Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9) Page 4

  Farther up Buena Vista Boulevard, across the street from the Pelican Brief Diner, near what we liked to call mini San Francisco, an octet of aqua blue, two-story bayside structures, stood Tito and Kylie and a flock of people. Tito was dressed in chinos and a collared shirt. Kylie was wearing a skintight black outfit and inch-high fashion boots. Her long blonde curls, the same that Gran had made fun of, cascaded down her back.

  I couldn’t hear what the two were saying, but their intention was clear. Kylie was blocking Tito’s access to the Chicken Kebabs cart vendor. Tito tried dodging right and left to cut around Kylie, but to no avail.

  Putting on speed, I caught up with Bailey before she reached her husband. I grasped her elbow. “Hold on. Let’s form a plan.”

  “No time to plan.” Bailey wrested her arm free. “If Tito throws a punch, he could lose his job. It will be Kylie’s word against his as to how the argument started.”

  “There are plenty of witnesses,” I said. “And the vendor must know what’s going on.”

  Bailey didn’t slow down, so I didn’t either. We arrived at the fracas at the same time.

  “. . . my territory,” Kylie shouted, clearly in the middle of a tirade. “I’m the foodie reporter. Not you.”

  Tito said, “I have every right.”

  “It’s my assignment,” Kylie rasped.

  “. . . Food Bowl week,” Tito countered. “Too many events for you to cover by yourself.”

  How long had they been arguing? Both of their faces were beaded with perspiration.

  Bailey rushed to Tito, ducked under his flailing arm, and injected herself between him and Kylie. How I admired her pluck. She pressed her hands to his chest. “Mi amor,” she said calmly. “Calm down. Back away.”

  “But—”

  “No, caro mio. Do this. Now. You will discuss this with Eugene. He will get her to agree.”

  Kylie hissed. “I’ll never agree. The Food Bowl is mine to cover. Mine.”

  I drew near to the cart vendor, a petite woman who owned a small diner at the north end of town, and whispered, “Are you okay?”

  “Rattled,” she murmured.

  “Who started it?” I asked, taking note of what she was selling—fried chicken that smelled divine, in four different flavors: Cajun, Asian, regular, and garlic.

  “Who do you think?” The vendor rolled her eyes. “It’s always Kylie. Tito was already here, ready to rave about my food. How could I tell him no? He’s a regular. A good guy. Kylie has visited my restaurant once. Once,” she emphasized. “And her write-up wasn’t stellar. But then she shows up and yells that she wants to make it up to me. Tito claimed first rights, but . . .” The vendor threw her arms wide.

  “Enough!” Kylie pushed Bailey out of the way. “Leave this spot, Tito Martinez. I’m warning you.”

  Tito broke free from Bailey and aimed a finger at Kylie. “You will not have the last word here.”

  “Until I change professions or take my last breath, food in Crystal Cove is my territory.” Kylie folded her arms. “Eugene will support me.”

  Bailey, using all the muscle she had, steered Tito away from the cart and vendor.

  “Magic show,” Bailey said. “One hour.”

  I drew alongside but kept mum.

  Tito grunted. “Kylie’s right. She has a power hold on Eugene. I’ve seen her with him. He’s putty in her hands.”

  “It’s not fair,” Bailey cooed, “but let it go.”

  “I’m the cook.” Tito thumbed his chest. “Kylie isn’t. She doesn’t know food or flavors. She’s a hack.”

  “Talk to Eugene,” Bailey coaxed. “After the magic show. Maybe you can convince him to change his mind.”

  Tito scrubbed his hair with a hand. “What if he sells the paper? What if it goes under?”

  “Is that what’s really driving this set-to between you and Kylie?” Bailey asked.

  I suggested Bailey and Tito go to the Nook Café to grab a coffee. Chill before the magic show. I promised Brianna would be fine. They agreed.

  Kylie smirked as my friends trudged away. I shot her a look. She raised her chin defiantly and mimed for me to run along.

  On my way back to the shop, I pushed thoughts of Kylie aside and drank in the festivities signaling the onset of Food Bowl week. Gran had been right about the bevy of signs. There were posters in store windows and hand-painted banners crisscrossing the street. Anyone visiting for the festival had to be torn by all the choices.

  Best Burgers Anywhere: featuring chefs from Cheesey Burger, Beans and Burgers, Love Me Burgers. Rhett and I had eaten at all three of the diners. Delicious.

  All Star Barbecue: 5 chefs. 5 entrées. 5 ways to have a saucy time. This was the one Cinnamon, her husband, Rhett, and I would attend.

  Rooftop Fish Fry: Come on up Tuesday and sit a spell. Lola had gone all out with gourmet photographs of heaping piles of fried fish. I started to salivate.

  Cameo Theater Film Festival: the new TV sensation Shredding plus popular movies like Secret of the Grain, The Hundred-Foot Journey, Chef, Julie & Julia, and Babette’s Feast.

  I’d seen every one of the movies and had savored the array of foods. Chef was a delightful story about a guy who quit his high-end position at a restaurant and reignited his passion for cooking as he launched a food-truck business.

  Near Fisherman’s Village, a glitzy banner emblazoned with green and gold and doused with glitter caught my eye. Scientific Minds: a panel will discuss the future of food. Smart move, I thought. The festival wasn’t all about dining. Some of it had to do with sustainability. Apparently, the event was going to be popular. A Sold Out placard blocked out the word Tickets.

  I didn’t spy a banner for Intime. Most likely it was strung closer to the center of town, near the dolphin statues, where the bistro was located.

  “Hi, Jenna.” Flora Fairchild, owner of the specialty shop Home Sweet Home and a regular at the Cookbook Nook—she loved any cookbook that featured chocolate—jogged toward me and kept running in place. Her jogging outfit complimented her toned shape. Her thick long braid bounced on her back. “I intend to eat at every event. How about you?”

  “A few. Not all.”

  “Don’t deprive yourself,” she said. “It merely takes a little extra effort to keep the pounds off. If we don’t use it, we lose it.”

  I was one of those rare birds who’d never fought my weight. My height had something to do with it. My metabolism, as well. Plus, I exercised daily. Not heavy aerobics but I walked, ran, and rode. Dad had drilled into me that I had one body in this life, and I was in charge of making it work.

  “I saw your father,” Flora said, as if reading my mind. “At the Pelican Brief with Lola. Smooching. Those two are such lovebirds. Someday,” she added wistfully and ran off.

  My father and Lola had been dating for a while. My mother had died years ago and my father had mourned mightily. When he’d allowed himself to love again and he fell for Lola, I’d been happy for him. He deserved someone wonderful.

  “Jenna, hold up!” Z.Z., aka Zoey Zeller, bustled to me as I veered into the Fisherman’s Village parking lot. Like Flora, Z.Z. was wearing a jogging outfit, although hers was baggy and made her appear even squatter than she was.

  I bit back a smile. Had the whole town gone exercise crazy?

  “I wanted to chat with you about your aunt,” Z.Z. said.

  “What about her?” My insides snagged with concern. Surely Aunt Vera hadn’t been talking out of turn about her reading for Eugene Tinsdale.

  “It’s regarding her sweet deputy’s children.”

  Deputy Appleby had two grown children in their thirties.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Sasha isn’t being nice to your aunt.”

  “You’re mistaken. Sasha adores her.”

  “Not any longer. I saw the two of them just now. At the café. They were having coffee. You know Sasha had a baby three months ago.”

  “I do. A baby girl.”

  Z.Z. peeked ove
r her shoulder. “Well, you’d have thought your aunt had the plague or something. Sasha wouldn’t let Vera hold the baby.”

  “Really?”

  “She refused. She said the baby would cry.” Z.Z. batted the air. “Why not give the poor kid a chance? She might like your aunt, right?” She huffed. “It made my blood boil.”

  “What did my aunt do?”

  “You know Vera. She doesn’t like to make waves. She smiled and said she understood. But honestly, I don’t think she did. Her eyes were brimming with tears. Do something.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. Insert yourself. Your aunt needs you.” Z.Z. trotted away.

  I slogged into the shop worried about my aunt. When had Appleby’s daughter become rude? Would her rudeness drive a wedge between her father and my aunt? I sure hoped not. My aunt deserved a world of happiness, having been denied love so many years ago.

  Gran was sitting at the children’s table, tending to Brianna in her floor seat, while chatting with two little girls I recognized. Both were coloring. Tigger weaved between their legs and the table’s legs.

  “Miss Hart.” The mother of the girls waved to me. She reminded me of a hummingbird, flitting from bookcase to bookcase. “Help me pick out the perfect gift for my mother-in-law.”

  Knowing I couldn’t solve my aunt’s or Tito’s problems, I slapped on a smile and said, “Let’s talk about her likes and dislikes.”

  The woman toyed with tendrils of her white-blonde hair. “Sweets. Scones. Bread. Like me.”

  “As if,” I joked. Given her trim figure, I doubted she ate anything more than celery.

  For fifteen minutes, I guided her through the pastry section. When we found Taste of Heaven, the independently published cookbook for Taste of Heaven Ice Cream Shoppe, she whooped with glee. Her mother-in-law adored ice cream. The owner of Taste of Heaven had included over fifty recipes for her renowned ice creams. My favorite was chocolate-caramel swirl.

  As the happy customer exited the store with her girls, Aunt Vera waltzed in.

  “If you’re hungry,” I said to her, “don’t miss Katie’s pumpkin coconut cupcakes.”

  “I’ll pass. I just had a lovely coffee.” Her skin shone and her eyes glistened. She was dressed in normal everyday clothes and not a caftan—unusual for her but not troublesome, seeing as she’d had a coffee date with Sasha. “We’re quite busy, aren’t we?”

  “The town is abuzz with good vibes. Z.Z. has a knack for luring people to Crystal Cove.”

  “She certainly does.”

  Seeing as my aunt wasn’t acting as though her boyfriend’s daughter had dissed her, I decided to ignore Z.Z.’s entreaty and let the event pass. If and when my aunt wanted to bring up the subject, I would be all ears.

  “Is everything all right with Bailey?” Aunt Vera asked as she roamed the shop, tweaking things—the jigsaw puzzle on the vintage table, the array of aprons.

  “Bailey?”

  “Don’t be coy. I heard about the fracas with Kylie O and the street vendor, and I saw Bailey and Tito enter the café. She was close to tears.”

  I drew my aunt to the register. “Bailey’s worried about Tito’s job status. If Eugene fires him—”

  “He won’t.”

  “But what if Kylie presses him to?”

  Aunt Vera tsked. “Do you think that young woman holds sway with Eugene?”

  “Bailey thinks so.”

  “What do I think?” Bailey strode into the shop and made a beeline for her daughter.

  Gran waved to the child, ceding her rights. Bailey lifted Brianna from the floor seat and balanced her on one hip.

  I glanced at my aunt. “We were discussing Eugene and whether Kylie had him wrapped around her pinky.”

  “And whether he’ll sell,” my aunt added.

  “If he doesn’t and the paper folds, Tito’s sunk.” Bailey’s voice cracked. “There aren’t any other newspapers in Crystal Cove. In order for him to continue doing what he does, we would have to move.”

  My aunt clucked her tongue. “If Eugene actually puts the Courier up for sale, someone will buy it.”

  “Who?” Bailey spread her arms. “Tito would love to, but he doesn’t make that kind of money. Who else in town has that kind of capital?” She gazed at my aunt.

  I wagged my head. “My aunt can’t own everything.” In addition to her house and the cottage, my aunt owned Fisherman’s Village and a number of other properties in town.

  Aunt Vera gawked at me. “Why can’t I?”

  Chapter 4

  As we set up the shop for the magic show, Aunt Vera discussed the possibility of buying the newspaper. She had the means. On the other hand, she was confident that Eugene would figure out how to keep it afloat.

  When customers started taking their seats and Tito appeared in his magician’s costume, we tabled the discussion.

  “Let the magic begin!” Tito proclaimed, all evidence of his quarrel with Kylie vanished. Looking dapper in his red cape and top hat, he introduced himself and said he’d be entertaining the crowd for forty-five minutes. “Now, who have we here?” He extended his hand to a young redheaded girl who was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  Shyly, the girl reached toward him.

  From his hand popped an apple, as if it were a bouquet of flowers.

  “How did he do that?” Bailey asked, Brianna still braced in her arms.

  “Magic,” I whispered.

  “He won’t reveal any of his secrets,” Bailey groused.

  “Good for him.” I patted her back.

  “For my next trick,” Tito said, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “I’ll need help from a young gentleman. You, sir.”

  Gran’s granddaughters and their mother were in attendance. Accompanying them was the daughter-in-law’s nephew, a sullen, shaggy-haired fifteen-year-old.

  “Rise,” Tito commanded.

  After a gentle prod by his aunt, the boy got to his feet.

  Tito laid a piece of newspaper on the floor. “Stand on this, young man, and face the audience.”

  The teen obeyed.

  “I’m going to teach you the disappearing bandanna trick. Here we go.” Tito reached inside his cape and pulled out a blue bandanna. “Now, I have to admit I haven’t done this trick in a while, so please be patient with me.” He handed the bandanna to the boy. “Show the audience there’s nothing there.”

  Jaded beyond his years, the teen displayed the front and back of the bandanna.

  “Now, let’s take this other bandanna . . .” Tito reached inside his cape and pulled out a bright yellow banana. “Uh-oh. This isn’t a bandanna,” he said, looking perplexed, his stage charm in full gear.

  The audience laughed. The boy rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, well,” Tito said, “it’s Food Bowl week. Some magic fairy must have swapped this banana for the bandanna in fun. Let’s give it a try.” Tito stuck out his hand. “Young man, give me the bandanna, and you take the banana.” They swapped items. “Now, this next step will be tricky. Fold the banana in half and then in half again.”

  The teen gaped at him. “Really, dude?”

  “Do you want me to do it?” Tito winked.

  “Yeah. I’m not grossing out my hands.”

  Bailey whispered, “Is my husband adorable or what?”

  I said, “Adorable.”

  Tito draped the bandanna over one arm and took the banana from the boy. In a goofy manner, he folded the banana. It popped open. The audience roared with delight. He folded it again. The insides spilled onto the newspaper. More laughter and a few groans.

  “Okay, for the next step, I need to palm the bandanna . . . I mean, banana.” Tito hid it behind his left hand and frowned. “Hmm. You can still see it, can’t you, young man?”

  The teen nodded. “I’m not blind.”

  “Oh, well, I guess I’m not very good at this. Let’s continue.” In a boisterous stage-style voice, Tito said, “I will make this bandanna . . . I mean, banana . .
. disappear. First, I will fold the other bandanna, the real one, in quarters to create a makeshift bag. Like so.” Tito did. “Now, I will set the second bandanna—in this case the banana—in the first bandanna, and squish it into a small ball.” He dropped the mess of a banana into the folded bandanna. “Of course, I won’t really drop the banana in. I’ll palm it.”

  “But you did drop it in,” the boy said, clearly exasperated with Tito.

  “You’re right, again. I did.” Tito scratched his chin, working the schtick. “Okay, well, let’s see what happens. Next, I squish the bandanna—I mean banana—into a small ball.”

  The audience uttered hushed Uh-ohs, reacting the same as I. The real bandanna was doomed.

  “And then I’ll open the bandanna and show you the banana has disappeared,” Tito said.

  “Good luck with that,” the teen said dryly, eliciting chuckles from the crowd.

  “I think I should say some magic words,” Tito said. “Got any?”

  “Honestly, dude?”

  “Three will do.”

  “Yeah, fine. Magic, please work.”

  More laughter.

  “Good enough.” Tito repeated the boy’s words and waved his right hand over the folded bandanna. Then he released the corners of the bandanna, and voilà, the banana was gone.

  The teen gawked. “Whoa, man. Awesome. How did you do that? Will you teach me?”

  “Not today, but thanks for being a good sport. Fold the newspaper and make the remainder of the banana disappear . . . into the trash.”

  For the next half hour, Tito regaled the crowd with other disappearing acts and sleights of hand. In his spiel, he kept reminding them that they were being deceived and misdirected.

  When Tito concluded, although the crowd shouted, “More,” he ceded the floor to me.

  I thanked the crowd for coming, directed them to browse the various books we offered for sale. For the younger fans of the presentation, we’d stocked a few books, including the adorable Magic School Bus story Food Chain Frenzy. And then I reminded each to have a tasty Food Bowl week.

  As Tito left with Bailey, I noted they both looked happier, as if the set-to with Kylie had magically disappeared.