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offered.
    â€œPrecisely.” Ryan stuck the phone back in his pocket and sighed. “I’ll have to get back to you. Enjoy yourselves. This table’s meals are on the house tonight, and I want you to sample as many dishes as you possibly can so that we can get a full report later.”
    They watched Ryan rush to a set of double swinging doors at the back of the dining room and disappear into the kitchen.
    Dirk said, “Let’s see now . . . sample as many dishes as we possibly can. Hmmm. That’s an offer I certainly won’t refuse.” Picking up the menu, he gave it a quick scan and added, “Not that I can tell what any of this stuff is. What the hell is Crayfish Vol-Au-Vent?”
    â€œFancy puff pastry with crawdaddies inside. You’ll like it,” Savannah told him.
    Dirk looked doubtful. “Crawdads. I don’t think so. Aren’t those like a poor man’s lobster, and they look like big, nasty bugs?”
    Tammy laughed. “So do shrimp, but you devour them any time you get your hands on—”
    A loud racket suddenly erupted from the kitchen. Metal clanging. Breaking glass. Shouts of anger and alarm.
    The entire room hushed as the diners turned toward the double doors in the rear of the room, their eyes wide, mouths open.
    Savannah glanced toward the bar area, where John stood, a champagne bucket in his hands. The usually calm, collected, and debonair Brit raised one eyebrow, cleared his throat, and set the bucket on the bar.
    As he hurried toward the back of the room, Savannah saw him run his fingers through his thick silver hair and lightly tweak the right corner of his lush mustache. Savannah knew him all too well. And for her, those simple gestures said it all: John Gibson was alarmed. In fact, he was nothing more or less than horrified.
    â€œWhoa,” Waycross said under his breath. “Sounds like a major fracas goin’ down in there. Reckon we oughta go lend a hand?”
    Savannah was already half out of her chair. “Yep, I reckon so. But just Dirk and me. Less of a stampede that way. You kids cool your heels and wait here at the table.”
    Savannah and Dirk were about halfway across the dining room when another enormous crash resounded throughout the building. Several of the guests rose to their feet, and a couple of ladies cried out in alarm.
    Savannah held up her hands, fingers spread as though directing traffic. And in her best authoritative cop voice she said, “Now, now, don’t y’all trouble your heads about a thing. Just relax and talk amongst yourselves. Drink some wine, swig some beer, down your cocktail, and relax. Your dinner’s on its way.”
    Her admonition seemed to have a calming effect on the crowd, at least for the moment. They retook their seats, buried their noses in their beverage glasses, and resumed their conversations, though the tone of the place was certainly more animated than before.
    Savannah wished she could heed her own advice and calm down. But as she neared the doors, the shouts from inside the kitchen only seemed to be escalating. Fast.
    Dirk was the first one to burst through the doors. Immediately, he had to duck to avoid being hit in the head by a flying saucepan.
    â€œGet out! Get out! Get out!” roared a deep, male voice. “I will not work this way! I told you, ‘No one is allowed in my kitchen except my team. No one! Ever! No exceptions!’ ”
    Savannah hurried into the room after Dirk, fully prepared to avoid any cooking utensils hurled in her direction. Her eyes scanned the chaotic scene, trying to make sense of the situation.
    A woman wearing a white uniform jacket with red cuffs was squatting behind the counter—obviously taking cover.
    A couple of male workers with stained aprons and terrified looks on their faces crouched beside some vegetable crates next to the rear door that opened onto the alleyway.
    On the opposite side of the kitchen, near the