A Cookbook Conspiracy

OTHER BIBLIOPHILE MYSTERIES

Homicide in Hardcover

If Books Could Kill

The Lies That Bind

Murder Under Cover

Pages of Sin

(A Penguin Special)

One Book in the Grave

Peril in Paperback

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Recipes

Acknowledgments

I want to thank the “real” Kevin Moore of the Anaheim Public Library Foundation for
her amazing generosity and support. Thank you, Kevin!

As always, I am grateful to my perceptive editor, Ellen Edwards, for keeping me and
my wild ideas on track, and to my agent, Christina Hogrebe, for her unwavering support
and good cheer. Thanks, as well, to the wonderful people at Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
and New American Library who work so hard to keep the Bibliophile Mysteries rolling
on. A special thanks to illustrator Dan Craig, who creates the beautiful covers that
give us all such a lovely glimpse into Brooklyn’s world.

To Jenel Looney, whose ingenuity is truly awesome and inspired, thank you a million
times for all you do.

Many thanks to Hannah Dennison, who kindly shared her memories of Gipping-on-Plym
with me.

Finally, I’m grateful to my family, who not only put up with my erratic schedules
and scary deadlines but also live in fear—and rightly so—that anything they say or
do will one day be used in a book. Thank you. I love you all.

I don’t mind admitting I’m a little obsessed with food. A childhood spent competing
with five brothers and sisters at the dinner table will do that to you. I grew up
loving good food as much as I love old books, which is saying a lot since I’m a bookbinder
and old books are my life’s blood.

My current food fixation is cheeseburgers, but I’m not picky—I love everything. Last
month I was hooked on doughnuts. Before that, it was tamales. Chocolate is a constant,
of course. I get happy chills when I see a new building going up in my neighborhood
because it means that food trucks will start showing up every morning to feed the
construction crew. And me. I love food trucks.

So given my deep admiration for all things foodie, it seems a cruel joke that the
universe declined to endow me with even the
teensiest smidgen of cooking talent. Damn you, universe! You can be a real bully sometimes.
And never was your cosmic cruelty more evident than the day my oddball sister Savannah
received her Grand Diplôme from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, France. Savannah a chef?
It wasn’t fair!

Let’s break it down. There are two kinds of people in the world: the ones who claim
they “forgot to eat lunch” and the ones (like me) who have never missed a meal. Savannah
has been forgetting to eat lunch throughout her life. How she wound up in the Wainwright
family is a question for the ages. Equally perplexing is how she ended up in charge
of a world-class gourmet kitchen. The girl forgets to eat!

Don’t get me wrong; I love Savannah. I love all of my siblings. My peacenik parents
always encouraged us kids to treat each other with infinite kindness and unconditional
love, even while we were pulling each other’s hair and stealing Barbie dolls and Legos.

So last year when Savannah returned to Dharma, our hometown in the Sonoma wine country,
and opened Arugula, a high-end vegetarian restaurant, I was thrilled for her. I marveled
at her innovative menus and wine pairings. I cheered her fabulous reviews. I was in
awe of her divine ability to create a chanterelle glaze that could so perfectly complement
a heavenly pillow of delicate, hand-shaped ravioli, thus providing the perfect juxtaposition
of taste and texture on the tongue.

But come on, universe! What about me? You couldn’t even give me a heads-up on how
long to boil macaroni? Because I’m telling you, those instructions on the box are
always wrong.

“This shouldn’t be so difficult,” I muttered, tossing the empty cardboard pasta box
into the trash. I stood alone in my kitchen and stared in disgust at the mushy pasta
draining in the colander. I’d been so careful this time, followed the directions to
the letter, but once again the universe was out to get me.

I grabbed my wineglass and took a fortifying sip before
reaching for yet another test noodle, biting into it, and sighing in dismay. Yup,
this one was just as soggy as the others. I turned the colander over and tossed the
entire batch of pasta down the garbage disposal.

“What a waste.” I was debating whether to torture another package of pasta or just
call for a pizza when my doorbell rang. I dried my hands on a dish towel, then jogged
around the kitchen bar, down the hall, and into my workshop, where my front door was
located.

Months of strange comings and goings in my building had me checking the peephole before
unlocking the door and throwing it open.

“Speak of the devil,” I said by way of greeting Savannah.

“Me? The devil?”

As she entered my home, she pushed her raincoat hood back and I blinked. It was still
startling to see her smooth, shaved head instead of her usual mop of curly hair, but
I had to admit that the bald look worked for her. Her facial features were petite
and refined and she seemed to radiate healthy living. And if you were going to go
eccentric, why not go bald?

“Yes, you.” I took her damp coat and hung it on the back of a tall workshop chair.
“I was just thinking of you as I threw another batch of disgusting overdone pasta
down the drain.”

She wiped away an imaginary tear. “That’s so sweet. I think of you that way, too.”

“Sorry, but I’m frustrated.” I led the way back to the kitchen. “It’s just not fair
that I am completely incapable of boiling water, and then there’s you. I don’t get
it.”

“Ah.” She smiled. “Well, look on the bright side. I destroy books.”