Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9) Page 13

  “I’m not sure Eugene—” Principal Baker peered at a picture hanging on the wall of Eugene, Audrey, and herself at a ribbon-cutting ceremony. “Eugene and I go way back. We attended grammar school together. Anyway”—she flicked the air—“to be truthful, I’m not sure Eugene was paying attention to what he was publishing at the time. He’s had a lot on his mind, what with finances floundering.” She folded her hands again. “As for Kylie’s mean-spiritedness, I’m not sure where that derived from.”

  I said, “I suspect Kylie and Midge have had an ongoing feud.”

  Principal Baker tapped the edge of her desk. “Here’s the tragedy, however. Marigold took a steep dive after that. She started binge eating and purging. She gave up baking and began to blame her mother for all her problems.”

  “And Midge blamed Kylie for the rift,” Bailey whispered.

  “I imagine so.” Principal Baker studied her fingernails. “Marigold has grown quite somber. I’ve asked her to meet with our guidance counselor, but she has refused.”

  “Does she have any friends?” I asked. “Does she socialize?”

  “She has a boyfriend,” Principal Baker said. “He’s an artist. You’d appreciate his style, Jenna, although his work is filled with despair.”

  • • •

  When we left the principal’s office, I said to Bailey, “Let’s check in with Cinnamon.”

  “No, first I want to go to Shredding.” She looked about ready to burst.

  “Bailey . . .” My tone was cautious. “We’re going there tonight for dinner, remember? We can—”

  “I want to talk to Midge now. Please. Let’s clear the air. Let’s find out what happened. It’s not time for the restaurant to open yet.”

  “Bailey, I’m going to sound like our chief of police for a moment. This is scary stuff. A killer is on the loose, and it’s no laughing matter. You can’t storm in on—”

  “Stop!” Bailey held up her palm. “Over the past couple of years, you have stormed. You have charged. You have done what every woman in your situation would do, taken the lead. Alexa would tell me to be brave; be bold. Well, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to boldly protect my husband. If you’re not going with me, I’ll go alone. Midge will be there. She’ll be in prep mode.” Bailey marched toward Buena Vista Boulevard.

  I chugged after her. “You are so like your mother.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The main drag was once again open. Cars were streaming along. Foot traffic was at a minimum. As we were passing Nuts and Bolts, I peeked inside. My father was standing at the counter, playing chess with Jake, who was sitting on a stool.

  “Bailey.” I tapped her shoulder. “Let’s ask Jake what happened with the police. If Tito is cleared—”

  I gripped her elbow. She resisted, but then gave in.

  I opened the door to my father’s shop. A bell chimed overhead. The place was deep but narrow. Streamlined shelves, each categorized with labels made from a label machine, held multiple boxes of screws, nails, and whatnot. Dozens of pictures commemorating family adventures lined the wall behind my father. I especially loved the one of my sister, brother, and me, twenty-some years ago, rock climbing. My sister had broken every fingernail and had bemoaned her fate for days.

  My father grinned. “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Shouldn’t you be at work?” he asked.

  “Bailey and I had an errand to run.” I strode to the counter and patted Jake on the back. “So, did you talk to the police?”

  “Not yet. I left a message.”

  Bailey huffed. “Jake, you promised. You crossed your heart.”

  He nodded sheepishly. “You’re right. Time is of the essence. Mind you, Chief Pritchett probably thinks I’m an old crank with nothing to offer, but I’ll go to the precinct right now.” He tapped the chessboard. “Don’t move anything, Cary,” he warned. “I’ve got a photographic memory. I know where every man is. And it’s my turn.”

  As Jake strode out the door, my father snickered. “Bailey, you sure know how to get your way. Just like your mother.”

  “That’s what I said.” I jutted a hand at my pal.

  Bailey winked at him. “She’s my idol. She taught me every trick in the book. Now, Jenna”—she gripped my arm—“let’s go.”

  I didn’t fight her. I knew she would hound me until she’d accomplished her mission.

  Midge’s restaurant, Shredding, was located on Buena Vista Boulevard between Say Cheese, a gourmet cheese shop, and the bank. Like my father’s shop, the restaurant was narrow but it was airy with an appealing green-and-white décor, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the boulevard, and lots of potted plants, giving the place the feel of a botanical garden.

  The waitstaff was setting tables with white tablecloths as we entered. The enticing aroma of roast chicken, coriander, and curry emanated from the kitchen at the rear of the building.

  Barging ahead with purpose, Bailey marched into the kitchen. I followed.

  Midge Martin, dressed in a snazzy lime green chef’s coat, her frizzy hair held back in a stylish bandanna, bustled near her sous chefs, chopping green onions while pointing at preparations and giving commands. “More curry. More cumin. Where’s the yogurt? You, new girl”—she aimed her knife at a lithe woman—“julienne more carrots.”

  “Yes, chef,” the woman said.

  From what I could tell, Midge was prepping for the tandoori chicken salad she’d told me about.

  “Jenna,” Midge said as she caught sight of me, “what’s up?” Then she spied Bailey. Her forehead pinched with worry. “Is everything okay? Your dinner reservation is hours away.”

  Bailey said, “I need to ask you a question.”

  Midge sliced the knife through the air. “I can’t talk. I’m way too busy.”

  “One minute. C’mon.” Bailey hooked a thumb to follow her toward the walk-in refrigerator.

  Midge rolled her eyes at me and mouthed: What’s with her?

  I didn’t respond. I followed Bailey. As I did, I noticed framed photographs of Midge on her television show, Midge with TV talk show hostesses, and Midge with her daughter. None with her husband, of course. He’d walked out over ten years ago.

  With a huff, Midge set the knife on the chopping block and trailed me.

  When the three of us drew into a circle, Midge said, “What’s the issue?”

  “A witness saw you outside Your Wellness on Friday morning,” Bailey blurted.

  “A witness? To what?” Midge shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Kylie O was murdered upstairs,” Bailey said. “What were you doing there, sneaking around?”

  Midge’s mouth drew into a thin line. “You can’t possibly think—” She peeked over her shoulder at her staff and back at us. “I didn’t kill Kylie, if that’s what you’re intimating.”

  “I repeat, what were you doing there?”

  Midge huffed. “How dare you, Bailey. You know me better than that. I wouldn’t hurt a fly, although I would destroy an army of ants.”

  Bailey tapped her foot. Waiting.

  Midge jammed her fists against her hips. “Oh, I see. You caught Kylie and me going at it the other day, didn’t you? Yeah, I remember spying you in the crowd. Kylie and I shared a few words. Big deal. Who didn’t with her? She could be so caustic.”

  “Why were you outside the Boldine Building?” Bailey asked, as persistent as a hunting dog with its teeth sunk into its prey.

  Midge narrowed her gaze. “If you must know, there’s a new restaurant going in at the southernmost townhouse in the mini San Francisco units.”

  I knew the restaurant she was talking about. It planned to feature Asian fusion food.

  “Katie—yes, your Katie—told me the chef was planning to serve up one of my exclusive recipes.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “So I went there to do reconnaissance. To check her out and size her up. I couldn’t see much. Nothing, in fact. All the windows are covered with butcher paper. Bu
t then suddenly, the chef—who is also the owner, like me—burst out the front door. Astonished, I ducked to the left and acted as if I was peering into the jewelry store. That must have been when your witness saw me.”

  Bailey screwed up her mouth. “Go on.”

  “Subsequently, I have approached the chef, and she and I have made amends. She does not intend to use any of my recipes. Whatever Katie heard was a rumor. False.”

  “And what about the falling-out between your daughter and Kylie?” Bailey pressed.

  “What falling-out?” Midge asked.

  “Marigold was in a bake-off. At school. Her submission blew up. Kylie wrote about what happened. She ridiculed Marigold for the fiasco.”

  Midge tilted her head but kept mum.

  “And then Kylie fat-shamed her,” Bailey added.

  I blinked, not believing my friend would bring up that particular point.

  Midge’s mouth dropped open. Her eyes pooled with tears. She sucked in air and wrapped a protective arm across her chest. “My poor daughter. Poor sweet Marigold.” A tear leaked down her cheek. She swiped it with a knuckle. “What she suffered at the hands of Kylie O was horrific. There are no words to express my grief. And then Marigold—” She bit back a sob. “She and I are working through the issues, but it might take years for her to come to grips with what happened.”

  “So you held Kylie responsible,” Bailey said.

  “Sure I did, but I wouldn’t kill her.” Midge punched the air. “When I opened my restaurant, I received all sorts of bad reviews. I understood. People say horrible things. They always will. I advised Marigold that we women have to shore up when under fire. We have to have courage.” She pounded a fist against her palm. “We are working through Marigold’s issues. She’s strong. She will survive. I did not kill Kylie. If that’s all?” Midge raised her chin and breathed sharply through her nose. “Perhaps, in light of this personal and unwarranted attack, you’d like to cancel your reservation for tonight.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a command.

  Chapter 13

  As Bailey and I trudged back to the Cookbook Nook, I felt awful for having suspected Midge of murder and made a mental note to develop a spine. I would not—could not—let my pal or anyone else run roughshod over me again. Ever. I was nice, but not that nice.

  When we entered the shop, Gran was ringing up a regular customer at the counter while touting the upcoming series of holiday cookie cookbooks we’d ordered. Aunt Vera was sitting at the vintage kitchen table fitting pieces into the food-themed jigsaw puzzle.

  “Are you all right?” my aunt asked, abandoning a piece with five notches and following Bailey and me to the counter. Her silver caftan swished and caught Tigger’s fascination. He pounced toward her. She nudged him with the toe of her slipper, but he wouldn’t be dissuaded.

  “Bailey . . .” I fanned the air. “Tito . . .”

  “Didn’t Jake call the police?” my aunt asked. “I thought that was the plan after last night’s dinner.”

  “He contacted the precinct,” Bailey said, sidling in beside Gran to sort through the morning’s receipts. “But Cinnamon didn’t respond.”

  “We ran into Jake at the hardware shop.” I scooped up Tigger and gave his chin a scrub. “He said he would head to the precinct straightaway. That should clear things up.”

  “From your lips . . .” Bailey sighed.

  I set Tigger on his kitty condo and assessed the shop. The bookshelves were a mess. “Did we have a sale?” I asked.

  Aunt Vera chortled. “At least fifty customers have come in so far this morning.”

  “Fifty?” I gawped.

  “That’s my fault,” Katie said as she waltzed from the breezeway carrying a tray of mini sandwiches, tacos, and tiny bowls of salad. Her chef’s coat was lightly splattered with something pinkish. Her cheeks were flushed. “I invited a foodie reviewer from Monterey, who has a huge online presence, to cover us during the Food Bowl. She has declared the Nook one of her top ten. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Wonderful,” I said, but inwardly sighed. Kylie O had tried so hard to protect her territory from Tito, and yet, an online reviewer had been able to make headway without so much as a ripple of conflict.

  “By the way,” Katie went on, “have you seen the line outside the café? Hoo-boy, are we going to be busy. It’s winding all the way to the street.”

  I’d seen the line when entering. I hadn’t put two and two together. “Gran, I’m sorry I was out when there was that much activity.”

  “No worries.” She fanned the air. “Your aunt and I had it handled.”

  “Indeed, we did,” Aunt Vera chimed.

  Katie said, “By the way, get ready. We will be flipping customers like hotcakes, every hour on the hour. So eat up.” She motioned to the tray. “You will need sustenance. I’ve brought you some tastings of everything.”

  Aunt Vera took a mini sandwich and bit into it. “Scrumptious.”

  “What you don’t eat, I’ll set in the breezeway.” Katie regarded Bailey and me. “Explain the matching outfits and the long faces.”

  I quickly told her about our meeting with Principal Baker and added that Tito had not yet been exonerated.

  “You two particularly need to eat.” Katie thrust the tray toward me.

  I chose a shrimp taco stuffed to the gills with shredded everything and took a bite. “Divine.”

  Bailey waved Katie off. “Not hungry. By the way, Midge Martin was seen at Your Wellness on the morning of the murder, but when I confronted her—”

  “You confronted her?” my aunt squawked. “Jenna, how could you let Bailey—”

  “I have no control over her,” I countered. “Bailey is like a locomotive with no brakes.”

  Bailey smirked. “I am pretty forceful.”

  “You keep on doing what you’re doing, young lady.” Gran took one of Katie’s treats. “A wife should stand by her man.”

  “Thanks, Gran.” Bailey refocused on Katie. “Anyway, to answer your question, when I asked Midge why she’d been in the area, she claimed you told her the owner of the new Asian fusion restaurant was planning on serving up one of Midge’s recipes, so she’d gone there to check it out.”

  “I never said anything like that,” Katie protested. “I told her I thought the restaurant was going to be tough competition for her because they would be located close to one another and going head to head on creating clever recipes. She must have mistaken my meaning. I hate when people do that.” Mumbling, she pivoted, set the tray in the breezeway, and returned to the café.

  As I watched her go, I wondered whether Midge had mistaken Katie’s meaning, or whether she’d deliberately lied to us to hide the real reason she’d been hanging outside the Boldine Building.

  “Good morning,” Cinnamon Pritchett said as she breezed into the shop, hat in hand, her uniform crisp. Her hair was slightly mussed. She must have ridden her bicycle over. I searched for it and saw it parked in the bike rack near Beaders of Paradise. “I have good news.”

  Bailey hurried to her, hands clasped. “About my husband?”

  Cinnamon beamed. “Yes. Tito is officially in the clear.”

  “Jake did it!” Bailey jumped up and down. “He came through. Yay. Thank you. Bless you.”

  “Yes, Jake vouched for him,” Cinnamon said. “Also, Flora Fairchild’s phone tree worked. The gardeners for the Smiths saw Tito in the Celica and could identify him right down to the color of shirt he was wearing.” She jutted her hand toward Bailey. “Congratulations are in order.”

  Bailey shook with her.

  Cinnamon leaned in. “Between you and me, I never thought he did it.”

  “What about the lip gloss?” I asked. “Have you had that tested against the writing on the mirror?”

  Bailey threw me a scathing look.

  “The lab is still determining factors,” Cinnamon said, “although they did find contaminating alleles.”

  “Speak English, Chief,” Bailey
said.

  “Someone else’s DNA,” I said, “transferred by kissing.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cinnamon said. “It’s probably a non-event with no specific outcome.”

  Bailey breathed easier.

  Cinnamon placed her hat on her head and smoothed the rim. She nodded to Bailey. “Have a good day.”

  “You bet I will, Chief,” Bailey chirped.

  As Cinnamon strode across the parking lot to where she’d parked her bicycle, Bailey said, “Should we have told her about our chat with Midge, who now has a more substantial motive?”

  “Cinnamon will be checking out Midge,” I assured her. At least I hoped she would, given our conversation yesterday. “For now, let’s revel in the fact that your husband is off the hook!” I hugged Bailey and she melted into me. “Do you want to call him?”

  “You bet I do.” She raced into the stockroom.

  I clapped my hands. “Okay, everyone, let’s get this place spruced up. Straighten the shelves. Fix the displays. If Katie is determined to turn the café’s tables every hour, the next wave of customers will be bounding in here in a few minutes to make purchases.”

  Three hours later, when the shop was experiencing a lull, I decided to take a coffee break. Rather than enjoy it by myself, I swung by Latte Luck Café, purchased two espressos, and strode to Intime. Rhett would be in full prep mode for tonight’s dinner, but I figured he could spare ten minutes for a kiss and a sip of something warm.

  When I entered the bistro, the soft strains of Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose” was playing through the speakers. A few of the staff were singing along.

  I made my way to the kitchen and found Rhett crooning into a wooden spoon. When he caught sight of me, his cheeks tinged pink.

  “Sinatra, you’re not,” I joked.

  He hurried to me and pecked my cheek. “What brings you around?”

  “We missed you at our Sunday dinner. Thank you for the onion tarts. They were appreciated.”

  “About me canceling—”

  “You don’t need to explain.”

  “Yes, I do.” Rhett clasped my elbow and guided me out of the kitchen to the foyer by the hostess’s lectern. “You won’t believe what happened.”