Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  During dinner, Alison regaled us with publishing business tales. While dessert was being dished out, Dash excused himself, claiming fatigue.

  “A likely story,” Alison teased. “You’re off to join the pirates. Avast, me hearty, have at it!” Yawning, she waved for him to leave. “Go. Don’t let us stop you. But you’ll be sorry you missed the best part of the meal.”

  Dessert was a smash hit. Katie had prepared a silk chocolate pie using a recipe directly out of Coco’s cookbook. After each guest was served, to our surprise Coco lifted a tray filled with assorted chocolate truffles. She had hidden the tray on one of the chairs.

  Chow down didn’t half cover what we all did. We pigged out. Some of our guests even chose to taste Cinnamon’s homemade concoctions. No one was disappointed.

  Tito skirted the group while taking photo after photo. Ingrid jotted notes on an iPad. And Bailey was grinning from ear to ear. After all, she was the glue that had brought about the union of candymaker and publisher, and she was also the inspiration for the creation of the Chocolate Cookbook Club.

  “Coco, stand up,” Bailey said. “Everyone, Coco has offered to tell us about the history of chocolate. You do not need to take notes.” She zeroed in on Ingrid. “No tests will be given.”

  The crowd tittered.

  Coco rose and smoothed her body-hugging dress, making sure the hem reached her knees, and then she launched into a spiel about chocolate. “The history of chocolate can be traced back to pre-Olmec people. The Aztecs treasured cacao beans, which they believed were gifts from the gods, and they used them for currency.”

  She continued, sharing much of what I already knew. I had pored over the histories offered in a number of the chocolate-themed cookbooks we had in the shop. Chocolate gave the person who drank it strength. Sugar was added to chocolate around the sixteenth century, and soon the candy became a favorite of the ruling classes.

  I bit into my silk chocolate pie. Heaven.

  When Coco finished her chat, Bailey said, “May we ask you a few questions?”

  “Shoot.”

  Pepper raised her hand. “Tell us the real secret. Why do we crave chocolate?”

  “Because it tastes good.”

  A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd.

  “No, honestly,” Coco continued. “It’s true. Chocolate tastes good. It smells good. It feels good on our tongue. Why do these feelings occur? They happen because our brain is releasing chemicals as we experience chocolate.”

  “Don’t get too academic on us,” Bailey cautioned.

  “I wouldn’t think of it.” Coco grinned. “But I have made a study of chocolate. The stuff releases neurotransmitters, mainly dopamine, to the frontal lobe, to the hippocampus located in the medial lobe, and to the hypothalamus.” She used a finger to point out the various medical locations on her head. “Dopamine is released whenever you experience something that you love, like laughing or watching an exciting pirate movie. Arrr. Oh, I forgot. Dash isn’t here.”

  Alison said, “Arrr,” in his stead.

  “Dopamine is even released when you experience sex.”

  A few of the women club members fanned themselves. The men, to their credit, blushed.

  “Chocolate is the perfect orosensory experience to seduce the palate,” Coco went on.

  “Orosensory,” Alison teased. “Big word.”

  “I read it somewhere,” Coco responded. “I couldn’t spell it if you dared me. By the way, do you know there are people in the world who don’t like chocolate?”

  “Sacrilege!” Bailey shouted.

  “But true. We’re hardwired by genetics.”

  “Is all of this going to be in your new cookbook, Coco?” I asked.

  “Hmm.” She eyed her publisher. “I doubt I could do the material justice. Perhaps we’ll get a certified scientist to explain it in laymen’s terms. Next question?”

  The door to the café flew open. Our mayor rushed in. “Chief Pritchett!” Though squat, the mayor was a bundle of energy. Her hair looked frizzier than I’d ever seen it. The moisture in the outside air couldn’t be helping. “It’s horrible.” She wiggled her hands overhead as if summoning a rainstorm.

  Cinnamon rushed to her. “What happened?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “What’s gone?”

  “The pot of gold doubloons. Someone stole it.”

  Chapter 4

  CINNAMON HUSTLED OUTSIDE the café with the mayor. My aunt, one of the mayor’s best friends, hurried after them. So did Tito. Although the theft of the pot of doubloons wasn’t a national emergency, by any means, it was a local interest story.

  A buzz of questions about what happened charged through the remaining cookbook club members.

  I stood in the center of the café and clapped my hands. “Hey, everyone, don’t stress too much. The doubloons aren’t worth a bloody cent. They aren’t real gold.”

  “It’s a shame, though.” Coco rose to her feet and joined me. “People buy tons of raffle tickets to win the pot. Why, I know a guy who sets his trophy on his mantel and brags about it, in appropriate pirate speak, of course.”

  The money from the raffle tickets benefited a home for orphans at the north end of town. The mayor, Zoey Zeller, or Z.Z. to her friends, was a big proponent of saving kids. She’d lost a two-year-old child to a tragic disease. Soon after, her husband succumbed to grief and left the state.

  Coco sighed. “It sure puts a damper on the evening, doesn’t it?” She whispered, “Pooh, Jenna. I hate when people rob, steal, and plunder.”

  “Me, too.” Who didn’t? Except those that robbed, stole, and plundered. Those were people with no moral compass.

  Coco addressed the crowd. “I guess that’s it for tonight, folks. The party is over. Thank you all for coming.”

  Book club members rose and approached Coco with their purchases of her latest cookbook. She nestled into the seat she had vacated and withdrew a bright pink pen from her purse. As she signed the books, her fans lavished her with praise for her previous cookbooks and the unique recipes she made. She was, in many of the members’ words, without equal, imaginative, daring, and audacious. Many of the club members offered Alison accolades, too, for the quality of Foodie Publishing cookbooks. The photography, a few said, was brilliant.

  When the crowd left and before Coco pocketed her pen, I said, “Coco, would you sign the remaining books? I know we’ll sell them. Our customers love personalized cookbooks.”

  “You bet.” She finished quickly and hoisted her tote higher on her shoulder. “I guess that’s it. Thank you so much for this opportunity. It was a true delight. I knew I had fans, but to meet so many in person was the highlight of my career.”

  “Our pleasure.”

  She patted Alison. “Let’s get a move on.”

  I stopped her. “Can Bailey and I buy you two a glass of wine at Vines Wine Bistro upstairs?”

  Coco grinned. “I love that place. That’s where we went last night.”

  Alison begged off. “I’m beat. Coco, do you mind?”

  “Work, work, work. C’mon. We’ll only have one drink.”

  Alison shook her head and then yawned. “Not tonight.” She addressed Ingrid. “Are you going with them?”

  I hadn’t invited the tight-toothed copyeditor, but I was too embarrassed to disinvite her.

  “No, I’m exhausted, as well,” Ingrid said. “Can you drive me back to your mother’s, Alison?”

  Alison agreed. They left, and I heard Alison, sotto voce, asking Ingrid whether she’d learned anything of significance. Ingrid tucked her iPad into her oversized tote and nodded profusely, looking slightly goggle-eyed, as if she had gleaned way too much to retain.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Coco and Bailey. “I’ll tell Katie where we’ll be.”

  “I’ll give you a lift later, Coco,” Bailey added.

  “Deal.”

  • • •

  VINES WINE BISTRO, the wine bar on the second floor of Fisherman
’s Village, was the perfect place for those who wanted a nice glass of wine and quiet conversation. The handcrafted tables were set to seat four patrons or fewer. Only a few stools stood beneath the curved bar. Classical music played softly through a speaker system. Most often, strings of tiny white lights were the only decoration. Tonight, however, the place looked like a rustic beach palace. Nets stocked with colorful plastic fish swooped from chandelier to chandelier. Tiki torches poked from potted plants. Cutouts of pirate silhouettes adorned the walls.

  Simon Butler, the owner of Vines, approached us. “Ladies, what a pleasure.” He reminded me of a forty-year-old Simon from Alvin and the Chipmunks: big, round glasses, a thatch of spiky hair, and an educated, almost crafty-in-a-cute-way look. “We’re one server short tonight, so”—he made a grand sweeping gesture—“I’ll do the honors. This way.” Simon walked ahead of us. “Table for four or five? I assume Katie and Alison will be joining you.”

  “I’m sorry to say neither will,” I said. Before coming upstairs, I had scooted into the kitchen to invite Katie, but she begged off. “Do you know Alison, Simon?” I asked, then revised, “Of course you do. She was here last night with Coco.”

  “I know her professionally, too.” Over his shoulder, he said, “I happen to have a book on her desk, thanks to Coco’s introduction. A family history with recipes, if you will.”

  “It’s wonderful,” Coco said. “I’ve read the foreword and a number of the stories. Dash is slated to do the photography.”

  “We’ll have to carry it in the shop,” I said. “When will it come out?”

  “I’m not sure.” Simon shook his head. He looked to Coco for an answer. She had none. “Soon, I hope. It would make my mama proud. She’s . . . ill.” He winced. “Dying, in fact.”

  My heart wrenched. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too.” Coco reached out and touched his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” She swiveled to face Bailey and me. “Simon is one of my steadiest customers. He’s always interested in how I do everything. He adores my milk chocolate nougat.”

  “And your chocolate-coffee dipped pretzels.” He seated us at a table in the corner.

  I sat beside Bailey and glanced around the bistro. “I like the pirate theme you’ve got going, Simon.”

  “Let’s just say we’re seriously into looting and pillaging.” He chuckled then tilted his head in Coco’s direction. “You look nice, all dressed up, your hair”—he indicated from his neck to his shoulder—“loose.”

  “Why, thank you, sir. No hairnets for me on a night out.” Coco’s typical uniform when working at Sweet Sensations was a hot pink dress, hot pink apron, and hot pink hairnet. Fashionable but practical.

  “By the way, Coco”—Simon offered a quirky smile—“my wife thanks you for the extra special attention you gave to the cocoa-covered truffles for the baby shower.”

  “Your wife is pregnant?” Bailey squealed.

  “No. My sister. My wife threw the shower.”

  Coco said, “His wife is a real exercise buff, a personal trainer. Haven’t you met her?”

  “Numerous times,” I said. “She’s bought a couple of cookbooks. Her latest was, let me see”—I tapped my lip—“The Paleo Approach Cookbook: A Detailed Guide to Heal Your Body and Nourish Your Soul.”

  “Gosh,” Coco said. “I love how lengthy cookbook titles are.”

  “I know. Right?” I giggled. “The book just came out. I’d never heard of it until your wife mentioned it, Simon. It’s written by a doctor who provides all sorts of tips about how to make the switch to paleo.”

  “Then you know by that title alone that chocolate never touches her lips or hips,” Coco teased.

  “That’s not true,” Simon countered. “She indulges occasionally.”

  “Whatever.” Coco twirled her finger through a lock of hair. “You’re welcome. It’s a recipe handed down to me by my bunica, my grandmother.”

  “Is bunica Russian?” Bailey asked.

  “Romanian. On my mother’s side.”

  “I was lucky enough to taste one of those truffles.” Simon kissed the tips of his fingertips. “Delicious.” He beckoned a passing waiter. “Neil, bring some menus, will you?”

  I said, “Say, isn’t that Alison Foodie’s—”

  “Younger brother, Neil.” Simon nodded then lowered his voice. “She asked me to do her a favor and give the kid a job. Anything for my publisher, right?”

  Neil wasn’t a kid. He had to be in his late twenties, and although he was as tall as his sister, unlike Alison, who had the build and fortitude of a Scottish warrior, Neil was on the pudgy side with a double chin, cherub cheeks, and a receding hairline.

  Simon continued to whisper. “Be nice to him. The kid is learning, but he’s got a long way to go. He’s had a rough time of it since his father died. A handful of odd jobs. Nothing’s sticking. And, let’s face it, he can’t compare to his sister. She excels in everything.” Simon raised a palm. “I totally get that. Been there, done that.” He cleared his throat. “Might I recommend the MacMurray Ranch pinot noir if you’re in the mood for red tonight? It’s our special pour.” He grabbed a carafe of peanuts off another table, set it in the center of ours, and brushed his fingers off on his pant leg.

  Neil appeared at the table. “Hiya, ladies.” He handed each of us a menu. “I’ve got this, boss.”

  “Mr. Butler,” Simon corrected.

  “Mr. Butler. Sir.” Neil’s mouth curved upward, like he might break into a wicked grin.

  “Wipe down the nut carafe, would you please?”

  “Yeah, sure thing. There’s a guy wearing an eye patch at the bar. He’s asking for you. He’s got lots of questions about The Prisoner Wine Company selection. I think it’s called Blindfold.” Neil paused then guffawed. “Blindfold. Ha! That’s funny.” He smacked his leg. “I hadn’t made the connection. Eye patch. Blindfold.”

  Simon didn’t see the humor. “It’s a fine wine.”

  “I know,” Neil said and put on a serious face. “Don’t worry. I told him the wine was bold and intriguing.”

  “Good.” Simon addressed us. “Ladies, enjoy the evening. Neil, take care of these women.”

  When Simon was out of earshot, Neil said, “Some people do buy wine because of the art on the bottle. It’s pretty ridiculous, if you ask me, but—” He gaped at Coco. “Hey, you’re one of my sister’s authors, aren’t you? Yeah, you’re the candy lady. Coco . . . Coco . . .”

  “Coco Chastain.” She offered a hand.

  Neil shook it enthusiastically. “You own Sweet Sensations.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sis is staying with you. Yeah, she loves your recipes. She’s told Mother all about you. I would have recognized you anywhere. You look just like the photo on the book jacket.”

  “Haven’t you visited her candy shop?” I asked.

  “Nah. I can’t do sweets. Borderline diabetic. No nuts, either. Major allergic.” Using a pair of napkins, Neil deftly wiped down the nut carafe without touching any portion of the glass. “Lots of candies have nuts in them.”

  “I make sweets for diabetics. No sugar,” Coco said. “And nutless candies, too.”

  “Aw, that’s all right. No need to tempt myself.” He patted his doughy stomach. “But I heard your stuff is great.” Neil wrinkled his nose in an impish way. “You had people downstairs for a little soiree earlier, didn’t you? Yeah, Simon—Mr. Butler—told me about it. I think he was hoping to be invited. Did it go well? How could it not? My sister was involved. Everything she does is golden.”

  Did I detect a tinge of sibling rivalry? Simon had hinted at as much a few minutes ago.

  “It was a great success,” Coco said.

  I added, “Until the mayor said the pot was stolen.”

  Bailey shook a finger. “Don’t worry about that. If Z.Z. doesn’t find the pot, she’ll replace it.”

  Neil looked between us. “Oho. You’re not talking about marijuana. You’re talking about th
e missing doubloons, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” we answered as a trio.

  “Arrr, lassies,” Neil said with a thick brogue. “Shiver me timbers. Didn’t you see?”

  “See what?” I asked.

  “The pot of doubloons. With the lion’s claws feet. A picture of it went viral on the Internet.”

  “Why would a picture go viral?” Bailey asked.

  “Because the pot is sitting on Mrs. McCartney’s porch,” Neil announced.

  “Why there?” I asked. Mrs. McCartney lived in my father’s neighborhood, way up in the hills. A real sourpuss, she wouldn’t find the pot appearing on her porch funny in the least.

  “Arrr. There were handcuffs around the feet, and there was a caption: Rescue me, all made of letters cut from magazines.” Neil clapped his thigh. “That’s hysterical, isn’t it? Rescue me.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Coco said. “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. Who would do such a thing?”

  “Someone who wants attention, if you ask me . . . but you didn’t. No one ever does.” Neil pulled a pad and pencil from his apron pocket. “What do you want to drink? The wine the boss mentioned—” He hesitated. “I mean, the wine Mr. Butler suggested is good.”

  We ordered a bottle of the pinot and three glasses. We passed on food, too stuffed from our cookbook club feast. Soon, a sprightly waitress with wavy hair that cascaded down her back returned with the wine. She uncorked it, handed me the cork, and poured three glasses.

  “What happened to Neil?” I asked.

  “Oh, him.” The waitress hitched her chin to where Neil was standing, off to the side of the bar, texting someone with fast and furious fingers. “I think he has a secret life or imagines he does.” She sniggered. “I think he filches singles from the communal tip jar, too. He’s a sneaky devil, but far be it for me to tattle. I need this job, and the boss will believe him before he’ll believe me. You know, men stick together.” She set the wine bottle in the center of the table and hightailed it back to the bar to fetch another order.