Sifting Through Clues

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “An emphatic no.”

  “So much for being able to follow his dream. Poor guy.”

  As if sensing our pity, Oren glanced in our direction. Rhett nodded hello. Oren responded in kind and then quickly straddled his bike, strapped on his helmet, and tore off, probably embarrassed that we, or anyone, had witnessed the scene.

  A short while later, Rhett dropped me at home and checked out the cottage, but he didn’t linger; he had to get some shut-eye if he was going to be alert when he hosted his early-morning fishing expedition.

  After he left, I sat at the kitchen table and opened my computer to browse cookbook titles. In the coming weeks, Katie was going to teach a class on how to ice cookies. Tina had talked her into it. I would be the first to enroll. Bailey thought it would be smart to stock books the novice icer could take home as a souvenir.

  Whenever I did research, Tigger wanted to take part. He pounced on the table and whisked the computer screen with his tail. Occasionally he pawed the USB port, but he didn’t dare tiptoe across the keyboard. He knew that I would banish him to the living room.

  To access the shop’s future purchase list, I located the cloud account that each of us in the shop could use. I started to enter the password and paused. We’d changed it two days ago. What was it? For security reasons, Bailey had suggested we create a new variation weekly, but I begged her not to. My beleaguered brain could only manage a switch every four weeks. Aunt Vera kept the password stored on her cell phone, just in case. I wish I had. I drummed the table until the correct answer occurred to me.

  I logged on and opened the file. Then I scrolled through our supplier’s list of cookbook titles, which were sorted by genre. After a few minutes, I discovered a cookbook called Icing on the Cake: Baking and Decorating Simple, Stunning Desserts at Home and knew it was the book to order. As a follow-up to the author’s well-received Layered, it was a deeper dive into cake decorating, packed with tips and hundreds of beautiful photographs.

  “Perfect,” I whispered.

  As I searched for a second title, a message popped onto my screen. My personal mailbox had received a new email. I opened the mailbox and reviewed the incoming correspondence. I didn’t recognize the name of the sender, Goodguy. The subject line was intriguing: I saw what you did.

  Because I could preview the beginning of the email without opening it, I continued reading.

  I saw what you did, my victim. I have photographs to prove it. Pay me five thousand dollars in bitcoin by midnight tomorrow night, or dire consequences . . .

  Knowing this was a scam and certain I hadn’t done anything worthy of a bribe, I deleted the email without opening it.

  Tough luck, whoever you are.

  However, as I closed the lid of my computer, a chill cut through me. Was the email a fluke or had my computer been hacked? The shop’s email had gone poof. Was someone targeting me? Should I alert the police?

  Get real, Jenna. Welcome to the unavoidable downside of social media.

  Knowing Cinnamon would tease me for months if I admitted I was paranoid, I decided to keep the information to myself.

  Edgy and unable to go straight to sleep, I opted to read a book. I selected another of the cozy mysteries we’d considered for the book club and nestled on the couch. Tigger joined me. I read until two a.m., when my eyes couldn’t stay open any longer.

  Needless to say, nightmares laced with computer malware fiascos were only seconds away.

  • • •

  Thursday morning, Bailey came to work acting livelier than she had the day before. When asked, she said the warm milk trick had worked. I mentioned the email issue to her. She confirmed what I’d determined: receiving a nasty blackmail-type email was the norm nowadays. Spam stunk. Delete, delete, delete.

  Around ten, Bailey was craving a breakfast burrito from Latte Luck Café. As concerned as Tito was about her overdoing it, I offered to make the journey to the restaurant for her.

  The place was packed. All of the wooden tables were filled. The brown leather booths were, too. I understood why. The tantalizing aroma of nutmeg and sugar hung in the air. The café’s cookies were renowned. I stood in line and, like a tourist, admired the sepia pictures of Crystal Cove in the early nineteenth century hanging on the walls. Our history was rich, filled with pirates, seafarers, and gold seekers.

  As I neared the front of the line, I heard a man clear his throat. In a booth to my left sat Deputy Appleby with Cinnamon. Dare I tell her about the threatening email I’d received? No, no, no rang out in my head. And I wouldn’t tell her about the other computer issue, either. They were not related to Ivy’s murder.

  “Morning, Jenna,” Appleby said.

  “Good morning. How’s the cheese Danish?” I eyed Cinnamon’s plate. “Looks yummy.”

  “It is.” She smiled. “All the white flour and sugar you’re not supposed to eat baked in one delicious morsel.”

  Appleby snorted. “Carrots are tasty, too.”

  “Don’t mock me just because you can control yourself.” Cinnamon shot him a look. “I ran six miles this morning. I earned this.” She usually ran three. “By the way, Jenna, I received your voice mail. Apology accepted.”

  I smiled. “Any—”

  “New leads?”

  “I wish you’d stop cutting me off,” I said, recalling our most recent conversation. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

  She twirled a hand. “Sorry. Go on. Any . . . what?”

  “Any surprises lately?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. My father has come to town.”

  Who had spilled the beans? Her mother? Or had her father reached out?

  Cinnamon eyeballed me. “Why do I get the feeling you knew that already?”

  Warmth crept up my neck.

  “How long have you known?” She patted the table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it was up to your mother.”

  “My mother.” She scoffed. “We aren’t talking.”

  Appleby bit back a smile and excused himself from the table.

  Giving up my place in line, I slid into his spot.

  “How did you learn about him?” Cinnamon asked.

  “I saw him and your mom arguing in the parking lot outside Beaders of Paradise. Thinking she might need backup, I joined them and introduced myself.”

  “Aren’t you bold?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Don’t get cocky.”

  “Never.” I grinned. “I can see the similarities between you two. The forehead, the nose.”

  Automatically she reached for her nose. She stopped short and rubbed a knuckle beneath it.

  “So have you connected with him?” I asked.

  “We met for lunch yesterday.”

  So it was he who had reached out. Not Pepper. “And how did it go?”

  “He was nice enough.” Cinnamon twirled a saltshaker while toying with her earlobe, moves that I’d bet she’d made as a young girl when discussing an uncomfortable subject. Catching me watching her, she stopped doing both and folded her hands on the table. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Let’s see, what can we talk about then? Oh, I know.” I snapped my fingers. “Did Mrs. Landry contact you?”

  Cinnamon narrowed her gaze. “Are you determined to rile me?”

  “It was a simple question. She came into the shop to tell me about—”

  “Crusibella Queensberry and a fat costume hidden in a trench coat.”

  Appleby exited the men’s room but didn’t move toward us. Instead, he stopped and chatted with a couple at a table. Coward.

  “What I want to know is why did Eleanor Landry come to you first?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Gracie Goldsmith prompted her. You know what happened with Gracie’s son. She thinks the police—”

  “Got it.” Cinnamon, to her credit, did stay up to date with various individual’s histories. “I will speak with Ms. Queensberry and discuss her trek behind Hog Heaven, okay?”r />
  “And see if any security cameras might have—”

  Cinnamon exhaled sharply.

  I held up a hand, acknowledging she didn’t need me to continue. “Between you and me, I don’t think Crusibella’s motive of wanting to buy Dreamcatcher is strong enough.”

  “I’ve run into weaker motives.”

  “Like your mother’s?”

  Cinnamon started twirling the saltshaker again.

  “Don’t you think a man killed Ivy?” I asked. I’d thought about this theory while showering and getting dressed. “I mean, wouldn’t it have taken a lot of brunt force to, you know . . .” I didn’t want to spell out the gory details.

  “I could have done it,” she said. “So could you. Ivy was a small woman. Plus—” She stopped short.

  “Plus what?”

  Cinnamon scanned the room to see if anyone was listening and lowered her voice. “We found a poison in her system. A paralytic called muscimol, as found in Amanita muscaria.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A type of mushroom. The paralysis sets in within twenty to thirty minutes. The medical examiner believes the killer inserted it into a cream puff. Only one was eaten off a tray we found in the refrigerator.”

  “Meaning the killer must have handed it to Ivy. It was someone she knew and trusted.”

  “Most likely.” Cinnamon pushed the saltshaker aside. “As I said the other night, this info is not for public consumption. My theory is the murderer wanted her immobile—”

  “So it wouldn’t take as much effort to impale her.”

  Cinnamon nodded. “And in order to provide enough time to set up the ritualistic scenario.”

  I winced. “This wasn’t done out of love.”

  “Definitely not love.”

  “Except according to Alastair Dukas, the aventurine—”

  “When were you talking to him?” Cinnamon demanded.

  I told her that Bailey and I had been next door at Spellbinders when we heard something crash at Dreamcatcher. “I wanted to clue you in the other night, but you—”

  “Lost my cool. Got it. Go on. While you were helping him organize his inventory, you chatted about the crime scene? How many times do I have to—”

  “Not me. Bailey and Crusibella.” It was my turn to cut her off. My turn to defend myself. “Crusibella claimed all sorts of book club members were sharing theories. I tried to clamp down on Bailey and her, but they wouldn’t listen to me. If you care, they do not know the eyestones detail you revealed the other night. I won’t blab about that or about this poison. Promise.” I raised three fingers and pinned the pinky with my thumb. Once a Girl Scout, always a Girl Scout.

  Cinnamon sighed. “So according to Mr. Dukas . . .” She signaled for me to continue.

  “Aventurine heals the heart, except Ivy’s heart issue was a scare. She wasn’t sick. Alastair implied that the stone might work like a love potion and that whoever held that stone might be enticed to love the giver.”

  “Interesting.”

  “In addition, Alastair said placing the eyestones on the eyes is a gesture of love. A way to help the deceased make a smooth transition into the underworld, except not if the eyestones are turned downward.” I leaned forward on my elbows. “Is it possible—”

  “No.” She stood up abruptly.

  “No what?”

  “No more theorizing.”

  “All I was wondering was—”

  “Stop. I mean it.” Cinnamon drew in a breath and released it. “I’m allowing you to provide me with details of conversations, but do not theorize. Every time you do, you imply that I’m not—” She inhaled sharply again and then moaned. Sort of like Bailey had.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you, Jenna, for your input.”

  “Don’t you mean for doing my civic duty?” I snapped, taking umbrage at her curtness.

  “Yeah . . . that. Have a great day.”

  I sighed. I wasn’t suggesting that she wasn’t good at her job, and she knew it.

  Cinnamon signaled to Appleby. “Let’s go.” She turned to leave.

  I said, “About your mother—”

  Cinnamon shot a scathing look over her shoulder. “What about her?”

  “She’s upset about your father. She doesn’t trust him.”

  “Let me be the judge—” She grasped the back of the chair. “I don’t need you to—” She clamped her lip with her teeth. Definitely in pain. Perspiration beaded on her face.

  I scrambled to my feet and gripped her arm. “Cinnamon, what’s wrong? Are you having a heart attack?”

  “No.”

  “A panic attack?”

  “I don’t panic,” she hissed. “Let go of me.”

  I did.

  Steeling her back and shoulders, she strode toward the exit.

  I raced after her and cried, “For the record, I care!” but my words fell on deaf ears.

  Chapter 17

  After purchasing Bailey’s burrito and my nutmeg cookie, I headed back to the shop, worrying about Cinnamon. Had she suffered a panic attack? Sure, she was the chief of police, but she was also my friend. What could I do to help? Granted, she had plenty of police backup to provide her with support as well as alternative theories, but were they doing so? Were they as concerned about exonerating her mother and finding Ivy’s killer as I was?

  “Whoa!” a man shouted.

  I drew up short and said, “Sorry.” Thanks to walking with my head down, eyes fixated on the cobblestones, I’d almost creamed into Oren Michaels in the middle of the Fisherman’s Village parking lot. “I was lost in thought.”

  “Is everything okay?” He removed his sailor’s cap and tucked it under his arm.

  “I should ask you the same thing. Last night on the street . . .” I twirled a hand. “With Yung Yi. Did he turn you down for a loan?”

  His brow furrowed. “No.”

  “He was upset. He stomped on his hat.”

  “Oh, that.” Oren rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s been having a little money trouble. I was advising him.”

  “You were advising him?”

  Oren grinned. “I know. Talk about turning the tables, right?”

  “That might explain why his wife seemed so fretful the other day when she’d visited my aunt for a tarot card reading.”

  Oren scoffed. “Fortune-telling is hogwash.”

  “Some people steer their lives by it.”

  “Some people are whacko.” Oren started toward the stairs leading to the second floor. “Yung and his wife will be fine. Nothing they can’t get past. As for me, the bank is giving me a loan, and I’ve already contacted a guy to make an offer on his boat.”

  “Jake Chapman’s Joy of the Sea.”

  “Yes. How did you—” His eyes widened. “Aha! Rhett must have told you. You ran into my dad and me at his store.”

  “Rhett says it’s a great boat. Top of its class. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. As a matter of fact, I have a meeting with Jake at Vines right now to seal the deal. Sorry to run off.” He headed upstairs. Over his shoulder, he said, “Make sure you do something about that mumbling habit. Wouldn’t want people to think you’re crazy.”

  “They already do.” I smiled.

  “Jenna!” Bailey rushed out of the shop. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She clasped my arm.

  “What’s wrong? More contractions? Are you in labor?”

  “Will you stop with that? I’m fine. The baby isn’t due for weeks. It’s Tina.” She steered me into the shop. “She’s sick. Green at the gills. I sent her home. We need you inside. We’re swamped with customers.”

  I gaped when I saw the crowd. The shop was packed. Customers squeezed past others in the aisles. I whispered, “Are we having a sale?”

  “No, but the word got out that we just received a shipment of The Book Club Cookbook.” The official title was The Book Club Cookbook, Revised Edition: Recipes and Food for Thought from Your Book Clu
b’s Favorite Books and Authors. The book recommended not only great books to read, like Water for Elephants and Life of Pi, but also suggested recipes paired with authors’ remarks to go with each book. Very clever. “Luckily, we ordered fifty copies.”

  Aunt Vera was manning the register. I went to assist her. After the crowd ebbed, I joined Bailey at the children’s table to help her finish the project she was assembling for an upcoming event—specifically, her baby shower. Her mother had decided to throw a safari-themed tea for her at the Nook Café to compliment the giraffe theme for the baby’s room.

  Today, thanks to her mother’s suggestion, Bailey was wrapping teensy hostess gifts, which were “books” made out of cardstock she’d cut yesterday and Hershey’s nuggets. Earlier, she had pasted teensy images of The Jungle Book on the cardstock. The nuggets were the guts of the books.

  When one of the covers didn’t stick with hot glue, Bailey grunted. “Mom found the design for these little gems on Pinterest, but does she have time to make them? No, she does not.”

  “They’re cute.”

  “Actually, they’re adorable.” Bailey set aside the glue gun and sighed. “I’m worried about Tina.”

  Her sharp segue nearly gave me a whiplash. “Why?”

  “Men make things so complicated.”

  “Do you think she’s sick because of something her boyfriend did?”

  “He had a tryst and tried to slough it off as nothing, and now he’s begging her to forgive him. What does he think she is, a yo-yo?”

  I cleared my throat. “You reacted the same with you-know-who.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Before Tito, my pal had been involved in quite a few ill-fated relationships. She resumed folding cardstock around nuggets. “Speaking of men we can or cannot trust, what do we think about Cinnamon’s father?”

  “Darling, are you talking about Noah?” Lola swooped onto a stool beside my pal and bussed her on the cheek. My father was accompanying her, but he remained standing. He didn’t like sitting on a toddler-sized stool.

  “Have you met Noah?” I asked Lola.

  “Briefly. At the diner last Friday.”

  That didn’t jibe. Hadn’t he told Pepper he’d come into town because he’d heard about the murder, which occurred Saturday?