A Cookbook Conspiracy (18 page)

I could tell that the candles had been glossed up with Mom’s special blend of magic
oil. She infused the oil with a light scent of orange blossom that was said to bring
both harmony and power to the fore.

A witch always “dressed” or oiled her candles before she burned them in order to establish
a psychic link between herself and the candles. By rubbing on the oil herself, Mom
charged the candles with her touch, sending unique vibrations into the wax. The candles
became an extension of her life force.

Candle colors were significant, too. Mom had chosen green for good luck and harmony;
blue for protection, wisdom, and devotion; and white for peace and spirituality, always
best when trying to establish contact with the goddess.

Mom slid the tray over and sat in front of me on the solid coffee table. She clasped
both of my hands in hers and said, “Take a moment to ground yourself, Brooklyn.”

“Okay.” I snuggled in my chair and rubbed my shoes against the wood surface of the
terrace.

“Visualize your root chakra shooting a light beam through the soles of your feet and
into the earth, connecting you to the soil and centering your spirit. The beam runs
both ways as you feel Mother Earth’s energy spiral up through your body, opening and
cleansing every chakra and creating a harmonious balance within.”

I straightened my spine and felt the oddest tingling sensation. I breathed in and
out slowly and allowed my mother’s words to wash over me.

She reached for the bowl of blue glitter. “Sparkling indigo,” she explained, “found
in the crystalline mines outside of Marrakech and ground to a fine, shimmering powder.
Indigo corresponds with the sixth chakra, your third eye. It speaks to the fearlessness
within you, that part of you that seeks the truth no matter what the consequences.”

I’m not fearless
, I thought. More like the opposite. I felt like a phony until I saw Derek watching
me intently. Could he know what I was thinking? Was he worried for me? I was worried
for myself!

“Now visualize a triple circle of blue light surrounding you, holding you within its
strength and power,” Mom said, standing. “And repeat with me:

We repeated the chant three times as Mom circled my chair, sprinkling three thin lines
of indigo crystals on the ground around me.

She came to a stop behind me, placed her hands on my head, and chanted,

There was a moment of silence, then Mom picked up the first dish of crushed herbs.
“Hold out your hands, sweetie,” she said, and sprinkled the contents onto my palms.
“Dried bergamot leaves to protect you from harm.”

“I’ll take all you’ve got,” I murmured.

Mom pressed my hands together and chanted,

I rubbed my hands together until the dried leaves turned to a gritty dust. Then Mom
lifted my hands above my head and opened them, allowing the wind to carry the dust
away.

Next came sweet heliotrope petals to vitalize energy, mixed with sandalwood to heal,
protect, and calm the mind. Mom repeated the same verse, asked me to crush the mixture,
and let the powdery bits blow into the wind.

Picking up the third small bowl, she said, “The last dish contains bits of dried lemon
peel to evoke protective spirits, grains of myrrh to guard against evil, and crushed
apple seeds to bring peace of mind, love, and wisdom.”

“Bring it on,” I muttered, holding my hands out.

She repeated the words,

When the last of the herbs were crushed and gone, Mom bowed in front of me, her hands
pressed prayerfully together in the classic pose. After a long moment, she raised
her head and smiled at me.

I was surprised the ritual was over. “That was pretty sedate, Mom, but I enjoyed it.
Thanks.”

“Oh, we’re not finished.”

Uh-oh. I watched her nervously. “What else is there?”

At this point, I expected her to throw her arms up and wail some crazy singsong chant
about Krishna’s belly button or something equally nonsensical. That’s usually how
her rituals ended. In happy dancing chaos.

Instead, she closed her eyes and began to sway back and forth in front of me. With
each deep breath she took, she raised her arms to the sky, then lowered them over
me. Her hands skimmed down and framed my face as she whispered some sort of prayer
I couldn’t quite make out. Something about gods and power and protection. She repeated
the actions and words three times, summoning the power of all the gods in all the
heavens to watch over me.

I snuck a glance at Dad, who wore a serious frown. China was sitting forward in her
chair as though she might leap up and rush to my rescue. Did I need rescuing? What
was up with Mom being so serious all of a sudden?

Derek reached over and held my hand. Good heavens, was everyone so concerned about
me? Where was my happy, frolicking mother? Why wasn’t she whooping and laughing and
spin-dancing like the carefree Deadhead hippie she’d always been? What kind of crazy
ritual was this?

After another minute or two of silent swaying, Mom uttered one gentle moan and stopped
moving.

Now what?
I wondered.

She opened her eyes and stared into mine with so much intensity, I knew she could
see straight through to my soul. After a long
moment, it was too much and I had to blink and sever our connection. She smiled then
and picked up the bundle of smudged sage. Holding it over my head, she tapped at the
loose singed bits.

Sage ashes whirled around me like a mini-tornado. I closed my eyes and absorbed the
odd moment. And felt more calm, alive, and happy than I had in days.

*   *   *

T
wo nights later, Derek and I walked into Arugula, ready for dinner and our chaperone
assignment with the chefs. The restaurant was closed on Mondays, so the eight of us
were the only guests.

The main dining room looked beautiful tonight. There were clusters of small candles
on every table. Subtle ceiling lights cast a warm glow on the walls and the blond
wood floors. Down the center of the main dining table were small glass vases from
which all sorts of pretty pink and blue flowers rose gracefully. In between the vases,
thin willow branches and strands of ivy were entwined around tiny white blossoms.
It all resembled a still-life painting.

I was so proud of my sister. She had spent years trying to figure out what to do with
her life. She’d taken a few cuisine classes at the Sonoma Institute of Art, then bummed
around for a while. Finally, at a friend’s suggestion, she had enrolled in Le Cordon
Bleu in Paris.

After graduating, she spent a year in the Loire Valley at the famous Maison Troisgros
near Roanne, where she was hired as an apprentice chef. She came home and worked in
a number of Bay Area restaurants, then moved to Point Reyes, in the wilds of Marin
County. There she planted an acre of her favorite greens, mostly arugula, which she
distributed to restaurants all over Northern California. Finally, she came home to
Dharma and opened Arugula, and the rest was history.

Glancing around, I noticed that the other chefs had dressed up for the occasion, so
I was glad I’d decided to wear one of my more elegant outfits: black silk pants and
matching jacket, a burgundy satin blouse, and sparkly diamond hoop earrings. Derek
looked ridiculously handsome in his navy Armani suit, crisp white shirt, and burgundy
tie. Did we look like proper, serious chaperones? I hoped not! But I thought we looked
good.

Tonight I was excited and a little antsy after two days of relaxing since Mom’s protection
ritual. I’d been taking naps and going on long walks through the vineyards. The urge
to delve into Baxter’s murder investigation had subsided. But now it was back with
a vengeance.

It was as if I’d been on a tropical vacation too long and was desperate to get back
to reality. Except in this case, I had no idea what
reality
I wanted to return to. I just knew I wanted something to happen. I wanted action.

And what better way to be where the action was than to have dinner with a murderer?
Not that I expected Baxter’s killer to reveal himself—or herself—tonight. And not
that I wanted to share a meal with a killer, particularly. But if I had been looking
for a thrill ride, I’d found it. I was going to watch every move these people made.

As Derek helped me off with my jacket, I spotted Kevin across the room. One of my
self-assigned tasks this evening was to find out why she’d had such a bizarre reaction
when Savannah gave Baxter the old cookbook. There was a story there. I just hoped
the story didn’t end with Kevin being carted off to prison.

“What is going on in that devious mind of yours?” Derek murmured in my ear.

I shivered as his warm breath met my skin. Was I that transparent? Of course I was.
I couldn’t tell a lie to save my life. I turned and whispered, “Stop trying to distract
me from my devious thoughts.”

“Darling, I’d like nothing better than to distract you.” He kissed my neck. “But I
must behave myself. I am, after all, the chaperone this evening.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to behave, does it?”

“No, but I’d like you to be careful.”

I gazed up at him. “Nothing bad will happen as long as you’re here with me.”

He tugged me closer. “I have no intention of leaving your side.”

After a quick kiss, we joined the others in the bar. Derek handed me a flute of champagne
and for the next half hour, we moved from group to group, making small talk. It irritated
me to see that the chefs would wait until Derek and I walked away before beginning
to whisper among themselves. I could only catch snippets of their conversations and
was tempted to yell at them all to speak up.

“We can’t be their only suspects,” someone murmured.

“Have they arrested anyone?” another asked.

“It’s not fair. We all loved Baxter.”

Who said that?
I wondered, and whipped around to see if I could pick out the delusional chef who’d
uttered the words. Four of the chefs stood talking together in a tight circle and
I didn’t have a clue which one had said what.

It didn’t matter, because as soon as I turned away, Colette said slyly, “Some of us
loved him more than others.”

Good thing I could pick her voice out among all of them. Still, I found the snippets
depressing, so I looked around for someone else to talk to. Kevin walked out of the
kitchen just then and I pounced on her.

“Kevin, how are you?”

She set her empty glass on the bar and gave me a halfhearted hug. “I’m fine, I suppose.
It’s just all so depressing, really.”

“You mean the murder? Or the investigation?”

“Both, really,” she said, then lowered her voice. “And knowing one of your friends
is a cold-blooded killer. That can put you off your tea, right?”

“Yes, it can.” I leaned closer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I saw your face when Baxter opened Savannah’s gift. You looked so distressed, I was
worried about you.”

She stiffened until she was almost shaking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Kevin, is there something about the cookbook that upset you?”

“Let it go, Brooklyn,” she said wearily.

“I will, but I just need to know one thing. Are you mad at Savannah?”

“Savannah?” She looked puzzled. “Why would I be mad at her?”

“Well, Baxter did give her the book.” I shrugged, uncertain how to explain myself.
“I was thinking maybe he promised it to you, but then gave it to Savannah instead.”

“Oh, please.” She laughed without humor. “He
promised
me? Look, Brooklyn, Baxter Cromwell was a stone-cold bastard. Everything he ever
had, he lied, cheated, and stole to get.
Promise
me? No, he never promised me a damn thing. But you can bet your ass I promised to
see him in hell before he ever took anything from me again.”

With that, she turned on her heel and dashed back into the kitchen.

“Okay,” I said under my breath. “Maybe we’ll talk later.” I grabbed a glass of champagne
and took a swift gulp. What had I expected? One of the casualties of murder was that
you could no longer trust anyone in your circle of friends.

“Where did she run off to?”

I spun around. “Oh, Peter.” I gave him a quick hug and then
we both glanced at the swinging kitchen door. “She’s helping Savannah in the kitchen.”

“Savannah’s in the kitchen? I’m disappointed. I was rather expecting her to pass the
work off to an assistant and join us out here.”

“I’m sure she’ll dine with us.”

“I hope so.” Peter leaned against the bar and sipped his cocktail. He was dressed
casually yet elegantly in a thin black cashmere sweater and black trousers. “So, did
you get a good grilling the other night like the rest of us?”

“You mean with the police? Yes. How about you?”

“Oh, yes. We all did. I was the last to be interviewed. Practically fell asleep at
the table.”

“Were you too sleepy to provide a good alibi for yourself?” I teased.

“Never,” he said stoutly. “I’m a good scout. Always prepared, especially with an alibi.”

I smiled. “And were you able to tell them anything useful?”

He edged closer. “You mean, did I confess to killing the bastard? Hell, no. Would
I have liked to? Hell, yes. And does it bother me that he’s dead?” He frowned. “Hell,
no.”

I took a quick look around. “I have a feeling your sentiments are shared by a few
of the others.” More like
all
of them, I added silently. I didn’t think any of the chefs missed Baxter.