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 9

'A host is like a general: it takes a mishap to reveal his genius.' - Horace

On the way over to Fry's house, French learned that Harriet was not only an organic vegetable farmer, she was also a practicing defense attorney. She was an energetic and serious woman in her mid thirties with a no nonsense demeanor and an incredible mass of frizzy hair on her head.

The couple of times French had encountered Harriet at the farm stand she wasn't sure if the woman was angry, or if that was her personality. It was her personality. She had a clipped manner of speech and didn't suffer fools well, or quietly.

Her rigid interface with the rest of the world seemed pierced only by Joe, who acted as if Harriet were in a constant state of good cheer and merriment. It worked for them, French could see that. Harriet had a way of softening her regard when she spoke to Joe, that didn't translate to anyone else. Except Fry maybe.

Joe seemed like your run of the mill guy, who wasn't a guy, kind of guy. He wore his clothes baggy and stayed close to Harriet most of the time like she was prime real estate and no one else had sense enough to know it. Or maybe, possibly, Harriet was the only one in the group who had a chance with Mother Spark, should a fight break out.

French tried to discern the Spark family dynamic. Not an easy feat. The Sparks were not your average clan. Priscilla held a tight reign over her brood. Howard had a more laid back approach, and probably didn't have to worry about discipline too much. Priscilla had him covered. But how anyone had managed the two sisters was beyond French. Once they'd started talking it was nonstop. And Priscilla and Harriet joined in soon after, the bubbly undertow was too strong to resist. From the cell door to the living room of the Spark's house, French hadn't heard anyone pause for breath. Except for Howard who hadn't said much.

They all took seats. Fry wanted to sit on the arm of her chair, but French wasn't used to all of the affection she was getting in public. Not that she knew what she should do with it in private, but she was more comfortable with it there. Priscilla seemed to be taking a dim view of it herself. So French indicated that Fry ought to sit in the chair next to her. Fry did not look pleased with that arrangement. French supposed that it was time to have a talk about personal space and the public view. She didn't want Fry to get the wrong idea that they were an item or anything, not just because she was in her house meeting with her parents.

French didn't care for the idea of relationships. All of the ones she'd had were strictly user-friendly affairs, whether the other party was aware of it or not. That wasn't what she wanted with Fry, but she didn't know what else she did want. Certainly not a U-Haul truck showing up at her front door. There had to be a way to have Fry in her life for a time without her setting down roots or becoming a barnacle. Fry had barnacle tendencies, she could tell.

'Why don't I start?' Fry thought it might be a good idea to dive right in and get out as fast as possible to spare French as much as she could. She'd tried to sit close and offer moral support, morals being a new concept for French, but the chef had brushed her off.

It took her a while to lay it all out. There was a lot of ground to cover and her mother looked like she was going to pop for half of the time she talked. She told them about Louisa and trying to help French figure out who'd poisoned, allergied or murdered her. She told them about all of their run ins and outs and generally made her parents apoplectic in the process. Joe kept saying, 'No way.' And Harriet shook her head as if to say, 'How do you people survive?'

Silence followed her speech. Fry wished she was sitting closer to French. She could have used some moral support of her own just then.

French was measuring the distance to the door and waiting for the explosion.

Priscilla looked over at French and asked, 'Does she get overtime for any of this? How about accident insurance? Are you trying to get her killed!?' Priscilla went on for a few minutes after that, attempting to alleviate some of her maternal anxiety at French's expense.

'Priscilla, I think we both know Violet makes her own decisions.' Howard begrudged, but he was giving French a look that said he kind of wished she'd pissed him off.

'Of course she does, and with this... this...' It was still too hard for her to say it. 'I'm sure she's getting plenty of encouragement. Did it ever occur to you that these people would come after my daughter eventually? Or was it convenient for you to have a target for them?'

'May I speak, or do I just sit here and take this? I'm not clear on protocol for family chats.' French asked.

'Of course you can speak, this is an open dialogue.' Priscilla bristled.

'Well then. Your daughter,' French glanced over at the woman in question. 'Is one of the most obstinate women I have ever set eyes on. At first I thought she might be dense, but as reality set in I realized that she's not the kind of woman to sit around and wait for instruction. No matter how many times I expected it. She's got a spine and is as tenacious as any pitbull I've had the pleasure to meet. You should be proud. It took me a while to figure out that there wasn't much I could do but damage control where your daughter was concerned. You'll excuse me if the idea of me corrupting and endangering your angelic child sounds ludicrous to my ears.'

Priscilla and Howard looked at each other. There wasn't a lot to argue with there.

French glanced at Fry again who was looking proud of herself.

Fry was thinking that French was so sweet when she tried and failed to give a compliment.

French continued, 'I knew she might be a target. We discussed it. What she did with that information was her own business. You can spank her later, but leave me out of it.'

'Ready to run so soon are you?' Priscilla challenged. 'You may think you've cleverly extricated yourself from any responsibility here but you're wrong. You can't believe we'll sit here while Violet consorts with the likes of you.'

'Gee Mom, why don't you slap a scarlet 'A' on her chest? It's not like Violet hasn't dated a hard case before.' Joe added helpfully.

'That's not being helpful Joe.' Priscilla countered.

'Yeah Joe, shut it.' Fry agreed.

French looked over at Fry wondering who the other hard cases were.

'What I'm saying is that you're not known for your quality relationships with your waitstaff. I'm not going to sit here and cheer while you're using my daughter, no matter how much she's enjoying it.'

'Mom! That's not fair! You can't attack French because she has intimacy issues.' Fry was quick to the defense.

'Violet, there's a difference between having an issue and taking one out on other people.'

'It's been wonderful sitting here having my shortcomings laid out so clearly before me like this.' French said. 'You all have a way of being devastatingly supportive. But I'm not interested in group therapy, and I don't need a lecture on dating etiquette. I'm not dating your daughter, she knows that. Our relationship is our own business, whatever you may think. In the meantime, I promise to do whatever I can to minimize the contact she has with any of my more dangerous acquaintances. And I'll do my best to limit her exposure to my less pleasant qualities while I'm at it.'

The room was silent for a moment, then Fry spoke, 'Good boundaries, French!'

Joe and Harriet nodded their heads. French gave Fry a wry look. Priscilla shifted in her chair. Howard didn't look like he'd bought it.

'Perhaps we ought to adjourn this discussion for the time being. French, would you like to join us for dinner?' Howard asked.

'Oh, no Dad, she can't.' Fry jumped in for the rescue. 'She's, um, going out to Gillman Rock with me.'

'Well,' Priscilla stood. 'You'll need something to eat in either case, so I'll go fix you something to take.'

Fry looked at French who smiled an exceedingly polite looking smile at her mother and said, 'Thank you.' She hoped Priscilla wasn't inspired by the mention of poison earlier. Not that French thought she'd be eating anything Priscilla made for her. And why would a woman who'd spent the last fifteen minutes chewing her out want to give her food anyway?

Priscilla left. Howard followed. Joe sat staring at French, Harriet distracted him before he could ask her to armwrestle. She hated when he did that.

French looked around the room. She had no idea what she was doing there. Fry got up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. 'You were great. Thanks for sitting through that. To show you how grateful I am, I'll go a whole shift without asking you any questions. I'll even do what you say for a while.'

'Oh, save it. I wouldn't be doing myself any favors by accepting that offer. You'd explode.'

'She's got your number sis.' Joe said.

'You did well for someone who's not sat through one of Priscilla's 'discussions' before.' Harriet commented. 'I nearly slugged her my first time. She forgets that they're grown, especially when she's had a scare like today.'

French had to concede that any other parents probably would have shot her on the spot, not sat down for a 'dialogue'. Fry excused herself to see if she could get anything French might like to eat included in their package. She wasn't even sure the food would make it any further than French's front stoop, but you never knew.

Joe was beginning to worry French. Not that she thought he was checking her out, but he kept looking at her arms. She was still wearing her jacket, so she didn't know what it was he was thinking. She wondered if he had a fetish. He didn't look the type, but then she knew well, you could never really know that from looking. She'd had her toes licked one too many times by people you'd never have guessed would be inclined in that direction. Whatever it was, Harriet was on the case and kept re-directing his focus.

They were a funny couple. There was a considerable age difference, but like all of the apparent differences between them it worked. Joe was young and laid back, Harriet was older and tense. Joe wasn't as small as Fry, but he was still on the short side and fairly thin. Harriet was taller and more on the heavy side. Joe had a short cropped neat haircut, Harriet's hair appeared untamable.

French distracted herself by looking at the books on the shelves. Fry was taking forever. They read a lot those Sparks. Low bookshelves lined the walls of the room. She wouldn't be caught dead reading most of them. The volumes covered a wide range of topics, but there was an underlying leftist theme. Lots of books on the labor movement, prison reform, racism, sexism, homophobia. French wondered if they hid the fiction so as not to give the wrong impression to the neighbors. One of the volumes on a bookshelf near her chair caught her eye.

She got up and pulled it out. It was a small volume called, Growing Space: The Building of a Community Center. It was the author's name that had drawn her attention. Violet Spark. There was a photo on the cover of a building French had seen in town. There was a group of people on the front steps and Fry was in the middle. She was younger and not looking at the camera, but at a child who was pulling on her hand.

French flipped the book over and looked at the back. She quickly gleaned that it wasn't a history of the Comstock Community Center, but the story of how Fry had located the space and coordinated the funding to create it.

'Pretty neat, huh?' Joe asked.

French looked over and nodded. There was a lot she didn't know about this Violet Spark.

'She wrote that the year after it opened. Coordinating the Center was what got her through Mom's illness. That's Violet, she always turns a situation into something positive. It's her nature. Mom encouraged her to write the book to let people know that there was something they could do in their own communities to affect change. It also kept Violet from going stir crazy during that winter. She's got a lot of energy.'

French nodded again. That much she knew.

'You can borrow it if you want. This is more of a lending library than anything else. My folks won't mind.'

'Thanks, I will.' French tucked the book under her jacket. She was going to do a little research.

Chapter 42

Much to Fry's surprise, they'd gone out to Gillman Rock. And they'd had a nice time. They were talked out on any serious topics, so Fry chatted amiably and French dozed.

They returned to French's house later that night and retired to the bedroom. In all, Fry considered it a good day, that kept getting better.

French couldn't have agreed more. She was experiencing the most gentle massage she'd ever had, and possibly the most arousing. She lay on her stomach with her head rested on her arms. Fry had climbed onto her back and lay along the length of her, kissing, sucking, but mostly licking at her shoulders and the back of her neck. It was a mix of relaxing, gentle and stimulating. Every now and again, Fry would reach down and brush her hands over French's rear and hips to remind her that she hadn't lost focus of her initial intent. Fry could do that, she could lose focus. French had found it amusing that Fry could get so wrapped up in a particular physical sensation. But after the amusement, frustration set in pretty quickly.

French was all for foreplay, in theory. In practice, she was a positive goal-oriented, immediate gratification junky. Fry was into sensations of all kinds. It seemed like she could get as turned on by kissing French's shoulder blades as she could by a lot of other things. But unlike French, who had to do something about it immediately, Fry seemed happy to bask in it. French had become familiar with the glassy-eyed look Fry got whenever she began to getcarried away and the danger of her stalling, as French had come to see it, increased exponentially.

French, being a 'can do', strategic sort of person, figured out that if they had sex immediately, then she could let Fry do her thing. That had been the case earlier that night. Not that it wasn't making her wet to have a bundle of heated arousal moving all over her like that, it's just that after an orgasm, it didn't make her near murderous with need.

'You feel so good.' Fry took a brief break, to compliment her host.

'Umm, hmmm.'

'I haven't forgotten this.' Fry brushed a hand up along French's thigh and hip.

'Good thing too, I'm about ready to turn you in for neglect.'

'You poor thing.' Fry nipped at a convenient shoulder. 'I'm terrible to you aren't I?'

'No one would believe the abuse I put up with from you.' And she meant it. Any one night stand she'd ever had would have a hard time recognizing her behavior with Fry in bed. Was this the difference between using and liking your partner in sex?

'No, I doubt they would.' Fry sunk her teeth into French's shoulder muscle, giving her a good, hard bite. She'd learned quickly the effect that got. In no time she'd been flipped on her back and had a full sized, fully aroused, and extremely energetic chef on top of her.

French wasted no time, she parted Fry's legs with her thigh and began to move against her in a smooth rhythm. Fry was a sucker for a good rhythm. 'Let's see how you like it for a change.'

Fry moaned at the sensation. She reached forward to touch French, who backed away. 'Ah, ah. Hands to yourself. This is sensory deprivation time for you.'

'You've got a funny idea of sensory deprivation.' Fry moaned again as she felt French brush a hand up the outside of her thigh.

'You haven't even begun to suffer. Just you wait.' French taunted her victim.

Who was Fry kidding? French knew her greatest weakness. Fry needed to touch with her hands. She hadn't realized how dangerous letting French know that so early on could be. She lay there, feeling the pressure build within her. She wasn't into pain, nor was she too proud to give in. 'Please.'

'I don't think so Missy. We're going to see exactly what you can take.' For a brief, torturous moment, French slipped her hand between Fry's thighs. She was soaked. The chef's determination faltered, but then, as was often the case with French, she was able to dig deep and bolster her resolve.

Fry did the only thing a person in her position could do. She began to touch herself. It wasn't a substitute she would have taken given the choice. It was an offensive manoeuvre.

'That's cheating.' French complained.

'You said, 'hands to yourself.'' Fry explained. She was pleased to see the look of incredulous consternation appear on the chef's face.

French hated being out maneuvered in any field. But if you were going to lose, there were worse ways to do it. She watched, fascinated as Fry's hands wove patterns over her own abdomen and breasts. She was getting lost in her own sensations damn it, the woman was unstoppable. And Fry's body wasn't the kind of thing you could sit idly by and watch be caressed. It was more of a hands on event.

French caved and leaned down to kiss the traitor. Within a millisecond Fry was attached to her, touching everywhere. Of course, that's when French lost track and started to move on instinct. Feeling Fry moving beneath her did things to her that she wasn't sure she understood. It had an effect on her sense of time. As in, hours later, she'd realize that they hadn't eaten, or slept, or done anything else two bodies might need to do if they weren't otherwise occupied.

And being in bed with Fry was an otherwise occupation she thought she could make a go of for a while. She felt incredible, and she knew how to move. That was important to French, who was big into movement.

Chapter 43

Fry recognized Senator Harding as he walked through the hallway at Bachanal. He was on his way to the kitchen. It was midafternoon and either the light was doing funny things in the restaurant, or he looked very pale.

As much as she wanted to follow him, she had a job to do. She was also pretty sure that he was there to see French.

'Can we talk?' Jay entered the kitchen looking like he'd seen better days. French called for Brian and took Jay back to her office.

French sat at her desk and faced the weary Senator who'd sat carefully and was glancing around the room. 'I'd forgotten that you weren't keen on decoration.'

'Hardly useful in a kitchen. I suspect you're not here to critique my interior decorating skills.'

He smiled. 'No. I'm here because I'm worried about Julie.'

'And I can do what about that?'

'Whatever you've got, I want it. I'll pay. I don't expect you to go to all of that trouble for nothing.'

'Sweet of you. But you're not very good at this sort of thing. I suspect it's not one of your strengths. No energy to rustle up some creative proposition? You're looking awfully tired Jay. Is the stress of your present company beginning to wear on you? Or could it be that after all of these years, they've finally rubbed off on you? Difficult time sleeping at night knowing the truth, isn't it?'

'What do you want?' 'Simple. I want you at dinner tomorrow night. Actually, I'll need you there. As you say, this may be hard on Julia.'

'You ruined her life once, wasn't that enough?'

'I'm not sure what you mean. I helped her father rid himself of a failing asset. She'd done that and worse to many others. And for the record, the secretary wasn't a big surprise to her.'

'You're heartless.'

'And you have too much heart. It's a fault as much as a virtue if you're not careful.'

She'd let Jay out the back. She knew she should have felt worse for him than she did. However, he'd always been aware of Julia's doings, so he was no angel himself. He looked like hell, he had dark bags under his eyes, he was sickly pale and there was a slump to his usually squared shoulders. She hoped he didn't keel over in the middle of the night. That would really throw a wrench into her plan. But Jay was solid stock, she figured he'd make it to the party.

With a very helpful Monica, French had tracked down the inside source she'd been seeking. And you could have knocked her over with a feather if she didn't know her personally. It had taken her a moment to register the name. And she was annoyed to know that someone else had figured out Mitchell's propensity for nocturnal rambling. But then, women are such resourceful creatures.

Fry was a great example of that. French couldn't imagine how the woman still had any sanity or goodwill left in her system. Not after the ordeal the community had put her through over getting that community center up and running. Not that Fry complained at all in her book. But French knew her well enough to translate the text. Whenever she spoke about various 'challenges' or people's 'fears', French knew that she was talking about assholes who were getting in her way and generally making her life hell. Fry never put it that way, but French knew.

On the battle front the chef was prepared. She had all of the angles covered and the oysters had arrived from Wellfleet. She reasoned that if you were going to spoil someone's hard work and scheming, you ought to feed them a good meal. Fry must be rubbing off on her.

She was finishing out the shift when the woman in question appeared before her station.

'Come with us to the Dance Bar. You've planned all you can for tomorrow. Let's have some fun.'

Fry didn't know a lot about planning if that was her take on it. 'We don't need to go out to have fun.'

'You know what I mean. Come on, it'll do you good to get out of your routine and let loose. We can dance and you can meet some friends of mine. Bobby's going to be there, he never goes to those places and he's dying to meet you.'

'You'll recall the last time I was there with you, you started a riot. If that's your idea of fun, I'd rather stay home and catch up on my reading.'

'We didn't go together and I did not start that fight.' Fry insisted.

'Like I've said, trouble follows you.'

'Well you're proof of that.'

They planned to meet at the Dance Bar at twelve and stay long enough to have a drink and say 'hi'.

It had been an entire hour since Fry had seen French at work so when the chef walked through the door of the Dance Bar, Fry launched herself at her and gave her a big kiss. French wasn't sure how she felt, standing in the middle of a bar with Fry attached to her face, so she eased her off and said, 'Hi.'

'Hi!' Fry took French's hand and started to lead her off to meet her friends. They ran into Bobby who'd come from the table and was on his way to the bar.

'It's nice to finally meet you.' Bobby said after Fry had introduced them.

French smiled and once again eased herself away from Fry who seemed intent on occupying as much of her personal space as possible. She was edgy with everything that was going on and needed some breathing room.

'Is there anything I can get you guys? I'm on rounds.'

'I'll have another Corona.' Fry requested.

'Nothing for me, thanks.' French wasn't interested in staying all that long.

'Catch you over there.' Bobby headed off to fight the crowd at the bar.

French looked down at the woman who'd managed to tuck two fingers into her beltloop and was giving her a doughy eyed sort of look. 'How many beers have you had?'

'Just one.' Fry smiled and tried to give French another hug. She was so huggable.

'You could have told me that you get more touchy feely when you're drunk. I would have been prepared.'

'That wasn't nice.' Fry took a step back. 'Do you have a problem with me touching you? I was under the impression that it's the kind of thing you were into.'

'Of course I like it. I'm just not big on you touching me in the middle of a straight bar filled with drunks.'

'Oh, I can respect that. Most of the people here know I'm gay if that makes you feel any better.'

'No, it doesn't. I don't want you to hang on me that's all.'

The more French talked, the worse it sounded to Fry's one beer-buzzed brain. 'Do you have a problem with people knowing you're with me?'

'No one could have missed that fact, so it's a moot point.' French was definitely feeling prickly on that issue.

'What bothers you more? The fact that someone here might not think you're available? Or that you're not quite dating one of your waitresses?' Fry had had it. If French was cautious in public that was one thing, if she was ashamed of her, that was a different kettle of fish.

'Come on, let's drop it and go talk with your friends.' French didn't feel like having another heart to heart about her emotional shortcomings and what a jerk she was.

'Why don't you answer the question?'

'Because I've already forgotten what it was. This is stupid. Let's just drop it.'

'Fine. I'll see you around.' Fry turned to go to her friends.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'When you can remember the question, we'll talk. Goodbye.' And off she went.

French stood, dumbfounded, with people milling around her. She hadn't seen it coming. She didn't have to take that kind of abuse, not from a little pipsqueak like Fry, she didn't. But there was something preventing her from following her over to her table and giving her a piece of her mind. She needed to think for a minute.

She turned and headed for the bar. One of the advantages of being tall is that getting a drink isn't all that hard to do. Being solidly built doesn't hurt either. She had her drink and was leaning against the wall, plotting. Barbra, who'd been in the bar since eleven, hanging out with friends and waiting for Michael to join the party, decided to see what would happen if she talked to the chef outside of work.

'Why here in the corner by your lonesome Chef? Lots of folks here you know.' Barbra said.

'Too many for my taste. I'm here to meet Fry's friends.'

Barbra looked at French, then glanced around the bar. She thought she'd seen Fry sitting at a table before. She spotted the group and Fry was seated with them. She looked back at French, puzzled. 'She's right over there, didn't you see her?'

'I saw her.'

Barbra looked back over at Fry. Fry glanced in their direction and her expression went a long way to clear up the confusion in Barbra's alcohol clouded mind. 'What's up? Miss Congeniality looks ticked off.'

'She got all pissy because I told her to stop hanging all over me. I can't stand when women do that.'

'What's the matter French? Does the idea of people knowing you're here with someone you intend to leave with make you uncomfortable?' Barbra asked as innocently as she could.

'It makes me uncomfortable to think I may suffocate in a room crowded full of drunks with Fry attached to me at the hip. I'm not big into touching.'

'Ha! That's not what I've heard, you liar.' Barbra was on her third Margarita and was feeling no pain. If French decided to slug her, she'd be fine.

'I meant in public. Besides, Fry doesn't need my reputation following her around.'

'Ah, ah. We've already been down that road remember? You, you, you. It's not all about you. You're chicken shit, admit it. You let her touch you in public, that slick veneer of brooding independance gets diminished. You're afraid you're going to look weak if you let one little, itsy-bitsy, tinsy lady touch you in public. You big scary chef, you're chicken.'

'And you're smashed. How many of those have you had?'

'Ooh, it's about me now, is it? Give it up tough gal. You hurt her feelings again because you're chicken. I think I like saying that.'

'I'll remind you when you're sober. We'll see how much you like saying it then.'

'Okay tough gal, it's a deal. In the meantime, you're chicken if you don't go over there and make up with her. Do you know how many people in this town wish that woman wanted to touch them as much as she wants to touch you? It's not like you got the booby prize Chef. You struck gold when she walked into your restaurant. You're just too screwed up to see it. Oooh, oooh! Or is it that you don't want your fancy friends up on the Hill to know you're with a townie? You're such a snot!'

'You know Barbra, if you weren't drunk, I'd have rearranged your seating plan by now. I don't take kindly to people telling me where to get off and how I ought to treat people. But in this one case, I'm going to make an exception.'

'Why's that?'

'Because you're right.' French turned and walked away. She really did feel like pounding Barbra. The truth hurt and lashing back was pure reflex for French.

She approached the table of friends Fry had joined. Fry wasn't paying her any attention as she stood there. Some of the other people glanced up and nodded, but no one addressed her. Oooh, shunning, how old New England. She placed a hand on Fry's shoulder. Fry turned her head in French's direction, but didn't look up. French brushed Fry's cheek with her index finger, but then Fry turned away.

'Come dance with me?' French asked.

'We wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong impression. Maybe we'd better not.' Fry responded.

'Please, come dance with me?' French urged.

Fry was caught in a dilemma. Of course she wanted to dance with French, but the woman was sending her scrambled messages and her patience was running thin. All of this was further complicated because French, darn her, had used the magic word. Fry hadn't heard that particular word cross French's lips as yet in their acquaintance. 'Well, since you've asked so nicely, I don't think that I ought to decline. But that doesn't mean this is over.'

'Of course not.' To herself French said, 'Perish the thought.'

Fry excused herself from the group who gave her surreptitious signs of support.

French had become intimate with Fry in myriad ways over the last week. They'd done plenty of metaphorical dancing, but this was different. They were surrounded by people on the crowded floor, many of whom didn't seem at all comfortable with them being there together. French didn't care for crowds.

The feeling of Fry's hands around her waist mitigated the anxiety caused by her surroundings. She looked down and caught a shy smile on Fry's face. It was lovely. French began to sway slowly to the music. Fry moved with her. It was a slow number, but it didn't really matter because they weren't paying a lot of attention to it.

French hadn't moved her hands to touch Fry. Something was holding her back. Her need to appear independent? Unattached? Indifferent? Aloof? Why wasn't it simple to do it whether she meant it as meaningful or not? Fry didn't seem to notice and was certainly happy without it.

French began to wonder if she wasn't redundant on the dance floor in any case. Fry could probably do this just as well on her own. She had her eyes closed and was swaying to the music and French could tell she was getting into one of those grooves of hers. Fry was the easy going, personable type who could probably walk onto a dancefloor and start dancing by herself and enjoy it. Not that that would last any length of time. She'd have a swarm of offers to join in in a flash. People would probably climb over each other to get at that swaying little sensualist.

French looked down again and caught Fry, eyes still closed, with a broad smile on her face. She also noticed that somehow she'd wrapped her own arms snugly around the small woman. She wasn't sure when that had happened, but it seemed like a good idea.

Michael had finally joined the party. He'd been busy helping his unit put out a brush fire started by a gang of overzealous marshmellow roasting preteens. He and Barbra watched the dancing couple from a table. 'So you have to watch that kind of thing all of the time at work?' He had a newfound respect for his longtime and easily aroused girlfriend.

'Yup.' Barbra affirmed. She would have rolled her eyes too, but couldn't manage it.

'I'm surprised I'm still able to walk.'

After dancing and chatting with some of the people they knew, they'd rejoined the table of Fry's friends. They were a group of young townies. There was Bobby and four women French didn't know, but they all seemed to have an idea who she was.

'So French,' Bobby started. 'What are your intentions toward my cousin?'

'I intend to take her home where she can sleep it off in a bed and give my lap a break.' She was referring to Fry who'd passed out in her lap with her arms slung around French's neck. Someone should have warned her that Fry was such a cheap date. She'd barely started her second beer.

'I mean, you know. Once the summer's over and she goes back to school. You guys going to keep... whatever it is you're doing?'

French was beginning to feel uncomfortable. There were three other eager faces looking at her from around the table. 'We haven't discussed it Bobby, is this something you ask all of the women she hangs out with?'

'We take care of Violet.' Sarah, one of the three interjected. 'Sometimes she needs a little help.'

'I'm glad to know you're concerned, but I don't think we're talking about the same woman.' French said.

'You haven't met some of her old girlfriends.' Megan, the woman sitting next to Sarah added.

'What were they like?'

'All pretty different. Except usually they screwed up big time because they were sorry losers. Violet's a great person, and people who need a lot of affection are drawn to her. But it's not always the best deal for her, you know?' Megan was giving French the eye. French had been given this look enough to know exactly what she meant. She raised an eyebrow in response.

A groggy voice spoke from the vicinity of French's shoulder. 'Aw c'mon guys, give her a break. My parents have already put her through the ringer.'

Fry leaned back unsteadily. 'Besides,' she said, taking French's face in her hands. 'She's so cute when she's sorry. Look at this face. She's so cute.'

It looked like Fry was leaning forward to kiss her, but she lost consciousness half way to her goal. French got a forehead to her chin instead.

She could have taken Fry home to Spark Manor, but she brought her to her own place instead. That way, she wouldn't have to walk into that house to face those people with their daughter hanging off of her, three sheets to the wind. She didn't care how old Fry was, that wouldn't help her own case with the Sparks one bit.

She tucked Fry in and undressed. Fry'd been mumbling amiably to no one in particular the entire way home. At least French didn't think Fry was talking to her. Most of the time she was unintelligible and once she made French stop so that she could ask a cat how it got so small.

French got into bed and turned off the light.

'French?' Fry's voice was sleepy and slurred.

'Yes?'

'Good night.'

'Good night Fry.'

'French?'

'Mmm?'

'I don't think that cat liked me.'

'Maybe it was having a bad night. Why don't you try to get some sleep?' French thought cats rarely liked it when anyone pinched their cheeks. No matter how small they were.

'Can I touch you?'

'I think we've cleared that one up Fry.'

'Good.' Fry rolled over and laid her head on French's shoulder. 'Sorry I'm such a cheap date.'

A few hours later French was woken by a stirring in the bed next to her. It was daybreak and a cool gray light filtered into the room. She looked over at Fry who was mumbling and making distressed noises.

French propped herself on her elbow and began to think through a strategy for gently waking the deep sleeper at her side. That's when she saw the tears streaming down Fry's face. French moved over and positioned herself. She took Fry in her arms and began to rock and soothe her, while quietly calling to her. Fry began to struggle in her arms and push her away. She protested several times before she became conscious, and froze.

French had begun to worry that she'd given Fry a shock. She was lying there staring at her in the dim light, not saying a word.

'Sorry.' Fry finally said quietly. She was totally embarrassed.

'It's okay. Were you having a bad dream?'

'I guess.' Fry moved away a bit more. She had a feeling of impending abandonment and in her half wakeful state, she moved away from the source of her pain.

'Want to talk about it?'

'No, thanks. I'm probably nervous about dinner tonight. I get these dreams sometimes, usually when I'm anxious.' Fry began to wake more and get some perspective from the dream she'd been so caught up in. She saw the worry on French's face and reached out to touch her. She was solid and she was there.

French leaned into the touch. Fry wasn't even two feet away and she'd almost felt alone when she'd moved off. 'Maybe you should try to go back to sleep.'

'Maybe.' Fry agreed with her mouth, but her body was getting ideas of it's own. She leaned over and kissed French. French kissed her right back.

Chapter 44

Barbra's head felt like it had been put through a meat grinder. The rest of her didn't feel much better. That was definitely the last time she let Chilli get her into a drinking contest. Maybe she'd feel better if Sonny hadn't too. She was glad that French had given the crew a short day.

She entered the kitchen to look for the chef and get her marching orders. She was greeted by a starched and all too awake French who grinned at her. Barbra began to feel nervous, that grin looked familiar. Yeah, as in Alice in Wonderland, and the Cheshire cat familiar. Barbra had always had an uneasy feeling about that cat.

'Good morning!' French walked over and boomed in her ear. Barbra thought that the chef's jacket French had on must have gotten extra bleach, it was too damned bright. 'So glad you were able to join us!' She got a hearty slap on the back to emphasize the chef's cheer. Barbra realized that this might be French's idea of a payback. She wasn't enjoying it.

'Why don't you take your good mood out on someone else?'

'Barbra, I'm hurt. I went to the trouble of fixing you an eye opener and this is the thanks I get?' French pouted, but made sure her voice never dropped from a painful register.

Barbra got more nervous. French never fixed anything for any employee but Fry. Only she was privy to French's generosity, and Barbra had been suspicious of that all along. 'I'm fine, really. No need to worry about me chef. I'll just be getting to it, right?'

'Wrong.' French stepped behind her station and grabbed something from her reach-in. She returned to Barbra with a glass filled with a dubiously colored liquid. 'Drink.'

Barbra was no slouch, she had a spine. Only, with her hangover and French looking so determined, all six feet of her, Barbra caved and drank. She spit the first mouthful halfway down the line. Sonny yelled in surprise as he was nearly sprayed with the green liquid.

'Auck! Are you trying to kill me?! What the hell is this?'

'Something the natives use in Australia to get themselves going after a long night. Finish it.'

'Are you nuts? No, don't answer that. No need.' Barbra held out the glass to French, but she didn't take it.

'You won't regret it if you drink it. Hold your nose. Those people know more about this stuff than you do, believe me.'

'Leave it to you to find a sadistic eye opener. Couldn't you give me an aspirin and some water?'

'Do you know how many times I let you call me 'chicken' last night? We could find another way to even the score...'

'Fine.' Barbra could see that in French's eyes she was getting off easy. She held her breath and drank it down.

Fry walked up looking chipper as ever, which was too damn chipper for Barbra's taste, so she got her instructions and beat it out of crazy central. Not that being out in the dining room made any more sense. French was having them rearrange everything to make it a suitable venue for what looked to be a very intimate dining experience. Barbra made a beeline for the bar to get something that would clear the corrosive flavor from her mouth.

Miguel was having a fit. Everything was being moved around. He took two extra doses of his medication, but it didn't help. He hated change on that scale. It was so unsettling. And why did Barbra have to look so, so... untidy. As if his nerves hadn't already suffered enough.

They went about their assigned tasks, setting up to French's specification.

Fry stopped by French's station on a linen run to ask, 'Why don't you have it upstairs? Then you wouldn't have to move everything around.'

'Did I ask you for advice? I don't recall asking you for advice. Was it in my sleep last night? Because if I'd asked you while I was awake... well, I'd have noticed.'

Fry felt awkward. She'd obviously overstepped a boundary at work, but she'd just been curious really. 'It was a question more than a suggestion.'

'Ah, I should have known.' French hated when Fry looked hurt. But it was the big time here tonight and she didn't have time to be thinking about Fry's oversensitive nervous system. Then it occurred to her that maybe that was just it, maybe Fry was still nervous. She leaned over and said quietly, 'I thought we took care of your butterflies this morning?'

Fry looked confused for a second then gave French a shove. 'Stop! You're so bad.'

'That's nothing, wait 'til you see what I do to the crab later. And it's a better setup downstairs, I thought I told you that already.'

'No, you said you'd get everyone in the dining room and see what happened when the shit hit the fan. You weren't big on detail.' Fry said.

'There's a certain science to the subtle arts of blackmail and coercion. But that about sums it up.'

'Like I've said, I don't feel comfortable using the box to get them here, but if it helps find Louisa's killer, then I guess it's a worthy cause.'

'Sure it is.' French hadn't mentioned to Fry that she intended to use the contents of the box a little more than that, but hey, she was a busy woman, you couldn't expect her to do everything.

Fry wanted to ask why French was going to all of that trouble for people whose appetites she planned to spoil. But she thought better of it and got back to work.

If she'd asked, her answer would have been a brief and possibly loud lecture on style and grace under pressure. How that separated a professional from a hack. In reality, French felt that if you wanted to do anything really well, it ought to involve a lot of cooking. She was at her sharpest when she was planning a menu or preparing a meal. And that night she would have to be very, very sharp.

It was mid afternoon and everything was shaping up nicely. Fry had been avoiding the kitchen again, because she was really nervous. As French prepared she grew more distant. It wasn't that Fry couldn't understand her focus, it was a big moment. It's what followed the moment that Fry couldn't help wondering about.

The questions were mounting in her brain. It was another response to the tense situation. She was worried that after that day, if all went well, French wouldn't need her anymore. Not that French had admitted to needing her at all, but Fry knew better. French hadn't shown an interest in anyone else yet, but she'd been preoccupied with people chasing her, trying to blow up her restaurant and generally being rude. If all of that was cleared up, then what? Would French become bored with her? Move on to something new and different?

She knew she had to accept whatever came, but she didn't have to like it. Not knowing was creating havoc in her intestines.

'Look at your tie!' Miguel scolded her. 'Why don't you go in there and have the chef fix it for you?'

A month ago, Fry would have taken that comment differently. Today, she saw it as a sweet, although patronizing attempt, to lighten the mood. 'She's kind of busy right now. I'll go play with it.'

'Come here. I wasn't trying to get you more nervous.' Miguel undid her tie and began to retie it in crisp, surgical movements. It was like being pecked at by an effeminate rooster.

French, with impeccable timing, chose that moment to walk into the dining room and see Miguel rearranging her favorite waitress' uniform. 'What's going on here?'

'Just fixing the Frylette's tie.' Miguel stood back to inspect his handiwork. If he could get the tie's stripe to meet up with the knot at the right angle he'd feel that much better. He reached forward to readjust it. His hands were seized before attaining their goal.

'I don't think so, fussy man. That's my tie. I'll take care of it.' French intervened.

'But the stripe...' He made a judicious decision to withdraw when he noted that French was serious.

'I'll fix the stripe. Beat it.'

Fry didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Miguel looked like he was going to burst. She sympathized. She put out a hand to reassure him before he took off.

'You don't think he was making a move on your tie do you?' Fry asked.

'You can never be too careful with Miguel. He's an artist.'

'What does that mean?'

'Basically, it means he's a pain in the ass, but exceptionally good at what he does. Which is why people put up with him being such a pain in the ass in the first place.' French patted the tie and stepped back. She stepped forward and readjusted Fry's vest.

'How is it that you can organize an entire neighborhood of people to help you build and fund a community center? Something no one thought they wanted, but you can't tie a proper knot in your own tie?'

Fry stared at French. She wondered who'd told her about the Center. 'It's a different set of skills.'

'Remind me to show you this set later.'

'Miguel's already given up. I doubt you'll have much luck.'

'Miguel doesn't know how to motivate you as well as I do.'

Fry smiled. 'It's true what they say. You're relentless when you want something.'

French did the eyebrow thing and shoved her off. 'Move it or you'll give Miguel an aneurism. Let him get a good look at that stripe. I don't want him O.D.ing on his meds this afternoon, we'll need him later.'

Miguel and Andre were the only other employees that would be on hand for the big show. The rest were being let off beforehand. French didn't want anyone else involved if she could help it. The contents of the box made discretion an important element of putting her guests at ease. Not that she gave a damn about their feelings, it just might help to calm overzealous tempers and restless minds. Until she had her hands around the killer's throat that is.

What the hell do you do with a killer once you've got one? This wasn't a question French had ever had to consider. There was the turning them over to Dil and his mates option. There was the accidental drowning option. She didn't have a clue. Before now she would have judiciously sidestepped the issue and gone back to work. It's not like she hadn't worked for and alongside her share of people who'd done the deed. She felt hypocritical turning the tables on someone like this. Who was she to go tracking down killers and messing up people's financial schemes?

She was French, that's who. And as long as this person had seen fit to mess up her summer, they deserved it. Crisis over, problem solved. She thought she might be getting a handle on this not being evil stuff.

Punctuality is a virtue in the restaurant business. Her guests seemed well aware of that fact. Of course, they were also well motivated.

Miguel met them at the door and seated them at a round table they'd prepared as French had asked. They all knew one another and weren't at all pleased to find themselves sharing a meal.

He had no idea what French had planned for her guests, one of whom had not arrived yet.

Miguel didn't need to look for subtle clues to see that Mitchell and Julia shared a comfortable antipathy for one another. They sat as far back in their chairs as they could, smiled at one another and began a quiet conversation. Portia, a woman with no equal in her own mind, looked more affronted than usual at being seated at a table with mere mortals. She sent the occasional glare around the table, but ignored her companions as much as she could manage. Nigel looked calm enough, if only he could have kept the sweat from beading on his brow, no one would have noticed his extreme discomfort.

Mitchell and Julia's strained and stilted conversation sounded more and more like the scheming of reluctant partners to Miguel. He'd heard that tone before as he'd served corporate CEO's discussing takeovers and merger deals. It was the sound of powerful people maneuvering for advantage - it was the sound of sharks circling in the water.

French appeared in the dining room doorway and was immediately aware of the empty seat next to Julia. She greeted her guests. Never before had she seen such strained politeness. What a picture these people made. She leaned down and asked Julia to join her in the hallway.

'Where's Jay?'

'He says he's very sorry, but he has the most terrible headache and he wasn't able to make it. I'm solo. But don't worry, this makes your seating plan so much less awkward.'

'I told him that attendance wasn't optional. Call him and get him down here, now.'

'Darling, I didn't want to have to tell you this, I know how sensitive you are to other people's feelings, but Jay isn't well. He's very ill and I think it would be best if you'd let me handle your little bomb on my lonesome. I'll fill him in later Sweet. I really will.' Julia patted French's cheek and returned to the table.

French's mind went into overdrive. She wanted Jay there whether Julia did or not. Those two could take care of each other on their own time. She wouldn't settle for it on hers. Jay was going to join her little party if Fry had to haul him out of a deathbed. She spun and headed for the kitchen.

She walked in and readied herself for a fight. She knew Fry wasn't going to look favorably at being asked to leave the scene of the crime, so to speak. 'I need you to go over to Julia's and bring the Senator back with you. Take Andre.'

'Doesn't he have a ride?' Fry asked.

'No, and he may not be expecting one either. I want you to go over there and use your esteemed powers of persuasion to get him over here. In as little time as you can. And if he shows signs of reluctance, have Andre convince him.'

'We can't go intimidating a Senator! I'm sure he's got a good reason for not coming.'

'I don't care what his reason is! It's not in the plan and I want him here. The little pissant better not be dead.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, it had occurred to me that the last couple of times I've seen him he hasn't been all that well. Like maybe he's ill sure, or maybe someone's poisoning him. I don't know which and I don't care, just get him. End of discussion. Go!'

'But...' Fry's words were cut off as French lifted her over her shoulder and began to half walk, half jog to the back. 'Andre, get her there and back. Don't take any shit from anyone and there's a bonus in it for you.'

During his tenure in kitchens Andre had been asked to do many things. This was certainly up there in the 'original moments' category. But he didn't hesitate. French may have been mad, she may have been many things, but she was also his chef and he would do what she asked. Besides, he couldn't let the little Fry go by herself.

Fry hadn't stopped protesting the entire trip, even for the moment that she'd propped herself up and rolled her eyes at Andre who was following close behind.

French dumped Fry off outside her office door. 'Now go.'

As French spun to return to her guests Fry grabbed her sleeve. French turned back with a look that might have been murder in her eye. Fry jumped forward and gave her a peck on the cheek. 'See you soon good lookin'. Good luck.'

French couldn't resist. She grabbed Fry and kissed her a good one. She knew it was probably positive reinforcement for annoying behavior, but hell, she wanted to. 'Beat it.'

Chapter 45

French had stalled all she dared. Serving the meal with Miguel had not been in the plan, but they'd managed it. That's what professionals do. She hoped that Fry and Andre were on their way back. She'd play it by ear and see if she could make do without. If all else failed, she'd have to knock them all out and try it again when they came to.

She nodded to Miguel. That was his sign to leave. He did.

She turned to her sated guests. She'd been hoping to spoil their appetites mid meal, now she'd just have to watch them throw up. Not that there wasn't a stomache made of anything less than cast iron in this group. Despite the tension, they'd eaten like well bred wolves. Even the apprehensive rich can't pass up free food.

'I'm so glad you could join me for this meal. You've been exceedingly patient. Why don't I get down to business?'

'Yes, why don't you?' Mitchell asked. He'd always enjoyed her cooking, but she had a habit of being dramatic that could play on his nerves. Artists, his mother had always warned him about artists.

It didn't escape French's attention that two of her guests were looking pleased with themselves. Something was up. She dove in, hoping for the best. She'd pit her raw instinct against their scheme anyday.

'Mitchell, I'd like to ask you a question to start all of this off. It's a simple yes or no answer, though I think I already know what you'll say.' French looked at each of the people sitting around the table. She was willing to bet they'd all be on their feet soon enough. 'Did you enjoy watching Louisa Millet die?'

She did not get the reaction she'd expected. Mitchell's face was blank. Not a schooled sort of blank, but a blank sort of blank, as in a missed target sort of blank. No one had stood up.

She continued on, 'She threw a monkey wrench into your little operation didn't she?'

'You must be joking.' Mitchell stared at her. It was obvious that she wasn't. 'Call me when you're serious.' He threw his napkin onto the table and stood. 'Let's go mother.'

'You and Julia had it all planned out didn't you?' French pressed on. In for a penny, in for a pound. 'The first of your international chain of hotel casino's would be right here. So convenient, so close to home. Not over my restaurant! Were you going to kill me too after you'd finished the deal?'

'Why is it always about your damned restaurant?!' Mitchell leaned over the table and yelled at her. Once again, the proceedings veered in an unexpected direction. 'What the hell is it? You never cared for me half as much as you do for this goddamned sweat shop, never!'

'Mitchell, I don't think this is an appropriate...' Portia began, but was cut off by her son whose dam had burst and wasn't about to stop.

'No mother, I want an answer! You have no idea what it was like. What I put up with. I couldn't even get in the bed without moving a goddamned culinary magazine or cookbook. Every other word out of her mouth was about her work. I want a fucking answer! You saw those plans. It was supposed to be a surprise, but NO! You have to go into attack mode because you think I'm going to take away your little, termite infested fishing shack!That kitchen will be a palace!'

It was all French could bear. 'If I'd wanted to run a kitchen the size of grand central station, I'd run one you pompous ass. That over produced, over sized, industrial wasteland is a... a...'

'A gilded cage.' Julia interrupted. She didn't look the least bit sorry for the breach in etiquette. She looked as pleased as punch. 'And you'll look so divine in it. It's the perfect revenge. After you'd destroyed my life, it took me years to come up with it. When I did it gave me a whole new purpose for living.'

'You bitch!' Mitchell exclaimed. 'You said she'd love it!'

'Please Mitchell, sit down.' Portia said. 'I think you've embarrassed yourself enough.'

'It was one hotel. Just one Julia, not your whole damned life.' French was fighting to maintain some perspective.

'Shut up! What would you know about it?' Julia was on her feet now. 'You never cared for anything in your life. I grew up in that hotel. It was my home. It was a magical place and don't you dare tell me it was a failing asset you insensitative whore. But now you have this.' She gestured at the room and the building as a whole. 'And I intend to take it from you. And you will work for Mitchell and me, darling, you have no choice. Otherwise, I'll fix it so that you can't flip a burger between here and Timbuktu. I haven't spent the last six years licking my wounds, I've been busy.'

'Too busy not paying attention to goings on close to home, Dearest. Mitchell's been taking advantage of your misplaced focus. Isn't that right Nigel?'

'Don't try to dodge the bullet French, you're mine!' Julia laughed.

'He's been busy for you this summer, hasn't he Mitchell? Burning down restaurants, killing off the locals. I know how it can be Nigel, he's a real task master.'

Nigel was out of his seat in the blink of an eye with a gun trained at French's chest. 'You're not pinning this on me!'

Before he could sweat another drop, Julia had clocked him across the jaw and he was out like a light. She turned back to look at French, 'You're not getting out of it that easily. I want to watch you suffer.'

'So he killed her for you! I knew it.' The proceedings hadn't gone to plan, but the final result was to her liking.

'If he did, it had nothing to do with me. And if you thought I'd trust him with anything more than worming his way into Mitchell's pocket, you're slipping.' Julia was beginning to enjoy French's attempt at distraction. She could struggle on the line all she wanted. 'Besides, why would I bother with one of Jay's political groupies when I was so close to snaring you?'

French was sure that had not been in the plan. 'What do you mean, 'groupie'?'

'She was one more face in the endless parade of needy people he insisted that I invite to our parties. He also insisted that I be friendly, though I'll never know why, she was such a dull little thing.'

The blood in French's veins began to run cold. 'Where's Jay?'

'I told you Sweet, he's home ill. Now can we return to the important matter at hand? I'm not greedy, a little satisfaction will do. I've brought the contract with me.'

Fry and Andre sat in Senator Harding's study. He wasn't cooperating, but he wasn't not cooperating. If anything, he was stalling. He'd served them tea and encouraged them to drink. Andre had, but she'd been too busy trying to turn the conversation back to the task at hand.

'Please, drink Violet. Let me tell you a story.' The senator gave her a reassuring smile and stood up. He walked over to a window and looked out.

Fry would have taken a sip, but she had a last minute change of mind. She looked over at Andre who looked intensely uncomfortable in the small chair he was sitting in. The Senator was still looking out the window of the study, observing the grounds. Fry motioned to Andre, but she couldn't get his attention. He was staring at the carpet, looking kind of sleepy. She crossed her fingers and hoped for the best.

'Really Senator, if you'd come with us, then we could listen on the way over.'

'No, it's not a long story.' He walked back over and noted that the talkative young woman had finally drained her cup. 'I've spent my life trying to help people less fortunate than myself.'

'You've done a terrific job. Even my mother approves of your work and she isn't an easy woman to impress.' Fry was nervous and had begun to babble. She noted out of the corner of her eye that Andre wasn't looking sleepy, he'd dozed off.

The Senator gave a nod and sat back down across from her. He didn't seem to notice Andre. 'Please help yourself to more tea, and anything else.' He had the strongest urge to talk to this young woman. He wanted to explain so that someone might understand. She'd finished the tea. He didn't have much time if he actually wanted her to hear any of it.

'You've come about Louisa haven't you? That's why French wants me there?'

Now there was an insightful question. She just didn't know how to answer it. The truth was always an option. But she wasn't that stupid. 'Did you know her?' 'Yes I did...' He answered and then seemed to drift off as if thinking of something else.

Fry wondered where she'd heard that even tone of voice before.

'Excuse me.' Jay returned to the present and looked at the young woman. 'Aren't you even the least bit tired?' He was sure he'd put enough of that drug in her cup to knock out a horse. She had such a vibrant, lively personality, she didn't seem effected by it at all. The man she'd come with was certainly out.

'Now that you mention it, I am a little, but you were saying... about Louisa?' Fry was doing her best not to panic and jump out of her chair. What had he given them? She didn't have a clue what to do. What would French do? Knock him flat. That probably wouldn't work for her. She got another idea. It was a long shot, but what choice did she have? It wasn't like she'd been in this kind of situation before. And according to the deranged man across from her, she didn't have a lot of time.

'I've been in politics for years. It's a tough business. So when she came to me and told me I ought to cooperate with her or she'd ruin my career, I wasn't unprepared to deal with her. Then she told me what she knew, showed me the clippings and the photo of Julie at Oxford. You might say I got upset. And when she told me what she wanted...' He stood and walked over to a desk. He took something out of a draw and slipped it in his pocket. Fry faked a yawn.

'Make yourself comfortable, relax. I'm almost finished.'

Oh man, he was freaking her out. Could he think she hadn't noticed the behemouth snoring in the chair next to her? She took control of her scattering nerve. She only had to hold on for another minute.

Jay returned to her and stood, looking down into her empty cup. Fry leaned against the arm of her chair and propped her chin on her hand.

'I want you to know that you shouldn't worry. You'll feel numb and buzzed, but then you'll fall to sleep. There won't be any pain.'

Fry nodded. She didn't trust her voice.

Jay smiled and continued. 'If she'd attacked me it wouldn't have mattered, but she wanted to ruin Julie. Julie's been through enough. I thought I'd lost her after French. She grew so distant and her vitality was gone. I couldn't bear to see her hurt like that again. And do you know what that awful woman wanted? What the price for Julie's sanity and possibly her life was?' He was beyond the point where he was expecting an answer. He looked down on the woman who was quiet and slumped in the chair. Her breathing was even and she looked so peaceful. He stood up and drew the gun from his jacket pocket.

'She wanted me to invite her to a party. She walked into my life with the intention of ruining my wife, to get an invitation to a goddamned party!'

Jay heard a noise from behind and turned to see French halfway through the door of the balcony. She'd heard the end of his story from outside, but hadn't seen into the room. As she came through she was stunned by the scene. Fry and Andre were slumped in their chairs and Jay stood before them, a gun to his own head.

He looked at her now with a pained expression. The man had cracked, that much was clear.

'Can't you stay out of my life?' Jay asked. 'Haven't you done enough?'

'Don't do it Jay.' French hadn't a clue what to say to him. This was more like Fry's kind of thing. But Fry was just lying there. While French had suspected Fry of slacker tendencies in the past, she knew better now. He must have drugged them. Or possibly, it was poison. French batted the possibility away from her mind. She needed to focus on Jay or he could get ideas about shooting them all and then it wouldn't matter what he'd done to them. She was both relieved and unnerved as Jay began to walk at her, the gun pointed at her head.

'I've changed my mind. I think killing you might be one of my best acts of philanthropy to date. My parting gift to humanity.'

He was a few feet away from her. As French looked at him and beyond at the small figure in the chair, she saw one of Fry's eyes pop open.

'Goodbye French.' He pulled the trigger at the same moment that all of Fry landed on his back. Together they fell to the ground and the gun went skittering through the open balcony door.

Jay struggled and screamed beneath Fry's weight. She rolled off of him and frantically got to her feet to see if French had been hit. French pushed her aside and gave Jay a solid whack to the head before he could grab the gun again. He slumped to the floor, unconscious.

She turned to face Fry. 'It took you long enough. Did you want him to kill me?'

'I didn't even know he had a gun until I heard him say he was going to kill you!' It was just like French to start a fight at a time like this. 'Besides, I was supposed to be unconscious. He thought he'd drugged me.'

French sobered, 'I thought he might have. I couldn't figure out how he was getting a word in edgewise. What were you doing!?'

'I had a plan. The more I played along, the more he talked. I heard his whole confession.'

'What were you planning to do if he'd poisoned or shot you? Play dead?'

'I told you, I didn't know he had a gun. I didn't think that far ahead.'

'Remind me to never let you do the planning.'

A riot erupted in the room as the police and paramedics rushed in. It was going to be another long night.

Chapter 46

'Let me get this straight.' Barbra said. 'You two have been running all over this town for the last month, breaking laws and bones and everything else, trying to track down Louisa's killer?'

'Yup.' Fry nodded.

'Well doesn't that take the cake? And here I thought you were a waitress and she was a chef. Are you nuts?! You could have gotten killed!'

'We were careful!' Fry half-truthed. 'Besides, we figured it out in the end.'

'Not by anything but dumb, and I mean d-u-m-b luck. I'm going to give her a piece of my mind. And you!' Barbra pointed at Andre. 'You ought to have known better. Wait, what am I saying? You've worked for her way too long to have anything like free will left in that hulk of a body.'

They were standing out behind the restaurant waiting for French to join them. The restaurant was closed for a few days until the media circus was over and life could get back to the usual unnormal that they'd all become accustomed to.

Jay had been taken into custody and French had informed Julia and Mitchell that she'd have to decline their generous offer. There was enough ammunition in that black box to put them both away for a good long time if they got anymore stupid ideas about trying to turn her into a cafeteria queen. There was nothing more abhorrent to her than the thought of high volume haute cuisine. She had to give Julia points for originality, if nothing else.

Julia hadn't replied to any of her calls or faxes. She'd gone into a rage as soon as she'd heard what had happened with Jay.

On one level French felt sorry for them both. They shared a strong bond and one's suffering was deeply felt by the other. On every other level French had no pity for Julia. Julia couldn't have cared less that her husband had killed Louisa, as she hadn't cared about Giselle's suicide years earlier. Other people were no more than decoration for her, filler for her hotel rooms. French may have had sympathy for that kind of driven perspective at one time, but she was beginning to see things differently.

French understood Jay a whole lot better. Too bad he'd lost his grasp on the facts and figures of life. French wondered how it would have turned out if Louisa had approached Julia instead of her unstable spouse. She'd probably be alive. Julia, like Mitchell, knew a good resource when she saw one. She also knew how to manage one. French knew this from experience. Julia probably would have bought Louisa off and considered the information she'd gathered as a resume of sorts. Mitchell had.

When Louisa approached him with information about one of his mother's affairs, he'd put her on payroll. He asked her to look into his silent partner, Julia's, doings. And while he thought he had her in his pocket, she was picking it clean. With a little help...

Delilah Truet. It took French a while to figure out that Louisa had to have some inside help that had direct access to Mitchell. That meant having access to Mitchell's bed. That brought her around to the idea of Delilah, one of Mitchell's better attempts at making her jealous. Delilah wasn't a stunning beauty, nor did she have the brain of a genius. But the woman could do things with her body that were this side of criminal. French had enjoyed that, when Mitchell was busy elsewhere. What neither of them knew was that Delilah had a friend in town who had an itch for information, Louisa. This town was too small by half.

French couldn't believe that the fool had been using the information she'd gathered for social climbing. That was like trying to use a nuclear missle to pick something out of your teeth. Not the smartest strategy.

French had gathered all of this from the e-mails, faxes, and phone messages Mitchell had been leaving her. The sap. Did he honestly think she'd buy his, 'I've turned over a new leaf. Give me a chance.' routine? He was cracked. He was also off the island, which was how she'd wanted it all along. Mother Redmond and the brood had left as the press began to show up. What a lucky coincidence for them all.

Now all French had to do was dodge the scandal hungry press and figure out how she was going to get Fry alone for ten minutes. Since all hell had broken loose they'd barely had any time to themselves. This afternoon wasn't looking promising, because they were all going over to Joe and Harriet's for a 'hideout' barbeque. French hoped nobody minded her borrowing Fry for part of it.

The crew milled around the back yard, chatting and eating, but mostly listening to Fry's account of her encounter with the overstressed Senator.

'So how come Andre drank the tea and you didn't?' Chilli asked.

'I was trying to convince the Senator to come with us, Andre was being polite. By the time I got around to accepting his offer of tea it was too late, Andre had emptied his cup. When I got a whiff of it I smelled something medicinal. I discreetly emptied my cup beneath the cushion of my chair. Earl Gray has a strong aroma, but it's a smoky, flowery strong.'

'It's the Bergamot.' French explained.

'Exactly!' Fry said.

'I've said all along. You're a natural.'

'You have not. You say I'm annoying and a lot of other things, but I can't remember you saying that.'

'You're only literal when it suits you.' French noted.

Fry responded in the mature fashion by sticking her tongue out.

'Watch it with that. It's a valuable asset.'

'Oh gross. Would you two cut it out?' Barbra protested. She didn't need to hear that kind of talk, not with Michael on shift tonight.

'Get your mind out of the gutter.' French said. 'I mean it. Fry has a talent right there. And she's got what it takes.' French added.

'I thought I had to have all kinds of training and be all kinds of obsessed with food.' Fry said.

'You do. And you have been training.'

'Have not. I've been working in that restaurant non-stop and chasing bad guys. Okay, being chased by bad guys. So when have I had time for this training?'

'Tell me a little something about the chicken on Thursday's menu.'

'The Poulet a la Taillevant. You named it after the guy who fell on his own sword because his fish delivery was late.'

'Yeah, yeah, what else?'

'You called him a sap and said the idiot should have killed his purveyor instead, but I think it's a romantic story.'

'You would. But wasn't there something other than the history that caught your attention?'

'Oh, you mean like how much I loved it? You narcissist. Those berries were so cute in the garnish.'

'Whatever. Why didn't I use a rasperry sauce with it, or more berries, or add a...'

Fry cut her off. 'It wouldn't have worked with the wines if you'd pushed the acidity. It's a risky dish as it is with the wines you've got.'

'You think so do you?' This was the downside to giving people information French thought, sooner or later they'd get fresh.

'That's you all over though, you're a risk taking kind of gal. You live on the edge.'

'Sure I do. It's a 500 year old recipe, can't get more risky than that.' French rolled her eyes.

'But you did that wild thing with the grains and truffles. It was a beautiful plate.' Fry sighed. 'The colors and textures were sublime together.'

'There you have it. I've been training you.' French folded her arms and gave Fry a smug smile.

'Training me to what? Worship your food?'

'To recognize your own gift for a start. But more importantly, to give you a comprehensive undenrstanding of the flavors and foods you can experience in such freakish detail. You can go somewhere with that.'

'You sneak! You had an ulterior motive the whole time!'

'What did you think I was doing? Playing footsie?' French became aware of several pairs of eyes looking everywhere but at them. It felt like being at work. 'Is that what you all thought?'

Barbra spoke for the group. 'Well it had occurred to us that you may have been trying to get to her through your cooking. Everyone knows Fry's a pushover for a good meal.' Several heads nodded in agreement.

'Hey! I am not. Besides, it's kind of a romantic idea, that she'd try to seduce my tastebuds. Bent, but romantic.'

'It is not and I was only preparing you. For the business, I mean. It's a dog eat dog world out there. You're going to need a boost up. You're kind of old to be starting out.'

'I've told you before. Listen carefully this time. I'm not interested. I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, but it's a no go chef. It's not going to happen.' Fry looked around the table at her coworkers. 'Come on you guys, tell her. I can't get through. It's like she's dense or something!'

Fry took in the blank faces looking back at her. Monica, who was sitting next to Andre, was the only one to give her a sympathetic smile. 'Oh come on! You guys have to know that I'm not cut out for this life. I'm a non-profit, social sector kind of gal. You know that.'

'Save it for your socialist friends Fry. We know the truth.' French would not be convinced otherwise. She'd seen 'the look' in Fry's eyes. Seen the excitement, seen the fire. It was a foregone conclusion. It always was for French, when food was involved.

'What you know you've only convinced yourself. You're deluded. Wonderfully deluded, but deluded nonetheless.' Fry leaned over and kissed her.

The group broke up, not wanting to have to deal with the couple's overwhelming need to express and not express their feelings for each other. Whatever French and Fry considered themselves, the rest of the crew considered them an item. No one liked watching a newly itemed couple do their thing. It made the cynics feel more alienated and the romatics feel more melancholy. And Barbra, she had her own problem.

The Bachanal gathering grew over the course of the afternoon as word of a party spread through the restaurant grapevine. It was impossible to try to throw a small barbecue in that community. Every off shift, getting off shift and soon to be off shift lackey could sniff out a party miles away. The only upside to this annoying problem was that food and alcohol were rarely in short supply. By early evening, Joe and Harriet's front yard looked like a parking lot.

The back yard was brimming with people, many Joe and Harriet had never set eyes on. This was fine with Joe who liked a good party, but Harriet had another opinion. She chose to keep it to herself as this was a celebration of sorts. Her sister-not-in-law having survived a close brush with death and having helped solve a murder. Harriet loved Violet like her own sister. She may have wished she was less prone to rescuing women who were in dire need of a kick in the ass, but you couldn't have everything. Violet was damn near perfect as it was.

French stood on the deck in the back, leaning on a railing and looking out over a small field of corn. She watched Andre and Monica pointing into trees and bushes for a while before losing interest. She watched Sonny handing Milo beer after beer and shoving him in Jacqueline's direction. She wondered how much he had riding on the bet Miguel had told her about. Milo, who was thoroughly toasted, still couldn't muster the courage to approach his love. Jacqueline, a woman who swore she'd never date below the station of sous chef had actually considered dating Milo. Until she'd found out about the bet too. She was enjoying every turn of Milo's stomach and would continue to do so for weeks to come.

French lost interest in that spectacle as well and started to look for Fry again. She'd found herself watching her a lot. The chef had been with many beautiful people, they came with the territory she'd worked so hard to inhabit. But she couldn't remember one she'd been so interested in watching for no reason at all. French usually had a reason for doing things. Not having one was another new experience, but she was pretty sure she could live with this one.

She'd talked more than she wanted to and was about ready to call it quits, with or without Fry. Fry it turned out was a socialist butterfly. French hoped someone was reminding her to take a breath between conversations. Barbra walked up and gave French a look.

'You planning to get drunk and chew me out again?' French wanted to know.

'I don't need to be drunk to tell you off. I can't believe you two! You're lucky no one shot either one of you. I'd really have given it to you then.'

'Why Barbra, I do believe you care.'

'Not for you I don't. It's Fry who I worry about. You can take care of yourself.'

'You're just mad because you like me and you don't want to admit it. You're chicken.'

'You're so full of yourself it's a wonder you bother with us mere mortals at all.'

'Chicken.'

'Don't pull that juvenile routine on me. It may work with Fry, but I'm immune. I do not like you.'

'Do so. Chicken.'

'Fine, alright. You have your moments. Not many, but I'm willing to admit that maybe sometimes, and probably by accident, you're almost bearable.'

French gave Barbra a sparkling smile. 'You too. Now where's that waitress?'

'I saw her at one of the tables chatting.'

'I think I'm going to say my good byes. Getting a bit crowded here for my tastes.'

'Party pooper. If you stick around I'll probably get drunk, then we can really see who's chicken.'

'As entertaining and attractive as that offer sounds, I'm going to pass.'

'You're right, Fry will probably be more fun. Maybe I'll surprise Michael and not have a hangover tomorrow. Chase his little fireman's butt all over the place.'

'Did I need to know that?' French asked.

'Don't you even start with me! Go get your waitress.'

Dil wasn't who French wanted to run into then, or ever. So she chatted with him briefly, ensured him that she'd put a word in for him at the 'bureau', gave him the secret handshake, and moved on.

Apparently everyone had been invited to this party, because she was waylaid a moment later by two doughy eyed young women. Skyler and Alyssa.

'I thought Mother Redmond took all of you off the island in the exodus? What are you doing here?' She asked Skyler who had a firm grasp on Alyssa's hand. They were both all smiles.

'I'm staying with Violet for the rest of the summer. Didn't she tell you?'

'No. Since when?'

'About ten minutes ago. She says they have a small apartment in their house for people who need a place temporarily.'

'What about Audrey? I thought she was the needy person in residence.'

'No, Audrey finished her internship at the restaurant and moved in with her boyfriend.'

'What internship?'

'She's doing her thesis on the effects of concensus environments on rehabilitation. But she's done now, so I guess it's free.'

French didn't know how she felt about Skyler being so close to home, so to speak. Yet another reason they'd just have to spend more time at her own place.

Eventually, she spotted Fry across the lawn talking to a woman she would have preferred to avoid. She considered waiting out the conversation, but then it occurred to her that maybe Fry's shooting the breeze with one of her one night stands wasn't the best strategy for getting any later. She moseyed over to join them.

'Isn't that true French?' Fry included her in the conversation immediately.

'What's true?'

'I was telling Michelle how Diane had pinned you to that counter, and if it hadn't been two against one, you never would have gotten away.'

French stared at Fry in wonderment. Was that really how she remembered that night?

'Like I was saying. Diane is one tough woman.' Fry smiled at Michelle.

Diane chose that moment to walk up. She was motivated to join the group in no small part by seeing French within a mile's radius of Michelle.

Diane was barely able to get out a 'get your eyes off my girlfriend' kind of gruff hello, when she was seized by Michelle and dragged off.

'Mind explaining that?' French nodded toward the two as they made their way through the crowd.

'It's simple. Michelle has a thing for tough women. You are the toughest woman she's ever met. Tough in a streamlined, dangerous kind of way. She obviously loves Diane, but still thought you were top dog. I fibbed on Diane's behalf. I think Diane is plenty tough, so I don't see why Michelle should be so fixated on you.'

'Not that I mind you undermining me in public the least bit, but didn't you exaggerate just a little there. You didn't lift a finger to get Diane off me.' It's not that being considered tough was French's number one priority, but admitting she may have needed help was way down on the list.

'Oh please, if I hadn't motivated you off that counter, Diane would still have you pinned to it. You were brooding up a storm. And you're sweet.' Fry stood on tiptoe and kissed French on the cheek. 'I know that couldn't have been easy for you, but I think you know it was a nice thing to do.'

'If you say so.' French wasn't sure, but if Fry thought so, chances were she was right. 'I was thinking of heading home. Want to join me?'

'But it's so early.' Fry protested.

'Precisely.'

'Oh! Right. Sounds like a plan.'

'You sure? I wouldn't want to interrupt your social schedule.'

'No, no. I think I can fit you in. Let's go find Joe and Harriet and tell them goodbye.'

'I don't know. Last two times I talked to Joe, he wanted to arm wrestle again. I thought the first few times I beat him should have settled the matter.'

'Oh, it'll never be settled. He's an eternal optomist. You'll never convince him that you can beat him every time.'

They decided to walk back to Comstock. It was more of a hike, but they were both in the mood for fresh air and it gave them an opportunity to talk. Well, it gave Fry an opprtunity to talk, French felt like she was along for company. Until the questions started.

'All I know about your past is the bad stuff. Can't you share a little positive personal information with me? That isn't kitchen related.' Fry was quick to stipulate. 'Just a smidge?'

'If you're going to get restrictive, there isn't much to tell.'

'Liar! There's plenty. What was your childhood like? Where'd you go to school? Do you have any brothers or sisters? Do you...'

French lifted her hand to stem the flood. 'Slow down, you're going to hurt yourself. Besides, I can't answer them all at once.'

'You could start with one.'

'How's this? You ask me one question a day for the rest of the summer.'

'Just one a day?'

'One. About me.'

'Really? Anything I want?'

'I didn't say I'd answer it, but you can ask it. I'm not big on the self reflection thing, but I'll do my best.'

'Can I ask you one now? You know, to do a trial run.'

French began to regret her spur of the moment decision. 'I guess.'

'It's a selfish place to start. But now that all of the excitement has died down I've been wondering what it is you'll do? I'd like to ask how you feel about us.'

French had been hoping for something along the lines of, 'Did you have a dog when you were a kid?' But hoping rarely got you any decent result. She leaned down and gave Fry a gentle kiss. It wasn't meant in lieu of an answer, it was the best way she could think of to describe her feelings.

'Well, I'd guessed that part.' Fry smiled and kept her eyes closed for a minute. French had a way with a kiss that shouldn't be hastened or rushed. You should savor it.

'That's how I feel. I'd enjoy spending the rest of the summer showing you. If you could fit me into your schedule. Now that the Louisa thing is over, you've probably got some other hard case to pester or a convict to marry or something equally pressing.'

'You've got the most adorable avoidance issue. I think it might keep me busy for a while.' Fry was flooded with joy and relief. She leaped at French who caught her in her arms and held on for all she was worth.

Epilogue

On a cool morning in the week following Labor Day, Barbra and French stood outside the restaurant looking at the quiet and shuttered building. Fry had taken off for school two days before and the crew had gone on to their next gigs.

French had purchased two cell phones. She gave one to Fry and kept the other for herself. It was a strangely intimate gesture that had brought Fry to tears. French had already spent a good deal of time making her fall plans while chatting to Fry on the little thing.

Fry called her any number of times a day to see if she was really coming to visit and was she missing her and would they still not be dating next week and why was French going to leave the island and spend a season being annoyed by a Frenchman?

On Sutters Wharf, the birds flew over head, the stays clanked quietly on the masts in the harbor and French sighed. She'd never felt this way about leaving at the end of a season. She didn't like it, but then, maybe it meant she'd been having a good time. She thanked Barbra for coming over and helping out with the closing.

'So this is it? You going to do it again next summer?' Barbra asked.

'You looking for a job?'

'Maybe, that depends.'

'On what?' French wanted to know.

'You think you'll be able to get her back here by then?'

'You can count on it.'

'I'm in then.' Barbra agreed.

'I'm looking forward to it.' And she was.

The End.

Note: Because I don't know how to leave well enough alone...

Big thanks go to Ume, my beta babe. She's never understood the whole fanfiction/Xena thing, so she gets extra points for being a trooper. Not to mention the points she got for helping me sound semi-literate. Jeanette Winterson, I'm not.

And thanks to y'all for surfin' in and reading my offering. Now go forth and do good. Or blow a minute and e-mail me. I'm probably going to fall into one of those post-creative expression funk things if you don't. No pressure. In any case, take care.

-- Brulee

cremebrulee@myrealbox.com