A Cookbook Conspiracy (27 page)

Early Monday morning, Derek left for the office and a while later Savannah and Dalton
went out to explore the city. The two of them planned to swing by BAX sometime in
the afternoon to check in with the other chefs already prepping for the competition
dinner tomorrow night.

Another dinner. I could already feel my hips expanding at the thought of all that
rich gourmet food I’d be consuming. So in a lame attempt at a preemptive strike, I
did fifty sit-ups and then decided to race up and down the stairs three times. I went
a little crazy. There were six floors in my building, so by my second trip up the
stairs, I was dragging and moaning with each step. It wasn’t pretty. I was thankful
none of my neighbors or housemates were out there to ridicule me.

On the upside, I’d worked off at least, oh, a half serving of ravioli, maybe? That
was just sad.

I took a quick shower, dried my hair, and dressed for work in jeans, sweater, socks,
and Birkenstocks. I was sort of happy the house was empty because I found myself easily
distracted lately. On the other hand, I wished Dalton had stayed home to work on Obedience’s
cookbook.

I needed him to put all the pieces together because it was possible that something
in the book would clear Savannah’s name. But what? Did the squiggles and noodlings
in the book mean anything? Were they part of a secret code that some desperate person
might kill for? Or were they simply the doodles of a bored housekeeper? Did the book
have anything to do with Baxter’s death? Or was the connection merely coincidental?

With a sigh, I realized I couldn’t exactly force Dalton to work on the book because,
essentially, he was on vacation. And I didn’t begrudge him spending time with Savannah
because she was so happy and they were obviously having a good time together. But
the fact was that as long as the murder remained unsolved, Savannah was still a suspect.

Not that Dalton was to blame for that. But still, I was anxious for him to figure
out what those symbols and figures meant. Who knew if the answers would lead us to
the killer, but at this point it was as good a theory as any.

I filled my coffee cup and left the kitchen. At the end of the bar were the scattered,
dog-eared copy pages of the cookbook, right where Dalton had left them.

I picked a page at random, as I’d been doing lately, and read the first entry.

“Poor Obedience!” I wanted to cry for the girl. I knew she was brave and honorable
and smart, but she had always had to fight for her place in society, simply because
of an accident of birth.

I dropped the pages onto the bar and walked down the hall to my studio. And there
was poor
Jane Eyre
, lying battered and bruised on my table. I was surrounded by plucky heroines! I could
hear
Jane
calling my name, begging me to fix her up. Or maybe it was Ian’s voice I heard, yelling
at me to finish the damn book. So I did.

At my worktable, I removed the white cloth protecting the chunks of heavy board stock,
peeling, rotted leather, and stiff paper. The mere smell of the book pulled me right
back into the concentration zone. How could I not want to be here?
Jane
so clearly needed my help. I scooted my high chair closer to the surface as an interesting
cover design concept began to take shape in my mind.

Ian had given me carte blanche on this book restoration, which meant I was free to
choose any cover style, color and endpaper design I wanted. The reason he wasn’t concerned
was because the book’s historical significance was minor and the cover had already
been replaced once before, in 1923.

Ian had known me long enough to know that I would never be tempted to veer too far
from the guidelines of the American Institute for Conservation. In other words, the
antiquarian book world would frown on a shocking-pink-and-tangerine-striped
Jane Eyre
. So I played by the rules and always tried to be mindful of a book’s historical integrity.
The materials I chose would be close to identical to those found in any bookbinding
studio back in 1847 when the book was first createde.

That same philosophy went into the method of stitching the pages back together and
affixing the new cover to the text block. I would try to be as true to the original
materials and style as possible, minus the mistakes that had caused the structural
problems in the first place.

Days ago I had cleaned and brushed the pages free of the musty bits of dirt and dust
that seemed to collect in old books despite the care owners took to keep them safe.

Now
Jane
was ready for her final deconstruction.

After popping two malted milk balls into my mouth for energy, I picked up my trusty
surgical scalpel and began to cut the strands of old binding thread from the middle
page of each signature. I separated the assembled pages one by one, pulling more threads
away as I went. The loose pages were stacked neatly on a new pile.

Once the entire text block was free of the gnarly old threads and bits of hardened
glue left from the original binding, I lined up the pages exactly even and placed
them as a block into a press, sewn side up. I measured exactly where I wanted the
eight new sewing holes to go, and then I measured again. And then I did it again.

I was still paranoid about getting these measurements right because I’d done them
wrong once, many years ago. My teacher had given me so much grief that I never forgot
the lesson.
Measure twice, cut once,
as my father always advised. In my case, it was measure
three
times, cut once.

I pulled out my handheld razor saw and lined the blade up with the pencil marks I’d
made. I sawed through the thick paper block precisely one-sixteenth of an inch in
the eight marked spots.

In case it isn’t instantly obvious: I can be a little anal when it comes to this stuff.

My sewing frame was already set up, and now I took three
lengths of linen tape and secured each of them around the top rung of the frame. I
slipped a weight on the ends so each would hang down straight and even. Once the text
block was lined up next to the linen tapes, I tightened the frame enough that the
tapes became taut.

Then came my thread. I cut off a lengthy piece of thick white bookbinding thread and
ran it through a chunk of beeswax to coat it. That would keep it from tangling and
spinning. Then I threaded a serious-looking, three-and-a-half-inch bookbinder’s needle.

I grabbed a few more malted milk balls to help me concentrate, because threading the
needle sounded simple, but it wasn’t. You had to dent the thread in one spot and actually
pierce the thread in another…. Well, I couldn’t begin to describe the intricate way
a bookbinder threaded her needle. That is, I could, but I might put you to sleep.
Besides, it was something you had to see for yourself, like the Grand Canyon or Old
Faithful.

I got lost in my work, sewing signature after signature, securing the entire block
to the linen tapes with tiny stitches that would hold everything together.

When Dalton and Savannah walked into the house, I raised my head and only then noticed
the time. Almost five o’clock. Wow, I really could focus when I wanted to.

I greeted them, then confessed, “I was going to order dinner, but I got a little carried
away with my work.”

“We brought food home,” said my darling, wonderful, thoughtful sister, holding up
several grocery bags. “I’ll cook.”

I tried to contain my yelps of joy. While Savannah carried everything into the kitchen,
Dalton stayed and stared at the odd-looking contraption on my worktable, trying to
figure out what I used it for.

Then he made a guess. “Ah, it’s a frame.”

“That’s right.”

He continued to circle it, studying it as though he were Sherlock Holmes trying to
solve an irksome mystery. He finally declared, “It’s ingenious in its simplicity.”

I pointed out the features, explained the wooden screws, the linen tabs, and the kettle
stitch. His eyes were still clear, not blurry, so I considered my mini-lecture a success.

“Fascinating.” He wandered around the workshop, pulling open the map drawers where
I stored the materials I used for covers and endpapers, and then examining the Peg-Board
that held fifty different colors and gauges of thread.

“What’s the hot plate for?” he asked.

“I use it to heat my tools for gilding.”

“Brilliant.”

“Are you going out again tomorrow?” I asked.

He abandoned his tour and joined me at the worktable. “Alas, no. Today was a lark
and your sister’s a charming companion. But tomorrow I’ve vowed to work on the cookbook
code.”

“Thank you.”

“Now I can’t promise to clear your sister’s name, but I do pledge to crack the code.”

I was glad to hear it. The whole idea of finding a secret code in a cookbook was intriguing
enough to have my natural nosiness kicked into high gear. Of course, it would probably
turn out to be some meaningless recipe tips, but the fact that Dalton was intrigued
enough to give it a try made me happy.

“I’ll be working in here,” I said, glancing around my workshop. “But it’s fine with
me if you’d like to use this desk. It’s a little roomier than Derek’s desk in the
bedroom. But the bedroom will be quieter, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Thanks.” He pushed away from the table and gave me a wink. “I’ll see how I feel in
the morning after a short run. By the way, did you know you live a mere six blocks
from a Major League Baseball stadium?”

“Yes,” I replied with a laugh. “That was a major selling point for this place as far
as my father was concerned.”

“I agree completely. I’d love to catch a ball game there sometime,” he added wistfully.
“I’ll bet you can see the Bay from the seats.”

“You can, and you’re welcome to come back for a ball game anytime,” I said, smiling
up at him.

“We’ll see about that. Now I’m off to get a cooking lesson.”

I just had a thought. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

“Lord, no. I was just joking about getting a lesson. My real job title tonight is
apprentice sous chef.”

“Lucky you,” I said, as I cleared away the last of the tools from my worktable.

“I think so. Can’t wait to try Savannah’s cooking.”

A wry voice in my mind whispered that her cooking was the only thing he hadn’t sampled
yet. “You won’t be disappointed.”

“Absolutely not.” His lips twitched. “I’m pathetically grateful to anyone who’s willing
to cook me dinner.”

Ah, something we had in common. Dalton really was charming.

“I know what you mean,” I said with a short laugh.

“I’ll admit to you, it’s not just the food I’m grateful for. It’s the chef.” He shrugged
a little and his smile turned tender. “’Tis Savannah, after all. I won’t be disappointed.”

*   *   *

T
he next morning I walked Derek out to the front door. “You’ll swing by and pick me
up tonight?”

He leaned in for a slow kiss that gave me a bigger jolt than my first cup of coffee.
“I’ll call you as I’m leaving the office, but I expect to be here by seven. I’m looking
forward to another gastronomic feast.”

“Me, too.” I patted my stomach. “But you’ll be sorry. I’ll need a new wardrobe by
the time the chefs leave town.”

He snaked his arm around my waist and yanked me up against him. “I’m mad about the
way you look. Never worry about that. Every part of you is perfect.”

I smiled, delighted. “And I love you. Have I told you lately?”

“Not enough,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling with laughter. “But I’ve scheduled
a full week next month to give you time to have your way with me.”

“Only a week? It won’t be nearly enough time.”

“We’ll make do with what we have.”

I reached up and cupped his face in my palms. Honestly, what had I ever done to deserve
this amazing man being in love with me? “Why wait? Kiss me, please? And I’ll tell
you now.”

He did, several times, and grinned as he left. From my doorway, I watched him walk
down the hall to the elevator, where his cell phone began to ring. He answered the
call and almost instantly his smiling features went hard and flat. A twist of nerves
flared in the pit of my stomach. I continued to watch as his body grew more tense.
When he looked back at me and scowled, I ran down the hall to him. He slipped his
free arm around me and held tight. What in the world was going on?

Finally, he said, “We’ll be right there.”

“Who was that?” I demanded immediately when he hung up. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

His lips compressed in frustration and anger. “It was Peter.” His arm tightened around
me and I knew it would be bad. Still, when he spoke again, I couldn’t believe it.

“He and Kevin arrived at Baxter’s restaurant early to help prepare for dinner and
they found Montgomery. He’s dead.”

*   *   *

S
avannah was inconsolable and I couldn’t blame her. I shed plenty of tears myself,
and I had barely gotten to know Monty over the past week. But he was such a lovely,
giant
panda bear of a man, so funny, sweet, and mischievous in all the best ways. How could
anyone who’d ever met him help but love him?

As it turned out, though, there was someone who hadn’t loved Montgomery at all. And
I had no doubt that it was the same person who had killed Baxter. Perhaps Monty had
figured out who the killer was and confronted him or her. If he had, there was no
way the killer could have allowed Monty to live.

What other reason could there possibly be? Baxter had had tons of enemies. But Monty…