Murder Has a Sweet Tooth - By Miranda Bliss Page 0,32

Celia. “She’s taken cooking classes.”

Celia grinned. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked her friend, and apparently, Glynis was.

Celia closed in on me. “The next wine tasting is at Beth’s house Friday,” she said. “I know what you’re going to say. Isn’t it a little soon after Vickie’s passing? But really, Annie, you didn’t know her. She would have wanted it this way. Beth won’t mind you joining us. You’ll come?”

It was exactly the kind of in I was hoping for. I nodded my consent.

“Good.” Celia gave me the address. “This week we’re tasting zinfandels, so bring a bottle and an appetizer and your husband, too, of course.”

“If you could come a little early . . .” Glynis leaned in.

“Five?” Celia asked the question, but didn’t wait for an answer before she added, “Beth’s helping out at school that day, but she should be back in time. If not, no worries. We all know where each other’s hide-a-keys are, so someone will be there to let you in. We’re officially making you our designated cooking expert.”

The Tigers scored and it was a good thing they did. Otherwise they would have heard me squeak, “Designated? Expert?” When the crowd finally settled, I told them I was looking forward to the wine tasting.

After all, what else could I do?

I sure couldn’t tell them the truth.

In my experience, the only thing cooking classes led to was culinary disasters.

Oh, yeah, and murder.

Six

“ME? DESIGNATED COOKING EXPERT? YOU CAN SEE why this is a bad thing, right? I mean, what if they actually ask my advice about cooking? Or . . .”

Yes, I’d been obsessing, practically since the moment Celia, Glynis, and Beth invited me to join them at their next wine tasting. But I’d been stuck on the whole meaning of what, exactly, a designated cooking expert was. Now I had a whole new worry and, thinking about it, panic filled me like ice water. My hand was already on Jim’s arm, and it tightened like a blood pressure cuff.

“What if they actually expect me to cook?” I squeaked.

He laughed. But then, Jim is a predictable kind of guy. It’s one of the reasons I love him. Except when it comes to talk of cooking, of course.

One by one, he pried my fingers from his sleeve and shook his arm. I think he was trying to get the circulation back. “Have I taught you nothing?” he asked. “When it comes to cooking, you can hold your own.”

“I can’t. You’re just saying that because—”

“Because it’s true.”

“Because you love me and you’re trying to make me feel better.”

“I love you.” He gave me a quick kiss. “I’m trying to make you feel better.” Another kiss, a little longer and a little slower, and I was actually beginning to believe him. “You can hold your own when it comes to cooking. With anyone.”

Even another kiss wasn’t enough to make me believe that. It was Thursday evening, and Bellywasher’s had just closed. The only ones left in the restaurant were Larry, Hank, and Charlie, three of our usuals, who’d stopped in late after their bowling league and ordered the day’s blue plate special: hot dogs, beans, and fries. (Just for the record, the blue plate special is never on the menu. No one besides Larry, Hank, and Charlie even knows about it. Jim keeps a supply of hot dogs just for them because they’ve been coming to Bellywasher’s for, like, forever. See? Didn’t I say that Jim was the greatest guy in the world?)

We were standing in the kitchen, and I pushed away from Jim, the better to wring my hands and pace. “They take classes, Jim. Over at Sonny’s. I’ve heard you talk about Sonny’s. It’s a good cooking school.”

“Sonny Fleming has a reputation, that’s sure enough. He’s got good technique. He’s excellent when it comes to presentation. I hear his shop isn’t nearly as well stocked as Jacques’ . . . er, Norman’s . . .” Force of habit. Jim twitched away the slip of the tongue and continued. “Sonny’s gaining a reputation. He’s a fine, skilled chef and a marketing genius, as well. He’s making a name for himself.”

“And these ladies are actually interested enough to take lessons from him. Go figure.” I couldn’t, because I’d never wanted to take that first cooking class back when Eve signed us up for it. She was trying to cheer me up after my divorce, and in the great scheme of things, I guess it worked. That class