Miranda Bliss - Dying for Dinner

“I’m saying we don’t know. Maybe one of those licenses we found…” I looked toward the drawer of my computer desk because that’s where I’d stashed the IDs. “I’m saying that maybe one of those people is the real Monsieur.”

“No way.” Honestly, I couldn’t blame Eve for sounding so dead set against my idea. I didn’t like the sound of it, either. I didn’t like the way it made my insides uneasy, or the way just thinking that our friend may have deceived us made my skin crawl. “You can’t fake being French, Annie. Everybody knows that. French people are… well… they’re French.”

“I’m not saying he’s not French.”

“Then what are you saying?”

I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t like admitting it. I sighed. “I’m saying we should check. That’s all. How could it hurt? And how much can we possibly know about a person who wasn’t born in this country, anyway?”

“You know a lot about Jim.”

“That’s different.” It was, and Eve knew it. Which was exactly why she brought it up. That would explain why her eyes sparkled, too.

And why she smiled when she said, “You and Jim are falling in love, aren’t you?”

The question wasn’t out of line. I mean, Eve is my best friend.

“Jim is terrific.” It was the truth, and I wasn’t shy about admitting it.

“And?”

I didn’t even try to hide my smile. “And we’re falling in love.”

“I knew it!” Eve was so happy for me, she shrieked. “I can’t wait, Annie! I can’t wait until he asks you to marry him.”

When I think about Jim, I get all warm and fuzzy.

When I think about matrimony, my insides freeze up.

I guess that explains why I was suddenly feeling like a Slurpee.

I hugged my arms around myself. “There’s been no talk of marriage,” I said.

“But if there is-?”

“There isn’t. There hasn’t been. Marriage is a big step. Bigger than quitting my job at Pioneer. I wouldn’t even think about it. I mean, after-”

“Peter?”

As a best friend, Eve should have known better.

She didn’t. She gave me that look of hers, the one that’s innocent and probing-all at the same time.

“Peter is a nuisance,” I said. “I don’t feel a thing for Peter. Not anymore.”

“Then why has he been hanging around?”

“He hasn’t been hanging around.” I hadn’t even thought about it, but now that I realized it, I was relieved. “I haven’t seen Peter since the night of the poker game. He’s ancient history. Like Tyler used to be to you.”

Remember what I said about Eve being my best friend? Well, I was her best friend, too, so she shouldn’t have sloughed off my comment like it was nothing at all.

“Are we going to tell Tyler?” she asked. “I mean, about Monsieur’s IDs? I wonder if it’s something the police should know about.”

I was nobody’s fool. I knew a change of subject when I saw it. Or heard it.

Like I was going to let that stop me?

Remember, we were talking best friends here, and best friends have a dispensation of sorts; they don’t have to back off. Not when the subject is l-o-v-e.

“I think it’s too soon to involve…” I made sure I put so much emphasis on this word that anybody could have seen-or heard-where I was headed. “I don’t know if we should get Tyler involved.” I said it again, just the same way. “Unless he is already. Involved, that is.”

“Well, aren’t you about as subtle as a presidential motorcade?” Eve tried to look put out, but a smile played around the corners of her mouth. “Truth be told, Tyler is not involved. Not currently, anyway. I mean, not in the immediate future.”

It took a moment for this momentous news to sink in. Even after it had, I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. “Are you saying…?”

“The wedding has been postponed again. They set a new date. They pushed it back again.” Eve looked much too pleased by this announcement, but before I even had a chance to feel

A) appalled

B) frightened

C) worried

D) all of the above

she breezed right on, “ Tyler says it was by mutual agreement. That’s how he put it. Mutual agreement. He said that over the last months, he and Kaitlin have grown apart. You know, the way some couples do. They thought if they postponed the wedding, they might be able to work things out.” She shrugged. Not like she’d been thinking about it and couldn’t make sense of the situation. More like Oh, well, what the heck, Kaitlin’s loss is my gain.

Which I’m pretty sure is why my stomach did a flip-flop.

“You know how it is sometimes, Annie,” Eve said, ever the bearer of wisdom when it came to any relationships but her own. “You and Peter, you could never work things out, either.”

“I tried. Peter wasn’t interested.” I would have thought she’d remember. “But that’s beside the point, which is-”

“That we’re supposed to be talking about Monsieur. Research, isn’t that what you said?” In a message as un-subtle as that presidential motorcade, Eve reached over and flicked on my computer screen. “It’s nearly three, Annie, and I have to be back at Bellywasher’s in a little bit. We’d better get down to business.”

There was no use arguing and, hey, since I’d probably spend the rest of the years I knew Eve worrying about her romantic entanglements-and since I planned to know her for the rest of my long, long life-I figured there would be time enough later to quiz her about Tyler. For now, we had Monsieur to think about.

With that in mind, I Googled his name.

“Eight pages of citations!” I bent closer to the screen for a better look. “Here’s the Très Bonne Cuisine home page,” I said, pointing to each line as I went. “Here’s an article about the appearance he’s scheduled to make at the big D.C. food show in a couple weeks. He’s one of the main presenters. That’s what Jim says, anyway. Monsieur is supposed to be doing a demonstration of French cooking.”

“I wonder what they’ll do if we don’t-”

This was something else I didn’t want to think about. Two weeks was a long time. Too long to go without word of our friend. Rather than consider it, and the emptiness that assailed me when I thought about the way I’d feel if we hadn’t made some positive progress by then, I kept on reading.

“Here’s a page that talks about Vavoom! and how popular it is.” I shook my head and clicked to the next page.

“Look! Here’s one that says something about Monsieur’s early life in France. That’s exactly the kind of information we’re looking for.” I clicked on the article and when it popped up, Eve and I both bent forward, eager to read more.

The article was a profile piece that appeared in D.C. Nights , the local (and locally influential) culinary magazine, seven years earlier, long before I’d known Monsieur, or Jim, or that a place as terrifying to a kitchenphobe as Très Bonne Cuisine even existed. The headline declared Monsieur the “King of D.C. Cuisine.” It appeared right above a full-color photograph that showed a beaming Monsieur in a blinding white chef’s jacket. He was smiling in that devil-may-care way of his while he motioned in a very Gallic, voila! sort of way to the sign over the front door of Très Bonne Cuisine.

“Gosh, I hope he’s all right.” Eve’s sentiments pretty much echoed my own thoughts. I glanced over to see that, as she looked at the photo, her eyes filled with tears. “What if he’s-?”

“Not going to talk about that,” I said, and because the photo of Monsieur made the same impression on me, I scrolled down to the body of the article as fast as I could. “Not even going to think about it. All we’re allowed to think about is what we can do to find Monsieur. For now, this is what we can do.”