Murder Has a Sweet Tooth Read online

  Eager to hear more, I inched forward. “What kind of guy is he?”

  “Edward?” Again, Chip glanced over my shoulder toward the rec center. When he looked back at me, I practically heard his smile screech. That’s how stiff it was. “Edward’s a great guy,” he assured me. “He was a loving husband, and he’s a good friend. A really good friend. I’d better get to the game,” he added, backing away. “The kids are waiting.”

  It wasn’t until he was all the way over at the soccer field that I turned back to my car.

  That was when I realized Edward Monroe was standing outside the rec center watching us both.

  Nine

  BELLYWASHER’S IS CLOSED ON MONDAYS, SO THE next Monday instead of catching up on restaurant paperwork or staying at home to tackle the mountain of laundry waiting for me, I talked Eve into rescheduling her appointment with her aesthetician and I did something I have never done before of my own free will: I went to a cooking store.

  And not just any cooking store—Sonny’s, in Reston.

  We stopped just outside so we could look over the gingham curtains that framed the front window, where stuffed teddy bears dressed as chefs worked at a pint-sized stove, served from teensy silver trays, and sat at a teddy-sized dinner table. “Cute,” I decided.

  It was. Sonny’s shop was not as elegant as Très Bonne Cuisine. It was not as ultramodern or (from what I could see as I stepped inside the front door and took a quick look around) as expensive. What it was, though, was down-home delightful. We stepped inside and into the old-time general-store decor, and saw at once that Sonny’s was as country as Très Bonne Cuisine was sophisticated. Jacques . . . er . . . Norman would have hated every inch of it. I, on the other hand, did not feel the least bit intimidated. In fact, I took a deep breath, and was rewarded with the incredible aroma of barbecue. I let that breath out slowly, and I swear I felt the cooking-induced tension that always assails me in such places melt like a pat of butter in a hot pan. “This is the most comfortable and at home I’ve ever felt in a cooking store,” I told Eve. “Even when I did my stint as manager of Très Bonne Cuisine.”

  Of course, I don’t think she heard me. Eve was already checking out a display of party favors, and I had the uneasy feeling we’d be having the wedding souvenir discussion again soon.

  No matter. At least not right then. I followed my nose, savoring the scent of barbecue all the while. That shouldn’t come as any surprise. I didn’t have to be a good cook to have good taste, or to know that good barbecue is right up there on my gotta-have-it list with any form of chocolate, any flavor of cheesecake, and juicy hamburgers—as long as there’s a slice of cheddar melted on the top and a side of fries to go with them.

  I found myself all the way at the back of the shop and face-to-face with a tall man whose name tag said he was Sonny himself. He was about fifty, broad shouldered, and muscular, with a shock of brown hair, a face that wasn’t as handsome as it was agreeable, and eyes as blue as the Virginia sky. There was a slow cooker open on the counter in front of him, and when he leaned over it and breathed in deep, his smile was a mile wide.

  “That smells fabulous,” I said, and Sonny rewarded me by grabbing a plastic spoon, dipping it into the barbecue sauce that bubbled in the slow cooker, and holding it up to my lips. I tasted and smiled my approval.

  “That, darlin’, is some of the best barbecue you’ll have this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.” Sonny’s Southern accent was as heavy as his smile was contagious. He grabbed another spoon and took a taste for himself and when he was done, he smacked his lips. “Sonny’s ExtraSpecial Sweet and Tangy Sauce. If I put it on top of my head, my tongue would slap my brains out trying to get at it! We sell it by the pint jar.”

  “And you know I’m going to buy a couple before I leave here.”

  His smile sparkled in his eyes. “I’m counting on it, sugar!”

  I liked Sonny, so even though I didn’t like cooking, or cooking classes, or even thinking about cooking or cooking classes, I hardly broke a sweat when I gathered my courage and said, “I’m actually here about cooking classes.”

  “I could tell from the moment you walked in that y’all are a woman with excellent taste!” Sonny replaced the lid on the slow cooker and strode around to the front of the counter. He was dressed casually in blue jeans and a T-shirt that had pretend spatters of barbecue sauce on it along with the words Sonny’s Sauce, Sweet and Scrumptious , Y’all! His smile still firmly in place, he looked me up and down. “I know talent when I see it. Your friend there . . .” He sized up Eve with a practiced look. “She lives on takeaway and froufrou coffee. But I figure you as a woman who knows your way around a kitchen.”

  I cringed. “I’m afraid you’ve got us mixed up. The only thing I know about my kitchen is where the phone is. I’m the one who’s always calling for carryout.”

  He laughed. “I’ll bet you make a mean chili.”

  “Jim does.” I said it before I realized he had no idea who I was talking about, so I added, “My fiancé. He’s the cook.”

  “And you want to surprise him by showing him he’s not the only one in the family with cookin’ talent. Very smart!”

  Now that I thought about it, it was a pretty good idea. Scary, but pretty good. Since I hadn’t had a chance to page through the magazine I . . . ah . . . borrowed from Beth, I looked for the easy way out. “I don’t suppose you have a class in making Scottish specialty foods, do you?”

  “Never had a request for that one,” Sonny admitted. He crossed his arms over his massive chest and settled back against the counter where the barbecue sauce was cooking. “We’ve got plenty of other classes, though. How about learnin’ to make bread?”

  “Tried it.” I didn’t want to elaborate. It was too embarrassing.

  “Pastries?”

  “If I bake them, I’ll eat them. Even the ones that turn out inedible.”

  “Appetizers?”

  That struck a chord, and I scrambled to remember everything I’d seen (and tasted) at Beth’s house the Friday before. I remembered what one of the women had said about a recipe that had come from Sonny’s class. “Oh, like those hokey-pokeys? That’s one of your recipes, right?”

  “You’re darn tootin’.” He bowed, taking credit. “You like?”

  “They’re so good!” I knew that for a fact because after I’d helped clean up the spilled champagne and broken glass, and things at the wine tasting had settled down, I’d eaten my share. “And easy to make.” Which I didn’t know for a fact, but it was what Beth, Glynis, and Celia had said. “That’s always a good combination.”

  “Well, let’s get the latest issue of the newsletter and see when I’m offering that class again.” He started for the front of the store, greeting Eve as we passed. “I can get those by the gross,” he told her, pointing to the package of toothpicks she was holding. They were candy apple red, each topped with a little cascade of shimmery streamers. Each streamer had a red heart dangling from it.

  “No,” I told Eve in no uncertain terms, and knowing I was investigating, she didn’t argue. Or maybe it was because she never had the chance. She got distracted by a display of mint tins nearby and the sign above it that said Sonny’s could personalize the tins with anything—including a picture of the happy bride and groom.

  “No,” I said again, but this time Eve wasn’t fazed. Stars in her eyes and, no doubt, a corny picture in her head of me and Jim smiling at each other like two love-sick teenagers, she went right on looking, and I scrambled to catch up with Sonny.

  “There’s a summer party class coming up, too,” he said as he slipped behind the front counter, and I made note of it, not because I had any intention of signing up, but because I thought something similar might work for Jim’s Bellywasher’s Cooking Academy. “You know, chicken wings, shish kebabs, veggies on the grill, and the like. Once the weather warms up, folks get a hankerin’ for cookin’ outside. They’re always lookin’ for something that’s not burgers and dogs.”

>   “Sounds perfect!” It did, but that wasn’t what I was there about. “But I was wondering—”

  “Here it is!” Sonny grabbed a copy of his monthly newsletter and pointed at the page that listed his classes. “Appetizers So Delicious, You Might Have to Hire Somebody to Help You Enjoy Them.”

  Just like Sonny expected me to, I laughed at the title of the class. I also wondered if Jim shouldn’t dress up his class offerings with perky names. Or maybe not. Jim was nowhere near as down-home hokey. It worked for Sonny: He had the accent and the country-boy personality to match. Jim had an accent, too, of course, but not the kind that went with corn bread and grits.

  “Actually, I was wondering . . .” Sonny still had the newsletter open, and I bent nearer for a look at it. “I’d really like to take classes on Tuesday evenings. I’ve got the night free and—”

  “Sorry, darlin’.” Sonny was either a great actor or one of those rare business owners who actually cares about his customers. He looked genuinely remorseful to disappoint me. “I’m a one-man show ’cept for weekends, when the missus comes in to help out here in the store. I only teach on Saturdays.”

  “No. That must be wrong.” My answer was automatic. So was me reaching over to pluck the newsletter out of Sonny’s hands. I scanned the class list, which clearly showed that Sonny knew what he was talking about: There was a variety of classes available—all on Saturdays.

  Staring at the newsletter, I raised my voice. “Eve, Sonny only teaches classes on Saturdays.” I looked from the newsletter to Sonny, and I’ll bet any money my expression was as incredulous as the tone of my voice. “You only teach on Saturdays.”

  By now, as curious as I was, Eve joined me at the front of the store. Sonny glanced from one of us to the other. “That’s what I told you, ladies.” Sonny lost none of his good humor in the face of what must have looked like outright looniness. “Pick a Saturday, any Saturday, and I’ll be more than happy to teach you whatever cookin’ technique you like. Ask about a Tuesday . . .”

  “Then what about Celia, Beth, and Glynis?” Eve asked the question long before it hit her that all this was going to look crazier than ever, and confuse Sonny, to boot, so I took over.

  “There are three women,” I said. “Actually, there were four. Vickie, Celia, Beth, and Glynis. They told us they take cooking classes here.”

  “Not on Tuesday nights.” Sonny was sure of this. And why shouldn’t he be? It was his shop, after all. As if to prove his sincerity, he reached for a binder that sat next to the cash register. “This is my class book, where I sign folks up and mark down when they pay for classes.” He paged through the binder, then nodded, confirming something to himself. “Nope. Never had women with those names in any of my classes. Not on Tuesdays or Saturdays or any other day.”

  “And last Saturday?” I asked, with another peek at the newsletter. “What did you teach last Saturday?”

  Sonny didn’t have to consult the newsletter. “A couple Saturdays ago . . .” He pointed to the entry in his newsletter. “That’s when I did that hokey-pokey recipe. I’ll tell you, the ladies in that class were thrilled. You know you can freeze those little suckers, then just pop them in the oven when your guests arrive.” I guess we weren’t as jubilant about this as he expected us to be. He went back to checking the newsletter. “The Saturday after, we did flan. Boy, the ladies sure ate that up, literally and figuratively! Last Saturday . . . see here? Last Saturday we did dips. You know, appetizers. It’s a popular class because it includes my world-famous Reuben dip along with my blue cheese herb dip and pita wedges with pepperoni and provolone.” He smacked his lips. “Been thinking about packaging those pita chips. The secret’s in the way I keep them crispy and nobody else does it as well. You want to tell me, sugar, why my class schedule matters so much?”

  Like I could actually give him an answer? Instead, all I could do was shake my head. Too bad it didn’t make my thoughts settle down. Really, how could they? I’d just found out that I’d been snookered by the women who were supposed to be my newest friends.

  And I’d bet both jars of barbecue sauce I was about to buy that we’d discovered something else, too.

  Vickie wasn’t the only one lying to her husband about where she went on Tuesday nights.

  “SO, YOU’VE GOT IT ALL STRAIGHT? ” I WAS AT MY desk in my office at Bellywasher’s, and I turned toward the guest chair, where Eve was sitting. Once I had her attention, I propped my elbows on my knees, leaned forward, and stared at her. Hard. Years of friendship had taught me that this was usually the only way to get through to her. “You know what you’re supposed to do, right?”

  Eve tossed her gleaming blonde head and giggled. Years of friendship had taught me that this was usually the only way she responds when I’m trying to get through to her. “Of course I know, Annie. How hard can it be to follow one little ol’ girl? Oooh!” She shivered in anticipation. “I hope that since she’s not going over to Sonny’s cooking school, this Celia really spends all her Tuesdays someplace like Tyson’s Galleria. Wouldn’t that just be the best! Being a detective and following someone, and Neiman Marcus, too!” Her sigh of utter contentment said it all. “It would be like dying and going to heaven.”

  Dying wasn’t something I wanted to talk about.

  Or even think about.

  Rather than do either, I turned in the other direction to the man who stood just inside my office door. He still looked like the Jacques Lavoie I’d known for more than two years, so once in a while, I had to stop and remind myself that there’s more to Jacques Lavoie, the gourmet shop owner and French chef, than meets the eye.

  Which doesn’t mean I love him any less.

  It does mean I wanted to be really clear about what we were doing and what we were trying to accomplish. Sometimes Norman can get a little carried away. Especially when he’s out in public and someone recognizes him as the Cooking Con. Norman likes the spotlight.

  And apparently, a little intrigue as well. That would explain the shaggy gray wig on his head and the false mustache he had glued under his nose. It looked like a fuzzy caterpillar. The wig looked like its much bigger, much uglier cousin.

  “You’ll be following Glynis,” I told him. “And all you need to do—”

  “I know, Annie. Don’t worry.” Back in the day when he was pretending to be Jacques, his French accent was as thick as Pepé Le Pew’s. These days, with a loyal fan following that expected him to act the part of the reformed felon, Norman didn’t try to disguise the fact that he’d spent a number of years in New Jersey. Every once in a while, a smidgen of a just-west-of-New-York-City accent crept into his voice. “Wherever she’s headed, I’m on this Glynis babe like white on rice.”

  Like I said, sometimes Norman gets carried away.

  I refused to get sidetracked by worries. Oh, it’s not like I couldn’t have. In a heartbeat. It was just that I knew that no matter how good a detective I was, I couldn’t follow Celia, Glynis, and Beth on my own. Sure, I could take three weeks to get things sorted out, follow Beth that day, and Celia the next Tuesday, and Glynis the Tuesday after that, but I didn’t want to wait that long to find out what they were up to. I refused to let Alex stay locked up in jail that long. Of course, the best of all possible scenarios was that once they left home, Celia, Glynis, and Beth would hook up. Then I could keep an eye on all three of them. If not . . . well, sometimes even Holmes had to rely on Watson. In my case, it was two Watsons. I knew I was lucky to have them, as assistants and as friends.

  “You’ve got your cell phones?” I asked Norman and Eve, just to make sure I had all my bases covered. “We’ll need to check in regularly. I want to know where everybody is at all times. I’ll keep track.” There was a clipboard on my desk and I lifted it for them to see. “I’ve made a spreadsheet, see? I’ll make a note of each move Celia, Glynis, and Beth make.”

  “I still think walkie-talkies would be more fun.” When Norman grumped, his mustache drooped over his lips. “Then we’d be like real
gumshoes.”

  “Yeah,” Eve chimed in, “like the detectives on TV.”

  “We’re not like the detectives on TV,” I reminded them both. “We’re the real deal. But we’ve got a couple problems. We don’t know where our marks are headed. And we don’t want to get caught behind the eight ball. We can’t take the chance that these ladies are going to ankle off and go on the lam. We don’t want them to take a powder.” I guess I was getting carried away, too. I shook my head to dislodge the remnants of all the old black-and-white detective movies I’d ever watched. “We know they can’t be going to Sonny’s on Tuesday nights. Not for cooking classes. So we need to figure out where they’re really going.”

  “Gotcha!” With the hand that clutched the paper bearing Glynis’s address, Norman gave me a crisp salute. The paper fluttered in his eyes.

  “I’m ready, too,” Eve said, but not before she checked her makeup and her lipstick.

  I clapped my hands together. “Then let’s roll.”

  And roll we did. Each in our own car, we headed to McLean and staked out our targets. I sat across the street from Beth and Michael’s fabulous gee-whiz home, and I wasn’t worried that Beth would look out a window and spot me. I didn’t think she’d ever imagine that the Annie she thought was her neighbor from the big, gorgeous, expensive brick Colonial would be driving a six-year-old Saturn. But that didn’t mean I was taking any chances. At six o’clock on the dot, when Beth’s garage door slid open and I saw her slip behind the wheel of a black Lexus SUV, I hunkered down on the front seat just to make sure she couldn’t see me. That was exactly the moment my cell phone rang.