A Cookbook Conspiracy by Kate Carlisle Page B

telling
     you about.”
    Savannah’s eyelids fluttered as she brought the world back into focus. She blinked
     at the cop and quickly hopped off the barstool. Holding out her hand to shake the
     inspector’s, she said, “I’m so happy to meet you. Brooklyn has said so many nice things
     about you, and I’m as confident as she is that you’ll find Baxter’s killer and bring
     him to justice.”
    Inspector Lee was clearly bemused by Savannah’s enthusiastic greeting. My sister shook
     her hand firmly and energetically, and Icould see a tiny portion of Lee’s cynical outer coating melt in the face of Savannah’s
     positive vitality.
    Lee finally pulled her hand away and tried to regain her command over the situation.
     “Ms. Wainwright, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with
     the deceased.”
    “Of course, yes, please ask me anything,” Savannah said. “I’ll do anything I can to
     help you.”
    “Inspector,” I interjected quickly, “you don’t know my sister yet, but believe me,
     she didn’t have anything to do with Baxter’s death. Really, she doesn’t have enough
     killer instinct to swat down a fly.”
    “Flies have just as much right to life and happiness as we do,” Savannah said.
    Ugh. No they don’t
, I thought.
    Lee’s eyebrows popped up, and then her eyes narrowed skeptically as she turned and
     looked at me.
    I just smiled and nodded. “Yeah, she’s for real.” After all, we were talking about
     the girl who had once become a fruitarian to protest the senseless killing of vegetables.
    “Carrots have feelings, too,” had been Savannah’s battle cry back in the day.
    Now as a chef, she was willing to slaughter baby carrots and squash and onions left
     and right. And yet, there was still no way she would ever hurt another human being.
     It wasn’t in her fiber. But Lee would have to ask the questions, anyway. I had faith
     that she would come to the same conclusion soon enough.
    “Are you going to interrogate me at police headquarters?” Savannah asked the inspector.
    “That probably won’t be necessary, not right away,” Lee said, equivocating. “We’ll
     need to examine the crime scene first, so I’m going to ask you to sit tight here in
     the bar area for a little while.”
    “Okay. Oh, but wait.” Savannah held up her gloved hands. “Can I take these off?”
    Lee shot me another glare, so I rushed to explain that while waiting for the police
     to arrive, Derek had come up with the brilliant idea to glove her hands to protect
     any evidence she might’ve picked up along with Baxter’s blood.
    Inspector Lee couldn’t argue with Derek’s logic, but she wasn’t happy with one part
     of my explanation. Turning to Savannah, she said, “You touched Mr. Cromwell’s body?”
    “No, I just touched that bloody knife,” Savannah said. “It was sticking out of his
     stomach and I thought it would help if I got it out of him, but it didn’t help. He
     died anyway.”
    “Aw, jeez.” Lee looked at me and shook her head. “I’m having déjà vu all over again.”
    “Tell me about it,” I muttered, and my stomach took another dip. As I’d realized earlier,
     Savannah’s scenario with Baxter was alarmingly similar to my own experience the night
     of Abraham’s murder. I’d managed to get plenty of his blood on my hands, too.
    Inspector Lee turned to one of the CSI guys standing nearby. “Claypool, you got your
     kit with you?”
    He gripped his heavy briefcase. “Never leave home without it.”
    “We’ll need a couple of swabs and some evidence bags over here.”
    Claypool rushed over and set his silver case on an empty barstool. After carefully
     removing Savannah’s gloves, he stuck them in separate bags and labeled the bags with
     a black marker. Then he pulled out a long cotton swab and a small vial of liquid.
     He rubbed the cotton tip over Savannah’s bloody right palm, then added a few drops
     on the swab and watched it turn a