Miranda Bliss - Cooking Up Murder

“You’ve been watching too many Law & Order reruns.” I pushed back from the table, making it clear that I was putting some distance between myself and my friend’s lunacy. “We can’t do this, Eve.”

I swear, she wasn’t even listening.

“Remember what that hardheaded, cold-blooded scum-bag Tyler said?” she asked. “He said Drago was poisoned with foxglove. I went to the library this morning, Annie, and the nice librarian there helped me out. Did you know that foxglove used to be called witches’ gloves? And goblin’s gloves? And dead men’s bells?”

I didn’t, and I didn’t see why it was important, but I was impressed by the simple fact that Eve had done some research. I told her how much I admired her initiative.

Of course, that didn’t mean I was buying into her girl-detective scenario, and I told her that, too.

She pooh-poohed my protest with a wave of one hand. “Don’t you see what I’m getting at here? First that nice librarian-did I mention it was a man and that we’re having drinks together tomorrow afternoon?-first, he found a picture so that I could see what foxglove looks like.” This time when she reached into the briefcase, she came out holding a color-copied picture. It showed a riot of tall, spiky plants covered with drooping, bell-shaped flowers in shades from purple to white and every tint of pink in between. The colors reminded me of Monsieur Lavoie’s potholder display.

“That nice librarian-his name is Tony, by the way, and he is a little nerdy, just like you’d expect a librarian to be, but in a cute sort of way-Tony, he took his break early so that we could take a little walk around the neighborhood. You’d never believe it, Annie. When you know what you’re looking for, you realize that plenty of people grow foxglove. Tony pointed it out. All over the place. You see what that means, don’t you? It would have been easy for Beyla to get some and give it to Drago. I’m sure she knows that it’s poisonous-with names like that, it’s pretty obvious that the plant can do some serious damage.”

“It’s only pretty obvious to someone who knows all the old names.”

It seemed like a reasonable argument to me, but Eve was already way beyond it. She pulled out another printed-from-a-Web-site sheet. “Symptoms of foxglove poisoning,” she said, and reached into the briefcase again. She slid out two slim volumes. The title of one said something about poisonous plants in the garden. The other was, surprisingly enough, a history of witchcraft.

I fingered the first book, flipping through it to the section Eve had marked. I scanned the pages and read a brief history of foxglove. Scientists never put a lot of credence in its medicinal properties until some time in the late eighteenth century, but it was often used in country villages before that, as an ingredient in folk medicines concocted by people known to the locals as-

My blood ran cold, and I glanced again at the second book. “You don’t think-”

“That Beyla is a witch. Of course! That would explain why she wears black all the time.”

“Yeah, that or the fact that she’s style conscious, that she looks fabulous in black, and that it’s easier to build a wardrobe around one basic color than to try and mix and match. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?”

There was nothing like a fashion discussion to snag Eve’s interest.

Usually.

This time she ignored me, and I knew for sure that I was in trouble.

“All we have to do is prove she did it,” Eve plowed ahead.

“If it was that easy,” I reminded her, “the cops would have already done it.”

“Yeah, if Beyla wasn’t so clever. She knows better than to drop her guard. You heard her-she said she didn’t even know Drago.”

“And we know she did.” I had to give her that one. I couldn’t ignore the fact that Beyla had lied, both to us and the police. I mulled over the thought. Naturally, my brain took it one step further. “And we know Monsieur Lavoie knew Drago, too. We saw Drago storm out of the store, and we saw how upset Monsieur Lavoie was by the whole thing. And then there’s John. He said he was having coffee with Beyla after class that night, but we know for a fact that-”

I heard my own words and the thread of excitement in my voice as I logically worked my way through the argument. Eve wasn’t one to miss little nuances. Her eyes lit up.

“Gotcha!” she said.

I wasn’t about to roll over so quickly. I tried one last objection. “Eve, we can’t-”

“You want to help me get back at Tyler, don’t you?” Her eyes grew sharp in a way that it was impossible for any best friend to discount. “You don’t want him to spend the rest of his happily ever after with what’s-her-name, talking about poor little Eve DeCateur and how she couldn’t even-”

“All right already!” I threw my hands in the air, surrendering. “But I’m only going to give this a few days.”

“A few days is all it’s going to take.”

“And I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“And I’m not going to do anything dangerous.”

“Annie! I wouldn’t dream of it,” Eve exclaimed. “I was thinking we could just start with a little computer research. I’m not very good at that sort of thing and…”

She left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but I knew just what she meant. I checked the clock that hung above the lunchroom door. “I’ve got ten minutes until I need to get back to work,” I told her. “Let’s get started.”

A couple minutes later, we were logged on to the Internet on the computer that sat on a table in one corner of the lunchroom. It was supposed to be a sort of company benefit, a place where employees could play games or check e-mail while they were on their breaks. But the computer was old and even slower than the one I had at home. Most of the time, no one used it.

Luckily, today was one of those times.

Because it seemed like the most logical place to begin, I Googled “Drago Kravic.” The computer went through its motions and, surprisingly, came up with a hit.

“Arta,” I read the little blurb and clicked on the URL. “Looks like Drago had something to do with an art gallery.”

Another wait, and then a home page popped up. “He owned it!” Eve exclaimed, reading over my shoulder and pointing to the screen. “It says here that Drago Kravic was the proprietor. Look, it’s right over in Georgetown. You know what this means, don’t you?”

I did, and just the thought was enough to make my stomach queasy.

It meant that after work and before Brussels Sprouts 101, Eve and I were going on a road trip.

I DIDN’T THINK DRAGO’S GALLERY WOULD BE OPEN,especially not just a few days after he died. In my mind, I pictured a black wreath on the front door and a line of sad-faced customers snaking its way around the block, waiting to pay their respects to the dearly departed owner.

Truth be told, I suppose that’s why I agreed to go to Georgetown with Eve. I figured we’d be there and back in twenty minutes. The trip might even prove to Eve once and for all that there were better uses for our time than sleuthing. Particularly when the sleuths didn’t know what they were doing.

And I still had to make a trip to the grocery store for those Brussels sprouts.

We stood by the curb on M Street, studying the building across the street. We could see the sleek turquoise and burnt orange Arta address sign. Much to my surprise-not to mention disappointment-the gallery lights were on, and we could see a man inside. It was raining, which seemed appropriate in a film noire sort of way. Eve shivered inside her lemon-colored tank top. Me, I was prepared; I slipped on my jacket. Just as I did, something clicked inside my brain.