Wreath Between the Lines Read online

  Cover

  Wreath Between the Lines

  The holidays are Jenna Hart’s favorite time of year, but just as she’s decorating the Cookbook Nook for all the festive events, her imperious older sister makes a surprise visit, anxious that her husband’s been more naughty than nice. To make matters worse, her father’s good friend Jake shows up on her doorstep with a frantic report that his friend has been murdered—trussed with Christmas lights and impaled with a tree star.

  Worried that Jake was the intended victim, Jenna makes a list of suspects and checks it twice. Swapping her Santa’s hat for a sleuthing cap, she gets busy investigating Jake’s long-lost sister, his Grinch of a neighbor, and a stamp collector who covets Jake’s most treasured piece. When Jake himself is poisoned and nearly dies, Jenna knows she’ll have to do whatever it takes to corner the culprit before it’s lights out for Jake . . .

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Wreath Between the Lines

  Daryl Wood Gerber

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Daryl Wood Gerber.

  Cover design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-946069-82-5

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Acknowledgments

  “Nothing can dim the light which shines from within.” ~ Maya Angelou

  No book comes together without the help and support of so many. Thank you to my family and friends for all your encouragement. Thank you to my talented author friends, Krista Davis and Hannah Dennison, for your words of wisdom. Thank you to my Plothatcher pals: Krista Davis, Janet (Ginger Bolton), Kaye George, Marilyn Levinson (Allison Brook), Peg Cochran, and Janet Koch (Laura Alden). It’s hard to keep all your aliases straight, but you are a wonderful pool of talent and a terrific wealth of ideas, jokes, stories, and fun! I adore you. Thanks to my blog mates on Mystery Lovers Kitchen: Cleo Coyle, Krista Davis, Leslie Budewitz, Roberta Isleib (Lucy Burdette), Peg Cochran, Linda Wiken (Erika Chase), Denise Swanson, and Sheila Connolly. I love your passion for food as well as for books.

  Thank you to my online groups, Cake and Daggers as well as Delicious Mysteries. You keep me on my toes. I love how willing you are to read ARCs, post reviews, and help me promote whenever possible. Authors need fans like you.

  Thanks to those who have helped make this seventh book in the Cookbook Nook Mystery series come to fruition: my publisher, Bill Harris, at Beyond the Page; my agent, John Talbot; and my biggest supporter, Kimberley Greene. Without you all, I’d go haywire.

  Last but not least, thank you librarians, teachers, and readers for sharing the delicious world of a cookbook nook owner in a fictional coastal town in California with your friends. I hope you enjoy this story.

  Dedication

  Thank you to my Plothatcher pals.

  You make writing and chatting about life fun!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Recipes

  Pressing the Issue

  Books by Daryl Wood Gerber

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Tigger, look!” I shouted and then whispered, “Scary.” I pointed out the driver’s window of my VW Beetle at the supersized blow-up Santa that towered in front of Jake Chapman’s white Victorian beach house. I loved its dormer windows and wraparound porch. It was situated at the north end of the strand and had a beautiful view of the ocean.

  My ginger cat, not frightened in the least, stood in my lap on his hind feet, his front paws propped on the driver’s window and nose sniffing the air. For over an hour, we had been cruising the streets of Crystal Cove while listening to a variety of Christmas music on the radio. Currently, Johnny Mathis was singing one of my favorites, “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.” After touring five neighborhoods, Tigger and I had finally made it back to our own.

  “The rest of his decorations are pretty, too, aren’t they, Tig-Tig?”

  Old Jake—as many in town call him—had affixed twinkling lights along the eaves and around every window, as well as along all of the branches of his leafless crape myrtles. A pair of gigantic candy canes flanked the end of his walkway. Wreaths hung on every door. “It might be the prettiest we’ve seen.”

  Tigger meowed then yawned.

  “Ready to call it a night, pal?”

  He purred his assent.

  I made a U-turn to head toward home. “Most of our neighbors do Christmas up right, don’t you think?” I’d set battery-operated candles in all of my windows and hung a beautiful berry and celosia wreath on my cottage door. “Not a lot of bah humbug types around here,” I said. Of course, a few hadn’t decorated for religious reasons.

  At the undecorated house across the street, I caught sight of Jake’s neighbor, Emmett Atwater, peeking furtively between a break in the drapes. He reminded me of a weasel with his needle nose and beady eyes. The tip of his cigarette glowed as he inhaled. I didn’t think he was gawking at me in particular. I wasn’t the only one driving with headlights off to take in the festive décor. Catching me staring, he snapped the drapes closed.

  “Can’t please everyone,” I murmured, recalling a time a few years ago when I’d worked at Taylor & Squibb Advertising and had championed a campaign for Laser Luminescence. The product was a type of lighting system that could be set up anywhere on the property. It would project moving holiday images on a house or garage door or even a tree: elves, snowflakes, sugar plum fairies, you name it. The owner of Laser Luminescence had a rollicking sense of humor. He thought it would be fun to make one of the actor neighbors carp about how bright and garish the lights were, so the actor home owner, purely to irk the neighbor, put out hot chocolate for all who came to admire his lights. Needless to say, the foot traffic drove the cranky neighbor nuts.

  “Poor Mr. Atwater.” I nuzzled Tigger under the chin. “Maybe Jake should give him a few shares of his Ap
ple stock to appease him.” Jake could afford the gesture. He was a self-made millionaire.

  Tigger meowed.

  I nodded. “You’re right. Time for bed. No more dawdling. We have a big day ahead.”

  • • •

  Tuesday morning, after taking a brisk walk on the beach and eating an English muffin slathered with cream cheese and homemade cranberry sauce, I donned my favorite Kelly green sweater, a pair of jeans, glittery holiday earrings, and flip-flops—yes, even in December I liked to wear sandals—and drove to the Cookbook Nook, the culinary bookstore I now owned with my aunt.

  Tuesday was typically my day off, but I couldn’t afford to take it this week. The Crystal Cove Christmas Festival would get under way tomorrow and run until Sunday evening. Every day shoppers would be out in droves because Christmas was two weeks away. Tick-tock. We were almost ready. We’d set out numerous Christmas-themed cookbooks as well as a few mysteries featuring the holiday, like A Cajun Christmas Killing by Ellen Byron, The Diva Wraps it Up by Krista Davis, and Read and Gone: A Haunted Library Mystery by Allison Brook. The latter didn’t offer any recipes, but I adored ghost stories.

  Get a move on, Jenna Hart, I urged. I needed to tweak our window display and unpack dozens of boxes of new cookbooks and gift items.

  I stepped out of my car with Tigger tucked under my arm and drew in a deep breath. How I loved the crisp air in winter. I found it invigorating and hopeful, like good things were in store. Singing “Fa-la-la-la-la,” I pushed open the door to the shop, weaved through the bookshelves to the children’s corner, and plunked Tigger on the kitty condo my father had built for him.

  After stowing my purse and turning on a music loop of Christmas instrumental music—the first in the queue was a bright version of “The First Noel”—I moved to the display window and examined what I’d created yesterday. Wreaths were the theme the mayor had designated for the festival this year. She wanted a wreath hanging on every shop door. A few days before Christmas, a panel of judges would choose a winner. All of the shops in Fisherman’s Village, the charming white, two-story complex abutting the ocean where the Cookbook Nook and the Nook Café were located, had gotten on board. Beaders of Paradise, a beading and craft store, had fashioned a beautiful wreath using broaches, rhinestones, and pearls. It glistened in the morning sunlight. The surf shop had made a wreath with toy-sized surfboards. The retro movie theater on the second floor had cleverly decorated an old film reel with ribbon. Vines, the wine bar above the café, had adorned artificial vines with frosted grapes and twinkling lights.

  For ours, I had commissioned a local artist to create a wreath using miniature cookbooks, tiny salt and pepper shakers, aprons, and cookie jars. A huge red bow trimmed the top. Perfect!

  The window display, on the other hand, needed work. Yesterday I’d set out a white picket fence and a fake blanket of snow. Atop that, I’d positioned a number of cookbooks, including Jamie Oliver’s Christmas Cookbook: For the Best Christmas Ever. Women were our primary customers, and over the course of the last year and a half, after leaving my advertising job to join my aunt in this venture, I’d learned that Jamie Oliver’s handsome face was an instant lure to women. The recipes in the cookbook were a lure, too. I had my eye on trying either the roast goose or the turkey wellington. Granted, I was not a gourmet cook—yet. My mother had done all the cooking when I was growing up; I hadn’t needed to learn until I’d moved home to Crystal Cove. I was still challenged by ten-ingredient recipes, but I was becoming bolder by the day.

  “Cookies,” I said aloud. “We need a plate of wreath-shaped cookies. And a set of cookie cutters. And a gingerbread house with wreaths on all its doors.”

  “Talking to yourself is a sign of dementia,” my aunt crooned as she came into the shop, the folds of her silver caftan rustling with every step. She was carrying the matching turban.

  “Hogwash. I talk to myself all the time.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “LOL,” I said, using the abbreviated form for laughing out loud.

  She strode to me and peeked at the display. “Hmm.” She tapped her chin. “You need glitter. And twinkling lights. And a north star.”

  “A star. Of course.” I kissed her cheek. “You’re brilliant.”

  “Tosh.”

  My aunt was truly brilliant and she was wicked smart when it came to finance. She was top of her class and valedictorian in college. Like Jake, she had invested well over the years. In addition, she had a refined sixth sense. She enjoyed telling fortunes—hence, the caftan and turban—and she could read auras. I adored her and was thrilled she had convinced me to give up advertising and move home to Crystal Cove. I’d lost my smile. It felt good to have it back.

  I hurried to the storage room, put the items my aunt had recommended into a box, and set the box on the sales counter by the antique register. Next, I raced through the breezeway that connected the shop to the Nook Café to put in an order for wreath-shaped cookies and a gingerbread house. Chef Katie Casey, one of my childhood friends, assured me she was up to the task. She would have my goodies ready in less than two hours.

  Back at the shop, I plugged in my glue gun to warm it up. By that time, Aunt Vera had donned her turban and had settled onto a chair by the vintage kitchen table near the entry. She was straightening a jigsaw puzzle that featured a wintry Dickensian Christmas, complete with vendors hawking food and gifts.

  She glanced up. “Where’s Bailey?”

  Bailey was one of my best friends and the lead salesperson at the shop.

  “She asked for the day off. She and her hubby are house hunting.” Bailey and Tito Martinez recently married. So far, they were doing swimmingly. His small apartment, however, wasn’t going to be big enough for them in the long run. They were talking about starting a family. Yep, Bailey, who months ago had balked at the idea of kids, had been won over by her husband’s zeal. To get a jump on motherhood, she was reading every book she could find on the subject. I reminded her that her mother was one of the best role models in the world. Even so, she wanted to bone up so she wouldn’t screw up.

  “And Tina?” Aunt Vera rose to her feet, righted her turban, and grabbed a feather duster, which she began swishing back and forth across the bookshelves.

  “I’m here!” Tina Gump, a svelte young woman who was working for us while she took culinary classes at night—she hoped to become a chef—waltzed in. “Merry almost Christmas.”

  “Why are you here?” I asked. “It’s your day off.”

  “In December? Are you nuts? I’ll take a few extra days in January when we’re slow.” She lifted a candy cane apron off a hook, pressed it to her chest, and twirled like she was dancing with an imaginary partner. Tendrils from her casual updo wafted in the breeze.

  “Aren’t you chipper?” I said. “What’s up?”

  “I had a date.”

  “With the poetry guy?”

  “Yes.”

  During the Renaissance Festival a few months ago, she’d fallen for a young man who delivered scrolls of poetry. His real day job was teaching at the junior college.

  “He’s so dreamy. Did I tell you his specialty is marine biology? He owns dozens of fish. He has a huge aquarium at his place.”

  “You’ve visited his apartment?” I waggled my eyebrows at her.

  “No, not yet. Pfft.” Tina flicked a tendril of hair off her face. “We’re taking it slow. But I’ve seen pictures. He has dozens of pictures. By the way . . .” She didn’t continue. She rehung the apron, fixed the sales tag, flung her purse on a shelf beneath the cash register, and started in on sorting money into the register drawers.

  “Go on. You said, ‘By the way.’” I returned to the display case with my box of decorations and trusty glue gun.

  “Right. Sorry. I got distracted. Anyway, when I was at Latte Luck Café this morning, I saw Jake with a guy who looks just like him. He was really tan and scrawny. But he wasn’t dressed very nicely. I think Jake was treating him to coffee.”

/>   “And . . .” I asked leadingly.

  “They were talking in muffled voices, like they had a secret.”

  “Okay.”

  “A bad secret.” She gazed earnestly at me. “The other guy seemed frightened.”

  • • •

  Ever since Tina told me about seeing Jake and his friend, a worrisome knot had taken up residence in my stomach. No amount of Christmas music was easing it. Decorating my three-foot-high Douglas fir wasn’t helping, either. So when someone began frantically knocking on my cottage door, my sensors went on high alert.

  Heart racing, I called, “Who’s there?” I knew it wasn’t my boyfriend, Rhett, or my aunt. Rhett was in Napa Valley visiting his family. My aunt was having dinner with Deputy Appleby.

  “Jenna, open up!” a woman with a low-pitched voice shouted. Not Bailey. Her voice was higher in tone, plus she and Tito were making candy cane cookies to donate to the homeless shelter.

  “Jenna!” More knocking.

  I rose to my feet. The woman knew my name. It wasn’t posted on my mailbox or the door of my cottage. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I stole to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Me,” the woman replied.

  “And me!” a girl trilled, giving me a hint as to who might be assaulting my door.

  Tigger scampered to my side and batted my leg with his tail.

  “Don’t worry, buddy.” I peeked through the peephole and confirmed my guess. “This is friend, not foe.” But not someone I was expecting. Whitney. Winsome, willful Whitney. My older sister. Light to my dark and curvier all over. And her eldest daughter, Lacy.

  I finger-combed my hair, shook out my shoulders to loosen any kinks—I hated looking tense around my sister—and whipped open the door. The pretty wreath I’d hung on the door swung to and fro. “What a surprise.”