Grilling the Subject Page 7

  “Although they were standing at the rear of the store,” Gran went on, “I could hear what they were saying. I have excellent hearing for a woman my age.” She gestured for me to check out her ears. “No hearing aids.”

  “And?”

  “D’Ann was warning Sylvia that her reputation would be ruined if word got out, and Sylvia had better fix it, sooner rather than later.”

  “Fix what?”

  “That I can’t be sure about, but”—Gran lowered her voice—“if you ask me, I think D’Ann believed one of those expensive pieces she bought from Sylvia was paste. She said Sylvia was swindling her, and believe you me, no one likes to be scammed.”

  * * *

  Around lunchtime, I retreated to the teensy office tucked into the stockroom, and, figuring Dad had been too preoccupied to contact my siblings, first called my sister, Whitney, a mom of three and living in Los Angeles, and then contacted my brother Mitchell, an architect who lived in Napa. Whitney shrieked when I told her our father’s situation and said she would drive up that instant. I calmed her—no easy task—and told her to stay put; I would keep her in the loop. Mitchell, as laid-back as ever, said he knew Dad was innocent and justice would prevail. In the meantime, he would go to an ashram and meditate. His soothing tone did wonders for my own peace of mind.

  Following those two calls, I dialed my father’s cell phone number. I wanted to know where things stood between the police and him. He didn’t answer. After three attempts, I called Lola, who sounded frantic. They hadn’t found the Goodwill receipt yet, so she had sent him to pick up some sandwiches at Mum’s the Word Diner while she turned her house upside down looking for the blasted thing.

  “What a nightmare,” was the last thing Lola said before ending the call.

  A nightmare, indeed. I clasped my purse and told my aunt I would be back shortly.

  Bailey caught me at the door. “Where are you headed?”

  “To The Pier to find my father.”

  “I’m coming with you. I’ve heard parking is a zoo. The Wild West Extravaganza events down there are hopping. You might need my help.”

  Minutes later we arrived at The Pier. Similar to the Santa Monica Pier in Southern California, which was recognizable because movie companies regularly used it as a set piece, The Pier in Crystal Cove was a long boardwalk featuring a carousel, carny games, shops, and eateries. In addition, there was a small, rustic theater that offered a variety of entertainment and a huge sport shop, owned by Rhett.

  At the parking lot entrance, Bailey said, “As I predicted. This place is jammed. Out you go! I’ll look for a spot.”

  On the boardwalk, hordes of people strolled along enjoying the fabulous spring weather—singles, couples, and families, many dressed in western garb. Aside from the movie Footloose, I had never seen so many women wearing shirts tied at the midriff, cutoff jeans, and western boots.

  Hawkers with tickets met me at every turn offering rope-jumping lessons, mechanical bull rides, and more. I ignored them, my gaze keen for my father.

  Bailey swooped in beside me and knuckled my shoulder. “Hey, look, the stunt show is under way!”

  Halfway down the boardwalk, beyond Mum’s the Word Diner, a crowd had gathered in front of The Theater on The Pier. The group burst into laughter.

  Pop, crack! A fake gun fired. Then another.

  Bailey dragged me closer.

  Two men—outlaws—stood atop the roof of the theater. Another man—the sheriff—posed below, gun aimed. He was trying to take out the goofy outlaws—goofy because one was doing a ridiculous dance on the roof and the other was flapping his hat and yelling, “Catch me if you can!”

  The crowd laughed uproariously.

  As we neared the diner, I said to Bailey, “You watch the show. I’m going inside.” I veered left and entered. I didn’t see my father and asked Rosie, a waitress who loves the color purple right down to the highlights in her crimped black hair, whether she had seen him.

  “He left with a to-go bag, Jenna-juices-juggernauts.” Rosie is a huge fan of mnemonics, a memory device that helps her recall larger pieces of information, like names and faces and long lists of food orders. Every time I come in the diner, she has a new grouping for my name. “I think he headed toward the far end of the pier. You know how he loves to watch the other fishermen.”

  I exited and searched for Bailey. She wasn’t watching the stunt show; she had moved to where a woman with braided pigtails was teaching folks how to do the Texas skip, a rope trick where the person holding a long rope with a vertical loop starts twirling. As the loop widens to human size, the trickster leaps through. Back and forth. A pile of ropes and multiple pairs of boot spurs hung on a nearby rack.

  “Yeehaw!” the pigtailed woman yelled, making the trick look easy. After a demonstration, she stopped, let the rope fall to the ground, and said, “Who’s up first?”

  Bailey thrust her hand into the air. She was holding a ticket. “Me!” She bolted toward the woman but paused when she spotted me. “Oh, hey, Jenna, I was—”

  “My father is that way.”

  “Right.” She peeked at the roping woman and back at me.

  I could tell how much she wanted to do it. “Go ahead. I’ll deal with Dad.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. It’ll be better that way. One on one.”

  “I’ll teach you how to do this later.”

  I aimed a finger at her. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

  As I weaved through the sea of people, I heard Bailey whoop with glee, and sorrow snared my heart. Oh, to feel so carefree right now.

  I found my father exactly where Rosie thought he would be, at the end of the boardwalk admiring another fisherman’s catch.

  “Dad!” I yelled and rushed to him.

  “Jenna.” He slung an arm around me and kissed the side of my forehead. “What’s up?”

  I scowled at him. What’s up? Mr. Casual, as if I were there to pay him a social visit? “Why aren’t you answering my phone calls?”

  He withdrew his cell phone from his pocket and muttered, “Well, I’ll be. I never heard it ring.”

  “That’s because it’s set on vibrate.” I snatched it and switched the sound button to On. I stuffed it back in his hand.

  “I didn’t feel it vibrate, either.” He arched an eyebrow. “I repeat, ‘What’s up?’”

  “You. Cinnamon. Sylvia.” My voice spiraled upward. “I’ve been worried sick, and—”

  My father put a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

  “I spoke to Lola. She hasn’t found the receipt for Goodwill.”

  “She won’t need to.”

  “Why not? Because a witness who saw you at the lake came forward?”

  “No.”

  “Then you need that receipt!”

  “Let’s walk.” He bid good-bye to the fisherman and, while escorting me along the pier, opened his to-go bag from the diner. “Want a French fry?”

  “No. Look, Dad—”

  “Jenna, relax.”

  “How can I?” I wriggled out of his grasp. “What time did you leave this morning?”

  “Like I said, well before dawn, which was—”

  “Five forty-seven. Got it.” I licked my lips. “It’s an indelicate question, but can Lola corroborate that?”

  “No. We don’t cohabitate, but we will soon.”

  “What?” I squeaked. “You’re moving in together?”

  “We’re talking about getting married.”

  “What? You can’t.”

  “Of course we can. We’re both adults. We don’t need your—”

  “No, I mean, you can’t get married before Bailey says ‘I do.’ Please. Don’t steal her thunder. She’s so . . .” I twirled a hand. “It’s taken her a long time to say yes to a man.”

  Da
d slipped a hand around my elbow and squeezed. “I love how you watch out for your friends.”

  “I’m not kidding. Don’t mess this up for her.”

  “Lola said the same thing. We’re all on the same page.”

  I breathed easier. “Okay, back to you. You went fishing early. Then what?”

  “I got your call, so I came back to meet with Cinnamon.”

  Out of nowhere, I felt a presence. Moving along with us. At our pace. I searched for Rhett, thinking maybe he had seen me pass his shop and came to find me, but I didn’t see him. Farther ahead, a man in a baseball cap peeked over his shoulder. The visor cast a shadow, obscuring his face. Was he looking at me? He whipped his head to the front and picked up his pace. To avoid me? No, of course not. How ridiculous. Being upset about my father was making me suffer paranoid delusions, yet again.

  I refocused on my father. “Did you catch anything this morning?”

  “Sure, but I threw it back in, as I usually do.” He halted and swung me to face him. “Jenna, I did not kill Sylvia Gump.”

  “I know that, but why would Ronald lie about seeing you there?”

  “Maybe he saw someone who looked similar to me. A man or even a woman my size. Maybe he didn’t see anyone and the rumors are true.”

  “What rumors?”

  “He’s losing it. He’s addled. There’s been talk. Supposedly, he’s retiring. No one is going out on a limb and calling it early-onset Alzheimer’s, but let’s say he’s not completely attentive to detail.”

  “Ronald said he saw a man in a red plaid coat.”

  My father’s eyes grew steely. “Whose side are you taking?”

  “I’m not taking sides.”

  “Sure sounds like you are.” My father marched ahead.

  “Dad!” I chased after him and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Who else could have killed her?”

  “I hate to think negatively about anyone, and I hate to speculate.”

  “Speculate! Please!”

  “Jenna, I can defend myself. Stay out of it.” He quickened his pace and made a beeline into Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store.

  Chapter 8

  Bailey nabbed my arm at the threshold of the sporting goods store. “Hey!”

  “Let go. I’ve got to catch up with my father. He—” I paused. A cord of rope hung over her shoulder; she carried a pair of spurs in her left hand. “Did you buy those?”

  “Yep! They’re nickel silver spurs with seven-pointed rowels that will jangle until the cows come home.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Boy, are you easy.”

  “I’m hooked. Wait till you see me go. It’s like jumping rope. Remember how we used to love to jump rope? I even remember your favorite song: ‘Not Last Night but the Night Before.’ Remember the lyrics? ‘Twenty-four robbers came knocking at my door.’ Ooh, I loved that one! Especially the speed counting. ‘One, two, three’—” She stopped abruptly. “Hey, what’s going on? You look like you’re about to blow a fuse.”

  I hitched my head toward my father, who was retreating to the section with fishing rods. “He’s trying to ditch me.”

  “Why?”

  “We exchanged words. He wants me to butt out, except I won’t. I’ll win him over. I’m sure of it. Go back to the shop. I’ll fill you in when I return.”

  “Ahem.” She pinched my arm. “Did you forget I’m your ride?”

  “I’ll get a lift or I’ll hoof it. Don’t worry.”

  I plowed after my father, intent on finishing our discussion. I found him chatting with Rhett by a wide selection of rods. Dad owned quite a collection.

  Rhett, who was also a dedicated fisherman, handed my father an aqua-and-black rod. “This is the newest Scott fly rod, a Tidal.”

  “Dad!”

  He spun toward me, his eyes steely. “You followed me?”

  “Yep.” I grinned broadly. “I’m hot on your trail.”

  My father blew a stream of frustrated air through his nose. “This discussion is over.”

  “Not by a long shot.” I moseyed up to Rhett and kissed him on the cheek. “I said we’d meet up. I didn’t expect it to be under these circumstances. Sorry, but I can’t hang out for long.”

  “I’ll take every minute I can get.” Rhett ran his fingers down my arm and took hold of my hand.

  I shivered with delight. The man was definitely going to win my heart and soul at this rate. But not right now. I squeezed his hand, then released it and refocused on my father. “Dad, we need to discuss your defense.”

  My father’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Oho! Now you’re an attorney? When did you pass the bar?”

  “C’mon. I just want to make sure that—”

  “Cary!” a man bellowed loudly enough to rouse Rip Van Winkle.

  We all turned. Shane Maverick, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt with the Wild West Extravaganza logo on it, was standing in the shoe area examining a hiking boot.

  “I thought I heard your voice,” he said.

  “Shane!” my father shouted, as if calling to a long-lost friend. “Join us.” He beckoned him, obviously hoping that if he added another person to our group I would end my interrogation. I wouldn’t.

  “Dad.”

  “Not now, Jenna.”

  Shane sauntered to us, a sample boot in hand. As he walked, the muscles in his arms flexed. I heard a couple of female customers audibly swoon; yes, he was that good looking. Shane came to a stop and acknowledged me with a quick appraisal. “Jenna, you look beautiful, as always.”

  “Get out of here,” I joked. Beautiful? I’d dashed down the boardwalk. My hair had to be a wreck, and my cheeks were probably flushed—not my best look.

  “You do. Fresh and sun-kissed.” Shane made eye contact with Rhett. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m well, thanks,” Rhett said, his tone measured.

  “Say, Cary.” Shane met my father’s gaze. “I heard what happened to Sylvia. What a shame. Someone told me the police are looking into you as a suspect. Supposedly Ronald Gump saw you. Tell me it’s not so.”

  “Ronald thinks he saw me, but he didn’t. I’m innocent. I was fishing, but that doesn’t seem to matter.” He leveled me with a gaze.

  I mouthed, I do believe you.

  He heaved a sigh, and for the first time, I noticed his shoulders were sagging and his voice sounded hoarse. How I wished I could cart him back to my place and fix him a comfort-food meal, using one of my mother’s recipes. I had perfected a few of his favorites, including her turkey meat loaf.

  “My condolences, man,” Shane said.

  “Thanks.”

  “How do you two know each other?” Rhett asked, looking between Shane and my father.

  “I’ve bought a home in the neighborhood,” Shane said.

  “He hasn’t closed escrow on the house yet,” my father added.

  “We’re days away,” Shane said. “None too soon for Emily. She’s about ready to pop.”

  “When are you two getting married?” Rhett asked.

  Shane stiffened. “That’s a sort of private question, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know, is it? You’re engaged. Most people who are engaged set a date.” There was a bite to Rhett’s tone.

  Shane grinned, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry, dude. I’ll make an honest woman of her. By the way, I want a pair of these boots. Size twelve.” He shoved the boots in Rhett’s direction.

  Rhett didn’t accept them. Instead, he called over a sporty saleswoman and asked her to find the boots for Shane. She hurried off. Something curious passed across Shane’s face, like he was miffed Rhett hadn’t done his bidding. Then Shane swiveled, turning his back on Rhett, and Rhett flinched. He rotated his head to loosen the tension in his neck.

  “Are you okay?” I w
hispered.

  “Yep.” He wasn’t; he was lying.

  Men.

  “Cary, listen, heads up,” Shane said. “Bad news on the horizon. I was hanging around outside the Gumps’ house—you know, my house is on the other side—and I was trying to get a feel for what was going on. That’s when I saw Mrs. McCartney. She said she spied you in the vicinity around six this morning. Isn’t that about the time Sylvia was murdered?”

  “I wasn’t anywhere near there. That old sourpuss.” My father ground his teeth together. “She’s had it in for me for years. Her husband wanted to buy Nuts and Bolts. I offered a better price.”

  The way my aunt told the story, Mrs. McCartney wasn’t always mean-spirited. She fell to pieces when her husband passed on, which happened a week after he lost the hardware store deal. Needless to say, Mrs. McCartney believed that my father, by buying the shop, took away her husband’s will to live.

  Shane folded his arms across his chest. His muscles pressed at the seams of his T-shirt. “Wasn’t she the holdout in the neighborhood, Cary?”

  “Holdout?” I asked.

  “She didn’t want to go along with Ava’s plan,” my father said.

  “What plan?”

  Shane guffawed. “Jenna, didn’t you hear about the powwow?”

  “Are you talking about the meeting Ava orchestrated?”

  “Bingo!” Shane aimed a finger at me. “Boy, was it rousing.”

  I squinted at my father, hoping he would explain.

  “Like I told you last night at the engagement party, sweetheart,” Dad said, “Ava asked us to erect fences to delineate the properties. She arrived with plat maps of the various properties, once again proving Sylvia owned only a small swatch of the plateau. Lots of people said something had to be done. Mrs. McCartney was one of them, but when she saw me, she did a U-turn. She wouldn’t take part, claiming it was too costly, and what did she care about an old useless piece of land—useless to everyone except Sylvia, of course.” My father’s nostrils flared.

  Shane whirled a hand as he continued the story. “Ava planned to give a reporter the story. She wanted it plastered across the front page: Sylvia Gump is a horse thief.” Shane swiped the air to paint the headline. “By the way, Ava made sure we all knew that years ago, horse theft was extremely common, before cars came on the scene. Punishments were often severe, with several cultures—I’m not sure about ours—pronouncing the sentence of death upon thieves.”