Cooking Up Murder (23 page)

BEING A DAREDEVIL TAKES YOU ONLY SO FAR. THEN
reality closes in, and all the things that are really important in life push the speed, the danger, and the excitment into the background.

Things like how I hoped I didn't leave any unwashed dishes in the sink.

And how I prayed that there weren't magazines scattered around the living room.

And how I had to make sure that the bathroom was clean, because if Jim needed to use it and if there was a pair of panty hose hanging from the shower curtain rod, I'd die of embarrassment.

My hands were unsteady when I unlocked my apartment door, but a little thing like vertigo wasn't going to stop me. When Jim pushed the door open, I strode in ahead of him and took a quick look around.

Magazines? Dirty dishes? Of course there weren't any anywhere. I never would have left the apartment without everything being in place. At least, I hoped I wouldn't have.

Of course, that didn't explain why the books on the living room shelf looked as if they'd been shuffled around. Or why the china in my dining room buffet (it was a wedding gift from my parents, which is the only reason I didn't let Peter get his grubby hands on it) was out of place.

Wasn't it?

I shook my head, trying to line up my memories with the reality in front of my eyes. When that didn't work, I decided the bump on my head was worse than I realized.

I'd obviously done some rearranging that morning and just didn't remember.

With no time to worry about it, I darted (relatively speaking) into the bathroom. Just as I suspected, there was a pair of panty hose on the shower curtain rod, and I ripped them down.

"You're not fussing about how things look, are you?" Jim was right behind me, just outside the bathroom door. I tucked the panty hose behind my back. "You've nearly broken your neck this evening. You've nearly been arrested. Something tells me you should have better things to worry about than panty hose."

He was right, of course.

But that didn't make me feel any more comfortable about airing my dirty linen. So to speak.

I ducked into the bedroom to deposit the pantyhose on my dresser. When I came out, Jim was still waiting in the hallway. I barely had time to get my bearings before he grabbed me by the arm and tugged me into the living room.

"Stop with the clean-freak routine, will you? You need to sit and rest," he said. "Here." He desposited me on the blessedly magazine-free couch. "Do you want a pillow? An aspirin? Cold water?" He leaned over and peered at my face, concern darkening his features.

I wasn't used to being spoiled like this. It was certainly not something Peter had ever done. Not one to complain himself (except, apparently, to Dry Cleaning Girl, who I'd heard knew more about my shortcomings than I knew myself), he didn't tolerate any show of weakness from others. Even if the weakness in question was something as mundane as a headache. Having someone worry about my welfare felt different. And good.

"Yes," I said in answer to all of Jim's questions. "Aspirin's in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Cold water's in the kitchen along with glasses. Pillow--"

"In your bedroom. Aye, I figured that part out," he said. And right before he went in search of all those things, he smiled in a way that made me wonder if me and my bedroom were something Jim had spent some time thinking about.

I was still tingling at the prospect when he returned.

"There you go." He propped the pillow behind me and nudged me back against it, handing me the water and the aspirin. "Not that I'm an expert, but you seem to be in good enough shape. I don't think we need a visit to the ER, though if you're feeling you need it . . ."

I shook my head.

"Very well then," he said. "I imagine you'll be as right as rain by morning."

I had no doubt of it. I was already feeling better. Except . . .

"But I don't understand." It's not a good idea to try and talk while gulping water and swallowing aspirin. I coughed and waited for everything to settle before I tried again. "What were you doing at Arta?"

Jim got a chair from the dining room and pulled it up next to me. He swung my legs onto the couch and grabbed the black-and-white granny square afghan (actually made by my granny) folded neatly on the back. He draped it over me.

I sank into the warmth of the couch and the afghan and of Jim's concern. I might have kept on sinking and gone right back to sleep if he hadn't spoken.

"I might ask you the same question," he said. "Annie, you promised you were done investigating."

I had promised. And no sooner had I made the promise than I broke it. It was bad enough I felt like a turkey. But what made it worse was that I didn't want Jim to be disappointed in me.

Then again, maybe it was too late for that.

I shook away my stupor. For all Jim had done for me, the least I could do is offer some sort of explanation. The truth this time. Besides, I needed to start sorting the facts in my own mind. No better way to do that than to talk them through. "We decided to follow Beyla. After class. She went to Arta, Drago's gallery. She was looking for something, and she found it, too. Only I couldn't tell what it was. I think maybe it was a computer disc, because Yuri--"

Jim's eyebrows rose.

"Yuri was Drago's partner in the gallery," I continued. "He's been following Beyla, too. He thinks she's guilty because Beyla, she stole money from the gallery and--"

Jim stopped me with a look. "How do you--"

"Know all this? Because I've been investigating, of course. And because Yuri told me. He suspected Beyla was stealing, and Drago was all set to confirm everything. Only Drago got killed. And Yuri, he thinks there's a computer disc that proves everything. Because in spite of how much Beyla says she didn't know Drago, she's lying. Yuri thinks there's a disc that proves it. Yuri thought Beyla already had the computer disc--at least that's what he told me when I ran into him in Old Town Alexandria, when we went to visit Rainbow, the witch with the angels. Only she couldn't have had the disc--Beyla, that is, not Rainbow--because if she did, she wouldn't have been at the gallery looking for it, would she? Which she was, because she was checking out every little thing in the place. Obviously, she was looking for something, and like I said, I think she found whatever it was because I saw the way she smiled, and then I wanted to tell Eve about it and--" I dragged in a breath. "What happened to her, anyway? Where's Eve?"

"Not to worry." When the afghan fell off my shoulder, Jim gently put it back into place. "Eve is fine. She left when I arrived."

It was an explanation of sorts. But not enough of one.

"But why--"

Jim stood up. "Is it true, do you suppose, what they say about a person in shock needing sugar? I'm going to get you something to eat."

"But I'm not in shock." I struggled to sit up; I would have done it, too, but for the flash of stars behind my eyelids. That, and Jim pushing me back against the pillow.

"I'm getting you something to eat," he said. "Besides, I'm starving. Rescuing a damsel in distress has a way of making a fellow hungry."

"Rescuing?"

The single word slipped out of me at the end of a sigh, but by the time it did, Jim was out of earshot, already in my kitchen. I heard him rustling through the cupboards.

Rescue.

I turned the thought over in my head while I waited for him to return.

When he did, he was holding a container of Monsieur Lavoie's Vavoom! He shook it to get my attention. "How much of this bloody stuff do you have?"

I pictured the bottles of Vavoom! lined up in my cupboard in neat, soldierly lines. I pictured Lavoie with his funnel, filling the little jars and adding that over-the-moon price. My cheeks got hot, and I started picking at a corner of the afghan. Did Jim know about the Vavoom! scheme? No way. He never would have put up with it. I decided to wait for a better time to tell him. He already knew I was a liar when it came to making promises. And now he knew how shallow I was when it came to fine cuisine. There was no use bursting the bubble when it came to Monsieur Lavoie's reputation, at least not tonight.

"I like Vavoom!," I said, "and it was on sale a couple months ago, and--"

"All well and good, but I suspect the sodium content of this stuff is out the roof."

If only he knew!
I looked away. "That's why it tastes so good."

"Aye." Jim agreed, but he didn't look happy about it. He disappeared back into the kitchen. "Lavoie makes a fortune off this stuff, you know," he said, his voice raised so that I could hear him from where I lay. The sound of his voice was a nice counterpoint to the clanking of pots and pans on the stove and the swish of the refrigerator opening and closing. "It's a gold mine. And do you know you don't have any pot holders?"

"You don't sound so happy about that." I wasn't talking about pot holders, and Jim knew it.

He poked his head out the kitchen door. "I'm not unhappy, if that's what you mean. Lavoie is as nutty as a fruit-cake, but the shop is a good one, and I don't mind having my name associated with it. He gives me a free hand in running the school as well, and there aren't many chefs who would do that. Temperamental lot, don't you know. Besides, I'm not about to complain. The man pays my salary."

I remembered what he'd said the night we had a drink together. "But you'd like to own your own restaurant."

He stepped back into the kitchen. "And when I do, I won't waste my resources on swill like Vavoom! Fresh foods, pure ingredients. None of that commercial hocus-pocus that makes people feel like they're expert chefs when they really don't know a saucepan from their arse."

Jim stepped out of the kitchen, a plate in each hand. "Excuse my French."

My laughter told him no apologies were necessary. Besides, when he handed me my food, I couldn't have said anything, even if I wanted to. There on the plate was a mound of buttery yellow scrambled eggs, cooked to perfection and sprinkled lightly with Vavoom! Next to it was a little pile of ham, cut in ribbony lengths, and next to that, strawberries, hulled and sliced to look like flowers.

Talk about hocus-pocus!

My amazement was complete. "You found this stuff?" I asked Jim. "In my refrigerator?"

It was his turn to laugh. "All it takes is a little imagination. You'll see, once you do a bit more cooking."

I wasn't so sure of that. I took a bite of the eggs and smiled my approval. (Of Jim's cooking, not of the prospects of me expanding my culinary knowledge.)

"OK," I said, nibbling a strawberry. "I'm having my sugar fix. Now explain. Everything. How did you end up at Arta? And where did Eve go?"

"Eve went after Beyla."

It was brilliant! I liked to think if my mind wasn't so muddled, I would have thought of that myself. "Then Beyla
did
find something in that office."

"And took off hell-bent-for-leather when that alarm went off." Jim nodded and scooped up a forkful of scrambled eggs from his plate. "I arrived on the scene just in time to see you take a tumble. That's when I told Eve to keep an eye on Beyla and that I'd take care of you."

"And you did. Just like you said you would." I took another drink of water, which helped wash down the sudden lump in my throat. "So Eve has my car and is headed . . . where?"

Jim shrugged. "Wherever Beyla leads." He touched a hand to the cell phone clipped to his belt. "I knew you'd be worried about her, and I admit, I am, too. She may be sweet, but Eve isn't the most sensible girl in the world. I made her promise to keep in touch."

"That means wherever they're headed, they're not there yet. Otherwise, Eve would have let us know what's going on."

Call it fate or one of those strange coincidences that happens once in a while, but just as I spoke, Jim's phone rang. He answered, and the conversation was quick.

He flipped his phone closed. "Eve's home. She says she'll bring your car to class tomorrow. I'll stop by the bank and take you to the shop. You can get your car there and drive Eve home."

"And--?"

"And she says she knows where Beyla went. She said to tell you she wrote it down, so you don't have to worry that she'll forget."

"And--?"

"And that's all she said. Honest." Jim finished the last of the ham on his plate. "She knows you well enough to know that if she told you where she'd been, you'd go chasing over there this very minute, and she didna' want you to do that, because she knows you need your rest."

Call me skeptical, but I wasn't sure if that was Eve or Jim talking. But I didn't care. I was enjoying delicious food prepared by a delicious chef, as content as I'd ever been, and suddenly so tired, I couldn't have gone racing off anywhere, even if I wanted to.

I finished the last of the eggs on my plate and watched while Jim carted everything back into the kitchen.

"That still doesn't explain everything, though," I said, leaning back into the pillow and relishing the comfort that came from having someone else care for me. About me. "You still haven't told me how you knew where we were."

Jim walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on one of my kitchen towels. "I heard something you said to Eve before you raced out the door tonight. Something about Beyla. I thought you might get it into your head to follow her."