Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (8 page)

Jim pulled a key chain out of his pocket and handed it to me. It held three keys and had a little corkscrew on the end of it. I recognized it as the extra set of keys Monsieur Lavoie kept at Bellywasher's as a backup. "I need you to go over to Monsieur's."

I thought about the shop and the blood on the floor and how it wasn't supposed to be cleaned up until the next day, and my stomach flipped like it hadn't flipped in a long time. Well, at least not since a couple minutes before when I ran into Peter. "Of course, if there's something you need . . . ," I said, and I didn't sound convincing, even to me. "But I doubt the cops will let me in. They're probably still processing the crime scene."

"Oh, no, not to the shop." Jim gave me a quick, apologetic smile. "It's his home where I'd like you to go. I think we should pick up the mail, maybe turn on a light or two. You know, make the place looked lived in so that no one notices he's gone and gets it into their heads that this might be a good time for a burglary."

"Of course. I should have thought of that myself."

"I'd go on my own, but there's a bride coming in just a bit for a consultation on a wedding luncheon next month." He glanced up at the clock that hung above the bar. "The lunch hour is just about over. Take Eve with you, why don't you. That's better than you going off alone."

Grateful for the distraction and glad to have a legitimate excuse to tell Peter we'd have to catch up another time, I went into the kitchen to find her.

"This is perfect, Annie." She practically purred when I told her we were going out. "A chance to dish the dirt on Tyler and Peter and investigate, all at the same time."

It was exactly what I had been thinking.

Except for the Peter part, of course.

The Peter part I still wasn't ready to talk about. At least until I could think it over and figure out what the heck had just happened.

Of course, that didn't prevent Eve from trying to get every little morsel of info out of me. She talked all the way to Cherrydale, a stone's throw from the Clarendon neighborhood where Tres Bonne Cuisine is located. She was still talking when we maneuvered our way around a dark sedan just pulling away from the curb. We parked in Monsieur's driveway.

I'd been to the house a couple of times before, and this time, just like then, I was impressed by the charming 1920s bungalow. Monsieur had owned it for little more than a year, and he'd renovated it from top to bottom. I knew that though it was small, it was packed with every modern convenience, from a media room to the kind of sleek and well-stocked kitchen most food lovers only dream of.

I also knew that if I was going to find out where Monsieur was and why we hadn't been able to find him, this was the perfect place to start.

"Wait." I put a hand on Eve's arm and stopped her when she was about to pop out of the car. "Let's take a couple minutes and just look at the place. Anything seem weird to you?"

She stared at the house. "Not a thing. You?"

"No." I hated to admit it, but facts were facts. My hopes dashed, I pushed open the car door. "I was hoping we'd see something glaring. You know--"

"Like a written note from Monsieur, telling us exactly where he is and why?" I didn't have to look Eve's way to know she was smiling.

"That would be nice, but I'd settle for the next best thing."

"Which is . . . ?"

We stepped into the house and I picked up the mail that was lying on the floor near the chute. "Nothing interesting here, that's for sure," I said, thumbing through Monsieur's mail. That day, he'd gotten a cell phone bill, a cable bill, three catalogs from cookware suppliers, and an invitation to join a cookbook-of-the-month club. All of the mail was ordinary. "Maybe there's something here in the house that will give us a clue."

There wasn't. Not in the sleek, modern kitchen or the media room or the living room with its stylish furniture and walls faux painted to look like seude.

By the time I worked my way upstairs to Monsieur's bedroom, I'd pretty much given up hope of finding anything at all.

Of course, that was before I was brazen enough to look through Monsieur's dresser drawers. And what I found there . . .

"Eve!" She was checking out the bathroom and I guess she heard the hum of excitement in my voice, because she showed up lickety-split. "Take a look at these."

I held out a handful of driver's licenses for her to look at.

"They're from different states," she said, shuffling through them. "This one's from Nevada and this one's from Maryland and this one's from West Virginia. And they all belong to different people. Why would Monsieur have all these folks' driver's licenses?"

I couldn't blame her for missing the point. Even though it was practically screaming at us. I mean, after all, who would have imagined . . .

My hands trembling and my mouth suddenly dry, I took the licenses from her and fanned them out. "Sure, the states are all different," I said. "So are the names. But look at the pictures, Eve. The pictures are all--"

"Oh, my goodness!" Eve's mouth dropped open. Now that I was holding the licenses, she was free to point one perfectly manicured finger at them. "Annie, do you see what I see? All those pictures on all those licenses . . . they're all Monsieur Lavoie!"

Five

I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE CLEANING CREW USED TO get the bloodstain off the floor at Tres Bonne Cuisine, I only know that whatever it was, it worked like a charm. By the time they were there for a couple hours, there was little sign left of the horror that had happened in the shop only two nights before.

I watched as they finished the floor and started in on the counters, the front display window, and the area around the cash register. There wasn't any blood in any of those places--not that I could see, anyway--but Jim had put me in charge, and as the person in charge, I decided that I wasn't taking any chances; a thorough cleaning was definitely in order.

Besides, if I worried about the work crew and (since we were paying by the hour) how much the whole thing was going to cost, I wouldn't have to think about those--

"The drivers' licenses, Annie. We really need to concentrate on those licenses."

Eve was right, but even as she zipped past, refilling the stock of the store's trademark mint green shopping bags that were kept behind the front counter, I kept my sights--and my mind--on the cleaning crew.

It beat going over what I'd already gone over so many times in my head.

What were all those licenses doing in Monsieur's house? Why was his picture on them? What was Monsieur up to, exactly?

And could it have had anything to do with Greg's death and Monsieur's disappearance?

"I dunno." So much for my resolve. Sure, I'd sworn I wasn't going to talk about it, or even think about it, for that matter. But as Eve worked on stowing the bags within easy reach of the cash register, I just couldn't help but tell her what I was thinking. The whole thing was eating at me, and as always, it was easier to talk out the problem than it was to let it bounce around inside my head until my brain hurt. "It just doesn't make sense, Eve. Those drivers' licenses, they can't have anything to do with Monsieur's disappearance."

She paused in the middle of what she was doing, wrinkled her nose, and tipped her head. "No. They can't. But we should look into them anyway. What if Monsieur is a Russian spy? Or an undercover agent for some rogue dictator state? What if he's an alien and their technology is better than ours, of course, so they've learned how to make their people . . . or beings . . . or critters . . . or whatever they are, look just like us, and they're living among us and we don't know it?"

I could tell that after work the night before, Eve had gone home and watched the Sci Fi Channel. Or truTV. Or a little of both.

"I don't think so," I told her, and left it at that. What was the point of debating her theories, anyway? "But it sure is strange. And I sure would like to find out what's going on. But where would we even begin? Even murder is more straight-up than identity theft. If that's what it is. Fake driver's licenses . . . I'm out of my league." Just thinking about the possibilities--all of them terrible--made my heart pound. I told myself to get a grip. "There's got to be some logical explanation for Monsieur having those licenses. I mean other than the spy/covert agent/alien angle. All we have to do is figure it out."

This did not cheer me in the least. We had a murder on our hands already, and I had enough on my plate. Like a store to run. And all the paperwork piling up at Bellywasher's. Not to mention the not-so-insignificant fact of Peter walking back into my life.

It was overwhelming, and because it was, I stuck with the tried and true.

"Monsieur's not a crook," I said, trying to convince Eve at the same time I tried not to think about the neatly stacked display of Vavoom! jars nearby. Seasoned salt that passed for some magical seasoning was one thing, sure, but it was a far cry from identity theft.

I went on putting words to my thoughts. "So if Monsieur isn't a criminal, the licenses can't mean anything. They sure can't have anything to do with what happened here at the shop. Monsieur's not even a suspect. At least I don't think he is. Tyler didn't make it sound that way."

"No, he's not a suspect." For the second time in as many minutes, Eve was deep in thought. It was probably a record. "Monsieur's a . . . a material . . . a material something."

"Material witness?"

"That's right." Eve said this with so much conviction, I couldn't help but look at her carefully, surprised. As soon as I saw a flush race up her neck and darken her cheeks, I knew what was coming.

"Tyler called last night," she said, and if the confession wasn't enough to confirm my worst suspicions, the fact that she wouldn't look at me was. "He mentioned it, that's all."

"He stopped at Bellywasher's to see you yesterday. He called you last night. Eve, I'm not liking the sound of this. Are you and Tyler--"

"You watch your mouth, Annie!" As if she'd touched her finger to a live wire, Eve backed up until she was standing against the lighted cubbyholes that lined the wall behind the cash register. Each one featured a Tres Bonne Cuisine product, artfully displayed. The light glanced against a copper saucepan and made Eve look as if she was surrounded by a metallic halo. "Don't you even suggest anything like . . . like what you're suggesting. It's bad luck to talk about things like that. Or bad karma. Or something. Tyler and I . . ." She swallowed her words along with a breath of horror. "The man is despicable."

"So you've been telling me for a whole year." I leaned against the counter, the better to catch her eye. "But when I saw the two of you at Bellywasher's yesterday, you didn't look like you thought he was despicable."

"Annie, you know me better than that."

I did. Which was why when Eve went back to straightening the shopping bags without giving me details, I knew something was up. Eve is all about details.

"I was just being polite," she said, her voice tight and her shoulders rigid. "You know, the way I would be to any customer. I wasn't about to turn Tyler away. Not when he was going to buy lunch."

It was the same thing I'd told myself about Peter.

The trick was, I knew how I felt about Peter and I had the sneaky feeling it wasn't anything like what Eve was feeling for Tyler. Was I worried? Absolutely!

Which was why I had to probe--at least a little more.

"Only Tyler didn't," I reminded her. "Buy lunch, that is."

I knew the moment she gave in because her shoulders heaved. She stood, her voice as pleading as her look. "It's just that, with the wedding being postponed and all, . . . well, you understand, Annie. Tyler just needs someone to talk to."

"The way I remember it, you and Tyler never talked."

"And the way I remember it, you and Peter always did."

She had me there.

Before I could admit it, though, Eve went right on. "But I didn't see much talking going on between you and Peter yesterday. You made sure you hightailed it away from him before the boy could even begin talking."

"Not true," I pointed out. "Jim needed us to go to Monsieur's. And we did. And then we found the IDs and . . ." We were back to where we started, and I was no happier now than I was then.