“We’ll find him.” I moved cautiously into the bedroom, where the first thing I noticed was another door leading out to the hallway. An escape route?
There was a big black suitcase lying on the bed. A backpack was splayed open next to the suitcase and many of Peter’s cooking tools were scattered across the bed. A few had been tossed onto the floor.
I wasn’t surprised to see all these utensils in a chef’s room because I knew Savannah traveled with many of her own, too. But I doubted that Peter had thrown them every which way like they were now.
“Men can be so messy.” Savannah bent down to straighten up a pile of wooden spoons. My sister, the good little housekeeper. Obviously she hadn’t considered the violent-intruder theory yet.
“Savannah, honestly,” I whispered impatiently. “Do you really think Peter made all this mess?”
“Well, who else would—” She blinked. “Oh, crap!” She dropped the spoons as if they were on fire. “Somebody else was in here tearing this place apart.”
“That’s right.” I checked the suitcase zipper. It wasn’t locked.
“So let’s call the police and leave.”
“Not yet,” I said, unzipping the small front pocket of the suitcase.
“What are you doing?”
I felt inside, but nothing was there. “Look, someone was here searching for something. They probably made a run for it when they heard us come in, so maybe they didn’t get a chance to finish their search. I just want to take a look around for a minute or two. Then we’ll call the police.”
“Do you know what you’re looking for?”
There she went, getting all logical again. “Not really.”
She looked around anxiously, as if half expecting some masked marauder to leap at her from the closet. I shivered. It could happen.
She whispered, “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“You might’ve mentioned it a time or two.” I unzipped the larger section of Peter’s suitcase and flipped it open. And lying there on top of Peter’s neatly folded clothes was my burgundy leather book box. “Oh, sweet Mary Jo.”
“Hey, that’s my cookbook,” Savannah said.
“Yes, it is.” Although in my own mind it was my cookbook. I reached for it slowly, reverently, and finally held it in my hands. In my imagination, the Hallelujah Chorus rose in the background.
I could tell by the weight of the box that Obedience Green’s cookbook was still inside. But just to be sure, I lifted the panel and checked. There it was, neat and snug, tucked on top of its matching suede pouch and resting in its perfectly carved-out cubbyhole.
“I did a really good job on this,” I murmured, gliding my hand across the smooth dark morocco leather.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Savannah groused. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I want to call Derek first,” I said, pulling out my cell phone. “If Peter stole the cookbook, he’s probably the one who killed Baxter.”
“No,” she moaned. “Not Peter. He didn’t do it.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said. It hurt me, too, to think that Peter was a coldhearted killer, but the evidence was damning. I pressed Derek’s number and seconds later I heard his phone begin to ring.
“Darling,” he said. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Aw, that’s so nice.”
“Oh, my God, you’re flirting?” Savannah said in disgust. “Just tell him what’s going on and let’s get out of here.”
“Is that your sister?” he asked.
“Yes. She’s in a mood.” Funny, but now that I had the cookbook in my hands, my nerves were quiet. We could still be in danger and yet somehow I felt as if everything was turning our way.
“What does she want you to tell me?”
I gave Savannah a dirty look, then said to Derek, “Okay, the thing is, we’re here in Peter’s hotel suite, and we just found the missing cookbook. So I’m afraid Peter might’ve had something to do with Baxter’s death.”
“Oh, just say it,” Savannah hissed. “You think Peter killed him.”
“I heard her,” Derek said, and let loose a string of expletives that shocked me. “I’m calling the police and I want you out of there right now. Go downstairs and wait in the lobby. I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, walking away from Savannah to the other side of the room. Derek rarely swore, so it caught me by surprise. Without thinking much about it, I pushed the door to the bathroom open.
“Hey, look what I found,” Savannah said.
I didn’t get a chance to see what she’d found because I had found something much worse. My scream echoed against the tile walls and I moved out of the bathroom and slammed the door behind me.
“What is it?” Savannah cried. “Brooklyn, stop it!” She grabbed me by the arms and shook me, looking even more terrified than I felt.
“Peter,” I mumbled, dropping the phone. “Blood…ugh…” That’s as far as I got before I slithered from her arms and crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.
Chapter Eighteen
I have come to understand this much: to serve food is to beckon judgment from any and all.
—The Cookbook of Obedience Green