Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4) Read online

  Ingrid tilted her head; her eyes narrowed. “I’ve already answered to the police, but if you must know, after I left the book club meeting, I went back to the Foodies’ house, and I watched television in bed.”

  Liar, liar. “You were seen at Vines.”

  “Oh, right.” Ingrid tugged down the hem of her jacket and stretched her neck. “After Alison dropped me at her mother’s house, I went out for a glass of wine.”

  Faith Fairchild said Ingrid had ordered a bottle of wine, but I wouldn’t quibble with details. I said, “We were there, too, Bailey, Coco, and I, but I don’t remember seeing you.”

  Ingrid sputtered. “I didn’t go right away. Like I said, I watched a little television with Mrs. Foodie and then—”

  “A second ago you said you watched TV in bed.”

  “That was later. First, I watched with Mrs. Foodie—an episode of CSI.”

  Reruns of CSI played day and night.

  “Wanda dozed off,” Ingrid continued. “Wanda is Mrs. Foodie.”

  “I know.” I’d met Wanda. She had come into the store a time or two. She had a particular fondness for spicy dishes.

  “I got bored, so . . .” Ingrid twirled a hand to elaborate without adding anything more.

  “Someone heard you arguing with Alison after the book club meeting.” How I wished I had taken Pepper up on a chat a few minutes ago. If she had overheard the dispute—

  “Who?” Ingrid demanded.

  She didn’t deny it. That was a start.

  “A friend,” I said and glanced over my shoulder. Rhett stood at the edge of The Pier. Tito and Bailey huddled nearby. None of them were talking. Bailey’s gaze was riveted on me. Rhett checked his watch. If I didn’t wrap this up quickly, he might leave. I didn’t want to end the night on a sour note. On the other hand, Ingrid was being responsive. I wanted to learn all I could. “What did you disagree about?”

  Ingrid raised the pastry box and clutched it in front of her torso with both arms, like a shield. “It was nothing.”

  I remembered a time at Taylor & Squibb, while working on the Bandy’s Candies account. An associate said he thought there might be a glitch in the campaign. When I asked him what, he’d said, It was nothing. It turned out that the copywriter we’d hired had written a similar campaign for another advertising firm. It wasn’t nothing. It had turned into a lawsuit.

  “Sometimes nothing can matter,” I said. “Care to share?”

  Ingrid shrugged. “We were talking about the books Alison was putting on the back burner. Dash’s book and Coco’s latest.”

  “You didn’t think they should flounder?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Ingrid pursed her lips, which made her look like a duck.

  “Did you argue about anything else?”

  “Alison thought I was being too fastidious about some edits. She said I wasn’t letting a few of her authors’ voices come through.”

  “Like?”

  “Dash and Coco, to be specific.”

  At the crime scene, Coco had called Ingrid’s editing style picayune, which had almost brought them to blows.

  “You didn’t agree?” I asked.

  “Does an employee ever agree with the boss?” Ingrid attempted a smile. It looked painful. “I listened. After a bit, she calmed down. But you know Alison. She could run hot and cold.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “No, not really. We didn’t hang out. But she trusted me enough to let me stay at her mother’s house, if that’s any indication. She was grooming me.”

  My ears perked up. “Grooming you for what? Partnership?”

  “That, and more.” Ingrid fitted a lock of hair behind her ear and smoothed her hands over the whole hairdo. Everything in its place, I mused. “She was grooming me to do her job so she could retire.”

  Okay, that was news. “Why would Alison want to retire?”

  “She wanted to get married. Travel. Have a life. Up until a month ago.” Ingrid leaned in. “The guy she hoped to marry . . . he died.”

  That concurred with what Coco had said.

  “Ingrid, this is a very personal question,” I said, “but was Alison pregnant?”

  Her eyes widened. “Hmm. You know, she might have been. Recently, she changed her diet. She started eating lots of yogurt, and let me tell you, she hated yogurt. In addition, she was downing handfuls of vitamins packed with folic acid.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Ingrid blushed. “We share an office space. Even though she declared a cabinet off-limits, I snooped. You need to understand, I was worried because”—she smoothed her hair again—“I had no desire to work for someone who was popping pills. My mother is a drug addict. I need stability.”

  Hence the tight teeth and buttoned-down personality. And the desire for a new, kindly mother figure like Wanda Foodie. Got it.

  I gazed past Ingrid and caught sight of The Pearl jewelry store, which made me think of Dash. Now the question of whether he was gay or straight mattered, because if he was straight and in love with Alison, what would he have done if he had found out she was pregnant with another man’s baby?

  Chapter 12

  ON THE DRIVE back to Fisherman’s Village where I had left my VW, Rhett and I didn’t speak. He surprised me when he pulled into the lot and didn’t utter a sound while swerving out of the way of an exiting car. He often muttered at bad drivers, as if that would make them see the error of their ways.

  “Oops. I left the lights on in the shop,” I said, trying to make small talk.

  Rhett didn’t counter. He pulled in front of The Cookbook Nook and left the engine idling.

  I unbuckled my seat belt and swiveled to face him. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No.”

  “Concerned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I’m sticking my nose into things.”

  “Because you can’t seem to help yourself.”

  I didn’t argue. Bailey had pushed me into a situation, and I hadn’t put up any resistance. Yes, I had picked up good information from Ingrid, and yet I wasn’t sure whether she was lying or guilty or both.

  “I get it,” Rhett said. “Coco is your friend, and you were friends with Alison Foodie, too. You want to do right by them. Heck, I wouldn’t be cleared of wrongdoing and on an even keel with our chief of police if not for your bullheadedness. I’m just—”

  I ran my hand along his arm. “I’ve always been stubborn. That’s not going to change. But I’m persistent with a purpose.”

  He laced his fingers through my hair. “Jenna.” His voice was husky and filled with emotion. He pulled me close and kissed me tenderly. “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  Bailey and Tito arrived a minute after Rhett drove off. I doubted that she had received the same treatment I had. Tito probably grilled her for information with an eagerness bordering on zeal. Bailey couldn’t have revealed anything, because after talking to Ingrid, I’d corralled everyone and said, “Let’s get going.”

  I slotted the key into the shop’s front door and called for Tigger until I remembered Aunt Vera had taken him home.

  Bailey sprinted in after me. Alone. “Spill. Blab. Talk. Now.”

  I recapped every facet of my conversation with Ingrid.

  When I finished, Bailey scowled. “That’s garbage. Ingrid actually said Alison was grooming her? I don’t buy it. As for the pregnant thing, we have to find out for sure whether Alison was pregnant, and we have to find out what Dash knew and when he knew it.”

  “If he was into Alison.”

  “You think he was, so he was. You’ve always had a well-developed sense of these things.”

  “Have I?” That was the first she’d ever mentioned it to me.

  The door to the shop squeaked open. Bailey and I spun around. Pepper
stood in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, fully expecting her to lambaste me for snubbing her earlier.

  “For what?” she asked.

  “On The Pier . . . you were carrying a pastry box. You waved at me. I—” I didn’t finish; how could I admit I had ignored her on purpose? “What did you buy at the bakery?”

  “I purchased mini cupcakes for the beading club.”

  I didn’t even know she had a beading club, although I knew she taught classes on the weekends.

  “We ate them all,” she added, “or I’d offer you one.”

  Now I really felt embarrassed. “Short meeting,” I murmured.

  “We were only setting next month’s schedule. It was a ten-minute get-together.”

  “How are you feeling?” I asked. “How is the vertigo?”

  “I can be quite a dizzy broad,” Pepper said and winked. When had she developed a sense of humor? Was she on goofy drugs for her condition? Maybe, thanks to our teaming up a few months ago to catch a killer, she had finally realized that I was a friend, not a foe. “All kidding aside, I have to lie down occasionally, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Did you need to talk to me earlier?” I asked.

  “It’s about that girl you were talking to on The Pier.”

  “Girl. You mean, Ingrid Lake?” She was hardly a girl. Closer to my age, maybe older. “Did you overhear her arguing with Alison on the night of the murder?”

  Pepper nodded. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Coco thought she’d seen you.” I didn’t add lingering. “Go on.”

  “I had gone outside to get a bag of beads from my car. Metallic gold acrylic beads. Beautiful. Faith—you know Faith Fairchild.” Pepper outlined Faith with her spiky hair. “Quite spirited.” She pumped her arms like a locomotive.

  “And a flirt,” Bailey added.

  We all seemed to have an opinion about Faith.

  “She ordered them,” Pepper said. “She’s making a necklace for her grandmother, who is one of our beaders. The woman is ninety-eight years old, can you imagine? Good genes. Anyway”—Pepper fluttered her fingers in the air—“Faith didn’t want her grandmother to see the beads, so I had them sent specially to my house instead of to Faith. I’d forgotten to bring them inside.”

  “The argument,” I prompted.

  Pepper pursed her lips. “That Ingrid. She speaks in a very thin voice.”

  “Yes, she does. She talks through clenched teeth.”

  “She wagged a finger and said, ‘You promised.’ Alison tried to cut her off, but Ingrid pressed on. ‘Yes, you did. You promised me I’d own half the company,’ to which Alison responded, ‘You’re dreaming.’ Ingrid countered. ‘You said you were drawing up a contract.’” Pepper chopped one hand with the other. “That was when Alison said, ‘No, it’s not happening. Not now. Not ever.’” Chop, chop, chop. “And then she fired her.”

  I gasped. “Alison fired Ingrid?”

  Pepper nodded. “I quote, ‘You’re done. Finished.’ But Ingrid said, ‘I have legal rights.’”

  “Wow,” Bailey said. “There’s motive for murder.”

  I agreed. “And not at all what Ingrid told me on The Pier.”

  Pepper said, “Next, Alison shook a fist at Ingrid.”

  Bailey said, “I thought Ingrid shook a fist at Alison.”

  “No,” I said. “She wagged a finger.”

  Pepper lifted a shoulder. “Who knows who did what? They’re about the same height.”

  Alison and Ingrid were completely different sizes, but I kept mute. Pepper’s credibility when it came to her eyesight was tenuous at best. Hopefully her hearing ability would stand up in court.

  “Anyway,” Pepper went on, “Alison said Ingrid wasn’t doing her job well. She said she, Alison, had needed to go over all manuscripts of late. She—Alison—said Ingrid wasn’t worth her salt and certainly not worth the salary Alison was paying her. At the last, Alison said Ingrid was to clean out her desk,” Pepper said with finality.

  Later that night, did Ingrid go to Coco’s house so she could lay into Alison one more time? Did Alison open up Coco’s old manuscript on the computer to make a point?

  I thanked Pepper for her information and promised her a fresh batch of her favorite zesty dark chocolate as soon as I had time to whip it up.

  Before Pepper hurried off, I said, “Wait. Did you tell your daughter everything you told me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Pepper jutted her chin. “Because she’s babying me. I don’t like it.”

  Uh-oh. Had she chosen me to be the recipient of her information to pit me against Cinnamon? Those could be treacherous waters. I’d have to tread carefully.

  Speaking of water, as I headed home, the storm that had hung on the horizon throughout the whale-watching cruise arrived. Tenfold. Rain didn’t just start falling. It pummeled my car. I tried calling the precinct on my cell phone, but the squall made it impossible to get a signal.

  I drove to my aunt’s house to pick up Tigger. I never carried an umbrella. The precipitation in our area was rarely icy cold, and like most people living in a beach community, I didn’t mind getting splashed by a spritz of water. But this? I covered Tigger with my poncho and darted back to my VW. He stayed dry; I didn’t.

  After getting the cat settled in the cottage, I shrugged off my wet clothes and hurried to the telephone on the bed stand to call the precinct. I lifted the receiver. No dial tone. Dang! A month or two ago, I had called my provider about the reception. The service representative informed me that old lines were the culprits. Humidity got in; squirrels ate them. The provider would no longer replace old lines. At some point I would have to upgrade. Now, I wish I’d done what she had recommended.

  The good news? Ingrid wasn’t going anywhere. She was feeling quite comfy and cozy living with Wanda Foodie.

  • • •

  SATURDAY MORNING, I woke with a start. Rain teemed down in sheets. I closed all the windows, took a quick shower, threw on jeans and a silk turtleneck sweater, grabbed an energy bar, and drove to work.

  Rain pelted the pavement as I cut across the parking lot and entered the shop. Same as last night, Tigger stayed dry; I got drenched. Oh well. I set Tigger on the floor. “Go play.” He rumbled his disapproval at my wet hand. I tweaked his nose. “I promise. I will invest in an umbrella.” Fortunately, I had a backup outfit hanging in the stockroom. At least I’d planned ahead that much. A girl never knew when she might snag a sweater while opening a box of books, or worse, like today, get drenched and look like something the cat dragged in.

  Ten minutes later, I was dry and I had refreshed my makeup, but there was nothing I could do with my hair. It hung stick straight.

  Next, I queued up music for the day. Usually, we played food-related music in the shop, but for Pirate Week, I’d made a special mix that included “I Am a Pirate King!” from The Pirates of Penzance as well as silly songs like “Shiver Me Timbers” from Muppet Treasure Island.

  A flash of red caught my eye. My aunt was darting across the parking lot, umbrella overhead. Heaven forbid she allowed one of her gorgeous caftans to get sopping wet. At the entry, she pumped the umbrella a few times to rid it of water, then dropped the hem of her ruby-red caftan.

  “This is to be the first of many storms, I fear,” she said. “C’est la vie. Rain brings flowers.”

  “And shoos away customers,” I added.

  “Yo ho. Not today. We have children scheduled to come in at one P.M. for our special event, and I promise they will beg, plead, and wail if their parents don’t bring them. You’ll see. I heard a number of people talking about the flyer you handed out.” She set her umbrella in the stockroom then returned to me and fetched a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses from beneath the counter. She set it by the specialty bookmarks and craned
an ear. “Why are we playing those songs?”

  “It’s Pirate Week.”

  “Don’t we have any candy-themed music, like “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch” or “Sugar, Sugar”? Or how about “The Chocolate Song”? It’s an obscure one, but it is, after all, Chocolate Month. And we are featuring chocolate cookbooks.”

  “I’ll get on it after this round of music plays.” I skirted behind the sales counter.

  Aunt Vera straightened the display of mini inspirational books on the stand, an item she insisted we carry, food-related or not. With titles like Believe in Yourself or Live, Love, Laugh or Seize the Moment, how could I refuse? Everyone needed an inexpensive pick-me-up.

  “By the by,” Aunt Vera said, “Mayor Zeller called me. She’s putting up a reward for the return of the pot of doubloons.”

  “A reward?”

  “One thousand dollars.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Old Jake is footing the bill. Z.Z. said he’s up in arms at this scallywag—Jake’s word—making a fool of the mayor.” Old Jake is a local legend. Once a drifter, now a millionaire. “I think Jake’s sort of sweet on the mayor.”

  “He’s thirty years her senior.”

  “Don’t judge, lest ye be judged.” My aunt threw me a chastening look. “Z.Z. is posting flyers alerting the public. She asked us to put one in the window. She sent you an e-mail with the attachment. Hope you don’t mind.”

  I opened the e-mail file, printed the flyer, and handed it to my aunt.

  She taped it in the sidelight window next to the front door and returned. “Now, let’s get cracking. Where’s that Peter Pan book we ordered?” She wandered off in search.

  For Children’s Pirate Day, we had cleared the table in the children’s section so the kids could make pirate hats and maps. My aunt planned to read Peter Pan aloud—the real Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie, not the modified and, frankly, toned-down Disney version. Barrie had created a deep character, filled with darkness and selfishness. The adventure Peter Pan and the children go on is fun, but it’s also quite scary. Our advertisements warned parents about the theme of the reading. I didn’t think the warning would scare anyone off.