Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (22 page)

"You don't know."

My blank expression said it all.

Mindy/Mandy shrugged. Her tank top gaped and, like it or not, I saw that her breasts were round and firm and perky. As much as I hated to even think about it, I could see why Peter had been attracted. I wondered what she wore behind the counter at the dry cleaner's, and if the day Peter had first walked in there and been smitten on the spot, she was displaying her pierced belly button for the world to see.

"Peter, he said he'd seen you."

Mindy/Mandy's words snapped me out of my thoughts, and it was just as well.

"He stopped in," I said automatically. "To the restaurant where I work. And the gourmet shop where I work and . . ." No doubt that sounded as weird to her as it did to me so I simply added, "He just stopped in to say hello. To talk. That's all. I don't want you to think--"

Her laugh stopped me cold and Mindy/Mandy opened the door and stepped back inside. "I'm sorry I can't help. Peter isn't here. He doesn't live here anymore. In fact, we're getting a divorce."

Thirteen

WAS I SURPRISED?

Not really.

Not by Mindy/Mandy, or by anything she'd told me.

Suddenly, the whole thing about Peter showing up again in my life was starting to make a whole lot of sense.

The real question was how I felt about it.

And the real answer to that question?

The next Monday night, I told myself I'd better figure it out, and I'd better figure it out fast. Peter was on his way over to Bellywasher's, and before our cooking students left and he showed up, I needed to have a plan.

As to how I'd found Peter in the first place after striking out at Mindy/Mandy's . . . well, like I said, these days, you don't need to be a great detective to track people down. Of course it helped that his soon-to-be-second ex-missus knew which extended-stay hotel Peter was staying at and didn't mind giving me the number.

Contacting Peter and asking him to give me some poker pointers was a better plan than dwelling on the fact that he was soon to be a free man, and I was the free woman who'd once dreamed that he'd see the light, walk away from Mindy/Mandy, and come crawling back to me.

It was also way better than brooding, and brooding was exactly what I did when I thought about how divorces worked. I certainly didn't know the ins and outs of Peter's relationship with his current wife, nor did I want to. But I guessed that Mindy/Mandy was soon to be the sole owner of the house that should have been mine.

"Annie!"

I shook myself out of my thoughts and found Jim watching me. A couple seconds ticked by before I realized where I was--in front of the cooking class--and what I was supposed to be doing--showing them how to use a variety of citrus juicers.

Considering that at the beginning of the evening I'd demonstrated a kitchen torch--with less than successful results--I had to give Jim a lot of credit. At least he was willing to give me a second chance. Apparently, he didn't hold a couple of singed aprons and a siren blast from the smoke alarm against me.

"Citrus juicers!" I beamed a smile at the students gathered around me and, call me paranoid, but I saw the way they backed away from the table when they realized I'd be the one doing the show-and-tell.

"You're safe. This one doesn't even plug in." I held up the brightly colored heavy die-cast aluminum juicer for the class to see. Because I couldn't decide, I'd brought them in all three colors: orange, yellow, and green. "You put a half of a citrus fruit in here." I demonstrated with a lime, setting it into the rounded end of the bright green juicer. "Squeeze the two handles together." I did. "And the halved fruit is turned inside out." I showed them, along with the nice bit of juice I squeezed into a glass.

"For bigger jobs . . ." I moved on to the electric juicer on the table. "This one even has a filter that separates juice and seeds." I had a halved orange nearby and made a glass of juice, lickety-split.

"Very nice. Thank you." Jim gave me a smile before he turned his attention back to the class. "Just a couple of the gadgets that can make your cooking life easier. I think Annie's got a few more she brought with her . . ." He glanced my way and I nodded. "So when we're done with this next bit of cooking, she'll show you how to make the perfect cup of coffee."

The next item on the menu was eggs Sardou and while our students got to work and with nothing to do for the moment, I stepped back and simply watched.

I don't know where Jim got the notion to do breakfast foods rather than more traditional pub fare for the night's class. It might have been because of those memorable waffles Norman had served us a couple of mornings before. Wherever the idea came from, our students were eating it up.

Literally.

They'd already made heart-shaped pancakes on the special griddle I'd brought from Tres Bonne Cuisine, as well as soft-boiled eggs. I have to admit, I was pretty proud of myself as far as the eggs were concerned. Without any help at all from Raymond, I'd searched the shelves at the shop and found adorable egg cups made of wire and complete with little legs and chicken feet. As long as I was having a fit of culinary brilliance, I'd also brought along an ingenious little device that fits over the tops of the eggs and cuts off the rounded part of the shell, scissors-style.

Thanks to Raymond's patient tutoring, I was actually able to demonstrate without too much of a mess.

"You're doing fine." After he'd demonstrated that mind-boggling, one-handed method he uses to crack eggs, Jim zipped by and gave me a quick smile. "Everything ready for later?"

I knew he wasn't referring to the other gadgets I'd brought to demonstrate. "Eve's coming," I told him. "And Marc and Damien said that as long as we're going to play cards, they want to sit in, too. But, Jim--"

We heard a groan as a student cracked an egg and ended up with a mess of white, yolk, and shell. She called Jim over for advice.

And I cooled my heels, waiting for him to finish.

When he was done and while part of the class was busy slicing artichoke hearts and another part was making creamed spinach, I tried again.

Jim was on his way over to see how things were going with the students who were taking their first stab at making hollandaise sauce, and I stopped him, a hand on his sleeve. Ever since the night I talked to Peter and he agreed to stop at Bellywasher's to give us a poker lesson, I'd wondered how Jim felt about the whole thing. I practiced a thousand ways to explain and a thousand more to reassure him. None of which had ever come out quite right. Now, Peter would be there in less than an hour and I didn't have time for long-winded explanations. Or for beating around the bush.

Sure, I was uncertain about what I'd say to Peter now that I knew his current marriage was drifting oh-so-near the rocks that destroyed ours.

Yes, I kept picturing myself in those early days when I learned about Mindy/Mandy, watched my whole world fall apart, and told myself I'd do anything--anything--if only I could get Peter back again.

Absolutely, I was having a giant case of mixed emotions, what with Peter's sudden reappearance looking less accidental and more like he wanted to reconnect with the woman who would still be his woman if not for the woman he left her for.

But Jim didn't have to know any of that.

I cared too much about him to let that happen.

And he cared too much about his class for me to keep him standing there when his students needed his help. That's why I just blurted out, "You know this doesn't mean anything to me, don't you?"

"The hollandaise?" Jim is not one to be dense, and he sure isn't dumb. The fact that he was pretending to be clueless was my first hint that the whole Peter-showing-up thing actually might bother him more than he was willing to admit.

"Not the hollandaise." As if he needed me to point this out. "Peter. You know, Peter coming over here and--"

Jim was as matter-of-fact as he could be considering that he was keeping his voice down so our students wouldn't overhear. "I know that in order to help Norman, you need to talk to that Victor Pasqual fellow. I know you'll never be able to get close to Pasqual if you can't play poker, though how you're going to manage that even if you can play poker is a mystery to me and, I suspect, to you at this point. Nonetheless, I know you, and I know you want to be prepared. I know you don't know how to play poker, and, as I am more than willing to admit, neither do I. What's that Eve read in that tabloid newspaper she's been carrying around with her? These days, Pasqual's obsessed with Texas Hold'em. I don't even know what that is. That means, if you're going to learn to play cards, you need to ask the advice of someone who does know how. And since you're acquainted with him, I know it also makes perfect sense for that someone to be Peter."

"So . . ." OK, so it wasn't exactly subtle. At this point, it made more sense just to lay things on the line than it did to dillydally. "It doesn't bother you?"

When one of the hollandaise cooks screeched and pointed in a panic to the double boiler where the egg yolks, lemon juice, and water were supposed to be gently heating and instead were bubbling over like a volcano, Jim told her to turn off the stove, then held up one finger, asking for another moment before he turned his attention back to me. "When you first started investigating, I was opposed to it. You know that, Annie. I was worried for your safety. But now . . ." He grabbed a whisk to take over to the hollandaise makers, and continued:

"You've got a gift. And you're using it to make the world a better place. You need to do what you have to do. You need to do what makes you happy."

And with that, he was gone.

And I was left feeling more perplexed than ever.

I had to do what I had to do? I had to do what made me happy?

Was Jim telling me to get back together with Peter? Did he think I wanted to?

Would Jim be happier if I did?

He was already repairing the hollandaise disaster, so I had time to ponder all this. It was just as well that I heard a knock on the front door of the restaurant; all that pondering was getting me nowhere and making my head hurt, to boot.

Finding Peter at the front door didn't help. He was dressed in nicely worn jeans and the raspberry-colored golf shirt I'd given him for his birthday just a couple months before he met Mindy/Mandy. With his dark hair and eyes, Peter had always looked good in vivid colors. Some things never change.

Maybe he knew what I was thinking because he smiled. "You look terrific," he said with a quick glance at my yellow T-shirt, my black pants, and the white apron I wore over them both. "This cooking thing is good for you."

"You wouldn't say that if you ever saw me in the kitchen."

"Oh, I don't know." A tiny half smile playing around his lips, he cocked his head, and he looked so lost in some pleasant thought, I wondered if there had actually been a triumphant moment in my cooking life that I had blocked out.

Or not.

"We're not here to talk about my cooking," I reminded him. And myself. "We're here to learn how to play poker."

"And I've got everything you need. Right in here." He held up a paper shopping bag at the same time he glanced at the clock that hung above the bar. "Looks like we've got a few minutes before your class is over. Can I buy you a beer?"

I wasn't one for giving freebies but he was, after all, there to do us a favor. I poured a glass of the beer I knew was Peter's favorite and brought it over to the table we'd set up for our game, and when he reached for his wallet, I refused to even think about it. He took a sip of the beer, smiled his approval, and sat down. I would have, too, if I wasn't feeling as if my skin was crawling with electricity.

There was only one way to settle my nerves and I knew it.

I stood my ground and looked down at Peter. "You want to tell me what this is all about?"

"This?" He held the glass of beer up to the light and examined its amber color. "I'd say it's all about wheat and hops and the magic that is yeast. It's chemistry, you know. And that's something I know a lot about. But something tells me that's not what you're talking about."