she heard our name mentioned. I found out just a few hours ago."
"That's wonderful!" It was, and no sooner had I realized it than my spirits plunged and my knees turned rubbery. "No, it's terrible."
Jim laughed and hugged me. "It's both. And we'll handle it as we've handled everything else." He unfolded his arms from around me. "It's all part of the business," he said. "We'll get by O'Keefe, right enough. I just need to get used to the idea of him pouncing on us unawares. You'll put up with me while I do?"
"You'll put up with me when my eyes are swollen and my nose is red?"
"I like your nose." He kissed the tip of it to prove it. "And now I'd better get back behind the bar." He stepped away, then thought better of it. "You'll be all right by yourself?"
"I'll be fine."
I was, too. I went over the day's receipts, balanced the charges and made out our daily deposit without further tears. By the time I was done, it was close to ten, but I had a few more things to clean up and a few more hours before I absolutely, positively had to be in bed or I'd be useless at the bank the next day. I ducked into the restaurant to get a cup of coffee.
There were six people at the bar. Larry, Hank, and Charlie were three of them, but at least tonight, they were sharing a pitcher of beer and a plate of Jim's incredible honey barbeque chicken wings. Only one table was occupied, by a man with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up on his head. He was wearing sunglasses.
"What's his deal?" I asked Heidi when she whisked by.
"Dunno." She shrugged and reached for the Coke she'd left for herself at the end of the bar. She took a sip. "Came in half an hour ago and ordered a boatload of stuff. I mean, really. The crabcakes and the bisque and even the sweet potato pie. Asked a lot of questions, too. You know, like, what's in this? What's in that? I guess some people are just really picky when it comes to what they eat."
I guess she was right.
Except something about this picky eater struck me as awfully familiar.
As casually as I could, I strolled over toward his table. Not only was he persnickety, he was apparently a stickler for accuracy, too. With the tip of his fork, he picked apart Jim's crab cakes, then made notes on a pad next to the plate.
Michael O'Keefe?
My heart leapt into my throat, and I thought about running to the kitchen to warn everyone to be on their best behavior.
Until I heard our guest mumbling to himself.
"This is celery seed, yes?" He took a nibble of the crab cake, nodded to himself, and made a note. "And bread crumbs and—"
"Good evening, Monsieur Lavoie!" I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with the owner of Très Bonne Cuisine. "It's good to see you. What brings you to Alexandria tonight?"
"Ah, Miss Capshaw!" Jacques Lavoie is a round little Frenchman with apple cheeks and an accent that would put Pepé Le Pew to shame. Aside from owning the gourmet shop where Eve and I took our cooking classes, he is the genius behind Vavoom! seasoning, a spice blend that's developed a cult following in the D.C. area. I used to be among the faithful until I found out Vavoom! wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Something told me my knowledge of what was really inside a Vavoom! shaker wasn't why a flush of red stained Monsieur's neck. I knew it for sure when he put an arm across his notepad to keep me from seeing it.
"But of course, I am here to support Jim," he said. A nervous smile came and went across his face. "It is the least I can do for an old friend."
"Which explains the sunglasses."
He cleared his throat and removed the glasses.
"And the hoodie? Is it cold in here? I can have Jim turn up the heat."
"That is not necessary, c hérie. " He stripped off his hood, revealing a shock of salt-and-pepper hair.
"I think Jim's in the kitchen," I told him. "He'll be thrilled