I cleared my throat. “I’ve been able to arrange a meeting with one of the chefs from Simmer, Digger. He’s about to open a very upscale restaurant called the Penthouse. He’s agreed to share some of his recipes for the book, and we can sample some of the dishes that he’s trying out for the new restaurant. Will you be joining us? Saturday morning at ten.”
“Certainly. Where is this restaurant located?”
“Actually, we’re meeting at the chef’s apartment, because the restaurant is in the middle of construction right now.”
“An apartment?” Hank made no attempt to hide his disdain. “Lord, where is this place?”
Hank Boucher and I were destined not to be the best of friends. I gave him Digger’s address, which was in Somerville. I was beginning to hope that Digger’s apartment was as tiny and shabby as I’d been assuming. Let Hank Boucher see how most chefs lived! Kyle would probably freak out when he learned that he was to take his father to a less- than-four-star location, but tough for him. For me, Saturday’s gathering would be interesting. I looked forward to seeing how the celebrity chef would handle himself in the kind of home kitchen that a working chef could afford. Still, I cautioned myself to be pleasant. Hank Boucher’s name was, after all, what would be selling the cookbook.
“It will be wonderful to meet you, Mr. Boucher. I’ve been a fan of yours for a long time and-”
“Chloe? Hi, it’s me.” Hank had obviously passed me off to Kyle. “What’s going on?”
When I’d filled him in, he agreed that we’d all meet at Digger’s place at ten. “Good job. I really appreciate your hard work. I can’t wait to see you again.”
I said good-bye. So Kyle couldn’t wait to see me again, huh? In that case, I’d have to spend some time choosing my outfit for Saturday morning.
FIVE
I watched the steam float off of my head as I flat-ironed my hair. I was not going to let Kyle see me with frizzy hair, that was for sure! And it wouldn’t hurt to have Digger see me looking polished, glamorous, and stable, either. Digger was undoubtedly in touch with Josh, and I wanted him to report to my ex that I was looking fabulous. In truth, I half wanted to throw on jeans and a sweatshirt and toss my hair in a ponytail, but I knew that it was good for me to have a reason to get up early and pull myself together this Saturday morning. I chose a stretchy button-down patterned shirt that I’d bought on sale at Ann Taylor Loft. I paired it with form-fitting black pants and tall black boots. Checking myself out in the full-length mirror, I was pleased to see that the pants were much more flattering than they’d been when my chef was feeding me all the time. Hah! Take that, Josh!
I left the house at nine and drove to Somerville. I’d realized the previous night that, as much as I wanted Hank Boucher to see how real chefs lived, I also didn’t want him walking into a truly revolting apartment. Because chefs were rarely at home, there was an excellent chance that Digger’s place desperately needed a good cleaning. His kitchen would be sanitary, but it might well be as messy as it was sterile. Granted, Digger’s girlfriend, Ellie, could have taken over civilizing his apartment the way she’d taken over promoting his career, but I didn’t want to risk it. Crummy equipment and small spaces were one thing, but a chaotic, neglected apartment would reflect badly on me, and I didn’t want to give Hank any reason to fire me. Consequently, in case I needed to tidy Digger’s apartment before Hank and Kyle Boucher arrived, I intended to get there early.
I checked my Google Maps printout as I scanned side roads for the turn to Digger’s. Spotting the sign, I made a left onto a long street filled with three-decker apartment buildings, but before I was anywhere near Digger’s address, I was forced to stop. Peering around a big van in front of me, I could see that, beginning a few blocks up, the street had been totally blocked off. Who did street work on a Saturday morning? And where were the detour signs? How annoying! And was it really necessary to stop all traffic? Lights flashed down the street, and a few cars had stopped close to some sort of barricade. Even without this mess, it would’ve been hard enough to park around here with three-deckers smack-dab one right after another, each jammed with tenants. I growled and pulled my car to the right, into a minuscule parking place, a permit-only spot for residents, but what choice did I have? I’d get a visitor permit from Digger, or I’d take the ticket. Didn’t the Somerville parking honchos know that I had important work to do? Men to impress? Baby-supply bills to pay off? I got out of the car, slammed the door, swung my tote bag over my shoulder, and hit the lock button on my remote.
Then the smell hit me. Smoke.
I whipped my head toward the stopped cars ahead of me and scanned the area. The flashing lights weren’t coming from construction vehicles but from a fire engine. I rushed along the sidewalk until I reached what turned out to be a police barricade, where a number of people were milling around, murmuring and shaking their heads. Across the street from where I stood were the remains of a three-decker, the outside charred black, the windows smashed in, the ugly shell drenched in water. The horrendous stench of wet, charred wood filled the air. Foul, filthy water lay in puddles in the street. I clapped my hand over my nose and looked down at the scrap of paper in my hand, the one with Digger’s address. His house was number 432. I glanced up. To the left of the ruined building was number 430. I scrambled ahead a few steps and looked at the building to the right of the burned-out three-decker: 434.
The fire had been in Digger’s building. Worse, according to the directions I’d been given, his apartment was on the ground floor, the blackest and most hideously damaged section of the building. It didn’t take a fire investigator to see that the back of the building was the hardest hit. My heart raced. Nearby, a small crowd had gathered around a police officer who stood just beyond a strip of yellow police tape that marked off the area in front of Digger’s building. I scanned for Digger but couldn’t see him anywhere. His absence meant nothing, I assured myself. Digger was a big, strong, tough dude, I told myself. Digger was just fine.
“What happened here?” I asked a young woman next to me. “When did this happen?”
She bit her cheek. I could see that she had been crying. “Early this morning. I live there. Or used to live there. We’ve been out here for hours, waiting until they let us go back in and salvage what we can. They gave us these blankets, and at least it isn’t freezing today, but I don’t know where to go. I don’t have anyone.” She ran a hand through her short hair. Her fingers trembled. “It’s just awful. Someone died. Someone died!” she repeated more loudly before dropping her head.
It simply couldn’t be Digger. It just
“I’ll tell you who died,” grumbled a short, plump man in his late forties. He looked exhausted, but he also looked incredibly irritated. I, in turn, felt irritated with him. A tragic fire was a cause for sadness, fear, stress, and grief. But irritation?
I glared at him. “Do you live here, too?” I asked.
He frowned. “Thank God, no. I don’t know if the building is even livable anymore after what that stupid moron did to the place. I mean, look at it!” He pointed angrily to the building. “I live right next door, and it’s the last time I ever live near a goddamn chef, that’s for sure. I’m lucky he didn’t burn down my place, too, since I’m right next to him.”
I froze. “Did you say
“Yeah, that’s right. Frankly, he got what he deserved. He started the fire and got himself killed.”
I started to panic. Okay, I told myself, Digger is not the only chef in Boston. Far from it! Boston is so flooded with restaurants that there could practically be one chef per building, couldn’t there? Or maybe this guy meant
“What’s your name?” I asked the man.
“Norris.” He crossed his arms and rested them on his potbelly.
“Norris, I’m Chloe. How do you know it was a chef? What do you mean it was his fault?”
“That’s his apartment,” he said, pointing to the damaged first-floor unit. “That stupid chef was cooking all the time, day and night, and stinking up the whole neighborhood. He didn’t care that my apartment smelled like fish or onions or whatever, but with me on the first floor right next door, he should’ve known that those nasty smells were going to seep into my place, right? He didn’t care.” Norris stroked his full beard and shook his head. “Jerk. There’s what? Ten feet between these buildings? He could have killed me!”
