Sifting Through Clues Page 12

  “Vera, I’m ready,” Crusibella said.

  I rose to leave.

  “Stay, Jenna.” Crusibella petted my forearm. “Remember how I told you yesterday that the bank won’t give me a loan? Well, I’m having Z.Z. approach them on my behalf since she’s the one who wanted me to be preapproved before we—”

  “Preapproved for what?” Aunt Vera cut in.

  “When Dreamcatcher officially goes up for sale, I will be raring to go.”

  My aunt let out a little moan.

  Crusibella petted her forearm. “I’m sorry if I sound heartless, Vera. As I said to Jenna and Bailey yesterday, I know Ivy isn’t buried yet. Can you believe her family hasn’t pressed the police to release her body? They’re the heartless ones.” She spanked the table. Jigsaw puzzle pieces popped into the air and fell back down. “Ivy had wanted to repair that relationship. She was always sorry about the estrangement.”

  “Yes, dear,” my aunt murmured, “so you’ve said. But back to you. Why won’t the bank give you a loan?”

  “Because Spellbinder is barely breaking even. People aren’t buying print books like they used to. Nearly thirty percent of mystery fans use e-readers nowadays. Can you believe it? Booksellers can’t make money on e-books. How I wish we could figure out that angle. Libraries have.” She squirmed in her chair then fussed with the tails of her capelet. “Anyway, I told Z.Z. to tell the lender that I will sell my house if I have to for seed money.”

  “But you love that house,” Aunt Vera argued.

  “I want the store more.” Tears pooled in her eyes. She thrust her hand at Aunt Vera and said, “Make my reading good. I’m feeling very negative.”

  “Crusibella,” I said, “before my aunt gets started, could I ask you something?”

  “Sure, sweetie, what’s up?”

  “Last night when I came home, my front door was open.”

  “It’s no wonder. The wind was fierce.”

  “Yes. Um, did you happen to see if anyone stole inside?”

  Crusibella’s face went blank.

  “My computer . . .” I hesitated. “It wasn’t exactly like I left it.”

  “How so?”

  I explained about finding the Internet page open. “You didn’t by chance go in to check, say, comparables for your house, did you?”

  Crusibella clapped a hand to her chest. “Are you accusing me of sneaking inside your place?”

  I blanched. It did sound accusatory. “No, I—”

  “I did no such thing.” She gulped in air. “I can’t believe you’d think I—”

  “Breathe,” my aunt ordered.

  “Breathe,” I echoed.

  Aunt Vera cut me a stern look: Quit while you’re behind.

  I retreated a step.

  “Let’s see what we can foretell.” My aunt unfurled Crusibella’s palm. “Ahh. I have good news.”

  Crusibella’s face lit up. “You do?”

  “Indeed. Your fate line and head line are very strong.” My aunt drew her finger along a crease of Crusibella’s right palm. “See here? The fate line is heading toward the sun mound, which means you’ll be very prosperous. A financial deal is coming your way.”

  “As in Dreamcatcher?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel good.”

  “I never lie.”

  Aunt Vera winked at me, which sent a chill up my spine. She did lie. She was great at it. Of course, she only did it to make people feel better, but knowing how well she could lie made me wonder about Crusibella and everyone else on my suspect list. How skilled were they at twisting the truth?

  Chapter 15

  “Jenna, dear.” Gran sashayed into the shop with Mrs. Landry, Katie’s new mother-in-law.

  I rose to greet them, putting my concerns about Crusibella on the back burner. Did I really believe she could be a murderer? Did I truly think she had broken into my house and used my computer?

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Gran went on.

  Both women appeared a little windblown. A breeze had kicked up again outside. Gran was dressed to the nines in a Givenchy dress and Prada purse and shoes. Mrs. Landry was wearing her uniform, a pink dress covered by a pink apron. She owned Taste of Heaven Ice Cream Shoppe on Buena Vista Boulevard. Like her son, she was lanky with a wide-toothed grin.

  “Did you receive my order yet?” Gran had requested a variety of Louisiana-based cookbooks. She was determined to introduce her grandchildren to spicy Cajun cuisine. Part of her family originated in New Orleans. She treasured its history. One cookbook in particular, Cooking Up a Storm: Recipes Lost and Found from The Times-Picayune of New Orleans, told the tale of the citizens’ attempt to preserve their culinary legacy after Hurricane Katrina.

  “They’re in the back,” I said and signaled my assistant. “Tina, please ask Bailey to bring out Gran’s cookbooks.” Bailey had gone into the storage room to rest for a spell. I’d suggested she go home, but she had wanted to stay. She needed to complete her task of cutting cardstock for a craft project before tomorrow.

  “How are you holding up, dear?” Gran asked.

  I tilted my head, not understanding. “Are you confusing me with Bailey?”

  “Mercy, no.” She lowered her voice. “How are you doing after, you know, seeing another body? I still can’t believe I caught a glimpse. Other than my husband, I’ve never seen anyone dead, and he died of natural causes.”

  A lump formed in my throat. The image of Ivy lying on the floor zipped through my mind. I nudged it to the back. “I’m okay.”

  “Any news from the police?”

  After the fiasco of our couple’s dinner date, I wondered if Cinnamon would ever speak to me again. I said, “The police are doing their best.”

  “Ha! You know how I feel about their best.” Gran clucked her tongue. A drunk driver had killed her son. Authorities never found the perpetrator. “Which is why we’re here and not at the precinct. Eleanor wants to tell you something. It might be significant. It might not. She confided in me when I was having a slice of berry pie. I told her we should contact you because the police might pooh-pooh her. You share the police’s confidence.”

  “No, I—”

  “Go on, Eleanor.” Gran pressed Mrs. Landry forward. “Tell her what you saw. It involves Crusibella.”

  I glanced at Crusibella, who was still consulting with my aunt. When Gran caught sight of her, she subtly ushered her friend toward the children’s corner. I followed.

  “Well, it was late Saturday afternoon.” Mrs. Landry nudged her wire-rimmed glasses higher on her nose. “I was taking a stroll, as I often do around five when we have a lull. That’s when everyone is off at the grocery store or picking up their kids from activities. You know what I mean, Jenna. The others at the shop can manage a small crowd without me for a bit.” Like her son, she had a slight twang. She was raised in the Midwest.

  Gran said, “Get to the point.”

  “Anyway, I was walking on Crystal Cove Road near the aquarium when who do I see?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Who?”

  “Crusibella,” Gran inserted.

  “She was sneaking down the alley behind Hog Heaven.” Mrs. Landry used two fingers to mime someone running. “You know, the diner.”

  I nodded. They made ridiculously good pork sandwiches.

  “It wasn’t raining, but she was carrying a big trench coat.” She spread her arms wide. “That’s what caught my eye. It was out of the ordinary, you know. Other items were hanging out of the coat. Clothes and such.”

  “Tell her what kind of clothes,” Gran urged.

  “I’m getting to it.” Mrs. Landry smoothed the bib of her apron. “At first I thought she was taking in dry cleaning. There’s a place near there. Not a very good place. I like the outfit on Buena Vista Boulevard better.”

  “Focus,” Gran said.

  “But then something fell out of the coat,” Mrs. Landry went on. “A pair of thick-rimmed glasses and a
red wig.”

  “And a fat suit,” Gran chimed.

  “I wondered why Crusibella would have those things,” Mrs. Landry said. “She’s not an actress. She doesn’t do the local plays. I know because I see all of them.”

  On the Pier there was an intimate rustic theater that put on plays as well as other entertainment, including karaoke night.

  Mrs. Landry wove her hands in front of her stomach. “Crusibella is such a pretty woman. I thought maybe she’d donned those clothes to hide from someone and then took them off once she’d, you know, passed the test.”

  Gran said, “Eleanor and I were discussing the murder. People all over town are doing the same. Anyway, I said Crusibella might have killed Ivy because she had that red stain on her sleeve. Pepper pointed it out. Crusibella said it was strawberry juice. Remember?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s when Eleanor recalled seeing Crusibella Saturday afternoon.” Gran lasered me with a look. “You see what I’m getting at, don’t you, Jenna? Crusibella lied about her alibi. She was not home making that appetizer.”

  “What time was this, Eleanor?” I asked.

  “Around five thirty, I suppose.”

  The book club’s progressive dinner had started at six thirty. Could Crusibella have gone home after whatever adventure she’d been on, put together a cheese platter, and dressed for the evening in that short a time? I could have, if put to the test.

  “Crusibella said she was home alone, suggesting that she’d been there for hours,” Gran went on. “Why didn’t she mention this little foray?”

  “Why, indeed?” Mrs. Landry asked, acting like the perfect straight man.

  “Because she’d wanted it to remain a secret,” Gran said. “I’m thinking she took a sneaky route to Ivy’s house. It’s not far from the diner. She dressed in a costume to disguise herself so neighbors wouldn’t recognize her. I’m sure the police have canvassed the neighborhood.”

  I glanced at Crusibella, who was still engrossed in the palm reading my aunt was giving. Was she a killer?

  Gran tapped my arm. “There must be security cameras at the aquarium and the diner. There are lots of other businesses in the vicinity, too. And I’d wager there are plenty of houses in her neighborhood with security cameras. You should tell the police to check out this theory.”

  “Me?”

  “Maybe the police can pin down Crusibella’s movements.”

  “Ahem.” Mrs. Landry gave Gran a snarky look. “You don’t believe in the police.”

  “No, but Jenna does.” Gran grinned.

  “Oo-o-oh!” Bailey moaned and grabbed her belly. She stumbled into a bookshelf.

  I bolted to her and slung an arm around her shoulders. “What’s wrong? Is the baby coming?”

  “I don’t know. Oo-o-oh!”

  “I’ll call your doctor.”

  “She’s out of town.”

  “Gran, tell my aunt I’m taking Bailey to Mercy Urgent Care. Mrs. Landry, please contact the police.”

  “But—”

  “Do it. They’re good. They solve crimes. Lots of crimes. Just not all crimes.”

  • • •

  Mercy Urgent Care was one of two decent-sized clinics in the area. I swung into a parking spot and scurried to the passenger side of my VW. Bailey hobbled out. Like a bad three-legged potato sack team, we trudged into the reception area. A nurse with spiky hair and a sweet smile asked what was wrong.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Bailey asked between gritted teeth.

  “Contractions,” I said. “Her ob-gyn is out of town.”

  “How far apart?”

  “She’s only had one so far.”

  “Oh, hon.” The nurse stopped taking notes and put down her pen. “If it’s the first contraction, you’ve got days or weeks to go. Get used to them. Braxton-Hicks can be daunting. Believe me, I know. I’ve had three kids.”

  “Oo-o-oh,” Bailey moaned. “This doesn’t feel normal.”

  “Nothing about pregnancy is normal,” the nurse joshed.

  I said, “Maybe my friend should see a doctor just to make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Sure, hon.” She called to a stocky nurse. “Put them in room 103. Let Dr. Cook know.”

  The stocky nurse escorted Bailey down the hall into a room fitted with an examination table and a chair. The room smelled Lysol clean. She promised the doctor would be in soon. Bailey perched on the examination table; I sat on the chair.

  “Sorry to take you away from the shop,” she said. “I saw you getting an earful from Gran and Mrs. Landry. What’s up?”

  I filled her in.

  “Do you really think Crusibella is the murderer?”

  “I don’t know what to think. She really wants to own Dreamcatcher. She is primed and ready to buy it the moment it goes on the market. She’s willing to sell her house to get a loan. Heck, if she had kids and someone would pay her for them, I bet she’d sell them, too.”

  Bailey laughed. “Oo-o-oh. Don’t make me laugh. You know, if she really is selling her home, you and Rhett should take a look.”

  “A place that close to the ocean will be way out of our price range. Plus, would you want to live in a murderer’s house?”

  “She’s not a murderer,” Bailey said, sounding quite certain. “She’s just a bit . . . daffy. Who else is on your suspect list?”

  “Not Pepper.”

  “Not Pepper.” Tapping her fingertips, she recited, “Oren Michaels. Hank Hemmings.”

  I nodded.

  “Who else? Do you think Alastair Dukas is a suspect?” she asked. “He knew the significance of the eyestones, though he didn’t seem to have an inkling that the killer had used those as well as aventurine at the crime scene.”

  “He could have been playing dumb, but what would his motive be?”

  “Same as Oren’s or Hank’s, I suppose. Lover’s remorse.”

  I shook my head. We were missing something, but what?

  “How did dinner go with Cinnamon last night?” Bailey asked.

  “Not well. I tried to console her. She blew a gasket and ordered me and everyone else at the table to butt out.”

  “Didn’t you say you were looking out for her mom?”

  “I did.” I hadn’t always been a fan of Pepper’s. We’d locked horns early on. After she came to my aid in a confrontation with a killer, however, I’d seen her in a different light.

  A middle-aged doctor sauntered into the room and greeted Bailey. I stepped out. After he assured her that she and the baby were fine, he released her into my custody.

  As we waited for Tito to pick her up—he didn’t want me to drive her home; he wouldn’t take no for an answer—I told her that I’d researched Braxton-Hicks contractions while the doctor had examined her. They were normal even as early as the second trimester. To help with them, she was to drink plenty of water, and if uncomfortable, drink a glass of warm milk or take a warm bath.

  Bailey grinned. “You’re going to make a great mother yourself someday.”

  “Ha! Only if I can parent by Google.”

  Chapter 16

  Knowing Bailey was safely on her way home, I called Rhett. Last night’s flop of a dinner had been unsettling. I wanted a restful, romantic evening with him. He picked me up and we decided to walk along Buena Vista Boulevard doing pretty much what Bailey and I had done the day before, eating fish tacos while browsing the wares at each Book Club Bonanza tent. Everyone in town was out in force. Gran was with her daughter-in-law and grandchildren browsing the goodies at Learn-a-Lot Books. Flora and her twin sister, both in white sweaters and slacks, were particularly interested in Book Addicts, the vendor that was selling ornate bookstands and more. I wondered if Flora was comparing its prices to those in her shop.

  As we strolled past a tent called Turn the Page, featuring a wealth of classic novels, I said, “What do you think of an all-white wedding?”

  “Are the white tents influencing your idea?”

  “Actual
ly, Lola suggested it. Eating this tasty whitefish taco”—I tossed my taco wrapper into a nearby garbage can—“brought her suggestion to mind. White food. White linens.”

  “What exactly are white foods?” He scrunched his nose, dubious.

  “Shrimp, calamari, white cheeses.”

  “Cauliflower, turnips, white beans,” he said grinning, the former chef in him enjoying the challenge.

  “Oysters, pita bread, jicama.”

  “Potatoes, mushrooms, garlic.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I chuckled. “Let’s serve plenty of garlic at the wedding. Not.”

  Rhett put a hand out to block me. “Hold up.”

  Ahead, two men were in a heated argument. One was Yung Yi, the manager at Crystal Cove Bank. He shook his head vehemently and whacked the hat he was holding against his thigh. The other was standing in profile, one hand gesturing to Yung, the other hand steadying a mountain bike, a helmet looped over his forearm.

  “Is that Oren Michaels?” I asked. The man had Oren’s distinctive build and curly hair, but from this distance I couldn’t be sure.

  “Yep, and he doesn’t look pleased.”

  “Maybe he needs a loan for his boat,” I said. He’d already purchased a new truck. Buying Jake’s boat would require a lot more cash.

  “Could be.”

  “I wonder if he’ll get it? The bank seems to be tightening the reins lately. Crusibella was denied a loan.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Yung yelled.

  People strolling past gawked at the two men.

  Yung flashed a cell phone at Oren, who glanced at it and nudged it in Yung’s direction. Yung’s mouth moved. Since neither were yelling any longer, I couldn’t make out the exchange. A minute later, Yung hurled his hat on the ground. Balancing his bike with one hand, Oren retrieved the hat. Chin lowered in a servile manner, he handed it to Yung, who jammed it on his head and turned on his heel, leaving Oren staring after him.

  “If he was asking for a loan,” Rhett whispered, “I’d say that’s a no.”