Cook the Books

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 430.1 scrambled ahead a few steps and looked at the building to the right of the burned-out three-decker: 434.
    The