Cook the Books by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant

sleeping on his couch?
    I approached the police officer. “Sir! Can you help me? I was supposed to meet someone who lives in that building. Can you please tell me who was killed in the fire?”
    “Ma’am, I’m sorry. There hasn’t been a formal identification yet. He was someone who lived here.” The officer adjusted his hat and pulled his gloves on tighter.
    “How can you not know who it is yet?” I paused. “Oh God.” The dreadful image of an incinerated body, a body burned beyond identification, flashed through my head. What a monstrous way to die! “It must have been so awful... for...”
    “We don’t know much at this point, but I can tell you that it appears the victim died of smoke inhalation.” He cleared his throat. “The guy was probably asleep and just never woke up. It looks like the fire started in the kitchen, probably at the stove, and the smoke detectors had been disabled. People do that sometimes, you know, if something has set them off, and then they just leave them that way. So it looks like this was all a terrible accident.”
    Oh no. Disabling the smoke detectors was just the sort of thing Digger would do, especially if he’d been doing a lot of cooking for the new restaurant. Chefs were used to big flames and lots of smoke while they cooked. After repeatedly setting off the smoke alarms, he’d probably gotten sick of opening the windows and fanning the rooms to get the noise to stop; I could easily picture Digger yanking the damn alarm out of the ceiling just to get it to shut up. But it looked like there were two apartments on the first floor, so maybe the fire hadn’t started at Digger’s place. I asked the officer.
    He shook his head. “Thankfully the other person who lived downstairs is away for the week.”
    “That’s right,” Norris barked. “She went to Arizona. Joked she was excited to get away from the smell of ginger and coriander for a while. For me, that goddamn grease smell was the worst. Like we live at a McDonald’s, for Christ’s sake! In fact, grease is probably what started the fire. Grease fires are the worst, you know.”
    My knees began to buckle under as the reality of Digger’s death hit me. I shot Norris a look. “That was my friend who died in the fire, you jerk. And his food wasn’t greasy, ever! He was a talented professional chef, not some hack who did nothing but plunge frozen foods into a fryolator.” My eyes began to sting, and I could hear my voice tremble.
    “She’s right.” I felt a gentle hand on my back and looked to my right. A woman with graying hair pulled into a braid stood next to me. “That young man was a lovely person. He was sweet. He used to bring me food when he’d made extra, which happened a lot recently. He said he was working on a menu for a new restaurant, so he was cooking all the time, that boy. Yes, Norris, some of his food was sometimes a little peculiar, I’ll give you that. He loved funny spices and strange vegetables that I’d never heard of, but that boy never made anything greasy, that’s for sure. You watch your mouth, Norris, and don’t speak ill of the dead,” she warned.
    Dead. My stomach twisted into a solid knot, and I dropped my head down between my knees to keep the world from spinning. I inhaled deeply, but all I took in was the rank smell of burned air. I stood up and managed a weak smile at the kind woman.
    She nodded slightly at me and pulled a blanket tightly around her shoulders. “I’m Barbara. I lived upstairs. Chef Digger cooked for a living. He’d know all about kitchen fires. Norris, you know as well as I do that he’d be the last person to start one. Something else started that fire.” She coughed. “Or some one else.”
    I froze and stared at Barbara. She was right. Even if Digger had been stupid enough to disable the smoke detectors, he was too skilled and too careful to cause a fire. He was just as fastidious as Josh was about keeping kitchens sanitary. Chefs were accustomed to