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   "And the last time you saw Ms. Whittaker was . . . ?" This time, Tyler's icy gaze took in all of us.

   Foster shrugged. "I dunno. Don't know if I ever met the lady. I been up here. You know, before she moved in. That couldn't have been more than two or three weeks ago. We vacuumed the hallways, did a last check on the heat and the lighting. You know, before the tenants started moving in. But before tonight . . ." His voice faded, and his eyes went blank. I knew he was reliving that first sight of Sarah's cold, pale body.

   Because I didn't want to go there with Foster, I gave Tyler our side of the story. "Sarah stopped into Bellywasher's last week. It's a restaurant. In Alexandria."

   Tyler made a note of this.

   "And when she did, how did she seem? Was she upset about anything?"

   Eve shook her head, but before she could answer, I remembered something Sarah had said. "She broke up with her boyfriend," I told Tyler. "Dylan. That's his name."

   "A romance gone bad." Tyler wrote down the words and underlined them with a flourish. He flipped his notebook closed.

   "But—"

   I was not so easily put off. Not even by the look he flashed my way.

   "But she didn't seem especially upset about it," I told Tyler. "Remember, Eve? She mentioned Doctor Masakazu. And you asked—"

   "If she had a new man in her life." Eve scooted to the edge of the couch. "That's right. She said Dylan was history. But she didn't seem broken up about it."

   "Oh, come on!" Tyler rolled his eyes. "You're telling me a woman gets dumped by her boyfriend one week, then slits her wrists the next, and one thing doesn't have anything to do with the other? What fairy-tale world are you two living in?"

   "You think she killed herself because her boyfriend broke up with her?" Eve's voice dripped with contempt. "Oh, come on, Tyler, honey! There isn't a man in the world worth dying over."

   His gaze met Eve's and never wavered. "Maybe you just never met the right man."

   "Well, that's a fact." She rose to her feet. "So that's that? That's all you need to know?"

   He didn't say yes or no, just pursed his lips. "Seems pretty straightforward," he said. "My work here is done."

   "But what about—" I was thinking out loud and I didn't even realize it until the words were out of my mouth. Once I started, I figured I might as well keep going. "But why would she invite us over? Why ask us to stop by today if she was planning on killing herself yesterday?"

   Tyler gave a noncommital shrug. "Who knows how people think when they get desperate. Maybe she forgot you were coming. Maybe she just didn't care anymore. Hell, maybe you were mean to her in seventh grade, and she wanted to get back at you, and she figured this would teach you a lesson. Maybe she wanted to make sure somebody found her. Suicide and clear thinking, they don't always go together."

   "But if it wasn't—"

   "Wasn't suicide?" This time, Tyler didn't even try to disguise the fact that he thought I was being woodenheaded. "You think just because you trip over one murder victim—"

   "Two," Eve corrected him.

   He ignored it. "You think because you got too close to a crime once—or twice," he added with a look at Eve because he knew she was going to interrupt again. "You think you know all there is to know about murder?"

   "Of course not!" I didn't mind admitting it. "But it just doesn't make sense." I remembered something else I'd seen when I looked around the apartment. "You know, there are wineglasses in the kitchen."

   Tyler shrugged. "So the lady liked a glass of wine now and then."

   "Two wineglasses," I pointed out. "Washed and left on the sink to dry. She wouldn't have done that. She wouldn't have left them there."

   His eyebrows did a slow slide up his forehead. "And you know this because . . . what, you knew this woman so well, you know about her dishwashing habits?"

   "No, I hardly knew her at all, but—"

   Tyler had heard enough. He turned to leave.

   I tried a last-ditch effort to make him see that I wasn't buying his theory. "But it just doesn't make any sense."

   The whole public-servant thing must have kicked in, because he stopped and turned back to me, even though it was clear that it was the last thing he wanted to do.

   "It doesn't make any sense for Sarah to have us come over. Not if she was planning to kill herself. You think if she was, she would have—"

   "Left a suicide note?" Tyler pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. It contained a single piece of paper, written on with blue ink. The handwriting was flowing and feminine. He waved the plastic bag back and forth in front of us. "What do you think, ladies? This was on the dresser in the bedroom. Is it enough to convince you that you're seeing bogeymen where there aren't any? How about what Ms. Whittaker says in the note?"

   He flattened the bag and read from the paper. " 'Not going to take it.' That's exactly what it says. 'Not satisfied, and I'm not going to take it.' "

   "Not satisfied?" If you asked me, it was a mighty odd way to express heartbreak. "Not satisfied with what? With what Dylan did to her? What he left her?"

   "Maybe she just wasn't satisfied with her life. Or heck, maybe he was a lousy lover. We're never going to know." Tyler's voice snapped, and I think his temper would have, too, if he didn't control it with an effort that was nearly palpable. "Look . . ." He drew in a breath, let it out slowly, and after he put the note back in his pocket, he scrubbed his hands over his face. "I know this can be tough. Finding a body is bad enough, but when it's someone you know . . . well, it's not easy. Believe me, I've seen this enough times to know. You're looking for answers, I'm not giving you any, and it's frustrating. But I'm not trying to stonewall you, and I'm not trying to give you a hard time, and I'm not trying to keep information from you, because there isn't anything that you don't already know. This is sad, and it's difficult, but it's as straightforward as it gets. Ms. Whittaker killed herself. I know it's hard to make peace with something like that. Especially when it's a friend. But that's the end of the story. Wineglasses or no wineglasses."

   Tyler was right, and I knew it. So did Eve. As much as she would have liked to argue with him, she pressed her lips together. I saw her shoulders rise and fall. We could spin this any way we wanted, but when our heads stopped whirling, we knew we had no choice but to face the truth.

   I was about to tell Tyler this when Doctor Masakazu's howling grew louder and more insistent than ever.

   The sound Tyler made from between clenched teeth was something like a growl. "Maybe she killed herself because she just couldn't stand living with that dog anymore," he said. "Maybe she wanted you here to make sure somebody found it before the neighbors stormed the door and tossed it out the window."

   "Well, I never!" Eve marched forward and stood toe-totoe with Tyler. "How you can be so insensitive at a time like this is a wonder to me. No, wait! It isn't a surprise at all. You were always a coldhearted bastard."

   A tiny smile quirked the corner of Tyler's mouth. "That's not what Kaitlin says."

   I had to give Eve credit—she didn't flinch at the mention of Tyler's current fiancée. "That poor little girl just doesn't know you well enough," she said. "She'll come to her senses. Sooner or later. And when she does—"

   Doctor Masakazu's yaps rose to fever pitch, and Tyler threw his hands in the air. "Will somebody do something about that dog!"

   I have a feeling the order was intended for the cops who were still in the bathroom, making their final notes about the scene, but Eve could move pretty fast when she wanted to. Even in four-inch heels.

   She was in the guest room in a flash. Before I could remind her that what she was doing was making a commitment and that she was commitment-phobic, she was back, dog carrier and dog—quiet now that someone was paying attention to him—in hand.

   "We'll take him," Eve told Tyler. "The poor thing is upset and hungry, and somebody needs to watch out for him until Sarah's sister can come and get him."

   He snorted. "I can't let you do that."

   "Would you rather listen to him?"

   As if the dog understood Eve's question, he ratcheted up the noise, and Tyler gave in with a good-riddance wave of both hands. "It's that or I'm getting out my gun," he said.

   Apparently, Eve wasn't willing to wait around and see if he was kidding. We hightailed it out of Sarah's apartment.

   No sooner were we back in Eve's car than Doctor Masakazu was sound asleep.

       the next evening, I found Eve on her break. She was sitting on a stool in a quiet corner between the walk-in cooler and the pantry where we kept the canned goods. At least she had the good sense to look embarrassed when I took one look at her and my mouth dropped open; she had Doctor Masakazu on her lap.

   Red-faced or not, it didn't stop her from breaking off tiny bits of goat cheese and artichoke bruschetta and feeding them to the dog.

   I hadn't had a chance to talk to Jim since I'd arrived; he was busy going from table to table (all three of them that were full), greeting our guests and making sure everything was to their liking. I knew there was no way he knew the dog was there—if he did, the dog would be gone. I looked over my shoulder to make sure he was still busy and made sure the door between the kitchen and the restaurant was firmly shut. Then I closed in on Eve. Suddenly, my heart was racing double time.

   Just like my imagination.

   In my mind's eye I saw teams of health inspectors in full

riot gear raiding the place. They all had health regulations code books in hand and pens poised over papers that said
violation
in big black letters at the top.

   My voice was shrill, but I tried to keep it down. No use attracting any more attention from Marc or Damien, who were both busy at the grill. Besides, from the way they avoided looking at me, something told me they knew what was going on. No doubt, Eve had already worked a little of her mumbo jumbo guy magic. No way they were going to squeal on her.

   I, however, was not so easily swayed. "Are you crazy?" I asked her, but I didn't wait for her to answer. "You can't bring an animal into a restaurant. It's against every health regulation there is. Does Jim know? He doesn't know, does he? No way would he be out there acting as if everything was normal if he knew. If he sees that dog, he's going to have a coronary."

   There were windows in the swinging doors between the kitchen and the restaurant, and Eve sat up tall and craned her neck to confirm that Jim couldn't see us. Satisfied the coast was clear, she broke off another piece of bread and held it in front of the dog's nose. He sniffed appreciatively, licked his tiny chops, and gobbled it down.

   "He's been here all day," Eve said. I knew the
him
she was talking about wasn't Jim. "Jim hasn't found out yet. That's because my little Doc is being a perfect angel. He's been asleep most of the day. In there." Eve looked toward where we stored the clean linens. Tucked between the shelf and the wall was a large purse I'd never seen before, fireengine red and studded with rhinestones that matched the dog's sparkling collar. It was just about as big as the bathroom in my apartment. "He helped me pick it out this morning, and it's just perfect for him. He has his blanky in there and a chew toy and—"

   "And it doesn't matter!"

   Heidi banged through the door to pick up an order. I scurried out of her way, and Eve turned on the stool so that the waitress couldn't see the dog. I didn't open my mouth again until Heidi had headed back up front with a loaded tray of food.

   "He's not allowed to be here," I reminded Eve. "Even if he is behaving. If somebody finds out and reports us—"

   "Nobody's going to find out." Just as the little guy wolfed down the last of the bruschetta, Damien walked by with a tiny wedge of lemon pound cake. "Don't sweat it, Annie," he said. He tugged me away from Eve, clearly looking to keep me from freaking. "I'll show you how to make this pound cake. It's a killer of a recipe. You could serve it at a party and—"

   "I could not serve it at a party," I said, and I didn't bother to add that not only did I not throw parties, but that if I did throw parties, I could never serve anything I made at them. Didn't Damien see the cook's equivalent of the surgeon general's warning over my head? The one that said I should avoid close contact with stoves at all costs?

   I guess he wasn't into warnings. He breezed right on. "Give it a taste," he said, and before I could protest, he had a piece of the cake to my lips. "Come on, Annie, just a little bite."

   What's a woman to do?

   I bit.

   It took no more than that for me to understand why Doctor Masakazu was sitting there with the doggy equivalent of a smile on his face. "It's heavenly," I said.

   "You betcha. Come on." Another tug, and Damien succeeded at getting me even farther from Eve and the dog. "Marc's gonna whip up another pound cake. He has to. What he made earlier is almost gone. People are ordering it like crazy."

   "It's the secret ingredient," Marc chimed in. "Not anything folks expect to find in pound cake. But see, here's the secret . . ." He had a small amount of butter melted in a saucepan, and he sprinkled a dried herb in it that looked and smelled like . . .

   "Lavender?"

   Marc met my question with a smile. He plopped a dollop of whipped cream on a dish. "I'll steep it in the butter for ten minutes, then strain and discard it. It gives the cake a great flavor, doesn't it?" he asked, and he took the plate over to the dog, who promptly licked it clean.