Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (21 page)

Time to confess: I have some fantasies when it comes to Jim.

OK, that's not much of a confession. Anyone who knows me knows I'm nuts about Jim.

Truth is, though, I've also got some fantasies about his house, too.

Not that it's my kind of place. It's got too much gingerbread outside and, thanks to the old lady who sold it to him for a song, too many rooms inside papered in too many floral prints. His front porch is a riot of potted plants. Most of them are herbs he uses at the restaurant and I can understand the appeal. Really. But I always have to control the urge to straighten and sweep and get rid of maybe just a few of those overflowing pots. Just to make things a little more orderly.

Even with all that, I usually let my mind wander as I make my way up the front walk, and in those wanderings, I wonder what it would be like if the place was mine. Mine and Jim's.

Back in the day when I first met Jim, the very thought sent terror up my spine. I mean, the one man I'd sworn to love and cherish had gone and done me wrong, and after the disaster that was my marriage, I wasn't about to jump into another relationship where there was the teeniest chance of me getting my heart smashed (again) in a couple million pieces.

But that, as they say, is ancient history. And Jim isn't Peter.

It took a couple months for that truth to finally settle in, but now that it had, I was at peace with it. In fact, I liked imagining how Jim and I would spend our days together. And our nights.

"You're flushed." Jim touched a hand to my cheek. "You feeling all right?"

Since Norman was waiting inside and we had a mystery to solve, I thought it best not to confess what I was really thinking. At least not right then and there. Instead, I followed Jim into the house. It wasn't until after the front door was closed and locked behind us that Norman stepped out of the kitchen. Now that he'd slept in a real bed for the first time in a couple weeks and had a hot shower and lunch, he looked like a new man.

At least as new as any French chef could look now that he was just an ordinary guy dressed in a pair of Jim's flannel lounge pants (rolled at the hem) and a green and white soccer jersey that was way tighter around the middle than it was when Jim wore it.

Just to be sure we were safe, Jim checked the doors and windows--again--before we gathered around the table in the dining room with its fire engine red walls.

"So?" The look I gave Norman was expectant. "You were going to think about the scams you ran when you were Norman. Have you come up with anything that might help us figure out who's after you?"

Honestly, I was hoping for something a little more definitive than a shrug, but when he glanced at the written list on the table (I'd been bold enough to title it
Norman Scams
), a shrug was all I got from Norman. That and: "I'm drawing a blank. Honest, Annie, I've tried. I've spent all day thinking about it, and as far as I can remember, there isn't a person in the world who hates me enough to want to shoot me. There isn't anything at all I've ever done to anyone that would make them want to force me to talk. Talk? About what?"

"What do people ever want other people to talk about?" I was hoping for more, and I'm afraid my tone betrayed my disappointment. "Sex? Money? Secrets? Any of this ringing a bell?"

Another shrug from Norman. "Sorry to tell you, my love life has never been exciting enough for someone to want to hurt me because of it. Sure, I've had a few flings in my day, and a couple girlfriends here and there. Almost married one of them back when I was Fred Gardner. But hey, she was a real lady." The way Norman's eyes sparkled when he talked about her, I was sure she was. "A woman like that doesn't hold a grudge because a guy walked out on her. At least not for too long. And I hear she ended up doing pretty good for herself, anyway. She married an orthodontist and they've got five great kids."

"Then what about secrets?" Jim had gone into the kitchen and he pushed through the door, a pot of coffee in one hand and a plate of muffins in the other. I tried my best to stay out of Jim's and everyone else's kitchens, but just before the door swung closed, I saw a glimpse of the avocado green appliances and turquoise countertops that he swore he was going to swap out for something a little more twenty-first century one day soon.

There were cups on the table and Jim poured and handed them around. "You've told us already that you were in prison once. Maybe there's some other secret in your past--"

"Don't you think I would tell you if there was? I'd really like to get to the bottom of this. I swear, I wouldn't hold anything back." Norman's shoulders had only barely slumped when Jim passed a plate of freshly baked cranberry almond muffins under his nose. Norman took a whiff. His eyes lit up and he didn't look nearly as discouraged anymore.

I always knew he was a man after my own heart.

He had already taken a muffin, split it open, and buttered a portion of it before he said, "If only I could think of something."

"Money." It was the one thing we hadn't discussed. Since my mouth was full of muffin, too, and the word came out sounding more like "Mny," I swallowed and repeated.

"Money. The killer said it was payback time, and to me, that sounds like it has something to do with money. I've been to your home, Norman. It's nice. It's more than nice. You drive a Jag. You own a successful business. Pardon me for not being politically correct, but that's not bad for an ex-con."

This time, Norman's shrug was more nonchalant. Like the one he'd used so often when he was Jacques Lavoie. "I'm not suffering, that's for sure, but I'm not loaded, either. I've worked hard for everything I've earned. I mean, lately." Obviously thinking we were going to call him on the being-honest vow he'd made, he cleared his throat. "Sure, I ran a bunch of scams back in the day, but they never earned me really big bucks. Now, Tres Bonne Cuisine . . ." Even though he'd ditched the phony French accent, when he said the name of the store, he still added a bit of European pizzazz. "That place has made me a bundle. But hey, like I said, I've worked for it. Nobody can begrudge me that. Every penny of it's been honest. Well, except for the Vavoom!"

I thought about this while I nibbled on another piece of muffin. "So where did the money come from in the first place?" I asked, and I kept my eyes on Norman while I spoke. Promises or no promises, I wasn't ready to trust him implicitly. I needed to gauge his reactions and measure his answers. I needed to watch his eyes when I said, "I mean, the money you used to open the shop. Where did you get the initial capital to invest, anyway?"

A totally honest man would have answered without hesitation.

A liar would have, too.

Norman's response was somewhere right in the middle.

Carefully, he buttered half his muffin. "It was a card game," Norman finally admitted. "Just a friendly poker game. Nothing shady about that."

"You won enough money in a card game to open a store with a huge, expensive inventory?" I thought about the figures I'd heard thrown around, rent and utilities, salaries and taxes, and neighborhood retail association fees. Sure, Tres Bonne Cuisine was successful, but with those kinds of expenditures, it was a wonder any business could stay afloat.

"Just to open the doors . . ." I was in the middle of a bite of muffin, so I swallowed before I continued. "It must have cost plenty to get the place decorated and stocked. I've been looking over packing lists and picking tickets. Even at wholesale, the merchandise you sell isn't cheap."

"It was kind of a high-stakes card game." Norman said this as if it was no big deal.

I thought otherwise.

I pinned him with a look. "How high were the stakes?"

He stalled by making a face.

"Norman!" The name came out as a warning, not from me, but from Jim. It was amazing how much whammy he could pack into rolling that
r
in Norman's name.

It was enough to make Norman's face pale. "I won three hundred thousand dollars," he mumbled.

"Three hundred--!" I could barely get the words out. Maybe that's because a piece of muffin was stuck in my throat. I washed it down with a gulp of coffee. "Norman, that means if you won big, somebody lost big."

"Yeah, I guess. But that doesn't have anything to do with what happened to Greg."

"And you know this, how?" Again, it was Jim's turn, and again, he put that Scottish burr of his to good use. When Jim is dead serious, it's hard to ignore that earnest rumble. It sounds a whole lot like thunder.

Norman got up from the table and did a turn around the room. "He's not that kind of guy," he said.

"He who?"

Jim and I managed that bit of mangled English at the same time and together, we waited for an answer. It didn't come until Norman dropped back into his chair at the dining room table.

"Victor Pasqual," he said.

OK, let me make something perfectly clear here: I know nothing (and I do mean nothing) about poker. I also know very little about popular culture. It's not that I'm not interested in those tell-all magazines at the grocery store checkout counter, it's just that I don't have the time to care. Besides, if anything really juicy is happening to any celebrity (the ones I've heard of and the ones I haven't), Eve is sure to fill me in.

In a nutshell, what this means is that my mind is a vast pop culture wasteland.

But even I had heard of Victor Pasqual.

"The billionaire recluse who owns that hotel in Atlantic City and never goes outside and the only time anyone sees him is during one of his card games?" I stared across the table at Norman, wondering how he managed to run in those circles. I couldn't hold my curiosity in for long. "How on earth did you manage to run in those circles?"

"It was a long time ago." He waved away the idea that he was anything even remotely like a celebrity hanger-on. "Vic, he wasn't quite as eccentric back then. I knew a guy who knew a guy who . . . well, you get the picture. I was invited to a game. I won."

"Three hundred thousand dollars." I was having a hard time getting past the figure. But then, I am a numbers person, and these numbers, they were enough to take my breath away. "You won three hundred thousand dollars from a notorious gambler in a poker game, and you don't think that's important? This Victor Pasqual is rich and, from everything I've heard about him, a little crazy, too. He sounds exactly like the kind of guy who might hold a grudge."

"Which means . . ." Jim said this, but I knew him well enough to know he wasn't exactly anxious to hear my answer. He had that look on his face, the one that told me he saw the wheels in my head turning and he was afraid of where they might take me.

Which is why I answered as matter-of-factly as I was able. "We're going to need to talk to Victor Pasqual."

"The man never leaves the penthouse apartment at his hotel." This from Jim.

"Except to play poker," Norman added.

And they couldn't see where we were headed?

My muffin and coffee finished, I got up from the table, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door. "Then we're going to need to play poker with him," I said. "And I know exactly where I can learn to do that."

THESE DAYS, IT DOESN'T TAKE A DETECTIVE TO FIND
people.

I mean, really, all you need is the Internet and a few smarts.

I had both, and within an hour of leaving Jim's, I was parked in another part of town in front of a tiny brick house with a neat front walk and flower beds where marigolds bobbed their heads in the evening light.

It was the kind of house I'd always dreamed of owning.

The kind I'd been saving for.

The kind I'd had ripped out from under me when Peter left and took half our bank account (and half the down payment we'd saved over the years) with him.

It was the house Peter and Mindy/Mandy bought after they'd married.

I did my best to set aside the anger that assailed me when I considered this. After all, it wasn't why I was there.

I reminded myself of the fact as I rang the bell, then stepped back and waited.

Peter was the only person I knew who played poker.

I needed to learn to play poker.

So--

"Hi!" When the door was opened by a trim blonde in white shorts and a purple tank top, I tried to be as friendly as possible. As much as I'd heard about Mindy/Mandy (and believe me, I'd heard plenty) we'd never actually met face-to-face.

She was shorter than me. She was slimmer. And younger. Her hips weren't as round, her hair was cut short, and there wasn't an unruly curl in sight. She had a ring in her belly button.

"I' m Annie," I said, and I knew exactly when the pieces fell into place and she realized which Annie, exactly, I was. That would have been when she looked a little as if she'd bitten into a lemon. I looked past her into the house with its sleek, modern furniture and walls that were painted an especially appealing tone of beige (though truth be told, the shade was a little dark for my tastes).

"I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if I could talk to Peter for a minute."

Mindy/Mandy stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her.