And any one of those six hundred and twenty-five people could have been Greg’s killer.
I looked over the crowd, checking faces against what I remembered of the man who’d tried to snatch Norman off the street in Atlantic City. Needless to say, I got nowhere fast, and honestly, I should have known this from the start. I’d tangled with a couple of killers in my day, and none of them were what I expected. Now the only thing I had to go on was that the person who’d shot Greg and the person who’d darted out of that black sedan back in A.C. was a man.
A couple hundred of the people in the audience were men.
Was I going to lose heart? Not by a long shot. I scanned the crowd one more time, looking for Tyler and the other detectives who were there to assure Norman ’s safety, and confident we were doing the right thing in the right way, I wiped any residual worry from my expression and turned toward where Norman was waiting in the wings.
In khakis, a blue shirt, and a crisp Très Bonne Cuisine apron, he looked the part of the French chef so many knew and loved.
The only question now was, could he pull it off?
“You ready?” I gave him a quick hug. “You’ve got a lot of fans out there waiting for you.”
“I do?” It was Norman ’s voice, Norman ’s nervous gaze that traveled to the stage and beyond, as if he could see the audience gathering on the other side of the curtain. We heard the murmur of the crowd and, like me, I had no doubt he was thinking that one of those voices might sound awfully familiar if it said, “It’s payback time, Norman.”
Unlike me, Norman wasn’t very good about hiding his jitteriness. (At least I thought I was doing a pretty good job of it.) He ran his tongue over his lips. He shifted from foot to foot. Even though we needed special passes to get backstage and that should have assured us that everyone there really belonged, his gaze darted over his shoulder and, from there, up to the catwalk that crossed the stage high above our heads.
Norman ’s voice was as fidgety as his movements. “I dunno, Annie. I’m not sure I can do this. What if… what if he’s out there waiting?”
“That’s exactly what we want to happen.” I put a hand on Norman ’s shoulder and leaned in closer so that none of the stagehands working around us could hear. “You’re going to be fine. There are plenty of cops out there and a couple more stationed here backstage. Nobody’s going to get anywhere near you. Not before they get the guy first. You remember what we said last night.”
“It’s the best way. It’s the only way.” Norman was talking the talk, but if his breathlessness meant anything, it meant he wasn’t anywhere near ready to walk the walk.
This time, I gave his shoulder a pat. “Jim’s here.” I looked over to where Jim was chopping and dicing and slicing the food Norman -er, Jacques-would be using for his demonstration. “You don’t think he’s going to let anything happen to you, do you?”
Norman tried for a smile. “Jim’s a real friend. After he found out everything he found out about me… after you all did… you all could have walked away.”
“That’s not what friends do.”
Another smile. This one lasted a millisecond longer. “You think Jim’s a good enough friend to do the demo for me?”
Since I suspected Norman wasn’t kidding, I didn’t answer.
Instead, I smoothed a hand over the place near the neckline of his apron where Très Bonne Cuisine was embroidered in minty letters the exact color of the store’s shopping bags. I could practically feel the hum of nervousness that coursed through Norman ’s body.
“You look handsome,” I said.
He made a face. “Folks aren’t going to think I’m so handsome when this story comes out. What’s going to happen, Annie? I mean, even if the cops get this guy? Word’s going to get out that I’m an ex-con, that I learned to cook in prison. My career is going to tank, the shop is going to fold, my reputation-”
“Hey!” I am usually not so rude as to interrupt someone, but it was either that or watch Norman dissolve with a case of the screaming meemies. I looked him in the eye. “You’ve got to stay focused and alert.”
“I know that.”
I would have felt more confident if he sounded like he meant it.
“You’ve got to remember that there are lots of people out there who are looking forward to seeing you, and lots of people on the sidelines who are here specifically to make sure you’re safe.”
This time, he didn’t even try to talk, he just nodded.
“You can do this, N-” I swallowed what I was going to say. “You can do this, Jacques. You have to. For Greg.”
“Yes.” As if in response to his affirmative answer, the technicians tested the lighting, and at that very moment, a spotlight came on and illuminated the cooking demonstration area with its gleaming pots and pans and its pristine cooking surfaces. Norman stood a little taller. His smile inched up. There was suddenly a Pepé Le Pew swagger in his step and a very Gallic tilt to his chin. “It is très bien, yes?” Jacques Lavoie smiled back at me. “We will have a wonderful time showing these lovely people the quiche and the soup and the crêpes suzette. It will be-”
“Jacques!” We’d brought Raymond along to the show, partly because we knew he’d be a great help, but mostly because as soon as he heard that his culinary hero was back and doing a cooking demonstration at the region’s premier food show, there was no way we could convince him to stay in Arlington. Jim was officially in charge of the food. Raymond’s job was to take care of the supplies, and when he raced over to where we stood I saw clear proof that Raymond did not share Jacques’ love of the spotlight and the kind of preshow pandemonium I’d seen even before our classes at Bellywasher’s.
Raymond’s eyes were bright. The collar of his oxford shirt was damp. When he got close enough, I saw that his hands were shaking. “We don’t have a mandoline!” he wailed.
I was tempted to ask if we were playing music, but have no fear. A couple weeks behind the front counter of Très Bonne Cuisine, and I was prepared. “I know I brought it,” I said, thinking back to the night before and our frantic trip to the shop to pack everything Jacques would need. “It was in the box with the salad spinner.”
“The big brown box with the red logo on it?” I would have felt more confident if Raymond didn’t swallow hard when he asked this. Muscular hulk or not, he deflated in front of our eyes. “I threw it out. I thought it was empty. It went into the big Dumpster behind the building.”
The thought of Dumpster diving did not appeal to me. I checked my watch. “There’s no time to go back to the shop to get another one.”
“And not one thing to worry about!” Jacques’ smile was as bright as the stage lights. “We are at a food show, ne sommes-nous pas? Annie, you will go see my good friend Claude Brooking. He has a booth here somewhere. He will gladly let us use a mandoline. And Raymond, mon ami…” Jacques wound an arm through Raymond’s and walked him back onto the stage. “We must check the crêpe pans, n’est pas?”
I left them at it, skirting a couple of technicians who were doing a last-minute sound check and heading out through the wings and to the auditorium. I knew Eve was somewhere in the back of the house with Tyler and I had an eye out for her.
Which was why I didn’t see Peter until he stepped right in front of me.
“Whoa!” I pulled up short and caught my breath. “What are you-?”
“I saw the ad in the newspaper. You know…” Peter looked around to make sure no one was paying any attention to us. “About your friend Jacques… I figured this had something to do with our case so I knew you’d need my help.”
“That’s really nice.” It was, in a twisted sort of way, so I didn’t feel guilty saying it. “But Peter…” A group of elderly ladies headed past us and toward the senior seating that had been reserved in the front of the auditorium, and I pulled Peter aside. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your help…” I was at a crossroads here, and I sucked in a long breath. But honestly, I didn’t have to think about what to say.