Miranda Bliss - Dying for Dinner

Until I turned and looked back into the shop.

Thanks to a display of poolside acrylic glasses, the view of the front of the store wasn’t perfect, but it was plenty good.

“This has got to be the place where Monsieur was when he made that call,” I told Eve, and since she was standing closer to the back door, I grabbed her and marched her over so she could see what I saw. “Look. He could have come in here.” I raced over to the other door, opened it, and stepped into the entryway where Monsieur hung his coat and kept the trash containers. Just as quickly, I walked back in, certain I was retracing Monsieur’s steps.

“He could have come in here from the back parking lot. I’ll bet he was loading up the stuff to bring to Belly-washer’s, just like I told Jim. And then when he looked into the store…” I did just that, imagining the terrifying scene that unfolded in front of Monsieur’s eyes. “He probably couldn’t see everything…” I moved to my left, then my right, peering into the store as I did. From one angle, all I could see were stainless steel roasting pans, heavy-duty mixers, a display of flatware that would have put my plain-Jane silverware at home to shame-and a sliver of the front of the store. The other angle provided a view of the glassware, a line of Tuscan pottery, small kitchen appliances-and a similar peek at the front of the store.

“I’ll bet he saw enough,” I mumbled to myself, then raised my voice so Eve could hear me clearly. “Maybe he heard something, too. Go ahead,” I instructed Eve. “Go up front and say something. I’ll see if I can hear you.”

This sort of reenactment is right up Eve’s alley. Her face shining with anticipation, she scurried to the front of the shop, and a moment later I heard her growl, “Stick ’em up,” in a deep voice that I guess was supposed to pass for the killer’s.

“Yes. I can hear you perfectly,” I called. I raced to the front of the shop. She came toward the back. We met in the middle of an aisle that featured dish soap, hand cleaners, and lotions made from all-natural, earth-friendly ingredients. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how anyone could pay thirty-seven dollars for a soap dispenser refill, and, rather than think about it, I stuck to my case.

“He heard something,” I told Eve. “He must have. That’s how he knew Greg was in trouble. Monsieur’s taller than me and shorter than you…” I craned my neck, checking my theory against the evidence one more time. “He probably saw something, too. He might have seen the killer. He might have recognized him.” I looked to the back of the store and the back door that led into the tiny lot where Monsieur parked his silver Jaguar. “And then he took off.”

“I can’t blame him.” Eve shivered. “It must have been terrible.”

“But why won’t he come forward and tell the police about it?” Frustration bubbled in my voice, and I struggled for answers. Before I had a chance to find any, someone tapped on our front door. Through the glass panel on the door, I could see that it was a man, and I stepped around the cleaning crew just finishing (I made a mental note of the time so we weren’t overcharged), unlocked the door, and opened it just enough to deliver my message.

“We’re reopening tomorrow. Right now-”

“I’m sorry to bother you.” The man touched a hand to the bill of his baseball cap. “My name is Len, Len Dean.”

Surprised, I opened the door a bit wider. “Len Dean the English teacher who teaches with Peter Capshaw at Wakefield?”

A smile twitched across Len’s expression. “Don’t tell me you were one of my students. I hate it when I realize the years have passed and you kids are all grown up.” He peered into my face. “Maybe you were a student of mine. You look awfully familiar.”

“That’s because I’m Annie. Annie Capshaw. Peter’s wife.” Heat raced into my cheeks. “Peter’s ex-wife,” I added as quickly as I could. “I remember chatting with you and your wife at a couple of faculty Christmas parties. And I think we chaperoned the prom together three or four years ago.”

“That’s right.” Len’s smile was genuine. “I should have recognized you; I just didn’t expect to see you here. I just wondered…” He glanced into the shop and the smile fled his face. “I just came around to see if it was really true.”

“You mean about Greg? Yes, I’m sorry. It is. You knew him?”

“Greg and I…” Len swallowed hard. “Sorry,” he said. “You know how English teachers can be. Big softies. That’s what my wife always says. She says it comes from reading all that poetry, says the humanities teachers aren’t as tough as math and science teachers. Greg was a math teacher, you know. Over at Jefferson. We never worked together, but we knew each other. You know how it is in the education community. As a matter of fact, we played cards together every Wednesday night.” Once again, Len’s gaze strayed into the store. He didn’t know exactly where the murder had happened, of course, and his gaze wandered from the front counter and down the nearest aisle. I could only imagine what he was imagining-what had happened; where; if Greg had suffered-and since I’d always liked Len and his wife, Marissa, I took pity on him and opened the door so he could step into the shop.

“It’s going to seem weird tonight,” he said, settling himself near the display of cookbooks. “We’re playing over at Guy Paloma’s place. You remember him.”

I did. I had always liked Guy and his wife. In fact, when news of Peter and my separation ran rampant through Wakefield High, Gina Paloma was one of the few faculty spouses who called me to express her concern even though I didn’t know her well.

“We talked about canceling,” Len said, pulling me away from my thoughts. “But heck, Greg loved our Wednesday night games and we figured it wouldn’t hurt for us to get together and talk. You know, sort of like a wake. Or therapy.”

I did know, and I told Len I thought it was a good idea. Right before I realized that a perfect investigating opportunity had landed on my doorstep. Literally.

“I met Greg a few times when I stopped here at the shop,” I told Len. “He seemed like a nice guy.”

“He was great.” Len wiped a hand over his eyes. “Always real positive. Always upbeat. Even when he was diagnosed with that heart problem of his. He wasn’t going to let that stop him, he said. Now that he was retired, he had too much life to live.”

“Which is why this is so horrible.” I didn’t need to point this out to Len; he already knew it. I did it anyway, as a way of easing into some serious questioning. “Do you suppose there’s anything about Greg’s life that would have… I don’t know… I mean, do you think he-”

“Had any enemies? Ones that wanted to see him dead?” Len pulled off his baseball cap and ran a hand through hair that was thinner than last time I saw him. “If you knew him at all, you knew Greg wasn’t the kind of guy who made enemies. Except in school, maybe.” He chuckled. “I imagine a math teacher makes plenty of enemies. Especially in those middle school grades. But that’s just kids being kids. You know the way they are. You remember from when you and Peter were-”

“I do.” There was that phrase again, and, rather than think about all the promise it held and all the misery it ended up causing, I thought about the students in Peter’s classes who were special cases. Some were just plain hard to teach. Others had chips on their shoulders the size of the Washington Monument, and they weren’t about to let anybody-especially a chemistry teacher-knock them off. All of them were challenging. None of them were seriously dangerous.

“This doesn’t feel like it has anything to do with school,” I said, and Len nodded in agreement. “If Greg was a card player, was he involved in any other gambling?”