Norman didn’t look sure. “I keep wondering how he knew. I mean, about Très Bonne Cuisine. If the killer wasn’t even sure who Greg was or what I look like, how did he know to come to Très Bonne Cuisine?”

I didn’t have the answer and I didn’t pretend I did. “What’s even more important,” I said, “was what he was trying to find out. He said, ‘It’s payback time, Norman.’ That means he thought you owed him something. Even more important-”

“I don’t.” It was Norman ’s turn to interrupt. “I don’t have any outstanding debts. Nothing that would cause someone to come looking for me with a gun, anyway.”

“But it’s not a debt you have now. Don’t you see?” As if it might help, I set down my fork so I could concentrate on explaining things as clearly as possible. “The guy didn’t know you as Jacques or Bill or Fred or by any of your other identities. He said Norman. He knew you back when you were the real you. And that means-”

“It might have something to do with one of the scams you ran back in the days when you were Norman.” This came from Jim, and he so succinctly said what I’d been beating around the bush to explain, I could have kissed him. If I didn’t have a mouth full of waffle. “This bloke, he must have had a grudge for a very long time.”

“And we’re back to square one.” So that we could set the table for our breakfast, I’d taken the list of scams Norman had written out earlier and put it over near the sink. I retrieved it and put it on the table in front of Norman, then handed him the pen.

“Go ahead,” I instructed him. “Put a check mark next to the scams you ran back when you were Norman.”

WHAT WITH THE SURPRISE OF FINDING MONSIEUR (I was having a hard time getting used to thinking of him as Norman), the double surprise of Jim showing up at the shop, and the wine and the waffles and the stories we exchanged and the theories we tossed back and forth, we were all pretty exhausted by the time eight o’clock rolled around. Rather than beating our brains and wasting our time, we decided to meet again later that afternoon at Jim’s, before the dinner hour at Belly-washer’s.

We smuggled Monsieur… er, I mean, Norman… out of the shop wrapped in an oversized shawl Eve had once left there and wearing the straw gardening hat I kept in the backseat of my car on the off chance that one of these days, I might actually have a garden to wear it in. It was still early and most of the retail shops on the street weren’t open yet. As far as we could see, the coast was clear; there was no one watching us or Très Bonne Cuisine. But even though he was confident they wouldn’t be followed, Jim was no dummy. He drove the roundabout way to his house in the Clarendon neighborhood of Arlington, bustled Norman inside, and settled him in the guest room with the miniblinds closed.

I had other plans. I made a call, and even before I told him he deserved his very own superhero outfit, Raymond agreed to forgo his Friday beauty nap and work the shop for me that day. And me? I went home and took a nice, long nap. Between that and a shower, I was rarin’ to go by the time I got to Jim’s for our powwow.

I, too, took the long way to Clarendon and maybe Norman’s paranoia was getting to me, because in case someone was watching me, I offered to park a couple of blocks from Jim’s house and walk the rest of the way. (Yes, I was imagining myself slipping in and out of the shadows in a very detectivelike way.)

Jim would have none of that. His place is on a too-close-to-seedy-for-comfort street, and he insisted I park in the driveway. He met me even before I got to the front door.

And I’m not complaining or anything. I mean, being welcomed to Jim’s with a hug and a kiss was just about the best way I could think of to end twenty-four hours full of shocks and revelations. But what Jim didn’t know was that usually when I get to his place, I take my time walking up the front steps and across the porch to his door.

Time to confess: I have some fantasies when it comes to Jim.

OK, that’s not much of a confession. Anyone who knows me knows I’m nuts about Jim.

Truth is, though, I’ve also got some fantasies about his house, too.

Not that it’s my kind of place. It’s got too much gingerbread outside and, thanks to the old lady who sold it to him for a song, too many rooms inside papered in too many floral prints. His front porch is a riot of potted plants. Most of them are herbs he uses at the restaurant and I can understand the appeal. Really. But I always have to control the urge to straighten and sweep and get rid of maybe just a few of those overflowing pots. Just to make things a little more orderly.

Even with all that, I usually let my mind wander as I make my way up the front walk, and in those wanderings, I wonder what it would be like if the place was mine. Mine and Jim’s.

Back in the day when I first met Jim, the very thought sent terror up my spine. I mean, the one man I’d sworn to love and cherish had gone and done me wrong, and after the disaster that was my marriage, I wasn’t about to jump into another relationship where there was the teeniest chance of me getting my heart smashed (again) in a couple million pieces.

But that, as they say, is ancient history. And Jim isn’t Peter.

It took a couple months for that truth to finally settle in, but now that it had, I was at peace with it. In fact, I liked imagining how Jim and I would spend our days together. And our nights.

“You’re flushed.” Jim touched a hand to my cheek. “You feeling all right?”

Since Norman was waiting inside and we had a mystery to solve, I thought it best not to confess what I was really thinking. At least not right then and there. Instead, I followed Jim into the house. It wasn’t until after the front door was closed and locked behind us that Norman stepped out of the kitchen. Now that he’d slept in a real bed for the first time in a couple weeks and had a hot shower and lunch, he looked like a new man.

At least as new as any French chef could look now that he was just an ordinary guy dressed in a pair of Jim’s flannel lounge pants (rolled at the hem) and a green and white soccer jersey that was way tighter around the middle than it was when Jim wore it.

Just to be sure we were safe, Jim checked the doors and windows-again-before we gathered around the table in the dining room with its fire engine red walls.

“So?” The look I gave Norman was expectant. “You were going to think about the scams you ran when you were Norman. Have you come up with anything that might help us figure out who’s after you?”

Honestly, I was hoping for something a little more definitive than a shrug, but when he glanced at the written list on the table (I’d been bold enough to title it Norman Scams), a shrug was all I got from Norman. That and: “I’m drawing a blank. Honest, Annie, I’ve tried. I’ve spent all day thinking about it, and as far as I can remember, there isn’t a person in the world who hates me enough to want to shoot me. There isn’t anything at all I’ve ever done to anyone that would make them want to force me to talk. Talk? About what?”

“What do people ever want other people to talk about?” I was hoping for more, and I’m afraid my tone betrayed my disappointment. “Sex? Money? Secrets? Any of this ringing a bell?”

Another shrug from Norman. “Sorry to tell you, my love life has never been exciting enough for someone to want to hurt me because of it. Sure, I’ve had a few flings in my day, and a couple girlfriends here and there. Almost married one of them back when I was Fred Gardner. But hey, she was a real lady.” The way Norman ’s eyes sparkled when he talked about her, I was sure she was. “A woman like that doesn’t hold a grudge because a guy walked out on her. At least not for too long. And I hear she ended up doing pretty good for herself, anyway. She married an orthodontist and they’ve got five great kids.”