Grilling the Subject Page 9

  My stomach did a nervous cha-cha. My future. She was trying to read me? Why? All those pesky paranoid feelings I’d been feeling over the past few days blossomed into one huge ball of fear. “Show me.”

  Reluctantly she placed the first of the two cards on the table. I recognized the card. The Death card, with Death sitting on a white horse and all those around him paying homage. The picture signifies that Death is not finicky. Death will take all.

  “Aunt Vera,” I said sharply, “you know that card is the most misunderstood card in the deck.”

  “Many people would shake in their boots if they saw it,” she countered.

  “Yes, but not me.” It was the truth; suddenly I felt as calm as a pond. Paranoia gone. Poof! “You’ve opened my eyes to tarot. The Death card doesn’t mean I or anyone I love is going to die. In fact, you’ve taught me to interpret it productively. For example, it might symbolize the closing of one door to open another.”

  “Open a new window,” she crooned, like the vivacious aunt in the musical Mame.

  “Or it simply means I have to put the past behind me.” I thought of David and believed I had let go of my memories of him, and yet I had been thinking about him a lot lately. Probably because the anniversary of his death had passed so recently. Apparently I needed to let go more. “What’s the other card?”

  She held out the Two of Cups. Most consider it a marriage card. The picture is of a man and a woman facing each other, exchanging gold cups. The image hints at new partnerships.

  “Why are you worried about that?” I asked.

  “Because I rarely see this pairing: Death and the Two of Cups. Death and marriage. Is everything all right with Rhett?”

  Her question sent a chill through me. “Why would you ask?”

  “David is gone. Rhett is in the picture. How is he? How are the two of you?”

  I shifted weight while sizing her up. Had she overheard Rhett tell me on the telephone that he loved me? Did she imagine wedding bells? “You’re toying with me,” I said.

  “I am not.” Her gaze was earnest. “How is his health?”

  “Superb.”

  “Has he asked you to marry him?”

  “Of course not. We’re dating, that’s all.”

  “Did you fight about something?”

  Worry skittled down my back. Was she sensing the friction that had occurred between Rhett and me after the chat with Shane at Bait and Switch? Rhett had called Shane a player and had questioned me about my connection to him. “Aunt Vera”—I touched her shoulder—“everything is fine. I’m handling things. Rhett is healthy. Put those cards away, please, and don’t do my readings unless I’m here to initiate, okay?”

  Reluctantly she agreed but then rose to her feet and did a little two-step dance to the stockroom while intoning a chant welcoming positivity.

  After work I grabbed Tigger, my purse, and the rope and spurs Bailey had given me. I set the latter two items in the trunk of my VW and headed home. Even though I’d skipped eating the sandwich Katie made me, dinner didn’t sound appetizing; worry makes anything healthful sound unappealing. But dessert sounded good. Specifically, a chocolate budino. Too bad I couldn’t cook one. It required way too many steps, including baking the little pots of goodness in a pan filled with water. However, I figured I could whip up a basic chocolate pudding using my mother’s recipe. Cook, plate, and refrigerate. Easy.

  I set Tigger on the floor and nudged his rump. “Play until I put out your food,” I said.

  He romped to the Ching cabinet and searched for something beneath, probably a ball of yarn. He had at least three balls hiding somewhere in the cottage.

  As I gathered the items I needed from the refrigerator, I heard an unsettling sound outside—a crack. I ran to the window and peered through it. The sun had set, and with no moon, the light was too dim to make out the features of the lone person running. Had he—I decided the runner was a he by his long torso and length of stride—been looking into the cottage? The figure ran toward a trio sitting beside a bonfire on the beach. Seeing the bonfire made me think of Sylvia, but I shoved the thought aside. I didn’t want to think about her or my father’s plight tonight.

  The runner patted the arm of one of the people at the bonfire and shook hands with another. Friends. Nothing to worry about. I was a whack-job, seeing strangers everywhere. What in the heck was wrong with me? The guy had probably missed the public path to the beach and had cut past my cottage. Harmless.

  I switched on my iPod and tuned it to an album by Linda Ronstadt. While measuring the sugar and cocoa for the pudding, I found myself humming “I’ve Got a Crush on You.”

  The song yanked me back to a moment with David, on one of our first dates, sitting on the porch outside my aunt’s house. The sun was setting over the horizon. This song was playing through a speaker on the porch. I brushed David’s bangs off his forehead with my forefinger. He had the kind of hair that naturally fell down in a hank.

  “You’re staring,” David said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re staring at it.”

  “It what?” I fibbed.

  “The hole in my forehead.” David clasped my hand and rubbed his thumb in the hollow of my palm. “Truth.”

  “It’s not a hole,” I whispered.

  “Sure it is. A dime can fit in it. Want to know how I got it?”

  I did. Desperately. I wanted to know everything about him. Teasingly, I said, “A drill? A ski pole? An arrow?”

  “A candlestick, in the dining room.”

  I gaped. “You’re kidding.”

  David smiled the winning smile that had melted my heart the moment I met him. “My sister and I were playing Clue,” he went on. “She was losing, and being the sore loser she is, she chased me around the house and nailed me in the dining room.”

  I started to giggle. “Were you Professor Plum?”

  “Who else? The oldest gets to choose his identity first. My sister, as usual, picked Miss Scarlet. Was she ever red-faced when my mother lit into her.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “When Mom lit into her?”

  “When she hit you.”

  “Let’s just say the blood, pain, and suffering have been worth the good conversation opener. My father says the scar gives me character. What do you think?” He twisted his face one way and then the other, allowing me to view both profiles.

  “Very distinguished.”

  Something cracked outside again, making the memory of David go pfft.

  I switched off the music. Tigger yowled.

  “Shh!” I hissed and, with measuring cup in hand, bolted to the front door. I listened. Nothing. I peeked through the peephole. Not an iota of movement. No shadow. Not even a whisper of wind. I willed my breathing to calm down. A squirrel must be the culprit, I told myself. The critter probably jumped from the rooftop to a branch, and the branch gave under its weight.

  Not convinced, I raced to the window that faced the beach. I peeked through the break in the curtains. Three people were sitting by the bonfire, not four.

  Chapter 10

  You’re imagining things, I told myself. You’re fine. Nothing to worry about. Even so, I double-checked all the bolts on my windows and doors, and I slept fitfully with a fire poker in my bed and Tigger, snoozing like a champ, nuzzled close to my neck.

  Thursday morning, in the light of day, I convinced myself again that squirrels had, indeed, made the sounds and that the figure fleeing from the cottage was simply someone running. We had a lot of exercise buffs in Crystal Cove. However, when I went out for my morning jog and spotted footprints heading to and from the bonfire directly to the cottage window, my gut clenched. Someone had been peeping in my window. Gack!

  At the shop, Bailey nearly accosted me the moment I walked in the door. She gripped the sleeve of my blouse.
“It’s food truck day!” she exclaimed, more pumped up than I had ever seen her. “Your aunt said that midday she’ll man the shop. We can go support Katie.”

  In the parking lot shared by the junior college and the Aquarium by the Sea, dozens of food trucks from as far south as Monterey and as far north as Redwood City planned to convene and offer their wares. All were required to feature a Wild West theme. A number of local restaurants were getting into the act. Each had rented trucks and obtained the proper permits. For The Nook Café, Katie planned to serve sliders with her secret barbecue sauce.

  Business hummed throughout the morning. A pair of sisters came in looking for a copy of The Texas Cowboy Cookbook. We had it in stock. It was a generously illustrated book with terrific historical photos and amusing illustrations. The women raved that they had seen it at a friend’s house. She had served the most amazing flank steak with a dry-rub seasoning using a recipe straight out of the cookbook.

  With each customer I did my best to be ultra charming because, at my core, I was edgier than a razor blade. I silently questioned how Cinnamon was doing with her investigation, and I couldn’t shake the notion that someone was spying on me. Of course, feeling that I might be truly paranoid, I didn’t mention a word to Aunt Vera. I didn’t want her to do another tarot card reading. Keep your head in the sand, Jenna, a therapist once said to me. That’s the smart way to avoid reality. Being the grown-up that I am, I mentally thumbed my nose at her.

  At noon, while I was wrapping up a sale for a zaftig customer who had purchased three copies of the same cookbook: Jalapeño Poppers: and Other Stuffed Chili Peppers, by Michael J. Hultquist, a delightful book with no pictures but great recipe titles, Bailey zipped toward the counter waving her arms. “It’s time, Jenna! Food trucks, here we come!”

  I apologized to my customer for the rather abrupt interruption.

  “Darling,” the woman said, “it’s not a problem. I’m headed to the food truck event, too. I’ve heard there’s going to be a hot-and-spicy truck. Can’t miss that!” She leaned in and whispered, “That’s how I like my food and my men.” She sashayed out of the shop, chuckling.

  Aunt Vera told Bailey and me to scoot, and minutes later, we were weaving among the throng of people who had come to enjoy the event. The din was astonishing; the aromas emanating from the horde of food trucks, appetizing. There were old and young visitors, locals and tourists. No one theme dominated the choice of clothing. Some wore western garb; many wore what a typical person in Crystal Cove would wear: shorts and a T-shirt. I was glad I’d thought to bring a visor. The sun was blazing hot for May.

  In the middle of the activities, a live band was playing a zesty tune by Florida Georgia Line called “Sippin’ on Fire.” How appropriate for the occasion, I thought. Across the way, I saw a food truck for Save the Wild Ones. I was familiar with the group; volunteers helped mend injured wild animals like deer, coyotes, and even skunks. Our local veterinarian, whom Tigger adored, headed up the organization. I was surprised to see Shane Maverick inside the truck handing out shish kebabs to customers.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked Bailey.

  “He’s a volunteer, I presume. Don’t you remember?” She elbowed me. “Ava said he’s an animal safety buff. No Wild West Extravaganza animals will be hurt on his watch.”

  “Okay, but why is he the chef?”

  “Because he has created his own steak sauce.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because I can read.”

  “Huh?”

  “See the sign Shane’s assistant is putting up?” Bailey pointed. “You know her. She came in to see your aunt the other day.”

  To the right of the food truck, the willowy redhead who had come in for an aura reading, her elaborately beaded braids now looped into an Oscar-worthy updo, was setting a sign behind an arrangement of dozens of bottles of sauce on a display table. I knew her name but couldn’t come up with it. A big U was embroidered on her knit purse. Uma, Ulla, Una? Whatever. The sign read: Shane’s Super Duper Steak Sauce, $2/bottle. All proceeds would benefit Save the Wild Ones.

  I mumbled, “What doesn’t Shane do?” He was a man of many talents.

  Nearby, Ava Judge was waiting in line for a shish kebab. She didn’t seem interested in the food. Perhaps she was hoping that Shane, despite the fact that he was engaged, would take an interest in her.

  Seeing them in proximity made me wonder again about Sylvia and her relationship with Shane. Had she been aware of Ava’s interest in him? Even though she was married, did she confront Ava, her archrival, and tell her hands off? Did Ava strike the killing blow? I liked Ava, but, honestly, I wanted someone other than my father to be the police’s main suspect. Ava had incited the neighborhood to turn against Sylvia. She lived next door to the Gumps. She could have met Sylvia at the scene of the crime, attacked her, lit the fire, and returned home in a flash. What was her alibi?

  Bailey cut into my musings. “Did I tell you that we got CC Vineyard as the venue for our wedding?”

  “Wonderful. When’s the date?”

  “Late September. Right before the harvest so the vines will be loaded with fruit.” She elbowed me. “Hey, isn’t that Ronald Gump?”

  The crowd parted near the Save the Wild Ones truck, and Ronald and his niece Tina came into view. Both were nibbling on shish kebabs. The short-shorts Tina was wearing made her long legs look even longer. She had drawn her dark hair into a knot, with strands sticking out of the knot every which way—very hip. In between bites, she seemed to be consoling her uncle, who was leaning against his cane as if it were the last thing that could prop him up. Occasionally Shane, from his post inside the truck, would say something and Tina would laugh.

  A couple of coeds passed by and shouted, “Hey, Dean Gump! Looking good.”

  Ronald acknowledged them bravely, doing his best to mask his pain, and then tossed his kebab into the garbage.

  “Why in heavens is he out and about when Sylvia isn’t laid to rest?” Bailey exclaimed.

  “He probably needs something to distract him.” The day after I learned David was missing at sea, I had gone to work. To keep mobile. To keep my brain active. To keep me from dwelling on the horribleness of it all. It wasn’t until a week later that I fell apart and took the three-month leave of absence. “Fresh air and sunshine might do him good.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “Bailey!” Tito cut through the crowd, shirttail flapping against his trousers, baseball cap backward, not helping a whit to block the sun. He caught up to us, slipped his arm around Bailey’s waist, and planted a big kiss on her cheek.

  Bailey, who used to shun public displays of affection, enjoyed it. She hooked her arm through his.

  Tito gave her a little squeeze. “Let’s get a bite at the Nook Café truck. I heard Katie’s sliders are out of this world.”

  Bailey said, “Jenna, c’mon.”

  I started in that direction but stopped when I heard someone call my name. I turned. Cinnamon, in uniform, and her boyfriend, Bucky, were strolling toward me. Apparently it was couples’ lunch hour, and I was not a couple. Hmm. I had to rectify that. I would touch base with Rhett after the food truck event and make sure he and I were okay. We had a date tonight, if I wasn’t mistaken.

  I said to Bailey and Tito, “Go on. I’ll catch up.”

  They hurried away, and I waved to Cinnamon. Even though she and Bucky were walking at an easy gait, she appeared tense. She was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t see what she was actually feeling. Why single me out? Did she want to grill me about my father’s alibi?

  “What’s going on with Dad?” I said as she drew near. “Are you going to arrest him?”

  “Whoa!” She held up both hands. “Nice day, isn’t it? Have you tried the chili dogs down the way?”

  “I haven’t. My appet
ite is nil because of my dad’s status. Fill me in. Please.”

  Cinnamon sighed. “We have not arrested him, but some people in the department are pressing for me to act, and it doesn’t look good. Mrs. McCartney—”

  “I heard what she said. She despises my father. She thinks—”

  “I know she believes your father is responsible for her husband’s death. She’s wrong, and I told her so.”

  “She says she saw Dad in the area at six A.M., but she couldn’t have. He’d gone fishing by then.” I couldn’t curb the tension in my voice. “If she really saw someone, and that’s a big if, then it had to be someone else. Another enemy of Sylvia’s.” The moment the word enemy flew out of my mouth I regretted it.

  Cinnamon let it slide. “Are you saying Mrs. McCartney is lying? To what end?”

  “‘The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge,’” I quoted.

  “That’s from Hamlet,” Bucky said.

  “Show-off.” Cinnamon elbowed him. “I never studied Shakespeare. Look, Jenna”—she reached out and took my hand—“I believe your father is innocent. I do. Trust me. I will handle Mrs. McCartney and all the naysayers. You know how much I care about him.”

  I did.

  “So please,” Cinnamon went on, “no questioning suspects.”

  “I haven’t questioned—”

  “Yes, you have. Your father.”

  A flush of embarrassment warmed my cheeks. Shoot.

  Cinnamon squeezed my hand. “I know you mean well, but there is a killer at large. Back off. Let me do my job.”

  She tugged on Bucky’s arm and led him away, leaving me standing there, seething. Not at her. I was mad at the Mrs. McCartneys of the world who would doubt my father’s integrity. And, yes, I was mad at Dad for blabbing to Cinnamon.

  “Hey, pretty lady.” Shane hailed me from inside his food truck. “Come get a sample.”

  The crowd had thinned by the truck. Ronald and his niece had moved away. Ava, who was standing at the condiment table, spun around. She glowered at me. The look vanished in a nanosecond. Had she thought I was Emily and that was why Shane had called out pretty lady?