Sifting Through Clues

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Compare food?” Flora asked as she waltzed through carrying a tray filled with flutes of champagne or sparkling water.

  “No.” Gran tsked. “Don’t be paranoid, Flora. I came to assure everyone that the family is out for the evening. We can talk loudly and laugh freely when you come over.” She ate the cheese and surveyed the crowd. “Where are Z.Z. and Ivy?”

  “Z.Z.’s probably getting one last kiss from Jake,” Flora said.

  Mayor Zeller and Jake Chapman, one of my father’s good friends, had started dating around Christmas. After a few years of being a widower, Jake had been ready for a new relationship. Though he was nearly twenty years Z.Z.’s senior, they had clicked.

  “Ivy’s probably at the store this minute buying dessert,” Crusibella said tartly. She toyed with a loose hair in her chignon and adjusted the strand of crystal beads that were quite fashionable over her silk dress.

  I said, “Actually, Ivy bought a new cookbook this morning, just for the occasion.”

  “Ha!” Crusibella sneered. “I still say she’ll buy everything. She’s always last minute. In her business. In her life. Heaven forbid she learns how to manage her time.”

  “What’s got you in a twist?” I whispered to her.

  Crusibella shot me a look. “Nothing.”

  Maybe she was dieting.

  She sashayed to Flora, grabbed a flute of sparkling water, and led the procession into the living room. “Follow me, ladies.”

  Bailey leaned into me. “Who made her queen for a day?”

  I giggled. “Well, her surname is Queensberry.”

  Lola clasped Bailey’s elbow and followed Crusibella.

  My aunt gave me a nudge, but Pepper detained me. “Jenna, do you have a second?”

  “Sure, what’s—”

  Tears sprang into her eyes. She wiped them with her pinky. “I . . . I tried calling Hank on my way here. He didn’t answer and he hasn’t left me a message. You don’t think he and Ivy—”

  “Stop, Pepper.” I placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Don’t do this to yourself. Ivy is preparing her house for the party. She doesn’t have time for a dalliance. And Hank must be busy with . . . inventory,” I said, taking a cue from last night’s discussion with Rhett. “Spring cleaning is in the air. I don’t answer my phone when I’m doing inventory, do you? Now, let’s take our minds off real life and chat about the murder mystery.”

  Chapter 4

  We stayed at Flora’s for a half hour, discussing the setup of the mystery and the imaginative cast of characters that the author had added to give the mystery flavor. When put to a vote, everyone liked the protagonist Sophie the best. Close runner-up was her good friend and premier diva, Natasha.

  When a bell chimed, Flora shooed us out. “Up, up, and away, everyone. On to the next house!” she cried. The timer had been Crusibella’s idea to keep us on track. “I’ll catch up.”

  We walked to Gran’s. From there, we would board a bus to travel to the next two stops—also Crusibella’s idea. She didn’t want any of us to drive once we’d imbibed a little wine.

  I smiled as I strolled into Gran’s house. A bit of chaos was to be expected when living with children: toys stuffed into cubbies, stacks of homework papers and school projects on the dining table—the dining room had been converted into an office; Gran’s daughter-in-law worked out of the house. The sofa and two easy chairs in the living room looked comfortable and well trampled. The children’s artwork hung on every available inch of wall. Like Flora, Gran had set out a number of folding chairs for the event.

  “Head for the kitchen first,” Gran said, “for food and beverages.”

  The kitchen was as white as it could get. Bleached flooring. White cabinets. White counters. White country-style table with a bench that was loaded with white pillows decorated with seashells. On the table sat numerous tiered trays. Everything on them was white, too: white shrimp, white asparagus, white cheese, and white tea sandwiches. Did Lola have something to do with the theme? She added her entry to the array.

  “We’re using paper plates,” Gran said, pointing to a stack of white antique scroll plates at the far end of the table. “I hope nobody minds. I hate washing dishes and didn’t want my daughter-in-law to think she had to do them.”

  Lola sidled up to me and said, “All white food has its charm, don’t you think?”

  “It’s quite pretty,” I said judiciously. I loved how enthusiastic my friends were to help me make a decision about the wedding, but I wanted Rhett’s input more than anyone else’s. I selected one of each tea sandwich—cucumber, chicken with almonds, and whitefish—and found a seat in the living room.

  Gran led the discussion. She had found book club questions posed by the author on her website. “A culinary cozy mystery often features snacks and meals,” she began. “Many include recipes. Did any of you feel the scenes involving food stopped the story?”

  No one did. A few admitted to salivating while reading. To a person, everyone loved Sophie’s tips on how to entertain with ease.

  “What is your favorite china pattern?” Gran asked for the next question. “Would you recognize shards of it?”

  “Wedgwood Hibiscus,” Flora chimed. “And I’d definitely recognize a fragment. It’s very distinctive. The blue is exquisite.”

  Lola said, “I’m partial to anything Lenox Marchesa. It’s so elegant.”

  After almost everyone offered an opinion, Gran said, “How did you feel about the ending? Did you figure out who did it, or were you surprised?”

  Four claimed they had guessed who, but none had ascertained why until Sophie did. The author had buried the clues well.

  When the half-hour timer went off, we herded onto the bus and drove to Z.Z.’s house. One woman close to my aunt mooed like a cow. That sent many of us into a fit of giggles.

  Our mayor lived a few streets away in a two-bedroom bungalow with a view of the ocean. When I walked in, I felt like I’d entered a spa. Her décor was done in cool blue tones. Sounds of nature played through speakers.

  Bailey leaned into me and whispered, “Woo-woo.”

  I swatted her. “It’s lovely. Calming. You would do well to think of these things when having your baby.”

  “Oh, so now you’re the expert?” She smirked.

  Dinner items had been set outside on the teak patio table. Chairs for the discussion were also arranged outside. Z.Z. had advised each of us to bring along a shawl or jacket. Luckily, I’d remembered to grab a wheat-colored pashmina on my way out the door.

  As promised, Z.Z. offered wine from the local Baldini Vineyards, which was known for its pinot noir. Everyone but Bailey took a glass.

  While dining on individual casserole portions of vegetarian lasagna, chicken tostada, or beef ragout, all of which to my surprise my illustrious chef had made—Z.Z. could convince nearly anyone to do her bidding—the discussion homed in on the protagonist’s love life. Was her current beau the right man for her? Was a romance necessary in a mystery? These questions drummed up the most controversy of the evening. Half of the club members felt the mystery was the most important thing. The other half thought the character arc and relationships were vital. After all, if they didn’t care about a character, why read the mystery? A couple of members said they could do without cute banter, but they were in the minority. Personally, I’d enjoyed it. It made Sophie very relatable.

  When many of the group started in on a second glass of wine and the conversation became boisterous, Bailey leaned into me and whispered, “I feel a bit like a bartender watching everyone have fun while I stay sober.”

  I patted her arm. “It’s worth it.”

  “From your lips . . .”

  “And FYI, I’m still nursing my first glass.”

  “You’re a true pal.”

  “Are you enjoying the food?” I asked.

  “Absolutely, although I have to admit I can’t wait for dessert. Yours, in particular.”

  By the time we headed to Ivy’s, I was
so stuffed I could barely climb the steps onto the bus.

  Bailey prodded me. “Hurry up, Jenna. The sooner we’re seated, the sooner we get going.” She pointed to her belly. “He’s craving sugar.”

  “Maybe that’s what gives him a boost.”

  Crusibella tapped Bailey’s shoulder. “Don’t eat sugar, sweetie. You’ll be putting that baby at risk for gestational diabetes.”

  “Just a tad,” Bailey said. “All things in moderation. I primarily eat protein.” Her words came out a bit curt. I guessed she’d had enough mothers advising her about this baby—her own, Aunt Vera, and the doctor.

  “Good for you.” Crusibella gave her the thumbs-up sign. “That’s the spirit.”

  “Speaking of babies, should Sophie have a baby?” Bailey asked, expertly changing the subject back to this evening’s book.

  I said, “Sophie’s in her forties. I think that ship has sailed.”

  Crusibella said, “Women can have babies well into their forties nowadays. Don’t let that myth stop you, Jenna. It’s all about your spiritual balance.”

  Not eager to talk about babies and chakras and such, I settled onto a front row seat.

  Bailey sat next to me and whispered, “A second ago, we both referred to my baby as a he. Do you think it’s a him?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Isn’t the wives’ tale that if you’re carrying him—it—all in front, it’s a boy?”

  “You’re asking the wrong wives’ tale expert. Can’t you find out? Isn’t that what the ultrasound is for?” I was clueless.

  She scoffed. “Are you kidding? Tito would have my head. It’s got to be a surprise. We have lots of names picked out, too.”

  “Are those a secret?”

  “Nope.”

  All the way to Ivy’s place, Bailey regaled me with names that were not in the offing, for example Elinder, Mizely, and Orion. No way, no how. She had put the kibosh on those. I told her Tito was pulling her leg. She said he was dead serious.

  “We’re here,” Crusibella announced. “I hope Ivy is ready for us.”

  Gran, who had joined us at Z.Z.’s near the end and was sitting in the seat behind me, said, “She sure looks ready. The house is all lit up.”

  Bailey, with help from the bus driver, disembarked first. I followed, carrying the Tupperware containing my cupcakes.

  “Isn’t it dramatic?” I exclaimed as we made our way along the path to the front door.

  I’d never been to Ivy’s home. It reminded me of a multilevel Italian villa. The plants were gigantic and sumptuous. Exterior lights lit a pair of lofty cypress trees. The neighboring houses on Rhododendron Drive were equally impressive.

  I pressed the doorbell.

  Bailey nudged me. “Go in already. The door’s ajar.”

  Soft instrumental music was playing through speakers—one of Henry Mancini’s themes, if I wasn’t mistaken. It wasn’t “The Pink Panther” or “Moon River.” The name would come to me.

  “Hello?” I called from the foyer. “Ivy, we’re here!” My voice echoed off the travertine tile.

  Ivy didn’t answer. Maybe she was upstairs changing. The living room lights were dim. Lit pillar vanilla-scented candles, many of them burned more than halfway, decorated the mantel as well as the grand piano and end tables. A trio of them sat on flat Waterford plates that graced the glass coffee table.

  “How pretty it all looks,” my aunt said, making her way deeper into the house. “Ivy, dear! Don’t let us catch you in a state of undress.” She tittered. “She must have lost track of time.”

  Bailey peered around a corner. “The dining room looks almost ready. Napkins and plates have been set on the table.”

  Her mother said, “Maybe Ivy ran to the store for a last-minute item.”

  A cool breeze swept through the opened doors leading to the terrace. A shiver ran down my spine.

  “Ivy?” Bailey traipsed through the dining room and peeked into the dark kitchen. “Jenna, I see empty serving trays on the counter but no desserts. Why don’t you set your cupcakes on one of them and bring them into the dining room? I need one now.” She pressed her hands together in prayer. “Pretty please?”

  “Aye aye, captain.” I slipped past her and switched on the overhead lights. I hated working in the dark, a habit from my advertising days. Bright light made it easier to see the details of a campaign.

  The kitchen was pretty in a Florentine way, done in soft pearl tones with brown accents. All the appliances were high-end stainless steel. The backsplash above the stove was a mosaic of cream-colored glass tiles.

  As I rounded the L-shaped island, I stopped short. A scream caught in my throat. Ivy was lying on the floor, faceup. Someone had shoved a rose quartz shard into her chest. Blood stained her white off-the-shoulder dress. Two gold-colored quartz, about the size of half dollars and smoothed to perfection, had been placed over her eyes. Her arms were arranged by her sides. On each palm lay a sparkly green stone. A cypress bonsai tree in a pearl-colored pot sat beside her head. A smattering of its soil dusted the floor.

  Lola charged into the kitchen. “Jenna, are you—” She clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Bailey scuttled in after her and gasped. “Oh, no! Is she dead?”

  I crouched and felt Ivy’s pulse even though I knew she would never take another breath.

  Chapter 5

  I rose to my feet. Lola pulled her cell phone from her purse and started speaking to someone at 911. My aunt and the rest of the book club members crowded into the kitchen. Many gasped. Flora sucked back a sob. Z.Z. made a retching sound and fled.

  Crusibella peered over Bailey’s shoulder and whispered, “Aventurine.”

  I said, “Everyone, let’s go. Out of the kitchen. Don’t touch anything. We’ll convene in front of the house.”

  Once on the porch, we tried to make sense of what had happened. Who had wanted Ivy dead? Why stab her with quartz? What was the purpose of the stones on her eyes and in her hands?

  My aunt rubbed the phoenix amulet she always wore and shook her head. “Poor Ivy. She didn’t deserve this.”

  “No one does,” I murmured.

  A few minutes later, a siren blared. Its sound swelled as an emergency vehicle neared.

  Bucky Winston, an EMT and the current poster boy for Crystal Cove’s fire department, dashed into the house carrying a medical team kit. His partner, a somber-faced female, followed him.

  “In the kitchen,” Lola said.

  They raced passed us. Lola followed. I trailed her.

  Bucky knelt on one side of Ivy, his partner on the other. Soon, they acknowledged what I already knew: Ivy was dead. She had been for at least a few hours. Her body was cold to the touch. That might explain why the candles in her living room had burned so low.

  Bucky eyed me and hitched his chin, reminding Lola and me to leave. I took another cursory glance at the crime scene. It was fairly pristine. Very little blood other than at the wound site. No apparent struggle. The way Ivy was posed, on her back with the stones in position, struck me as ritualistic.

  Within fifteen minutes, Chief Cinnamon Pritchett and her crew arrived. When I’d first met her, Cinnamon had reminded me of a camp counselor with her blunt haircut and girl-next-door face, but looks could be deceiving. She was as commanding as an army general. She directed her crew to inspect the crime scene. Deputy Marlon Appleby, a giant of a man with a square jaw, tipped his hat as he passed me. At first glance, one might find him intimidating, but down deep, he was as sweet as they came. He and my aunt were in a relationship.

  With measured steps, Cinnamon strode toward me while adjusting the brim of her hat and running a hand down the front of her taupe uniform. When off duty, we were friends. “Jenna, fill me in. CliffsNotes style.”

  “Book club. We had a progressive dinner. Ivy Beale, the deceased, is the owner of Dreamcatcher at the north end of town—”

  “I know the shop.”

  “Her house was the fourth and last on ou
r tour. We were coming for dessert. We started at Flora’s and picked up the bus”—I pointed to it—“at Gran’s . . . Gracie’s. Gracie Goldsmith’s. Well, no, not all of us. Ivy wasn’t at Flora’s. Z.Z. wasn’t, either. Her house was the third stop on the tour. Gran lives next door to Flora, so she popped in for a moment and returned home.” I realized I was offering needless details but couldn’t help myself. “When we got here, the front door was ajar. We entered, thinking Ivy might be upstairs preening. Music was on. Candles lit.” I glanced toward the house. “The candles are burned down halfway, which might give an estimated time of death.”

  “Don’t conjecture. That’s my job.” She twirled a hand for me to continue.

  “The table was preset for the buffet. We found her . . .” I swallowed hard. “I found her in the kitchen.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me. Again.” Sadly, I’d been first to a crime scene on more than one occasion. “I brought cupcakes. I was going to plate them. I—”

  Cinnamon held up a hand and addressed her mother. “Are you all right, Mom?”

  Pepper had drawn near and was quaking like an aspen. “I can’t believe it. Poor Ivy.” She shook her head.

  Cinnamon hailed an officer who was heading back to a squad car. “Bring my mother a blanket, please.” She refocused on me. “What will I be looking at when I get inside, Jenna?”

  I gawked. She’d rarely asked for my opinion until a few months ago when she’d gracefully accepted my help on a case because my father had compelled her to do so. But usually—

  “Speak,” she commanded.

  “From the scuttlebutt among the others, I get the feeling Ivy ticked off a lot of people in town. She kept unreliable hours and didn’t know her goods. Some didn’t like her business practices.” I’d overheard Flora reiterate that Ivy had seen Dreamcatcher as a cash cow, nothing more, adding that she hadn’t understood the healing side of her business.