Miranda Bliss - Dying for Dinner

“Norman Applebaum,” she said, handing the picture back to me. “Can’t say for sure, but it looks a whole bunch like him. We graduated together from William Allen High. Class of ’67. My goodness, I haven’t seen Norman in years. But I do recall hearing something about him.” Again, she stopped to think. “That’s it!”

Someone called to her and MaryAnn turned away. As she headed back into the kitchen to pick up an order, she delivered her final piece of information over her shoulder.

“He went out to Las Vegas. Yeah, that’s what I heard. He went out to Las Vegas years and years ago. Last I heard, he came to a bad end out there.”

I HAD STARTED OUT ON THE SLIPPERY SLOPE TO A LIFE of crime. I knew it, and I wasn’t at all comfortable with it.

I guess that’s why, that night as I slid a copy of the William Allen High School class of ’67 yearbook across the bar at Bellywasher’s, my hands shook just like they had back at the Allentown Public Library when I swiped the book.

Yes, I said swiped. As in filched, purloined, lifted, (gulp) stole.

“I’m going to send it right back,” I said, even though Eve and Jim hadn’t asked where the book came from or what I was planning on doing with it. “The folks at the library wouldn’t let me check it out. I don’t have a library card for their system, plus, they said yearbooks can only be used for reference in the library. And I could have just photocopied Norman Applebaum’s senior picture, but there are other pictures of him in there. He was in the drama club. And on the newspaper staff. And I thought we could take our time and really look at the pictures and we could make our own copies, and I wanted your opinions, and I promise, I really will send it back. I’ll even send a note of apology.” I swallowed hard. “I don’t think I’ll sign it.”

Jim kissed me on the cheek. “You’d make a terrible criminal. It’s one of the things I love about you. That, and the fact that I never have to worry about the bev naps going missing.” He held up one of the little square napkins that were stacked on our bar and every other bar in America. “You’d take one to wipe up a spill and buy me a case to replace it.”

I wasn’t just reinforcing my position when I answered him. I wanted to make sure Jim wouldn’t think less of me now that he knew I had felonious tendencies. “But I really am going to send the book back.”

“As well you should.” Jim skimmed a hand over the cover of the book. It had been a busy night at Belly-washer’s and he’d taken a break from helping Marc and Damien clean up after the pub closed. There was a smudge of something chocolate across the front of Jim’s white apron. “This yearbook is more than forty years old.” He said book the way he said cook and it speaks to how upset I was that I hardly even noticed (hardly) the little thrill that raced along my skin at the sound of those delicious, long o ’s. “There probably aren’t many yearbooks left from back in ’67. No doubt this book is valuable to the people in that town. Even more valuable to all the alumni.”

“It’s a one-of-a-kind treasure.” Eve joined in, as serious as I’d ever seen her. “In fact, I just heard something on the radio. There’s been an all points bulletin issued. They said something about being on the lookout for a gourmet-shop worker with curly hair. They said she’s shifty.”

That’s when I realized they were teasing. It helped. A little. So did the vision in my head, the one of me taking the yearbook to the post office first thing the next morning, putting it in an overnight envelope, and sending it right back to Allentown where it belonged.

Before I could do that, though, we needed to get down to business.

I told my conscience to shut up and flipped open the yearbook to the section where the seniors’ graduation pictures were prominently displayed. The photos were arranged alphabetically. It didn’t take long to find Norman.

I didn’t need to ask Jim and Eve to take a gander. Even before I poked my finger at the black-and-white photo, they bent closer for a better look.

While they did, I bit my tongue, the better to keep my opinions to myself. After all, I’d had three and a half hours in the car with the William Allen High School yearbook, and in those three and a half hours-the yearbook open on the front seat beside me-I’d had plenty of opportunities to glance over at the picture of the young man with shaggy hair and wearing a Nehru jacket.

“So?” I’d waited long enough. I wanted to hear what they thought. After all, that was why I’d pilfered the yearbook in the first place.

My impatience didn’t stop Eve from peering at the picture a while longer. Jim did her one better. He took the book over to where an overhead light shone directly above the bar cash register. He stared at the photograph of Norman for a long time before he shook his head.

“That’s the hell of it, isn’t it?” he said. “A person changes a great deal in forty years. I’ve seen pictures of my own mum from way back then. Wouldn’t even know it was her if she didn’t tell me.”

I was hoping for something more conclusive, and I guess my expression gave me away, because Jim handed the book back to me. “There’s a resemblance, sure enough. If you add more than forty years, and more than forty pounds, and a whole lot of gray to his hair… yeah, this Norman fellow might look like Jacques. But if it’s really him…”

“Let me see it again.” Eve reached over and grabbed the book out of my hands. She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s him. For sure. Maybe. Or maybe not.”

My spirits sank. I’d already been over the definitelys and the maybes and the maybe nots inside my head. All the way back from Allentown. I was hoping Eve and Jim would be more help.

I squinted at the picture, trying to imagine the fresh-faced boy in it wearing a crisp, white Très Bonne Cuisine apron and smiling back at me from a jar of Vavoom!

“Let’s say it is him.” I threw out the suggestion because standing there wondering was getting us nowhere. “That leaves us with even more questions. If Monsieur started life as Norman Applebaum and then he was all those other people…” I thought about the stack of phony IDs and my spirits slumped even lower. “It’s overwhelming. I mean, where do we even begin?”

Pub keeper that he is, Jim knew exactly where. He poured a glass of white wine for me, a glass of red for Eve (her current favorite was Shiraz), and a bitter, dark beer for himself. He put the glasses on the tray, carried the tray to a nearby table, and pulled out chairs for Eve and me.

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he said. “And that’s going to accomplish nothing at all.”

“But-”

He stopped me with a look. “It isn’t like you to get so discouraged,” he said. “You’ve never lost faith in yourself and your detective abilities before. Not with any of your other cases. You’re feeling down because you’re worried about Jacques.”

“Sure. Of course.” I dropped into the chair and when Jim put the glass of wine in front of me, I took a sip. “He’s our friend. And so far, nothing we’ve done has brought us any closer to finding out what happened to him. What if…” I took another sip of wine. When it slid past the lump of emotion in my throat, it hurt. “What if he’s dead?”

“If he’s dead, the police would have found his body by now.” This comment came from Eve, and I turned her way. It wasn’t the time to bring up Tyler so I kept my mouth shut on that subject and simply listened. “They’ve looked in all the logical places,” she said. “I mean, they checked the parks and the Potomac. They even took a close look at all the johns in the morgue.”