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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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DEAD MEN DON'T GET THE MUNCHIES

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2007 by The Berkley Publishing Group.
Cover art by Stephanie Power.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 1-4295-8886-1

BERKLEY
^®
PRIME CRIME

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

There, I admitted it, and I'm not even ashamed.

   Don't get me wrong, I'm not completely without scruples when it comes to the culinary arts. I know enough to be embarrassed every time I set off the smoke alarm in my kitchen. I'm appalled at the thought that I've burned water. I'm sorry—truly—about all the roasts I've seared beyond recognition, the many cakes that have flopped, and the fried foods that in my not-so-able hands give a whole new meaning to the word
crispy
.

   But I'm not ashamed. Why should I be? Some people are born to be artists, right? And some are born to sing. Some people have a natural talent for things like trading stocks, or doing brain surgery, or (as weird as it seems) for cooking.

   I am simply not one of them. And that, as the saying goes, is that.

   Or at least it should be.

   It would be, if not for the fact that in addition to my day job as a teller at Pioneer Savings and Loan, I'm also the business manager of Bellywasher's, a pub and restaurant in Alexandria, Virginia.

   Yeah, I know, it's pretty ironic. And on days when simply considering it doesn't scare me to death, I think it's pretty funny, too.

   Me, working in a restaurant.

   Lucky thing, the cooking gods don't seem to be holding any of this against us. We've been successful, thanks to the talents and genius of our owner, Jim MacDonald, a staff that's as good as any, a warm and welcoming atmosphere, and prices that are reasonable (and could be just a little higher, I think, but then, I'm the one who watches the bottom line). In the six months since it's opened, Bellywasher's has become a favorite of the locals and a real destination for people from all over the D.C. Metro area who are looking for interesting menu choices and fresh ingredients. Starting tonight, with our Best Bar Foods, Bar None class, we are also the official home of Bellywasher's Academy, where every Monday, folks who are interested in learning more about cooking can kick back, create, and eat some really good food.

   With a little luck and a lot of hard work, Jim and I and the rest of the staff are planning on keeping things going great guns, too.

   And we will. Provided I don't go anywhere near the grill, the oven, the prep area, or the dessert table.

   Oh, and as long as no more dead bodies show up.

   The very idea made me jump on the barstool where I was seated. Or maybe that was because I was so lost in thought, I hadn't realized Margaret Whitemore, the cooking student who was just checking in, was tearing a check out of her checkbook.

   "That will be $120," I said, and when I did, my throat was tight and my mouth was dry. Thinking about murder will do that to a person. "You can go right back," I added, and because Margaret was a white-haired granny who wore thick glasses and moved with all the speed of Beltway traffic in rush hour, I raised my voice so she was sure to hear me and pointed in case she couldn't see. "You're assigned to . . ." I checked the list on the bar in front of me. "Desserts. Jim's in the kitchen. He'll show you to your workstation."

   Margaret gathered her tote bag, her umbrella (it wasn't raining, but there was talk of it for later in the evening), her coat, and her purse. While she did, I had a little time to kill.

   Poor choice of words, and as if she could read my mind, Eve leaned over from the barstool next to mine. In an uncharacteristic show of restraint, she kept her voice down.

   "This is perfect!" Eve's blue eyes sparkled with excitement. She didn't have to tell me; I knew she'd taken advantage of Bellywasher's being closed that afternoon. She'd been to the spa; her blonde hair was sleek, shiny, and newly trimmed. "Now we finally have a chance to talk. So what do you say, Annie? You're the detective. What would you do? Do you think I should wear a disguise?"

   I had hoped that Eve was long past remembering what we'd been discussing before our students started to arrive. No such luck.

   I slid her a look. Though after thirty-some years of friendship, I was long past the stage of comparing my cuteness to her astonishing beauty, I self-consciously combed my fingers through my brown, uncontrollably curly hair. "I told you, Eve, this isn't the time, and besides—"

   "You think I'm crazy."

   "I didn't say that." I hadn't, but let's face it, when your best friend breezes in and asks about the most effective way to follow somebody and not be noticed, the
you're
crazy par
t doesn't need to be spoken out loud. Still, I cut Eve some slack. Mostly because she
was
my best friend, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Partly because after what happened last fall (I mean, the whole thing about her fiancé trying to kill us), I had made a vow to be as gentle and understanding as possible with Eve.

   It wasn't always easy.

   I drew in a breath and watched as Margaret Whitemore dropped her tote bag and bent in slow motion to retrieve it. I was saved from jumping off the barstool to help when the next student in line came to Margaret's aid.

   "It takes a lot more than a couple murders to make someone a real detective," I reminded Eve, even though I knew she'd dispute this and tell me what she had told me so many times: because I'd investigated and solved murders, I was a detective. Of sorts. In an unofficial kind of way, of course. I didn't want to hear it; that's why I went right on. "Besides, detective or no detective, I can't offer an opinion. You haven't told me what's going on."

   Eve looked up the way people do when they're nervous or uncomfortable and slid her gaze to behind the bar, where we'd stenciled a border of greenery and thistles to go with the Scottish theme of the place. "It's not that I don't want to," she said. "It's just that it's sort of . . . I dunno . . . I guess you could say it was a secret."

   Coming from anyone else, this would not have been a shocking statement. But the words
Eve
and
secret
in the same sentence were as incongruous as thinking that the Democrats and the Republicans who ran this town would ever get along. Eve is, in a word, open and sometimes bluntly direct. About everything. (OK, so that's more than one word, but it pretty much explains Eve in a nutshell.) She doesn't keep secrets. Not from me, and usually not from anyone else, either. Which should have made me really curious about all this talk of disguises and following people.

   Instead, it made me really nervous.

   I was all set to grill Eve further when Jorge Macillon, the next student in line, finished helping Margaret and stepped forward, credit card in hand. Jorge was young and eager to get started, so I simply reminded him that he was assigned to drinks for this first class, asked if he had all the ingredients he'd need for the margaritas he'd be making (he did), and told him to head on back.

   "I don't believe it," I said, and though Eve can sometimes be dense when it comes to things like current events, money, and men, she knew exactly what I was talking about. That's why she blushed.

   She put a hand on my arm. "It's not that I don't want to tell you, Annie. You know I do. The last secret I ever kept from you was the one about how David Lang back in high school had a crush on you."

   "He did?" I remembered David. I had a crush on him, too. "Why didn't you say anything? I mean—"

   I listened to my own words and gave myself a mental slap. "That was nearly twenty years ago," I grumbled, just so I didn't forget how much it didn't matter. "I don't care anymore, and I'll bet David Lang—wherever he is— doesn't, either. What I do care about is you talking about disguises. And following people. You've got me worried."

   Eve laughed. "Oh, don't be. It's nothing at all, surely nothing dangerous." Her smile settled. "You know I'd tell you if I could, Annie. It's just that . . . Well, if it was just me, I wouldn't hesitate. But there are other people involved."

   "Will they be wearing disguises, too?"

   "So you
do
think that's the best way to handle this! I told them that's what you'd say." So much for sarcasm— Eve took my comment at face value and sailed right on. "I thought you'd agree with me, so I stopped this afternoon and bought a long, dark wig. Very Penelope Cruz. Oh, and I was thinking maybe I'd wear a miniskirt. And knee-high boots with tall heels. That and sunglasses ought to do it. Don't you think?"

   I glanced down at the outfit Eve was wearing that night. It was March, and though everyone who lived in the area knew that spring wasn't far away, it had yet to make an appearance. The weather was gray and raw, and in deference to it, Eve was wearing tall boots with high heels. She was wearing a miniskirt, too, along with a white cashmere sweater that I knew for a fact cost more than she could afford on her salary as Bellywasher's hostess.

   "This would be different, how?" I asked her. "Aside from the wig, I mean. If you're going to wear a disguise, wear a disguise! Go for it. Come rummage through my closet. You can dress as one of the homeless."

   "Really, Annie, it's not that I don't admire your taste, but I really don't think that will work." Eve might be a little slow on the uptake at times, but what she lacked in brains, she made up for in heart. She wasn't being as critical as she was being simply honest. Eve is a fashionista. I'm an also-ran. But hey, I don't have nearly six feet of gorgeous body to work with like she does. If I pull back my shoulders and stand really straight, I'm five foot two. I'm too curvy to be fashionable, and ages ago I learned not to even try. Unlike Eve who's into high style (whatever that high style happens to be on any given day), I stick with the basics: dark pants, blazers, understated blouses. OK, I take it back. Eve wouldn't look homeless if she dressed in my clothes. She'd look like a nun.

   Who could blame her for passing on my offer?

   Fortunately, we didn't have a chance to get into it. Our next student stepped forward at the same time Eve's cell phone rang.

   "Got to take this." She slid off the stool and headed into my office, which was directly across from the bar. "If you need help once class starts, you just give me a holler."

   I promised I would and got down to business, checking in the rest of the students who were waiting. All told, there were six stations set up in the kitchen: grill, salad table, drinks, prep and side dishes, desserts, and presentation (that is, flowers, dishes, and table settings). There were two students assigned to each station. That meant twelve students total, and by six fifty, ten minutes before they were set to get started, nine of them had arrived. When the front door swung open, I knew for a fact it was student number ten.

   I glanced down at the list near my elbow. The three MIAs were Brad Peterson, Genevieve Landers, and Kegan O'Rourke. Since this was a man, I ruled out Genevieve.

   "Brad," the man said. He was a good-looking guy with sandy hair, rough-hewn features, and a way of carrying himself that said he was comfortable with the world and his place in it—though the tilt of his chin made it clear that he thought that place was definitely up at the top of the food chain. "They haven't started without me, have they?"