Proceed apace? How could I not love it when he talked like that?
“Aye, Captain,” I said, giving him a smart salute. Because, truly, he sounded like the commander of Starfleet. And, yes, I wasn’t just a book nerd, I loved Star Trek, too. But was that really the issue? “I’m going to call and invite her over for dinner. Peter, too. I’ll make it Wednesday night. And I’m hoping Savannah and Dalton will be here, too.”
“Sounds like we’re having a party,” he said, and squeezed my shoulders gently. “But you might want to prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
His jaw tightened. “For the moment when one of the chefs you’ve grown so close to is arrested for murder.”
Chapter Sixteen
As for all fish, scale them, gut them, cut off their heads.
—The Cookbook of Obedience Green
Early Monday morning, Derek left for the office and a while later Savannah and Dalton went out to explore the city. The two of them planned to swing by BAX sometime in the afternoon to check in with the other chefs already prepping for the competition dinner tomorrow night.
Another dinner. I could already feel my hips expanding at the thought of all that rich gourmet food I’d be consuming. So in a lame attempt at a preemptive strike, I did fifty sit-ups and then decided to race up and down the stairs three times. I went a little crazy. There were six floors in my building, so by my second trip up the stairs, I was dragging and moaning with each step. It wasn’t pretty. I was thankful none of my neighbors or housemates were out there to ridicule me.
On the upside, I’d worked off at least, oh, a half serving of ravioli, maybe? That was just sad.
I took a quick shower, dried my hair, and dressed for work in jeans, sweater, socks, and Birkenstocks. I was sort of happy the house was empty because I found myself easily distracted lately. On the other hand, I wished Dalton had stayed home to work on Obedience’s cookbook.
I needed him to put all the pieces together because it was possible that something in the book would clear Savannah’s name. But what? Did the squiggles and noodlings in the book mean anything? Were they part of a secret code that some desperate person might kill for? Or were they simply the doodles of a bored housekeeper? Did the book have anything to do with Baxter’s death? Or was the connection merely coincidental?
With a sigh, I realized I couldn’t exactly force Dalton to work on the book because, essentially, he was on vacation. And I didn’t begrudge him spending time with Savannah because she was so happy and they were obviously having a good time together. But the fact was that as long as the murder remained unsolved, Savannah was still a suspect.
Not that Dalton was to blame for that. But still, I was anxious for him to figure out what those symbols and figures meant. Who knew if the answers would lead us to the killer, but at this point it was as good a theory as any.
I filled my coffee cup and left the kitchen. At the end of the bar were the scattered, dog-eared copy pages of the cookbook, right where Dalton had left them.
I picked a page at random, as I’d been doing lately, and read the first entry.
2 October 1775. I was counseled at an early age to depend upon my good character alone to recommend me to society. Miss Ashford at Budding House advised that, as an orphan, I was to adhere to those rules and maxims that best established the female character: Virtue, modesty, good sense, good will. These, together with a pleasant countenance, would go a long way toward separating the governess from the chimney sweep.
“Poor Obedience!” I wanted to cry for the girl. I knew she was brave and honorable and smart, but she had always had to fight for her place in society, simply because of an accident of birth.
I dropped the pages onto the bar and walked down the hall to my studio. And there was poor Jane Eyre, lying battered and bruised on my table. I was surrounded by plucky heroines! I could hear Jane calling my name, begging me to fix her up. Or maybe it was Ian’s voice I heard, yelling at me to finish the damn book. So I did.
At my worktable, I removed the white cloth protecting the chunks of heavy board stock, peeling, rotted leather, and stiff paper. The mere smell of the book pulled me right back into the concentration zone. How could I not want to be here? Jane so clearly needed my help. I scooted my high chair closer to the surface as an interesting cover design concept began to take shape in my mind.