A young waiter walked into the bar and announced, “Dinner is served.” We followed him into the main dining room, where one long table was elegantly set to seat all nine of us.
Savannah asked Derek to sit at the head of the table and she sat on the opposite end, closest to the kitchen. Montgomery sat next to her on my side of the table. I was happy to be seated between Derek and Peter, and Kevin was next to Peter. I was even happier to see Colette seated farthest from me, on the other side of the table next to Savannah.
“Where did you disappear to?” I murmured to Derek as wine was being poured.
He faced me and said discreetly, “Someone wanted to discuss my role as chaperone privately.”
“Who?”
He casually scanned the guests at the table. I followed his gaze until it settled on one person.
I turned and whispered, “Montgomery?”
He nodded, but said nothing else, and we both made an effort to join in the conversations around us. But I made a big mental note to get more information out of Derek the first chance I had.
What did Monty want to know? Maybe the others had chosen him to try and get information out of Derek. It was only natural that the chefs would want to know who this stranger Derek was. After all, who was to say he wouldn’t report to the police every morsel of gossip and innuendo he heard tonight? But it appeared that Derek had alleviated Monty’s worries, because the jovial chef seemed completely at ease. Still, I wanted to know what the two men had actually said to each other. Just call me inquisitive.
Happily, with all the cocktails and now wine, the chefs’ tongues were loosening up a little. Enough for them to confront Derek more directly now.
“So you’re our babysitter,” Kevin said, her tone defiant.
I jumped in before Derek could speak. “Having Derek here was the only way the police would let you all leave the city limits.”
Montgomery’s eyes flashed in Derek’s direction. “I’m not complaining. He can babysit me anytime he wants.”
I almost laughed as Derek scooted another inch closer to me.
“But it doesn’t make sense,” Colette said. “Why would they ask you to do it? You’re dating Savannah’s sister. Doesn’t that make you prejudiced?”
I bristled. The woman was getting on my last nerve. “Derek served with British intelligence for years before starting his own security firm,” I told her. “The police trust him implicitly. He’s completely incapable of being compromised.”
“Thank you, darling,” he said, patting my thigh under the table before firmly resting his hand on my leg. He had to know I was itching to leap across the table and smack that buxom bitch silly.
Hmm, so much for my vow to be friendlier toward Colette. Honestly, what did Raoul see in that woman? I mean, besides her beautiful face, perfect hair, and gorgeous body? Other than that, she was thoroughly unpleasant.
I hoped the chefs’ suspicions would subside and we could all enjoy our dinner, but suddenly Savannah piped up, “Brooklyn has worked with the police on other murder cases, so they trust her completely, too.”
Seven pairs of eyes turned and stared at me with suspicion. And I knew I wouldn’t get any more answers from anyone.
But then Montgomery winked at me. “So I guess you’re not a suspect.”
“No, but I have been in the past.”
“Tell us what happened,” Kevin said eagerly. I prayed the enthusiasm in her voice meant that she had forgotten her earlier anger.
Throughout the first course, I entertained them with tales of how Derek had once suspected me of murder.
Kevin smiled. “Strangely enough, that makes me feel a bit better.”
Montgomery glanced around. “But we’re still suspects.”
“That’s right,” Colette said, sounding dejected. “Any one of us could be carted off to jail at any moment.”
“For no reason!” Margot cried. “None of us would ever hurt Baxter.”
Silence hung in the air like a noose for several seconds after that heartfelt statement.
Raoul broke the silence with a fond pat of Margot’s hand. “That is very sweet of you to say.”
“And very naive,” Colette said scornfully.
Margot frowned. “Why? Because I don’t believe any of us would kill one of our own?”
Peter laughed. “No, because you actually considered Baxter ‘one of our own.’”
“He was,” Margot insisted. “And I still refuse to believe anyone in this room could’ve killed him.”
Was she serious? Or was Margot’s sweetness-and-light act just another way of manipulating the others?
“I suppose you could be right,” Colette said, though her tone belied the words. “But obviously, the police don’t agree with you. They’re looking for someone to pin Baxter’s murder on, and they’ll take whichever one of us has the weakest alibi.”
With a calculated gleam, Colette’s gaze moved slowly around the table. It was a little creepy. Was she analyzing her fellow chefs’ vulnerabilities? Comparing them to her own?