Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9) Page 2

  “Don’t you want to save those for next week’s display?”

  I frowned. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll add an apron and a few other goodies.”

  In the Cookbook Nook, we offered not only cookbooks and fiction about food but also unique culinary and kitchen items. Many of our aprons were one of a kind.

  “And let’s ditch the knives,” I said.

  “On it.” Bailey bounded to her feet, removed the knives from her assortment, and went in search of other items, allowing me some one-on-one time with Brianna.

  I murmured to her and tickled her under her chin. She cooed and offered big smiles.

  “How’s it going with wedding planning?” Bailey returned with a handful of decorative porcelain vegetables—eggplant, radishes, red lettuce, and such—and set them alongside the slicing and dicing items before moving off again.

  “So far so good.” Rhett and I had found a beautiful bed-and-breakfast with gorgeous gardens in Napa Valley, and we’d set a date for an evening wedding next June. “Not much to do yet. We’re considering a menu, but nothing is written in stone. We’ve browsed invitations online. We’re wondering whether we need to send out Save the Date cards.”

  “Yes, and don’t think you have all the time in the world. The months will fly by.” Bailey patted her post-pregnancy belly. “Trust me, I have a baby to show for my nine months.”

  With my aunt, father, and Bailey giving me advice, I was sure the months would not fly by.

  “If I were you, I’d take Cinnamon up on using her wedding planner,” Bailey said.

  “Good idea.” I gave Brianna a tickle and got to my feet. “Hey, did you see the line heading up the stairs to the Shredding screenings?”

  “I did.” Bailey set a pair of orange kitchen mitts on the floor. “Can you imagine watching foodie-themed shows every day? I’d be eating everything in sight.”

  “I told you I took one of Midge’s classes, didn’t I?” I was a foodie, but I wasn’t a gourmet cook. I didn’t learn how to cook until I’d joined my aunt in this venture. My mother had been the chef in our family. Now, whenever I had some free time, I watched cooking shows on television, plus Chef Katie, a longtime friend, had made it her mission to teach me one recipe at a time. Rhett, also a gifted chef, was guiding me, too. I loved how patient they both were.

  “I want to take a class soon,” Bailey said. “Do you think Katie will do one on making natural baby food?”

  “Ask her. You never know.”

  Bailey knelt down, gave her baby a kiss, and started creating the display case. Arranging everything took time, but I knew I could trust her. She had a great eye for color and design. When we’d worked at Taylor & Squibb, an advertising agency in San Francisco, she had been the product person, and I had served as a concept person.

  “Hey,” Bailey said over her shoulder, “did I tell you about Midge’s set-to with Kylie O yesterday?”

  “No.”

  Bailey let out a stream of air. “She is such a prima donna.”

  “Midge or Kylie?”

  “Kylie, of course.” Bailey wrinkled her nose. “I can’t remember the last foodie recommendation she made that I agreed with. Octopus with Brie? Squid ink on avocado toast? Blech. She does like to review the exotic.”

  “You mean weird.” I giggled. “I don’t know her well, but I’ve seen her around town. Rollerblading, surfing, running. In fact, she and a jogging mate almost knocked me over earlier.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Kylie was yelling, ‘Faster! Faster!’”

  “Taskmaster,” Bailey carped. “I think she runs to work off all the calories she takes in tasting food for her reviews.”

  I popped to my feet and started tweaking the array of specialty cookbooks on the round table near the entrance. After a day of customers, these displays ended up wrecked. “She’s quite a zealot.”

  “You’re telling me.” Bailey whistled. “I took a group pilates class with her before I got pregnant. Alexa Tinsdale was the instructor.”

  Alexa owned Your Wellness, a fitness studio in town, and was considered one of the premier pilates instructors in the Central Coast area. Clients came from as far away as San Jose and Carmel. Be brave, be bold was her motto.

  “Kylie was in Alexa’s face throughout. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’” Bailey imitated a high-pitched nasal voice. “And ‘Why should I take orders from you? You’re a hack.’ It was intense.”

  “Poor Alexa.”

  “Nah. She dished it right back.” Bailey snickered.

  “Alexa loves paleo cookbooks”—I held up a book—“like this one.”

  “I know. I delivered The Big 15 Paleo Cookbook: 15 Fundamental Ingredients, 150 Paleo Diet Recipes, 450 Variation to her home last week. She was throwing an impromptu party for friends and wanted something new to serve.”

  I faced Bailey. “Aren’t you and Tito taking private lessons with Alexa now?”

  “Good memory. Yes. Not together. Separately.” Bailey placed a porcelain tomato into the front window display. “Anyway, back to my story about the pilates class. As it turns out, Kylie and Alexa have been friends since childhood. The in-your-face antics were all for show, but I’ve got to tell you, everyone in the class was sweating bullets until we found out.” Bailey placed a green pepper beside the tomato. “As for the set-to between Kylie and Midge at Shredding, I was there picking up dinner to go, and man, it wasn’t pretty.”

  Brianna rocked and rolled herself onto her belly. Bailey cheered and replaced Brianna on her back. She wasn’t crawling yet. Late bloomer, her grandmother had said. I happened to know some babies never crawled. They went straight to pulling up on a piece of furniture and cruising. I had been that baby, my father often reminded me. Always on the go and curious to a fault.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Kylie questioned the originality of one of the recipes in Midge’s latest cookbook,” Bailey said.

  “She didn’t.”

  “She did. Kylie called Midge a phony. To her face. In front of a restaurant full of people. Knives and mandolines”—Bailey lifted the stainless steel one—“were involved.”

  “That doesn’t sound fun.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  After finalizing the tweaks to the display table, I crossed to the vintage kitchen table where we always had a jigsaw puzzle set up for customers to toy with. To honor the Food Bowl, I’d found a food-themed, cat-themed jigsaw puzzle in which mischievous kittens were scrambling on a baking counter, messing with cookie preparations. Every time I glimpsed it, I smiled.

  “Kylie pushes buttons,” Bailey added. “Tito can’t stomach her.”

  Tito loved food and wished that he could write restaurant reviews in addition to his regular reporting. His grandmother had been an exquisite cook and had interested him in all of the world’s cuisines.

  “Speaking of Tito,” I said, “how’s it going at the newspaper? I heard Eugene Tinsdale might sell.”

  “Tito’s worried. He’s afraid a new owner will ruin everything, or worse, that no one will buy the business. I can’t imagine Crystal Cove not having a newspaper, can you?”

  “No.” I liked reading my news via paper, not online. If we didn’t have a newspaper, then the local news would come from as far away as Santa Cruz or even San Jose.

  “Needless to say, tension is high at the office, and Kylie O hasn’t made it easier for Tito.”

  “How so?” I roamed the store double-checking that all of the moveable bookcases were anchored in place. I didn’t want a customer to lean against one and have the shelf and the customer go sailing.

  “Kylie is demanding that she and she alone cover the Food Bowl.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. There will be too much going on for one reporter to report it all.”

  “That’s what Tito said, but would Kylie listen? No, she would not. She’s deaf. Obstinate. A real piece of work.” Bailey lean
ed in and lowered her voice. “Between you and me, I think my sweet husband would like to clock her.”

  Chapter 2

  “Who’s getting clocked?” Gracie Goldsmith asked as she waltzed in and hung her pashmina on a hook by the register. “It had better not be me,” she added, stashing her Dolce & Gabbana purse beneath the counter. “I’m right on time.” Most everyone in town referred to Gracie as Gran because, when she wasn’t working at the Cookbook Nook—she had been dying to help out three days a week—she was grandmother to three adorable girls. She’d been a clerk for two months, but I swear, she knew more about our stock than I did. Her personal assortment of cookbooks would rival a collector’s. “And Bailey, please don’t say your darling baby.”

  “Don’t be silly. No one will be clocking Brianna.” Bailey lifted her daughter off the floor and moved the play gym to the stockroom.

  “Good to know. Babies need all the love and attention you can muster.” Gran fluttered her fingers in my direction. “Morning, Jenna. I’m ready for duty. Want a cup of coffee? I’m getting some for myself.”

  “Sure. I could use a cup.”

  Gran slipped into the stockroom and returned with a mug for each of us. “Now, who’s getting clocked?”

  I took a sip and said, “Kylie O, the foodie reporter.”

  “Oh, that woman.” Gran set her mug on the counter. “She walks around with such airs. And does she ever go a day without whisking that blonde hair of hers over her shoulders? I’m sure she does it so people will pay attention.” Gran mimed Kylie’s snooty hair-tossing gesture, which made me laugh.

  I never understood long hair. Too much work. I wore mine in a shoulder-length blunt cut.

  “And that body,” Grant went on. “Honestly! Have you ever seen the woman eat? She’s so toned it’s disgusting.”

  “Jealous much?” I asked.

  “Not a whit.” Gran smoothed the bows of her silk blouse. “I’ll have you know that back in my day I was a looker.” She was in her seventies and quite vivacious.

  “You still are.”

  “Get out of here. By the by, have you seen the signs announcing the Food Bowl around town? They’re beautiful. Z.Z. has done it again.”

  Z.Z. Zeller was our mayor. Talk about vivacious. The woman never slowed down.

  “Yesterday, I went online to make my plan.” Gran moved to the computer and entered a website address in the browser. “Have you girls done so? If not, you’d better. I don’t know how anyone will visit all the venues, of course, but at least you’ll be able to pick and choose. And by the way, be prepared to laugh. Whoever wrote the schedule should be commended for his or her wit.”

  “Bailey’s mother contributed.”

  Gran winked. “I thought so. Lola is so clever. Listen to this. ‘All right, folks. Reschedule birthdays, anniversaries, quinceañeras, or whatever you were planning on doing. You’re going to be busy this week.’”

  “Aw.” Bailey bounced Brianna on one hip. “Your Nana put that in for you, bebe. Your daddy can’t wait to throw you your quinceañera.”

  A quinceañera, or fiesta de quince años, was a celebration of a girl’s fifteenth birthday, celebrated widely around the world.

  “Read another one,” Bailey said.

  Gran chuckled. “Okay, here we go: ‘Pour a cup of strong coffee and start texting friends to see what they’re into, and then coordinate. Do you want to see some cool food movies? Do you know somebody who’s going to be very upset if they miss out on Midge Martin’s shredded chicken salad? Mark up your calendar. And then have another cup of coffee.’”

  I laughed. “I’ve bought tickets for a few things.”

  “Good girl,” Gran said. “Here’s one more. ‘You’re set, right? Now it’s time to go to the gym and get in shape for all the food bowling you’re about to do.’”

  Bailey kissed her baby’s cheek. “That sums it up for me. I’m going to the gym a lot.”

  Gran smiled. “You look wonderful just the way you are.”

  “I’d like to lose this.” Bailey swiveled and showed Gran her hind side.

  “Take in the dancing at Azure Park. That’s what I plan to do with the girls. Dance, dance, dance. Every night there will be DJ’s from coastal radio stations.”

  “And food vendors throughout the day,” Bailey said. “Way too many food vendors. Selling ice cream and cookies and cotton candy.”

  “And salads and healthy foods,” Gran said.

  “Grant me willpower!” Bailey raised a fist.

  “Good morning, everyone.” My aunt Vera sauntered in wearing a copper brown caftan. She was carrying the matching turban and had applied her makeup with a deft hand.

  “You look nice,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Got a hot date?” I asked.

  Aunt Vera didn’t respond. I noted she was stroking her phoenix amulet.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Too-ra-loo,” she crooned and disappeared into the stockroom.

  Okay, that was weird. She’d looked worried. Why?

  When my aunt returned, she sat at the vintage kitchen table and began shuffling a deck of tarot cards using a handheld method, sliding cards out and reinserting them.

  I joined her. “Do you have a client coming in?”

  Occasionally, Aunt Vera told people’s fortunes. Though I didn’t believe in tarot and such, she did, and I didn’t buck her enthusiasm for it. She believed in dispensing as much good news as she could.

  “Mm-hm,” she mumbled unenthusiastically, again causing me to be concerned.

  “Want me to shuffle those for you?” I asked.

  “As if.” My aunt believed that shuffling was a way to bond herself to the deck. By handling the cards, she allowed the conversation with the spirit world to begin.

  “You don’t do a reading without someone asking for it,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  Aunt Vera frowned. “Fine. I’ll confess. I did a telephone reading for a friend last night.”

  “And you didn’t like the outcome?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Are you hoping you can redo it now and change the result?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  I clasped her wrist. “Who did you read for?” Someone special, that was for sure. For her to break her own steadfast rules and not do the reading in person meant the caller had to be a really close friend. “Who?”

  “Me.” Eugene Tinsdale strode into the shop. Forty years ago, Eugene had given up his dream of becoming an Olympic hurdler and had followed his father into the newspaper business. He’d never looked back. How he loved a good story. I knew him because he also enjoyed good food and was a regular at the Nook Café. Usually, he was an elegant man with an easy smile and a jaunty spring in his step, but not today. The lines around his aging eyes were deep, and his gait was sluggish. Even his seersucker suit seemed lackluster.

  I rose to greet him, my hand extended. “Sir.”

  Eugene didn’t shake. Instead, he sat in the chair I’d vacated and stared at my aunt. “Well, Vera?” My aunt and he had gone to school together. They’d never dated. They hadn’t had that kind of relationship. They’d bonded over politics and chats about history. Years ago, when the newspaper was flagging, my aunt had helped Eugene out financially. Did he need her help again?

  My aunt handed Eugene the deck of tarot cards. He shuffled like a professional gambler and gave the deck back to her. Slowly, she turned over the top card. The Ten of Swords. I didn’t know much about tarot, but I could identify each of the cards and its apparent meaning. This one featured a man lying facedown with ten swords in his back.

  My aunt moaned softly. Yes, the card was startling, and yes, it was an indicator that the person for whom the reading was being done, in this case Eugene, might suffer an unwelcome surprise, but it could also mean that something bad had already happened. However, even if that were th
e case, it could also signify that Eugene would have to brace himself because something worse could be on the horizon.

  “Ahem.” My aunt’s gaze said Leave.

  I blew her a kiss, flipped the front door sign to Open, and returned to the register.

  Bailey sidled over to me. “Psst. What’s Eugene doing here?”

  I told her briefly. “His tarot reading didn’t start very upbeat. In fact, it’s—”

  “Don’t worry.” Bailey batted the air. “You know your aunt. She’ll put a positive spin on it. She never says anything negative.”

  That all sounded well and good, but this time I wasn’t sure Aunt Vera could.

  • • •

  A half hour later, Eugene left the shop looking disheartened, and my aunt headed to a meeting. What kind of meeting, she didn’t say. She was rarely so vague, which made me even more curious.

  Doing my best not to worry about her, I focused on the business at hand. Customers arrived in droves. We’d ordered many of our local restaurants’ cookbooks—many printed by independent presses—so visitors attending the Food Bowl event could find the recipes to meals they’d enjoyed during the week.

  In addition, our supplier showed up with a number of boxes filled with other new cookbooks I’d ordered.

  “About time,” I said.

  “Sorry.” He was a freckle-faced man who blushed easily. “The distributor’s truck got held up in customs.”

  A load of books came from a printer in Canada.

  “This is the one I’ve been waiting for.” I pulled My Street Food Kitchen: Fast and Easy Flavours from around the World from one of the boxes. Gran had recommended we offer the title. A renowned food writer had written the cookbook because she’d wanted to share recipes from her travels around the globe. Everything in it sounded intriguing to me. Icy ceviche. Dirty burgers.

  “Don’t miss this one,” the supplier said. “It’s my favorite.” He held up Tacolicious: Festive Recipes for Tacos, Snacks, Cocktails, and More.

  “You read what you bring?” I asked.