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   Kegan chewed his lower lip. He blinked rapidly before he found his voice. "He died a few years ago. Liver cancer. As it turns out, a lot of the other guys who worked at the factory died of it, too. That's what really opened my eyes. It changed my life. So I came here and got the job with Balanced Planet. I have to work to make a difference, Annie. I have to do it for Grandpa Holtz."

   I wasn't sure what I could say to make Kegan feel better, so maybe it's a good thing that Margaret Whitemore trundled into the kitchen with Agatha and a couple other students close behind.

   I quickly waved to them all, then turned my back so they couldn't see that I had tears on my cheeks.

   The crying . . . well, for once, I couldn't blame it on the cooking.

       Brad sauntered into the kitchen. We were just about to start class, and I didn't want to upset the applecart, but I couldn't help myself. After the tiff I'd seen outside between Brad and Valerie, it was only natural to be curious. Of course, I couldn't let him know that, so I stifled my curiosity and tried to sound concerned.

   "Are you OK?"

   Brad was already past me and on his way to the table where he and Agatha would be in charge of the night's flowers and plate presentations. When he realized I was talking to him, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

   "Me? OK? Why wouldn't I be?"

   I shrugged. I was wearing latex gloves, and hot sauce dripped off my fingers. "I just thought . . . You know . . . after what happened outside . . ."

   As if it would bring his thoughts into line, Brad looked at the kitchen door and out to the front of Bellywasher's. "Outside? I don't know what you're talking about."

   "Sure you do." I'd already stepped toward him when I realized I was leaving a trail of hot sauce polka dots on the floor. Fortunately, Marc and Damien were there, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Damien dart forward, cleaning rag in hand. "You and Valerie Conover. You were fighting. I don't mean to pry, but—"

   Like he was sloughing off my comments, Brad twitched his shoulders. "I don't know anyone named Valerie Conover, and even if I did, I sure wouldn't be fighting with her in public. You've got me mixed up with someone else."

   I remembered that out on the street, the man I'd seen with Valerie had been carrying a paper shopping bag with a bouquet of spring flowers poking out of the top of it. I looked from the bag in Brad's hands—the one with the bouquet of spring flowers poking out of the top of it—up to his eyes. They gleamed, and hey, he didn't have to say a word. His look challenged me to press my point.

   I knew I could, and believe me, I wanted to. I may not always admit to being a detective, but after everything that had happened to me since the first time I stepped inside a cooking class, I had finally come to grips with the fact that I have a healthy what's-really-going-on-here streak in me. I was pretty sure the Valerie/Brad smack down had something to do with WOW and that lost job at the Labor Department, but ask anyone, and they'll say I'm the type who likes all my i's dotted and my t's crossed. It's just one of the reasons I got that raise at the bank that day, not to mention why I'm the perfect business manager for Bellywasher's. As always, I was itching to find out the truth.

   Then again, I'm also the type who likes to keep her job.

   I reminded myself that whatever the argument was about, it wasn't worth alienating a paying student. Brad was not a man who would keep his comments to himself if anyone ever asked what he thought of our little establishment, its cooking school, or its employees.

   "You're right. Of course!" I made sure I smiled in an embarrassed sort of way. That wasn't hard, considering that (detective or not) I wasn't comfortable poking my nose in other people's business. I wasn't happy about lying, either, but if I'd learned nothing else in the course of two murder investigations, it was the value of a well-placed fib. "Now that I think about it, that guy didn't have a shopping bag. And he was wearing a raincoat. You've got a leather jacket on. Boy, isn't it funny how when you see someone out of context, even someone you think you know, you can get the details all mixed up."

   Brad's smile was icy. "Told you it was someone else. Someone who looks like me. Whoever he is, I hope he taught that Valerie Conover a thing or two. Any woman who would follow a man, then confront him in public, is obviously a vindictive bitch."

   I had not been indoctrinated by the sisters of WOW, so I wasn't sure how I was going to respond to this. It was a good thing Kegan walked by. Bless him, he'd been helping me get everything set up, and he was just headed over to his station. Along with Jorge, he'd be working on the ice cream sundaes, and he had a basket of peaches in his hand.

   "Speaking of people who look like people . . ." Brad put a hand on Kegan's arm to buttonhole him. "Couldn't help myself. Kept thinking about you all week. There's something really familiar about you, and I can't put my finger on it. Have we met before?"

   Kegan ran his tongue over his lips. "I don't think so."

   "You sure?" Brad stepped back and pointed a finger at the faded tomato on Kegan's T-shirt. "That's what did it. Don't Panic, Eat Organic. When you said that goofy thing last week, that's when I knew I must have met you before. That sounds so familiar."

   The tips of Kegan's ears looked as if they were on fire. He swallowed hard. "It's not a goofy saying," he said, and because he knew Brad would dispute this and possibly cause a scene, he added quickly, "And you could have heard it anywhere. I didn't think of it. I'm not that clever."

   "I guess you're right." I knew it wasn't easy for Brad to admit even that much of a shortcoming, so I shouldn't have been surprised that he didn't let it go. "But that doesn't explain why you look so familiar. Where are you from?"

   "Crayswing, Pennsylvania." Kegan looked down to where Brad still had a hand on his sleeve. He looked up again, but even though he smiled, he never quite met Brad's eyes. "How about you?"

   "Colorado." Brad paused a moment to let the information sink in. "Ever been to Boulder?"

   "Oh, wow." When Kegan lifted the basket of peaches to put both his hands under it, Brad had no choice but to let go of his arm. "Colorado! That's a dream of mine. I've always wanted to visit Colorado. I'll bet the mountains are beautiful. Unfortunately, I've never been west of the Mississippi."

   Still thinking, Brad tipped his head. "School?"

   "Penn State." We were standing in the front of the kitchen, and much to Kegan's chagrin, he saw that once again, he had become the center of attention. While our students waited for class to start, they listened in on the conversation.

   Kegan shifted from foot to foot. "How about . . . how about you. Brad?"

   "CU-Boulder. But that must have been years before you were in school. I mean, I know I don't look it, but I'm going to be forty this summer. I'll bet I'm a good ten years older than you."

   "Eleven." Kegan's cheeks flushed. His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm against the peach basket. I could practically see the wheels turning inside his head. He was struggling to find a way to put Brad at ease, and it was no mystery why. Kegan knew that in the same position, he'd be mortified at mistaking Brad for someone else. Being the nice guy he was, Kegan figured Brad felt the same way.

   Of course, he didn't know that Brad was a Weasel.

   Or that weasels don't have feelings.

   When I stepped in, it sure wasn't to help out Brad.

   "Hey, it didn't have to be Colorado, did it? You two could

have run into each other right here in the area somewhere." I turned to Brad. "Kegan works for Balanced Planet. You know, that environmental group that's got offices in D.C. You could have bumped into each other there. Or at a Metro station. Or even on the street."

   "Oh, I don't know." Kegan cleared his throat. "Even if we did, I don't think Brad would have noticed. I'm not all that memorable."

   "Well, you must be!" I laughed and patted Kegan's arm, hoping that would signal an end to their talk. I was all for our students getting to know each other, but if I was going to get through all the recipes Jim expected me to teach that night, we had to get moving. "You must be plenty memorable if Brad knows he's seen you somewhere."

   "That would be something, wouldn't it?" Kegan laughed, too. I was glad. He was a sweet kid, and I hated to see him ill at ease. He was still smiling when he took the peaches over to Jorge.

   Brad got settled, too. And me?

   With a sinking feeling, I realized how much I'd appreciated the diversion. I gulped down the realization that it was time to get down to business.

   Ready or not, I had to cook.

admit that there were a couple glitches.

   Like the chicken wings that went from plump and juicy to dry and dusty in no time flat. (I used this as a precautionary lesson and reminded Margaret Whitemore and the man named Grant who would be her partner preparing the wings for the class meal to follow the recipe, not my example.)

   There was the ratatouille, too. I was pretty sure it was supposed to be fresh and chunky and not look like ketchup. Big points for me. I did not do as I was tempted and throw my hands in the air, sob, and admit my shortcomings. Instead, if I do say so myself, I recovered pretty well. I used the opportunity to ask Damien to give us a demonstration of the proper way to chop.

   All things considered, the class went pretty well. By the time I was ready to demonstrate how to make the peach sauce for our ice cream sundaes, I was feeling content and pretty pleased with myself. From where they stood off in a corner watching and no doubt critiquing the proceedings, I could tell Marc, Damien, and Monsieur Lavoie (who had just joined us and was already sampling a glass of the dessert wine we'd be serving tonight) were, too. No doubt, Jim would be getting a positive report. Three recipes down and one to go (I didn't count the rum punch, since there was no fire involved), and I hadn't set off the smoke alarm even once.

   For me, this was a record.

   "OK, we already put our peaches in boiling water for a minute or two, we peeled them, and we chopped them." I held up the bowl of peaches for my students to see and hoped they weren't too picky. Some of my peach chunks were big, others were so small, even I had to squint to see them. Some looked more like peach jam than peach pieces. No matter, I told myself. I was on a roll. My confidence boosted, I breezed on as expertly as if I was one of those celebrity chefs on the Food Channel.

   "Now we're going to get the sauce going. You know, you could cook this entire dessert on your grill. You'd need heavy aluminum foil, and you'd put everything on it, wrap it up good and tight, and throw it on the grill for . . ." I'd remembered this much of Jim's instructions, but had to consult his recipe for the rest. "For about twenty or twenty-five minutes. Tonight, since we don't have a charcoal grill, we're going to do the whole thing on the stove." I waved the students closer to the industrial stove that took up most of one wall of the kitchen, and they gathered around.

   "I've got my chopped peaches . . ." I scooped them into a pot. "And I'm going to add the lemon juice, the honey, the ginger, and the allspice." This part was easy, since Marc had already measured out everything and had it waiting for me.

   Margaret Whitemore raised a hand. "But what if you don't like all the ingredients?" she asked. "Ginger's too spicy for me. Why, I remember once, I had dinner at an Indian restaurant and I spent the next three days burping."

   "And allspice . . ." Agatha rolled her eyes. "Who has that kind of stuff in their cupboards?"

   I hadn't expected a mini rebellion. I scrambled, wondering all the while how Jim would handle this.

   I could just about hear his voice in my ear. "Cooking is all about being creative," I said just like he would (though I left out the long
ooo
in
cooking
, because I figured that would be too much). "If you don't like the spices, don't use them. You could substitute something like . . ."

   I didn't have a clue. I looked to Marc and Damien for deliverance.

   "Cinnamon." Marc stepped forward. "It's a spice, too, of course, but it's also a flavor more of us are used to and like. And it goes really well with peaches. The smell is great, too. Think about those cinnamon roll places at the mall. That same aroma . . . it will waft through your whole house."

   Listening to a kid with purple hair use a word like
waft
struck me as funny, but our students didn't seem to mind. They nodded in unison.

   "Or you could even add a little bit of balsamic vinegar," Damien added. Since the combination seemed odd to me, I wasn't surprised the suggestion came from him. Of all our employees, he was the most like Jim. I don't mean Jim has a prison record like Damien does. Not a chance! But Damien is just as daring and creative as Jim. When it comes to taking chances with flavor combinations ordinary mortals would never dream of, Damien was the guy for the job.

   "So, it's whatever you like," I added, along with a smile of thanks to our two cooks. I had the pot with the peaches and the other ingredients in it in one hand and with my other, I turned on the stove. "And remember, Jim would be the first to tell you that if you look at a recipe and don't like everything that's in it, you can change it. Only he'd say
adapt
. He always says that's how new recipes are developed. You leave out the stuff you don't like, you add the stuff you do, and voilà!"

   I guess the celebrity chef thing went to my head. To add a little oomph to that last word, I gestured wildly. Too bad I did it with the hand that was holding the pot of peach sauce.