Eve made a face. “I can’t picture Peter playing poker. He’s not that-”

“Daring?” With a nod, I agreed. “He sure never was back when I was married to him. He said he started playing after our divorce. I guess it was all part of the new, cooler, expensive-aftershave-wearing Peter he became to satisfy Mindy. Or is it Mandy? Anyway, as it turned out, it was perfect that he was there. I was able to talk to him and find out about that card game last week. You remember, the one Greg won. The one I tried to tell you all about yesterday, only you didn’t give me a chance.”

I looked at Eve hard when I said this. Too bad she was busy looking at her chocolate cake. She didn’t see that I was leaning forward just a bit, my eyebrows raised, waiting for her to explain herself.

When she didn’t, I had no choice but to call her on the carpet. “You remember, Eve. We were on the phone together. We were talking. The way best friends-and fellow investigators-do. But then your phone beeped because you had another call coming in. And even though you told me to hold, you never came back on the line.”

“Technical difficulties.” Eve finished the last of her cake and licked her fork clean. “It happens.”

“So I hear.” I wasn’t buying it, but, hey, who was I to criticize? If Eve dropped my call because she was talking to Tyler (and I’d bet a lifetime supply of Vavoom! that she was), I’d spent part of the evening with my ex. I guess that made us even.

“Peter was at last week’s game, too,” I said. “When I asked about what Len Dean had said… you know, about how Greg was the big winner and someone was the big loser and I wondered if the big loser was also a sore loser… well, Peter just laughed.”

“It wasn’t him, was it? Oh, my gosh!” Beneath their dusting of Precious Posy blush, Eve’s cheeks paled. “Oh, Annie, I always knew he was a first-class weasel.

Greg won all Peter’s money and then Peter…” She swallowed hard. “He had no choice. I mean, he had his honor to think about. And what was he going to tell Mindy/Mandy when he came home with no money? You said he was teaching summer school this year. He must be desperate. I mean, who wouldn’t be with huge gambling debts? He needed vengeance. That’s why Peter came in here and-”

“Peter did not kill Greg.”

“Oh.” Eve frowned. “I was sort of hoping he did. Wouldn’t it be fun to see him behind bars?”

Maybe.

“That’s beside the point,” I said because the thought of Peter in an orange jumpsuit was far more appealing than it should have been. “I asked, you know, in a roundabout kind of way. I asked Peter what he’d been doing Monday evening when the murder went down. He told me he was at a faculty meeting. You know, about summer classes.”

“But he could have lied about it.”

“He could have. He didn’t. Peter was never much of a liar. Even after he met what’s-her-name. He never lied about cheating, just came right out and told me about it. Besides, I called the school and checked. There really was a meeting that night. Peter really was there.” We were getting so far off track, I wasn’t even sure where we were headed anymore. I finished my cake, cleaned up the plates, and took them to the back room. When I’d put on a pot of coffee that morning, I’d realized there were perks (pun intended) to my job at Très Bonne Cuisine. Monsieur kept a personal supply of expensive Jamaican coffee on hand. It was leagues better than the off-brand stuff I bought at the grocery store, and I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about using it. After all, I was minding the shop.

I made a fresh pot and, while it was brewing, I found a big earthenware mug for myself and I got out a matching one for Eve. I filled hers, then mine, and since there wasn’t anyone in the shop at the moment, I sat down at Monsieur’s desk.

“Peter told me that another one of the players was the big loser last week. A football coach named Bill DiSantis.”

Eve nodded. “And Bill is the killer.”

“Bill lost twelve dollars and fifty cents.”

“Huh?” She set down her mug, the better to prop her fists on her hips so she could quiz me. “What on earth are you saying, Annie? Are you serious? This Bill character killed Greg over twelve dollars and fifty cents? That’s sick. It’s twisted. It’s-”

“Bill didn’t kill Greg, Eve. Don’t you get it? When Len told me that Bill was the big loser, he didn’t bother to mention that in their game, twelve dollars and fifty cents is high stakes. It’s penny-ante poker. That’s one of the biggest pots they ever had. That’s why Bill made a big deal about Greg cheating. Peter introduced me to Bill. He’s a regular kind of guy, and I don’t think he’d hold a grudge, not over twelve dollars. Heck, that’s what a jar of Vavoom! used to cost.”

“So Bill didn’t kill Greg?”

“You got that right.”

“Then who did?”

The bell on the front door sounded. “I wish I knew,” I said, hurrying to the front of the shop. “Really, Eve, I wish I knew.”

ON THURSDAYS, TRÈS BONNE CUISINE IS OPEN UNTIL nine, and by eight thirty, I was beat. I was tired of fielding questions about Greg’s untimely end, sick of reminding people that murder is not a spectator sport, and so truly weary of selling Vavoom! that I thought I’d drop where I stood. Yeah, word had gone out that for the first time since Monsieur had introduced it to the culinary community, the seasoning was on sale. I can only describe the result as an epicurean stampede.

When the crowds finally dispersed, I took the opportunity and headed into the back room. I grabbed a ladder and dug around in the boxes stored on the shelves above the work counter until I found what I was looking for-dozens of empty jars bearing the distinctive Vavoom! label, a five-pound box of bulk seasoned salt, and a note written by Monsieur that was, apparently, all there was of a proprietary Vavoom! recipe.

To five pounds of seasoned salt, it said in Monsieur’s twig-thin, soldier-straight handwriting, add one cup garlic powder, one-half cup dill, three tablespoons lemon pepper.

Knowing that he actually altered the original product made me feel better about selling it. And still glad I’d put it on sale.

A little more digging, and I found all the ingredients I needed to concoct my own batch of Vavoom!, as well as a little scoop and funnel. At just a minute before nine when I was all set to lock up and begin filling jars, the bell over the front door rang.

“I’ll be right with you,” I called out. I hoped my exhaustion didn’t register in my voice. As I had learned in the restaurant business, customers were customers. Even late customers. I wiped my hands against my white apron and started out of the office.

“No need!” came the reply.

I’d recognize that voice-and that sexy accent-anywhere. In spite of my fatigue, I found myself smiling. There’s nothing like a visit from a honey of a hunk to brighten a girl’s evening.

I greeted Jim with a kiss. Right before my throat tightened and panic closed in. “You’re here. You’re not busy at the restaurant tonight. What’s wrong? We didn’t get a bad review somewhere, did we? We couldn’t have. But it’s Thursday night. You should be slammed.”

“And you shouldn’t be so worried about business all the time.” Jim was clutching a small bouquet of flowers in shades of pale mauve, purple, and cream. “The bride,” he said. “The one I quoted the wedding luncheon for. She had flowers shipped in, to see how the colors would look with our decor, and said I could use them on the tables. I thought you might appreciate them.”

“They’re beautiful.” They were, and when I stuck my nose into the middle of the bouquet, I found that they smelled good, too. One of the cubbyholes behind the front counter featured a ten-inch crystal vase and I appropriated it and stuck the flowers in. I’d fill the vase with water when I went to the back room to get to work on the Vavoom!