Dad rubbed the tube of paper on the edge of his chin. “I thought I would have heard from the editor by now, but my critique group—”
“You have a critique group?”
“Online,” Aunt Vera offered.
My father shot her a scathing look. “Nothing wrong with online, Vera. My group and I chat every day.”
Knock me over with a feather. I needed to spend more time with my father and get to know him—really know him. After my mother died, he and I had a falling out, which occurred because my husband died a couple of weeks before, and I was pretty much a loony tune. I couldn’t converse. I hid under the covers. I was not a supportive daughter. Three months of intense therapy guided me back to semi-normal. Moving home to Crystal Cove helped with the rest.
“I trade chapters with my group,” my father went on. “A few have advised me that it takes time to hear back from an editor. Sometimes a year or more. Which makes me wonder . . .” He drummed the counter with his fingertips. “What if Alison held on to someone’s work for a lengthy time, only to finally pass on it, which upset the author?”
“That certainly broadens the suspect pool,” Aunt Vera said.
“Or maybe an author didn’t like the way she was editing his or her work,” my father proposed. “Alison edited the manuscripts, correct?”
“That is the main reason Coco is a suspect,” I said. “Alison was stabbed in Coco’s house with Coco’s scissors. A number of Coco’s recipes were open on Alison’s computer.”
“A killer could have brought up the files to frame her.” My father jabbed the tube of paper toward me to make his point. “I’d tell Cinnamon your theories if I were you.”
“My—” I cocked my head. “Dad, they’re your theories. Why don’t you tell her?”
“And incur her wrath for sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong? Not on a bet.” My father laughed heartily. Usually he had a reserved laugh closer to a snicker. Perhaps Lola, with her lusty laugh, was rubbing off on him. Yay! “Please, if you see any of Alison’s family, pay my respects. Now”—he cleared his throat and struck a pose—“I’ll be off to work, mateys.”
“Not you, too, with the pirate-ese,” Aunt Vera said.
“Aye, ’tis Pirate Week, sister. I’ve got my . . . me . . . yes, me chores mapped out.” My father unfurled the tube of paper he was holding. It looked like a pirate’s map. X marked the spot at the rear of the shop. “I’ll start with the squeaky door.” He stopped chortling as he disappeared through the break in the drapes and muttered under his breath, “What is this world coming to?”
“Jenna, dear.” Aunt Vera ambled from behind the counter. “Even if your father won’t, I am going to talk to Cinnamon. While I’m gone, why don’t you spruce up the window display?”
“Is something wrong with it?”
“I’d like the sign reading Children’s Pirate Day to be bigger. I’ve had a few parents calling about the event, but not as many as I expected. It is being held tomorrow, after all.” She wiggled her fingers in the direction of the display. “And take a look at the fresh load of books we received in this morning’s shipment. Pirate Boy and Pirate Pete seem awfully cute. The artwork in both is terrific. They’d be charming in the display. Perhaps add a couple more chocolate cookbooks, too.”
I winked at her. “I’m on it.” My aunt had brought me in to be the marketing brain of the operation, but she had been adding her two cents more often. “By the way, did you see the Luscious Chocolate Desserts cookbook?”
“I did.”
“Did you peek inside?”
“How could I resist? You know what a fool I am for a good layer cake.” Aunt Vera gathered her purse, left her turban, and headed to the exit. She paused short of the door. “Silly me. I almost forgot.” She dug into her purse and pulled out bags of foil-wrapped chocolate coins. “I picked these up yesterday.” She flung them at me. “Yo ho!”
I caught them and flashed on last night’s thievery. “Aunt Vera, wait. Have you heard anything from the mayor about the missing pot of doubloons?”
“Not a word. The playhouse people are quite distraught.” The Theater on The Pier had put the pot of doubloons on display. “But don’t worry your head about it. Mayor Zeller will set things right. I’m off.”
She exited, and Tito Martinez swaggered into the shop, looking tanned and sporty in a fedora, plaid jacket, pale yellow shirt, and jeans. I was surprised he wasn’t wearing pirate gear. Given his flair for the dramatic, he seemed like a perfect candidate.
Tito stopped next to the vintage table and whipped off his fedora. “Hola, Jenna. Forgive me for listening in, but I know something about the missing pot.”
“I heard the photographs of the pot on Mrs. McCartney’s porch went viral online.”
“Sí. Sí.” Tito scanned the area, obviously on the hunt for Bailey. “There have been two other sightings. One on the front steps of the fire station.”
“The fire station?”
“This time the note read: Help!”
“Did the thief create the note using cutout letters from magazines?”
Tito nodded. “He also erected a fake blaze using something that looked like opaque orange crinkly paper. Quite elaborate.”
“And the third sighting?” I asked.
“The pot was photographed hanging from a rooftop. Think of it. Three sightings, all in the same night. What a feat.”
What a fiasco, I thought.
“I’m surprised the thief isn’t advertising a link to a website or something,” Tito added. “It’s a great publicity stunt.”
“Publicity for what? Don’t you believe it’s a malicious act?”
Tito snorted. “No way. This is performance art.” He fanned the air with his fedora. “Whoever is doing it is trying to get attention.” He tapped his temple. “I’ve got a sense for this kind of news.”
“I think whoever did it should be arrested.”
“Bah.” Tito chuckled. “Harmless fun. Where’s Bailey?”
“She’s not here yet.”
“When do you expect her?”
“I’m not sure.” I glanced at the telephone by the counter, willing Bailey to call and bring me up-to-date. As if sensing my distress, Tigger bounded from his spot beneath the children’s craft table and leaped onto the stool by the cash register and then onto the counter. He stared at the telephone. No jangle.
“What is going on?” Tito asked. “I’ve been calling her. I’ve texted her. She’s not responding.”
“There’s been another murder in town.”
“No!”
“Alison Foodie was killed.”
“Where?”
“At Coco Chastain’s house.”
“When?” Tito glanced at the door, the story about the doubloons long forgotten. I could tell he wanted to hightail it out of the shop to scoop the story. “How?”
I hadn’t signed any confidentiality agreements with the police. I told him what I had revealed to my aunt and father.
“The shears certainly make a statement,” Tito said. “Did an angry boyfriend show up?”
“Alison didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“An ex?”
“I think Alison lacked a social life. Her career meant everything to her.”
“Did she have enemies in business?”
“I doubt it. She was well respected. Besides, she didn’t live in Crystal Cove. Why would an enemy follow her here? Why not kill her in San Francisco?”
“Good point. Hey, what about her brother? Maybe he thought his sister was domineering. You know, too in his face.” Tito demonstrated. He smelled like Juicy Fruit gum. “Maybe he wanted to cut her out of his life.” He jabbed his chest with his thumb. “Words are my life. The act of cutting. That’s what matters. Trust me.” He didn’t wait for my agreement. He donned his fedora and sped out of
The Cookbook Nook.
His speculation when coupled with my father’s theory sent a shiver through me. Alison had been editing Coco’s material. Had Coco killed Alison for making cuts to her manuscript?
No matter what, Coco needed a verifiable alibi. I hoped my aunt could convince Cinnamon that she saw Coco at Nature’s Retreat during the time of the murder. If only Coco would reveal the name of her paramour. The police would keep the information confidential, wouldn’t they?
A flash of color outside the shop caught my eye.
Chapter 7
NEIL, ALISON’S BROTHER, was charging upstairs to the second floor, leaping two steps at a time. His shoulders were hunched. He wore the same white shirt he’d worn the night before. It was rumpled, the tail loose, the hem smudged with dirt.
I hurried outside to catch up to him. “Neil,” I called.
He turned. His eyes looked bloodshot. The usually ruddy color of his complexion was gone. His face appeared more flaccid than ever. His chest was heaving from exertion.
“I’m late,” Neil said. “The boss will have my head if I’m not there in one minute.”
“Won’t he let you have the day off, considering the, um, circumstances?”
“Circumstances?” he echoed.
A pang of sorrow cut through me. Heck, didn’t he know about his sister? I hated to be the first to break the news, but someone had to. I forged ahead. “Concerning Alison.”
Neil lowered his chin, as if to study his shoes, and wagged his head. “Yeah, I heard she’s dead. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”
Gack! If he knew what had happened, then why was he on his way to work? Was he a miserable, heartless creep?
“She was stabbed,” he went on. “Some jerk broke in.”
“No. That’s not true. No one broke in.”
Neil lifted his head and made eye contact. “How would you know?”
“Because I was there this morning. With the police. My friend Bailey—”
“Who works at your store?”
“Yes.”
“She was at Vines last night.”
“Right.” I nodded. “With me. Anyway, Coco Chastain called her. Coco found Alison. She called Bailey, and then Bailey called me. Coco—” I heaved a sigh. “Coco said she never locks the doors. The killer walked right in, easy as pie. Coco also called your mother.”
“Yeah, I know. Mom is the one who told me.” Neil shifted feet. “It sucks.”
I gawped at him. That was it? The full extent of his compassion was it sucks? I tamped down my own thoughts of murder.
Neil hitched his thumb toward upstairs. “I gotta go.”
“To work?”
“Yeah.”
I continued to stare, my heart beating in my chest, my hands balled into fists. It took all my reserve not to wallop him. “I’m sorry, but didn’t you call Mr. Butler and tell him that your sister was—”
“Yeah,” Neil said. “I did.”
“And he told you to come to work?” That didn’t seem like the Simon I knew, with an easy grin and easier manner.
“Not him, exactly.”
“Who then?”
“His wife.”
“Isn’t she a personal trainer?”
“Yeah.” Neil scruffed the back of his neck. “But I guess she’s also half owner of Vines.”
That was news to me.
“And time off? Today? This week?” Neil kicked the stair. “Nah. It’s not happening. Pirate Week is drawing big-time crowds. We’re short on staff.”
I recalled Simon telling us last night that he was short a waiter, but that didn’t warrant him or his wife being so callous. Maybe in the slower economy, the wine bistro simply couldn’t afford to cut back. The notion caught me off guard. If something were to happen to Bailey or my aunt, I wasn’t sure what I would do at The Cookbook Nook. I couldn’t run the shop alone. Note to self: Hire another assistant as backup.
“The boss did say she’d let me off for the funeral.” Neil twirled a finger and glanced upward. “Whoop-dee-doo.”
“How’s your mother holding up?”
“A mess. Crying in fits and starts and sleeping, which is nothing new . . . the sleeping.” He peeked at his watch. “Look, I really have to run.”
I reached for him. “Neil, wait, one question.”
“Can’t. Wine tasting waits for no man.” He wrested from my grasp and trotted upstairs.
Anger swelled within me a second time. Was he colder than a crypt or simply operating on autopilot? For someone who should be grieving, he was certainly being a diligent employee. And a little glib. I tried to cut him some slack. Men could be so different from women.
Pivoting to return to the shop, I caught sight of Simon Butler exiting his BMW at the far end of the lot. He loped toward me. His hair was windblown, his cheeks sunburned. A pair of binoculars bounced on his chest.
I met him beneath the overhang. “Did you hear what happened to Alison Foodie?”
Simon nodded dolefully. His face contorted into a grimace. “What a tragedy.” He nudged his round-shaped glasses upward on his nose. “Neil called my wife, who called me. I heard Alison was stabbed. What a shame. You were close, right?”
“Not close, but we were friendly.”
“Either way, I’m sorry for your loss. What a curveball that’s going to throw into her business.”
I didn’t blame him for thinking of that; his and many other authors’ dreams of being published would be put on hold. I said, “Her brother Neil just ran upstairs to start work. He seemed quite brittle. I hope you’ll give him some time off to grieve.”
Simon frowned. “Neil said he didn’t need time. I can’t fault him. As I hinted last night, Alison and he weren’t close. Besides, don’t let Neil with his jovial demeanor snow you. He’s a tough cookie.”
Harsher words than those were cycling through my mind. Neil was heartless and obtuse and . . .
I pointed at the binoculars. “Have you been whale watching?”
“Actually, bird-watching. I go to the beach at this time of year to catch sight of black oystercatchers.”
“Never heard of them.”
“They are by far one of the narrowest ranges of birds in the world, breeding only from Alaska to Baja California, and only in winter.” Simon’s face grew animated. “They stay remarkably close to the shoreline, not venturing out farther than a few hundred meters. They’re often joined by black turnstones and surfbirds.”
I would never understand bird-watching. I could sit still for a few minutes occasionally, but spending hours observing birds as they flitted from limb to limb or traipsed across the fields or stretches of sand? Nope. Not for me. I needed my downtime to be more active, or I wanted my nose to be buried in a book.
Simon added, “I also had the pleasure of admiring the pirate ship in the harbor. Have you seen it?” He was referring to a multiple-sailed vessel that was offering sunset cruises.
“I have.”
“What a beauty. Wow, I love this town. There are so many things to do.”
I adored Crystal Cove, too, except when a crime occurred.
“I’d better get a move on.” Holding the binoculars steady so they wouldn’t whack his chest, Simon jogged upstairs.
I returned to the shop and dealt with a handful of customers, many asking about cookbooks that included a pirate theme. I steered them toward a rare find called Pirate’s Pantry: Treasured Recipes of Southwest Louisiana by the Junior League of Lake Charles. Compiled in the second half of the last century, it was a one-stop cookbook, with recipes developed from every part of the melting pot of cultures that made Louisiana distinctive. Simplistic in style, it included crude drawings of swords, treasure maps, and more. It offered a ton of gumbo recipes. I adored gumbo.
Mid-morning, as a pair of customers exited the shop, Bailey
stormed in. She looked decent. Her makeup was fresh and hair combed. But emotions were churning inside her. Her eyes were pinpoints of angst. Her gaze flicked right and left. A hint of perspiration coated her upper lip. The customers peeked worriedly at me; I waved for them to move on. I could handle my usually bubbly assistant.
“How did it go with Coco?” I asked.
“She’s been released on her own recognizance, but Chief Pritchett . . .” Bailey plucked at the cuticles on her left hand then screwed up her mouth. “I think she’s got a bug up her you know what for some reason.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She’s riding Coco hard.” Bailey mimed cracking the whip. “She asked Coco the same questions over and over, putting a twist on each one, as if to catch Coco in a lie. And yet—”
I gripped her hand to calm her.
Bailey pulled free and began to pace. “I get the distinct feeling Cinnamon didn’t care for Alison Foodie.”
“Why would you say that?”
“It’s the way Cinnamon says Alison’s name. It comes out as a hiss, and”—Bailey paced between the stockroom and the counter—“it’s as if she’s rushing things.”
Tigger, who had been hiding from the moment Bailey marched into the shop, zipped into view and meowed his concern.
I whispered, “It’s okay, Tig-Tig,” and then said, “Go on, Bailey.”
“It’s as if Cinnamon wants to throw someone—anyone, namely Coco—in jail, pronto, so she can wrap this sucker up and put the case as far behind her as possible.” Bailey stopped pacing and whirled around on the heels of her wedged sandals. “Do you think Alison and Cinnamon knew each other?”
“They did.” I recalled Cinnamon answering yes when I’d asked the question at the crime scene. One word. Clipped off. No elaboration. “Maybe they went to school together. They were about the same age.” What was their history? Was Bailey right to be concerned about a bias on Cinnamon’s part?
Bailey beat a fist into her palm. “If only I hadn’t put Alison and Coco together. If only I hadn’t asked them to come to town for the book club event.”
Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4) Page 7
