Sifting Through Clues Read online

  “Don’t any of you sneak in there,” Lola warned. “Vera swears there’s magic in the spice combination she uses. If any of you messes with her concoction, you’re toast. She promises the meal will increase your brainpower trifold.”

  “I could use some brainpower,” my father joked.

  “Why?” I took a sip of the wine, loving the flavors of melon and vanilla.

  “Because Cinnamon called me today.”

  I silently harrumphed. She hadn’t returned my call.

  “She was quite bereft about her mother’s plight and wanted my two cents.” My father and Cinnamon went way back. At the behest of my mother, he had reached out to Cinnamon during her teens because she’d been a wild child. Having a father who’d abandoned her had something to do with it. Dad counseled her until she got herself under control. To this day, she was more like a daughter to him than a friend. She sought his advice and listened.

  “Dad, I have a theory—”

  Lola cleared her throat on purpose. My father cut her a look and received her message: end of discussion.

  “We’ll chat about this another time,” Dad said and set the wine bottle aside.

  “But—”

  “Another time. It’s Bailey and Tito’s night.” He sat on the armchair closest to Lola and swooped the lock of hair off his forehead. “So, mom-to-be, how are you feeling?”

  “Good.” Bailey beamed. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Need any help setting up the baby’s room? I’d like to get to it before your mother and I go on safari.” A few months ago, my father and Lola had taken a cruise on the Danube. Now they were heading to Africa. Pre-baby. Lola wanted one last travel fling before she became a full-fledged grandmother. My parents hadn’t traveled much because my father had been devoted to his work at the FBI. An analyst and then consultant, he’d always been on call. When he retired and opened his hardware store, he had time on his hands. Sadly, my mother didn’t.

  Bailey smiled. “I don’t think we need help, Cary, but thanks. Tito hung curtains. To my surprise, he’s quite handy with an automatic drill.”

  Tito smiled. “My grandfather was a carpenter.”

  “And we’ve ordered the crib and finally chosen a color scheme,” Bailey added.

  “Yellow and brown,” I chimed.

  My father scrunched his nose. “Yellow and brown?”

  I said, “Bailey and Tito are designing the baby’s bedroom with everything giraffe. According to studies, muted colors are soothing for a baby, and giraffes are gentle creatures, which fill the baby’s room with positive energy.”

  They had already repainted dresser drawers to resemble a giraffe’s hide and had found wall lights and other little items that reflected the theme. Just last week, I’d purchased a plush giraffe chair as a baby gift.

  “I love giraffes,” Tito said. “Their long graceful necks. The way they look at you and don’t say a word. You know what they’re thinking.”

  Over the past couple of years, Tito had grown on me. I would never forget our first meeting. A reporter for the Crystal Cove Courier, he’d barged into the Cookbook Nook, eager for a story about the murder of my friend—the murder for which I’d been accused. At the time, he’d reminded me of a boxer or bulldog—broad face, broad shoulders, short legs. Now, he just resembled a cuddly puppy, totally smitten with my pal.

  Lola said, “I saw the cutest giraffes at Play Room Toy Store.”

  As she clasped Bailey’s hand and started to describe each one, Tito leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “Jenna,” he whispered, “what can you tell me about the murder?”

  “Mi amor, no,” Bailey said. “Not tonight. Please.”

  “Pero, novia—”

  She put a finger to his lips. “At least wait until after dinner.”

  Tito agreed. He couldn’t say no to her.

  We dined on raita, a shredded cucumber appetizer served with pita triangles, and followed that with Aunt Vera’s curry. Every morsel was delectable. The turmeric and other spices in the curry were perfectly balanced. The conversation revolved around decorating the baby’s room and the plan should the baby come early. No one thought to ask about Rhett’s and my wedding arrangements. I was glad they didn’t. We’d know more after we visited Napa.

  Following the meal, Bailey and Lola helped in the kitchen. My aunt put me in charge of serving the pear brandy she’d discovered at a distillery near Carmel. She believed the post-dessert beverage would aid digestion, especially after the heavy meal.

  The men and I retreated to the patio. I poured the brandy into four Riedel tumbler glasses set on a tray on the coffee table, handed one to Rhett and took one for myself, and settled onto the divan beside him. Dad lifted a glass and resumed his place in his favorite chair. Tito didn’t drink. He was too busy pacing.

  “Can we talk now, Jenna?” Tito asked.

  “About?”

  “Don’t be coy. The murder.”

  “Here we go,” my father muttered.

  “Dad, for Cinnamon and Pepper’s sake, we should chat about it. Besides, Cinnamon wanted your input. A discussion might give you something to go on.” I eyed Tito. “Tell me what you know so far.”

  Tito had picked up that Ivy had been stabbed in her kitchen with a quartz shard, but he didn’t seem to know about the gold stones on her eyes or the pieces of aventurine in her hands. I told him about those two things but made him promise, on his baby’s crib, to keep a lid on it. He absolutely could not write about it. He crossed his heart.

  “Who are the suspects?” he asked.

  “Pepper Pritchett,” Dad said.

  “No way.” Tito flapped his hand. “She couldn’t kill a flea. She’s got an edge to her, but she has a decent heart.”

  I felt the same way.

  “Who else?” he asked. “What about Ivy’s boyfriend, that clothing store guy?”

  “You mean Hank Hemmings?” I asked. “He wasn’t her boyfriend.”

  “I heard he was dating her.”

  “I think that’s a rumor.”

  Rhett said, “Even if he was seeing her, why kill her?”

  I agreed, then said, “Oren Michaels might have a better reason to want her dead. Ivy broke up with him.”

  Tito pivoted. “A jilted man as a killer is so clichéd.”

  Dad said, “It happens more often than not.”

  “Pepper believes Ivy’s clerk might have been in love with her.” I recalled Pepper ranting about Ivy setting her sights on Hank when she already had two men interested in her. “What if he—”

  “Was Ivy that enchanting?” Rhett cut in.

  I smirked. “She was smart, good-looking, and wealthy. A pretty attractive package.”

  Tito harrumphed. “That boy is in his twenties, no? Ivy was more than twice his age.”

  “Haven’t you heard of a cougar?” my father asked.

  “I don’t see it,” Tito said. “No. He did not kill her.”

  I smirked. Columbo, he was not.

  Tito spanked the back of one hand against the palm of the other. “Let’s discuss Hank Hemmings. What do we know about him other than he is a traveling salesman?” The way he said the term sounded lewd.

  “He is not.” I narrowed my gaze.

  “Is too.” Like a terrier, Tito had sunk his teeth into a theory and wasn’t letting go. “I have seen him with regularity at the San Jose airport.”

  “He travels, of course. He has distributors all over the Western Hemisphere. He sells everything from sewing kits to men’s clothing. Hats are his specialty.”

  Tito said, “Who wears hats around here?”

  “Everyone wears sunhats. He sells fedoras, too,” I said. “For many of his clientele, Crystal Cove is their second home. A lot of them work and live in the city. Men still wear classic hats there.”

  “I suppose.” Tito didn’t sound convinced. “I will keep my eye on him, just in case.”

  I squeezed Rhett’s hand. He squeezed back. Tito was a character.

 
“Speaking of eyes . . .” My father twirled a hand. “Tell us more about the stones on Ivy’s eyes.”

  I swiveled to face him. “I think they were eyestones.”

  “Eye what?”

  Quickly, I recapped the theory I’d discussed with my aunt and Bailey.

  My father said, “I agree that the killer wasn’t doing anything loving with those stones. You should tell Cinnamon.”

  “Me?” I held up both hands. “No way. I’m not going to.”

  “I bet you two bucks you will.” Dad pulled money from his wallet and slapped it on the table. “You won’t be able to help yourself.”

  I nabbed the bills and jammed them back in his hand. “You do it.”

  “Okay, okay.” He cackled. “Now, what’s this I heard about you witnessing a fight between Ivy and Crusibella?”

  “Rhett and I did. Aunt Vera, too. Late Friday night. Her dog was barking. That’s what caught our attention.”

  My father looked at Rhett, who nodded.

  “That Crusibella. Oy!” Tito continued to pace, flailing his hands like an orchestra conductor. “She claims to be spiritual, but she can stir up dust. She comes into the Courier at least once a week to complain about something.”

  “Really?” I didn’t know Crusibella well. Until recently, I hadn’t even known her name. But she’d always come across as peace and calm personified—other than the night when she and Ivy had gone at it. Whenever she visited Aunt Vera for a reading, she talked about pursuing inner peace and balance. “What does she complain about?”

  “The noise. The pollution. You name it.”

  “She does believe everything should be pure,” I said.

  Tito aimed a finger at me. “Did you know she wants an ordinance making each item in our local grocery stores organic? No wiggle room.”

  Rhett said, “She’ll have to take that up with the courts.”

  “She has. Repeatedly.” Tito threw his arms into the air.

  “Tito, light somewhere.” Dad pointed to a chair. “You’re driving me crazy.”

  Sufficiently cowed, Tito sat and tucked his hands between his knees.

  “Jenna,” my father said, “let’s revisit Ivy and Crusibella’s argument.”

  I explained how Crusibella had intended to buy Dreamcatcher and believed she had a deal with Ivy, but Ivy had reneged.

  Rhett said, “Could Crusibella buy it from Ivy’s estate?”

  “Did Ivy have a will?” my father asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Her parents live in San Francisco.”

  Tito popped to his feet. “Siblings? Children? Ex-husband?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “I do.” Aunt Vera pulled over a chair from the dining table and joined us. “Ivy’s father had a prosperous career. After serving in the war, he joined Lockheed Martin. According to Ivy, he was a tough nut. He was all about the bottom line, the dollars and cents, and her mother was colder than an igloo.” In order to give a true reading when telling someone’s fortune, my aunt did her best to dredge up an exhaustive history from her client. Her brain was a steel trap; she rarely forgot a detail. “Ivy’s younger sister died when Ivy was in high school. Heart complications. Ivy blamed her parents for not taking her sister to the doctor when she said her heart hurt. Ivy didn’t speak another word to them. When she left for college, her parents gave her a flat sum of cash and washed their hands of her.”

  “Interesting,” my father murmured.

  “To add insult to injury, Ivy married, but her husband died a year later. Also heart complications.”

  “How tragic,” I said.

  Aunt Vera nodded. “Ivy suffered, but she rallied. She was always trying to better herself as well as prove herself to her parents. That’s why she bought Dreamcatcher.”

  I recalled Ivy crowing to Crusibella about how she’d been building her base of knowledge, pebble by pebble.

  “Vera, do you know if Ivy had a will?” my father asked.

  “If she didn’t, I suppose, given that she has no heirs, that her estate will revert to her parents.”

  Rhett clasped my hand. “What’s Crusibella’s alibi?”

  “She was at home preparing food for the book club,” I said. “No one saw her.”

  “I truly don’t see Crusibella as a killer,” my aunt said as she wrapped the green shawl she’d brought with her around her shoulders. “She really is spiritual. Living a balanced life means everything to her. What about Ivy’s employee?”

  Tito fanned a hand. “We discussed this already. The boy is in his twenties. Too young.”

  “For murder?” My aunt raised an eyebrow.

  Tito reddened.

  “How about dissatisfied customers?” Aunt Vera asked.

  Dad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and folded his hands. He positioned his chin on top. “Why would a customer do her in?”

  “Perhaps one of them believed, as Crusibella did, that Ivy wasn’t a devotee of what she sold,” my aunt replied. “I’ve heard tales of Ivy peddling the wrong item or coercing a customer to buy some unnecessary thing.”

  “Also”—I raised a finger—“Ivy knew about the skeletons in people’s closets.”

  “Lots of people,” my aunt added.

  “Humbug,” my father grumbled.

  “Dad, she knew things like who’d had a face-lift and who was in debt.”

  Rhett laughed. “What did she do, hypnotize them to cough up their secrets?”

  Tito said, “Maybe she did believe in the minerals and made potions that would coerce people to spill their guts.”

  My aunt hooted. “Heavens, no. She was a snoop, pure and simple.”

  I flashed on the moment I’d glimpsed Ivy and Oren outside the shop. Had they been spying on Crusibella and Pepper in the parking lot to get some dirt?

  Tito picked up the last glass of brandy and took a sip. “Maybe Ivy had a personal hit list outlining who she’d blab on next. Her victims would have plenty of motive.”

  Dad scoffed. “What was she, an aspiring gossip columnist?”

  “Money and entitlement equal bored,” Tito said.

  Rhett shook his head. “Would someone honestly kill to keep a face-lift confidential?”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” I said, “but Ivy is dead, and someone did it.”

  Chapter 8

  Rhett spent the night but skipped breakfast Monday morning to hurry to work. I skipped it, too. I had too much to do at the shop. Bad decision. By midmorning, I was starved.

  Putting Bailey and Tina in charge of the shop, I made my way to the Nook Café and sat down for a real breakfast—eggs Benedict perfectly plated on two halves of an English muffin. While I ate the first half of my meal, I watched the customers rise from their tables and pluck cookbooks from the new bookshelves, which did my heart proud. I hoped they would wander into the Cookbook Nook and purchase the books they’d browsed.

  As I was starting in on the second portion, Katie hurried up to me, her chef’s coat splattered with something red. A memory of Ivy lying dead on the floor of her kitchen whizzed through my mind. I set my fork down, appetite quashed.

  “How are you holding up?” She plunked into the chair opposite me. “You look healthy. Your eyes are clear. I like that mocha top you’re wearing.”

  The sweater had belonged to my mother, and sometimes when I was feeling off, it cheered me to don something of hers.

  “Is your system wonky?” Katie asked. “It must be wonky. Mine would be wonky after what you saw. You know what?” She bounded to her feet. “I’m going to make you a turkey-asparagus sandwich to take with you. Turkey is rich in tryptophan, which will calm your nerves, and asparagus is filled with antioxidants as well as tryptophan so it’ll give you a double whammy of good stuff. Plus, I’ll throw in a few pumpkin seeds for you to nosh on. They’re packed with zinc, which helps the body manage stress.”

  “Look who’s been studying up on nutritional values.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “W
ait until you taste the dressing I put on it.”

  “Please don’t go to any trouble.” I eyed my uneaten food. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re going to be sooner or later. I won’t take no for an answer. So”—she tapped the table—“I didn’t ask the other day. Who do the police think did it?”

  “Pepper.”

  “You’re kidding. That explains why Cinnamon was pounding down apple pancakes earlier.” Katie stared out the window with the view of Beaders of Paradise. “She must be frantic to prove her mother innocent.”

  “She ate pancakes?”

  “Two helpings.”

  I gawked. Cinnamon’s diet typically consisted of protein and vegetables with an occasional dessert thrown in.

  “If I were you, I’d contact her,” Katie said. “She could use a friend to talk to. Now, stay put. I’ll be right back with your to-go meal.”

  As she hurried off, I shook my head. What was going on? Was the universe conspiring to pit me against Cinnamon? First, Aunt Vera ordered me to put myself in the line of fire with her and then my father, and now Katie?

  Minutes later, Katie came back with my lunch packed in a to-go bag. Before returning to the kitchen, she made me promise to keep her up to date on the murder. I said I would and walked through the breezeway into the shop.

  As I was passing the vintage table where Aunt Vera was concluding a tarot card reading for the fretful wife of the Crystal Cove Bank manager, Tina tore by me, the bow of her pale pink blouse untied and fluttering like wings. She raced out the front door into the parking lot, her cell phone pressed to her ear.

  “Uh-oh,” I whispered to my aunt when she joined me at the sales counter. “What’s up with Tina?”

  “Boyfriend troubles.” She removed her amber-colored turban and fluffed her short hair.

  “He was persona non grata the other day.”

  “I think he’s toast today.”

  “What happened?” I set my lunch behind the sales counter.

  Aunt Vera followed me. “From what I could gather, she caught him with a redhead. Holding hands at Latte Luck Café. He said she was jumping to conclusions, of course.” She snorted. “You’d think he’d have been a little more discreet. There are plenty of cafés in towns other than Crystal Cove.”