over to grab the yearbook. It was still open to the picture of Norman in the newspaper office.
Maybe it was the way he was sitting, facing the desk and looking over his shoulder toward the camera. Maybe it was the light. Or the fact that his hair was cut shorter than it was in his graduation photo.
Whatever the reason, something struck me as different, and I took another, closer look at the kid.
When I did, I fell right back into my chair.
“What?” Eve wasn’t one to pick up on nuances so I guess that shows how obvious my surprise must have been. She leaned forward and grabbed my arm. “What is it, Annie? You’re looking at the picture of Norman as if you’ve seen-”
“A ghost? Maybe I have.” I flipped the book around so that Jim could see Norman better. “Take a look,” I said. I turned the book again, this time so that it was facing Eve. “I can’t believe I’ve been staring at this kid all day and I never noticed it before.” Let that be a lesson to me. I was so busy looking for any resemblance between Monsieur and Norman, I was blind to looking at anything else. It wasn’t until I’d given up on the problem that this new possibility presented itself.
With one finger, I pointed at Norman. “OK, don’t try to add on forty years when you picture him; try thirty. And don’t imagine that he’s gained much weight. Think of him as thin. Who do you see?”
Eve squinted.
Jim cocked his head.
I gave Norman ’s nose another tap. “I think there’s a resemblance to Monsieur, all right,” I finally admitted. “But there’s a resemblan
ce to someone else, too. In this picture, Norman looks a little like Greg Teagarten.”
Jim nodded.
Eve’s eyes flew open.
“Then you think that Norman isn’t Monsieur, he’s really Greg?” When Eve is thinking really hard, she wrinkles her nose. I wondered if she knew it wasn’t an especially attractive expression and knew in an instant that of course she did. That’s why she made it a rule never to think very hard.
“I don’t think Norman is Greg,” I said. “Because Greg isn’t the one with all the phony IDs. But maybe…” I was about to propose a theory so preposterous, I wondered if even my friends would believe it. “I think there’s a good chance that the resemblance between Greg and Norman is the reason Monsieur hasn’t been heard from since the night of the murder.”
They waited for me to say more, but I needed a moment to organize my thoughts. It wasn’t until I was sure I could explain at least semiclearly that I gave it a try.
“Monsieur made that call to the police from the back room at Très Bonne Cuisine, right? That means he wasn’t out in the store, but he did see enough of what was going on to know that Greg was in trouble. And the killer didn’t mean to kill Greg. We know that because he only shot Greg in the foot, like he was trying to make him talk. So maybe the killer-”
“Thought Greg was Norman, but he wasn’t really Norman because Norman is Jacques and that’s why he’s hiding.” Jim finished my thought for me, and I was grateful. It was a slippery theory and I was beginning to lose my hold.
I nodded. “It’s possible. And it explains a lot. Not about the licenses, but about why Monsieur hasn’t been seen or heard from since. If the killer was really after Monsieur-”
“Then Greg was killed by mistake.” Jim’s voice was as hollow as the feeling inside me.
“It also explains why Monsieur is hiding.” This came from Eve, who was so proud of herself, she sat up and threw back her shoulders. “Annie, you’re brilliant!”
“If I was, I’d know where Monsieur was. And who’s after him. And why.”
“Aye.” Jim got up and collected our glasses. “But we have faith in you. You’ll figure that part out soon enough.”
I hoped so. Because I’d already figured something else out that, so far, had eluded both Jim and Eve. I would have mentioned it, but it was late, and there was no use in the two of them going to bed as worried as I was.
Why?
The answer was simple enough: If the killer was really after Monsieur and killed Greg by mistake, that meant Monsieur was still in a whole bunch of danger.
I ARRIVED AT TRÈS BONNE CUISINE A LITTLE WHILE later, and because it was late and most of the nearby storefronts were retail space, the block was pretty quiet. Some of the bars and restaurants in the area were still hopping, but they were farther up the street, and thanks to the distance and the fact that a steady, misty rain had started to fall, local partyers had opted for closer parking spaces. Rather than having to go around back to the lot, I had the luxury of pulling my car up to a rare open parking place right outside the front door of the shop.
In fact, the only other car around was a dark sedan parked three spaces farther up the street.
For the record, I do not have the gourmet-shop worker’s equivalent of spider-sense. But I’m no dummy, either. When Eve and I drove to Fredericksburg, I’d noticed a dark sedan mirroring our moves. A car that got off at the same exit we did and followed us to Bill Boxley’s house.
Was it the same car?
I squinted for a closer look and cursed my lack of sense (spider or otherwise) for not noting the sedan’s license plates back in Fredericksburg. It might be the same car, I decided.
Or it might not.
Just to be safe, I kept my eye on it as I unlocked the front door of the shop. I didn’t see a driver and there was no one else out on the sidewalk. No one I could see, anyway.
Not one to take chances, I locked the door behind me, disarmed the security system, and flicked the switch that turned on the light above the front counter cash register area.
Had I been thinking less about everything we’d discussed back at Bellywasher’s and what it could mean in regard to Monsieur’s disappearance and Greg’s murder, I might have noticed that something wasn’t right. As it was, it was late, I was in a hurry, and my brain was so busy spinning through the Norman Applebaum is-he-or-isn’t-he scenario that it wasn’t until I unlocked the cash register and took out the two twenties I would exchange for singles at the bank the next morning that I saw that our display of gourmet dried soup mixes was in disarray.
Yes, I am organized. Some say a little too much so.
Yes, I am a stickler for order.
No, I’m not obsessive. At least I don’t think I am.
That’s not why I noticed the mess.
This wasn’t just a soup mix out of place here and there. The dried mixes had been completely removed from the shelf and dropped on the floor.
I was one hundred percent certain Raymond wouldn’t leave such a mess. He simply wasn’t the type.
Was I worried? Not really. After all, the front door was locked when I arrived. And our security company hadn’t called to say there’d been an alarm. Maybe that’s why I approached the problem-and the shelf where the soup mixes had been last time I saw them-logically.
When I did, I saw that there were a couple of wild rice and veggie mixes on the floor along with one chicken cheese tortilla and three white cheddar broccoli. There were also four packages of potato leek soup, and at the same time I remembered that the soup was Monsieur’s favorite (he always added a healthy glug of sherry), I noticed that they were set to one side.
“Weird,” I mumbled to myself, and it was a good thing I whispered the word.
Otherwise I wouldn’t have heard a noise from the cookware aisle. It sounded a whole lot like footsteps.
At the same time I backed away from the soup mixes and toward the door, I realized I’d left my keys on the front counter. I couldn’t get to them without wasting precious time and I couldn’t get out of the shop without them.
With few options, I did the only thing I could think to do. I turned on every light in the shop and raised my voice.
“I know you’re here,” I said. At the same time I raced to the counter and grabbed for the keys. “I’ve already called the police so you might as well just stay put.” I darted for the door and I would have made it, too, if not for those soup mixes on the floor.
I stepped on the chicken and cheese tortilla mix. My ankle turned and my foot went out from under me. I shot out a hand to grab the rack where the soup mixes were displayed, but I hung on too tight.
The rack tipped and the gadgets displayed over the shelves of soup mixes rained down on me. I covered my head with both hands, remembering too late that the only thing keeping me upright was that rack. My feet slid and I went down in a heap.
Even before I plucked a dozen garlic presses away from me and brushed away the barbecue brushes, the wooden kebab skewers, and the corn-on-the-cob holders that covered me, I knew I was in trouble.
Because even before I looked up, I sensed someone was standing over me.
Eleven
“MONSIEUR!”
Even before Jacques Lavoie offered me a hand, I sat up like a shot. Kebab skewers rained down from my shoulders and peppered the floor.
“What in the world are you doing here?”
He made that very Gallic gesture of his. The one where he shrugs and turns over his hands. It said, Why shouldn’t I be here, it is my shop, yes? even before he said, “Why shouldn’t I be here, chérie? It is my shop, yes?”
“Of course… it’s your… shop.” I was so surprised, so relieved, and so completely bowled over, I could barely put together a coherent sentence. Maybe that’s why I stayed put right where I was, right there on the floor amid a slew of kitchen gadgets and soup mixes. “But where have you been? Why didn’t you come forward to tell the cops what happened to Greg? What on earth is going on?”
/>
There was that gesture again. This time, it conveyed a message that was all about how it would take a while to explain. Before he could even begin, though, Monsieur looked toward the front door.
“I have been a little nervous,” he explained, watching me watch him. “You understand this, yes? After everything that has happened… If we could turn out the lights, perhaps?”
“Of course.” Before he could make a move toward the switch, I got to my feet and flicked off the lights, checking the sidewalk out in front of the store as I did. It was empty. Except for my car and that dark sedan still where I’d last seen it, so was the street. Even so, Monsieur’s gaze darted to the front windows again and again, and I couldn’t stand to see him look so uneasy. I took his arm. “We’ll talk in the office.”
“Oh, no, chérie. I have an idea even better than that.” He bent to retrieve two packages of potato-soup mix. “The water is already boiling and the wine, it is open. If you hadn’t interrupted me while I was searching for the soup mix, I would have put everything back where it belongs and be eating my dinner right now. You’ll join me, yes? We’ll go upstairs. To the cooking school.”
I had already started down the aisle toward the back of the store, but when I heard this, I put on the brakes and fought to catch my breath. “That’s where you’ve been all this time? Upstairs?” I was torn between giving Monsieur a hug and punching him in the nose, and he wasn’t the only one I was mad at. After all, I was supposed to be the detective, and I hadn’t even known the person I’d been looking for was living right over my head.
Good thing the lights were off. Monsieur didn’t see when my cheeks flamed.
Or maybe he did. “I am sorry to cause so much trouble,” he said. “C’est vrai! It is only just that…” Again, he glanced at the windows and, even in the dark, I could see that his eyes were round and his forehead was creased with worry. He ran his tongue over his lips.
Dying for Dinner Page 12
