• • •
WANDA FOODIE LIVED in a modest home, which, like so many homes in Crystal Cove, was painted white with a red-tiled roof. The garden was well tended. A beautifully sculpted wooden dolphin stood in the center of the grass.
I strode up the path to the front porch and came to a halt. I tugged on the hem of my sweater, finger-combed my hair, and then rang the doorbell.
Bailey pulled alongside me. “I’ll bet she knows who killed Alison. She must. Mothers know everything.” The words sped out of her lightning fast. “You were so smart to come here. If she can tell us—”
I put a hand on her forearm to calm her.
Wanda didn’t answer the door. Ingrid Lake did. She attempted a smile. With her teeth wedged together like always, she reminded me of a sneering cornered dog.
“She’s sleeping,” Ingrid said when I asked to see Wanda. “She does that a lot. Neil says not to wake her whenever it happens. It’s just a nap. I’m sure she’ll rouse soon. Come in.” Ingrid escorted us into the well-appointed foyer, complete with an antique console, ladder-back chairs, and an array of blue silk flowers in a ceramic vase. She slid the door closed. In a hushed voice, she said, “I’m glad you stopped by, Jenna. I have news about what we were talking about.”
“What we were—”
“In regard to Alison. On The Pier. You know what I’m saying.” The words came out in a hiss.
I shook my head.
“She wasn’t PG,” Ingrid offered cryptically.
“How can you be sure she wasn’t pregnant?”
“I have proof.” Ingrid peeked around the corner of the foyer into the living room. I followed her gaze.
The room consisted of a large couch, a couple of brown Barcaloungers, end tables, a modest coffee table, and a television atop a console. Wanda Foodie, big-boned and almost the spitting image of Alison except she had gray-streaked hair, lay asleep in one of the Barcaloungers; her mouth hung open. The television was switched on but muted. Beyond the Barcaloungers stood a dinette set. A desktop computer sat on the dining table. A web page for Neil Foodie was open on the screen. Didn’t he tell me he hadn’t constructed a website yet? Had Ingrid been checking him out?
Ingrid tapped my arm so I would refocus on her. She said, “I wasn’t being a snoop, I want you to know. I was emptying the guest bathroom trash, and through the plastic bag, I saw what looked like the remnants of a First Response kit, so I opened the bag. The test strip hadn’t changed color, which is indicative of a negative result. I know because, well, you understand. Phew, right?” Ingrid twirled a finger in front of her abdomen, hinting she had tested for pregnancy at least once.
An image of Ingrid trying to kiss a guy with her teeth clenched caused nervous laughter to bubble up inside me. I tamped it down.
“How did the kit get there?” Bailey asked. “Alison was staying at Coco’s.”
“She was staying there the second night,” Ingrid explained. “The first night, Alison bunked here. She came in a day early to have dinner with her mother. She vacated so I’d have a place to stay.”
I recalled Alison saying the same.
“She must have taken the test that night.” Ingrid plucked at the bow of her silk blouse. “By the way, Jenna, I saw Dash on The Pier earlier. I was thinking about him after you and I talked. I don’t know if it’s right for me to tell you, but he got mad at Alison once.”
Pointing fingers seemed to be a hobby of just about everyone this week. I said, “Go on.”
Ingrid’s eyes blazed with fervor. “It happened about six months ago. He came into the office hopping mad. He was brandishing a vegetarian cookbook we published, Smart Eats: From Avocado to Zucchini. He’d provided photographs for about twenty of its recipes. Well, it turned out, Alison didn’t like the work he did, so she took her own photos and installed them in the book. She had given Dash the credit, which made him furious. He said her work was subpar, and why on earth would she do that without asking him? He would have gladly reshot anything she didn’t like. She said she didn’t have time.” Ingrid toyed with the tails of the bow. “Alison was often in a hurry. My way or the highway, that’s what she would say. Dash said she could have ruined his reputation. I’ve never seen him so mad.”
“Did it ruin his reputation?”
“You’d have to ask him. He has lots of irons in the fire, I think.”
“Speaking of disputes,” I said, “I heard you and Alison argued on the night of the book club event. She fired you.”
Ingrid’s eyes widened. “Would you like tea while we wait for Wanda to stir?” She didn’t hang around for a response. She strolled away.
Bailey gave me an exaggerated eye roll.
I nudged her to follow.
The kitchen was as comfortable as the living room, decorated with granite counters and chocolate-colored appliances. Bailey sidled onto a stool at the island in the center. I continued to stand. Ingrid filled a teakettle, lit a flame on the gas stove, and set the teakettle over it. Then she strode to a cabinet and fetched three pretty china cups.
I repeated, “Alison fired you.”
Ingrid hiccupped out a laugh. “She fired me weekly. Do you think I killed her over a silly thing like that? It was no big deal.”
Had she drummed up that response while making tea?
“You threatened you had legal rights,” I said.
“Yes, that’s my go-to defense.” Ingrid withdrew three Earl Grey tea bags from another cabinet and placed them in the cups. “You see, Alison promised on more than one occasion to give me a stake in the company, but she never drew up papers. She could be quite mercurial. I nagged her and told her a woman’s word is her bond. She thought that was hysterically funny.”
“Why would she have wanted you as her partner?”
“Because I’m good.”
No lack of confidence there. I said, “Alison claimed you were too meticulous. She had to redo your work.”
“That had to cost her time and money,” Bailey added.
“It didn’t.” Ingrid fluffed a hand in the air. “I got the work done in a timely fashion. Always.”
“Some of Coco’s recipes were open on Alison’s computer,” I said. “Do you know why?”
“Yeah,” Bailey backed me up. “Was Alison intent on pointing out your previous mistakes?”
Ingrid whirled around, fury in her gaze. At the same time, the teakettle started to jiggle and whistle. Ingrid cut a hard glance at the kettle, and then, just as quickly as she had come to a boil, she cooled to a simmer. She retrieved the kettle and poured steaming hot water into the three cups. “Sugar or honey?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Honey,” Bailey said.
“Neither for me,” I replied.
Ingrid squeezed a dollop of honey into one teacup and stirred it with a spoon.
“Well?” Bailey pressed. “Answer me.”
Ingrid clanked the spoon on the rim of the cup. “I have no idea why those recipes were on the computer. I didn’t go to the house. We didn’t talk. They are as much a mystery to me as they are to you.”
Ingrid picked up a single teacup, removed the tea bag, dropped it in the sink, and returned to the living room. Bailey and I did the same. In silence, we sipped tea for a half hour. When Wanda still didn’t waken—she was snoring like a longshoreman—we headed out.
At the door, I turned back to Ingrid. “By the way, I was talking with Neil.”
“Mama’s boy.” She sniffed her dislike.
“He said something that concerned me. You claim you went home to watch TV the night Alison died, and then you went to Vines. Neil said you borrowed his mother’s car.”
“I did.”
“Well, he didn’t see it in the garage when he got home. At four A.M.” I let the time hang in the air. “Where were you?”
Ingrid folded her arms across
her chest. “My, my. Small towns. Does everyone around here know everyone else’s business?”
I waited patiently. Bailey, not as tolerant as I, tapped her foot.
“I only sleep a few hours each night,” Ingrid said. “I can’t watch TV all the time. Boring. So I went to Vines. I told you that, but I certainly didn’t want to drink more than a glass of wine, so I drove around.”
“You ordered a whole bottle,” I said, remembering Faith’s energetic and gossipy account.
“It’s cheaper that way if you want a good glass of wine. They corked the rest. I put it in the trunk of the car. Want to see the bottle? It’s in the fridge.” Ingrid stabbed a finger toward the kitchen.
She was feisty; I had to give her that. “Where did you drive?” I asked.
“Up and down the coast.”
“All night long?” Bailey blurted.
“Well past four A.M. I find driving clears my mind, important in my line of business. Editing can be quite tedious.”
“Witnesses?” I asked.
“I almost ran into an old guy on a tractor. Around midnight, if that matters.”
Yes, it mattered. A near accident around midnight would provide her with an alibi.
“He came out of nowhere. Just north of The Pier. I honked like crazy. He spun around and nearly did a wheelie. He had a gnarly face.”
Ingrid was referring to Old Jake. He volunteered to sweep the beaches at night. He wasn’t likely to forget an incident like that.
Chapter 18
THE REMAINDER OF the day dragged on. I created to-do lists up the wazoo. My aunt told two fortunes. Bailey tried, repeatedly, to get Hershey to sit in her lap, and Tigger attempted to lure Hershey into a game of chase. The cat wasn’t friendly to human or feline. After work, I slogged home, ate leftover meat loaf—it warmed nicely in the microwave—and nearly fell into bed.
The next day, Tuesday, was my day off. Crystal Cove was a resort type of town, and souvenir buyers were at a maximum pretty much every day of the week. We stayed open on weekends; however, in order to keep our sanity, we closed the shop and café on Sunday at dusk, and we closed it one full day a week, as well—Tuesday. When I was at Taylor & Squibb, I had worked twenty-four-seven, with very little time off for good behavior. Once I returned to Crystal Cove, I made a sensible decision not to live like that ever again.
I rose late and went out for a walk, not a run. I was simply too exhausted from Monday’s rash of activity, and I needed energy for the evening’s event—the finale for Pirate Week. Sunlight shone down on me, but I didn’t worry about it burning my skin. I’d put on a long-sleeved shirt, long linen pants, and a sun hat. An hour later, I returned home and baked easy-to-make chocolate scones.
After pulling the goodies out of the oven to cool, I whipped up a creamy batch of scrambled eggs. I fixed a plate with my meal, poured myself a cup of tea, and moved to the mini patio to dine. Tigger followed, excited to get whatever treats I might add to his bowl. I didn’t disappoint. I had stocked the cupboards with grain-free snacks that he adored.
While I dined on the patio, I dug into The New Wine Country Cookbook: Recipes from California’s Central Coast. There were over 120 wine-friendly recipes, but the photographs alone were enough to draw me inside the cover. Over the past few months, I had fallen in love with the stories of how cookbook authors came up with recipes. Often I would lap up the author’s descriptions of the dish. Zippy, zesty, and zingy were some of my favorite adjectives. At times, the way the author laid out the recipe was what grabbed me. Was it easy to understand? Did the author have a sense of humor when relating the steps necessary to complete a complicated dish? Did those words inspire me to take the plunge? These things mattered to my customers and now to me.
After breakfast, I set up an easel on the patio and focused on Bailey’s painting, making more headway than I thought I would. Creativity doesn’t always come when beckoned, so when it does come, I never waste it. I painted for three hours. By the time I quit, my wrists and forearms were sore.
Following lunch, I took a luxurious bath, dried my hair, and concentrated on my costume for the evening. A few items needed pressing. I hate to iron, but one or two days a year, I can manage.
Rhett arrived before dusk. He was dressed in the same debonair red-and-blue pirate’s costume he had worn at the climbing wall. “Wow, me lass,” he said, taking me in his arms and planting a firm kiss on my lips. “Aren’t ye the sleekest beauty on which I’ve ever laid eyes.”
“Ahem. I’m a guy.”
“Oh, right.” He cleared his throat. “Ye make a fine-looking pirate. Nice outfit for a mate.”
“Thank you, me hearty.”
I had visited a used-clothing store to purchase pieces for my costume. For the top half, I’d bought the perfect black velvet jacket, nipped at the waist. I had sewn ecru lace on the cuffs and added gold buttons in two rows down the front. Beneath, I wore a white blouse, fastened at the neck. For the bottom half of the costume, I’d settled for leggings tucked into thigh-high black boots.
I swiveled to let him admire my backside.
He grinned. “Indeed, a fine mate.”
I put on a black tricorn hat that I had adorned with gold trim and a giant black feather, and we were off.
On The Pier, a wealth of people in costumes paraded the boardwalk amid freestanding white canvas sales stalls. At one stall, you could purchase scarves and shawls. At another, you could paw through a treasure trove of glitzy jewelry. Food carts catering to all tastes abounded, as well.
Someone tapped on a microphone. Thump, thump.
“Testing!” A woman’s voice radiated through amplifiers.
I swung around and spied Mayor Zeller standing atop a raised stage midway down The Pier. A moderate-sized crowd surrounded her. I grabbed Rhett’s hand and hurried toward the gathering.
“Who among ye has stolen the pot of doubloons?” The mayor shouted in a raspy pirate accent while brandishing one of her latest posters. She looked poured into her brown-toned innkeeper outfit.
Many in the throng waved their hands then laughed uproariously. “Just kidding,” a few quipped.
The mayor said, “I’ll have ye know, we know who ye are. If ye come in now, ye’ll not suffer. If we have to nab ye, ye shall suffer for your crime.”
“Make him walk the plank!” an observer shouted.
“Off with his head!” yelled another.
“Don’t be chiding me.” The mayor wagged a fist and scanned the throng. “Beware, matey. Beware!” She switched off the microphone and climbed off the stage.
I drew near. “No luck yet, Z.Z.?”
The mayor shook her head. “I’m holding on to hope.”
Rhett and I moved on. Near The Pearl jewelry store, I caught sight of Dash, who looked every bit as flamboyant as Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. Black braids, black leather jacket, black trousers and boots. He was taking a photograph of Sterling and another handsome guy who was much taller and heftier than the jewelry store owner. Both were poking their heads through holes in a life-sized cutout of a pair of pirates and looking at one another adoringly.
“Hold it. That’s it,” Dash said. “Say cheesecake!”
Just beyond the scene stood two carny guys I had dubbed Mutt and Jeff a few months ago. I still didn’t know their names. Mutt was huge and furry; Jeff was so skinny I wondered how his trousers, sans belt, stayed up. They were eyeing Sterling and his friend with unconcealed disgust. Who were they to judge? I mused. Only a few months ago, Mutt had been at Jeff’s throat when he believed Jeff was having an affair with his wife. Love was nothing if not unpredictable.
I glanced back at Dash, wondering about the story Ingrid had told me. Did Alison replace his photos with subpar photos she had taken? Did Dash lose his temper? The dispute happened six months ago. Would Dash have held a grudge this long? Did that give him a se
cond motive for murder, the first being unrequited love? I watched him taking photographs of Sterling and his friend from all angles, and another—less dire—thought occurred to me. Was Dash the gold doubloons thief? The pot had disappeared the night he arrived in town. Directly afterward, photos appeared on the World Wide Web. I recalled Alison saying Dash was Internet savvy; his website was deep and thorough. Could he have managed to create and delete blog after blog for the pure fun of taunting our beloved mayor and Pirate Week–loving crowds in Crystal Cove? On the other hand, everyone on the boardwalk was taking pictures, and I would bet there were plenty of shrewd Internet users among them.
A swell of people started pushing past us, heading toward the far end of The Pier. Each was chatting excitedly. I spotted Rosie, the waitress from Mum’s the Word Diner, among the throng and hurried to her.
“What’s going on?”
“The pot of gold doubloons turned up.”
“Did the thief hand it over?” Maybe the mayor’s campaign and her announcement a few minutes ago had done the trick.
“Yep. An anonymous caller”—Rosie flapped a hand—“told the mayor to look under the stage. Voilà. There it was! Z.Z.’s ready to award the pot to the winner! I hope it’s me.” Rosie waved her ticket as enthusiastically as the children with the golden tickets in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
I eyed Rhett. “Do you have a ticket?”
He grinned. “Nope. Can you believe it? I handed them all out at the store and forgot to keep one for myself. Did you get one?”
“What do I need with a fake pot of doubloons?”
“Bragging rights.”
We neared The Theater on The Pier, and the door opened. Loud music, not pirate fare, spilled out. Bucky Winston, a handsome-as-all-get-out fireman—the guy could be the poster boy for volunteers—emerged and waved to Rhett. “Hey, me hearties! You’re late.” Bucky was bare chested beneath his pirate jacket and looked downright devilish. He and Cinnamon had started dating a few months ago; it was Cinnamon’s first serious relationship after the breakup with Rhett. What she hadn’t realized when she fell for Bucky was what good friends he was with Rhett. “Hurry up, you old sea dogs!” Bucky gestured for us to run. “Get your bods in here!”
Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4) Page 17
