Dying for Dinner

by Miranda Bliss

  “So…” OK, so it wasn’t exactly subtle. At this point, it made more sense just to lay things on the line than it did to dillydally. “It doesn’t bother you?”

  When one of the hollandaise cooks screeched and pointed in a panic to the double boiler where the egg yolks, lemon juice, and water were supposed to be gently heating and instead were bubbling over like a volcano, Jim told her to turn off the stove, then held up one finger, asking for another moment before he turned his attention back to me. “When you first started investigating, I was opposed to it. You know that, Annie. I was worried for your safety. But now…” He grabbed a whisk to take over to the hollandaise makers, and continued:

  “You’ve got a gift. And you’re using it to make the world a better place. You need to do what you have to do. You need to do what makes you happy.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  And I was left feeling more perplexed than ever.

  I had to do what I had to do? I had to do what made me happy?

  Was Jim telling me to get back together with Peter? Did he think I wanted to?

  Would Jim be happier if I did?

  He was already repairing the hollandaise disaster, so I had time to ponder all this. It was just as well that I heard a knock on the front door of the restaurant; all that pondering was getting me nowhere and making my head hurt, to boot.

  Finding Peter at the front door didn’t help. He was dressed in nicely worn jeans and the raspberry-colored golf shirt I’d given him for his birthday just a couple months before he met Mindy/Mandy. With his dark hair and eyes, Peter had always looked good in vivid colors. Some things never change.

  Maybe he knew what I was thinking because he smiled. “You look terrific,” he said with a quick glance at my yellow T-shirt, my black pants, and the white apron I wore over them both. “This cooking thing is good for you.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you ever saw me in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” A tiny half smile playing around his lips, he cocked his head, and he looked so lost in some pleasant thought, I wondered if there had actually been a triumphant moment in my cooking life that I had blocked out.

  Or not.

  “We’re not here to talk about my cooking,” I reminded him. And myself. “We’re here to learn how to play poker.”

  “And I’ve got everything you need. Right in here.” He held up a paper shopping bag at the same time he glanced at the clock that hung above the bar. “Looks like we’ve got a few minutes before your class is over. Can I buy you a beer?”

  I wasn’t one for giving freebies but he was, after all, there to do us a favor. I poured a glass of the beer I knew was Peter’s favorite and brought it over to the table we’d set up for our game, and when he reached for his wallet, I refused to even think about it. He took a sip of the beer, smiled his approval, and sat down. I would have, too, if I wasn’t feeling as if my skin was crawling with electricity.

  There was only one way to settle my nerves and I knew it.

  I stood my ground and looked down at Peter. “You want to tell me what this is all about?”

  “This?” He held the glass of beer up to the light and examined its amber color. “I’d say it’s all about wheat and hops and the magic that is yeast. It’s chemistry, you know. And that’s something I know a lot about. But something tells me that’s not what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s not.” I dropped into the chair next to his. “This whole thing,” I said. “You showing up here. What’s it about, Peter?”

  I suspected he looked at me the way he looked at the high school juniors who just didn’t get the latest homework assignment. “I’m teaching you how to play Texas Hold’em. You did ask me to come by and do a quick poker clinic, right?”

  “Not that ‘this.’ The other ‘this.’ ” I shook my head, doing my best to order my thoughts. “You’ve been hanging around, Peter. Here and at Très Bonne Cuisine. And you and Mindy/Mandy are getting a-”

  “You know about that, huh?” He didn’t look sorry, just a little embarrassed. I guess I would have, too, considering it was time for him to fess up: He’d left the woman who was supposed to be the love of his life for the woman who was the new love of his life, only as it turned out, she apparently wasn’t. “That’s how you found me, right? I never did have a chance to ask you when you called the other night. I should have known you talked to M-”

  “Yes. And she told me you’re getting a divorce. I’m sorry.” I really was. It was the first I realized it, and something about admitting the emotion-to him and to myself-opened the floodgate of my questions. “I don’t want to know what went wrong. It’s none of my business. But you do owe me the truth, Peter. Does your divorce have anything to do with the fact that you’ve been coming around to see me? Are you looking to-”

  “Get back together?” Big points for him. He didn’t try to pull the wool over my eyes and pretend this was the first he’d considered what I was thinking. But he did sound skeptical.

  I was relieved.

  And maybe a little disappointed.

  And definitely confused.

  “It’s not easy for me to admit I made a mistake.” Peter reached over and put one hand over mine. If he was a stranger, I would have told him to get lost and yanked it away. If he was a friend, I would have flipped my hand over so our fingers could entwine.

  But Peter was something else. Something in between. Friend and enemy. Lover and stranger. The man I’d sworn to love, honor, and cherish all the days of my life.

  Yeah, that one. The one who’d chosen a belly button ring over a wedding ring.

  The one whose face I pictured when I used to dream about this moment. This was the crawling-back scene, live and in color.

  I tensed, wondering how I’d respond when he finally said the words.

  “I’m lonely.” Not exactly the declaration I was waiting for, but that didn’t keep his words from smacking me right between the heart and the stomach. We’d been apart for nearly two years. Still, thinking of him as sad and lonely had a way of tugging at heartstrings I didn’t know were still attached to Peter.

  He must have sensed my reaction, because he leaned a little nearer. “I’m not asking you to take me back, Annie,” he said, and before I could decide if this was good or bad, he went on. “I thought we could just… I don’t know…” He shrugged and pulled back, and when he removed his hand from mine, I sat back, too, and put my hands in my lap where they were safer. “I thought we could be friends. You know, like we used to be. I thought that maybe someday you’d understand.”

  “About those mistakes you talked about?”

  “About everything.” He scraped a hand through his hair. “I don’t mean right now. Tonight. I just thought if we started out slow…” He shot a shy smile my way and I was instantly transported back to the day we’d met. That was the way Peter had smiled at me then, and that smile had led to what I’d always thought was my very own personal happily-ever-after. “I miss you.” He looked relieved at having said the words. “I want you back in my life. That’s why when you asked me to come over and talk to you about cards…” He reached into the shopping bag he’d brought with him and put two decks of cards on the table, then reached in again and brought out a container of plastic poker chips. “I never thought the way to a woman’s heart was through Texas Hold’em. But hey, if that’s what it takes!” Peter laughed and pulled one of the decks of cards from its box. He ruffled the cards through his fingers, shuffling them. “Only, when we talked, you never explained why you wanted to learn to play cards. You guys here at the restaurant having some sort of fund-raising Texas Hold’em tournament? It’s the only thing I can really think of that would explain you wanting to gamble. Let’s face it, you’re not the type.”

  I wasn’t, and I knew it. Which didn’t prevent me from asking, “What type am I?”

  “Safe. Dependable. Reliable.” Believe me, Peter didn’t say any of this like it was anything to be ashamed of. He
was just stating facts, and even though I knew the facts were facts and I wasn’t ashamed of them, either, I felt my spine stiffen. Just a little.

  “Your personality doesn’t exactly mesh with the daring sort of spirit a person needs to be a gambler,” he pointed out. “Playing cards is like going on an adventure, see. Even the small-time kind of card games I get into. Each one is like a quest, a mission. And my job is to see if I can outwit the other guys at the table. Sometimes I do that by playing it safe. Other times I’ve got to bluff and take chances no sane person ever would. No offense, Annie, but you’re not that type. You like the straight and narrow. The safe. The secure. So if you want to learn to play Texas Hold’em, it must because of-”

  “Murder. I’m investigating a murder.”

  Peter lost his grip, and a few of the cards slipped out of his hand and landed on the floor. He bent to retrieve them and when he finally sat up and got settled, there was color in his cheeks. He whistled below his breath.

  Believe me, I did not hold any of this against him. It isn’t every day that someone reveals that she’s looking into a murder. Especially someone who isn’t with the police.

  So Peter’s surprise… well, I could understand that.

  And I was prepared for his questions, too.

  But when he came out with a skeptical, “You? Investigating a murder? You’re kidding me, right?” I guess I sort of lost it.

  “You think it’s funny?” I asked him, even though he didn’t say he did. “You think I’m not smart enough? That I don’t have the nerve?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He reached for his beer and took another drink, looking at me the same way the students back in class did when I reached for that first citrus juicer and they were afraid to see what might happen next. “I just never thought of you as the type.”

  “Which type is that? The type who has to make her own way in life after her husband walks out on her?”

  He wasn’t expecting that, but then, I guess I wasn’t, either. Even so, after two years of holding in my anger, it felt good.

  Peter discounting my feelings did not.

  As if it was all nothing, he waved a hand in the air. “That was a long time ago, Annie.”

  “You think?”

  “I think you’re still angry. It makes me wonder why.”

  “Not for the reason you think.” Of course, I didn’t know exactly what he was thinking, but it sure felt good to pretend I did.

  “You’re serious.” He gave me a sidelong look. “I mean about investigating murders. Like you’re some kind of detective or something. It’s-”

  “Amazing?”

  “I was going to say a little delusional.”

  “Because you don’t think I’m capable.”

  “Because I don’t think a bank teller who isn’t a bank teller anymore knows anything about murder.”

  “Except I do. I’ve already solved three.”

  “You don’t have to try and impress me.”

  “Is that what you think I’m trying to do?”

  “I think what you should be trying to do is calm down and get a grip on reality. Nobody just investigates murders. Nobody like you, anyway. And I’m happy to teach you how to play poker. Honest, I am. But the least you can do is tell me why you want to learn, without making up fantastic stories.”

  “People don’t investigate murders?”

  “Not people like you.”

  It was as simple as that.

  At least to Peter.

  “So if I was using a cooking torch, and I almost started the kitchen on fire, you wouldn’t let me use the cooking torch again?”

  “We’re talking about cooking torches?” When I didn’t answer, he gritted his jaw. “No, of course I wouldn’t let you use it again. If you’re incapable-”

  “And if I wanted to play cards with someone you thought it was next to impossible for me to play cards with, you’d tell me to get lost. Or would you tell me to learn anyway, because you knew I’d find a way to make things happen the way I wanted them to happen?”

  “You’re scaring me now.” He pushed his chair away from the table-and from me. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “And you’re not giving me any answers.”

  “Because there’s nothing to answer. If you wanted to play poker with someone you could never play poker against would I teach you to play poker? That’s crazy talk, Annie. I think the fumes from the cooking oil around here are getting to your brain.”

  “And I think…” I pushed back from the table, too, and stood.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I’ll be right back.” It wasn’t an answer. He didn’t deserve one, and I didn’t owe him one, either.

  Instead, I strode into the kitchen and even though Jim was just about to plate up poached eggs on top of creamed spinach and artichoke hearts, I walked right up to him and gave him a big kiss.

  Our students thought either it was cute or I was a lunatic. Uneasy and not sure how to respond, a couple applauded.

  And Jim?

  When I was done, he looked at me as if I was crazy. But there was a twinkle in his eyes.

  “What’s that for?” he asked.

  “It’s for you. You’re the one who told me I have to do what makes me happy.”

  He caught his breath. “And…?”

  “And you, Jim MacDonald…” Just to be certain he knew I was serious, I gave him a quick kiss. “There isn’t a shred of doubt in my mind, and there shouldn’t be in yours. You are absolutely the one who makes me happy.”

  Fourteen

  HERE’S THE THING ABOUT ATLANTIC CITY: EVEN WITH the bumper-to-bumper traffic on I-95, it’s less than a four-hour drive from Arlington. But it might as well be on another planet. Sure, the D.C. area has its share of nightlife, its movers and its shakers. But Atlantic City…

  Where D.C. can be elegant and dignified, Atlantic City is bright and brash. They say the city is always turned on, and whoever they are, they’re not kidding. As we drove into town a few nights after our Texas Hold’em clinic, the sky above the city glowed, as if the whole of A.C. (as the locals call it) wore a neon halo.

  The Pasqual Palace was the brightest and brashest of them all-from its garishly spotlighted towers of guest rooms to a casino decorated in rich brocades, crystal chandeliers, and carpets so plush my sandals sank as we crossed to the bank of elevators that would take us up to the exclusive penthouse. The place was all about gaudy, flashy, and fancy.

  Over on our right, the light atop a slot machine flashed and swirled, and an upbeat electronic tune blared a song of gambling success. The granny sitting in front of the slot whooped and hollered while on the other side of the aisle, a scantily clad waitress called out, “Drinks, anyone?” and a roulette wheel whirred.

  Truth be told, we hadn’t even been in town for a couple hours and already I was desperate for a little peace, a little quiet, and a whole lot less sensory overload. Still, I could see the appeal. There were actually people who thrived in this kind of atmosphere. Or so I’d heard. And I’ve got to say, if they were looking for overstimulation, they’d come to the right place.

  I wrapped an arm through Jim’s, desperate to hang on to the calm center of sanity he represented in my life. When we passed a poker game in progress at one of the nearby tables and I thought of where we were headed and what we were there to accomplish, terror gripped the pit of my stomach. “Maybe we should have brought Peter with us after all,” I said.

  Eve was right behind us and she clicked her tongue. I wasn’t sure if it was in response to what I’d said or to the way an elderly man ogled her in her white evening gown with its spaghetti straps and plunging neckline.

  “Don’t be silly.” When she said this, I knew she was talking to me. Besides, she’d already warned the old guy to back off with a look that was at once friendly and standoffish. Beauty queens, apparently, are born knowing the fine art of rejecting a guy-and sending him away smiling. “We don’t need Peter to
tell us how to play cards. Or to play for us. You were there Monday night, Annie. You saw us. We were awesome!”

  Had Eve not been so bedazzled by our surroundings and our impending meeting with Victor Pasqual himself, she might have been more accurate. We were not awesome at Peter’s Texas Hold’em clinic on Monday night. In fact, we played pretty much like the amateurs we were. Eve, on the other hand, was awesome.

  Who could have guessed that a li’l ol’ beauty queen from the South would somehow instinctively know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away, and know when to twinkle her way through bluffs so outrageous the players around her crumbled and she was left winning hands that she never should have played in the first place.

  There was an attendant at the door of the private elevator to the far right, and after Eve showed him her invitation to the night’s poker game, he called the elevator and we waited.

  Eve is not one to get nervous. She never has been. I remember sitting in the audience while she was onstage at countless beauty pageants. My hands shook. My heart raced. My blood pressure climbed until it felt like my head was going to pop. And Eve? Then, like now, she was as icy cool as her brilliant white gown.

  “Do I look OK?” she asked.

  “Of course you do. You look better than OK.” There was no denying that. Though Eve always dressed with care and a whole lot more pizzazz than I ever had or could ever hope to have, she’d pulled out all the stops that night. Besides her knock ’em dead gown, she was wearing diamonds that glittered on her ears and at her throat. They matched the sparkling rhinestone collar Doc was wearing and when I complimented her, Eve smiled down at the dog in her arms.

  “You hear that, sweetie pie?” She rubbed noses with the dog. “Annie says I look good.”

  “You look cool and confident, too.” She did. She was. At the same time I envied her the ability. I wondered and panicked and worried-just as I’d been wondering and panicking and worrying since the night of our poker clinic. What if we weren’t doing the right thing?