A Cookbook Conspiracy (13 page)

Savannah looked up and seemed to notice Derek for the first time. She smiled, and
who could blame her? Derek’s broad shoulders, strong jaw, and beautiful dark eyes
gave a girl plenty to smile about.

“Sorry I’m a grump,” she said. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“How could you?” I said from the kitchen. “You were traumatized by what you’d seen
at the restaurant.”

Her shoulders tightened and I instantly regretted my words.

Derek sat down across from her. “None of us slept much, but it would be worse for
you. I’m sorry.”

“Here. Eat.” I plunked a plate of pancakes in front of her and
Derek passed her the warm syrup-and-butter mixture I’d made. Comfort food. She stared
at it for half a minute, then began to eat as though it had been a week since she’d
last bothered. Which could be true. She was, after all, the sister who tended to skip
meals.

“I had a nightmare,” she said, once the pancakes were gone and she came up for air.
“I dreamed that Baxter was still alive in the kitchen when I walked in and pulled
the knife out. He looked into my eyes and said, ‘You killed me.’”

Derek reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “Listen to me carefully. You
did not kill Baxter Cromwell.”

“That’s right, damn it.” I shook my finger at her. “You are innocent and we are going
to prove it. We’ll find the person who did it and they will pay.”

“We?” Derek repeated softly, but I ignored him.

“I know you don’t want to talk right now,” I said. “But once you get home, if you
remember something else about last night, any little detail at all, please call me
or Derek.”

“I will.” She rubbed her face with both hands and the weariness in her voice tugged
at my heart. “I’m so tired. And I still can’t believe that someone I know might’ve
killed him.”

I leaned closer. “Sweetie, why don’t you go back to bed for a while? You can leave
in another hour or so.”

“No, no. I’ve got to get home.”

“Let me call you a driver, then,” Derek said. “We were all up much too late last night.”

She smiled as she pushed away from the table and picked up her plate. “Thank you,
but it’s not necessary. I’ll be fine. Thanks so much for breakfast. And the pep talk.
I appreciate both.”

“I don’t want you to worry,” I said, following her into the kitchen.

“Once I’m back at work, I’ll be fine.”

I didn’t believe that for a minute. After all, Baxter had been
killed in his restaurant kitchen. If anything, her going back to work at her own restaurant
could freak her out even worse. But I wasn’t about to plant that thought in her head,
so I kept quiet.

Because Savannah was still a little wobbly, Derek rode down in the freight elevator
with her and walked her to her car. Then he took off for work and I was left alone
in my studio.

I’d made Savannah promise to phone me when she got home. But knowing she might forget
or, more likely, deliberately avoid talking to me, I called out the big guns: Mom
and Dad.

“Hi, sweetie,” Mom said cheerily. “Your father just left for the winery.”

“That’s okay. I called to ask if you’d keep an eye on Savannah for the next few days.
Maybe stop by the restaurant later this afternoon and see how she’s doing.”

“Why? What’s going on?” She was instantly on red alert.

Too late, I realized my strategic error. Knowing that she would find out eventually,
I went ahead and filled her in on what had happened to Baxter last night. The conversation
went downhill quickly.

“No!” Mom cried. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so worried about you. Are you okay?”

“Me?” I held the phone out and stared at it. Was she not listening? “Mom, Savannah’s
the one who found Baxter. She’s the one who pulled a bloody knife out of his stomach.
She’s the one having nightmares. Not me. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” she insisted. “How can you be? You were there! You found your sister
with a dead body. Good grief, what are you up to now? Ten bodies? Twelve?”

“But who’s counting?” I mumbled. “Mom, this isn’t about me.”

“Of course it is.”

“No, it’s—”

“Let’s get real here.” Mom lowered her voice as though she was about to share a deep,
dark secret with me. “We both know
Savannah can pump ice water through her veins when she needs to. And I’m saying that
with love. She might be a little flipped out right now, but she’ll be fine in a few
days.”

“I guess so, but—”

“It’s all to your credit that you’re so concerned about her. But, Brooklyn, you’re
the one who’s on the edge of gory here. I don’t want to see you fall into the abyss.”

“I think it’s the edge of
glory
, Mom.”

“See? You don’t even know what edge you’re on. That’s not good. Why don’t you drive
up here for a few days? I can work one of my spells on you. I’ve got a new one that’s
a real crackerjack.”

I almost groaned out loud. “No way.”

“Fine, if that’s how you feel. But you should still come up here. You can get a massage
at the spa. Drink wine, relax. Your father would love to see you.”

“I’d love to see both of you, but I—”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you!” she said, forging ahead. “I’m taking a workshop on exorcism.
I think you’re going to love the results.”

Oh, sweet Jesus
, I thought.
What next?
At least she hadn’t suggested I try an espresso enema this time. I loved my New Age
mother, but she was the original wackadoodle flower child. I took a deep breath. “Mom,
I just called because Savannah needs—”

“Brooklyn, sweetie, don’t worry,” Mom said, sounding reasonable again. “I’ll look
after Savannah.”

“Thanks, Mom. Honestly, I’ve never seen her so sad and helpless. It was hard to watch.
She’s usually strong and snarky.”

“Yes, she is.” Mom sighed. “Poor thing. I’ll drive over to the restaurant to see how
she’s holding up.”

“Thank you,” I said, since I knew she was trying to placate me. “She’ll appreciate
it and so will I.”

“I’m still more concerned about you. I know this must be troubling for you.”

“Mom, please.”

“Brooklyn, honey,” she said, her voice softer now. “We’ve talked about this. The last
time it happened, I had to give you a chakra adjustment over the phone. And the time
before that, you were so upset that you even spoke about it to Robson. I know it took
a lot of courage for you to open up to him and I admire you for it. And it’s lovely
that you’re expressing your concern for Savannah instead of yourself, but I’m your
mother and I know what hurts you.”

What could I say? Except for the fact that she had succeeded in driving me to tears,
I appreciated her concern.

“I love you, Mom.”

She sniffed a few times and I realized I’d driven her to tears, too. Could I feel
any more guilty?

“I love you more,” she whispered.

I smiled. “I love you most.”

She giggled, then sniffled once again before changing the subject. “Now, when will
we see you and Derek?”

“I thought we might come up this weekend.”

“Well, that’s wonderful! Why didn’t you say so?”

“I was getting around to it.” Actually, I had only just decided after hearing her
tear-soaked voice. But now that I’d brought it up, I knew it would be a good idea
to get away to the wine country. I just hoped Derek would agree.

Mom and I finished our conversation and I gave Derek a quick call. He was happy with
the plan to drive up to Dharma for a few days and thought he might like to work in
the vineyards with my brother Austin. Now that our plans were firm, I was excited
at the thought of seeing my friend Robin, who lived with Austin.

Before I hung up the phone, I asked Derek if he’d spoken to
Inspector Jaglom about the chef interviews yet. He assured me he had left a message
for the detective and would let me know if he heard back from him.

I filled my coffee cup, headed into my office, and found the copied pages of the old
cookbook on my desk. I couldn’t resist reading a passage or two before I settled down
to work.

“Gutting fish.” I gulped. Instantly, the image of a fish knife and Baxter’s lifeless,
blood-covered body in the restaurant kitchen lurched to the forefront of my mind.

“Okay, enough reading.” I rubbed my stomach, then set the pages aside and spent the
next three hours at my desk taking care of the business end of things. I tackled my
calendar first, since I had recently accepted a three-week summer gig in Lyon, France,
where I would be teaching bookbinding at l’Institut d’histoire du livre. I’d taught
at the institute twice before and loved it there.

For many die-hard European book lovers, Lyon was considered ground zero for the book
arts. The institute specialized in the history and practical application of book design,
conservation, and restoration. The city also boasted a printing museum, and the municipal
library had its own superb book collection with fabulous displays of textiles and
papers.

Besides being a slice of heaven for book wonks, Lyon was also a beautiful old city
built on a picturesque river. There were other fine art and historical museums around
town, including a fascinating puppet museum. And since it was France, there would
be food. Lots of fabulous food.

My old friend Ariel Hodges lived in Lyon with her adorable French husband, Pascal.
Ariel had moved to Dharma years ago to work with my bookbinding mentor, Abraham, on
several projects for the Sonoma Art Institute. While in Dharma, Ariel and Robin and
I had become fast friends.

Now as I read over the Lyon offer and the brochure they’d included, I was reminded
that I hadn’t heard from Ariel and Pascal in a while, so I dashed off an e-mail message
to them.

I signed the contract and made a copy, then stuck it in an envelope to mail. Now that
I was committed, I wrote out a tentative schedule for the next six months, centered
around the Lyon job. I thought how nice it would be if Derek could come along or meet
me afterward for a little vacation time in Paris.

After a few minutes of happy daydreaming, I settled down to the task of paying all
the bills related to my bookbinding business and balancing my checkbook.

I worked for another forty minutes updating my Web site with pictures of my latest
projects and some nice new client endorsements.

As I went through the images I’d taken of the book box and pouch I’d fashioned for
Baxter, I remembered my conversation with Inspector Lee the night before. So I attached
the photos to an e-mail, wrote a quick note telling her what was included, and hit
Send
.

Feeling virtuous for having completed all the mundane tasks that kept my business
alive and thriving, I gave myself the rest of the day to play. That is, to work. On
books. Tearing them apart and putting them back together again. Fun stuff.

I rose from my desk chair and stretched my back before moving to my worktable. I’d
already started on the first of six antiquarian books I’d been asked to restore for
the Covington Library. My friend Ian had come up with an idea for a new exhibit of
works by British women, featuring beautifully bound
books by Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, George Eliot, Beatrix Potter, Mary Wollstonecraft,
and her daughter Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Ann Radcliffe, Georgette Heyer, the
Mitford sisters, and many others.

Ian’s plan had evolved from my bringing him several tall stacks of old paperback mysteries
that belonged to my neighbor’s aunt Grace Crawford. The books themselves were yellowed
and falling apart, but the covers were fabulous. Screaming redheads, busty blondes,
bulging eyeballs, and tantalizing silhouettes of women, all intent on luring men to
their deaths.

Ian had created a small but eye-catching display of three dozen of these lurid noir
book covers from the forties and fifties. He’d titled the exhibit “Pulp Fiction,”
and it was attracting lots of new visitors to the library every week.

Grace’s collection had also included several Agatha Christie mysteries, and that’s
where Ian had come up with the idea to feature female English writers in his next
exhibit.

Ian had obtained many of the English authors’ books from the library collection itself
and from a number of outside book collectors and benefactors. For the most part, the
volumes were in beautiful condition, but Ian had given me six books that were in desperate
need of my help. That was my job, after all: bookbinder extraordinaire, or so I liked
to think.

All six of them were laid out on my worktable, waiting for me to attend to their needs.

I was almost finished with the first book, a small, charming edition of Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
, published in 1818.

This was the easiest restoration job of the six. The smooth black morocco calfskin
leather cover and endpapers were in exquisite condition, and the gilded title on the
red embossed spine was still shiny. On a number of pages I found foxing, those patchy
reddish-brown spots that looked like dirt but were thought to be caused by chemical
reactions from microorganisms or oxidation.
There were also two minor tears that Ian wanted me to fix. The back cover hinge had
become loose, a simple problem that was easily remedied in five minutes.

I always liked to start with the easiest book first. That way, I could finish it up
quickly and feel positive and upbeat about myself instead of feeling like a deadbeat
loser incapable of accomplishing anything.

A neurotic approach, but it worked for me.

The book in the worst shape was a delicate first edition of Charlotte Brontë’s
Jane Eyre
, published in 1847.

I often fancied myself a surgeon as I took unhealthy books apart and put them together
again. But once in a while, I turned into a pathologist as I tried to unlock the mystery
of why a particular book had fallen into such a sad state of disrepair. Occasionally
it was simple. The owner had packed the book away in a rat-infested attic, or dropped
it in a puddle, or left it on a sunny shelf to be baked half to death.