Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (18 page)

With few options, I did the only thing I could think to do. I turned on every light in the shop and raised my voice.

"I know you're here," I said. At the same time I raced to the counter and grabbed for the keys. "I've already called the police so you might as well just stay put." I darted for the door and I would have made it, too, if not for those soup mixes on the floor.

I stepped on the chicken and cheese tortilla mix. My ankle turned and my foot went out from under me. I shot out a hand to grab the rack where the soup mixes were displayed, but I hung on too tight.

The rack tipped and the gadgets displayed over the shelves of soup mixes rained down on me. I covered my head with both hands, remembering too late that the only thing keeping me upright was that rack. My feet slid and I went down in a heap.

Even before I plucked a dozen garlic presses away from me and brushed away the barbecue brushes, the wooden kebab skewers, and the corn-on-the-cob holders that covered me, I knew I was in trouble.

Because even before I looked up, I sensed someone was standing over me.

Eleven

"MONSIEUR!"

Even before Jacques Lavoie offered me a hand, I sat up like a shot. Kebab skewers rained down from my shoulders and peppered the floor.

"What in the world are you doing here?"

He made that very Gallic gesture of his. The one where he shrugs and turns over his hands. It said,
Why shouldn't I be here, it is my shop, yes?
even before he said, "Why shouldn't I be here,
cherie
? It is my shop, yes?"

"Of course . . . it's your . . . shop." I was so surprised, so relieved, and so completely bowled over, I could barely put together a coherent sentence. Maybe that's why I stayed put right where I was, right there on the floor amid a slew of kitchen gadgets and soup mixes. "But where have you been? Why didn't you come forward to tell the cops what happened to Greg? What on earth is going on?"

There was that gesture again. This time, it conveyed a message that was all about how it would take a while to explain. Before he could even begin, though, Monsieur looked toward the front door.

"I have been a little nervous," he explained, watching me watch him. "You understand this, yes? After everything that has happened . . . If we could turn out the lights, perhaps?"

"Of course." Before he could make a move toward the switch, I got to my feet and flicked off the lights, checking the sidewalk out in front of the store as I did. It was empty. Except for my car and that dark sedan still where I'd last seen it, so was the street. Even so, Monsieur's gaze darted to the front windows again and again, and I couldn't stand to see him look so uneasy. I took his arm. "We'll talk in the office."

"Oh, no,
cherie
. I have an idea even better than that." He bent to retrieve two packages of potato-soup mix. "The water is already boiling and the wine, it is open. If you hadn't interrupted me while I was searching for the soup mix, I would have put everything back where it belongs and be eating my dinner right now. You'll join me, yes? We'll go upstairs. To the cooking school."

I had already started down the aisle toward the back of the store, but when I heard this, I put on the brakes and fought to catch my breath. "That's where you've been all this time? Upstairs?" I was torn between giving Monsieur a hug and punching him in the nose, and he wasn't the only one I was mad at. After all, I was supposed to be the detective, and I hadn't even known the person I'd been looking for was living right over my head.

Good thing the lights were off. Monsieur didn't see when my cheeks flamed.

Or maybe he did. "I am sorry to cause so much trouble," he said. "
C'est vrai!
It is only just that . . ." Again, he glanced at the windows and, even in the dark, I could see that his eyes were round and his forehead was creased with worry. He ran his tongue over his lips.

And I decided right then and there that whatever he had to tell me, it could wait until we were upstairs and had the door closed and locked behind us.

We went to the back of the store and he punched in the security code to open the door at the bottom of the steps that led up to the cooking school. Even once we were upstairs, though, he didn't turn on any of the lights, and I knew why. The school has a gigantic window that looks over the street. It lets in an incredible amount of light. The design is pure genius. The natural light adds to the elegant ambience established by the stainless-steel appliances and the individual work stations with their sleek granite countertops.

But a window that lets in light lets it out, too.

I didn't need Monsieur to say a word. In complete darkness, I followed him to the back room where there was storage space, sinks for cleaning up--and no windows. Once we had the door to that room closed, he dared to turn on a light.

I saw that he had a nearby table set with a linen cloth, china, and a set of sterling flatware. There was a loaf of bread on the table, too, and an open bottle of wine. He got another glass, poured, and handed it to me.

"That is better, yes?"

"Yes. But . . ." I sucked in a long breath and forced myself to let it out slowly. "I'm confused. What have you been doing up here?"

Monsieur didn't look any happier saying it than I was hearing it. "Panicking mostly," he admitted.

"Then why not talk to the cops!" It seemed the simplest solution to me, and I cupped my wineglass in both hands and paced back and forth, waiting for some sort of explanation that would put the last week into perspective.

It was a long time coming. Monsieur drank some wine, poured the soup mix into the water he had boiling on the stove, got a bottle of sherry from a cupboard. He waved toward the table and I took a seat. He set a place for me, cut into the loaf of bread, and handed me a piece.

"It is difficult to explain," he said.

"As difficult as it's been for your friends to wonder if you're dead or alive?"

I hadn't meant to sound so furious. Or maybe I had. Now that my shock had settled into mere surprise, I felt bitter frustration nip at the edges of my composure. Like anyone could blame me? I scraped unsalted butter over my bread and chomped, chewing it over along with the thought that relief and anger can apparently go hand in hand.

"We've been worried sick," I said without apology. After all, I wasn't the one who needed to apologize. "And all this time--"

"I have been right here. Yes." At least he had the decency to hang his head. When the timer rang, Monsieur filled two soup bowls, added sherry to each, and served. While I waited for my soup to cool, I stared across the table at him.

"It is hard for you to understand, I know," he said. "Things are . . . how do you say this? These thing are confusing."

"That's putting it mildly." Now that I'd had a few minutes to think, my brain had finally started to work and my thoughts were lining up. Systematically, I went over everything I'd learned and seen since the day Monsieur went missing, including those driver's licenses.

My hands trembling with the effort to control my temper, I reached for another slice of bread and buttered it. "So tell me, what's really going on? And who are you, Monsieur? Who are you, really?"

He had been in the middle of ladling a spoonful of soup to his mouth and he stopped, the spoon raised and the soup on it sending a small cloud of steam in front of his face. It struck me as appropriate, seeing as how Jacques Lavoie's life was all about smoke and mirrors.

He put his spoon back into his soup bowl. "I am not surprised that you have discovered this about me," he said. "You are a very smart woman. This, I have always known."

"Not so smart that I can't be fooled."

"Oh, no. No,
cherie
!" Monsieur's laugh was deep and throaty. It always reminded me of Pepe Le Pew. "You are very bright. You have found out--"

"That there is not now and never has been a family named Lavoie in Sceau-Saint-Angel, France. That you own a truckload of false IDs. That you are not and never have been Bill Boxley, and that when you stole his wallet, you took his driver's license but not his credit cards." I took a deep breath before I added, "Oh, and I also know that Fred Gardner must have been one hell of a good teacher because folks in Allentown still remember him fondly even though he's been dead for twenty years."

As I spoke, Monsieur's face grew paler and paler. By the time I punctuated my last words by slapping my hand against the table, he was the color of the white apron he wore over a blue oxford shirt that looked as if it had been slept in.

"See?" He blinked rapidly and tried for a smile that never quite peaked. "It is just like I said. As a detective, you are brilliant. You must be,
cherie
, to know all this. You are as smart as you are beautiful. It is no wonder that my dear friend Jim thinks so highly of you. You are--"

In any other circumstances, I might have been all for basking in his praise. Right then and there, I was so not in the mood. I leaned over the table and cut him off with a look. "You can cut the crap and the phony accent--Norman."

If ever I hoped to find proof, there it was. Monsieur's mouth fell open and he collapsed back into his chair.

In spite of the fact that I was fighting mad, I was not heartless. Rather than continuing my attack, I backed away and gave him a moment to collect himself. He did, and right before my eyes, I saw a transformation. The swagger went out of his shoulders. The cocky Gallic smile fled his face. When he finally spoke, I wasn't the least bit surprised that there wasn't a trace of an accent anywhere in his voice. It was flat and nasal and East Coast sounding. Norman may have grown up in Allentown, and maybe he did come to a bad end in Las Vegas, but if I was a betting person (and it goes without saying that I'm not), I would have bet he'd spent time in New Jersey, too.

"It's a scam. All of it's a scam. Like all the other scams. You understand, don't you, kid?"

I wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily. I kept my eyes on him. "You mean like Vavoom!?"

With his spoon, he made figure eights in his soup. "Kind of." He shrugged. "I mean, the whole thing about being French . . . you can see how it helps with the business, right? Who's going to take cooking lessons from a guy named Norman from Allentown? Who's going to buy expensive cookware from him? Norman Applebaum . . ." He sighed. "Doesn't exactly have the ambience I was looking for when I bought this place."

"And Bill Boxley?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Boxley was the guy from Fredericksburg, right? That's where I was running a sweet little scam with this cleaning fluid." His shoulders shot back, his eyes lit, and I didn't have any trouble at all picturing him as Bill Boxley, hawking his product in front of an enthralled crowd. "Cleans. Shines. Polishes. Just a little dab on a rag takes care of all your cleaning needs. Tarnished silver? Just wipe it away! Dirty floors? Add a quarter cup to a bucket of warm water and they're hospital clean! Greasy dishes?"

He chanced a glance my way. When he saw I wasn't buying (his cleaning product or his attempt at winning me over), he went back to being regular ol' Norman. His shoulders slumped. His cheery, confident personality disappeared, and he made a face. "I made a bundle. Until folks found out my magic cleaning fluid wasn't so magical."

I'm not usually cynical. Which is why he was surprised when I sneered, "What, it ate through cloth?"

"It was fine on cloth. It was fine on everything. It should have been, it was dishwashing detergent."

"Which you repackaged and sold as something wonderful. Like the seasoned salt you sell as Vavoom!"

"And you put it on sale!" He tried to look outraged by the audacity of my management decision, but actually, Norman looked a little impressed. "You got guts, kid," he said. "You're good at setting things right."

If it was true, why didn't I feel better? I spooned up a mouthful of soup. "I'm getting nowhere on Greg's murder," I said. "But that's because I haven't been able to get all my questions answered. Because the person who has the answers . . ." I paused here so my words had a chance to sink in. "The person who has the answers was nowhere to be found." A thought struck and I set down my spoon and looked across the table at Norman.