Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “You don’t think it was someone who hates Valentine’s Day, do you?” Coco asked.

  “Why would you say that?”

  She pointed. Someone had shredded the sparkly, pale pink heart decorations Coco had yet to hang in the windows.

  A siren whooped outside.

  I set the recipes I’d collected on a counter and hurried through the saloon-style swinging doors to the main shop. Coco followed. A patrol car pulled up behind my VW. The light rotating on top of the car bathed the shop in red. Deputy Appleby lumbered out of the driver’s side. A younger deputy, wafer-thin in comparison to Appleby, scrambled out of the passenger side.

  Appleby paused inside the front door of the shop and scanned the area. “Nasty,” he muttered. To his colleague, he said, “Take pictures.”

  I rushed to the deputy and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  His mouth quirked up on one side. “Might I ask why you are at yet another scene of the crime?”

  “I’m Coco’s friend. She called me.” I gestured at the chaos. “Is there any way to figure out who did this?”

  “The door looks intact.” Appleby eyed Coco, who had followed me from the kitchen. “Miss Chastain, don’t tell me you leave this door unlocked, too?”

  “Of course not, Deputy.”

  “Does anyone else have a key?”

  “No, but my assistant might have neglected to lock it. She’s a hard worker and dedicated, but she can be”—Coco pressed her lips together—“a bubblehead.”

  Appleby sauntered to the kitchen and paused in the doorway; his gaze seemed to be taking in every detail. “The delinquent must have seen her leave and then made his move.”

  “Why do you think a delinquent did this?” I asked.

  The deputy jerked a thumb at the wet paper towels in the kitchen sink. Then he indicated the eggs on the floor. “Kids love making messes.” He pivoted and resumed examining the main shop again. “I’d bet you’re missing a bunch of stock, Miss Chastain. The chocolate truffles in the glass display case look pretty picked over.”

  Coco sighed. “All the cake pops are gone, as well. All that work—”

  “Yep. Teens,” the deputy said. “We’ll file a report, but there’s not much else we can do.”

  “Can you lift fingerprints?” I asked.

  “That won’t help if the culprits aren’t in the system.” Appleby scrutinized the upper corners of the shop. “You don’t seem to have any security cameras, Miss Chastain. You might want to install some for the future.”

  Coco shook her head, dismayed. “I pay Crystal Cove Security Patrol to keep an eye on the place.”

  “Worthless,” Appleby mumbled. “If they’re not in the vicinity at the time of the crime, they can’t do a blasted thing. This wreckage took less than ten minutes, tops.”

  Exactly what I had calculated.

  “I’d bet the teen had been plotting his move for weeks,” he added.

  “Or her move,” I said, believing a local teenage girl who loved to create chaos might be the culprit. Poor thing didn’t have a mother; her father didn’t keep her in tow.

  When the deputy and his associate were done with what little they could or would do, I said to Coco, “I’ll stay and help you clean up.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No arguments.”

  Appleby strode toward the exit. He paused and cleared his throat. “Jenna? A word?”

  Uh-oh. I joined him, my senses on hyperalert.

  “How is your aunt doing?” he asked.

  I knew it. He wanted me to spill family secrets. No way. I smiled. “She’s fine, Deputy.”

  “Has she mentioned . . .” Appleby shrugged. “You know.”

  “You? Yes. She hinted that you’re no longer dating.” I could say that much. No harm, no foul.

  “Do you think she’ll change her mind?”

  “Why should she?”

  His face twisted with love that looked painful. “Because she’s my soul mate.”

  “Says who?”

  “My mother.”

  I bit back a giggle. His mother?

  “Mother says it’s in the cards,” Appleby continued.

  Honestly? Another chuckle threatened to surface. Keep cool, Jenna.

  “She reads tarot, like your aunt,” Appleby added.

  Aha! Now I understood the attraction.

  “Mom did a reading for me.” Appleby rotated his hand as if flipping over cards. “She turned up the Lovers, the Two of Cups, and the Four of Wands.”

  I knew the significance. I’d learned from my aunt that there were ten top love cards. All three in the deputy’s reading were included in the ten; the Lovers being the ultimate. I said, “Do you believe in that mumbo jumbo?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Not really. It’s fun, and I know my aunt believes in it, but I feel we create our own fate. Anyone can alter their outcome by making different choices.” My reasoning didn’t seem to be swaying the detective. “Look, if you feel this confident about changing the tide, be bold. Ask my aunt to tea. Tell her your hopes and dreams, but don’t expect miracles. Once a Hart woman’s mind is made up, it’s hard to change it.” I weighed whether to say more, and decided why not? “By the way, how would your kids feel if they had a stepmother in her sixties?”

  “My children are in their thirties. They won’t get a say.”

  I gawped. “Are you joshing me? Did you have them when you were twelve?”

  He grinned. “I’m fifty-eight.”

  “Really?” Wow! I thought the guy was in his early forties. He was closer in age to my aunt than I had imagined.

  “Good genes,” Appleby said, “plus I don’t eat a lot of starch.” He offered a two-fingered salute. “Thanks for the advice.”

  • • •

  COCO AND I spent the better part of two hours cleaning up Sweet Sensations. During the process, she professed repeatedly that nobody, not even an angry, deviant kid, could sidetrack her. A delinquent could plot and loot, but he—or she, I reminded her—would not keep Coco from having her Valentine’s Day Lollapalooza. No, sir.

  When I woke the next morning with only five hours of sleep, I was dog tired. Somehow I had to drum up the energy to finish decorating my own shop. Too-ra-loo, as my aunt would say. One day at a time. I skipped my morning exercise routine, slugged down a strong cup of coffee, loaded up with a homemade energy bar packed with sunflower seeds, honey, and oats—my aunt made them, not me—and I headed to The Cookbook Nook.

  Bailey was already there. She had revamped the children’s corner, decorating with strings of hearts and miniature cupids. On a typical day, we always put out coloring books and crayons on the circular table. Today, she’d added a bucket of scissors, construction paper, and glue sticks. Her cat Hershey was nestled in the reading chair. I waved at him, but he didn’t bat an eyelash.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  Bailey didn’t respond. After a date with Tito, I had expected her to be glowing, but she didn’t look all that good. She was dressed entirely in black—a rarity for a woman who adored color. She wasn’t wearing makeup or jewelry. And she was mumbling to herself. Call me crazy, but given her mood, I didn’t feel I should tell her about Coco’s disaster right off the bat.

  “Good morning,” I repeated and slung my purse onto the sales counter. I set Tigger on the floor. He romped into the stockroom and back out, as frisky as all get-out. He stared at Hershey, who still hadn’t roused, and made a beeline for me.

  “It’s okay, Tigger,” I cooed. “Don’t take the rejection personally. Hershey has issues.”

  Tigger raised his head and whisked his tail, asking me to follow him. I did. He romped to the children’s corner, ducked beneath the table, and yowled. I knelt down and spied a few maps from Pirate Week scattered on the floor.

  I collected them and rose to my feet. “Bailey, uh, girlfriend, yoo-hoo. Did you hear me? What’s up?”

  Bailey muttered something that sounded an awfu
l lot like, “I’m so stupid.”

  “Are you talking to yourself?” I asked.

  “No!”

  “Did you and Tito break up?”

  “Why would you say that?” she snapped. “We are fine with a capital F. Comprende?”

  I shot up my hands to defend against slings and arrows. “I understand. Sí.”

  “Sorry.” Bailey exhaled through her nose. “I didn’t mean to bark at you. Tito and I are in great shape. The best. In fact, I think I’m in love.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not a whit. He’s cute and funny and smart.”

  “We’re talking about Tito Martinez, right?”

  Bailey swatted my arm. “Cut it out.”

  I had to admit, ever since Tito subbed for a magician who bowed out of one of our special events, my opinion of him had changed. I liked him. “So what’s wrong?”

  “The cat.”

  Hershey raised his head and leered at her.

  “Yeah, you,” Bailey snarled then choked back a sob. “He doesn’t like me. I’m not savvy when it comes to cats, and he knows it.”

  “How could he possibly know that?” I unrolled a map that was tied with raffia ribbon and admired the handiwork. A parent must have helped a child. I slotted it at the top of the pile I’d amassed.

  “Tito says it’s my nose.”

  “Huh? You have a darling nose.”

  “No, not my nose nose. Yes, I do have a pretty cute one.” Bailey tapped her nose with a finger. I was pleased to see her sense of humor was still intact. “Tito says I wrinkle my nose whenever I get near the litter box.”

  “So do I. Yuck.”

  “I also squinch it whenever I pick up the cat. I don’t do that with dogs. I stick my nose right in their fur and breathe deeply. I must be a dog person.” She sighed. “I’m so stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid. So, you’re not a cat person.” In truth, she was a cat person; she did with Tigger exactly what she was describing she did with dogs. The problem was Hershey, but Bailey had to come to that realization on her own.

  “Tito offered to take the cat,” she said. “He adores him.”

  Hershey lifted his head again and, I swear, gave a satisfied Cheshire Cat grin, as if he had planned all along to be returned to Tito. Did cats have a say in the matter? Tigger glanced at me, and I laughed. Obviously, they did. They picked their human, not the other way around.

  “I have to go with the flow,” Bailey said. “It’s not what I planned, but—”

  “Whoa!” I yelped.

  “What?”

  I stared at the maps in my hand as an idea formed.

  “What?” Bailey repeated.

  “He said she wasn’t home.”

  “He who? Which she?”

  “She admitted as much.” A line on the topmost map swooped downward and ended at a big red X. I flailed my fistful of maps at Bailey. “X marks the spot.”

  “What spot?” Bailey cried. “Will you please make sense?”

  I plunked into a chair beside the table and laid down the maps. I stabbed the X. “She must have known about Old Jake’s sleeping habit.”

  “I repeat, she who? What are you talking about?” Bailey perched on one of the other chairs. “Speak English.”

  “Neil Foodie said Ingrid wasn’t home at four A.M. Ingrid said she was driving around, and maybe she was, but I think she planned, or plotted, if you will, to kill Alison. It wasn’t spur-of-the-moment. She wanted to be a partner at Foodie Publishing. Alison kept dangling the carrot, but she never drew up a contract.”

  “If Ingrid is to be believed.”

  “Right.” I grabbed a piece of construction paper and a crayon from the supplies on the table and explained my theory while drawing my own kind of map, outlining where and when Ingrid went on the night Alison was murdered. “Ingrid and Alison argued after the book club meeting. Alison fired her.” I wrote The Cookbook Nook on the map. “Ingrid went back to Wanda Foodie’s house.” I added WF house. “I imagine Ingrid sulked at first, then she got angry. Steaming mad. That’s when the idea to kill Alison must have come to her. She went to Vines for fortification.” I drew a line from WF house to Vines.

  “Ingrid ordered a bottle of wine, but she only drank a glass; that was enough to solidify her resolve. She returned to Wanda’s to give herself an alibi, but Wanda Foodie was already asleep, and Neil was out of the house.” I quickly explained that he was the pot-of-doubloons thief. “So, to cover the time span, Ingrid claimed she went for a spin.” I drew a line that doubled back to WF house and another that zigzagged around Crystal Cove. “Ingrid said she nearly ran into Old Jake, which made him drive off the road.”

  “She forced Jake off the road?”

  “No, that’s just it. She didn’t. I’ll bet she learned through the grapevine that Jake often pulls to the side to rest his eyes, as he says. It’s common knowledge. It’s no big deal. He’s never hurt anyone. Except Jake didn’t fall asleep that night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw him at the café. He was having his monthly meal with Dad. I asked him about the incident. He said he knew for a fact that he had not been run off the road or dozing because he drank three cups of coffee to stay awake so he could see the Victory pull into the bay.” I flashed on the mess at Sweet Sensations. “Could it have been Ingrid who turned Coco’s shop topsy-turvy?”

  “What? What? What?” Bailey squawked sounding like a macaw stuck with a one-word vocabulary.

  Oops. I hadn’t told her about the break-in yet. I recapped last evening.

  Bailey spanked the table. “That’s all Detective Appleby did? Make a report? Sheesh. Why didn’t Coco call me?”

  “She did. You, um, didn’t answer. You and Tito . . . I would imagine . . .”

  Bailey scruffed the back of her neck. “Talk about feeling guilty.”

  “Don’t. Coco wasn’t in danger. It was vandalism, pure and simple. Or at least I thought so. Now I’m wondering whether it could have been a deliberate message.”

  “Why would Ingrid tear up Coco’s place?”

  “Because she was angry at Coco. She knew Coco had Alison’s ear. Coco was her prized cookbook author.” I paused. “You heard Ingrid lash out at Coco at the crime scene. She said Alison was making cuts to Coco’s latest manuscript. Coco denied it. Maybe Ingrid believed Coco had drawn the line with Alison: Enough with the hypercritical copyeditor. Either Ingrid goes or I go. Coco had, after all, pursued another publisher.” I flashed on the multiple recipes open on Alison’s computer. “What if Alison had Coco’s older recipes on her computer screen because she was revisiting Ingrid’s editing work? What if she determined Ingrid was being unduly harsh on Coco?”

  “Hold it.” Bailey raised a hand. “There’s one flaw to your theory. Ingrid didn’t know Coco was going out that night.”

  “Maybe she did.” I pictured the three of us having drinks at Vines after the book club meeting. Simon and Coco had flirted. I didn’t realize that was what they were doing at the time. Did Simon contact Coco later? “Ingrid went to Vines after us that night.” I jabbed the crayon on the word Vines on the map. “What if she overheard Simon on his cell phone setting up the tryst with Coco?”

  “Oh, that’s good. That makes sense.” Bailey nodded. “So Ingrid went to Coco’s and watched her leave.”

  I added Coco’s house to the map. “Maybe she even saw Dash hanging around, taking photographs.”

  “When all was clear, Ingrid went inside.”

  “Right. The door was unlocked. Alison didn’t turn around when Ingrid entered because she could see Ingrid’s reflection in the darkened window. She didn’t feel threatened. Ingrid grabbed the shears, stabbed Alison, and drove around for a few hours, hoping to establish her alibi.”

  “That settles it.” Bailey spanked the tabletop again. “I’m going over to Wanda Foodie’s house to confront Ingrid.”

  Chapter 24

  BAILEY LURCHED TO her feet. Both cats startled and yowled. Ba
iley didn’t seem to care; she darted to the sales counter to fetch her purse.

  “Wait.” I bolted off the miniature chair and nabbed Bailey by the elbow. “Let’s call the precinct.”

  “And get the same runaround Coco got from Detective Appleby last night?”

  “Cinnamon will listen.”

  “No, she won’t. Not to theories. She needs facts.” Bailey slung her purse over her shoulder and sprinted toward the exit. “For Alison’s sake, I’ve got to make sure Ingrid doesn’t get a foothold with Wanda Foodie.”

  “She won’t have a shot at taking over the company. Neil is onto her.”

  “But Wanda isn’t.” Bailey tore out the door.

  Actually, Wanda was; she didn’t think Ingrid could handle the pressure of running Foodie Publishing, but my opinion wouldn’t make my pal change course. I stared after her, wondering what I should do. Bailey was usually rational, but not always. I remembered a time at Taylor & Squibb when an ad campaign for Beat the Heat lemonade was in full cycle. Bailey, who was in charge of monitoring television, magazine, and Internet campaigns, went on a rampage, from cubicle to cubicle, yelling at everyone because a station had messed up airing the ad. She felt responsible. Beat the Heat, the first product from a local start-up company, was a product she believed in. Everyone, from the big boss down to me, assured Bailey it wasn’t her fault, but she lost it. Fond feelings for the company’s president might have been involved. After her scream fest, she buried herself under a blanket for nearly a week. I couldn’t let her go off half-cocked now, could I?

  Aunt Vera entered the shop. “Hello, dear.” The draped folds of her red-and-black caftan billowed behind her.

  “Perfect timing,” I said and rushed past her to apprehend Bailey. I nearly bumped into my father.

  “Perfect timing for what?” Dad asked.

  I quickly explained the situation. I shot a finger at Bailey’s retreating figure.