Miranda Bliss - Dying for Dinner

“I don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway. And our card games, they were always friendly.”

“And Greg always won?”

Len smiled. “Greg? Greg was the biggest loser to ever sit around our card table.” The smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. “Until last week, that is. Last week, Greg was the big winner. I wouldn’t even remember except that it was so unusual.”

“Did anybody take it too hard?”

His eyes snapped to mine. “You don’t think…?” Len clamped his ballcap back on his head. “You’ve been reading too many books. It’s a friendly card game. Just a friendly game, that’s all. Yeah, there was a little grouching last week. Somebody accused Greg of cheating and, being a math teacher, well, I guess he might have been doing something like counting cards. But really, Annie, I don’t think anybody took it too bad. Not bad enough to…” Again, his gaze roved the store.

I knew I had to keep him on track. “You don’t seem too upset about Greg winning last week.”

Len shrugged. “I’m not the guy who lost big,” he said, and he stepped back to the door. “I’ll bet Marissa would love to see you. We’re playing at our house next week. Stop by, why don’t you.”

I told him I’d think about it, and I would. I did. Because even as I watched the cleaning crew pack up…

Even as I said good-bye to Eve as she headed to Bellywasher’s for the dinner hour, and locked up and checked to make sure the door that led upstairs to where Monsieur used to conduct cooking classes was locked…

Even as I went into the back office to look over the lay of the land and try to figure out what, exactly, was involved in running a high-end kitchenware shop…

Even as I did all that, I thought about that Wednesday night card game.

And about how even the mildest-mannered player might make an enemy or two if his fellow gamblers thought he was cheating.

I was still thinking about all that later that evening when I parked my car in front of Guy and Gina Paloma’s house.

All right, yeah, I hadn’t been invited to stop in until the next week, but that was just a technicality. On my way up the front walk, I reminded myself what I was going to say to explain my presence before I started asking questions about that big win of Greg’s:

I just saw Len.

I just learned he was a friend of Greg’s.

I just wanted to say hello and express my condolences to the card players.

I would have done all that, too, if when the front door snapped open, I wasn’t too surprised to speak.

But then, I hadn’t expected to see Peter.

NOT BEING PREPARED FOR THE SURPRISES THAT WERE suddenly popping up in my life-surprises like running into Peter twice in close succession-was turning into something of a theme. Which would explain why I wasn’t ready-again-the next morning when I opened Très Bonne Cuisine and was inundated with people.

Notice I said people , not customers.

I quickly picked up on the fact that the flood of folks who packed the store were mostly gawkers.

“This is where it happened, right? Did you see the body? Was there a whole lot of blood?”

I’d heard the same sort of questions so many times that morning from the morbid thrill seekers waiting out on the sidewalk when I opened the shop, that when I heard them again-this time from a kid in droopy shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with the name of a heavy metal band-I snapped.

“Greg Teagarten was a nice, kind, gentle man,” I told the kid, and since he wasn’t expecting either the response or the vehemence in my voice, he jumped back and eyed me carefully. “How can you come in here like some kind of vampire, just looking for thrills and maybe the sight of a little blood? How dare you! How dare any of you!” OK, it might have been bad for business, but speaking my mind made me feel better. Since I was planning on speaking it some more, I raised my voice.

“If any of you are here to shop, I’ll be more than happy to help you,” I said to everyone and to no one in particular. “If you’re here because you want to see where the murder happened, or if you’re from the press and you’re expecting a story… well, then, you’re not welcome, so just get the hell out.”

Did I think this would work? Not really. So I was plenty surprised (see, it was a theme!) when a dozen or so people, including the kid in the droopy shorts, shuffled out and refused to meet my eyes.

There were three shoppers left and while I still had their attention (OK, they were staring at me like I was some kind of nutcase), I took the opportunity for a little PR.

“Sorry,” I said, and really, I meant it. “I didn’t mean to be rude, but-”

“Hey, no apologies necessary.” A bald man, a little older than middle-aged and wearing jeans and a black-and-white-patterned golf shirt, stepped toward the front counter where I was standing. When I realized my fists were on my hips and that probably wasn’t the way to greet a customer, I pressed my arms to my sides and smiled.

He smiled back. “Not to worry,” he said. He adjusted his thick glasses on the bridge of his nose, the better to see the other customers, who had gone back to browsing the aisles. “Everyone left is a regular. But you’re not.” He was a tall man, and he stepped back and looked me over. “I’ve never seen you in here before. Where’s Jacques?”

I had expected that, sooner or later, someone would ask the question and I had a story of sorts all prepared. “He needed a couple days off. You understand. I mean, after all that happened here the other night…”

“Of course.” The man was carrying a couple of pale green linen dish towels and a set of pot holders in shades of cantaloupe and watermelon. He set them on the counter. “I hope that means we’ll see you here more,” he said. “It’s nice to have a woman around. Adds a little class to the place.”

I knew he was kidding, so when he laughed, I did, too.

“Jacques should have hired you sooner,” he said. “Sure, the guy’s a cooking legend, and so many of the great chefs are men, but I’ll tell you what, for my money, nobody can cook like a woman. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, I don’t know, but I’ll bet you’re a dandy cook.”

“Cook? Oh, you know…” I didn’t think this was the time or the place to admit that cooking and I really didn’t get along, but the last thing I needed this early in my gourmet-shop career was for someone to get the wrong idea. “I’m just a friend of Monsieur’s. I’m just helping out. As soon as he’s feeling up to it, Monsieur will be back. He’ll be in charge. And I’ll go back to my real life over at Bellywasher’s.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s taking some time.” The man reached for the display of Vavoom! I’d moved to the front counter. I’d gotten there extra early that morning and before the store opened for business, I’d repriced all the Vavoom! at two dollars and ninety-five cents. It didn’t exactly make up for the exorbitant price of twelve ninety-five that Monsieur had been charging, but it made me feel less guilty about taking so much of his customers’ hard-earned money for the seasoned salt inside the jars. My display wasn’t nearly as artistic as the one Monsieur had designed. What it was, though, was very, very neat.

The man plucked a jar from the even, careful Vavoom! pyramid I’d built and added it to his pile of purchases. “Jacques is a sensitive kind of guy. I can only imagine how much this whole thing has upset him. So tell me, where’s he hiding out? The Ritz? Or is it the Willard? Knowing him, I’ll bet he went for upscale. One look at this place and even somebody who doesn’t know him would figure out that he loves his creature comforts.”