Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9) Read online

  “Let’s sit here.” I indicated the vintage kitchen table. “Will it be enough room?”

  “We’ll make it work.”

  I offered Harmony coffee but she declined. While she pulled item after item from her portfolio, I texted Rhett: Where are you?

  He responded with a quick: Stuck. Work. Sorry.

  Drat. Okay, I wouldn’t waste the woman’s time. We’d get started. Rhett would catch up.

  For thirty minutes, Harmony and I flipped through Save the Date cards and invitations and discussed fonts. I didn’t think Rhett would mind if I made the selection on the latter since we’d viewed so many together a week ago. To ensure his approval, I decided to go with the same font he’d used on Intime’s menu. When I needed to open the shop, Harmony and I made another appointment for Tuesday to go over the guest list and the wedding day timeline. I apologized for Rhett’s absence.

  “Don’t worry.” She smiled. “Happens all the time.”

  As I was writing my fiancé another text, Cinnamon strolled in. “I see you took my advice,” she said. “Didn’t you love Harmony?”

  Cinnamon’s mother, Pepper, trailed her. Both were carrying to-go cups from Latte Luck Café and wearing leggings, sweatshirts, and tennis shoes. That was where the similarity ended. I still found it hard to believe Cinnamon was Pepper’s daughter. Though Pepper was happier than when I’d first met her, she had a taut face and somewhat stern demeanor. Cinnamon, with her camp counselor attitude and girl-next-door haircut and complexion, had to have been born from a completely different batch of DNA.

  “Wasn’t Harmony wonderful?” Cinnamon went on.

  “Wonderful.”

  Cinnamon drew near and peered into my eyes. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “Don’t kid a kidder, Jenna Hart.” Cinnamon twirled a finger in my direction. “Out with it. Were Harmony’s suggestions over the top? Not to your liking? She can be flexible.”

  “It’s Rhett.” I sighed. “He didn’t make the appointment. I saw him last night at the opening of Intime. He promised . . .” I screwed up my mouth. My friend didn’t need to know what was rollicking around in my head. “He got hung up with something at work.”

  “Being a restaurant guy isn’t easy.” Cinnamon spoke from experience. She and Rhett had dated when he’d worked at the Grotto. When it went up in smoke, Cinnamon had suspected Rhett of the arson. Once she’d solved the crime and Rhett had been absolved, they were able to renew their friendship, but the love had fizzled.

  “Enough about me. Harmony and I are on the same page. How about you two?” I swung a finger between mother and daughter. “Did you go for a run?”

  “A walk-jog,” Pepper said. “I can’t do more than that.” She was my father’s age. “My knees are getting brittle. Ugh. Speaking of which, Cinn, I’m going to the shop and take a load off.” Pepper owned Beaders of Paradise. “Stop by before you leave. I made you something.”

  As Pepper left, Cinnamon rolled her eyes. “I can only imagine what my mother made. A sweater with a beaded neckline? Not my style.”

  We shared a laugh. Pepper was a gifted beader, but her taste was definitely not her daughter’s.

  Cinnamon took a sip from her cup. “Mm-mm. Latte Luck makes the best coffee.”

  “Was Savannah there?” I asked.

  “I don’t recall seeing her. Why?”

  “I ran into her last night, outside the restaurant. She was . . . upset.”

  “About?”

  “Nothing.” I moved to the register.

  “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging.” Cinnamon followed me. “You were concerned enough to mention her. What gives?”

  “I think she’s in love, but the love isn’t returned.”

  “You and I both know how that goes. Don’t worry. She’ll survive.” Cinnamon paused. “Hold on a sec. You aren’t thinking that she might do something to hurt herself, are you?”

  “No.”

  Cinnamon crooked a pinky at me. “You can’t help yourself, can you? Everyone in need becomes your pet project. You’re a natural born fixer.”

  “Not true.”

  “True. A fixer knows another fixer.”

  I unlocked the register and checked the till. Plenty of cash for today’s business. “It’s just . . . Savannah seemed quite shaken, bordering on angry.”

  “Maybe she’s hormonal. It’s going around, I hear.” Cinnamon patted her not-yet-showing baby bump. “If you don’t watch out, you might find yourself with one of these, too.”

  “Bite your tongue.”

  Cinnamon tilted her head. “Why the fierce response? Are you saying you’re not having babies before marriage, or not ever?”

  I stared at her, unsure of the answer. Rhett and I hadn’t discussed children. We would have to at some point. I was closing in on thirty-five.

  Katie bounded in from the breezeway, not yet in her chef’s coat, the bold vertical stripes of her dress swishing right and left. “When you have a moment, Jenna, can you come to the Nook? Midge Martin has stopped by and wants to talk about tomorrow’s demonstration.”

  “Go.” Cinnamon hooked her thumb. “I’ve got to clean up so I can do the city’s business. Keep the peace and all that rot.” She backhanded my abdomen. “You want one of these baby thingamabobs. You know you do. I’ve seen you doting over Brianna and Min-yi. Soon, my friend. Soon. Bye!” She ran out, cackling.

  My aunt rushed in. “Sorry I’m late. Lots of traffic today.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I’m going to the Nook for a few minutes.”

  “Tigger and I will hold down the fort,” my aunt assured me.

  “So will I!” Gran hurried in. “Traffic,” she added, echoing my aunt.

  “If Rhett calls,” I said, “tell him where I am. Katie, let’s go.” I followed her into the café. “Nice dress. Is it new?”

  “Hoo-boy, this old thing?” Katie plucked at the skirt. “I’ve had it for ten years, and I’ll have it for another ten. Who knew a baby could be so expensive? Keller and I are saving every dime for Min-yi’s college education.” She pointed ahead of her. “There’s Midge! Yoo-hoo, Midge.”

  Midge Martin, a wiry forty-something in a slimming floral sheath, was sitting at a table with a view of the ocean, although her back was to it. She rose and waved, her biceps steely from all the slicing and dicing she did at her restaurant. A self-made chef and a bit of a micromanager, she enjoyed doing most of the prep and plating herself.

  “Hi!” Katie called.

  The café wasn’t busy yet. The first diners were allowed in at nine, but most wandered in around ten. The Nook didn’t serve breakfast, only coffee and sweets until noon. Lunch and dinner were the primary meals. All the tables were draped with white linens and, like at Intime, boasted a single flower in a dainty crystal vase. Simple but elegant.

  Beyond Midge, I spotted Audrey and Eugene Tinsdale sitting at a table for two. Lola and Z.Z. were seated at another table, bent forward and whispering. Were they discussing Z.Z.’s umbrage with how the deputy’s daughter had treated my aunt? They both adored Aunt Vera. Were they devising a way to make Sasha relent?

  “Jenna, so good to see you,” Midge said as we arrived at her table. She rose to her feet and hugged me.

  Definitely steel. I let loose with an oof.

  “Sorry.” Midge released me and primped her frizzy honey-blonde hair. “Don’t know my own strength.”

  “Yes, you do,” I said.

  Midge guffawed. “Okay, you’re right. I do. Sit.” She resumed her seat.

  Katie and I took the chairs opposite her. A seagull flew by, dipping sideways as if peeking in the window to say hello. A feeling of well-being swelled within me. To me, seagulls were good omens.

  “How’s your daughter, Midge?” I asked. I’d seen the teenager come into the store with Midge once or twice. “Her name is Marigold, right?”

  “Good memory. She is a beauty. The light of my life.” Midge tattooed
the edge of the table with her thumb.

  “Is she a chef like you?” I asked.

  “She has promise.” Midge beamed with pride.

  Katie said, “Don’t be modest, Midge. Marigold excels at everything she does because of your dedication to her.”

  “Don’t give me the credit,” Midge murmured. “I’m afraid I’ve been spending way too much time on my career lately. Luckily, Marigold is quite talented in her own right.”

  “How old is she now?” I asked. “Thirteen? Fourteen?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Katie moaned. “Fifteen. The boy-crazy age.”

  “Tell me about it.” Midge jokingly poked her fingers in her ears and sang, “La, la, la.” She removed her fingers and drummed the table again. Rat-a-tat. “Now, to business. Regarding the demonstration—tomorrow—life is zooming at us. As I told Katie, I’m thinking of showing our audience how to make vegetarian pizza, salads, and appetizers.”

  I bobbed my head. “Katie mentioned that. It all sounds good, but will you have enough time to do so much? Maybe you should choose one?”

  Katie fanned the air. “We’ll have things prepped, and we’ll have created the final products for tasting. The whole reason for the demo is to show how easy it is to put meals together by shredding, chopping, and julienning.” She eyed Midge. “Is that a verb?”

  “If it’s not, it should be.” Midge’s eyes crinkled with humor. One of her great gifts, and the reason why her television cooking show was such a hit, was that Midge chatted animatedly while cooking. She made the audience feel like they were all her good friends. “How many have signed up?” Midge asked.

  “We’ve got fifty so far,” I said.

  “Terrific.”

  “Um”—I clicked my tongue—“I saw a name on the list that I wanted to run by you.”

  “Who?”

  “Kylie O is planning to attend.”

  Midge scowled. “Ooh, that woman. What is wrong with her? What did I do to deserve her wrath?”

  I screwed up my mouth, hesitant to blurt it out. “Someone told me that she believes a recipe in your cookbook was not yours.”

  “She’s wrong. It’s mine. It’s a Chinese chicken salad recipe.” Midge frowned.

  “Why would she claim otherwise?” I asked.

  “Why?” Midge squawked. “Why, you ask?”

  Katie rolled her eyes at me. Apparently, she’d heard Midge’s rant before.

  “Because Kylie is vindictive.” Midge blew out a stream of exasperated breath. “Honestly, there are plenty of recipes that contain the same ingredients. Take sugar cookies, for instance. How many ways can you change up that recipe? When it comes down to it, a recipe is all about the voice of the chef and the way the tips and preparation are conveyed. I’m big on tips. Shredding is not as easy as it sounds.” Midge swatted the air. “Don’t worry, if Kylie shows up, I will be the epitome of grace and decorum. She will not rile me. I will not embarrass you or your store in front of the attendees. I promise.” Midge drummed the table again, rose to her feet, and held up three fingers to certify her vow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get cracking. I’m giving another opening statement upstairs at the theater before they screen more episodes of Shredding. Ciao.” She blew kisses to both of us and scurried out of the café.

  “Whew,” Katie said. “She is a bundle of energy.”

  “She sure is.”

  “Let me know if you need anything further. I’m heading into the kitchen.” Katie hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “Busy day ahead.”

  I weaved through a couple of tables and stopped when I heard a chair screech and a woman say, “You can’t trust her.”

  I pivoted and spied Audrey Tinsdale on her feet, aiming an accusatory finger at Eugene. In a shirred smock top, leggings, and a minimum of makeup, she looked ready for a day of teaching art.

  “Sweetheart, sit down,” Eugene ordered. “I told you. She’s going—”

  “That’s not what you said.”

  “Yes, it is. But . . .” Eugene spread his arms.

  “But?” Audrey shot a hand into the air. “That’s your answer? But?”

  “What I was going to say is but she needs more time to get her affairs—”

  “Affairs.” Audrey grunted. “Honestly, Eugene, for a man of words, you come up short all the time.” She grabbed her cross-body purse off the chair, slung it on, and swept past me.

  “Hi,” I said.

  Audrey mumbled a response and pushed through the exit door.

  Eugene threw money on the table and hurried after his wife.

  As he neared, I said, “Eugene, is there anything I can do to help?”

  Eugene’s face flamed red. Hadn’t he realized everyone in the restaurant had heard the exchange? “No, Jenna. It’s a long story. I . . .” He smoothed the lapels of his jacket. “I need to downsize, and Kylie Obendorfer has agreed to leave.”

  Kylie was the she in question? That surprised me. The Tinsdales and Kylie had seemed to have had such a lovely dinner last night. Audrey, in particular, had enjoyed chatting with Kylie. Savannah had said Kylie thought of Audrey like a mother. What had provoked this morning’s outburst? Money? Hard times? If Eugene let a few people go, would the savings in salary help him keep the newspaper?

  “In order to downsize,” I said, “will you need to fire others? Like Tito?”

  “I’m not firing Tito. He’s solid.”

  Phew. I breathed easier. Even though my aunt had drawn Bailey and Katie into the fold by giving them a small limited partnership in the Cookbook Nook and café, Bailey and Tito needed both of their incomes to raise a child.

  “This all pertains to the coverage about food and restaurants,” Eugene went on. “Other than during this one special week, people want real news, not fluff. Kylie understands. She told me she has another future in mind.”

  Chapter 6

  The morning sped by at the shop. Dozens of customers came in asking for Midge’s cookbook, Shred to Your Heart’s Content. We’d ordered fifty for the demonstration. Usually attendees each purchased a copy, but at this rate, we were going to sell out before the event. I telephoned the publisher that had issued the cookbook and asked if we could get a rush delivery on another twenty to thirty copies. The publisher agreed and would make a special delivery Saturday morning. I thanked him profusely, ended the call, and crowed. How I loved independent companies. So little red tape to cut through.

  At noon, Bailey rushed into the store dressed in leggings and a mesh insert tank. “Tina has Brianna. I’m going to a private pilates class with Alexa. Want to come with me?”

  “It won’t be private if I come.”

  “That’s okay. I can use all the support I can get. If I don’t get rid of this baby tummy, my self-esteem is going to plummet.” Bailey rubbed the small bulge.

  I thought of Savannah, who had a real reason to suffer low self-esteem.

  “Gran and your aunt will watch the store,” Bailey said. “Please? Be brave, be bold!” she shouted like an Alexa convert.

  Seeing as the rush from the morning had subsided, and knowing my pal was wound up with pent-up energy, I said, “I could use a good stretch.”

  I disappeared into the stockroom and changed into a pair of jogging shorts and a Crystal Cove is Cooking T-shirt that featured our logo on the back—advertising was all about getting the word out there—and then I walked with my pal to Your Wellness, Alexa’s studio, which was located on the second floor of the Boldine Building, one of the mini San Francisco bayside structures. I’d visited the studio for group classes but never for a private workout. Alexa had spent a fortune putting it together. The space boasted distressed brick walls and sleek light mahogany floors. In addition to six pilates machines, there were two ballet barres, a floor-to-ceiling pole, multiple mirrors, and a wall between the glass-enclosed office and restroom filled with resistance bands, loops, and barbells.

  Bailey tried to open the glass door leading to the building’s foyer. “It�
�s locked. Looks like the stores are closed. Now what?”

  On the bottom floor of the building was an eclectic set of three shops: a china and crystal shop, a jeweler, and a florist, all owned and operated by members of the Boldine family.

  “Maybe the shop owners took a vacation because of Food Bowl week,” I said. “None of their businesses are tourist stops or particularly good draws for foodies.”

  Bailey stepped back and peered up at the second floor. I did the same.

  Yesterday, as I’d passed the townhouses after Tito’s dust-up with Kylie O, I’d noticed a For Rent sign in one of the upper-story windows. It was gone, which made me smile. I loved how prosperous our little town was.

  “I’m right on time.” Bailey checked her watch. “Alexa is never—”

  “Hi, Bailey.” Alexa Tinsdale, dressed in sleek black leggings and a long-sleeved shirt, a hefty tote bag slung over one shoulder, appeared behind us. “Hi, Jenna. Where’s Tito?”

  “Tito?” Bailey shook her head. “He’s not supposed to work out with me.”

  “No. You have a private.”

  “And we never schedule back-to-back sessions,” Bailey added.

  “Yours was impromptu,” Alexa reminded her.

  “Right.” Bailey stabbed her temple. “Baby brain.”

  “Tito has a standing appointment at ten thirty,” Alexa continued. “I texted him that I was running late. Flat tire following a home session.” She finger-combed her short hair. “Of course, my client drove off before she realized my situation. Long story short, I tried Triple A, but my phone kept cutting out, so I had to change the darned tire myself. Not fun. Let’s hear it for hand sanitizer.”

  “Car trouble must be going around,” Bailey said. “Tito’s fan belt busted last night. He’s driving a loaner. Maybe that’s where he went. To the repair shop.”

  Alexa pulled her cell phone from her tote bag and scanned her messages. “Aw, yeah, Tito texted me. He thinks I forgot our appointment. He must not have gotten my text. Weird. I’ll make it up to him.” Alexa tapped a code on a keypad beside the glass door. Something clicked and the door swung open. “After you, Bailey. Are you joining us, Jenna?”