Sifting Through Clues

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “She will,” Pepper said.

  “More likely, she’d cut off my head so I couldn’t speak.”

  Hank snorted.

  Pepper pulled her hand free of his and clasped my wrist. Hard. “Please, Jenna. Help me.”

  I pried her fingers loose—man, she had a grip—and patted her shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Bless you.”

  A tear slipped from her eye. Seeing her so vulnerable jolted me to the core.

  Minutes later, I joined Katie in the kitchen. She steered me to the far corner and peered over my shoulder. No one was near us. The staff, helmed by the attractive head chef Reynaldo, who was now a keeper as far as Katie was concerned, was turning out dish after dish. The aroma of baked apples hung in the air.

  “Pie,” I murmured as my salivary glands kicked into high gear.

  “Open-faced apple pie,” Katie said. “One of my best recipes.”

  “Must have a slice. Now.”

  “In a sec. First we have to talk about Hank Hemmings.”

  I glanced toward the door I’d just passed through.

  “I overheard him earlier,” Katie said. “During the library event. He’d gone outside. He was standing at the top of the access.” The access was a public stairway between Beaders of Paradise and the café that led to the beach. “He was on his cell phone speaking to someone he called honey.”

  “Okay.”

  “Something niggled at me, so I checked to see if Pepper was on her phone. She wasn’t. She was chatting with Darian.”

  “Maybe it was Hank’s child or grandchild?”

  Katie shook her head. “The way he said honey sounded much more intimate.”

  “Maybe it was his ex.”

  “I’ve never heard a man coo to an ex, have you?”

  The alley door to the kitchen opened and Oren Michaels strode in wearing a fisherman’s cap, denim jacket, white T-shirt, and fashionably torn jeans. “Katie, Katie, married lady,” he sang at the top of his lungs, riffing on the song from Funny Girl. His canvas creel hung over a shoulder.

  Reynaldo joined him and patted him on the arm. So did the sous chef. They called him bro and asked what had brought him to our neck of the woods.

  Katie muttered, “I’ll be right back. Oren usually peddles fish in the morning. Hope we don’t have a problem about tomorrow’s delivery.” She weaved around her staff to greet him.

  I trailed her.

  As we neared, Oren said, “What kind of music should you listen to while fishing?” He waited a beat. All eyes were on him. “Something catchy.”

  “Ha-ha,” Reynaldo said.

  “I’ve got another. Why do fish swim in schools?”

  The freckle-faced sous chef said, “Because they can’t walk.”

  Oren shot her a mock-sour look and waggled two thumbs at himself. “Hey, who’s telling the jokes here?”

  The sous chef toyed with her ponytail and blushed.

  Oren grinned. “Relax. You’re new. I’ll cut you some slack. You didn’t know. Okay, last one. How do you communicate with a fish?” He mimed casting a spinning rod. “Drop it a line.”

  “Ba-dum-dum,” Reynaldo said.

  Oren scratched his chin. “Though I guess you’d have to send an email nowadays. Nobody writes letters anymore.”

  “Guess you’ll have to work on that joke,” Reynaldo said.

  Katie clapped her hands. “Okay, everyone, back to work. The floor show is over.” She approached Oren. “What’s up? Have we got an issue?”

  “Hey, Katie. Hi, Jenna. Nope. No issues.”

  “Did you lose your sense of day and night?” Katie asked. “You’re not due until tomorrow morning.”

  “You know me. I like shortcuts. Why fish for more than I need to?” He pulled out his cell phone and tapped an icon on the screen. “Do you want me to add a large striped bass to your regular order? I’ve been catching a lot of it lately. One, two?” His finger hovered over the phone app.

  “Two.”

  “Great.” He typed in the order and pocketed the phone.

  “Oren”—Katie drew closer—“are you okay?”

  In an instant, his jokester persona vanished, and he sagged like he was dog-tired. His eyes were red-rimmed. Had he been crying? “Yeah. Sure. It’s just . . .”

  “Ivy,” Katie said and nodded.

  “Yeah. She’s gone. Like that.” His shoulders heaved. “She was the one, Katie.” He swiped a tear off his cheek. “The. One.”

  She clutched his shoulder. “Do you have someone to talk to?”

  “Like a therapist?”

  “Like a friend.”

  He bobbed his head. “I’ve got my dad. He’s a good listener.”

  “Oren,” I said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He nodded thanks. “I can’t believe the way she died. People said she was stabbed. With quartz or something. And stones painted like eyes were on her—” He indicated his own eyes.

  “Who told you about the crime scene?” I asked. The Mystery Mavens were advised not to talk about it.

  “Can’t remember.”

  Someone had blabbed. Cinnamon would not be pleased.

  I said, “It must be hard knowing you can’t make up with Ivy. I felt that way when my husband died, wishing I could have said what was really in my heart.”

  “Make up?” He shook his head, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

  “I heard she broke up with you.”

  “That’s not true. We were going to get married.” He gazed between Katie and me. “You don’t think I killed her, do you? I didn’t. I couldn’t have. I was on my boat at the time of the murder.” The creel started to slip off his shoulder. He lugged it into place. “I’m practicing night runs so I can expand my business to include overnight events during the summer. People will pay big bucks to sleep on a boat in a cove packed with fish.”

  “But your boat is so small,” Katie said. “It can’t accommodate guests.”

  “I’ve got my eye on purchasing a specialty boat. We’ll fish for croker and salmon. If the summer pays off like I hope, I can take people whale watching in the winter. That was Ivy’s suggestion.” He swallowed hard, as if it hurt to say her name.

  “How long did the trip take you, Oren?” I asked.

  “I left at dusk, traveled two hours north up the coast, waited for two hours in the cove, and then made the trip home.”

  “Six hours,” I said, doing the math. “That’s a haul.”

  “You’re telling me. Well, I have to be going. I’ve got to contact the rest of my customers about the bass. Hate to land any I can’t sell. See you in the morning.” He tapped the brim of his cap and hurried off.

  As he said goodbye to a few of the staff, I wondered about his alibi. Could anyone confirm it? What if, under the cloak of darkness, he’d veered back, stolen to Ivy’s, murdered her, and returned to his boat to establish the final leg of his alibi?

  Chapter 10

  Because Crystal Cove was driven by tourism and tourists often enjoyed three-day weekends, we took Tuesdays rather than Mondays off at the shop. Sometimes on our days off we played catch-up and did inventory, but this week we didn’t need to. I awoke eager to spend a day free of thoughts about business or murder.

  After feeding Tigger, I dressed in yellow capris, a light cream sweater, and sandals—I didn’t need anything warmer; there wasn’t a hint of a breeze—and then I donned sunblock and a broad-brimmed sunhat and rode my bicycle to the Pier. A cup of coffee was in order. Rhett couldn’t play hooky and spend the day with me because, thanks to flu season, he was one sales clerk short. Even though he and I were going to meet for dinner, I wanted to see him.

  Due to the early morning hour, the parking lot was fairly empty when I arrived. I wheeled my bicycle along the boardwalk to the bakery and purchased two lattes. Then I headed to Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store, a huge warehouse-type store. It opened at five a.m. because eager fishermen and sports enthusiasts wanted to get
an early start.

  As I was strolling up, Oren Michaels and his father were leaving. Oren wasn’t carrying his creel. Maybe he’d come in to pick up the pamphlet he was perusing.

  “Morning, Jenna.” He tapped the brim of his seafarer’s cap as he drew near. His father, who was an older version of Oren, gave me a nod, as well.

  Out of the blue, the notion that Oren’s father might have helped him establish an alibi coursed through my mind. I felt my cheeks flush. Could either of them sense what I was thinking? Oren didn’t seem sad about Ivy today. Had he tried to put one over on Katie and me yesterday? No, I couldn’t see it. Someone who appreciated silly fish jokes was not a killer.

  Oh, really? How naïve are you, Jenna Hart? Clowns can be cruel.

  “Good morning, Oren,” I replied, my tone even. My high school acting teacher would have been astonished by how well I was covering my jitters. “All done delivering fish?”

  “Over an hour ago. Thought I’d take my old man to breakfast.”

  “I’m not old,” his father groused. “I’m seasoned.” He winked at me and said, “Say, have you heard this one, Jenna? What do sea monsters eat?”

  “I don’t know, what?”

  “Fish and ships. Get it? Ships?” He slapped his thigh.

  “Very funny.” I jerked a thumb. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I’m going to give Rhett his coffee before it gets cold.”

  “Be my guest.” Oren swept a hand permitting me to pass, and he and his father left the store laughing.

  The store’s rich green leather and mahogany décor reminded me of a mountain cabin that had been relocated to the ocean—homey and comfortable. Rhett and two of his staff were reorganizing display tables, which looked like a hurricane had hit them.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he said. “What a nice surprise.”

  Holding out the coffee to him, I said, “Did you have a sale yesterday?”

  “How could you tell?” He pecked my cheek and accepted the container. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.” He took a sip of his drink and hummed. “Perfect, as always. Walk with me.” He strode toward the front of the store.

  “Oren didn’t seem bereft about Ivy,” I said.

  “Men often cover their feelings. You know that better than most.”

  He was referring to my ex, of course. The ultimate actor.

  “Why were Oren and his father here?” I asked.

  “He’s looking to buy a new boat. Says he wants to increase his business.”

  “You aren’t selling yours, are you?” Not only did Rhett supply fish to some of the local restaurants, but on occasion, he took groups deep-sea fishing.

  “Are you kidding? Not a chance.” He smirked. “Old Jake is ready to divest of Joy of the Sea.”

  Jake Chapman was one of the wealthiest men in town. Way back when, my grandfather, in a show of thanks to Jake for saving my father from drowning, had taught him to invest.

  “He’s selling his beautiful red boat?” I exclaimed. “It’s fabulous.”

  “An Avenger. Top of its class.”

  Jake had offered to take me for a ride. I hadn’t found the time. I said, “Oren’s business must be pretty good if he can afford that plus a new truck.”

  “According to him, the season has been quite fruitful.” Rhett wrapped an arm around me. “What have you got planned today?”

  “Bailey wants to go shopping again.”

  “Your favorite thing to do.” He grinned. “Not.”

  “For her, anything. She’s nesting like crazy.”

  “Speaking of nesting, Z.Z. has a couple more houses to show us.” In addition to being our mayor, Zoey Zeller had taken up selling real estate. Her son had gone back to college, and she’d offered to help him with tuition. Any extra income helped. “Can you spare a few hours over the weekend?”

  “I’ll carve out the time.” I kissed him goodbye and headed out.

  • • •

  By midmorning, the sun was blazing down on Bailey and me. With all the stops and starts she insisted on making along Buena Vista Boulevard, we were getting plenty of sun exposure. Good thing she had worn a long-sleeved maternity tunic over stretchy pants as well as a sunhat.

  At one of the Book Club Bonanza tents called Book Addicts she purchased an ornate brass bookstand. She refused to give up challenging her mind after having the baby and thought having a bookstand might help her read hands-free. At One More Chapter, she bought an animal print journal for Lola to take on her safari trip. At Play Room Toy Store, thanks to her mother’s heads-up, she chose a variety of giraffes for the baby’s room. After that, we were starved.

  As we were polishing off soft fish tacos that we’d purchased to go at the Pelican Brief Diner, Bailey pointed north. “Hey, is that Cinnamon?”

  A few doors down, a fit woman in neon blue roller blading gear, including kneepads, sunglasses, and a helmet emblazoned with a gold lightning bolt, was twirling with her leg in arabesque. Definitely Cinnamon. Pepper had taught her to skate. Was she doing so now to work out her aggression or work off those pancakes?

  Somewhat peeved that she hadn’t returned my calls—after all, I’d contacted her as a friend—I hustled in that direction.

  She came to a halt using her toe stop and jammed her hands on her hips. “What?”

  “Well, isn’t that a fine how-do-you-do?” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? Skating during my lunch hour. I need the exercise. It clears my head.”

  “I left you a couple of messages.”

  “I don’t owe you a daily report.”

  “That’s not why—”

  “Look, Jenna, we will solve the crime.”

  I scratched the back of my neck. Why did talking to her make me itchy sometimes? “One question. Did my dad talk to you?”

  “About?”

  “He said you wanted his two cents. I posed a theory to him.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. Nope.”

  I clenched my jaw, slightly ticked at my father. He’d bet me that I wouldn’t be able to help myself and I’d blab everything to Cinnamon. Okay, Dad, so be it. You win. “It has to do with the stones over Ivy’s eyes. I think they might correlate to a Greek myth.”

  “Like I said, we’re on it. See you at dinner.” Cinnamon tore away as fast as a speed skater, expertly dodging a few pedestrians.

  “Gee whiz, she’s maddening,” I said to Bailey. “So much for needing consoling.”

  “Yeah, she can be—” Bailey made an oof sound. “Oy, I’ve got to rest.”

  “Let’s go inside Spellbinder.” I jutted a finger in that direction. “We can sit at the bar.”

  In addition to a sizeable reading room, which was fitted with a round table, cozy chairs, and a variety of lamps, the mystery bookstore boasted a reading bar, where customers could sit and browse through a book while sipping a nonalcoholic beverage.

  I added, “I’ll bet Crusibella could use some cheering up.” Also, I wanted to follow up on her declaration of innocence yesterday. Why had she come to me? Did she think I could convince the police of her innocence? “Even though the week is about books, books, and more books, I’ll bet the street vendors are taking business away from her.”

  “Lead the way.”

  A teensy bell jingled overhead as we stepped inside the shop. At the same time, a dog yapped. Crusibella’s toy poodle charged us and made an abrupt U-turn, disappearing through a drape at the rear of the store.

  Bailey whispered, “Who needs a doorbell with that watchdog around?”

  I giggled.

  The short, perky clerk I had interacted with on previous occasions greeted us from the sales desk. “Welcome. Feel free to ask me anything.”

  As predicted, the shop was not overrun with customers. Two men were flipping through books in the noir section. The woman who was perusing the classics repeatedly glanced over her shoulder at two young child
ren—hers, I decided since they sported the same nose and tons of freckles—who were seated at a small table similar to the children’s table in the Cookbook Nook. They were poring over books pulled from a set of the Spiderwick Chronicles.

  Bailey removed her sunhat and craned an ear. “Do you hear someone crying?”

  I hurried down the aisle, past the cascade display filled with culinary cozies to the rear of the store where the dog had disappeared, and peeked through the drapes. Crusibella was pacing in the storage room, her gaze riveted on the floor, her cell phone pressed to her ear.

  “Uh-huh. I understand, but—” Someone on the line cut her off. “Yes, but—” She listened some more. Tears trickled down one cheek. “Please. I’ll do whatever I have to. I’ll get a co-signer. I’ll get two. I’ll—” Whoever she was talking to interrupted her again. More head bobbing. After a long moment, she hissed, “Thanks for nothing,” and ended the call. She shoved her phone into the pocket of her aqua blue jumper and lifted her chin. “Oh!” She stopped short. “Jenna. I . . . I didn’t realize you were—”

  “I’m sorry we startled you. We came to check on you.”

  Crusibella blotted the tears with her fingertips.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Do I look okay?” she snapped and instantly her cheeks turned crimson. “Sorry. That was rude.” She pushed past me into the store.

  Bailey joined us. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Crusibella edged along the aisle, righting any books that weren’t aligned on the shelves.

  “Crusibella, c’mon,” I said. “You’re clearly distraught. Is someone sick?”

  “Or in trouble?” Bailey asked.

  Crusibella whirled around. “No one is sick. No one is in trouble. Truth? This is ridiculously superficial, but I want to get a loan and the lender dismissed me.”

  “A loan for what?” Bailey asked.

  “To buy Dreamcatcher?” I asked.

  Crusibella nodded. “I know it’s not for sale yet, but it will be. With Ivy’s death . . .” She twirled a hand. “I realize it’s crass of me to be thinking ahead, but she doesn’t . . . didn’t . . . have children, and her parents are bound to put it up for sale. She and they were estranged. They didn’t give a hoot about her business. I figure they’ll sell sooner rather than later. I need to be ready.” She shook her head. “If only Ivy hadn’t—” She bit her tongue.