Pressing the Issue Page 21

  One click on the photograph revealed that the reviewer’s name was Susan Shannon “Praise the Lard” C.—the initial C being the way Yelp kept the last name private. Telling by the woman’s other reviews, she was a serious foodie.

  “Look, Rhett.” I stabbed the name Shannon on the screen. “Is this Melody?”

  “Can’t be. The woman has brown eyes. Melody’s are green.”

  “What if she were wearing contacts?”

  Rhett shook his head. “This one’s a lot older. Note the wrinkles around her eyes. Sister, I think. Maybe Shannon is Melody’s maiden name.”

  “If so, that would mean Nick did know Melody before she was married. Why protest? Why—”

  Loud bagpipe music resounded on the beach. A quite vocal group of medieval revelers carrying candles housed in paper cups snaked their way toward my aunt’s house. Among them were my father and Lola.

  The lead woman, barefoot and clad in a chemise and flowing skirt, broke from the pack and jogged up the stairs to the lanai. She snatched my cell phone, set it on the table, and gripped my wrist. “Down it goes, you varlets. No ether allowed. Time to party!” The woman tugged. She was strong.

  Certain that my father had put her up to it and she’d never let go, I gave in, grabbed Rhett’s hand, and off we went to have fun. Learning more about Melody Shannon Beaufort would have to wait.

  Chapter 20

  An hour later, after celebrating with the Renaissance Fair revelers, we returned to my aunt’s house. My father banned any discussion of Nick’s murder. He threatened that if I defied him, he wouldn’t give me the second kitty condo he was constructing. I complied. I am no fool.

  Over a lovely meal consisting of a green salad, hearty beef stew, and Lola’s homemade bread, we chatted about the fair. While enjoying coffee, chocolate tarts, and ginger cheesecake, we discussed the world in general.

  Near midnight, I bid everyone good night, drove Rhett home, kissed him handsomely, and sped back to my cottage. Although I wanted to think about Melody Shannon Beaufort and the secret she was keeping, I was too tired, particularly after finding Tigger embroiled in yet another snarl—this time rainbow-striped ribbon. Where in the heck had he found it? I refrained from saying bad kitty and untangled him.

  “Tomorrow . . .” I mumbled à la Scarlett O’Hara as I slipped under the comforter. I didn’t have the energy to finish her go-to statement.

  I slept heavily and awoke late Monday morning, a rarity for me—it was the chocolate tart’s fault, to be sure. Running behind schedule, I had no time to think about Melody or anyone else. I merely had time to do . . . and fast. I downed a portion of my pan pasty, which was delicious for dinner and even more delectable heated up for breakfast, after which I dressed in capris and an ecru knit sweater. I couldn’t muster another dose of Fabreeze on the Maid Marian costume and made a mental note: next year, two costumes. With Tigger in tow, I tore to work.

  The moment I arrived at the Cookbook Nook, my aunt, who was wearing a lilac caftan I’d never seen before, and Bailey and Tina, who were clad in everyday clothing, like me, waylaid me and informed me there were fires to put out. Not real fires, but little catastrophes. Bailey said the books we had ordered for next week’s theme hadn’t arrived. She’d been distracted and had forgotten to put in the request. She was extremely apologetic. Tina informed me that the person who was supposed to help Katie disassemble her stall at the fair hadn’t shown up, and Katie was on the rampage. My aunt was worried because more bookshelves in the storage room were straining under the weight of our wealth of cookbooks. In less than half an hour, I solved Katie and Bailey’s concerns. For the remainder of the morning, I joined my aunt in the storage room trying to determine our next course of action. Metal shelving, we decided.

  Close to noon, as I was amusing Tigger by pushing the sisal rope on his kitty condo to and fro so he could bat it, Marlon Appleby entered the shop. He stood inside the doorway looking massive and imposing in his green-and-brown hunter’s costume. In his hand he carried a scroll like the one Rhett had given me.

  Bailey joined me and pointed to Appleby. “What’s with the deputy’s getup?”

  “He’s been into the fair costume thing from the beginning.”

  “He’s allowed?”

  “One week a year.”

  She giggled. “Look at him scouring the shop. What’s he looking for?”

  “I think you mean who. No doubt, my aunt. He asked her to marry him. She turned him down. I think he’s on the hunt.”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny. He’s a hunter.” She wiggled a finger. “I like his bow, by the way.” It was a classic deep green American longbow. “And the quiver is a nice touch.”

  I agreed. “Aunt Vera,” I cried. “You have a visitor.”

  My aunt emerged from the storage room carrying a deck of tarot cards. Upon seeing the deputy, she drew to a halt. Her eyes widened in panic. “M-Marlon”—she sputtered—“what are you doing here?”

  He strode to her, knelt on one knee, and in a rich baritone said, “My lady, hear me out. Prithee, take my heart and soul.”

  Everyone in the shop stopped whatever he or she was doing. Many closed cookbooks or replaced kitchenware on the shelves, too enthralled with the unfolding drama to continue browsing.

  Aunt Vera’s face tinged pink. She rested the hand holding the tarot cards against her chest.

  “And take this token of my affection.” Appleby proffered the scroll by laying it gallantly across his other palm.

  “Marlon, please.” My aunt’s voice was thin and strained. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “And you are embarrassing me, love of my life. I grovel, I beg, I would harness the sun for you, if I could. I have asked, but you have not given me a decent answer.”

  “Marlon, I already told you—”

  “Bite thy tongue, woman, and let me finish. When, pray tell me . . .” He twisted his head in my direction and winked before redirecting his focus to my aunt. “When will you invite me to Sunday family dinners? ’Tis the sum total of my request.”

  My aunt burst into laughter. “You rogue. You scoundrel. On your feet.”

  “Not until you read my missive.” He flourished the scroll.

  My aunt withdrew it from his grasp, freed the ribbon, and unfurled the paper. She read the contents, and tears filled her eyes. I didn’t know what it said, but whatever it was . . . was good. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her cry with delight.

  Seeing her joy made me flash on Melody when she had received her missive. She had refused to reveal what it said or who had sent it.

  My aunt tucked the scroll into the pocket of her caftan, held out her hand, and asked Appleby to rise.

  He clutched her hands and said, “So? What is your answer?”

  “Next Sunday. Don’t be late.”

  “Until then, my beauty.” He pecked her cheek and marched nobly toward the door.

  “Wait,” my aunt said. “Stay for cranberry scones. They’re warm. Katie just set some out.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He offered her his elbow. She latched on, and the two strolled into the breezeway.

  The customers went wild with applause as if they had witnessed a rare stage event. Quietly, I did a happy dance.

  Bailey said, “Crisis averted.”

  “And how. Would you tend to the customers by the saltshakers? I’m going to neaten the Renaissance jigsaw puzzle.” I headed to the vintage table and set the pieces of the latest puzzle into its box. Then I linked together a corner so customers would know they could begin anew. A number of regulars came in daily to concentrate on a puzzle. A few called it therapy.

  “Jenna!” Dolly flew into the shop wearing a pair of jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt. It was a good look on her and I told her so. “Thanks. Is Chief Pritchett here?” She scanned the bookstore.

  “No. Why would you think—”

  “The precinct said she was at Fisherman’s Village.”

  “Maybe she’s in her
mother’s shop, though I don’t see her cruiser in the parking lot. Why are you looking for her?”

  “I’m ready to . . .” She let the sentence hang and licked her lips.

  I tensed. Was she ready to admit that she had killed Nick? Was she here to turn herself in?

  “I’m ready,” she continued, “to fetch my things from Nick’s place. It’s time for me to put the past in the past. Then I’m moving to Los Angeles.”

  “Why?” I squawked.

  “My business here is limited. I plan all year for the Renaissance Fair, and if I don’t sell big—which I didn’t this year—I’m deep in the hole. Face it, I’m a failure. I can’t sell crafts. I can’t sell garlands or costumes. Heck, I can’t even raise any stinking vegetables in this perfect climate.”

  “What about your ugly tomatoes?” I asked.

  “Not this year. They’re all dead. Every last one of them. I don’t know what happened.” Dolly threw her hands into the air. “I’m a failure with a capital F! I’ve been thinking that in Los Angeles I might reinvent myself and—”

  “Dolly?” A ponytailed woman at the sales counter spun around. Her doe-shaped eyes widened. “Dolly Ledoux? Is that you?”

  Dolly peered at the woman. “Yes. Who are . . . Oh, it’s you!” She rushed to the woman and embraced her.

  The woman’s shopping bag squished under the pressure. When Dolly released her, the woman dropped her bag on the floor and backed away. “Ready?” she said.

  Dolly nodded.

  Both began flapping their arms like chickens. “Cock-a-doodle-do,” they crooned in unison. They extended their arms and tapped one another’s fingertips. “Roosterettes rock and rule!”

  The ritual complete, the Roosterette gathered her shopping bag and said, “You are not a failure, Dolly.” She spoke with a Southern accent akin to Dolly’s. “Do you hear me? Repeat after me: I am not a failure!”

  “I am not a failure,” Dolly echoed.

  “Louder.”

  “I am not a failure.”

  “Positive is as positive does. Say it.”

  “Positive is as positive does,” Dolly recited.

  “There! Feeling better?” The woman tapped Dolly on the shoulder as if granting a fairy godmother wish.

  Dolly beamed. “What are you doing here, Rhonda?”

  “I’m traveling up the coast with my family. We’re hitting all the sights in the great U.S. of A. Didn’t know there would be a huge Ren Fair in town. Talk about traffic.” She clucked her tongue. “I heard I absolutely had to come into this darling shop, so I let my teenagers sleep in, and here I am.”

  “You have teenagers?”

  “Fourteen and sixteen!” She held up two fingers. “Take a selfie with me, sweet pea.” She pulled her cell phone from her purse, squeezed next to Dolly, said, “Say cheesy-cheese!” and took a picture.

  Dolly caught me staring at the two of them. “Jenna . . . Vera . . . everyone, forgive me. This is my softball teammate from high school, Rhonda.”

  “Teammate,” Rhonda said. “Ha! I sat on the bench most of the time, but old Dolly here—”

  “I’m not old.”

  “Neither am I. Forty is, after all, the new thirty.” Rhonda knuckled Dolly on the arm. “You should have seen this girl hit the ball. Out of the park every time!” She thrust an arm into the air to demonstrate the arc of the ball.

  I winced. If Dolly was innocent of murder, it probably wasn’t good to keep hearing how powerful she was with a baseball bat. Reflecting on Nick’s demise made me wonder: what did Dolly really want to take from his place? Granted, having been his steady girlfriend, she might have clothes tucked into his closets or dressers and truly wanted to pack up, but the cynic in me couldn’t help questioning whether she had another aim. Maybe she wanted to divest herself of incriminating evidence, like Alan’s missing gauntlet.

  Rhonda’s cell phone jangled. She glanced at the readout. “Sugar, I’m so sorry. I’ve got to go. The lions are roaring.” She showed her cell phone to Dolly.

  “Handsome boys,” Dolly said.

  “They’re monsters, but I love them.” She pecked Dolly on the cheek. “Remember, you can be whatever you want to be. If you need a pep talk, you look me up online. Use my maiden name dot com. I’m a life coach. And remember what I told you: Positive is as positive does. Say it at least ten times a day. Bye.” She hurried out of the shop.

  Dolly sank into a chair at the vintage table. “Wow, what a dynamo. Wish I had her cheery outlook on life.”

  I nestled into the chair opposite her and folded my hands on the table. “Dolly, why are you really leaving town?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your alibi for the night Nick died is—how can I say this—questionable.”

  “No, it’s not.” Dolly sounded indignant. “I already told you I was home doing crafts.”

  “Did you inform the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Chief Pritchett believe you?”

  “Yes. Why are you asking?” She picked up two pieces of the jigsaw puzzle, linked them into the corner section I’d started, and searched for another piece.

  “A witness said you weren’t home. No lights were on.”

  Dolly leaped to her feet. “I was. I’m not lying. I—”

  “What’s going on?” Appleby asked as he and my aunt reentered the shop via the breezeway. Each was carrying a to-go cup and a miniature scone in a napkin.

  Dolly rushed to him. “Deputy, I’m so glad you’re here. I’m looking for Chief Pritchett. I want to fetch my things at Nick Baldini’s house. I need her permission.”

  I leaped to my feet. “Dolly—”

  “I don’t have to answer to you, Jenna!” Defiantly, she folded her arms across her ample chest. “You have no right to question me.”

  “Question you?” The deputy threw me a baleful look. “You’re not playing ace detective, are you, Jenna?”

  “No, sir.” My cheeks warmed, giving me away. “I was telling Dolly what I told Cinnamon . . . Chief Pritchett . . . on a voice mail, but I don’t think the chief has had time to follow up. I would imagine she’s been a tad preoccupied since getting engaged.”

  “Engaged?” Appleby whistled.

  “You haven’t noticed?” I pointed to my ring finger. “Plain as day.”

  “How did I miss that?” he muttered. “Well, that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” my aunt asked.

  “Cinnamon has been . . .” He didn’t finish.

  “Absentminded?” I offered. “Like Bailey?”

  “I’m not absentminded.” Bailey joined our huddle.

  “I beg to differ,” I said. “A couple of things in addition to the book order have slipped by you.” I ticked off three more items on my fingertips.

  She huffed, but her eyes wavered. She knew I was right.

  My aunt slipped her hand around Dolly’s elbow and said, “C’mon, dear, I know you didn’t kill Nick. What is your real alibi? Why are you keeping it a secret? We won’t judge you, whatever the reason.”

  Dolly glanced between all of us and lowered her chin. “I’m not keeping it a secret. I told Chief Pritchett.”

  “Well, then . . .” My aunt leaned her head to the right.

  “I went to another psychic.” Air whooshed out of Dolly as if telling the truth had exhausted her.

  My aunt released Dolly’s arm.

  “There, you see?” Dolly pointed at her. “I was embarrassed to tell you, Vera, because”—she gulped in air—“I was afraid you would be upset with me. And you are, aren’t you?”

  Clearly my aunt was flustered. Her lower lip started quivering. “Why did you feel the need to, dear?”

  “I didn’t believe you had envisioned my future correctly, and I wanted a second opinion.” She focused on me. “And FYI, Jenna, Chief Pritchett has spoken with the other psychic to confirm what I’ve said. She knows I’m innocent.”

  “Honestly, Dolly, I’m relieved. I didn’t want it to be
you. I’m sorry for doubting you. I—”

  “Stop,” she said, cutting me off. “I get it. I’ve certainly made enough mistakes over the years, and you are known to be curious to a fault.”

  To a fault? I gulped.

  Appleby snickered and tried, but failed, to hide a gotcha grin.

  “Let me help you pack your things at Nick’s,” I offered. “It’s the least I can do. Deputy, would you supervise?”

  Dolly said, “It won’t take long. Please?”

  My aunt prodded Appleby. He shrugged his consent.

  Chapter 21

  Shaken by her admission to my aunt, Dolly said she wasn’t up to driving herself, so I offered to do so. We gathered the two empty suitcases she had packed in her Toyota Camry, set them into my VW, and followed Deputy Appleby in his Jeep up the hill to Baldini Vineyards. The bright afternoon sunlight, which was coming through the windshield at an oblique angle, made me squint, but I didn’t mind. I was thrilled that Dolly was innocent.

  “I’m thinking of opening an upscale dress shop in Los Angeles,” Dolly said, looking idly out the passenger window at the ocean view. “With classics like Givenchy and Wang and—”

  “Can you afford to do that?”

  “I’ll take out a loan.”

  “I’ve often wondered why you gave up your darling clothing business.”

  “I didn’t give it up, exactly. I stopped buying current lines, renamed it, and allowed my product to become Ren Fair chic because . . .” She drummed the windowsill with her fingertips. “Because I wanted Nick’s approval. I did everything to make him happy. When he came up with the name Thistle Thy Fancy, I accepted it to please him, even though I’d already decided upon the name the Prince and the Pauper.”

  “Cute.”

  “I know, right? Thistle Thy Fancy sort of limited me to garlands and crafts. Not many people knew to stop in the store for a gown or chemise.” She swiveled to meet my gaze. “If I were really bold, I’d move to New York and try my hand at designing. You know the lyric, ‘If I can make it there . . . ’” She crooned the words. “But Los Angeles is a good choice.”