Derek, Dalton, and I left the chefs to their drunken commiserations and went to the kitchen. Despite knowing the place had been searched by the police and then scrubbed clean by Tom and his crew, Dalton was determined to do one final hunt for the cookbook. I thought it seemed pointless, but I still wanted to check out Baxter’s office, so I headed there first.
The room was no bigger than a glorified broom closet, but Baxter had managed to outfit it with a small but elegant desk, two utilitarian chairs, and a bookcase overloaded with cookbooks and a stack of cooking magazines.
It took almost no time to search the desk where I found various bills, papers, handwritten menus, and a few office supplies, but no Revolutionary War–era cookbook. I faced the bookshelves. Could Baxter have hidden Obedience’s cookbook behind these books? It was possible, so I spent another fifteen minutes searching behind every single book on the shelf, but found nothing.
Disappointed, I returned to the kitchen, where Dalton was on his hands and knees, pushing aside every sponge and spray bottle of cleanser under the spacious industrial sink. With a grunt of disgust, he stood and brushed off his trousers.
“Nothing?” I asked.
“No,” Dalton grumbled. “And I’m sweating like a stevedore.” He pushed the back door open and stepped outside for some cool air. Derek and I joined him out in the passageway, ready to admit defeat.
Dalton wasn’t quite willing to give up yet and began to examine the restaurant’s brick facade, looking for a cubbyhole big enough to hide a book.
Exhausted, Derek and I leaned against each other for support. Something furry rubbed up against my ankle and I let out a shriek.
“What is it?” Derek demanded.
I was shuddering and squealing like a little girl while I practically crawled up Derek’s body. “Is it a rat? Get it away!”
“Stop yowling, woman,” Dalton said, grinning. “It’s just a cat.”
“A cat?” I summoned my courage and glanced down. It was the pretty white cat we’d first seen the night of Baxter’s death. “Okay, I’m not proud, but it scared the hell out of me.”
“Yes, well, and I can see why. Terrifying creature, to be sure.” Dalton laughed as he poked fun at me. He squatted down to check out the animal. “It looks awfully well fed for a stray.”
“Someone may be feeding it,” Derek assured him. “We’ve seen it before.”
“It’s a very friendly cat.” I bent down to greet the animal. “Hello, Bootsie.”
Dalton looked askance. “Bootsie? You’ve named a stray cat Bootsie?”
“It’s a perfectly good name.” I pointed at the cat. “Look at her. She’s got four black boots.”
Dalton stared at the cat, then gave me a stern look. “She’s plainly mortified by the name.”
“She is not,” I said, laughing.
“And she’s not a stray,” Derek said. “She’s clean and well behaved. I believe she’s roaming the neighborhood, hunting for a safe place to have her kittens.”
“Oh, she’s pregnant,” Dalton said. “My God, how did I miss that? Her stomach is huge.”
“What’s going on out here?” Savannah asked, as she stood in the doorway.
“That little white cat is back,” I told her while the animal in question purred under Dalton’s fingers. Then I took a harder look at my sister’s features. Her normally cheerful expression was tight, as if strained to the breaking point. A hard night could defeat even Savannah’s easy nature. “Are you okay?”
“Not really,” Savannah admitted, folding her arms across her chest. “Everyone’s leaving. It’s time to go home.”
We left Bootsie to her nocturnal hunting and returned to the dining room to say good night to our dinner mates. While we chatted with the chefs and made plans for Margot’s dinner two nights later, Dalton took the opportunity to check behind the bar for the cookbook. He searched every conceivable hiding place but had no luck back there, either.
The cookbook was nowhere to be found.
We arrived home at one o’clock in the morning. There was no way Savannah could drive back to Sonoma tonight, so she helped me fix up the couch for her to sleep on. It might have been a futile exercise, judging by the temperature of the looks she and Dalton were giving each other. Odds were, she’d spend the night in his bed. But we carried out the task of making up a place to sleep anyway.
And why did I suddenly feel like somebody’s mother, chatting inanely while pretending all was safe and sunny? A few minutes later, Derek and I went off to our room and left the youngsters on their own.
“I feel so old,” I said as I climbed into bed.
Derek chuckled. “Me, too. We’re like the grown-ups chaperoning the children on their first date.”
I groaned. “Then we’re doing a crappy job as chaperones. Their first date is going to be a lot hotter than ours was, I think.”
“Come here, then,” he said, pulling me closer to him. “I’ll just make that up to you, shall I?”
I laughed. “That’s such a great idea. I love it.”
“And I love you.”
I kissed him. “Love you, too. But please don’t ever call me a grown-up again.”
*
The next morning I stumbled out of bed and ran into Savannah at the coffee machine.
“Praise Buddha for automatic coffeemakers,” I mumbled, reaching for the pot.