A Cookbook Conspiracy (19 page)

“Don’t I know it.” Peter steered me over to the bar, where he held up two fingers
and the bartender went to work. Less than a minute later, Peter had a fresh cocktail
and, for a refreshing change, I ordered a glass of water. I wanted to be relatively
sober and aware tonight, in case a killer revealed himself—or herself.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Cheers.” We clinked glasses and he took a sip, then frowned again. “Now, Brooklyn,
do they honestly believe one of us killed Baxter? I don’t mean because we didn’t like
him, because let’s face
it, most of us barely tolerated the man. But, well, who does that? I mean, who goes
and kills someone? Certainly no one of my acquaintance.”

I knew what he was saying, but unfortunately, he was wrong. It was highly likely that
somebody in this room had picked up that hideous fish knife and killed Baxter.

“And another thing,” Peter continued. “How could any of us get away with it? We were
all there in the kitchen minutes before, laughing, chatting, saying good night. And
suddenly, he’s dead? Murdered? Within minutes?”

“The timing does seem pretty tight.”

“Yes.” He leaned closer. “Did you see anything? Do you know how he died?”

“Not really,” I lied. “Did the police tell you much?”

He glanced to his left and his right, then whispered, “They asked me what I know about
fish. I thought it was an odd question. I’m a chef, so of course I know something
about fish. But what do you suppose they meant?”

I shook my head, feigning cluelessness. “Maybe Baxter died from poisoned fish.”

Peter froze and his face turned a pale gray. “Why would you say that?”

“I—It was just a guess. A bad one, obviously. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by
it.”

“No, of course not.” But he couldn’t hide the fact that he was trembling. From fear?
Or was it guilt? Maybe he was bluffing about the fish knife. Maybe he knew exactly
how Baxter had been killed.

He set his drink on the bar. “Excuse me, will you? I need to, er, check on something.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. Just…excuse me, please. I’ll be back.”

“Okay.” I watched him rush off toward the rear of the
restaurant. The restrooms were back that way, as well as the door to the parking lot.
Maybe he needed some fresh air.

I sighed before taking another sip of water. He was acting strange tonight. Almost
as strange as Kevin. I wondered why. I hated to think either of them might be guilty
of murder because I liked them so much. We had always been friends. And I needed all
the friends I could get.

“Ah, Brooklyn,” a seriously sexy Latin voice murmured near my ear. “It has been too
long.”

That intoxicating male tone brought an instant smile to my face, and I turned to face
Raoul. What woman wouldn’t smile at the sound of his voice? And seeing him up close
in the flesh was pretty awesome, too. I gave him a big hug, then held him at arm’s
length. He wore a beige linen suit with a black T-shirt and high-top Converse sneakers.
Raoul Luna was impossibly cool.

“Raoul. It’s wonderful to see you.” I’d met him only two times in Paris, but we had
clicked. Of course, he’d probably clicked with every woman he’d ever met. One evening
he came over to Savannah’s apartment for dinner. A few nights later, he invited all
of us to his small flat for the most incredible Spanish feast I’d ever experienced.
He was generous, funny, and sweet. And did I mention gorgeous?

“And you,
mi querida
.” His gaze traveled slowly up and down my body—to which I took absolutely no offense.
“How beautiful you look this evening. I regret we did not have the chance to talk
much the other night.”

“I’m sorry, too.” I gave the room a quick scan in case Derek was nearby, hoping I
could introduce the two men. I didn’t see him anywhere, so I turned back to Raoul.
“But here we are now. I trust your interview with the police wasn’t too grueling.”

He grimaced. “Even the most innocent can come away feeling guilty after an hour spent
with those detectives. But I am hopeful that we’ll all be cleared soon and the police
will look elsewhere for their killer.”

“You’re awfully optimistic,” I said.

“True.” He shrugged philosophically. “My lovely wife often accuses me of being too
naive for my own good.”

Did he know his “lovely” wife, Colette, had spilled her guts to the cops the other
night? Did he know she had incriminated him as well as Savannah and almost everyone
else here this evening? I wasn’t about to bring up the subject, just tried to keep
the conversation light. “I don’t suppose she means it as a compliment.”

He threw back his head and laughed. The sound sent at least one pleasurable little
shiver down my spine.

“No, she most certainly does not,” he said. “But I can’t help being an optimist, as
you say. I believe in the basic goodness of people, most especially my friends.”

“So,” I said, always willing to plunge back into dangerous territory, “do you have
a theory of who might’ve killed Baxter?”

His lips pursed as he gave it serious thought. “I am convinced it was a random attempt
at robbery. The thief entered through the kitchen door and tried to rob Baxter. When
he put up a fight, the villain lashed out.”

“That makes sense.” I could hardly fault his theory, since I
had come up with the same one myself the other night. But I didn’t agree with him
when it came to trusting the motives of so-called friends. I had been fooled one too
many times in the past. I no longer completely trusted my instincts after being betrayed
by people I’d allowed into my inner circle.

Besides, he might’ve been an optimist, but I knew Raoul was no more fond of Baxter
than any of the rest of us had been.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” I said finally. I honestly did hope it was a random act
of violence. Better that than the other possibility.

“But of course I’m right,” he said, and winked at me.

“Yes, of course you are,” I said with an indulgent smile, then changed the subject.
“I understand you’re a pastry chef these days. How exciting for you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Exciting, you say? Some of my fellow chefs aren’t quite as
impressed, but I enjoy the work. And to be fair, Colette is a specialist in haute
cuisine, while I tend to dabble in everything. So now I play with the desserts and
everyone is happy.”

He was hardly a dabbler, but I appreciated that he was underplaying his skills for
his wife’s benefit. Both Savannah and Peter had told me that Raoul had achieved the
highest level possible for a Cordon Bleu attendee, completing the entire curriculum
of the three main disciplines offered: cuisine, pastry, and wine. Colette, meanwhile,
had obtained only the cuisine certificate. Not that any Cordon Bleu certificate was
anything to sneeze at.

But, knowing Colette, I realized that wouldn’t ring any happy chimes with her. So
who could blame Raoul for trying to keep the peace? And he truly did seem happy with
his decision to take a backseat in the kitchen, so to speak.

“I happen to think desserts are a critical part of every meal,” I assured him. “So
I’m completely thrilled that you’re specializing in them now.”

He casually swirled his glass of dark red wine. “Then I must find the time to bake
you something sweet while I’m here.”

“Sounds fabulous. Especially if chocolate is involved.”

His eyes twinkled. “For you, my sweet friend, always there will be chocolate involved.”

We smiled at each other until his attention was diverted by something behind me. With
a sigh, he said, “Ah, Colette is signaling me. I’d better see what she needs. Perhaps
we’ll have a chance to talk some more later this evening.”

“I hope so.”

He bowed briefly, then gifted me with one of his patented sexy smiles before walking
away. I turned and noticed Colette standing at the far end of the bar. She gave me
a wiggly finger wave, to mollify me, I supposed. But it didn’t work, especially since
her smile was pinched and clearly disingenuous. I was miffed that she hadn’t even
bothered to come say hello before imperiously summoning her husband from afar.

And I was still irritated with her for trying to implicate Savannah the other night
while talking to the police. So now I imagined her capable of all sorts of shoddy
behavior. I wouldn’t put it past her to have limited the amount of time Raoul was
allowed to speak to each of the other women in the room. She probably had a stopwatch
in her bag.

I sipped my drink and tried to brush aside my resentment. Raoul was such a sweetie,
I hated not liking his wife. I decided I would make an effort to talk to her at some
point and see if we could be friendly. If it didn’t work, at least I could say I gave
it a try. I didn’t enjoy feeling so bitter toward anyone.

A young waiter walked into the bar and announced, “Dinner is served.” We followed
him into the main dining room, where one long table was elegantly set to seat all
nine of us.

Savannah asked Derek to sit at the head of the table and she sat on the opposite end,
closest to the kitchen. Montgomery sat next
to her on my side of the table. I was happy to be seated between Derek and Peter,
and Kevin was next to Peter. I was even happier to see Colette seated farthest from
me, on the other side of the table next to Savannah.

“Where did you disappear to?” I murmured to Derek as wine was being poured.

He faced me and said discreetly, “Someone wanted to discuss my role as chaperone privately.”

“Who?”

He casually scanned the guests at the table. I followed his gaze until it settled
on one person.

I turned and whispered, “Montgomery?”

He nodded, but said nothing else, and we both made an effort to join in the conversations
around us. But I made a big mental note to get more information out of Derek the first
chance I had.

What did Monty want to know? Maybe the others had chosen him to try and get information
out of Derek. It was only natural that the chefs would want to know who this stranger
Derek was. After all, who was to say he wouldn’t report to the police every morsel
of gossip and innuendo he heard tonight? But it appeared that Derek had alleviated
Monty’s worries, because the jovial chef seemed completely at ease. Still, I wanted
to know what the two men had actually said to each other. Just call me inquisitive.

Happily, with all the cocktails and now wine, the chefs’ tongues were loosening up
a little. Enough for them to confront Derek more directly now.

“So you’re our babysitter,” Kevin said, her tone defiant.

I jumped in before Derek could speak. “Having Derek here was the only way the police
would let you all leave the city limits.”

Montgomery’s eyes flashed in Derek’s direction. “I’m not complaining. He can babysit
me anytime he wants.”

I almost laughed as Derek scooted another inch closer to me.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Colette said. “Why would they ask you to do it? You’re
dating Savannah’s sister. Doesn’t that make you prejudiced?”

I bristled. The woman was getting on my last nerve. “Derek served with British intelligence
for years before starting his own security firm,” I told her. “The police trust him
implicitly. He’s completely incapable of being compromised.”

“Thank you, darling,” he said, patting my thigh under the table before firmly resting
his hand on my leg. He had to know I was itching to leap across the table and smack
that buxom bitch silly.

Hmm, so much for my vow to be friendlier toward Colette. Honestly, what did Raoul
see in that woman? I mean, besides her beautiful face, perfect hair, and gorgeous
body? Other than that, she was thoroughly unpleasant.

I hoped the chefs’ suspicions would subside and we could all enjoy our dinner, but
suddenly Savannah piped up, “Brooklyn has worked with the police on other murder cases,
so they trust her completely, too.”

Seven pairs of eyes turned and stared at me with suspicion. And I knew I wouldn’t
get any more answers from anyone.

But then Montgomery winked at me. “So I guess you’re not a suspect.”

“No, but I have been in the past.”

“Tell us what happened,” Kevin said eagerly. I prayed the enthusiasm in her voice
meant that she had forgotten her earlier anger.

Throughout the first course, I entertained them with tales of how Derek had once suspected
me of murder.

Kevin smiled. “Strangely enough, that makes me feel a bit better.”

Montgomery glanced around. “But we’re still suspects.”

“That’s right,” Colette said, sounding dejected. “Any one of us could be carted off
to jail at any moment.”

“For no reason!” Margot cried. “None of us would ever hurt Baxter.”

Silence hung in the air like a noose for several seconds after that heartfelt statement.

Raoul broke the silence with a fond pat of Margot’s hand. “That is very sweet of you
to say.”

“And very naive,” Colette said scornfully.

Margot frowned. “Why? Because I don’t believe any of us would kill one of our own?”

Peter laughed. “No, because you actually considered Baxter ‘one of our own.’”

“He was,” Margot insisted. “And I still refuse to believe anyone in this room could’ve
killed him.”

Was she serious? Or was Margot’s sweetness-and-light act just another way of manipulating
the others?

“I suppose you could be right,” Colette said, though her tone belied the words. “But
obviously, the police don’t agree with you. They’re looking for someone to pin Baxter’s
murder on, and they’ll take whichever one of us has the weakest alibi.”

With a calculated gleam, Colette’s gaze moved slowly around the table. It was a little
creepy. Was she analyzing her fellow chefs’ vulnerabilities? Comparing them to her
own?

“In that case,” Montgomery said, standing and hoisting his wineglass, “I have only
one thing to say. Eat, drink, and be merry, y’all, for tomorrow we die!”