Cook the Books

rutabagas. And no roast chicken! What I needed to do was to browse through a great chef’s recipes and pull out what we needed.
    Digger, I thought with a smile. Digger had had recipes. If I could find them, if they hadn’t burned with the building, we could include them in the book as a wonderful tribute to him. Plus, Digger cooked damn well. No one would imagine that including him in the book was an act of pity. Ellie would probably like the idea as much as I did. I even had the feeling that, in spite of her grief, she’d be pleased to have Digger gain the posthumous celebrity.
    I called Ellie and had to let the phone ring repeatedly before she picked up. “Hello.” Her voice was weak and hoarse.
    “Ellie, it’s Chloe. How are you holding up?” I asked.
    “I’m not doing very well,” she said as she burst into tears. “I had to identify Digger’s body.”
    “I’m so sorry.” I let her cry for a few moments before presenting my idea. “I think Digger would like the idea of being published, don’t you?”
    “Yes, I do,” she sniffed. “I think that’s really lovely.”
    “Do you know where he kept his recipes? Are they at the restaurant, or do you have any?”
    “No.” She managed a small laugh. “He would never have kept them where someone else could have access to them. You know chefs. They guard their private recipes with their lives.” She paused. What a choice of words. “Oh God!” Ellie started crying again, and I had to wipe my own eyes. I heard her take a deep breath. “I had to identify his body, Chloe. It was awful.” I waited while she sobbed. “Anyhow, no, I don’t have any of his recipes, unfortunately. Digger didn’t need me to help him cook. He kept them in a messenger bag in his apartment. It was usually in the bedroom by the front door, which isn’t that close to the kitchen, so maybe it wasn’t destroyed. That’s the room he used as his office. I’ll go over there later today or tomorrow and let you know if I can find the bag. This is a really nice idea. Thanks for thinking of including him.”
    “Are you sure you’re up to going over there? Do you want me to help you? Or maybe your friend Georgie can go with you?” I suggested.
    “No. I need to do it. I’ve been putting it off, but I need to see what I might be able to keep of his. You know, as a reminder or whatever. Besides, I’ve got some of my stuff there, too. Or I had some. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    I hung up and went to check on the salt-crusted chicken. I opened the oven, pulled out the roasting pan, took a good whiff, and smiled. The potatoes I’d baked were also done, so I tossed together a salad and enjoyed a fabulous early dinner. It was only five o’clock. Living alone was not heinously depressing, I told myself; it had its advantages. For instance, I could eat whenever I wanted. When I’d finished my meal, I popped Season Four of The Closer into the DVD player and lay down on the couch. Another wild night at Chez Chloe, right? At least I was getting a lot of sleep these days. With Josh in my life, I’d hardly slept, or so it now seemed. I used to wait up at night to see him when he got off work, and then we’d be up late doing wonderfully wicked things to each other, but I’d still have to get up for classes in the morning. Not that I’d cared about being tired, but why not appreciate a good night’s sleep now?
    When the phone awakened me the next morning, I rolled over in bed and glanced at the clock. It was ten. I’d slept for twelve hours, maybe a bit too long. I lifted the phone to my ear and curled back up under the covers.
    “Chloe? It’s Ellie. Digger is a stupid son of a bitch!” Her voice was loud and forceful; she sounded nothing like the soft-spoken, crying girl I’d talked to yesterday.
    I yanked the covers off my head and sat bolt upright. “What’s going on?”
    “After everything I did for him? He can go to hell! In fact, that’s probably where he is right now, and he can burn there for all of eternity!”
    “Did something happen, Ellie?”
    “Yes, something happened. What happened is that Digger is a goddamn asshole, and so screw him! At least I’m not crying anymore, so that’s a good thing, right?”
    “If you think so,” I said doubtfully. “I’m not really sure what’s going on. Did you go to his apartment?”
    “The building is condemned, so I couldn’t get in. Not that I give a crap anyway! I don’t want to see anything that reminds me of