The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

mouth-watering smells. He was an obedient dog, however, and knew he was not supposed to linger in the room in which so many tantalizing dishes were prepared. Reluctantly, he trotted to Olivia’s office and sat on his haunches in the center of the doorway, eyes hopeful and mouth open in anticipation.
    Michel, The Boot Top’s master chef, was too busy inspecting a baking sheet piled with rows of fresh beef tenderloin to notice the poodle’s beseeching looks.
    “A wine reduction for tonight’s beef. We’ll serve it with a medley of spring vegetables. Jeremy?” he called to one of the sous-chefs. “You’re in charge of the asparagus.”
    After collecting a bowl of peeled garlic cloves from the walk-in, Michel began sharpening the long blade of a chopping knife, humming merrily all the while.
    “You’re quite chipper,” Olivia observed. “The DAR’s monthly social usually has you bent out of shape. You always complain about having to prepare entrees before six o’clock.”
    Without glancing away from the cutting board, Michel began to mince garlic. Olivia loved to watch him work. The knife blade became an extension of his hand, flashing as it moved with lighting quickness from left to right, then top to bottom, leaving a mound of perfectly diced garlic on the striated wood of the cutting board.
    “It’s my new muse,” Michel stated with a wiggle of his brows. “She inspires me to overlook those blue-blooded hags who force me to begin my workday too early.”
    Olivia watched as the pile of garlic grew higher. “A new muse? That’s good. For a while there I was genuinely concerned that you’d fallen for Laurel.”
    Michel turned his face away. “She is très magnifique , your friend, but she is devoted to that miserable husband of hers. If she only knew . . .”
    He abruptly scooped the garlic into a metal bowl and walked over to the sous-chef’s station to collect bunches of fresh parsley. He avoided meeting Olivia’s sharp gaze.
    “Michel?” Olivia felt a tightening in her muscles. She felt protective of Laurel, even though the young mother of twin boys had begun to exhibit a refreshing amount of grit and determination. Laurel fought a daily battle with her family over the right to continue her work as a writer for the Oyster Bay Gazette , and Olivia hated the thought of anyone bringing her friend down. “What were you going to say?”
    “That Lovely Laurel doesn’t know what she’s missing,” Michel answered airily. “A man of my skills and my passion comes along once in a lifetime, am I right?”
    Olivia laughed, relaxing. “And modest as well.”
    The Boot Top’s bartender entered the kitchen. “There’s a Hudson Salter here to see you,” Gabe announced over the din.
    Issuing a resigned sigh over having to hold a conversation with her moody and tight-lipped sibling, Olivia followed Gabe through the swinging door and out to the bar area. Hudson was standing with his arms crossed over his lean chest, shifting uncomfortably. Dressed in denim overalls over a faded blue T-shirt, he looked out of place in the sleek, sophisticated room with its polished wood, leather seats, and ochre walls. His wife, Kim, was also ill at ease but disguised it better. She had one hand resting on her swollen belly and the other on the crown of her daughter’s head. Caitlyn hid her face in her mother’s cotton dress and peeked out at Olivia with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
    Of the three Salters, the little girl interested Olivia the most. As a general rule, she didn’t find children very fascinating, but here before her was a pint-sized human being who shared her DNA.
    “Hi,” she said quietly, directing a small smile at the child. “I know someone who will be very pleased to see you again. Do you remember Haviland?”
    Caitlyn nodded once.
    “Would you like to feed him dinner? He’s waiting very patiently in my office, which is back through that door leading into the kitchen.”
    Kim nudged the little girl forward. “Go on, honey. We’ll be right out here.”
    Shaking her head, Caitlyn refused to leave her mother’s side.
    Unasked, Gabe moved forward and extended his hand. “Maybe I could show you how I make a very special drink for very special kids. It’s called a Shirley Temple. Have you ever had one?”
    “No, sir.” Caitlyn’s voice was a whisper.
    “I always put an orange slice and two cherries in mine. Do you want to help me? I might give you an extra cherry as payment,