Even before I plucked a dozen garlic presses away from me and brushed away the barbecue brushes, the wooden kebab skewers, and the corn-on-the-cob holders that covered me, I knew I was in trouble.

Because even before I looked up, I sensed someone was standing over me.

“MONSIEUR!”

Even before Jacques Lavoie offered me a hand, I sat up like a shot. Kebab skewers rained down from my shoulders and peppered the floor.

“What in the world are you doing here?”

He made that very Gallic gesture of his. The one where he shrugs and turns over his hands. It said, Why shouldn’t I be here, it is my shop, yes? even before he said, “Why shouldn’t I be here, chérie? It is my shop, yes?”

“Of course… it’s your… shop.” I was so surprised, so relieved, and so completely bowled over, I could barely put together a coherent sentence. Maybe that’s why I stayed put right where I was, right there on the floor amid a slew of kitchen gadgets and soup mixes. “But where have you been? Why didn’t you come forward to tell the cops what happened to Greg? What on earth is going on?”

There was that gesture again. This time, it conveyed a message that was all about how it would take a while to explain. Before he could even begin, though, Monsieur looked toward the front door.

“I have been a little nervous,” he explained, watching me watch him. “You understand this, yes? After everything that has happened… If we could turn out the lights, perhaps?”

“Of course.” Before he could make a move toward the switch, I got to my feet and flicked off the lights, checking the sidewalk out in front of the store as I did. It was empty. Except for my car and that dark sedan still where I’d last seen it, so was the street. Even so, Monsieur’s gaze darted to the front windows again and again, and I couldn’t stand to see him look so uneasy. I took his arm. “We’ll talk in the office.”

“Oh, no, chérie. I have an idea even better than that.” He bent to retrieve two packages of potato-soup mix. “The water is already boiling and the wine, it is open. If you hadn’t interrupted me while I was searching for the soup mix, I would have put everything back where it belongs and be eating my dinner right now. You’ll join me, yes? We’ll go upstairs. To the cooking school.”

I had already started down the aisle toward the back of the store, but when I heard this, I put on the brakes and fought to catch my breath. “That’s where you’ve been all this time? Upstairs?” I was torn between giving Monsieur a hug and punching him in the nose, and he wasn’t the only one I was mad at. After all, I was supposed to be the detective, and I hadn’t even known the person I’d been looking for was living right over my head.

Good thing the lights were off. Monsieur didn’t see when my cheeks flamed.

Or maybe he did. “I am sorry to cause so much trouble,” he said. “C’est vrai! It is only just that…” Again, he glanced at the windows and, even in the dark, I could see that his eyes were round and his forehead was creased with worry. He ran his tongue over his lips.

And I decided right then and there that whatever he had to tell me, it could wait until we were upstairs and had the door closed and locked behind us.

We went to the back of the store and he punched in the security code to open the door at the bottom of the steps that led up to the cooking school. Even once we were upstairs, though, he didn’t turn on any of the lights, and I knew why. The school has a gigantic window that looks over the street. It lets in an incredible amount of light. The design is pure genius. The natural light adds to the elegant ambience established by the stainless-steel appliances and the individual work stations with their sleek granite countertops.

But a window that lets in light lets it out, too.

I didn’t need Monsieur to say a word. In complete darkness, I followed him to the back room where there was storage space, sinks for cleaning up-and no windows. Once we had the door to that room closed, he dared to turn on a light.

I saw that he had a nearby table set with a linen cloth, china, and a set of sterling flatware. There was a loaf of bread on the table, too, and an open bottle of wine. He got another glass, poured, and handed it to me.

“That is better, yes?”

“Yes. But…” I sucked in a long breath and forced myself to let it out slowly. “I’m confused. What have you been doing up here?”

Monsieur didn’t look any happier saying it than I was hearing it. “Panicking mostly,” he admitted.

“Then why not talk to the cops!” It seemed the simplest solution to me, and I cupped my wineglass in both hands and paced back and forth, waiting for some sort of explanation that would put the last week into perspective.

It was a long time coming. Monsieur drank some wine, poured the soup mix into the water he had boiling on the stove, got a bottle of sherry from a cupboard. He waved toward the table and I took a seat. He set a place for me, cut into the loaf of bread, and handed me a piece.

“It is difficult to explain,” he said.

“As difficult as it’s been for your friends to wonder if you’re dead or alive?”

I hadn’t meant to sound so furious. Or maybe I had. Now that my shock had settled into mere surprise, I felt bitter frustration nip at the edges of my composure. Like anyone could blame me? I scraped unsalted butter over my bread and chomped, chewing it over along with the thought that relief and anger can apparently go hand in hand.

“We’ve been worried sick,” I said without apology. After all, I wasn’t the one who needed to apologize. “And all this time-”

“I have been right here. Yes.” At least he had the decency to hang his head. When the timer rang, Monsieur filled two soup bowls, added sherry to each, and served. While I waited for my soup to cool, I stared across the table at him.

“It is hard for you to understand, I know,” he said. “Things are… how do you say this? These thing are confusing.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Now that I’d had a few minutes to think, my brain had finally started to work and my thoughts were lining up. Systematically, I went over everything I’d learned and seen since the day Monsieur went missing, including those driver’s licenses.

My hands trembling with the effort to control my temper, I reached for another slice of bread and buttered it. “So tell me, what’s really going on? And who are you, Monsieur? Who are you, really?”

He had been in the middle of ladling a spoonful of soup to his mouth and he stopped, the spoon raised and the soup on it sending a small cloud of steam in front of his face. It struck me as appropriate, seeing as how Jacques Lavoie’s life was all about smoke and mirrors.

He put his spoon back into his soup bowl. “I am not surprised that you have discovered this about me,” he said. “You are a very smart woman. This, I have always known.”

“Not so smart that I can’t be fooled.”

“Oh, no. No, chérie!” Monsieur’s laugh was deep and throaty. It always reminded me of Pepé Le Pew. “You are very bright. You have found out-”

“That there is not now and never has been a family named Lavoie in Sceau-Saint-Angel, France. That you own a truckload of false IDs. That you are not and never have been Bill Boxley, and that when you stole his wallet, you took his driver’s license but not his credit cards.” I took a deep breath before I added, “Oh, and I also know that Fred Gardner must have been one hell of a good teacher because folks in Allentown still remember him fondly even though he’s been dead for twenty years.”

As I spoke, Monsieur’s face grew paler and paler. By the time I punctuated my last words by slapping my hand against the table, he was the color of the white apron he wore over a blue oxford shirt that looked as if it had been slept in.