whirled at a voice behind me. The chilly presence of Anabel Huffington-Chabot. Up close, she was even more formidable, from the frosty blonde tips of her hair to her designer stilettos. Standing next to friendly Chelsea with her soft, pretty face didn’t help Anabel much. Just made me wonder how much Botox had filled that immoveable visage. She knew who I was, all right. She’d seen me when I’d blundered across her and Jean-Claude at their tête-à-tête yesterday. “Sorry. We can’t take responsibility for the wallet. Harriet’s such a loose cannon. Who knows what she’d accuse us of? You’ll have to find her yourself. Are you ready, Chelsea? We don’t want to keep the photographer waiting.”
Chelsea shot me an embarrassed glance and a helpless shrug. “I’m so sorry,” she mouthed. Before I knew it, I was on the far side of the oak door. It closed behind me with a soft yet insulting click.
Several minutes later, I had left messages with every person I encountered on the property. As I left the Wallingford Estate and headed for the post office to XpressPost the contract back to Lola, I thought about Harriet Crowder. I had the feeling that not a single person she knew would toss her a life preserver if they saw that she’d been washed overboard.
“A what? You’re going to write a what?” Woody twirled in his custom-made power wheelchair, the tires narrowly missing a customer’s feet near the organic baked goods section. The panicked customer hustled her Birkenstocks to the far side of the bulk product bins, near the organic quinoa. I was pretty sure she was hunkered there, giving us her full attention. But in case she or anyone else in the newly renovated and enlarged L’Épicerie 1759 was not totally tuned in to our conversation, Woody bellowed with laughter. It worked, for sure. All eyes were now on us.
“Shh,” I said. “I don’t want everyone in town to know. Please don’t make today any worse than it already is.” I was already regretting sending off the signed contract.
“Why the hell are you telling me then?”
“Because you’re my friend.”
“Are you out of your freakin’ mind? What were you thinking?”
“I thought you could give me some useful information. You own a health food store. You know about food. Josey’s too young. Anyway, I don’t want to talk to her about erotic recipes and aphrodisiacs and all that. I’m not even sure I’m old enough. You’re right, I probably am crazy.”
Woody chortled and shook his head, spewing a little bit of Jolt Cola. The silver braid swung back and forth. Woody is the faux hippie to end all faux hippies, and he’s always careful to look the part.
“Do you actually think I would keep a secret?”
“Oh, I did, yes. But now I see that I might have been a bit off-base with that assumption.”
“Yeah, especially with an erotic cookbook! Everyone will want to know about that. My business is going to boom.”
I maintained my dignity and hoped the Birkenstocked customer, who had sidled toward the cash, hadn’t heard.
“I wouldn’t be doing it at all if I wasn’t desperate for the money.”
“Yeah, I heard that too. Taxes in arrears. Hydro getting cut off. That’s rough, kiddo.”
“I’ll survive.” Who had squealed? The mail carrier or Josey?
“Well, sure you will. Squeeze something out of that useless ex of yours. I wish I’d known earlier. I could have helped you out a bit. But I just settled up with my contractor for my renovations. Cleaned me right out. I’m in serious overdraft.”
“Don’t worry about it.
“Try Liz. Nah, on second thought, don’t bother. She’s the stingiest woman I ever met, and I’ve known—”
“Thanks anyway, Woody, but I don’t want to borrow money. I’d just be postponing the payback. Until I can get my share from Phil, I’ll have to make it myself whatever way I can.”
Woody lit up a cigarette under the DÉFENSE DE FUMER sign. “But you got to admit, that cookbook idea is just plain hilarious, kiddo. Plain freakin’ highAarious.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I sniffed. “My new agent has arranged the deal, and it’s an offer I can’t afford to refuse. It’s not like it’s an idea I would dream up myself. They’ll pay the first part of the advance on signing. I’ve already mailed the contract.”
“You sure you heard right? Any chance she asked you to write a neurotic cookbook? That would make more sense.”
“Okay, that’s it. Tolstoy, we’re out of here,” I said.
Tolstoy was slow to move. He loves Woody and Woody’s store, since Woody has no problem with him. Of course, Woody doesn’t enforce any regulations on general principles. Tolstoy was standing underneath the INTERDIT AUX CHIENS sign. It means no dogs, but then again, Tolstoy doesn’t read French, and Woody doesn’t believe in it.
“Come on, kiddo. Where’s your sense of humour? I’m stunned anyone would think of you for a job like that. You sure this Lola’s playing with a full deck? When did you ever cook anything? You live on take-out. If it weren’t for the hummus and pita here in L’Épicerie, you’d have starved.”
“Well,” I said.
“Although I don’t know how anyone can eat this stuff. Give me Mickey Dee’s any old day. I can’t wait until the Golden Arches comes to St. Aubaine.”
I glanced around. No one was paying any attention. For some reason, Woody’s customers see no incongruity in his personal lifestyle and opinions and the high-end organic products he sells.
Woody held up his hand. “I know you make great coffee, but in no way does brewing java count.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Tough luck, kiddo. The irrefutable fact is that cookbooks almost always include solids.”
“I look after Tolstoy.”
“Do you make his food?”
“I open the tins and mix it with his kibble. He really likes the way I do it.” Tolstoy’s tail thumped on the wooden floor.
“But any examples of cooking for, say, human beings?”
“I can’t remember. I made food when I was still married to Phil. I’m sure I did. I must have. I’ve tried to blank out those years. But that’s not the point.”
“Oh right, so for the erotic cookbook, the point is your exciting and varied love life?”
“You are being just plain mean, Woody.”
“I’m merely pointing out that any guys I know you to have been associated with are either dead, suffering from head wounds and amnesia, or you’ve just divorced them. Well, I guess I’m leaving out agents of the police, but that’s different. Aside from me, of course. But hey, there’s an idea.”
I said, “In no way is that an idea. And this is just a cookbook, not an autobiography. I don’t have to provide the erotic realism. They just need recipes
