A Cookbook Conspiracy (20 page)

With that, he gulped down the entire contents of his glass. Peter and Raoul joined
him, standing and emptying their glasses as waiters circled the table, replenishing
drinks and removing empty plates.

After that, despite my qualms, the evening turned out to be delightful. The chefs
regaled us with their kitchen horror stories.
Savannah had everyone in complete stitches as she recounted tales from her six months
living on a pig farm in rural France. No wonder she became a vegetarian.

Montgomery kept us laughing as he described all the ridiculous cooking shows he had
auditioned for. The worst one involved sampling different sorts of cuisine while riding
on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. The show had been given the unfortunate title of
Pigging Out on the Hog
. What a shock that it didn’t take off.

Even Colette was giggling finally, although it took her a while—and several glasses
of wine—to warm up. The champagne and fine wines were flowing, and at one point I
felt so comfortable that I slipped out of my shoes and pulled my earrings off to give
my aching earlobes a rest. I didn’t wear earrings often enough for my ears to get
used to them.

Peter and Kevin shared stories of growing up with Baxter in their small Devonshire
village of Gipping-on-Plym. There was plenty of laughter as they described themselves
as a once-inseparable threesome, part of a rough-and-tumble gang of kids who practically
lived outdoors, playing games, running across the fields, and splashing in the slow-moving
river that meandered through town. It sounded like an idyllic childhood, much like
my own growing up in Dharma.

The three of them must have been awfully good friends to end up at Le Cordon Bleu
together. Peter had mentioned something a while ago about Kevin and him deciding to
go and Baxter tagging along. I couldn’t remember his exact words, but I made another
mental note to ask him or Kevin about it.
If
Kevin would talk to me at all.

Savannah served dinner family-style, with large bowls and platters placed in the middle
of the table and each of us helping ourselves. There was an unbelievably tasty Belgian
endive salad, chopped with shallots and fennel and dressed with a light vinaigrette,
and another salad made with Napa cabbage and shaved
ginger covered in some kind of amazing honey-infused Asian dressing. There were four
or five side dishes and three main courses that included gorgeous stuffed mushrooms
and a warm goat cheese and herb cannelloni that literally melted in my mouth.

Everything was vegetarian, but you’d never have known it by the way all of us meat
eaters stuffed ourselves. When the table was cleared, the servers brought dessert,
Savannah’s famous chocolate soufflé with heavy whipped cream and chocolate fudge on
the side.

I might have been hallucinating, but I was pretty sure I had found heaven.

Later, on the ride home, I realized I’d left my earrings on the table at the restaurant.
I gave Savannah a quick call and she promised to ask her people to keep an eye out
for them. Even if the earrings weren’t hugely expensive, I wanted them back. They
were a special gift from my parents and had sentimental value to me.

The best part about the night was that everyone seemed to have a great time. Oh, and
no one died. I was happy for Savannah’s success and glad I’d finally had a chance
to chat easily with Kevin and Peter. It was also gratifying to see everyone get along
so well with Derek.

I was secretly thrilled when the chefs invited me and Derek to attend the private
service in Baxter’s memory later in the week. I assumed there would be other, more
public services for him later. He was, after all, a world-renowned chef and celebrity.
But meanwhile, the chefs had been in a jolly mood as they discussed the arrangements
for their event.

Call me morbid, but I was psyched that they had decided to throw the party—I mean,
memorial service—at BAX, Baxter’s restaurant in the city. They hadn’t set the date
yet, but would let us know as soon as the police cleared it as a crime scene. I knew
it was gruesome, but I relished the notion of returning to the scene
of the crime. Perhaps the killer would do something to reveal himself or herself to
us that night. It could happen.

There was another reason I was excited to attend the memorial service at Baxter’s.
It would give me another chance to search the kitchen for Obedience Green’s cookbook.

The next day, Derek called me from his office. The police had informed him that Baxter’s
restaurant was no longer a crime scene. I telephoned Savannah to let her know and
she hung up to call Peter and tell him the news.

I felt as if we were playing the telephone game.

A while later, Savannah called back. “Peter says the memorial party will be Friday
night.”

“Great,” I said. “Are we still invited?”

“Of course,” she said. “By the way, Peter told me he’s been contacted by Baxter’s
attorneys. Apparently Baxter had no living relatives, so he made Peter the executor
of his will.”

“Really?” That surprised me a little. I knew Baxter had grown up in the same small
village as Peter, but it had always seemed as though Peter didn’t like Baxter. Maybe
they were closer friends than Peter had let on. “That’s interesting.”

“Is it?”

“I guess it depends on your point of view.” Realizing that the things Savannah and
I found interesting were probably worlds apart, I changed the subject. “So tell me
about the memorial party. Are you cooking?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She hesitated, then said, “I’m not even sure where we’ll have
it. The thing is, Brooklyn, Peter swung by the restaurant earlier and it’s still a
mess. Not only are there paparazzi lining the sidewalks outside, but there’s blood
everywhere in the kitchen and that icky black fingerprint powder is smeared all over
the place. Peter says it’s revolting, and the police aren’t even responsible for cleaning
it up.”

“No, they’re not,” I murmured.

“So we’re not sure we’ll have our dinner there. I’m so bummed.”

“Look, tell him not to change plans,” I said. “I’ll call a cleaning service.”

“I doubt if a couple of housemaids will be able to handle it.”

I smiled inwardly. “I’m talking about a specialized cleanup service that deals with
crime scenes and biohazard spills and stuff like that. These guys show up in hazmat
suits and when they’re finished, you’ll never be able to tell that anything bad happened
there.”

“You do know the most interesting people,” she said.

I had to sigh. Really, when had my life become so complicated? “I do, don’t I?”

We hung up and I put a call in to my buddy Tom, who owned the crime scene cleanup
service I had used for my friend Robin’s house after that man was killed in her bedroom.
Tom had been recommended by Inspector Jaglom and he really knew his stuff.

What I liked about Tom was that for someone who dealt with the grisly aftermath of
violent death, he was one of the friendliest guys I’d ever met. Big as a bear, he
was kindhearted and deferential to his clients, who, after all, were the loved ones
left behind once the body was taken away. Tom took his job very seriously,
especially when blood had been spilled. His cleanup crew would wear full hazardous
material suits, covering themselves from head to toe in order to work in the biohazard
environment of Baxter’s kitchen.

Tom and his crew were available the following morning, so I arranged for Peter to
be at Baxter’s place to let them in. They would spend all day wiping down and disinfecting
every surface of the entire restaurant, and by the time Friday night rolled around,
all evidence of bloody murder would be gone.

If only it was that easy to wipe away the memory from all of our minds. But none of
this would really be over until we found out who had killed Baxter.

I finished the call to Tom and immediately felt at loose ends. I had interrupted the
intricate job of fixing the
Jane Eyre
book to call the crime scene cleaners and now I didn’t feel like going back to work.
It was alarming to realize that despite my revulsion for murder and mayhem, the conversation
with Tom had charged me up.

I thought about dashing off to visit Ian at the Covington Library, even though I’d
seen him just a few weeks ago when I stopped by to show him Savannah’s old cookbook.
I’d known that as a fellow book geek, he would be sure to get a kick out of it—and
he had.

It was always fun to see Ian. I’d known him for years and loved him like a brother.
At one point in our past, we’d even been engaged to marry for a brief time. Our plans
were doomed from the start, however, and Ian was now happily gay and living with his
cutie-pie partner, Jake. So much for my ability to choose appropriate men. Well, until
Derek came along, anyway.

Now the only thing that kept me from driving over to the Covington Library was all
the work I needed to get done. Namely, the work I owed Ian on the English authors’
books.

Then my gaze landed on my desk where the file I’d made for
Savannah’s cookbook lay. It was filled with the photocopied pages of Obedience Green’s
cookbook as well as all the pictures I’d taken of the book and the book box. I opened
the file folder to study everything.

As I flipped through Obedience’s quirky recipes, the thought of spending the afternoon
cooking began to appeal to me. I wasn’t sure why since I was such a failure in the
kitchen. But maybe all this time I’d spent with the chefs lately had caused some of
their magic cooking powers to rub off on me.

I had tried to make the syllabub five times now, with increasingly disastrous results.
So why was I tempted to try it again? Because, darn it, I wanted to succeed at this.
And because I just liked the idea of making a syllabub. Maybe it was the silly name
that appealed to me. It was so old-fashioned and English and fun. Much more interesting
than a mere pudding.

It reminded me of another silly-sounding dessert I’d had in Scotland, Spotted Dick.
I had searched the old cookbook for a recipe by that name, but couldn’t find it and
finally Googled the name. It turned out that Spotted Dick hadn’t come into fashion
until the 1840s, long after Obedience Green wrote her cookbook. That was too bad,
because it would be a special treat to be renowned for my Spotted Dick.

Did I dare give the syllabub another try?

“Oh, why not?” I muttered. I made up my shopping list, grabbed my purse, and headed
for the grocery store.

*   *   *

“T
his is delicious,” Derek said, running his spoon around the small dessert bowl in
order to scoop up every last drop of the syllabub I’d made. “Where did you buy it?”

I smiled serenely, although I was quivering with excitement inside. “I didn’t buy
it. I made it.”

“That’s very funny,” he said, licking his spoon. “God, it’s
fantastic. Thick, creamy, not overly sweet. A touch of espresso. And highly alcoholic.”

“Is it too much?”

“Are you serious?” He abandoned his spoon in favor of running his finger around the
inside of the bowl. I’d never seen him do that before. “It’s perfect.”

“Really? Thanks.” I was ridiculously pleased with his praise. “There’s no espresso
in there, but I did add a dash of coffee liqueur for flavor.” Along with two other
types of alcohol, I thought, but didn’t mention it. “You can still taste the alcohol
because it’s not cooked. That’s the difference with a syllabub. You whip it up and
put it in the refrigerator to set it.”

“Fine by me,” he said absently, scraping up one last bit of it from the bowl. “Seriously,
darling, where did you find this?”

I sighed. “Derek, I made it.”

“All right, don’t tell me. I just hope you bought enough for a second helping.”

I pushed away from the table and walked over to the bar, where I retrieved the copied
pages of the various syllabub recipes. Waving them in front of him, I said, “Look,
I made it. I really, really made it. The recipe’s right here.”

He stared at the recipe, then gazed up at me. “You made this all by yourself?”

“I did.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

“Oh, my God,” I said indignantly. “Look at yourself. You’re stunned. Speechless. You
don’t believe I could possibly make something this good.”

He paused to consider his words, then said, “I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“Oh, come on. You’re gobsmacked.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Dumbfounded, perhaps.”

With a laugh of outrage, I smacked his arm. “Admit it. You’re staggered. Stupefied.
Shocked beyond all reason.”

He was biting his cheeks to keep from grinning. “I’m merely taken aback. But very,
very proud of you and happy as a man can be.”

“Aww, sweet. Thank you.” I wrapped my arms around his neck to hug him. He took the
opportunity to pull me onto his lap and held on.

“My little chef,” he murmured, nuzzling my neck. “What’s next then? Roast beef and
Yorkshire pudding?”

“Hmm…” The only thing that flashed through my mind was a recipe requiring that a dozen
garden snails be stuffed into a flannel bag and dropped into a pan of hot bacon drippings.
Obedience recommended that the resulting ointment be rubbed on aching joints. “Maybe
we should take this cooking thing one day at a time.”

“Probably wise,” he said, with a grin that told me he’d be around long enough for
me to improve my cooking skills. Good to know, since that might take, oh,
forever
.

After a minute, he took the pages from my hand and started to set them aside, but
something caught his eye. He examined the top page, then flipped through the others.
“Why didn’t you show these to me before?”

“I did.”

He stopped to think. “I suppose you did, but I should’ve studied them more carefully.”