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   "Or not." Enough was enough. If Eve wouldn't listen to reason, it was time to put my foot down. I stood. "If the guy's that much of a creep, you don't want to mess with him, Eve. He could be dangerous."

   "But that's just it, don't you see? The whole thing about the danger, that's why I told the WOW ladies that I should be the one to keep an eye on Brad. Valerie mentioned that she thought Brad was the type who might resort to violence, but I told her it didn't matter. That's when I explained about how we're detectives and we're not afraid of anything. I told the ladies we'd followed bad guys dozens of times, and we've never gotten hurt. It's all just a part of a private investigator's job."

   I wasn't so sure. About the dozens part, for sure, or about the part about not getting hurt.

   There was the time I fell off a pile of wooden crates in a dark alley and cracked my head. And the time Eve was drugged and dumped on the floor of an art gallery. There was that time the flower arrangement came down on us, and I ended up with a broken arm. I stayed in the hospital that night, and if Jim hadn't decided to sleep in the chair in my room, I would be deader than a doornail, thanks to the attacker who snuck in and tried to kill me by shooting air into my IV tube.

   Call me persnickety; I don't think any of this qualifies as never getting hurt.

   And I knew that pointing that out would get me nowhere. Instead, I decided to appeal to Eve's sensitive nature.

   "Maybe you're not afraid of anything, but I am," I told her. "I'm afraid of lots of things. Like you promising WOW more than we can deliver. It's not like we're real private investigators."

   Eve didn't say a word. She just fixed me with a stare, and I knew what she was saying even though she wasn't saying anything. Being Annie Capshaw—careful, dependable, predictable Annie Capshaw—I refused to acknowledge it.

   "I'm a bank teller," I told her and reminded myself. "In the evenings, I show up here to pay the bills. You seat people at their tables and make sure everyone is satisfied and happy with their meals. We're not detectives."

   "We detect, don't we?"

   I saw the slippery slope rising up before me and pictured myself sliding down into the mud if I wasn't careful.

   "We
have
detected," I pointed out. "That's different from being detectives. It sure doesn't mean that we can follow Brad around for no reason."

   "Then
we
don't have to." Eve stood, too. Have I mentioned that she's nearly a foot taller than me? In her high boots, she looked plenty commanding. The effect was lost due to the fact that her bottom lip trembled. "I never committed you to anything. I told the ladies I'd follow Brad, and I will. By myself if I have to."

   What's that old saying about damned if you do and damned if you don't? Something told me that no matter what argument I came up with, it wasn't going to satisfy Eve. Rather than even try, I got down to the heart of the matter.

   "I don't want something happening to my best friend," I told her.

   "Oh, Annie, don't be silly." She reached down for her purse, which she kept in the bottom drawer of my desk while she was here at the restaurant. She took it out, and fished for her compact. She peered at herself in the lighted mirror, made a face, and powdered her nose. When she was done, she found a tube of lipstick and added a fresh coat to her lips. "You have nothing to worry about," she said, and she clicked her compact shut for emphasis. "Nothing's going to happen to me. Nothing's going to happen to anyone in WOW. We're tough, strong women, and we're not going to buckle under oppression. Not anymore. Besides, what could possibly happen to me just from following Brad? You're such a worrywart!"

   I was. I am. I had long ago made peace with that aspect of my personality, and I opened the door and stepped back into the restaurant, worrying as I did that I'd find everyone had gone, but not until after they demanded their money back and, while they were at it, promised they'd report our unprofessional behavior to the media, the health department, and anyone else who would listen.

   When I heard the sounds of conversation and laughter, I breathed a sigh of relief. The class had apparently just finished dinner, and Jim should have been ready to wrap things up for the night.

   Instead, he was standing behind the bar, talking on the phone.

   He signaled me he'd be right there.

   "Everything OK?" I asked when he was done.

   He nodded and smiled in a way that said he was fine, and we'd talk about it later. Then he reminded everyone about their assignments for the next week.

   When they gathered their things, promised they'd see us next week, and started filing out, our students were still smiling.

   Except for Brad, of course.

   Since he'd just had a death threat leveled against him, I guess I could excuse his cranky mood. Still, when Brad looked my way, I pretended not to notice. After learning everything I'd heard from Eve, I wasn't willing to cut him any slack. I headed into the kitchen to avoid him, but Brad stepped into my path.

   "If I knew she worked here, I never would have signed up for this class."

   Thanks to years of hanging around with Eve, I knew how to play dumb. I gave him my blankest look.

   Brad snorted. "You know what I'm talking about." When he looked at my office door (closed, thankfully), his top lip curled. "If you folks checked up on your employees more thoroughly, you never would have let Eve DeCateur through the front door."

   "If we checked up on our students more thoroughly, we'd know you were the one who refused to give Eve a good recommendation for that job she applied for in Georgetown. Which is it, Mr. Peterson, slander or libel when you say things that aren't true?"

   It was a rhetorical question, but Brad apparently felt obligated to provide the answer. "Slander in person. Libel in print." The smile he aimed at me told me he admired my backbone.

   It also made me uneasy. I backed up a step.

   Brad's smile inched up. "You stand up for your employees. Even when they don't deserve it. I like that in a woman."

   Was Brad coming on to me?

   I backed up another step. I didn't like the idea of walking on eggshells for the next seven weeks, wondering if Eve would pop out from behind a potted palm in her Penelope Cruz wig just as class was starting. Being designated Jim's assistant had given me enough to worry about; I didn't need intrigue thrown into the mix. I didn't need a creep (or should I say Weasel?) like Brad, either. Just so there was no mistake about that, I looked him in the eye.

   "I stand up for my friends," I said. "If you don't like that—and if you can't show respect for the people who work here—maybe you should think about quitting the class. I'll tell you what, I won't even prorate the cost or wait for your check to clear. One hundred and twenty dollars, cold, hard cash. I'll refund it right here and now."

   The way Brad grinned, I thought he was going to take me up on my offer. Honestly, I would have been glad if he did. But before he could say a thing, Kegan O'Rourke walked over.

   "Just wanted to say good night, Annie." Kegan had a glob of ketchup on his fisherman knit sweater. I pulled a bev nap (that's restaurant talk for those small, square napkins that every bar in the world hands out along with its drinks), and blotted the ketchup away. Kegan's cheeks got red.

   "I wanted to say good night to you, too, Brad." Kegan looked at the man at my side. He stuck out his right hand. "I hope you don't hold it against me, all that stuff I said about the benefits of organic foods. Remember, don't panic, eat organic!"

   For a couple seconds, Brad didn't say anything, and I could only imagine it was because he thought Kegan's joke was too lame to deserve a reply. But then Brad's eyes lit and he smiled.

   "No problem, buddy," Brad said. He pumped Kegan's hand. "I'll see you next week."

   When Kegan walked away, Brad turned to me. "I'll see you next week, too," he said.

   And I couldn't help but wonder if that was a promise or a threat.

   I was still thinking about it when Jim showed up. "Good news." He looped an arm around my shoulders. "That was my cousin, Fiona, on the phone. She's going to be in town next week, and I've invited her to stay with me a few days."

"Fiona, huh? Is she nice?"

   "Haven't seen her in years, but she used to be. We'll find out. She's arriving next Monday evening." Jim slipped his arm from my shoulders and started into the kitchen. "I've promised to pick her up at the airport."

   "Monday?" Before he could get away, I grabbed his hand. "How are you going to pick her up at the airport when you've got to be here to teach the class?"

   Jim's smile was shaky around the edges. He didn't meet my eyes. "All taken care of."

   I held on tighter. Just so he didn't get any ideas about scampering away. "All taken care of, how? Are you going to have Marc teach the class? Damien? I love them both dearly, but I'm not sure either of them is ready for that kind responsibility. And Monsieur Lavoie . . ." I looked over to where Jacques Lavoie was finishing the last of a bottle of wine. "If you leave him to teach the class, he'll take the opportunity to use it as a platform to advertise his own cookware shop and push that Vavoom! seasoning he packages and sells."

   "Which is why I'm not leaving him to teach."

   "But if isn't Marc and it isn't Damien and it isn't Monsieur Lavoie, who's going to teach?"

   Jim grinned and kissed my cheek. "Don't worry, Annie. It's only a cooking class. What can possibly go wrong?"

the next cooking class.

The bad news?

   I had a week to plan for the next cooking class, and every time I sat down to do it, my brain went numb, my stomach tied in knots, and my heart did a cha-cha inside my chest. Call me crazy, but I couldn't get past the oh-noI'm-going-to-burn-something-down phase. That is, when I wasn't stuck in the oh-no-I'm-going-to-poison-someone stage. Or the oh-no-I'm-going-to-embarrass-myself-todeath part of the equation.

   I think it's only fair to point out here that I didn't hold any of this against Jim. Not too much, anyway. He is not, by nature, a cruel man. As a matter of fact, he's a regular honey bunch. Which is the one thing that made this whole Annie-will-teach-the-class scenario so impossible to deal with.

   Jim thought he was doing me a favor.

   No, honestly, he really did. Because Jim loves planning a menu and shopping for food and cooking so much, he figures everyone else does, too. Terrified? He just doesn't get it when I tell him I am. There's something about the cooking oil in his veins that makes it impossible for him to understand the connection between a close encounter with a stove and deep-down panic. In Jim's soul of souls, he's convinced that one of these fine days, I'll wake up and realize that cooking really is as wonderful and as creative and as satisfying for me as it is for him.

   Until then, he knows he needs to push me—just a little harder each time—to get me out of my comfort zone.

   Looks like he'd finally succeeded. I was about as comfortable as an ice cube on a hot sidewalk, and as I finished up at Pioneer Savings and Loan and drove to Alexandria on the evening of the next class, I thought about getting on the nearest highway and heading out of town as fast as I could.

   But remember, if nothing else, Annie Capshaw is dependable.

   The last thing I'd ever do is let Jim down.

   Even if I did have static.

   I guess I need to explain.

   I'd had my yearly review at the bank that day (and I got the highest ratings and—hallelujah—a bit of a raise!). Since I knew the meeting was scheduled, I'd dressed for it in a skirt and sweater. As I parked my car a few blocks from Bellywasher's (the only space I could find), I saw to my horror that my skirt was stuck to my legs.

   Not an attractive look, and the last thing I wanted to worry about when I was standing in front of our cooking students. Especially when I had so much else to worry about.

   I ducked into the nearest drugstore for a can of antistatic spray and, with the bag tucked under my arm, did my best to talk myself down from the brink of hysteria.

   "Chicken wings with teriyaki, hot or lemon pepper sauce. Grilled ratatouille. Corn on the cob. Ice cream sundaes with peach sauce. Chicken wings, grilled ratatouille, corn, ice cream sundaes." There was at least some comfort in the bynow familiar litany I repeated to myself as I waited for a light to change so I could cross King Street. I might not know
how
to cook everything we were cooking that night, but at least I knew w
hat w
e were cooking. It wasn't much, but it was something, and while I was at it, I went over all I could remember of the careful directions Jim had given me about each recipe.

   "Chicken wings in the oven. Not too long or they'll dry out. But not for too short a time, either, or they'll be soft and mushy. Light on the sauces. It's easy to add more, impossible to save the dish if your wings are drowning. Don't forget to drain the eggplant before it goes in the ratatouille. Remember to drizzle lemon juice on the peaches."

   Or was it drain the peaches and drizzle lemon juice on the eggplant?

   I groaned, and yes, the lady waiting to cross the street next to me slid away. But not until after she gave me a weird look.

   At that point, I was beyond caring. In less than one hour, I would be front and center with the collective results of the night's dinner in my trembling hands.

   It was a formidable responsibility. Nothing could make me forget that. Not even—

   Brad Peterson?

   I was just about to step off the curb, and I stopped in my tracks and looked across the street to where Brad the Impaler stood between an antique shop and a place that sold wigs and what they charitably called "urban gear" (as far as I could tell, that meant too-wide pants, too-expensive sneakers, and lots of baseball caps). Since it was class night and Bellywasher's was right down the street, I wouldn't have paid any attention to Brad at all—if he wasn't with a tall, gorgeous woman whose blonde hair cascaded in a tumble of curls halfway down her back.