Cook the Books by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Read Free Book Online Page B

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 couldn’t. “Who?” I asked as calmly as I could.
    “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 chef?”
    “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 chef in the casual sense—in other words, an enthusiastic amateur cook who thought of himself as a chef.
    “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!”
    Digger could have spent the night at Ellie’s, right? In fact, if Ellie was like most other women, she wouldn’t want to stay at a boy’s icky apartment, especially a chef’s. I’d slept at Josh’s place only a handful of times when we were dating. Digger must have discovered the disaster when he’d arrived home this morning. Now, he was milling around here somewhere. Or maybe Digger had a roommate who was also a chef? I dug my purse out of my bag and called Digger’s cell. While it rang, I listened and glanced around, hoping to hear a phone ring, but I got Digger’s voice mail and hung up. Okay, maybe Digger had had a friend staying with him. A terrible idea hit me: what if Josh had come to visit him and had been