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 3

One thirty in the morning, struggling to get all of the dirty linen downstairs wasn't what she'd meant by friendship. But she'd told French she'd stay and do it anyway. The restaurant felt lonely without a crowd. Fry had wondered if the building itself didn't miss the people. In the mornings when it was quiet, she'd thought she'd sensed an excitement in the air that was more than the bustling activity of set up. As if the place itself was anticipating all of the interesting people who'd come in that day. Maybe that was one of the reasons people enjoyed themselves there so much. Then again it could have something to do with the food, alcohol and being waited on hand and foot.

She gathered the last of the linen and threw it down the chute concealed at the back of the room.

French was still in the kitchen. She'd seen the last of them out and the cleanup crew wouldn't be in for a few hours. She was checking her station and the ovens before leaving.

The door opened behind her. She assumed it was Fry coming through to get her stuff from out back. But it wasn't Fry's voice that caught her attention.

"I can't think of a more appropriate place for you to die."

"Monica?" French barely recognized Louisa's old friend, she was so disheveled and worn. But it was Monica Brastlett, or what had once passed for the prim and fastidious woman. Her fine sandy colored hair was a tangled mass and her face was contorted and red. All of this diminished in importance when French noticed the gun.

"I told her to stay away from you! I told her you were poison. That you were heartless and would do anything for your precious restaurant. She didn't listen to me!" Monica began to weep and the gun shook in her hand.

"I never touched her Monica..."

"Shut up! I know what you did. I found her you twisted bitch. I knew you'd find some way to get out of it. That's why I'm going to make sure you get what's coming to you. You and all of your friends think that laws aren't meant for you. There to keep all of us little people in line. Not this time. She thought she could play your game. Thought that she could manipulate you all because she had something you wanted. Had something you didn't want to get out. I told her it was dangerous, that you and Mitchell would never let her win. She didn't want much, you didn't have to kill her!"

Monica had her full attention. Not something French gave up easily. As she raved on she'd advanced on the chef. The gun growing more steady as she approached. That didn't seem like a good sign.

"Monica, what do you mean, me and Mitchell?" Getting Monica to talk was her best bet.

"Oh, don't play coy with me. It doesn't suit you. I know all about you two, who doesn't?"

They both jumped as the door swung open and Fry bustled in with an armfull of clean linens. She was already talking to French, "You know, you might consider putting a stepstool in the linen closet for the vertically challenged on the staff..."

Taking advantage of the distraction, French moved to cross the counter that separated her from Monica, but the distressed woman stepped back and screamed, "No! Get back!"

Fry froze, mouth agape. What was the town's Reference Librarian doing pointing a gun at French? Was there anyone that didn't have some negative history with the contentious chef?

French had frozen as well, only she was halfway across the counter on her side. She slowly backed off, keeping her hands in view. "Sure, no problem. Take it easy."

"Monica?" Fry was astonished at the transformation Monica had undergone. She looked like she hadn't slept for days, and if she had, it'd been in her clothes. The anguished expression on her tear streaked face pulled at Fry's heart.

"Is there anyone on this island you haven't pissed off?" She asked the chef.

"Oh, big help Fry. Look, her hand's shaking again. Why don't you go over there and pull the trigger for her?"

"Way to avoid the question French."

"Ask something on topic and I might consider it."

"Shut up! Both of you! Violet, leave. I have something to discuss with French." As Monica spoke, the agitation dissipated from her voice. Another bad sign.

Fry looked to French, then back at Monica. She wasn't leaving. "Monica, why don't you give me the gun? I'll take it with me and you guys can talk without distractions." Okay, it was lame, but all she could come up with on short notice and with her entire body breaking out in a sweat.

Monica smiled at her as though she were slightly dim. "No, this is the distraction I need to keep French's attention. Too bad I didn't think of it years ago. This may never have happened."

"What happened Monica?" Fry tried to draw her attention away from her target.

"Violet, I don't want to hurt you. Please leave now. I don't want you to see this. She's ruined so much. You don't need to witness this." She was calm and determined.

"You'll regret it Monica! I know you, you're not like that. You can't kill someone!"

Monica made a small serene smile, her voice was almost soothing, "I won't regret it for long."

Fry was beginning to panic, Monica wasn't calm, she was suicidal and she hadn't taken her eyes off French once. In her panic, she reached out and began to approach the distressed librarian. Monica stepped away again, saying, "Leave! Don't touch me."

"But Monica, I can't let you kill her!"

Watching, French was crawling out of her skin. If she made a dive for Monica, she might get capped in the head. If she ducked behind the counter, the freak might hurt Fry. If she'd kill herself, they could call it a night and go home.

"She poisons everything. Can't you see it? She'll use you like she's used all of us!"

"She's changed Monica." At this simple statement, Monica turned on Fry.

"You can't be serious!" She laughed at the absurdity of the statement. In her disarray, it wasn't a pretty sight. "You don't have an inkling of the magnitude of the evil you're dealing with!"

The second Monica pointed the gun off to the side French was over the counter and on her in a flash. The gun flew from her hand as French clocked her across the jaw. She followed through the swing with the rest of her body, plowing Monica straight into the wall. She grabbed her by the collar and lifted the dazed librarian off the floor. "I don't know how they do things in the library, but you never threaten my employees, and you never, ever tell me what to do in my own kitchen. Got it, geek?"

Monica was choking and tears streamed down her face.

Fry rushed to them and urged French to let her down.

"She was trying to kill me!" French let the woman drop to the floor.

"I wasn't going to let her shoot you. You haven't signed my paycheck yet."

Monica stared into space, her body crumpled in on itself. Fry knelt next to her and smoothed her hair. She spoke to her quietly and helped her to her feet. French glowered at them.

"Why don't you make us some tea and I'll take Monica into the dining room."

French didn't move. She put her hands on her hips and gave Fry the raised eyebrow look. "You're not even the slightest bit sensitive to the concept of hierarchy are you?"

"Okay, you take Monica in and I'll get the tea..."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll get it." She walked off grumbling about a chef's prerogative and the poor attitudes of hired help.

Fry sat with Monica. The older woman hadn't said a word, she hugged herself in the quiet of the large room. It was dark, except for the soft light from a single lamp Fry had turned on. She'd wrapped one of the large table cloths over Monica's shoulders to help her get warm and feel more secure. She didn't know what to say, so she chatted about nothing in particular.

"She thought she could win..." Monica began quietly. She shook her head as she talked. "She thought... they'd have to pay attention to her if she held something over them... I told her not to. That they wouldn't tolerate it, no matter how little she wanted. They'd never accept being beholden to someone they thought so inferior. So they killed her." She looked up and right into Fry. "And that woman in there is as guilty as any of them. She's one of their lap dogs. Does their dirty bidding. She has no heart."

"No Monica. French's priorities skewed, I admit, but..."

"She's right." French had been listening in the darkness. "I did Mitchell's dirty work for years. And it didn't bother me. I got what I wanted out of the bargain. I'm not going to tell you I'm a saint, that I've seen the light and changed my ways. But I didn't kill her Monica."

"Don't waste your breath on me. Stick to innocent girls who haven't experienced your charm, first hand."

"But Monica, we're trying to figure out who killed Louisa. Just the other night we started looking for clues. And French found something. I think it must be important, because she hasn't told me what it is yet."

Monica looked at both of them, confused.

Fry shot French an accusing glance and French rolled her eyes. "I told you before, you're not getting involved in this."

"I'll be the judge of that. What makes you so all over qualified to solve a murder? You don't even know the first thing about the people in this town." Fry said.

"I know enough to stay away from them. You especially."

"Do you two do this all of the time?" Monica was exhausted. And given the circumstances, bewildered at the inane bickering these two fell into at the least pretext.

"What?" They asked in unison.

"Never mind. Were you the ones who broke into the house?"

"No! It was like that when we got there..." Fry realised she may have spoken too soon.

"What were you doing in her house? With her?" Monica wouldn't give up her distrust for French. It had been well earned.

"I told you. We're trying to find out who killed her. We know she was murdered." Fry put a reassuring hand on Monica's shoulder. "Someone tried to frame French, but they did a bad job of it. We thought there might be something in the house that the police didn't notice. Dil showed us where he found her."

"Dil Mackenzie?"

"Yes, he believes us. He's going to help."

Monica gave Fry a skeptical look and turned to French for confirmation.

The chef had slumped into a chair and covered her face with her hands. "You're mad if you think that moron is anything more than an accident in motion. He's not helping 'us'. You," she pointed at Fry. "will be helping 'us' as little as possible. Listen to Monica. Aside from the restaurant, you don't want to get mixed up with anything I'm even remotely involved in. Trust me."

"She's right Violet. Dil wouldn't be much help. He couldn't even get my cat, Pepper, out of the miniature spruce in my front yard. I told him to leave her, she hunts birds from there, but he insisted that she was trapped in the branches. He broke most of them before he uprooted the thing altogether. It was another week before Pepper would go out again. I don't think she'll ever set foot in another tree."

"Thank you, now please tell her to leave this to me." French urged.

"French, I don't like you. I never will. But I will tell you something. Violet's right, you know nothing about the people on this island. If you did, you'd know that you don't tell a Spark what to do. Not if you value your time."

French was reluctant to give in on the issue. But one look at Fry and there wasn't much left to argue. Her expression all but said the issue was settled. French was sure that evil grin was a final statement. So much for the angel theory. Fry may have beeen sheltered, but she wasn't a kid. French hoped she'd stay out of the way and be as little trouble as possible.

Without conceding anything vocally, she turned to Monica and asked, "What was it she'd found? Who was she blackmailing?"

Their talk with Monica revealed a good deal of information. It was something solid anyway. Monica had been aware that Louisa's gossipy temperament had become something more than innocent information gathering. She insisted it was never anything she'd used against anyone. Not for monetary gain, anyway. The compromising tidbits of information she'd unearthed had given her old friend a sense of power and purpose she'd never had before. A sense of social importance. And for the most part, she'd used her small arsenal to gain a foothold in the social circles otherwise closed to someone of her standing.

French could relate. That fact in itself made her queasy. She also believed that Louisa had gone beyond using the information for social climbing. But she wasn't going to get into that with Monica. Who was likely to try to blow her head off again if she breathed in the wrong direction. Some people can really work a grudge.

"It's when she got the tape that I began to worry. There was no way she could have stumbled upon it and I was afraid she'd get into trouble with the police. She said not to worry, that's where she'd gotten it in the first place and no one cared about it. I didn't think so." Monica's voice trailed off and she rubbed her arms trying to ward off the chill. Fry gave her a symathetic smile and moved over to put an arm over her shoulder. The woman had had such a shock and lost so much weight she could feel her trembling bones.

"I don't know what's on it. It's from a security camera, that's all she'd tell me."

"You have it?" French asked.

"No, Nathan does."

"Nathan Cummings?" Fry knew him from grade school. They'd been in the same class. Nathan was on the other side of any debate they had in school.

"Yes. He knew about it too. I think they were sharing it or something. But he's gone, probably terrified you're looking for him."

"Was he the one she was having dinner with that night?" French asked.

"Yes."

"And you assumed I killed her!? That's a jump, thank you very much. What puts the guy who was blackmailing with her and eating the food that killed her above suspicion? Maybe she had something on him too and wanted the whole thing for herself."

"Jason would never kill Louisa, he was in love with her."

"All the more reason to kill her if you ask me." French said.

"He never would have been involved if it weren't for her. He doted on her. Would do anything for her approval."

"Stop, I'm getting nauseous. Wasn't he twelve or something?"

"French! Jason was my age and what's that got to do with anything anyway?" Fry was surprised at French's prudish sentiment.

"Come on Fry, she was like sixty!"

"She was forty-six. I can't believe you're squeemish over such an irrelevant detail. They were friends, so what?"

"You're an unbelievable hypocrite." Monica was astonished. "You're the last person who should be criticizing anyone's personal life. Monica was a mentor to him. She helped him at work. He'd even gotten a promotion. She'd never take advantage of him."

French doubted Monica's knowledge of her lifelong friend. As much as she hated to believe it, Louisa was sounding uncomfortably familiar. She guessed that somewhere along the way Louisa had stopped being the person Monica thought she knew. She became something more, or possibly less. Without letting on, she had pursued a darker path. And it had cost her.

"Fine. She was a misguided saint. I'm pure evil. I got the picture. So where do we find Jason?"

"I don't know, I haven't heard from him since that night. He may have gone to stay with his brother in Westport. I doubt he's on the island."

"Just great. Well girls, this has been fun, but I think we ought to wrap it up." With that French stood and streatched. "Long day tomorrow. Fry you'd better get going yourself."

"Sure. Monica, I'll get your gun from the kitchen."

"You're not sane! How do you know she isn't going to try to kill me again? It's not like she's stable at the moment."

"I wasn't getting it for her. It was for me. You think I don't know you're trying to get rid of me again? Were you going to ask Monica where Jason's brother Daryl lives when I left? Were you going to try to figure out where else he might have gone? Give it up French, I'm helping whether you like it or not."

"Go get the damn gun so I can shoot myself. You'll drive me to it one way or the other."

"You poor thing! Driven to the brink. Monica, tell French..." They both looked at the empty seat then at each other.

"Monica!" Fry yelped and the two of them ran for the kitchen. She was standing at the stove pouring herself another cup of tea. French grabbed the gun off the counter and tucked it in her belt.

"Oh, are you done? I thought I'd get another cup of tea. I'm so cold."

Fry took Monica home with her to stay the night. She hated to think of the woman alone. She was glad when Monica had said she was hungry and they shared a snack before turning in.

It took all of her willpower not to ask what had happened to make her so angry with French. Even before she assumed French had killed her best friend. But she honored her privacy and let it be. She looked so tired. Hopefully she'd get some rest and feel better the next day.

It was early for Fry to be in, she wasn't scheduled until the dinner shift. Fry thought it would be nice to drop something off for French while she did a couple of errands downtown. Even French must have been unsettled by the excitement the night before.

She'd placed the small bundle on the chef's station and tucked a leaflet artfully beneath it, when Chilli called over, "I wouldn't leave that there Fry. Not a good idea."

"I'm not touching anything. It's for her anyway. Where is she?"

"I think she's out killing the produce guy. He was late again."

"Productive. I'll see you later." She waved to Chilli and the others prepping on the line. She got a few nods and a wave from Andre.

Chilli didn't see any reason for Fry to get hung out to dry because there was no question French would go ballistic if anyone so much as breathed in the direction of her station. Fry didn't understand. Most people wouldn't. Chilli started for French's station to move the offending objects off to the side.

As luck would have it, French walked in through the swinging door. And stopped. Chilli stopped as well. She was staring at the small pile in the center of her cutting board. She felt the anger creep up from a place deep within. It spiralled out of the vortex beneath her sternum, pulsing through her veins and muscles. She walked over to the offending pile. It was a small basket, and she knew the smell before she'd seen the contents. Wild strawberries.

She moved the basket aside with a single finger to reveal the paper beneath it. She eyed it suspiciously as if it may set off a trap or explosive device. Satisfied that it was harmless, she picked it up.

Chilli had crept back to his station and resumed his work. It was curious that French hadn't exploded yet. No one messed with the chef's place, he'd heard she stabbed a guy for leaning against it once.

French glanced over the pamphlet. "Ha! Not in this lifetime sister!"

Chili noticed that while she crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash, she lifted the small basket with what could have passed for a gleam in her eye and headed out back.

French was about to enter her office when she got that flutter, buzzing sensation. She opened the door with her free hand. It was the same feeling she got whenever she ran into... "Mitchell."

"At least you remember my name." He was sitting on the edge of her desk, arms and legs crossed. She knew now that the slow perusal he gave her body was as unconscious as the annoying way he curled his lip when he felt smug. Like now. "You wouldn't answer me, so I thought I might know where to track you down."

"I don't have time for your needs Mitchell. I have a business to run."

"So do I, and I need you to do it. That deal won't fly without you French. You know you could run this place from a cell phone in your sleep. Your true talents are wasted here."

She didn't answer, just stood leaning on the doorjamb. Mostly she wanted him to get lost. Then she could eat the berries that she could smell ripening in the basket. If they passed their peak while she was busy with Mitchell she might have to kill him.

"You know French, Mother knows a lot of people in town. A word here, a word there, business isn't so good anymore. You know how things can spread."

"I know exactly what you mean. Staurt Dunn, that delightful ass-wipe your mother plays tennis with? He was in for lunch last week and we got to talking business and investing. I was going to ask him about a curious little venture he might be interested in, but I couldn't remember the the name just then. Brisbee? Brisbane? Oh well, you know how my memory gets. Does he still handle your mother's investments?" So don't piss in my back yard jackass or it'll get messy.

Mitchell gave her a broad smile. "Well, well. Good thing neither of us are gossips."

"Isn't it? Why don't we make this a clean break? You take your nasty bag of tricks and go home, and I'll leave you alone."

"I wish it was that simple. There are other people involved. You remember Jasper and his Uncle Max."

"Sadly, yes. But they're not my problem."

"They might not think so when they find out you're not being co-operative."

"They still don't know? Are you sure it's me they'll be pissed at?"

"No doubt."

"That's unfortunate. If something comes up, and it's related to our deal in any way, I'll be in touch. Directly. In the meantime, I have business to see to, so if you'll excuse me?" She gestured toward the door.

"You're usually smarter than this. You'd only have to stay on six more months, then we could replace you without a hitch. As it stands now, your name's part of the deal."

"You'd better fix that little typo. I have five hungry lawyers who tell me it's not that hard to do."

"French, it won't go away so easily. I need you with me on this."

"I'm touched, really. But it's too little, too late. After all of the e-mails, faxes and phone calls you just don't seem to get it. Let me be absolutely clear. Let's drop the polite facade for a moment, so that there's no question that you understand my intent. I want you, your slimeball friends and most definitely your mother, to fuck off. Was that clear? Did you get that?" She saw that telltale twitching around Mitchell's temple that indicated he'd lost his temper.

"Careful French, your roots are showing. And I'm still not impressed with your grasp of the vernacular. Go back to your sweat shop. Burn off some steam and think it over. Because if you screw this up for me I can guarantee you I'll remember it and you'll pay."

"That's more like it! Now try slapping me and we'll really've made some progress. Oh, that's right, you leave that kind of thing to Tim and Paul. Should I be expecting a visit?"

Mitchell was heading for the exit. "Play games all you want. I mean it." And he was gone.

Did he piss on her last, dammit? She'd lost track.

She was refreshed by the challenge that Mitchell presented. He was a well packaged, slick piece of work with a mind like a steel trap. They'd made a great pair. He was a risk taker and a fighter. Not typical of his class in many ways. Typical enough to draw French's attention, but not atypical enough to hold it. Her relationships had always been inextricably linked to business, so she'd never considered leaving their deals and staying with the man. Apparently Mitchell saw things the same way and was having trouble giving her up. That steel trap could be a hindrance.

Mitchell was in deep and they were putting on the pressure, that much was clear. Why he bothered with those mammoth deals was beyond her. Who the hell wanted to stay in one of those god awful, primped up, over-produced, monster resorts anyway? Not enough people to merit a worldwide chain of them that's for damn sure. But don't tell that to the suckers who were handing them money faster than they could deposit it in offshore bank accounts that could neither be traced nor contested once the scheme fell apart.

Mitchell's family's concerns were such a byzantine warren of corporate inbreeding that you'd be hard pressed to trace anything back to him directly. He'd gotten messed up with some smooth customers and found himself suckered into a deal he never should have touched in the first place. But it wasn't her problem anymore. Neither was Mitchell. If he thought sneaking into her office and playing politics was going to win her back, he hadn't been paying attention the last few years.

She decided to focus on matters at hand. She placed the basket beneath her nose and took a deep breath. Now that was important.

There was a lull before dinner picked up. Barbra and Chilli were out back smoking when French stepped out to ask if they'd seen Brian. They said no. She leaned against her door and chatted for a couple of minutes.

Fry rode up on her bike and waved as she passed them. French glanced at Barbra. She didn't seem to have noticed. She glanced at Chilli, he'd obviously seen it.

Barbra watched the two looking back and forth at each other, then at Fry. She loved the Sparks. Fry had pulled up on the much talked about Sparkmobile.

Fry tucked her helmet under her arm and walked over, "Hi!"

"Fry, what the hell is that thing?" French furrowed her brow and Chilli was shaking his head. The people on this island were just weird.

"What does it look like?"

"The two wheels at the bottom would indicate that it's a bicycle, but the rest of it throws that theory into question."

"Ha, ha. It's a lie-down bike. My Dad made it. It's easier to ride and you can go miles further on it without getting tired."

Seeing as the island wasn't that big to begin with, French wondered why you'd need a special bike for distance riding. To preserve what remained of her sanity, she dropped it. "Would you step into my office for a moment?"

Fry took the familiar position on the couch and French walked over to her. "Stand up."

She hoped this wasn't about to get weird. Yesterday had filled her quota.

"There is something very important I want you to understand. It is crucial that you pay close attention when I tell you this because it may save your life one day. Are you paying attention?"

Fry nodded. Uh-oh.

"You never, ever, under any circumstance whatsoever, and I mean positively, without question or reservation in the deepest seriousness and intent, leave anything on, near, at, over, or under my station. Have I made myself perfectly clear."

"Perfectly."

"Good thing. I wouldn't want to hurt you, but I would if you did it again."

French sounded utterly serious. But she hadn't raised her voice the whole time. Fry had to ask. "I got it loud and clear. I'll never do it again. But why?"

By all rights, French should have been screaming that she didn't have to explain anything to a know-nothing waitron who didn't know mis en place from a hole in the wall. But she wasn't. "It's a chef thing."

"I gather, but why?"

Like Chinese water torture, she wouldn't stop until your sanity had run clean out. "It's hard earned that's why. Every inch of that station represents the years of work that went into attaining it. It's got to be kept just so. It's my instrument, my pallette, my word processor, whatever the analogy you'd understand. It's something I've had to fight for, many times physically, and I don't want anyone thinking they can leave things all over it willy-nilly, got it?" She was getting worked up as she recalled some less appealing moments earning her stripes in the kitchen.

"Sure, it's a territorial thing. No problem." Fry couldn't help reaching out and touching French's arm gently. She seemed so agitated. "Next time I'll use your office, is that okay?"

"Fine."

"So, did you like them?"

"Not bad." French shrugged. "Where'd you get 'em?"

"Around, they grow on the island. I pick them every now and again."

"Around where?"

"Your not being the least bit subtle." Fry noted.

"Should I be?"

"I've heard that you can be charming when you want. I just thought it might be nice to experience it. Besides, it was a treat. Something nice after your tough day yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"Yeah, you remember? Monica? Gun? You freaking out and sticking crackers and spoons in my face? I thought that constituted a pretty tough day. Didn't you?"

How could Fry know that next to the discovery of her 'talent', the gun was a mere ripple in the sphere of her consciousness. "Oh yeah. Pretty average day really. We had a purveyor try to run a truck through the front lobby one night. He said I'd chased all of his restaurant clients away. Everyone wanted to leave. That night was worse."

"Wow. What'd you do?"

"Stopped him."

"How?"

"Slashed his tires in the lot. He couldn't get very far after that." She'd busted one of her favorite knives too. But when you had a tough job to do, you used your best equipment.

"And had you?"

"What?"

"Chased all of his clients away?"

"Wasn't my fault the guy was passing off old stuff. He also offered a little payolla to keep it quiet. Kinda pissed me off."

Fry had already discerned that pissing French off wasn't time well spent.

Something occurred to French. "So, you okay? After yesterday?"

"I guess so. No one was trying to kill me. Monica's kind of out of it and her jaw's pretty swollen, but I think she's going to be alright. And I'm more confused than anything else about the spoons and crackers."

French smiled. "If it makes you feel any better, that's not the first time I've been on the wrong end of a gun. And as for the taste test. I'm reasonably sure you're not taste-blind. Your palate has perfect vision as far as I can tell. On short notice."

"There is no right end of a gun to be on and that's terrible! Why should it make me feel better to know you've been in danger like that before?"

"Earth to Fry. The important part of that went right over your head. Maybe it's a height thing. I'll spell it out for you. You have a gift. A rare talent. Don't you care?"

"No need to get nasty about my height. Just because..." French held up her hand to quiet the waitress.

"Fry. Do you, or do you not understand that yesterday you were able to name several key components to a recipe? That no one else knew about? Answer 'yes' or 'no'."

"Fine. Yes."

"Do you understand that that could be a career? A very lucrative one with the right training?"

"You've got to be joking?"

"I'm not saying you have what it takes. I'm saying you may have an important component to what it takes. With work, you could be a very lucrative asset in somebody's scheme of things. You could also be a rather deadly weapon in the wrong hands, but I think that's probably true either way."

"Why are you telling me this then?"

Why indeed? French had thought long and hard before she'd revealed the full extent of what she knew. She'd come to the conclusion that it was the right thing to do. Fry wouldn't betray the restaurant, her. And if she did, French believed she'd survive. Fry might not, but she would.

She'd spent years using up other people's talent. Climbing the ladder utilizing as much of others' skills as she could manage. It was an effective strategy to conserve energy over time. And when she'd totally undermined someone's self-confidence or burned them out, she tossed them aside and moved on.

She couldn't do that to Fry. Besides, the idea of anyone burning Fry out was ludicrous. Even she could see that. And the thought of anyone undermining this genuine and good natured young woman's confidence made her distinctly uncomfortable, kinda twitchy really.

"I thought you should know. In case you were interested in pursuing it." Why anyone wouldn't was beyond French's food obsessed view of the world.

"French, after next semester I wouldn't pursue a job in the food service industry if someone payed me in gold. They could give me shares in Microsoft, Coke, or whatever corporate monster is riding the cynical wave of free market tyranny at the moment. I wouldn't sneeze in the direction of a career in this business, period. But thanks for letting me know, I appreciate it."

French looked at the other-worldly specimen that stood before her. She could have been speaking Ancient Greek for all French understood of what she'd said. Oh sure, the words she knew, but the intention behind them was totally lost on her. Fry must have misunderstood. She must not have been clear. She'd think of a way to communicate it more effectively later. They'd been yammering away valuable time.

"Whatever. Look, we have to get to it. You're going to be late if you don't get changed now."

"But I'm talking to you, the chef. Isn't that kind of a good excuse."

"Maybe for some, not for me. Move it."

"Wait a second. When are we going to discuss the case? What did you find the other night? How are we going to find Jason? Should we check out his apartment? I know where his office..."

"Whoa. We'll talk about it later, right now there's work to do."

"Oh no you don't! I have something you want. I'll trade."

"Excuse me?" French knew her reputation was well known among her staff, but Fry didn't strike her as that kind of girl.

"I'll tell you where the berries are, if you'll meet me outside of work and talk about this. No obfuscating, no evasions. An exchange of information and ideas."

"Sounds good."

"Don't pass it up. There's no way you'll find them and you're not getting out of my help even if you try, so you might as well say 'yes'."

"I already did."

"Oh...well...good. I'll meet you at Gillman Rock at seven tomorrow morning. Do you know where it is? Can you get there?" Was it just her, or had that been too easy?

"I know where it is. It's ridiculously early, but I'll be there." Never underestimate the power of food over a chef.

Skyler sat with Fred and Jillian at one of the fires set up on the beach. It was nice to hang out with the sound of the surf nearby, the warmth of the fire and friends. There were three fires in all and they were surrounded by groups of friends and friends of friends. The crowd had thinned as it got late. Some heading home, some pairing off and wandering along the shore and into the dunes.

She hadn't really expected French to show up. This wasn't her kind of thing. But she could dream. And she felt like she must be dreaming as the apparition emerged out of the darkness into the circle of light cast by the fires.

She stood a few yards away, looking at one of the groups nearby. Skyler hopped up and jogged over. "That," she indicated the group French was looking at. "is Alyssa Henderson. She's my age, Mz. 'I don't do minors.'"

French shrugged and gave Skyler a smile and nod.

"Anyway," Skyler continued. "She doesn't date anyone who owns the means of production, on principle. That would be you."

"Yeah, yeah, let me guess, her parents own what? Off-shore oil concerns? An investment banking company?"

"Actually her Mom's a well known civil rights lawyer and her Dad runs the Cristoph Fund. You know, the people who do all of the famine relief stuff."

"Who're her friends?" French hadn't the foggiest idea why she cared. Except she was a little curious who that guy was that Fry was leaning up against. They were facing in the other direction and she had her head resting on his shoulder.

"That's Felicity, John, Sarah, a friend of Walter's, Bobby and I don't know the woman he came with. She looks familiar, but they came late and I haven't been over there in a while. Anything else you want to know? Hi, by the way."

"Just making conversation. Looks like you had quite a party. I stopped by to say 'hi' then I have to run."

"Come walk with me." She took French by the hand and led her down the beach.

French didn't like where this was heading, but figured it was inevitable. They walked for a while, next to the surf and then up into the dunes.

Skyler's heart was racing. She knew the outcome, but couldn't help herself from pursuing it. She had to know.

"Um, French. Can I ask you something?"

"Is it food related?"

"No." What did that have to do with anything?

"Then no."

Skyler stopped and looked at her. Her hair was still in the braid she always wore in the kitchen. She was dressed in black, what else. Slacks, blouse and a light jacket. Even though the day had been warm, it cooled quickly on the beach at night.

Skyler decided that it was now or never. "I need to say something and I need you to listen. I promise I'll only make you incredibly uncomfortable for a few minutes, then we can forget it and move on."

"Skyler..."

"No. Please?" French peered off into the darkness, but she didn't leave. When she looked back, Skyler began. "I gather from the way my brother's been moping around and quietly fuming, that you're not seeing each other anymore." She waited for a response, but got none. "Well, I know you're not. In my defense I would like to state that I haven't been a minor for four years. So, if there's even the remotest possibility that you'd consider us. I have to ask. You know I like you, you've known for years, but I..."

"No."

"You didn't even think about it."

"I don't have to. The reason I stopped by was to ask you to stay away from the restaurant this summer." Even in the half light French could see from the look on Skyler's face she hadn't put that very well. "What I mean is, I have some unfinished business with Mitchell and I don't want you to get in the middle. I wouldn't think twice about it if I didn't like you. You know that. But you and I are not happening. Ever. Let's be friends and leave it at that. Okay? Besides, I'm not the kind of person you should be hanging out with, hasn't your mother told you that?"

"She tells me plenty. And I don't like any of your answers. But I promised to make you uncomfortable for only a few minutes. Time's up. But I can't let you go like this." She lunged at French, tripping her into the sand.

"Hey! Watch the shirt." French fought off Skyler's hands as she tried to tickle her. "I'm not ticklish and I just got this cleaned. What was that about a few minutes?!"

"You're such a stick in the mud. Someone has to ruffle your feathers."

"I have an entire paid staff to do just that. I don't need volunteers."

"I bet they're all in love with you."

"You'd only have to work for me for two minutes to understand the absurdity of that remark."

Skyler had heard a few stories, but was sure the hard edge only enhanced French's appeal. She sat next to her in the sand. "Thanks for not bolting. I needed to say that."

"Glad to help." And she meant it. But she didn't think she'd done anything useful.

They walked back to the fires and Skyler rejoined her friends. Fry had seen them approach and turned away as she saw French brushing sand from her pants and straightening her shirt. Did the woman have no shame? She reminded herself that French's private life was her own business. She couldn't overcome the urge to say hello though, so she walked over as French was heading away.

"Thought I didn't see you skulking in the shadows?"

"Hey Fry. Didn't want to barge in. No one likes hanging out with the boss at a party."

"I'll make an exception. Stay, come meet my friends."

"I have to run." In the faint light that reached them from the fires she could see Fry was wearing a sweatshirt and cut offs. "You should get back to the fire, you'll freeze in those."

"Come on Mom, stay for a while. We can discuss the case."

"I'm not spending the night crouched around a fire singing kumbaya and discussing a murder. That should be too weird even for you." As if to illustrate her point, someone began tuning a guitar.

"You're afraid of fun aren't you?"

"We'll have to debate you're latest theory another time. I have to go."

"Where are you going?"

"Another party and I'm beyond late, so if you'll excuse me I'll be off."

"See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Don't stay up too late and oversleep. And stay out of trouble."

Fry hated to see French leave. She couldn't make out her figure against the darkness. She'd disappeared seconds after she walked away.

French bent over to tie her sneakers. If she left now, she could get in a good run before meeting up with Fry. She'd finished the core of her morning workout and a good run would be just the thing. Fry would have to deal with the sweat.

As she headed off down the street she was thankful yet again for the small proportion of the town and island. It was ten miles long and two miles wide. There were three small, densely populated towns, the rest was beaches, farms, and open space. Comstock was the largest of the towns and growing. Aside from the development on the waterfront of the town, there was Hilltop. This was the highest point on the island and considered the best real estate. It was along the Dunbluff Cliffs and overlooked the ocean beyond. The Redmonds lived there. So did most of their friends, the ones who could afford it.

Everything in Comstock was in walking distance. French was free of the hassle of an automobile in all of the summer traffic and crowding. More cars came over on the ferry than the town could manage reasonably. Not that she'd own a car anyway, she mostly leased them when necessary. She never stayed anywhere long enough to own one. Besides, if she'd needed wheels, she'd have taken one of Mitchell's cars. Ha! She'd finally thought of something she'd miss about him, his cars. The man had fine taste in machines.

She was headed out to Midstock, the next town over and the place she was supposed to meet Fry. Midstock was less densely populated than Comstock and had a few farms. Bisque, the town furthest east on the island, had several small farms, mostly organic, where the produce wasn't half bad. But Midstock had the best beaches on the island. It was overrun in the mid-mornings and afternoons. They'd be safe from any crowd this early as most everyone else on the island was sleeping off last night's festivities.

She rounded a bend by one of the beaches and nearly pulled to a full stop when she spotted the unlikely figure of Julia Harding walking up ahead. They were a couple of hundred yards from Gillman Rock and Julia was walking the road that was sure to bring her past where Fry would be waiting. Of course, Fry might not be there yet. But Julia never missed a beat, and if Fry was there... French picked up her pace and caught up to her.

"I forgot how much you liked to walk." Julia was wearing possibly the chicest casual walking outfit she'd ever seen. Since the last time she'd seen her in one that is. Julia devoted a lot of time to the art of dress. 'Personal presentation, your interface with society', she was fond of saying. Julia would just as soon eat ground glass as be seen wearing jeans in public.

Her sweat pants, if you could call them that, were of a light flowing material that swung like palazzo pants as she walked. She wore a light top with a scarf and a nifty little hat to keep the bright morning sun out of her eyes. She truly believed that there was a perfect outfit for every occassion. In her case, she was right. She'd taught French a lot about the mysteries of textiles.

"I forgot how much you like to sweat. Honestly French, do you really need to run around like that?"

French smiled as she walked beside Julia. They'd never agreed on their basic approach to the outdoors. Julia liked to take it all in, preferably at a slow pace, and if possible with a cool drink in her hand. French liked to take it on. Running, sailing, skiing, swimming. That's if she had to be doing the outdoor thing at all. She wasn't interested in socializing out of doors and she didn't care how other people spent their time there, as long as they worked up an appetite doing it.

"I try to stay healthy. Walking's not my thing." They chatted a bit and rounded the corner. French spotted Fry sitting on a rock by the side of the road not far ahead. As they approached she waved.

Julia recognized the waitress and greeted her with a friendly smile. "Hello again." Fry returned the smile and said 'hi'.

Julia turned to French, having discerned that this was her final destination. "Good to see you again Maestro. I enjoyed our brief interlude. Don't forget my party." She leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She scowled a bit at the sweat, but it was all for show. "You need a shower my young friend." She turned and continued on her way.

French let out a relieved sigh. She wasn't up for people this morning. And it seemed harder these days to fake that she was, when she wasn't. She looked at Fry who was still perched on her rock, with a small basket at her side. She was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. Looked like she'd gotten there on foot as well.

French gave her a brief smile, a quirk at the corner of her mouth really. Fry smiled a small smile back. It was one of those quiet, but bright smiles. Understated, but infectious somehow. The quirk at the corner of French's mouth became closer to a curve and the other side threatened to get in on the act as well. Fry responded to her widening quirk with a bigger smile of her own. French found the quiet conversation about her speed and continued it with an honest to goodness smile. Nothing serious mind you, but both corners of her mouth were definitely involved.

Fry had been apprehensive when French had walked up with Julia Harding. What a stiking pair they made. Two tall women, one bristling with an unconscious air of indomitability and the body to back it up, the other classically elegant, if not decked out within an inch of her life for a morning stroll. Fry felt underdressed in her ancient sneakers and rumpled jogging get up. She guessed that they'd spent the night together, she'd jumped to the conclusion rather shamelessly. She wondered if all the women French slept with didn't mind the stable she kept.

As they'd walked up, however, Fry noticed that the chef was tense and now that Julia had parted, she seemed more relaxed. She was even smiling. Fry couldn't help smiling back. Julia became a vague memory. And as French's smile grew, she couldn't help but respond in kind. Finally she broke out in a full smile, teeth and all, and even giggled.

She was nearly blown backward off the rock by the sheer force of the full strength, beaming smile that broke over French's face. She'd never seen a smile generate wattage like that.

"So, we going to sit here grinning at each other all morning, or you got something to show me?" French was feeling more social.

Fry was reminding her knees that they too were 'so over French' and she'd appreciate it if they'd get moving so that she could get up off the rock and they could head over to the pond where the berries were. She stalled for a moment by retying one of her shoes while counseling her shaky legs. She rose from her seat studiously coordinating her muscles, tendons and ligaments until they were all communicating and moving together in what she hoped was a steady gate. She swung her basket as she walked across the road to a path that led into waist high grasses. "This way, boss."

They walked along a path, away from the road. They were walking along the bottom of Gillman Rock, a large outcropping that rose off the roadway for no apparent reason. The island wasn't flat. The landmass emerged at a gently sloping angle from the water on the west side and continued up to the cliffs along the east. For half the length of the island anyway. Out in Bisque it was all flat. Here and there, there were huge rock groupings that looked like hills, but were in fact gargantuan rocks covered with plantlife where dirt and water had made its way over time. Gillman rock was one such phenomenon, but it was mostly exposed. Fry pointed out where they were headed on the path and how they could ascend a slow incline to get up to the ledge before them more easily and over to the pond clearing.

"Why don't we climb up here? Looks easier." French looked down at Fry who gave her a quizzical look.

"How would we get up on the ledge? It's over my head. It's just a few yards around and up that way, not a hike or anything."

French smiled and stepped back a few feet. She burst forward and popped off the balls of her feet, slapping her hands on the ledge as she propelled herself up. Then, for show, and because she could, she went into a full handstand and flipped herself over backward to land facing the other direction.

Fry stood disbelieving that French had flipped herself onto a ledge six feet high, not to mention the musculature she'd witnessed as the chef had sprung herself out of the handstand. It was absolute perfection. Her poor knees were taking a beating this morning.

She headed for the incline to catch up.

"Where are you going?" French asked.

"The vertically challenged and non-bionic in the group have to take the stairs. I'll be right there."

"Come here." French had kneeled at the ledge and held out her hand.

"You're joking. There's no foothold, you'd have to pull me straight up."

French wiggled her fingers in a gesture of impatience. "I promise not to pull your arm out of joint. It's not that high."

And it must not have been, because Fry was up on the ledge in a blink. "That was cool!"

Fry turned and jumped back down.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"Up!" Fry held out her hand this time to get another ride.

French shook her head and pulled her up again. It looked like Fry was going to jump back down and French grabbed her by the shoulder. "I wouldn't if I were you." As the chef's threats went, it was a pretty friendly one. So Fry smiled and headed in the other direction, toward a stand of trees and the pond that was hidden there.

As they walked, French asked her if she'd like to work a double the day of the Old Boat Regatta. It was more than a week off, but it gave her something to say. Fry gave an enthusiastic 'yes'. There'd be no end of good tipping that day if the weather was good.

"You're not on until this afternoon. Why the early morning rendezvous?" While conversation was another necessary evil French had found no way around, it wasn't torturous with Fry.

"As difficult as it must be for you to understand, we do have lives outside of your restaurant. I have to be somewhere later this morning. This was the only time I could fit you in."

"Pretty busy social schedule, huh?" In truth, it never really occurred to French that people did live outside of the restaurant. Not in the full sense.

"Jam packed. You're lucky I had a spot. I spend a lot of time at the Community Center on the weekend. We have a reading and story telling program for the kids in the summer, that I help out with in the morning."

"I see. Glad you could squeezed me in."

"No problem. So, did you have a good time? Wherever it was you went last night?" Why couldn't she leave it be? As much as she didn't want to show an interest in French's private life, it just kept coming up.

"Hanging out with a bunch of drunk lawyers and bureaucrats is not my idea of a good time."

"Then why did you go?"

"Because Addison Peterson is the new chair on the zoning committee. I thought he might be a useful source of information."

Fry wondered if the lucky Mr. Peterson was going to get to go to dinner with the chef. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to snoop?"

"I don't 'snoop' and even if I did, why would I tell you?"

It occurred to Fry that French had probably never shared much of anything in her life, much less a free exchange of information. "You don't get the concept of teamwork do you?"

"Should I? Kind of need to be on a team for it to be an issue."

"You'd probably run that entire restaurant single handed if you could. As it is all Brian really gets to do is brunch."

"Has he complained?"

"I should know better than to bring up work. Did you find anything out?"

"Besides the fact that Addison has suprising taste in wine for a lawyer and no one should have been eating at his raw bar, not really. Know who Darzley Fitch is?"

"Darzley/Fitch isn't a who so much as a what at the moment. It's a bill that'll be up in the State Senate this Fall. It passed in the House on a breeze twice, but gots shot down in the Senate. It's a bill to legalize gaming statewide. I'm not surprised that your lawyer friends are talking about it. It's very popular in some circles."

"Not yours I take it?"

"Definitely not mine. State lotteries are bad enough. A self-imposed tax on the poor."

"Ah, I see. Well, not much else in the way of useful information last night." French steered the conversation away from what she sensed was another heartfelt topic for the ever earnest Fry.

"Do we have the remotest clue who killed her?"

They had entered the woods. It was still damp, but the sun was beginning to burn off the light fog that remained between the trees.

"As much as I hate to impune the perfect reputation of everybody's favorite fishing guy. I think Bernie Gle..."

"No! There's no way he would have done that. I've known him my whole life. Believe me when I tell you, he didn't kill her."

"It doesn't look good for your Mr. Gleck. Out of the stuff I found in that pile, only one thing adds up to anything much. Maybe when Jason turns up we'll have something else to go on, but in the meantime, Bernie Gleck's not making money the old fashioned way."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"His fleet's fishing illegally and selling the stuff to large ships offshore. They sit out in Bilmuth Bay and wait for the trawlers to come in. Anything illlegal on the boats is dumped and they come in looking innocent and clean."

"Bernie wouldn't allow that! He knows that overfishing has killed his own industry. He's remodeling his fleet for ecotourism, he said so."

"And in the meantime his capital comes from where?"

"I don't know, Bernie's got tons of money. More than most of the residents on the island."

"More money is an extremely relative concept. Usually relative to the person who's got it, likes it, and wants more."

"You don't know him at all. He's not like that."

"You see anyone else with motive and opportunity?"

"What's the motive?"

"Louisa had papers that proved sales to two Asian companies known to lighten the loads of boats in the bay. Anyone linked to these guys would be up for some hefty fines, if not imprisonment."

"Are you sure?"

"The deposit slips didn't look like much at first, but I asked around on the docks. It's possible he's cooled it for a while, especially since she had something on him. But there were drop offs going on out there." Fry was clearly upset by this revelation. She had slowed and was trying to take it all in.

"Hey, it could be a lot worse. He could've been running drugs out there." French reassured her.

"Bernie's whole life is that fleet, those fish. He was the first to outfit his boats with dolphin-safe nets. The first to refit his boats with more efficient engines. 'Better for the fishing and the fish.' he said. The first to cut back when the banks showed signs of overfishing... But he still wouldn't kill anyone. Not for that."

"Oh, come on! Have you ever seen the look in his eye when he talks about those boats? About fish? Anyone came between him and his business, I think even mild mannered Bernie might get edgy. And poison's a good way to avoid the violence too. Guy like him wouldn't probably want to shoot someone or knife them."

This was getting to be too much for Fry. Luckily they'd broken out of the wood into a clearing. There was a small pond and a large flat rock. She stopped and gestured at the ground. "Well, you've kept your end of the bargain, here's mine."

French surveyed the small patch of strawberries nestled around the rock near the pond. "Nice."

They walked over and Fry kneeled near some of the plants. She took the small basket she carried and began to look for the ripe fruit. She'd found a few and was enjoying the silence. She didn't revel in the news French had unearthed. It was so disturbing to hear.

She realized that she was alone on the ground. She looked up to see French stretched out on the rock, enjoying the sun. Fry was glad she wasn't standing. Her knees were too. She swallowed in an effort to return the saliva to her mouth. Then she cleared her throat to get the chef's attention.

"Um hmm?" French may not have been big on the outdoors, but the sun did feel good this morning.

"I don't mean to interrupt, but you weren't expecting me to pick anything for you, were you?"

"Sure why not? Not too many, a couple of cups is fine."

"That's not what I meant. I meant, I'm not picking these for you. You can get them for youself. Patch rules."

"'Patch rules'? What the hell is that?" French had turned on her side to look at Fry.

"That's where you pick your own. We're not at work, you know. You can't order me around."

This was news to French. "I don't see why not. Besides, you wore my arm out back there, it's only fair you make up for it now."

Fry was an easy touch. Anyone who'd ever met her had figured that out soon after. But she was determined not to be a doormat to the chef, no matter how appealing a prospect that may be. "Give it up. I've seen you carry loads in from delivery trucks that Andre had trouble with. I doubt I put much of a drain on your stamina."

French reluctantly pulled herself into a sitting position. Hired help were getting out of hand these days. She didn't want Fry to think they were getting too chummy or anything. On the other hand, maybe Fry was trying to tell her the same thing. Most women, het or not, rolled over for her. Especially her staff to whom she could hand out lucrative double shifts like the one she'd given Fry earlier. Maybe Fry was laying down a line. Trying to maintain a professional distance, so to speak. She took a look at the small woman, on her knees, blond hair glinting brightly in the sun, a healthy flush to her skin, hands on hips, giving her the eye. On the other hand, maybe Fry wasn't a push-over.

"Yeah, yeah. You're probably picking all of the sour ones anyway. Move over."

They'd nearly filled the small basket. It was a relaxing, if uncomfortable task. French watched Fry as she bent to the work. Though the news earlier had obviously shaken her, she really seemed to be enjoying herself now. That was the thing she liked about Fry, her attention to the moment. She seemed to have some insight into the meaning of pleasure, because the woman surely enjoyed herself at even the simplest endevor. French had never met someone with such a positive disposition whom she didn't also consider a dim-wit. Fry had a quality that balanced her bubbly nature. It was her ability to respond to a situation as it happened with a gentle and unsuffocating compassion and intelligence. This combined with her casual air and down to earth disposition, made her easy for the always guarded chef to be around.

French broke the silence with a question. "The other night when you told Monica I'd changed, what did you mean?" This had puzzled her then, and since. Fry didn't know her from a hole in the wall. She wasn't sure who'd been more surprised by the statement at the time, Monica or herself. Well, obviously Monica, because French had recovered in time to clock her one.

The sudden question, spoken into the quiet, caught Fry off guard. She'd been listening to the insects and the animals in the pond nearby. There were dragon flies flitting about, and the odd splash from a frog in the water. It was a peaceful and pleasant moment. "I meant that you're different. Not the same."

French hated this kind of answer. "And..."

"It's hard to say, but ever since I met you, you've been in flux. You change by the day, but overall, you seem to be changing in a particular direction."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Fry gave an exasperated huff and blew a few strands of hair from her face. "It's not like I've known you long, but you'd be surprised how much you can know someone you've never met on this island. I know your reputation. You're not the woman I've heard about. Sure, I've seen plenty that rings a bell, but overall, I'd say you're not who I've heard you're supposed to be. I've also seen you reign yourself in on several occasions when I and everyone else within earshot expected you to explode. And this whole thing with Louisa. I connected a couple of dots."

French nodded in understanding.

"If it's any help, I think it's terriffic. Change is one of the hardest things we can do consciously. And I think you're doing great!" She knew from experience and she meant it.

"Thanks." French was touched. Really, because Fry was resting a hand on her shoulder.

"Now all I've got to do is dip you in the water over there and you'll be all set." Fry said.

French frowned until she got the baptismal imagery. She drew back from the small woman next to her. It was more of a cringe.

"Just kidding." Fry hopped up and sat on the rock, saying, "As much as I don't want to, how do we follow your lead on Bernie?"

There was that 'we' again. "Not sure yet. Maybe we could ask around on the sly, find out if he and Louisa had been getting along. Maybe talk to the nephew. I have a feeling that there are a lot of people who might have been happy to see Louisa permanently indisposed."

"Why?"

"For one thing, I think it's kind of odd that a lot of people who were at a party she threw before she died keep popping up. People she had papers on, like Nathan Cummings, the diary man. And Jason, Monica, and Mitchell Redmond, among others. We still have to track Jason down. I asked Monica to look him up. She said he's not at his brother's and his brother hasn't got a clue where he went. Maybe we ought to check out his apartment."

"You spoke with Monica?"

"Nothing big. I called her to see if she'd look for Jason." French shrugged. She could see the curiosity burning in the bright eyes of the woman before her. "You know my reputation Fry. Right about now I'm guessing you want to know why Monica was so keen to pop me one the other night. Louisa notwithstanding."

"Am I that obvious? I don't want to pry, but I've known her forever. Monica used to help me with my papers in high school. She was always the best help in the library. And she always pitched in if a student showed interest. She's an ace reference librarian."

"I know. That's how we struck up an acquaintance. Actually, we met on Skippy Hendrake's boat a few summers ago." French decided she'd tell her. Why not, give her a taste of what she was hanging out with. "I mentioned that I'd spent some time in libraries doing culinary research. She couldn't tell me about this treasure of a specimen fast enough. It was in the collection where she worked. I was interested and told her I'd like to see it. She was amenable and when we got back to shore we went over. It was late and she had keys. I put two and two together and figured out that books weren't the only thing on Ms. Brastlett's mind." She looked to see if Fry had picked up on her meaning. She seemed to be following okay. She doubted that if Fry knew her reputation at all she'd somehow missed the glaring fact that she was a renowned slut.

"Well, she was right. It was a treasure." French continued. "In their special collection, they had a small diary written by a sea captain's wife in the 1840's. Millicent Didsworthy. Millicent was a rip, but most interestingly, she'd carefully transcribed her own recipes into her diary as she perfected them. She liked to please her husband and tried to recreate dishes he described from some of the places he'd visited. He brought back spices and memories, not all of which could have been pleasant given the human cargo he delivered on one leg of his trip. He'd spent a good deal of time in the Islands and West Indies. I was riveted by the small volume."

"It sounds extraordinary."

"It was. I took it."

"What do you mean? Surely, Monica would never let that out of the collection." Fry got a sinking feeling.

"Not without the right inducement." For some reason, French was becoming uncomfortable. She wanted to tell Fry. It wasn't the worst thing she'd ever done by a long shot, but well, she had this feeling. Too late to go all delicate now. "I swapped a nice time on the collection room's table for the book. It was win-win all 'round. Only, Monica claimed that she hadn't made a deal, that I'd stolen the book and should give it back. If you know anything about me, you can guess where that complaint got her. And she wasn't about to bring it to anyone's attention either." The look that had come over Fry's face was making her squirm.

"You stole a library book?" Fry had known French was bad, but this? This was worse.

"That's the part of the story that's bothering you?"

"Well, you taking advantage of Monica's generosity, her attraction to you and possibly her loneliness hadn't escaped my attention, but the fact that you also violated a public trust kind of stands out too you know? Libraries are a store of knowledge, places people go to research, you have no idea who may have needed the information in that book. How it may have become important to someone."

"No one but Monica had looked at that book in years. She said so." Why the defense now? French knew this was a lost battle. She'd been through it herself.

"That's not really the point is it? You knew it was special, you may have wanted it if you hadn't already stolen it."

"A person could get seriously confused if they actually listened to you Fry."

"You know what I mean. You've got to give it back!"

"I already have."

"You did?" A pleasant and hopeful feeling came over her.

"I ran into Monica at that party, it reminded me of it. I knew I didn't need it. She was twice as pissed at herself as she ever was at me for what happened. I could see it in her eyes every time I ran into her. That had been part of the buzz I'd gotten off the whole thing. Seems kind of stupid and pointless now. But that's me, I take what I want and it's your bad luck if you're in my way."

"Took. Were." Fry corrected.

"Hmm?"

"You took what you wanted. And it was bad luck if someone was in your way. Sounds like that's not so appealing anymore."

"I don't know. That basket might change my mind." French indicated the basket they'd filled to the brim with the delicious fruit. A change of subject was in order.

"You don't have that much fight left in you Stinky. Whew, your friend was right, you do need a shower." The sweat from French's run and the heat from the sun had taken a toll, even French had begun to smell a bit less than fresh. She laughed and made a menacing move toward Fry.

"'Be afraid, be very afraid.'" She stalked over to Fry and laughed at her mock terror.

"I have a sweaty armpit or two myself and I'm not afraid to use 'em." Fry rallied.

"Yeah, you stink too." French looked at the pond, it looked clean enough and she wouldn't mind cooling off. "Maybe we should hit the showers." She walked to the water's edge. Fry wasn't able to respond before French had peeled off her sweaty shirt and shorts. She stood facing the water clad only in a sports bra and underpants. Fry looked away as if she'd been burned.

"You coming?" French turned to ask.

"Um..." Fry was busy noticing the intricate pattern in her shoelace. Who knew they braided them so beautifully?

"Your loss." French walked carefully into the water. The pond formed from a couple of streams that joined at the base of Gilman Rock. It was surrounded by low grasses and had a rocky bottom. She balanced on a few of the rocks to get deep enough so that she could submerge herself.

"Get a grip on yourself Violet." She chastized herself. "It's not like you've never seen a woman in her underwear before. Jeeze." She'd just never seen a woman like that in her underwear before. It was almost scary. French wasn't overly muscled, just muscled all over. In all the right places. For a tall woman her body wasn't lanky, but solid and evenly proportioned. And for such an athletic build, she had a softness to her still. And Fry stopped herself right there because this wasn't fair, not to herself for one, but not to French either who'd probably been oggled more times than she'd knew or cared to know about. But then Fry wasn't the one throwing her clothes all over the place and running around half naked.

Fry made a particular effort to keep people apprised of her sexual preference. She hated feeling caught out. She made a mental note to come out to French at the earliest opportunity. Not that she thought French would care, but it was the principle of the thing. It hadn't occurred to her that someone wouldn't know her preference. Everyone on the island did and it wasn't like the grapevine at the restaurant wasn't healthy and flourishing. Of course, you might need to be the least bit interested to register information about other people that wasn't specifically food related.

Fry's sudden fascination in her footwear was amusing French no end. Who would have thunk it. The little hippie-socialist was modest.

To be continued...