Dead Men Don't Get the Munchies

by Miranda Bliss

I shivered and thanked my lucky stars. Scraped knees were a small price to pay. Looked like Kegan was living up to that romance hero name of his, after all.

  As for Jim…

  I was finished with the bills, so I clicked out of the program and turned off my computer for the night.

  I would explain this incident to Jim the way I explained everything else to him: with the whole truth and nothing but. One of the reasons I was so crazy about him was that he never seemed to hold it against me.

  Feeling better, and better able to face our students, I pushed back my chair and headed out into the restaurant.

  I was just in time to see that dinner was over and some of our students were heading out the door. Not all of them, though. Kegan was still seated at the table where he’d had dinner. He looked worried and miserable. Until he saw me. Then a look of relief swept over his face. He was seated with Monsieur, who raised his wineglass in salute to me. Marc and Damien each gave me a brief once-over. Satisfied that I’d sustained no permanent damage, they went about their business of cleaning up.

  Big surprise—Brad was helping collect plates and carry them into the kitchen.

  I watched the kitchen door swing closed behind him. “What’s that all about?” I asked Kegan when he hurried over. “Call me crazy, but Brad doesn’t seem like the type who would help swab the decks.”

  “You’re OK, aren’t you?”

  So much for my attempt at avoiding the subject of my most recent culinary debacle. I sighed and turned away from the kitchen door, toward him.

  “I’m fine. Honestly. It’s nothing that won’t heal in a couple days. I might not be fine, though, if it wasn’t for you.”

  Of course, he blushed. By now I’d come to expect it.

  I knew if I said anything else about what a hero he was, he’d only feel more uncomfortable. When I changed the subject, I hoped it would stay changed.

  “How was dinner?”

  Kegan’s uneasiness disappeared beneath a smile. “The chicken wings were fabulous. The ice cream sauce was superb. But maybe you already know that, huh? Did you get to taste any of it?”

  I laughed when he did. “Unfortunately, none of it landed in my mouth. How about the corn? How was that?”

  “Perfect. And so was the rum punch. That’s a great recipe.”

  That only left one thing.

  “The flowers?” I asked.

  He made a face. “He wasn’t happy,” Kegan said, and instantly, I knew which he we were talking about. Rather than explaining, he looked toward the table where he’d been sitting, and I saw the single iris bud that had been dropped into a too-big vase. It leaned to one side, sad and alone.

  “Brad’s not big on ambiance,” I said. As if I had to tell Kegan. I lowered my voice and leaned closer to him. “I didn’t think he was too big on being friendly, either, but I guess that should teach me not to judge people too quickly. It’s nice of him to help out.”

  Kegan looked thoughtful. He bent his head closer to mine. “I’ve been wondering about him. You know, all those questions he was asking before class. Do you think—”

  The kitchen door swished open, and Brad strode into the restaurant. Like people do everywhere when they’re caught talking about people who suddenly show up, Kegan and I leapt back from each other and pretended to be talking about nothing at all.

  “Hey! Glad you’re still here.” Brad strolled over. “I was afraid I’d missed you.”

  Kegan gulped. “You were?”

  Brad chuckled. The sound was kind of rusty. Like he hadn’t laughed in a long time. “You act like I’m a hit man lying in wait for you. Actually, I was wondering if I could buy you a beer. You know, to show my appreciation for what you did tonight. That was really pretty remarkable. If it wasn’t for you, Annie here might have been as burned as her chicken wings.”

  I ignored the critique. It wasn’t so easy to disregard the fact that if I let Brad buy Kegan a beer, I was being ungracious.

  “Oh, no!” With an easy smile, I took over the way I did at the bank when a customer was unhappy about things like account balances or how long it takes for a check to clear. “If anyone’s buying the beers, it’s me,” I said, and when Kegan looked like he was going to turn me down (no doubt because he didn’t want to be singled out), I latched on to his arm.

  “That includes drinks for Marc and Damien and you, too, Monsieur!” I said, and I waved Lavoie over. “You all helped out tonight, and I really appreciate it. How about that martini bar over on Saint Alphath’s?” I suggested to Monsieur. “You can meet us over there after you lock up.”

  Monsieur gave me a kiss on each cheek. It was his very French way of saying he’d be delighted. That taken care of, Kegan, Brad, and I left Bellywasher’s together.

  We stepped outside, and as much as I hate to admit it, my throat clutched and my stomach knotted. I couldn’t help myself. I guess it’s my own version of post-traumatic stress disorder. Every time I leave the restaurant after dark, I can’t help but relive that night when a drive-by shooting pocked the restaurant—and nearly Eve and me, too—with holes.

  Like I always did these days, I paused before I stepped out on the sidewalk ahead of Brad and Kegan. I darted a look up and down the street.

  Of course, I knew there was no chance it was going to happen again, but still, when a car turned the corner and drove past, I tensed.

  When it kept right on going, the tension inside me uncurled.

  That was then and this was now, I reminded myself. And now, I told myself what I’d been telling myself ever since I’d solved the murder of Sarah Whittaker, I wasn’t going to get involved in anything mysterious or dangerous. Not ever again.

  I meant it, too.

  Nothing weird. Nothing strange. Nothing out of the ordinary or—

  “What was that?” An odd sound from somewhere behind me interrupted my thoughts, and I stopped and tipped my head, listening closely.

  “What was what?” Brad asked.

  I looked back into the restaurant. “It sounded like a…Nah!” I dismissed the whole idea. “I must be hallucinating. Maybe nearly blowing up Bellywasher’s tonight affected my hearing. I’ve never even seen a cat anywhere around here, and there sure couldn’t be one inside Bellywasher’s, but I could have sworn I heard a cat meow.”

  BY THE NEXT DAY, I’D FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT THE incident. It was no wonder—I was convinced it wasn’t important, and besides, we’d had a busy day at the bank, and after work, instead of heading over to Bellywasher’s, I was going to Jim’s to meet his cousin, Fiona. It was the first time I’d been introduced to any member of the MacDonald clan, and at the same time I was honored that Jim considered me important enough to meet his relatives, I was also nervous.

  Silly, I know, but I couldn’t help wondering what Cousin Fiona would tell the folks back home about me.

  “She canna cook, that’s for certain.”

  I didn’t know Fiona, but I could well imagine the words coming out of her, and in an accent every bit as heavy as Jim’s.

  “And as far as being a fashion plate…” Here, I imagined, Fiona might shake her head sadly.

  I told my imagination to shut up and smoothed a hand over the black blazer I was wearing along with black pants and the creamy silk blouse I’d gotten from Eve for Christmas. Whatever she’d paid for the blouse, I was sure Eve couldn’t afford it, and I wore it only for special occasions. Because of the hours he put in at the restaurant and our conflicting and hectic schedules, dinner at Jim’s was a special occasion.

  With that thought firmly in mind, I told myself to relax and stop worrying, pulled into his driveway, parked the car, and headed into the house.

  That’s right. I said house.

  I have to make one thing perfectly clear here. Yes, I’ve always wanted a home of my own. Yes, I was saving for one (and actually looking at some really inexpensive houses) when Peter walked out on me and took half the down payment with him. Yes, I dream of and long for and ache to have a place with a
patch of garden and a picket fence, a place that is mine all mine.

  But I am not—and I cannot emphasize this enough—I am not dating Jim just because he owns his own home.

  I was already crazy about him before I ever knew that.

  Was Jim’s the house of my dreams?

  Not really. With its gables and gingerbread, its overgrown garden and its jumble of rooms and colors, Jim’s house is too rambling and just too cluttered for my taste. I prefer clean, modern lines and any number of colors—as long as they’re shades of beige. Jim, on the other hand, isn’t quite so picky. He knew a good deal when he saw one, so he purchased the house from an elderly woman who had what I would charitably call flamboyant tastes. Since he hadn’t owned the house that long, and he’d been busy first at Très Bonne Cuisine where he taught cooking classes and now with Bellywasher’s, he’d done little in the way of renovations. The living room was papered with cabbage roses and violets. The dining room was painted red. The kitchen…well, since I made it a rule to stay as far away from the kitchen as I could, I won’t even comment on the turquoise Formica or the avocado green appliances.

  Besides all that, the house is in a part of Clarendon (one of Arlington’s many neighborhoods) that borders on the seedy. I might feel comfortable visiting, but I hadn’t failed to notice that when I left after dark, Jim always walked me to my car. I’d never be comfortable raising a family here.

  And I was jumping way ahead of myself! If I was smart, I wouldn’t forget it.

  The weather had turned and finally showed a promise of spring, and Jim’s front porch was already loaded with the pots of herbs he’d eventually bring into the restaurant. As I neared the front door, I could see fresh young sprouts popping out of the soil.

  I also saw something else I wasn’t used to seeing at Jim’s house.

  Toys. Lots of them.

  I threaded my way between a pink tricycle and a wagon filled with stuffed animals. I stepped over two discarded jump ropes, a hot pink beach ball, and a Barbie who was dressed in a black sequined gown that looked as if it cost as much as the clothes I was wearing.

  I raised my hand to press the doorbell, but I guess Jim must have seen me coming. The door popped open, he stuck his head out, and I was hit by a wave of the most atrocious sounds I have ever heard. Hip-hop music and wailing, high-pitched children’s voices. All at once and each vying to be heard over the others.

  “Thank God you’re here.” Jim’s hair was mussed. His cheeks were ashen. He stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind him. The noise was muffled except for the deep, pounding bass of the music. “You’ve got to help me, Annie. You’ve got to save me.”

  I looked beyond him, but with the door closed, there was nothing I could see. “From your cousin?”

  “From my cousin. From her children. They’re hellions, Annie. They’re driving me barmy!”

  By this time, Jim was clutching my sleeve, and one by one, I plucked his fingers away. Remember that gorgeous blouse. I didn’t want to wrinkle it.

  Nor was I willing to be drawn into the panic that edged Jim’s voice.

  “They’ve only been here twenty-four hours,” I reminded him, even though I suspected I didn’t have to. “How much trouble can a couple of kids be?”

  “Couple?” He fixed his glassy eyes to mine. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. His accent was nearly indecipherable, and I knew we were in serious trouble. When Jim’s feeling emotional—about anything—his accent gets as thick as Scottish beef and barley soup. “There are hordes of them, Annie. And Cousin Fi—”

  Just as he said this, the front door opened, and a woman stepped out onto the porch. Cousin Fi was in her thirties. She was as short as I am, with flaming red hair that was even curlier than mine, a face that was covered in freckles, and blue eyes that at that moment were rimmed with red and as puffy as if she’d spent the entire day crying.

  She was also pregnant.

  Really pregnant.

  “Fiona!” This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting, so I hid my surprise by sticking out my hand and grabbing hers. I wasn’t sure what else to do, and the way things were looking, I didn’t think Jim would make the move to introduce us. I was pretty sure he was in shock. “I’m Annie. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “It’s…nice…to…meet…” Fi sniffled and dragged a tissue out of her pocket. “It’s nice to meet you, too!” she wailed. Right before she turned and raced back into the house.

  “It’s a curse, to be sure,” Jim mumbled. “It’s a punishment for something I did wrong in another life. Or a message from on high reminding me what a hell-raiser I was as a child. Mum always said it would come back to haunt me.”

  “It’s hormonal,” I told him. “Come on, Jim. The poor woman must be miserable and uncomfortable. And I’m sure her hormones are going bonkers. When is that baby due?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t asked. I don’t want to know.” He was hanging on to me like a limpet again. I wondered if I’d have bruises by morning. “You’ve got to help me, Annie.”

  “I can’t.” When Jim’s mouth opened and his expression fell, I took pity on him and smiled. “Not until you let me into the house.”

  He opened the door, and once again, the wave of noise rose up and slapped me. I stepped over the threshold and straight into chaos.

  There was a little girl jumping on the couch, and another little girl (a year or so older than the first), kicking a ball from the living room into the dining room. There were girls on the stairs, too, jockeying for position, elbowing each other and shrieking like little banshees as they fought to see who could make it to the front of the pack to get the first look at me.

  Like their mother, they were all redheaded and freckled. There were…

  “One, two, three…” I counted under my breath. “Seven?”

  “Seven.” Jim nodded and closed his eyes. He didn’t have to say a word. I knew when he opened them again, he was hoping it was all a dream. That they were all gone.

  They weren’t.

  Fiona clapped her hands together, and the noise level dropped. A little.

  “This is Jim’s friend, Annie,” she yelled. I couldn’t blame her. If anyone was going to be heard above the din, yelling was imperative. Fiona blew her nose. “Introduce yourselves, girls.”

  “Emma,” the girl on the couch said. She never stopped bouncing.

  “Lucy,” said the next, and she added emphasis to the name by kicking the ball as hard as she could. It hit the far wall of the dining room, bounced back into the living room, and Lucy squealed with delight.

  “Doris, Gloria, Wendy, Rosemary, Alice.”

  The tumble of names came from the stairway along with the girls themselves, who gathered around me, talking all at once.

  “Annie’s going to help me with dinner.” Jim didn’t raise his voice when he said this. I suspect he knew there was no use. Instead, he latched on to my hand and dragged me into the kitchen. What’s that saying about any port in a storm? It says something that I stepped into that room without the least bit of trepidation.

  Jim closed the door behind us, muffling the noise.

  “I haven’t seen her in years,” he explained, even though I hadn’t asked for an explanation. “I didn’t know she was bringing the girls. She never told me she was pregnant or that she’s on the outs with her husband.”

  “That’s awful.” I felt a pang of sympathy for Fiona. No wonder she was so emotional. And no wonder I expected the worst. I was speaking from experience. “All those girls and her expecting another baby, and he dumped her? That no-good creep!”

  “That no-good creep is a fine man as far as I know,” Jim said. There was a pile of vegetables on the countertop, and he started chopping. “The story Fi tells—”

  “Calling again.” Cell phone in hand, Fiona pushed into the kitchen. She made a face at the number displayed on her phone, then clicked it off, even though it was still ringing. “The man is addlepated, that�
��s for certain. Doesn’t he know to leave me alone?”

  “You want him to leave you alone?” It was none of my business, but at that point, it hardly seemed to matter. I’d been sucked into the whirlwind that was Fiona’s life. I deserved some answers. “I thought—”

  Fi rolled her eyes. “Insists on doing everything for me, the man does. The washing and the cleaning and the cooking.” She sniffled and dabbed her eyes. “Doesn’t he know that a woman…” She sobbed. “A woman needs to scrub her own floors. It’s a personal thing: you understand that, Annie.”

  I understood that if I ever found a man who wanted to do the washing and the cleaning and the (gulp!) cooking, I’d love, honor, and cherish him forever. But that, of course, wasn’t what Fi needed to hear.

  “Her husband, Richard, was in the navy.” Jim supplied this information, leaning in close and telling it to me as if it were a secret. “The U.S. Navy. They teach those fellows to clean, right enough. Fi and Richard met when she was on holiday and he was stationed in England. Now that he’s out of the service, he and Fi and the children are living in Florida, and—”

  “It’s just not right,” Fi wailed. “I want to stand on my own two feet. I want to wash my own floors!”

  When she disappeared back into the dining room, the sounds of her weeping were lost in the chaos.

  “I think some serious counseling is in order,” I said to no one in particular. Since Jim was the only other person in the room, he’s the one who answered.

  “I couldn’t agree more. But it’s not something I bargained for. It isn’t my job.”

  It wasn’t what he said, it was the way he said it that brought me spinning around. I eyed him carefully, and yes, my voice was tight when I spoke. I couldn’t help it: the general atmosphere of bedlam wasn’t something I was used to. I could practically feel my blood pressure climbing. “Are you saying it’s my job?”

  It was the wrong question. It gave him the perfect opening. He latched on to my arm again. There was desperation in his hazel eyes.

  “She’s staying here, Annie. At least that’s what she’s threatened. She’s staying here until she gets things straightened out with Richard, and with the mood she’s in, who knows when that may be. I’ve lost my home and my privacy. I’m losing my mind. You wouldn’a do that to me, would you, Annie darlin’? You’ll help me out. You’ll take charge of Fi and the kids.”