Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (28 page)

But remember, I'd known Tyler for a long time. I also knew he was the kind of cop--and the kind of man--who appreciated hearing the truth. The simplest course of action seemed to be to cut to the chase.

"You broke Eve's heart." I shouldn't have had to point this out, but since guys can sometimes be unconscious when it comes to emotions, I figured it wouldn't hurt. "You called off your engagement to her. Now you show up and--"

"You think I'm going to do it again."

"I think a guy who's already engaged should remember he's already engaged and not hang around the woman who he used to be engaged to before he got engaged again."

The fact that he followed my logic says something about Tyler. I'm not sure what, but something.

"Kaitlin and I . . . we've called off the wedding."

This was news to me, and I suspect Eve didn't know it either. Not yet, anyway. If she did, I would have heard all about it. I thought through the implications. "You called off your wedding because you're seeing Eve?"

"Kaitlin and I called off the wedding because we don't want to get married. We should have realized it before, but, well . . ." His shrug spoke volumes. So did the level look he aimed my way. "You know how it is, Annie. Sometimes these relationship things, they get out of hand. Then things just don't work out."

At least he didn't say Peter's name. Then again, Tyler was more subtle than that. Just so he knew that I knew it, I looked at him as carefully as he was studying me. "Are you going to ask Eve to marry you again?"

He didn't answer right away. I would have felt better if he did.
Yes or no, get it over with and let me deal. Don't leave me wondering--and worrying
. He knew it drove me crazy. Which was exactly why he was doing it, and why he sat back and stretched out his long legs. "Me and Eve, we're not anywhere near that stage in our relationship."

"Which means you're going to string her along for a while before you break her heart again."

"You think?" He stood, and suddenly my small office felt even smaller.

Like a best friend would let something like a little unspoken coercion stop her?

I raised my chin and, though I was tempted to take a step back, I stood my ground. "I can't stand by and watch you hurt Eve again," I told Tyler.

"Admirable." The expression that sped across his face might have been mistaken for a smile by someone who didn't know him. "But I have no intention of hurting Eve."

"Yeah, I remember. Just like last time. Let's see . . ." I pretended to think about it, but let's face it, I didn't really have to. Just like a best friend stands up for her best friend, a best friend never forgets. "That time when you didn't hurt her, that's when you made her feel inferior, right? You said she wasn't smart. And that she wasn't career-minded so she couldn't possibly understand how important your job is to you. You told her that she wasn't successful enough to satisfy your perverse need to have a woman on your arm who can impress your friends by more than just her looks. You were cruel to her, Tyler. You hurt her. Bad."

"I know." Something very much like regret softened his expression, but I wasn't about to be fooled. Remember, I said I'd known Tyler a long time. "I've told Eve I was wrong," he said. "I've told her I'm sorry."

A better woman would have taken the comment at face value, and maybe even softened a little. I wasn't about to let Tyler off the hook so easily.

Even though there wasn't much room to move, I took a step forward, just so he'd know I wasn't going to fold like an origami stork. "So that apology of yours . . . you telling Eve you're sorry . . . that's supposed to make everything all better?"

"No. But it's supposed to start to make everything better."

I had another opportunity to be charitable. I chose not to take it.

"So Eve is just supposed to forgive and forget, that's what you're telling me?" The very notion offended me so deeply, I nearly choked on my words. "You can't just break a woman's heart into a couple million pieces and then show up again and expect her to pretend it never happened. You hurt her too deeply. You disappointed her. She trusted you. She depended on you. She thought you'd be there for her and--"

"We're talking about me and Eve, Annie. Not about you and Peter. What he did to you, don't take that out on me."

Tyler's words hit like a slap, and I found myself staring at him, wishing I could find a way to tell him he was wrong, and knowing it was impossible. See, for the first time in his hard-nosed, strong-armed, one-upmanship life, Tyler Cooper was absolutely, one hundred percent right.

"I'm sorry." OK, so it wasn't the most eloquent way to let him know, but it was sincere, and, for all his faults, I think Tyler appreciates sincerity. My laugh was both embarrassed and uneasy. "I guess that's what some shrink would call transference. You're hanging around. Peter's hanging around. And I'm just sort of taking what I feel about him and piling it onto you." I took a step away from Tyler, a symbolic way of letting him know that if he was genuine, I was willing to back off. "What Eve and you do, it's none of my business."

Like I said, he's subtle. At least he didn't come right out and call me an idiot. Instead, he rolled his eyes. "Of course it's your business. You and Eve are best friends. But Annie . . ." Tyler reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. Just as quickly, he knew he'd gone too far in exposing his softer side and he dropped my hand like a hot potato. "I don't know if we'll work it out," he told me. "But I do know I'm going to try. It would be easier if I didn't find you gunning for me around every corner."

"It's that obvious, huh?" I tried for a smile.

So did Tyler. "Look, if you see me stepping out of line . . . well, I guess if you see me stepping out of line, I can be pretty sure you'll call me on it."

"I will." My nod reinforced my answer. "And if you see me sticking my nose where it doesn't belong--"

"I'll tell you that, too. And you won't listen."

I might have taken offense if Tyler didn't grin.

And if it wasn't true.

"Speaking of that . . ." We weren't, but this seemed as good a time as any to talk to Tyler about what I wanted to talk to him about in the first place. When I sat down near my desk, he took the guest chair. "What
are
we going to do about Norman?"

Tyler scrubbed his hands over his face. "Wish I knew," he said, and I realized that, like Tyler, I appreciated the truth. Even when I didn't want to hear it. "Seems like all we can do is wait for the killer to come after him again."

A shiver snaked up my back. Telling Norman he could start leading a normal life again, then hanging him out to dry, didn't seem like a kindness. "There's got to be a better way. A way to bring the guy out in the open and still maintain some control," I said. "You know, a way for Norman to expose himself--you know what I mean," I added when I saw a smirk on Tyler's face. "A way for him to come out in public and for you to be there to make sure he's all right."

"You mean like using him as a decoy."

It wasn't what I meant when I said it, but now that Tyler mentioned it . . .

My computer was on so I clicked on the Internet and from there to the information about the food show where Norman--or at least his alter ego, Jacques Lavoie--was supposed to do a cooking demonstration.

"It's tomorrow," I said, pointing to the screen so Tyler knew what I was talking about. "I'll bet Norman hasn't officially canceled. I'm sure he forgot all about it. What if he did it, Tyler? What if he went to the food show and did that cooking demonstration? There probably wouldn't be an immediate threat. I mean, the guy wants to talk to Norman, right? Not kill him. If it really is this O'Hara fellow, he wants to find out what happened to the money from the bank robbery, and he wants the money back. He wouldn't risk hurting Norman before he can find out what's going on. And you, you could be there--"

"For protection." Tyler's gaze was steely. "It might work. Could you convince him?"

I wasn't sure. Until I thought that a man who rebottles dishwashing soap and sells it as a miracle cleaner . . . well, deep down inside, a man like that has to have a lot of nerve.

THE RONALD REAGAN BUILDING AND INTERNATIONAL

Trade Center has an amphitheater that seats six hundred and twenty-five. A half hour before Jacques Lavoie was set to step out onstage and demonstrate an array of French foods and cooking techniques, the place was just about packed.

And any one of those six hundred and twenty-five people could have been Greg's killer.

I looked over the crowd, checking faces against what I remembered of the man who'd tried to snatch Norman off the street in Atlantic City. Needless to say, I got nowhere fast, and honestly, I should have known this from the start. I'd tangled with a couple of killers in my day, and none of them were what I expected. Now the only thing I had to go on was that the person who'd shot Greg and the person who'd darted out of that black sedan back in A.C. was a man.

A couple hundred of the people in the audience were men.

Was I going to lose heart? Not by a long shot. I scanned the crowd one more time, looking for Tyler and the other detectives who were there to assure Norman's safety, and confident we were doing the right thing in the right way, I wiped any residual worry from my expression and turned toward where Norman was waiting in the wings.

In khakis, a blue shirt, and a crisp Tres Bonne Cuisine apron, he looked the part of the French chef so many knew and loved.

The only question now was, could he pull it off?

"You ready?" I gave him a quick hug. "You've got a lot of fans out there waiting for you."

"I do?" It was Norman's voice, Norman's nervous gaze that traveled to the stage and beyond, as if he could see the audience gathering on the other side of the curtain. We heard the murmur of the crowd and, like me, I had no doubt he was thinking that one of those voices might sound awfully familiar if it said, "It's payback time, Norman."

Unlike me, Norman wasn't very good about hiding his jitteriness. (At least I thought I was doing a pretty good job of it.) He ran his tongue over his lips. He shifted from foot to foot. Even though we needed special passes to get backstage and that should have assured us that everyone there really belonged, his gaze darted over his shoulder and, from there, up to the catwalk that crossed the stage high above our heads.

Norman's voice was as fidgety as his movements. "I dunno, Annie. I'm not sure I can do this. What if . . . what if he's out there waiting?"

"That's exactly what we want to happen." I put a hand on Norman's shoulder and leaned in closer so that none of the stagehands working around us could hear. "You're going to be fine. There are plenty of cops out there and a couple more stationed here backstage. Nobody's going to get anywhere near you. Not before they get the guy first. You remember what we said last night."

"It's the best way. It's the only way." Norman was talking the talk, but if his breathlessness meant anything, it meant he wasn't anywhere near ready to walk the walk.

This time, I gave his shoulder a pat. "Jim's here." I looked over to where Jim was chopping and dicing and slicing the food Norman--er, Jacques--would be using for his demonstration. "You don't think he's going to let anything happen to you, do you?"

Norman tried for a smile. "Jim's a real friend. After he found out everything he found out about me . . . after you all did . . . you all could have walked away."

"That's not what friends do."

Another smile. This one lasted a millisecond longer. "You think Jim's a good enough friend to do the demo for me?"

Since I suspected Norman wasn't kidding, I didn't answer.

Instead, I smoothed a hand over the place near the neckline of his apron where
Tres Bonne Cuisine
was embroidered in minty letters the exact color of the store's shopping bags. I could practically feel the hum of nervousness that coursed through Norman's body.

"You look handsome," I said.

He made a face. "Folks aren't going to think I'm so handsome when this story comes out. What's going to happen, Annie? I mean, even if the cops get this guy? Word's going to get out that I'm an ex-con, that I learned to cook in prison. My career is going to tank, the shop is going to fold, my reputation--"

"Hey!" I am usually not so rude as to interrupt someone, but it was either that or watch Norman dissolve with a case of the screaming meemies. I looked him in the eye. "You've got to stay focused and alert."

"I know that."

I would have felt more confident if he sounded like he meant it.

"You've got to remember that there are lots of people out there who are looking forward to seeing you, and lots of people on the sidelines who are here specifically to make sure you're safe."

This time, he didn't even try to talk, he just nodded.

"You can do this, N--" I swallowed what I was going to say. "You can do this, Jacques. You have to. For Greg."

"Yes." As if in response to his affirmative answer, the technicians tested the lighting, and at that very moment, a spotlight came on and illuminated the cooking demonstration area with its gleaming pots and pans and its pristine cooking surfaces. Norman stood a little taller. His smile inched up. There was suddenly a Pepe Le Pew swagger in his step and a very Gallic tilt to his chin. "It is
tres bien
, yes?" Jacques Lavoie smiled back at me. "We will have a wonderful time showing these lovely people the quiche and the soup and the crepes suzette. It will be--"