Murder Has a Sweet Tooth - By Miranda Bliss Page 0,49

had a red heart dangling from it.

“No,” I told Eve in no uncertain terms, and knowing I was investigating, she didn’t argue. Or maybe it was because she never had the chance. She got distracted by a display of mint tins nearby and the sign above it that said Sonny’s could personalize the tins with anything—including a picture of the happy bride and groom.

“No,” I said again, but this time Eve wasn’t fazed. Stars in her eyes and, no doubt, a corny picture in her head of me and Jim smiling at each other like two love-sick teenagers, she went right on looking, and I scrambled to catch up with Sonny.

“There’s a summer party class coming up, too,” he said as he slipped behind the front counter, and I made note of it, not because I had any intention of signing up, but because I thought something similar might work for Jim’s Bellywasher’s Cooking Academy. “You know, chicken wings, shish kebabs, veggies on the grill, and the like. Once the weather warms up, folks get a hankerin’ for cookin’ outside. They’re always lookin’ for something that’s not burgers and dogs.”

“Sounds perfect!” It did, but that wasn’t what I was there about. “But I was wondering—”

“Here it is!” Sonny grabbed a copy of his monthly newsletter and pointed at the page that listed his classes. “Appetizers So Delicious, You Might Have to Hire Somebody to Help You Enjoy Them.”

Just like Sonny expected me to, I laughed at the title of the class. I also wondered if Jim shouldn’t dress up his class offerings with perky names. Or maybe not. Jim was nowhere near as down-home hokey. It worked for Sonny: He had the accent and the country-boy personality to match. Jim had an accent, too, of course, but not the kind that went with corn bread and grits.

“Actually, I was wondering . . .” Sonny still had the newsletter open, and I bent nearer for a look at it. “I’d really like to take classes on Tuesday evenings. I’ve got the night free and—”

“Sorry, darlin’.” Sonny was either a great actor or one of those rare business owners who actually cares about his customers. He looked genuinely remorseful to disappoint me. “I’m a one-man show ’cept for weekends, when the missus comes in to help out here in the store. I only teach on Saturdays.”

“No. That must be wrong.” My answer was automatic. So was me reaching over to pluck the newsletter out of Sonny’s hands. I scanned the class list, which clearly showed that Sonny knew what he was talking about: There was a variety of classes available—all on Saturdays.

Staring at the newsletter, I raised my voice. “Eve, Sonny only teaches classes on Saturdays.” I looked from the newsletter to Sonny, and I’ll bet any money my expression was as incredulous as the tone of my voice. “You only teach on Saturdays.”

By now, as curious as I was, Eve joined me at the front of the store. Sonny glanced from one of us to the other. “That’s what I told you, ladies.” Sonny lost none of his good humor in the face of what must have looked like outright looniness. “Pick a Saturday, any Saturday, and I’ll be more than happy to teach you whatever cookin’ technique you like. Ask about a Tuesday . . .”

“Then what about Celia, Beth, and Glynis?” Eve asked the question long before it hit her that all this was going to look crazier than ever, and confuse Sonny, to boot, so I took over.

“There are three women,” I said. “Actually, there were four. Vickie, Celia, Beth, and Glynis. They told us they take cooking classes here.”

“Not on Tuesday nights.” Sonny was sure of this. And why shouldn’t he be? It was his shop, after all. As if to prove his sincerity, he reached for a binder that sat next to the cash register. “This is my class book, where I sign folks up and mark down when they pay for classes.” He paged through the binder, then nodded, confirming something to himself. “Nope. Never had women with those names in any of my classes. Not on Tuesdays or Saturdays or any other day.”

“And last Saturday?” I asked, with another peek at the newsletter. “What did you teach last Saturday?”

Sonny didn’t have to consult the newsletter. “A couple Saturdays ago . . .” He pointed to the entry in his newsletter. “That’s when I did that hokey-pokey recipe. I’ll tell you, the ladies in that