Miranda Bliss
Dying for Dinner
The fourth book in the Cooking Class Mystery series
It’s payback time!
And I would like to thank my wonderful fellow brainstormers:
Diane
Emilie
Jasmine
Karen
for helping me think my way through this book.
One
“TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE.”
Brave words, yes? I actually might have believed them if as I was speaking, my voice didn’t waver and my knees didn’t knock together like castanets in a flamenco frenzy.
In an effort to calm myself, I took a deep breath and a long look around. Now that I’d finished checking in our latest batch of cooking students and they’d headed into the kitchen for week number one of Cool Gadgets = Hot Dinners, I was alone in Bellywasher’s. It was a Monday night, the restaurant was closed, and, always on the lookout for ways to control skyrocketing costs, I’d turned out every light but the one over the bar. The quiet didn’t bother me. Neither did the dark, or the play of shadows against the walls with their painted border of thistles. My gaze glanced over pictures of Scotland, Grandpa Banner-man’s walking stick (hung in a place of honor), a kilt, and an autographed photo of Mel Gibson, his face painted blue. The familiarity of the place and the funky, eclectic objects that filled it warmed me through and through. For the first time since I’d walked into the pub, I managed a smile.
Day or night, dark or light, I could never be uncomfortable in Bellywasher’s.
I know, I know… this seems especially crazy. Logic dictates that the food service business and I cannot peacefully coexist.
I don’t cook, see. I don’t even like to cook. In point of fact, I am not only the world’s worst cook, I am dangerous near a stove. Or an oven. Or a chopping table. Or any other piece of equipment, any appliance or gadget, or any heat source that has anything to do with preparing a meal.
Still, facts are facts and here’s one that’s indisputable: Bellywasher’s holds a special place in my heart.
For one thing, it’s owned by Jim MacDonald, and Jim is not only a born pub keeper, a wonderful and creative chef, a great guy, and a honey of a hunk, he’s my honey, too. Over the last few months, we’ve gotten closer than ever, and believe me, I know I am one lucky girl. Jim likes me. He more than likes me. Jim believes in my abilities, my level head, and my sound judgment enough to allow me to manage the day-to-day business of his restaurant. He values my opinions; he trusts my decisions. Jim laughs at my jokes, and even though I’d heard it from so many guys over the years that I’d come to realize it was code for Let’s just be friends, why don’t we? Jim has never once in the year I’ve known him called me cute.
Even though I have never been and will never be a flashy dresser, Jim always compliments my choice of clothing. He never forgets to tell me my hair looks nice, even when it is at its curly, unruly worst. He tells me I’m pretty, and he lets me know that he thinks I’m smart, and believe me, for a woman who’s gone through what I went through with Peter, my ex, this is a whole, new, wonderful world.
Jim is so terrific, he doesn’t even complain (at least not too much) when I investigate a murder or two.
Oh, yeah, he’s a sweetie, all right, and since Belly-washer’s means the world to him, it means just as much to me, too. Our customers are important to both of us. So are our employees, and our place in the community of businesses along King Street in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia. I know I am part of something wonderful, and I am grateful for every bit of it, even things like the photograph just over my left shoulder, the one that is supposed to show the Loch Ness Monster. Call me cynical, but unlike the customers who marvel at the gray and grainy picture and swear they can see Nessie as plain as day, I’m not so sure. To me, the photo is just a jumble of blurred images. It looks like whoever was holding the camera had aimed it toward the loch just as he or she sneezed. Or maybe the person was just so jazzed about being in the Highlands and maybe actually catching sight of the beast, he or she was having a fit of nerves.
Just like I was at that very moment.
So much for keeping my mind occupied and steadying my jitters. The moment I let down my guard, my doubts closed in on me. My stomach tied into familiar knots. The rat-a-tat of my heart thumping against my ribs started up in full force, and I gulped down my misgivings.
“Today is the first day of the rest of your life, Annie,” I told myself again, just so I didn’t forget. “Make the most of it. Enjoy. Learn all you can. And stop being such a wuss. You did what you had to do. More importantly, you did what you wanted to do. Nobody made you. You did-”
“There’s the lady of leisure!” Eve DeCateur was no stranger to Bellywasher’s, either. Eve is our hostess. She’s also my best friend. I’d locked the front door (what security-conscious business manager wouldn’t?), but Eve had her own key, and she breezed into the restaurant and called out her greeting right before she set her Kate Spade bag on the bar and put one arm around me for a quick hug.
“You are not looking as happy as you should be today.” Eve’s hugs were like everything else about Eve-fast and furious. Almost before she had loosened her hold on me, she was leaning forward for a better look. “Annie, you’re not having regrets, are you?”
I could lie to myself. I could even lie to Jim when it was for his own good. I could never lie to the woman who’d been my best buddy since forever.
I tried anyway.
“Regrets?” I’d learned a lot from Eve in all those years. Like I’d seen her do a million times in a million different situations, I tossed my head and laughed. “Why would I be feeling any regrets? Today is the first day-”
“Of the rest of your life. Yeah, I know.” She didn’t sound convinced. Which pretty much meant I wasn’t fooling her. She stepped back, her weight against one foot and the bright yellow stiletto that encased it, her hands on her hips and the short, short black skirt that looked just right with her buttery yellow blouse. Her head tipped, she narrowed her brilliant blue eyes and looked into my ordinary brown ones, her Southern accent suddenly as thick as the humid summer air outside.
“Why, Annie Capshaw, I do believe you’re trying to pull the wool over my eyes.”
My shoulders drooped. “I was. I did. I thought-”
“That if you fooled me, you might also fool yourself.”
I hate it when Eve is insightful. Not that a best friend doesn’t appreciate honesty from another best friend, but Eve and insightful… those two words don’t exactly belong in the same sentence. Eve is kindhearted, sure. She’s funny and unselfish. She’s as good as anyone I’ve ever met, and twice as supportive. If I could pick anyone-anyone at all-to help me out with my investigations, believe me, it would be Eve. That’s how much of a team player she is. What she’s not, usually, is insightful, and when she is, I know she’s always right on the money.
I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, and my sneakers squeaked against the hardwood floor.
“It’s that obvious, huh?” I asked.
“Pooh!” When she tossed her head, it was far more dramatic than when I’d done it. Of course, she made that little hand gesture to go along with it, the one that was dismissive and spectacular all at the same time and just happened to show off her perfect manicure and her slender, elegant fingers. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on with you, honey. Even before I took one little look at you, I knew you’d be a basket case today. Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be?”
“You. You wouldn’t be.”
Another toss of the head, and Eve’s blonde hair gleamed in the glow of the overhead light. “I am not nearly as dependable and responsible as you. Never have been, never will be. My goodness, Annie, do I have to remind you? I’ve had more jobs in my lifetime than I can count on both hands. And you-”