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

  “At the cookbook club event, she touted your work. What happened?”

  “During dessert, she made a snap decision. She pulled the plug. Who knows what got into her? She could be quite impulsive. Funny thing. That’s what I liked—” Dash hesitated. “Loved about her.” He pitched forward and handed a menu to his date. “I didn’t hold a grudge. Alison agreed to give me back the rights so I could shop it elsewhere. Like in The Godfather, it’s ‘just business.’”

  Actually, Michael Corleone said to Sonny that it was “strictly business.” My husband had been a Godfather aficionado—I must have seen the film fifty times—but I wouldn’t quibble. I said, “Coco found another publisher to publish hers.”

  “Bully for her. I’ve already got a few bites of my own.” Dash gestured to the menu. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to order, then I’m hitting the road. Back to San Francisco. Back to the real world.” He shoved his hand into one of the outside pockets of his photographer’s vest to fetch a pair of glasses.

  When he reached into another for a swatch of silk to rub smudges off his glasses, I flashed on the night I had met him at the café. He was taking pictures of Coco and Alison nonstop and paused only to wipe the lens of his camera. Soon after, Tigger, the scamp, slipped into Dash’s pockets and stole strips of contact prints. Dash snatched them back. What was on them? Something incriminating? I saw a set of strips peeking from an inside pocket of his vest. I recalled Alison saying Dash wouldn’t go anywhere without them. He was paranoid that someone might swipe them.

  “I’d like to see those contact prints.” I pointed.

  “Show me your badge,” Dash said.

  I made a move toward them.

  He tossed the menu to the floor and gripped my wrist like a vice. “Don’t!”

  I winced. His grip was strong. His eyes blazed with fury. You’re in a public place cycled through my head. Relax.

  “Dash, let me go.”

  “Why should I? You’ve got some nerve.”

  His date shocked me by sliding her hand across his chest and reaching into the pocket. She pulled out the contact prints and gasped. “What are these?” She flashed the images at me.

  I caught a quick glimpse. There were myriad black-and-white images of Alison in various states of undress, as seen through gauzy curtains or slatted shades.

  “You pervert,” the date said.

  “No,” Dash protested. “You don’t understand.”

  There were also images of Alison the night she died, her back to the camera lens. She was sitting at her computer, staring at the screen while bracing her forehead with her left hand.

  “Wow,” I whispered. Dash hadn’t been simply in love with Alison; he had been obsessed with her.

  “I understand enough,” the date hissed and hurled the contact prints at Dash. “Good-bye and good riddance.” She bolted from her chair and hurried out of the restaurant.

  Dash glowered at me while shuffling the contact prints into a stack. “You,” he muttered.

  “Did Alison realize you were taking those photographs of her?” I said. “Did she threaten to expose you? Is that why you killed her?”

  “I didn’t do it.” Dash’s voice grew gruff and full of emotion. “I told you. I have an alibi.”

  “Which can be debunked. The chief of police was at the karaoke place the night Alison was killed. She didn’t see you there.”

  Dash’s gaze turned as dark as the ocean at midnight. “Okay, I lied. I wasn’t there. I was photographing Alison, but I swear I didn’t kill her. You’ve got to believe me. I loved her.”

  “You are a voyeur.”

  “No. I . . . okay, yes, but only of Alison.”

  “Why her?”

  “Because she got me.” His voice flooded with emotion. “She understood me. Every aspect of me. She didn’t mind that I was offbeat. She didn’t mind the multiple tattoos and my weird quirks.”

  “Did you tell her about this?” I shot a finger at the contact prints in his hand.

  Dash’s eyes fluttered. “That night, after I took these photos, I went back to Sterling’s house to develop them. I intended to tell Alison the next day. I was going to admit my feelings and show her the photos. They’re gorgeous shots. They’re art. Look at them. Closely.” He spread them, using his thumb. “Alison didn’t think she was beautiful. She felt she was too large, too mannish looking. I wanted her to know how exquisite she was.” A sob escaped his throat. “I thought seeing herself as I saw her might make her feel, you know . . . good.”

  Or downright creepy.

  “Can Sterling corroborate your whereabouts?”

  “No. He was out with his new boyfriend.” Dash’s mouth turned downward. “Ah, man. If only I’d stuck around Coco’s house that night. I might have seen the killer.”

  Chapter 20

  I WASN’T SURE I believed Dash, but it wasn’t my job to determine the truthfulness of his claim. My duty was to inform the police of his whereabouts. I hurried back to The Cookbook Nook and fetched my cell phone from my pocket to dial the precinct.

  Bailey bolted to me and gripped my wrist. “Not so fast. Put down the phone. What is up with you running off again?”

  I told her about Dash’s contact prints.

  “Ew.” She squinched up her nose. “He is definitely a perv. Okay, call.”

  “Thank you for your permission.”

  I couldn’t reach Cinnamon; I settled for Deputy Appleby. He listened patiently and said he was on it.

  After I disconnected, I dumped my phone back in my pocket and rounded up my aunt. She, Bailey, and I set about dismantling all the pirate things we had put out for Pirate Week.

  Aunt Vera moved the Caribbean cookbooks to the foreign food section while Bailey collected the pirate-themed books and set them on a special sales table. We couldn’t send them back to the publishers; they were nonreturnable. A discount of fifty percent would make them popular. If not, we would store them for next year’s Pirate Week festivities. Cookbooks never grow old. Well, of course, some do, like those from the Middle Ages, but who needed a recipe for roasted peacock cooked over an open hearth? Actually, I knew a couple of clients who might love a Middle Ages cookbook, and made a mental note to track one down.

  I eyed the wealth of craft items we had amassed in the children’s section and decided instead to tackle the deconstruction of the display window.

  While I was boxing up the seagull that had dangled over the seascape, Coco sashayed into the shop in a snug pink dress. A pink Prada tote hung over her shoulder. Out of the top of the tote spilled pink-embossed envelopes.

  Coco plucked an envelope from the collection and handed it to me. “Here’s your invitation.”

  “To . . .”

  “Sweet Sensations’ Valentine’s Day Lollapalooza, of course.”

  I grinned. “What a mouthful, worthy of a cookbook title.” I removed the invitation from its gorgeous envelope and perused the text. “Why are you having another event? You just threw a delicious chocolate tasting on Sunday.”

  “A shop can never do enough to lure customers.”

  How true. “When is it?”

  “Tomorrow! Gotta nab that fresh batch of tourists.” Coco blew out a gust of air. “Boy, oh, boy, I can’t tell you how much I hate publicity! I am an artist. I bake. I glaze. I ice. I don’t want to go around town doing this.” She whacked her tote.

  “Especially in those heels,” I joked. She was wearing precipitously high, spiky heels.

  “But you and I”—she waggled a finger between us—“both know how important it is to make sure the locals know what’s going on, face-to-face. I couldn’t ask my Hello Kitty–loving assistant to do the dirty work, could I?” She barked out a laugh. “Honestly, I don’t think that girl ever learned the art of communication. She’s the one-word-answer queen.” Coco pulled a couple more
invitations out of her bag. “And don’t get me started on how much I despise doing social media stuff.”

  “But you’re so good at it,” I said.

  “Only because I have to be. Friend me; like me; show me the love!” She snorted. “Ah, yes, the Internet. It’s the way of the world. At least I don’t have your worry.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No one will ever digitalize the taste of chocolate. People will always be coming to Sweet Sensations for a morsel. You can’t e-book that.”

  I winced. Yes, we had to worry about what the digital age might do to our cookbook sales, but customers—our customers—still loved the feel of paper. They enjoyed flipping through cookbooks. They treasured collecting them and filling their home shelves with them. I wasn’t too worried about a drop in sales. Yet.

  A police car pulled into the parking lot. At the same time, I caught sight of the vivacious waitress from Vines Wine Bistro hightailing it toward Buena Vista Boulevard. She was a blur of orange. Her hair, cinched in a ponytail, wafted behind her.

  I raced outside and yelled, “Is there a fire?”

  “No fire,” she responded, “but there are storm clouds on the horizon.”

  The sky was a gorgeous blue and cloud free. What the heck was she talking about?

  “Neil quit,” she went on. “He came into some money. A couple thou.” She pointed upward. “That upset Gloria, and then Simon said something to her—I’m not sure what—and she went ballistic! I’m out of here.”

  I looked in the direction of her aim. Gloria was charging down the stairs that led from the second floor to the ground level of Fisherman’s Village. Clad in a clingy black top and leggings, her burgundy hair hidden beneath a black knit hat, her typically colorful accessories exchanged for black ones, she looked like a ninja ready to attack. A pair of black binoculars on a black strap bounced on her chest. Had she gone bird-watching with Simon after all her complaints about it? What do you bet she suspected Simon was cheating on her, which would explain why she was spending so much time at Vines as well as with him. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight. Pity the poor fool who crossed her path right now.

  Gloria stole a look in my direction, and I blanched. Her face wasn’t filled with anger about Neil quitting. It was streaked with tears. What had her husband said to her? Did he admit he was in love with another woman?

  A door slammed. Across the parking lot, Deputy Appleby was exiting the police car that had pulled in moments ago. He headed toward the café and looked longingly toward The Cookbook Nook entrance. Was he still regretting that my aunt had broken off their relationship? Hadn’t she had a heart-to-heart with him yet? After acknowledging me, he charged inside the café.

  Coco peeped out the front door. “What’s going on?”

  I moved inside the shop and jabbed a finger toward Gloria, who was climbing into a Cadillac SUV. “Someone isn’t happy.”

  Coco breathed high in her chest. “Is she . . . did he . . . tell her he was leaving her?”

  “I think he might have.”

  Gloria yanked the door of her car closed.

  Coco nearly vibrated with anticipation. I didn’t think anyone could look so gleeful over the prospect of divorce. “I’ve got to go to him.” She nudged her tote higher on her shoulder.

  “Wait, Coco!” I held her back.

  Gloria was reopening the door of her SUV.

  Coco gasped. “Oh no. She’s coming back. She’s going to plead with him. She’s . . . oh, phew!”

  Gloria yanked on her purse strap, which had gotten caught on the door handle. She tugged and jerked again, and finally released it. Slam! She closed the door a second time.

  The moment Gloria peeled rubber out of the parking lot, Coco said, “I’ll be right back,” and she sprinted upstairs to the wine bistro.

  A few minutes later, Deputy Appleby exited the café with Dash Hamada. Dash wasn’t putting up a fuss.

  A quarter of an hour later, Coco hadn’t resurfaced. Who knew what Simon was telling her? I worried about her, but I couldn’t fix it, no matter what it was. Simon and Coco were adults. Gloria, too.

  I was busy fitting various items from the display window into a storage box, reserving the four-foot-long toy ship with the three masts for last, when Wanda Foodie shuffled into the shop. Wanda had donned exactly what Alison had worn to the book club meeting—a red shawl over red sweater and plaid slacks—and I was struck, yet again, by how much she looked like her daughter. If not for the typical signs of age, they could have been twins, except Wanda’s face looked drawn, her eyes puffy.

  I hurried to her and gave her a hug. “Mrs. Foodie.”

  “Call me Wanda. How many times do I have to tell you that, Jenna?” Although she had visited the shop a few times, I’d never noticed that she sounded as throaty as Alison.

  Bailey stopped primping the sales table and hastened to join us. She gave Wanda a hug. “You look good.”

  “Nonsense. I’m a disaster.” Wanda flicked the air with a finger. “I heard you two stopped by the house to check in on me. That was sweet of you.” She offered a thin, tired smile.

  Aunt Vera strolled to Wanda and took her by the hand. “Wanda, dear.” My aunt stroked gently, doing her best to infuse good energy into the beleaguered woman. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Wanda pulled her hand free and raised her chin in a stately manner. “We carry on. We must, mustn’t we, Vera?”

  “Why have you come in?” I asked.

  “I wanted to thank you for your consideration.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone out of your way—”

  “It wasn’t an inconvenience.” Wanda fussed with the shawl. Her fingers shook. “I’ve also come to pick up my son. His car broke down yesterday. What a heap he drives. He had to meet with his boss. Now, I have to take him home to change clothes before we visit Alison’s attorney. What a chatty man he is. We have quite a few matters to settle in regard to Alison’s estate, he tells me.”

  I was stunned. Alison hadn’t been dead a week. “So soon?”

  “Time marches on. The attorney would like to get this over with as quickly as possible. He informed me that Neil and I are the only two named in the will. Of course, funds won’t be released for quite some months.”

  I glanced out the front door, recalling what the ponytailed waitress had said about Neil coming into some cash. Where did he get off quitting if he wasn’t getting inheritance money right away? He told me he had debts. “Wanda, I heard a rumor that Neil gave notice at Vines.”

  Wanda nodded. “Yes, he quit. That’s why he came in early today.”

  “Did he get a paying stand-up comedy gig?”

  “A what?” Wanda shot me a curious look.

  “He—” I hesitated. Perhaps he hadn’t shared that facet, or any facet, of his life with his mother. Deftly, I switched topics. “What will happen to Foodie Publishing? Will you hire someone to run it? Like Ingrid Lake?”

  “Ingrid? Why I . . .” Wanda covered her mouth to hide a yawn. “I don’t believe she could handle the pressure. Besides, the attorney said he has buyers lined up, if we are of the mind to sell.”

  Bailey said, “Um, Wanda, forgive for me saying this, but I’m surprised that Alison included Neil in her will.”

  “Why wouldn’t she? He’s family.”

  “Yes, but—” Bailey blanched. She eyed me. I kept mum. All I knew was hearsay. I had never seen Neil interact with his sister.

  Wanda drew taller. “Years ago, I convinced Alison to take pity on her brother. He is an innocent soul. He’s not as bright as she was, it’s sad to say, but he is kind beyond words.”

  Ingrid’s words Mama’s boy rang out in my head, except, from Wanda’s account, I deduced Neil was not her favorite child. Alison had been. Simon’s and Dash’s comments that Neil had resented Alison replayed in my mind. Had
Wanda revealed to her son how weak she thought he was? Did bile boil inside him until he lashed out at his sister? Why not kill the mother instead? Because he loved her. Needed her. Wanted to be her one and only.

  Wanda added, “Sweet Neil will be lost without Alison. Like a ship without a mooring.”

  Did she really believe that? Was she deluding herself?

  Returning to the previous thread of conversation, I said, “What will Neil do now that he’s leaving Vines?”

  “He’s going to return to his old job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He used to be a computer technician. He’s very good at it.”

  Yipes! How had I not put two and two together? The waitress from Vines said Neil had come into a couple of thousand dollars. Did he receive the reward money for returning the pot of doubloons? I’d already theorized that the thief who absconded with the pot of doubloons was a tech-savvy person. I’d considered Dash the culprit because of the timing of his arrival to town and the fact that he had an in-depth website, but Neil, if he was a computer geek, could have orchestrated the whole thing. He claimed he hadn’t constructed a website, and yet I had seen one—whether or not it was up and running—on the computer on his mother’s dining table. Why would he steal the pot? He said he needed fresh material for his stand-up comedy routine. Was his plan to tell funny stories about the theft? None of his competition would be able to duplicate the tales of his caper. He even had photos he could share with his audience, photos that he had put up and taken down on illusive blogs. Fresh, indeed!

  Did his antics absolve him of killing his sister? Not necessarily. Though he was traveling from site to site to take photos for the blogs, he could have made his way to Coco’s house, in between location shoots, to kill Alison. His motive? Jealousy and money. Was Alison’s estate sizable? With no rent and a mother, whether doting or not, to shuttle him around town, Neil wouldn’t need more than the two thousand dollar reward and a modest-paying job to survive until Alison’s estate settled. I remembered how he had tried to convince me that he was at the comedy club the night his sister was killed. Perhaps he lied about that because he didn’t want to admit that he had been roaming Crystal Cove with the pot of doubloons, capturing it in its many resting places on film. One lie leads to another, my father always says. Would Neil lie again or finally confess to what he had done?