When I did, I saw that there were a couple of wild rice and veggie mixes on the floor along with one chicken cheese tortilla and three white cheddar broccoli. There were also four packages of potato leek soup, and at the same time I remembered that the soup was Monsieur’s favorite (he always added a healthy glug of sherry), I noticed that they were set to one side.
“Weird,” I mumbled to myself, and it was a good thing I whispered the word.
Otherwise I wouldn’t have heard a noise from the cookware aisle. It sounded a whole lot like footsteps.
At the same time I backed away from the soup mixes and toward the door, I realized I’d left my keys on the front counter. I couldn’t get to them without wasting precious time and I couldn’t get out of the shop without them.
With few options, I did the only thing I could think to do. I turned on every light in the shop and raised my voice.
“I know you’re here,” I said. At the same time I raced to the counter and grabbed for the keys. “I’ve already called the police so you might as well just stay put.” I darted for the door and I would have made it, too, if not for those soup mixes on the floor.
I stepped on the chicken and cheese tortilla mix. My ankle turned and my foot went out from under me. I shot out a hand to grab the rack where the soup mixes were displayed, but I hung on too tight.
The rack tipped and the gadgets displayed over the shelves of soup mixes rained down on me. I covered my head with both hands, remembering too late that the only thing keeping me upright was that rack. My feet slid and I went down in a heap.
Even before I plucked a dozen garlic presses away from me and brushed away the barbecue brushes, the wooden kebab skewers, and the corn-on-the-cob holders that covered me, I knew I was in trouble.
Because even before I looked up, I sensed someone was standing over me.
Eleven
“MONSIEUR!”
Even before Jacques Lavoie offered me a hand, I sat up like a shot. Kebab skewers rained down from my shoulders and peppered the floor.
“What in the world are you doing here?”
He made that very Gallic gesture of his. The one where he shrugs and turns over his hands. It said, Why shouldn’t I be here, it is my shop, yes? even before he said, “Why shouldn’t I be here, chérie? It is my shop, yes?”
“Of course… it’s your… shop.” I was so surprised, so relieved, and so completely bowled over, I could barely put together a coherent sentence. Maybe that’s why I stayed put right where I was, right there on the floor amid a slew of kitchen gadgets and soup mixes. “But where have you been? Why didn’t you come forward to tell the cops what happened to Greg? What on earth is going on?”
There was that gesture again. This time, it conveyed a message that was all about how it would take a while to explain. Before he could even begin, though, Monsieur looked toward the front door.
“I have been a little nervous,” he explained, watching me watch him. “You understand this, yes? After everything that has happened… If we could turn out the lights, perhaps?”
“Of course.” Before he could make a move toward the switch, I got to my feet and flicked off the lights, checking the sidewalk out in front of the store as I did. It was empty. Except for my car and that dark sedan still where I’d last seen it, so was the street. Even so, Monsieur’s gaze darted to the front windows again and again, and I couldn’t stand to see him look so uneasy. I took his arm. “We’ll talk in the office.”
“Oh, no, chérie. I have an idea even better than that.” He bent to retrieve two packages of potato-soup mix. “The water is already boiling and the wine, it is open. If you hadn’t interrupted me while I was searching for the soup mix, I would have put everything back where it belongs and be eating my dinner right now. You’ll join me, yes? We’ll go upstairs. To the cooking school.”
I had already started down the aisle toward the back of the store, but when I heard this, I put on the brakes and fought to catch my breath. “That’s where you’ve been all this time? Upstairs?” I was torn between giving Monsieur a hug and punching him in the nose, and he wasn’t the only one I was mad at. After all, I was supposed to be the detective, and I hadn’t even known the person I’d been looking for was living right over my head.
Good thing the lights were off. Monsieur didn’t see when my cheeks flamed.
Or maybe he did. “I am sorry to cause so much trouble,” he said. “C’est vrai! It is only just that…” Again, he glanced at the windows and, even in the dark, I could see that his eyes were round and his forehead was creased with worry. He ran his tongue over his lips.
And I decided right then and there that whatever he had to tell me, it could wait until we were upstairs and had the door closed and locked behind us.
We went to the back of the store and he punched in the security code to open the door at the bottom of the steps that led up to the cooking school. Even once we were upstairs, though, he didn’t turn on any of the lights, and I knew why. The school has a gigantic window that looks over the street. It lets in an incredible amount of light. The design is pure genius. The natural light adds to the elegant ambience established by the stainless-steel appliances and the individual work stations with their sleek granite countertops.
But a window that lets in light lets it out, too.
I didn’t need Monsieur to say a word. In complete darkness, I followed him to the back room where there was storage space, sinks for cleaning up-and no windows. Once we had the door to that room closed, he dared to turn on a light.
I saw that he had a nearby table set with a linen cloth, china, and a set of sterling flatware. There was a loaf of bread on the table, too, and an open bottle of wine. He got another glass, poured, and handed it to me.
“That is better, yes?”
“Yes. But…” I sucked in a long breath and forced myself to let it out slowly. “I’m confused. What have you been doing up here?”
Monsieur didn’t look any happier saying it than I was hearing it. “Panicking mostly,” he admitted.
“Then why not talk to the cops!” It seemed the simplest solution to me, and I cupped my wineglass in both hands and paced back and forth, waiting for some sort of explanation that would put the last week into perspective.
It was a long time coming. Monsieur drank some wine, poured the soup mix into the water he had boiling on the stove, got a bottle of sherry from a cupboard. He waved toward the table and I took a seat. He set a place for me, cut into the loaf of bread, and handed me a piece.
“It is difficult to explain,” he said.
“As difficult as it’s been for your friends to wonder if you’re dead or alive?”
I hadn’t meant to sound so furious. Or maybe I had. Now that my shock had settled into mere surprise, I felt bitter frustration nip at the edges of my composure. Like anyone could blame me? I scraped unsalted butter over my bread and chomped, chewing it over along with the thought that relief and anger can apparently go hand in hand.
“We’ve been worried sick,” I said without apology. After all, I wasn’t the one who needed to apologize. “And all this time-”
“I have been right here. Yes.” At least he had the decency to hang his head. When the timer rang, Monsieur filled two soup bowls, added sherry to each, and served. While I waited for my soup to cool, I stared across the table at him.
“It is hard for you to understand, I know,” he said. “Things are… how do you say this? These thing are confusing.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Now that I’d had a few minutes to think, my brain had finally started to work and my thoughts were lining up. Systematically, I went over everything I’d learned and seen since the day Monsieur went missing, including those driver’s licenses.