Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (4 page)

Eve, of course, had a different take on the subject. For her, Tyler Cooper was like a severe case of poison ivy.

So far, she hadn't found anything--or anyone--that could ease the itch.

But I digress.

Tyler was waiting for some kind of explanation from me, and I knew if he didn't get it--fast--I'd be out the door before I found out what had happened to Greg and who was responsible.

"Monsieur Lavoie was supposed to stop at Belly-washer's tonight," I told Tyler, my words choked by the painful ball of emotion lodged in my throat. "He didn't show. I came here . . ." I heard one of the cops working the crime scene call another man over to look at something, but I refused to turn around to see what they were up to. One more look at all that blood and I wasn't sure I could continue. "No one answered the phone when I called, so I tried Monsieur's cell. He didn't answer that, either, so I came over here to see what was wrong."

"Is Eve with you?"

It wasn't a question I expected and my head snapped up. I was just in time to see the wave of regret that clouded Tyler's expression and I knew he'd slipped up; he hadn't meant to ask about Eve. It was an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, and Tyler wasn't happy about it. Heaven forbid anyone should ever think he's human!

"She's parking the car," I told him, but if I expected him to surrender to his curiosity and ask another personal question, I knew I was mistaken. I stuck to the matter at hand, partly because I knew he'd appreciate it and, thus, be more forthcoming. Mostly because I was concerned, not to mention curious. "I came here because I was worried about Monsieur Lavoie."

"You mean this guy?" Tyler took a bottle of Vavoom! from the shelf. There was a black-and-white caricature of the Frenchman on the label that emphasized his round-as-apple cheeks, his sparkling eyes, and a smile as long as a baguette.

"That's him," I said, and, being careful to keep my back to the crime scene, I peered down the nearest aisle. "He's not here? Not anywhere? Are you sure?"

Tyler concentrated on the Vavoom! bottle. "You use this stuff?" he asked.

It was another question I wasn't expecting, and for the second time in as many minutes, I felt as if the polished-to-perfection hardwood floor had been pulled out from under my feet. I looked at the dozens of Vavoom! jars on display. "I . . . I used to."

"People say it's really good. Why don't you use it anymore?"

"Take a look at the price tag." It was a simpler answer than the truth, which was that in the course of my first investigation, I'd learned that Vavoom! wasn't the wonderful, magical seasoning everyone thought it was--Monsieur bought seasoned salt in bulk and repackaged it as Vavoom! Though it wasn't technically honest, I didn't imagine what he was doing was technically illegal, either, which was why I'd never divulged his secret to anyone. Besides, what was that old saying about a sucker being born every minute? If folks wanted to plunk down way too much of their hard-earned money for the stuff, that was their business. The fact that Jacques Lavoie promoted Vavoom! like gangbusters and used his own personal charm and the force of his very Gallic personality to convince them to spend that money was Monsieur's. If nothing else, he deserved points for being a marketing genius.

"So you were worried about him." I drew my gaze away from the Vavoom! and saw that Tyler had rocked back on his heels. He watched me closely. "Why? You think there was a reason to worry?"

I shook my head, ordering my thoughts. "I didn't have a reason. Not a real reason. I just thought it was unusual that he didn't show up when he said he would, that's all. I wasn't really as worried as I was just curious. I just thought that the whole thing about him not coming to Bellywasher's, I just thought it was--"

"Suspicious?"

Leave it to Tyler to think the worst of somebody. I dismissed the word with a wave of my hand. "I was going to say odd," I told him. "I thought it was odd. Monsieur is dependable. And he loves talking about this shop. He'd never miss an opportunity to do a little self-promotion. And that's what he was supposed to do at tonight's cooking class. He even said he'd bring giveaways, a Tres Bonne Cuisine shopping bag for each student, with a kitchen gadget and a recipe inside."

The bell above the front door rang, announcing someone had walked into the shop. I saw Tyler's gaze dart that way.

"They're not going to let her in."

Since he pretended not to know what I was talking about, he gave me no choice but to go on.

"Eve," I said. "She's going to try to get in, but you know she'll never get past the cops at the door. She's too conspicuous. It's easier for me to get into places. No one notices me."

"What makes you think I was looking for Eve? Why would you assume I was even thinking about her?"

I could have pointed out that I saw the way he perked up when he heard that bell ring. Like one of Pavlov's dogs. But I knew that putting Tyler on the spot would get me nowhere.

"You're right, of course," I said, not bothering to mention what I thought he was right about since--truth be told--I found it hard to believe that Tyler was ever right about anything. "It was only natural for me to come down here to see what was going on. Then to find this." This time I couldn't help myself; I glanced over my shoulder. "Poor Greg."

"You knew the guy?"

"Not well." I wished now that I had. "He was quiet and considerate. I can tell you that. He loved to cook. Monsieur said that after Jim, Greg was the best employee he ever had. He was never late for work. He never closed up early, even when the shop wasn't busy. I remember Monsieur saying that if there was nothing else to do, Greg would refold all the linens or clean off shelves even when they didn't need to be cleaned. He was that kind of guy."

"And his boss, this Lavoie fellow, he kept a lot of cash around?"

"You think this was a robbery?" My blood ran cold and I hugged my arms around myself. "It's awful to think that some thug off the street wouldn't be satisfied with the money. That he thought he had to take Greg's life, too."

For all I knew, Tyler was about to agree with this. He never had the chance. One of the cops studying the crime scene called him over. He never told me to stay out of the way and mind my own business, so, naturally, I followed along.

"Looks like the cash register hasn't been touched," the man told Tyler. "And look here." He pointed toward Greg's feet. "What do you make of that?"

I looked at Greg's feet, too. I remembered now that he'd once mentioned that he was prone to gout, so I wasn't surprised to see that he was wearing brand-name sneakers with good arch supports and sturdy laces.

Or at least he was wearing what was left of them.

Greg's feet had been shot. Both of them.

As far as I could see, there wasn't another mark on his body.

"That's strange," I said.

Tyler didn't have to turn around to know I was right behind him. "What's strange is that you're poking your nose into this when it's none of your business." He turned my way just so I didn't miss his sneer of epic proportions. "On second thought, I guess that's not so strange after all."

"But there wasn't any money taken," I said, just to remind Tyler we were talking about the crime and not the way I had of getting myself embroiled in these kinds of things. "It wasn't a robbery. And if somebody shot Greg in the feet, it wasn't like they wanted to kill him."

"They wanted to hurt him." It was an understatement, but I didn't point this out to Tyler. "It's almost as if--"

"They wanted to make him talk."

My comment settled between us and we each in our own way thought it over. I didn't have to think for long to know what I'd said made perfect sense. Why shoot a man in the foot--and twice? I mean, if you weren't trying to get something out of him? Tyler, it seemed, was not so easily convinced.

He snorted. "You can't possibly know that."

"Of course I can't." There was no use arguing the point. "But it just doesn't make sense otherwise, does it? I mean, why just hurt a person like that? Unless you're trying to make him--"

"Talk." This time Tyler didn't sound so skeptical. He glanced my way. "You know anything about this Greg guy that would make it seem likely someone would want to make him talk?"

I wished I did. I shrugged. "If you mean did he owe somebody big bucks for gambling or something like that . . ." Another shrug. "I can't say."

"But we can say this is strange."

"I already did say that."

Tyler wasn't talking to me; he was talking to the crime-scene technician. He turned his back to me just so I didn't think he was. "It must have hurt plenty, sure, but two shots to the feet . . . that shouldn't have killed the guy."

"Unless he was taking some kind of medication that made him more likely to bleed."

My comment worked just as I'd intended it to. Though Tyler was trying his best to turn me off and tune me out, he had no choice but to face me.

"Greg had a heart problem," I explained. "I know this for a fact because we were discussing healthy cooking once and he talked about how he was cutting fat from his diet. You know, on account of his heart condition. And I was here just last week when he went out to lunch. I walked to the pharmacy on the corner with him. He went there to pick up a new prescription for Coumadin."

"The blood thinner." The crime-scene examiner was listening as intently as Tyler was, and he nodded. "That would explain why he bled out the way he did. Poor bastard. If it wasn't for him taking that medication, he might be here to tell us the story."

"And let us know who did this." Tyler looked my way. "Or do you have a theory about that, too?"

"Nope. No theories." Just to prove that I wasn't about to start a crime-scene investigation of my own, I clasped my hands together behind my back. "I can only assume that the person who shot Greg never meant to kill him. He couldn't have known Greg was on the medication. He must have been stunned when Greg collapsed. How did you know, anyway?"

"About the medication?" Tyler looked at me as if I'd suddenly started spouting Chinese. "I didn't. Not until you told me."

"Not about the medication. About the shooting." I glanced around. Except for the swarms of police officers in the place, there was no one else around. Nobody who looked like a customer, anyway. "If there was nobody here but Greg and the shooter, how did you know about the shooting? Theoretically . . ." This was a new thought, and it caused my stomach to swoop. "I should have been the one who walked in and found the body. But you were already here. Was there someone else in the shop when all this happened? Is that how you knew?"

"Does it matter?"

"It certainly must matter to you. If someone else was here, that means you've got a witness. It also explains how you knew about the shooting. I mean, if someone called you . . ."

I could tell when Tyler surrendered. That would be when he grabbed my arm again and tugged me back toward the Vavoom! display.

"I don't need your help solving this case," he said.

"I never said you did."

"Then why are you asking so many questions?"

"I care. Is that some kind of crime? I liked Greg. I'm sorry he's dead. And Monsieur is a friend of mine. If Greg is dead, maybe he's in some kind of trouble, too."

"He's the one who made the call."

I wasn't expecting this, and it brought me up short. But only for a moment. I heard the undertone in Tyler's voice and I didn't like it. Not one little bit.

"You're nuts," I told him, and believe me, I wasn't worried about being politically correct or about keeping my relationship with Tyler on an even keel. Thanks to what he did to Eve and how much he'd hurt her and how she was my best friend, Tyler and I didn't have a relationship, so I didn't have anything to worry about. "You can't possibly think that--"

"Why not? You said it yourself. You said that whoever shot Greg didn't mean to kill him. You said that he must have been plenty surprised when he saw the way Greg bled out. That would explain the panicked, muffled call we got from your friend Lavoie. If he wanted Greg to talk--"

"If Monsieur wanted Greg to talk, he would have baked him a flourless chocolate cake. Or opened up a pricey bottle of wine and poured a couple glasses. He wouldn't have shot Greg in the feet, that's for sure."

"Is it?"

"Damned straight." I didn't back down from my position, not even when Tyler turned the full force of his icy glare my way. I raised my chin. "Besides," I said, "Monsieur knew that Greg was taking Coumadin. He's the one who referred Greg to the doctor who prescribed it. I heard them talking a couple times about the right way to take the medication and how Greg had to be careful about eating green, leafy vegetables while he was on it. Monsieur Lavoie would know that an injury might kill Greg."

"Maybe that was his intention the whole time."

I was so incensed by his stupid theory as well as his refusal to listen to reason, I couldn't face Tyler. My anger choking me, I whirled around, then spun back to him just as fast. "In case you didn't hear me the first time, you're nuts," I said, and I poked a finger at his expensive silk tie just to emphasize my point. "Jacques Lavoie is a food lover, not a killer. And I'm sure he has an ironclad alibi to cover what happened here tonight. He's the one who called you. That's what you said, right? Did he call and say Greg needed help?"

"He called and said someone was in the store and he thought Greg was in trouble."

"See." I was so pleased that Tyler had finally divulged this important part of the story, I practically crowed. "Maybe Monsieur had just walked in. Or maybe he was in the storeroom or something. Maybe that's why he didn't know what was going on. As soon as he saw that Greg was in trouble, he called the cops. That just about proves he didn't have anything to do with what happened to Greg."

"Yeah, that's pretty much what I thought."

Tyler had been toying with me and when I realized it, my mouth dropped open. I propped my fists on my hips.

"Don't take it so hard." He boffed me on the arm. "I just wanted to see what kind of response I'd get from you. You know, see if my gut reaction and your gut reaction matched up. You'll be happy to know they do."