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   "That's really nice." It was, and I wasn't about to ruin the moment by explaining that even when that rosy one of these days came along, I wasn't going to be any more willing to chance myself and my heart than I was now. I glanced at the clock instead.

   "We'd better get out there," I told Jim. My voice jumped to the rhythm of the drumbeat of nervousness that started up inside me again. "It's showtime."

   "That it is."

   So why was Jim smiling?

   "A kiss for luck?"

   He asked the question, but he never really expected me to say no. And I couldn't, could I? After all, he was about to embark on the dream of a lifetime. Who was I to throw a damper on the day?

   Our lips brushed and met. I didn't need to be reminded of how good a kisser Jim was or how much I enjoyed his kisses. I knew it couldn't last, but I melted into the moment and the odd feelings that enveloped me head to toe. It happened every time I let my guard down and let Jim get close (literally and figuratively)—that tiny spark of fire, the tingling that erupted in every cell in my body, the tranquillity that somehow managed to make itself felt, even through the herd of rampaging hormones. It felt good to be in Jim's arms.

   I might still be there if not for the sound of Eve's voice calling from out in the restaurant. "I unlocked the door," she said. "Here they come!"

   "Here they come." Jim's eyes glittered. For the first time since he'd inherited Bellywasher's and made the commitment to turn it into the restaurant of his dreams, I heard the same tension in his voice that rushed my blood through my body like a torrent. "Smile, Annie." He kissed me again, quick and hard, and headed for the kitchen. "It's a wee small restaurant with a wee small menu and a staff that's as good as they come. What can possibly go wrong?"

          The words spun around in my head and started my stomach gyrating, too. Was I paranoid? There was a little part of me that wanted to believe that's all it was. But remember that cooking class. And those murders. Somebody starts talking about things going wrong, and I can't help but flash back to it all. Poison. Exploding stoves. Mayhem and mix-ups.

   And that wasn't the worst of it.

   Have I mentioned that I can't cook?

   No, really. Just thinking about going within an arm's length of a stove sends me into fits of panic, and with good reason. Where others sauté, I scorch. While others boil, I burn. And when others bake? Well, let's just say that the one and only loaf of bread I made in Jim's cooking class has since been donated to an architectural firm for use as a building cornerstone.

   And Jim had the nerve to ask what could possibly go wrong?

   Annie Capshaw in a restaurant, for one thing.

   Annie Capshaw working in a restaurant, for another.

   Me having anything to do with Bellywasher's in any meaningful way was akin to thumbing my nose at the culinary powers that be. I'd never been much for tempting fate.

   Honest to a fault, I tried to explain all this to Jim when he first asked me to be his business manager. Needless to say, he didn't listen, citing instead my facility with numbers, my (usual) inclination for organization, and my all-around common sense.

   Maybe, but I wasn't taking any chances.

   When I looked out of my office to see who the
they
were of Eve's "Here they come," I was careful not to even glance in the direction of the kitchen. This was neither the time nor the place for my bad cooking luck to rub off on Jim.

   As it turned out,
they
were three guys in beat-up army jackets who milled around outside the front door for a minute or two, looking unsure about stepping inside. A tall guy with glasses was obviously the leader of the pack. He pointed toward the Open sign as if to prove to his friends that what he'd heard about the restaurant's resurrection was actually true. The others didn't look convinced. A shorter, rounder African American double-checked the Bellywasher's sign above the front door (newly painted in a tasteful shade of green) and glanced at the window boxes we'd added and the coppercolored spider mums Jim had planted only the night before. A heavyset man with a beer belly shuffled behind his friends, waiting for them to make the first move.

   Apparently, their thirst conquered their fear. Glasses Man pushed open the front door, and he and his friends gingerly stepped into the corridor we'd created by partitioning off the main portion of the restaurant with delicate sandalwood and mother-of-pearl screens.

   "Why, good morning, y'all! It's so nice to see you." Eve chirped an eager greeting. Though it was clear when they looked at her that the men appreciated the view, it was also clear she wasn't what they were expecting. Then again, from the looks on their faces, I don't think they were expecting the white walls, the clean floors, or the linen tablecloths, either.

   "What the hell happened to this place?" Glasses Man spoke, and his friends nodded in unison. "Where are the pictures? And the swords?"

   Eve's laugh echoed against the high tin ceiling, and rather than explain about ambiance and chic, she took over as only Eve can. She wound one arm through Glasses Man's and led the men to a table. "You just have a seat right here," she told them, her accent dripping with Southern belle charm. "And don't you worry about those nasty old pictures and such. I'll go on back and get Heidi for you. She's going to be your waitress today, and I just know she's going to take real good care of you. Now, what can I get you nice fellows to drink?"

   I couldn't hear what they ordered, but I know one thing for sure: when Eve walked back to the kitchen, she left them smiling.

   I let go the breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding.

   Maybe Jim was right, and there really was nothing to worry about. Maybe our first day would go smoothly and herald a dozen years' worth of profitable weeks and a restaurant filled with polite and appreciative customers, cooperative and hardworking employees, good food, fine wine, and nothing in the way of trouble.

   Maybe?

   Maybe not.

       and mysteriously stopped functioning, we'd had one fiery flare-up at the grill that didn't do any real damage but did set off the smoke alarms, and Larry, Hank, and Charlie—the guys in the army jackets—were on their sixth cup of coffee.

   Each.

   "Do they have any idea how much a cup of coffee costs?" I had been minding my own business, bringing some extra pens up to the bar, when I saw what was going on, and I stood frozen—not to mention incensed—in my tracks. Jim was mixing a martini for a woman in a black hoodie, hot pants, and flip-flops who sat alone at the end of the bar. He poured the drink, delivered it with a smile, and returned to my side.

   "It's coffee, Annie," he said, in that oh-so-reasonable tone of voice that told me I was being anything but. "Just coffee. Don't worry about it. They'll order lunch sooner or later. That will make up the difference."

   "They haven't even ordered lunch?" I did some quick mental calculations and cringed. If these guys were regulars, and if regulars came in on average four times a week . . . if there are fifty-two weeks in a year . . . and if on each of their visits they drank this much coffee and never ordered another thing . . .

   Before I could stop myself, I was reaching for a stack of menus with one hand and a Sharpie with the other. "We need to make a note. That's what we need to do. 'First two coffee refills free.' How does that sound? Or maybe we should be more subtle. How about, 'We'll be happy to refill your coffee cup two times'? That's a little more politically correct, don't you think?"

   "I think you forgot what I said about taking deep breaths." Jim plucked the menus out of my hand. He grabbed and pocketed the Sharpie, too, just to be sure I didn't decide to go do anything like scrawl my new coffee edict on the wall. "It's coffee, Annie. Just coffee. Let them drink all they want. They'll be back. They'll tell their friends. You'll see. It's good PR."

   "Maybe," I agreed. Reluctantly, but I agreed. I glanced around at the other full tables. There were only two, so it didn't take long.

   I sent a laser look to where a man in a navy suit sat across from a woman in a mink coat, and another at the table where three teenagers were sharing a pitcher of Coke. "They ordered, didn't they?" I asked. "They're not just sitting there drinking and getting free refills, are they?"

   "They're not just drinking." Jim wound an arm through mine and turned me around so that I was facing the kitchen and not our customers. "The man and woman are waiting for their orders, two bowls of sweet potato bisque, crab cakes, quiche. The kids are here to apply for jobs. I know, I know . . ." He stopped me before I could comment. "We don't need anyone right now. I told them that. But let's face it, this is the restaurant business, and it's not known for stability or for people who like to stick around long. I told them that we might someday need to do more hiring. And I let them know that when it comes to employees, you make the final decisions. I figured it wouldn't hurt to have them fill out applications."

   "And the Coke?"

   "They ordered it. They paid for it. Happy?"

   I was. Sort of. I'd be happier if more of our tables were filled. As if a second look might change things, I flipped around and took another quick inventory. I was just in time to see the front door open and a young woman rush inside.

   She was about thirty, an attractive strawberry blonde in a Burberry raincoat. When she caught sight of Eve, she smiled and waved.

   "Well, aren't you the sweetest thing, ever?" Eve folded the woman in a hug. "You said you'd be here today—"

   "And here I am!" The woman laughed. "I can't stay, though," she added. "I've got a meeting at two and a ton to do to prepare for it. You have a takeaway menu, don't you?"

   Eve assured her we did and led her to a table. She didn't bother calling Heidi over. Eve took the woman's order herself, scampered to the kitchen with it, and waved me over on her way back.

   "Annie, you remember Sarah, don't you?"

   I didn't, and maybe my expression said it all. Eve propped her hands on her hips. "Oh, come on! It wasn't that long ago. Sarah Whittaker? Charlene's sister? They look so much alike, they could practically be twins. I know you remember Charlene. She was—"

   "In our home room in high school. Of course!" The lightbulb went on. "You were a couple years behind us in school if I remember correctly. How's your sister?"

   When I offered my hand, Sarah stripped off her buttery leather gloves. She clutched them in her left hand as she shook mine firmly with her right. "Charlene is fine," she told us. Her smile was wide and genuine. "She's in the Peace Corps, you know. In Ukraine. I don't see her or talk to her often, but we've been able to e-mail pretty regularly."

   As I remembered, Charlene Whittaker was a quiet, studious girl, and in spite of Eve's glowing assurance, she and Sarah could not be mistaken as twins. Charlene was short and chunky, with a face rounder than Sarah's and skin that wasn't nearly as porcelain clear. Plain though she may have been, Charlene had a good head on her shoulders and a good grasp of politics. Back in school, she'd been involved in Greenpeace and Habitat for Humanity. I wasn't surprised to hear she was following through with her convictions.

   "Sarah and I haven't seen each other for a couple months. Then we ran into each other at the grocery store last week. She lives right in Arlington, not far from you, Annie. I told her about this place, and she said she'd stop in. Isn't that just sweet? And you know, she's going to pooh-pooh this, but I'll mention it, anyway. She's no slouch herself." Eve provided the information and, as if on cue, Sarah blushed. "She's on the staff of Douglas Mercy. You know, the senator."

   I knew, all right. Who didn't? Senator Mercy was being talked about as a vice presidential candidate in the next election.

   "Being a staffer isn't as impressive as it sounds." Sarah slipped out of her coat. She was dressed to perfection in a dark suit and a white blouse, and though I was more the sales rack type myself, I knew expensive clothing when I saw it. Her blouse was silk, and I'd bet an entire carafe of coffee that the emerald-and-diamond ring on her right hand had not come from the costume jewelry counter. "Senators have lots of staffers."

   "Especially senators with the chops of Douglas Mercy." Eve made herself right at home, flopping down in the chair next to Sarah's. I didn't object. She was Bellywasher's one and only hostess, sure, but it wasn't exactly like we had lines outside the door. "So, tell me, honey, is Douglas Mercy as gorgeous in person as he is on TV?"

   Sarah tipped her head as if she'd never really considered the question. "Well, he is in his sixties, but I suppose he's nice-looking anyway." An idea occurred to her, and her eyes widened. "He's single, too, you know. A widower. What do you say, Eve, want me to arrange a blind date?"

   "Dates! Men!" Eve tossed her golden girls. She didn't have to elaborate. I knew exactly what she meant. Eve wasn't thinking
men
. She was thinking
man
. One man. Tyler Cooper.

   Tyler is an Arlington homicide detective and the thorn in Eve's romantic side. Here's the scoop:

   Eve and Tyler were engaged once upon a time, but then, that's not unusual. Eve's been engaged—and unengaged— more times than I can count. What qualifies Tyler for Eve's special contempt is that before him, she was the one who ended every single one of the engagements. Yup, that's right. Tyler is the only man who ever broke up with Eve.

   That in itself is nasty enough. Unfortunately, the nastiness swelled (past animosity and all the way to I-can't-standthe-sight-of-him territory) when Eve and I found the body in the parking lot of the gourmet shop where we took our cooking lessons.