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

  “I’m fine,” I said, “but Bailey, not so much. Tito is a suspect.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.” Lowering my voice, I briefly filled him in on the investigation: Kylie strangled in the tower-style reformer; the crumpled and shredded paper; the writing on the mirror. “I can’t imagine how Alexa is doing. It was her best friend. Her studio. I’m sure the incident will hurt business.” Murder on the premises was never good for building clientele. “Of course, Cinnamon wants no help from me.”

  “You’ve spoken with her?”

  “I went with Bailey and Tito to the precinct.”

  Rhett bumped my shoulder with his. “But if you have solid information, you’ll share it with her.”

  “If relevant.”

  I looped my arm through his, and we strolled north on Buena Vista in the direction of the lighthouse. We stopped at the first cart vendor we came to—Tacos Terrifico. Each taco was made with shredded everything: lettuce, chicken, and cheese. Even the tomatoes and peppers were julienned.

  “Love the sauce,” Rhett murmured.

  “Me, too,” I said. “Just the right amount of cayenne.”

  We moved on to another vendor selling pulled pork sandwiches. The aroma was divine.

  As we waited for our mini meal, Rhett said, “Listen, about me missing this morning’s wedding planner meeting . . .”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I know you’re busy. Harmony Bold and I accomplished a lot.”

  “Whatever you decide will be fine with me. You know that.”

  I turned to him. “Yes, but I want you to take part at some point.”

  “I will. Going forward. I got bogged down this morning. I’ve asked the investors if we can afford a third manager.”

  The investors, who years ago had financed Rhett’s parents’ restaurant in Napa Valley, had lured Rhett back into the restaurant business—he still owned but didn’t manage Bait and Switch Sport Supply, located on the Pier. The investors had promised that Rhett wouldn’t be the sole executive chef or manager. True to their word, they had hired a second executive chef and a second manager, but that hadn’t been enough extra manpower to cover the intense experience of what the bistro planned to offer.

  I rubbed his arm. “I’m cool with your schedule. For now.”

  “I’m not.” Rhett paid the vendor for our sandwich and offered me the first bite.

  Happy to oblige, I bit into it and hummed my appreciation. “Delicious. Cayenne is the flavor of the day.”

  Rhett took a bite and said, “I will work this out. Trust me.”

  As we polished off our sandwich and headed for a dessert vendor offering vanilla and chocolate coconut haystack cookies, I caught sight of Eugene and Audrey strolling in our direction. Eugene was dressed casually in tan trousers, a blue button-down shirt, and a tweed jacket. Audrey wore an atypical black sheath and black wool coat and scarf, as if she’d dressed for a funeral. She appeared to have been crying.

  Eugene caught sight of me and tapped Audrey’s arm. Quickly, she pinched her cheeks. Why? Did she think Rhett or I would judge her for mourning Kylie? Or for worrying about her daughter’s emotional well-being?

  “Rhett,” Eugene said, extending his arm. “Great meal at your restaurant.”

  Rhett shook hands with him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t sir me.” Eugene smiled, but his eyes glinted with tension. “That won’t get you better reviews in the food—” He coughed hard, as if he were choking on a clam shell.

  “Are you all right?” Rhett laid a hand on Eugene’s shoulder.

  “What was I thinking?” Eugene sputtered. “That last comment was in bad taste, seeing as Kylie . . .” He hitched his chin toward me. “I’m sure you’ve heard from Jenna what happened to our food reviewer, Kylie Obendorfer.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” My gaze swung from Eugene to Audrey. “I know you were both close to her.”

  “Thank you,” Eugene said. “She was like a second daughter.”

  Audrey sniffed. “Who would want to kill Kylie? Like that?”

  Or at all, I thought, but kept the words to myself.

  “Don’t you have any suspicions?” I asked.

  “Not a one.” Eugene heaved a sigh.

  “Alexa said it was gruesome.” Audrey fiddled with the tails of her scarf. “Using the equipment at the studio as a weapon. Unheard of.”

  “Macabre,” Eugene muttered.

  I’d worked hard all day to erase the gallowslike image from my mind. Rhett had grown a little pale when I’d described it to him.

  “How is Alexa doing?” I asked. When Bailey and I’d left the fitness studio, Alexa had been sitting in her small office, staring blankly through the glass window as the police continued to collect evidence. I wouldn’t have called her catatonic, but she had definitely drawn into herself.

  Audrey said, “She’s home now. Sleeping.”

  “I hope she’ll see a therapist,” I said. “Stumbling upon a dead body, especially that of a friend, can rock your world.”

  “I’m sure she will,” Audrey said. “Our family therapist is an amazing person.”

  Eugene gazed at his wife, his expression distant, as if he were working hard to process each word.

  Audrey worried her hands together. “Who would write such a horrible message on a mirror? Why on earth would Kylie need to reform?”

  Perhaps because of her abusive behavior toward others, I mused, and instantly chided myself for the callous notion. Kylie was dead. No matter how she’d treated colleagues, clients, or enemies, she hadn’t deserved to be murdered.

  “Eugene, were you able to talk to Kylie about, you know”— I rotated a hand—“getting her affairs in order?”

  Audrey shot her husband an irritable look. Was she upset that I’d overheard them arguing, or upset that he’d chatted with me afterward? With Kylie’s death, the topic of her leaving the newspaper was moot.

  “No, sadly,” Eugene said. “By the way, after running into you, I got to thinking about how I could avoid downsizing and stay afloat.”

  “That’s good to hear, Eugene,” Rhett said. “Nothing is smooth sailing in this economy.”

  I said, “Are you going to ask my aunt to help you?”

  Eugene shook his head vehemently. “Not a chance. I wouldn’t put Vera through that torture again. One should never borrow from a friend. It creates wedges. Because your aunt is a saint our friendship weathered that storm.” He inhaled sharply and let it out. “No, I’ve reached out to an investor who is quite familiar with the newspaper business and knows exactly what I need to do to survive.”

  I tensed. Was it the same investor Alexa had alluded to, the one Kylie had contacted? Could there have been some kind of conflict of interest? Might that have factored into who had killed her?

  “As it turns out,” Eugene went on, “he’s a trust fund baby and one of Audrey’s students. He’s quite an artist, thanks to her.”

  Audrey blushed.

  “He lives and breathes the news, and he can’t imagine not having a physical daily paper to read. Digital, he says, is for the birds. That’s where we were earlier today,” Eugene went on. “At the exact time Kylie . . .” He suppressed a sob.

  “That Kylie was found,” Audrey finished.

  When Eugene wrapped an arm around his wife’s back, a shiver ran down my spine. Why? Because it felt as if Eugene were thanking Audrey for providing him with an alibi.

  Did he need one?

  Chapter 9

  Rhett and I walked on and dined at three dessert vendors. Before parting ways, he whispered, “Listen, about tomorrow night and the Pier and going to the barbecue afterward—”

  I put a finger to his lips. “I’ll manage. Don’t worry about canceling.”

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you, too.”

  His good-night kiss was as sweet as sugar. I relished it.

  Tigger attacked me the moment I walked in the door of my new house. Attacked
, in a good way. He butted my ankle and mewed for me to pick him up. Was he upset by the aroma of fresh paint, or was he acting needy because he’d had to stay home while I gallivanted? Whatever the reason, I nuzzled him, promised him he was fine, and carried him to the couch. We snuggled for a half hour before I called it quits and sank into bed.

  At sunrise on Saturday, I awoke feeling groggy and forlorn. Not about me or my future with Rhett, but about Bailey and Tito and, yes, Kylie. Tito wasn’t guilty of murder. I was certain of it. Who was?

  As I ran on the beach, took a brisk shower, and downed a protein-rich breakfast, I thought again about Eugene Tinsdale. Had he spit out his alibi last night on purpose? Did he think I would vouch for him if Chief Pritchett questioned me? Was Eugene even on Cinnamon’s radar?

  Getting dressed, I decided I couldn’t and wouldn’t vouch for Eugene. My aunt might know him well, but I didn’t.

  The doorbell chimed. I hurried to it and let Keller inside. He was a rangy guy with an easy demeanor. The white bib overalls he was wearing over a white long-sleeved shirt made him look that much leaner.

  One-handed, he whipped off his cap and swooped a thatch of brown hair off his face. “Hey-hey, Jenna. Too early?”

  “Right on time.”

  “My mother said being on time shows respect.”

  “I would agree.”

  “She’s watching Min-yi today.”

  “Lucky her.” I smiled.

  “What’s on the agenda this morning?” Keller asked.

  “Painting the three walls in the master bedroom. The paint is in the corner of the room. Leave the wall behind the master bed blank.”

  “Aren’t you going to paint a mural there?” Keller set his toolkit on the floor and pulled gloves from the back pocket of his overalls.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I ought to get rid of the blue paint and paint it neutral. No extra charge.” As Keller donned the gloves, he added, “Don’t worry. I won’t leave a mess. You won’t even know I’ve been here.”

  The words leave a mess caught me off guard. How had the killer left no trace of himself or herself at the crime scene? Had he or she worn a hat? Mask? Gloves?

  Tigger meowed.

  “Yes, cat, we’re on the move. We don’t want to be late.” I scooped him into my arms and said goodbye to Keller.

  By the time I arrived at the shop, Gran had set up the register, organized all the shelves, and straightened the aprons hanging on hooks.

  “My, you’ve been busy,” I said as I set Tigger on the floor and stowed my purse in the stockroom.

  “Busy hands. You know me.”

  “Nice dress,” I said.

  Gran swiveled while pulling the seams of the flared skirt. “Isn’t it cute?”

  “Very flattering.” I liked everything Gran wore. She had exquisite taste, and the budget to afford it.

  “I thought it would be fun to dress up for today’s demonstration,” Gran said. “Midge is one of my favorite restaurateurs. I adore her chopped club salad. She throws in amazing croutons. Do you think she’ll sign her cookbook? I picked up a copy.”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “How about a little music?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Gran ducked into the stockroom and switched on a CD mix I’d made for this week’s festivities. I liked to have music playing through the speakers while people browsed; music lightened moods. Today of all days, music would help me slog through. Migos’ upbeat “Stir Fry” was first in the queue.

  “Here you go.” Gran returned with a mug of coffee featuring the words You never have enough cookbooks to look at. “You look like you could use a cup.” She handed it to me. “By the way, the independent publisher was true to her word. Her representative showed up minutes after I arrived with twenty extra copies of Midge’s cookbook.”

  “Terrific.”

  Gran took a sip of her coffee and set it aside. “Do you want to talk about yesterday?”

  I shook my head. “No. Let’s keep my head in the game. Demo. Satisfied customers. Sales.”

  Gran returned to fussing about the displays.

  Minutes later, Midge sailed into the shop. “Morning! I’m off to collaborate with Katie.” Her frizzy hair was sticking out at odd angles and her plaid shirt was half tucked into white skinny jeans. “Jenna, is there anything you need from me before I zip away?”

  “No, I’m good, but don’t rush. You have plenty of time.”

  “In the restaurant business, there is never plenty of time.” Midge shook a finger. “You should know that better than most. If you don’t, have Rhett clue you in.” She blew me a kiss and rushed down the breezeway toward the café.

  Gran chuckled. “What a whirlwind. I suppose one has to be in order to become so successful.”

  “Too-ra-loo,” my aunt chimed as she strolled into the shop, the folds of her emerald green caftan swishing to and fro. Suddenly, she pulled to a halt and clapped her hand over her heart. “Oh, goodness. What am I thinking? No cheery hello today, not with another murder in town.” She set her matching turban on the vintage kitchen table. “Z.Z. contacted me this morning. She is distraught and has declared an all-out war on crime. She wants to install security cameras on every streetlamp and building.”

  “Like closed-circuit TV?” I asked.

  “Mm-hm.”

  Gran said, “No one will appreciate Big Brother watching.”

  “If it means we’re safer,” my aunt countered, “then what could be the harm?”

  “The loss of personal freedom,” Gran quipped. “Don’t get me started.”

  “Tosh.” Aunt Vera scanned the shop. “Enough chatter about what we can’t control. Let’s get this place set up for Midge and Katie.”

  “Yes, boss.” Gran saluted.

  For the next hour, the three of us rearranged the shop, moving the mobile bookcases and setting out folding chairs. Around eleven, I telephoned Bailey, wondering if Tito had consulted an attorney yet. She didn’t answer her cell phone, so I left a message and dialed Lola. She answered, but she didn’t know much more about her daughter than I did. She promised she would do her best to get an update before arriving for the demonstration.

  At a quarter past eleven, Bailey called me back and asked if she could skip coming in. Tito and she were, indeed, meeting with a defense attorney. Tito had written an article on the woman a couple of years back, when she’d defended a murderer in Santa Cruz. I told Bailey that, of course, she could skip work, asked her to touch base after she met with the attorney, and then invited Tito and her to join me at the Pier for dinner. Bailey leaped at the opportunity and added that she’d already hired a friend of Tina’s to watch Brianna for the evening.

  Minutes later, as customers swarmed in and began purchasing Midge’s newly delivered cookbooks, Flora Fairchild hurried into the shop, her face as flushed as the pink dress she was wearing. She weaved through the crowd toward me, nabbed my elbow, and dragged me toward the stockroom, out of earshot of the others. Lowering her voice, she said, “Per your request, I’ve started a phone tree. However, so far no one claims to have seen Tito Martinez on Gardenia Avenue or anywhere near there. I’m sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I am.”

  “We’ll keep trying.” Flora petted my arm. “Lots of people leave town before the holiday and refuse to answer their cell phones. Tell Bailey and Tito to keep their chins up.”

  “Will do.”

  “Hello, everyone!” Katie yodeled as she and Midge entered through the breezeway, Katie pushing her mobile cooking cart and looking primed for action in a checkered dress and crisp chef’s coat. Midge had donned a chef’s coat as well.

  “Let’s get started,” Katie said. “Take your seats and say hello to our guest of honor, Midge Martin.”

  The audience obeyed, many without finalizing their purchases. I wasn’t worried. We’d never had an audience member walk out without paying.

  “Hi, all!” Midge raised her hand in greeting.

  �
�Midge and I are going to show you how to shred with confidence,” Katie declared. “Are you excited?”

  The audience responded in the affirmative.

  After describing her cart and its overhead mirror, Katie said, “Afraid of this flat-faced sassy girl, also know as a mandoline?” She held one up, displaying it right and left. “Don’t be.” Next, she raised a cheese shredder. “Scared of scraping your knuckles? Forget about it.” She uttered The Sopranos catchphrase with a New York Italian accent.

  A few in the audience caught the reference and laughed.

  Midge said, “Today, we’ll be making a variety of salads, appetizers, and vegetarian pizza.”

  “Are we expected to be here for the entire afternoon?” Flora tapped her watch.

  Midge grinned. “Very funny, Flora. We’ll do this all in a matter of two hours. Are you game?”

  The audience applauded.

  “Let’s get shredding.” Midge wielded a large chopping knife and cackled.

  Midge’s maniacal display caught me off guard. I pictured Kylie, strangled in the reformer, the shredded papers and articles scattered helter-skelter. Was everyone who’d been mentioned in an article a suspect? If Midge were the killer, why would she have deliberately implicated herself by including an article about Kylie and her? Was throwing in that article a ploy to confuse the police?

  “Prep always comes first,” Midge said, “as you’ll notice in my cookbook.” Like an accomplished sous chef, she sliced and diced onions, carrots, cucumbers, and zucchini with ease while providing tips about how to keep one’s knuckles and fingertips out of the way of danger. “First and foremost, choose the right-sized grater. If the hole is too small, food, like a semi-hard cheese or potatoes for hash browns, will get caught and cause you to snag your knuckles. Ouch! You can use the finer grate for harder cheeses, like parmesan, and for zesting lemons and the like.” The overhead mirror allowed the audience to view each stroke. “If you have all the prep work done ahead of time, assembling is a snap.”

  Holding the mandoline at an angle on the cutting board, Katie scalloped pre-peeled potatoes.