“I’d come with you, but-”
The same apology came from both Eve and Jim at the same time.
I looked from one of them to the other.
“I’ve got to meet someone,” Eve said.
I didn’t ask who. I didn’t want to know. Besides, I already did.
That left Jim. He grimaced. “We’ve got a hell of a mess in the kitchen that needs to be cleaned up before anyone can go home,” he said. “I can’t leave Marc and Damien high and dry.”
“Of course you can’t.” I popped out of my chair. “And you don’t need to. I can certainly go over to Très Bonne Cuisine on my own.” I reached over to grab the yearbook. It was still open to the picture of Norman in the newspaper office.
Maybe it was the way he was sitting, facing the desk and looking over his shoulder toward the camera. Maybe it was the light. Or the fact that his hair was cut shorter than it was in his graduation photo.
Whatever the reason, something struck me as different, and I took another, closer look at the kid.
When I did, I fell right back into my chair.
“What?” Eve wasn’t one to pick up on nuances so I guess that shows how obvious my surprise must have been. She leaned forward and grabbed my arm. “What is it, Annie? You’re looking at the picture of Norman as if you’ve seen-”
“A ghost? Maybe I have.” I flipped the book around so that Jim could see Norman better. “Take a look,” I said. I turned the book again, this time so that it was facing Eve. “I can’t believe I’ve been staring at this kid all day and I never noticed it before.” Let that be a lesson to me. I was so busy looking for any resemblance between Monsieur and Norman, I was blind to looking at anything else. It wasn’t until I’d given up on the problem that this new possibility presented itself.
With one finger, I pointed at Norman. “OK, don’t try to add on forty years when you picture him; try thirty. And don’t imagine that he’s gained much weight. Think of him as thin. Who do you see?”
Eve squinted.
Jim cocked his head.
I gave Norman ’s nose another tap. “I think there’s a resemblance to Monsieur, all right,” I finally admitted. “But there’s a resemblance to someone else, too. In this picture, Norman looks a little like Greg Teagarten.”
Jim nodded.
Eve’s eyes flew open.
“Then you think that Norman isn’t Monsieur, he’s really Greg?” When Eve is thinking really hard, she wrinkles her nose. I wondered if she knew it wasn’t an especially attractive expression and knew in an instant that of course she did. That’s why she made it a rule never to think very hard.
“I don’t think Norman is Greg,” I said. “Because Greg isn’t the one with all the phony IDs. But maybe…” I was about to propose a theory so preposterous, I wondered if even my friends would believe it. “I think there’s a good chance that the resemblance between Greg and Norman is the reason Monsieur hasn’t been heard from since the night of the murder.”
They waited for me to say more, but I needed a moment to organize my thoughts. It wasn’t until I was sure I could explain at least semiclearly that I gave it a try.
“Monsieur made that call to the police from the back room at Très Bonne Cuisine, right? That means he wasn’t out in the store, but he did see enough of what was going on to know that Greg was in trouble. And the killer didn’t mean to kill Greg. We know that because he only shot Greg in the foot, like he was trying to make him talk. So maybe the killer-”
“Thought Greg was Norman, but he wasn’t really Norman because Norman is Jacques and that’s why he’s hiding.” Jim finished my thought for me, and I was grateful. It was a slippery theory and I was beginning to lose my hold.
I nodded. “It’s possible. And it explains a lot. Not about the licenses, but about why Monsieur hasn’t been seen or heard from since. If the killer was really after Monsieur-”
“Then Greg was killed by mistake.” Jim’s voice was as hollow as the feeling inside me.
“It also explains why Monsieur is hiding.” This came from Eve, who was so proud of herself, she sat up and threw back her shoulders. “Annie, you’re brilliant!”
“If I was, I’d know where Monsieur was. And who’s after him. And why.”
“Aye.” Jim got up and collected our glasses. “But we have faith in you. You’ll figure that part out soon enough.”
I hoped so. Because I’d already figured something else out that, so far, had eluded both Jim and Eve. I would have mentioned it, but it was late, and there was no use in the two of them going to bed as worried as I was.
Why?
The answer was simple enough: If the killer was really after Monsieur and killed Greg by mistake, that meant Monsieur was still in a whole bunch of danger.
I ARRIVED AT TRÈS BONNE CUISINE A LITTLE WHILE later, and because it was late and most of the nearby storefronts were retail space, the block was pretty quiet. Some of the bars and restaurants in the area were still hopping, but they were farther up the street, and thanks to the distance and the fact that a steady, misty rain had started to fall, local partyers had opted for closer parking spaces. Rather than having to go around back to the lot, I had the luxury of pulling my car up to a rare open parking place right outside the front door of the shop.
In fact, the only other car around was a dark sedan parked three spaces farther up the street.
For the record, I do not have the gourmet-shop worker’s equivalent of spider-sense. But I’m no dummy, either. When Eve and I drove to Fredericksburg, I’d noticed a dark sedan mirroring our moves. A car that got off at the same exit we did and followed us to Bill Boxley’s house.
Was it the same car?
I squinted for a closer look and cursed my lack of sense (spider or otherwise) for not noting the sedan’s license plates back in Fredericksburg. It might be the same car, I decided.
Or it might not.
Just to be safe, I kept my eye on it as I unlocked the front door of the shop. I didn’t see a driver and there was no one else out on the sidewalk. No one I could see, anyway.
Not one to take chances, I locked the door behind me, disarmed the security system, and flicked the switch that turned on the light above the front counter cash register area.
Had I been thinking less about everything we’d discussed back at Bellywasher’s and what it could mean in regard to Monsieur’s disappearance and Greg’s murder, I might have noticed that something wasn’t right. As it was, it was late, I was in a hurry, and my brain was so busy spinning through the Norman Applebaum is-he-or-isn’t-he scenario that it wasn’t until I unlocked the cash register and took out the two twenties I would exchange for singles at the bank the next morning that I saw that our display of gourmet dried soup mixes was in disarray.
Yes, I am organized. Some say a little too much so.
Yes, I am a stickler for order.
No, I’m not obsessive. At least I don’t think I am.
That’s not why I noticed the mess.
This wasn’t just a soup mix out of place here and there. The dried mixes had been completely removed from the shelf and dropped on the floor.
I was one hundred percent certain Raymond wouldn’t leave such a mess. He simply wasn’t the type.
Was I worried? Not really. After all, the front door was locked when I arrived. And our security company hadn’t called to say there’d been an alarm. Maybe that’s why I approached the problem-and the shelf where the soup mixes had been last time I saw them-logically.