Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4) Page 16

  My father grunted and leaned forward to dunk a chip into the bowl of dip. He crunched as loudly as he had grunted.

  I shot him a dour look. “What, Dad? Got something to say?”

  “Nope. Nothing.”

  “Don’t you like the spices?” I taunted. “Too pungent for you? Arrr, matey. You could do with some spice.”

  Lola grinned. Dad scowled.

  “C’mon. Out with it,” I said. “You have an opinion.”

  “Not one I’ll share.” Dad held up a hand as if he was ready to swear in court. “I am not an authority.”

  “Neither am I, but that doesn’t mean I can’t speculate.”

  “Here we go,” he muttered.

  I heaved a sigh. “Dad, let’s not do this every time.”

  “That’s just it, isn’t it?” he said. “Here we are with another every time. Another murder, in our town, and somehow you’ve landed in the thick of it.”

  “Because a friend of ours died.”

  “You barely knew her.”

  “Bailey knew her very well, and I help my friends!” I nabbed a chicken-pineapple kebab and wielded it like a sword. Parry, lunge, thrust. Take that, you scalawag. “Aren’t you the one who said, only last week, that Crystal Cove is as susceptible to crime as, say, big, old Los Angeles?”

  “Jenna.”

  “Cary!” Wow. Had I uttered my father’s first name? Out loud? Sassy is fine; impudent is off the mark. Cool your jets, Jenna. I bit off the top portion of a kebab and purred my appreciation. Aunt Vera had made a deliciously tangy pepper-infused sauce.

  After a long silence, my father said, “Don’t put words into my mouth.”

  “Fine.” I sounded calmer . . . quasi adult. “What did you say, exactly?”

  “What I said was, ‘You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.’”

  “I like my loose translation,” I muttered.

  “Who am I citing?”

  “Mahatma Gandhi,” I conceded. Dad could always best me in a game of who said what, but I had memorized pretty much all the quotes he’d put before me over the years. I nestled onto the wicker armchair, set my skewer on a napkin, and eyed Bailey. “Let’s not talk about our theories tonight.”

  “No, no.” Lola settled beside my father and elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Let’s do talk about them.”

  Aunt Vera joined us on the deck and, while rubbing her phoenix amulet, drew in a deep breath. “Isn’t the view incredible tonight?”

  We all chimed, “Yes,” then glanced at my aunt. Had she been listening to our discord? Had she stroked her amulet to work her magic on us and bring us into harmony? She was crafty beyond sly. We didn’t have any Gypsy in our family line, as far as I knew, but at times I wondered if my aunt could channel pixie or something elfin.

  Aunt Vera kissed her fingertips and blew bad karma toward the sea. “Now, tell us, Jenna, who do you suspect the most?”

  “Neil,” I said.

  “Aha, the brother.” Aunt Vera waved a hand. “Go on.”

  “Neil told me he was at a stand-up nightclub when his sister was killed.”

  My aunt said, “I always felt that boy had too much of the rascal in him, cracking jokes at inappropriate times. Did you know he toilet papered the church when he was in high school? Stand-up.” She harrumphed as she settled onto the arm of the settee. “Yes, that suits him.”

  “But he wasn’t at the comedy club,” I said. “He lied.”

  “Did you ask him where he was?” Lola asked.

  “No. I tried to tell Cinnamon that he fibbed, but she advised me to butt out. She said she and her team were on the case.”

  “There.” My father spread his arms apart as if the case was officially closed.

  Bailey bounded to her feet. “No, not there. The police can be on the case all they want, but if the case isn’t solved, it’s not solved. We have information. That they should want.” She eyed me.

  I glanced at my father. He leveled me with a glare. If I could have retreated like a tortoise into its shell, I would have.

  Bailey continued, “Neil has motive and, now, with no alibi, opportunity. First, the motive.” She held up an index finger. “To inherit Alison’s estate.”

  Lola said, “Which consists of . . .”

  “I would imagine her condo in San Francisco”—Bailey ticked off her fingertips—“and her business and who knows what else.”

  “But you’re not sure.” Lola rose and began to pace as if addressing the court. “This must be determined.”

  I said, “Neil admitted to me that he’s in debt.”

  “Not everyone will kill to pay off a debt,” my father argued.

  Lola agreed. “Who else makes the suspect list?”

  My father grunted again, but I could tell he was becoming engaged in the discussion. His eyes were bright, and he was leaning forward, forearms propped on his thighs.

  “Ingrid Lake,” I said. “The copyeditor.”

  “I don’t trust that girl,” Aunt Vera said. “She’s wound as tightly as a top.”

  I explained that Ingrid and Alison had argued that night and, later, she was seen at Vines Wine Bistro, drinking alone.

  “What did they argue about?” Lola asked.

  “Apparently, Alison fired her,” I said.

  “Which you told Cinnamon,” my father inserted.

  “She didn’t let me. She hung up on me.” I was still seething from her treatment.

  Bailey waved a hand. “There’s more. It’s possible Ingrid and Alison were disputing ownership of the company. Ingrid claims she was on track to becoming a partner. She was awaiting a contract.”

  “Aha!” Lola said. “A broken promise is a good motive.”

  “And then there’s Dash Hamada,” I stated. “The photographer. I’m certain Dash had a thing for Alison.”

  “He told you this?” my father asked.

  “Not in so many words.”

  He cocked his head. “Now you’re a professional profiler?”

  Lola swatted my father’s thigh. “Cary, cut it out. You know you love Jenna’s mind. You’ve told me so time and again.”

  He had? News to me. My boss at Taylor & Squibb had been just as taciturn as my father until I quit my job. Then he gushed about how he hated to lose his prized executive. Too little, too late.

  Lola said, “Cut her some slack, Cary.”

  My father glanced at me sideways. His mouth twitched at the corners. Was Lola right? Had he been provoking me on purpose? The devil. Was that how he had cajoled Cinnamon into changing from an errant teen into a law-abiding do-gooder?

  “Go on, Jenna,” Lola said.

  “I think Alison was pregnant. And not by Dash. I did mention that possibility to Cinnamon. Who knows whether she’ll follow up.”

  Dad said, “She’ll follow up.”

  “Anyway,” I continued, “if Dash found out the baby wasn’t his—”

  “Were they an item?” Aunt Vera said.

  “No.” I waved a hand. “That’s just it. I think he worshiped her from afar.”

  “Don’t you see?” Bailey cut in. “If he loved her and found out she was in love with someone else and was going to have a family with that person, he might have lashed out.”

  “Except that guy died,” I added quickly, “of natural causes. So, in truth, Dash could have made a move on Alison and become the kid’s stepfather.”

  “If there was a child,” my father reasoned.

  “Whatever.” Bailey held up her wineglass. “That’s all we’ve got. Three suspects.”

  Lola swirled her glass of wine. “Don’t forget Coco.”

  “But she’s been exonerated,” Bailey cried.

  My father offered an ingratiati
ng look. “Has she? Really?”

  “Dinner!” Aunt Vera announced.

  Bailey and I helped unfold the bay windows so the dining room was open to the patio and, therefore, the beach. The sun had fully set. The sky was awash with orange-tinged clouds that would quickly turn gray with night.

  I lit candles. Afterward, Bailey and I set out platters of Caribbean-style food including whitefish and plantains, jerk chicken wings, rice and beans, and an appetizing cucumber salad. I took a chair facing the sunset and drank in the beauty. Ever since returning to Crystal Cove, I couldn’t get enough of staring at the ocean. For the first few months, all I could imagine when looking at the water was my husband dying on his sailboat. Now, I turned to the ocean for inspiration and hope.

  Through dinner, we chatted about normal life, not murder. However, over dessert, while my father and aunt were praising my cupcakes—Dad hadn’t realized they were gluten-free—Bailey said something to her mother . . . quite loudly.

  “You’re wrong, Mother.”

  “Wrong about what?” Aunt Vera asked.

  Lola didn’t respond.

  “Bailey?” Aunt Vera said, rubbing her amulet with her thumb and forefinger.

  “Coco would never have used scissors to kill Alison.”

  “In a fit of passion,” Lola said.

  “There were knives, Mother, which are much easier to wield.”

  I had thought the same thing.

  “And Coco wasn’t upset with Alison’s cuts to her latest work,” Bailey added.

  Aha. So Lola had made the connection between scissors and an editor’s cuts.

  “That’s the scuttlebutt at The Pelican Brief,” Lola said.

  “Local gossip is not always correct,” Bailey snapped. “You of all people should realize that!” Lola had been suspected of murder a couple of months ago. At the time, the town had teemed with rumors about Lola and the victim. Bailey jabbed a fork into a bite of her cupcake. I couldn’t ever remember her eating a cupcake like a normal person. Slicing it up like a big piece of cake, she claimed, made it taste more decadent. She held up the fork and waggled it, cake and all. “Coco talked glowingly about how good an editor Alison was. She loved Foodie Publishing and the product it put out.”

  “Then why does she have a contract with a bigger publisher?” Lola said over the brim of her coffee cup, “If Coco has a better possibility on the horizon, perhaps Alison didn’t want to let her out of her contract.”

  “Can’t an author work for two publishers?” Bailey asked.

  “It would depend on the contract stipulations,” Lola responded. “Back to the married man with whom she’s having an affair.”

  Bailey protested, “I didn’t say she was having an affair.”

  “Darling, you didn’t have to. He must not have come forward or, I assure you, I would have heard about it at the diner.”

  “Not true, Mother. The police promised confidentiality.”

  Lola petted her daughter’s cheek. “You are such an innocent.”

  Was she? Was I? Was Coco? Why had Cinnamon exonerated Coco? Perhaps it was a ploy. Maybe Cinnamon had let her go free, hoping Coco would slip up.

  Chapter 17

  ON MONDAY MORNING, panic shot through me. We had so much to do at the shop. So many boxes to unpack; so many books to put on shelves. As soon as Wednesday, we would have to deconstruct the Pirate’s Week theme and put up something for Valentine’s Day. Yipes! I had already assigned Bailey the job of cutting out cupids and hearts for the window display. Luckily, in addition to all the chocolate-themed cookbooks we had on hand, I’d thought ahead to order dozens that focused specifically on Valentine’s Day. I had even remembered to stock a number of children’s fiction books like The Day It Rained Hearts, which was all about sharing, and Pete the Cat: Valentine’s Day Is Cool, complete with poster, punch-out valentines, and stickers. Parents and grandparents would come in droves to purchase those for their little darlings.

  Around noon, concerned about Katie and how her mother was faring, I called her. She told me she was hanging in, though she wasn’t great. Her mother was struggling with balancing her medications. Katie promised she would return by Wednesday. I assured her Chef Phil was doing just fine and to take her time. It wasn’t a lie; business was cooking at the Nook Café.

  Soon after, Mayor Zeller bustled into the shop, her arms filled with a ream of heavy-stock paper.

  “Hi, Z.Z.,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  She was perspiring. Her blouse was only half tucked into her trousers. “I’m fine. On a mission.” She pulled off a sheet of paper and handed it to me. It was another poster regarding the missing pot of doubloons. I’d nearly forgotten the pot had been stolen. “Will you replace the notice in your window, Jenna?”

  On the poster, she’d printed: Reward for Return of the Pot of Doubloons—$2,000. Twice the amount she had been offering. Beneath the announcement, she had inserted one of the Internet pictures of the absconded pot and added, Thief! Enough of this silly business. Own up to your mistake, and you will not be punished.

  “Really?” I said. “No punishment?”

  The mayor chortled. “Aw, Jenna, I can tell this hoax is all in fun. People all over town are laughing about it.”

  “What if the thief turns the pot in? Will he or she get the two thousand dollars?”

  “Heavens, no!” The mayor’s gaze narrowed. She scanned the poster. “Oh, I see what you mean. Hmm. Too late now. I’ve put up over fifty of these.”

  As I was removing the first poster from the window, I caught sight of Neil Foodie heading across the parking lot with the sassy waitress from Vines Wine Bistro on his arm. Today, her curly hair was tucked into a sporty ponytail. She was laughing at something he said.

  Seeing Neil made me wonder whether Cinnamon was following up on him. He had lied about his alibi, and yet he was still at large. I stepped outside and hailed him. “Hey, Neil, hold up. How was the funeral?”

  The waitress wiggled her fingers, sang out, “See ya,” and trotted upstairs.

  Neil grew respectfully serious. “Fine.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “Sleeping.” He spied the poster in my hand. “Yo ho. The mayor is offering a reward? Some lucky stiff is going to be happy.”

  “Do you have a clue who stole the pot?”

  He frowned. “Nah. Do you?”

  “No.” Why would I have asked?

  Neil started toward the stairs.

  “Before you go,” I said and tapped his arm.

  “What?” He spit out the word with such venom, a shiver shimmied down my spine.

  I backed up a step. “Quick question. You said you were at the comedy club the night your sister died. However, I called.” I wasn’t going to bring Bailey into the matter.

  “Why would you—” Neil chewed his teeth then clicked his tongue against them. “Yeah, so?”

  “The owner said you weren’t there.”

  “Sure I was. I . . . I . . .” He sputtered. “I was in costume. Pirate costume. Big plumed hat. Fake nose. I even used a phony name. No one recognized me.”

  I peered into his eyes. Truth or lie? I couldn’t tell. His gaze was flat.

  “I told you, I was trying out new material,” he went on. “Real fresh stuff.”

  “Fresh.”

  “Yeah. I came up with this great idea. But like I told you the other day, I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want some joker to steal my routine. Comedy isn’t copyrighted. You snooze, you lose.”

  “Even if they didn’t know it was you, someone in the audience could steal the material, Neil.”

  He lasered me with an edgy stare. He was lying. I was sure of it. But I couldn’t prove it. Shoot.

  “Gotta go.” He flew upstairs.

  Midway through the afternoon, I had a craving for a lat
te and a snack. I headed along the breezeway toward the café, but I paused when through the plate-glass window I caught sight of Beaders of Paradise. Feeling surprisingly maternal, I wondered whether Pepper could use a pick-me-up. I went to check on her, but I hung back when I heard footsteps pounding the second-floor landing.

  A woman shouted. “It’s your mother we’re talking about!”

  At the top of the stairs leading to the second floor of Fisherman’s Village, Simon and his wife appeared. Simon was leading and doing his best to ignore his wife. Gloria, who was clad in a cheery lemon yellow outfit, looked anything but joyful.

  “You have an obligation to her,” she continued while pursuing him, her voice so shrill it made my teeth chatter.

  “I don’t owe her a dratted thing,” Simon countered, over his shoulder.

  “It’s her family’s history. You promised. Before she died. She’s on death’s door.”

  “I told you, it was shelved.”

  “Well, un-shelve it. I swear, Simon, you are a recipe for disaster. What do I have to do to keep you on target? Tell me, honestly, what? You have all this intelligence running around in that marvelous brain of yours”—she waved her muscular arms overhead—“and yet you waste it by putting things on ice.”

  Simon whirled around. “I didn’t postpone anything.”

  Gloria poked him in the chest. “Do not ever tell me I’m wrong. I know better than you. I always will.”

  Gack! Coco was right. Gloria was a bully.

  Gloria breezed past Simon and across the parking lot. Not keen for her to catch me overhearing their spat, I hurried back to the shop. I would do Pepper a favor another time.

  Once I was safely installed behind the counter and my teeth stopped clicking like an out-of-control Geiger counter, I thought about mothers. Mine. Katie’s. Simon’s. I wondered how Alison’s mother, Wanda, was doing, too. Her son wasn’t the warmest, most caring soul. Had Neil consoled her or tended to her needs in the slightest after the funeral? Wanda had put her daughter—her eldest—in a grave.

  I hailed Aunt Vera and said I’d like to check on Wanda Foodie. Bailey heard me and begged to come along. My aunt was more than willing to man the register. Business was often slow around this time in the afternoon. Typically our customers were picking up kids at school or doing last-minute grocery shopping.