“You’re getting silly.”
I ignored her. “And when I’m asked to tell the nice detective what happened earlier, I’ll tell him that I came back to the kitchen to get something I forgot, and I saw you and Baxter in the middle of a terrible argument. You were so angry with him, I was afraid to interfere, so I just left quietly.”
Savannah frowned. “But we weren’t arguing.”
I rolled my eyes. She could be so obtuse sometimes. “I know you weren’t. But I’m a desperate killer and I’m willing to do anything to escape being caught. So I have to make up lies, get it? Okay, so I also remember seeing that big, sharp fish knife right there on the counter next to you while you were arguing with Baxter. So I mention that to the cops.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I don’t want to go to jail!”
“Oh, right.”
My sister was brilliant, but she was tired. I knew she understood what I was saying; it was just taking her some time to catch up.
“So as I talk to the cops,” I continued, “I’m planting seeds, making stuff up, laying the groundwork to make you look like the guilty one. Because, after all, you were seen with the bloody knife in your hand. You told me all about it.”
Savannah opened her mouth, then closed it.
“Do you get what I’m saying?” I asked, because I could never be sure she was paying attention.
“Yes, yes,” she said crossly. “I get it. I still don’t believe one of my friends could’ve killed Baxter, but I understand what you’re saying.”
“And you won’t say a word about anything to anyone?” I reiterated.
“I said yes.”
“Okay. We can go back out there now.”
“Sheesh.”
Fine, I was a pain in the neck, but at least my sister wouldn’t go to jail. Not if I had anything to say about it.
Once the two detectives had everyone’s names and basic information, they split up the interrogation duties. Lee took over the private dining room located off another hallway behind the bar, and Jaglom settled at the table at the far corner of the front room where he had interviewed Savannah earlier.
I wasn’t sure if they had planned it that way or not, but Inspector Lee ended up interviewing all the men, while Jaglom spoke to all the women.
The cops had given Derek and me the okay to go home, but Savannah didn’t want to leave her friends. She was worried that the police might cart one of them off to jail, so she wanted to be here to lend her support. She insisted she wouldn’t be able to sleep, anyway.
I was about to protest when Derek murmured, “You know you want to stay, too.”
It was true, damn it. So did that make me a crime scene junkie? Or a homicide detective groupie? More questions with no answers.
Since I was staying, I wanted to pay close attention to what was going on. From my seat at the end of the bar, I watched the interplay between Inspector Jaglom and each of the chefs he interviewed. Occasionally I could snatch a snippet of conversation—because I did indeed have ears like a desert fox, as Savannah had claimed recently.
Then I overheard Kevin say the word cookbook. I watched her carefully and saw her grit her teeth as she rocked in her chair, holding her stomach as though she was in pain. It was subtle, but I saw it on her face.
Was she talking about the cookbook Savannah had given Baxter? She seemed agitated, but just as anxious to hide her reactions from the inspector. Unfortunately I couldn’t hear the words she was saying.
I had to get closer, but discretion was key. I stood and stretched and yawned, then said in a clear voice, “You know, I think I’ll be more comfortable waiting in one of those padded booths.”
Yeah, discretion was my middle name.
Halfway across the room, I slid casually into a booth, got myself settled, and folded my arms on the table. Resting my head on my arms, I pretended to doze off. My hair fell in a curtain over my face, giving me the perfect shield for sneaking peeks at Kevin. I could hear her better, but it was a little tough to see her through all my hair.
It gave me a new level of respect for Cousin Itt from The Addams Family.
Kevin was still speaking so quietly that I could catch only every other word or so. What I did hear, while intriguing, seemed to have nothing to do with the subject of murder or bodies or bloody knives. Or even cookbooks.
But then one word she said jumped out at me. “Blackmail.”
Blackmail? Was Baxter being blackmailed? He didn’t seem like the type of person who’d willingly pay off a blackmailer, even to keep an embarrassing or incriminating secret hidden. No, Baxter was the type who would expose the blackmailer to the world and reap the commercial benefits. But maybe not. I suppose we all had deep, dark secrets to hide.