With Eileen and the other women busy cleaning flour off the children, I hurried over to my unexpected visitor.
“Bonjour, Della. Excusez-moi. I do not wish to disturb, but I must speak to you.” Her French accent was as melodious as it had been the night of the gala, but now there was urgency in her tone.
“Give me just few minutes, Yvette-”
She stared past me and her lips compressed into a thin line. “That girl? Why is she here?” Her pitch had turned icy.
I saw that she was staring at Eileen, who was wiping the face of one of the children and hadn’t seen Yvette.
“That’s Eileen O’Hara. She’s my assistant. Why?”
“Cherchez la femme.” Her voice was full of bitterness. “I think that girl killed Keith, and that she will try to kill my Tina out of jealousy.”
“Yvette, that’s ridiculous.” I steered her back toward the door through which she’d entered scant minutes before. “We’ll talk outside.”
On the appliance shop side of the door I saw that there were customers examining the merchandise. Mrs. Tran was guiding a young couple through the ultramodern kitchen exhibit. The quietest part of the shop was just where we were standing.
“You’re wrong about Eileen,” I said. “She would never kill anyone. What in the world made you think so?”
“Merde!” The woman scorned. “She was-how do you say in English-dumped? For Tina. Keith was cochon… pork, nes pas?”
“You mean he was a pig.”
“Oui. One can kill for love. Even love of espece d’animal, t’es degueulasse!”
I didn’t have to speak French to know that whatever she just said was an insult, because she practically spit the phrase. But her opinion of the late Keith Ingram wasn’t what was important to me. What did she know about Eileen?
“Yvette, what makes you think Eileen had any interest in Ingram?”
Her raised eyebrows and pursed lips suggested she thought that I was too stupid to be walking around upright. “Tina told me. Ever since her mamma died, I have been like zee mamma to her. Ma petite fille has terreur. Terror.”
“Has anyone tried to hurt her?”
“Non. She has protection. But she cannot attend soirees. It is like prison.”
“I can’t believe that she’s in any danger. You and her father should let her go on about her normal life. But something else has happened. Did you know that someone tried to kill Roland Gray late Thursday night?”
Beneath her rouged cheeks, I saw her go pale. She swayed slightly.
I reached out to steady her. “Yvette? Are you all right?”
She gripped my hand. “Was he alone…?”
Yvette was staring at me so intently I realized she must know Roland, and yet when were standing together, watching him work at his stove, I hadn’t seen any sign of recognition from either of them.
“I was with Roland,” I said. “We were having coffee when a sniper shot at him through the café window. The bullet grazed his forehead. Eileen never met Roland. Doesn’t this prove to you that she’s not the killer?”
“I must go.” She turned away from me and was gone, without so much as an “au revoir.”
I watched her hurry through the kitchen displays and disappear out onto Montana Avenue.
Eileen opened the door and poked her head out. “Where did you go? Everybody’s ready.”
“I just needed a breath of air,” I said, deciding not to tell her about Yvette Dupree’s surprise visit.
I followed Eileen back into the classroom and resumed my place at the preparation table.
When I’m teaching a class, or doing the TV show, I enjoy the activity so much that I have no trouble concentrating on the task of simultaneously cooking and explaining the steps, but Yvette Dupree’s accusation against Eileen, and her odd behavior when I told her about the attempt on Roland’s life, had left my mind swirling with questions. Part of me wanted to race through this last demonstration, but I couldn’t do that. The women in class had paid to be here and they deserved my full attention.
“Penni Crenna’s Mexican Chicken Kiev has to be made in advance and kept in the refrigerator before baking,” I told the class. “Last night I prepared four casseroles, one for each of our ovens here.” I indicated the line of crockery baking dishes on the prep table. “I wanted you to see what they look like after refrigeration and just before they go into the ovens. Eileen and I have the oven temperatures ready at 350 degrees, so let’s put them in now. They only take twenty minutes to bake, so by the time you’ve watched and helped put the recipe together, the ones I prepared last night will be ready to be enjoyed.”
I took a package from the refrigerator.
“We start by putting these skinless, boneless chicken breasts between two pieces of wax paper.” I smiled at the children and picked up a wooden mallet. “Now who’d like to help me pound them down until they’re about a quarter of an inch thick?”
Eight little hands shot up.