“Very Valentine-y,” Lola said. “Me?” She gestured to her eye-popping electric blue jumpsuit. “I look horrid in red.”
Coco’s Hello Kitty–loving assistant waltzed up to us. Even the bows in her hair were Hello Kitty. “Try this.” She thrust a white chocolate–coated truffle at me. On top was a teensy embellishment of a raspberry.
I bit into it. “Divine.” I adore anything raspberry. I’m not a huge fan of the seeds, but the flavor always makes me think of summer days when my mother and I would go berry picking.
The assistant threaded through the crowd to other customers.
“Don’t miss the cherry brownies,” the mayor said. “They’re to swoon for.” She looked quite mussed, as if she had bumped and battled her way into the shop. She adored food; she went crazy for free food.
Lola could tell what I was thinking. She grinned and then snagged a shot glass filled with a pink quaff off a tray and handed it to me.
I took a sip. “Yum.” The concoction tasted like iced strawberries.
“Coco is quite the talent, isn’t she?” Lola said.
I looked around for Coco and spied her lingering by the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Simon, looking dapper in a pale shirt, sport coat, and slacks, stood close to her. One arm was braced on the wall beside the door; his head and body were tilted forward; his mouth was moving. Coco nodded and plucked at her beaded pink necklace. Gloria was nowhere to be seen. Last night at Vines she had seemed under the weather. Was she still feeling ill? Did she know Simon was cuddling up to Coco? Simon nudged his glasses higher on his nose and leaned closer. I thought of a scene in one of my favorite movies, While You Were Sleeping, when Sandra Bullock’s smarmy landlord leaned in, not in a good way. Coco put a hand on Simon’s chest to keep him at bay. He backed up a smidge.
The mayor said, “Jenna, we were just discussing whether these recipes will find their way into another of Coco’s cookbooks. With Foodie Publishing going under—”
“It’s not going under, Z.Z.,” I said.
“It’s not? But with Alison gone . . .” The mayor twirled her hand.
“Her brother and mother are looking for a buyer,” I said. Now that Ingrid, per our chief of police, was cleared of murder, would she make another bid for the company? Would Neil Foodie respond favorably this time?
“I hope so,” Lola said. “I would hate for my latest cookbook to be shelved. I don’t have it in me to look for another publisher. Not that it really matters. I have the diner to keep me busy. But Coco”—she gestured toward my friend—“must be distraught. All of her works have been released through Foodie Publishing, and with the other contract being cancelled—”
“Cancelled?”
“Didn’t you know? The New York publisher passed on Coco’s next manuscript.”
I glanced back at Coco. She pulled a handkerchief from beneath the sleeve of her pink jacket and dabbed her eyes. Was she crying? She put a hand on the swinging door and looked like she was exiting to the rear of the shop. Simon clutched her shoulder and swiveled her to face him. She shimmied free of his grasp. Sensing she might need my support, I weaved through the crowd toward her.
Drawing near, I heard Simon rasp, “I’m sorry. How many times can I say that? I truly didn’t mean for you to suffer.”
“Whatever,” Coco muttered.
“I’m a jerk. I admit it.”
Coco grunted, obviously agreeing. Simon traced a finger down her arm. She shivered and recoiled.
After a stilted silence, Simon continued. “What a shame that teens in this town would wreck your shop. I’m glad you were able to put the place back together.”
Coco offered a half smile. “I was lucky that Jenna—” She caught sight of me and relief swept over her face. “Jenna, over here,” she beckoned.
I joined them.
Simon nodded to me, but he looked sheepish. Was he worried I would tell his wife that he was hanging around Coco? Didn’t he realize there were a whole lot of other witnesses at the party who might blab? He apologized one more time to Coco and hurried away.
Coco pinched her lips together and trudged toward the kitchen. I trailed her and stood just inside the saloon-style doors to make sure no one could enter.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine.” She sniffed, using both pinkies to wipe away tears before they could fall. “Simon—” Another sniff. She pulled the hankie from beneath her sleeve. “I wish he hadn’t come here. Not during the—” She blew her nose into the hankie and stuffed it out of sight. “I must look a wreck.”
“You don’t.”
“I’m probably blotchy.”
“People will think you’re flushed.”
She tittered. “Yeah, right.”
“Why was Simon here?”
“He heard about the break-in last night. He felt sorry for me.” Coco hissed air through her teeth. “I’m such a cliché. I fell in love with a man who . . .” She clicked her tongue. “I thought I was smarter than that. Why didn’t I see it coming?”
I wanted to say, Because you were single and lonely and impressionable. What I said was, “Maybe he really cared for you until he was faced with a decision.”
“No. I could see it in his eyes just now. There wasn’t any warmth. Part of me thinks he asked me out because he had it in for Gloria, like he wanted to hurt her. I was the easiest sap he could seduce, and . . .” Coco sank back against the prep table. “So stupid.” She gazed up at the ceiling and heaved a sigh.
“I heard about the New York publisher passing on your next project. I’m sorry.”
Coco grimaced. “Yeah, when it rains it pours.”
I peered over the swinging doors. The crowd seemed to have doubled. “Your guests are really enjoying themselves.”
“They should be. It’s costing me a mini-fortune, but what can you do? Like I said before, publicity. You’ve got to do it to thrive.”
“Tell me about it.”
We shared a halfhearted laugh.
I said, “Did Detective Appleby figure out who trashed the place?”
“Not as far as I know. I didn’t see any of our law enforcement in the crowd, did you?”
“No.”
“They’re probably ashamed to show their faces.”
Or busy. Pirate Week may have drawn to a close, but Crystal Cove was still bustling. Petty crime was always an issue.
Speaking of petty crime . . .
“Coco, by the way, if one of your neighbors calls and says a couple of women stole into your house today, the culprits were Bailey and me. You’ve got to start locking your door.”
Coco raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because it’s not safe.”
She flapped a hand. “I know it’s not safe. It was an oversight. But that’s not what I meant. Why did you steal into my house?”
“I wanted to know why Alison had four documents up on her computer.”
“For review.”
“But you said they were all older recipes. Chocolate Macadamia Bites. Chocolate Bombs. Mother’s Chocolate Bombs and—”
“Hold it.” Coco pushed herself away from the prep table. “That last one isn’t the title for one of my recipes.”
“You told Chief Pritchett it was.”
“No. I distinctly remember her saying there was one called Chocolate Bombs and a second one called Chocolate Bombs. She never said the word Mother’s.”
She was right. I had seen the word Mother’s and had inserted it instinctively.
“My recipe in Chocolate To Die For was handed down from my grandmother. I never would have named it Mother’s.”
The notion that Alison had been toying with Coco’s work flitted through my mind again. “Maybe Alison retitled it so she could reuse it in your new cookbook. Is that allowed in your contract?”
“No. Uh-uh. It wasn’t, and she wouldn’t.” Coco chopped the edge of one hand against the other. “Alison demanded that everything be fresh. No duplicates. She was such a stickler that she would search the Internet to make sure none of her authors’ recipes matched anyone else’s. She asked me to sign legal documents saying I owned the rights to what I wrote. Maybe she was concerned because another author had a title similar to mine, and she was comparing the two.”
I thought again about what Alison was doing that night—baking. Was she concerned that whoever had delivered the recipe called Mother’s Chocolate Bombs had ripped off Coco’s recipe? Was that a crime worth killing over? How appropriate would that be during Pirate Week, someone stealing Coco’s booty? I recalled the aroma I had detected when I’d entered Coco’s house that night. “Does your Chocolate Bombs recipe include nutmeg?”
“Yes. A hefty dose. However, just so you know, a list of ingredients for a recipe is not copyrightable.” Coco used her fingertips to clarify. “You can’t own the list, because a recipe is essentially a chemical process requiring basic elements, unless, of course, you’ve patented the recipe.”
I nodded, grasping the concept. During my brief stint as a cookbook store owner, I have seen many recipes with the same ingredients; after all, how many ways can you make sugar cookies?
“I haven’t patented anything,” Coco said. “Only the verbiage used in the directions of a recipe is proprietary, which is why I am so adamant about my editor not changing what I write. It’s my voice, and that voice is what gives my recipes life and verve.”
“Coco, remember the other day when Bailey and I were here. You said your grandmother’s recipe card for Chocolate Bombs was missing from your recipe box. You were going to check at home. Did you find it?”
“Now that you mention it, no.”
“Is it possible someone stole it, and days later, put it back while trashing Sweet Sensations? Recipes were strewn everywhere.”
Coco hurried to the recipe box and sorted through it. After an extensive search, she removed a card and said, “I’ll be darned. Here it is. But . . . but . . .”
“What?”
“Now I can’t find my bunica’s holiday cookie recipe. Help me.” She thrust the oversized box at me. Her hands were shaking like crazy.
“Could you have misfiled it last night? You were in such a state.”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Coco gripped her hands to steady them. “Oh, Jenna.”
I thumbed through the recipes, noting what I had before. The stains, the blurry handwriting due to age. “I don’t see it.”
“I can’t lose it. It’s the first one my grandmother ever gave me.” Coco raced to a locker, spun the combination, and retrieved her purse. “I’ve got to go home. It must be there. It has to be.”
Rhett rapped on the swinging door. “Jenna? Is this a private party?”
Before I could address Coco’s fears, she fled through the doorway that led to the alley behind the shop. The door clacked shut.
Rhett pushed through the swinging door. “Was it something I said?”
“No, it’s . . .” How could I explain Coco’s passion for her family memories? “I’m glad you came.”
“I can’t stay.” Pain flickered in his eyes. “My mother called me. I have to go to Napa.” Rhett’s parents owned a renowned restaurant in Napa Valley called Intime. For quite some time, Rhett and his father had been estranged because, at the young age of eighteen, Rhett had eloped with a woman against his father’s wishes. It didn’t help that Rhett also struck out on his own instead of following in his father’s footsteps. His father disinherited him and banned his mother from seeing him. Rhett had been communicating with her and his two sisters clandestinely.
“Is your mother ill?” I asked.
Rhett raised an eyebrow. “Why would you say that?”
“Because your mother has put off seeing you in the past and yet you’re racing up there. Why the urgency? She must be sick; otherwise—”
Rhett pulled me to him and gently tucked a hair behind my ear. “You, my sweet, are a fatalist.”
“Pragmatist.”
“Who has seen too much grief in her young life.”
I poked him in the chest and grinned. “You sound as ancient as Old Jake. My young life. I’ll be thirty in a few months.”
“Luckily, I believe in the French dating system. You can date a woman half your age plus seven years.”
“Hold on a sec. Does that mean you can date someone as young as twenty-four? I’m way too old for you then,” I teased.
But Rhett didn’t smile. The edges of his eyes twitched with worry.
A pang gripped my heart. “There is something wrong.”
He clasped my hands, pressed them against his chest, and kissed my forehead. “I’m not sure. I’ll call you when I find out.”
Chapter 27
BAILEY WAS BUZZING with happy vibes when we returned to The Cookbook Nook. She’d had such a good time with Tito at Sweet Sensations. Being hand-fed candies can do that to a girl. I, on the other hand, was now not only worried about Coco, but about Rhett as well. I hadn’t told Bailey about either. How could I spoil her bliss?
To put my mind at ease regarding at least one of my concerns, I hurried to the telephone at the sales counter, ready to dial Coco. My cell phone in my purse jangled. I fished it out, slung the purse beneath the counter, and answered.
“Jenna.” It was Coco. My aunt would call the timing kismet. “I found the recipe. It was in the box at home. Phew.” She sounded breathless. “I’m sorry I ran out on you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m thinking about taking the rest of the afternoon off.”
“Why don’t you? Your assistant looked in her element when I left the lollapalooza. Nearly all the candy and treats in the shop had been devoured or sold.”
“That’s good. Um, Jenna?”
“What?”
Coco was silent for a long time. “Nothing. Thanks again for listening.” She disconnected.
Needless to say, I felt a little uneasy about the end of our conversation, but I convinced myself she simply needed time to heal. Simon, by showing up at her shop, had thrown her a curveball.
The afternoon sped by. With Aunt Vera’s and Bailey’s help, we set up the Valentine’s window display, all of us laughing at the whimsy as well as the florid colors. Raspberry. Strawberry. Hot, hot, hot pink. The combination made me recall a campaign we’d done at Taylor & Squibb for sunscreen. Every person in the commercial was made up to look like they were beet red. You know the color—you’ve seen people at theme parks and beaches who have forgotten to apply lotion. How people can do that to their skin with all we’ve learned about sun damage is beyond me.
Aunt Vera tapped her watch. “Quitting time, girls. Go home or go on a date.”
“A date?” Bailey carped. “Yeah, right. Tito has a deadline. I won’t see him until tomorrow or maybe a week from now.”
My aunt petted Bailey’s cheek. “Now, now, don’t get sour so early in the relationship.”
“I’m not sour. This is the first time I’ve wanted to see a guy so badly. All the time. Eek!”
Was she really talking about Tito? Ah, love. Go figure.
“See you in the morning,” Aunt Vera said and left.
Bailey stretched. “I’m starved.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Let’s go to the café for a bite.”
“A bite? No way. If I go there, I’ll be tempted to eat way too much.” She patted her belly. “Did you see Katie’s special prix fixe menu? Beef Wellington, potatoes Dauphinoise, Caesar salad with Parmesan crisps, and triple-decker dark chocolate cake drenched in icing and whipped cream. Uh-uh. How about we go upstairs to Vines and get a simple cheese platter or veggies and dip?”
“Sure.” I checked on Tigger and
Hershey, who was still acting like king of the hill, roosting in his favorite chair and shunning my kitten. Bah! I wondered when Tito would take possession of the prickly cat. “Back soon,” I whispered to Tigger. “Hang tough.” I chucked him under the chin.
• • •
VINES WINE BISTRO was active. I recognized many of the faces I’d seen at Sweet Sensations earlier. Nothing like having a glass of wine after a sugar rush. We ordered a carafe of the house cabernet sauvignon and a cheese platter, with a selection of three cheeses, from the same wavy-haired waitress who had served us over the course of the past week.
She returned in a timely fashion. Right after she filled our glasses from the carafe and headed off, the door to Vines opened and in sauntered my aunt with Deputy Appleby. They weren’t holding hands, but they moved as one, their upper arms brushing together. Oho, I thought. Perhaps my encouraging words to the deputy had helped him find the nerve to woo my aunt a second time. If he were successful, there would be one sad mustachioed hotel manager.
I said, “Bailey, look. There.” I pointed at the happy duo.
Bailey swiveled in her chair. “No wonder your aunt wanted to close shop right on time. Good for her.” Bailey’s cell phone hummed in her purse. She fished it out and glanced at the readout. Her eyes brightened. “I’ve got to take this.” She pressed Accept. “Hola, Tito!” I couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but Bailey’s cheeks flushed and her foot started to tap in a happy way. She said a lot of uh-huhs, and finally, “You’re on.” When she hung up, she eyed me guiltily. “Um, he finished early, so do you mind if—”
“Go.” I’d never seen her so smitten with a guy. “I’ll pay the tab.”
“I’ll fetch Hershey.”
“Do you want me to take him for the night?”
“Would you? Could you? I mean—” She pressed her lips together, obviously embarrassed to sound so enthusiastic. “I’m blathering.”
“Go.” I laughed. “Maybe spending a little time at my cottage will help the stinker warm up to Tigger.”
Bailey exited, and I signaled the waitress to bring our check. While waiting, I spied Simon, sport coat removed, at the specials board. He erased the top two items, nudged his glasses higher on his nose with the back of his wrist, and, referring to a note card, began to write in substitutions. Gloria was not in attendance.
Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4) Page 25
