At Risk by REBECCA YORK

each other.
    He cleared his throat. “What specifically has Mrs. Houston done before—that you know of?”
    Eugenia clasped her hands in her lap. “Only let me know that I’m not welcome here.”
    “Do you think she’d take it to the next level?”
    She’d been thinking something like that a few minutes earlier. “Like sneak around in the alley? To do what?”
    “I don’t know. Do you think she’d arrange to have your customers mugged?”
    Her eyes widened. “Are you accusing her of that?”
    “You know she’s on the suspect list. And she was pretty hostile just now.”
    “Mostly she’s a big talker. Or—I guess you could say she’s been here a long time, and she thinks she knows what’s good for this street.”
    oOo
    “But would she do something illegal to get you to move?”
    “I hope not. On the other hand, she probably saw you taking me home last night, and she could have been snooping around to find out what we were up to. When you showed up in the alley, she hit you and ran.”
    “That’s possible.”
    She sighed. “But it’s hard to picture her actually mounting an attack.”
    “Let’s consider another suspect,” he said.
    “Who?”
    “Your cousin.”
    “Why him?”
    “Because in his eyes, you’re a rival.”
    “Yes. But I wonder if he really thinks there’s not room for both of us in New Orleans. I mean, the Brennan family has at least ten restaurants, and they all get along.”
    “They get along, as far as you know. They probably don’t advertise their conflicts.”
    “You could be right.”
    “How well do you know Cousin Bennett?”
    “We played together as kids. But we don’t run in the same circles now. Like I said, the last time we saw each other was at Thanksgiving. We were never exactly friends.”
    “Where was that?”
    “Another cousin’s house.”
    “And you both brought food?”
    She laughed. “I did. Cornbread stuffing, crawfish etouffee.”
    “For Thanksgiving?”
    “This is New Orleans, after all.”
    “What did he bring?”
    “Wine.”
    “And everyone praised your food.”
    “Yes.”
    She dragged in a breath and let it out. “He didn’t cook. That’s not his thing.”
    “I’m confused. How does he have a restaurant and not cook?”
    “He hires a chef. He’s been through three different ones in four years. He gets into arguments with them about the cost of food.”
    “How does he think he’s going to make it in a town with a very competitive restaurant scene?”
    “He’s got charm. He makes people feel welcome.”
    “Maybe that’s not good enough.”
    “It could be—if he has the right person in the kitchen. There are tourists who don’t know a lot about fine dining. They get a meal from him that’s good enough. Or they can’t get reservations at one of the top places, so they settle. Actually, I’ve gotten customers that way.”
    “And you know all this about him—how?”
    “The foodie community here is like a small town. Word gets around. But the tourists don’t hear the rumblings.”
    Rafe nodded. “It sounds like he’s going about this completely differently from you.”
    She nodded.
    “He’s a couple years older than you are?”
    “Yes.”
    “And he started before you?”
    “Yes. He got a good deal on a restaurant, in an excellent location.”
    “He could afford it?”
    “His part of the family was better with money.”
    “What else do you consider significant about him?”
    “My mother likes him. She used to compare us unfavorably.”
    “Nice of her.”
    She laughed. “Mom has high standards. I didn’t necessarily meet them.”
    He wanted to say, “like hanging out with the handyman’s son.” But he kept the comment to himself.
    oOo
    Eugenia had never been to Café LaBret and was interested to see it.
    Rafe slowed as he approached the restaurant, which was on a side street off St. Charles. He found a parking space down the block, and they both walked back. The interior was a relentless homage to the fifties,