Sifting Through Clues

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Apply everywhere,” Crusibella cautioned him. “Paper the town. That’s always the best policy. I don’t have an opening right now, but if this keeps up”—she swept a hand to encompass the bustling activity—“I just might, and in the event I purchase Dreamcatcher—” She cleared her throat. “When I purchase Dreamcatcher, you’ll be first on my list.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Alastair bobbed his head submissively. “I really appreciate that.” He backed a few feet toward the exit.

  “Alastair, wait,” I said. “One question.”

  He paused.

  Blurt it out, Jenna. Chop-chop. “Dreamcatcher’s website says it’s under construction.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Meaning you don’t sell anything online?”

  “No. We do, just not while the site’s down.” He smiled sadly. “Ivy never could get the term right. See, whenever she tweaked the site to add new product, which she was doing all the time, she’d put up the wrong notice.” He chuckled. “Heck, she couldn’t even get the password right most of the time, like when she wanted to check activity on the site. I finally made it easy for her—six zeroes and a dollar sign. Can’t mess that up, right?”

  “Do you have a lot of online buyers?” I asked.

  “We have regulars. Why?”

  “Did you encounter someone named Noah Pritchett?”

  Alastair scratched his neck. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “How about anyone with the last name Pritchett?” Perhaps Noah’s wife or daughters had ordered something.

  “No, ma’am. I don’t think so. Is that all?” He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets, once again looking crestfallen.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “I wish she were here,” he whispered so softly as he slogged out of the store that I almost missed it.

  Crusibella clicked her tongue. “He’s got a bit of growing up to do, but he’ll rally.” She clipped his application to a group of applications on the pegboard behind the register. “Jenna”—she swung around and scanned the customers, none of whom were standing near the sales counter—“sit with me.” She directed me to the reading bar. “We need to talk.”

  “About?”

  “The police were just in. They asked me about a story they heard from Eleanor Landry.”

  A thrill zinged through me. My words to Cinnamon hadn’t fallen on deaf ears after all. Why hadn’t she mentioned it when she’d waylaid me at the library tent?

  “I know Eleanor Landry spoke to you first.” Crusibella fetched a bottle of Pellegrino from a mini refrigerator and popped it open. She poured the contents into a honeycomb-style iced tea glass. “Lime?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She pushed the glass toward me. The air between us grew thick with tension. I took a sip of the sparkling water and set the glass down without breaking eye contact.

  “Now that the police know what happened, I think you should hear, too,” she said.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. I—” Crusibella nestled onto the stool next to mine. Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes. She dabbed them with a cocktail napkin. “I’m a compulsive eater. I mean I was compulsive. In college. Before I moved to Crystal Cove. I was super fat.” She threw her arms wide. “But then I found the light. The spirit. The essence of life. Not in church or anything like that. Oh, sure, I went to Overeaters Anonymous meetings and they advocated for a spiritual rebirth, but where I truly found balance was in nature. In the universe. In the metaphysical.”

  More tears leaked from her eyes. She blotted them again. “Focusing on the positive helped me control my cravings, and within a year, the weight fell off me. That’s why I want to own Dreamcatcher so badly. Yes”—she fanned the air with the napkin—“books are my life. They always have been, but stones and crystals move me. I adore sifting through soil to search for unpolished gems. I love running my fingers over them. I crave their healing power. For over ten years, I have fed myself from within instead of from without.” She thumped her chest with her fist. “But after Ivy called me—me—a charlatan during our set-to last Friday night, I began to question my motives. Had I duped myself? Was I an impostor? Did I want Dreamcatcher for all the right reasons?”

  I took another sip of my drink, waiting for her to continue.

  “I’m ashamed to say it”—Crusibella crumpled the napkin and tossed it into a bin behind the reading bar—“but I awoke the next morning eager to find something to fill the void. In other words, food. And not just any food. Fatty food. Salty food. Anything to feed the monster.” She placed both hands on the counter, palms down. “I fought the urge all day. I moped. I meandered. I meditated. But Saturday afternoon, I couldn’t restrain myself any longer.” She worked a fingernail along the groove of the wood counter and then tucked her hands beneath her armpits. “I knew if people saw me gorging myself, it would get back to Ivy and she’d throw it in my face. My reputation of being spiritual and calm would be toast. When she was truly ready to sell Dreamcatcher, she would block me from buying it at every turn.”

  “Why would she do that? She was your friend.”

  “She could be cruel.”

  I stiffened. If a friend would say that about Ivy, what would her enemies say?

  “To try to curb my cravings, I dressed in a costume.” Crusibella released her arms and used her hands to describe her outfit. “A few years ago, I bought a curly red wig and a fat suit and required myself to put it on once a month to remind myself how huge I’d been and that I never wanted to be that again.” She rose from the stool and poured herself a glass of Pellegrino. She squeezed a quarter of a lime into her glass, took a long sip, and remained standing. “But putting on the suit didn’t deter me from my goal that day. So I stole to Hog Heaven”—she polished off her drink—“and ordered a Pig Pack pork sandwich slathered in barbecue sauce. Nobody at the diner recognized me. I’d donned horrid makeup and the red wig. When I’d stuffed myself to the point of getting sick, I dashed out—”

  “And sneaked down an alley.”

  “Along the way, I clawed the disguise off me. The overcoat and fat suit were hot and heavy.”

  “That’s when Mrs. Landry saw you.”

  “It must have been. I ran all the way—”

  “Home to make a cheese platter,” I finished.

  “No. To Overeaters Anonymous, where I met with a counselor.” She ran her finger down the length of her glass. “For two long hours, we broke down the reasons I’d fallen short. When I felt in control, I told her I needed to go to the book club soiree. She advised me to own up to my problem with a friend, and I would have. To Ivy. But when we found her dead, and when you told the police about our argument, I panicked. If people found out about my weakness, I feared my aspiration of owning Dreamcatcher would be dashed. Ivy would drag me down from the grave.”

  “Isn’t it worse to be suspected of murder?”

  Crusibella sighed. “Don’t you get it? Who would believe someone like me could guide them in matters of health and healing if . . . if . . .” She gulped in air.

  I reached for her hand but she recoiled.

  “I gave the police my counselor’s name. They’re following up.” She gazed at me, her eyes moist with tears. “Believe me, Jenna, I would never have hurt Ivy.”

  • • •

  On my way back to the Cookbook Nook, I ran through the names of the other possible suspects. Crusibella was innocent, and Pepper wasn’t guilty. Did Oren or Alastair kill Ivy because she’d rejected them? Did Hank kill her to keep an affair secret? Or was there another reason someone wanted her dead?

  As I was passing the Pelican Brief, my cell phone rang. Jake Chapman appeared on the screen.

  I answered. “Hi. What’s up?”

  “Z.Z. needs your help.”

  “Help with what?”

  “The executor for Ivy Beale’s estate is putting her house on the market. Z.Z. convinced the guy to use her as the realtor.”


  “That’s a big deal.” There was another realtor in Crystal Cove, a real cutthroat negotiator, who picked up most of the listings.

  “Yep, but here’s the hitch,” Jake went on. “She’s afraid to go in Ivy’s house by herself.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Because of the murder and all. She’d like you to accompany her.”

  “Why me?”

  “Your aunt suggested it and your father seconded the idea. We were all having lunch. I thought it was a swell idea.”

  “Swell,” I echoed, unable to hide the snarkiness in my tone.

  “You’ve been inside the house,” Jake added, “so you won’t get the heebie-jeebies if you take another tour of it.”

  Says who? I knew what would happen the moment I stepped foot in the kitchen. I would picture Ivy lying there and see the quartz shard in her chest and stones on her eyes and my stomach would churn. Heck, it was churning now. “Jake, I am not the go-to escort for a dead person’s home.”

  “Jenna, you can do this.”

  “Chief Pritchett will demand my head on a platter.”

  “She’ll thank you for doing your part.”

  I croaked. “What universe do you live in?”

  He roared with laughter.

  “Why don’t you go with Z.Z.?” I asked.

  “Uh-uh,” Jake said. “She and I have strict rules. She doesn’t mess with my business and I don’t mess with hers.”

  Tag, you’re it. Silently cursing my aunt and father, I said, “When does Z.Z. want to do it?”

  “Right now. She’s waiting in her car outside the house. Your aunt said she’d cover for you at the store.”

  Wasn’t she accommodating!

  “Just so you know,” Jake went on, “Vera read your tarot and determined this good deed will help you reap a heap of favor from the spirit world.”

  Sure, but would I reap enough favor so that I’d never have to see another dead body in my lifetime? A girl could dream.

  Chapter 20

  If I was going to help Z.Z., I needed fortification first. I jaywalked across the boulevard and hurried to Sweet Pea’s Tea Time mobile truck. When I made it to the head of the line, I ordered a miniature lemon tea cake and a cup of Earl Grey tea. I opened the cake, which was delivered in a pretty cellophane bag and tied with ribbon, and took a taste. Perfection. When I asked the owner of Sweet Pea if she’d share the recipe, she told me I’d find it on her website.

  I finished my treat on the way to the Cookbook Nook, poked my head in to tell my aunt I was going on the mission that she had so kindly created for me, and set off in my VW.

  Minutes later, I drove along Rhododendron Drive to Ivy’s multilevel Italian villa. Sunlight graced the red roof. Z.Z. stood at the foot of the front path looking very professional in a tailored black suit.

  When I joined her, she pecked me on the cheek. “Thank you for coming. I hate to be a sissy, but—”

  “Glad to be of help,” I lied. I’d never confess to being a tad apprehensive.

  “Okay, here we go.” Z.Z. pulled her cell phone from her briefcase and pressed the recording app. As she strode along the walkway, she made verbal notes. “Garden needs tweaking. We should stage the front porch. A swing. Potted plants. Entryway needs paint and new hardware.” Using a key, she let us into the house. She paused the recording. “Seeing as I’m the realtor, the police gave me the keys and such. FYI, they’ve cleared away all of their, um, evidentiary materials.”

  The last time I’d entered the house, “Love Theme from Romeo and Juliet” had been playing. Given the loving, healing stones placed on Ivy’s hands and eyes, I’d wondered whether the killer had been intentionally pointing a finger at Oren. Now, in the eerie silence, I speculated whether the killer had been laying blame on Alastair or Hank.

  “It’s so quiet,” I whispered.

  “Yes. Maybe we should consider adding a waterfall,” Z.Z. noted, missing the significance of my comment. “Let’s begin with the lower floor and work our way up.” She restarted the recording. “Paint looks good in the living room. Neutral colors. No personal photos. Don’t have to do much. The bonsai trees are a nice touch. Very calming. Let’s move on to the kitchen.” She motioned for me to go first.

  Forcing myself to remain calm, I strode ahead of her. The kitchen had been cleaned, the body removed. The empty food trays had also been confiscated or stored. I wondered about the desserts Ivy was supposed to have set out for the event. Cinnamon mentioned a tray of cream puffs. Had there been other foods? Did the killer lace more than one item in the hopes that Ivy would eat one, or did he or she hand-deliver the cream puff personally to Ivy?

  “Jenna, what do you think?” Z.Z. asked.

  I glanced at her. Had she been talking to me and I’d tuned her out?

  “Does it need a fresh coat of paint?”

  “I don’t think so.” As before, I noted the kitchen was pretty in a Florentine way, done in soft pearl tones with brown accents. “It looks very up to date. No chips on the cabinets. The granite is nice, too.”

  “I agree.”

  I crossed to the Sub-Zero refrigerator and took a peek. It was filled with the usual: salad dressings and condiments, bottled water, creamers. There were no perishables; nothing in the crisper.

  “You’ll want to have the refrigerator cleaned and sanitized,” I suggested.

  Before leaving the room, Z.Z. made a note about adding colorful flowers for the open house, to brighten the mood. I wasn’t sure anything could do that once a buyer found out a person had been murdered in the kitchen. By California law, the realtor would have to disclose that tidbit.

  We inspected the other rooms on the first floor, which included a workout room, a maid’s room, and a guest room, all of which were neutral in tone, almost as if Ivy had prepared the house for sale. Or Ivy had purchased it exactly as it was and hadn’t added any personal touches. The warmest of the rooms was the study. Dark mahogany bookshelves lined the walls. A reading chair held the Mystery Mavens’ book club selection. A bookmark was slotted about halfway in.

  I browsed the titles on the shelves. Mostly classics. “Ivy sure collected a lot of books.”

  “I own about as many,” Z.Z. said, “although I haven’t had time to read them lately.”

  “A lot of romances,” I added.

  Z.Z. made a note to remove any books that prospective buyers might consider racy and continued down the hall. When she pushed open the last door on the left, she said, “Interesting,” and stepped inside.

  I had the same reaction.

  The room was devoted to potting bonsai trees. A galvanized steel greenhouse workstation stood against the far wall. Three broom-style and two slanting-style bonsais stood in cream-colored pots on top of the flat counter. To the right, a shallow sink counter was filled with dirt. Bags of fireplace ash as well as akadama, a high-fired inorganic component according to the package, were stored on the shelves below.

  “That explains the bonsai plants I’ve seen in other rooms,” Z.Z. said.

  “I wonder why she had so many?”

  “In a few of my realtor magazines, I’ve read that in the Eastern art of feng shui bonsai trees are believed to bring good luck and good fortune when displayed in homes.”

  I shuddered. “Not for Ivy.”

  “No, sadly.”

  “Why do you think the killer placed a bonsai next to her head?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Z.Z. swiveled to face me. “I didn’t see that mentioned in the newspaper article.”

  “Didn’t you see the plant when you came into the kitchen that night?”

  “Heavens, no. I turned green and hurried out.”

  “Of course. I remember now.” Crusibella had consoled Z.Z. on the front porch.

  “Maybe the killer set it there like a funeral wreath,” she murmured. “In tribute. Or maybe the killer meant it as a warning.”

  I gazed at her. “A warning?”

  “To convey that Ivy’s luck had run
out.” Z.Z. clucked her tongue. “Horrible.”

  Softly, as if she now considered the room a sanctuary, Z.Z. recorded a note about airing it out, and then she proceeded to the stairs leading to the second story.

  “Who will be coming to town to sign off on everything?” I asked. “Ivy’s parents or the executor?”

  “According to the executor, her parents have no desire to get involved. ‘Get rid of everything’”—Z.Z. whipped a hand through the air—“was the command he gave me. He has the parents’ power of attorney to manage every detail.”

  “Wow. No love lost there.”

  “Not an ounce.”

  I couldn’t imagine being estranged from my family. After my mother died—David had died within months of her—I’d isolated myself, and my father had shut down. However, in the past few years, Dad and I had reconnected, and I was so glad we had, even if he was currently the bane of my existence, pitting me against Cinnamon as well as suggesting I handle this not-so-entertaining house tour.

  Z.Z. paused on the first landing. “Newel is scratched,” she said into her cell phone. Despite her misgivings about entering the house, she was acting like a consummate professional in complete control of her emotions. “Floors could use a good polish. Remove personal photographs on walls.”

  Most of the framed pictures featured Ivy with someone prominent in town. I didn’t see any people old enough to be her parents, although I did notice one of her as a teenager with a younger, similar-looking girl. The sister who’d died of heart failure, I assumed.

  At the top of the stairs I noticed a series of gold-framed wedding photos sitting on a beautiful Italianate bureau, featuring Ivy with a handsome young man. I had similar pictures with David, all of which were buried in my hope chest. I wondered if Oren, after seeing reminders of Ivy with her husband, had grown jealous. Had Alastair been invited to Ivy’s house? If so, how had he felt?

  “Oh, my!” Z.Z. exclaimed as she stepped into the master bedroom.

  I strode in and gasped. “It’s so blue.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  Glibly, I wondered whether Vincent van Gogh had a hand in decorating it: blue walls, blue furniture, blue bedspread and linens. Even the broom-style bonsai sitting atop a notepad on the Baroque-period desk by the window was planted in a deep blue pot.