A Cookbook Conspiracy

How was it possible to make something that was lumpy in some spots and runny in others? It was a puzzle. But at least it didn’t curdle like it had the last time. That was nasty.

 

And luckily for me, Derek spent the hour before dinner on the phone with one of his brothers, Dylan, who was on his way to Singapore for some sort of international man of mystery conference. That’s what I imagined, anyway, since Derek and his brothers had all held exalted positions in the military or government service in the past, and some of them currently.

 

So while Derek was preoccupied with his phone call, I’d prepared the taco ingredients, putting each in its own bowl. After whipping up a batch of margaritas, I’d experimented with dessert.

 

I was stuffing the lumpy, runny, pudding-y mess down the garbage disposal, swearing and muttering under my breath, when Derek came into the kitchen.

 

“Perfect timing,” I said, pasting a bright smile on my face. “Dinner’s ready.”

 

“Everything looks delicious,” he said. Brushing my hair off my cheek, he kissed my temple and my ear, sending zings and shivers through my system.

 

“Can’t miss with tacos,” I said lightly.

 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more help,” he said, then helped immensely by pouring me my first margarita.

 

*

 

The next day, over coffee, I read more of Obedience Green’s diary. These pages were so much easier to read than her recipes, which I didn’t seem to be able to fathom at all.

 

27 August 1774. I have hired a butcher. Our barnyard is filled with plump pigs which are thriving whilst my master is starving for their meat. Quandary: I have never killed an animal for its meat and I don’t believe myself capable of doing so. Truth be told, I’ve eaten meat but once. At Budding House, our meals consisted of grains in watered milk and an occasional potato.

 

28 August 1774. I took to my bed last evening with an apoplectic pain in the head. Henceforth, I shall limit my menu to potatoes rather than subject myself to another pitched battle in the barnyard between butcher and livestock.

 

31 August 1774. Mr. Grunwald, being the butcher, arrived with a wheelbarrow filled with pig meat he’d prepared for roasting and stewing. To dissuade me from my vow to eschew animal flesh, for which he blamed himself, he offered a morsel of bacon he had smoked himself. Unwilling to further shame Mr. Grunwald or myself, I agreed to taste the tidbit and nearly swooned from its goodness. Now verily, my mouth waters at the thought of dining on such delicacies.

 

 

 

Who didn’t like bacon? I thought with a happy sigh.

 

I put the diary pages aside and headed for my workshop, where I spent the rest of the morning cleaning up the four Mysteries of Udolpho volumes. I was so tempted to stop working and start reading the story, but the work came first. Plus, if I finished these books, I could start tearing apart the Jane Eyre. That was where the real fun happened.

 

I yawned. I hadn’t slept well, and while tossing and turning, I decided I wanted to re-create the book box I’d made for Baxter. I’d slipped out of bed and spent an hour in my studio, searching through swatches of leather hide, trying to decide if I had enough of the exact color I’d used before. Derek finally woke up and dragged me back to bed.

 

So now I was a little obsessed with making a new book box. Before I could do that, though, I would have to finish these books for Ian. But since I needed to wait for the glue to dry on one of the volumes, I took a quick break to study my leather pieces again to see if I had the perfect piece for a new box. Only a true book lover could relate to the excitement I felt at that moment. I could be such a geek sometimes.

 

I headed back to the kitchen to pour myself another cup of coffee and was returning to the studio when the phone rang. It was Inspector Lee.

 

“Hey,” she began, “I wanted to thank you for sending those photos of the book.”

 

“You’re welcome. I thought about delivering them in person, then realized e-mail would be faster.”

 

“Gotta love modern technology.”

 

“So I don’t suppose you’ve found the missing book yet,” I said.

 

“Give me a break with the damn book, will ya? I’d like to find the killer first.”

 

“Find the book and you’ll find the killer,” I said in my best Obi-Wan voice.

 

“It doesn’t always happen that way, Grasshopper.”

 

“I know,” I muttered. Inspector Lee was being way too polite, even as she disagreed with me.

 

“So, listen, I need some more info,” she said, finally getting to the reason she’d called.

 

I’d figured she wasn’t just calling because we were new best friends. “Sure, what is it?”

 

“I need to know how big that book box thing was,” she said. “I couldn’t tell from the pictures you sent.”

 

“I should’ve given you the dimensions in the e-mail. Sorry about that. The box is twelve and a half inches long, nine and three quarters inches wide, and three and a half inches deep.”

 

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