Dying for Dinner Page 6

  I watched as they finished the floor and started in on the counters, the front display window, and the area around the cash register. There wasn’t any blood in any of those places-not that I could see, anyway-but Jim had put me in charge, and as the person in charge, I decided that I wasn’t taking any chances; a thorough cleaning was definitely in order.

  Besides, if I worried about the work crew and (since we were paying by the hour) how much the whole thing was going to cost, I wouldn’t have to think about those-

  “The drivers’ licenses, Annie. We really need to concentrate on those licenses.”

  Eve was right, but even as she zipped past, refilling the stock of the store’s trademark mint green shopping bags that were kept behind the front counter, I kept my sights-and my mind-on the cleaning crew.

  It beat going over what I’d already gone over so many times in my head.

  What were all those licenses doing in Monsieur’s house? Why was his picture on them? What was Monsieur up to, exactly?

  And could it have had anything to do with Greg’s death and Monsieur’s disappearance?

  “I dunno.” So much for my resolve. Sure, I’d sworn I wasn’t going to talk about it, or even think about it, for that matter. But as Eve worked on stowing the bags within easy reach of the cash register, I just couldn’t help but tell her what I was thinking. The whole thing was eating at me, and as always, it was easier to talk out the problem than it was to let it bounce around inside my head until my brain hurt. “It just doesn’t make sense, Eve. Those drivers’ licenses, they can’t have anything to do with Monsieur’s disappearance.”

  She paused in the middle of what she was doing, wrinkled her nose, and tipped her head. “No. They can’t. But we should look into them anyway. What if Monsieur is a Russian spy? Or an undercover agent for some rogue dictator state? What if he’s an alien and their technology is better than ours, of course, so they’ve learned how to make their people… or beings… or critters… or whatever they are, look just like us, and they’re living among us and we don’t know it?”

  I could tell that after work the night before, Eve had gone home and watched the Sci Fi Channel. Or truTV. Or a little of both.

  “I don’t think so,” I told her, and left it at that. What was the point of debating her theories, anyway? “But it sure is strange. And I sure would like to find out what’s going on. But where would we even begin? Even murder is more straight-up than identity theft. If that’s what it is. Fake driver’s licenses… I’m out of my league.” Just thinking about the possibilities-all of them terrible-made my heart pound. I told myself to get a grip. “There’s got to be some logical explanation for Monsieur having those licenses. I mean other than the spy/covert agent/alien angle. All we have to do is figure it out.”

  This did not cheer me in the least. We had a murder on our hands already, and I had enough on my plate. Like a store to run. And all the paperwork piling up at Bellywasher’s. Not to mention the not-so-insignificant fact of Peter walking back into my life.

  It was overwhelming, and because it was, I stuck with the tried and true.

  “Monsieur’s not a crook,” I said, trying to convince Eve at the same time I tried not to think about the neatly stacked display of Vavoom! jars nearby. Seasoned salt that passed for some magical seasoning was one thing, sure, but it was a far cry from identity theft.

  I went on putting words to my thoughts. “So if Monsieur isn’t a criminal, the licenses can’t mean anything. They sure can’t have anything to do with what happened here at the shop. Monsieur’s not even a suspect. At least I don’t think he is. Tyler didn’t make it sound that way.”

  “No, he’s not a suspect.” For the second time in as many minutes, Eve was deep in thought. It was probably a record. “Monsieur’s a… a material… a material something.”

  “Material witness?”

  “That’s right.” Eve said this with so much conviction, I couldn’t help but look at her carefully, surprised. As soon as I saw a flush race up her neck and darken her cheeks, I knew what was coming.

  “ Tyler called last night,” she said, and if the confession wasn’t enough to confirm my worst suspicions, the fact that she wouldn’t look at me was. “He mentioned it, that’s all.”

  “He stopped at Bellywasher’s to see you yesterday. He called you last night. Eve, I’m not liking the sound of this. Are you and Tyler-”

  “You watch your mouth, Annie!” As if she’d touched her finger to a live wire, Eve backed up until she was standing against the lighted cubbyholes that lined the wall behind the cash register. Each one featured a Très Bonne Cuisine product, artfully displayed. The light glanced against a copper saucepan and made Eve look as if she was surrounded by a metallic halo. “Don’t you even suggest anything like… like what you’re suggesting. It’s bad luck to talk about things like that. Or bad karma. Or something. Tyler and I…” She swallowed her words along with a breath of horror. “The man is despicable.”

  “So you’ve been telling me for a whole year.” I leaned against the counter, the better to catch her eye. “But when I saw the two of you at Bellywasher’s yesterday, you didn’t look like you thought he was despicable.”

  “Annie, you know me better than that.”

  I did. Which was why when Eve went back to straightening the shopping bags without giving me details, I knew something was up. Eve is all about details.

  “I was just being polite,” she said, her voice tight and her shoulders rigid. “You know, the way I would be to any customer. I wasn’t about to turn Tyler away. Not when he was going to buy lunch.”

  It was the same thing I’d told myself about Peter.

  The trick was, I knew how I felt about Peter and I had the sneaky feeling it wasn’t anything like what Eve was feeling for Tyler. Was I worried? Absolutely!

  Which was why I had to probe-at least a little more.

  “Only Tyler didn’t,” I reminded her. “Buy lunch, that is.”

  I knew the moment she gave in because her shoulders heaved. She stood, her voice as pleading as her look. “It’s just that, with the wedding being postponed and all,… well, you understand, Annie. Tyler just needs someone to talk to.”

  “The way I remember it, you and Tyler never talked.”

  “And the way I remember it, you and Peter always did.”

  She had me there.

  Before I could admit it, though, Eve went right on. “But I didn’t see much talking going on between you and Peter yesterday. You made sure you hightailed it away from him before the boy could even begin talking.”

  “Not true,” I pointed out. “Jim needed us to go to Monsieur’s. And we did. And then we found the IDs and…” We were back to where we started, and I was no happier now than I was then.

  “Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong,” I said, far more comfortable with the puzzle of Monsieur’s vanishing act and Greg’s death than I was speculating about what Peter had up the sleeve of his suddenly-not-so-trendy polo shirt. “Monsieur’s disappearance is somehow connected to Greg’s death. That’s pretty obvious. So maybe we shouldn’t be looking at it from the perspective of him disappearing. Maybe we should be looking at this like a murder investigation.”

  I think Eve was just as grateful to change the subject as I was. She grinned. “Now you’re talking, girlfriend! Where do we start?”

  “At the scene of the crime.” I made a wide gesture to include the entire shop. “When I walked in, Greg was lying right…” I went to the spot. The floor was still damp and I didn’t want to take the chance of marking it with my shoe prints so I skirted the edges of the wet spot and pointed into the center of it. “Right there. And Tyler said that Monsieur’s phone call was muffled.” I looked around. From where I stood, I couldn’t see much. Rents in Arlington are at an all-time high and shop space is at a premium. Like most retailers in the area, Monsieur had learned to maximize his square footage.

  Directly in front of me was the counter and the cash regi
ster, but as I mentioned, even the space behind it wasn’t wasted. Cubby after cubby featured some speciality cooking item. To my left was the big front window where, once the cleaners were done, I’d have to set up some sort of display. Behind me was a wall of shelves made from glowing oak where gadgets were displayed alongside most of the other, smaller items the store sold: knives and corkscrews and ready-to-cook mixes for everything from southern food specialties like corn bread to soups the likes of which never came in the cans I bought at the grocery store.

  To my right were the aisles that led to the back of the store. There were four altogether, and they were packed with merchandise. From where I stood-from where Greg must have been standing when he was killed-there was only one aisle with anything like a clear line of vision to the back of the store. It was the aisle that led straight to the room that doubled as Monsieur’s office and stockroom.

  I stabbed a finger in that direction. “That’s the only place he could have been and seen anything,” I told Eve, and I didn’t have to explain. She started down the aisle and toward the back of the store even before I did, and waited for me to catch up outside the office door.

  “We’re not going to find anything,” I said, just so I didn’t get any crazy notions about clues that had been overlooked or mysterious messages only we could understand. “The cops have been all over this place. If there was any evidence in there, they already found it. Of course”-I grinned-“that’s not going to keep us from looking.” I stepped into the office.

  Like the rest of Très Bonne Cuisine, the room was well planned and tastefully decorated. It was a nice size, maybe fifteen feet long and half as wide, with two doors leading into it, the one we’d entered directly from the store and another on the wall to our left that led to a small entryway and the back door. A counter ran along the far wall. There were shelves above it and plenty of elbow room. I wasn’t sure exactly how Monsieur used the space, but as long as I was working there, I knew it would be perfect for checking in and pricing merchandise. On the wall just to the right of the door was a copier and next to that, a coffeemaker, one of those dorm-sized refrigerators, and a small microwave. On the other side of the doorway was a desk that contained a laminator, a computer, and a phone. It was all pretty standard.

  Until I turned and looked back into the shop.

  Thanks to a display of poolside acrylic glasses, the view of the front of the store wasn’t perfect, but it was plenty good.

  “This has got to be the place where Monsieur was when he made that call,” I told Eve, and since she was standing closer to the back door, I grabbed her and marched her over so she could see what I saw. “Look. He could have come in here.” I raced over to the other door, opened it, and stepped into the entryway where Monsieur hung his coat and kept the trash containers. Just as quickly, I walked back in, certain I was retracing Monsieur’s steps.

  “He could have come in here from the back parking lot. I’ll bet he was loading up the stuff to bring to Belly-washer’s, just like I told Jim. And then when he looked into the store…” I did just that, imagining the terrifying scene that unfolded in front of Monsieur’s eyes. “He probably couldn’t see everything…” I moved to my left, then my right, peering into the store as I did. From one angle, all I could see were stainless steel roasting pans, heavy-duty mixers, a display of flatware that would have put my plain-Jane silverware at home to shame-and a sliver of the front of the store. The other angle provided a view of the glassware, a line of Tuscan pottery, small kitchen appliances-and a similar peek at the front of the store.

  “I’ll bet he saw enough,” I mumbled to myself, then raised my voice so Eve could hear me clearly. “Maybe he heard something, too. Go ahead,” I instructed Eve. “Go up front and say something. I’ll see if I can hear you.”

  This sort of reenactment is right up Eve’s alley. Her face shining with anticipation, she scurried to the front of the shop, and a moment later I heard her growl, “Stick ’em up,” in a deep voice that I guess was supposed to pass for the killer’s.

  “Yes. I can hear you perfectly,” I called. I raced to the front of the shop. She came toward the back. We met in the middle of an aisle that featured dish soap, hand cleaners, and lotions made from all-natural, earth-friendly ingredients. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how anyone could pay thirty-seven dollars for a soap dispenser refill, and, rather than think about it, I stuck to my case.

  “He heard something,” I told Eve. “He must have. That’s how he knew Greg was in trouble. Monsieur’s taller than me and shorter than you…” I craned my neck, checking my theory against the evidence one more time. “He probably saw something, too. He might have seen the killer. He might have recognized him.” I looked to the back of the store and the back door that led into the tiny lot where Monsieur parked his silver Jaguar. “And then he took off.”

  “I can’t blame him.” Eve shivered. “It must have been terrible.”

  “But why won’t he come forward and tell the police about it?” Frustration bubbled in my voice, and I struggled for answers. Before I had a chance to find any, someone tapped on our front door. Through the glass panel on the door, I could see that it was a man, and I stepped around the cleaning crew just finishing (I made a mental note of the time so we weren’t overcharged), unlocked the door, and opened it just enough to deliver my message.

  “We’re reopening tomorrow. Right now-”

  “I’m sorry to bother you.” The man touched a hand to the bill of his baseball cap. “My name is Len, Len Dean.”

  Surprised, I opened the door a bit wider. “Len Dean the English teacher who teaches with Peter Capshaw at Wakefield?”

  A smile twitched across Len’s expression. “Don’t tell me you were one of my students. I hate it when I realize the years have passed and you kids are all grown up.” He peered into my face. “Maybe you were a student of mine. You look awfully familiar.”

  “That’s because I’m Annie. Annie Capshaw. Peter’s wife.” Heat raced into my cheeks. “Peter’s ex-wife,” I added as quickly as I could. “I remember chatting with you and your wife at a couple of faculty Christmas parties. And I think we chaperoned the prom together three or four years ago.”

  “That’s right.” Len’s smile was genuine. “I should have recognized you; I just didn’t expect to see you here. I just wondered…” He glanced into the shop and the smile fled his face. “I just came around to see if it was really true.”

  “You mean about Greg? Yes, I’m sorry. It is. You knew him?”

  “Greg and I…” Len swallowed hard. “Sorry,” he said. “You know how English teachers can be. Big softies. That’s what my wife always says. She says it comes from reading all that poetry, says the humanities teachers aren’t as tough as math and science teachers. Greg was a math teacher, you know. Over at Jefferson. We never worked together, but we knew each other. You know how it is in the education community. As a matter of fact, we played cards together every Wednesday night.” Once again, Len’s gaze strayed into the store. He didn’t know exactly where the murder had happened, of course, and his gaze wandered from the front counter and down the nearest aisle. I could only imagine what he was imagining-what had happened; where; if Greg had suffered-and since I’d always liked Len and his wife, Marissa, I took pity on him and opened the door so he could step into the shop.

  “It’s going to seem weird tonight,” he said, settling himself near the display of cookbooks. “We’re playing over at Guy Paloma’s place. You remember him.”

  I did. I had always liked Guy and his wife. In fact, when news of Peter and my separation ran rampant through Wakefield High, Gina Paloma was one of the few faculty spouses who called me to express her concern even though I didn’t know her well.

  “We talked about canceling,” Len said, pulling me away from my thoughts. “But heck, Greg loved our Wednesday night games and we figured it wouldn’t hurt for us to get together and talk. You know, sort of like a wake. Or therapy.”

  I did know
, and I told Len I thought it was a good idea. Right before I realized that a perfect investigating opportunity had landed on my doorstep. Literally.

  “I met Greg a few times when I stopped here at the shop,” I told Len. “He seemed like a nice guy.”

  “He was great.” Len wiped a hand over his eyes. “Always real positive. Always upbeat. Even when he was diagnosed with that heart problem of his. He wasn’t going to let that stop him, he said. Now that he was retired, he had too much life to live.”

  “Which is why this is so horrible.” I didn’t need to point this out to Len; he already knew it. I did it anyway, as a way of easing into some serious questioning. “Do you suppose there’s anything about Greg’s life that would have… I don’t know… I mean, do you think he-”

  “Had any enemies? Ones that wanted to see him dead?” Len pulled off his baseball cap and ran a hand through hair that was thinner than last time I saw him. “If you knew him at all, you knew Greg wasn’t the kind of guy who made enemies. Except in school, maybe.” He chuckled. “I imagine a math teacher makes plenty of enemies. Especially in those middle school grades. But that’s just kids being kids. You know the way they are. You remember from when you and Peter were-”

  “I do.” There was that phrase again, and, rather than think about all the promise it held and all the misery it ended up causing, I thought about the students in Peter’s classes who were special cases. Some were just plain hard to teach. Others had chips on their shoulders the size of the Washington Monument, and they weren’t about to let anybody-especially a chemistry teacher-knock them off. All of them were challenging. None of them were seriously dangerous.

  “This doesn’t feel like it has anything to do with school,” I said, and Len nodded in agreement. “If Greg was a card player, was he involved in any other gambling?”