I’d seen the knife. It was massive, bigger than any kitchen knife I’d ever seen. The blade was about twelve inches long and eight inches wide, curving dramatically along the razor-sharp edge.
“He bought it from one of the roughneck Asian fishermen who sold their catch right on the dock next to their boats. He’d never seen another one like it.”
“Why is it curved like that?” I asked.
“It makes carving up the largest types of fish a lot easier. You slide the blade under the gills and just start slicing.”
“Interesting,” I said, frowning.
“He said he paid six dollars for it.”
“Sounds like a bargain.”
“I’ll say. It would cost several hundred dollars at Williams-Sonoma.” She tried to snicker, but her face crumpled and she began to sob.
“Oh, honey.” I grabbed her and held her. My eyes got watery, too, since I was constitutionally incapable of letting her cry alone.
After a minute or two, her shoulders stopped shaking. She hiccupped once or twice, then took some deep breaths. “I’m okay. It’s just…wow. Horrible.”
“I know. I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Thanks.”
I glanced over at Derek, who was walking the perimeter of the dining room, making sure the windows were locked and secured, studying the street traffic. He couldn’t help himself, I guess.
His face was a study in composure. He would be the perfect buffer between Savannah and the police detectives. It helped that he had an impressive law enforcement background after working with British intelligence for many years. The detectives we had worked with in the past called him by his title: Commander. It suited him.
Savannah, truly exhausted now, folded her arms on the bar and rested her head on them. I left her and met Derek halfway across the room.
“How’s she doing?” he asked.
“She’s beat. I don’t know how she’ll deal with the police.”
“She’ll be fine,” he said, taking hold of my hand. “She’ll rally. She’s your mother’s daughter.”
“Aw,” I said, smiling. “That was the exact right thing to say.”
He shrugged. “It’s true.”
We continued walking along the waterfall wall. “You know, Derek, this could’ve been a simple robbery gone wrong. The back door was wide-open when we walked in and this isn’t the safest of neighborhoods.”
“It’s possible, of course,” he said. “The police will have to interview the kitchen staff to find out if anything has gone missing.”
I stopped dead. “Oh, hell. The cookbook.” I didn’t give him a chance to respond as I raced across the room to Savannah.
“Wake up, Bugs,” I said, rubbing her back to get her attention.
“Are the police here?” she asked, her voice groggy.
“Not yet. Savannah, the cookbook. Where is it?”
Baffled, she glanced around, then frowned at me. “We don’t use cookbooks, Brooklyn. Baxter’s got a notebook of recipes and—”
“No, no,” I said in a rush. “The old cookbook you gave back to Baxter, with the leather box I made. Where is it?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said wearily. “It figures you’d only care about that stupid cookbook.” She waved her hand, dismissing me.
“I don’t only…Never mind.” I couldn’t get too miffed at her in her present condition, but I did care about that book. And I wasn’t about to let it get damaged or destroyed by some overzealous fingerprint cop during a police search.
Or worse. What if it was bloodstained? What if Baxter had been holding the book when he died? It could be ruined beyond repair.
Save the book. The phrase and the policy had been drilled into my brain at an early age. With that one thought in mind, I rushed back to the kitchen to search for Baxter’s cookbook. But as I reached out to push the door open, I stopped.
Really? Was I seriously going to strut into the very room where the bloody corpse of Baxter Cromwell lay sprawled on the floor?
“That would be a big N-O,” I muttered, shivering at the thought, and trudged back to the bar. “Okay, it’s probably on a shelf in the kitchen, safe and sound. I’ll get it later. After, you know, they take him away.”
“You’re nuts,” Savannah muttered.
Derek was more sympathetic. “Do you want me to find the book for you?”
“Would you mind?”
“Of course not. We should get it out of there before it winds up in police custody.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Derek understood what could happen to the book if we didn’t take charge of it immediately. “Thank you.”
But just as he turned toward the kitchen, a deafening cacophony of police sirens blared out, followed by the screeching of multiple brakes, ending directly outside the front door of the restaurant.
There was no time to search for the book.
The police had arrived.
Chapter Five
To bake a pleasing chicken pie, have on hand a chicken recently killed and plucked thoroughly.
—The Cookbook of Obedience Green