Cooking Up Murder (16 page)

"And we found his office trashed," Eve reminded me.

"Drago's office? Vandalized?" Jim cocked his head, thinking. "You've really been hard at work at this. You've gotten a lot farther than I have."

"You?" For reasons I can't explain, the thought of Jim spending any time thinking about Drago's murder struck me as extraordinary. He was a chef, not a detective.

I reminded myself that I wasn't a detective, either. I was a bank teller, and if I was smart, I wouldn't forget it.

"You don't mean you're investigating Drago's murder, too?" I asked hesitantly.

Jim laughed. "I wouldn't exactly call it investigating," he said. "But I admit, I'm curious. It's not every day a man is murdered in the parking lot of the place you work. As a matter of fact . . ." He sat back, his right arm thrown casually across the back of the booth. "I've been wondering if you two had anything to do with the murder."

I would have laughed if it was funny.

And if I hadn't picked that exact moment to take a sip of my wine.

I choked and coughed, and felt along the bench for my purse so that I could pull out a handkerchief. Of course, I couldn't put my hands on it--at least not right away--so I settled for pulling in a few calming breaths. "Us? You think we--"

"I didn't say that." Just like I had, Jim distanced himself from anything that sounded even remotely like an accusation. "But you have to admit, you two have been acting mighty suspicious. There was that bit with Beyla and the pasta sauce."

Eve shot up in her seat. "She tried to poison Annie!"

"And the part about how you told the police one thing and now you're telling me something else," Jim added.

"That's because in this case,
the police
," Eve gave the words a sour emphasis, "is Tyler Cooper, and Tyler Cooper is the biggest horse's patootie this side of the Chesapeake. He said I wasn't smart enough. Smart!" She snorted. "Like that Kaitlin what's her name is any smarter than me. And another thing--"

I knew I had to do something before what had been a conversation about murder turned into one about Eve's love life.

"We didn't exactly lie to the police," I explained to Jim. "We tried to tell the truth. Tyler wouldn't listen."

"So we decided to investigate on our own." Eve pulled back her shoulders, her body language saying that it was all her idea and she was mighty proud of it.

"You certainly did." Jim turned in his seat, just enough to put me fully in his sights. "And you're certainly having some success."

It might have been a warning, but I chose to think of it as a compliment. I felt my spirits lift in a way that my yeast had never raised my bread dough.

"You've found out a great deal. I've wondered about it all, too, but I didn't know where to begin. You've done a great job."

That
was
a compliment, pure and simple, and it warmed me down to the tips of my toes.

Jim pinned me with a look. "And here I just thought you were sticking your nose where it didn't belong because you were guilty. I never dreamed you were actually investigating."

I wasn't sure what he was talking about until I remembered how I'd looked through Beyla's workstation that afternoon before lunch. And Jim's, too.

My cheeks got hot. "You saw me."

"I was on my way back into the classroom. You weren't exactly being subtle."

My hot cheeks got hotter. "You must think I'm awful."

"As a matter of fact, I think you're--"

Whatever Jim thought of me, I didn't have a chance to find out. Eve's cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID and answered.

"Sure," she said. "Ten minutes. See you there."

"Got to go," she said. "Meeting Tony." She gave me a meaningful look, and I snapped to. Eve was sitting nearest to the wall, and in order for her to leave, I had to slide out of the bench. I made a grab for my purse, and this time, I found it exactly where it should have been the first time I looked. I stood. She shimmied out and I sat back down.

"Thanks for the drink," Eve told Jim.

Jim nodded. "Don't forget, tomorrow's Sunday. No class."

"No school tomorrow! That means I can stay out as late as I want," Eve said with a laugh and a brilliant smile. Before I could say anything back, she was gone.

"Well . . ." I took another sip of my wine, at a loss for words. I wasn't sure how to make it clear that I understood how these things worked. Eve was gone. Sooner rather than later, Jim would find an excuse to leave, too.

The easiest thing to do was beat him to the punch. "I guess you'll be going now, too."

Jim looked at his beer, which wasn't even half gone. "There isn't a Scotsman alive who would let this precious liquid go to waste. Not one who's worth his salt."

"Then you don't want to leave?"

"What do you think?"

"I think now that Eve's gone--"

"You think that I asked the two of you out so that I could be with Eve?"

"It's what always happens."

"Really?" He took a sip of beer. "And why do you suppose that is?"

I shrugged. That would have been the only explanation any other guy needed, but Jim waited for more. "She's beautiful," I said. "Anyone can see that."

He waved away my assessment with one hand. "She's flashy."

"She's funny."

"So are you, in your own way."

"She's spontaneous."

"Spontaneity is overrated, and besides . . ." Jim leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "I have a hunch you could be spontaneous as well. At the right time. With the right person."

I wanted to tell him I could. I tried to tell him I wanted to.

Which doesn't explain why the words that came out were, "My husband left me for the girl at the dry cleaner's."

"Aye, I thought it must have been something like that." Jim nodded and called a waiter over. "Let's order dinner, why don't we. Then you can tell me all about it."

I DIDN'T TELL HIM
ALL
ABOUT IT--NOT IN DETAIL,
anyway. I mean, what would that have accomplished, aside from making me look pathetic?

Instead, I munched a burger and gave Jim the Reader's Digest Condensed version of my marriage. Happily ever after until Dry Cleaner Girl came along.

"And since?"

Jim's question came just as I was putting a French fry in my mouth. I held up a finger, chewed, and swallowed before I answered. "And since, what? That's all there is to it."

"And you don't want to get married again?"

I'd considered the question myself a time or two. Honest, I had. I just never expected to hear it from Jim. "I'm not ready," I told him. "I'm not even ready to think about being ready."

"But it's been more than a year."

I shrugged and took a sip of wine. My second glass. "I thought it would last forever." A new thought occured to me. "Are you--"

"Married?" Jim wrinkled his nose. "No, and never have been. Not that lucky." From most guys, the answer would have been nothing short of facetious. But Jim meant it. Don't ask me how I knew--I just did. "Never have met the right woman. And besides, what they call the hospitality services industry . . . well, it doesn't leave much time for a social life."

"You're lucky when it comes to your job, though," I told him. "You're a great teacher, and I can tell that you really love what you do for a living."

"And you don't?"

He had a way of asking open-ended questions. From anyone else, I would have considered it prying. From Jim it was honest concern.

"I work at a bank," I told him. "I'm a teller. I've been a teller since I graduated from high school. It's a good job, but--"

"But you're not happy."

"I didn't say that." I dabbed some ketchup from my mouth with a napkin. "I'm very good at what I do."

"I have no doubt of that."

"It's a good place to work. I've got benefits and a dependable paycheck."

"And you like that."

"It's secure."

"But it's boring."

I stared at my burger for a moment. Were my words telegraphing thoughts I'd never allowed myself to even consider?

Being a bank teller was what I did, end of story. Until now, I'd never entertained the thought of doing anything else.

"I admit that I've been feeling a little restless," I told Jim. "But I don't really like to talk about it--bad luck, or bad karma, or whatever you call it. And I don't know why I'm talking about it now. It's not like I'm dissatisfied."

"But there has to be more."

"Are you looking for more, too?"

He sat back, obviously surprised that I'd turned the tables on him. He toasted me with his beer glass. "If I don't get away from whacky Monsieur Lavoie sometime very soon, there may be another homicide at Tres Bonne Cuisine."

I couldn't help it, I had to laugh. "He's odd."

"Tell me about it." His sigh was nothing short of dramatic. "It's a good job. Like yours." He grinned. "But it isn't what I want to do. Not really. What I really want . . ."

He pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. "I want my own place. My own restaurant. I have an uncle with a place over in Alexandria. Mum's oldest brother, Angus. It's not exactly the kind of place I'd like for my own, but he has been an inspiration to me. In my place . . ." Jim tipped his head back, and from the smile on his face, I could tell he was picturing every little detail of his dream. "Something upscale, but not so expensive that it's out of reach of folks who want a special experience for special occasions. Something trendy, but not so trendy that once the newness wears off, the place empties out. I want to showcase really fine cooking using all the best, freshest ingredients."

I nodded, taking a moment to think about the idea. I'd heard restaurant work was brutal. I suspected it cost a fortune to open a place, too.

Jim must have been reading my mind. "I've been saving," he said. "And working on a solid business plan so I can get a bank loan. Every time I think I'm finally close, real estate prices skyrocket. It's always out of reach."

"Which explains Tres Bonne Cuisine."

He nodded. "But it doesn't explain . . ." He paused, and I could tell he was wondering if he should say any more. "Have you noticed anything odd about Lavoie?"

"Anything?" It was my turn to laugh. "Where do you want to start?"

"I think he's up to something." Jim took the last bite of his roast beef sandwich and brushed crumbs from his hands. "I don't know what it is, but it makes me wonder about the man."

"Maybe he's the one who killed Drago?"

I thought Jim would meet the suggestion with laughter. Instead, he looked at me hard. "I've considered the possibility," he said. "After all, Lavoie was still in the shop when I left that evening. That means he must have been there around the time that Drago was killed."

"That gives him opportunity but not motive. At least not any motive that we know about." As if it could help order my thoughts, I shook my head. "Of course, if Beyla has motive, we haven't found that, either. We know she's lying, though. That seems pretty important. And we know she's carrying around some kind of herb that might be foxglove. Maybe we need to make another trip over to Arta and see if Yuri can tell us anything useful."