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   Kegan reached inside his bag. The carrots he pulled out weren't wrapped in plastic. They were vivid orange and had a plume of feathery greenery at the top. His cabbage made Brad's look like a reject. It was crisp and round and a beautiful bright shade of green.

   "Organic is better," Kegan said. His gaze was on his veggies. His voice was so soft, I had to lean nearer to hear. "It's fresher and better tasting. It's better for you, too."

   "Bull!" Brad waved off the comment. Of course, Kegan never saw that. He was still looking at the table. "All that talk about organic food, that's for suckers. Who else would believe that crap about how organic foods are grown under better conditions? I'll tell you what, buddy, my money's on the fact that your carrots come from the same farm my carrots come from. Only they sold you a bill of goods. I'll bet you paid way too much for those vegetables."

   "Price is really no object. Not when it comes to a healthy body. And sustainable agriculture." Kegan slid me a look. I guess the fact that I didn't jump on Brad's bandwagon automatically made me an ally. Maybe he figured there was strength in numbers. He drew in a breath and lifted his chin.

   "Sales of organic fruits and vegetables increased from $181 million back in 1990 to $2.2 billion just a couple years ago," Kegan told Brad, and when he did, his voice was a little louder, his words a little more confident.

   "Proves my point." Brad crossed his arms over his chest. "There are lots of suckers in the world."

   "Or lots of people who are worried about their own health and the health of our planet."

   "Or maybe they just have too much money to throw around." To emphasize his point, Brad slapped a hand on the table.

   It was enough to attract everyone's attention.

   When I realized it, I glanced toward where Jim was setting up his demonstration. At the first sign of trouble, he'd already taken a step toward the prep table, but I signaled him to stay put. This wasn't serious, and nothing I couldn't handle. Besides, there was something about Kegan that made me think of him like the younger brother I'd never had. How long could a kid as shy as Kegan put up with Brad's bullying?

   My guess was not very long, and something told me that when Kegan was finally forced to back down, he'd need a friendly word and a smile.

   Little did I know, there were unplumbed depths to his personality.

   When he saw that everyone was watching us, color shot up Kegan's neck and into his chin. From there, it spread to his cheeks. He was clearly uncomfortable, and as red as an organic beet, but surprise, surprise . . . He refused to surrender.

   "Here's the thing . . ." Kegan dared a look around the room. As long as everyone was watching, I guess he figured they should all hear what he had to say. He raised his voice. "The pesticides and fertilizers we use on our gardens and farms . . . well, it makes sense, doesn't it? They soak into groundwater and wash into streams and lakes and even into the oceans. The chemicals can kill whole lakes and ponds, not to mention the wildlife and fish that depend on them as water sources. Chemicals and pesticides are responsible for nearly ten percent of our common water pollution, you know. Then there's bioaccumulation." Kegan drew in a breath, but there was no stopping him now. He was on a roll, and we all just stepped back to watch and listen.

   "Bioaccumulation, that means that pesticides build up across the food chain. Bugs eat the pesticides, birds eat the bugs, predators eat the birds. It's a circle, you see, and we're all part of it, too." I didn't think it was possible for anyone to get redder than Kegan already was, but by this time, even the tips of his ears were on fire. "Those pesticides end up in our food, too. And in our bodies. Pesticides are designed to poison living things, and we're living things, aren't we? There's even research that links pesticide use to things like mental impairment and cancer and hormonal imbalances and . . ." Something told me that in spite of appearances, Kegan was a keen judge of character. He'd already sized up Brad, that was for sure. That would explain why, as he finished up, he looked his cooking partner in the eye for the first time. "Research proves that pesticides are responsible for lowered sperm counts."

   Brad slid his cabbage and his carrots back into his grocery bag.

   Another disaster averted, and relief swept through me. If this kept up, maybe there was hope for me in the kitchen tonight. Maybe I wouldn't burn down the building!

   I was smiling at the thought and already heading back to where Jim was waiting for me when the kitchen door swung open, and Eve sauntered in.

   "Hi, y'all!" Like the beauty queen she used to be, she grinned and waved at the crowd. "I just thought I'd pop in and see if you needed any help. I thought maybe—"

   Halfway between the grill and our big walk-in cooler, Eve stopped in her tracks. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth dropped open.

   I looked where she was looking.

At the prep table.

   "I thought maybe . . ." Eve tried to choke out the words, but it was clear from the start she wasn't going to get anywhere. Her eyes were as round as saucers. Even as I watched, they filled with tears. She snapped her mouth shut, spun around, and ran as fast as anybody who's wearing boots with four-inch heels can.

   The kitchen door swished closed behind her.

   Always logical, I scrambled to find some sort of explanation for what had just happened. What had spooked Eve? Or maybe it would be more accurate to ask
who
.

   I looked from where the door still swung to the prep table. Was it Kegan who'd caused the reaction? Or Brad?

   Neither one of them looked like the guilty party. In fact, Brad was in the process of putting his grocery bag onto the shelf below the workstation. He never even looked up. And Kegan . . . well, he had retreated back into his shell. After his speech about the environment, he looked a little winded, and the brilliant color had drained from his face.

   Maybe I'd gotten it all wrong? Maybe Eve hadn't been looking at either Brad or Kegan? I scanned the classroom and the blank expressions on each student's face. It was clear that Eve had recognized someone, and whoever it was, it wasn't someone she was happy to see.

   It was just as clear that now that she was gone, nobody was going to take responsibility.

   "Well, we've started off with a wee bit of a stir!" Of course, Jim was the one who got everything under control. It was one of the things he did best. He tapped his worktable with a wooden spoon and raised his voice. "Now let's get to the real excitement, shall we? Come on, people, it's time to start cooking!"

   He draws out those two Os and pronounces them like Americans would in the word k
ook
.

   
Cooking.

   I should know better, but try as I might, I can't resist.

   Which explains why I didn't drop everything and run after Eve to find out what was going on. Don't get me wrong, Jim's not heartless; I don't want to give that impression. I saw the look he darted at the door, and I knew he was as worried about her as I was. But I also knew he was thinking exactly what I was thinking: that we'd both check on Eve later. Right now, we had work to do, and a class that had already been disrupted by the Brad vs Kegan showdown. We'd have the rest of the night to track down Eve and figure out what was going on inside that very blonde head of hers, but right now we had to make a good impression on the people who would tell other people about their Bellywasher's Cooking Academy experience.

   So while Jim gave an overview of the night's menu— burgers, coleslaw, old-fashioned potato salad, fudge brownies, and margaritas—I stood back and waited to do what I was told. And when the time came, he taught his students the right way to proceed through each recipe. I demonstrated. We did the burgers, and I dutifully cracked eggs (I needed a couple extra because of the ones that landed on the floor), added garlic, and crumbled the feta cheese that Jim tucked between two meat patties before he placed them one top of each other on the grill. We talked about potato salad, and I ladled mayonnaise into a bowl (too little to begin with and way too much after that), added the chopped pickle, the mustard, and the bit of dill that was Jim's secret ingredient. The cooked potatoes, as it turned out, were already diced. I didn't hold it against him that Jim wasn't willing to take a chance with me and a chopping knife.

   Except for the salt and sugar that I mixed up the first time through, the coleslaw went without incident. The brownies . . . well, it's best not to even mention those. Let's just say that before any real damage could be done, Marc and Damien claimed they were tired of standing around doing nothing and took over the mixing and baking duties.

   By the time it was all over, I needed one of those margaritas!

   No such luck. Because each pair of students had to make enough of their own dish for everyone to share, there was plenty of work to be done, even when we were finished demonstrating. While Jim handled the grill (who knew there was an art to flipping burgers), Damien ran interference between Margaret and Agatha. Marc had bartended at his last job, so he took care of the drinks, and I flitted between the potato salad and where Brad and Kegan were working on the coleslaw.

   Just for the record, yes, they were using the organic vegetables.

   "How's it going?" I thought this a better way to start my conversation with them than by asking if Eve knew either one of them, and if she did, what she had against that person. But don't worry, I intended to get around to Eve. If I'd learned nothing else in the course of two murder investigations, it was the right way to handle an interrogation. "You two have any questions?"

   "Anybody who has questions about how to chop cabbage, bell peppers, and carrots is a moron."

   Do I have to point out that this comment came from Brad?

   "Maybe some people just aren't as talented as you are when it comes to cooking. Did you ever think of that?" Kegan came to the rescue, and I don't think it was just because Brad was being pigheaded. Kegan had seen the way I struggled up there at the front of the room, and bless him, he took pity on me!

   He gave me an uncertain smile. "We're doing fine, Annie," he said. "Look. I've got the cabbage, the peppers, and the onion chopped. Only need to do the carrots." With the tip of his knife, he pointed at the bowl in the center of the table. "Brad's already cooking the stuff for the dressing; it's nearly done. It only takes . . ." He consulted his recipe. "Five to seven minutes. Sound about right?"

   "Sounds perfect." It did. I ignored the disgusted look Brad shot Kegan's way, the one that pretty much said he knew Kegan was trying to be teacher's pet. Since I wasn't technically the teacher, it didn't technically apply. Besides, I had other things to think about. As soon as Brad headed over to check the dressing, I decided to do a little snooping.

   "Sorry about your cooking partner," I said. "I'll make sure I pair you up with somebody a little more pleasant next week."

   "Not to worry." Kegan reached for a grater and got to work on the carrots. "Most people are pretty resistant when they first hear about the theory of sustainable agriculture," he said. "Brad will come around. Someday, everybody will. They'll have to. We're decimating our forests. And destroying whole species of plants and animals. It's a global problem, and it's everyone's concern. There are just some people who don't realize it yet."

   "And your job is to make sure they do."

   Kegan's cheeks got pink. "I work for Balanced Planet, you know, the ecological think tank group in D.C. I'm afraid sometimes I forget that I'm not at the office. I get carried away. I'm sorry."

   "No need to apologize. Hey, if you guys can ignore the way I botched every recipe and Jim had to jump in and show you the right way to do things . . ."

   Kegan returned my smile. He glanced toward the front of the kitchen, where Jim was showing one of the grillers the proper way to put out a small grease fire that had erupted. Call me shallow; I was glad to see I wasn't the only one who had to deal with culinary adversity.

   "He's the owner, right?" Kegan asked, and when I said Jim was, he went on. "Is he the one I'd talk to . . . you know . . . about making the place greener?"

   I looked around at the butter-colored walls and was about to say something about how repainting wasn't in our budget when I realized what Kegan was talking about.

   "Greener! You mean the restaurant using more ecologically friendly products. Jim makes the final decisions, of course, but you'll need to come through me for that."

   "Then maybe . . ." Kegan's gaze was on the table again. The knife trembled in his hand. "Maybe I could talk to you about it sometime?"

   "Sure, if I can talk to you about—"

   I was going to mention Eve, but I never had the chance. The first tray of brownies came out of the oven, and a gasp of appreciation went up from around the room.

   "That's dessert," Jim called out. "Each of you, get your food in order, and let the folks in charge of presentation get them plated up. Looks like it's time to eat!"

   By that time, there was no use even trying to bring up the subject of Eve. I got out of the way, and I stayed out of the way, at least until everyone was out of the kitchen and out in the restaurant.

   "You eating with us, Annie?" Jim whizzed by with a tray filled with water glasses. "We've got plenty."

   "In a minute," I told him, and he didn't have to ask why. He knew this was the first chance I had to go searching for Eve.

   I found her right where I expected: in my office.

   She was sitting at my desk, her head in her hands. I knew from the way her shoulders were heaving that she was sniffling.