So much for having the time to see who won the pot of doubloons. It had been recovered. That was all that mattered.
The Theater on The Pier was set up like an old dance hall or saloon. All patrons sat around cocktail tables. The red brocade cushions on the cane-backed chairs matched the other plush décor. Turn-of-the-century-style footlights jutted up from the apron of the semicircular stage and cast a warm glow across the area.
The stage could hold about ten people, but tonight, there was only a piano, a mustachioed pirate piano player, a singing pirate, and a hornpipe player—a hornpipe is a clarinet-like instrument that was often used on old ships; I knew because we had used a hornpipe player in a Salty Seadog Potato Chips campaign. The singing pirate wasn’t exactly dressed as a pirate. He looked more like an Elvis impersonator in foppish clothes. He peered into the distance at a television monitor situated over the antique bar on which words were scrolling. His huge swoop of dark hair bounced as he sang his heart out to “Suspicious Minds.” The guy wasn’t half bad. His entourage, an aging octet of gaudy pirate wenches with a combined number of face-lifts and breast enhancements enough for the entire female population of Crystal Cove, whooped and hollered their support. Every time he sang the chorus, the wenches joined in.
I nudged Rhett and asked telepathically, What have we gotten ourselves into? He chuckled.
“Care to sing?” a slim woman in a corseted getup trilled as she sashayed by us. She was carrying a bowl filled with tickets. “Anyone? Take a number.”
“We’ll pass,” Rhett and I said together.
Bucky steered us to a table where Cinnamon, who had curled and tousled her typically straight hair and looked ravishing in a red dress, one shoulder exposed, sat sipping a glass of water. Rhett and I settled into chairs opposite her. A redheaded waitress, also dressed in a corseted outfit, took our orders.
When she departed, Cinnamon eyed my costume. “Really? You’re a guy?”
“Not exactly.” I explained the inspiration.
“I would have preferred to wear your outfit,” she said. “Why didn’t you cue me in?”
Yeah, right. Like we had communicated a lot lately. I didn’t think now was the time to mention that. Why spoil the mood?
“But darlin’,” Bucky cut in. “You’re yar.”
“Yar?” Cinnamon retorted. “Are you comparing me to a sailboat?”
Bucky gently clipped her cheek with his knuckles. “Ye handle well.”
She batted his hand away and blew him a kiss.
I had to admit, I enjoyed seeing her having fun and did my best to put aside the grumblings about how shabbily she had treated me of late.
Our drinks arrived: a glass of wine for me, two Dos Equis, and a nonalcoholic margarita for Cinnamon. I raised a toast. “To you, Cinnamon, and the truth.”
Cinnamon raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Thank you for believing Coco and exonerating her,” I said.
“Ahh.” She sipped her drink.
“I assume you did it, based on”—I lowered my voice in an effort to keep Coco’s secret confidential—“Simon Butler’s corroboration.”
“Nope. He hasn’t come forward yet,” Cinnamon whispered back. “And he’s not returning calls.”
“Really? Then why—”
“I believe her. For now. Let’s stay positive.”
As composed as Cinnamon seemed, I wondered whether she had solved the case and was simply waiting for more corroborative evidence before making an arrest. She took another sip of her cocktail. I followed suit while thinking about Simon’s wife, Gloria. Had she laid into him because she found out about his dalliance with Coco? Had she forbidden him to offer testimony on Coco’s behalf? Cinnamon’s cryptic words for now clanged in my brain. What if for now vanished and Coco was once again the main suspect in Alison’s death?
Elvis finished singing and bowed repeatedly as his age-defying female fans whooped it up.
The piano player called out, “Seventeen. Come forward, you lucky landlubber!”
Cinnamon glanced at what turned out to be a ticket jutting from beneath her cocktail napkin and bounded to her feet. “That’s me!”
My aunt had told me Cinnamon sang like an angel. After her rebellious high school years but prior to serving as the chief of police, Cinnamon had appeared in a number of local theater programs.
I turned to Bucky. “What’s she going to sing?”
“Heck knows. She’s been mum all day. Saving her voice, she said.”
Was that why she hadn’t called me back?
Cinnamon climbed the steps to the stage and, lacking any nervousness at all, chatted with the pianist. He murmured something to the hornpipe player, who began to beat time with his foot. The pair launched into a rhythmic number.
After a few bars, Cinnamon joined them in a jazzy rendition of “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive.” My mouth dropped open. Wow! She hit every note with gusto. An angel? My aunt was wrong. Cinnamon was a chanteuse. A diva. I chortled and Bucky glowered at me.
“What? I’m not making fun. I’m aghast. In awe.” I raised my glass again. “To Cinnamon. She’s good. Not just good. Great. I’m truly blown away.”
When Cinnamon concluded, the audience went wild. Many chanted, “Chief, Chief, Chief.” I think most of them were as amazed as I was that our chief of police had so much talent.
Cinnamon returned to the table, flushed and out of breath. Perhaps she was more nervous than I had allowed. Bucky gave her a peck on the cheek and told her how marvelous she was. Rhett offered a wink.
“Where is our waitress?” Bucky said. “We need champagne.” He rose out of his chair.
“No champagne for me,” Cinnamon said. “It’ll go right to my head. Perrier, please.”
Rhett said, “I’ll go with you, Bucky.”
Once the men left the table, I said to Cinnamon, “Great job.”
“Do you think so?”
I gave her a curious look. “You know you’re excellent.”
“I’m not bad.”
“Humility becomes you.”
“I’ll never make singing my profession.”
“Good. We need you here. Speaking of which . . . I didn’t get to tell you everything last time we spoke.” I didn’t add, Because you hung up on me. “There’s something you really need to know.”
Cinnamon rolled her eyes. “Not now.”
“Then when? You don’t call,” I sassed. “You don’t write.”
She lasered me with a stern look. “Fine. Go ahead. Make my day.”
“Alison fired her copyeditor, Ingrid Lake, right after the cookbook club event. Your mother overheard the conversation.”
“Why didn’t my mother tell me?” Cinnamon clenched her teeth. “Never mind. I know why. What else?”
“When I visited Mrs. Foodie yesterday—”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because it was the neighborly thing to do. I was thinking about my mom—about all moms—and I thought of her. I was worried. Ingrid Lake was there. By the way, she found a First Response kit. Alison was not pregnant, just in case you hadn’t found out.”
“We had. I told you we’re on top of things.” Cinnamon’s gaze flared with exasperation. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Back to Ingrid . . .” I replayed Ingrid’s account of how avid she was to tell me that Alison and Dash argued over a photo spread. “According to Ingrid, Alison put Dash’s name on photos she took and used them in a cookbook.”
“And that’s bad, why?” Cinnamon asked.
“Because Dash’s reputation could suffer if the photos weren’t good. Luckily for him, he has a solid alibi. He was here singing at the piano bar that night. Lots of people must have seen him. As for Ingrid’s alibi—”
“Hold it.” Cinnamon stopped me with her palm. “Dash said he was here?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Funny. I was here that night. Until closing. And I don’t remember seeing him.”
Chapter 19
CINNAMON LEFT THE theater to track down Dash. Rhett and I hung around on The Pier. We gobbled spicy dogs and snuggled close to watch the fireworks. Spectacular. Afterward, we returned to the cottage for a nightcap. The evening ended with some lovely kisses. He drove home, and I slept better than I had in a week.
On Wednesday morning, I awoke feeling chipper and eager to tackle the day. After throwing on a bright red sweater and my favorite pair of twill trousers, I fed Tigger, gulped down a honey-laced fruit smoothie—heavy on the fruit—and headed to work.
“Good morning, Jenna, dear,” Aunt Vera said as I entered The Cookbook Nook. She was sitting at the vintage table shuffling a deck of tarot cards. A client sat opposite her. “Come near.” She stacked the tarot cards on the table, tapped the top card with a fingertip, and bid me closer.
I set Tigger on the floor, slung my purse onto the sales counter, and joined my aunt.
She clutched my hand. Hers were clammy. “I nearly called you at midnight,” she said in a raspy whisper.
“Why?”
“I had the most unnerving dream. You were in it, dressed in pirate costume, and running as fast as you could. You were glancing over your shoulder.”
My heartbeat kicked up a notch. So much for my good night’s sleep. My smoothie threatened to make a reappearance. Down, down. I urged myself to remain calm. I didn’t usually overreact when people said they had bad feelings about some aspect of my life, but when my aunt did, I took heed. “What else?”
“Soon, the dream filled with people singing and lights exploding. Pop, pop, pop!” Aunt Vera released me and flicked her fingers with each pop. “Is something troubling you?”
“No.” At least not as far as I knew. I cycled through my thoughts—was my brain ever at rest or empty?—and repeated, “No.”
“Is anyone stalking you?”
A shiver ran down my spine. “Double no.”
“Hmm.” My aunt frowned. “Then it was nothing.” She shooed me away.
Of course, saying it was nothing didn’t reassure me. Now I was revved up. My aunt’s dreams, like mine, could be colorful and often prophetic. Shoot. I hated tiptoeing around, looking over my shoulder. There was no reason for anyone to stalk me. I tried to shrug off my aunt’s concern. Perhaps thinking about Alison’s tragic end had triggered her dream. Unless, of course, she was picking up some psychic message, like Alison’s killer thought I knew something that could implicate him or her. Did I?
“Yo ho!” Bailey entered the shop. She sounded chipper, but her face looked drawn and her hair was limp. She carried Hershey tucked under her arm. “Hello, winsome lass.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”
“Am I trying too hard?” she asked.
“Perhaps a touch. Besides, Pirate Week is over. It concluded last night. I repeat, are you okay? You look, um—how to put it nicely?—ruffled.”
“Cat troubles.” She held up Hershey and wiggled one of his paws as a greeting. He growled. “Hush, you,” she ordered. “He didn’t want to leave the apartment.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t a clue. He cried all night. Is that what cats do? Cry?”
I read that cats have about one hundred vocalizations, which they sling together to try to make us understand them because humans don’t pick up on their body language. Tigger makes all sorts of noises. A trill, which was halfway between a purr and a meow, means: Happy to see you. A growl? Definitely means back off. A chattering sound, similar to that of a squirrel? Yes, Tigger chatters at the window whenever there’s a bird outside. It means he wants out. Now!
I said, “Maybe Hershey is feeling a little anxious. Cats need to get used to their environs.”
Bailey shuffled Hershey around in her arms so she could stare into his eyes. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
He yowled.
Bailey flinched. “What does that mean?”
“That’s a final warning. Usually before a fight begins.”
She stretched out her arms. “Take him.” Hershey’s legs dangled beneath him. “Help me.”
I grabbed the cat. He craned his head, his gaze aimed at the floor. Tigger stood beneath us. “Aha!” I said. “Perhaps Hershey is feeling intimidated because he has to share space with another cat. Don’t worry. He’ll find his niche.” I set him on the floor.
Tigger pounced toward him. Hershey darted in the opposite direction and leaped into his chair. He tucked his tail around him.
“Tigger,” I said. “Cool it.”
My kitten hunkered down, head lower than his haunches. He wanted to play, but he would wait for Hershey to come around. He had learned a tad of self-control around children.
Bailey tossed her purse onto a shelf beneath the sales counter. “Wow! I never knew a cat could have so much attitude.” Over her shoulder, she said to Hershey, “You’ll have to move when the children get here, buddy.” The cat didn’t deign to look her way. Bailey huffed and slumped forward, both elbows on the counter. “Now what?” she said to me. “Is it something I did?”
“No. Sometimes cats are aloof.”
“I want a friendly cat. Like me. Like Tigger.”
“Leave Hershey be,” I said. “He’s either like you, or he isn’t. You can’t change him.”
She grumbled her disappointment. “What do you need me to do around here?”
For the next hour, we straightened and dusted bookshelves. Mid-morning, as I organized the trays of chocolate swirl muffins in the breezeway that Chef Phil had brought in for our guests, I spied Dash entering the café with a raven-haired, statuesque beauty. Why was he still at large? Apparently, Cinnamon hadn’t apprehended him.
I said to Bailey, “Back in a sec,” and I hurried to the café. No, I didn’t plan to make a citizen’s arrest, but I did want to find out if Cinnamon had interrogated him and cleared him.
The aroma of fresh-baked muffins, cornbread, and croissants filled the air. My salivary glands went into high alert. If given the opportunity, I would’ve devoured an entire basket of the goodies. A smoothie was not enough to keep a girl going.
Across the room, the hostess was showing Dash and his date to a table for two. Dash was wearing the same outfit he had worn when I first met him. His date sported a summery number more appropriate for one hundred degree, not fifty-five degree, weather. Dash gallantly pulled the chair out for his date. He sat in the opposite chair. He said something to the hostess and grinned.
The hostess’s hand flew to her chest. She did a U-turn and raced to the podium. She reached for a pair of menus.
I stopped her and said, “I’ll deliver those.” I wasn’t sure what I would say to Dash; I’d wing it. I approached the table with the menus. “Good morning,” was all that came out of my mouth. How clever. Not.
Dash acknowledged me with a nod.
I handed out the menus. “Say, Dash, has Chief Pritchett contacted you?” Again, real slick. Where had my gift of gab gone?
Dash raised an eyebrow. “No, why would she need to?”
“I think you should touch base with her.”
“What about?” He set his menu aside and seared me with a look.
I glanced around the café. Business was good. Diners filled all the tables. Dash wouldn’t assail me with this many witnesses around. Not that he would need to hurt me. He very well might be innocent. “You and Alison argued,” I said, feeling comfortable telling him what I knew. “She published a cookbook using her own photos and attributed them to you.”
“Yeah, so?” Dash lifted a water glass and downed half of the contents. “That was months ago. What’s your point?”
“Your reputation was on the line.”
Dash set
the glass down and leaned back in his chair. “Are you asking whether that made me angry enough to kill her?”
His date’s eyes fluttered.
“It’s okay, lass.” Dash leaned forward and patted her hand. “I didn’t kill anybody.” He returned his gaze to me. “Look, what Alison did was wrong, but it didn’t cost me a job. Not one. Her photos weren’t good—in fact they stank—but in the end, I was able to convince a couple of employers that they weren’t mine. Big deal.”
“Why would she do that to you?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I asked her the same thing, and she said, she had wanted different angles, ASAP. I was working on another shoot and wasn’t available. Publishing is all about meeting deadlines.” He shrugged again. “She made a mistake. I forgave her and put it in the past. ‘As the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.’ Colossians 3:13.”
I wasn’t sure what impressed me more, that he could forgive Alison or that he knew biblical passages by heart. “You forgave her because you liked her.”
“Yeah.”
“A lot.”
“I told you—”
“A lot,” I repeated. “In fact, you loved her.”
Dash ran his tongue along his teeth and clicked at the end. “Yeah, so?”
“Did you love her enough to forgive her when she put your book about tattoos on hold?”
“Where did you hear—” Dash scrubbed his chin. “Never mind. I know where. Ingrid Lake. She’s got a mouth, that girl does. What a conniver. Always plotting, always planning.” He thumped the table with his palm. “Look, Alison put a ton of books on hold. Bailey’s mom’s book. The Wine Country book. Another book by Coco Chastain. Some vegetarian piece of garbage by a well-known chef. Postponing projects isn’t a big deal. Contracts are made; contracts can be broken. Alison was paring back. The erratic economy is making the publishing business quite volatile.” Dash folded his arms across his chest. The tattoos on his forearms bulged. “I understood, and I was willing to be patient. Alison was my biggest, steadiest employer when it came to my photography work. What was I going to say? I’d walk? Fat chance.”
Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4) Page 18
