Sifting Through Clues Page 2

  I grinned. “Good thing.”

  “Crystal Cove Library has knocked it out of the park, by the way. Its tent is situated next to the dolphins.” At the center of town where Crystal Cove Road met Buena Vista Boulevard stood a statue of dancing dolphins. “The tent is as colorful as a kaleidoscope. There are all sorts of vendors selling gift items, too. I spotted ornate bookstands, handmade bookmarks, elegant journals, and personalized storybooks for children. And there are bright banners featuring all the books the clubs are reading this week. I noticed some foodie favorites including Chocolat, as well as some heavier reading like Beowulf and The Canterbury Tales for the literary set. It’s so invigorating.” Her enthusiasm was infectious.

  I joined her at the sales counter. “You must have had a good sleep. You’re oozing positive vibes.”

  “Positive is as positive does,” she chirped. “What’s on the schedule?”

  I ticked off the items on my to-do list. Finish displays. Restock shelves. Set up the children’s table for a cookbook-making session. Each child would be able to create a little book of recipes woven together with ribbon. Bailey was leading it. We were providing the recipes.

  “Where’s Tina?” my aunt asked.

  Tina Gump was the twenty-something clerk we’d hired last year. She dreamed of becoming a chef and was taking culinary classes at night school. She hoped to do well enough to apply to a full-fledged culinary school within two years.

  “I gave her the day off. She has midterms.”

  “All righty then. What would you like me to do, boss?” Aunt Vera asked.

  She was teasing, of course. Tina called me boss, but I wasn’t my aunt’s boss. She and I owned the shop together. That hadn’t been our arrangement at first, when I’d given up my advertising job in the city, a local term for San Francisco, and moved home to help her open the store and café. However, after a year or so, when she realized she couldn’t have made a success of the shop without my help, she decided to spread the wealth and made me part owner. She’d made a ton of money during the seventies, having invested well in the stock market. Recently, she’d added Bailey and Chef Katie as limited partners. Both were my lifelong friends, and I was thrilled that she’d thought to include them.

  “How about straightening up the aprons and kitchen items?” I suggested.

  The Cookbook Nook was a culinary bookshop. Primarily, we sold cookbooks and food-related fiction, but we also sold a variety of fun kitchen items, including saltshakers and peppermills, aprons, cookie jars, and more. For this week, I’d ordered things I thought book club members might like: literary-themed serving trays and literary coffee mugs. My favorite saying engraved on a tray was: There is no friend as loyal as a book. And on one of the mugs: I’m a book dragon, not a worm. Too cute. Before I’d even pulled them from the storage room, Bailey had set aside one of the trays for her mother, who was an avid reader.

  “Jenna?” Pepper pushed through the front door. “Too early to come in?”

  “No, it’s fine,” I replied. Ivy had already descended upon us. What was one more? Besides, a fellow shopkeeper was always welcome. “New haircut?” Her silver hair was feathered around her face. She usually wore it in a boxier cut.

  She primped. “Do you like it?”

  “It takes years off.”

  She blushed crimson with delight.

  “I like your knit dress, too. Very slimming.” It was blue and white with vertical stripes. As ever, she’d added extensive beading around the neckline. “Did you make it?”

  She adjusted her teensy cross-body purse. “Of course.” I had expected her to say as much. She was a whiz at every craft. “Do you have any coffee? My machine is on the fritz. I’m desperately in need of caffeine.”

  “In the breezeway.”

  “Lifesaver!” She ran off to fetch a cup of coffee.

  When Pepper and I had first met, she’d assailed me. At the time, I had no idea that she’d held a long-standing beef against my father. Years earlier, she’d been in love with him. When she lost him to my mother, she was heartbroken. Soon after, she met someone else and bore a daughter, Cinnamon—our current chief of police—but she’d held a grudge.

  Pepper returned with a to-go cup in hand. “I can’t wait for tomorrow,” she said. “Four houses. Four meals. Four delicious chats about the mystery. I loved the book, by the way. Did you?”

  I nodded. Far be it from me to tell her I hadn’t quite finished. I would tonight. No ifs, ands, or buts. “Pepper, what were you and Crusibella, um, talking about a bit ago?”

  “It was nothing.” She took a sip of her coffee. “We were coordinating tomorrow’s events. You know the order we’re going in, right? We’re starting at Flora’s, then on to Z.Z.’s.”

  Flora Fairchild owned Home Sweet Home. Zoey Zeller, whom everyone called Z.Z., was our mayor.

  “Then we’re moving on to Gran’s.”

  Gran—a.k.a. Gracie Goldsmith—was one of our best customers. She owned an extensive set of cookbooks that any collector would covet.

  “Last up will be Ivy Beale’s place.”

  Aunt Vera joined us, a couple of very wrinkled aprons featuring a stack of library books in hand. “I can’t wait to see Ivy’s house. I hear it’s quite something.”

  Pepper said, “Just between us, Ivy isn’t much of a cook, so we’re crossing our fingers.”

  “She buys a lot of cookbooks,” I countered.

  “To read.” Pepper sniggered. “Hopefully, she’ll purchase everything for the dessert leg of the evening from the local bakery.”

  We had a number of great candy stores and bakeries in town.

  I said, “I’m baking my contribution tonight. Chocolate coffee cupcakes.”

  “Those sound yummy,” Aunt Vera said. “I love coffee in anything.”

  “Pepper, back to you and Crusibella . . .” I signaled for her to continue. I didn’t believe for a second her story about them coordinating the event.

  “Honestly, it was nothing,” she said. “I’d agreed to bring a cheese appetizer, and guess what she wanted to bring? A cheese platter.” She grumbled. “How much cheese can we eat? Flora approved my offering.”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured her. “Everyone loves cheese.”

  Pepper grumbled. “Crusibella can be so stubborn. She thinks that chakra thing she has going always makes her right.”

  Crusibella was very spiritual. She could talk nonstop about inner peace and keeping oneself in balance. Nothing horrible ever went into or onto her body. Foods or body products had to be pure and organic.

  “These are pretty.” Pepper moved to one of the displays of tiered cake servers and picked up a pair of scrolled tongs. “They’re perfect for a tea party. Wherever did you find them, Jenna?”

  “Through our distributor. I thought it would be nice to have a few party items in stock.”

  “Wish I’d seen them before Cinnamon tied the knot.”

  Her daughter married an adorable fireman on Valentine’s Day. In a barn. On the top of a hill with a 360-degree view. I’d been her matron of honor. The event was magical.

  Pepper’s cell phone jangled. She pulled it from her purse and stared at the screen. “Are you kidding me?” Her voice skated upward. “Are. You. Kidding. Me!”

  “What’s wrong?” my aunt asked.

  “Ivy Beale, how dare you!” Pepper tapped what appeared to be a text message.

  “What’d she do?” I asked. “Bow out of the progressive dinner?”

  Pepper waggled her cell phone. “According to Flora, Ivy was flirting with my fiancé.”

  I gasped. “Hank asked you to marry him?”

  “Not yet. But he will.” More text tapping.

  Trying to ease the tension, I said, “Pepper, c’mon. You know Flora can be quite the gossip and often mistaken. Besides, flirting is harmless. And Hank is quite charming.”

  Hank Hemmings owned Great Threads, a haberdashery shop. He always had a twinkle in his eye, and he could tell the greatest sto
ries, the kind that reeled you in.

  “I’m sure lots of women flirt with him,” Aunt Vera agreed. “Young and old.”

  Like my aunt, Pepper and Hank were in their sixties.

  “Even if flirting is harmless, that’s not the point,” Pepper said, nostrils flared. “Ivy has her own boyfriend. That fisherman. You know him.”

  “Oren Michaels.”

  “That’s the one. Your fiancé equips him, even though he’s the competition.”

  My fiancé, Rhett Jackson, owned Bait and Switch Fishing Supply and Sport Store on the Pier. When not running his shop, he often fished and sold whatever he caught to local restaurants. Selling fish wasn’t his primary business; he did it because he enjoyed it.

  “Plus,” Pepper went on, “the guy who works for Ivy is head over heels for her. He’s an Adonis and very young.”

  “He’s almost my age,” I said.

  “I rest my case.” Pepper flapped a hand. “She’s got two men in love with her. Both are gorgeous. Why does she need to flirt with my guy?”

  I put a hand on her shoulder. “Relax. Hank is head over heels for you, too. He won’t abandon you.”

  Pepper winced, making me immediately regret my choice of words. Her first husband, Cinnamon’s father, had split the day Cinnamon was born.

  “Ivy always gets what she wants. Always. Ooh!” Pepper wielded the tongs and lunged as if in a duel. “How I’d like to run her through.”

  Chapter 2

  After work, Rhett had come over to help me make the chocolate coffee cupcakes—my contribution to the book club progressive dinner.

  As I was sifting the flour into the bowl, a billow of it poofed upward and dusted my face.

  Rhett leaned forward. “Don’t you look cute. Like a snowman.” He buffed my nose.

  “Stop,” I begged.

  He reached toward the mixing bowl. “Can I taste?”

  “Uh-uh,” I warned. “Not before it’s mixed. And definitely not before I take a taste.” I tapped the back of an ice cream scooper on his hand.

  “Spoilsport,” he said.

  “Always.”

  He nuzzled my cheek with his hint of a five o’clock shadow, which sent a swizzle of desire down to my toes. I pressed him away and gazed at him. Broad shoulders, strong chin, stunning eyes. Would I ever tire of being with him?

  “Try this if you want something sweet.” I dipped a spoon into the chocolate coffee buttercream icing I’d made and touched it to his lips.

  “More,” he begged.

  “Later.” I tossed the spoon into the sink, added the wet ingredients to the dry, and mixed until combined. “Please set the cupcake baking tray next to the sink.” I hitched my chin.

  He did so. I’d fitted the tray with pretty silver cupcake liners.

  “Do I get to insert the stickers after you ice?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.” I’d found book-themed cupcake toppers on Etsy. The artist had fashioned them after covers of cozy mystery titles. Adorable. “Give me elbow room or I’ll make a mess.” My kitchen was small, in keeping with the dimensions of my little cottage. The eating nook was barely big enough for a modest table and chairs.

  Laughing, he moved to the refrigerator. “Glass of wine?”

  “Definitely.” We’d eaten a light dinner of chicken, salad, and sparkling water. A glass of chardonnay would be a nice finish.

  “You look pretty tonight,” he said.

  I’d replaced my T-shirt with a loose-fitting white shirt.

  “I like the new haircut, too,” he added.

  I had straight brown hair that usually fell to my shoulders. I’d allowed my stylist to cut off two inches.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself.” I still remembered the moment I’d set eyes on him. He looked very similar to the way he did now: fisherman’s sweater, jeans that fit just right, tousled brown hair. And that dazzling smile. “Though you look a tad tired.”

  “Inventory.” He moaned. “Every one of my staff hates doing it, which makes for a major case of the grumps. We’re starting fresh tomorrow morning at four.”

  “You should get going then.” He and I were living in our own places until we got married. We weren’t old-fashioned; we just didn’t want to be crowding each other. Our places were both small. Two months ago, we’d tried to purchase a house, not on the beach like mine and not in the mountains like his. A fixer-upper in town near Azure Park. It sold at auction. We lost. We were still looking, but to date, nothing had caught our eye.

  “I’m not leaving until I score a cupcake.” Rhett handed me a wineglass and tapped his glass to the rim. “Cheers.”

  I took a sip and resumed filling the cupcake liners. Katie had suggested I use an ice cream scooper. She said it created the perfect portion.

  Rhett swiveled a chair at the kitchen table so he could face me. In seconds, Tigger was in his lap. “I have an idea,” he said, scratching the cat’s chin. “For the wedding. Something we haven’t thought of.”

  We were engaged but had yet to set the date. For months, we’d been pondering possibilities. Eloping was out. He’d done that the first time, and my marriage to my now-deceased husband had been, well, a sham. Both of us liked the idea of a late summer or early fall event. Agreeing on a venue was turning out to be the biggest challenge. I wanted simple—maybe a beach wedding with a few friends. Rhett felt we should do something bigger.

  “Speak!” I said. “Don’t keep me on pins and needles.”

  “Napa.”

  “Not at your parents’ restaurant.” His folks owned a well-known French bistro called Intime. It was charming but nearly as teensy as my cottage. “Not that it wouldn’t be lovely,” I rushed to add, “but if you want a wedding with all of our family and friends, we’ll never fit.”

  “Not there and not at their house, either.” Their beautiful ranch-style home overlooked the valley. “Mom heard of a great place in Nouvelle Vie. That’s an enclave between Yountville and St. Helena.”

  “We can’t get married at a winery. Bailey did that. I don’t want to steal her thunder.”

  “I’m not a moron,” Rhett said. “It’s a bed-and-breakfast called Maison Rousseau. Done in the style of Giverny. Lots of gardens. I think we should scout it out. When’s your next free weekend?”

  I pictured my calendar. “Three weeks.” After Book Club Bonanza, Crystal Cove was promoting Spring Fling. That always attracted a huge crowd.

  “Perfect. I’m reserving a room.”

  For the next half hour, we chatted about things we’d like to do in Napa Valley on our visit. Go ballooning. Wine tasting. Maybe take the wine train. When the cupcakes were done and frosted, I packaged up four and accompanied him to his Ford F-250, a handsome truck that was up to every task.

  Across the street, a yapping dog drew my attention.

  Crusibella was standing in the living room of her Cape Cod–style home, the drapes wide open, the windows, too. A slight breeze made her hair and silk blouse flutter. All the lights were on. She was facing Ivy Beale, who, dressed in lime green pants and forest green sweater, reminded me of an elf. Crusibella’s toy poodle was standing on the arm of the sofa barking at the top of its lungs.

  “What did you call me?” Crusibella screamed at Ivy and brandished something. A piece of paper? A handkerchief? It was flimsy and hard to tell from this distance.

  “You heard me!” Ivy cried. “You’re a charlatan. You don’t believe in the crystals and stones.”

  “I do so.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re just eager to make a fast buck.”

  “Liar. You’re the one—”

  Ivy cut her off, saying something I couldn’t make out.

  “Renege? You can’t renege!” Crusibella cried. “Why, you no-good, double-crossing cheat. We had a deal.”

  I clutched Rhett’s arm. “Uh-oh.” So much for sharing a romantic good-night kiss.

  “No, we didn’t.” Ivy planted her hands on her hips and stamped her foot, cementing the elf metaphor.
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  “I wrote it down. You agreed.” Crusibella waved the object again. Apparently, it was something that corroborated her claim about a deal, as one-sided as it might be. “You assert that you’re spiritual, Ivy, but there’s nothing remotely transcendent about you. And, now, pulling out of our deal—”

  “We had no deal.” Ivy threw her arms wide. “Are you deaf?”

  “Oh, my.” Aunt Vera emerged from behind a tree. “This does not bode well.”

  I startled. “Why were you hiding?”

  “Sorry, dear,” my aunt sputtered. She smoothed the front of the caftan she’d worn to work. “I didn’t want to disturb you and Rhett, in case, you know . . .” She twirled a hand.

  My cheeks warmed.

  Rhett said, “You’ve seen us kiss, Vera.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “What are you doing outside?” I asked. My aunt owned my cottage and the charming beach house next to it.

  “I was peacefully gazing at the stars until the two of them started going at it. It always does the soul good to drink in the heavens. But not with that clamor.” She thrust a hand toward Crusibella’s house. “How I wish I’d inserted earplugs. Crusibella thought she had a deal to buy Ivy’s shop.”

  “Dreamcatcher is for sale?” I asked.

  “That’s just it.” My aunt clucked her tongue. “I don’t think it is. I’m not sure where Crusibella got the idea. Poor thing.”

  I gawked. “Poor thing Ivy or poor thing Crusibella?”

  Aunt Vera planted her fists on her hips. “Crusibella doesn’t think Ivy believes in the crystals that she sells at the shop. Truth be told, she probably doesn’t.”

  “But Ivy is the one who called Crusibella a charlatan,” I said.

  Lured into the conversation, Rhett said, “Some say Ivy bought Dreamcatcher simply because it was a goldmine, and she desperately wanted to own a business that would be a success.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “And now she’s accusing Crusibella of wanting to do the same thing?”

  My aunt nodded. “Exactly.”

  “The woman who owned Dreamcatcher before Ivy made it the go-to place for all things mystical on the West Coast,” Rhett went on. “When she retired to Florida, she received lots of offers. Ivy swept in with all cash.”