Miranda Bliss: Cooking Up Murder

It was good advice. Too bad I wasn’t in the mood.

In the passenger seat of Eve’s car, I hunkered down, my hands in my jacket pockets, and looked out the car window. “Not the end of the world for you,” I told Eve. “You didn’t look like a total loser in front of Jim. Plus your soup was great. You know what? I just don’t get it!” I slapped a hand against my thigh and turned to her. “Your veggies were lumpy. You bought the cheapest chicken stock you could find. You used stolen broccoli.”

“Not exactly stolen,” she reminded me. She smiled as she kept an eye on the traffic in front of us. “You did offer it.”

She was right. And because I needed to get rid of the first batch of burned mirepoix and start all over…

Because by that time I was so nervous and so embarrassed that I took way too long…

Because I’d screwed up royally, I never did get to the add-the-main-ingredient stage of tonight’s recipe. Eve ended up using all my broccoli.

“Jim said not to worry.”

“Jim.” I grumbled the name. “None of that would have happened if it wasn’t for Jim.”

Eve laughed. “Are you blaming him for being scrumptious?”

“I’m blaming myself for being stupid.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I should know better. If I wasn’t so easily distracted-”

“Oh, honey, guys like Jim are what easily distracted is all about! Don’t feel bad. You acted like any other woman would have acted.”

“I’m not every other woman.”

“Then maybe you should try to be. Lighten up. You’re too hard on yourself. Relax and just have fun. You were never like this until Peter the Jerk stomped all over your self-confidence. Stop thinking about him. Stop worrying about what other people think of you.”

“People like Jim? You were worried about what he thought of you, weren’t you?”

“Was I?” By the way she said it, I could tell that Eve hadn’t seriously considered this part of the equation at all. “I wasn’t making a play for him, if that’s what you think.”

“Which is why you practically hung out a Come-and-Get-It sign.”

She laughed so hard, she had to catch her breath before she could reply. “He’s not my type. You know that, Annie. A cooking instructor?” She wiped a tear from her eye. “So he’s cute. So he’s more than cute! I don’t have him in my sights, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really!” I defended myself so vehemently that even I wondered if I was telling the truth. “Guys like Jim don’t look at women like me.”

“Because you’re cute.”

“Because I’m not…” I screeched my frustration. “Because he’s sexy and gorgeous and has that accent that makes my toes curl. That’s why. I’m not his type.”

“If you tell yourself it’s true, you will never be his type.”

I chewed over the thought, and I have to admit, I didn’t like the way it tasted. Mostly because I knew everything that Eve said was right on the money.

“Oh, rats!” She slammed on the brakes, effectively jarring me out of my thoughts.

“My watch is gone.” Eve fingered her bare left wrist. “It’s back at Très Bonne Cuisine. I took it off when we were washing up, and I know just where it is. On the counter next to the sink.”

I thought about Monsieur Lavoie and the way he kept the door between the shop and the cooking school locked. I shrugged. “It’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Well, yes, I know that.” Eve chewed on her lower lip. “If it was only that…”

The driver behind us laid on his horn, and Eve started up again. “I’m having lunch with Clint tomorrow,” she said by way of explanation.

Clint.

I did a quick shuffle through my mental Rolodex.

It wasn’t easy keeping Eve’s love life straight. Or the legion of guys who always seemed to be hovering, like bees around an especially beautiful flower.

There was Joe, the professional football player. Michael, the attorney. Scott, the architect. And Clint…

I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking, and the pieces finally clunked into place.

“Oh, Clint. The jeweler,” I said. “He’s the one who gave you-”

“The watch. Exactly. If I don’t wear it, he’s going to notice. And if he notices, he’s going to ask why.”

“And you’re going to tell him that you left it at your cooking class.”

“Practical as always, Annie.” As if practical were a dirty word, she tsk-tsked away the very idea. “If I don’t wear it, Clint is going to think that I don’t care.”

I thought back to the conversation we’d had only a few days before, the one in which Eve complained about everything from Clint’s choice of aftershave to Clint’s decision to trade in his BMW roadster for a sedate and sensible Volvo.

“You don’t care,” I reminded her.

Eve squealed a laugh. “Of course I don’t! But there are better ways to deliver the news. No, no. I could never be that cruel. Not to Clint. After all, the shine may be off our relationship, but the boy does have exquisite taste in jewelry.”

Eve wheeled left at the next street, ducked into the nearest driveway, and turned around. Before I could protest further, we were headed back toward Clarendon.

Fortunately, it was a Monday night, and the streets weren’t as crowded as they can be later in the week. Between that and the fact that it was after nine and most of the stores in the area were closed, traffic was pretty light. We cruised past the Cheesecake Factory, where there was still a line outside waiting to get in, and the Whole Foods Market that sold the yogurt that I loved so much. We turned left at the cross street closest to the shop. It must have been our lucky day (or night), because we found a place to park within sight of Très Bonne Cuisine’s back door.

When we got out of the car, the first thing we heard was a woman’s voice raised in anger.

“No! I will not listen. I will not change my mind. You know what I want.”

“That’s Beyla.” I recognized the voice and the accent that belonged to the beautiful, dark-haired woman in our class. And in the glow of the security light near the shop’s back door, I saw her, too. She was facing off against a man. He was farther from the light, and all I could see was a hulking silhouette. Though he kept his voice down and I couldn’t make out what he said, there was no mistaking the anger in his voice when he replied.

“You say this? To me!” Beyla shot back. She raised her chin, and when she snarled, I could see her teeth glint in the light. “I’ll kill you, Drago. I swear it on the souls of my ancestors.”

Apparently, Drago wasn’t buying any of this, and just to prove it, he closed in on Beyla. He stepped into the circle of light, and for the first time, I saw his face.

Eve had come around to my side of the car, and I grabbed her arm, automatically drawing her into the protection of the shadow of a nearby tree. “It’s the big guy,” I hissed. “The one who almost knocked me out cold when we got to class!”

“Yeah, and he’s even more pissed than Beyla.” Eve leaned forward, trying to hear and see more. “What do you suppose they’re fighting about?”

“Something tells me it’s none of our business.” I tugged her toward the front of the shop. “I think we should get out of here.”

“And miss all the fun?” Eve shrugged out of my grasp. “I’ll bet they were lovers in the Old Country. You know, one of those family feud things. Forbidden pleasure and all that.”

I heard Drago’s voice again and saw him pull back his shoulders. He was a big guy. Call me a wimp but if I had I been in Beyla’s position, I would have been intimidated. She looked more defiant than ever. I could practically feel the bad blood between them all the way over where we were.