Maybe I’d gotten it all wrong? Maybe Eve hadn’t been looking at either Brad or Kegan? I scanned the classroom and the blank expressions on each student’s face. It was clear that Eve had recognized someone, and whoever it was, it wasn’t someone she was happy to see.
It was just as clear that now that she was gone, nobody was going to take responsibility.
“Well, we’ve started off with a wee bit of a stir!” Of course, Jim was the one who got everything under control. It was one of the things he did best. He tapped his worktable with a wooden spoon and raised his voice. “Now let’s get to the real excitement, shall we? Come on, people, it’s time to start cooking!”
IT’S THE WAY JIM SAYS THE WORD, OF COURSE, THAT throws me for a loop. Every single time.
Cooking.
He draws out those two Os and pronounces them like Americans would in the word kook.
Cooking.
I should know better, but try as I might, I can’t resist.
Which explains why I didn’t drop everything and run after Eve to find out what was going on. Don’t get me wrong, Jim’s not heartless; I don’t want to give that impression. I saw the look he darted at the door, and I knew he was as worried about her as I was. But I also knew he was thinking exactly what I was thinking: that we’d both check on Eve later. Right now, we had work to do, and a class that had already been disrupted by the Brad vs Kegan showdown. We’d have the rest of the night to track down Eve and figure out what was going on inside that very blonde head of hers, but right now we had to make a good impression on the people who would tell other people about their Bellywasher’s Cooking Academy experience.
So while Jim gave an overview of the night’s menu—burgers, coleslaw, old-fashioned potato salad, fudge brownies, and margaritas—I stood back and waited to do what I was told. And when the time came, he taught his students the right way to proceed through each recipe. I demonstrated. We did the burgers, and I dutifully cracked eggs (I needed a couple extra because of the ones that landed on the floor), added garlic, and crumbled the feta cheese that Jim tucked between two meat patties before he placed them one top of each other on the grill. We talked about potato salad, and I ladled mayonnaise into a bowl (too little to begin with and way too much after that), added the chopped pickle, the mustard, and the bit of dill that was Jim’s secret ingredient. The cooked potatoes, as it turned out, were already diced. I didn’t hold it against him that Jim wasn’t willing to take a chance with me and a chopping knife.
Except for the salt and sugar that I mixed up the first time through, the coleslaw went without incident. The brownies…well, it’s best not to even mention those. Let’s just say that before any real damage could be done, Marc and Damien claimed they were tired of standing around doing nothing and took over the mixing and baking duties.
By the time it was all over, I needed one of those margaritas!
No such luck. Because each pair of students had to make enough of their own dish for everyone to share, there was plenty of work to be done, even when we were finished demonstrating. While Jim handled the grill (who knew there was an art to flipping burgers), Damien ran interference between Margaret and Agatha. Marc had bartended at his last job, so he took care of the drinks, and I flitted between the potato salad and where Brad and Kegan were working on the coleslaw.
Just for the record, yes, they were using the organic vegetables.
“How’s it going?” I thought this a better way to start my conversation with them than by asking if Eve knew either one of them, and if she did, what she had against that person. But don’t worry, I intended to get around to Eve. If I’d learned nothing else in the course of two murder investigations, it was the right way to handle an interrogation. “You two have any questions?”
“Anybody who has questions about how to chop cabbage, bell peppers, and carrots is a moron.”
Do I have to point out that this comment came from Brad?
“Maybe some people just aren’t as talented as you are when it comes to cooking. Did you ever think of that?” Kegan came to the rescue, and I don’t think it was just because Brad was being pigheaded. Kegan had seen the way I struggled up there at the front of the room, and bless him, he took pity on me!
He gave me an uncertain smile. “We’re doing fine, Annie,” he said. “Look. I’ve got the cabbage, the peppers, and the onion chopped. Only need to do the carrots.” With the tip of his knife, he pointed at the bowl in the center of the table. “Brad’s already cooking the stuff for the dressing; it’s nearly done. It only takes…” He consulted his recipe. “Five to seven minutes. Sound about right?”
“Sounds perfect.” It did. I ignored the disgusted look Brad shot Kegan’s way, the one that pretty much said he knew Kegan was trying to be teacher’s pet. Since I wasn’t technically the teacher, it didn’t technically apply. Besides, I had other things to think about. As soon as Brad headed over to check the dressing, I decided to do a little snooping.
“Sorry about your cooking partner,” I said. “I’ll make sure I pair you up with somebody a little more pleasant next week.”
“Not to worry.” Kegan reached for a grater and got to work on the carrots. “Most people are pretty resistant when they first hear about the theory of sustainable agriculture,” he said. “Brad will come around. Someday, everybody will. They’ll have to. We’re decimating our forests. And destroying whole species of plants and animals. It’s a global problem, and it’s everyone’s concern. There are just some people who don’t realize it yet.”
“And your job is to make sure they do.”
Kegan’s cheeks got pink. “I work for Balanced Planet, you know, the ecological think tank group in D.C. I’m afraid sometimes I forget that I’m not at the office. I get carried away. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Hey, if you guys can ignore the way I botched every recipe and Jim had to jump in and show you the right way to do things…”
Kegan returned my smile. He glanced toward the front of the kitchen, where Jim was showing one of the grillers the proper way to put out a small grease fire that had erupted. Call me shallow; I was glad to see I wasn’t the only one who had to deal with culinary adversity.
“He’s the owner, right?” Kegan asked, and when I said Jim was, he went on. “Is he the one I’d talk to…you know…about making the place greener?”
I looked around at the butter-colored walls and was about to say something about how repainting wasn’t in our budget when I realized what Kegan was talking about.
“Greener! You mean the restaurant using more ecologically friendly products. Jim makes the final decisions, of course, but you’ll need to come through me for that.”
“Then maybe…” Kegan’s gaze was on the table again. The knife trembled in his hand. “Maybe I could talk to you about it sometime?”
“Sure, if I can talk to you about—”
I was going to mention Eve, but I never had the chance. The first tray of brownies came out of the oven, and a gasp of appreciation went up from around the room.
“That’s dessert,” Jim called out. “Each of you, get your food in order, and let the folks in charge of presentation get them plated up. Looks like it’s time to eat!”
By that time, there was no use even trying to bring up the subject of Eve. I got out of the way, and I stayed out of the way, at least until everyone was out of the kitchen and out in the restaurant.
“You eating with us, Annie?” Jim whizzed by with a tray filled with water glasses. “We’ve got plenty.”
“In a minute,” I told him, and he didn’t have to ask why. He knew this was the first chance I had to go searching for Eve.
I found her right where I expected: in my office.
She was sitting at my desk, her head in her hands. I knew from the way her shoulders were heaving that she was sniffling.
“Eve!” I put a hand on her shoulder. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“It’s that man!” Eve spun around in m
y desk chair. Her eyes were red. So was her nose. She was breathing hard, and her shoulders shook. But remember, I know Eve well. I knew she wasn’t as upset as she was just downright mad.
She proved it when she popped out of my chair. The office door was open, and from where she stood, she could see into the restaurant. And our students, just sitting down to eat, could see her, too.
“It’s him,” Eve shouted. “It’s Brad. I’d like to kill that man!”
Three
WHAT WAS THAT I SAID ABOUT DISASTERS?
Even before Eve’s words faded, I saw the mother of all PR catastrophes looming in front of me, as chilling and awful and every bit as undeniable as the looks of shock on the faces of the students who stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. Their mouths gaped. Their eyes bulged. I don’t think I need to point out that along with his share of the gaping and the bulging, Brad’s expression included a whole lot of outrage.
Now remember, I’ve investigated—and solved—a few murders. I’ve been cool and calm in the face of a nasty poisoner. And an arms smuggler. I’ve withstood an attack by a humongous vase of flowers (it’s a long story), and I even kept my head when a member of the U.S. Congress tried to off me. Did I panic?
Of course I did!
We were talking Bellywasher’s here. Bellywasher’s reputation. Bellywasher’s standard of customer service. Even as I stood there, furiously scrambling to come up with the magic words that would fend off the nasty publicity and the bad-mouthing we were sure to get from students who weren’t used to having one of their number threatened with bodily harm, I pictured Bellywasher’s good name circling the drain.
And Bellywasher’s, don’t forget, is Jim’s dream.
In a moment of pristine clarity, I knew there was no way I could let disaster befall the place. Not just because Eve had decided…
Well, whatever it was Eve had decided.
I gulped down my mortification and grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns.
“Oh, Eve, you are just too emotional!” I laughed when I said this and hoped it didn’t sound as hollow to the folks out in the restaurant as it did to me. A smile firmly in place, I strolled to the door. Right before I pulled it closed, I pretended to notice the stunned faces of our students out in the restaurant. I rolled my eyes and shook my head when I addressed them. “That Eve! Just when she’s finally starting to get over it, she reads another tabloid story and she gets worked up all over again. You know what I’m talking about, that whole thing about how Brad chose Angelina over her.”
And before anyone could see that I was lying, insincere, or just plain nuts (maybe not in that order), I closed the door.
With that barrier firmly between me and our audience, I stood with my back to the door and took a deep, unsteady breath.
Eve didn’t notice. She was too busy sniffling and sobbing and staring at the door as if she could see beyond it and out to the restaurant where Brad was seated. “You want to tell me what that was all about?” I asked her.
“It’s him. Brad.” Eve’s words teetered on the brink of tears. “Don’t you remember him, Annie? Brad? Brad the Impaler?”
The fog cleared. Or at least some of it did. The way I remembered it, it all happened just about the same time Peter, my soon-to-be-ex-but-I-didn’t-know-it-yet, decided that he never really knew what love was all about until he met the girl who worked at the dry cleaner’s. That would explain why I’d forgotten about Eve’s troubles. A best friend is important, sure, but divorce trumps just about anything.
Now that Eve mentioned it, I did remember the job she once had at the cosmetic counter of a department store, and a boss who was known as the Impaler because of the not-so-nice way he treated his employees. He had made Eve’s life a living hell. His name was—
I let go a shaky breath and dropped into my guest chair.
“Brad Peterson is that Brad? The guy who—”
“Came on to me like gangbusters. That’s the one.”
“And when you told him you weren’t interested, he’s the one—”
“Who had me fired. You bet he is.”
“And when you applied for another job, he—”
“Well, he never came right out and said it.” Eve harrumphed to emphasize her point. “But he just about told the woman who called for the reference that I’d been stealing from the cash register and that’s why he had to get rid of me. He’s the reason I didn’t get the job at that designer clothing boutique in Georgetown. You remember that, Annie. I really, really wanted that job.”
“I do remember,” I said, and because I also remembered how mortified Eve was when she found out Brad was talking trash about her—and how angry she was, too—I leaned forward and patted her arm. “But look on the bright side, if you’d gotten that job you really, really wanted in Georgetown, you wouldn’t have been available to take the job here at Bellywasher’s. This place wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Just as I hoped, the compliment made a smile blossom across Eve’s face. Unfortunately, even the fact that I was 100 percent sincere wasn’t enough to make her smile last. Though the incident with Brad had happened nearly eighteen months before, some hurts were too painful to be forgiven—or forgotten—so quickly.
The waterworks started again, and Eve plucked a tissue out of the box that sat on one corner of my desk. Her words bubbled with tears. “I’m glad I work here, too. But that doesn’t make what Brad did any easier to live with. He lied about me. There’s no excuse for that. And you know, I could never prove it, but I think that whole story about me stealing…I think he said that to cover up some shady dealings of his own. If there was money missing from the cash register, I bet it went right into Brad’s pocket.” Eve’s cheeks, usually a delicate shade of pink, got dusky. Her eyes hardened. “There’s no reason a guy like Brad Peterson should even walk the earth,” she said.
It was a surprisingly severe statement, even for Eve, who never bothers to hide her feelings. Uncomfortable with her anger, I did my best to soothe her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “If I knew this Brad was the same Brad you worked with, I never would have let him sign up for the cooking class. I can give him a refund and ask him to leave. I know Jim wouldn’t mind. Would that make you feel better?”
“Oh, don’t worry about me.” Eve touched the tissue to her eyes. “I’m over my own personal hurt, Annie. Honest, I am. I mean, I’d still like to see the guy boiled in oil. Or burnt to a crisp on our grill. Or eaten by sharks. But, honest, it isn’t me I’m thinking about. Not anymore.”
I sat up, interested. “You mean—”
“He’s done it to other women. Sure.” Eve blew her nose. “It happened to Valerie Conover not two months ago, and she’s been down in the dumps ever since. And before that it was Gretchen Malovich. It’s not fair, Annie. None of it. Brad Peterson runs over people. He ruins their lives. He’s a real Weasel.”
“I have no doubt of that.” I nodded in sympathy. “Any guy who treats women like that is a scumbag.”
“Not just a scumbag.” Eve looked me in the eye and pronounced the words slowly and carefully. “Brad Peterson is a Weasel.”
There was something about the way she emphasized that last word. We weren’t talking lower case. Brad Peterson was a Weasel with a capital W. As for the other women Eve had mentioned…
“Valerie and Gretchen…” I looked at her carefully. “I don’t know them, and you’ve never mentioned them before. Who are they, Eve? And how do you know them?”
It wasn’t my imagination—Eve’s cheeks got even redder. She looked up at the ceiling. She looked down at the floor. She folded her hands in her lap.
“I’m not supposed to betray confidences,” she said.
“And I’d never expect you to. But—”
“Well, I have been dying to tell you.” Eve scooted forward in her chair, her eyes suddenly shining not with tears but with excitement. “I wouldn’t have said a word,” she made sure she added, “if you hadn’t talked me
into it.”
I didn’t argue the point. What good would it have done, anyway? And besides, by this time, I was more than just curious. I gave Eve my full attention.
“It’s what I couldn’t tell you about before. You know, earlier this evening when you were checking students in for class,” she said. Now that she was divulging everything she’d been holding back, the words tumbled out of her in a rush, along with a hiccup of excitement. “I mean, not the part about seeing Brad here because, of course, I hadn’t seen Brad here yet. I didn’t even know he would be here. But Brad and Valerie and Gretchen…Yeah, that’s exactly what I was talking about.”
I remembered our conversation from earlier in the evening, and suddenly, it all started to make sense. Don’t ask me why I thought it was important to double-check, but I looked at the door, just to make sure it was closed good and tight. I lowered my voice. “You mean that whole thing about wearing disguises? About following somebody? That all has something to do with Brad?”
“It all has something to do with Weasels. And Brad is a—”
“Weasel. Yeah, I know. But how does all that figure in with—”
“Women Opposed to Weasels.” Eve sat up straight, her shoulders back and rock steady. “It’s a group I belong to, Annie. Women Opposed to Weasels. We’re women who have taken control of our own lives. ‘A Weasel-Free World.’ That’s our motto. We’re tough, and we’re strong, and we’re tired of having our lives manipulated and turned upside down by men who don’t care about anybody but themselves. Hey!” This was, apparently, a new thought. Her eyes lit. “You should join. Peter qualifies. He’s a weasel, too.”
I had no doubt of this, but I wasn’t about to commit. Not yet, anyway. “And this Women Opposed to Weasels—”
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