Cooking Up Murder (11 page)

I didn't, and I didn't see why it was important, but I was impressed by the simple fact that Eve had done some research. I told her how much I admired her initiative.

Of course, that didn't mean I was buying into her girl-detective scenario, and I told her that, too.

She pooh-poohed my protest with a wave of one hand. "Don't you see what I'm getting at here? First that nice librarian--did I mention it was a man and that we're having drinks together tomorrow afternoon?--first, he found a picture so that I could see what foxglove looks like." This time when she reached into the briefcase, she came out holding a color-copied picture. It showed a riot of tall, spiky plants covered with drooping, bell-shaped flowers in shades from purple to white and every tint of pink in between. The colors reminded me of Monsieur Lavoie's potholder display.

"That nice librarian--his name is Tony, by the way, and he is a little nerdy, just like you'd expect a librarian to be, but in a cute sort of way--Tony, he took his break early so that we could take a little walk around the neighborhood. You'd never believe it, Annie. When you know what you're looking for, you realize that plenty of people grow foxglove. Tony pointed it out. All over the place. You see what that means, don't you? It would have been easy for Beyla to get some and give it to Drago. I'm sure she knows that it's poisonous--with names like that, it's pretty obvious that the plant can do some serious damage."

"It's only pretty obvious to someone who knows all the old names."

It seemed like a reasonable argument to me, but Eve was already way beyond it. She pulled out another printed-from-a-Web-site sheet. "Symptoms of foxglove poisoning," she said, and reached into the briefcase again. She slid out two slim volumes. The title of one said something about poisonous plants in the garden. The other was, surprisingly enough, a history of witchcraft.

I fingered the first book, flipping through it to the section Eve had marked. I scanned the pages and read a brief history of foxglove. Scientists never put a lot of credence in its medicinal properties until some time in the late eighteenth century, but it was often used in country villages before that, as an ingredient in folk medicines concocted by people known to the locals as--

My blood ran cold, and I glanced again at the second book. "You don't think--"

"That Beyla is a witch. Of course! That would explain why she wears black all the time."

"Yeah, that or the fact that she's style conscious, that she looks fabulous in black, and that it's easier to build a wardrobe around one basic color than to try and mix and match. Isn't that what you've always told me?"

There was nothing like a fashion discussion to snag Eve's interest.

Usually.

This time she ignored me, and I knew for sure that I was in trouble.

"All we have to do is prove she did it," Eve plowed ahead.

"If it was that easy," I reminded her, "the cops would have already done it."

"Yeah, if Beyla wasn't so clever. She knows better than to drop her guard. You heard her--she said she didn't even know Drago."

"And we know she did." I had to give her that one. I couldn't ignore the fact that Beyla had lied, both to us and the police. I mulled over the thought. Naturally, my brain took it one step further. "And we know Monsieur Lavoie knew Drago, too. We saw Drago storm out of the store, and we saw how upset Monsieur Lavoie was by the whole thing. And then there's John. He said he was having coffee with Beyla after class that night, but we know for a fact that--"

I heard my own words and the thread of excitement in my voice as I logically worked my way through the argument. Eve wasn't one to miss little nuances. Her eyes lit up.

"Gotcha!" she said.

I wasn't about to roll over so quickly. I tried one last objection. "Eve, we can't--"

"You want to help me get back at Tyler, don't you?" Her eyes grew sharp in a way that it was impossible for any best friend to discount. "You don't want him to spend the rest of his happily ever after with what's-her-name, talking about poor little Eve DeCateur and how she couldn't even--"

"All right already!" I threw my hands in the air, surrendering. "But I'm only going to give this a few days."

"A few days is all it's going to take."

"And I'm not going to do anything stupid."

"I wouldn't ask you to."

"And I'm not going to do anything dangerous."

"Annie! I wouldn't dream of it," Eve exclaimed. "I was thinking we could just start with a little computer research. I'm not very good at that sort of thing and . . ."

She left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but I knew just what she meant. I checked the clock that hung above the lunchroom door. "I've got ten minutes until I need to get back to work," I told her. "Let's get started."

A couple minutes later, we were logged on to the Internet on the computer that sat on a table in one corner of the lunchroom. It was supposed to be a sort of company benefit, a place where employees could play games or check e-mail while they were on their breaks. But the computer was old and even slower than the one I had at home. Most of the time, no one used it.

Luckily, today was one of those times.

Because it seemed like the most logical place to begin, I Googled "Drago Kravic." The computer went through its motions and, surprisingly, came up with a hit.

"Arta," I read the little blurb and clicked on the URL. "Looks like Drago had something to do with an art gallery."

Another wait, and then a home page popped up. "He owned it!" Eve exclaimed, reading over my shoulder and pointing to the screen. "It says here that Drago Kravic was the proprietor. Look, it's right over in Georgetown. You know what this means, don't you?"

I did, and just the thought was enough to make my stomach queasy.

It meant that after work and before Brussels Sprouts 101, Eve and I were going on a road trip.

I DIDN'T THINK DRAGO'S GALLERY WOULD BE OPEN,
especially not just a few days after he died. In my mind, I pictured a black wreath on the front door and a line of sad-faced customers snaking its way around the block, waiting to pay their respects to the dearly departed owner.

Truth be told, I suppose that's why I agreed to go to Georgetown with Eve. I figured we'd be there and back in twenty minutes. The trip might even prove to Eve once and for all that there were better uses for our time than sleuthing. Particularly when the sleuths didn't know what they were doing.

And I still had to make a trip to the grocery store for those Brussels sprouts.

We stood by the curb on M Street, studying the building across the street. We could see the sleek turquoise and burnt orange Arta address sign. Much to my surprise--not to mention disappointment--the gallery lights were on, and we could see a man inside. It was raining, which seemed appropriate in a film noire sort of way. Eve shivered inside her lemon-colored tank top. Me, I was prepared; I slipped on my jacket. Just as I did, something clicked inside my brain.

I took another gander at the address.

"That's it!" I reached into my pocket, suddenly remembering the piece of paper Drago pressed into my hand right before he died. "That's what was written on the back of the restaurant receipt. The address of Arta. Look!" I pulled out the crumpled receipt and smoothed it so that Eve could read it.

She nodded, confirming my deduction, which, I will say, felt pretty darned brilliant.

"You know what it proves, don't you?" Eve asked, and when I didn't, she shook her head, amazed that I still wasn't thinking like a detective. "We're supposed to be here," she said, and before I could come up with a dozen reasons why she was wrong, she grabbed my arm and pulled me across the street.

We pushed open the gallery door and found ourselves in a huge room with track lighting on the high ceiling. The paintings that hung on the redbrick walls were too abstract for me to decipher, and the sculptures . . . well, to my untrained eyes, they looked like rocks piled one on top of another.

The man we'd seen from across the street was on the other side of the room, looking at one of the rock piles. He certainly didn't look like he worked there: he was tall, thin, and bald, and he was dressed in jeans, a dark golf shirt, and expensive sneakers. I figured him for a customer until I realized that there was no one else around. He refused to make eye contact, and I think he would have ignored us completely if Eve hadn't headed right over to where he stood.

The man turned to us sharply, and murmured an uncomfortable, "Good afternoon!"

"Hi there! We're interior designers," I blurted out. Eve turned to me, eyes wide with surprise. OK, OK, so I wasn't as good a liar as she was, but I figured I needed to take charge of the situation. "Redoing a home in Bethesda," I continued. "We're looking for just the right painting."

"This is not possible." The man's voice was heavily accented, like Drago's. And Beyla's, for that matter. "This is a private gallery. You do not walk in without an appointment. If you will excuse me . . ." He backed away at the same time he gestured toward the front of the gallery. There was no mistaking what he meant.

Don't let the door hit you on your way out.

For all I knew about the world of art, this was how things were done. Still, to me, it seemed a funny way to do business. Or not to do business.

"I'm not sure you understand," I continued. I could tell Eve was just as baffled as I was by his attitude, and not sure what to say. "We want to look at paintings. We want to buy."

The man's smile wavered around the edges. "Yes, yes. This is very good. But you must understand. You do not come to a gallery without an appointment. How do you say this? It is not done."

Three cheers for my brain. It clicked into action again.

"But we do have an appointment. Or at least a referral." The receipt with Drago's writing on it was still in my hand, and I showed it to the man. "We met Mr. Kravic just recently at this restaurant. He told us to stop by. See, he wrote the address down for us. If you ask him--"

"This is not possible." I guess he wanted to see the proof up close and personal, because he tried to pluck the receipt out of my hand. But I was faster. After I was sure he'd seen it--and Drago's writing on it--I stuffed it back in my pocket.

He cleared his throat. "I am sorry to tell you, but Drago Kravic, he is not here."

I managed a chirpy smile. "We can wait."

"No, no. You are not understanding." The man shook his head sadly. "My dear friend Drago, he is not coming back. He is dead."

We feigned surprise. I thought Eve's surprise was more convincing than mine, but like I said, I've never been much for prevarication. Still, I must have been convincing enough. The man turned a somber smile on me.

"I am sorry I have to tell you this distressing news," he said. "I am Yuri Grul, Drago's partner. It is a sad time for me. For all of us. If there is anything I can do--"

"Now that you mention it, you just might be able to help," Eve piped up. She glanced around the gallery, wide-eyed and with one hand on her Kate Spade to prove to Yuri that she was serious when it came to spending money.

"That nice Mr. Kravic, he talked about a painting, and I'm just dying--" How Eve could make herself blush on command was a mystery to me. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh! I guess that's not the best word to use, is it? You'll excuse me, won't you, sugar? What I meant to say, of course, is that the way Drago described it, why, I just know I'm gonna love that painting. We may not be able to get back here for a good, long while. So if you could just show it to me? I mean, if it isn't too much of an imposition at a time like this."

For a couple seconds, I thought Yuri was going to say it was. I almost wished he had--then we could get out of here and get back to minding our own business.

But mourning or no mourning, Yuri was obviously a man of business. He smiled in an oily sort of way that made me uncomfortable. "The name?" he asked.

"Why, it's Eve DeCateur, and this is Annie Capshaw." Eve pressed a hand to her heart and twinkled, but Yuri's blank expression said it all. "Oh, you mean the name of the painting!" She rolled her eyes as if amazed by her own foolishness. "I just know it will come to me," she said, chewing on her lower lip. "Maybe if you show us around?"

"Of course." Yuri stepped back to allow us to get closer to the displays. That was my cue--we'd discussed that much on the way over, though I never thought we'd actually do it. If Eve could keep the gallery people distracted, I could snoop around. The thought of it sent a chill up my spine, but then again, I'd already concocted a whopper of a story to get us this far. I might as well go all out.