Grilling the Subject Page 8

  “We all voted no to that idea,” my father said. “No calling her a horse thief.”

  “Yeah, but we said yes to a story,” Shane said. “We would declare Sylvia a nuisance and a bully. I can just imagine how she would’ve reacted to something like that in the paper.” He slapped his thigh. “That Ava, she’s a real go-getter. By the end, she had us all swearing we would do whatever it took to get Sylvia to back down and stop encroaching on our land.”

  “Whatever it took?” I screeched. “Dad?”

  My father flapped his hand. “Don’t worry. We all knew what that meant. Whatever it took through proper channels, not murder.”

  “Even so, that kind of testimony could be damaging.”

  Shane said, “For all of us, if you think about it. Ava especially. Say, what’s her alibi? Do any of you happen to know? She loves the neighborhood. She might—”

  “She’s devoted to Crystal Cove,” my father said, cutting him off.

  “Yeah.” Shane snorted. “She’s so dedicated that I wouldn’t put it past her to get rid of Sylvia so property values wouldn’t plummet.”

  We all grew quiet.

  Dad broke the silence. “Ava’s a good person.”

  “And a good Realtor,” Shane added. “She helped me get my house for a song.”

  Dad brandished a finger. “That’s because your seller had to move quickly in order to take care of his mother in Florida. He was willing to take the first offer that came his way.”

  I said, “I heard Sylvia hoped to buy your house, Shane, but Ava thwarted her.”

  “Who knows what the real story is?” Shane said. “For all I know, Ava rushed us into the deal because there’s a body buried beneath the—” He balked. “Sorry. That was insensitive of me, considering the circumstances.”

  Dad addressed Rhett. “What do you think?” My father adored my boyfriend. They were buddies. They talked reels and rods and lures and life. They often went fishing together. If only they had teamed up this morning.

  I glanced at Rhett; he shrugged, signifying he had no opinion about real estate disputes. He lived in a small cabin in the woods. Private and serene. No neighbors.

  “Sylvia,” my father muttered. “She had no taste, but she didn’t deserve to die.”

  “No taste?” Shane carped. “That’s putting it mildly. Her place is a patchwork quilt. A real eyesore.”

  “Except for the garden,” I noted, “which is pristine.”

  “That’s Ronald’s doing,” my father said. “He has a green thumb. He tweaks it at night when he gets home from work and nonstop on the weekends. Have you seen his roses? They’re not that easy to grow in our climate, but he makes it happen.”

  “Ronald,” Shane grunted. “He’s fairly worthless otherwise.”

  “Don’t say that,” I said, surprised to find myself defending the man who had accused my father of murder. “He’s beloved at the junior college.”

  “Perhaps he is,” Shane agreed, “but he wasn’t beloved by Sylvia. I overheard them, after the powwow. They were arguing on their patio.”

  “Where were you?” my father asked.

  “Checking out my new digs.” Shane’s future house was directly east of the Gumps’ house on Azalea Place. “It was a gorgeous night. The place is unoccupied. The view is spectacular. I stole onto the porch. Anyway, there they were, the two of them, going at it. Ronald was telling Sylvia she was wrong. He said, ‘Love makes the world go round.’ She screamed that he didn’t know what he was talking about and told him to shut up. Then he ordered her to put down the canister.”

  “What canister?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Ronald said, ‘Do you want to blow up the entire neighborhood?’ so I imagine he was talking about a propane canister, but I couldn’t see them. They’ve put up a six-foot-tall fence on either side of the patio.” He was referring to the same hideous fence that I’d noticed when charging to the plateau. “Ava told me they built the fences to block the wind, but I’d bet it’s so neighbors can’t get a gander.” Shane frowned. “Talk about a blot on the landscape.”

  “You can plant bushes to camouflage it,” my father suggested.

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do.” Shane linked his hands behind his back and stretched his pectoral muscles. “Say, do you think Sylvia could have set the blaze herself using that gas?”

  I was pleased that I wasn’t the only person who had come up with that theory, but I shook my head. “She couldn’t have. She was already dead.”

  “How do you know that?” Rhett asked.

  “Cinnamon told me.”

  “How did she die?” Dad said.

  “Cinnamon wouldn’t reveal that.” I glanced at Shane. “Do you have any idea?”

  “Nope. There’s been a lot of speculation from those in my employ. A gun, a knife. Maybe she and Ronald came to blows. Sylvia can pack a mean wallop. Ronald could have countered with one of his own. Bam! Right to the kisser.”

  Or plowed into her with that cane of his, I mused.

  “Sir.” The sporty saleswoman returned with a box of shoes for Shane.

  “I’ll be right there.” Shane glanced at his watch. “Hey, sorry, folks. I’ve got to get a move on. Good to see y’all.” He patted my arm as a good-bye and followed the saleswoman to the register.

  Rhett watched him leave. His nose flinched, showing his displeasure.

  “Why don’t you like him?” I asked.

  “He’s got a reputation as a player. Did you know he was asked to leave his last job?”

  “Really?”

  “How do you know him again?”

  “Shane was one of the premier salesmen at Taylor & Squibb. He could tell stories that made people hang on his every word.”

  “Stories,” Rhett mumbled, “as in lies. Did your firm fire him, too?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Shane and I lost track after David died, and after—” I swallowed hard. After I took a leave of absence. Three months of therapy. Three months of tears. The memory of his death was still fresh. Would it ever diminish? “Do you think he’s lying about hearing Ronald and Sylvia argue?”

  “No, but I get the feeling he has a history with Sylvia.”

  “Ha!” I flicked Rhett’s arm. “I picked up the same thing.”

  My father said, “Me, too, when Shane said Sylvia could pack a wallop.”

  I peered at Shane, standing beside the register—big grin. The saleswoman was smiling, too. Were they flirting? Was Rhett right that Shane was a player? I contemplated again about the timing of things. How often had Shane come to town since the Wild West Extravaganza group hired him? Did he have an affair with Sylvia? Did Sylvia approach Shane recently and say she would tell Emily about their affair? Did Shane kill Sylvia to protect his chance for future happiness? No way. I had worked with Shane. He was a wag, a card. I couldn’t imagine him capable of murder, but then I’d been wrong before.

  Chapter 9

  I asked my father for a lift back to The Cookbook Nook. He agreed to do so, but he made me swear I wouldn’t ask him anything more about the murder. Grudgingly I acquiesced. I have to admit that I believed my mere presence in his Jeep would get his lips flapping, but he didn’t talk. Not a word. He didn’t even comment on the density of people in the parking lot or the sluggishness of the traffic on the main road. When we arrived at Fisherman’s Village, he did say he was looking forward to eating the sandwich he had picked up at Mum’s the Word, and before I closed the car door, he mumbled, “Don’t worry about me.”

  Inside the shop, I pushed aside thoughts of the murder and Dad’s predicament, and I concentrated on work. I straightened shelves, smoothed wrinkles in aprons, polished the salt shakers and pepper mills, and rearranged cookbooks—it is amazing how shifting a book to a new location can attract a customer’s eye. An hour into my chores, I took a breather and bree
zed through a new acquisition: A Taste of Cowboy: Ranch Recipes and Tales from the Trails, which made me smile. There was an entire section of cowboy lingo—cookie, for example, meant the chuck wagon cook—and there were some of the most fascinating photos of cowboys, on the range and elsewhere. Also, I discovered a recipe that I had to try soon: blueberry lemon morning cake. Yum! But then I flipped the page and saw a cowboy who reminded me of my father, and my heart wrenched.

  “Back to work,” I muttered. I didn’t want to dwell on the what ifs.

  Midafternoon, a frazzled mother with six children in tow, all of them under the age of ten—the three girls were hers; the three boys, her ill sister’s—shuffled into the store. She needed an activity for the little scoundrels, as she called them—pronto. She was a regular customer. How could I deny her? I directed her to the children’s corner while I fetched fresh art materials. I placed a sheet of ecru construction paper in front of each child and suggested he or she paint a Wild West scene with horses or mountains or something they had seen in town for the extravaganza.

  One child yelled, “Stagecoach!”

  Another chimed, “Horsey!”

  “How about some snacks?” I said to the mother, who had sunk into a nearby beanbag chair. Tigger sneaked into her lap.

  She began to stroke his back rhythmically. “Sounds divine.”

  I put in a call to Chef Katie and asked what she had on hand. She told me she would be out in a jiffy with a surprise.

  Minutes later, she swooped into the shop carrying a tray of plain sugar cookies shaped like horseshoes and a bucket filled with colored icing. She set the tray in the center of the children’s table. Instantly one of the boys picked up a cookie and started twirling it on his finger. His beleaguered aunt gave him the evil eye. He stopped.

  Katie said, “When you’re done with your artwork, kids, decorate these.”

  “Can we eat them?” one of the girls asked.

  Her mother nodded. The kids cheered.

  I mouthed thank you to Katie.

  “Don’t thank me yet. I need help.”

  “With . . .”

  Katie beckoned me to the sales counter and withdrew a wrapped sandwich from the pocket of her chef’s jacket. “Here.” She handed it to me. “You skipped lunch.”

  “Are you a mind—” I stopped. “What in the world have you been cooking?” Her jacket was splattered with red.

  “Barbecue sauce.”

  “Which kind? St. Louis? Carolina?” Back in my early days at Taylor & Squibb, my boss sent me around the country to taste-test barbecue sauces. We had a client who wanted us to market a zesty sauce that featured chipotle. The boss told me to be prepared to talk flavor.

  “My own secret recipe,” Katie said. “It’s a mix between a Memphis- and Texas-style, and boy, does it spit.” She winked. “But, remember, a clean cook is not always a good cook.”

  “Who said that? Julia Child?”

  “Me. It’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.” She guffawed. “Anyway, here’s where I need your help. I have to create a menu for tonight. The mayor is bringing the city planners into the café. She wants an authentic Wild West–themed dinner.”

  “And you’re asking me for suggestions?”

  “You might not be a seasoned cook yet, but you are a foodie. It’s got to be something different than the dinner I served at Bailey’s engagement party.”

  “I’ve got an idea.” I envisioned a dinner I’d had with David on our first vacation together. “How about buffalo carpaccio with a cumin dry rub dressed in a sweet oil and accompanied by a spicy aioli sauce.”

  Katie’s eyes lit up. “Where on earth did you eat that?”

  “In Las Vegas.” The meal consisted of seven appetizer-sized courses. We had dined for three delicious hours.

  “Continue.” She started scribbling down my suggestions.

  “Serve a porterhouse or rib-eye steak with blackberry compote and pan-roasted carrots.”

  “Yum.”

  “Or you could try an espresso-rubbed elk or venison steak.”

  “Love it.”

  “And for dessert, hmm . . .” I paused, remembering one of the most delightful desserts I’d ever tasted, when David and I drove north of San Francisco. “Chocolate budino.” I described the pudding that was also a cake. The chef had served it with vanilla ice cream drizzled with olive oil, of all things. “It’s not cowboyish, but you can tweak it however you’d like. Maybe add some smoky chopped nuts.”

  “Perfect.” Katie wrote an exclamation point next to that and grinned. “I’m inspired, as I’d hoped. Thanks. Would you like a specialty coffee to go with the sandwich?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Okay, then, catch you on the trail,” Katie said and scurried away.

  The moment she disappeared, thoughts of my father’s predicament started to worm their way back into my psyche. I tried to block them, but I couldn’t. I eyed Bailey, on her break, outside in the parking lot. She was working on a rope trick. A crowd had gathered to watch. Recalling her promise to teach me and certain that was exactly what I needed, I scanned the shop.

  The frazzled mother was still nestled in the beanbag chair, stroking Tigger; her brood was merrily occupied. Only two other regular customers roamed the aisles. I knew them; they were browsers. They wouldn’t approach the sales counter for at least an hour. My aunt, who was sitting at the vintage table with her eyes closed and holding the hand of a young willowy redhead who had elaborately beaded and braided hair, could easily handle any customer requests as long as she didn’t mind pausing whatever she was doing—an aura reading, perhaps?

  “Aunt Vera, I’ll be outside for a few minutes if you need me.” I set aside the sandwich and hurried out.

  It took me a few moments to press through the crowd. Once I neared the front, I could see Bailey’s fancy footwork.

  “Woot! Woot!” she yelped as she jumped back and forth through the loop, her pink skirt swishing around her thighs. The spurs that she had fitted over boots—where had she found the boots between the time she had left me at The Pier and now?—jangled like crazy.

  The crowd applauded.

  Bailey caught sight of me and let the rope swing to a standstill. “Hey, girlfriend, are you here to learn?”

  “I need to do something to . . . you know.” I twirled a hand: clear my head.

  She eyed my feet. “In flip-flops? I don’t think so.”

  “Right. Back in a sec.” I tore through the shop, into the stockroom, and fetched a pair of white Keds I kept on hand for emergencies, like climbing ladders to collect books off the top shelves. I kicked off my sandals, slipped on the tennis shoes, and returned to Bailey.

  She offered me a coil of rope. “Grab hold.” She showed me where to place my other hand.

  The crowd didn’t hang around while I made pathetic attempts at twirling the rope into a vertical human-sized loop. I couldn’t blame them. Drivers in search of a parking spot, however, were more forgiving. They veered around me, giving me plenty of room.

  Bailey coached me with patience. “Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it. Try again.”

  After twenty minutes of twirling and my loop never holding fast, my forearm was exhausted and I was perspiring like I had taken an hour-long run.

  “Good exercise, isn’t it?” Bailey said.

  “I’m beat and deflated.” I started to hand the rope back.

  Bailey shook her head. “Uh-uh, c’mon. Your mama didn’t raise no quitters. One last time. I know you’ll get the hang of it. It’s all in the wrist.” She demonstrated with a flick.

  I tried again, and this time the rope whirled into a vertical loop and held its shape. Cool.

  “Leap through.”

  I did.

  “Again.”

  I obeyed.

  Bailey said, “That�
�s it. Now, think in counts of four.” She started to clap and chant: “‘Not last night but the night before . . .’”

  I felt the rhythm dancing through my entire body; it was exhilarating.

  When Bailey ended the jumping rhyme, I let the rope settle on the ground, and she patted me on the back. “Next time, you’ll do it wearing spurs.”

  “As if.” I snorted. “That’ll be the day.”

  “You will, and you’ll like it.” She coiled up the rope, removed the spurs, and handed them to me.

  “But you bought them.”

  “And I can lend them. Besides, there are plenty more where those came from.”

  I hurried to the stockroom, set my rope and spurs by my purse, and washed up. I really was a sticky mess, but at least I was thinking clearly. I knew, given time, I could figure out how to help my father without ticking him off.

  Bailey washed up after me and joined me at the sales counter. She tilted her head toward the front of the shop. “Your aunt looks super worried.”

  Aunt Vera was still seated at the vintage kitchen table. Her redheaded client was nowhere in sight. Two tarot cards sat on the table, face up. My aunt’s forehead was seriously creased. Uh-oh.

  I edged around the counter and moved to the table. “Why the frown?”

  My aunt let out a whoop. “Jenna! You startled me.” She scooped the cards toward her.

  I gripped her wrist. “No, ma’am. Stop. Do not replace the cards in your pack. What are you trying to hide?”

  “Hide? Me?” She resisted. “Nothing.”

  “Is it about Dad?”

  “Heavens, no.” She wagged her head. “This is not about your father.”

  “Aunt Vera, spill.” I overarched an eyebrow and screwed up my mouth. Usually that made her laugh; not this time.

  “Dear, it’s simply . . .” She sighed. “I was watching you out there in the parking lot jumping rope. You seemed so carefree that I wanted to see what your future might hold, and . . .”