Dying for Dinner

by Miranda Bliss

  “You mean like using him as a decoy.”

  It wasn’t what I meant when I said it, but now that Tyler mentioned it…

  My computer was on so I clicked on the Internet and from there to the information about the food show where Norman-or at least his alter ego, Jacques Lavoie-was supposed to do a cooking demonstration.

  “It’s tomorrow,” I said, pointing to the screen so Tyler knew what I was talking about. “I’ll bet Norman hasn’t officially canceled. I’m sure he forgot all about it. What if he did it, Tyler? What if he went to the food show and did that cooking demonstration? There probably wouldn’t be an immediate threat. I mean, the guy wants to talk to Norman, right? Not kill him. If it really is this O’Hara fellow, he wants to find out what happened to the money from the bank robbery, and he wants the money back. He wouldn’t risk hurting Norman before he can find out what’s going on. And you, you could be there-”

  “For protection.” Tyler ’s gaze was steely. “It might work. Could you convince him?”

  I wasn’t sure. Until I thought that a man who rebottles dishwashing soap and sells it as a miracle cleaner… well, deep down inside, a man like that has to have a lot of nerve.

  THE RONALD REAGAN BUILDING AND INTERNATIONAL

  Trade Center has an amphitheater that seats six hundred and twenty-five. A half hour before Jacques Lavoie was set to step out onstage and demonstrate an array of French foods and cooking techniques, the place was just about packed.

  And any one of those six hundred and twenty-five people could have been Greg’s killer.

  I looked over the crowd, checking faces against what I remembered of the man who’d tried to snatch Norman off the street in Atlantic City. Needless to say, I got nowhere fast, and honestly, I should have known this from the start. I’d tangled with a couple of killers in my day, and none of them were what I expected. Now the only thing I had to go on was that the person who’d shot Greg and the person who’d darted out of that black sedan back in A.C. was a man.

  A couple hundred of the people in the audience were men.

  Was I going to lose heart? Not by a long shot. I scanned the crowd one more time, looking for Tyler and the other detectives who were there to assure Norman ’s safety, and confident we were doing the right thing in the right way, I wiped any residual worry from my expression and turned toward where Norman was waiting in the wings.

  In khakis, a blue shirt, and a crisp Très Bonne Cuisine apron, he looked the part of the French chef so many knew and loved.

  The only question now was, could he pull it off?

  “You ready?” I gave him a quick hug. “You’ve got a lot of fans out there waiting for you.”

  “I do?” It was Norman ’s voice, Norman ’s nervous gaze that traveled to the stage and beyond, as if he could see the audience gathering on the other side of the curtain. We heard the murmur of the crowd and, like me, I had no doubt he was thinking that one of those voices might sound awfully familiar if it said, “It’s payback time, Norman.”

  Unlike me, Norman wasn’t very good about hiding his jitteriness. (At least I thought I was doing a pretty good job of it.) He ran his tongue over his lips. He shifted from foot to foot. Even though we needed special passes to get backstage and that should have assured us that everyone there really belonged, his gaze darted over his shoulder and, from there, up to the catwalk that crossed the stage high above our heads.

  Norman ’s voice was as fidgety as his movements. “I dunno, Annie. I’m not sure I can do this. What if… what if he’s out there waiting?”

  “That’s exactly what we want to happen.” I put a hand on Norman ’s shoulder and leaned in closer so that none of the stagehands working around us could hear. “You’re going to be fine. There are plenty of cops out there and a couple more stationed here backstage. Nobody’s going to get anywhere near you. Not before they get the guy first. You remember what we said last night.”

  “It’s the best way. It’s the only way.” Norman was talking the talk, but if his breathlessness meant anything, it meant he wasn’t anywhere near ready to walk the walk.

  This time, I gave his shoulder a pat. “Jim’s here.” I looked over to where Jim was chopping and dicing and slicing the food Norman -er, Jacques-would be using for his demonstration. “You don’t think he’s going to let anything happen to you, do you?”

  Norman tried for a smile. “Jim’s a real friend. After he found out everything he found out about me… after you all did… you all could have walked away.”

  “That’s not what friends do.”

  Another smile. This one lasted a millisecond longer. “You think Jim’s a good enough friend to do the demo for me?”

  Since I suspected Norman wasn’t kidding, I didn’t answer.

  Instead, I smoothed a hand over the place near the neckline of his apron where Très Bonne Cuisine was embroidered in minty letters the exact color of the store’s shopping bags. I could practically feel the hum of nervousness that coursed through Norman ’s body.

  “You look handsome,” I said.

  He made a face. “Folks aren’t going to think I’m so handsome when this story comes out. What’s going to happen, Annie? I mean, even if the cops get this guy? Word’s going to get out that I’m an ex-con, that I learned to cook in prison. My career is going to tank, the shop is going to fold, my reputation-”

  “Hey!” I am usually not so rude as to interrupt someone, but it was either that or watch Norman dissolve with a case of the screaming meemies. I looked him in the eye. “You’ve got to stay focused and alert.”

  “I know that.”

  I would have felt more confident if he sounded like he meant it.

  “You’ve got to remember that there are lots of people out there who are looking forward to seeing you, and lots of people on the sidelines who are here specifically to make sure you’re safe.”

  This time, he didn’t even try to talk, he just nodded.

  “You can do this, N-” I swallowed what I was going to say. “You can do this, Jacques. You have to. For Greg.”

  “Yes.” As if in response to his affirmative answer, the technicians tested the lighting, and at that very moment, a spotlight came on and illuminated the cooking demonstration area with its gleaming pots and pans and its pristine cooking surfaces. Norman stood a little taller. His smile inched up. There was suddenly a Pepé Le Pew swagger in his step and a very Gallic tilt to his chin. “It is très bien, yes?” Jacques Lavoie smiled back at me. “We will have a wonderful time showing these lovely people the quiche and the soup and the crêpes suzette. It will be-”

  “Jacques!” We’d brought Raymond along to the show, partly because we knew he’d be a great help, but mostly because as soon as he heard that his culinary hero was back and doing a cooking demonstration at the region’s premier food show, there was no way we could convince him to stay in Arlington. Jim was officially in charge of the food. Raymond’s job was to take care of the supplies, and when he raced over to where we stood I saw clear proof that Raymond did not share Jacques’ love of the spotlight and the kind of preshow pandemonium I’d seen even before our classes at Bellywasher’s.

  Raymond’s eyes were bright. The collar of his oxford shirt was damp. When he got close enough, I saw that his hands were shaking. “We don’t have a mandoline!” he wailed.

  I was tempted to ask if we were playing music, but have no fear. A couple weeks behind the front counter of Très Bonne Cuisine, and I was prepared. “I know I brought it,” I said, thinking back to the night before and our frantic trip to the shop to pack everything Jacques would need. “It was in the box with the salad spinner.”

  “The big brown box with the red logo on it?” I would have felt more confident if Raymond didn’t swallow hard when he asked this. Muscular hulk or not, he deflated in front of our eyes. “I threw it out. I thought it was empty. It went into the big Dumpster behind the building.”

  The thought of Dumpster diving did not appeal to me. I checked my
watch. “There’s no time to go back to the shop to get another one.”

  “And not one thing to worry about!” Jacques’ smile was as bright as the stage lights. “We are at a food show, ne sommes-nous pas? Annie, you will go see my good friend Claude Brooking. He has a booth here somewhere. He will gladly let us use a mandoline. And Raymond, mon ami…” Jacques wound an arm through Raymond’s and walked him back onto the stage. “We must check the crêpe pans, n’est pas?”

  I left them at it, skirting a couple of technicians who were doing a last-minute sound check and heading out through the wings and to the auditorium. I knew Eve was somewhere in the back of the house with Tyler and I had an eye out for her.

  Which was why I didn’t see Peter until he stepped right in front of me.

  “Whoa!” I pulled up short and caught my breath. “What are you-?”

  “I saw the ad in the newspaper. You know…” Peter looked around to make sure no one was paying any attention to us. “About your friend Jacques… I figured this had something to do with our case so I knew you’d need my help.”

  “That’s really nice.” It was, in a twisted sort of way, so I didn’t feel guilty saying it. “But Peter…” A group of elderly ladies headed past us and toward the senior seating that had been reserved in the front of the auditorium, and I pulled Peter aside. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your help…” I was at a crossroads here, and I sucked in a long breath. But honestly, I didn’t have to think about what to say.

  “I don’t want to see you anymore, Peter.”

  I guess the message didn’t sink in. He stared at me.

  “Peter?” I was tempted to grab his arm, but I thought it best to avoid personal contact. “You heard me, right? I appreciate your wanting to help with our case. I do. But Peter, you’re hanging around because you’re lonely, and, Peter…” I really didn’t have time for this sort of melodrama so I just blurted it out. “I’m over you, Peter. Totally, completely, one hundred percent over you. So if you want to establish some sort of wonderful, lasting relationship, you should know that you’re going to need to do it with someone else. I’m in love with Jim.”

  “The cook?” It was the first thing that penetrated his shock, and Peter blinked at me in wonder. “You and a cook?”

  “Me and a fantastic, supportive guy. He’s got a great sense of humor. He’s got terrific plans for the future of his business. He’s caring and he’s dependable.”

  “And I’m not.”

  I had been forced to be brutally honest, but that didn’t mean I was heartless. I gave Peter a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “I think you could be,” I said. “And I think you will be. Once you find the right woman. I hope you do, Peter. I truly do. I wish you every happiness in the world.”

  And because the clock was ticking and I was on the hunt for a mandoline, I didn’t wait and I didn’t say another word. I raced up the aisle toward where I saw Eve standing with Tyler.

  And when I did?

  When I did, I had a smile on my face.

  But then, that’s what always happens when I know in my heart that I just did the right thing.

  Seventeen

  NORMAN… ER, JACQUES… DID SAY CLAUDE BROOKING was a friend, so I assumed they might have some things in common.

  Like charming little gourmet shops.

  Or cute French accents (even if they weren’t real).

  What Eve and I discovered-after we wasted precious minutes searching for Claude in the maze of booths selling everything from cookware to cookie mixes to knife sharpeners-was a mishmash of tables piled with every cheap kitchen gadget imaginable. (Yes, I know, this makes me sound like a cooking snob, and honestly, it’s not like me, but a couple weeks at Très Bonne Cuisine is bound to do that to a person).

  Claude’s merchandise was displayed around a huge RV that had been pulled right onto the site. Just in case that wasn’t conspicuous enough, the RV had a yellow banner draped across the side of it that proclaimed Brooking Cooking in huge red letters.

  And Claude Brooking?

  I didn’t even have to ask. Claude Brooking had to be the guy in the blue, yellow, and orange Hawaiian shirt who was doing his best to schmooze a couple of ladies into buying colorful little plastic cups that clipped over the side of a pot.

  “You’ve never seen anything like these,” he said, and forget the French accent. Claude and Norman must have known each other back in New Jersey. “Look at this, sweetie. You put your egg in here, see. Then you hang this contraption onto your pot and boil your egg. Then…” He slipped the plastic holder off the pot with a motion that said voilà, even if Claude didn’t. “You can serve the egg right from this thing. Is that wonderful, or what? And the price? For anybody else, these are four for twenty dollars. But today only as a show special…” Claude gave the women a wink. “Today only and only for you two, you get all four of them and a set of matching measuring spoons for a mere twenty dollars. It’s once in a lifetime. I’m a crazy man even to offer you this kind of deal. What do you say, ladies? Can I wrap up a set for each of you?”

  They were all too eager, and I checked my watch-again-and waited as patiently as I could while Claude rang up the sale.

  When he was done, I stepped forward.

  “For you, little lady…” Claude wiggled his eyebrows at me, then slid his gaze to Eve, who was standing at my side. “Today only and only for you two, I’m willing to deal. What will it be?” He gestured toward the hodgepodge that was his on-the-road showroom. “Anything at all. Including me, if you’ll take me home.”

  I would have laughed, just to be polite. If I had time. “Jacques Lavoie,” I said instead. “He’s a friend of yours, right? He’s doing a cooking demonstration and-”

  “He’s back?” Claude’s hair was way too dark for a man of his middle years. So were his eyebrows. They shot up his forehead. “I called him a couple times and left messages. He never called back.”

  “He’s been busy. So are we.” I scanned the tables, searching for a mandoline. When I didn’t see one, I had no choice but to throw myself on Claude’s mercy. “His demonstration is about to start and-”

  “Really? That’s so cool!” Claude reached under the table, produced a sign that said Out to Lunch, Be Right Back, and balanced it on a pile of tea infusers. “You going back to the amphitheater?” he asked. “I’ll walk with you.”

  “That’s fine. Really.” The only way to stop him was to put a hand on his arm. “But Jacques needs a mandoline.”

  “Going to play music, is he?” A few weeks before, I might have laughed at the joke. Now I knew how lame it was and Eve didn’t get it at all, seeing as how she didn’t know about the musical instrument or the kitchen gadget. Claude was the only one who chuckled before he asked, “Jacques, he needs it now?”

  I checked my watch again and gauged the time remaining against how far we had to walk back to the amphitheater. “He needs it right now.”

  Claude nodded his understanding and started looking. He looked on the table where the tea infusers were stacked, and on another table dotted with precarious piles of strawberry hullers, cherry pitters, and cheese graters. Failing there, he moved on to a third table, this one filled with staggering heaps of folding chopsticks (I know, I’d never heard of them, either), can openers, and oven mitts that could supposedly withstand temperatures of up to five hundred degrees.

  “I know I’ve got a mandoline here somewhere,” Claude said along with something else, but by this time he was down on his hands and knees, searching through the boxes stowed under the tables and it was hard to hear him. “If you can just be patient…”

  “I’m trying,” I said from between my gritted teeth, and because she understood, Eve gave me a pat on the back.

  When Claude popped back up from the nether reaches of his stock supply, I breathed a sigh of relief-until I noticed he was empty-handed.

  “Might be in the RV,” he said, poking a thumb over his shoulder. “Give me a minute, will you? I’l
l just go inside for a quick look-see.”

  He did, and when he did, I dropped my head into my hands.

  “I wanted everything to go smoothly,” I grumbled. “You know, just to make this easier for Norman.”

  “He’s nervous, but he shouldn’t be.” At my side, Eve didn’t look nearly as edgy as I felt. “ Tyler ’s got everything under control,” she said. “There are cops stationed at all the doors. There are cops backstage and in the sound booth of the amphitheater, and even in the audience. Nobody is going to get close enough to Norman to kidnap him. Nothing’s going to happen to him.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to his cooking, either, not if we don’t get that mandoline so he can slice the onions for the French onion soup.” I glanced over my shoulder toward the RV. There was no sign of Claude. “You don’t suppose the inside of that place looks anything like the outside here, do you?” The very thought was enough to offend my sense of order, and I shivered. “How’s he ever going to find that mandoline in time?” I scanned the booths nearest to us. If one of them had a mandoline, believe me, I would have bought it with my own hard-earned money and headed straight for the amphitheater with it. The way it was, there was a super-duper cleanup mop being sold at the booth to our right, and all-organic potato chips on our left. There wasn’t a mandoline in sight.

  There was no sign of Claude, either, and because the precious minutes were ticking away, I stepped around the tables that bordered his space and headed up the stairs and into the RV, with Eve right behind me.

  My intuition was right on: The inside of Claude’s RV looked a whole lot like the outside space where he did business. There were boxes piled on the floor and on the table behind the driver’s seat and the built-in bench behind it. There were boxes stacked three high to our left, all along the hallwaylike space that led to a room where I could see a couple of built-in bunk beds that were stacked with boxes. I could see open packages of gadgets scattered about, and charge receipts (both new and used). I could see plastic carry bags that said Brooking Cooking on the side, and ripped-open cartons that had at one time contained everything from measuring cups to salt shakers.