Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

“Man, Alison was talented at what she did,” Dash said. “She had an eye for a good book, and she had a knack for making a successful business.”

  “Successful? Her brother said the business was in the red.”

  “Not a chance. It was running a profit.”

  I flashed on a previous thought. About Neil. Was he Alison’s heir? Would he have killed her for her money?

  “Are you acquainted with Neil Foodie?” I asked.

  “Sort of. He rarely came to the city, and he seldom visited the publishing house, but if you want my two cents, what I saw of him, I didn’t like. He’s shallow. No, that’s not right. He’s”—Dash snapped his fingers—“callow. Foolish. Always making jokes.”

  “Would Neil have any reason other than money to kill his sister?”

  Dash looked right and left. “Between you and me, he said stuff that made me wonder if he was jealous of her. He intimated that Alison had it all: the brains, the talent. And he said, with a bit of bite, that she was lucky to get out from under their mother, unlike him who was stuck taking care of her. I remember him saying he wished he could cut bait and run.” Dash ground his teeth. “Can you imagine? Abandoning your mother? My mom is the best. You’d never hear me say anything like that in regard to her.”

  “I didn’t think pirates had mothers,” I teased.

  “Most do.” Dash offered a wicked smile. “In fact, I’m pretty sure all did at one time or another.”

  A long silence fell between us. Finally, I said, “I can’t help thinking if only Alison—”

  “Yeah.” Dash nodded. “If only one of us had been with her, right?”

  “No, that wasn’t what I was going to say. If only she had stayed at her mother’s house.”

  “That wouldn’t have solved anything. The killer would have found her there, too.” Dash ran his hand down the buttons of his jacket. “If only. Sadder words were never said. I would imagine we all have a wealth of if only’s in our memory banks. If only I didn’t leave the cookbook club dinner and go to the piano bar. What a fool.”

  “You sing?”

  With robust abandon, Dash joined in with the song playing in the queue, “Yo Ho a Pirate’s Life for Me,” thrusting a bent arm whenever he sang the words pillage and plunder. When the song finished, Dash doffed his plumed hat and said, “I’ll take my leave.” Then he spun on his heel and exited the shop. Watching him go, I realized I liked him more each time I saw him. Was he snowing me? Was he a killer?

  Needing to lighten my spirit, I moved to the children’s table. I asked Bailey to man the sales register and deal with the regular customers, and then I dove in.

  Over the course of the next hour or so, I helped children complete projects. A tricorn hat wasn’t hard to make. We had posted easy-to-follow, origami-like instructions on the wall next to the table. I made a hat for myself and fashioned an origami-style parrot. When I attached that to my shoulder, the children laughed. How I loved the sound. I helped kids create hooks for their hands using paper cups and foil. After that, we constructed treasure maps using brown packing paper. I circled the group, asking each child what special booty he or she might stow in a treasure chest. With black felt-tip pens, we plotted where they would stash their booty—X marks the spot—and what safeguards they would put in place to keep looters from stealing it.

  The afternoon flew by. When the queue of music started to play “A Professional Pirate,” also from Muppet Treasure Island, I gonged a bell that I’d bought for the occasion. “All right, Aunt Vera. Story time is over. Kids, moms, dads, grandparents, and special friends. Listen up! It’s time to search for the hidden goldfish. So far no child has found it.” Bailey had done a fantastic job of hiding it. I scanned the shop for Bailey. She wasn’t at the register. Where had she gone? It didn’t matter. No regular customers roamed the shop. “And then, kids,” I continued, “it’s time to parade around the shop so we can choose the best pirate costume. The winner will win dessert for four at the Nook Café.”

  A chorus of whee! rang out.

  Ten minutes of chaos ensued until a freckle-faced redhead girl shouted, “I’ve found it!” She waved the goldfish overhead.

  “Phooey!” another girl cried. “Where was it?”

  “Tucked inside an oven mitt!”

  Aunt Vera directed the winner and her redheaded father to a table of books from which she could choose her free book.

  I wielded a gong. “The rest of you, it’s time to follow me!” I banged the gong in time to the music. “March!”

  Kiddies lined up behind me, each giggling or chatting with excitement. Aunt Vera clapped along with the gong. When the music ended, I yelled, “Freeze!” The children stopped in place. I patted heads, one by one, and said, “Sit down.” When I came to a girl sporting an eye patch and dressed in a black-and-white striped bandana, black-lace bodice, and a swatch of black-and-white striped material over a red skirt, I said, “The winner!” I awarded her the certificate for the Nook Café desserts.

  While Aunt Vera and I doled out the bags of gold foil–wrapped chocolate coins, Bailey broke through the curtains from the stockroom. “Jenna!” She raced to my side. “Neil,” she rasped. “I called.”

  “Called who?”

  “That stand-up club. He wasn’t there the night Alison died.”

  “What?” I said, my voice skating upward.

  “The owner didn’t see him. He wasn’t scheduled to do a routine.”

  “Maybe Neil meant he was in the audience.”

  “Uh-uh. The owner asked around. He said his employees know Neil by sight. He wasn’t lying about being a regular there, but he wasn’t at the club that night. Not between eleven and one. Not ever.” Bailey gulped in air. “So where was he? Why did he lie to you?”

  Chapter 15

  AFTER WE CLEANED up, my aunt went to the Nook Café for dinner and Bailey left with Hershey—she had a hot date with Tito. I called the precinct again. Cinnamon still wasn’t in. The clerk advised me that the chief of police had been following leads all day. She didn’t know when her boss would return. She assured me she had given Cinnamon my messages.

  Grabbing Tigger, I closed up the shop and headed to my car. In the rain. Remembering the promise I’d made to my darling cat to pick up an umbrella, I stopped at Artiste Arcade, a cluster of high-end jewelry and fashion shops not far from Fisherman’s Village.

  I parked on the street—not a lot of people were out and about in the downpour—and assured Tigger I’d be right back. Racing to the arcade, I got damp but not soaked. Minutes later, I exited Adorn Yourself carrying a stylish umbrella à la Van Gogh’s Starry Night painting. I popped it open and strolled to my car. On the way, I caught sight of Simon Butler. He was standing outside Sweet Sensations, peering in through the plate-glass window. I waved, but he didn’t see me. The shop lights were out. Where was Coco? Incarcerated? Free on bail? Why hadn’t she called me? Simon looked forlorn. Had he hoped to steal a moment with Coco before starting his night shift at Vines? Was Coco right? Did he intend to leave his wife for her? I remembered a line by Chaucer that my mother used to quote: “Time and tide wait for no man.” She advised me to always seize the moment. Would Simon? Would Coco finally be with her true love? Would Gloria blow a gasket?

  Rain blasted the windshield all the way home. The moment I arrived at the cottage, I exited the car, opened the new umbrella, tucked Tigger beneath its protection—he purred his appreciation—and hurried inside.

  Over the course of the next hour, I fed the cat, poured myself a glass of Chianti, nibbled on a piece of Manchego cheese, and threw together a turkey meat loaf—one of the easiest comfort foods that even I could manage. I set the meat loaf into the oven to slow-bake at 300 degrees and eyed my cell phone, which was sitting on the counter.

  Why hadn’t Cinnamon returned my call? I had updates. Was she avoiding me? I chided myself for acting like a teenager. When a boy in high school didn’t call me back, what were the questions I would ask myself? Was I coming on too strong? Was h
e getting ready to dump me? Gack. Cinnamon was busy; she would contact me when she could.

  I needed to do something to occupy my mind. I stared at the painting I had going for Bailey. Nearly three months ago she had asked me to create something for her new apartment. Her only caveat—no dancing ballerinas. To date, I’d finished the base blue, a few waves, and some sketches of palm trees and a bluff. I eyed the Ching cabinet. My palette of oils sat inside the double doors, but I didn’t feel the urge to paint. I was stuck wishing I could chat with Cinnamon. I tried to convince myself solving Alison’s murder wasn’t my problem, it was a police issue, but my mind wouldn’t stop cycling with theories.

  Did Neil kill his sister? He told me he had debts. Was Alison’s estate, whether big or small, enough reason to murder her? Had there been a rivalry between Neil and Alison, as suggested by Dash as well as Simon? Neil, not as bright; Neil, not as successful; Neil, not taken as seriously as his sister, saddled with an aging mother.

  What about Ingrid Lake? Fired employee. Angry wannabe partner. Did she kill Alison? Had Cinnamon believed Ingrid’s iffy alibi? Maybe Cinnamon wasn’t calling me because Pepper finally caved and told her daughter about Ingrid’s argument with Alison. Cinnamon had the information she needed; she didn’t require my input.

  In an effort to redirect my thoughts, I scooped the slightly damp mail out of the wicker box beneath the door slot. While sorting through the mail, I remembered that I’d promised to bring cupcakes to tomorrow night’s family dinner. Every Sunday, my aunt, my father, and whomever else we invited would dine at my father’s or aunt’s house. The tradition was fast becoming one of my favorite reasons for returning to Crystal Cove. I loved the camaraderie and conversation.

  What to make? I set aside the mail and collected a few cookbooks from the bookshelf. I flipped through them. When I landed on a double dark chocolate cupcake recipe with a picture that made my mouth water, I knew I had a winner. The recipe was in, of all things, The How Can It Be Gluten Free Cookbook by America’s Test Kitchen. Katie touted the wonderful recipes she had discovered within its pages. She said loads more people were trying to eat healthier by avoiding gluten. The authors of the cookbook had given all sorts of tips and hints as to how to make something gluten-free taste nearly the same as goodies made with regular flour. Along with the cookbook, Katie had provided me with gluten-free flour and a binding agent called xanthan gum so I would be prepared to bake upon a moment’s notice. Like now.

  I assembled the ingredients on the counter and fetched another slice of cheese. Tigger traipsed behind me, hoping for a dropped tidbit.

  “Uh-uh, kitty,” I cooed. “Not a chance.” I handed him a couple of tuna morsels and set them in his bowl. He ate them, albeit reluctantly, and eyed me with disfavor. “Tough.”

  After whipping up the mixture and using an ice cream scoop to pour dollops of batter into greased cupcake tins, my cell phone rang. The readout said: Cinnamon Pritchett.

  I stabbed the word Accept. “You got my message.”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “Why else would I call you?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps for a weather update. Perhaps to tell me Bucky and you are tying the knot. You know, girl talk.” I pretended to be lighthearted, but my nerves were firing inside me. What did she know? Was Neil the killer? Had Pepper—

  “Jenna, stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “I need you to stop playing the concerned citizen.”

  “Playing the—” Whoa! Talk about coming out of left field. “I’m not playing anything. You said for me to call if I had information.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Changed—”

  “Look,” Cinnamon cut me off. “I don’t need you touching base with me daily to give me updates.”

  “What happened to your command that I listen and report back to you?”

  “I rescind it. I need you to butt out.”

  “Hold it.” Frustrated, I waved a hand in the air. “Why are you so ticked off at me? What did I do? Does this have anything to do with Bailey and me asking you about your relationship with Alison?”

  “No.”

  “Why then?”

  Silence.

  “Cinnamon,” I pleaded. “C’mon, talk to me. We’re friends, right? Be honest.”

  She sighed. “I’m getting complaints.”

  “From whom? Who’s calling you?”

  “Actually, they’re texts.”

  “Texts.”

  “Telling me to do my job and not to rely on the locals to do it for me.”

  “Who’s sending these texts?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?” The word burst from my mouth. “You’re laying into me because of some anonymous texts that could have come from a prankster using a burner phone?”

  More silence.

  I flashed on Neil. He was a practical joker. Was he sending the messages? Was he scared that I would dig deeper?

  “My team is on this, Jenna.”

  “Maybe Neil Foodie is sending you those texts,” I said. “He’s an aspiring comic. He—”

  “Stop. Please. We know about Neil Foodie. We know about a whole lot of things.”

  “Do you know who inherits Alison’s estate? Like possibly Neil?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Do you know whether or not Alison was pregnant? Or whether the argument Alison had with Ingrid Lake—”

  Cinnamon heaved a sigh.

  “Fine,” I said. “Be that way.” Sheesh, I sounded petulant. Moments ago, I was moping about like a teenager, and now I was acting like a two-year-old. Grow up! But, honestly, couldn’t Cinnamon be a little more receptive? I had valid information.

  “Good night, Jenna.” She clicked off.

  I stared at my cell phone with outright anger. So much for our budding friendship. If Cinnamon were standing in my kitchen, I’d give her a piece of my mind. But she wasn’t. All I could do was scream. Tigger yowled his displeasure.

  “Hush,” I muttered.

  I removed the meat loaf from the oven, but my appetite had flown the coop. When the meat loaf cooled, I would store it in the fridge. In the meantime, I baked the cupcakes with lackluster enthusiasm. I would decorate them tomorrow.

  Around midnight, I went to sleep. I left the windows open during the night so I could hear the rain and feel a cool breeze. Despite those attempts to bring calm into my world, I slept fitfully.

  At dawn Sunday morning, the caw of seagulls woke me. The rain had abated, although moisture still hung in the air. I could run if I chose to, which I did. Barefoot. I love the feel of sand beneath my feet. Even wet sand. It makes me feel like I’m communing with the earth.

  A couple of times, I paused to watch a rare sighting, a snowy white egret wading in the shallows of the ocean, stalking its prey. If more humans than just little old me had been around, the egret would have been scared off. Lifting one foot slowly, it moved forward, barely making a ripple. Then bam! It lunged for breakfast—a fish.

  At that same moment, the sun ascended over the crest of the mountains behind me. Sunlight cut through a clump of clouds and highlighted the egret. Perfect for picture taking, if only I had a camera. I’d left my cell phone at the cottage.

  Church bells chimed, signaling that I had spent more time on the beach than I realized. I raced home, showered, and threw on a nifty pair of jeans, a ribbed cotton sweater, and flip-flops. I downed a quickie breakfast of a hard-boiled egg and a handful of grapes and headed to work.

  When Tigger and I entered The Cookbook Nook, we found Bailey dusting shelves. I set Tigger on the floor. Bailey’s American shorthair, Hershey, was yet again nestled in the cozy reading chair. Tigger meowed at Hershey and ran off, daring the cat to join him in a game of catch me if you can. Hershey, who looked like he could lose a pound or two, couldn’t be bothered. Tigger, no matter how hard he tried, was not going to be hired as the cat’s personal trainer.

  “Morning,” Bailey said without glanc
ing my way. She didn’t look like she had slept any better than I had. Her hairdo was spikier than usual. Her makeup looked slapped on.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have a fight with Tito?”

  “No. We never fight. It’s . . .” She gazed at Hershey.

  I understood the look. Ah, the joys of being a new pet owner.

  Bailey said, “Did you hear from Cinnamon?”

  I recapped our terse conversation.

  “What’s her problem?” Bailey said. “Why is she such a control freak?”

  “Don’t be too hard on her,” I said, having told myself the same thing last night while I applied ice to my post-crying-hissy-fit puffy eyes. “Cinnamon is a woman in a man’s world. She wants respect. And she wants to set the pace.”

  “Pace-schmace,” Bailey muttered. “Did you ask her whether she arrested Coco?”

  “I didn’t get the chance.”

  “Let’s go find out for ourselves. Your aunt is here. We won’t open for another hour.” On Sundays we opened at 10:00 instead of 9:00 A.M. “How about I buy you a morning pastry at Sweet Sensations?” She grabbed her purse. “Vera! I’m taking Jenna out for a quick coffee. We’ll be right back.”

  Before I could argue, Bailey muscled me out the door, and we jogged to Sweet Sensations. Flip-flops, by the way, are not very good for jogging.

  Sun peeked through big pillows of clouds, warming an otherwise cool day, and shone down upon a cluster of people that were huddling outside the candy shop. Everyone seemed to be eyeing treats in the display window. More folks were crowded inside the shop.

  “Is there a sale going on?” I asked Bailey.

  “Got me.”

  When we finally made our way into the pink-on-pink shop—pink-striped wallpaper; pink-and-white checkerboard floor; pink countertops on all the glass cases—we realized what the lure was. Coco was, indeed, free, and she was having a chocolate-tasting party. She had thrown one the last time she released a cookbook, too. Dozens of trays of candy lay on top of the glass cases. Each tray held at least six different kinds of candies: sparkling pink fudge, chocolate-glazed squares, thin bark-like chocolates, two different colored suckers, and, specially for Pirate Week, Pirate’s Booty fudge.