Cooking Up Murder (28 page)

"Is it working?"

Yuri's shrug was noncommittal. "It would be working better if I had all the evidence I need." He raised his eyebrows. "Or perhaps that is why you are here? Perhaps you have been following me, and you saw me come into this place. You are here to give me the disc?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Not until I had the good guys and the bad guys straight on my scorecard. If Beyla and Yuri were in cahoots, it changed everything. Especially when it came to handing over the disc.

Yuri dragged in another lungful of smoke and blew it out in a stream in my direction. I held my breath. "I am sorry that I have not had a chance to return your kind phone call," he said. "I should say, the call from your friend." He peered out the front door to where Eve was looking at us, wide-eyed and curious. When she waved (ever the beauty pageant contestant), he waved back. "Miss DeCateur, she is very beautiful, but not very smart. I think you are not happy that she made that phone call. You are not thinking that you can get money for the disc, are you? That you will hold onto it until I pay you? That is your plan? I must tell you, that would not be smart. Not at all. Please, tell me you brought it with you. Then we can put an end to this business."

I didn't have the disc--I'd left it at home. In fact, before I left the apartment that morning, I'd switched the disc with a CD of Sinatra's greatest hits that Ed Downing at the bank had once burned for me to thank me for saving him from the royal screwup that was his cash drawer.

Paranoid?

Maybe. But I wasn't taking any chances.

I'm not sure exactly how I managed to return Yuri's smile with one of my own. I sidestepped away from his grip.

"Eve was mistaken." I backed up a step. Toward the door and away from Yuri. "You don't know her. She gets a little carried away sometimes. We were talking about looking for the disc, I will admit that much. We talked about following Beyla, too, to see where she might lead us. And before you know it . . ." I snapped my fingers. "There's Eve, jumping to conclusions."

Yuri's smile never faded. "I do not think so. I saved the message. Please, you will come to my home with me and I will replay it for you. Then you can hear for yourself what she said. She said you had it, not that you were looking for it. And I must tell you, I was so relieved to hear it. To hear that finally, we had proof of all that Beyla has done. Come. If you would come with me, you will hear the message for yourself. Then you will remember."

He reached for my arm, but I wasn't going to let him latch onto me. And I wasn't going anywhere with him, either.

"I think I'll stay right where I am."

Yuri pulled his hand back to his side. Was it a trick of the light that made his eyes look hard? It must have been, because he was back to his old self in a moment. Suave and gracious in a very European sort of way. "But you never have said what you are doing here."

Didn't I? My mind raced, and I blurted out the first word that popped in my head. "Dinner."

Yuri laughed. "But you said you were not hungry!"

"Hungry? Not yet. But cooking class was cut short. This seemed like a logical spot to stop. And I'll tell you what . . ." I pulled in a long breath. "The more I smell the delicous aromas here, the hungrier I get."

Yuri wasn't convinced. "You will forgive me, but I do not think Romanian food is something a young American woman can appreciate and enjoy. But . . ." His eyes lit. "But perhaps I underestimate you. Perhaps your tastes are more sophisticated than most of the women I have met here in this country. You have been here before, yes? That is right." He nodded, clearly satisfied with himself.

"If I am not mistaken, you showed me a receipt from this place. The one Drago wrote on the back of. You met him here, and this is where he gave you the address of the gallery, yes?"

The receipt was in my pocket, and I pulled it out. "That's right," I said, thanking my lucky stars. How often is there actual evidence to support a totally outrageous lie? I turned the receipt over, not to the side Drago had written on, but to the one that showed that there had been two for dinner that night, and what they ordered. "I have been here before. And it was the night I bumped into Drago and he told me to stop by the gallery. See, right here. My friend and I stopped by. We had
bors de
--"

"
Bors de berbec
." Yuri moved too quickly for me. Before I could pull my hand back, he plucked the receipt out of my fingers. "Who would think you would enjoy this sour soup with mutton. Such a pronounced flavor! Too strong for a girl like you. But Drago, he liked this soup very much. You knew he would order it that night, as he always did. You knew it has a strong taste, and that it would be easy to disguise the flavor of foxglove in it."

I heard what Yuri said, but honestly, it was so outrageous, I was too shocked to respond. All I could manage was a couple of weak laughs.

Was Yuri really suggesting that I was the one who--

My laughter faded. The blood drained out of my face. I stared at him, stunned. "You don't actually believe that, do you?"

Yuri took another drag on his cigarette.

"Have you taken the time to look carefully at this receipt?" Yuri held it up, careful to keep it far enough away that I couldn't get it back from him. "Do you realize Drago was here? That night?"

"
That
night?" I didn't like the way Yuri said it, and it only took me a couple seconds to work out why. "You mean the night he was killed?"

"Look." Yuri pointed to the date on the receipt, confirming my worst fears. He held the receipt toward the light to see it better. "I think it is just about right, don't you? Twenty to thirty minutes, that is how long it takes for foxglove to take effect. You will know this, I think, because you carry that vial of foxglove with you. And if I am not mistaken . . ." He took another look at the receipt, drawing out the suspense. "This receipt proves that you and Drago paid for your dinners just about thirty minutes before he died."

"That's ridiculous." I made a grab for the receipt, but I wasn't quick enough. Yuri had already tucked it into the breast pocket of his polo shirt. "I didn't have dinner with Drago that night. I'd never met Drago before that night. I've never been here before."

Yuri patted his pocket. "That is not what you told me just a moment ago. You are confused, yes? We will ask Constanta, the hostess. I am sure she will verify the fact that she has seen you here before."

"That's impossible." I spun away from Yuri, ready to head out the door. But he grabbed me so hard and so fast, I was facing him again before I even knew it.

"Nothing is impossible," he said, his words quiet, like the hiss of a snake. "Not if I say so."

"But you know I didn't kill Drago." Was that my own voice I heard? The one that wavered over the words? It sounded small and afraid. I didn't like it one bit.

I raised my chin and looked Yuri in the eye. "Quit playing games. You know Beyla's the one who killed Drago. What do you want?"

I didn't really need to ask.

"The disc, you stupid woman." His eyes flashed. But a moment later, he let go of my arm.

"But of course . . . You cannot realize how important it is." His gaze whipped back to mine. "That is, unless you have looked at it?"

"I haven't." I was getting to be a skilled liar--I never even blinked. "Now here's the deal: the disc in exchange for the receipt."

Yuri didn't expect me to drive a hard bargain. His lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile. "I hate to give up the receipt so easily, when I worked so hard to get it in the first place."

"Worked?" I rolled my eyes. "You snatched it right out of my hand. Like a bully on a playground. You--"

Suddenly, I felt cold settle in the pit of my stomach. "You've been trying to get that receipt from me for weeks. That's why I couldn't find my purse that night I went to Whitlow's with Jim. You snatched my purse and looked through it and put it back when you didn't find the receipt inside. And my apartment--" The cold solidified into ice. "You were there. When Jim and I got there the night I followed Beyla, I thought my things had been moved around. You were in my apartment!"

Yuri shrugged. "I am not a dishonest man," he said. "But you see how desperate I am. You see how very important this is to me."

"OK, you wanted the receipt. But why? At the time, you didn't know--"

"Does it matter?" he snapped. As he fought to calm himself, his teeth clenched and his jaw tensed. "We will make a trade," he said more quietly this time. "The disc for the receipt."

Try as I might, I couldn't wrap my brain around the bits and pieces of everything Yuri had said. If he knew about the receipt, but he didn't know if I'd ever find the disc . . .

I shoved the thoughts aside. Better to stick to one subject than to let Yuri know I was baffled. "So if the disc is that important, why not just let me take it to the police?"

"You will not do that." The steel in Yuri's voice made it clear that the subject was not open for discussion. "You will bring it to me. I will call to tell you when and where. And once I have it, I will deal with Beyla." He turned to walk back into the dining room. "Me. Not the police."

It simply didn't make sense. At least not in my mind. "But why?"

When Yuri turned, the smile on his face was so icy, it sent a chill through my body. "Why? The best reason of all . . . Revenge."

Eighteen

I DECIDED TO FACE THE MUSIC AND TAKE THE DISC TO
the police.

Was it smart?

I honestly didn't know, especially with Yuri's threat hanging over my head.

Yuri knew I didn't kill Drago. I knew I didn't kill Drago. But the police . . . well, I liked to think that if Yuri came forward and produced the receipt from Bucharest, the police would need a little more evidence before they locked me up and threw away the key.

Besides, I had bigger things to worry about than a restaurant receipt.

I had to admit that as a detective, I was a failure. Somehow, everything had turned into a gigantic mess. The worst of it was, I was confused about exactly what had happened and where our investigation had gone wrong. If all Yuri needed to establish that Beyla killed Drago was the disc now residing in my Sinatra jewel case, why wasn't it enough for me to prove that she was guilty? Except for the fact that it was all in Romanian, of course.

But now the stakes were higher. No matter what Yuri said, there was something about him I just couldn't trust. Something dangerous. Which is why, at some point in the day after I'd run into Yuri at the restaurant--a day in which my stomach was tied in knots and my head pounded like a brass band--I'd decided to let the professionals sort it all out.

As for me . . . well, I'd probably have enough time to work things through for myself.

Like the three to ten years I'd get for stealing evidence from a crime scene.

That evening after work when I stopped home to collect the disc, I packed a small overnight bag. I wasn't going to take the chance that they wouldn't give me a toothbrush when they threw me in the slammer. I stashed my fuzzy slippers in the bag, too, then gave myself a mental slap and pulled them out again. Something told me pink faux fur was not de rigueur in lockdown.

As I zipped up my bag, I noticed my hands were trembling. For about the hundredth time that day, I looked longingly at the phone, wishing I could call Jim. Jim would understand. I couldn't explain how I knew it, but I was certain in a way that I had never been certain about anything before. Jim would support me. Jim would come to the police station with me, and stand by my side. He'd hold my hand if I asked him.

But I couldn't ask him, not for any of it.

Not without involving him--and there was no way I was going to do that.

After everything that had happened with Peter, I knew enough not to fall head over heels for any guy. Not too quickly, anyway. But I couldn't deny that I liked Jim--more than just a little. It wouldn't be fair to tangle him up in this mess. After all, Jim had plans, and he had ambitions of his own. Someday, he was going to own that upscale restaurant he'd always dreamed about. I wasn't about to risk embroiling him in my problems.

I set my bag down by the door and went to the living room where I kept my CD player, and what was left of my collection of music after Peter had gotten through raiding it. I grabbed the jewel case with "Sinatra" written on the front of it with the disc we'd found at Miss Magda's inside, and tucked it in my purse. I took a deep breath and threw my shoulders back, hoping that a big dose of false courage would be enough to keep me going. But no sooner had I turned to the door, when the phone rang. The machine picked up immediately.