Eight

MAYBE COOKAHOLICS GET ANTSY WHEN THEIR FAVORITE shop is closed. Maybe they spend their Sundays pacing their kitchens, or poring over cookbooks and planning the meals they’ll prepare in the coming week. I didn’t have to try hard to imagine legions of them taking the seasonally color-coordinated notepads we sold in aisle one (shades of sherbet this time of year) out of the modular drawer organizers they’d bought from aisle two and scratching their lists of ingredients and the details of the pricey cookware they’d need to make their culinary dreams come true.

Maybe that’s why Monday at Très Bonne Cuisine was so incredibly busy. I couldn’t see straight much less take the time to consider what we’d learned the previous afternoon from Monsieur Brun in Sceau-Saint-Angel.

Why had Jacques Lavoie lied to us, his friends?

Why had he concocted a history for himself that didn’t jibe with the facts?

If his background was phony, what did that have to do with the IDs?

And with his disappearance?

Too bad I didn’t have a second to spend on the problem. I was so busy during the day that when five o’clock rolled around and I finally remembered it was class night at Bellywasher’s and I was supposed to supply the gadgets Jim would demonstrate that evening, I panicked.

I raced to the back of the shop and printed out the e-mail Jim had sent earlier in the day. Then, like a deer in the headlights of a fast-moving catering truck, I stood in the middle of the shop and stared at it.

“Rasp?” My voice was a little edgy (OK, it was whiny, I’ll admit it), but it didn’t matter. For the first time since I’d opened the front door that morning, I was alone. My desperation echoed back at me from the hardwood floors and the granite countertops. It was not a pretty sound. “What in the world is a rasp?”

“I might be able to help.” The answer came just after the refined ring of the bell over the front door and I turned just in time to see a man close the door behind him.

I did say man, right?

I think I might have been more accurate describing him as a mountain.

The guy was well over six feet tall and his shoulders were so wide that when he stood in the doorway, he blocked the outside light completely. He wore crisp khaki pants and a pressed-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life white cotton shirt with short sleeves that showed off biceps where muscle bulged on top of muscle. His neck was as thick as the ham Jim prepared for the last week’s class at Belly-washer’s, and his chest looked to be chipped from granite.

“I’m Raymond,” he said, moving forward to shake my hand. “You look a little surprised to see me. You knew I was coming tonight, right?”

Somewhere in the back of a brain crammed with information I’d never known existed, been concerned about, or wanted to know about cooking and cookware, a memory floated to the surface, and I recalled that my new assistant was set to arrive that evening. In fact, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away (actually it was right there at Très Bonne Cuisine the week before when Jim brought up the subject), I’d heartily approved of the plan. With someone else working the shop, I might be able to get over to Bellywasher’s in something close to reasonable time on nights like this, and, once I was there, I could try to clear my desk of the papers that were piling up on it like sand dunes on a windy beach.

I had not, though, expected Raymond.

At least I hadn’t expected the Raymond that Raymond turned out to be.

Jim had told me the man he hired to help out was a Très Bonne Cuisine regular. I knew he was in his forties and that he was some kind of IT genius who ran his own incredibly successful business but longed to leave the corporate world behind and become a chef.

Go figure.

Raymond was gay, Jim had also told me. He was also helpful and friendly and when it came to food and cooking, he had encyclopedic knowledge. He lived in one of the million-dollar town houses that had just been built nearby.

All that was well and good. But whatever picture had formed in my mind, it was not a buttoned-down African American version of the Incredible Hulk.

Sometimes I catch on slow. But eventually I do catch on. At the same time I gave Raymond a welcoming smile, I realized that in the last week, Jim had come into the shop to help a couple of times, and always in the evening. Not coincidentally, evening was when Greg had been killed. Sure, Jim had hired Raymond to provide the culinary expertise the shop was sorely lacking now that I was in charge. But he was also looking out for me. He was worried about me. Jim had not just hired an assistant, he’d hired some muscle. Some incredibly amazing muscle.

“Raymond! I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you!” True on both counts, the culinary count and the muscle one. “It’s going to be so nice to have help here. We’ve been slammed.”

“And from what I hear, when it comes to cooking, you’re not exactly Martha Stewart.”

Raymond said this with so much good humor, I couldn’t help but laugh along with him. “You got that right,” I admitted.

“Then I’m going to assume Jim was right about everything else he said about you, too.”

I should have accepted the compliment at face value, but who could blame me for being a little curious?

“Oh?” I had to crane my neck to look up at Raymond. “What, exactly, did Jim say?”

Looking me over, Raymond ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Pretty, Jim said. He got that part right. He said you were smart, too, and I’m betting that’s also correct since you single-handedly took over this place and it’s looking as good as ever. He did not, however…” He plucked the list from my hands. “He did not tell me that you didn’t know what a rasp was. Do you even know what it’s used for?”

“Rasping?”

Raymond was kind enough not to point out that my guess was lame.

Instead, he strode down the nearest aisle (he practically filled it) to where the gadgets were displayed. He pulled what appeared to be a giant (and dangerous-looking) file from the shelf and held it out to me, its bright yellow plastic handle pointed my way.

“Rasp,” Raymond said. “Sometimes called a rasp grater or a zester. What’s Jim making?”

I stood on tiptoe to point to the printed e-mail message in Raymond’s hand. “Broiled lamb chops with lemon caper sauce. See. It calls for lemon zest.”

“And it sounds divine!” He smacked his lips. “What he’s going to do…” Raymond grabbed another rasper and demonstrated. “The rasp is run across the skin of the lemon. Like this.” He pretended to hold a lemon in one hand, then glided the rasp over it. “That will shave off the zest, and it will gather here.” He pointed to the underside of the grater blades, which, the way he was holding the rasp, were facing up. “Then Jim can measure the zest and put it in his recipe. See, it’s really pretty easy when you just know what to look for. What else do you need, babycakes?”

I doubt I’ve ever been called babycakes by anyone, much less six feet four inches of muscular man. Had I been thinking clearly in an I-am-woman-how-dare-you-minimize-me sort of way, I actually might have been offended.

If I didn’t like it-and Raymond-so much.

I motioned for the e-mail and read over Jim’s message. “Grapefruit citrus sectioning tool,” I said. “That’s for the spinach, chicory, and grapefruit salad he’s making.” Raymond handed me something that looked like it belonged in the garden. “These aren’t pruning shears?” I asked him.

He smiled like I was kidding.

I wasn’t, and since I didn’t want to break his heart, I kept reading. “Baked bananas and blueberries. Which means we need-”

“A banana slicer.” Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Raymond whisked a weird, banana-shaped item off the nearest shelf and held it up for me to see. “Clever little object. You put your banana here and just slice along the lines. Every home should have one.”