“Google it,” Dalton suggested.
“Good idea,” I said, and sat down at the computer.
*
“This is absolutely the last time I’m coming to this place,” Kevin said by way of greeting me at Baxter’s restaurant that night.
I glanced around, no longer charmed by the exotic decor or the amazing waterfall. “Me, too. But you know how Savannah is. She’s so worried about everyone and wanted to organize one last dinner in Monty’s honor. She’s determined to make sure you all remain friends. Even though…”
Kevin breathed deeply. “Even though one of us is a murderer.”
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely, although everything was going perfectly well, according to the plan Derek and I had dreamed up the night before with Dalton and Savannah’s help.
“I’m the one who’s sorry, Brooklyn,” Kevin said. “I’m so ashamed of myself for frightening you. I was beside myself, honestly didn’t know what I was doing. I was shut inside that stupid closet, worrying about Peter and wondering if you were his killer. Then I heard you take the cookbook and it was too much. I hope you’ll forgive me someday.”
“How about today?” I said, spreading my arms and taking a step closer to her.
She let out a tiny whimper, then wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.
When we finally broke apart, she smiled with teary relief. But I wasn’t about to let her off too easily. I wanted some answers, especially after doing a little research on her father earlier that afternoon.
I wound my arm through hers and ambled over to the bar, where flutes of champagne were waiting. I took a sip, then said, “Tell me about the cookbook. And your father.”
Her mouth opened, then closed quickly. Disconcerted, she grabbed a glass of champagne and took a healthy gulp. “I suppose I owe you that much.”
“I’d say so.” I hopped up on a barstool and said to her, “Have a seat.”
She sat, took another few sips of champagne—liquid courage?—and finally began. “Obedience Green grew up in Gipping-on-Plym. That was two or three hundred years ago, of course, but in England, it’s like yesterday. So we all loved her and claimed her as one of our own, a fellow Gippinger.”
“Did she return to the village after the war?”
“Yes, indeed. With her Yankee husband in tow.”
“No way,” I said, downing my champagne and reaching for another glass. Hey, my throat was dry.
“Oh, yes,” Kevin said. “Quite the defiant one, was our Obedience.”
“But wouldn’t he be considered an enemy of the British?”
“That part’s a bit murky. Nobody seems to know whether he was working for or against our side.”
“What about Obedience’s job with the general? She had to quit working for him, didn’t she?”
“She did,” Kevin said. “But they remained friends and she trained his cooks to prepare all his favorite dishes. He especially loved her syllabub.”
“Did the king strip the general of his rank?”
“Heavens, no.” She looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “Despite his humiliating failure to crush the Americans and losing the king’s confidence as a result, General Blakeslee returned a true war hero. After all,” she added with a smirk, “he’d managed to survive among all those Yankee barbarians. Gippingers were overjoyed by his return and held a festival in his honor. It continues to this day. And Blakeslee House is still standing, as a matter of fact.”
“What happened to Obedience’s Yankee lover, now husband? I can’t believe he wasn’t run out of town by an angry mob.”
“He arrived with too much money to be turned away.”
“What was his name?”
“Jeremiah Spencer.” Kevin sighed happily. “He’d become quite wealthy in America, trading with the Indians. He spoke several languages, and when he arrived, he quickly bought the nearest country house. He and General Blakeslee became lifelong friends.”
I frowned at her. “But Jeremiah was passing secret information behind Blakeslee’s back. Don’t you think Jeremiah was the one who convinced Obedience to betray Blakeslee?”
“Actually, it was the conclusion of the local scholars that General Blakeslee used Jeremiah. But in the end, it didn’t really matter. You see, Blakeslee was a rabid partridge hunter and Jeremiah had the best hunting hounds in the region.”
I choked out a laugh. “Seriously? It only took a few hounds to win him over? Are you kidding?”
She peered at me. “Have you ever been to England?”
“I’ve been to London and Oxford and Scotland,” I said.
“Ah, well,” she said with a chuckle, “come to Devon and you’ll see how the real English live.”