Dying for Dinner

Twelve

“IT’S PAYBACK TIME, NORMAN.”

Ignoring the confused looks on Jim’s and Norman’s faces, I drummed my fingers against the table and mumbled the words. “Don’t you get it?” I said, looking from one of them to the other. “It’s a clue.”

“Well, it’s how I knew the guy was looking for me, that’s for sure.” Now that it was morning and we didn’t need the lights, we’d opened the door that led into the main room of the cooking school. A stream of mellow sunshine poked into the room where we’d spent the night. Norman stepped through the sunlight to retrieve the waffles he’d just made. He put them down in front of us, and added a scoop of fresh strawberries and a dollop of whipped cream.

Something told me they didn’t eat like this back at the Nevada State Prison.

Norman sat down and cut into his own stack of waffles. “As soon as I heard him say that, I knew the guy was mixed up, that he thought Greg was me. I was in the back office and I was just about to step out front and tell him he had the wrong guy, but…” In spite of the sweetened whipped cream, Norman ’s expression soured. “That’s when I heard the first gunshot. After that, I didn’t know what to do. I guess I panicked. Instead of going out front, I called the cops.”

“That’s exactly what you should have done.” I gave him a sympathetic smile because I could tell the memory was painful for Norman. Rather than risk losing him to it, I made sure to keep our discussion on track.

“The killer did think Greg was you,” I said. “But not the you you are. The you you were.” That didn’t make any sense. Not even to me. I licked whipped cream from my lips and tried again. “You and Greg didn’t look anything at all alike now. But we noticed the resemblance between the young you and Greg in the pictures we found of you in the William Allen High yearbook.”

The look on Norman ’s face told me he was anxious to hear more of an explanation, but rather than get side-tracked, I put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“You see what this means, right?” I asked. “The killer is probably someone who knew you years ago. Or at least someone who’s seen pictures of you from back then. He did what we did when we looked at your graduation picture. We tried to imagine what the kid in the photograph would look like with a few years and a few added pounds. So when he walked into the shop and saw Greg-”

“He thought it was me.” Norman interrupted me. Which was just fine by me. It gave me a chance to take another bite of waffle. His expression fell and he set down his fork. “What a lousy way to die. Poor Greg. He didn’t even know what the guy was talking about. He didn’t know I was Norman. Nobody did. So why kill him? Why kill me? I mean, that’s what the guy thought he was doing, right? He thought he was killing me.” His pleading look pivoted between Jim and me. Which would have been just fine-if we had any answers.

The way it was, we sat in silence for a long while, eating our waffles and sipping the coffee Norman had brewed with just a touch of chicory. After a while, his shoulders rose and fell.

“I know I haven’t given you guys much reason to trust me,” Norman said. “I’m sorry for that. When I started this whole crazy Jacques Lavoie thing, I never thought I’d have friends who were so wonderful that I’d feel guilty for lying to them. But I do. I have you two, and Eve, and everyone over at Bellywasher’s. Believe me when I say I thought of telling you all the truth a thousand times. I just never got up the nerve. And I loved the whole eccentric French chef thing.” He gave us that Pepé Le Pew laugh, only this time it didn’t sound as jolly as it did downright phony. I wondered how I’d never noticed before. “I loved being in the limelight, having all the D.C. foodies beating a path to my door. Now…” He sat back and raised his chin.

“I want you to know that I’m sorry you had to learn the truth this way, and from now on, I’m going to be one hundred percent aboveboard with you. All of you. Always. I swear…” He raised his right hand like he would have done if he were in court. “I swear I never did anything to anyone that would make them want to kill me. I’m not a violent man. Never have been. The only thing I ever did was take some people’s money. And never a whole lot of it, either. Why would somebody want to kill me for that?”

I interrupted him because I didn’t know if Norman knew this part of the story. “But he didn’t want to kill you. The murderer just wanted to make you talk. That’s why he shot Greg in the foot. He thought Greg was you, and he thought if he hurt him badly enough, Greg would tell him whatever it was he wanted to know. Only Greg didn’t know, of course, because Greg didn’t have any idea what the killer was talking about. And after he shot Greg-”

“He saw me.” Norman ’s complexion was ashen. “I heard the shots and I was so startled, I knocked against something back in the office. That was the first the guy knew there was somebody else in the store. That’s when I really got scared. I took off for the back door. But not before the guy got a look at me. I saw his face. Just for a moment. And I’ve got to tell you, there was such a funny expression on it, I couldn’t make heads or tails of what the guy was thinking. But now I get it. That was the first he realized he’d shot the wrong man.”

“And that’s when you knew your life was still in danger.” It was the first thing Jim had said in a while and I looked his way to find him deep in thought, his brows low over his eyes and his jaw firm. “It’s no wonder you’ve been keeping yourself out of sight. He’s still out there. And if he finds you-”

“That’s not going to happen.” I thought it important to point this out, mostly because I could see that the very idea was making Norman green around the gills. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” I said, not because we were, but because if I kept the conversation on our investigation, Norman wouldn’t have to think about the vicious killer who was still out there somewhere looking for him. “What we really need to concentrate on is who the guy is, and what he wants.”

Norman didn’t look sure. “I keep wondering how he knew. I mean, about Très Bonne Cuisine. If the killer wasn’t even sure who Greg was or what I look like, how did he know to come to Très Bonne Cuisine?”

I didn’t have the answer and I didn’t pretend I did. “What’s even more important,” I said, “was what he was trying to find out. He said, ‘It’s payback time, Norman.’ That means he thought you owed him something. Even more important-”

“I don’t.” It was Norman ’s turn to interrupt. “I don’t have any outstanding debts. Nothing that would cause someone to come looking for me with a gun, anyway.”

“But it’s not a debt you have now. Don’t you see?” As if it might help, I set down my fork so I could concentrate on explaining things as clearly as possible. “The guy didn’t know you as Jacques or Bill or Fred or by any of your other identities. He said Norman. He knew you back when you were the real you. And that means-”

“It might have something to do with one of the scams you ran back in the days when you were Norman.” This came from Jim, and he so succinctly said what I’d been beating around the bush to explain, I could have kissed him. If I didn’t have a mouth full of waffle. “This bloke, he must have had a grudge for a very long time.”

“And we’re back to square one.” So that we could set the table for our breakfast, I’d taken the list of scams Norman had written out earlier and put it over near the sink. I retrieved it and put it on the table in front of Norman, then handed him the pen.

“Go ahead,” I instructed him. “Put a check mark next to the scams you ran back when you were Norman.”

WHAT WITH THE SURPRISE OF FINDING MONSIEUR (I was having a hard time getting used to thinking of him as Norman), the double surprise of Jim showing up at the shop, and the wine and the waffles and the stories we exchanged and the theories we tossed back and forth, we were all pretty exhausted by the time eight o’clock rolled around. Rather than beating our brains and wasting our time, we decided to meet again later that afternoon at Jim’s, before the dinner hour at Belly-washer’s.

We smuggled Monsieur… er, I mean, Norman… out of the shop wrapped in an oversized shawl Eve had once left there and wearing the straw gardening hat I kept in the backseat of my car on the off chance that one of these days, I might actually have a garden to wear it in. It was still early and most of the retail shops on the street weren’t open yet. As far as we could see, the coast was clear; there was no one watching us or Très Bonne Cuisine. But even though he was confident they wouldn’t be followed, Jim was no dummy. He drove the roundabout way to his house in the Clarendon neighborhood of Arlington, bustled Norman inside, and settled him in the guest room with the miniblinds closed.

I had other plans. I made a call, and even before I told him he deserved his very own superhero outfit, Raymond agreed to forgo his Friday beauty nap and work the shop for me that day. And me? I went home and took a nice, long nap. Between that and a shower, I was rarin’ to go by the time I got to Jim’s for our powwow.

I, too, took the long way to Clarendon and maybe Norman’s paranoia was getting to me, because in case someone was watching me, I offered to park a couple of blocks from Jim’s house and walk the rest of the way. (Yes, I was imagining myself slipping in and out of the shadows in a very detectivelike way.)

Jim would have none of that. His place is on a too-close-to-seedy-for-comfort street, and he insisted I park in the driveway. He met me even before I got to the front door.

And I’m not complaining or anything. I mean, being welcomed to Jim’s with a hug and a kiss was just about the best way I could think of to end twenty-four hours full of shocks and revelations. But what Jim didn’t know was that usually when I get to his place, I take my time walking up the front steps and across the porch to his door.

Time to confess: I have some fantasies when it comes to Jim.

OK, that’s not much of a confession. Anyone who knows me knows I’m nuts about Jim.

Truth is, though, I’ve also got some fantasies about his house, too.

Not that it’s my kind of place. It’s got too much gingerbread outside and, thanks to the old lady who sold it to him for a song, too many rooms inside papered in too many floral prints. His front porch is a riot of potted plants. Most of them are herbs he uses at the restaurant and I can understand the appeal. Really. But I always have to control the urge to straighten and sweep and get rid of maybe just a few of those overflowing pots. Just to make things a little more orderly.

Even with all that, I usually let my mind wander as I make my way up the front walk, and in those wanderings, I wonder what it would be like if the place was mine. Mine and Jim’s.

Back in the day when I first met Jim, the very thought sent terror up my spine. I mean, the one man I’d sworn to love and cherish had gone and done me wrong, and after the disaster that was my marriage, I wasn’t about to jump into another relationship where there was the teeniest chance of me getting my heart smashed (again) in a couple million pieces.

But that, as they say, is ancient history. And Jim isn’t Peter.

It took a couple months for that truth to finally settle in, but now that it had, I was at peace with it. In fact, I liked imagining how Jim and I would spend our days together. And our nights.

“You’re flushed.” Jim touched a hand to my cheek. “You feeling all right?”

Since Norman was waiting inside and we had a mystery to solve, I thought it best not to confess what I was really thinking. At least not right then and there. Instead, I followed Jim into the house. It wasn’t until after the front door was closed and locked behind us that Norman stepped out of the kitchen. Now that he’d slept in a real bed for the first time in a couple weeks and had a hot shower and lunch, he looked like a new man.

At least as new as any French chef could look now that he was just an ordinary guy dressed in a pair of Jim’s flannel lounge pants (rolled at the hem) and a green and white soccer jersey that was way tighter around the middle than it was when Jim wore it.

Just to be sure we were safe, Jim checked the doors and windows-again-before we gathered around the table in the dining room with its fire engine red walls.

“So?” The look I gave Norman was expectant. “You were going to think about the scams you ran when you were Norman. Have you come up with anything that might help us figure out who’s after you?”

Honestly, I was hoping for something a little more definitive than a shrug, but when he glanced at the written list on the table (I’d been bold enough to title it Norman Scams), a shrug was all I got from Norman. That and: “I’m drawing a blank. Honest, Annie, I’ve tried. I’ve spent all day thinking about it, and as far as I can remember, there isn’t a person in the world who hates me enough to want to shoot me. There isn’t anything at all I’ve ever done to anyone that would make them want to force me to talk. Talk? About what?”

“What do people ever want other people to talk about?” I was hoping for more, and I’m afraid my tone betrayed my disappointment. “Sex? Money? Secrets? Any of this ringing a bell?”

Another shrug from Norman. “Sorry to tell you, my love life has never been exciting enough for someone to want to hurt me because of it. Sure, I’ve had a few flings in my day, and a couple girlfriends here and there. Almost married one of them back when I was Fred Gardner. But hey, she was a real lady.” The way Norman ’s eyes sparkled when he talked about her, I was sure she was. “A woman like that doesn’t hold a grudge because a guy walked out on her. At least not for too long. And I hear she ended up doing pretty good for herself, anyway. She married an orthodontist and they’ve got five great kids.”

“Then what about secrets?” Jim had gone into the kitchen and he pushed through the door, a pot of coffee in one hand and a plate of muffins in the other. I tried my best to stay out of Jim’s and everyone else’s kitchens, but just before the door swung closed, I saw a glimpse of the avocado green appliances and turquoise countertops that he swore he was going to swap out for something a little more twenty-first century one day soon.

There were cups on the table and Jim poured and handed them around. “You’ve told us already that you were in prison once. Maybe there’s some other secret in your past-”

“Don’t you think I would tell you if there was? I’d really like to get to the bottom of this. I swear, I wouldn’t hold anything back.” Norman ’s shoulders had only barely slumped when Jim passed a plate of freshly baked cranberry almond muffins under his nose. Norman took a whiff. His eyes lit up and he didn’t look nearly as discouraged anymore.

I always knew he was a man after my own heart.

He had already taken a muffin, split it open, and buttered a portion of it before he said, “If only I could think of something.”

“Money.” It was the one thing we hadn’t discussed. Since my mouth was full of muffin, too, and the word came out sounding more like “Mny,” I swallowed and repeated.

“Money. The killer said it was payback time, and to me, that sounds like it has something to do with money. I’ve been to your home, Norman. It’s nice. It’s more than nice. You drive a Jag. You own a successful business. Pardon me for not being politically correct, but that’s not bad for an ex-con.”

This time, Norman ’s shrug was more nonchalant. Like the one he’d used so often when he was Jacques Lavoie. “I’m not suffering, that’s for sure, but I’m not loaded, either. I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve earned. I mean, lately.” Obviously thinking we were going to call him on the being-honest vow he’d made, he cleared his throat. “Sure, I ran a bunch of scams back in the day, but they never earned me really big bucks. Now, Très Bonne Cuisine…” Even though he’d ditched the phony French accent, when he said the name of the store, he still added a bit of European pizzazz. “That place has made me a bundle. But hey, like I said, I’ve worked for it. Nobody can begrudge me that. Every penny of it’s been honest. Well, except for the Vavoom!”

I thought about this while I nibbled on another piece of muffin. “So where did the money come from in the first place?” I asked, and I kept my eyes on Norman while I spoke. Promises or no promises, I wasn’t ready to trust him implicitly. I needed to gauge his reactions and measure his answers. I needed to watch his eyes when I said, “I mean, the money you used to open the shop. Where did you get the initial capital to invest, anyway?”

A totally honest man would have answered without hesitation.

A liar would have, too.

Norman ’s response was somewhere right in the middle.

Carefully, he buttered half his muffin. “It was a card game,” Norman finally admitted. “Just a friendly poker game. Nothing shady about that.”

“You won enough money in a card game to open a store with a huge, expensive inventory?” I thought about the figures I’d heard thrown around, rent and utilities, salaries and taxes, and neighborhood retail association fees. Sure, Très Bonne Cuisine was successful, but with those kinds of expenditures, it was a wonder any business could stay afloat.

“Just to open the doors…” I was in the middle of a bite of muffin, so I swallowed before I continued. “It must have cost plenty to get the place decorated and stocked. I’ve been looking over packing lists and picking tickets. Even at wholesale, the merchandise you sell isn’t cheap.”

“It was kind of a high-stakes card game.” Norman said this as if it was no big deal.

I thought otherwise.

I pinned him with a look. “How high were the stakes?”

He stalled by making a face.

“ Norman!” The name came out as a warning, not from me, but from Jim. It was amazing how much whammy he could pack into rolling that r in Norman ’s name.

It was enough to make Norman ’s face pale. “I won three hundred thousand dollars,” he mumbled.

“Three hundred-!” I could barely get the words out. Maybe that’s because a piece of muffin was stuck in my throat. I washed it down with a gulp of coffee. “ Norman, that means if you won big, somebody lost big.”

“Yeah, I guess. But that doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to Greg.”

“And you know this, how?” Again, it was Jim’s turn, and again, he put that Scottish burr of his to good use. When Jim is dead serious, it’s hard to ignore that earnest rumble. It sounds a whole lot like thunder.

Norman got up from the table and did a turn around the room. “He’s not that kind of guy,” he said.

“He who?”

Jim and I managed that bit of mangled English at the same time and together, we waited for an answer. It didn’t come until Norman dropped back into his chair at the dining room table.

“Victor Pasqual,” he said.

OK, let me make something perfectly clear here: I know nothing (and I do mean nothing) about poker. I also know very little about popular culture. It’s not that I’m not interested in those tell-all magazines at the grocery store checkout counter, it’s just that I don’t have the time to care. Besides, if anything really juicy is happening to any celebrity (the ones I’ve heard of and the ones I haven’t), Eve is sure to fill me in.

In a nutshell, what this means is that my mind is a vast pop culture wasteland.

But even I had heard of Victor Pasqual.

“The billionaire recluse who owns that hotel in Atlantic City and never goes outside and the only time anyone sees him is during one of his card games?” I stared across the table at Norman, wondering how he managed to run in those circles. I couldn’t hold my curiosity in for long. “How on earth did you manage to run in those circles?”

“It was a long time ago.” He waved away the idea that he was anything even remotely like a celebrity hanger-on. “Vic, he wasn’t quite as eccentric back then. I knew a guy who knew a guy who… well, you get the picture. I was invited to a game. I won.”

“Three hundred thousand dollars.” I was having a hard time getting past the figure. But then, I am a numbers person, and these numbers, they were enough to take my breath away. “You won three hundred thousand dollars from a notorious gambler in a poker game, and you don’t think that’s important? This Victor Pasqual is rich and, from everything I’ve heard about him, a little crazy, too. He sounds exactly like the kind of guy who might hold a grudge.”

“Which means…” Jim said this, but I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t exactly anxious to hear my answer. He had that look on his face, the one that told me he saw the wheels in my head turning and he was afraid of where they might take me.

Which is why I answered as matter-of-factly as I was able. “We’re going to need to talk to Victor Pasqual.”

“The man never leaves the penthouse apartment at his hotel.” This from Jim.

“Except to play poker,” Norman added.

And they couldn’t see where we were headed?

My muffin and coffee finished, I got up from the table, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door. “Then we’re going to need to play poker with him,” I said. “And I know exactly where I can learn to do that.”

THESE DAYS, IT DOESN’T TAKE A DETECTIVE TO FIND people.

I mean, really, all you need is the Internet and a few smarts.

I had both, and within an hour of leaving Jim’s, I was parked in another part of town in front of a tiny brick house with a neat front walk and flower beds where marigolds bobbed their heads in the evening light.

It was the kind of house I’d always dreamed of owning.

The kind I’d been saving for.

The kind I’d had ripped out from under me when Peter left and took half our bank account (and half the down payment we’d saved over the years) with him.

It was the house Peter and Mindy/Mandy bought after they’d married.

I did my best to set aside the anger that assailed me when I considered this. After all, it wasn’t why I was there.

I reminded myself of the fact as I rang the bell, then stepped back and waited.

Peter was the only person I knew who played poker.

I needed to learn to play poker.

So-

“Hi!” When the door was opened by a trim blonde in white shorts and a purple tank top, I tried to be as friendly as possible. As much as I’d heard about Mindy/Mandy (and believe me, I’d heard plenty) we’d never actually met face-to-face.

She was shorter than me. She was slimmer. And younger. Her hips weren’t as round, her hair was cut short, and there wasn’t an unruly curl in sight. She had a ring in her belly button.

“I’ m Annie,” I said, and I knew exactly when the pieces fell into place and she realized which Annie, exactly, I was. That would have been when she looked a little as if she’d bitten into a lemon. I looked past her into the house with its sleek, modern furniture and walls that were painted an especially appealing tone of beige (though truth be told, the shade was a little dark for my tastes).

“I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if I could talk to Peter for a minute.”

Mindy/Mandy stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her.

“You don’t know.”

My blank expression said it all.

Mindy/Mandy shrugged. Her tank top gaped and, like it or not, I saw that her breasts were round and firm and perky. As much as I hated to even think about it, I could see why Peter had been attracted. I wondered what she wore behind the counter at the dry cleaner’s, and if the day Peter had first walked in there and been smitten on the spot, she was displaying her pierced belly button for the world to see.

“Peter, he said he’d seen you.”

Mindy/Mandy’s words snapped me out of my thoughts, and it was just as well.

“He stopped in,” I said automatically. “To the restaurant where I work. And the gourmet shop where I work and…” No doubt that sounded as weird to her as it did to me so I simply added, “He just stopped in to say hello. To talk. That’s all. I don’t want you to think-”

Her laugh stopped me cold and Mindy/Mandy opened the door and stepped back inside. “I’m sorry I can’t help. Peter isn’t here. He doesn’t live here anymore. In fact, we’re getting a divorce.”