Cook the Books by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Page B

kitchen is so small. Did he screw something up?” she demanded.
    “Not exactly, no. Ellie, I really need to come and talk to you. What’s your address?”
    Ellie paused. “Okay. I’m in Cambridge, not too far from Harvard Square.” She gave me her street address and hung up.
    A trip down Mass. Ave. followed by a few turns would get me to her place in no time. Despite the cold, I rolled down the window, and as I drove, I took gulps of fresh air. Of the many things that were upsetting me, what stood out most was something Barbara had said: her suggestion that someone else besides Digger could have started the fire. What if the fire hadn’t been an accident, but arson? What if his death had been murder? But who on earth would want to kill Digger? Was Norris so fed up with the chef that he’d burned down the building, even at the risk of destroying his own apartment? Maybe Ellie would have some idea.

SIX
    ELLIE lived in half of a gorgeous old two-family house on a charming side street. To live in this part of Cambridge, right in the midst of Harvard University territory, she had to have money.
    Announcing a boyfriend’s death was not how I’d normally choose to meet someone. I had no idea what to say. In fact, all I could think of was what not to say. Hi, nice to meet you. Your boyfriend is dead. Beautiful apartment, by the way. What’s the rent like?
    When I rang the bell, Ellie called for me to come in. I pushed open the heavy front door and stepped into the living room, where a roaring fire heated the cozy room.
    “Chloe.” Ellie smiled as she emerged from a doorway. “It’s great to meet you. Come in and grab a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
    “No, thank you. Um, Ellie . . .”
    I stared at the young woman, who looked perky and chipper and incredibly voluptuous—big hair and big boobs. Her bouncy chestnut hair fell just below her shoulders, and her crisp clothes hugged her shapely curves.
    I said, “You need to sit down.” I nodded at the cream love seat by the fireplace.
    “I knew something happened! Don’t tell me Digger blew off Hank Boucher, of all people!” Ellie sat neatly on the cushion and crossed her legs. “If Digger would just listen to me, then he would have his own line of cookware by now. What am I going to do with him?”
    “Ellie, there’s been . . . I have something terrible to tell you. There is no easy way to say this, but . . .” I simply couldn’t get the words out. I stared at her dark red lips, momentarily entranced by the thick layer of lipstick. “Last night . . . Digger . . .”
    Ellie’s face darkened as she listened to me struggle. “What is it? What is it?” Panic crept into her voice.
    I had to spit it out. “There was a horrible fire at Digger’s place last night. He died. No one has confirmed it yet, but I know that it was a chef who lived on the first floor of his building. It’s obviously him.”
    Ellie threw her hands over her face and held still. Feeling hopelessly inadequate, I waited for her to fall apart. Her shoulders began to tremble, and tears soon leaked from behind her hands as she moaned and sobbed. I moved to sit next to her. Resting my hand on her back, I said, “I’m terribly sorry.” I wiped my own cheeks. “This is such a tremendous shock. I can hardly believe it myself. I don’t know what to say.”
    Ellie finally dropped her hands from her face. She looked positively heartbroken and miserable. Having no idea what to say, I reached out and wiped the mess of black mascara that ran down her face.
    “How could this have happened?” she asked. “Why? And he was just about to really make something of himself. He was finally going to have his talent recognized! It’s not fair! Do you have any idea what the competition for this new job was like? He was so proud of himself for beating out the other chefs. Rightfully so, too, because he was up against some very good chefs. This just isn’t right!” She dropped her head, crying