Cooking Up Murder (20 page)

The next thing I knew, Eve's hand was on my arm and she was tugging me back across the room to our cooking station. When we got there, she let go of me, drew in a breath, and smiled.

"I think that went really well," she said. "We got a rise out of her. That means we're making real progress."

WERE WE?

Making progress, that is.

It sure didn't feel like it to me.

I knew that I, for one, was definitely not making progress when it came to my cooking. Maybe it was because every time Jim came around, gave me a smile, and asked how I was doing, my stomach got fluttery, my temperature shot up, and my mind wandered about as far from cooking as it was possible to get.

Maybe it was because every time I chanced a look her way, Beyla was glaring back at me, fingering that big ol' knife with the big ol' blade.

Good excuses?

Not really, but I liked to think that if I wasn't so distracted--both by Jim and by the thought of a gruesome act of violence being committed on me--I might have produced something better than the dry-as-dust Cornish hen I pulled out of the oven. And the duck with orange sauce . . . well, it's best not to even go there.

Of course, the whole time I was busy with the poultry from hell, my mind was racing.

"Maybe she really is innocent." I halfheartedly made the comment to Eve as she was finishing the last bits of her duck. She'd given me a taste, and it was as delicious as it looked. "Maybe she's just pissed because we keep bothering her."

"Beyla?" As if I could be talking about anyone else. Eve shook her head. "No way. And besides, it's not like we have any other suspects."

I set down the fork I was using to poke my duck to see if there was any scrap of meat on its bones that wasn't shriveled. "Except that we do," I murmured. Before she could say what I knew she was going to say--that we still had one more recipe to try, and that I was literally throwing in the towel by not sticking around for the venison stew--I threw in my pot holder, took off my apron, and headed downstairs to find Monsieur Lavoie.

This time, I promised myself, I wasn't going to let him weasel out of a heart-to-heart talk.

"You're hiding something."

Even I was surprised at the words that popped out of my mouth when I got downstairs and found him behind the front counter. But my instincts told me I was on the right track when Monsieur took one look at me and went as white as a ghost.

He forced out a laugh. Below the counter, his hands moved nervously. Even his smile was anxious--it came and went, limp around the edges. "You are talking crazy."

It was the second time that night that I'd been called crazy. For all I knew, both Beyla and Monsieur Lavoie were right. But that wasn't enough to stop me.

"Every time I try to talk to you, you avoid me. And what was that bit with the Dumpster? You weren't just throwing something away, you were destroying it first. You're up to something."

"Up to?" Monsieur's stare was blank, but I wasn't buying any of it.

"Don't pretend you don't understand what I'm talking about. You've been as jumpy as a June bug ever since the first day of class, and just in case that doesn't translate into French, June bugs are very jumpy. You're jumpy now."

Monsieur backed away from the counter. "No."

"Yes, you are. Nobody hops around from foot to foot like that unless they're uncomfortable about something. Nobody moves things around under the counter unless he's trying to . . .

"You're hiding something!" I never knew I could move so fast. I leaned over the counter as far as I could and snatched at whatever it was that Monsieur had tucked away under there.

Which was a great big container of seasoned salt.

The cheap, generic kind I'd seen at the local market: sixteen ounces for one ninety-nine.

I stared at the glass container of salt. I looked back to Monsieur, who was looking at me, his expression teetering on the brink of tears, as if he thought I'd just exposed some national security secret.

And the truth hit like a two-ton truck.

"You're kidding me, right?" But I didn't wait for him to answer. Instead, I reached under the counter again and found exactly what I feared I'd find.

A big spoon.

A funnel.

And empty Vavoom! jars.

How many different ways are there to say
Feeling like a fool
?

For thinking that Monsieur ever had anything to do with Drago's death. And for every single one of the jars of Vavoom! that had ever taken up residence in my kitchen cupboard.

I dropped back to the soles of my shoes, my mouth hanging open with disappointment and surprise.

"You're repacking cheap seasoned salt! You're marketing it as magical seasoning!"

"Magic is where you find it, yes?" I was surprised to hear a calm--almost resigned--tone to Monsieur's voice. I guess now that he realized I was more let down than angry, he figured he could come out of the culinary closet. Or maybe he just knew he was trapped, and no amount of lying was going to convince me otherwise.

He shrugged. "Customers, they believe Vavoom! is special. A special thing, it needs a special price. Do you not think so?"

"Not when I'm the one paying that special price!" I thought of all the jars of Vavoom! I'd stockpiled, just in case there was ever a shortage and I was in danger of going without. I propped my elbows on the counter and dropped my head into my hands. "All this time, all you've been doing is trying to cover up your little shell game."

"This is true. Yes." He had the nerve to look repentant. "I must smash the glass containers that the salt comes in. So no one will see and discover what I have been doing."

"Then it's not a secret recipe?" I should have gotten that part through my head by now, but some legends die a hard death. "There's nothing rare and exceptional about Vavoom!?"

Monsieur's shrug was answer enough.

"And you didn't have anything to do with Drago's death?"

This time, he didn't shrug. He jumped as if he'd touched a finger to an electrical line. "Me?" Monsieur's cheeks got red. "You thought I--?"

"You have been acting mighty suspicious."

Another shrug. He glanced at the seasoned salt. "And now you see why."

"And you
were
having an argument with Drago that first night of cooking class."

Monsieur nodded. "This is true. He came into the shop. He demanded that I let him upstairs. I did not think it would hurt until he said something about one of the students. The beautiful woman, Beyla. He said he must talk to her. And when I saw the fire in his eyes . . ." Lavoie shivered. "I did not think this was a wise thing. I told him no. I sent him away."

"And he was so mad that you didn't cooperate, he almost mowed me down at the front door." I nodded, too. It all made sense. "And the Vavoom!?"

Monsieur held a jar out to me. "Lifetime supply," he said. "If you do not breathe a word."

I didn't take the jar. I had enough at home to last at least a half a lifetime. Besides, now that I knew what it really was, how much I'd overpaid and for how long, the bloom was off the spice.

My illusions shattered, my faith in human nature (at least Monsieur Lavoie's human nature) shaken, I headed back to class.

I didn't say a word to Eve about what I'd discovered, partly because I was embarrassed and partly because I didn't have a chance. Luckily, we weren't actually making the venison stew, just talking about it. I'd missed the beginning of the discussion, but at the end, just as we began our cleanup, I managed to tell Eve that I'd eliminated Monsieur as a suspect. Fueled by the thought and the realization that it left us with only one viable culprit, I watched Beyla work at the other end of the big sink where we washed up the pots and pans and dishes that we'd dirtied in class.

"She's in an awfully big hurry," I told Eve, and it was true. Beyla had whisked through her dishes and her pots and pans in no time at all. (Then again, from the praise I'd heard her get from our classmates and from Jim, I don't think she had scorched orange sauce to deal with.)

Eve's gaze followed mine. "Suppose she has a hot date?"

I wiped up the sink and tossed my sponge. "Suppose we should find out?"

"You mean . . ." Eve's eyes lit up. She always was up for an adventure, but she was blown away by the thought that for once, maybe I was, too. "Annie, are you talking about following her?"

Was I?

The new bold and daring Annie Capshaw warred with the person I used to be, the play-it-safe woman who didn't have a thing to show for thirty-five years of doing just that. Except an ex who'd left her for greener pastures, a bank account that would never support a house payment, and a job that was safe, dependable--and completely boring. Oh yeah, and a whole lot of jars of seasoned salt that she'd been conned into buying because the roly-poly Frenchman on the label had seduced her with promises of culinary wonder.

I threw back my shoulders and stood as straight and tall as a short person can.

"You're darned right I'm talking about following her," I told Eve. Right after Beyla walked out of the classroom and headed downstairs, I grabbed Eve's hand.

"Let's go."

Thirteen

THEY MAKE IT LOOK REALLY EASY ON TV BUT IN
reality, the whole following-the-bad-guy thing is about as tricky as cooking and as sticky as my failed orange sauce.

It also takes a whole lot of logistical coordination.

Lucky for us and for our investigation, I might have been a disaster when it came to cooking, and I was definitely a chicken when parallel parking was the name of the game, but I was a crackerjack organizer.

I was also quickly becoming a pretty good liar.

Remembering my promise to Jim--the one about how I wasn't going to investigate anymore--I made up a convincing (if I do say so myself ) excuse about how I had to get home quickly because I was expecting a phone call from my folks in Florida. With that taken care of, we were out of the cooking school and downstairs in the shop in a flash.

By then, I already had a plan. And the moment we stepped out the door and into the humid evening air, I put it into action.

First, I sent Eve to follow Beyla so we could find out where she was parked and what kind of car she was driving. Then, because I'd driven that night, I hurried to get my car, leaving Eve with specific instructions to keep an eye on Beyla so she could point the way if Beyla up and left before I returned.

Of course, thanks to a parking lot tight on spaces, a series of one-way streets, and traffic that was as dense as peanut butter, Beyla up and left before I returned.

Was that going to stop me? No way! The excitement of the chase pumped through my veins like fire. I was hot in pursuit and on top of my game.

I knew Eve was feeling the exhilaration, too. When I finally cruised by the front of Tres Bonne Cuisine where she was waiting, she jumped into the car before I had a chance to come to a complete stop. Breathless, she pointed directly at my windshield. "That way! She went that way!"

I flicked on my signal and turned back into traffic with far more daring and far less civility than I usually displayed. I claimed my patch of street right between a dark sports car and a light-colored SUV, the driver of which had a few choice words to describe both me and my driving skills. Any other time, I would have been appalled, not to mention upset. But tonight, I didn't care one bit. I was on a mission, one the SUV driver couldn't possibly understand. And I wasn't about to let a little thing like traffic stand in my way.