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 5

Fry sat, hands tucked beneath her thighs, anxiously awaiting the 'business' French had mentioned earlier. The chef was enjoying herself. It was putting Fry on edge.

French sighed, this part wasn't going to be nearly as much fun. 'Things are about to get interesting around here. Before the roaches start climbing out of the woodwork, we need to get a couple of things straight.' Fry nodded her head and looked like she was paying attention, so she dove in.

'Number One: Whatever you may think you know about me, whatever unpleasant stories you've heard, forget them. None of them are half as bad as the truth. I'm an ugly character and I've done a lot of things that'd turn you green. The only thing keeping Mitchell from trying to put me away, and believe you me he's going to want to bad, is that he knows that I can burn his lousy house of cards down with a dirty look.

Number Two: Louisa's killer appears to have an impressive reach. That or Jason's a complete paranoiac. My guess is, she baited a few fish that were too big for her line and got swallowed. I doubt we're dealing with a local blackmailing gone wrong.

Number Three: Once it's known that you're working for me as anything more than a waitress, you'll become a target.

Number Four: If by some chance you want to go ahead with this, you follow my instructions to the letter. At all times. No discussion. Otherwise, all of this is moot, you're out.' French held up a hand to interrupt Fry who was off the couch and mid protest.

'Number Five: You want out, you tell me now.'

'May I speak?'

French nodded her assent.

'Just a darned minute! Where do you get off telling me when I'll be in and out and all of the rest of it? And since when do you know anything about Jason?'

'I get off where I know what it is we're likely to be dealing with and you know exactly squat. The possibility of you getting yourself killed because you know squat might, and I say might, give me a headache. And, Louisa aside, I'm stirring up a hornet's nest and I don't know what's coming out of it so how can I expect you to deal with the consequences?'

'And what if I tell you to take one through five and toss 'em, what then?'

'Simple. You're out.'

'You seem pretty sure about this 'out' stuff. You haven't shaken me this far.'

'I've tolerated you this far.' French watched an indignant scowl appear on Fry's face. It was only fair that she be apprised of the danger of the situation. No candy coating, just the facts.

'You're too much! What's going to keep me from doing exactly what I want? What's so all-powerful impressive that I'm going to turn tail and run scared from you?'

'I'm going to make a wild guess here that you've neglected to mention our joyful midnight excursions to your mother.' The color in Fry's face was doing something interesting, namely, leaving it. 'You've got to work on your poker face.'

Fry slowly recovered from the temporary paralysis caused by the force of two very different worlds colliding. For whatever reason, being with French was it's own reality. Considering her family in that context was jarring in the extreme. Considering her mother's reaction to her activities with French, was excruciating. 'I see your point.'

'We have a deal then?'

'Yes. May I ask a question or do I have to submit them on a form or something?'

French thought it over, it wasn't a bad idea. Fry asked a lot of questions. In the end, it seemed over the top, even for her. 'Have at it.'

'What did you mean, working for you as anything but a waitress?'

'Let me put it this way. I've often had a staff on the books, and one off. People who know that, like Mitchell, will assume you are such a non-employee, that'll make you a target.'

'Are you a chef? I mean, you sound more like a spy, or some type of government operative. And while I liked to think those guys we ran into the other night tripped really hard in the dark, I noticed they had 'see in the dark eyewear'. I also noticed you didn't. What kind of training are they giving chefs these days? I know the restaurant business is tough, but I'm pretty sure it's not that bad.'

'You'd be surprised.'

'What kind of an answer is that?'

'Evasive.'

'No kidding.'

Fry spent the next couple of hours mulling over their conversation, while working. French was being up front, she should be glad. The fact that she was also treating her like a bumpkin bugged her. Truth be told, Fry wasn't all that comfortable with the prospect of being a target, but the thought of leaving French to deal with it all alone didn't feel right. The chef may not have even pursued the whole thing if it hadn't been for her. She wanted to stick by French, and if the chef wouldn't let her stand at her side, she'd take the back seat. For now.

French grumbled a few choice epithets as she grabbed her toque and headed to the upstairs dining room. Jill and Kenneth Randall had rented the room for their 40th anniversary. She was hating these command performances more by the day.

'How's things in Hell's kitchen? Gotta be hot down there.' Bill Fletcher was a big time, small town real estate salesman. He had the most obnoxious way of thinking she gave a damn whenever they ran into each other. He sat at a table near Kenneth and Jill and had waylaid her as she approached.

'Hey, how's your new neighbor treating you?' Bill continued. French saw the glassy eyed look he was giving her chest. Most of the other people at his table were sloshed as well.

'Which neighbor is that?' She hadn't heard that Hal Mackney was willing to sell the remnants of the Fisherman's Prize. He'd probably hold onto the lucrative site for spite. No cleanup crew had come in to clear the wreck away.

'Over at the Grist Mill.'

'Since when is there a new owner at the Mill? I thought Jim Thompson owned it.'

'Nah, his daughter Marcie sold it after he died in March.'

Damn, no one told her anything. 'So far so good. Haven't heard from them.'

'I wouldn't be surprised if you don't. Big outfit I think, needed another asset. Not local.'

'Oh no? Who are they?'

'Jace Corp? Jet Corp? Something like that, can't remember. Only heard it mentioned once.' Bill had begun to sway gently. 'Why's a pretty thing like you so interested anyway?'

'Just want to be neighborly. Excuse me, I have to congratulate the Randalls.'

'Oh sure.' He attempted a wink. 'You do that. Later, maybe you'd want to have a ride in my Mercedes?'

'Sounds like fun. But this girl's got a restaurant to run.'

'All work, no play makes French... French I guess.' He laughed at his own joke and turned to his equally smashed neighbor to repeat it. She took the opportunity to relieve him of the keys that were hanging out of his pocket. He wouldn't be needing them.

To be honest, French hadn't minded the Randall party. They were a fun couple, who were genuinely appreciative of the restaurant and treated the staff well. She was glad they'd enjoyed themselves. Wasn't that supposed to be part of it too?

She began a pass through the building before turning in. She'd spent every night onsite since Mitchell's portentous visit.

She was headed up the stairs to the second floor when she heard a faint noise. It repeated, and kept on as she reached the top of the stairs and stood looking over the empty dining room. The noise came from one of the booths on the far wall and as she approached, the mystery unravelled itself in an anti-climax. Slouched in the corner, snoring steadily, Fry slept.

Fry at rest was an interesting phenomenon. There were the inevitable rumples and straying hair, but there was also a tranquility that was uncanny. Was this the sleep of the innocent? Or the thoroughly exhausted?

She liked that Fry gave it her all. There wasn't a thing she hesitated to try, except listen closely to anything that might resemble a direction. Other than that, she was all go. So much go she wore herself out at times. French had been giving Fry options on doubles for the last couple of weeks. She knew she needed the money. French wondered what else she was doing to wear out what appeared to be an inexhaustible supply of pep.

'Yo Fry.' She spoke softly trying to rouse her without startling her. She got no reaction. 'Rise and shine, I'm closing up.' She spoke in a normal voice and shook her. Still nothing. 'Up and at 'em princess, this is last call.' Her raised voice was swallowed in the empty room. Good acoustics. Fry still hadn't budged. She looked around the mostly dark area. Aside from Fry's snoring, it was quiet and empty, but there was an unsettled something. She turned to look at Fry again and changed her mind.

'This isn't the sleep of the innocent, it's the sleep of the comatose.' She leaned forward and slid the recumbent figure to the edge of the bench. As she suspected, Fry slept on. She crouched down, reaching one arm behind Fry's shoulders and the other beneath her knees and lifted her. 'Solid for a little thing.'

She carried her downstairs, turning off lights as she went and settled the dormant figure on the couch in the breakroom. There were worse places to spend the night. She patted Fry's shoulder, 'Night Fry.'

'Night French.' Fry smiled and curled into the couch.

'You rat!' French laughed and ruffled Fry's hair. Again, there was no response. Fry had replied in that automatic way you can in your sleep. Similar to the way Mitchell would respond in his sleep when she asked him, 'What's the company account password?' She'd always loved that game. She swore it was the only time he was remotely honest.

She left Fry to her goody-goody dreams and went back to her office. She'd showered and changed earlier while there were still people on the premises. She collapsed on the couch and groaned in relief. It was the first time she'd been off of her feet in twelve hours. She fell quickly into an exhausted but watchful sleep.

Which is why she woke thoroughly annoyed a couple of hours later. Something, some small repetitive noise had roused her from a particularly engaging dream. Could that have been Fry in her dream? It was hard to tell in that position. It could be Fry now though. She listened closely. There was the noise again, shit. Not Fry. There were quiet voices as well.

She slipped from the couch fully alert and padded down the hallway. The kitchen was dark, save for the one safety light near the front over the doors to the dining room. They were making this easy for her. Who were they? She couldn't make out any details because one had a flashlight and was shining it down on the floor where she supposed the other one was. The counter was blocking her view. If she had to bet she'd say they were the muscle that had accompanied Mitchell on his last visit.

She walked up and stood behind the one who was standing over his pal, shining the light for him to work by. Looked like they were laying down something nasty on her floor, something the board of health might have an objection to.

'What's that there?' She pointed at the wires the man had led out of a grey material taped to her oven door.

'Detonator...' He'd replied to the disembodied voice before he realized it wasn't attached to anyone who should have been there. Then everything went black.

French watched the guy on the floor struggle out from under his fallen comrade. His confusion was increased by the lack of light, his buddy's light had busted when it hit the ground. Her smile was wasted on him in the dark, but it wasn't there for his benefit. She hefted the saute pan she'd lifted from the rack that hung near Andre's station. She hadn't been practicing her backhand, but there was enough room in the narrow galley to get off a good swing. She watched bad guy number two hit the deck. She'd put a little English in her swing and sent his head right into the reach-in's door. He was going to have the worst headache when he came to. Bastards were lucky to be coming to at all.

As long as French was preoccupied with Micky and Dutch, Serena hadn't had a hard time positioning herself. She swung the butt of her gun toward the back of the chef's skull. It would have been a good wack too, had French not seen a faint reflection of movement in the stainless steel splashguard of her stove. She'd have to thank Humberto for keeping it so clean.

She stepped back and made a neat swing with her elbow. Serena blocked the move and stepped clear.

'Nice.' Serena almost purred when she spoke. 'But you'll do us both a favor and stay where you are or you'll be history. Hands up.'

French couldn't make out any detail on the gun, but assumed it was loaded. She let herself relax and slowly raised her hands. When her left hand reached counter height, she snatched up a pot lid and flicked it sharply at Serena. She was surprised to see the spindly wench catch it effortlessly, and the smile she got for her trouble had a chilling fervor to it. French shook her head, too bad all of that talent had to go to waste. What Serena didn't catch was the heavy flashlight that came spinning out of the darkness and nailed her right between the eyes.

After French flipped the flashlight up with her foot, she followed it with a good pop to Serena's head. She was made of tougher stuff than you'd expect. French pushed her to the floor, flipped her and pulled both hands behind her back. Even with the added blow, she wasn't completely out.

French sat on the semi-conscious woman and began to puzzle out the evening's events. She didn't know how long she'd been at it, when two bare feet entered her range of vision. Only Fry's feet could look that innocent while violating a state health code.

She glanced up into the dark to see what Fry was after now. Was she going to be chastised for the body count, not giving them all pillows to rest their heads? Did she want a glass of milk?

'French, there's a table of five, they all want boiled frog's legs and duck's feet on ice.'

It took French a second to figure out that Fry still wasn't awake. Could she really have slept through that racket? She stood there staring into space, waiting. 'Forget it, tell 'em... not a chance.' She played along. No use waking her up and getting lectured.

'Okay.' Fry sounded disappointed.

French got a fun idea. 'Hey Fry, who's your favorite French chef?'

Fry perked up, she smiled. 'Julia Child.'

French felt, more than she heard Serena snort beneath her. She reached over and quieted her, none too gently. 'I've got a lot of stuff to take care of. Why don't you go take five in the breakroom?'

'Okay.' Fry sounded disappointed again. 'But get some rest, you work so hard.' She turned and shuffled off. French watched until she'd disappeared around the corner and the light in the room went out.

Chapter 22

Fry was rushing back to Bachanal for her brunch shift. French had finally roused her from an exhausted sleep and told her she had to hustle if she didn't want to be late.

She'd gotten home, had time to shower, eat breakfast, and talk to her mother. Priscilla hadn't appreciated not getting a call the night before. Her parents didn't interject themselves into her life often, but her mother had been concerned. Priscilla had called down to the police station to make sure Fry hadn't been brought in for a protest or as part of the usual harassment they suffered for the work they did for the community. When she'd telephoned she heard the most amazing story from Dottie Jenkins who answered the evening emergency calls.

Dottie told her that Violet hadn't been brought in and reminded her that she always called over when Violet was there. Priscilla apologized and Dottie said she knew what it was like being a mother. She was sure Violet was just out with friends, probably at a beach party. Priscilla agreed and put her worries down to nerves. Violet didn't call all of the time, only when she was expected in. But Priscilla had these feelings lately, and she was on edge.

Priscilla wasn't reassured by the news Dottie told her of a big bust in town. Still, that gang had been apprehended at someone else's restaurant not where Violet worked. And sure enough, her Violet had come in early that morning, raced through the house yelling an apology from the shower and explaining over her cereal that she'd fallen asleep at work.

Fry was rounding the corner that turned onto Sutter's Wharf when she ran right into Monica, who was coming from that direction.

'Whoa there!' Monica said as they both put out their hands to steady the other. 'Where's the fire?'

'Under my butt if I don't get it into the restaurant in two minutes. Sorry.' Fry was breathing heavily from the exertion of her run.

'She giving you a hard time?'

Fry laughed. 'Is that a rhetorical question?'

Monica saw her point. French probably wouldn't know how not to. 'Why do you stay there? You could have a job anywhere in town, why bother with such a menace?'

'She's not so bad really. I mean, I know you share some bad history.' Fry tread lightly. 'But I think she's making an effort to change.'

'I've noticed. But don't get too sucked in.' Monica worried about Violet. The Sparks would give Satan himself the benefit of the doubt. 'I trust her as far as I can throw her. And I don't mean to be petty, but if she wants to prove herself, returning stolen property would go a long way toward redeeming her reputation. In my case.'

'But she brought the book back.' It was out before she had a chance to swallow it. She hated when she did that.

'What?'

'Um, nothing, I should run. Really.' Fry couldn't shake Monica who was holding fast to her sleeve.

'How do you know about the book?' Monica had gone red in the face. Fry couldn't tell if it was embarrassment or fury.

'She told me why you were so angry with her, besides Louisa. She also told me that she'd returned the book.' Fry watched Monica's eyes narrow. Her breaths came in short bursts through her nostrils. She was obviously having difficulty letting go of this episode from her past.

'Let me tell you something about your new friend back there. She's a lying snake. I don't know what she's trying to get out of you...' Monica shook her head as she considered the lovely young woman before her. 'Scratch that. Seems like she's up to the same old tricks. Watch yourself Violet, she's no prize.'

'But Monica...' It was too late, she'd stormed off and didn't turn to respond.

Fry remembered the time and ran for the door of Bachanal. She wanted to tell French the news before the crowd showed up.

The grapevine had beaten her to the punch. Everyone was talking about the arrests. She threw on her gear and headed for the floor. The last thing she needed was Miguel dogging her for the entire shift.

He'd given her some slack recently, but he was as picky as ever. And he may have given up his favorite delusion that she was planning a coup, but he'd moved on to something else. There were times she'd catch him watching her when she was chatting, or doing the simple stuff during down time. Given the conventional wisdom on the matter, Miguel wasn't interested in her sexually, so she could only imagine some other fever had gripped his mind and she wasn't in a hurry to know what it was.

During a momentary lull, when all of her customers were mid-munch and nothing was pressing, she approached French. Not that they were great pals, but Fry got the idea that it'd be okay to talk with her, just for a minute.

'Don't you have things to do? People to see?' French turned to Andre and shouted the next three orders. She turned back and Fry was still there. She grabbed a saute pan off the stove, removed a veal medallion and plated it.

'Well, I had a sec and was wondering if you knew that Dil made those arrests last night? Guess he's not as incompetent as you all think.'

French gave her a condescending little grin and shrugged. The blade of the knife she used became a blur as she chopped a fresh garnish for the plate she was finishing.

'Well, they're supposed to be some bigtime gang of arsonists. Not bad for a small town detective. Caught them in the act too.'

'Well, well. He sure proved me wrong.' French wondered if Dil had noticed that the three dangerous arsonists he'd caught in the act were unconscious. She doubted it. In case there was any doubt who'd sent them on their dastardly errand to burn down Cezar's Bistro, she'd 'dropped' a Darflock Inc. card in the main office. It was fun to think of Mitchell being stalked by Cezar for the rest of the summer.

'Any idea what Monica was doing down here this morning?' Fry wasn't sure, but it was possible she'd caught French off guard with that question. Her condescending grin had gone crooked and her response was a beat less timely than usual.

'Well, she, um... wanted to ask me something.' French placed the plate on the counter where Eddy grabbed it and ran.

'Like where you put that book back? She said you hadn't returned it.'

French looked more confused than surprised. 'Then she hasn't looked for it. Some librarian. I put it right back in it's place.'

'That room's a secured vault. All of the town's founding documents are kept in there. You couldn't just put it back.' Maybe Monica was right. Maybe French had lied.

'Oh please, I could open that door with a toothpick.' As it was she'd used a fancy set of tools she'd picked up in Italy, but that was another story.

'Then you did return it?' Fry was hopeful.

'Yeah, now beat it Doubting Thomas.'

'I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't have lied, but Monica was really upset. Why didn't you just tell her?'

'For cryin' out load, what's the big deal? I put it where she could find it. I figure the less I have to deal with her the better off we both are.' Fry was possibly the only person on the planet who'd have that confidence in her word. That kind of trust made her uncomfortable. She didn't trust herself that much.

'Oh. Well, maybe later we can talk about her visit. Okay?' Fry headed out the door and back to work.

'Yeah, sure. And snowballs fry on the grill.' French muttered at her back.

French noticed that Andre spent the rest of the shift humming. It wasn't annoying her, he could carry a tune. It was the timing she found suspicious.

The brunch crowd had cleared out and a few of the staff were milling around out back. Some were heading out after their shifts, some were just coming in. Barbra chatted with Eddy. French walked out to get some air. She was drinking a large coke and eating something Andre had grilled for her. Barbra considered that French was one of the last people who needed such a large dose of caffeine.

Fry's friend Alyssa walked up and greeted everyone.

'She'll be out in a minute. You guys headed to the beach?' Barbra was thrilled to see Fry was getting out of this house of mirrors, even if it was for a night. She'd been spending way too much time on the premises. And if she remembered correctly, tonight was the big date.

'Yes, were going over to Parker Cove. Did you hear about that arrest last night?'

'Unbelievable. Imagine a gang out of New York trying to blow up Cezar's! Wonder who he pissed off?' Barbra had her suspicions, but wasn't about to open her mouth any further.

'They said in the paper that the woman is a wanted felon. Polly Weems.'

Fry rounded the corner and said 'hi' to the group who were talking about the arrest. It was all they'd talked about the entire shift. She noticed that look on French's face again. She decided it had a gloaty sort of feel to it. The chef was leaning back against the wall taking the conversation in.

Fry gathered Alyssa and they headed off. She was looking forward to having fun for an afternoon. And tonight, who knew? Maybe she'd have fun then too.

Barbra watched the couple leave. Alyssa was young, but just the kind of person she imagined Fry would have a lot in common with. If that were possible. Fry had always been a unique entity on the island. Barbra was glad to have a chance to get to know her.

Like everyone else, she'd followed the controversy Fry had started over her Senior prom years ago. The elder Spark child had insisted on being allowed to bring her girlfriend as her date. The fact that her date was from a town off island had been a shocker too. Barbra wasn't sure what people liked less, Fry's sexual preference, or her dating off island. It hadn't gone over well with the school committee, and less so in the town media.

The Comstock News was the only paper of any kind on the island. Anonymous letter after anonymous letter printed in the paper decried the lack morals and good character of the island's youth. No one ever attacked Fry personally, but the message was clear.

Barbra had cheered her efforts to open the town's eyes to the twentieth century. She'd even written a letter to the paper herself, but she knew that it's owner, Kevin Baker, would jab a sharp stick in his eye before he'd print anything in support of Fry's bold act.

Kevin Baker knew how to work a grudge. Priscilla Spark had picketed his offices relentlessly in the seventies until he'd hired a couple of women on the newspaper's staff and let Jennifer Ingle write something other than the Ladies View column. He'd ended up marrying Connie Glass, the copy editor he'd hired under duress. She'd made his life hell ever since. Kevin always blamed it on Priscilla, and if he had to suffer he didn't know why she shouldn't too. Besides, her daughter was queer and they didn't want that kind of thing going on in their town.

Barbra had always admired Fry and the rest of her family for their individualism. As it turned out, Fry was just the tip of the iceberg. Her sister Joe had really stirred things up since then. The Sparks kept everyone on their toes.

Barbra turned to French, 'She could use some fun, it's good she's getting a night off.'

French wasn't sure why she was irked by the remark. It was innocent enough and not the kind of thing she usually responded to. 'I don't know what's so much fun about sitting on those crowded, rocky, little beaches getting sand blown in your eyes all day.' She shifted her weight to her other foot, and sucked down more of her soda. What did Barbra know anyway?

'I suppose you're right, but I meant her date tonight.'

'Hmm? What date?' French asked, as disinterested as she could. Fry hadn't mentioned a date.

'Her date at Cezar's Bistro with Alyssa.'

Barbra hadn't realized that you could spew a drink that far, not through your nose. She cringed, that had to sting. Not that the chef didn't deserve it.

'She's eating at Cezar's!' French shouted. Her mind went into overdrive. What on earth would possess Fry to sully her palate at Cezar's? Was she being coerced? Surely it wasn't Fry's idea to eat there. Was this Alyssa some kind of cruel sadist who subjected her dates to the vagaries of a culinary hack? And since when was Fry dating women? And did Bobby know?

Chapter 23

Barbra hoped she hadn't said anything to get Fry in trouble. Ever since she mentioned Fry's date yesterday, French had descended into the most foul mood. She'd nearly broken Harvey Johnson's neck when he told her he'd forgotten a case of wine at the warehouse. Andre and Sonny had had to talk her out of it. As it was, Harvey would have a sore throat for a while.

Barbra was relieved that Milo was holding steady this afternoon, otherwise French might kill him. She could imagine what would happen if the lovesick Milo started dropping orders again. Barbra wished the man would get up the courage to ask Jacqueline out. Then Jacqueline could shoot him down and they could all get on with their lives. It didn't help matters that there was a running bet that Milo wouldn't be able to follow through. There was another running bet that said Jacqueline would let him pay for dinner for a week before she dumped him, that was if he could get up the gumption to ask her in the first place.

She looked up from the seating schedule and saw Miguel exit the kitchen. She could hear French's shouting in the brief moment the door was opened. Then, thankfully, it was muffled as the door swung shut again.

'What's got French all stirred up?'

'I don't know, but I think it has something to do with Fry going on a date at Cezar's.'

'Oh Sweet Mary, not the forbidden place!?' He gasped. He thought it might be bad given the particularly sharp greeting he'd gotten from the chef this morning, but this was worse. 'Is she crazy? Are you crazy? Why on earth would you mention that to French?'

'I was just mentioning it! How was I supposed to know it would trigger such an apoplectic fit? This isn't exactly normal behavior we're witnessing here.' She looked at Miguel who was off and running in his own irrational place. 'Not for most people.'

The crashing and yelling in the kitchen got louder. They could hear it through the heavy, soundproofed doors.

'We'll tell her you were wrong. It was all a mistake. Fry went somewhere else. Maybe she'll back off. She's been almost reasonable lately.'

'Get a grip Miguel. She can suck it up and deal with it. Whatever the hell it is. What's her problem anyway?'

Miguel had opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. A sudden and ominous silence radiated from the kitchen. It was like one of those quiets in the center of a hurricane. They both expected French to burst through the doors at any second. The door swung open, but it was Fry who exited. She was tying her apron and smiled as she approached.

'Noisy in there, glad French killed whatever it was she was whacking on her counter. I think it was a can of artichokes.'

Barbra and Miguel exchanged glances.

Then French came crashing out of the kitchen door. She was behind Fry in a flash. She didn't say anything, but glared at Miguel and Barbra until they got the hint. Barbra reached over and patted Fry's sleeve. 'Call if you need me.' She gave French an extra long stare, but doubted it'd penetrated the chef's delusion.

Fry had turned to look at French. 'What's up?' She could see by the tension emanating from the chef that something had happened.

'Was he good? Did you enjoy it?!'

Fry had learned that French had flair for the dramatic. Oh yeah, and she could act certifiable from time to time. It was unnerving, but she was learning to take it in stride. 'Who, what are you talking about?'

'Last night you ate at Cezar's Bistro and I wanted to know if it was everything you thought it would be? Traitor!'

'Not that it's any of your business where I eat, but I didn't go to Cezar's. We changed our plans. Alyssa surprised me with a picnic on Pilmut Beach.'

'Oh. That's fine then.' Like the whirlwind she was, French was gone, returned to the kitchen.

The chef stood at her station prepping for the crowd that was soon to be clamoring at her door. She knew that she should feel better that Fry wasn't sneaking off to other kitchens behind her back, but something still bothered her.

Fry appeared before her looking concerned. 'Why do you care where I eat, what does it matter?'

'Forget it. We've got things to do, people to feed. Let's get to it.'

'I will, but it's obviously something that's bothering you and I'd like to know why. Does it have anything to do with the little food tasting game you've been playing with me?' Not that Fry hadn't enjoyed it. Seeing anything remotely like admiration coming from French had been a blast.

'Little game? Is that all it's been to you? Don't you see?'

'See what? That you like to play, 'Name that ingredient?' A few times a shift?''

'Can't you see you're special? Hasn't anyone told you before?'

Fry was getting confused, were they still talking about the food? 'Well, sure, only...'

'You have a singular talent. You have the most sensitive, discerning palate I've ever come across.'

This was French, of course they were talking about food.

'Let me get this straight. I want to be sure I'm clear on this... this whole time, we've been talking about my tastebuds?'

'Well, yeah, what'd you think we were talking about?'

'You were driven to distraction, to the point of frenzy even, by the fact that I may have eaten at Cezar's? And that was it?'

French didn't answer right away. She looked at Fry, looked her right in the eye and said, 'I think frenzy is a bit extreme, don't you? After all, I was looking out for you, showing concern for an employee.' Protecting a valuable asset was more like it, but Fry didn't need to know that.

'No French, I think 'frenzy' just about sums it up. And it's a pretty good description of what I'm about to fly into if I don't get away from you right this minute, because you have to be the most infuriating, obnoxiously self-centered person I've ever met!' And on that note she left the kitchen.

Everything was so mixed up. Ever since she'd met French things that should have worked out hadn't. The cut and dry had become murky and clouded. The whole thing with Louisa was a perfect example. They'd started out looking for a murderer and now all manner of unrelated circumstances were crowding into the picture.

And take last night. She'd been looking forward to an evening out of this place and away from whatever spell it cast on its inhabitants. But she'd found herself thinking of French half the time. She'd managed not to bring her into the conversation the fifteen or so times it seemed perfectly natural to.

However, she noticed the five or six times Alyssa had mentioned Skyler. She also noticed the vehemence with which her name was spoken. Alyssa really had a bug in her ear about Skyler.

'What is it exactly that's wrong with her?' Fry had asked Alyssa.

'It's her complacency! Oh sure, for a rich person she knows the right things to boycott and who's protesting who, but there's never any emotion behind it you know? Like it's all inevitable, but we have to do our best, keeping up appearances. How can you ever hope to change anything with that attitude? Not to mention where her money comes from!'

As far as Fry could tell, where a person's money came from wasn't their fault until they were earning it themselves. Where Alyssa's money came from was just dumb luck.

'When you call Skyler a rich person, it's kind of funny. I mean, I know you're not a Hilltopper, butto most of the people on this island, you might as well be.' Fry watched the surprise register on Alyssa's face. 'I don't mean it in a bad way. Just pointing out that wealth is relative and while I barely know Skyler, she's been civil if not friendly the couple of times I've run into her. You can tell a lot about people by how they treat the help.'

'You don't think of yourself that way, do you? You waitress, sure, but it's not like it makes you any less of a person. Look at the work you've done in your own community. Your organizing at school was amazing.' Alyssa had a fervent, almost glazed look in her eye. Fry realized that the admiration she was expressing was genuine. And perhaps her attraction misplaced.

'All I'm saying is that Skyler saw a human being the first time she saw me working at the restaurant. You'd be surprised how rare that is. I have co-workers who treat me with less respect. Don't worry, I don't need a self-esteem workshop. Though after this summer's over, I might.'

She'd avoided bringing up the person who made her feel the most inadequate. The intolerable, impossible, irascible pain in the keester who'd made her feel about an inch high. And in some horrible twist of fate she also knew that when she was with French, she felt a potential within herself, that she'd never felt before. She felt that with French, almost anything was possible. Could you get contact inspiration, just by being with someone? She felt that must be the case, because French was inspirational in the extreme. It wasn't the kind of thing Fry had ever expected.

In the bigger scheme of things, she was supposed to meet some great social advocate and spend the rest of her life battling for the forces of good. Why was it that she'd met French, the woman least likely of inspiring anything but lust and fear, and experienced a pull so strong she hadn't been able to turn away. The pull was something that resonated deep within her own sense of self. Was it that French's delusional absolutism called to her? That in a world that was so uncertain, where nothing was secure, she sensed French was some peculiar constant. Fry released a heavy sigh, 'constant' wasn't a word one associated with a summer job. She would return to finish her degree in the fall and all of this would be moot.

She shook the clouds from her mind and prepared herself for the hungry rush of patrons that was filing in the door.

French didn't get it. Why hadn't Fry even been the slightest bit appreciative at her compliment? She'd ignored it completely. Didn't she appreciate her own skill? No, and it was probably a good thing too, because she might get ideas about how to use it. French had no desire for Fry to run off and develop her talents with some other chef, spreading her secrets as she went.

But it irked her that maybe Fry didn't know how special her talent was. This wasn't some game. And Fry might think that a career in the business wasn't as socially uplifting as her Meals On Wheels stint, but she'd never given it a shot. Not in the larger sense. Not in the sense French thought she could.

French was pulled up short in her musings by the simple realization that she liked Fry. While this wouldn't have been much of a realization for most people, French couldn't remember the last time she'd felt it about someone. Oh, sure, she tolerated plenty of people, and was even amused by others, but she didn't particularly like any of them. She made note of it and decided to study the phenomenon in greater depth at a later date, when there weren't one hundred people screaming for a meal.

One of those hundred people turned out to be Hal Mackney. You could have knocked her over with a feather when Miguel mentioned that he was out front. What manner of chicanery was this? French went out to investigate.

Fry brushed passed her on her way down the hall. Looked like she might be in for the silent treatment again.

She spotted Hal sitting with his wife Jinny and son Hal Jr.. 'Good afternoon. What brings the owner of the Fisherman's Prize into my establishment?' She turned on the charm. She needed all of the information she could get.

'Thought we'd celebrate. We decided to sell. As I'd never set foot in this place when I thought you'd take the opportunity to run across the wharf and burn me down, I figured it'd be okay now. I told the buyer to keep an eye out for you though. Fair's fair.'

French gave him a dazzling smile. 'Love and war and all of that. Who's the new owner?'

'Anyone but Mitchell Redmond. If the guy threatened me one more time, I was going to go up there and fry his ass.'

'Mitchell wanted to buy your place?'

'Yeah, he's been at it since last fall. Well, he hasn't, but someone at Darflock kept calling, faxing and e-mailing. When the place burned down, I got a nice little condolence note and I haven't heard from them since. It's the only reason I didn't think the son of a bitch did it.'

'Hal!' Jinny reprimanded.

'Yeah Dad, watch your language in front of the ladies.' Hal Jr. gave French a dazzling smile of his own. If he wasn't thirteen, he might have even passed for tolerable.

'Sorry honey.' Hal apologized. French noticed he didn't include her in the remark. Hal knew her pretty well after all these summers. 'And while you were the next on my list in the suspect category, I figured you wouldn't have had that lawyer help me out with the insurance problems I had. That ain't your m.o. by a long shot. So, I guess it was dumb luck. I'd feel a lot better if I knew where that security tape went though.'

'Tape?'

'Yeah, I have one that runs at night. The usual thing. But they couldn't find it anywhere. Police said it was probably incinerated in the fire.'

'Probably. Grease fire burns pretty hot.' French and Hal exchanged a meaningful look. 'Who's the buyer?'

'Classy, British outfit. JCE International Corp. They do hotel/restaurants mostly.'

'You don't say.' Something was starting to take shape. What it was she wasn't sure, but she recognized a familiar flavor.

Chapter 24

So what does a world class chef do on her day off? Scheme. What else?

French went over the battle plan that had begun to take shape in her mind's eye. It was based more on a sense of what was coalescing than what actually was. She was able to extrapolate to various conclusions based on multivarious contingencies and come up with something resembling an offensive, defensive strategy.

Where Fry fit into all of this, she wasn't sure. Somewhere in the back, out of the way, and not underfoot. She could manage it. Why not? Seemed simple enough.

She spent the morning working out and going over the latest and greatest ideas put forth in her favorite sources in the culinary media. In her mind, food critics and gastronomes were hungry people who talked too much. Occasionally though, one of them said something halfway intelligent. Especially if it was in her favor. Not that she was one to get emotional about positive press on herself, but it was good for business.

As she went through her e-mail, she spotted one midst the crap that sparked her interest. It was from snitch@dontreply.com and the subject read, 'Read this French, it might be to your benefit'. It'd passed through her security program with no problem so she gave it the once over. It read, 'Trust no one, but that's a given. Don't look to old friends for help, you may get burned, but what's new? The Redmonds own the Chief. Watch your ass, like everybody else. Uncle Max and his boys just landed. They're watching. Be careful.' It was signed, 'Snitch'.

Was that supposed to be helpful? Someone had been watching too many old spy movies. If Snitch had gone to the trouble of e-mailing her from a false address, why hadn't he, she or it just told her what she needed to know? No one was really forthcoming unless you could wrap your hands around their throat and encourage it. Just like she was ready to do to Jason tonight. She could be encouraging and supportive, given the right set of circumstances.

Fry hadn't the foggiest idea what she was doing in the Dance Bar. Of all the places she avoided in the summer and any other time of the year, this one was first on her list. If there was a bar most likely to have a brawl every other hour, this was it. What created such a volatile atmosphere? The recipe: One part restaurant workers night off, Monday. Equal parts overprivileged summer vacationers, and non-overprivileged summer vacationers. One part out of work fishermen who worked in the restaurants and other tourist service industries on the island. Another part resentment with a touch of aggression. Attitude with a dash of arrogance. Add alchohol and mix vigorously... forget the mixing, it happened on it's own, right before the explosions. About once a week.

She'd given in to Barbra and Chilli's continuous prodding. They insisted she had to come out with them to, 'Wash that woman right out of her hair.' Meaning her failed date with Alyssa, though Fry had a suspicion that they meant French. In either case she'd given in and was in the process of regretting it. It was loud. Way too loud to talk comfortably.

She was sipping her beer, waiting for Barbra to get back from the bar. Chilli had found a friend to rip up the dancefloor with. She just wasn't in the mood to join them there, and she felt she'd given in enough tonight. She'd leave the dancing up to the people who were inspired to move.

She felt a whole lot of energy pulsing around her. How could you not? The place was wall to wall bodies, most of whom were in motion from the music, or the weave and rock that came from too much drinking.

She was brought out of her perusal of the dancefloor by the conversation that started over her shoulder.

'Would you take a look at that!?' An enthusiastic young guy was staring across the room, mouth agape.

His friend followed his line of vision. 'Yeah, look good, 'cause that's all you're likely to get out of that drink of water.'

Fry's curiosity peaked and she turned her head to take in the view. And if she hadn't already been through a full course in Knee Buckling and How to Prevent It at the Last Minute, she would have been on the floor. French was passing beneath one of the lights across the room. Her eyes scanned the side of the room where Fry was standing, but she must not have seen her in the crowd, because she moved in another direction.

Fry hadn't seen French out of Bachanal much. Oh sure, they'd broken into the odd house together, but French had always worn the ever present braid, and black everywhere else. Not that tonight was an exception in the black department. There was just less of it, in the neckline anyway. And the braid was gone. In it's place was a wild mane of dark hair, reflecting blue highlights in the doctored lighting of the club. She was sinful. No wonder Fry was drawn so strongly. No mystery left there. Fry decided she might as well bite the bullet back that was killing her slowly. She was going to ask French to dance. She was in the mood.

Of all the times for Trent Howard to try to make his move. His timing stunk. After he'd swung Fry around and steadied himself on her shoulder, he breathed way too much alcohol in her face as he asked, 'You want to dance with me good lookin'? C'mon.'

Fry stepped back, but he'd already grabbed her wrist and was pulling her to the dance floor as she spoke. 'No Trent. Really thanks, but I'm not interested.'

Trent was beyond noticing and if he'd cared for her opinion he might have waited for an answer. Trent wasn't used to listening to what other people thought.

Fry dug in her heels and brought Trent around whiplash fashion as he hadn't loosened his grip on her wrist at all. 'I said I'm not interested, so please let me go.'

'Yeah, Trent.' Hamish Feeney chimed in. He was a large kid, who came from one of the town's old fishing families. Instead of earning his stripes out on the seas with all of his brawn, he was frying clams for the summer. And none too happy about it. 'She said to fuck off, or don't you understand English?'

Both of them had obviously had their fill of liquor in the last few hours. In a blink they were in each other's faces, spitting mad. 'Like you'd have a clue what a woman wanted, Blockhead.'

The crowd around them was drawn to the conflict, a powder keg looking for a fuse. She was squeezed between them, Trent still holding her at the wrist. 'Come on guys, let's just calm down. Maybe we should all have a dance?'

Both men were lost in that primal dance so seductive to the alcohol soaked brain. The posturing ego match.

Fry twisted her arm until she could apply enough pressure to the weak part of Trent's grip. She managed to pry her wrist through where his thumb reached around and met his fingers. She hadn't taken all of those self-defense classes for nothing. As she broke through, she lost her balance and leaned on Trent to steady herself. He was so far gone into the alcohol and defensive adrenaline rush, that like a dog in a standoff, he reacted without thought and shoved Hamish back into the crowd. The fuse was lit, burnt, and the keg exploded. In the space of a second.

Violence radiated out from their position on the floor like a shock wave. Anything not bolted down (and a lot of the furniture was, for just this reason) was airborne.

Fry had regained her footing after stumbling back with Hamish. She straightened up and saw Trent coming right at her, mid-swing. She felt a firm pressure on the top of her head. It forced her straight down. Trent's swing was all air and he was thrown off balance by the lack of resistance he'd encountered. Fry felt a body against her and saw a leg fly out, a foot make contact with Trent's butt and shove him directly into Hamish's waiting fist. Trent dropped like a stone to the floor. 'Ouch!' Fry exclaimed for him from her crouched position.

A voice from behind and above asked, 'Why was I sure that if I came over here, I'd find you in the middle of this?'

Fry didn't have time to squeak out more than a surprised, 'French!' Before she was hoisted unceremoniously over the chef's shoulder. They'd gone through a door at the back of the bar, and were moving rapidly down a narrow hallway. It was an odd sensation to be upright in the midst of chaos one minute and upside down and listening to it recede into the distance the next. It was disorienting. You might say it took her by surprise, until she finally figured out that she'd been hauled bodily out of the bar, upside-down, without any say in the matter whatsoever. 'Ummm, French?'

French was preoccupied looking for another door she knew was somewhere along this corridor. Or it used to be. 'Yeah.'

'What the heck do you think you're doing? Put me down!'

French didn't respond. Fry felt the cool air on the back of her neck before she saw the door close behind them. She was reasonably sure they had exited into the alley behind the building, at least the smell from the dumpster next to her head indicated as much. The world righted itself as she was plopped on her feet and pushed flat to the wall next to the door. She began to berate French in earnest but felt a stifling hand placed over her mouth and saw French nod her head toward the break in the alley at the side of the building. She could see the lights from police cars bouncing off the walls.

The moment French's hand was off her mouth Fry hissed, 'You didn't have to drag me out here. You could have told me to follow you!'

'Oh sure.' French hissed right back. 'And while I was explaining to you that it'd be a good idea if we left before you were hauled off to jail for starting a riot, what? We could already be booked and enjoying the company in the Comstock cells? Not likely.'

'I did not start that fight!'

'Of course not. You just happened to be in the middle of it, minding your own business.'

'I was minding my own business! Is it my fault if Trent thinks 'no' is some kind of feminist coy?'

'Violet Spark, trouble just seems to follow you!'

'Well that's fine, because I can handle it!'

'You mean like you were about to handle Trent's fist right upside your head?'

'Look, I may not be a culinary James Bond, but I can get out of a small scrape.'

French snorted. 'You were standing in the middle of a bar brawl surrounded by ten guys who've been itching to kick each others teeth out since the beginning of time. That's a small scrape?'

Fry wasn't going to shut up, that much was clear. French didn't feel like having to explain her way out of the alley if someone heard them. Fry was opening her mouth to argue and French did the thing that seemed logical at the time. She covered Fry's mouth again. It hadn't occurred to her that she didn't have to use her own mouth to do it. But when she felt Fry's lips, all question evaporated from her mind and she was left with the certainty that it had been the right decision all along.

It'd been months since she'd kissed anyone. And if you were going to break a fast, you wanted it to be special. Fry was helping her out just fine in that department. No wonder this woman was in such demand on the island. She knew what she was doing.

After the initial shock and hesitation at the position in which she found herself, Fry gave into temptation. Who could blame her? The sensation of French's lips was more intoxicating than any liquor she'd smelled that night and then some. No wonder the woman was able to have half the island at her beck and call. Her lips alone could inspire a full surrender. With the adrenaline already coursing through her veins, it took her no time to get into the swing of things. Before she could fully engage in the pleasurable sensation of French's mouth, they were rudely interupted in the most jarring and unpleasant fashion.

'French. French!' Miguel tapped the chef on the shoulder again. He'd never understand this kind of thing. Why the woman would choose this spot in an alley, right next to a dumpster for an assignation, no matter how brief, was beyond him. It was filthy. He could have swallowed his own tongue when the chef stepped back and he saw that it was Fry she was with.

Through the haze that had shorted out the wiring in her head, French noticed that the flashing lights were gone. How long had they been out here? What the hell was Miguel doing poking at her back? She waved his hand off and struggled to regain whatever grip on herself she thought might be appropriate for the moment. She removed her other hand from Fry's hair. How had that gotten there? She realized that as long as she was staring at Fry's parted lips, watching her try to regain her breath, she'd wouldn't be able to focus on the many ramifications of the situation whirling around their heads. And what the hell was that smell?

She turned to face Miguel. Now there was a sobering sight. He stood not far off, holding a handkerchief to his nose. 'What's the problem?'

'They're gone. They dragged some guy named Trent off. He was screaming about police brutality and something about a small obnoxious blonde who'd started the whole thing. I saw a couple of guys from last summer, associates of Mitchell Redmond's... they walked out through the front. No one bothered them.'

'Figures.'

'I think I'm going to head out ladies. Too much excitement for me for one night.' Miguel tipped an imaginary hat and walked off down the alleyway.

French wasn't sure she wanted to turn around. Fry hadn't said anything in a while. While this was a novel experience she didn't think she should squander, it was also kind of unsettling. Maybe Fry was gone?

She peeked over her shoulder and caught the red hot glare directed her way. Nope, not gone.

'What?' French was on the defensive before Fry could speak.

'You! You were here with him!' Fry was sputtering mad. Thoughts were rushing through her brain in incomplete sentences. She took a deep breath. As usual, she was overwhelmed in the face of French's brazen arrogance. 'I can't believe you would trust him to help you and not me! Why are you here? What's going on? What happened to us working together?'

Once again, French had the task of answering the list of questions that flowed from Fry's ever keen and non-plussed mind. She decided on the direct approach, 'I trust you fine, as far as that kind of thing goes. I was here to meet Jason, and I would have too, but I saw him make tracks the moment all hell broke loose in there. And we're working together fine, but that doesn't mean you getting your neck broken over nothing, so what's the big deal?' Fr ench was feeling pretty solid in the reasoning department. She'd even managed a question of her own for Miss Chatty Pants. And it must have been a stumper because Fry was standing there wide eyed, her jaw working, but no sound coming out.

'Forget it. Come on, I bet I know where the little rat ran to ground.' She took Fry by the wrist and lead her off. Occasionally she'd hear her begin to say something, but it sputtered and died before she got very far.

Chapter 25

Fry took a minute to marshal her resources. Once again her mental and emotional framework felt like it had been sent through the ringer. Back and forth, several times. They'd gone a few blocks from the Dance Bar, sticking to side streets. When she'd brought herself back to her approximate center (or as close to it as she was likely to get in French's unstablizing company) she dug her heels in for the second time that evening. It had the same effect, bringing French, who was still dragging her along by the wrist, around to face her.

'I want to know why Miguel. Why not me?'

'Why that bothers you so much, I don't know. I've worked with him for a long time. I only wanted him to do two things. Miguel's pretty good at keeping it simple. He layed low and watched the crowd for me. He didn't ask why, where, or what. But the real reason I brought him is this. I know that Miguel has an absolute terror of physical pain. If there's even the remotest chance he may encounter it, he disappears into thin air. On a dime. It's a neat trick, never seen anything quite like it. That's why he was there.' She neglected to mention the one time she'd seen this trick fail him, but she didn't think it was pertinent to her case.

'But that's awful! Then you're all alone.'

'Precisely. And I know what I'm doing. So does Miguel. He has a realistic understanding of his abilities and limitations in a conflict. You're like one of those little dogs that runs after German Shepards and Rottweilers.'

'Some of those little dogs are pretty fierce.'

'No doubt. But they don't stand a chance if that big dog isn't a total freak case and gets it in it's mind to have the little dog for lunch. Asking the big dogs if they'd really rather just 'all have a dance' isn't going to stop them from ripping it apart. What the hell was that supposed to accomplish anyway?'

'Don't change the subject. Let's concentrate on one of my inadequacies at a time.'

'But it's the same one. You don't have a clue what to do in a conflict. You're completely unrealistic about your abilities and other people's intentions. That could get you badly hurt or worse. I'm not willing to risk it. Period. Conversation over, now let's go.' French was getting hot under the collar. She'd already let Fry violate directives One through Five. And now Uncle Max and Jasper were in town. She wasn't going to expose someone like Fry to that kind of professional scum. From here on in it was a game of hardball, all around. That meant dealing it tough to Fry for her own good.

The thought that Fry could get seriously, if not grievously injured, had started a creeping feeling in the bottom of her gut. She was the kind of person who considered fear a helpful emotion when she was instilling it in someone else, not when it was encroaching on her own digestive tract. The fact that she was feeling it at all pissed her off.

From about a half a block behind her she heard Fry speak again, 'How am I supposed to be of any use if you won't let me help?'

'We'll figure that out as we go along. Now move it.'

'But where are we going?'

'A few blocks from here, okay! Let's move it!' She'd about reached her limit. She was holding on to her temper for all she was worth and Fry kept pushing her.

'You're impossible, I can't work with you if you won't tell me what's going on!'

'You don't work with me, you work for me. And when you need to know something, I'll tell you!' French had snapped. Her finite capacity for give and take had run out.

'Is that so? Why can't you admit that I'm a help to you? Do you really think you're such an island unto yourself? Come on, you need me.' Fry could see that French had become a wee bit tense, but she wasn't going accept being treated like a peon. Not a peon without a brain anyway.

'Why would I need you? A townie waitress. I'm not saying that you don't have your uses, but you don't have the slightest clue what you're dealing with here. I'll say it for the last time, this is no game. Maybe you should go home before you get hurt, Fry. I'm not letting you get anymore involved than you are now.' She delivered the final coup de gra. 'Go back to your whole grains and tofu.'

'Uses...Letting me...' If there was one thing Fry could not abide, it was being objectified and patronized in the same breath. The word 'uses' coming out of French's mouth had a distinctly sexual connotation to it. She could have handled being patronized, after all French could be such a snot. But to be objectified on top of it was too much. It short-circuited her already taxed operating system. 'I'm not a half-wit French, the murder clued me in that this wasn't a game. I don't know what's going on because you won't tell me. By 'uses' if you mean that grope in the alley, you're pathetic. And for the record, I don't work for you. You're an impossible, self-interested egotist who doesn't have the slightest idea how to treat people decently. I quit. I'm going home. Put that in your stock pot and boil it, chef.'

'I'm impossible!? Oh please, like you aren't the least bit unreasonable.' But she was talking to Fry's back. The small woman could really move when she put her mind to it. As her figure receded into the dark, French felt a tightening in her chest. She ignored it. This unexpected turn was for the best.

She left Fry to her fit and made her way through the town alone. Jason had better be good and cooperative when she found him, otherwise he'd wish he'd never come home.

The lights were on in Monica's kitchen. She could hear them talking quietly inside. As not to startle anyone unduly and give Jason the opportunity to make a run for it, she tried the handle to the door. It wasn't even locked. Amateurs. She opened it quietly and let herself into a small chamber off the kitchen, the spare boot room from the looks of all the clutter. Weren't librarians supposed to be orderly and neat?

She walked into the kitchen and as everyone registered the uninvited guest in their midst, she clamped a firm hand down on Jason's shoulder and re-sat him in his chair. 'No need to stand, we're all friends here.'

She shot Andre a questioning glance across the table. Was he in on this too? What the hell was going on in this town?

'Jason, so good to finally meet you. I'd appreciate it if you could answer a couple of questions for me. Then I'll save you some trouble by helping you avoid a couple of Mitchell Redmond's associates on your way off the island. I have a feeling he'd like to chat with you too. Only, he's not as pretty as I am, and he's got this guy Jasper working with him who's a real son of a bitch, with no patience whatsoever. A real hothead. So let's get this over with shall we? You have a boat to catch.'

She would have retrieved the tape and the documents Jason told her about last night, but Fry had the damn keys. The one thing she let her have and it turned out to be a critical element in the scheme of things. Great. And to top it off, Fry hadn't shown up for her shift. What the hell was her problem anyway? One little thing doesn't go her way and she's off in a huff. If she thought she was working a double tomorrow she could just forget it. This was exactly the kind of thing French expected would happen when she started being friendly to an employee.

She was standing at her station. There was something she was supposed to be doing but she'd lost track of it. And she had this god-damned pain in her chest that wouldn't go away. She'd taken an aspirin, but it hadn't seemed to help. She brushed her hand over the spot and concentrated her thoughts.

That's what it was! She was supposed to restock her reach-in. She knelt down and sifted through the contents. She checked off a few things on the list in her head and stood again. Now what was she supposed to do? She stood there for a moment. Right, the storeroom.

Barbra entered the kitchen and found French standing in front of Sonny's station staring at the ventilation hood of the stove. She shot Sonny a look, he glanced up from his work and gave a nervous shrug. The copious amount of sweat that had formed on his brow indicated that he wasn't exactly enjoying the chef's company in a laid back fashion.

French brushed her hand over her jacket front and shook her head slightly. 'Sonny, when the delivery comes in, make sure none of it gets left on the landing. Might rain later.'

'No problem.' Sonny had no clue why she was telling him, that was Brian's thing.

'Excuse me, French?' Barbra kept her voice low, she had the feeling that it might not be a good idea to startle her. 'Could we talk for a minute?'

'Yeah, I've got to get some paperwork done. Sonny, tell Brian to get that stuff taken care of.' Sonny didn't care what French meant, he was just relieved that she was going somewhere else with her creepy trance state.

Barbra followed French into her office and closed the door behind them. French walked to her desk and sat heavily in the chair.

'Miguel's acting more odd than usual. Fry hasn't shown up for shift. And I'd like to know if she's alright.' Barbra had seen how Fry left the bar last night. She figured she'd be okay as long as she was with French. Though why she'd given that feeling any merit was beyond her now. She was getting nervous.

'She's pulling a stunt. She'll be here.'

Not that Barbra wanted to shorten her life span, but it wasn't like Fry to pull anything, much less a stunt that involved inconveniencing other people, so she pressed on. 'Not that it's any of my business, but what kind of a stunt?'

'She's trying to make me think she's quitting. Got all pissy over nothing last night and stormed off.'

Barbra wasn't so much nervous now that she was getting agitated. 'Nothing' could mean anything coming out of French's mouth. And if she'd hurt Fry, then Barbra was going to pull a stunt of her own.

'Did you hurt her?' Putting both hands on French's desk, she leaned over to make eye contact. But French wouldn't look up. She was brushing her hand across her jacket again, right where her heart would have been if Barbra didn't know any better.

'Hurt her?' French drifted off into la-la land again. Barbra couldn't tell if she was considering the fact for the first time, or mentally picking her nose.

'Yeah, ya know, sleep with her and take off before sunrise? Tell her she was a pretty good lay, but not the kind of thing you'd take seriously? Lead her on then go home with one of her friends?' Barbra was on a roll.

'No! I just kissed her...' Barbra saw a look that could have passed for pained on the chef's face if she didn't know any better about that too. 'Then I told her she was a useless townie waitress and she should get lost.'

Oh boy. Barbra could see that she was treading on dangerous ground. French had picked up a pen and was absentmindedly squeezing it, her knuckles going whiter with each grip. At least she knew that Fry was probably okay. Upset, but okay. But then again, this was French she was talking to, maybe she hadn't gotten the full story.

'What makes you think she's trying to make you think she's quitting?' Was that as convoluted as it sounded?

'She said so.' She looked Barbra right in the eye as she said it. This was the kicker. For both of them. French knew for the first time since she'd heard it come out of Fry's mouth that it was no empty threat. And Barbra knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt, French was sitting in front of her falling apart at the seams. In what may have been the most normal act she'd witnessed the chef in all summer.

As every fiber of her being fought and struggled against it, French was being made to face the simple fact that she cared. And caring had some pretty tricky consequences.

Barbra hated when men cried, but what she hated more was to see a tough woman do it. She knew that there were only a few acceptable excuses for a man to cry. But there were none for a tough woman to do the same. It was too painful a prospect to consider that kind of control breaking down.

The balance of her internal prejudice was tipped by this conversation with French and by what she'd witnessed the night before. She'd seen the look on French's face when that fight had started. She'd also watched in amazement as the woman sprinted across the nailed down tabletops of the Dance Bar to land behind Fry and kick Trent Howard into Hamish Feeney's fist. She'd approved wholeheartedly. Trent was an obnoxious little shit.

She swallowed several years of finely crafted and carefully constructed bitterness and addressed the chef. Was she a sucker or what? 'I'm going to start by telling you that I'm not your biggest fan. Just for my own benefit, mind.' She had French's attention now. And she was reasonably sure the chef had passed that difficult and uncomfortable moment. 'Are you sure that's all there is to it? Is there something else she might have been angry about?'

'I can't see why this is any of your business.' French was desperately trying to pull herself together. What was Barbra's problem anyway? Didn't she have a job to do?

'It's not, and I'll gladly buzz right on out of here and go see if Fry's alright, because you are a sorry waste of my time. I was under the false impression that you might have cared. Sorry, I won't make the mistake again.' She started to go, but a quiet voice stopped her.

'I do.'

'Then why on earth are you sitting here on your ass? Why aren't you over at her house apologizing? It's what people who care do.'

French clenched her jaw and looked at her. 'I can't...'

'Like hell you can't. You walk a quarter mile east and knock on a door. It's that easy.' But to herself, Barbra acknowledged that it would undoubtedly be the hardest thing French had ever done. That is, if she did it right.

'She's better off, away from me...' It was feeble, and Barbra cut her right off.

'Is that what this is all about? YOU? What a surprise! I've got a news flash for you. The world does not revolve around you. Fry, Violet is a grown woman, she can make her own decisions. But maybe you're right, this way there's no hard work for you, you can sidestep the responsibility for hurting her feelings. Or maybe...' Barbra sent up a silent prayer. She'd surely pushed her luck this far, she prayed to be allowed one minute more. '...maybe you're chicken.'

French was on her feet in a flash. Nostrils flaring, body at the ready, she glowered down at Barbra.

'Well?' Barbra was impressed that her voice was almost calm.

The sound of French's teeth grinding was the only noise in the room until she spoke. 'So I just knock on the door, right?'

'It's a start.'

'Fine. Tell Brian to fill in.' She stormed out, slamming the back door to her office as she went.

Barbra sat on the couch with a thump. 'What have I done?'

To be continued...