“Who can occasionally be biased.”
“She and I . . .” Rhett hesitated. “That was different, Bailey. She had evidence that she thought proved me guilty. We were involved; it got complicated. It’s water under the bridge.” Ever since Cinnamon had absolved Rhett, they were on better terms. It did my heart proud that I’d had a hand in the outcome. “Jenna, back me up,” Rhett continued. “You know Cinnamon takes great pride in bringing down bad guys.” He chucked my chin. “Just like you.” He drew his hand along my shoulder and down my arm. A shiver of desire coursed through me. If only I could bottle that feeling and sell it.
“He’s right,” I murmured.
“I’m just saying,” Rhett went on, “trust Cinnamon to do the proper thing.”
An attendant called us forward as the climbers ahead of us were wriggling out of their harnesses.
Rhett unlatched the entry cord and gestured for us to move ahead.
The two belayers reset the harnesses on the ground and asked Bailey and me to step into the leg loops. We did as told, raised the harnesses, tightened our waist cinches and then adjusted the leg loops.
“Go,” the belayers ordered, one manning Bailey’s ropes and the other manning mine.
Gripping a red knob, I pulled upward. Next, I grasped a blue one. I slung my right foot onto a yellow knob then hoisted myself higher and swung my left foot onto a green one.
“Ugh.” Bailey grunted, keeping pace with me. “This is harder than it looks.”
“Use your core muscles.”
“I don’t have core muscles.”
She was kidding, of course. Bailey, when not working at the shop, exercised. She kayaked, swam, and bicycled. For a bitty thing, she was mighty strong.
Halfway up the wall, Bailey glanced at the costumed crowd below. “Why do you think people romanticize pirates?”
I told her about a commercial campaign we did at Taylor & Squibb. It was for Habañero Spice, a product from the Caribbean, and involved a horde of Johnny Depp look-alike pirates. “My boss said that he thought people glamorized pirates because pirates lived by their own rules. People forget about the violence pirates did and still do.”
“Like the Robin Hood effect?”
“Sort of. Robin really did do good deeds for others. He stole from the rich and gave to the poor. But pirates, not so much. They kept it all.”
“You mean they’re not all hunky with hearts of gold?”
I snorted. “Not!”
“Or darling, like Jake and the Never Land Pirates?”
“Not a chance.”
• • •
AFTER OUR CLIMB, the two of us hustled to The Word. We sat at the counter, hoping Rosie, a chatty African American waitress with a purple-tinged Afro hairstyle and vibrant purple eyes, would have good information to impart, but she didn’t. In fact, she hadn’t heard a thing about Alison’s murder. She was shocked to learn Coco was a suspect.
“Coco Chastain cooks cheery chocolates,” Rosie chirped. She wasn’t making fun; she was a fan of mnemonics—a memory enhancer. “If you ask me, she should have called her shop Coco’s Candy. Would’ve made sense. Ah, Coco.” Rosie shook her head. Her dangly purple earrings jingled. “I have to admit, that woman baffles me. See, I’m a big fan of Coco’s chocolates, and I’ve visited the candy shop often, but she still doesn’t know my name. In fact, she’s pretty tight-lipped. Why is that?”
I bit back a smile. Perhaps Coco kept quiet because Rosie was a chatterbox and Coco didn’t want to get swept up in a long conversation.
Rosie placed two sets of silverware rolled in napkins in front of Bailey and me. “I asked once about the secret ingredient in Coco’s chocolate hearts. Mm-mm. They are deliciousness that I can’t describe. But she wouldn’t give me the slightest hint. Ha! Like I could ever hope to filch the recipe. I cannot improvise in the least. I need guidelines to cook. Which is why I’m here”—she indicated the counter—“and not there.” She jerked a thumb toward the kitchen then handed us menus. “Anyway, Coco promised that the recipe, which is one of her grandmother’s, would show up in an upcoming cookbook, but I have every single cookbook. Even her latest. She has a few books for sale at the candy store. But, uh-uh, the recipe is not there.” She harrumphed.
“Maybe it’ll be in her next one,” I said.
“Rosie!” a customer called.
Rosie signaled that she was on her way.
“One more thing before you go,” I said. “Would you happen to know the identity of Coco’s, um, boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend? Honey, I don’t think she has one. I haven’t seen her with a soul in the longest time. She comes in here alone, and she’s always solo in the shop, except for that little assistant she has.” Rosie beat a fingertip on her chin. “You know, she was engaged once to a computer geek. Is that who you mean? Goggly eyes, messy hair. He moved to Seattle with some skinny minny.” A gusty laugh burst from her lips. “Lord, that girl was a sorry sight. Bone thin. I blame that on the mother. Don’t they teach their daughters that curves are in?” Rosie chortled again. “Sorry I couldn’t help you more.”
Chapter 9
WHEN BAILEY AND I returned to The Cookbook Nook, I propped the front door open with a gravel-stuffed cat to let air into the place. Seconds later, I caught the aroma of something delicious.
“Katie?” I called. Despite the fact that I’d just downed an entire potpie, my stomach rumbled.
I hustled to Katie, who was in the breezeway setting goodies on a three-tiered crystal caddy.
“Ahoy! You caught me.” Katie grinned. “These are my first attempt at white chocolate macaroons. Try one. They’re light.”
Unable to resist, I nabbed a cookie and bit into it. “Yum!” They were melt-in-your-mouth heaven. I polished off the rest of the cookie and resisted taking another.
“What did you find out at the diner?” she asked.
“Nothing that helps.” I filled her in.
“What if you track down other friends of Coco’s? Maybe they’ll know who her lover is.”
“Good thought,” I replied, except I didn’t know Coco’s other friends. Did they live in Crystal Cove? Did they frequent Sweet Sensations? Funny how you could be friends with someone for years and not know any of the others who spent time with her.
Out the window, I caught sight of Cinnamon Pritchett exiting her mother’s beading shop. Her uniform was crisp and her hat was on straight, but her face was pinched and her movements choppy. The pre-dawn events came swooshing at me: seeing Alison dead at her computer; spotting the scissors in her back; watching Coco and Ingrid go at it.
Pinpoints of angst nicked my eyelids. Why was Cinnamon here? Was something wrong?
Abandoning my urge to take another sweet, I hurried outside. Cinnamon was a few feet from her cruiser. My footsteps must have startled her. She spun around, hand on the butt of her gun.
I reeled back. “Is everything okay?”
Cinnamon lowered her hand and faltered. I thought her knees might give way. I reached to steady her.
She broke free and held up both hands. “I’m okay. It’s my mother. She’s been feeling a little off balance lately. I think she has an inner ear infection. You know, Ménière’s disease. That’s where the fluid is out of whack. It makes you feel like you’ve got vertigo. Mom”—Cinnamon sighed, which conveyed all her pent-up frustration—“won’t see a doctor, so I came by to teach her some exercises I learned in rehab therapy.”
I gawked at her. “You were in rehab?”
Cinnamon offered a reproachful look. “Not that kind of rehab, you goose. I had vertigo a few years ago. It was due to crystals in my ear. It made me so sick, I had to sleep all the time. My vestibular rehabilitation therapist taught me the Epley maneuver, a way to clear the crystals, which made all the difference in the world.” She glanced over her shoulder at Beaders of Paradise. “I came by to teac
h Mom the moves, but in her cramped stockroom, it wasn’t all that easy.” She let loose with a raspy laugh. “With her, it probably wouldn’t be easy anyplace. I think she’s out of whack because she’s always bending her head forward to do her work. Her eyes aren’t what they used to be, either, but don’t tell her I said that.”
“Care to come in for a cup of tea and a snack? Katie just put out white chocolate macaroons.”
“Sounds great.”
We strolled into the shop. I fetched two cups of tea and treats for both of us, and we settled into the chairs at the vintage kitchen table. Bailey, who was pitching a culinary mystery about a Key West food critic to a customer, sent me a pointed look. I nodded, silently assuring her that I would question Cinnamon about everything. In due time.
While Cinnamon downed half of her tea and ate one of the goodies, I toyed with the basket of fruit jigsaw puzzle, which was partially constructed. I grabbed some edge pieces and fitted together the upper right corner of the puzzle.
After a long moment, I said, “My aunt told me her testimony wasn’t enough to clear Coco.”
Cinnamon set her cup down on the saucer with a clank. “What I said was I needed further corroboration.”
“You don’t think Aunt Vera’s reliable?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.” Cinnamon started in on the puzzle, too. Fleetingly, she made eye contact with me. “You and I both know that I rarely accept one person’s word. We are questioning staff that works at Nature’s Retreat. Happy?”
I continued piecing together edges.
“Don’t give me the silent treatment,” Cinnamon snapped. “What do you want to say?” She pushed back her chair, as if ready to depart.
I leveled her with a glance. “We’re friends.”
“Right now, we’re acquaintances.” Her mouth twitched. Was she trying not to smile? “C’mon. Spit it out.”
“You’re sort of testy.”
“My mother—” She shook her head. “Talk.”
“You and Alison Foodie have a history.”
“Says who?”
“Says an anonymous source.”
“Now you’re a reporter?”
“A concerned citizen.”
“What if we do . . .” Cinnamon licked her lips and revised. “. . . did have a history?”
“Alison was one of the pack. You had a falling out. Why?”
“None of your business.” She pursed her lips then exhaled. “It was over a guy, of all things. We liked the same stupid jerk. Neither of us got him.”
“You came to blows.”
“We said some pretty nasty stuff to each other. She called me rough around the edges. I called her a loser. I wish I could take it all back.”
“Then do the right thing and find her killer.”
“Whoa!” Cinnamon bounded to her feet. “Do you think I’m slacking off?”
I leaped to my feet, too. My thighs bumped the table. Not smart. “No. I didn’t say that. But I do think you might be rushing to conclusions.”
“About Coco Chastain.”
“You don’t want to make a hasty decision. Personal reasons can make us do that.”
Cinnamon jammed her hands into her pockets. She assessed me like prey. “You’re referring to my relationship with Rhett.”
I kept mute. A long silence fell between us.
Cinnamon broke it. “Rhett was the one who told you about me and Alison. Don’t deny it. I’m not dense.” She pulled her hands free of the pockets. “Serves me right. That’s what I get for revealing my past to anyone.” Her mouth curled up on one side. “Look, I know you’re snooping around, trying to figure out who the killer is.”
“I don’t snoop.”
“Yes, you do. It comes naturally to you. You’re good with people, and you care about them.”
“That’s true.”
“You think I don’t care.”
“I never said—”
Cinnamon held up a warning hand. “I also know you get people to talk. You have a knack.”
Not knowing where she was going with this line of—what was it? not an inquiry—I waited for her to continue.
“So here’s where we meet on common ground,” Cinnamon said. “No matter how much it irks me—and you know it irks me because I’m certain you won’t stop investigating—promise me that you’ll share whatever you learn.”
I was thunderstruck. “You bet.” I saluted.
Cinnamon’s tough cop act melted away; she actually smiled. “This does not mean I’ve deputized you.”
“I know.”
“You are not official.”
“Got it.”
“But locals gossip. Listen and report back to me.”
“Will do. By the way, do you have a time of death?”
“Sometime between eleven P.M. and one A.M.”
“When Coco was otherwise engaged.”
Cinnamon crinkled her nose, as if weighing her decision. “FYI, I’m doing my job. I’ve been checking out Foodie Publishing, its authors, its business partners, and any prospective buyers.”
“I didn’t think Alison had any partners.”
“I said prospective.” Cinnamon reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. A text message was displayed on the screen. From my angle, I couldn’t make out the words. Cinnamon caught me trying to sneak a peek. She frowned and drew the cell phone closer.
At the same time, the front door to the shop opened and Coco scuttled inside. She was rummaging in her clutch purse, head down. When she looked up and realized I was with Cinnamon, she drew back. “Oh!” Her cheeks flamed red, a stark contrast to the pink dress and bolero-style pink cardigan she was wearing. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” Cinnamon replied.
Aunt Vera pressed through the drapes leading to the stockroom. “Coco, dear.” Arms outstretched, my aunt rushed to Coco and gripped her by the hands. “I’m so glad you came to see me.”
Coco looked from Cinnamon, to my aunt, and back at Cinnamon. She withdrew her hands. Her cheeks turned even redder.
Bailey rushed from behind the register. “What’s going on?”
Cinnamon said, “It appears Miss Chastain has come to have her fortune told.” She eyeballed Coco. “I doubt that will help you with your alibi.” She couldn’t hide the snarkiness in her tone.
“Chief,” I cautioned.
Cinnamon flipped hair off her face. Defiantly. Real adult.
My aunt put a hand on Coco’s shoulder. I’d seen her do so many times when a client needed calming. “Don’t worry, dear. Your alibi is solid. I saw you at Nature’s Retreat.”
“Did you happen to see Vera, Miss Chastain?” Cinnamon asked.
“I don’t know. No.” Coco sputtered. “I didn’t. But I was there.”
“With . . . ?” Cinnamon said, leadingly.
Coco worried her hands together. “I can’t say.”
Bailey said, “Coco, c’mon. Spill.”
“No.”
Aunt Vera patted Coco’s shoulder. “You need someone else to corroborate your alibi. The chief thinks I’m lying to protect you.”
“I never said that, Vera.” Cinnamon sighed. “I stated that you cannot confirm that Miss Chastain was in the suite for longer than a minute. There are no security cameras at that location. No footage.”
“The police are interviewing staff,” I offered.
“Which means they’ll find out who paid for that room,” Cinnamon said.
“So he’ll have to talk,” Bailey chirped.
Aunt Vera continued to caress Coco’s shoulder. “Having another person establish your whereabouts would help right now. Isn’t that correct, Chief Pritchett?”
Cinnamon said, “Indeed, it would.”
Coco shifted feet. She tucked her clutch purse t
ightly beneath her arm. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Bailey cried, “Coco, he’s not worth it!”
Keen to defuse the situation, I said, “Chief, what motive would Coco have to kill Alison? Alison was her publisher. She had a contract. Coco invited Alison to stay in her house.” I went on like a prosecutor—an unseasoned prosecutor, not knowing the territory. “They were friends. They were—”
“Not as friendly as you might imagine,” Cinnamon cut in. She eyed Coco. “I believe Miss Chastain and Miss Foodie were at odds.”
Bailey said, “Are you making that determination because of the documents on Alison’s computer?”
I flashed on the theory my father had proposed earlier. “Chief, the killer could have opened those to frame Coco. She—”
“Ladies.” Cinnamon held up a hand. “Miss Chastain and Miss Foodie were at odds because Miss Chastain is in negotiations for her next cookbook with a different publisher.”
“Is that true?” Bailey asked.
Coco blanched. “Foodie Publishing is a small independent group. To go big-time”—she splayed her hands—“I need a New York publisher.”
“The contract is for more money,” Cinnamon went on, “but it is also dependent on the sales of the upcoming book. If Miss Foodie was making changes to Miss Chastain’s current project, changes that Miss Chastain felt might jeopardize future sales—”
“But, that’s just it,” Coco said, her voice pleading and strained. “She couldn’t have been making changes.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because Chocolate Bombs is a recipe from a cookbook that came out a year ago titled Chocolate To Die For.”
Chapter 10
CINNAMON MOVED TOWARD Coco. She retreated a step and glanced over her shoulder toward the front door of the shop.
“Why would Miss Foodie have that document open, Miss Chastain?” Cinnamon asked.
Coco peered a second time at the exit. Did she intend to flee? Cinnamon would nab her before she could.
Stand still, I silently urged Coco. Hold your ground.
“I don’t know, Chief,” Coco answered. “Because she was hungry?” She chewed her lip. “Please, don’t you see, I didn’t do it! I—” She shot from The Cookbook Nook as if she’d been propelled by a cannon.
Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4) Page 9
