Cooking Up Murder (2 page)

She cocked her head. "But I've never been married."

"But if you were. If you were married, and then you were divorced. You'd have something to look forward to. Guys would be lined up around the block to date you."

"And they're not for you?" Eve rolled her eyes. "Why, that nice Ed Downing at the bank--"

I cut her off with a groan. "That nice Ed Downing is fifty-four and still lives with his mother."

"He's saving to buy a house."

"He's a loser."

"He likes you."

"He likes me because every time he screws up his drawer, I'm able to make sense of it before the head teller shows up and he gets his ass fired." I got rid of the thought with a shake of my shoulders. "I don't know why I even mentioned it. It's not like I care. Mr. Right could walk in here right now--"

"No." Eve's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Let's have him drive in. In a red Jag."

"OK, Mr. Right. In a Jag. He could drive in here right now stark naked--"

Eve giggled. "And with a nice, tight ass."

"And he could ask me to rip off my clothes and--"

"Ask?" Eve pooh-poohed the very idea with the wave of one manicured hand. "We don't want him to ask, honey. We want him to beg. Mr. Right. Jag. Naked. Begging. If you're going to fantasize, you might as well go whole hog."

"I still wouldn't want him." I folded my arms over my chest and
harrumphed
, just so Eve would know I meant business. "I'm never going to look at another guy. I'm never going to date another guy. I'm never going to get married. Not again."

"Of course you are." Eve took a bite of chocolate, and because she forgot to spread it with peanut butter first, she dipped her spoon in the jar, scooped up some extra crunchy, and swallowed it down. "Annie, really . . ." She pointed at me with the spoon. "You're talking crazy. You make it sound like your life is over. You're only thirty-three."

"I'm thirty-five," I reminded her. She was just trying to be kind, and I wanted none of it. Kind would make me feel better, and right now, I was too busy wallowing in my misery. "I'm a thirty-five-year-old bank teller and my hips are too big and my hair is too curly and I have the most boring life in the world and--" My voice wobbled, and I screeched, "I don't even own a pot holder!"

Eve didn't mind the screeching, probably because she'd been overemotional herself a time or two. Sometimes it was because her job--whichever one she happened to have at the moment--wasn't going right. Sometimes it was because she'd missed a sale at Macy's or put a run in her last pair of hose.

Mostly it was because of men.

Fact is, Eve's affairs, like everything else in her life, are the stuff of grand opera. There's always plenty of uncontrollable passion at the beginning and usually, just as much angst at the end. Hence, the screeching.

Me, on the other hand . . . well, the truth of the matter is that I wasn't used to these sorts of gut-wrenching emotions. My life before, during, and after I'd met Peter had been pleasant and largely uneventful. We'd been introduced by friends, and I liked him instantly. Maybe because unlike all those other guys, he'd never once said I was cute. Maybe because unlike all those other guys, Peter really liked me.

Was it any wonder that I really liked him back?

Peter was a high school chemistry teacher. He had a good job, a low-key sense of humor, and an appreciation for all the things I valued. Things like stability and a balance in our savings account that promised that someday, we'd own a home of our own. We dated for two years before we got engaged, and then we had a wedding that was as pretty as a fairy tale. We were married for eight years and were finally at the point of looking for that home we'd spent so many nights talking and dreaming about.

Then he made that fateful trip to the dry cleaner's.

Call me a wimp, but I sighed again.

"Speaking of pot holders . . ." Eve's eyes lit the way they did when she's excited about something. "I think I've got just the thing to make you feel better."

"A lifetime supply of pot holders?"

She was as good as anyone at ignoring sarcasm. Rather than respond, she disappeared into the living room and came back a minute later, Kate Spade bag in hand.

"No pot holders. I'll let you buy your own." She dug through the purse, and when she didn't find what she wanted, she began the unloading process. Wallet, checkbook, comb, compact, blush, lipstick, eyeliner, lip liner, nail polish. After less than a minute, my kitchen table looked like the cosmetics counter at Saks.

"Ah! Here's what I'm looking for." Grinning, Eve pulled a piece of paper out of her purse.

"That better not be a confirmation for a trip to anywhere," I warned her, backing away to put some distance between myself and whatever she might have planned. "You can't afford a vacation, and I can't take the time off from work. I've already missed enough days going back and forth to court."

"No trip." Eve waved the paper. "And you won't need to take any time off from work. This is in the evening. Every evening for ten evenings, starting this Monday."

"A book discussion group."

Eve rolled her eyes. "You know better than that! A girl with my busy social schedule doesn't have time to read."

"A visit to a spa."

"For ten days in a row? Don't I wish!"

"Then what?" I drummed my fingers on the table, annoyed and, I admit, intrigued in spite of myself. "Oh, I know. It's Peter's new address. That place he bought with Mindy or Mandy or whatever her name is. We're going to stake out the house, wait until he leaves one night, jump out of the bushes, and--"

"Now, now. Remember: acceptance." Eve tapped my arm with the paper. "This," she said, "is my receipt. Enrollment for two. You and me, honey, we're taking a cooking class."

I would have laughed if there was anything funny about it. Instead, I aimed a laser look in Eve's direction. Sometimes that could get through to her.

This time, it didn't.

"Earth to Eve!" I waved my hands in the air. "Do I need to remind you? You live on carry-out Chinese. And me?" I looked over my shoulder at my ruined saucepan. "I can't even boil water!"

"All the more reason to take the class." She set down the paper and swept her things off the table and back into her purse.

I took the opportunity to scoop up the receipt and look it over. "Ten Nights to the Perfect Ten-Course Meal," it said, right above the part that said the class would be held at Tres Bonne Cuisine.

I knew the place, all right. Fancy-schmantzy kitchen shop on the ground floor, upscale cooking school above. It was in the Clarendon neighborhood of Arlington, one of those rare spots in town where old storefronts stood in unexpected but peaceful coexistence with million-dollar condos, trendy boutiques, and restaurants with sidewalk cafes out their front doors.

I knew the place well, but not because I was a social climber. Tres Bonne Cuisine was the home of Vavoom! seasoning, a cult icon in Maryland, D.C., and beyond. Like thousands of others, I was addicted. I used Vavoom! on everything from popcorn to chicken wings. I knew exactly how much a two-ounce jar of it cost and, if I wasn't heavy-handed, how long it would last me. And going on how expensive those two ounces were, there was no doubt in my mind that ten days of classes would be exponentially pricey.

I dropped the receipt like it was on fire. "No way, Eve. No way am I going to let you--"

Her mouth puckered. "Like it or not, you're going to do it."

"Like it or not, you're going to get a refund. You can't afford to pay for a cooking class for me. You can't even afford to pay for a class for you!"

"Afford has nothing to do with this. Haven't I always told you, Annie, it's not the necessities in life we need to worry about. They'll be provided somehow. It's life's little luxuries that are important. Right now, we need to get your mind off Peter. This is one way to do it."

"No." I could be just as stubborn as she was. "Get your money back."

"Can't." She pointed to the line on the bottom of the printout that said all enrollments were final. "It's paid for, Annie. I know the way your logical little mind works. You know it's better to take the class than waste the money. Besides, it will be good for you to get out."

"So I can embarrass myself in front of a class full of chefs? You know I'm a terrible cook!"

"Don't be silly." Eve got up, slung her purse over her shoulder, and headed for the door. "You'll get an e-mail," she said. "We all will. Tomorrow and every night before class. They'll let us know what ingredients to bring. That way, they'll be nice and fresh. And don't worry about driving. I'll pick you up. Monday, six fifteen."

She knew I was going to keep on arguing--that's why she didn't give me a chance. Eve swept out the door and left me alone. In my jammies and my bunny slippers, the caustic tang of burnt metal still sharp in the air.

"Cooking class?" I'd already heard my own voice echo back at me before I realized I was talking to myself.

When Peter was around, I at least made an effort to cook. Spaghetti sauce, omelettes, the occasional blueberry muffin (always from a box). Since he'd been gone, I hadn't done even that much. I lived on soup and cereal, and when I tried to cook . . . well, all I had to do was catch a whiff of the metallic odor in the air to know how things usually turned out.

But I couldn't be mad at Eve. She was my best friend, bless her, and she was just trying to make me feel better. For that, if for nothing else, the least I could do was cooperate.

I told myself to get a grip and did a mental check through my schedule for the next ten days. It didn't take long: Class was in the evening, and I didn't have a social life. All I had to worry about was embarrassing myself or burning down the cooking school.

But after all, there would be professionals at class, guiding us through each step. There would be cooks--real cooks--telling us what to do and what not to do and how to make sure we never burned pots of water.

How dangerous could a cooking class be?

Two

WE WERE LATE FOR THE FIRST CLASS. JUST FOR THE
record, it wasn't my fault.

Like I did every day (except for Fridays when the bank was open until six), I arrived home at exactly five twenty-five. By five thirty, I'd sorted through the day's mail. I filed the bills in their proper slots in the accordion folder I kept nearby, threw away the junk, and made a separate pile for the letters that were still arriving addressed to Peter. As usual, my plan was to rip them into tiny little pieces and toss them out but--as usual--I relented. I wrote "forward" on his mail along with the address of the school where he taught, and stuck the letters by my purse so I could drop them on the table in the front lobby as I was leaving.

I wasn't sure what cooking students wore, but after a sweltering weekend that culminated in a Sunday afternoon thunderstorm, the temperature had cooled considerably. I changed out of my black pantsuit and into jeans, a green long-sleeved T-shirt, and sneakers. After a minute, my nervous energy got the better of me and I swapped the green T-shirt for a white one. Chefs wore white, didn't they?

About a minute later, I switched back to the green.

Just before I walked out the door, I grabbed the groceries I'd picked up on my lunch break.

"Chicken stock. Broccoli. Cheddar cheese. Cream. Butter. Spanish onion." Even though I'd checked and rechecked earlier, I peeked in my grocery bag and did an inventory, making sure that I had everything mentioned in the e-mail that arrived the night before from someone named Jim at Tres Bonne Cuisine.

Thirty minutes later--twenty minutes after she promised--Eve careened into the parking lot on two wheels and slammed on the brakes right next to where I was pacing in front of the cement pad outside the lobby door.

"Forgot to shop," she said breathlessly as I climbed into the car and fastened my seat belt. "Had to stop on the way. Had a heck of a time finding cauliflower. Did you get cauliflower?"

I had printed out the e-mail shopping list. I pulled it out of my bag and I pointed to a line on the ingredients list. "It was supposed to be broccoli."

"Oh. You're right. I always get those two mixed up." Eve's plucked-into-submission eyebrows dipped. "I thought--"