Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  On my way into the café, I nearly bumped into Neil Foodie, who was on his way out of the restaurant carrying a to-go bag. Neil looked pale. His nose was chafed and red. He caught sight of me and bolted out the door.

  Chapter 13

  I SPRINTED AFTER Neil, taking the steps to the second floor of Fisherman’s Village two at a time. I caught up with him near the top and tapped his back.

  He spun around, a sheepish look on his face. “Hiya. Did you want to talk to me?”

  “Yes.”

  He held up his to-go bag like a prize. “Soup. Navy bean, in honor of Pirate Week.”

  “Katie makes great soup.”

  “So I’ve heard. What do you want?”

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “Oh, is that all?”

  What had he expected?

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Been crying?” I pointed to my nose, indicating the redness of his own.

  He frowned. “Okay, no, I’m not fine. I’m lying through my teeth. Yes, I’ve been crying. I miss Ali—” He drew in a sharp breath. “And Mother is—” Another breath. “We’re having a funeral.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning. It’s going to be private. Just the three of us.”

  “Three?”

  “Mother, me, and—” He sighed.

  Alison. I offered a consoling smile.

  “Mother doesn’t want a lot of fuss. She’s . . .” Neil shimmied tension out of his shoulders. “Mother is usually stalwart. She always has been. But Alison’s death has shaken her to the core.”

  “And you?”

  “I try not to dwell. I keep my feet moving. Fred Flintstone, at your service.” He trotted in place, as if he was the cartoon character in his footmobile.

  Recalling how Bailey said Neil often resorted to corny humor, I did my best to cut him a little slack for his goofy behavior. “Have the police—”

  “No,” he interrupted, then added, “Yeah, like, I’m sorry. That was rude. You were going to ask whether the police have found Alison’s killer. If they have, they haven’t told me. They’re looking at Coco Chastain.”

  Coco still hadn’t touched base with me. Why not? Had Cinnamon locked her up? Why hadn’t Cinnamon returned my call?

  “But I don’t think Coco did it,” Neil went on. “Alison was stabbed in the back, and to quote Oscar Wilde, ‘True friends stab you in the front.’ Coco and Alison were not just true friends, they were great friends.”

  My mouth fell open. Neil was well-read? Given his peculiar sense of humor and the way he talked, using the casual form of yeah and nah, I’d never have guessed. “What about Foodie Publishing?” I asked. “Will it go up for sale?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t expect there to be any buyers. There’s no value in it. Alison told me it was running in the red. She barely made payroll month to month. There might be some back stock to sell and a contract or two to cancel. We’ll have to talk with her attorney.”

  “We?”

  “My mom and me.” He checked his watch. “Gotta go. See ya.”

  “Wait. Neil . . .” I didn’t want him to leave quite yet, not until I pursued one more line of questioning.

  Neil shifted the to-go bag to his other hand. “What?”

  “Did Ingrid have a stake in the publishing company?”

  “Ingrid, as in Ingrid Lake? Miss Uptight of the Century?” Neil guffawed. “You’re kidding, right?” His tone led me to believe there was more to his taunt than him not liking the woman. Had he made a pass at her? Had she rebuked him? “To answer your question, nah, not that I know of.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “I haven’t seen any formal paper yet, so I could be wrong. Like I said, we’ll have to talk to the attorney.” Neil sounded worn-out by the mere thought. “At one time, Alison had an investor, but he died.”

  “Her boyfriend?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “Did you meet him?”

  “Nope. Never. Alison could be secretive.”

  Alison was certainly cagey if her brother, her friend, and her employee had never met the guy. Again, I wondered if the man had been married. Had Alison, like Coco, kept his name private because she hadn’t wanted to ruin his life?

  “There could’ve been more partners, I suppose.” Neil tapped his temple. “My sister never let me in on the aspects of her business. I’m not smart enough.” He offered a weak grin. “Some people say they’ve never seen such a small mind inside such a big head before.” He yukked at his put-down, then glanced at my face. I must not have hidden my dismay well. I hated when people ridiculed themselves. He offered a cockeyed grin. “Not funny, huh? Yeah, I’ll have to work on that. Gallows humor doesn’t translate sometimes.” He pivoted to leave.

  “Neil, one more thing.” Before calling Cinnamon a second time, I wanted to corroborate Pepper’s account; not that she would lie, but she might have misheard. “Do you know if Alison intended to fire Ingrid?”

  “You’re asking me?” He aimed a pointer finger at his forehead. “Remember, this brain is empty.”

  “Ingrid said she was home watching television with your mother the night Alison died, but someone else saw Ingrid at Vines. Did you?”

  Neil scratched his chin. “Come to think of it, yeah, she was there for like a nanosecond. Why?”

  “Was she at home when you got off work?”

  “Um . . .” He shifted the to-go bag back to the other hand.

  “What time did you get off work?”

  “At eleven, but I didn’t go home right away. Not until early morning.” His tongue worked its way around the inside of his mouth. Had I caught him off guard? Had he, like Coco, gone on a clandestine date, or was he fashioning an alibi?

  I peered hard at him. “Where did you go?”

  Neil backed up a step and aimed a finger at me. “Oho! Here we go. I’ve heard about you. I know what you do.”

  I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You investigate.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yeah, you get people talking. A few months ago”—Neil held up three fingers—“three people died in a matter of weeks.”

  Four people, I thought, if you counted a suspect in one of the murders who wound up dead at a motel. The memory made my stomach wrench.

  “You were in at the finish each time,” Neil continued. “You figured it all out.”

  “That’s not true. The police solved the murders.”

  “Uh-uh.” He wagged his head. “You did it. Upstairs”—he pointed toward Vines Wine Bistro—“we talk. We know how it went down.”

  I didn’t know whether to be appalled or flattered. Would Cinnamon be ticked off or pleased? She had told me to listen and report back.

  “Look,” Neil said, “I’ll tell you where I was, but you’ve got to keep it hush-hush.” He lowered his voice. “I was at a nightclub in Santa Cruz called Laugh a Minute. See, I’m trying to be a stand-up comedian.”

  Aha! That was why Neil was always trying out jokes. He wasn’t naturally funny like a few of the comedians I’d used in commercials while at Taylor & Squibb, but then, not all comedians were funny. Some were dour, bordering on antisocial.

  “Do you have a demo reel?” I asked. “Is it on your website?”

  “Uh, I don’t have a website yet, but believe me, I’ve got some really fresh material. It’s got to be fresh. Novice comics like me can’t come in with stale stuff, but I can’t advertise it, see, because I’ve got to be careful. Other comics steal material like that.” Neil snapped his fingers to make a point, then peeked up the staircase. “I also can’t let my boss know I’m doing this.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll get fired. All of us at Vines are supposed to be lifers.”

  “Lifers?”

  “Yep. No kidding.” The guy shuddered.

  “Restaurant staff, other than chefs, are ra
rely in it for the long haul,” I reasoned.

  “I know. It’s a stupid expectation, right? But I’ve been warned.”

  I gaped. “Simon threatened to fire you?”

  “Not him.”

  “Who then, Gloria?” I remembered Neil claiming that Simon’s wife was half owner.

  Neil didn’t respond, but by the way he was trembling, I could see he was truly afraid of losing his job. Was that the real reason he hadn’t taken time off to mourn his sister?

  I said, “You must need the job badly.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got debts.” He jerked his shoulder. “Everybody does.”

  Actually, not everyone. I didn’t. I liked paying cash for things. My deceased husband’s habits did not match mine. “So, getting back to my initial question, Neil, you can’t verify Ingrid’s whereabouts at the time your sister was killed.”

  “Nope, but I can tell you this. Ingrid wasn’t there when I got home at four A.M. I know because my mother’s car was gone.” Without offering more, Neil ditched me and ran upstairs.

  I headed to the kitchen in the café and found Katie pacing like a drill sergeant, a towel bunched in her hands, her toque askew.

  “Get those appetizers ready,” Katie commanded her crew. “The cheese is over there.”

  I caught up with her and said, “What’s wrong? You look a wreck.”

  “My mother.”

  “What’s wrong with your mom?” Katie’s mother had Alzheimer’s and was living in a twenty-four-hour care facility just north of town.

  Katie rubbed a finger beneath her nose. “She’s been shouting at the nurses for the past two hours. Nobody is sure what happened. She doesn’t recognize anyone. I’ve got to go to her.”

  “Of course.” Katie’s father, a miserable man, only visited her mother once a year. Even in his early years, he wasn’t a warm and fuzzy guy.

  Katie pointed at a lean man in a chef’s coat. “Chef Phil will be tending to everything this afternoon. He’s got the specials menu down, and snacks for the kiddies at your event are no problem. Everything’s good to go. There shouldn’t be any hiccups.”

  I smiled. Asking for extra items was out of the question. I gave her a hug and wished her the best.

  Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes. “Ah, moms. Can’t exist without them.”

  Chapter 14

  I HURRIED BACK to the shop and was surprised to see a group of parents and a band of children in costumes already assembled at the rear of the store. The happy chatter was intense. What a hit!

  Under Bailey’s supervision, each child was cutting, pasting, sprinkling glitter, or doodling. Aunt Vera, wearing an eye patch slung over one eye, had taken up a position in the corner. She was reading aloud from Peter Pan. I felt a tug on my heartstrings watching the children, wondering if someday I would have children while at the same time aching for Alison and the possible loss of her child. Had she been pregnant? Did Cinnamon have a clue?

  Confident the Children’s Pirate Day event was running smoothly, I slipped into the stockroom and put in a call to the precinct. I had so much to tell Cinnamon, but she still wasn’t available. The clerk asked if I wished to be transferred to Deputy Appleby. I passed. I didn’t know if my aunt had contacted him; I certainly wasn’t in the mood to answer questions about her if she hadn’t.

  Seeing as there was nothing in regard to the murder investigation that I could do until Cinnamon called me back, I returned to the party. Tigger, the imp, was having a field day lurking beneath the table, trying to nab falling snippets of yarn and paper. Hershey wanted none of the infantile action. He had tucked himself into a comfy reading chair and was refusing to give it up to an elderly woman. I intended to fix that. I marched toward the grumpy cat.

  Before I reached him, Bailey charged up to me and hooked a thumb. “What was that about?”

  “What was what about?”

  She prodded me to the sales counter. “Outside. On the stairs. You and Neil.”

  I told her in less than thirty words.

  “Did you believe him about where he was?”

  “You’re the one who told me he’s always cracking jokes.”

  “Sure, but that doesn’t mean he was really at the comedy club.” Bailey folded her arms. “He admitted he has debts. Did you ask why?”

  I hadn’t.

  “Maybe he’s a gambler,” she said.

  “Or he’s simply spending beyond his means.”

  “He lives at home!”

  Like that made a difference. The thirty-something son of my boss at Taylor & Squibb still lived at home and spent wild amounts of money.

  Over Bailey’s shoulder, I spied Dash Hamada entering the store. He wore a plumed tricorn hat and a pirate-style coat, which hit his jeans mid-thigh. He’d slung a couple of local shopping bags over his shoulder. His pockets overflowed with a map of the town, flyers, and photo contact sheets, making him look like a walking advertisement for Crystal Cove. How many pictures had he taken of the place?

  “Ahoy!” Dash raised a hand in greeting. In his other hand, he held a Beaders of Paradise gift bag. I recognized the ornate figure of a parrot on the outside. Dash seemed a whole lot cheerier than he had when I’d seen him on The Pier last night. It never ceased to amaze me how people coped with sadness. Grief came in waves. It had for me when my husband went missing, and again when my mother passed away. On some days at work, I had barely muddled through. On other days, I had been downright hilarious.

  I whispered to Bailey, “I’ll be right back,” and I approached Dash. “Hey, there. You sure look festive.”

  “Got to get in the spirit.”

  “Why are you still in town?”

  Warily, he tilted his head. “Do you mean, why am I not holing up in my apartment, pining away now that my employer is dead?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “It’s okay.” Dash swiped the air with his hand. “It’s Pirate Week. Alison wouldn’t have begrudged me having fun. She knows . . . knew how much I liked this stuff. Such a loss,” he added, then wheezed out a sigh.

  I eyed the bag in his hand. “What did you buy at Beaders of Paradise?”

  Dash brushed his scraggly hair over his shoulder. “I’m going for the total pirate look at Pirate Cosplay. Beaded braids. Johnny Depp chic.”

  Typically, cosplay was the practice of dressing up as a character from a movie, book, or video game, and acting out the character. Pirate Cosplay, which was going to be held on The Pier on Tuesday night, would cap off the events for Pirate Week. The experience was for adults only; children, per the mayor’s instructions, were forbidden. Pirates could get rowdy. Rhett and I were planning to attend. We also had tickets to go to The Theater on The Pier for some karaoke. I’d been piecing together a pirate costume based on a cult-favorite farce I’d read, The Legendary Adventures of the Pirate Queens by James Grant Goldin, which featured a woman, circa 1718, who had to pretend to be a man to find her long-lost love aboard a pirate ship. Rhett said he wouldn’t care if I dressed like a guy. He thought I would look downright sexy in tight pants tucked into boots.

  “Why have you come into the shop?” I asked Dash.

  “I’m looking for a book with tattoos. The title will come to me. My friend, the guy I’m staying with, said you had it.”

  “Sterling?” The fellow with the multipierced ears who owned the jewelry store.

  “Do you know him?”

  “A bit.” I hadn’t spent any time in his shop. I didn’t have enough information to know whether he was gay. “How’s that going?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Coco said you and he have a thing.”

  “Huh? No way. I’m straight.” Dash’s jaw ticked with tension for a split second, but then the tension melted away. “Very straight.”

  “I thought so,” I let slip and felt my cheeks warm at my faux pas. “In fact, I told Coco you liked Alison.”

  “I—” Dash studied the knuckles on his hands. “No. We were colleagues. Nothing more.
” His eyes flickered; he was lying. I was sure of it. Had Alison known how much he cared? Had she rebuffed him? Dash flipped his hands over and assessed his palms, then he smacked them together. “Back to the book I’m looking for. It starts with the word pirate. Pirate-something. It’s got temporary tattoos in it.”

  “You don’t have enough tattoos of your own?”

  “It’s for personal reference.”

  “Maybe you’re talking about The Pirate Tattoo Book?” I walked him to the display and lifted a copy. “It has twenty-four temporary tattoos and a ton of interactive stuff to do.”

  “That looks a bit young for me.”

  It was definitely skewed toward children. “How about Pirateology?” I picked up that book, perfect for young explorers and possibly older ones, as well. An inset compass adorned the front cover. The back cover had an inset ruby. “It’s filled with extraordinary pictures.”

  “Arrr. That’s it.”

  “I don’t think it has tattoos, however. It has maps.” We had sold over a dozen copies of the book so far.

  Dash flipped through it—no tattoos—but that didn’t seem to bother him. He carried it to the checkout counter and laid down cash.

  I skirted around the sales counter, completed the transaction, and stuffed the book into a striped bag with our logo. I added a number of the shop’s bookmarks and handed the bag to Dash along with the receipt. “Dash, about Alison. Do you know if . . .” I let the sentence hang. I couldn’t ask him outright whether he knew Alison was pregnant. I didn’t know for sure myself.

  “Do I know what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Alison—” He halted. His eyes flickered. “She will be sorely missed. She believed in my work. She intended to publish my tattoo book as part of her nonfiction line. But now . . .”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll find another publisher, but Alison will never—” He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple slid up and down in his throat.

  I was sure I was right. He had loved her. Did she cut him out of her life? Did he then cut her out of his?