A Cookbook Conspiracy (24 page)

Kevin and the others regaled us with more funny kitchen stories. One involved a famous
cooking show chef who specialized in Italian cuisine. His wife was allergic to everything
and could eat only egg noodles with a dash of bland vegetable oil. Kevin said that
everyone on the staff knew when the chef was cheating on his wife because he would
whip up two orders of extra-spicy pasta
puttanesca
before taking off for his illicit dates.

As Kevin spoke, Peter cast so many surreptitious glances her way that I started to
wonder if he might still be in love with her. I hoped so. They had been such a sweet
couple back in Paris. I still didn’t understand why they’d ever broken up.

After Raoul’s dessert—a breathtaking chocolate cake alternately layered with almond
meringue, praline buttercream, and chocolate ganache, served with homemade vanilla
bean ice cream and hot fudge sauce—we relaxed with after-dinner drinks and coffee.

Without any planned agenda, the chefs began, one at a time, to stand and give a toast
to honor Baxter. Most of their words were much kinder than Baxter deserved, but I
suppose they were all keeping in mind the axiom that it was bad luck to speak ill
of the dead. Some shared their memories of Paris and tales of horrific kitchen disasters.
We laughed, we cried, but mostly we laughed.

Their words were so gracious and heartfelt. And yet…more than once during the speeches,
I gazed at their faces and wondered which one of them had killed Baxter Cromwell.

I hoped and prayed that someone else entirely had done it.

Besides, Baxter had to know plenty of other people in San Francisco. Maybe he’d had
a falling-out with one of his local business partners and that person had had him
killed. Or maybe another rival chef did him in. Baxter seemed to thrive on making
enemies and ridiculing people on his show. Could he have driven someone past the brink
of sanity, causing him or her to lash out at him?

And there was still the random-robbery theory. While the Mission District was gentrifying
rapidly, there were plenty of unsavory elements in the area. And that back kitchen
door made a convenient entrance and exit for the killer. It was an unlikely scenario,
but that didn’t mean it was impossible.

Realistically, however, the likeliest suspect was here among the chefs in Baxter’s
immediate circle, the people sitting around this table. And if one of them did it,
what was the motivation? Baxter could be a real bastard, of course, but bastards were
seldom murdered. There had to be some stronger emotion driving the killer. Revenge?
Greed? Something more personal, like jealousy?

I remembered the look I’d seen in Kevin’s eyes when she saw Baxter open Savannah’s
gift. Her expression had turned to open hatred or at the very least, contempt for
Baxter. Or maybe Savannah. She had dodged my question when I asked her about it the
other night, so I was still clueless about her connection, if any, to the book.

And speaking of the book, was it the motive for murder? It was close to priceless,
but besides its obvious value, was there something contained within it that was worth
stealing?

Were those strange symbols important to someone? I’d seen for myself how Derek had
reacted to them. And Dalton had come all the way from England just to get a good look
at them. What did they mean? The sooner Dalton figured out those symbols, the sooner
we might have an answer. Another long shot, but I was willing to consider anything
at this point.

But how could some strange code in a two-hundred-and-thirty-year-old book be a motive
for murder?

And if the cookbook wasn’t the motive, then where had it disappeared to? Had the killer
stolen it? If not, where was it hiding and how could we get our hands on it? I wanted
Dalton to solve the puzzle of the odd symbols right now.

The speeches and toasts had grown more and more bawdy as more cognac and port were
passed around. Amid the laughter, Montgomery stood to make yet another speech. His
bow tie was askew and his mild Southern accent had thickened to a syrupy bayou drawl.
He lifted his glass theatrically and said, “All y’all raise your glasses again because
I wanna give a toast to that fancyass cappuccino machine over yonder on the bar.”

He gestured dramatically, sloshing his drink. Everyone at the table turned to get
a look at the glistening copper extravaganza perched at the service end of the bar.

“Why are we toasting a machine, Monty?” Kevin asked, laughing.

“Well, sugar,” Monty said, slurring his words, “I gotta figure that’s where all the
money went.”

More alert now, Peter said, “What money are you talking about?”

Monty gazed blearily at Peter. “Hell, man. The money Baxter was blackmailing from
me.”

“Blackmail?” Savannah whispered. She glanced at me and I knew our stunned expressions
were identical.

Of course I’d known Baxter was a creep. But blackmail?

I remembered hearing Kevin mention blackmail to Inspector Jaglom. Had she been blackmailed
as well?

Everyone in the room stared in shocked silence at Montgomery. Their faces showed varying
degrees of disbelief, from mild skepticism to sheer astonishment, like mine, but there
were a few shifty gazes avoiding contact, and my suspicious nature made me wonder
if there might be more than one case—or even two—of blackmail going around this crowd.

Amazingly enough, I noted, it had taken the revelation of blackmail to wrestle Savannah’s
attention away from Dalton.

“Montgomery.” Derek said his name carefully. “You’re saying that Baxter was blackmailing
you?”

It was such a serious accusation, Derek probably wanted to make sure Monty wasn’t
tossing words around flippantly in his drunken state.

“S’what I’m sayin’,” Monty muttered, and gulped down another sip of his expensive
port.

“Oh, Monty,” Margot said. “Why didn’t you tell us? We could’ve done something to help.”

Monty waved off her question. “I didn’t need y’all thinking I was a bigger ding-a-ling
than you already believe I am.”

“Nobody thinks you’re a ding-a-ling!” Savannah cried. “We love you, Monty.”

Margot ignored Savannah’s outburst. “I guess most people wouldn’t want to admit they
were being blackmailed.”

“You think?” Peter said it sarcastically, but he looked miserable. That couldn’t be
good.

“Well.” Margot glanced around, then chuckled a little too cheerfully. “Monty, you
should know that you’re not alone. I’d like to think my money went toward some of
these nice new chairs. Comfortable, aren’t they?” She bounced back against the chair’s
plush upholstery.

“What?” Peter shouted. “You were being blackmailed, too? But why?”

Margot gave him a patient look. “For the same reason anyone is blackmailed. Because
I have a secret in my past that I want to stay there. Baxter knew all about it and
threatened to see that secret splashed across the morning newspapers. So I paid him.”

Savannah reached over and squeezed Margot’s hand. “But you’re a wonderful person,
Margot. What could you have ever done that was so bad?”

She laughed harshly and shook her head. “You’re cute, Savannah, but do you really
think I’m going to tell you what it is? It was a secret, for God’s sake. And I had
to pay to keep it that way because somehow Baxter found out.”

Peter scowled. “I’d like to know how.”

“You and me both, pal,” Margot muttered and reached for her wine.

“He had a gift,” Monty said dryly.

“But when you don’t talk about it, the blackmailer gets away with it,” Kevin insisted.
She looked around the table. “Anyone else? Might as well jump into the confession
booth while you can.”

There was a long moment of silence, then Peter cleared his throat.

“Oh, no, Peter!” Kevin cried. “Not you, too?”

He shrugged, obviously embarrassed. “He had me right where he wanted me. You all knew
Baxter. Remember how he was always in need of quick cash?”

“This is the truth,” Raoul said calmly. “I can’t tell you how many times he forgot
his wallet and I had to pay for his dinner.”

“That was one of his favorite tricks,” Colette agreed.

Savannah’s lips twisted. “He pulled that one on me a few times, too.”

“Right-o.” Peter nodded. “The story he gave me was that because of the economy, he
was having trouble rounding up investors for this place. When I told him I couldn’t
help him, he suggested that I might not want a certain bit of information to become
public. So I was forced to become a
silent partner
, as he put it. I gave him the start-up money for BAX.”

“Ah, so it wasn’t
blackmail
,” Kevin said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It was an investment.”

“Exactly,” Peter said, unable to meet her blunt gaze. “Pretty stupid to let him do
that to me, I know. But at the time, I couldn’t think of another way out.”

“Join the club,” Margot said, then added bitterly, “That was our Baxter. Manipulator
extraordinaire.”

“I prefer the term
royal ass hat
,” Peter grumbled.

So much for all that love they’d been spewing forth all
evening. What did it say about me that I was more comfortable with them now that they’d
dropped the pretense? I’d known all along that Baxter didn’t have friends—just people
he hadn’t used yet. But I’d been willing to go along with the respectful, if less
than honest, tone of the group. Guess that was over.

“Well, I’m shocked,” Colette said righteously. “I can’t believe so many of you could
allow yourselves to be used and abused like that.”

Monty snorted. “Oh, shut up.”

“Come on, Colette,” Peter said. “You know how Baxter was. When I told him I didn’t
appreciate being blackmailed, he laughed. Laughed! He’d justified in his mind that
it was simply a case of friends supporting friends.”

“It’s a wonder no one’s killed him before this,” Dalton muttered darkly.

“True enough,” Derek finished, giving a brief nod to his brother. “So, Peter, you,
Margot, and Montgomery were being blackmailed. Is that it?”

No one else spoke up. I looked around the table, studying the faces of people I’d
thought I knew. Any of them could still be guarding their secrets. Protecting themselves.
Or that could be the end of it. Peter, Margot, and Monty, and no one else. Who knew
with this crowd?

In the silence, Margot stood, took in a deep, cleansing breath, and spread her arms
in earth mother style, her filmy butterfly shawl flowing around her. “I’ve accepted
my fate and I refuse to be negative anymore. The money’s gone and Baxter is, too.
I choose to believe that my money allowed him to see his dream become a reality. He
opened this beautiful space and invited us all to be a part of it.”

“That’s lovely,” Savannah said, and I almost shook my head at my sister’s genuine
goodness and naïveté. If Savannah had been on the
Titanic
and someone had tossed her a deck chair as she
floundered in the icy sea, my sister would have been charmed by the lovely grain of
the wood.

Always looking on the upside, that was Savannah.

“That’s bullshit,” Colette said.

I leaned toward Colette’s opinion. I took one look at Derek’s expression and knew
we were both thinking the same thing. There was nothing lovely about blackmail.

But we did have a lovely new motive for murder.

*   *   *

D
erek, Dalton, and I left the chefs to their drunken commiserations and went to the
kitchen. Despite knowing the place had been searched by the police and then scrubbed
clean by Tom and his crew, Dalton was determined to do one final hunt for the cookbook.
I thought it seemed pointless, but I still wanted to check out Baxter’s office, so
I headed there first.

The room was no bigger than a glorified broom closet, but Baxter had managed to outfit
it with a small but elegant desk, two utilitarian chairs, and a bookcase overloaded
with cookbooks and a stack of cooking magazines.

It took almost no time to search the desk where I found various bills, papers, handwritten
menus, and a few office supplies, but no Revolutionary War–era cookbook. I faced the
bookshelves. Could Baxter have hidden Obedience’s cookbook behind these books? It
was possible, so I spent another fifteen minutes searching behind every single book
on the shelf, but found nothing.

Disappointed, I returned to the kitchen, where Dalton was on his hands and knees,
pushing aside every sponge and spray bottle of cleanser under the spacious industrial
sink. With a grunt of disgust, he stood and brushed off his trousers.

“Nothing?” I asked.

“No,” Dalton grumbled. “And I’m sweating like a stevedore.” He pushed the back door
open and stepped outside for some cool
air. Derek and I joined him out in the passageway, ready to admit defeat.

Dalton wasn’t quite willing to give up yet and began to examine the restaurant’s brick
facade, looking for a cubbyhole big enough to hide a book.

Exhausted, Derek and I leaned against each other for support. Something furry rubbed
up against my ankle and I let out a shriek.

“What is it?” Derek demanded.

I was shuddering and squealing like a little girl while I practically crawled up Derek’s
body. “Is it a rat? Get it away!”

“Stop yowling, woman,” Dalton said, grinning. “It’s just a cat.”

“A cat?” I summoned my courage and glanced down. It was the pretty white cat we’d
first seen the night of Baxter’s death. “Okay, I’m not proud, but it scared the hell
out of me.”

“Yes, well, and I can see why. Terrifying creature, to be sure.” Dalton laughed as
he poked fun at me. He squatted down to check out the animal. “It looks awfully well
fed for a stray.”

“Someone may be feeding it,” Derek assured him. “We’ve seen it before.”

“It’s a very friendly cat.” I bent down to greet the animal. “Hello, Bootsie.”