I slipped the text block, spine side up, into a wood block press and tightened it carefully. Then I picked out a fat, round wooden glue brush and began to slather glue onto the spine edge of the signature block, saturating the linen tapes and threads and making sure the mixture got into every seam.
The glue would take a while to dry, so I washed out the brush and straightened up my work space.
At that moment, Dalton waved the clutch of cookbook papers at me. “What do we know about Obedience Green?”
“Just what I’ve read in her journal. You’ve got the pages right there.”
“I’ve only seen the pages with the encryptions.”
I took the pages, flipped through them, and handed him the journal section. “This is her life, right here. She traveled to America, where she worked for an English army general who was unmarried. She met all sorts of Americans here and I think she was influenced by some of them. After six years, she returned to England and continued to run the general’s household until…she died? I’m not sure. It just sort of ends with her trip back to England.”
“Did you ever Google her?” he asked.
“No.” I frowned and asked myself why I’d neglected to do that. “I have no good excuse. I’ll do it right now.”
“Let me know what you find,” he said. “I have some ideas, but your results will give me some perspective.”
I moved my laptop over to the worktable and powered it up. Once online I looked up every source I could find on Obedience Green. Unfortunately, those two words combined brought up a million different odd links, such as dog obedience training in Green Valley, Montana.
I added the word cookbook to the search and after combing through every last link, I found something enlightening—and chilling.
Police Call Off Search for Stolen Cookbook.
No leads in museum theft.
The short article posted from the Gipping Gazette told of a theft of several articles from the local historical society museum, including a cookbook written by Obedience Green, a resident of the village from 1788 until her death in 1836.
The article was sixteen years old.
I printed out the news clipping and handed it to Dalton. He skimmed it and stared at me. “That shines a rather different light on the subject, doesn’t it?”
“You bet it does.”
“It doesn’t do squat for my encrypting work, but it certainly could affect your murder investigation.”
“I’ve got to call the police.” I took a breath. “No. I want to talk to Kevin. I’m going to call her.” I started for the phone, then stopped. “No, I’ll call Peter. Or maybe I should…oh, hell. I don’t know what to do.”
Dalton grabbed my arm. “Call Derek. He’ll come home and we can plan our next move.”
“Right. Absolutely.” I rubbed my forehead, where a headache was forming. “You know, before I do anything else, I’m going to go to the market to buy stuff for dinner.”
I needed to get outside, let the wind blow through my hair and maybe, just maybe, blow all of my random thoughts into some kind of order. But that wasn’t the only reason I needed to get out of my apartment.
“Savannah,” I said, “come with me.”
She glanced up. I could see she was about to decline my request, but then she read my expression and said, “Yeah. Okay.”
I patted Dalton’s shoulder. “Will you be all right on your own for a while?”
“Of course,” he mumbled, already wrapped up in his squiggly cryptographic world.
*
“What was that all about?” Savannah asked as I rushed her to the elevator.
I gave her a shortened version of what I’d found out online.
When I was finished, she nodded and said, “We need to talk to Kevin and Peter. They’ll know what happened.”
I valet-parked at the Campton Place Hotel and we hurried inside and found the elevators. On the tenth floor, we tried Kevin’s room first, but there was no answer.
“Let’s try Peter’s,” I said.
His room was two doors down. I started to knock on the door, but then realized it wasn’t closed all the way. An icy chill slithered across my shoulders, causing me to tremble. A door ajar was never a good sign.
I knocked first, then nudged it open a few inches. “Hello? Peter? It’s Savannah and Brooklyn.”
I hesitated, waiting for a response, but Savannah waved her hand anxiously. “What’re you standing here for? Just go in.”
“Okay, okay.” I shoved the door open all the way and walked into the sitting room of Peter’s elegant suite. It was identical to Kevin’s suite, except Peter’s was a chaotic mess. Sofa cushions were tossed on the floor. The entertainment hutch was open and DVDs were scattered across the carpet. Several chairs around the dining table had been tipped over.
It looked like a very messy burglar had been at work. My nerves screamed at me to back out of the suite and call the police, but I ignored my instincts and stood my ground. What if Peter was in trouble? Needed help?
“What happened here?” Savannah’s voice quivered. “Where’s Peter?”