A Cookbook Conspiracy (31 page)

“Okay, okay.” But my throat was suddenly dry as sand. I snatched a fresh bottle of
water off the console in the living room, popped the top open, and started gulping
it.

“Those aren’t free, you know.”

“Not important right now.” I grabbed her hand. “Let’s do this.”

We walked steadily into the bathroom. Peter lay on the floor at an odd angle, as though
he had fallen backward after being attacked. Streams of blood had dried on his cheek
and temple from the wound on his head. He’d been bludgeoned severely.

In the corner of the bathroom floor was a heavy-duty steel mallet, the kind used for
tenderizing meat. It could be one of Peter’s own cooking tools. I crept closer and
noticed there was dried blood caked on its surface. It had to be the weapon someone
had used to hurt Peter.

I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. No way was I going to faint again. Using
every last ounce of courage I possessed, I knelt and pressed my fingers to Peter’s
neck. My hand was shaking, so I had to try again. After a few long seconds of concentration,
I thought I felt something. Then I felt it again. A pulse. “He’s still alive! Barely.
Call nine-one-one for an ambulance.”

Savannah let out a cry and ran to the bedroom phone to dial the emergency number.

I stayed with Peter. I didn’t want to shake him or move him, so I just touched him
and hoped he could hear me. “Peter, we’ll get you taken care of. Don’t die, do you
hear me? No dying. That’s an order.”

He moaned. It was the faintest sound, but I heard it and rejoiced.

“That’s right, mister,” I said. “You’re going to be all right. Just stay with us.”
Tears sprang to my eyes and I brushed them away. There was no time for that now. “Stay
with us.”

Oddly enough, now that I knew Peter was still alive, I didn’t even notice all the
blood caked on his skin. All I could see was his handsome face. All I could concentrate
on was the thready beat beneath my fingers.

“They’ll be here in just a minute,” Savannah said when she rushed back into the bathroom.
“Union Square has its own emergency services.”

“Good.” I could see the minute movement of Peter’s chest rising and falling now. Silently,
I focused on that slight motion, willing it to continue. “That’s good.”

“We can’t leave now, can we?” Savannah said, sounding resigned.

“No, we’ll stay until the police arrive.” Any hope of slipping out of Peter’s hotel
suite with the cookbook intact was gone. “The cookbook!”

In all the worry over Peter I’d almost forgotten about what we’d found. I scrambled
up off the bathroom floor, ran into the bedroom, and picked up the leather book box
from the jumble on the bed.

“We’re in so much trouble,” Savannah muttered.

“We’re not in any trouble,” I insisted, heading back to the bathroom to check on Peter.
“Derek knows we’re here. The door was open when we arrived, so all we did was enter
the suite to check on our friend.”

“Right.”

“But here’s the thing,” I said, walking back to the bedroom. “I’m not letting the
police take the cookbook. It won’t fit in my purse, so can you stick it in your tote
bag?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Is that the only thing you can think about?”

“Not the only thing, but it’s important, Savannah.” I held it out to her. “Please.
Dalton needs it.”

Oh, that was so cheap, but it worked. Her expression softened and her attitude changed.
“All right, give it to me. I’ll hide it in my bag.”

The closet door slid open with a bang. “No! You’re not keeping it. It’s mine!”

We both turned and stared as Kevin pushed her way out of the mirrored closet, brandishing
a wicked-looking chef’s knife.

“Kevin?” Savannah said, truly mystified. “What’re you doing here?”

“That book is mine!” she shouted. “First Baxter steals it, then Peter, and now you?
Give it to me or I’ll—”

I held the book in front of me like a shield. “Did you do that to Peter?”

“No!” She was wild-eyed and not acting real coherent. “I was trying to help him, but
I heard someone coming, so I hid in the closet.”

“You were hiding in there all this time?” Savannah asked, astonished. “Why didn’t
you come out when you heard us talking?”

Not the point right now
, I thought.

“Put the knife down, Kevin,” I said. “Let’s talk about this.”

She waved the sharp knife at me. “Not until you give me the book.”

“No,” I said, and held on to the cookbook a little more tightly. “This is ridiculous.
Put down that stupid knife before the police get here.”

“As soon as you give me the cookbook,” she repeated through clenched teeth.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Savannah shouted. “Enough with that damn book! People are dying,
Peter’s nearly dead, and you’re acting
like a complete wacko!” Before I could stop her, she grabbed something from Peter’s
untidy heap of tools and lunged at Kevin.

I screamed. “Savannah, no!”

Kevin shrieked, dropped the knife, and cowered, shaking wildly. “Don’t hit me!”

Good grief. What kind of a killer was she? I took advantage of the moment and grabbed
Kevin around her waist, trapping her arms. Then I pushed her onto the bed and jumped
on top of her, straddling her to hold her down.

“Let me go!” Kevin cried as she twisted back and forth, trying to free herself. “I
didn’t do anything.”

I bounced hard on her just because she was making me so mad. “You could’ve killed
either one of us with that knife.”

“I wasn’t going to kill anyone.” She began to cry. “I just wanted the book.”

“Right,” I said derisively. “Tell that to Peter. He’s barely alive after you attacked
him. I just hope he lives to tell about it.”

And all of a sudden, reality hit me hard. Kevin Moore, this woman I had thought was
my friend, the one I’d invited to my house for dinner, the one I’d hoped would find
love again with darling Peter, was the cold-blooded murderer of at least two chefs.
How could I have been so completely wrong about a person? My personal judgment wasn’t
worth a damn, I thought sadly. It made my stomach hurt and I had to sit back on my
ankles and take in a few breaths.

“What’s wrong?” Savannah said. “Are you okay?”

I gulped again and deliberately steadied my stomach. “Fine. Just…I’m bummed.” I cast
a glance at Kevin. “I thought you were my friend.”

“Me, too.” Savannah’s eyes glistened with tears. But then she snapped out of it. She
stomped over to the bed and glared at Kevin. “Did you kill Baxter? Did you kill Montgomery?
Did you try to kill Peter?”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” She writhed in protest. “I just wanted the book.”

I glanced at Savannah, then did a double take when I noticed what she was clenching
in one fist.
This
is what she had grabbed to defend us both from a mad-dog killer? “What is wrong with
you?”

“Me? Why are you yelling at me?”

“Because you could’ve gotten yourself killed. An egg whisk is not a weapon.”

She glanced at the whisk in her hand, then gave me a cool look. “It was the right
tool for the job.”

*   *   *

T
he paramedics were able to stabilize Peter and he was rushed off to the hospital.
Unfortunately, he remained in a coma, but I was hopeful that as soon as he recovered,
he would be able to name his attacker.

One question remained, though. What had his attacker been searching for? Kevin had
insisted that Peter was already knocked out when she arrived. If she wasn’t lying—and
that was a big “if”—then someone else had been in the room looking for something.
Was it the cookbook? Who else wanted to get their hands on it?

As the police hauled Kevin off for questioning, she continued to maintain that she
hadn’t hurt anyone. She only wanted the cookbook, insisting that it belonged to her.
She claimed that Peter had stolen it for her, which seemed wildly improbable.

The uniformed officer at the scene looked at me quizzically. “Do you know what cookbook
she’s yelling about?”

“I have no idea,” I said with an innocent shrug.

Part of me lived in fear that once Kevin was sitting in interrogation, facing Inspectors
Jaglom and Lee, she would break down and tell them that I’d taken the cookbook. But
since she
hadn’t specifically pointed the finger at me yet, I wondered if she, like me, would
rather keep the fragile old book out of police hands.

I would have to wait and see.

*   *   *

A
n hour later, Derek clutched the wheel of the Bentley so tightly that his knuckles
were turning white.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “But when I found out that Obedience Green’s cookbook had
been stolen from the Gipping-on-Plym village museum fifteen years ago, I had to find
Kevin and Peter and ask them about it.”

His jaw worked as if a hot torrent of words was fighting to get out and he was only
barely managing to keep them back. Finally, he ground out, “And you didn’t once consider
that you might be facing a killer with nothing to lose and no fear of multiple fatalities?”

I thought about his words for a moment. Okay, maybe he had a point. And the way he
put it really made me cringe. Hmm. “No. I honestly never thought that either Kevin
or Peter was capable of doing what was done to Baxter and Monty. I just thought they
might know more about the cookbook than they were letting on.”

He sent me a quick look that was filled with so many emotions, it was hard to read
them all. I did pick up on the love and the fear and the frustration, though. “You
know you scared the living daylights out of me—and that’s not an easy thing to admit.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Derek.” I really did feel terrible. The downside to being in a
loving relationship was the fact that you could make each other crazy with worry.
Of course, as far as I could see, that was the
only
downside. “I wasn’t thinking, really. And I so didn’t expect to walk into another
crime scene.” Tears
sprang to my eyes. Sadly, I’d done this to him before and been gut-wrenched by his
reaction.

He blew out a breath. “Do you know what it’s like to race across town, all the while
wondering if you’re still alive or if I’ll find you in a bloody heap?”

“I—”

“I bloody well hate it.” He cut me off, which told me just how upset he was, because
Derek usually was the absolute soul of politeness. “Besides the actual worry, it’s…lowering,
damn it.” He pounded the steering wheel. “To…feel…so much, and be able to do so little.
It’s intolerable.”

“I know.” I sniffled and brushed away my tears. Damn stupid tears. “I can only say
I’m sorry over and over again. I know what it feels like to worry, and I regret having
put you through it. I didn’t mean to do it, Derek. I wouldn’t deliberately worry you
and I hope you know that.”

“I appreciate your pretty apology.” But he didn’t sound particularly appreciative
and I had a feeling this conversation was far from over.

In that case, I took another stab at trying to defend myself. After all, I really
did feel bad about worrying him, but I had worried
about
him, too. And it wasn’t as if I was a ten-year-old. I was an adult and I couldn’t
make every decision in my life by first thinking,
Would Derek be angry?

“I thought we were going to talk to friends about an old cookbook that was stolen
from their childhood village,” I reminded him, keeping my voice steady and reasonable.
“I didn’t expect to find a bloodied body close to death and a crazed woman wielding
a freaking butcher’s knife.”

“When you put it like that,” he said, his tone sardonic, “what else can I do but forgive
you?”

I laughed, but not in a happy way. “Oh, yeah, I can tell you’ve forgiven me.”

He reached for my hand, brought it to his lips, and then held it tightly as he drove.
I guessed that was a good sign. Most likely, we would keep butting heads over situations
like this. But honestly, I ask you, what could I have done differently?

As we came to a stoplight, Savannah coughed discreetly from the backseat. “I hate
to interrupt you two, but I found something you might want to see.”

She sat forward and dangled a gold chain with a delicate silver-and-glass locket between
Derek and me. The two of us stared at the locket, then at each other. His intensity
almost fried me, but it wasn’t anger I felt from him. It was love. It filled my heart
and I had to press my hand to my chest to contain it.

He shook his head and rolled his eyes at me and I felt a bit like an incorrigible
mutt. But I knew he’d forgiven me. At least, I hoped so.

I forced myself to focus on the locket. “Whose is that?”

“It’s Colette’s,” Savannah confirmed. “She’s worn it for years. Never takes it off.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Where did you find it?”

“In Peter’s backpack,” Savannah explained. “I found it while you were in the bathroom.”

“How did Peter get hold of it?” I wondered.

“I don’t know,” Savannah said, then added, “but I also found these.” She reached over
the seat and dropped something onto my lap.

I looked down and gaped. “My earrings?” I turned in my seat. “You found these in Peter’s
bag, too?”

She nodded. “He must’ve picked them up off the table the night you had dinner at Arugula.”

“They’re shiny,” I murmured, holding the pair up to catch the light.

“Yes,” she said. “Peter likes shiny things, remember?”

“So he must have taken your earrings,” Derek surmised. “Then later the locket.”

“I think the locket went missing first,” Savannah said. “I’ve been trying to remember
the last time I saw it and I think she lost it the night of Baxter’s death.”

I thought back to that night and tried to picture Colette talking to Inspector Jaglom.
I remembered her rubbing or stroking her neck a number of times in a nervous gesture.
Now I knew why. She was used to playing with the necklace she wore.

“So how did Peter get it from Colette?” I wondered aloud.

Savannah shook her head. “She never would’ve given it to him voluntarily. It’s a family
heirloom from Raoul.”