Dead Men Don't Get the Munchies Read online

  Brad’s smile was icy. “Told you it was someone else. Someone who looks like me. Whoever he is, I hope he taught that Valerie Conover a thing or two. Any woman who would follow a man, then confront him in public, is obviously a vindictive bitch.”

  I had not been indoctrinated by the sisters of WOW, so I wasn’t sure how I was going to respond to this. It was a good thing Kegan walked by. Bless him, he’d been helping me get everything set up, and he was just headed over to his station. Along with Jorge, he’d be working on the ice cream sundaes, and he had a basket of peaches in his hand.

  “Speaking of people who look like people…” Brad put a hand on Kegan’s arm to buttonhole him. “Couldn’t help myself. Kept thinking about you all week. There’s something really familiar about you, and I can’t put my finger on it. Have we met before?”

  Kegan ran his tongue over his lips. “I don’t think so.”

  “You sure?” Brad stepped back and pointed a finger at the faded tomato on Kegan’s T-shirt. “That’s what did it. Don’t Panic, Eat Organic. When you said that goofy thing last week, that’s when I knew I must have met you before. That sounds so familiar.”

  The tips of Kegan’s ears looked as if they were on fire. He swallowed hard. “It’s not a goofy saying,” he said, and because he knew Brad would dispute this and possibly cause a scene, he added quickly, “And you could have heard it anywhere. I didn’t think of it. I’m not that clever.”

  “I guess you’re right.” I knew it wasn’t easy for Brad to admit even that much of a shortcoming, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that he didn’t let it go. “But that doesn’t explain why you look so familiar. Where are you from?”

  “Crayswing, Pennsylvania.” Kegan looked down to where Brad still had a hand on his sleeve. He looked up again, but even though he smiled, he never quite met Brad’s eyes. “How about you?”

  “Colorado.” Brad paused a moment to let the information sink in. “Ever been to Boulder?”

  “Oh, wow.” When Kegan lifted the basket of peaches to put both his hands under it, Brad had no choice but to let go of his arm. “Colorado! That’s a dream of mine. I’ve always wanted to visit Colorado. I’ll bet the mountains are beautiful. Unfortunately, I’ve never been west of the Mississippi.”

  Still thinking, Brad tipped his head. “School?”

  “Penn State.” We were standing in the front of the kitchen, and much to Kegan’s chagrin, he saw that once again, he had become the center of attention. While our students waited for class to start, they listened in on the conversation.

  Kegan shifted from foot to foot. “How about…how about you. Brad?”

  “CU-Boulder. But that must have been years before you were in school. I mean, I know I don’t look it, but I’m going to be forty this summer. I’ll bet I’m a good ten years older than you.”

  “Eleven.” Kegan’s cheeks flushed. His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm against the peach basket. I could practically see the wheels turning inside his head. He was struggling to find a way to put Brad at ease, and it was no mystery why. Kegan knew that in the same position, he’d be mortified at mistaking Brad for someone else. Being the nice guy he was, Kegan figured Brad felt the same way.

  Of course, he didn’t know that Brad was a Weasel.

  Or that weasels don’t have feelings.

  When I stepped in, it sure wasn’t to help out Brad.

  “Hey, it didn’t have to be Colorado, did it? You two could have run into each other right here in the area somewhere.” I turned to Brad. “Kegan works for Balanced Planet. You know, that environmental group that’s got offices in D.C. You could have bumped into each other there. Or at a Metro station. Or even on the street.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Kegan cleared his throat. “Even if we did, I don’t think Brad would have noticed. I’m not all that memorable.”

  “Well, you must be!” I laughed and patted Kegan’s arm, hoping that would signal an end to their talk. I was all for our students getting to know each other, but if I was going to get through all the recipes Jim expected me to teach that night, we had to get moving. “You must be plenty memorable if Brad knows he’s seen you somewhere.”

  “That would be something, wouldn’t it?” Kegan laughed, too. I was glad. He was a sweet kid, and I hated to see him ill at ease. He was still smiling when he took the peaches over to Jorge.

  Brad got settled, too. And me?

  With a sinking feeling, I realized how much I’d appreciated the diversion. I gulped down the realization that it was time to get down to business.

  Ready or not, I had to cook.

  IN THE INTEREST OF FULL DISCLOSURE, I HAVE TO admit that there were a couple glitches.

  Like the chicken wings that went from plump and juicy to dry and dusty in no time flat. (I used this as a precautionary lesson and reminded Margaret Whitemore and the man named Grant who would be her partner preparing the wings for the class meal to follow the recipe, not my example.)

  There was the ratatouille, too. I was pretty sure it was supposed to be fresh and chunky and not look like ketchup. Big points for me. I did not do as I was tempted and throw my hands in the air, sob, and admit my shortcomings. Instead, if I do say so myself, I recovered pretty well. I used the opportunity to ask Damien to give us a demonstration of the proper way to chop.

  All things considered, the class went pretty well. By the time I was ready to demonstrate how to make the peach sauce for our ice cream sundaes, I was feeling content and pretty pleased with myself. From where they stood off in a corner watching and no doubt critiquing the proceedings, I could tell Marc, Damien, and Monsieur Lavoie (who had just joined us and was already sampling a glass of the dessert wine we’d be serving tonight) were, too. No doubt, Jim would be getting a positive report. Three recipes down and one to go (I didn’t count the rum punch, since there was no fire involved), and I hadn’t set off the smoke alarm even once.

  For me, this was a record.

  “OK, we already put our peaches in boiling water for a minute or two, we peeled them, and we chopped them.” I held up the bowl of peaches for my students to see and hoped they weren’t too picky. Some of my peach chunks were big, others were so small, even I had to squint to see them. Some looked more like peach jam than peach pieces. No matter, I told myself. I was on a roll. My confidence boosted, I breezed on as expertly as if I was one of those celebrity chefs on the Food Channel.

  “Now we’re going to get the sauce going. You know, you could cook this entire dessert on your grill. You’d need heavy aluminum foil, and you’d put everything on it, wrap it up good and tight, and throw it on the grill for…” I’d remembered this much of Jim’s instructions, but had to consult his recipe for the rest. “For about twenty or twenty-five minutes. Tonight, since we don’t have a charcoal grill, we’re going to do the whole thing on the stove.” I waved the students closer to the industrial stove that took up most of one wall of the kitchen, and they gathered around.

  “I’ve got my chopped peaches…” I scooped them into a pot. “And I’m going to add the lemon juice, the honey, the ginger, and the allspice.” This part was easy, since Marc had already measured out everything and had it waiting for me.

  Margaret Whitemore raised a hand. “But what if you don’t like all the ingredients?” she asked. “Ginger’s too spicy for me. Why, I remember once, I had dinner at an Indian restaurant and I spent the next three days burping.”

  “And allspice…” Agatha rolled her eyes. “Who has that kind of stuff in their cupboards?”

  I hadn’t expected a mini rebellion. I scrambled, wondering all the while how Jim would handle this.

  I could just about hear his voice in my ear. “Cooking is all about being creative,” I said just like he would (though I left out the long ooo in cooking, because I figured that would be too much). “If you don’t like the spices, don’t use them. You could substitute something like…”

  I didn’t have a clue. I looked to Marc and Damien for deliverance
.

  “Cinnamon.” Marc stepped forward. “It’s a spice, too, of course, but it’s also a flavor more of us are used to and like. And it goes really well with peaches. The smell is great, too. Think about those cinnamon roll places at the mall. That same aroma…it will waft through your whole house.”

  Listening to a kid with purple hair use a word like waft struck me as funny, but our students didn’t seem to mind. They nodded in unison.

  “Or you could even add a little bit of balsamic vinegar,” Damien added. Since the combination seemed odd to me, I wasn’t surprised the suggestion came from him. Of all our employees, he was the most like Jim. I don’t mean Jim has a prison record like Damien does. Not a chance! But Damien is just as daring and creative as Jim. When it comes to taking chances with flavor combinations ordinary mortals would never dream of, Damien was the guy for the job.

  “So, it’s whatever you like,” I added, along with a smile of thanks to our two cooks. I had the pot with the peaches and the other ingredients in it in one hand and with my other, I turned on the stove. “And remember, Jim would be the first to tell you that if you look at a recipe and don’t like everything that’s in it, you can change it. Only he’d say adapt. He always says that’s how new recipes are developed. You leave out the stuff you don’t like, you add the stuff you do, and voilà!”

  I guess the celebrity chef thing went to my head. To add a little oomph to that last word, I gestured wildly. Too bad I did it with the hand that was holding the pot of peach sauce.

  As if it was all happening in slow motion, I saw the sauce slosh and I knew when it splashed over the sides, it was going to rain down on our students in a sticky mess. I tried to compensate, stepping back, but my butt slammed into the stove. The fire was on, and though I knew in my head that I wasn’t in danger of getting scorched, I flinched. I darted forward and tripped over my own feet. I would have gone down like a rock if I didn’t put a hand out to stop myself.

  When I did, I knocked into the shelf next to the stove. It was where I’d stashed the brown paper bag with the can of antistatic spray in it. The sleeve of my sweater caught on the bag.

  I knew better. Honest. I knew not to yank my arm away, but remember, it might have felt like it was happening in slow motion, but all this occurred in the blink of an eye.

  I was so anxious to at least look like I had the situation under control that I didn’t think.

  I tugged my arm back, and the bag came with it.

  The aerosol can slipped out of the bag and tumbled. It clattered against the tile floor.

  The noise of it was still echoing when I breathed a sigh of relief. The excitement was over, and I hadn’t fallen flat on my face in front of our students. Or dropped the pot of peach sauce.

  Life was good.

  I guess that must have been what I was thinking about. That’s why I wasn’t paying attention until I heard a collective gasp and saw a blur as someone pushed from the back of the crowd of students around me to the front of the group. Before I could register what was happening, that same someone took hold of my shoulders and pushed me—hard—away from the stove.

  I must have been hallucinating.

  That blur looked an awful lot like a tomato.

  HAD KEGAN JUST ATTACKED ME?

  The words rang through my head along with the sounds of the voices raised in surprise.

  “What happened?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  Those first two questions were directed toward me, one by Margaret who was fanning her face with one hand and leaning against Jorge, and the other from Damien who’d raced over the second the commotion started.

  The last question was mine, and I’ll admit I did not sound as cool, calm, and collected as I would have liked. My words were directed at Kegan, who was sitting on the floor beside where I lay. He had his hands on his knees and he was breathing hard.

  “I’m so sorry, Annie.” Kegan put a hand on my shoulder. Since I was facedown on the floor and struggling to sit up, this was not the best strategy. I pushed his hand away, sat up, and scooped the hair out of my eyes. While I was at it, I picked pieces of peach sauce out of my hair.

  Kegan’s face was pale. His lower lip trembled. “I’m so, so sorry. But there wasn’t time to explain. I had to do something. Before you got hurt.”

  Since I was already covered with peach sauce, both my knees were scraped and one of my elbows was bleeding, this seemed like a moot point.

  “I wasn’t going to get hurt,” I said. “At least not until you pushed me. I had everything under control.”

  “But you didn’t.” Kegan stood on shaky legs. He stooped down to help me to my feet, and once I was up, he kept an arm around my shoulders. “It was the antistatic spray, Annie. I couldn’t take any chances.”

  Huh? would have been the appropriate response, but I had yet to arrive at huh stage. Along with everyone else in the kitchen, I simply stood there with my mouth open, staring at Kegan.

  He wasn’t much calmer than I was. He had that deer-in-the-headlights look, but he managed to glance at the students gathered in a tight circle around us. “It’s possible for aerosol cans to puncture when they’re dropped,” he explained. “And if that happens too near an open flame, the flammable solvents and propane propellant can be ignited. And then…” When he looked at me, I swear his face was a little green. “Kaboom!”

  Even under its coating of peach sauce, I think my face was green, too. I swallowed hard. “Kaboom?”

  Kegan nodded. “That’s right. And it can happen fast. There wasn’t time to explain. I had to get you out of the way. And the can, too.” He looked all the way across the kitchen to where the can was still spinning on the tile floor near the walk-in cooler. “I kicked it as far away as fast as I could, but I couldn’t take any chances that the gases might have already escaped and heated. You know, because of the—”

  “Kaboom.” I filled in the blank. When Monsieur Lavoie showed up out of nowhere with one of the stools from out at the bar, I plonked down on it. “Wow, Kegan, you saved my life!”

  Some of the color rushed back into Kegan’s face. “Not really. I mean, as it turns out, I don’t think the can punctured.”

  “But if it had…” I didn’t want to think of the Kaboom! scenario, so I didn’t finish the sentence. Marc handed me a wet cloth, and I wiped the sticky sauce off my face. “We’re grateful,” I told Kegan. “All of us. That was really quick thinking.”

  “It was nothing. Really.” Kegan blushed like a teenage girl at her first mixer. “Anybody would have done the same thing.”

  “But that’s not true, is it?”

  The question came from Brad, who stepped to the front of the group and clapped Kegan on the shoulder. “Not everybody would have known that stuff about the flammable propellent. You know what I mean, buddy?”

  I guess Kegan did, and I guess he was embarrassed by all the attention and about being thought of as a hero by his fellow classmates.

  He got pale all over again.

  Six

  THANK GOODNESS FOR MARC, DAMIEN, AND MONSIEUR Lavoie.

  While I hightailed it into the ladies’ room to get the sticky peach sauce out of my hair and off my face, they took over like the pros they are. After I blotted the gluey mixture off my clothes with wet paper towels that were a little too wet, they made sure everything was under control while I retreated into my office until my skirt and sweater dried.

  I sat at my desk for a while and wallowed in my embarrassment, not to mention my incompetence. But hey, it wasn’t the end of the world. If I’d learned nothing else in the course of two murder investigations, it was that there are far more important things in this world than saving face (or peach sauce). I got over it, and when I did, I did the only thing I could think of to make myself feel better: I updated our QuickBooks program and caught up on paying Bellywasher’s bills.

  Unlike cooking, numbers are dispassionate, predictable, and withou
t pitfalls. The familiar process of checking invoices against orders and packing slips was comforting, and while I was at it and my heartbeat had calmed down at last, I practiced every single excuse I could come up with to explain this latest cooking catastrophe to Jim.

  “The peach sauce made me do it.”

  “I tripped, see, and after that…”

  Just thinking about everything that had happened—and the messy results—made me shift uncomfortably in my chair. My hair had dried into stiff spikes. My sweater was stained beyond saving. I’d missed some spots of peach sauce on my cheeks and my nose. I knew this for a fact because as I sat there, the honey in the sauce hardened.

  “Look on the bright side!” Since I was doing a one-sided role-playing of sorts, I smiled when I said this, just the way I planned on smiling at Jim when I delivered the news of the botched cooking demonstration. I hoped by that time, the skin on my cheeks and nose wouldn’t feel as if it was being pulled tight. “None of our students got hurt. Or even splashed with the peach sauce. And I didn’t get hurt, either. At least too not much, anyway.”

  I glanced down at the bandages stuck to my knees and fingered the thick wad of gauze and tape that Monsieur had insisted on wrapping around my elbow. Thanks to his ministrations, I wasn’t bleeding anymore, but I wasn’t sure I had any blood flow to my arm, either.

  “I guess it could have been a real disaster,” I said. Since Jim was a practical guy, I knew he’d appreciate seeing the incident from this perspective. “If it wasn’t for Kegan…”

  I stopped to consider this, and when I did, my stomach went cold. The next second, I smiled. When it came to Kegan, there really was more there than met the eye. For all his bashfulness, he really came through in a pinch.

  If Kegan hadn’t jumped into action…

  If that can of antistatic spray really had been punctured…

  If the fumes had ignited in the heat from the stove…