Untitled (9 page)

   "I should have understood—"

   "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions."

   "And I shouldn't have gotten defensive."

   I felt a watery smile blossom and looked up at him. "Truce?"

   He kissed me. "Truce," he said when he was done. "And believe me, I can understand why you're not thinking straight. Finding someone you know dead and knowing that she took her own life . . ." He pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry," he said again even though he didn't have to. "I'm not usually so insensitive. I've been a wee bit on edge, I'm afraid."

   No, I was the insensitive one not to have noticed.

   Before I could tell him this, Jim explained.

   "It's Michael O'Keefe," he said.

   I may have been insensitive, but I was not unconscious. Even Annie Capshaw, a cooking calamity, had heard of O'Keefe. As food critic for
DC Nights
, a regional magazine, he had a powerful influence on the local restaurant scene. The tattoo that started up in my chest was all about nerves. "He's coming? To Bellywasher's? When? How do you know?"

   "Well, I don't know. Not for sure. And not when. O'Keefe never announces his visits. Just shows up and expects to be treated like a king. If he loves your restaurant, you're an instant hit. If he hates it—"

   "You go down the tubes."

   Jim nodded. "Aye. Something like that. I have a friend who has a friend who works for the magazine. She said O'Keefe was making a list of new places to hit this month, and she heard our name mentioned. I found out just a few hours ago."

   "That's wonderful!" It was, and no sooner had I realized it than my spirits plunged and my knees turned rubbery. "No, it's terrible."

   Jim laughed and hugged me. "It's both. And we'll handle it as we've handled everything else." He unfolded his arms from around me. "It's all part of the business," he said. "We'll get by O'Keefe, right enough. I just need to get used to the idea of him pouncing on us unawares. You'll put up with me while I do?"

   "You'll put up with me when my eyes are swollen and my nose is red?"

   "I like your nose." He kissed the tip of it to prove it. "And now I'd better get back behind the bar." He stepped away, then thought better of it. "You'll be all right by yourself?"

   "I'll be fine."

   I was, too. I went over the day's receipts, balanced the charges and made out our daily deposit without further tears. By the time I was done, it was close to ten, but I had a few more things to clean up and a few more hours before I absolutely, positively had to be in bed or I'd be useless at the bank the next day. I ducked into the restaurant to get a cup of coffee.

   There were six people at the bar. Larry, Hank, and Charlie were three of them, but at least tonight, they were sharing a pitcher of beer and a plate of Jim's incredible honey barbeque chicken wings. Only one table was occupied, by a man with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up on his head. He was wearing sunglasses.

"What's his deal?" I asked Heidi when she whisked by.

   "Dunno." She shrugged and reached for the Coke she'd left for herself at the end of the bar. She took a sip. "Came in half an hour ago and ordered a boatload of stuff. I mean, really. The crabcakes and the bisque and even the sweet potato pie. Asked a lot of questions, too. You know, like, what's in this? What's in that? I guess some people are just really picky when it comes to what they eat."

   I guess she was right.

   Except something about this picky eater struck me as awfully familiar.

   As casually as I could, I strolled over toward his table. Not only was he persnickety, he was apparently a stickler for accuracy, too. With the tip of his fork, he picked apart Jim's crab cakes, then made notes on a pad next to the plate.

   
Michael O'Keefe?

   My heart leapt into my throat, and I thought about running to the kitchen to warn everyone to be on their best behavior.

   Until I heard our guest mumbling to himself.

   "This is celery seed, yes?" He took a nibble of the crab cake, nodded to himself, and made a note. "And bread crumbs and—"

   "Good evening, Monsieur Lavoie!" I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with the owner of Très Bonne Cuisine. "It's good to see you. What brings you to Alexandria tonight?"

   "Ah, Miss Capshaw!" Jacques Lavoie is a round little Frenchman with apple cheeks and an accent that would put Pepé Le Pew to shame. Aside from owning the gourmet shop where Eve and I took our cooking classes, he is the genius behind Vavoom! seasoning, a spice blend that's developed a cult following in the D.C. area. I used to be among the faithful until I found out Vavoom! wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

   Something told me my knowledge of what was really inside a Vavoom! shaker wasn't why a flush of red stained Monsieur's neck. I knew it for sure when he put an arm across his notepad to keep me from seeing it.

   "But of course, I am here to support Jim," he said. A nervous smile came and went across his face. "It is the least I can do for an old friend."

   "Which explains the sunglasses."

   He cleared his throat and removed the glasses.

   "And the hoodie? Is it cold in here? I can have Jim turn up the heat."

   "That is not necessary, c
hérie.
" He stripped off his hood, revealing a shock of salt-and-pepper hair.

   "I think Jim's in the kitchen," I told him. "He'll be thrilled to see you."

   When I made a move to get up, Lavoie stopped me, one hand on my arm. "No, no, no. You must not bother him. He is an artist, yes? An artist with food. We must not disturb him when he is creating."

   Lucky for me, Lavoie had to move his arm to grab mine. I saw what he was writing on his notepad.

   "Celery. Bread crumbs. Lemon. Monsieur!" I looked at him in wonder. "You're trying to steal Jim's recipes!"

   "No, no, no!" He denied it instantly. What else did I expect? What I didn't expect was that Jim would walk out of the kitchen at that very moment. He caught sight of Lavoie and, don't ask me how, but I think he knew exactly what his old boss was doing there. Lavoie pushed his chair back from the table and sprang to his feet.

   A little too fast.

   He knocked over his water glass, which knocked over the bottle of wine he'd ordered, and I jumped up to avoid getting soaked. My chair fell over and crashed into the table behind us, sending it rocking. The chair smacked into one of the sandalwood screens, and it crashed to the floor.

   Eve had been rolling silverware in napkins for the next day's lunch crowd. She came running. Heidi, Marc, and Damien dashed out of the kitchen. Afraid that I'd been hurt, Larry, Hank, and Charlie jumped off their barstools and offered to help. The other folks at the bar swung around to watch, their mouths open in wonder.

   Perfect. It meant we were all there, all watching, when Doctor Masakazu lurched out of the kitchen.

   He scampered into the center of the restaurant, burped loud enough to wake the dead, and promptly barfed all over our beautiful white ceramic tile floor.

Q
"
MY POOR ITTY-BITTY DOC. HE'S SO SICKY-WICKY. POOR

       little sweetie." Eve had the dog in her arms. She rubbed her nose against his. We were in the examining room at the local emergency pet clinic waiting our turn to see the vet, and I was so not in the mood. I paced between the examination table and a desk that was built into the wall.

   "Maybe poor itty-bitty Doc is so sicky-wicky because you were feeding him cakey-wakey. Did you ever consider that?" I asked her.

   Eve did not take criticism well. Or very seriously. I knew that, given the choice, she'd do it all again. In a heartbeat.

   "The whipped cream must be bad," she said. "You really should call Jim and tell him. Before he serves it to somebody else."

   "Calling Jim is probably not something either one of us wants to do right about now." I hugged my arms around myself, but even so, I shivered.
Angry
didn't begin to describe the conniption fit of a Scotsman who discovers a dog in his restaurant. Jim's last words still rang in my ears. The way I remember them, they started out with something about Eve and me being
aff o
ur
heids
and ended with y
e canna bring a
dug inna a restaurant and ye best git him out now afore I
take the little blighter and—

   I cringed one moment and smiled the next. Even Jim's anger hadn't been enough to stop him from looking up the address of the clinic for us. He called ahead and told them we were on our way, too.

   All of which made me feel even more terrible: a bad situation could have been even worse.

   "We're really lucky it was Monsieur Lavoie at that table and not Michael O'Keefe," I told Eve and reminded myself. "Can you imagine it, Eve? Can you even begin to think of the damage you could have done? That would have been the end of Bellywasher's for sure."

   "I know." She hugged the dog, who burped, then settled into the crook of her arm. "I'm sorry. I really am. I told Jim before we left. I promised it would never happen again, and I swear, it won't. I'll send him a bottle of really expensive wine tomorrow to apologize. I just didn't think—"

   "Exactly."

   Eve nodded. "I deserve that. I know I do. And I'm willing to take responsibility. If Jim wants to fire me, I'll understand."

   "You know he's too nice to do that."

   She grinned. "I know. But it made me sound noble, didn't it?" Eve cuddled the dog. "I'm so worried about Doc, Annie. Something's wrong with his little tummy. What do you think they'll do for him?"

   I didn't know, but fortunately, we didn't have to wait long to find out. A minute later a thirty-something man in a white lab coat came into the room. He introduced himself as Dr. Terry Novak, took the patient out of Eve's arms, and slipped off the blue and yellow argyle sweater Eve had put on Doc before we left the restaurant.

   "What's his name?" the vet asked.

   "Doctor Masakazu." Eve supplied the information. "Only I just call him Doc. It's easier, you know? And not nearly as pompous."

   Dr. Novak put Doc on the examining table and looked into his eyes. He listened to his heartbeat. "The pompous part . . ." He smiled over at Eve. "Isn't that what a dog like this is all about?"

   Of course, Eve got defensive. It didn't take a dog whisperer to see that she was already head over heels about Doc.

   "If you're talking about his collar, it's just rhinestones," Eve said. "Not that he doesn't deserve the real thing, but—"

   "I'll say." The vet looked into Doc's ears, felt his stomach, and cringed when the dog burped. "What have you been feeding this little guy?"

   I kept my mouth shut.

   Eve shrugged. "Just food."

   "Dog food?"

   "Food. You know, food that dogs eat."

   Something told me the vet had heard this flimsy excuse before. But Dr. Novak was good-looking, and he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. I knew before we left the room, he was going to ask for Eve's phone number. He wasn't about to alienate her by coming on too strong with a lecture about proper nutrition.

   Instead, he gave her a wink. "People food, right?"

   She shrugged. "Some people food."

   "People food that's too rich for dogs. Food with butter in it. And grease, maybe? My guess is hamburger."

   Eve wrinkled her nose. "Cheeseburger," she admitted.

   "And . . . ?"

   The fact that she refused to look the vet in the eye proved that when it came to what she was feeding Doc, Eve had a conscience. She shrugged. "Maybe some bruschetta," she said. "And a little cake and whipped cream. And for breakfast this morning, ham and cheese omelet. With capers. And anchovies."

   "Then it's no wonder he's sick." Dr. Novak rubbed Doc's head. "His system is far too fragile for that kind of food. Surely the breeder told you all about that."

   Eve didn't answer, and I knew she was trying to come up with a way to tell him about Sarah and the dog. Rather than get into it, I explained. "We're just watching him," I said. "For a friend. We really didn't know what to feed him, and we haven't had a chance to get to the pet store. Is regular dog food OK?"

   "For this guy?" Dr. Novak lifted the dog from the table and handed him over to Eve. "You're kidding me, right?" When neither of us answered, he shook his head. "You're not kidding me. You have no idea what kind of dog this is. This, ladies, is a Japanese terrier. It's one of the rarest breeds there is."

   Since I had assumed that Doctor Masakazu was a mutt, this was a surprise. "Rare? As in . . . ?"

   Dr. Novak pursed his lips. "I'll bet there are no more than six or seven hundred of these little guys in the whole world. The friend you're watching him for didn't tell you that?"

   "She didn't exactly have a chance," I told the vet.

   "Then she probably also didn't mention how expensive they are."

   Eve patted the dog.

   "Thousands," Dr. Novak said. "The smaller they are, the more valuable they are, and from the looks of this guy, I'd say he's not going to get much bigger. His markings are perfect, too. Mainly white with a black-and-tan mask. Something tells me your friend is being modest. She must have paid a fortune for him. She's going to want you to make sure he's well taken care of." He went to the desk, sat down, and wrote on a pad. "Only kibble made with lamb and rice. All natural. No preservatives. No corn, there's no nutritional value in that." He ripped off a sheet of paper and handed it to me. "I've written down the names of a couple reputable brands that I know won't be a problem for his digestive system. But just so you know, none of it is cheap, and you can't find it just anywhere. You're going to need to look in one of the specialty pet stores. My guess is your friend is probably paying somewhere around sixty dollars for food."