Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  By closing time, my voice was hoarse from talking, and I was beat on my feet. I settled onto the stool beside the register and slugged down the contents of an entire bottle of spring water.

  Bailey sidled up to the counter. “Look sharp, girlfriend. We’ve got a hot double date.” She tapped her watch. “Ten minutes.”

  “A date?”

  “Don’t you remember? You promised to go on a sunset whaling adventure with Rhett. I’m going with Tito. They’ll be here to pick us up in a few minutes.”

  I bounded off my stool. Nothing revived me more than seeing Rhett. I didn’t care how tired I was. Tigger mewed from the floor. I scooped him up. “Aunt Vera is taking you home. She’ll spoil you with fish treats.”

  He meowed again.

  “That’s right. Fish treats and lots of love. Be good.” I bopped his nose with my fingertip. “No poking around in her closets or messing up her decks of tarot cards.” The last time my aunt had cat-sat, Tigger had played master snoop. I don’t think he had many more lives before she would beg off sitting for the little imp, and I needed her to do so if I wanted to have a social life. I didn’t believe in letting a kitten hang out in the cottage by his lonesome for hours on end. Some might call me a helicopter cat-parent, but I didn’t care. I set him back on the floor and hurried to the stockroom to freshen up.

  A half hour later, Bailey, Tito, Rhett, and I, all dressed warmly, boarded a sleek ship specially brought into the harbor for Pirate Week dubbed the Victory, a small trading-style vessel about 140 feet in length, with multiple sails, a foresail, and eight cannons.

  The captain had allowed a maximum of one hundred passengers on board. Each passenger wore a pirate hat or bandana, which the crew had handed out to us while boarding. In addition, each passenger was now holding a cocktail of some sort. Mine was called Pirate’s Poison, a delicious rum and fruit juice concoction. The sun had not yet set, although it hung low in the sky. Huge swipes of pink and orange sky spanned the horizon, but dark clouds were amassing way far out, foretelling a coming storm.

  “Where are the whales?” Bailey asked.

  “Be patient,” Tito chided and bussed her on the cheek.

  Whales commonly migrated south in the winter and were often sighted from Washington to Baja. They were known to be more active on blustery days. The roiling water seemed to drive them toward the surface. However, the captain had assured us that even today, on a fairly calm ocean at sunset—given the impending storm, it would not be calm in a few hours—we were bound to spy a few. He would use radar to explore the ocean to see where whale activity was heaviest. He was already playing music below deck, a tried-and-true way to lure whales closer to the ship, though not closer than coast guard regulations allowed.

  Soon we were cutting through the water. I took up a position near the aft of the boat and gazed out over the water, vigilant for activity. A gentle breeze wafted across the deck. I shivered and pulled the poncho I had thrown over my jeans and sweater tighter.

  Bailey sidled up to me. “Thinking about Alison?”

  “And Coco.” She hadn’t called Bailey or me. Had she gone to the precinct? Had Simon come forward on her behalf? Had Cinnamon exonerated her? “I feel guilty being out here while her fate is in question.”

  “Tell me about it, but there’s nothing more we can do.”

  A heavy silence fell between us.

  After a moment, Bailey said, “So what do you think?”

  “About Coco?”

  “About Tito.” She nodded toward the men.

  Rhett, who looked extremely handsome in a cable-knit sweater and jeans, with his tricorn hat tipped rakishly down over one eye, had chosen to stay seated near the portside railing. A veteran fisherman, he was immune to the allure of watching for whales. When one was sighted, he would rise to his feet and cheer with the rest of us, but until then, he would relax. Tito, seated beside Rhett, was regaling him with an obviously humorous story. Rhett caught me staring at him laughing, and he smiled. I smiled back.

  “Rhett likes him,” I said. “That says a lot.”

  “You don’t think Rhett is simply being nice?”

  “Rhett’s pretty opinionated. I think if he didn’t enjoy Tito, he’d move away.”

  Bailey grinned, pleased with my answer. “You know what I love about Tito?”

  I elbowed her. “Love? Did you say love, girlfriend?”

  “Like. What I like about him?” She blushed. “He’s always up-to-date with the news.”

  “That’s his job.”

  “Yes, but he’s on top of the latest stories. Not just here in little old Crystal Cove. In California. The U.S. The world.”

  Tito slapped his leg. Loudly, he said, “Exactly!”

  Bailey nudged me toward them. “Enough watching for whales and thinking deep, dark thoughts. Move. Lighten up, if even for two hours.”

  When we arrived where the men were sitting, Rhett patted his knee for me to perch on it. My cheeks warmed. I liked modest public displays of affection. A peck on the cheek or holding hands. All good. Snuggling? Uh-uh.

  Bailey picked up on my hesitancy. She batted her eyelashes and said to Tito, “What are you two laughing about?”

  “There was another pot of gold doubloons sighting,” Tito announced.

  “You’re kidding. Where?”

  “Online, on a new blog called Fun Times.”

  “Stupid move,” Bailey said. “The police can track down the creator using a web address.”

  “Not likely.” Tito swatted the air. “The blog has already been removed, just like the others. It went up, and within thirty minutes, gone. Poof! But the picture remained in Google Images.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “People shared via Pinterest and Facebook, so it went viral, yet again.”

  “Why would someone do that?” I asked.

  “Exactly!” Tito said, the same way he had to Rhett. “To get attention.”

  I shook my head. “Unless the sightings are driving business the thief’s way, it doesn’t earn him anything. Why do it?”

  “Street cred,” Rhett said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Whoa, listen to you. Street cred. Tough guy.”

  “Rhett is right,” Tito said. “The thief is doing this so he can tell tales. And get this, before the blog vanished, he said whoever figured out his name first would get two free tickets.”

  “To what?” we asked in unison.

  “That’s just it.” Tito grinned. “He didn’t say.”

  “Two free tickets directly to Jail,” Bailey joked. “Do not pass Go.”

  “It’s all very curious,” Tito added. “He’s piqued my interest.”

  “How do you know it’s a he?” I asked.

  Bailey smacked Tito’s chest. “Is it you?”

  “Me? Are you nuts?” Tito chortled. “I only wish I’d thought of it. I would like to expand my audience. Readership for the paper has floundered. If I could bolster our sales, who knows where that might lead? Editor? Owner?”

  Bailey elbowed him. “Keep that swelled head in check, amigo.”

  Tito wrapped an arm around Bailey and kissed the side of her head. The sight warmed me. I had never seen Bailey so openly affectionate with a guy.

  Rhett said, “If you’d wanted to bolster readership and you were the thief, wouldn’t you have left the blog up? It doesn’t make—”

  “There!” a crowd of people shouted. “Aft!”

  Off the starboard side of the boat, a whale surfaced. Every guest on the ship hurried to watch. The whale swam parallel to the ship, its back cresting the ocean. As it glided along, it raised a fin and spanked the water. People squealed with delight. The whale repeated its performance three or four times then disappeared. None of us budged an inch. We waited with bated breath. And then suddenly, out in front of the ship, the whale breached. The upper portion of its mammoth-sized body rose straight up, then the giant beast plummeted into the water. The crowd heaved a collective sigh of regret. Once a wh
ale breached, it would not resurface for a long time. The show was over.

  Soon the sky grew dark, and the captain turned the ship around. We debarked from the ship and walked along the boardwalk, ready to find someplace to eat dinner.

  “How about Mum’s the Word?” Tito said.

  Bailey shook her head. “Jenna and I ate lunch there. How about Tacos To Go?”

  “Done.”

  While the two ran off to fetch dinner, Rhett and I strolled ahead. The Pier was crowded with tons of revelers. I would bet nearly everyone in town was there. Some were walking the plank across a board set atop an expanse of paper painted blue to resemble water. Others were lured into paying a dollar to throw a ring on a pirate’s hook to win prizes. Most rings fell short.

  A crowd of people stood in a semicircle around a pirate-clad man showing off his trained seal, also in pirate gear. The seal, using its nose, played catch with the pirate. After each toss, it barked. A hat filled with dollar bill tips sat on the boardwalk in front of them. Whether or not the artist had placed the dollars there to encourage more tipping was anyone’s guess.

  Among the seal and pirate onlookers, I spied Dash Hamada in full pirate regalia. He held a camera and was snapping off pictures in rapid succession. He whirled around and took photographs of people exiting The Theater on The Pier. The first of the evening’s performances of The Pirates of Penzance, the show that the red and blue pirates had advertised at The Cookbook Nook, had just let out. Dash moved on and paused at The Pearl, a jewelry store. He aimed his camera at something inside, but he didn’t depress the button. He released the camera, letting it hang on its strap around his neck, and swiped a finger beneath his eyes. Was he crying?

  Poor guy. I understood why he was still in town. He had tagged along with the others from Foodie Publishing so he could experience Pirate Week. Did the event have the same allure now that Alison was dead? Did Dash miss her? How would her death affect his career? Did he have new jobs lined up?

  The owner of the jewelry store, a slight man with dark curly hair and enough pierced jewelry in his ears to set off security alarms at the airport, emerged from the store and joined Dash. He put a hand on Dash’s shoulder and said something, then he looped an arm around Dash and drew him into the store.

  I recalled the conversation Coco and I had at Vines. Was she right and I wrong? Was Dash gay? Did it matter? No, not really.

  I spied Pepper Pritchett heading toward us carrying a blue pastry box. She raised a hand as if trying to get my attention. I snuggled into Rhett, doing my best to ignore her signal. Pepper tugged up the collar of her overcoat and veered away.

  “Hey, Jenna. Psst.” Bailey caught up to me and offered me a taco. I passed. My appetite was nil. “There’s Ingrid Lake,” she whispered. “She’s exiting the Seaside Bakery. See her?”

  Ingrid looked like she had come straight from a dry cleaner, clad in a crisply pressed gray jacket and skirt. No color; no spunk. She, too, was carrying a blue pastry box.

  “Go talk to her,” Bailey urged.

  “Why?” I asked, sotto voce, not wanting Rhett to hear us.

  “Remember what Simon Butler said at the shop? You know”—she twirled a hand—“that whatever Ingrid and Alison were arguing about might matter. Ask her for her alibi last night.”

  “You do it.”

  “No way. Cinnamon told you to investigate.”

  “Wrong. She said I could listen and report back.”

  “C’mon. The time is right.” Bailey knuckled my arm.

  I veered into Rhett.

  He juggled his taco and steadied me. “Are you all right?”

  I grunted a yes. “Give me a second.” I didn’t add, Or Bailey will never leave me in peace. “I need to speak with that woman over there.”

  “About her alibi,” Bailey chimed.

  Rhett cocked an eyebrow. I knew what that meant. It wasn’t that he didn’t want me to get involved—he trusted my intellect and my instincts—but he didn’t want me to get hurt. Period.

  “Go!” Bailey warned. “She’s getting away.”

  Tito, unlike Rhett, was not against the idea. “Can I listen in?”

  “No!” I barked then hurried off to accost . . . question . . . Ingrid. I caught up to her beyond the diner and smiled. “Hi, Ingrid. I thought you would have gone back to San Francisco by now.”

  “No, I’m still here.” Her voice was lackluster, her teeth still tight.

  “How are you holding up?” I placed a comforting hand on her elbow.

  Ingrid pulled away. “Fine. I guess. I can’t believe Alison is gone.”

  “Who are the cupcakes for?”

  “Alison’s mother. Not her brother. He doesn’t eat—”

  “Sugar,” I completed the sentence. “He’s diabetic. Did you get the meal my chef and I sent over?” I might as well take some credit for the idea. After all, the food had come from my café.

  “We did. It was very good. That was sweet of you.”

  “How long are you planning to stay in town?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t leave now, not while the murder goes unsolved. It’s not like I have another job to go to. Besides, Mrs. Foodie is so kind, and she’s”— Ingrid’s voice caught—“in deep emotional pain. The doctor doesn’t think she should be left alone, and I agree.”

  Coco had heard Ingrid taunting Alison, claiming she could run the business better than Alison. Was Ingrid hoping that as a stand-in for Mrs. Foodie’s daughter, she might have some sway with the future of Foodie Publishing?

  “Neil . . .” Ingrid paused to lick her lips, proving her teeth did, indeed, move. “Let’s just say that he isn’t much help.”

  Neil. For some reason, the guy irked me. His sister had died, his mother was suffering, and yet he hadn’t taken a second off to grieve. Granted, people handled sorrow in different ways, but I had to wonder about him. Did he stand to inherit the business? Where was he when Alison was killed? What time did his shift end?

  Ingrid’s gaze darted to the right. Was she looking for an escape route?

  Now or never, Jenna. Focus on the matter at hand. Get Ingrid’s alibi.

  “Ingrid,” I said. “What were you doing last night?”

  Ingrid tilted her head; her eyes narrowed. “I’ve already answered to the police, but if you must know, after I left the book club meeting, I went back to the Foodies’ house, and I watched television in bed.”

  Liar, liar. “You were seen at Vines.”

  “Oh, right.” Ingrid tugged down the hem of her jacket and stretched her neck. “After Alison dropped me at her mother’s house, I went out for a glass of wine.”

  Faith Fairchild said Ingrid had ordered a bottle of wine, but I wouldn’t quibble with details. I said, “We were there, too, Bailey, Coco, and I, but I don’t remember seeing you.”

  Ingrid sputtered. “I didn’t go right away. Like I said, I watched a little television with Mrs. Foodie and then—”

  “A second ago you said you watched TV in bed.”

  “That was later. First, I watched with Mrs. Foodie—an episode of CSI.”

  Reruns of CSI played day and night.

  “Wanda dozed off,” Ingrid continued. “Wanda is Mrs. Foodie.”

  “I know.” I’d met Wanda. She had come into the store a time or two. She had a particular fondness for spicy dishes.

  “I got bored, so . . .” Ingrid twirled a hand to elaborate without adding anything more.

  “Someone heard you arguing with Alison after the book club meeting.” How I wished I had taken Pepper up on a chat a few minutes ago. If she had overheard the dispute—

  “Who?” Ingrid demanded.

  She didn’t deny it. That was a start.

  “A friend,” I said and glanced over my shoulder. Rhett stood at the edge of The Pier. Tito and Bailey huddled nearby. None of them were talking. Bailey’s gaze was riveted on me. Rhett checked his watch. If I didn’t wrap this up quickly, he might leave. I didn’t want to end the night on a sour note
. On the other hand, Ingrid was being responsive. I wanted to learn all I could. “What did you disagree about?”

  Ingrid raised the pastry box and clutched it in front of her torso with both arms, like a shield. “It was nothing.”

  I remembered a time at Taylor & Squibb, while working on the Bandy’s Candies account. An associate said he thought there might be a glitch in the campaign. When I asked him what, he’d said, It was nothing. It turned out that the copywriter we’d hired had written a similar campaign for another advertising firm. It wasn’t nothing. It had turned into a lawsuit.

  “Sometimes nothing can matter,” I said. “Care to share?”

  Ingrid shrugged. “We were talking about the books Alison was putting on the back burner. Dash’s book and Coco’s latest.”

  “You didn’t think they should flounder?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Ingrid pursed her lips, which made her look like a duck.

  “Did you argue about anything else?”

  “Alison thought I was being too fastidious about some edits. She said I wasn’t letting a few of her authors’ voices come through.”

  “Like?”

  “Dash and Coco, to be specific.”

  At the crime scene, Coco had called Ingrid’s editing style picayune, which had almost brought them to blows.

  “You didn’t agree?” I asked.

  “Does an employee ever agree with the boss?” Ingrid attempted a smile. It looked painful. “I listened. After a bit, she calmed down. But you know Alison. She could run hot and cold.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “No, not really. We didn’t hang out. But she trusted me enough to let me stay at her mother’s house, if that’s any indication. She was grooming me.”

  My ears perked up. “Grooming you for what? Partnership?”

  “That, and more.” Ingrid fitted a lock of hair behind her ear and smoothed her hands over the whole hairdo. Everything in its place, I mused. “She was grooming me to do her job so she could retire.”

  Okay, that was news. “Why would Alison want to retire?”

  “She wanted to get married. Travel. Have a life. Up until a month ago.” Ingrid leaned in. “The guy she hoped to marry . . . he died.”