Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4) Page 20

  No matter what, I had to alert the mayor to let her know the person Wanda called an innocent soul had duped her. I would also leave a message for Cinnamon. The other night, she said she knew about Neil Foodie, but did she know everything?

  Wanda gave each of us a hug and thanked Bailey and me again for dropping by her house to check on her. Her voice, thick with emotion, caught as she said, “Good-bye.” Then she exited.

  Seconds later, a pair of regulars entered the store. “Cheerio!” one called. She was very British, very proper.

  “Bailey,” I said. “Can you see to the ladies?” I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed.

  At the same time, Katie rushed down the breezeway. “I’m back,” she yodeled, the word back taking about three syllables to conclude.

  The mayor’s telephone rolled over into voice mail. I left a hurried message, texted Cinnamon, plunked my cell phone back into my pocket, and crossed to Katie. She looked cheery in a yellow-striped dress. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes, animated.

  “How’s your mother?” I asked.

  “Doing so much better. This morning she recognized me and her regular attending nurse.” Katie kissed the fingertips of her hand, a habit she’d picked up from my aunt, and blew a blessing into the air. “The meds are helping. She’s sleeping a tad more than usual, but the doctor said, ‘Sleep is the great healer.’ At least she’s comfortable.” Katie hugged me and pushed apart. “Now, what’s on the schedule? Bailey said the Chocolate Cookbook Club is going to have a gathering tonight.”

  “Tonight? Why?” I glanced at Bailey. “The first Thursday of the month is when we usually meet.”

  “It’s Pepper’s idea, and you know her. When she gets her mind set on something . . .” Bailey wagged a hand. “She wishes to grieve for Alison. She believes others might want the same opportunity.”

  “But it’s Wednesday.”

  “Don’t be a stickler,” Bailey said. “Besides, Pepper called my mother, who called me. The two of them cleared it with many of the club members, and now it’s all arranged. That’s why I contacted Katie.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go with the flow.”

  Katie tapped her cheek with a finger. “Now, what shall I cook? Jenna, come help me plan a menu.” She hooked her thumb and bustled down the breezeway toward the café.

  “Go,” Aunt Vera said. “Bailey and I have the rest of this handled.” She waved at the boxes of pirate-themed items. “I’ll finish packing up the window display. Bailey will tend to the children’s corner. It’ll do you good to see how Katie puts together her masterpieces, and”—she winked—“you can keep an eye on her. She’s quite fragile.”

  I scooted after my friend. The café was turning over for the lunch crowd. The kitchen staff rushed around doing prep work.

  For a half hour, Katie and I nibbled on grilled winter pear and blue cheese sandwiches and perused the various cookbooks she kept on metal shelves above the sinks. All of the chocolate-themed cookbooks were tucked in with the dessert cookbooks at the far right. In addition to the standards like Better Homes and Gardens: Chocolate and The Ghirardelli Chocolate Cookbook: Recipes and History from America’s Premier Chocolate Maker, she had Adventures with Chocolate: 80 Sensational Recipes and Couture Chocolate: A Masterclass in Chocolate.

  She grabbed the latter. “Every chef I know raves about this cookbook,” she exclaimed. “Have you flipped through it?”

  I had. The author had provided excellent instructions on how to deal with chocolate. The book included a fabulous section on the origins of chocolate, and there was a chapter devoted to how to taste chocolate. Until I scanned the book, I didn’t have a clue there could be up to four hundred aromas in one piece of chocolate. It was to be savored like wine or cheese. Bliss!

  Thumbing through the Better Homes and Gardens book, I said, “How does chocolate rum cheesecake sound? Or mocha mousse? Or a tri-level brownie?”

  Katie offered an impish grin. “We could serve a chocolate and whipped cream omelet as an entrée.”

  I smirked. “That sounds scrumptious but not very substantial. How about braised beer and pork with chocolate sauce?”

  “Whoa. Where did you see that? In that book?” She snatched the cookbook I was holding and fanned through the pages.

  “No. I remember eating something like it at a restaurant in San Francisco. It was tantalizingly good.”

  “Hmm.” Katie slapped the cookbook closed, replaced it on the shelf, and scanned the titles of her remaining books. “I think I’ve seen a recipe like that in a Michael Symon book.” She had a number of the famous Cleveland-based chef’s books in her collection, including Michael Symon’s Carnivore: 120 Recipes for Meat Lovers. “Aha, here it is.” She grabbed Symon’s book and opened to the index. Flip, flip. “Nope, not here.” She smacked that book closed, too. “But you’ve got me thinking.” She nabbed one of her many recipe boxes and pulled out a card. “Aha. This will do.” She knuckled me on the shoulder. “You’ve inspired me.” She flashed the three-by-five card at me, which read: Pork with Port Sauce. “A couple of tweaks, and we’ve got it.”

  My cell phone buzzed in my trousers pocket. I tugged it out and scanned the text from Bailey: Coco is here. She’s upset. Hurry back.

  I wished Katie luck putting together tonight’s book club meal and scuttled through the café. Outside, beyond the diners and plate-glass windows, the ocean and the sky were brilliant shades of blue. A family of seagulls whisked by the window and dove toward the ocean. A box kite rose into view, its tails fluttering. The entire scene looked so inviting and brought a smile to my face. But I couldn’t dally.

  I was rounding the corner to enter the breezeway when I heard, “Tootsie Pop. Over here!”

  My father and Old Jake—just Jake, I reminded myself; he hated being called old—sat at a table by a window. They seemed an unlikely pair, Jake so gnarled and weathered and my father supremely fit. Despite their age difference, they were fast friends. When my father was twelve, Jake, a rover with no roots, had saved my father from drowning. My grandfather had taken Jake under his wing and taught him how to invest; hence, why Jake was the wealthiest guy in town. Now that my father had retired from the FBI, he took Jake to brunch or lunch at least once a month to catch up. He wouldn’t let Jake pay. Ever.

  Seeing Jake made me think of Ingrid Lake and her alibi. I knew I’d forgotten to tell Cinnamon something at karaoke night. Would she care? She hadn’t seemed particularly interested in Ingrid as a suspect, probably because, directly after I related Ingrid’s account about Dash and the clash with Alison over photos, I mentioned Dash’s alibi, and Cinnamon took off after him.

  Dad beckoned me over.

  I glanced toward The Cookbook Nook. Bailey could handle Coco on her own, couldn’t she? Bailey loved playing therapist to girlfriends. She said it was like being a fan of soap operas; after watching the train wrecks, Bailey always felt happier with her own life choices.

  My father pulled out a chair so I could join Jake and him.

  I waved him off. “Can’t stay.” I kissed him on the cheek. Bubbling beverages sat in front of both of them. Jake had set one of each item from the breadbasket on a side plate. “Hi, Jake. How are you?”

  “Great. Couldn’t be better. You’re looking mighty pretty today, Jenna.” He said that to everyone. I knew for a fact I looked frazzled. I never left the café kitchen without feeling like I had spent time in a sauna.

  I tucked a loose hair behind my ear. “Thanks.”

  “I hope you have wonderful things planned for yourself.” Jake offered that greeting to everyone, too.

  “I do. Sir, could I speak to you about something, possibly confidential?”

  “Shoot.” Jake took a sip of his drink.

  I could feel my father’s gaze on me; I ignored it. “A lady in town might owe you an apology.”

  Jake chortled. “Th
ere might be a few ladies to whom I owe an apology.”

  “She said she nearly ran a guy on a tractor off the road the night Alison Foodie was killed, around midnight. I can’t think of anyone else who drives a tractor that late”—I winked—“can you?”

  “Balderdash!” Jake didn’t raise his voice. He naturally said things like balderdash and poppycock. No one was quite sure where Jake came from. He had drifted into town; he never spoke about his past. His wife, the love of his life, had taken the personal secrets she had known about him to her grave. “The woman’s lying,” Jake said. “No one ran me off the road.”

  “Nearly off the road,” my father inserted.

  “Last Thursday night,” I added.

  Jake set down his glass. “Now look here. I realize I’ve been known to take a ten-second snooze every once in a while on the old girl.” Old girl was what he called his tractor. He missed his wife something fierce. I think driving his tractor at night gave him the opportunity to talk to his wife beneath the stars. “The eyes get tired. I just need to rest ’em. I always put the tractor in park. I don’t drive when I’m nodding off. And, by the way, young lady, I’m not the only one who snoozes. Why, I’ve seen your father taking a quick nap at that hardware store of his.”

  My father bit back a laugh.

  Jake went on. “But I have a clear recollection of last Thursday, and I didn’t sleep a wink. Not one wink. That’s when the schooner came to harbor.”

  “The Victory?” I asked.

  “Indeed.” Jake tapped the table with his index finger. “I know I was wide awake and bushy tailed because I downed three cups of coffee so I could stay awake long enough to see the ship arrive. My, what a beauty she is.”

  “Yar,” I said.

  “Yar, indeed.”

  The schooner was scheduled to leave harbor this afternoon.

  “After I took a gander at the boat,” Jake went on, “I went about my nightly chores.” He offered his sand-sweeping services for free. It was his way to give back to the community. He wanted a clean beach like the rest of us. “So you see, I’d have known in an instant if someone made me swerve. Whoever made this claim is a bald-faced liar.”

  “Who told you this, Jenna?” my father asked.

  “A woman with motive to kill Alison Foodie. Jake is her alibi.”

  “I repeat, she’s a liar.” Jake stabbed the table again. “A conniver. A fraud. Who does she think she is, trying to wrangle me into corroborating her whereabouts? Did she think I was so old I wouldn’t remember? Why I ought to—” He pushed back his chair and stood.

  My father said, “Sit down, Jake. Don’t get your nose out of whack. Jenna will take care of this.”

  Dad gave me a supportive look . . . or what I interpreted to be a supportive look and not a chastising one. A girl has to pick her battles.

  Chapter 21

  WHEN I RETURNED to The Cookbook Nook, I found Bailey sitting with Coco at the vintage kitchen table. Coco’s eyes were puffy and her face tearstained. My aunt lingered behind the sales counter, rubbing her phoenix amulet while looking on. The children’s corner was still chaos, with Pirate Week stuff scattered everywhere. The display window was the same, unpacked. Luckily, no customers roamed the shop, and even if there had been a few, most would have understood a changeover day.

  “Over, finished, done.” Coco shook her head. “Before it even began. Ooh.” She gripped her abdomen. “I feel like I could die. Just die.”

  A breeze gushed through the open door and chilled me to the bone. I closed the door and hurried back to the vintage table. “What’s over, Coco?” So much for me having a moment to contact the police about Ingrid.

  “Simon and me.” Coco hiccupped and covered her mouth. “I apologize. My insides . . .”

  I knew what nerves could do. For months after my husband’s death, my stomach was in knots.

  Bailey threw me a concerned look. Do something, she mouthed.

  “His wife . . .” Coco leaned forward on the table, arms crossed. “He told her about us. She threatened to leave him, and then she ran off crying. He . . . he said seeing her like that—so vulnerable—he realized he still loves her. He can’t let her go. He said he’s sorry, as if that’s enough. Sorry!”

  Bailey said, “What did you expect?”

  “You already said that,” Coco sniped. “Five minutes ago!”

  “I thought maybe you hadn’t heard me.”

  Coco sniffed. “Of course I heard you. I’m not deaf.”

  “Honestly, believing that Simon will love you forever if he leaves Gloria is sort of naïve, too. There’s no guarantee he’ll stick around.”

  “Okay, I get it, Bailey Bird. Stop talking!”

  “Ladies,” I said. They shot me scathing looks. I threw up my hands. “Do either of you want tea?”

  “No!” Both of them. In chorus. Like harpies.

  “Ooh,” Coco moaned. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Do you want something fizzy to drink?” I asked.

  “No!”

  I settled into a chair and gazed at Coco. “What did he say?”

  Bailey rolled her eyes like she didn’t want to hear the story again. I ignored her. She was the one who had dragged me into this little tête-à-tête by texting me to hurry back to the shop. What did she want me to do, usher Coco out by the elbow and throw her to the curb? Puh-lease!

  “Coco, talk to me,” I said.

  “He cried. He said it was wrong of him to ever involve me in . . . in . . .” Coco held her quivering lip in check with her teeth. “He said he was a cad and selfish. I agreed, of course. He’s all of those things and more! He swore that our night together meant something special to him, and he wouldn’t trade that for anything, but he had to preserve his marriage.” She hissed through tight teeth. “Preserve. Does that mean he loves her? No, it does not. He’s staying with her because he has to. He doesn’t love her.”

  “He took a vow,” I offered. “Some men are faithful that way.”

  “She doesn’t like wine,” Coco said. “I do. She doesn’t go bird-watching with him. I would.”

  Actually, Gloria had gone with Simon, if those binoculars around her neck were any indication, but I wouldn’t throw fuel on the fire.

  “Simon told me Gloria didn’t understand him. Why does he want to be faithful to a woman who doesn’t get him? I—”

  Bailey cut in. “They all say that.”

  Coco held up a hand to quiet her. “You don’t have to preach. I’ve seen the movies. I’ve read the books. Heck, I’ve sucked up all the advice columns, too. I thought he was different. I thought I was special enough that Simon would—”

  “You are.”

  “Then why did Simon do an about-face?” Coco snapped her fingers. “Like that! Why?”

  Bailey kicked me under the table and eyeballed me. Chime in anytime.

  What could I say? I had never dated a married man. I had never even dated a guy who was in a relationship with someone else. I had a boyfriend in college; we broke up; and then I met David. I fell head over heels in a matter of seconds. He had felt the same. We never considered looking at, let alone dating, anyone else.

  Bailey booted me again.

  “I don’t know,” I said feebly.

  Bailey rasped, “You’ll find someone special, Coco. You will.”

  “When? My fiancé left me for a stick. The boyfriend before that dumped me for an eco-nut.”

  “Soon,” Bailey promised.

  “Here? In Crystal Cove? Ha!” Coco’s sharp laugh could have cut diamonds. “I should pack up and leave. Move to a big city where—”

  “No!” Bailey and I cried in unison.

  Tigger raced over to see what was the matter. Hershey sat up in the chair he had chosen as his throne.

  “Why not?” Coco asked.

  Bai
ley and I flushed pink, embarrassed by our simultaneous outbursts, but I could see in my friend’s gaze that neither of us wanted Coco to take away our favorite sweet shop. We wanted Coco to stay, too, of course.

  “You’re hurting; you’ll heal,” I said lamely, as if those words were comforting. They hadn’t helped me when I learned David disappeared in the ocean. They definitely hadn’t helped when I found his suicide note. I wove my hands together and studied my thumbnails.

  “Jenna’s right,” Bailey said. “I found someone here. You will, too.”

  “Tito?” Coco coughed.

  Bailey bridled. “What’s wrong with Tito?”

  “Nothing. He’s darling. He adores you. It’s just—” Coco opened her pink Prada tote bag and suddenly burst into heaving, sloppy tears. “Oh my. Oh, Alison.”

  “Alison?” Bailey bolted from her chair, grabbed a box of tissues from the sales counter, and raced back. She thrust the box at Coco, who drew two and mopped her face. “What about Alison?”

  “This.” Coco wadded up the tissues and extended her Prada purse. “Alison . . . gave this to me. She said . . . it was the first of many. She said”—Coco hiccupped—“that we would make so much money together, we would each need an extra closet to store all the beautiful things we could buy with our loot.” Coco giggled in a hysterical way. “I miss her so much!”

  And then she vomited into her purse.

  • • •

  COCO OPTED OUT of coming to the cookbook club meeting. She needed to distribute her invitations, then go home and figure out her future . . . and recuperate. She hoped her sour stomach was simply due to nerves. She couldn’t afford to have the flu. She had to fix up her shop tonight for tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day Lollapalooza. Bailey and I offered to hand out the rest of her invites, but Coco wouldn’t hear of it. She shuffled out of the shop, the weight of the world on her shoulders.