Monsieur Lavoie was the proprietor of Très Bonne Cuisine, the gourmet shop where I’d taken my first cooking class, where I’d met Jim, and (not incidentally) where I’d first come across a murder and learned that though I might not be much of a cook, I have a better-than-average talent for detecting. In addition to being a larger-than-life figure, a vocal opponent of fast food and shoddy cooking technique, and the face on the label of Vavoom! the pricey, addictive seasoning he sold at his shop, Monsieur is a regular at Bellywasher’s, sometimes stopping by to help out on nights we’re slammed, other times dropping in for a glass of wine or a quick meal. For this series of classes, I knew that Jim had arranged for Monsieur to provide the kitchen gadgets he’d feature and teach the students how to use each week. Like Jim, I’d been expecting Monsieur to arrive, but I’d been so busy checking the students in, and so focused on my own oh-no-what’s-going-to-happen-now-that-I’ve-quit-my-job in-securities, it hadn’t registered that Monsieur had yet to make an appearance.

When Jim looked my way with a question in his eyes, I simply shrugged.

“And isn’t that just like a Frenchman!” Jim said this with so much good humor, everyone laughed. “We’re depending on Monsieur Lavoie to help us out this evening, but no worries. We’ve got some prep work to do before we start with the cooking, so if you’ll all adjourn to your stations…” With a sweep of his arm, he directed his students to their proper places. A pair of students was assigned to each area: the grill and industrial stove behind Jim, the salad table, prep and side dishes, desserts, presentation, and drinks. It was the same setup he’d used in the last class he’d taught and it had worked well. Aside from the fact that one of the students in the class was murdered and another was the murderer, of course.

While everyone was busy getting settled, Jim crooked a finger to call me over. I approached the stove carefully, and when it didn’t flare up, blow up, or break down, I breathed a sigh of relief.

“What’s up with Jacques?” he asked. “He was supposed to be here by now.”

I could only answer the way I had before. I shrugged.

“You haven’t heard from him?” Jim might be cool, calm, and collected in front of the class, but he was also a stickler for perfection-especially in the kitchen. With his back to his students, I saw the way his eyes glimmered with annoyance. When his accent thickened, I knew we were in trouble. “Where can the man be? He’s supposed to show them the proper roasting pans. He’s supposed to bring a mandoline from the shop and demonstrate how to slice the honey-roasted ham we’re making. He said he’d be by with the ice cream maker we’re to use for the dessert. What’s wrong with the man? Is he daft? How can we have cool tools and hot meals without the tools to make the hot meals?”

Have I mentioned that I’m the soul of logic and reason?

Maybe it goes without saying since I’m the business manager of the place. Like any business manager, I looked beyond the problem and directly for a way to fix it.

“You’ve got roasting pans,” I told Jim. “You can use those.”

“Aye, we can. Only Jacques was supposed to bring a whole slew of them. You know, stainless steel in different gauges and a slow cooker just to show that there are other ways of doing things. We agreed it was a good way to introduce something new into the classes and a great way for him to advertise his business. And besides-”

“But the roasting pans you have will work fine.” I stuck to the topic and refused to get sucked in by the emotions and, just as I expected, Jim caved.

“Aye.” Some of the stiffness went out of his shoulders. “You’re right, of course, Annie. As always. We’ll make do. If the mandoline doesn’t arrive-”

“Monsieur’s bringing a musical instrument?”

This was a legitimate question, so Jim shouldn’t have rolled his eyes. He went right on as if I hadn’t said anything at all. “Then I can show them proper knife work instead. And if the ice cream maker isn’t here-”

“I can run out and pick up a couple half gallons of chocolate chocolate chip.”

I was going for funny. Jim knew it and smiled. He gave me a peck on the cheek.

“As always, you’re the one who keeps things here on an even keel. Thank you. Only…” Once again, his gaze strayed to the doors that led into the restaurant. “He said he’d be here, and it’s not like him to be late. Or to forget completely. You don’t suppose-”

“Anything’s wrong? Of course not.” It was a cavalier statement and Jim knew it, but that wasn’t about to stop me. I wasn’t going to let my imagination get out of hand. “Monsieur is healthy and active and everybody loves him,” I reminded Jim. “Nothing’s happened to him. Nothing’s wrong. He’s probably stuck in traffic. I’ll tell you what…” I moved toward the door. “I’ll call the shop and ask his assistant, Greg, what time he left. Then we’ll know if we need that chocolate chocolate chip or not.”

“That’s my girl.” Jim gave me a wink before he turned back to his class.

And I walked back into the restaurant and grabbed the phone just as Eve was coming out of the ladies’ room.

“Calling Très Bonne Cuisine,” I told her, the receiver to my ear but my hand over the mouthpiece so I wouldn’t confuse Greg when he answered.

Only he didn’t.

Answer the phone, that is.

I checked the clock that hung over the bar. Being a Monday, I knew the shop was open until nine and it was just a bit past seven. I hung up, then dialed again.

There was still no answer.

“That’s weird,” I said, and I didn’t have to explain. Eve knew exactly what I was talking about. She reached into her purse, pulled out her cell phone, hit a button, and handed the phone to me.

“Monsieur’s cell,” she said while I listened to the ringing on the other end. “I have his number programmed in. I’ll bet he’s stuck in traffic.”

“That’s what I told Jim. Only if he is held up somewhere, you’d think he’d call and let us know. And you’d think Greg would answer at the shop. Unless he’s tied up with a customer.” I waited until Monsieur’s message came on, left a brief one that said something like, “Just hoping everything is OK and that you haven’t forgotten,” and handed the phone back to Eve.

“That’s weird.”

“You said that already.”

“But it is.” I drummed my fingers against the bar. “Monsieur is always anxious to promote his shop, and this is a great way for him to do it. Besides, he wouldn’t blow Jim off. They’re friends.”

“And you’re worried.”

I looked to Eve for reassurance. “Think I need to be?”

“I think we’d better find out what happened, or you’re not going to sleep tonight and then your first full day here is going to be miserable and you’re going to say it’s because you never should have quit your job at the bank and then you’re going to get all crazy and obsessive about that again and I’ll never have any peace.”

I am not that much of a drama queen, but I didn’t bother to remind Eve of that. I was too busy grabbing my purse from my office, sticking my head into the kitchen to tell Jim I’d call him when I found out what was going on, and heading for the door.

According to those online mapping programs, it’s a little more than eight miles from Alexandria to Arlington, and it should take the average driver somewhere around fifteen minutes to get there.

Eve is not anyone’s average driver. She’s got a heavy foot on the accelerator, little tolerance for other drivers who get in her way, and is subjective about what, exactly, constitutes a red light that is red enough to make her stop.

But traffic in the D.C. area is nothing if not brutal, and it took us nearly a half hour to make the trip to Très Bonne Cuisine.

By the time we got there, there were already four police cars in front of the place, their lights swirling.