Besides, Baxter had to know plenty of other people in San Francisco. Maybe he’d had a falling-out with one of his local business partners and that person had had him killed. Or maybe another rival chef did him in. Baxter seemed to thrive on making enemies and ridiculing people on his show. Could he have driven someone past the brink of sanity, causing him or her to lash out at him?
And there was still the random-robbery theory. While the Mission District was gentrifying rapidly, there were plenty of unsavory elements in the area. And that back kitchen door made a convenient entrance and exit for the killer. It was an unlikely scenario, but that didn’t mean it was impossible.
Realistically, however, the likeliest suspect was here among the chefs in Baxter’s immediate circle, the people sitting around this table. And if one of them did it, what was the motivation? Baxter could be a real bastard, of course, but bastards were seldom murdered. There had to be some stronger emotion driving the killer. Revenge? Greed? Something more personal, like jealousy?
I remembered the look I’d seen in Kevin’s eyes when she saw Baxter open Savannah’s gift. Her expression had turned to open hatred or at the very least, contempt for Baxter. Or maybe Savannah. She had dodged my question when I asked her about it the other night, so I was still clueless about her connection, if any, to the book.
And speaking of the book, was it the motive for murder? It was close to priceless, but besides its obvious value, was there something contained within it that was worth stealing?
Were those strange symbols important to someone? I’d seen for myself how Derek had reacted to them. And Dalton had come all the way from England just to get a good look at them. What did they mean? The sooner Dalton figured out those symbols, the sooner we might have an answer. Another long shot, but I was willing to consider anything at this point.
But how could some strange code in a two-hundred-and-thirty-year-old book be a motive for murder?
And if the cookbook wasn’t the motive, then where had it disappeared to? Had the killer stolen it? If not, where was it hiding and how could we get our hands on it? I wanted Dalton to solve the puzzle of the odd symbols right now.
The speeches and toasts had grown more and more bawdy as more cognac and port were passed around. Amid the laughter, Montgomery stood to make yet another speech. His bow tie was askew and his mild Southern accent had thickened to a syrupy bayou drawl. He lifted his glass theatrically and said, “All y’all raise your glasses again because I wanna give a toast to that fancyass cappuccino machine over yonder on the bar.”
He gestured dramatically, sloshing his drink. Everyone at the table turned to get a look at the glistening copper extravaganza perched at the service end of the bar.
“Why are we toasting a machine, Monty?” Kevin asked, laughing.
“Well, sugar,” Monty said, slurring his words, “I gotta figure that’s where all the money went.”
More alert now, Peter said, “What money are you talking about?”
Monty gazed blearily at Peter. “Hell, man. The money Baxter was blackmailing from me.”
Chapter Fourteen
If your soup isn’t brown enough, add a spoonful of brown mixture.
—The Cookbook of Obedience Green
“Blackmail?” Savannah whispered. She glanced at me and I knew our stunned expressions were identical.
Of course I’d known Baxter was a creep. But blackmail?
I remembered hearing Kevin mention blackmail to Inspector Jaglom. Had she been blackmailed as well?
Everyone in the room stared in shocked silence at Montgomery. Their faces showed varying degrees of disbelief, from mild skepticism to sheer astonishment, like mine, but there were a few shifty gazes avoiding contact, and my suspicious nature made me wonder if there might be more than one case—or even two—of blackmail going around this crowd.
Amazingly enough, I noted, it had taken the revelation of blackmail to wrestle Savannah’s attention away from Dalton.
“Montgomery.” Derek said his name carefully. “You’re saying that Baxter was blackmailing you?”
It was such a serious accusation, Derek probably wanted to make sure Monty wasn’t tossing words around flippantly in his drunken state.
“S’what I’m sayin’,” Monty muttered, and gulped down another sip of his expensive port.
“Oh, Monty,” Margot said. “Why didn’t you tell us? We could’ve done something to help.”
Monty waved off her question. “I didn’t need y’all thinking I was a bigger ding-a-ling than you already believe I am.”
“Nobody thinks you’re a ding-a-ling!” Savannah cried. “We love you, Monty.”
Margot ignored Savannah’s outburst. “I guess most people wouldn’t want to admit they were being blackmailed.”
“You think?” Peter said it sarcastically, but he looked miserable. That couldn’t be good.
“Well.” Margot glanced around, then chuckled a little too cheerfully. “Monty, you should know that you’re not alone. I’d like to think my money went toward some of these nice new chairs. Comfortable, aren’t they?” She bounced back against the chair’s plush upholstery.