For the remainder of the afternoon, Bailey and I decided to ditch revamping the store and chose, instead, to compile a batch of chocolate-themed cookbooks to share with the book club. I selected some reasonably priced books so that the cost wouldn’t break the bank for our book club members. Crazy for Chocolate was a good primer that beginning cooks could use to understand everything about chocolate. Hershey 4 Cookbooks in 1: Bars, Brownies & Treats; Cookies, Candies & Snacks; Cakes & Cheesecakes; Pies & Desserts, a horribly lengthy title, was a spiral-bound cookbook, recommended highly by all its readers for the abundance of great recipes. I must have sold a dozen of those in the last week alone. In addition, I included Adventures with Chocolate: 80 Sensational Recipes by the British chocolatier Paul A. Young, famous for his unique ideas. Who could pass up an exotic recipe like Aztec Hot Chocolate or Caramelized Red Onion and Rosemary Truffle? Sure, the author pushed the envelope when it came to quirky, but according to him, cooking with and eating chocolate was meant to be fun, delicious, and daring. To the growing stack I also added a few of the cookbooks I had seen in the café’s kitchen earlier when I’d helped Katie compile a menu.
Close of business rolled around in record time. Bailey and I checked on Katie, who was happily in her element, whistling as she whipped, baked, and taste-tested. She promised the braised pork with chocolate was going to be a hit. I had no doubt.
We didn’t close the restaurant for the book club event because we hadn’t scheduled an author to give a chat. Instead, we set an extra-long rectangular table where the club could gather.
Lola arrived first. She had left The Pelican Brief Diner in the good hands of her chef and was flush with excitement for a dinner with her daughter and friends. Her face dropped, however, when Bailey quietly told her about Coco’s heartbreak. “Poor thing,” Lola said, “but we all know what happens when you get involved with a married man.”
Bailey put up a hand. “Yes, Mom, we know.”
Lola sighed. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to open an old wound. Will Coco be all right? Should we check on her?”
“She’s fine, Mom. She’s a big girl.” Bailey pinched her lips together. I could tell she was doing her best not to add that she, too, was a big girl, and her mother should mind her own beeswax—Bailey’s snappy comeback since the time we were six years old.
Next, Cinnamon and her mother strolled into the café. I was glad to see they had made up. Pepper couldn’t stay ticked off at her daughter for long, no matter how meddlesome Cinnamon was. Pepper was wearing a sweater beaded with a pair of frogs—she loved the little green creatures. Cinnamon had changed out of her police uniform and looked refreshed, casual, and approachable in jeans and a formfitting T-shirt.
I hurried to them and welcomed them to the club. I asked Pepper how she was feeling. She told me in her typically crisp fashion that she was fully recovered from her illness and to stop prying.
Cinnamon surprised me by thanking me for alerting the police to Dash Hamada’s whereabouts today. “We searched for him last night, but he wasn’t at his friend’s home. Your heads-up was invaluable.”
The book club soiree maxed out at sixteen; a number of members hadn’t been able to attend. Keeping out of the way of other diners, we hovered around the table without sitting. A waitress mingled among us, offering tiny wedges of a grilled panini sandwich made with dark chocolate and mozzarella. We each took one.
“Do you still have Dash in custody?” I nibbled the panini appetizer. Divine. It tasted like a cheesecake sandwich.
Cinnamon nodded. “He’s copped to being a voyeur. He won’t admit that he killed Alison.” She bit into her tiny sandwich and hummed her approval.
“Can I give you another heads-up?” I asked.
“Can I stop you?”
I filled her in on Ingrid’s bogus alibi. “Also do you know that Neil Foodie lied about his whereabouts on the night of the murder?” I revealed my suspicion that Neil was the doubloons thief, and paused as an image niggled at the edges of my mind. Of Neil. At Vines.
“I know that look.” Cinnamon mimicked my expression, wrinkling her nose and squinting her eyes. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”
“It’s probably nothing.”
“I’ll make the determination of whether it’s nothing.”
Was she once again trusting my instincts? Doubtful.
Our waitress asked us to take our seats. I perched on the chair at the north end of the table; Bailey settled at the opposite end.
Cinnamon chose the chair next to me. “Go on.”
“At the book club event last Thursday, Alison was texting someone. She was frowning as she stabbed in the letters. Did you check her text messages?”
“We did. There was only one to her mother.”
“All others were erased?”
“What others?”
I replayed the scene from that night. “What if the killer texted her? What if the killer planned to meet Alison?”
The waitress returned with a bottle of pinot grigio. She apologized for interrupting and asked me if she could pour.
I signaled her to go ahead and turned back to Cinnamon. “What if the killer erased that communication with Alison after stabbing her?”
“Then we have nothing.”
“Maybe you do. I saw Neil Foodie that night at Vines.”
“You went to Vines? When?”
“Right after you and the mayor left to track down the doubloons thief.”
Cinnamon screwed up her mouth. “Didn’t you just tell me that Neil was the doubloons thief? How could he be running around town and working at Vines at the same time?”
“He could have stolen the doubloons earlier, taken photographs, and then posted the photographs from work. But that doesn’t matter right now. I’m telling you, I saw him texting someone that night. He was being quite cagey about it.”
Cinnamon shook her head. “How can you be sure he was texting and not e-mailing?”
I couldn’t. Rats. “Have you checked his cell phone for text messages?”
“We had no cause to.”
Mayor Zeller sidled up to the table and plunked into the chair next to Cinnamon. “Sorry I’m late.”
Cinnamon offered a formal nod. “You look exhausted, Z.Z.”
“It’s been a trying week.” The mayor took a sip from her water glass and sighed. “Oh, that tastes good. I needed to wet my whistle. So, Jenna, did I overhear you talking about Neil Foodie?”
“You did.” I explained my theory. He stole the pot of doubloons and concealed the pot under the stage at The Pier, then acted as if he’d discovered its whereabouts to reap the reward.
“The sneak,” the mayor said.
“Indeed.” I grinned.
The mayor shook her head. “The poor child needs therapy, I’m afraid. Moments ago I received a phone call from his mother.”
Cinnamon looked intrigued.
“You know Wanda is one of my dear friends,” Z.Z. went on. “We go way back. I fronted her the money for her restaurant. Our families’ lineages are intertwined.”
“Do you both have pirates in your history?” Cinnamon teased.
“Not pirates. Men of the sea.”
“Uh-huh.” Cinnamon winked at me.
Usually I liked to hear the history of the people in Crystal Cove, but right now I was too eager to know what the mayor had to say about the Foodies. “Why did Wanda call you?”
“She and Neil went to meet with Alison’s attorney,” Z.Z. said. “They heard the reading of the will, and an hour later—get this—Neil took off in his mother’s car, without his mother. He left her stranded on the sidewalk. Can you believe it?” The mayor shook her head. “Needless to say, Wanda is distraught.”
“He stole her car?” I eyed Cinnamon. “He killed Alison to inherit her estate, and now that the will spells it out,
he knows he’ll be your number one suspect. He’s on the run.”
“Heavens!” Z.Z. yelped. “You think Neil killed his sister? No, no. It’s not possible. Didn’t you just finish telling us he was out and about moving the doubloons from location to location, and he was posting photos on all those blogs? That little prankster had to be way too busy to kill somebody.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Don’t you understand how easy it is to keep current on the Internet thanks to handheld devices? Neil would have had plenty of time, after work and in between capers, to kill her. Cinnamon, you’ve got to put out an APB.”
Chapter 22
CINNAMON BELIEVED MY argument had merit and left the café in a hurry. The mayor accompanied her. I stayed at the café to run the book club meeting. Naturally, the remaining club members plied me with questions, only a few of which I could answer without compromising the investigation.
Bailey put an end to the questions by raising a glass in a toast. “To Alison Foodie. May she rest in peace.”
We observed a quiet minute, and then we moved ahead with our meeting, sharing titles of cookbooks we had recently discovered and citing recipes in each that were truly remarkable. All of the club members enjoyed browsing the cookbooks I had brought as well as tasting Katie’s sensations. For dessert, Katie had made a scrumptious Irish Cream pie using Oreo cookies as the base, and she had concocted a Kahlúa dessert drink that was truly decadent. I wanted to lick the bottom of the glass. After selling nearly the entire stock of cookbooks, we adjourned the meeting.
Katie nabbed me before I could return to The Cookbook Nook to fetch Tigger. She was perspiring from her hard work in the kitchen, but she looked elated.
“Major success,” I said. “Everyone wants you to print out the recipes you used.”
“Will do.” She removed her toque and fluffed her curly hair. “Got time for a drink upstairs?”
I wasn’t sure I could fit another sip of anything into my stomach, but I could see she needed to talk. Her forehead was pinched; her eyes, pained. I hoped her mother hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. I said to Bailey, “Do you want to join us?”
“I can’t.”
“Hot date?”
She smirked. “What do you think?”
All pirate decorations at Vines Wine Bistro were gone. The place looked normal and intimate again. The pert waitress with the cascading hair—no ponytail tonight—showed us to our table and provided menus. While perusing the special wine selections, I noticed Simon standing at the far end of the bar with his wife, Gloria. She looked pale. Was she ill? Simon was clutching her elbow and stroking her hair. He said something, and she smiled lovingly at him. Apparently she had forgiven him. Had there truly been a moment when he wasn’t in love with her? I thought about calling Coco to see if she was still in a funk. I considered asking her to join us to buoy her spirits, but that would be cruel. There was no need for her to watch Simon doting on his wife. Gloria pecked Simon on the cheek and slogged toward the ladies’ room. Simon retreated into the kitchen.
At the same time, to my surprise, Neil Foodie exited the kitchen, in waiter uniform, carrying a tray set with hors d’oeuvres and a carafe of nuts.
“Ready to order?” our waitress asked.
“I thought Neil quit,” I said. In truth, I thought he had fled town.
“Yeah, about that.” The waitress smirked. “He slinked in an hour ago and begged the boss to rehire him. Simon is such a softie. Forgive and forget seems to be the message of the day.”
Where had Neil gone? Would he have returned if he were guilty of murder?
“So, what’ll it be?” the waitress asked. We gave her our orders. She set out cocktail napkins and strolled away.
I watched Neil as he delivered the treats to a table where an intense-looking couple was talking nose to nose.
Anxious to find out whether Cinnamon had caught up to him before now, I excused myself from the table and met him halfway to the bar. “Neil.”
He spun to greet me. His smile turned into a frown when he realized it was little old me and not a customer from one of his tables. “Yeah?”
A fine welcome. I said, “Did you talk to the police?”
“No.” His eyes grew wary. “Why?”
“You drove off in your mother’s car and left her on the sidewalk.”
“I needed time to think.”
“I thought you quit here and got another job.”
“I’m not going to take it. The pay is better at Vines, and like I said, I’ve got debts. I need the extra bucks.” Neil moved the tray he was holding to his left hand and glanced over his shoulder. “Look, I’ve gotta get back to work before the boss reconsiders his decision.”
“Wait,” I said. Simon wasn’t paying attention to us. Gloria hadn’t returned from the restroom. “Didn’t you get the finder’s fee for returning the pot of doubloons?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Your colleague over there”—I thumbed at our waitress—“said you came into a couple of thousand dollars. I did the math.”
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t keep it.”
“Couldn’t because you were the one who stole the pot?”
“I—” He sucked his lower lip. “I should’ve guessed you’d figure it out. Lucky you. You get two free tickets.”
“To?”
“My next stand-up gig.” Neil winked. “Okay, let’s just say, I borrowed the pot.”
“For your fresh comedy material.”
He snickered. “It was funny. I’ll slay ’em with the stories the next time I get a gig.”
“How about all those photographs?” I said, baiting him.
“Heh-heh. Yeah. I got a boatload of those.”
“How did you manage to do it and work at Vines that night?” I asked. “Did you take the doubloons and snap off a few photographs at different locations before your shift, and then load them while you were here?”
“You’re pretty clever.”
“So are you.” I had no compunctions about falsely appealing to the guy’s ego as I led him down a path to a confession.
Neil shifted feet. “Yeah, the hardest part was going house to house.”
“Or firehouse, in one instance.”
“Yeah, without anyone catching me. By the time four A.M. rolled around, I was sweating like a pig.” Neil stiffened. His doughy face went still.
“Neil?” I waved a hand in front of his face.
He blinked and roused and took a quick peek around the bistro. He zeroed in on Simon, who wasn’t looking our way. In a cold, almost ghostly voice, Neil said, “I’ve got customers to attend to.”
“One more thing. This is important, Neil.” I tapped his forearm. “Your mother is worried.”
“Why?”
“When you took her car, she thought you might be on the run.” It was a small lie.
“On the run because . . .” His eyes widened. “Aw, cripes. She thinks I killed my sister? Do you? Dang. Nah. No way. I went back and forth all night, from the photo shoots to home, to check on my mother. She didn’t wake up, so she doesn’t have a clue.”
“Why did you need to check on her? Was she sick?”
“No, she’s—”
“Getting on in years.”
“That’s not it, either. She’s . . .” Neil worked his tongue inside his mouth. “Heck, it’s not a crime. My mother has narcolepsy. She falls asleep pretty much at the drop of a pin. It’s why she quit the restaurant business. It’s why I can’t take the computer job.”
“Do you have narcolepsy, too? Do you zone out, like you did a second ago?”
“Nah. I can’t do the day job because I need to be with Mom during the daylight hours. At night, like now, once she’s out, she’s out. That’s how she was the night Alison died. Out. Shoot.” He scuffed his shoe on t
he floor and looked a third time at Simon. “Man, I need to talk to my mom, but I can’t ask to go home right now. I just got here.” Neil drummed the empty tray with his palm. “I need this job.”
A patron passed by us to use the facilities. After he disappeared into the restroom, I said to Neil, “What about Alison’s estate? That should bring you an income. Why do you need to work here?”
Neil snorted. “What estate? It turns out Alison poured every penny into her company. She was flat broke, like I thought.”
“The business has got to be worth something.”
“In name only. It’s buried in debt.”
That didn’t correspond with what Wanda had told us. “Your mother said the attorney has buyers lined up.”
“Buyer. One. Lake Enterprises.”
“As in Ingrid Lake?”
He nodded.
My skin tingled pins and needles. Did Ingrid murder Alison so she could descend upon Alison’s unassuming family and purchase the publishing company for a song?
Neil added, “Don’t worry. I’m not selling to her. She doesn’t have an ounce of creativity in her little finger.”
“Why do you care?”
“Foodie Publishing was my sister’s baby. Her company shouldn’t be run further into the ground by some tight-teethed know-nothing.”
He spoke with such vehemence, and yet something about his passion seemed off. I would bet he was an adequate comedian. Was he a decent actor, too? He seemed intent on convincing me of his loyalty to family. Was it possible he murdered his sister to set the sale of her company in motion?
“I’ve got to call a friend to check in on Mom.” Neil tucked the serving tray under his arm and fetched his cell phone from his pocket.
Seeing him with his phone zinged me back to my conversation with Cinnamon earlier. “Neil, the night Alison died, she was texting someone. Was that you?”
Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4) Page 21
