Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Coco spotted us and hurried from behind the counter, leaving her assistant, who was a chunky young woman with a fondness for all things Hello Kitty from her sweater to her jewelry, to tend to the customers.

  “Bailey! Jenna! I’m so thrilled to see you.” Coco had poured herself into another va-va-voom dress that fit her figure like a glove, this one 1950s’ style, with a tapered bodice and pleated skirt. Her apron and the skirt beneath flounced as she moved.

  Bailey said, “We’re thrilled to see you, too. You’re not in jail. Obviously, Chief Pritchett doesn’t suspect you any longer.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Coco grabbed our hands and squeezed. “I didn’t think, since Alison’s funeral was so private, that a party was too gauche of me. Do you think it is?”

  What could we say? Her customers didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps the temptation to learn more about the murder intrigued everyone. Maybe they were here simply because Coco made the best chocolate around.

  Bailey withdrew her hand and petted Coco’s shoulder. “It’s fine.”

  “What did Cinnamon say when you went to the precinct?” I asked.

  “Once I explained why I hadn’t wanted to reveal who I was with—you know, to protect him—she was very sympathetic. Well, not sympathetic but considerate.”

  “But this time you told her it was Simon, right?” Bailey asked.

  Coco nodded and beckoned us to follow her to her office at the back of the shop.

  The office was bigger than a bread box, but not much, and it was cluttered to the max. Crates, boxes, and a pair of file cabinets lined the walls. A teensy pink desk stood in the middle of the room. On top of the desk sat piles of papers, magazines, recipe cards, recipe boxes, and containers holding pens in every pink hue imaginable.

  “Welcome to my workroom.” Coco blushed. “It’s nothing like my kitchen, which is pristine. I guess this is where the real pack rat in me comes out. I never get rid of any paper. I know I should streamline and do everything on the computer, but I can’t. Part of my process is writing everything down. You should see how many recipe cards have notes on them. Add more of this; use a little less of this. I tweak until it’s just right. My grandmother and mother did the same thing. How I treasure their recipes.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Here, let me show you one.” She leafed through a category in the recipe box. “My bunica’s Chocolate Bombs, the recipe Alison made . . .” Her voice caught. She cleared her throat of what had to be overwhelming emotion remembering that night. “Boy, are these sticky.” She rubbed her fingers on her apron and resumed her search. “Hmm.” She screwed up her mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “That one’s missing. Guess I took it home. I’ll have to look for it there. But, here, look at this one.” Coco plucked a card from the grouping and twirled it so we could read it. “Vanilla fudge. It’s to die for. See the notes down the side and wrapping around to the other side of the card? My grandmother was adamant that I use cream of tartar. But not too much. At first a quarter teaspoon, but then an eighth, and then my mother revised it to just a pinch. See?” She giggled. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I can hear them speaking to me through these cards.” Coco replaced the recipe card and set aside the box.

  Bailey patted Coco’s shoulder. “We were discussing Chief Pritchett and your alibi.”

  “Oh, right.” Coco pounded her fists together. “The chief said she wouldn’t approach Simon’s wife as long as he came in and backed up my account.”

  “And did he?” Bailey pressed.

  “I don’t know. We haven’t spoken. We thought . . .” Coco licked her lips. “He thought that we should cool it for now.”

  Uh-oh. Maybe that was why I had seen Simon lurking outside her shop last night. He intended to tell her he couldn’t come forward.

  Coco jammed the pointy heel of one shoe into the checkerboard floor. “He’s right, of course. I just miss him. That night . . .” She rolled her eyes in a dreamy way. “It was our first time, our first official date. Well, not official, since it was clandestine.” Coco flamed the same color as her pink dress. “Simon has come into the shop so many times. To sample the wares. He’s such a flirt.”

  I didn’t get that impression. I’d seen Simon in action with Faith Fairchild, trying to keep his distance at all costs. Perhaps out of view from his wife, with Coco in the privacy of her shop . . .

  “I fell hard for him,” Coco went on. “Yes, I know he’s married, but I don’t care. I mean, I do. But I want him and he wants me. We tried not to cross the line, but when he called, how could I say no? The night was . . . magical.” Coco blanched. “I’m sorry, that was crass of me. It was the same night that Alison—” She gasped for breath.

  I gripped her shoulder. “It’s okay. Go on. Simon.”

  “I can’t even describe how I feel around him. He’s like no one I’ve ever met. He knows wine, and he adores people. Have you ever seen him talk to the clientele at Vines? He’s so charismatic. And he reads just about everything, from bird-watching to politics. His wife.” Coco sniffed. “She doesn’t get him at all.”

  “So you said the other day,” Bailey chimed.

  “She’s so bossy.”

  “I’m not sure bossy is how I’d describe her,” I said. “The words self-sufficient and commanding come to mind.”

  “Why do men choose women like their mothers?” Coco asked. “He can’t do enough to please her, either. His sister gets all the praise. And now that she’s had a baby? Argh! He’ll never hear the end of it from his mother. Gloria wouldn’t dare have a baby. It’d hurt her figure. Me? I’d love to have ten babies.” She sighed. “And Simon’s book, the one that Alison is going to publish?”

  Was going to might be a more apt phrase. Who knew what Foodie Publishing would do at this point?

  “Simon told me all about it,” Coco gushed. “It’s wonderful. He draws on the family’s history, his mother’s family in particular. Her grandfather owned a vineyard in the old country. Very Italian.” Coco stabbed the air. “But is his mother impressed that he got a publishing deal? No, she is not! And Gloria . . . don’t get me started. She needs him to do more, to be more.” Coco sucked on her lower lip in a girlish way. “I think that’s why he likes me. I’m not bossy in the least. Sure, I run my own company, but I’m not in-your-face overbearing. We’ve fallen in love and, well”—she fanned her neck—“that’s why he asked me to spend a night at Nature’s Retreat.”

  “When his wife was out of town,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “I know.” Coco pouted. “I shouldn’t have said yes. I should have waited until the divorce is final, but how could I? I adore him.”

  Bailey offered a skeptical look, like a girl who had drunk that same fairy-tale tea but was now immune to the stuff. “Does Gloria know?”

  “She must.”

  I said, “Friday, at the shop, she didn’t seem like she was preparing for a life alone.”

  “You’re wrong. Didn’t you see how she ordered him around? Didn’t you see the looks he was giving her?” Coco shot a finger at me. “I know you did, Jenna. That’s why you told me to go to the precinct.”

  “You have to admit that he seemed quite attentive to her.”

  “It’s all an act. For the public.”

  “Sweetie,” I said and instantly regretted the use of the word. I didn’t mean to be dismissive. “He ran his knuckles down her arm. They made eye contact. There were sparks in that exchange.”

  “He’s leaving her.” Coco slumped into one hip. “You should have seen how attentive he was to me at Nature’s Retreat. We made love and then he ran a bath for me. A bath! No man has ever done that. And he brought me champagne and hand-fed me chocolates . . . that I’d made, of course. It was so romantic.”

  I’ll bet, which convinced me further that this was purely an affair and not a lifelong commitment. No man could romance a woman with that kind of dedication, day in and day out.

  Bailey exchanged a knowing look with me a
nd said, “We’ll have to see, won’t we? But no matter what, you’re innocent. So let’s put our heads together. Who else might have wanted Alison dead?”

  Chapter 16

  COCO, BAILEY, AND I batted around theories for quite a while. We ended our discussion when Coco’s assistant begged for Coco to return to the counter. The crowd had swelled. All were clamoring for more of the Pirate’s Booty fudge. By Valentine’s Day, Sweet Sensations was bound to be overwrought with orders.

  Bailey and I headed back to the shop, and throughout the remainder of the day, we continued theorizing. By the time I entered my aunt’s house for dinner, my mind was awhirl with possibilities.

  “Cupcakes,” I announced as I moved through the foyer of her one-story beach home, past the marble-topped console table, to the hall. Tigger trotted in behind me. He didn’t embrace the outdoors like most cats, but he could make his way from my cottage to my aunt’s without panicking. Quickly he found his favorite velveteen footstool in the adjoining living room and leaped onto it for a nap.

  My aunt exited the kitchen and met me halfway down the hall, arms extended. She bussed me on the cheek then eyed my works of art and smiled. “I think you’re getting the hang of this.”

  “I used a pastry tube fitted with a starburst tip to pipe the chocolate frosting.”

  “Very pretty. Nearly professional.” She chuckled. “However, perhaps you were heavy-handed with the sprinkles.”

  I glanced at the tray of cupcakes and had to agree. “It’s a carryover from yesterday. The kids loved pouring glitter on their creations.”

  Aunt Vera took the tray and jutted her chin toward the back of the house. “Your father and Lola are on the deck. I’ve put out some Caribbean-themed appetizers. All are easy enough for you to make.”

  A crisp wind off the ocean hit me as I opened the exterior door and walked outside. I was glad I’d donned the ribbed sweater and not something flimsier. The sun, a stunning ball of orange, was halfway submerged over the horizon.

  I drew in a deep calming breath. “Hi, Dad. Hi, Lola.”

  The porch was set up in a cozy conversation style, with a wicker settee and a half dozen matching chairs, all facing one another. My father and Lola were sitting on the settee. On the coffee table in front of them sat platters of colorful appetizers, including a spicy dip encircled with chips, shrimp-stuffed mushrooms, and chicken-pineapple kebabs. Aunt Vera could whip up a gourmet meal almost as fast as Katie could. On a side cart stood wineglasses and a bottle of white wine in an icer. My father and Lola each held a glass of wine.

  “Jenna, welcome,” Lola said. She was a vision in a silver sweater, silver leggings, and silver sandals. “You look peaked.” She rose from the settee and embraced me. “Aren’t you getting any sleep?”

  “Not really. This thing with Alison . . .” I sidled to my father and pecked his cheek.

  “Dear Alison,” Lola murmured. “She was a lovely woman. I had nothing but utmost respect for her. She had a talent. She knew exactly what to pare from the cookbooks she published on my behalf.”

  “That’s what I keep hearing.”

  “Did you know Alison loved to bake? She learned at the age of five. Her mother taught her. She had fond memories of those times.”

  “She told Bailey and me the same thing at the book club event.”

  Lola peered past me. “Where is my daughter?”

  “Present and accounted for!” Bailey clomped through the door, her wedge sandals making a racket on the wooden porch. She carried a bottle of red wine in her hand. “Did you tell them?”

  “Tell us what?” Lola looked from Bailey to me. “Did the police catch the killer?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But Bailey and I have been batting around ideas about who killed Alison.” Even if Cinnamon didn’t want my help, she couldn’t prevent me from theorizing.

  Bailey set down the wine and removed the cork. She poured herself a glass of merlot and asked if I wanted one. I opted for the white wine, a scrumptiously oaky chardonnay.

  “What theories?” Lola asked. At one time, Lola had practiced law with some of the sharpest, toughest minds in California. She had given up her illustrious career for a simpler life in Crystal Cove and was thrilled with the choice. Otherwise, she never would have wound up with my father.

  Bailey plopped onto a chair, took a sip of her wine, and said, “First of all, Coco is innocent. She’s got a verifiable alibi.”

  “Verifiable,” I inserted, “when he comes forward.”

  “If he hasn’t already,” Bailey said.

  “He, who?” Lola asked.

  “Can’t say.” I mimed zipping my lips.

  Lola looked to Bailey, who also mimed locking her mouth.

  My father grunted and leaned forward to dunk a chip into the bowl of dip. He crunched as loudly as he had grunted.

  I shot him a dour look. “What, Dad? Got something to say?”

  “Nope. Nothing.”

  “Don’t you like the spices?” I taunted. “Too pungent for you? Arrr, matey. You could do with some spice.”

  Lola grinned. Dad scowled.

  “C’mon. Out with it,” I said. “You have an opinion.”

  “Not one I’ll share.” Dad held up a hand as if he was ready to swear in court. “I am not an authority.”

  “Neither am I, but that doesn’t mean I can’t speculate.”

  “Here we go,” he muttered.

  I heaved a sigh. “Dad, let’s not do this every time.”

  “That’s just it, isn’t it?” he said. “Here we are with another every time. Another murder, in our town, and somehow you’ve landed in the thick of it.”

  “Because a friend of ours died.”

  “You barely knew her.”

  “Bailey knew her very well, and I help my friends!” I nabbed a chicken-pineapple kebab and wielded it like a sword. Parry, lunge, thrust. Take that, you scalawag. “Aren’t you the one who said, only last week, that Crystal Cove is as susceptible to crime as, say, big, old Los Angeles?”

  “Jenna.”

  “Cary!” Wow. Had I uttered my father’s first name? Out loud? Sassy is fine; impudent is off the mark. Cool your jets, Jenna. I bit off the top portion of a kebab and purred my appreciation. Aunt Vera had made a deliciously tangy pepper-infused sauce.

  After a long silence, my father said, “Don’t put words into my mouth.”

  “Fine.” I sounded calmer . . . quasi adult. “What did you say, exactly?”

  “What I said was, ‘You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.’”

  “I like my loose translation,” I muttered.

  “Who am I citing?”

  “Mahatma Gandhi,” I conceded. Dad could always best me in a game of who said what, but I had memorized pretty much all the quotes he’d put before me over the years. I nestled onto the wicker armchair, set my skewer on a napkin, and eyed Bailey. “Let’s not talk about our theories tonight.”

  “No, no.” Lola settled beside my father and elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Let’s do talk about them.”

  Aunt Vera joined us on the deck and, while rubbing her phoenix amulet, drew in a deep breath. “Isn’t the view incredible tonight?”

  We all chimed, “Yes,” then glanced at my aunt. Had she been listening to our discord? Had she stroked her amulet to work her magic on us and bring us into harmony? She was crafty beyond sly. We didn’t have any Gypsy in our family line, as far as I knew, but at times I wondered if my aunt could channel pixie or something elfin.

  Aunt Vera kissed her fingertips and blew bad karma toward the sea. “Now, tell us, Jenna, who do you suspect the most?”

  “Neil,” I said.

  “Aha, the brother.” Aunt Vera waved a hand. “Go on.”

  “Neil told me he was at a stand-up nightclub when his sister was killed.”

  My aunt said, “I always felt that boy had too much of the rascal in him, cracking jokes at ina
ppropriate times. Did you know he toilet papered the church when he was in high school? Stand-up.” She harrumphed as she settled onto the arm of the settee. “Yes, that suits him.”

  “But he wasn’t at the comedy club,” I said. “He lied.”

  “Did you ask him where he was?” Lola asked.

  “No. I tried to tell Cinnamon that he fibbed, but she advised me to butt out. She said she and her team were on the case.”

  “There.” My father spread his arms apart as if the case was officially closed.

  Bailey bounded to her feet. “No, not there. The police can be on the case all they want, but if the case isn’t solved, it’s not solved. We have information. That they should want.” She eyed me.

  I glanced at my father. He leveled me with a glare. If I could have retreated like a tortoise into its shell, I would have.

  Bailey continued, “Neil has motive and, now, with no alibi, opportunity. First, the motive.” She held up an index finger. “To inherit Alison’s estate.”

  Lola said, “Which consists of . . .”

  “I would imagine her condo in San Francisco”—Bailey ticked off her fingertips—“and her business and who knows what else.”

  “But you’re not sure.” Lola rose and began to pace as if addressing the court. “This must be determined.”

  I said, “Neil admitted to me that he’s in debt.”

  “Not everyone will kill to pay off a debt,” my father argued.

  Lola agreed. “Who else makes the suspect list?”

  My father grunted again, but I could tell he was becoming engaged in the discussion. His eyes were bright, and he was leaning forward, forearms propped on his thighs.

  “Ingrid Lake,” I said. “The copyeditor.”

  “I don’t trust that girl,” Aunt Vera said. “She’s wound as tightly as a top.”

  I explained that Ingrid and Alison had argued that night and, later, she was seen at Vines Wine Bistro, drinking alone.

  “What did they argue about?” Lola asked.