Grilling the Subject Page 21

  “Big deal,” Cinnamon said. “Ava lives in the area.”

  “But why was she at the empty house that’s in escrow, which is nowhere near her own house?” I countered. “And why was she carrying a duffel bag?”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “That’s not all.” Aunt Vera signaled for me to continue. “Tell her about the encounter with Ava in the alley.”

  Cinnamon moaned and arched an eyebrow. “Jenna, what have you been up to?”

  “Not investigating,” I said defensively. Not on purpose anyway. “Earlier, I visited Dad at Nuts and Bolts, and when I was leaving, a crowd following the parade nearly swallowed me whole. I ducked into Artiste Arcade until the crowd passed.”

  Cinnamon folded her arms and leveled me with her gaze. “Go on.”

  David sniggered. I lasered him with a look. I was not deliberately trying to tick Cinnamon off. He shrugged and nabbed a tortilla chip with some guacamole.

  “I found myself outside Sterling Sylvia,” I said, then repeated what I’d heard Ronald and Ava discussing.

  “It makes sense that he would want to sell the shop,” Cinnamon said. “It’s too much for him to handle.”

  “So soon after the murder?”

  “People don’t always operate on reasonable schedules.” Cinnamon worked her tongue along the inside of her cheek. “Tell me about the alley.”

  “The alley. Right.” I swallowed hard. “See, I went that way to avoid—” I stopped myself. No more lying. Starting now. “I went that direction because I got to thinking about Ava’s diary, and I wondered if she had snowed you by telling you she didn’t have one in her house because she kept it in her briefcase, which she keeps in her car. I figured her Mercedes was parked in the alley, so—”

  “You didn’t break in?” Cinnamon cried.

  “No, I didn’t,” I said, “but I thought I might be able to see the diary if it was in her briefcase, and I did. However, she caught me looking.”

  Lola choked back a laugh. My father frowned. David, to his credit, kept neutral.

  “And?” Cinnamon asked.

  “And she offered to show me the diary!” I threw my father a smug grin.

  Lola and David exchanged an amused glance.

  “And like Emily Hawthorne said,” I continued, “Ava wrote that she wanted to kill Sylvia, but she didn’t lay out the way Sylvia died. No burning at the stake. No stabbing her with a hair stick.” I twirled a finger near the top of my head. “She wrote that she wanted to pull out Sylvia’s hair, strand by strand, and poke her eyes out with a candlestick.”

  “Ew,” Lola exclaimed.

  Cinnamon unfolded her arms and splayed her hands. “So what are you saying? Is Ava guilty or not guilty?”

  “I’m saying you should ask her what her alibi is. I asked her twice, but she dodged me.”

  “You asked her—” Cinnamon took a slow sip of her champagne.

  “Tell her about Shane,” Aunt Vera said, either not picking up on Cinnamon’s annoyance or ignoring it. Probably the latter.

  Cinnamon glanced between my aunt and me, then eyeballed my father. The corners of his mouth were twitching as if he were trying to suppress a smile. Was he—heart be still—on my side at last? Did he finally see that I was only after the truth and meant no harm?

  Cinnamon let out a long sigh. “What about Shane?”

  “He followed me into the alley.”

  “Jenna!” David barked. “Are you kidding? You know better. How many times have I warned you to look over your shoulder?”

  “This time I didn’t,” I said, testier than I’d meant to be. He wasn’t the boss of me.

  “Sheesh,” he muttered. “Pay attention. That guy has always had a thing for you.”

  “No way.”

  “Way. At a cocktail party for Taylor & Squibb, I remember how everyone was talking. He was raking you over with his eyes.”

  “Get out of here. Raking his eyes? What kind of phrase is that? Since when do you read romance novels?”

  David grunted.

  “Shane was not going to attack me in the alley,” I stated, not admitting aloud that his appearance had given me the willies. I rushed to add, “He said he wanted to talk about Emily.”

  “Yeah, right.” David sneered.

  “Excuse me.” Cinnamon was staring at us intently. “How do you two know each other again?”

  “We’re old friends,” David and I hissed in unison.

  My father coughed. Lola squeezed his leg. Aunt Vera unabashedly worried her phoenix amulet.

  Cinnamon gave me a stern, authoritative look. When I didn’t react, she said, “I’ll check into Shane, Emily, and Ava, deal?”

  “Do you know all of their alibis?”

  “I don’t, but I will.”

  “Before now, have you considered any of them suspects?”

  “Let’s stop talking about murder,” Cinnamon said.

  I held up a finger. “One more thing. Ronald.”

  Cinnamon glowered at me. “What about him?”

  I recalled the uneasy feeling that had cut through me after the confrontation with Ava as I passed by Sterling Sylvia and caught Ronald watching me. “Have you questioned him since Dad was cleared?”

  “Yes. He’s adamant he saw someone in a red plaid jacket running from the scene.”

  “What if he killed Sylvia?” Aunt Vera asked.

  Dad grunted. “Ronald? Nah. I told you before, he’s losing it. His memory is lax. And, face it, he’s fragile.”

  Cinnamon didn’t say a word. Did she have Ronald on her radar, whether fragile or not?

  “I like Ava as a suspect,” Lola cut in. “She’s a shrewd businesswoman. Cunning. She could have donned a red plaid jacket, knowing Ronald would think the killer was Cary.”

  “And,” I said, building on that theory, “she could have put the cuff link at the scene to incriminate Shane.”

  “Unless it belonged to Sylvia,” Cinnamon countered. “Remember I told you her maiden name was May.”

  “But it doesn’t. Emily said—”

  “What cuff link?” Dad asked.

  “The one I found at the—”

  “Fire!” David shouted.

  Chapter 23

  David pointed in the direction of my cottage. Licks of red-yellow flame popped and crackled beyond the far end of it.

  I leaped to my feet. So did everyone else.

  Cinnamon pointed at Aunt Vera. “Call 911. Cary and Jenna, come with me.” She charged down the rear steps and across the sand while pulling her cell phone from her cross-body purse.

  Dad and I sprinted after her. David, too, but he lagged behind.

  “Bucky,” Cinnamon barked into her cell phone. “Fire! Jenna Hart’s cottage. That’s right. On the beach.” She listened. “Great. Thanks.” She yelled over her shoulder, “He’s two minutes away.”

  “Do you see anybody fleeing?” Dad shouted.

  None of us did, but that didn’t mean anything. There were plenty of places beyond the cottage to escape unnoticed.

  The people at the bonfire on the beach were racing toward us. One was carrying a bucket. We all arrived at the scene about the same time. The fire wasn’t horrible. A thicket of scrub brush was ablaze, but the flames hadn’t touched the house yet. Yes, left unattended, it could have blossomed into a huge fire. The word lucky sparked in my mind.

  The wail of a siren cut through the night air, a mile or so away.

  The bonfire guy carrying the bucket, a curly-haired man with a beefy belly, dumped sand on the flames. That helped lessen the fire but didn’t douse it.

  “I’ll be right back,” my father shouted and zipped around the corner. In seconds he returned carrying the nozzle end of a hose. Water sprayed from it. He quenched the remaining flames.

  “Sorry,” t
he guy from the beach said. “An ember probably flew on the wind. We’ll be more careful.”

  A car door slammed. Seconds later, Bucky materialized, dressed in street clothes. He stood, hands on hips, studying the extinguished fire, then crouched down and ran his hands through the weeds. He rubbed his fingertips together and sniffed his hand. He rose to a full stand.

  Another siren blasted through the air and quickly died. More doors banged. The fire department had arrived. A team of firemen in full gear barreled around the corner of the cottage.

  “What do you think, Bucky?” Cinnamon asked. “A wayward ember?”

  “Not likely. I smell accelerant.”

  A shudder scudded through me. Accelerant? Had someone set this fire on purpose, hoping I’d be in the cottage?

  Bucky scanned the crowd. I followed his gaze. Everyone seemed concerned. No one seemed edgy or excited to see the fire. “Probably a teenage prank,” he said, then clutched Cinnamon’s elbow and led her away from the area while the two firemen did a more thorough dousing than my father.

  David came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “I see footprints leading toward the beach.”

  “One set is mine,” I said. “I thought someone was peeping in through the window the other day. I went out to investigate.”

  “You were right. It was me. But I see three sets.”

  I shuddered, realizing he was right.

  “Is it possible someone is targeting you because you’re poking into Sylvia’s murder?”

  “No,” I said. “Uh-uh. That little fire?”

  “To scare you. To make you behave.” David wrapped an arm around my back. “Someone like Shane? He told me once that he was in the Boy Scouts. A scout would know how to build a fire.”

  * * *

  Cinnamon assured me that whoever had set the fire would be caught, but I wasn’t so sure. I heard Bucky talking to his buddies. There was no concrete evidence, nothing to tie a person to the crime. When they left, adrenaline was pumping steadily through my veins. Dad offered to stay and act as my sentry, but I told him to go home. David said he would pace outside and keep a watchful eye all night, but I refused to let him. The evening chill could make him sicker.

  Instead, unable to sleep, I made a batch of cookies using frozen sugar cookie dough that I had thrown together last week. While they baked, I put on a pot of Earl Grey tea. When my nerves calmed, I put the tea and warm cookies on a tray and joined David on the sofa. No talk of divorce tonight. I’d deal with that tomorrow, in the light of day.

  With the television sound set on mute so we could hear a trespasser outside, we watched an old Hepburn-Tracy movie. Around 3:00 A.M., I fell asleep leaning on David’s shoulder.

  At 6:00 A.M. Monday morning, the hum of my cell phone ringing in my purse on the kitchen table woke me. I nudged Tigger off my lap and peeled myself from David’s shoulder—I could only imagine the creases in my cheek from his shirt seam. I rubbed the crick in my neck while hurrying to answer. David muttered something and curled into the arm of the sofa. Tigger scampered after me. He circled my feet, his tail an alert question mark.

  Hurry, I urged myself. After four rings, it would go to voice mail. I rummaged through my purse and nabbed the phone. The readout read: Rhett. I pressed Accept.

  “Rhett?”

  “Jenna, are you all right? I heard about the fire. I—”

  “I’m fine. It was nothing.” At least I hoped it was nothing. The murderer had roasted Sylvia. I prayed I wasn’t next on the menu. “Where are you?”

  “In Napa. My mother took ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Bad, horrible me. Here I’d thought he had run out on me.

  “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I should have called and explained. Splitting town without enlightening you was not my finest hour. Forgive me?”

  “You were angry.”

  “Concerned.”

  I wouldn’t quibble. “Is your mom going to be all right?”

  “Yes. She had the flu. My sisters called me, frantic, because she had a high fever, and Dad was going nuts. He thought she was delirious. I’ll be coming back tomorrow.”

  “Send my love.”

  “Will do.”

  “Now, tell me about the gift you sent me.”

  He chuckled. I adored the sound of his laugh. “Did you like it?”

  “I’m not sure I caught the meaning.”

  “Really? I thought you of all people would.”

  “Nope.”

  “Way back when we first started dating, you shared a story about your dad and mom. She told him that when he finally broke down and asked her to go fishing with him, she would know he was serious about her—”

  “Because fishermen relish their privacy,” I finished.

  “Yep.”

  My heart melted. How could I stay upset with a man who treasured my family memories as much as I did? “Thank you. It’s a very pretty lure.”

  He grew quiet. After a long moment, he said, “How is your husband?”

  I gulped. I would not tell Rhett I had slept beside my husband, no matter how benign the arrangement had been. “He’s—” I glanced in David’s direction.

  He was rousing. He clambered to his feet, one hand gripping the sofa, the other on his forehead. Suddenly he slumped to the floor, grazing the couch on his way down.

  “David!”

  I dropped the phone and raced to him. Tigger tore after me and nudged David with his nose. David’s eyes were open and fluttering. His face was puffy, his breathing ragged. He wasn’t having a seizure, but he appeared dazed. I checked his pulse. Fairly strong.

  “What . . . happ . . . ?” he rasped. His breath smelled like ammonia.

  “You fell. Show me your teeth,” I ordered, recalling the things to do to test for stroke. Smile was one of the first. He passed. “Close your eyes and raise your arms over your head.”

  He did.

  “Good. Say: ‘Sue sells seashells down by the seashore.’”

  “Ha! I could never say that.”

  “Good enough.” Any intelligible sentence would do.

  “Can you sit up?”

  “I think so.” He did and propped himself against the sofa. He rubbed the back of his head.

  “I’m calling 911.” I hurried to my cell phone, said, “Gotta go!” and pressed End without waiting for Rhett’s reply.

  “Don’t!” David rasped. “Authorities don’t need to think you’ve got another fire or that you cry wolf.” He inched into the sofa. “Take me to the nearest emergency room, and let’s see if I’m dehydrated.”

  I didn’t waste a second. I grabbed my purse and shuttled him into the car. We sped to Mercy Urgent Care, one of two decent-sized clinics in the area. Crystal Cove had its share of boating and surfboard accidents. David looked pasty and his breathing was labored, but, overall, he was handling the incident with aplomb. Luckily he had not passed out when he fell. The arm of the sofa had prevented him from striking his head on the floor.

  A nurse escorted David through a door to take him to an examination room. Given his diagnosis, the emergency staff would put him through a battery of tests. She asked me to give my contact information to the receptionist. I did.

  Only two other people were in the foyer with me. One standing at the check-in desk, the other sitting in a chair. Both were staring into their cell phone screens.

  I crossed to the water cooler and filled one of those teensy paper cones with water and glanced at a few texts from Rhett. He was concerned about me. I relayed where I was and how David was doing.

  “Jenna, is that you?” Emily was passing through the door that led to the examination rooms. She was wearing a frilly blouse with long sleeves and yoga pants. The sleeves of the blouse billowed
as she walked toward me. She leaned slightly backward in order to balance her bulging belly.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Ready to pop.”

  “And Shane?”

  “He’s an absolute basket case, hovering around me like a mother hen.” She hoisted her purse higher on her shoulder.

  I noticed the cuffs of her blouse, which were attached with a pretty pair of gold cuff links, and recalled my encounter with Shane. “He and I ran into each other.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.” I wasn’t about to reveal he chased me down an alley. “He told me he’s worried about you. He said you were muttering something like clinky jewelry, which made me think of our conversation by the choo-choo train. Have you been wondering out loud about the cuff links?”

  “I don’t think so.” She blinked rapidly; she was lying.

  I crumpled my paper cone and tossed it into the trash can beside the water cooler. “Emily,” I said in my best I-don’t-believe-you voice.

  “What?” Her mouth fell slightly open. She curled a finger around a lock of her long hair.

  “Do you really want to do this while you’re pregnant?”

  “Do what?”

  “Drop the pretense.”

  “What pretense?” Her voice sounded singsong and girly.

  “You’re savvy. You said so yourself. What’s going on?”

  Emily didn’t respond. Her mouth quivered. “I . . .” She bit down on her lower lip.

  “Go on.”

  “I put the cuff links there.”

  “I only found one.”

  “There should be two.”

  “Are you saying that you killed Sylvia?”

  “No!” She glanced right and left. Neither of the others in the waiting room was paying attention to us. Between tight teeth, Emily said, “I. Hate. Ava. I went to the crime scene after the fact. I put them there to frame her.”

  After the fact? Why would she think that the police would search a second time? And why would she think putting the cuff links there would frame Ava, simply because she, Emily, concocted the notion that Ava had put them there to frame Shane? How mixed-up crazy was that! Talk about a plan that backfired.