Beyond here there be dragons, less than pretty language, and malevolent prose. People of the same sex get frisky with other people of the same sex. Alcohol happens, what happens when alcohol happens (that's violence, if you're not familiar with the phenomenon). That said, there's nothing too graphic in here. And there's a lot of made up stuff that I didn't have time to research - that's why I'm calling it fiction.

Thanks to the finest beta reader a part-time bard could ask for. She's a rockin' beta gal. And thanks to anyone, anywhere who's had anything to do with getting and keeping the show on the air. It's been a hoot.

Creme Brulee: cremebrulee@myrealbox.com

Part 2

It rained a lot in Comstock, once a day. Living on the water is like that. Most people didn't notice the drizzle and light fog that would burn off before they fetched their morning paper. Sometimes though, it poured. The locals called it a "good soak". It's the kind of rain that splashes down in sheets, not drops. It could go on all day. Not good for business.

That afternoon, French was dealing with a deluge of another sort. A tour of geriatric ornithologists had shown up on her doorstep, wanting to know if she could serve them. They'd had a reservation, but it seemed that the Fisherman's Prize wasn't serving today, or ever again for that matter. She'd taken stock of her supplies, considered who was on staff, and agreed. It was all of a second's calculation, before she told Barbra to welcome them in. Her actual words had been, "Why the hell not? But if one of them wants anything pureed, they're out!" Then she and the crew flew into action. They'd been at it nonstop, despite the fact she'd needed to pee for the last hour, when she noticed him.

It was one of those, 'You've got to be kidding?' moments. When you stop and reanalyse the information your senses have delivered to your brain. Of all of the attempts that had been made to infiltrate her kitchen, this had to be the most ludicrous. He was wearing an approximation of the continental waiter's outfit. Cropped, white tux jacket and black slacks with satin piping. And she'd eat warm sushi at Cezar's on a Monday, if that wasn't a pencilled on mustache. It was the developmentally disconnected Detective who'd driven her up a tree. Dim Micky, or whatever he called himself.

As long as he stayed out of traffic, she decided to ignore him. She'd take care of Nancy Drew when the rush died down.

As it happened, Dil become an amusement in the busy kitchen. Waiters pushed past, spinning him as they went. Cooks bumped him into equipment and walls as he skulked around 'on the sly'. French considered having Andre bounce the unsuspecting rube out on his head. But it had been a long rush and she had a lot of adrenaline flowing. Why let Andre have all of the fun?

She appeared behind Dil as he was trying to get a better look at the spices at Sonny's station. She wrenched his right hand behind his back, smiling as he yelped in pain and surprise. "Hey, Dim, long time no see!" She swung him around and marched him right at the out door. "Non, non, I am Jean, ze new waitair!" He barely had time to pull up a hand to prevent his face from opening the door he was pushed through. The entire kitchen laughed at his sputtering. French turned to the left and made a dash for the side door, she didn't want the noise to carry into the restaurant, but she was looking forward to his tumble down the short side staircase.

Fry saw them heading out the door. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that her impulse to follow was foolhardy, professionally unsound, and possibly self-destructive. Her thinking was most clear, lucid even, when she was actively ignoring her common sense.

She walked through the door and saw French slam Dil chest first onto the railing of the small deck. She cringed as he grunted at the forceful impact. Satisfied with the result, French repeated the move.

"You are mayking ze beeg miztake! I am Jean," Thump, gasp! "ze new waitair from Franz!"

"You can drop the accent dim-wit, I know who you are." She leaned on him, applying more pressure to his chest.

Fry couldn't bare it anymore. "French, you're hurting him."

"That's the basic idea. Get back to work."

"Let him go, he's going to faint." Dil was letting out a strained, gasping noise. The kind people made during an asthma attack. Fry did the thing that had gotten many a person bruised or worse. She placed a restraining hand on French's forearm.

In disbelief, French looked down at the hand. She levelled a steely glare into and beyond Fry's eyes, to communicate directly with whatever part of the woman's brain handled the fear response. "Get off me, now." she warned.

Fry swallowed. The chill that went up her spine at the chef's quiet words, spoken through clenched teeth, scared her senseless. So senseless apparently, she tightened her hold on French's arm. She even steadied herself by resting her other hand on the chef's side.

Mysterious stirrings were underway in French's body. Where Fry's hands touched her jacket, she became distinctly uncomfortable. She concentrated on the feeling for a moment, then looked into Fry's eyes again. She had seen the look that spread across Fry's face at her words, it lingered in the pained, sympathetic gaze she saw now. She let go of Dil, and stepped back giving Fry a queer look.

Dil had slumped to the deck and Fry bent to help the gasping Detective up. "Watch your step Violet, she's a killer."

"Don't be silly Dil, French didn't kill anybody." Of course, after the last couple of minutes she shouldn't be so sure. The woman was definitely capable of some serious rage. Not to mention that really creepy look. Of course, if French had killed Louisa, Fry suspected her body wouldn't have been found intact. Maybe she should suggest the chef try yoga. It was good for that kind of extreme emotional energy.

"Besides, it was an accident, right?" Fry asked.

"Yeah, well I know what I saw. No matter who says I didn't." Dil answered.

"What's that?" French was paying attention again. She'd been touching her arm gingerly, sidetracked by Fry's effect on her. It's not like she hadn't threatened plenty of well-meaning folk in her day. But to see that look of dread pass over Fry's face had cut her to the quick. And while she'd stuffed the odd, and rare feeling of unease over some distasteful act in the past, this was looking like one of those pivotal moments. She knew she didn't want to hurt Fry. She didn't even want to scare her. The simple goodness that radiated out of those eyes, she couldn't deny it had an effect on her. And maybe it wasn't a bad thing after all, because it seemed that the dim-wit may know something.

"The photos were different, I know what I saw! You can't fool me."

French had no doubt you could, but kept her thoughts to herself. "What photos? What the hell are you going on about?"

Fry saw Dil flinch as French reasserted herself. So did French. She backed off a hair. She wouldn't get anything out of him if he was peeing in his pants.

Fry tried to distract Dil from French's imposing attempt to appear calm. "Look Dil, take a breath, collect your thoughts." She silently hoped French would follow suit. "Feel all that tension right here?" She motioned towards his chest where French had had him pinned to the railing. "Try to loosen that a little. Stand up straight, breathe deep, see? You'll feel better."

"Yeah, that does kind of work."

How much of this was French supposed to take? The idiot was huffing and puffing like some crazed Lamaze trainee. She wasn't going to watch Fry coach Dil through an entire delivery. But he did seem to be pulling it together, smiling at Fry like a simpleton, which he was.

"What photos were you talking about Dil?" Fry started in gently.

"The crime scene photos. Well, the photos they took of the body when they thought it might be a crime scene. They were missing the letters."

A strangled noise came from French's throat. Without thinking, Fry reached over and placed a hand on her sleeve again. French gave the strange appendage a dubious look. She had no reaction, no inner turmoil this time. She realised Fry was signalling her, doing a non-verbal communication thing. She sighed, it was more of an exasperated huff, but she resigned herself to wait while Fry unscrambled Dil's thoughts.

"Look," Dil produced a folded piece of paper. It was a xerox copy of one of the photos. It showed the torso of a figure, face down on the floor, surrounded by debris.

"I saw the body... that night." He paused at the memory. He'd never seen a dead body other than his uncle Don. Uncle Don had been in a casket, not sprawled across a rug in a quiet, eerie dining room. Louisa's eyes were wide and terrible looking. She was surrounded by dishes and food that had been knocked from the table. Her throat had been scratched raw, from her desperate attempts to gain air. One hand was trapped beneath her body, but the other was out to the side. It looked like she'd died as she'd tried to scrawl something into the pile of the carpet. Dil had seen it clearly, it was burned into his mind's eye. He'd had nightmares about it. The letters, M - U - R - D - E and what looked to be the beginning of an R, right where her small hand lay rigid, stilled by death. He'd gotten a jolt the next shift when he'd taken a look at the photos and seen that there was no trace of the letters at all. The carpet was smooth where her hand lay.

French and Fry exchanged a look. "No shit?" French asked. She'd been drawn into Dil's emotional account of seeing the body. He was as green as grass and had obviously been deeply troubled by the incident. "You sure you didn't have a bad dream that night, make it all up?"

Dil took notes, like any good detective. He shook his head.

"Sure it's not your colorful imagination? Trick of the light?" French pressed on.

"That's what the chief asked. I told him 'no way'. I showed him my notes. He said he'd look into it."

Great. French estimated that it wouldn't be long before the cops were banging on her door in an official capacity. "When was this?"

"The day after the murder. He said he'd get to it first chance. But you know how it is in a police station. The chief's pretty busy."

Whew, that answered that question. Why was this guy on a police force? That's what she wanted to know. Despite the large tourist trade, this was a small town, but they had to be able to afford more than this. He was as thick as pea soup and a tad less bright. The guy in charge had probably chucked the notes by now and hadn't given it another thought.

"So what makes you think I did it?" French asked.

"You broke under pressure when I questioned you."

French arched an eyebrow in response. Yeah, right.

"Well, you knew about the knife! And you were dating her. You came to dinner that night and probably killed her in a fit of jealousy. A crime of passion."

"I wasn't dating her, you moron. I had a date with her the night after she died. Not a date, a plan for dinner. It was business related, a meeting!"

"Then why had she marked the note in her calendar with a heart?"

"Because she was delusional, like you! And for the 'record', I wouldn't have eaten food cooked by Louisa Millet to save my life. She was a self-proclaimed macrobiotic fanatic. You can bet your little tin badge I wouldn't be caught dead touching the stuff. And I'm sure they covered this complex concept in crime fighting school, but to refresh your memory, poisoning is premeditated murder, not, as you say, a crime of passion. This is ridiculous, I've got work to do. Get off my property before I sue you for harrassment!" She turned to re-enter the building. This hadn't been any fun at all.

"Dil, try that breathing a few times a day. And you should really work on your posture. You'd probably have fewer problems with your breathing if you stood straighter." Fry patted him on the back and gave him a smile.

"He'd have fewer problems with his breathing if he stayed out of my kitchen. And excuse me, but don't you work here? Play detective or breathing coach on your own time. If you want to keep your job, I suggest you get to it."

"But French, don't you think..."

"I thought I said, 'move it'?"

"Actually, you said, 'get to it'." Fry looked at French's rapidly changing countenance. "But I get the idea. Bye Dil, take it easy."

Not that she cared, but Fry had been giving her these looks for the past half hour. If she cared, it would be getting on her nerves right about now. What was her problem anyway? "Fry, get over here." French yelled.

The waitress was waiting for a salad. She looked startled and pointed to herself. French pointed at her and nodded. Fry approached her station cautiously. Anyone who got called over to stand before French's station usually left it a good deal less cheerful.

"What's with that look you keep giving me?"

"Well, aren't you the least bit curious?"

"About what?"

"The murder." Fry reminded her.

"Don't tell me you believed that ignoramous!"

"Well, he had some points."

"None that would take me more than a nano-second to shred, and that's if I gave a damn, which I don't."

"But someone you knew, who some other people may think you killed, is dead. Don't you care at all?"

French knew the answer to this question, it was on the tip of her tongue. Then she got a good look at the furrowed brow look of confusion and utter disbelief she was getting from across the counter. Maybe this was one of those moments when she should reflect before she answered. She re-ran the scenario through a couple of synapses, then replied. "No."

She would've liked to have had a camera. The look on Fry's face was priceless. In the blink of an eye her brows had gone from doing the furrowed thing to damn near disappearing under her bangs. It was a neat trick. She looked surprised. No, on second thought, with her jaw hanging down like that, it was probably shock. French fidgetted. Then she did something she never, ever did. She began to explain herself. "Look. I didn't know her. I had some business to discuss with her, that's all."

Fry leaned forward, "What about the knife he was talking about?"

"For cryin' out loud! Not that again? That witless, gnat for brains asked me to identify a knife during questioning. A completely illegal, might I say Stalinesque procedure. I identified the knife for him, it's a knife for christ's sake, knives are an integral part of a chef's life! I'd know a knife without the maker's brand on it, I'd know it with my eyes closed. In that particular instance I knew the knife and it wouldn't have mattered if I didn't because the brand name was emblazoned on the damn handle! Even he could've seen that if he wasn't blinded by stupidity. Any other questions Ms. Marple? If not, I have a business to run. You know, that thing I spend 16 hours a day, kinda busy with?"

"What about the photos?" Fry couldn't help but ask.

"You know what I think? I think your Junior Scout there saw a dead body for the first time in his life and it scared him spitless. That's what I think. If he couldn't make out the writing on the side of a knife, what makes you think anyone, much less me, should take him seriously when he sees mysterious letters scratched into carpet pile? Now, you have tables to see to, I suggest you mull over all of this new and fascinating information while you see to my customers. No more chit-chat, move it!" She made a waving motion with the knife in her hand.

Fry realized her lapse. "Oh, right. I'm moving!" She scampered over to Chili's station, swiped a salad and scurried out the door.

French considered something Fry hadn't asked her. If the police thought someone was eating with Louisa that night, why hadn't it been mentioned in the paper? It sure as hell hadn't been her, so who was it? Not that it mattered one way or another. As far as they were concerned it was a closed case. Good thing too. She didn't want them knocking on her door again. And they would if they knew what she knew. Louisa'd been murdered, no doubt about that.

She got that queer feeling you get when you're being watched. She looked down the line. Eyes skittered off of her in all directions like water on hot oil. She singled out Andre, he was closest. "Problem?"

The big man shrugged.

"Good. Wouldn't want you all to get the wrong idea. Like maybe I wasn't ready to kick your sorry asses if we fall behind at dinner tonight. I have papers to deal with back there. Brian! Finish up."

"Yes maam!"

Andre shook his head as she stormed off. Only French could care less that she'd been accussed of murder it in front of the whole kitchen. He didn't understand why she hadn't shredded the little Fry for bothering her. He was pretty sure they weren't involved. That information spread like a grease fire through any crew. Still, he'd never seen her say that much that wasn't directly food related to anyone in the kitchen. It was almost social. Not to mention that Fry'd been called over for a chat and left the kitchen without the requisite tear stained face.

He'd noticed that French had been doing things differently lately.

Andre was, by birthright, and by nature, a true romantic. In recent times, he'd observed a soulless, corporate gentrification encroaching on the hardened and rough world of the restaurant kitchen. Something homogenized and sterile, stifling the vibrant world he loved. The McDonaldsification of the real food world. The high end, non-unionized kitchen world. A world where the words break and sexual harrassment were meaningless excuses for the weak, the humorless. That's why he worked for French. He'd worked for his share of hardasses in the kitchen. But she was one of the most hardened, nasty rat-bastards he'd had the pleasure to work for in a while. And the most talented. He'd enjoyed it, that's why he came back three years running.

True, there weren't a lot of fun and games when she was around, and Brian was more a patsy than a leader in the breach, but French had the mettle of five men, and the appetite of more. She was their standard bearer. When her crew was out on the town and people asked who their chef was, all they had to say was one word, and silence followed. That was respect.

Of course, if French slipped up, say softened in her old age, they all slipped with her. Romantics hate change. But she'd carried the banner so well, raised the criterion even. She could be burning out. It had to be hard to be so tough, even if French had made it look so easy. Maybe it was time for her to take a break, for him to move on.

He tried to picture French settling down and having kids. Not with Mitchell, he was the wrong kind of rat-bastard for French. Mitchell knew nothing of food, only power. While the two had a certain belligerent chemistry, it was obvious that Mitchell could only see French as he needed to, not as she was. Besides, she didn't love him. As a romantic, he could see that.

At that moment, the object of his mental wandering came screaming into the kitchen. She was waving a sheet of paper in her hand and bearing down on Brian. "You small brained, incompetent, know nothing, prep-tron! No, I take that back,you have a culinary degree." Imagine the word 'degree' sounding like the nastiest insult you've heard anyone been called and you still might not appreciate the venomous disgust with which she infused the the otherwise respectable word. "You're a glorified, small brained, know nothing, peeler of vegetables, because I'm not letting you near meat again until you can explain to me exactly where that case of tenderloin went! I'm not running a charity here. That was profit, numbskull. I'd rather you stole it than it went out that door on plates. But you wouldn't have the balls to steel anything from me, which is another reason why you'll never be a chef. At least not on my recommendation. You sorry, insignificant speck. Who taught you to portion meat? Conan the Barbarian? When you've puzzled out this conundrum, I want you to make sure it doesn't happen again. Ever."

That was the other thing Andre loved in this kitchen, the creativity. It extended beyond the food into everything she did.

He hadn't been the only employee who'd noticed a shift in French this season. The others were watching closely, testing the waters and sniffing the air for the scent of opportunity.

Sonny smirked as Brian cringed under the barrage of threats and insults. He wondered if he'd figure out what had happened and if he even had a clue who'd been undermining his position. A thinking man always made more than one opportunity for himself and Sonny was definitely a thinking man.

At that moment, a piece of tenderloin was slapped down on the cutting board before him. The sickening smack of the meat was followed by a thud as French stabbed a knife through it. "Sonny, perhaps you'd humor me with a demonstration of the answer to this puzzle. By the blank look on Brian's face, I can see I'd be bankrupt and you'd be running a fajita stand in my restaurant before he gets it." She was leaning over the counter with hands planted on either side of his cutting board. Damn she was big close up. It occurred to him that he ought to deny it, but the look in her eye prevented him from speaking. Not to mention the message implied by the knife thrust through the $100 cut of meat. French never wasted anything.

This was kindergarten stuff for her, but it shouldn't be happening at all. These dogs had caught a scent. She'd have to show them that they were gravely mistaken if they thought it was weakness.

The day wore on. They prepped for the dinner rush, they battled the dinner rush, and now they were killing off the wounded. It had gone pretty well. French was on her way from her office to check on tomorrow's supplies downstairs. She was thinking about the specials as she passed the break room. She glanced in and saw Fry standing by her locker, eating from a container. She continued down the hall considering that Fry was the kind of person you'd expect to use chopsticks to eat a snack. Why do something simply when you could complicate the hell out of it? That's when it hit her. What Fry had been eating with those chopsticks. There was only one food, no, one substance, with that pasty, horrid white consistency. And it wasn't allowed in her restaurant. One summer she'd even banned the word.

She circled back and loomed in the doorway. "What are you doing?"

Fry looked up, mid-chew and gave French a look that said as clearly as possible, "What? You mean me? Eating, what does it look like?"

French pointed at the container. "That! That is not allowed in my restaurant!"

Fry swallowed as much as she could without choking and asked, "Food?"

"That's not food, it's... it's... a mockery. It's the absence of food. It's an insult to the concept of food in any real sense. And if you had any real sense, you'd know that!"

"Hey! My mother made this! Watch it."

French found herself trying to unravel Fry's logic, not for the first time. "And what's wrong with the food you get here? Too common for you?" Okay, so maybe the stuff they gave the waitstaff for dinner wasn't Vol-au-vent Financière, but it was a damn sight better than the swill they'd get working most other places. She wasn't in business to feed waitrons. She shuddered, "You're not a vegetarian are you?"

"The meal's fine French, I get lightheaded if I don't have protein every few hours, that's all. I didn't know you ran a soy-free kitchen. Honest."

"Fine. Bring peanut butter or something next time. Scratch that, I don't want patrons smelling that on your breath... did you say your mother made that?"

Fry had been wondering at the chef's audacity, actually dictating what she ought to eat, when it occurred to her that she might be in trouble... "Uh, yeah, ya know, she's just like a mother, ya know. Always fixing me stuff. I can barely get out the door without..."

"My god. Your last name, it's Spark, isn't it?" French had put one hand on her forehead and leaned the other on the doorjamb to brace her weight. "Tell me your mother isn't Priscilla Spark. As in, Grains and Goodness restaurant."

Fry groaned. "Yeah. So you've heard of it?" She'd hoped in vain to avoid this moment. This was usually when people started laughing. But French had this pained look on her face.

"I can't believe I hired you. Frankly, I don't know why you're here. Do your parents know that you work in a restaurant that serves meat, and sentient plantlife? Or is this some kind of sick-o rebellion thing that happens in hippie, vegan families? You torture your parents by working in fry shacks and bastions of carnivorous hedonism?"

"I work in these places partly to help keep their place going. And thank you for not laughing. Usually, I dread it. But now that I think of it, I may prefer it to your subtle and equally unkind reponse. You care about the oddest things." Fry brushed past the chef as she returned to her work.

It wasn't her parents fault that everyone didn't share their philosophy of a whole foods diet. They tried so hard. If they didn't own the building that G&G ran out of, they probably wouldn't have a business at all. It was more than a restaurant though. Her parents held neighborhood political meetings and ran cooking and nutrition classes there. They devoted their life to the idea that you could run a people and earth friendly business. And they did. The only problem was they weren't too good at the business part. The restaurant rarely made any profit. Not that that was the point, but it had created some problems for them. Fighting for your beliefs wasn't supposed to be easy. She'd been taught that since before she could remember.

Being a child from the Spark family had been a challenge in it's own right. Try eating a tempeh burger inconspicuously in a cafeteria filled with peanut butter and jelly on Wonder Bread. Don't even mention the sprouts. Try explaining to your new friends that your mother and father were chained to the boats down at the docks because they believed it was cruel to kill dolphins when trying to catch tuna. And being called out of your high school homeroom to go bail them out after they'd been arrested for pamphletting at the mall, again. The right to free speech was one of their most deeply cherished convictions.

She hadn't complained. She was a Spark through and through, perhaps with one or two exceptions. They hadn't been easy ones. The biggest conflict was over Fry's love for food of all kinds. When her parents had made the difficult concession to cross the line from strictly vegan to vegetarian in the restaurant, Fry took it as an opportunity to come out to her parents as a meat eater. She hadn't meant to hurt them, but the look of disappointment that she received was heart breaking. She tried to explain that it was only free range meats, and that she'd been having fewer problems with her hypoglycemia. But even she knew that was an excuse. The damage was done. She and her mother had many heated arguments over it, but she'd held firm to her feelings, as she'd been taught.

Barbra was standing at the bar talking to Greg, the bartender, about tomorrow's keelboat races. She knew a couple of the sailors and was hoping to get in some time on the water before work. She saw the pensive look on Fry's face as she re-entered the dining room. On her next trip out Barbra called her over and asked what was up.

"French figured out who my parents are." Fry had an uncharacteristic slump to her shoulders. And her voice was flat.

Barbra shrugged, "So? Did she throw a cow or something?"

"You could say that. But the really wierd thing is, she cared more that I was eating tofu in the break room and that my parents are vegans than the fact that someone she knew was possibly murdered. Don't you think that's strange?"

"Keep it down with the 'M' word, will ya? It's not great for the digestion if you know what I mean." Barbra gestured to the patrons sitting just inside the dining room door. "This is French we're talking about here. As far as I can tell, two things matter to her. Bachanal, and French. And I'm not clear on the order of importance yet. She's an extremist. She's also nuts, but you've probably figured that out for yourself." Barbra had begun to worry. She thought someone as smart as Fry wouldn't fall for French. But it was clear that intelligence was no defense where Tall, Dark and Delusional was concerned.

Fry had to 'get back to it'. And she resigned herself to the unhappy conclusion that someone like French, was an unhealthy choice for any kind of romantic involvement. No matter how alluring, fascinating, or compelling she may be. Not that that eventuality had seemed even remotely likely, but she had been open to the idea. She cursed her traitorous body for it's enthusiastic response to the chef.

Anyone could see that French wasn't the kind of woman waiting around for the right someone to come along, speak to her heart and quell that raging beast. If rumor was anything to go by she'd been through enough men and women to have found at least one who might have made a difference by now.

And no way was Fry falling for the unrealistic notion that she was the one, the one who'd make the difference. Regardless of the content of her vivid daydreams, she was not going down that unhappy path for all the tea in China. She'd heard the country-western songs. She would not betray her feminist ideals, she would not fall into that used up stereotype of the self-less, nurturing female. No matter what that woman looked like in a toque. And while she was at it, no matter how she made cooking look like ballet, no matter what she was capable of doing with a sauce, no matter how many languages she cursed her staff out in fluently, no matter how the chef's voice made her knees go weak and definitely no matter how her pulse raced every time she thought about coming into work and seeing her.

She'd have to approach the situation realistically. The only problem with that was Fry didn't have a whole lot of experience with realism. She'd have to play it by ear.

The pace on the floor had slowed and the dining room was nearly empty. She was bringing a tray back to the kitchen when she saw one of the patrons about to walk in. Fry had seen her in the dining room sitting at one of Miguel's tables. She was younger, taller, and possibly blonder. She was also wearing an elegant, but casual outfit that would have put Fry out an entire paycheck. The sleeveless vest she wore showed off toned arms and the mid-thigh lengthed skirt showed she wasn't hurting in the leg department either. Fry considered her own petite, muscled body. She knew her build appealed to a certain taste, but this young woman's form would appeal to most.

"Excuse me, may I help you?" She thought she could save her the embarrassment of getting an earful from the chef. She'd also save Barbra from it as well, she'd apparently not seen her head in the wrong direction.

The young woman turned and gave Fry a friendly smile. "No thanks, I'm visiting French."

Fry smiled back and motioned her to proceed into the kitchen. She did, and held the door as Fry navigated the tray through. It was something she could have done in her sleep, but she appreciated the surprising sentiment. "Thanks."

The young woman had already turned and was standing arms folded across her chest regarding the chef. French looked up and cracked a half smile.

"Someone is in big trouble!" The young woman spoke with a smile in her voice, belying the threatening words.

"What else is new?" French answered and waved her over.

"I heard you were in Berne last fall. Why didn't you visit me?"

"Just a quick business trip Skyler. I didn't stay for more than a day, I had to be in New York. Besides, why would I want to be seen in the company of a hardened criminal? A jail-bird, ex-con..."

"Getting arrested was the point. It was a protest!"

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" French teased.

"You haven't changed!" And to Skyler's dismay, she hadn't. If it was possible, French was even more attractive. Great, now what? She'd travelled for a summer and gone to school abroad in an attempt to get over her fixation on the dynamic woman. All of her work was undone in a glance, a half-smile. It wasn't fair!

"Did you want me to?" French was surprised. Out of all of the people she hadn't thought about, she found herself actually less than irritated to see one of them.

"We've missed you at the house. And if you weren't going to come visit, I thought I knew where I might track you down." Skyler wasn't sure how to broach the topic. So, do you just come out and ask your older brother's lover if she'd dumped him?

French laughed, "Yes, I'm sure your mother sends her regards." It occurred to her that Mitchell could have sent Skyler, not that she'd cooperate with him knowingly. Mitchell adored his much younger sister. His entire family doted on her. She was an intelligent young woman, friendly, unpretentious and completely unaware of the nature of her family's business interests. French had wondered on occassion if they hadn't acquired her as part of a business deal. She didn't seem to share any personality traits with the rest of them. The physical attributes were a dead giveaway though. Maybe there was a poor relation in the wings who'd needed some money and traded the kid for it.

"Anyway, a few friends and I are having a bonfire on Pilmut Beach Friday, drop by after work, if you want."

French took a good look at the young woman she'd first seen as a teenager. She'd turned out alright. From the way Skyler was leaning against the counter smiling at her and pushing an empty ramekin back and forth, French was pretty sure time and absence hadn't cured the problem she'd avoided her for in the first place.

She hadn't really noticed Skyler when she'd stayed with Mitchell at his mother's house. Now there should have been the first clue he was a huge mistake. A grown man who lived with his mother. So it was only a few months a year, and the house was larger than the average apartment block, but if the shoe fits... Anyway, Skyler wasn't any use to her and if French had one rule that she didn't break, it was no involvement with minors. She didn't sleep with them, she didn't use them, she didn't talk to them if she could avoid it.

But Skyler was your average rebellious teenager and the temptation of the ultimate bad girl, right there under the same roof, was bound to be noticed sooner or later. It had been sooner and Skyler fell for French like a souffle in a cold draft - hard.

Skyler happened upon her brother and French passed out in the library one night after a party. She was a little buzzed herself, but still ambulatory. Mitchell was sprawled face down on a couch and French was lying in a chair nearby. She was sound asleep, with her head tilted back, her hair falling loosely around her face and her lips slightly parted.

It had been like an invitation. She barely recalled crossing the room and standing before the sleeping woman, imposing even at rest. She vaguely recalled gently brushing her hair with the back of her hand before she leaned in to kiss her. She had a vivid recollection of a flash of blue as French opened her eyes and shoved her back with both hands. No problem at all summoning up the words the chef spoke as she leaned forward in the chair, bringing her almost eye to eye with her as she sat on the floor, "I don't do minors." It was all she said before she stood and left the room. Neither of them mentioned the episode again.

Strangely, French's reflexive rejection of Skyler's innocent desires had quelled some of her discomfort around the girl. After that night, she'd joked with her occasionally and even ganged up on Mitchell with her in an argument or two. She tolerated Skyler's crush as long as she kept it to herself. It had been a good experience for her overall. It began the healing of an old, unacknowledged wound.

To be fair though, she wasn't going to lead Skyler on, not then, and not now. As if deliberately evoking the moment, French leaned toward her and spoke softly. "I still don't do minors."

"Yes, well," Skyler sidestepped the hurt and tried to keep it light. "Perhaps there'll be someone sufficiently aged in attendance that you'd find more suitable. Gill Peters might drop by."

"Gill Peters is old enough to be my father."

"I'm not judging your tastes. Just letting you know." Skyler teased.

"Yeah, well, sounds like a stellar guest list so far. Look, I want us to be on the same wavelength okay, no hard feelings?"

Skyler gave a nod. "Always the consummate politician. I'll keep it in mind. But really, you should come. Bring people if you want."

"Careful, I might."

So that was Skyler Redmond. Fry was glad she'd reconciled her desires for French before she got a look at the calibre of the competition. It made it easier on her ego. She'd heard that Skyler was nice for a spoiled, rich girl with every possible advantage. Fry scolded herself for her prejudice. She'd responded to Skyler's easy smile and friendly manner before she'd known who she was.

Besides, she was so over French. This sealed it. Any grown woman who preyed on the emotions of girls barely entering womanhood, was not for her. Absolutely. Skyler was what, four years younger than her? A mere infant. A sophisticated, worldly infant with all the fresh faced enthusiasm of a puppy. How could she feel so old at twenty-six? Fry hoisted a tray from the bar, blew a strand of hair from her face and headed for the dining room. What a relief to be over French.

Fry was setting places in the dining room one morning when she got that funny feeling. The one she got when she sensed Miguel watching her, waiting for her to screw up. Most of the floor staff had cut her some slack if not warmed up since she'd made it on board, except two. Miguel and Jacqueline. Miguel stalked her throughout any shift they shared, helpfully pointing out flaws and inconsistencies with his usual barbed charm. It was as if he'd missed the memo that she was no longer a pariah here in loonyville, but a full-fledged inpatient. And he was so arrogant, but she supposed he got that from working with French for so long. Jacqueline stayed as distant and aloof as possible.

She'd finished setting a table when Miguel swooped in for the kill. "These napkins are a mess." He began to pick them up and unfold them. "You never set them on the plate correctly and if you can't learn to fold them properly, leave it to someone who can."

"We were in a rush. French wants us all upstairs at 11:00." She couldn't take much more of this from him. He was good at his job, but he was pushing it.

"'Hence with denial vain and coy excuse.'" He put the back of his hand to his forehead and sighed dramatically.

That was it. The proverbial straw had landed on the strained back of her patience. She'd failed to mention that the 'we' had been herself. Jacqueline had disappeared five minutes into the monotonous detail. Fry had had enough.

"Look Miguel," she began. "I don't know what your problem is, but I'd appreciate it if you'd blow it out your ear. It looks like I made it through hell week here at the sorority, so I'll be staying. Whatever you think. And I don't see you all over Jacqueline, Ken or Terry when they screw up so I'm assuming it's something about me in particular that you find fascinating. So let me tell you about me. Yes, I'm a townie. I don't come from a big city and know all of the latest trends in napkin origami and rarefied toadyism. I am someone who's working for a living and just getting by and I do not need your crap on top of it. So if I'm such a hassle, why don't you do us both a favor and avoid me as much as possible? Then we'd both be happy." She fixed him with a stare.

"You better watch it Miguel," Barbra was in the doorway trying not to laugh at the sour expression on Miguel's face. He looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. "It's a well known fact here in town that Spark's don't curse unless they're ready to go postal all over some poor bastard's ass. Looks like you might be that poor bastard, and I'm putting odds on the short guy."

Miguel's expression transformed into a glare as he worked up a suitable rejoinder.

French walked in on the scene and took in the standoff. "Do we have a problem here?"

Fry and Miguel glared at each other for a moment before he sucked his teeth and turned to French. "Well, that depends. I'm fine and ready for lunch. We've got a full house, but I can't find Jacqueline. And it seems the natives are restless." He indicated Fry with a limp wave and walked off.

French put her hands on her hips and arched an eyebrow at Fry. "Well?"

Fry shrugged and looked as innocent as possible.

"Why do I think you're lying through your teeth without opening your mouth? Whatever it is, put a cork in it and get upstairs. Barbra, do you know if Bill switched the taps on the bar last night?"

Later French took Miguel aside to ask if there was a problem with Fry.

"You mean besides the fact that she's blind as a bat and clumsy as a spring foal?"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning she can't find the center of a plate if her life depended on it and she can't measure up from the table edge, that's a start."

"Correct me if I'm wrong." French stepped closer and smoothed his tie. They both knew it didn't need it. "But weren't you supposed to have trained her in those arcane arts when she first got here?" Her tone was light, conversational even.

"I showed her. It's not my fault if she doesn't listen."

"Well then, you're going to show her until she does." French slipped a finger under the tie.

"I'm not going near that little harpy, she's..." but his words were trapped in his throat.

"Do we have an understanding?"

He jerked his head, it was the closest he could get to a nod with French picking him up by his tie.

As he watched her walked off Miguel wondered if she wasn't losing her edge. Last summer she'd have had him hanging from one of the wall sconces for mouthing off like that. This had been a slap on the wrist. Still, the look in her eye had been fairly grisly.

He knew that bubbly menace was going to be trouble the first time he set eyes on her. It wasn't that Fry was an airhead like the Ken doll, she was too damned cheerful. It grated on his nerves. No one was that happy without an agenda. Look at French, she glowed when she wanted something.

In Miguel's world there was only one thing worth wanting. That was his dining room. Technically, it was French's, or whomever else owned the restaurant where he worked, but that as stated, was a technicality. He put his unmistakable stamp on them all. There wasn't a hair out of place if he could help it. Not a glass poured from the wrong side, a plate placed or removed improperly or out of order. Courtesy and brevity were paramount. Fry chatted too much at the table. She was a rumpled mess minutes after she walked in the door. She was too well liked.

There was no way he was letting that minx take over his dining room, period. She could play the innocent farm girl, fisherman's daughter, or whatever they were on this island, he knew what she was about. If she tried to go through French, she'd find out that was a waste of time and a quick trip out the door. French knew he was a rarity, she had an eye for talent.

Of course, that's why he feared Fry in the first place. But he wasn't about to admit it.

Could a whole two weeks have gone by already? It seemed like only yesterday French had yelled at her for the first time. Sweet reminiscences. It was payday! Fry had picked up her check from French and glanced at it before slipping it into her locker. She did a quick calculation and went back to the office.

Thursday morning French sat at her desk for an hour straight doing paperwork and handing out checks. She hated payday. Today, however, she welcomed the opportunity to sit on her ass and push paper. It was a low impact activity on her aching head. She'd spent most of last night trapped in an endless nightmare. A loop that varied slightly each time, but had a strong recurring theme. It was the second night in a row she'd had this visitation.

Seeing Skyler had been the catalyst. It must've been. That's the only answer that made any sense. Otherwise, Giselle was talking to her from the grave and she didn't like that possibility one bit. Giselle had been the same age as Skyler when they met and a year older when she died. And now, she was haunting French's dreams. In an uncharacteristically cryptic way. Giselle was many things, cryptic she was not.

She would come and go from the dream, taking on different people's shapes, but it was always her. In one they were outside, talking at a cafe in Sao Paulo. It was a busy summer afternoon, people were strolling by, enjoying the day. French glanced down at the table to see blood rushing from slits in Giselle's wrists, staining the white table cloth. She looked back up to ask why, and Louisa was sitting there smiling at her. 'Don't worry, I'm fine. You order for me.' she said, but it was Fry's voice.

She rubbed at her temples again trying to dislodge the unsettling image. How many of those pills could she take in an hour?

Fry popped her head in the door and asked, "Is this a bad time?"

"As bad as any other, what is it?"

"You forgot to take out for the glasses." Fry waved her check to remind French.

"Consider it a signing bonus." French had forgotten all about the glasses.

"So you're willing to pay to keep me out of the hands of the competition, eh?"

"You'd be a dangerous weapon to let loose on them. I'm waiting for the right moment."

"You never intended to charge me, did you?" Fry asked.

"It was an accident. Besides, Max has more than paid for them by now."

"What do you mean?" Fry was going to fume for the second time that day.

"I put him on grease and rat trap duty for two weeks. That ought to teach him to cover his tracks better." She'd also given him a pointed lecture on the proper procedure for reshelving dishracks. Her throat had been sore for a few hours afterward, but she didn't see any reason to go into that now.

"That'd explain why he's avoided me all week. Why did you let me think you were going to charge me?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time. Since you've got this unexpected boon, perhaps you'll answer a couple of questions for me."

"You don't have to pay me to ask a question."

"I probably don't, do I?" French smiled despite herself. There was something genuine about Fry, and she was pleasantly surprised by it each time.

"Is that one of the questions?"

French rolled her eyes and indicated that Fry should sit. Fry liked French's office. A built in bookcase ran along one wall and cabinet doors covered another. Cookbooks and magazines filled the case and were stacked in neat piles on most of the other free surfaces. There was a bathroom, and an exit to the outside. It was almost like a small apartment, right off of a really big kitchen and dining room. The rest of the small room was taken up by the couch that she sat on, a couple of chairs and French's desk. It was freakishly neat. Even the chef's computer's desktop screen was orderly.

Today, French seemed approachable, unintimidating almost. Maybe it was because she was tired. She had her elbow on her desk and was leaning her chin in the palm of her hand. Every once in a while she'd rub her temple as if warding off a headache or soothing one already there.

"One: Why didn't you tell me that you tripped on something that night?" French asked.

"Easy. It was an accident and I didn't want Juan to get in trouble for it."

"Why not? He was responsible for keeping that walkway clear during clean up. He knew that. You had an easy out."

"Sure, but he screwed up, or Max did. French, Juan has three kids. If you'd fired him, docked his pay, or even chewed him out within an inch of his life it wouldn't have been worth it to me at that point. I figured I was history, why get one of them in trouble?"

"Two: Why should I care what happened to Louisa Millet?"

Fry considered the question carefully. She hadn't been expecting it, to say the least.

"Empathy." She answered.

"And..."

"It's why you should care. It's why most people would." The chef looked skeptical. "Even if you didn't like someone, you could say, empathize with their loss if their restaurant burned down, right?"

"Depends who it is, have you been talking to anyone in particular?"

"I meant in general. Okay, say someone you liked had a restaurant. Now what if it burned down? You'd feel bad for them, right?"

French considered telling Fry to buzz off, that this was stupid, but she did wince at the thought of Hercule's place going up in flames. "Of course I would. Now what?"

"Most people consider a person's death a lot more tragic than a restaurant burning down."

"Most people don't know squat. But I see your point." French considered this for a moment. Playing ethics 101 with Fry was helping to clear her head. "What if our friend Louisa had been bad news. A real nasty piece of work who got what she deserved. What then? Does she still rate empathy?"

"Sure. For how she got that way, that kind of thing. People make mistakes and bad choices all of the time. It doesn't mean we 'deserve' to die for it. Besides, if she was such bad news, that's what laws and the police are for."

French snorted, "Yeah, right. I see your friend Dil being a whole lot of help in that department. So, even if she was Atilla the Hun in the flesh and got what she deserved, then someone should go figure out why she was offed."

Fry's eyebrows shot up involuntarily. She stared at French.

"Well? Come on." French prompted.

"Well, if we're talking about murder, and not an accidental..."

"Oh please, you're telling me that Eunice Knight accidently slipped almond extract into a Gateau aux Deux Chocolat. Not possible. Have you ever met that old bat? She'd just as soon slit her own throat as misplace an ingredient. That's how much your friends down at the station know. Her kitchen looks like the damn department of weights and measures, probably cleaner and has better equipment too. She may not be an artist, but she's solid."

"You lost me. How does Eunice Knight come into this?"

"She baked the pastry Louisa was eating. In the photo, Dil showed us. I saw the thing on the floor. You don't mistake decoration like that. Eunice always uses that interlocking weave pattern. Besides, there were candied violets right next to it. Sound familiar?"

Fry had seen the decorations and the flowers. On many desserts she'd served. "Um... French, why didn't you say anything? To the police, I mean?"

"Oh sure. 'And officer, while you're in the process of locking me up, here's another nail for my coffin.' Outside of Eunice's shop, there are two restaurants that serve that particular dessert on this island. You work in one of them."

"I've got another reason you might care what happened to Louisa then..."

"Yeah, that had occurred to me too." French said.

"Why would someone want to frame you?"

"Convenience. It's not a well kept secret that I'm not popular in certain circles around here. If someone was trying to 'frame' me, they didn't try very hard. But now that you have the full picture and can see why letting sleeping dogs lie is probably to my benefit, why should I care if someone offed her?"

"Well, you should still care for the same reasons. What you should do about it is something else. If you're right, and I think you are, Louisa was murdered. She had all of her rights taken from her, and there's no one to speak for her. Isn't that what we all fear? That no one will care? And that there's no real justice? I'm hardly the right person to be defending the police and our supremely flawed judicial system to anyone. As far as I'm concerned they spend way too much time defending monied interests and bothering my parents, but the system is there for us too. We have to fight harder to get it to work right."

French listened as the plight of every disenfranchised group from sweatshop workers to underpaid illegal aliens was illuminated for her. Fry talked about fractured ideals, hope, disillusionment, and perseverance. How battling the ruling classes and vested interests to gain a voice in the power structure was always a messy and difficult fight. It was when she started in on campaign finance reform that French cut in.

"What makes you so sure I was framed? If you thought she was murdered before, why have you assumed that I'm innocent? For all you know, I'm a killer. I could be feeling you out, seeing how much you know before I decide whether or not you're next." French fixed Fry with a look that could have been menacing, but was mostly inquisitive.

"We've gone way over those original two questions..."

"Answer it."

"You seem to forget who your waitress was that morning at the Shack. Speaking of which, I never got my tip."

"Get over it, I gave you a job. So what if you were my waitress?" French had little recollection of anything that happened that morning before the argument began.

"I'm quoting loosely here..." Mainly she was editing out the curses. "but it went something like, 'how could I have killed her if I wasn't on the island? I already had what I wanted, it only complicates my life to have her dead. I hate complications...'"

"Anything else I should know?" French's skin began to crawl as what she'd assumed were her private thoughts were spoken aloud.

"No, but you really don't like Twice Fried Popcorn Shrimp. You nearly took my head off after you tried it."

"I didn't actually order that?" French cringed.

"Yeah, but it was the grilled cheese you ate after the calamari that grossed me out."

French shook her head. "Once I got drunk and ate a jar of jalapeno peppers accompanied by a box of Trix cereal." She wasn't sure what compelled her to share this gem from her past.

"You sure you weren't stoned? For a haute cuisinier, you sure go for the junk when you let loose. Sounds like you have some food issues."

"Thanks Dr. Freud, but I can't afford to pay you anything more an hour, so why don't you stick to waiting tables."

"Yeah, yeah, I know what I'm good for around here." Fry said.

"Why don't you get to it then?"

"Because I have one more question for you first."

"Yeah?" It was only fair at this point. And she wasn't hating her conversation with Fry. It had given her some food for thought and helped her straighten out a few things.

"Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah... thanks." French nodded. Fry had asked in such a straight forward and open way. It was gentle and sweet, something French was unaccustomed to, to say the least.

"Okay then, take it easy." Fry smiled and waved as she left. She wasn't sure she believed it, but she was smart enough not to push the chef.

French spent a full minute staring at the empty doorway.

Maybe it was something Fry had said. Maybe it was her burgeoning conscience urging her into action. Whatever it was it had landed her face first in a potted fern, spitting dirt. It was dark and she hadn't seen it when she'd heaved herself through the window.

She stood up and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. What the hell was she doing in a dead woman's house? She'd figured it was as good a place to start as any, but now that she was here, she was beginning to doubt it.

She turned on her flashlight for a second to glance around. She'd entered into the kitchen from the alleyway between the houses. The place was a mess. She walked around, trying to keep the flashlight to a minimum and navigate by the dim light coming in off the street. At first she thought the police must have trashed the place, but this looked more like a toss. Someone looking for something.

She was on her way upstairs when she heard a muffled thump in the kitchen. She went flat against a wall and moved toward the door. A figure emerged a few feet away. She could just make out an outline in the darkness.

"French?" It whispered.

"You've got to be kidding me?!" She hissed back.

Fry jumped and let out a yelp.

"Shhh! Are you nuts? What are you doing here?" This was not happening. But there she was, in all of her diminutive glory, confounding reality and all common sense. French nearly bit through her own tongue in an effort to control herself.

"Following you. What are you doing here?"

The logic was simple enough. But with Fry, simple was deceptive. "I don't have time to play twenty questions with you. Now buzz off. Do you have any idea what could happen to you if you were caught in here with me?"

"Let's not get caught okay? Are you looking for clues?"

French was about to give Fry the business when there was another thump in the kitchen, followed by a lot of noise and some muted exclamations. Then quiet. French pulled Fry behind her and pushed her against the wall. She signaled her to keep quiet.

Fry wondered if French realized that the universal quiet sign was not drawing the finger across the throat.

"But French..." she was cut off by French's hand over her mouth.

Another figure appeared in the doorway. In a blink French was behind it, there was a thud as they hit the floor, a few grunts, a painful sounding crunch, then a whiney, "Ow!"

"French stop, it's Dil!" Fry had been busy dodging the rolling bodies before getting out the warning.

"What!?" This was too much. Here she was pinning Dil to the floor, possibly having just busted one of his fingers, and he'd been invited to the party all along.

"At the risk of sounding redundant, are you kidding me?!"

"Violet, are you okay? Umph!" French shoved Dil into the floor again as she stood up.

"I'm fine, why are you in here Dil?"

"I saw you go through the window. You know Violet, you really shouldn't be in here. Especially not with her, you could've been hurt."

"You're the only one in danger of being hurt." French warned. "I hate to break up this reunion, but what the hell are you two doing here anyway?"

"I was going to meet Dil tonight. When I saw you heading here, I called and asked him to come too."

"Should I even bother trying to make sense of this, or should I just let him arrest me now? I wouldn't have to put up with this lunacy in jail. Very rules based people there, very practical."

"I thought Dil might be able to give us more information. You know, an inside source."

"Whose 'us'? You've got another screw loose if you think I'm letting you get involved in this!"

"I'm going to ignore both of those remarks, because you always exaggerate when you get anxious. I've noticed that about you. And 'us' is you and me because I can help. Dil, why don't you show us where the body was?"

"I'm standing on my own two feet, going right out of my mind. Did you just call me 'anxious'?"

"I don't know Violet, we could get in a lot of trouble for being in here. I only came in to see if you were okay. And she could be here covering up her tracks..."

"Didn't you say you thought there'd been a crime?" Fry asked. "You're a detective Dil, this is your job. Your duty. French came to try to find clues, she thinks you're right, she thinks Louisa was murdered too."

It was the 'M' word, whispered into the shadowed half-light, that made them uncomfortably aware of their surroundings. And what may have taken place there. They were silent for a moment.

"Where was the body?" French figured they might as well do this if they were all there, so cozy and all. But this wasn't over with Fry, not by a long shot.

Dil hesitated, then gave in. No one had listened to him at the station. He'd been laughed off by his co-workers and ignored by the rest. "It was in here..."

They looked around the dining room. Dil showed them where she'd been and how they'd found her. Fry had to stop him from getting on the floor to mimic the pose.

"I came in from that door and walked around the table. That's when I saw the letters in the carpet. Pete came in after me and we looked around, then I went out to call back to the station. It got pretty busy in there and I was off duty after that so I had to do the paperwork the next day."

"Is that Pete Lennox, the Fisher King's nephew?" Fry smiled as she asked it. Everyone loved the Fisher King.

"Yeah. Sometimes his Uncle comes by the station. Every now and again he brings lunch for everybody." Dil said.

"I used to love when he'd come to school! He'd do the whole story of fishing on Ningunquit and then we'd get fishsticks for lunch."

"Excuse me." French interrupted. "But I'm not from these parts and as amazing as it may seem to you both, your local celebrity has escaped my notice. Who is, I hesitate to ask, the Fisher King?"

"Bernie Gleck!" She was answered in stereo.

"He's always doing great stuff in the schools for the kids. One year we went out on one of his boats..."

"Fry, could we stick to the topic of the moment here? Like, for instance, that Bernie Gleck's nephew was in a room alone with the body of a woman, who may or may not have tried to scrawl the word 'murder' into a rug. And that everyone, even someone who spends as little time as possible getting to know the people on this island, knows that he's been frustrated in every attempt he ever made to woo the fair Louisa. Could we assume that someone might, say, try to protect such a beloved figure by smoothing over the carpet when no one else was looking?"

"Pete would never do that!" Dil was adamant in his friend's defense. Pete was a great guy. Sure he was a practical joker and sometimes Dil's feelings got a hurt, but he always made up for it by buying a round after work.

"Yeah, probably not. You saw nothing in the carpet and that photo proves it. End of story. Her death was an accident. Let's get out of here and get some sleep. I have no idea why I'm wasting my time sitting around here with you two anyway."

"I did see something in that carpet." If Dil was sure of anything, this was it.

"No, you didn't. I saw that photo. Unless you have a really skilled artist tucked away at the station, airbrushing evidence away, you saw nothing and no one touched that carpet."

Fry didn't care for French's approach, but it was effective. Dil was wrestling disparate truths, and coming to grips with the fact that French might be right. Pete had laughed too.

They spent another hour going through the house. After nearly strangling him, French convinced Dil she hadn't tossed the house herself in the short time she had before they showed up. She wasn't sure he believed that she hadn't killed Louisa though. Fry took him aside and explained that French couldn't have done it. He couldn't get past the fact that that woman was so clearly capable of it. But he'd give French the benefit of the doubt if Violet was convinced. After all, the Sparks spent a lot of their free time with the criminal element and if anyone knew them, it'd be a Spark.

French had checked out most of the rooms on the second floor. Louisa's office was a pile of books and papers. She hadn't seen anything promising. She walked into the bedroom where Fry was peering at something through the light of a window.

"What'cha got?"

Fry jumped and swatted at the chef. "Did you have to sneak up on me like that? This place is creepy enough without you lurking in the shadows."

"I'll try not to take that personally. What's that?" French made a grab for the small book in Fry's hand.

"Hey!" Fry moved it out of range. "I'm looking at it."

"Oh come on, let me see it." French reached for it again.

"Go find your own clues!"

"Don't be such a pain. Just give it over." French didn't know why Fry had to question her at every turn, and she was getting tired of being polite. Her version of polite anyway. Fry had stepped away, and was holding the book behind her back.

"Don't make me come over there and get it, because I will if I have to."

"Oh yeah, you and what army?"

"You obviously overestimate your size 'Fry'." French emphasized the nickname, reviving it's original meaning. "Hardly need an army for a squirt like you." She closed the space between them in a flash, reached over Fry's shoulder and snatched the book.

"Piece of cake, short stack." French turned away to look at the book with her flashlight.

Fry was still recovering from the swoon she'd suffered when French had swooped down on her in the darkness. You'd think that after 15 hours of hard labor and sweat she'd have the decency to smell bad. But she should have known by now that French was anything but decent. If she smelled more than rosy, it was a wonderfully rich more. It had entirely interrupted Fry's defensive response. French could have walked off with a lot more than her clue just then.

"Hey! I found that you brute!" Emerging from her swoon she had the strongest urge. And for some reason, she gave into it. She'd had it once before at a protest, when she saw a cop holding a friend by the hair and spraying his eyes with pepper spray. It wasn't a good idea then, and it probably wasn't now. She'd gotten a concussion when she'd been trampled by several people in the ensuing riot. She ran the couple of steps to where French was looking at the book and jumped.

French was busily re-routing every message from her central nervous system that dictated she dislodge and seriously injure the assailant who'd just landed on her back. "What are you doing!?"

Fry was making a grab for the book over French's shoulder. She struggled to reach the small volume that the chef held at arm's length. "What does it look like? Give me that back!"

"You're hardly in a position to make demands you gnat. Get off me!"

"Oh yeah, what are you gonna do about it? You know, you're such a bully. I think...Ooof!" She grunted as French stepped backward crushing her into the wall. "Hey!" She smacked French on the shoulder as she wriggled and pushed to free herself. "Cut that out."

"Well then stop squirming around or I'll mash you, like the pest you are."

Fry calmed down and took in her new position. "No fair, your arms are longer!" She reached along the length of French's arm, her own coming up short of it's intended mark. "Not to mention this. What do you eat for breakfast anyway?" She made the mistake of squeezing French's bicep. She resurfaced from this latest distraction to the feeling of a staccato vibration at her midsection. Was French laughing?

"You can let me down now. I've decided to let you look at my clue." That vibration had become disconcerting.

"That's gracious of you, but I think I'll keep you back there. That way I'll know you're out of my way."

Fry hitched herself up further on French's back to look at the book in the light. If she was going to have to stay here, she might as well get comfortable. Not too comfortable though, feeling French in close proximity was definitely testing her resolve to stay 'so over her'. "It's a diary. Maybe there's something in here that'll tell us what happened."

"Where'd you find it?"

"In the pile of books and stuff dumped out of the nightstand."

French tucked the book in her belt, hitched Fry's legs up and carried her over to the pile. She half turned and let go, dumping Fry on the bed. She knelt to sift through the the debris.

"Thanks, that was graceful." When she realized where she was sitting, she hopped off the bed as though it'd bit her. There was something morbid about it. "What is it? What are you looking for?"

"Take a look at the inside cover of the book." Not that she wanted Fry to have any more information than necessary, but she wanted her occupied while she searched. As soon as they were out of here she'd make it clear that she wasn't in the market for a sidekick.

In light from the window Fry saw that the journal wasn't Louisa's at all. "I don't get it. What's she doing with Sean Makelins's diary? Do you think they were having an affair?"

"Doubt it." French was still preoccupied when Dil came into the room.

"I can't find anything, how about you guys?" He asked.

"I found something, look. It's Sean Makelins's diary."

"What's that doing here?"

"Don't know. Maybe she was keeping it for him. Seems like there are a lot of things that don't make sense about this whole thing." She saw French tuck in her shirt, and wouldn't have thought twice about it if it hadn't made a soft crinkling noise.

French flicked off her light and stood up. "Just because they don't make sense to us, doesn't mean they're proof of anything much. Lots of things seem complicated at first glance, but there's usually a simple explanation. Say Dil's friend Pete smoothed those letters out of the carpet. Does that mean he killed anyone? Does that mean his Uncle killed anyone? No. As far as I can tell there's nothing here that'll tell us anything. I'm leaving, I suggest you all do the same."

"But we can't just give up!" Fry was convinced Louisa had been murdered, and letting it drop was not an option.

"Yes 'we' can. Dil, tell her this isn't a game. That she could get in big trouble for messing around like this and she should leave it to the police."

"She's right Violet. You should let me take care of it. I'll tell the Chief about the house and maybe he'll reopen the case. Anyhow, someone should tell her family that there's been a break-in before they have to see it like this. And you two shouldn't be doing this kind of stuff. You could get into trouble, and hurt."

"You're right Dil. We have work tomorrow Fry. I don't want you falling asleep in my Rouget au Safran."

"Oooh, you're having that again! I love that sauce." They'd left the room and were headed downstairs.

"What is it with you and sauce anyway? Something I should know about?" She was enjoying teasing Fry. She was so earnest and silly at the same time. She was an excitable loon, but French decided it wasn't the worst personality trait she'd ever encountered.

"I don't know. Something about it being the essence of so many flavors I guess. It's a compliment, but an entity unto itself. I can almost feel the ingredients come together and spark. A good sauce is really colorful that way, you know?"

"You don't say." French smiled.

They'd gotten out without incident. Dil had left when Fry insisted that she'd walked home alone at night for years and wasn't accepting an escort now.

When Dil was out of sight she turned to French. It was odd to be with her out of their usual context. French had worn all black and blended in with the shadows of the dimly lit street corner where they stood. She still had her hair braided and loomed large, even in the shadows. "So I guess I'll see you at work then?"

"Yeah, you sure you don't want company?" French asked.

"Not you too! Any anyway, who would walk you home? Should I wake up my Dad and have him give you a lift?"

"You live with your parents?" This was news.

"Yes." Fry couldn't suppress the defensive tone that crept into her voice. "Is that a problem? Do you have a rule against it?"

"No problem. I just didn't picture it, that's all." Fry did seem old to be shacked up with Mom and Dad. What was it with the people who lived on this island? Didn't they ever leave home?

"I get along with my parents, and I like living with them. Why is that so impossible for people to understand? I figure as long as I'm here for the summer, why waste the money. I can waste it on rent at school."

"Ah right, the old starving grad student/waitress gig. What are you an English major or what? Writing the all important doctoral thesis on Emily Bronte's lost cats?"

"Oh forget it. I'm going home and getting some sleep." One knock to her ego at this hour was doable, but two was more than she wanted to deal with. Fry didn't usually worry about impressing people, but for some unfathomable reason French's opinion of her mattered.

"What!? Hey, wait a sec!" French caught up to Fry, who'd started off. "It was just a question, you don't have to go off in a huff. I'm just asking." Someone was getting awfully cranky. She wondered what this soft spot was that she'd hit upon.

"I'm not a grad student. I'm finishing my undergraduate degree. And yes, as it happens I am an English major, sort of. I'm majoring in Public Policy with a minor in English Lit. So there, are you happy?"

"Sure, if you are. What's the big deal?" It wasn't a crime to finish up late. Sure, it seemed odd that someone like Fry wasn't onto bigger and better things, but hey, there were lots of people who seemed promising who just couldn't cut it. She didn't have to be so defensive about it.

"The big deal is that I'm twenty-six, I live with my parents, I'm a waitress, and I don't even have a bachelor's degree. And even though I know there's nothing wrong with any of those things, sometimes I feel like it isn't enough. And sometimes people make me feel less than stellar because of it too."

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'. Good night French."

"Screw 'em."

"Huh?"

"The people who make you feel less than stellar. Screw 'em. People will do just about anything to make themselves feel better than someone else. They're rarely nice about it. I ought to know. So screw 'em, they don't know squat. You're a good person. You're a good worker. You're smart. A little excitable maybe, but not bad company. I don't think you need to worry too much about what other people think."

The irony that she happened to be one of those people was not entirely lost on French. Nor was the fact that she'd just admitted to liking someone's company, and meant it. She considered that they should stick a milestone on the street corner where they stood.

"Thanks French. I just get insecure about it sometimes. Most people I know, my age, have started careers, families, or are on a path of some kind. And I know it isn't a linear progression kind of thing and I wouldn't change what I've done, but I feel like I'm always catching up. I get tired of that."

"So, why is it you're catching up? Are you a really slow reader? Did you drop out of society for a while? Join a cult? What?" Not that she cared that much, but since they were on the subject she figured she'd ask.

"No, no and no! And thanks for the tact. My mother had breast cancer. I stayed home and helped my parents while she was ill. It took a while. She's been doing great for a couple of years now. It's amazing really."

Yeah, amazing how small and stupid you can feel in such a short span of time. French considered the woman before her. By twenty-six French had already been a chef for four years, travelled a good part of the world and begun to enter the social circles that would ensure her a glittering career. But she'd never, ever sacrificed any of her time to someone else. Nothing had come between her and her over-riding ambition to be top of the food heap. And for as long as she could remember, that's all that had mattered to her. She felt the smallest release of pressure in her chest. Subtle, but undeniably significant. She felt as though she was coming up for air.

French waved her hand back and forth just above Fry's head.

"What are you doing?" Fry asked.

"Looking for the halo."

"Stop it, I am not an angel!"

"I haven't met such a goody two shoes in my entire life. You must be."

"If I was such an angel I wouldn't have lied to Dil." Fry was still feeling guilty about that.

"About what?"

"About whatever that was I saw you tuck into your pants."

"Oh that, nothing much. Just wanted a better look at it in the light."

"Just like the diary you pocketed on the way out?"

"What are you, a spy or something?" Not that she hadn't considered it before. Fry did seem out of place as a waitress. She wouldn't have put it past those bastards at Le Quick to be after her new menu again. And Fry would be the perfect cover. Who would suspect the girl next door type to be up to anything so rotten.

"I left it to see if you'd pick it up. I didn't think you were really dropping the whole thing. So what did you find?"

"Just some papers. If they amount to anything I'll let you know." Yeah, like when hell froze over and they were giving out free Snow Cones. No way was she getting Fry messed up in her problems.

"Okay, but I'll keep you to that you know. Lying to me is easy, getting away with it is always harder than people think."

They parted ways and French walked the ten blocks to her house. The neighbor's cat, Buddy, was perched on her porch railing again, waiting patiently. For whom, French never knew.

She went inside, flipped on the lights and walked through to the kitchen. She'd peeled an orange and picked at the membrane as she examined the papers and diary. Louisa had been more enterprising than your average city hall bureaucrat. Either she was hoarding incriminating materials out of the goodness of her heart, or she was a blackmailer pure and simple. Not that anything she'd found was earth shattering. There was possibly proof of affairs, some minor tax evasion, and real estate fraud. It might not look like much to French, but it probably rubbed someone's nose the wrong way.

Maybe Louisa had pushed the wrong someone too far.

She shook her head. Why on Earth was she bothering with this? She'd hardly known the woman and fell far short of liking her.

How do you find a killer anyway?

French and Barbra were standing at the podium inside the entrance of Bachanal. They were discussing the seating arrangement for the evening. Despite the late night of breaking and entering, French's mood passed for tolerable. A young woman walked through the door and looked around. She smiled at them and asked if Violet was there.

Barbra was about to respond when French asked, "Who?"

Barbra rolled her eyes. "She means Fry. Sure, I'll get her."

French shrugged and went back to looking over the seating. She took a glance at Fry's sporty, co-ed friend. She wasn't bad looking. If she'd shave her legs and loose the Israeli army-issue, desert sandles, she might even pass for attractive. The loose print dress was nice though. From a strictly aesthetic point of view. That was the only view available to French these days. She hadn't felt anything remotely resembling a sexual urge in months.

Fry walked up and Barbra returned to the podium. She was going to ask French another question, but the chef was facing the other direction, arms folded, watching Fry and her friend.

Fry hadn't expected Alyssa to drop by at work. It was uncomfortable standing there trying to act casual with your boss breathing down your back. She was sure visiting wasn't considered time well spent by staff. But she wasn't chattel and she'd done a double that week, worked late twice and skipped her break last night during a tremendous rush. She was going to finish this conversation. Unmolested. She turned to face her boss. "Do you mind? I'll only be a second or two."

"Hey, I'm paying for this conversation." French hadn't realized she was hovering, but damned if she'd let on.

"Fine." Fry fished in her pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar. She handed it to the chef. "The phone company charges 35 cents, I figure that ought to cover it."

French shrugged and pocketed the bill. She gave Alyssa a wink, mostly because she figured it'd piss Fry off more, and turned back to her work.

Barbra would have laughed if French wasn't standing next to her drumming her fingers on the podium. She also wondered why Fry was still standing there and not getting bum-rushed into the dining room to finish set up. Were things getting interesting?

The rest of the morning went well, considering one of the delivery trucks had had a flat. French nearly gave the driver a coronary for not calling in to let her know. Other than that, the crowd was cheerful and Fry had gotten an excellent tip from a patron who'd liked her 'accent'. As far as she knew, she didn't have one, but he kept saying, 'Y'all'r so kyute. I just luv the way ya say 'feesh'. It took her a second to realize he meant 'fish'. And at the end of the meal when he'd requested to see the chef, you could have knocked her over with a feather when French came into the dining room to talk to him. He was a chef that French knew from New Orleans.

People came from all over to eat at Bachanal. Fry had known that from her first few days working there. Hearing accents in a New England tourist town wasn't unusual. But when you heard them in Bachanal, chances were they'd come to Comstock for the food. French's food. It had seemed weird at first. Why would anyone come from New York, Chicago, San Francisco and even, Europe, just to eat at a restaurant? After all, she'd heard they had a chef or two in those places. The more time you spent around the food, the atmosphere, the woman, you caught on.

Each night at five the wait staff would line up in the kitchen and French would drill the night's specials into their heads. She covered every angle. What complimented them, what certainly didn't and then the tasting plate. As much as Fry was over French, she'd never get over the food. That tasting plate was an inspired minute of gastronomy. Time slowed for Fry as she reveled in the myriad flavors and sensations. Then French would inevitably freak out at Ken or Eddy, the other waiter who was slow on the uptake, and Fry would be snapped back to reality.

French was a complicated woman. This much was clear. She was as crass as any short order cook Fry'd ever had the honor to shuffle grits for, but sophisticated and charming when the occasion called for it. As far as Fry could tell, she reserved these genteel facets of her personality for the dining room. Like a mask she put on and peeled off as she moved through the doors of her establishment. Fry mused that perhaps it wasn't so much which door that mattered, as who was on the other side of it.

But why spend all of this time thinking about a woman she wasn't the least bit interested in? Especially when Alyssa Henderson had stopped by? When she'd run into her on the street a couple of days ago she hadn't expected she'd seriously look her up. Alyssa's family had rented a place on Appian Street for part of the summer. It was supposed to be a 'last summer together', before she moved to D.C. to start law school.

They'd been in a couple of government classes together and been involved in the campus group that protested at the Republican convention in Philidelphia. At school, Fry was always busy and didn't have much time to hang out with other students.

Not that she had loads of free time now, but she'd try to make some. Bobby and Jen were going to the party Alyssa had invited her to, maybe she'd go after all. She'd liked Alyssa. She cared about things that really mattered. She was a real person with whom she shared ideals and goals. Not a crazed restaurant lifer, who spent the balance of her time obsessing over edible garnishes and table lint.

Fry had to admit that she didn't mind that French wasn't ignoring her anymore. It was clear that the chef was undergoing some momentous transformation. With such a volatile personality, who could say how such a transformation would turn out? Whatever the outcome, Fry hoped she gained some insight and peace. Because lord knew, that woman needed to relax. There was such a turbulent undercurrent around French. Fry could see that it caused her great unease. Not to mention what it did to her staff.

She was still going strong at 9:00 PM when she got a table of five. They were a slick looking group and seemed in a good mood. She went through the specials and asked if they'd like anything to start. She was disconcerted when one of them smiled and said, "Well, you'll do just fine." He was in his early forties, wearing a crisp Armani jacket and turtle neck. He was thin, but looked like a cut out from a men's clothing magazine. She didn't care for his smile. It had a reptilian quality to it. While that look was super on lizards and snakes, it didn't do much for him.

"Nigel, behave. If you can't play well with others, 'you know who' will probably string you off her deck." A couple of the others chuckled. The woman gave her a warm smile and a conspiratorial wink. It was faint, but Fry detected a British accent. She had a light tone to her voice and a friendly face. A lovely face. She had well defined features and notable red eyebrows that matched the color of her flowing hair. Fry wasn't sure, but she could be in her mid-forties. French made sure the lighting in this room made age less of an issue for her diners. Her clothes were simple, with a few colorful accents. As long as she could keep her rowdier friends in line, and it looked like she could, they'd probably be fun.

After seeing to her other tables, Fry had returned to the table of five and taken all of the orders, but one. The striking woman had commented on everyone's choice, even insisting they change it if she thought it wasn't 'just the thing'. It seemed to be a game they were all familiar with and enjoyed. Fry asked what she'd like.

"Let me see..." She looked at Fry, not the menu. "I think I'll have a chicken fried steak, pork rinds, don't hold the katsup and a chocolate syrup shooter."

Fry blinked. "I'm sorry ma'am, but that's not on the menu this evening." She didn't look it, but this woman must be pregnant.

"I know. It never will be." She reached out and patted Fry's hand. The smile that lit up her face made it clear that this was all a game and it'd be even more fun if she joined in. "Ask her. Surely a special request is allowed from time to time."

Fry returned to the kitchen. She'd placed the rest of the orders through the machine, and approached French to deliver the peculiar request.

"Well, what's your problem? All your tables free? Dropping in for a chat?" All the time French talked, she was in motion. Not that she socialized in the kitchen, but whatever else she did always seemed secondary to the culinary task at hand. "Sure must be nice to have long breaks like you. Maybe I ought to use you in here half the time too."

"Um, someone has a special request."

"One of your vegan friends drop by? Don't tell me your parents are here?" French gave her a wink.

Was that humor? Fry tried to repress a smile at the light barb. She was only half successful and ended up giving French a half smile, smirky look.

"No, someone asked for..." And she told her.

When French stopped moving, you noticed. She raised an eyebrow. Then shouted, "Chili, throw me the Chamboard squeeze bottle." Chili obliged. Though he wasn't happy with anyone touching his stuff. They were all like that.

French placed an empty plate on her station and began to cover it in elaborate scroll work and flowing script using the sauce from the squeeze bottle. She handed the plate to Fry. "Give that to Madame."

Fry looked down at the elaborate, but blunt missive. In all it's finery, it said no more than, 'Bite Me.'

"To that nice lady?" she asked.

"Ha! That's the last character judgement I ever take from you! Now move it."

Fry returned to the table. She placed the plate before the woman, who let out a rich peel of laughter. And stood up. Fry wondered when she'd stop. With the woman seated she hadn't noticed her height. She had to be over six feet, taller than French even. The woman took her by the shoulder and led her away from the table. "You're a great sport. Now where's that viper's nest?"

French was ready when Julia walked through the kitchen door. Seeing her with Fry was kind of weird, but she didn't have time to examine her feelings. Julia was a good reminder why having feelings could be a very dangerous enterprise in the first place.

Julia released the waitress and thanked her graciously. She looked at French who hadn't stopped working and was studiously ignoring her.

"Darling, I couldn't stay away! Forgive me for interrupting the Maestro, but I was out front and had to come in and say hello. I knew you wouldn't come see me." French gave her a wry glance, but kept moving.

Julia approached her. If she hadn't been threatened with the knife up to this point, it was probably safe.

"I see you're still using Davvio's design. So efficient." Julia glanced around the bustling space. "It's a delightful place. Such an intimate setting. We're having a wonderful time." She wasn't getting much in the way of a response, but she could see she had the chef's attention. The small part of it she spared for anything outside of her favorite obsession.

"What's the matter? Aren't you glad to see me?" She placed both hands on the counter and leaned in.

"I recall the last time I saw you, you weren't especially pleased with me." French wasn't going to stop work. Whatever Julia was playing at, it wasn't worth her time. "As a matter of fact, the last thing you said to me was, 'If you dropped dead this minute I wouldn't miss one thing about you, not even the food.'"

"That's an impressive memory you've got there. But I shouldn't be surprised. You were remarkable in so many ways. And she was my secretary, that kind of thing is bound to wrankle. Anyway, it's been years. I forgive you. And I lied, I would have missed the food. Now let's be friends again. I'm here for the summer and I thought it would be a good idea to let you know. And to see if you were with me or against me. Because if you were harboring hard feelings, I know it could get ugly."

French just smiled, it was safer. Julia could stroke your ego, threaten and entrap you in the same breath.

"Good! We're all friends again. The Senator will be pleased. He sends his regards. I'll be having a party in a couple of weeks, and I'll have Nigel send an invite. Oh that's right, you never cared for him. Have a great night and make me whatever you think is best. I'm sure you remember my favorites."

For the first time, French wished she'd had shark on the menu. It was the only dish she thought appropriate. She had to remind herself that it wasn't Julia who'd screwed up all those years ago. Julia walked into a storeroom French was enjoying a quick break in, with the aforementioned secretary. In a rare fit of morals, Julia claimed to have become disgusted with French's "depraved nature" and threw her out of her life.

Of course, this had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact Julia had also discovered that French had helped to undermine The Grande, her favorite hotel/restaurant. It had been in her family's business for over 50 years. The fact that Julia's father had asked French to do it had no mitigating effect on the irate and inconsolable woman. Bad timing all around. She hadn't made that mistake again. Getting caught, that is.

Julia and her family had been her entree into the world of exclusive hotel kitchens. Fourteen years her senior and born into the business, Julia knew it inside out and helped French fill in some of the blanks. Julia knew talent, and admired French's single minded determination.

Julia spent her time divided between her interests in England and the States. Her U.S. interests were consolidated in the person of Jay Harding. Senator Jay Harding, her husband of twenty-three years. He was the squeaky-clean representative of the people of Connecticut. French had often wondered at the irony in their relationship.

Jay, who'd been handed his position in life, was a decent guy. If he'd had to fight harder for it, he might not be so squeaky. Yet he and Julia had a mutual understanding and respect for each other, and their backgrounds. They were the luxuried rich, and the working rich.

Leaving Julia hadn't been in the plan back then. The best moves rarely are. She stepped away and up the next rung on the culinary ladder and hadn't looked back.

Looking back was a tricky business. For French the experience was akin to vertigo. These days. Her past resembled a dark pit she'd managed to surface from. She wished she could fill it in, but knew the futility of it. If you could throw a penny down there, you weren't likely to be awake when it hit bottom.

Since their run-in over the napkins, Miguel had been giving Fry short courses on all things service. He'd taken her aside and explained that through no fault of his own, he'd have to spend time giving her a primer. He assured her he would make it as brief as humanly possible to suit their mutual antipathy.

She was astounded at the universe of trivial minutia that gripped the man's mind. It was disturbing.

For his part, Miguel was grateful that they did not finish dishes at the table at Bachanal. While Fry might be capable of deglazing, he could only imagine the damage she could do flaming a dish tableside. Of course, in his heart of hearts, this was the service he most enjoyed. But it wasn't for everybody. Fry was one of those bodies. She'd probably light the whole place on fire while chatting about the weather. He was nervous enough letting her light the table candles as it was.

He was a good teacher though. He didn't have to explain more than once. His directions were crisp and clear. Fry thought he'd planned this out, probably to limit his exposure to her unseemly flaws. She knew that she'd never rate in his estimation, who would? Still, she couldn't fathom why her inadequacies in particular bothered him so much.

Spooky attention to detail aside, it was clear that anyone who was on the receiving end of Miguel's mastery, was a lucky patron. They might not know it, because discretion was one of his dearly held maxims, but their experience was enhanced no doubt.

She was pleased at her growing repertoire in the napkin department. She made the mistake of showing Barbra a tricky maneuver Miguel had shown her that made the square bit of cloth do a spiraling fan thing.

"Hey that's not bad, there's hope for you yet!" Barbra couldn't imagine why the hell it mattered, but Fry seemed pleased with the development.

Fry returned to the dining room to finish setting up and had the unpleasant sensation of Miguel closing in on her.

"Think you're clever don't you?" he asked.

She stopped and took a calming breath. "It may not be the most perfect helix Miguel, but I thought it was a decent attempt at a fan."

"A couple of napkin folds won't get you my job. Why don't you go show French your little effort? Do you honestly think I'll sit by and watch you worm your way onto this floor in anything but the lowliest capacity?"

"Technically, bussing is lowlier. But while we're on the topic, are you insane?! What on this green earth could have possibly given you the impression that I have even the slightest interest in your job? If you had the last honest job on the planet and I needed it to feed my children, I'd learn to steal. I'd deal crack before I wanted your job!"

Miguel stared at her. "Tell me you don't have children. I couldn't bare the thought of the poor things living in the disarray you must create at home."

"Hello! Did you catch any of that? Do you really believe that I spend the balance of my free time plotting to overthrow your tyrannical reign before I return to school in a couple of months? I've met microorganisms that have a broader world view than you do. Stick your head out the door, get some perspective, would you?"

Put that way, it was conceivable that Fry was not interested in his position. And why not? Was it possible that she was an innocent? No threat at all? Just another waitress, out of the many hundreds he'd ignored over his distinguished career. And yet...

Fry was still reeling from her experience in the twilight zone, when she entered the kitchen. It was still early and they weren't open yet, so Sonny and Milo were prepping. Brian and French entered from the back, discussing the specials. As Brian turned to go down the stairs to check the stockroom French asked him to get the truffles for the le rond de veau. She turned back and noticed Fry smiling at her.

"What's your problem?"

"Don't have one now. When you make that it puts me right in the best mood. I love the smell of the puree. That sauce is my favorite and the garnish is a hoot. But it's the subtle scent of the prunes in the..."

She stopped speaking as French closed the few paces between them, leaned down to make direct eye contact and asked quietly, "Who is it Fry?" The waitress had never heard this tone of voice from the chef, but she knew before she'd finished speaking that she didn't like it.

"W-who's who?" Fry asked.

French began smoothing the material of Fry's shirt at her shoulder. Fry was pretty sure she couldn't have gotten it that wrinkled folding napkins.

"Which one of them sent you? Which one figured out that you were the perfect choice? That no one would question the hard working, girl next door act?"

Fry had thought that she'd left the twilight zone in the dining room, but it was all over the place today. And French's hands were on the move. She found herself pinned to the wall, French holding her by the collar. This couldn't be happening. Whatever it was.

"Who sent you?"

"What are you talking about?" She was getting panicky. No one in the room seemed to notice them. And French was starting to lift her off the ground.

"No one, not even Brian knows I use prunes in that dish. Have you been poking around in the trash? Paying extra for some information here and there? It won't take me long to find out. How did you know?"

"Why wouldn't I know it? It's not like you can't taste it! It's brought out in the glazing or something, I don't know. But the carmelized shallots set the right tone, I wouldn't have ever thought you could use those together like that..." She stopped. The stunned look that had come over French's face was freaking her out more than the choke hold. French's grip loosened letting her rest her legs.

How could Fry have known? Known the thing that had driven so many to distraction or plain ruin trying to figure out? There had to be an explanation. She was a waitress, okay, a student, a "person", whatever, but a waitress in a small town, east of nowhere. Big time chefs in big time places hadn't been able to discern this particular tidbit of information, and some had offered large sums of money to get it. So?

"I said, who sent you!" This time French was in an all out rage, apoplectic at the thought of a spy insinuating herself into the mix. A spy in the guise of this diminutive enigma who was looking at her this moment like she'd bit the head off of a live chicken and was coming for her next. "Oh shit!" French stepped back, realizing that in her blind fury she'd been mishandling the small waitress. She patted Fry's collar into place awkwardly.

Now that she thought about it, Fry couldn't be a spy. No way. Her face was an open book, with large print. She couldn't conceal a secret to save her life. She'd burst from the internal pressure. She'd probably feel bad that she wasn't sharing with the group. And if she wasn't a spy, that meant... "Did you say carmelized shallots?"

"Yeah," Fry said, still stunned herself.

French groaned and rubbed her forehead. It wasn't like it was an unlikely ingredient in anything french. Fry could have made a lucky guess. She may have known the classical preparation of the recipe French had used as a foundation. Both of these options were less freakish than the likelihood of her being able to filter out the flavor of the carmelization in a sauce that had a couple of other things going on in it, thank you very much. "How the hell did you know they were carmelized?"

Fry hesitated, cringed, then said, "That's what they tasted like?" French got that look that made her uneasy again. She looked shocked, maybe sick. "French, I swear I wasn't spying. No one sent me. What's the big deal? It's a couple of ingredients..." She got it in a rush. A couple of SECRET ingredients.

French turned and walked away. Fry couldn't let her go, not like this. She followed, not knowing what to expect, not caring, but needing French to know she wasn't a threat. She wouldn't betray her. She caught up to her at her station. French had bent down to do something in the small reach-in refrigerator there. Fry was about to make her case when the chef turned on her.

"Eat this." French stuck a cracker in her face with something spread on it.

"What?" Confounded once again Fry took one look at French's expression and decided it was best to please then.

"Taste it, tell me what it is." The chef demanded.

Fry took a bite of the cracker, figuring French had lost it. As she tasted it she smiled. "It's your Montpellier sauce, I love this stuff! The first time you served it with the salmon and watercress, I couldn't believe..."

"What's in it?" French wasn't having a conversation, she was asking a question.

"Huh?"

"The ingredients Fry, what are they?" She waited, watching closely.

Fry took another small bite, and smiled again. "Well, there's the dill, the capers and anchovies..." She was warming to the game.

French frowned, "Well, I guess maybe you lucked out on the onions, because you missed..."

"The jerusalem artichokes?" Fry asked.

There was that look again. Maybe Fry liked that look after all. Maybe it meant that she'd stumped this impossible egotist. Yeah, she liked that look fine come to think of it.

"Maybe you should have let me finish?" She added with a smug little grin. She was warming to this game alright. But there was another look that came over French's face that shook her bravado. French took a spoon from one of her drawers, walked down the line and dipped it into one of the pots simmering on the stove.

"Blondie, over here!" She barked. Holding out the spoon, she indicated that it would be a good idea if Fry tasted the liquid in it.

Fry leaned in, blew on the liquid and sipped it. "Oh yeah," she groaned. "I love this stock. It has a smoky edge to it, is that from the beans?" There was a definite twinkle in Fry's eye as she said it.

French stared at her. A look of surprise painted on her face.

"Well, well. Chef is speechless. Wanna try me again? What else ya got? Gimme something tough."

French wasn't sure what to do at this point. All evidence indicated a simple truth. Fry was a spy. While logic dictated that French accept that conclusion, something prevented it. Possibly the irritating grin plastered on Fry's face. No spy would gloat so openly, so cheerfully. They had better survival instincts.

No. The absurd reality appeared to be that Fry was able to discern subtle, yet key ingredients in a dish... that no one had been able to detect before... that she wasn't sure she could detect if she hadn't put it in there herself... Ingredients that made her who she was... made the restaurant the place it was... Oh shit.

All of a sudden French felt vulnerable, yet safe... It didn't make sense. Her secrets were being laid bare, but somehow, in her long neglected heart she knew Fry wasn't a threat.

Could it be that growing up on tasteless, vegan food had preserved Fry's palate? The absence of any real flavor depriving them, increasing their sensitivity and optimizing the chance of detecting some flavor in the bland diet fate had cast her way.

But taste is only twenty percent tastebuds, the rest is smell. Ever try enjoying a good meal with a cold? Well there you have it.

More likely, Fry was a super taster with something akin to perfect pitch. It happened. There were palates insured for millions throughout the food industry. But French had never seen anything quite like this.

She looked at Fry, giving her that smirky grin. She realized she could care less if she knew it all. She was tired of the clandestine preparations, and compulsive obfuscation. But old habits die hard, especially the habit of feeling in control... French pursed her lips and cocked an eyebrow at the waitress. "Think you're pretty clever, eh?"

"At this point? Yeah, I guess I do." Fry patted her apron and rocked on her heels. Feeling every bit the cat who swallowed the canary, though not entirely sure why yet. She'd won some kind of a culinary contest as far as she could figure.

She should have known better than to gloat, because there was yet another look she'd never seen French give her, and it was making her uncomfortable in an entirely different fashion. As was the very slow, fluid way French had started to move toward her. It was like in those nature shows when the big jungle cats get a small animal in their sights and all of their focus reduces down to a single point and their heads are still, but all of the muscles of their bodies are coiling in the readiness to strike at their unknowing or hypnotized targets. "Move, move!" She shouted to herself, but she was paralyzed.

French leaned down to make direct eye contact with her. Fry swallowed, her eyes wide.

"You know something?" French's voice was a purr. It gave her a chill. Not the kind of chill Fry was anticipating in what she figured was a near death experience.

"Huh?" Was all she could manage as she gazed into those mesmerizing, blue eyes. French was so close. Fry's breathing quickened. Even here in a kitchen filled with the aromas percolating out of the pots on the stove right next to them and several dishes prepping in the ovens, she could make out that scent that was unique to French. "What am I thinking? This woman is about to grill my rear and I'm getting horny over her smell!"

"You are either a spy..." French paused as Fry shook her head weakly in protest. "Or...you have the mostly highly developed tastebuds I have ever encountered."

French narrowed her eyes. She'd intended to throw the cocky waitress off balance, to regain the advantage she was used to having. But as she'd approached Fry, something had happened. French couldn't quite put her finger on it, she'd lost her train of thought, and now she was staring into those guiless eyes... close up... caught there in a pull of some kind...

There was a loud popping noise. French jumped and yelled, "Shit!" She grabbed at the back of her neck. The sauce on the stove had overheated and bubbled up, some of it splattering out of the pot and hitting her. Acting on instinct she turned quickly and reduced the heat on the burner. And swallowed, hard. Could this be happening? Did she have feelings for Fry? Fry? Nah, not the cheerful pipsqueak. She turned at feeling a cool rag being placed on her burning neck. And there was Fry with a smile of concern and a doughy sort of look in her eyes. "Damn, what do I do now?" French thought. She smiled back, and did the only thing she thought someone in her position could do. "Well, back to work! Right?"

Fry felt as though she'd been force marched through an emotional maelstrom in the last five minutes. Hitting the extremes of triumph and fear, not to mention the final pitstop for arousal and now it was 'Back to work!'? Wrong! But all she could do was open and close her mouth. A bottleneck of emotions and exclamations blocked any speech from getting out.

"Okay then." French continued. "I'll be getting to it." She turned on her heel and headed for her office, relieved at the prospect of escaping the encounter.

"Stop right there!" Fry finally verbalized a thought. She was so exasperated it burst forth as an order. French pulled up short as she'd reached the door to the back. "You've gotta be kidding right? What just happened here French? Are you trying to make me crazy? Because if you're not, I gotta tell you you're doing a darn fine impression! One second I'm backed into a wall and you're yelling at me about spies and culinary conspiracy. Next you're sticking food in my face! Then you're gonna... well you looked like you wanted to... You're making my head hurt!" She grabbed her head with both hands and squeezed her eyes shut in frustration.

French stood in the doorway breathing hard. She felt a wave of uncertainty and confusion overtake her. She wasn't in control. This was bad. Worse still, she knew why. For the first time in her life, she saw her role in the situation clearly. She could understand Fry's point of view. Viscerally. But she wasn't quite sure where to go from here... She'd never been here before. She'd never let herself get that off balance, that outpositioned, that unattached to her primary goal. She'd gotten distracted. And she hadn't decimated Fry reflexively to regain advantage, as she knew she could. Was this good? Was it terminal?

Fry looked up at her boss, who looked for all the world like that jungle cat from the nature shows but crammed into a cage and freaking for space. It didn't look natural. "Hey, it's okay." She began quietly. She'd lost her steam at the look in French's eyes. "I'm confused, maybe we can talk about it later?"

To French this sounded like a reprieve. "Sure." She said as she backed through the door.

The entire crew gaped at Fry openly. They had been drifting in, watching. She had done something they'd seen no rush, no knife fight, no amount of harassment ever do. She had unnerved French. The world had changed. They weren't sure if that was a good thing.

And judging from the amount of yelling French did during the evening rush, Fry may have thought they were right. To the rest of the staff there was something comforting in French's solid rally to despotism. No slip of a townie waitress was going to take their chef down. Not without a fight.

Fry watched French rail and hiss her way through shift. Despite the fact that their encounter earlier had obviously shaken her resolve to be 'so over French', she was still committed to the basic premise. French was one mixed up lady. She was also scared, though it would probably take the Grand Inquisitor to wrestle an admission from her. Worse yet, she may not know.

And that realization gave Fry the insight she needed. To what French needed. A friend.

To be continued...