Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “No.”

  The hostess picked up the leatherette folder and departed.

  “Coco, what time did you meet Simon?”

  “Around eleven.”

  “What did you and Simon do?”

  “You know what we did.” Coco tittered.

  “Did you stay the whole night together?”

  “Until four thirty. Then I headed home to change for work and found Alison, and I . . .” Coco clicked her tongue but added nothing further.

  “Did Simon ever leave the room?”

  Silence. Coco seemed to be weighing the question.

  “Coco, is it possible he slipped out?”

  “No. At least—” She inhaled deeply.

  “What? Tell me. I want a play-by-play.”

  Coco inhaled sharply. “Jenna, I can’t.”

  “Not that kind of play-by-play. I want to know the timing of everything. From the beginning.”

  “Simon paid for the room. When I arrived, I called from downstairs. He told me the room number. I went up the elevator.”

  The hostess returned with the bill. I removed my credit card from the leatherette folder and signed the charge, and she left again. Adrenaline was rushing through me. I tapped the corner of the credit card on the tabletop. “Keep going, Coco. Then what?”

  “We drank champagne. We tore each other’s clothes off and made love. I took a bath around midnight. I might have fallen asleep in the tub.”

  “Might have or did?”

  “Did.”

  “You fell asleep? How long were you out?”

  “I don’t know. An hour. Why?”

  “Did you feel drugged?” Date rape drugs were often used to make people forget an incident.

  “No. I’m a lightweight when it comes to champagne.”

  In the deep recesses of my brain, I remembered her saying that at the book club event.

  “I get weak in the knees,” she went on. “I can drink hard liquor with no problem, but—”

  “Does Simon know?”

  “That I’m easy?” Coco snickered, then sniffed.

  “About the champagne.”

  “I might have mentioned it, but Jenna, he was there when I got out of the bath. I think you’re wrong. He didn’t do this.”

  I quickly explained my theory about the recipe cards. “You said Simon visited the store.”

  “A number of times.”

  “Did he ever go into the kitchen or the office at Sweet Sensations?”

  Coco sighed. “Yes. We, um, necked back there.”

  “When did he set up your tryst?”

  “I hate that word,” she hissed.

  Call a spade a spade, I thought. “When?”

  “After the book club and the three of us went to Vines. It was so spur-of-the-moment. I couldn’t help but say yes.” She bit back a sob. “I know it was wrong, Jenna.”

  “Coco, stop it. It’s not your fault. If it makes you feel any better, I think he invited you to the hotel to establish his alibi.”

  “I can’t believe he’s the killer.” Her voice crackled with emotion.

  I felt for her. No woman ever wants to think the person she loves is a bad guy. I certainly didn’t, but David was.

  “Listen, Coco, Simon left here a few minutes ago. If he calls, don’t answer. Lock your doors and windows.”

  Coco whimpered. “You’re scaring me.”

  “Call the police.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Don’t be naïve.”

  Chapter 28

  I SCANNED THE bistro for my aunt and Deputy Appleby. They had left during my conversation with Coco. Not willing to dally any longer, I headed back to The Cookbook Nook to fetch Tigger and Hershey. On my way, I set aside my hesitation about being wrong about Simon and called the precinct. Cinnamon wasn’t on duty. Risking the end of a beautiful friendship, I decided to call her on her cell phone. She answered after one ring.

  “Are you busy?” I asked.

  “It’s late.”

  I heard background noise. The news on TV. I dove into my spiel, outlining my thoughts about Simon stealing the recipe cards.

  “Is that why you needed to see what was on the computer?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Yes. Do you recall who the author of the document called Mother’s Chocolate Bombs was?”

  “Not offhand, but I’ll check it out.”

  “I believe it was Simon. I think he altered one of Coco’s recipes to pawn it off as his own.”

  “Why steal something that has already been published?”

  “Because he was running short on good recipes for his cookbook,” I said. “He needed a few tried-and-true.”

  “Aren’t recipes copyrightable?”

  I explained what Coco had said to me, that the directions for the recipe and the voice of the author were proprietary, not the ingredients. Therefore, if Simon changed the instructions and altered the wording, voilà. The recipe was his. Except Alison was no dummy. She knew he’d stolen recipes from Coco.

  Cinnamon said, “Where are you?”

  “At the shop and then on my way home.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  I disconnected, a smile on my face. At least she hadn’t labeled me crazy. I unlocked the front door of the shop and heard a high-pitched yowl. Panic cut through me. I called Tigger’s name. He didn’t come.

  “Hershey!” I yelled. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it.” I raced past the breezeway leading to the café—the door was always closed and locked at end of business—and past the antique kitchen table and sales counter. I pushed through the drapes into the stockroom and saw Hershey, his hind legs stiff, his rear end raised, and his back sloped downward toward his head. He was holding Tigger at bay in a corner. Tigger’s tail was wrapped protectively around his body. His eyes were dilated with fear.

  I shrugged off my purse and stepped cautiously toward them. I didn’t want Hershey attacking Tigger just because Tigger’s human had arrived.

  “Hershey, it’s okay, fella. Let’s play nice.”

  He hissed again. There seemed to be no reason for his aggression. There was no female cat in the area; both food bowls were full. What had Tigger done to earn Hershey’s wrath, or was Hershey simply mean-spirited?

  “Time out, Hershey,” I said, hoping words would work with cats like they do with people.

  I heard a door creak open. “Bailey!” I called, thankful she’d had a change of heart and was here to collect the cat. “I’m in the stockroom. Your cat—”

  Hands shoved back the drapes. Simon Butler entered.

  What the heck? I thought he’d left the vicinity for the night. My insides clenched. I pressed down the fear rising up my throat.

  Simon’s face was pasty white and covered in perspiration. His arms dangled at his sides. In one hand, he held the bottle of wine he had told his staff he was taking for safekeeping. Prisoner Blindfold. I recognized the label.

  Hershey, sensing something was wrong, stood stock-still. Like an owl, he swiveled his head to look at the intruder. Tigger scampered to me and nudged my ankles with his head. I toed him away and made a slight gesture, warning him to stay put.

  “Hello, Simon,” I said. “Fancy seeing you here.” Honestly, fancy? I never said fancy. Was my voice shaking? “Why are you here?”

  Simon didn’t say anything. The words Cat got your tongue? flitted through my mind. I bit the corner of my lip to keep from blurting anything idiotic. No need to stir the pot. Simon looked somewhat confused. I recalled a time when I’d house-sat for my boss at Taylor & Squibb. I was working in his office one morning when—surprise, surprise—his thirty-something alcoholic son appeared in the doorway with a huge knife in hand. My boss hadn’t told me the guy was staying there. Big oops. It turned out the son had been cutting melon in the kitchen and heard sounds. Me. He’d come to investigate the intruder. Thanks to the alcohol he had imbibed the night before, he was in a bit of a trance. I’d had to feign all sorts of calm in order to
coerce him back to his bedroom. Simon looked like that crazed son. Tousled. Unsure.

  Hershey mewed. I shot him a cautionary glance. Tigger slunk to Hershey’s side to buddy up. Hershey didn’t hiss. Better the enemy you know . . .

  “Is that wine for me, Simon?” I extended a hand, hoping he would hand over the bottle. “I heard Neil talking about that particular wine the other night. I’ve been meaning to taste it. I bet it would’ve gone great with the cheese platter I ordered.” And never ate because Bailey abandoned me. If only she hadn’t run off to see Tito. “How much is it? I’ll pay you in cash.” I edged toward my purse.

  “Don’t!” Simon ordered.

  I froze.

  “You know,” he said in a menacingly low voice.

  “What do I know?”

  “You figured it out.”

  I made my face go blank. Might as well have him spell it out.

  “You were staring at me upstairs, Jenna.”

  “It’s a bad habit,” I said. I do stare. I wasn’t lying. “I apologize.”

  “You. Know.” Simon spit out the words. He shifted the wine bottle to his other hand.

  Did he intend to cudgel me with it? If so, I needed a weapon, pronto. A pencil sharpener sat on the cluttered desk. It would make a fine blunt object. Even a sharp pencil had some merit. The pair of children’s scissors were worthless.

  No, calm down, Jenna. Simon hasn’t made a move toward you. The wine bottle is probably getting heavy. Control the conversation.

  “You look tired, Simon. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? Let’s chat tomorrow after you’ve rested up.”

  “You called Coco.”

  Aw, heck. Did Coco phone Simon and alert him to my suspicions? What universe of denial was she living in?

  “You were staring at me,” he added.

  “I already apologized.”

  “Something I was doing at the chalkboard made you suspect me.”

  I had to give him credit. He was good at reading me.

  “Tell me,” he ordered.

  No way. I was not blabbing that the note cards he had been holding triggered a memory. That I pictured the mess of cards on the floor at Coco’s shop. That when he wiped his hand on his pant leg—

  “You didn’t expect me to show up here, did you, Jenna?”

  Nope. Not in a million years.

  “I left Vines, but I doubled back,” he went on. “You didn’t see me reenter the bistro. I heard you call Coco.”

  Hooray. She hadn’t phoned to warn him. It was wrong of me to even jump to that conclusion. But, wow, Simon had taken craftiness to a whole new level. How had he hightailed it out of the bistro and returned to where I couldn’t see him? Did it matter?

  “You know,” he repeated.

  I sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to relent. “Yes, I know. You killed Alison Foodie because she decided not to publish your book. That made you mad. Actually, it made your wife mad, and she shamed you into doing something about it. For your mother’s sake. Before your mother dies.”

  “My mother.” Simon said the word with such disdain.

  Mama’s boy popped into my head. Neil wasn’t the only one.

  “Coco told me your book is good. It’s about your great-grandfather. It includes some of your mother’s recipes. Why did you need Coco’s recipes, Simon?”

  “My mother’s weren’t enough.”

  As I had surmised.

  “Alison wanted more,” he hissed. “She said cookbooks aren’t simply about the pictures and the historical accounts. They’re about the recipes. I couldn’t wrangle any more of my mother’s or even my grandmother’s recipes out of my sister. She has control over everything. She hates me. She wants to see me fail.”

  A fleeting concern about Rhett, off to see his mother, darted through my mind. I pushed it aside. No matter what was wrong, he would survive. He was a survivor.

  So was I.

  “Simon, tell me about Coco.” I had to keep him talking while I figured out a plan of escape. With the cats. “You envied the relationship she had with her mother and her grandmother, didn’t you?”

  Simon didn’t respond.

  “You seduced Coco. You knew how needy she was for your love.”

  He kept mute.

  “Your fatal mistake, Simon, was when you swiped a recipe that Coco had already published in a previous book. Alison realized it. She called you on it. What I don’t understand is why kill her? Why didn’t you admit you made a mistake and move on?”

  “I did admit it. Weeks ago. We agreed to pull some recipes, start fresh. But last Thursday, Alison texted me. She said she couldn’t follow through. She said I couldn’t be trusted. She vowed to tell others. My reputation. It would be ruined. I couldn’t have people thinking I was a phony and a liar. Rage overtook me. I was insane.”

  “Uh-uh. An insanity plea won’t work. You mapped out your plan to kill Alison long before she came to town. You registered your wife for the conference to get her out of town. Then you set up an alibi with Coco. That was pretty clever.”

  He smirked.

  “You brought champagne to your tryst. You’re a wine bistro owner. Coco was a regular at Vines. You knew what champagne did to her. Just in case the champagne didn’t make her sleepy enough, for the pièce de résistance, you suggested a bath.”

  Simon shifted the wine bottle to his other hand. His dominant hand. Uh-oh.

  I glanced again at the desk. How about a letter opener as a weapon? That would be poetic justice. Stab the person who stabbed Alison. Too bad it was out of reach. My purse, which I’d set on the floor while dealing with the cats, was heavy and would pack a punch, but I’d have to bend over to reach it. If I did, the back of my head would make a perfect target.

  What else could I use? Think, Jenna.

  “You tiptoed out,” I said. “You went to Coco’s house. It was just around the corner from Nature’s Retreat.”

  Simon stepped toward me. There were tons of books to my right, but none readily accessible. Shoot.

  I said, “You saw Alison inside the house. Alone. You slipped inside.”

  “No. First, I spotted Dash. Loitering outside. Snapping photographs like a fanatic paparazzo. Loser.” Simon sniggered. “So I waited. When he left and I finally got to make my move, lo and behold, Alison was asleep at the computer. I’m ashamed to say it was like child’s play. It couldn’t have been easier. I felt like a tiger with a kitten.”

  Tigger and Hershey hissed in unison.

  “I entered the house, grabbed the scissors—”

  “After you killed Alison,” I cut in, “why didn’t you delete the recipes off the computer?”

  “I tried to, but she had so many darned files open. I erased at least a dozen. Then I heard a sound. I thought Dash had returned. I ran.”

  “You cleared Alison’s phone of text messages.”

  He didn’t contradict me.

  “You trashed Sweet Sensations so you could put the recipes back in the box. You knew that if Coco ever came to her senses she would realize you had arranged the affair to provide yourself with an alibi. If you put the recipes back, it was one less loose thread.”

  “Smart girl.” He slinked toward me.

  I inched backward. “I should’ve figured something was up when your wife started hovering over you, not letting you out of her sight. She even went bird-watching with you. She loathed bird-watching.”

  “She hates pretty much everything I do. I make her sick.”

  “Speaking of sick, Coco was ill the night Sweet Sensations was trashed. She got nauseous right after she flew upstairs to talk with you that afternoon. She threw up in her purse. Come to think of it, your wife was ill that same night. Did you give them something that upset their digestion so they’d be out of your hair while you trashed the candy shop?”

  Simon sneered. “Arsenic is so easy to get your hands on. Slipping it into a piece of cheese was easy. I didn’t give either enough to kill them.”

  I cringed.
The man had no shame.

  “And now for you.” Simon hoisted the bottle of wine, ready to strike.

  “Wait!” I squeaked. “I called Chief Pritchett.”

  That made him pause.

  “I told her about the duplicated recipes.”

  “Liar.”

  “She’s checking out Alison’s computer right this minute. She said she’d call me back. If she doesn’t reach me—”

  “Dead men tell no tales. Arrr.”

  Man, I hated Pirate Week.

  “Enough parrying.” Simon swung at me.

  I ducked and pivoted. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the box of pirate décor. The four-foot-long, three-masted metal galleon with the lethal-looking bowsprit was poking out of the top. I leaped to it and pulled the ship free. I swooped around and, wielding the ship like a sword, lunged at Simon.

  He raised the bottle of wine as protection.

  I shoved the bowsprit beneath and into his chest. The tip didn’t penetrate, but Simon careened backward and plunged to the floor.

  Hershey dashed at him. Claws bared, he bounded onto Simon’s face and latched on. Tigger, taking his cue from his former enemy, did the same, landing on Simon’s groin. Simon yowled at the top of his lungs.

  Serves you right, I mused.

  I wrenched the bottle of wine out of his hands, planted a foot on his abdomen, and wielded the bottle with a two-handed hold. “Don’t move!”

  The front door squeaked open. “Jenna?” a man called.

  “Rhett!” I’d never been so happy to hear his voice. I mean, I had, but considering the situation . . .

  The front door banged shut. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t dare lose my hold on Simon.

  “In here!” I yelled.

  Rhett pushed through the drapes and drew alongside me. He gazed down at my quarry. “What the—”

  “He killed Alison.” I quickly recapped Simon’s confession.

  Rhett bent down, nudged Hershey off Simon’s face, and landed a punch squarely on Simon’s jaw. Simon’s head rocked to the left. His eyes fluttered closed. Out for the count. Too bad his count wasn’t anything like Alison’s.

  Hershey joined Tigger at his lower-region post. The two nuzzled chins.