I QUIT MY JOB AT PIONEER SAVINGS AND LOAN BECAUSE running back and forth between the bank and Bellywasher’s was too much to handle.
Great plan, yes?
It had worked for exactly… er… let me do a little math here.
It looked like my plan had worked for less than twenty-four hours.
Now, nearly a week after I walked into Très Bonne Cuisine and saw Greg’s body lying on the floor, my life was more hectic than ever. The shop was open six days a week and yeah, once in a while Eve came in to help or Jim stopped by to lend a little moral support. But by and large-at least until that happy day when the help Jim hired actually started-I was pretty much a one-man… uh… one-woman show.
And there were still invoices to pay and file at Belly-washer’s.
And invoices to pay and file at Très Bonne Cuisine.
And shipments to check, and bank deposits to take care of, and tax papers to prepare, and cash registers to balance and stock with proper change.
At both places.
Not to mention the whole taking-care-of-the-customers part, which I didn’t have to deal with at Bellywasher’s, thank goodness, but did have to handle at the shop. The problem with customers, see, is that they ask questions. About cooking. And cookware. The problem with me is that I don’t know any of the answers.
To say that my stress levels were to the moon would be completely understating the problem.
It should come as no surprise, then, to learn that as much as I was itching to look into Monsieur’s disappearance and that tantalizing stack of licenses and how they might (or might not) be related to his Vavoom! scam, I never had much of a chance until Sunday. That was the one day of the week that Très Bonne Cuisine was closed, and after the brunch crowd at Bellywasher’s had finally cleared out and before the dinner crowd could arrive, Eve and I took some time and convened in my apartment.
I was sitting at my computer. She was on a chair next to mine. I gave her a sidelong look and made sure not to sound too critical when I said, “You know, there are no dogs allowed in this apartment complex.”
“Doc isn’t a dog.” Eve had the critter in her lap, and she lifted him so they could rub noses. He looked an awful lot like a dog to me. Even if he was wearing a red cotton sweater that matched Eve’s tank top. “Doc is my itty-bitty friend. And besides…” She scrubbed a finger behind one of the dark, V-shaped ears of the tiny Japanese terrier. “It’s not like he lives here or anything. He’s just visiting. With me. Nobody could complain about that. Nobody would even know he was here. He’s so well behaved and so quiet. Like a little angel in a dog suit!”
“Uh-huh.” Pardon me for not sounding nearly as enthusiastic. I clearly remembered the night she snuck Doc into the back room of Bellywasher’s and he escaped, walked out into the restaurant, and barfed all over the place. “My neighbors will not be happy if he starts carrying on.”
“He’s not going to carry on. He’s too good to carry on.” Eve planted a kiss on top of the dog’s head before she lowered him into an oversized white leather tote bag studded with rhinestones that matched the ones on Doc’s collar. At least I hoped he was wearing his rhinestone collar. During one of our investigations, we’d discovered that the sparkly collar Doc was wearing when Eve got him (the one we’d always assumed was just a showy fake) was the real deal. The thought of that many genuine diamonds in my plain ol’ middle-class apartment was enough to make my blood pressure soar.
Ever practical, I decided it was best not to think about it.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I told Eve, partly because it took my mind off the diamonds, and mostly because time was a-wastin’. “We’re going to do a little research. About Monsieur. I figure if we find out all we can about him, then we’ll be able to figure out what he’s up to with the IDs. And where he might be.”
Eve had recently seen her aesthetician, so when she shook her head, her blonde hair gleamed in the glow of my desk lamp. “I don’t know. Think about it, Annie. We know all there is to know about Monsieur. He’s our friend.”
“Do our friends tell us everything?”
I paused here. A long time. Which gave Eve the perfect opening to bring up Tyler. She hadn’t said one word about him in days. Naturally that made me suspicious. I was dying to know what was up with him. And her. And them.
When she said not a thing, I waited even longer.
That didn’t work, either, so I puffed out a breath of exasperation and went right on. “I’ve asked Jim,” I told her. “We sat down together last night and talked for a long time. I told him to tell me everything he knew about Monsieur.” There was a yellow legal pad on my desk and I picked it up and handed it to Eve. “That’s all he knows.”
She read over my neatly written notes. “French. Owner of Très Bonne Cuisine. Lives in Cherrydale.” Eve wrinkled her nose. “See? I told you so. We know all that.”
“Except there’s more.” I pointed to the next lines.
“Loves to cook. Good businessman. Reasonable boss, though not especially generous when it comes to salary and raises. Cares about his customers. Except for the Vavoom! thing.”
Eve wasn’t around the night Jim found me filling the Vavoom! jars so I filled her in about that part of the story. “Jim was disappointed,” I said. “He didn’t think his friend could ever be that-”
“Dishonest?” Eve flipped the page on the legal pad, but since there was nothing written past the first page, she flipped it right back. “It doesn’t say here that he thinks Monsieur is dishonest.”
“No.” The thought sat uneasily with me, and I twitched my shoulders. “Jim didn’t want to come right out and say it, so I didn’t add it. But that’s not the point.” I reached for the pad and tapped a finger against the list. “The point is that it’s a pretty short list. And pretty basic, too. Even though Jim has known Monsieur for years, he really doesn’t know that much about him.”
“Monsieur is a private person.”
“But he’s not.” I thought about all those smiling faces on all those jars of Vavoom! “Monsieur is a showman. He loves publicity. He adores the spotlight. He’s got a following in the area and he loves that, too. You’ve seen the way he perks right up when somebody walks into the shop and says they saw his picture in the paper or in some culinary magazine or another. The same thing happens at Bellywasher’s when he’s there and someone walks in and recognizes him. He’s as happy as a kid on Christmas morning when that happens, and he’s not shy about talking to anybody or about posing for pictures. So why is it that a man who loves to be the center of attention-a man we think of as our friend-why is it that we really don’t know that much about him?”
Eve tipped her head. “I never really thought about it before,” she admitted.
“Why would you? Why would any of us? We all meet people and we take those people at face value. They tell us they’re cooks, and we believe them. Why shouldn’t we? They tell us they’re rocket scientists or horse trainers or that they work behind the counter at the local Starbuck’s, and there isn’t one reason in the world for us to stop and consider if they’re telling us the truth or not.”
Eve still wasn’t sure where I was headed. At the risk of ruining her perfectly put together look, she worked her lower lip with her teeth. “Are you saying that Monsieur might not be who he says he is?”
“I’m saying we don’t know. Maybe one of those licenses we found…” I looked toward the drawer of my computer desk because that’s where I’d stashed the IDs. “I’m saying that maybe one of those people is the real Monsieur.”
“No way.” Honestly, I couldn’t blame Eve for sounding so dead set against my idea. I didn’t like the sound of it, either. I didn’t like the way it made my insides uneasy, or the way just thinking that our friend may have deceived us made my skin crawl. “You can’t fake being French, Annie. Everybody knows that. French people are… well… they’re French.”
“I’m not saying he’s not French.”
“Then what are you saying?”
I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t like admitting it. I sighed. “I’m saying we should check. That’s all. How could it hurt? And how much can we possibly know about a person who wasn’t born in this country, anyway?”
“You know a lot about Jim.”
“That’s different.” It was, and Eve knew it. Which was exactly why she brought it up. That would explain why her eyes sparkled, too.
And why she smiled when she said, “You and Jim are falling in love, aren’t you?”
The question wasn’t out of line. I mean, Eve is my best friend.
“Jim is terrific.” It was the truth, and I wasn’t shy about admitting it.
“And?”
I didn’t even try to hide my smile. “And we’re falling in love.”
“I knew it!” Eve was so happy for me, she shrieked. “I can’t wait, Annie! I can’t wait until he asks you to marry him.”
When I think about Jim, I get all warm and fuzzy.
When I think about matrimony, my insides freeze up.
I guess that explains why I was suddenly feeling like a Slurpee.
I hugged my arms around myself. “There’s been no talk of marriage,” I said.
“But if there is-?”
“There isn’t. There hasn’t been. Marriage is a big step. Bigger than quitting my job at Pioneer. I wouldn’t even think about it. I mean, after-”
“Peter?”
As a best friend, Eve should have known better.
She didn’t. She gave me that look of hers, the one that’s innocent and probing-all at the same time.
“Peter is a nuisance,” I said. “I don’t feel a thing for Peter. Not anymore.”
“Then why has he been hanging around?”
“He hasn’t been hanging around.” I hadn’t even thought about it, but now that I realized it, I was relieved. “I haven’t seen Peter since the night of the poker game. He’s ancient history. Like Tyler used to be to you.”
Remember what I said about Eve being my best friend? Well, I was her best friend, too, so she shouldn’t have sloughed off my comment like it was nothing at all.
“Are we going to tell Tyler?” she asked. “I mean, about Monsieur’s IDs? I wonder if it’s something the police should know about.”
I was nobody’s fool. I knew a change of subject when I saw it. Or heard it.
Like I was going to let that stop me?
Remember, we were talking best friends here, and best friends have a dispensation of sorts; they don’t have to back off. Not when the subject is l-o-v-e.
“I think it’s too soon to involve…” I made sure I put so much emphasis on this word that anybody could have seen-or heard-where I was headed. “I don’t know if we should get Tyler involved.” I said it again, just the same way. “Unless he is already. Involved, that is.”
“Well, aren’t you about as subtle as a presidential motorcade?” Eve tried to look put out, but a smile played around the corners of her mouth. “Truth be told, Tyler is not involved. Not currently, anyway. I mean, not in the immediate future.”
It took a moment for this momentous news to sink in. Even after it had, I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. “Are you saying…?”
“The wedding has been postponed again. They set a new date. They pushed it back again.” Eve looked much too pleased by this announcement, but before I even had a chance to feel
A) appalled
B) frightened
C) worried
D) all of the above
she breezed right on, “ Tyler says it was by mutual agreement. That’s how he put it. Mutual agreement. He said that over the last months, he and Kaitlin have grown apart. You know, the way some couples do. They thought if they postponed the wedding, they might be able to work things out.” She shrugged. Not like she’d been thinking about it and couldn’t make sense of the situation. More like Oh, well, what the heck, Kaitlin’s loss is my gain.
Which I’m pretty sure is why my stomach did a flip-flop.
“You know how it is sometimes, Annie,” Eve said, ever the bearer of wisdom when it came to any relationships but her own. “You and Peter, you could never work things out, either.”
“I tried. Peter wasn’t interested.” I would have thought she’d remember. “But that’s beside the point, which is-”
“That we’re supposed to be talking about Monsieur. Research, isn’t that what you said?” In a message as un-subtle as that presidential motorcade, Eve reached over and flicked on my computer screen. “It’s nearly three, Annie, and I have to be back at Bellywasher’s in a little bit. We’d better get down to business.”
There was no use arguing and, hey, since I’d probably spend the rest of the years I knew Eve worrying about her romantic entanglements-and since I planned to know her for the rest of my long, long life-I figured there would be time enough later to quiz her about Tyler. For now, we had Monsieur to think about.
With that in mind, I Googled his name.
“Eight pages of citations!” I bent closer to the screen for a better look. “Here’s the Très Bonne Cuisine home page,” I said, pointing to each line as I went. “Here’s an article about the appearance he’s scheduled to make at the big D.C. food show in a couple weeks. He’s one of the main presenters. That’s what Jim says, anyway. Monsieur is supposed to be doing a demonstration of French cooking.”
“I wonder what they’ll do if we don’t-”
This was something else I didn’t want to think about. Two weeks was a long time. Too long to go without word of our friend. Rather than consider it, and the emptiness that assailed me when I thought about the way I’d feel if we hadn’t made some positive progress by then, I kept on reading.
“Here’s a page that talks about Vavoom! and how popular it is.” I shook my head and clicked to the next page.
“Look! Here’s one that says something about Monsieur’s early life in France. That’s exactly the kind of information we’re looking for.” I clicked on the article and when it popped up, Eve and I both bent forward, eager to read more.
The article was a profile piece that appeared in D.C. Nights, the local (and locally influential) culinary magazine, seven years earlier, long before I’d known Monsieur, or Jim, or that a place as terrifying to a kitchenphobe as Très Bonne Cuisine even existed. The headline declared Monsieur the “King of D.C. Cuisine.” It appeared right above a full-color photograph that showed a beaming Monsieur in a blinding white chef’s jacket. He was smiling in that devil-may-care way of his while he motioned in a very Gallic, voila! sort of way to the sign over the front door of Très Bonne Cuisine.
“Gosh, I hope he’s all right.” Eve’s sentiments pretty much echoed my own thoughts. I glanced over to see that, as she looked at the photo, her eyes filled with tears. “What if he’s-?”
“Not going to talk about that,” I said, and because the photo of Monsieur made the same impression on me, I scrolled down to the body of the article as fast as I could. “Not even going to think about it. All we’re allowed to think about is what we can do to find Monsieur. For now, this is what we can do.”
Eve agreed, and reached into her purse for a tissue.
At the same time that I instructed my computer to print the article, I started skimming.
“He’s been in this country for seventeen years now,” I told Eve, and without me even asking her to do this, she grabbed the legal pad and added the information to my list. “His mother was named Marie. She was a pastry chef back in France and he credits her for giving him a lifelong interest in food and a desire to prepare it correctly and serve it with flair. His father was Pierre Lavoie, a sommelier. That’s a wine expert,” I added, because I knew even without her asking that Eve didn’t have a clue.
“Monsieur was born in a little town in France called Sceau-Saint-Angel. The family bloodlines go back there for hundreds of years. Wow. Imagine having that kind of wonderful, rich heritage. I’m surprised he didn’t talk about it more. I’ve never heard him even mention Sceau-Saint-Angel, have you?”
“No.” Eve squinted at the screen so she could copy down the proper spelling of Monsieur’s hometown. “Maybe he had an unhappy childhood.”
I read some more. “Maybe not. He talks about accompanying his parents on trips to wineries and orchards and to the markets where they purchased the freshest ingredients for their cooking. Look, here he says something about the first time he went to Paris and ate at Lapérouse.” I added another aside for Eve’s benefit. “It’s an old, old restaurant. Very famous. Supposed to be romantic, and with fabulous food.”
“So we know Monsieur had a happy home life.” Eve rapped the pen against the pad. “Maybe something terrible happened to him after he came to this country. You know, unrequited love. Or a love triangle with another chef and a gorgeous food critic. Or-”
When Eve got this way, it was best to stop her before things got out of control. That’s why I asked her to get the article out of my printer and put it in the file folder I’d left on my desk, the one where I’d written Monsieur on the tab.
I printed out some of the other information we found out about him, too, but honestly, by the time we were finished, we still didn’t have much to go on.
Except for that information about Sceau-Saint-Angel, of course.
I checked the clock, did some quick mental calculations, and Googled the name of the town.
A couple minutes later, I had the phone in my hand.
“How’s your high school French?” I asked Eve.
AS IT TURNED OUT, EVE’S HIGH SCHOOL FRENCH WAS nonexistent.
I should have remembered that.
Eve took four years of Spanish. It wasn’t that she was some kind of fortune-teller who anticipated our current global economy. Or that she had an inkling of how valuable it would become to be truly bilingual.
The way I remembered it, there was a cute football player who Eve had her eye on back in our high school days, and since he was Puerto Rican by birth, he was taking Spanish for an easy A. While I muscled my way through French I, II, and III under the eagle eye of Sister Mary Nunzio, Eve struggled just enough in Spanish class to make sure she needed extra tutoring from you-know-who. She went steady with that cute linebacker for the better part of our junior year.
Funny, isn’t it, how even incidents like that from years ago have repercussions in the present.
That’s why I found myself with the phone in my hand, listening closely as the person on the other end spoke slowly in the hopes of getting through to me.
“Cent dix-sept?” Just to be sure I got it right, I repeated what the kind gentleman from Sceau-Saint-Angel had told me. “Êtes-vous certain?”
I nodded in response to his answer. “Je comprends,” I told him, then thanked him and hung up.
“You don’t look happy.” Eve’s comment was an understatement.
“Monsieur Brun… he’s the owner of the one and only local bed and breakfast in Sceau-Saint-Angel… Monsieur Brun has lived there all his life.” I thought back to our conversation. “I’m not exactly sure, but either he said he’s two hundred and eleven or he said he’s seventy-one. I’m guessing the seventy-one is right. Either way, he’s been there a long time and he knows every single person in town. Everybody knows everybody else in town. They know everybody’s families. And their families’ families.”
“And?” Eve leaned forward, anxious to hear more.
“And there are only one hundred and seventeen people in Sceau-Saint-Angel,” I told her. “So it isn’t hard to know what’s going on there. Monsieur Brun… he says he’s never even heard of a family named Lavoie.”