Sifting Through Clues

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “This room must represent the real Ivy,” Z.Z. said and continued recording. “Master bedroom needs an entire makeover: paint, tile, carpet, linens.” She clicked Pause. “Given the state of this room, bringing her house up to snuff could take a few weeks. Good thing her shop doesn’t need as much work.”

  “You know Crusibella would buy Dreamcatcher in a heartbeat—no changes.”

  “That’s not going to happen. For anyone so it seems. The executor informed me an hour ago that the parents have decided they want cash for inventory, and then they want to back out of the lease.”

  “But why?”

  “I get the feeling they are cruel and spiteful and don’t want Ivy to have any kind of legacy.”

  “Because she held them responsible for her sister’s death.”

  Z.Z. nodded her head. “Family dramas are the hardest to litigate.”

  “Crusibella is going to be heartbroken. Isn’t there something you can do?”

  “I will be trying the legal angle. Crusibella did, after all, have a verbal agreement to purchase.” Z.Z. shot a finger at me. “Say, you could be our witness. You heard them arguing. You heard Ivy go back on her word.”

  During the disagreement, Ivy stated that she and Crusibella never had a deal because Ivy had been tipsy when she’d accepted the offer. Would that kind of hearsay stand up in court?

  “Say you will,” Z.Z. pleaded.

  “Of course.”

  “Bless you.” She pointed. “See what’s in that desk, would you? If the deed is there, I need to have it in hand.”

  I crossed to the desk. “Who’s going to pack up the house? There’s a ton of stuff to move.”

  “We’ll hire a company.”

  I slid the bonsai off the notepad and set it nearer the window, repositioning the side that had faced away from the window so it could glory in sunshine. “Ivy was a doodler,” I said.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  On the topmost pad was a smattering of initials followed by round numbers like OD 7000, YY 5000, JC 8000, all smudged due to the ring of dirt left by the bonsai’s drain hole.

  “I don’t see a jewelry box, do you?” Z.Z. asked.

  I scanned the room. “Nope. Maybe she kept it in individual bags and hid it with her undergarments.”

  Z.Z. started opening drawers in the bureau to the right of the closet. “Whoa, nelly! Every one of these is jammed with clothing. Do me a favor. See if there’s any jewelry squirreled in the desk. We don’t want to leave valuables around for the movers.”

  I opened the desk drawers one at a time. The left topmost drawer held the usual: a stapler, pens, and paperclips. The bottom drawer on the right held a key chain filled with thumb drives and more notepads with numerical scribbles.

  Z.Z. browsed Ivy’s closet and then slipped into the bathroom.

  “I didn’t find any jewelry,” I called as I noticed a rectangular outline of dust on the desktop. “Do you think the police took her computer?”

  “If it’s not there, yes. They’re probably browsing her history to see if anyone wrote her a threatening email.”

  Or looking for the person who had hacked her emails.

  A door slammed. Another creaked open. “There are no prescriptions,” Z.Z. called. “I assume the police took those, too. Oho! Jackpot!” A drawer slammed. “Found her jewelry, like you said, in a series of makeup bags. Beneath the sink. Let’s inventory it together.”

  She strolled out of the bathroom and emptied the jewelry onto the blue comforter. For three minutes, she made verbal notes as I reinserted the silver and gold necklaces, earrings, and bracelets in their respective bags. Two pieces featured opals. None were made with other gems or semiprecious stones, which was interesting given the treasures available in Ivy’s shop.

  When we finished, Z.Z. said, “I think that about does it. In two weeks, I’ll have this baby ready for sale.”

  My stomach wrenched. How fast the wheels of life were rolling along after Ivy’s death. It stunk. I had mourned David for months. Who would mourn her?

  Chapter 21

  When I walked into the Cookbook Nook, I was surprised to see Tina at the sales counter. She was dressed in a cheery yellow smock top over white jeans. Her coloring seemed good, but her forehead was pinched.

  I helped her assist customers. After ringing up the last one, I said, “Feeling okay?”

  Tina nodded. “I saw a doctor. He said I’m suffering from stress.”

  “Because of your boyfriend?”

  “Mm-hm. Apparently, I can’t handle someone who lies.”

  “Very few people can.”

  Tina tittered. “The doctor put me on a diet of exercise and meditation. If that doesn’t work, he’ll prescribe medicine, but I don’t like taking pills.”

  “Me, either, but some drugs really do work.” I patted her hand. “In the meantime, talk to Katie about stress-beating foods. She’s becoming an expert.”

  “Last night, my boyfriend told me to eat more turkey.”

  “You’re still seeing him?” I asked.

  “He said he would change. No more lies.”

  “So he admitted to lying?”

  “Mm-hm. I think I can trust him now.”

  Quite a few women were like Tina and me, hoping that their man would change. David had lied until his dying day.

  “By the way, my boyfriend thinks I should go to counseling,” Tina added.

  “Maybe you both should,” I suggested. “That way, you can analyze how differently you approach life. Women and men are so—”

  “Oh, he’d never go for that. He talks to his fish. He says they’re great listeners.”

  “Plus, they don’t talk back,” I teased.

  She giggled.

  Secretly, I hoped she’d take the advice about seeing a therapist but decided to hold off on a full-court press.

  “FYI, we might need to order more of those cookie jars.” Tina gestured toward the display, where three women were standing. “Almost every book club organizer came in to ask about them.”

  A customer set a stack of books on the counter. Tina started ringing her up. Over her shoulder she said, “By the way, boss, Bailey and your aunt are in the storage room trying to come up with which flowers to put in the display window for Spring Fling.”

  It never ceased to amaze me how quickly one theme ended in Crystal Cove and a new theme was on deck. Following Book Club Bonanza, Mayor Zeller had decided our sweet town should feature flowers. Each shop or restaurant would set out a colorful pot. The city would provide the containers as well as the soil. The establishments could decorate the containers to their hearts’ content. When the event was over, the town would relocate the flowerpots to the Pier and various parks. In addition, the mayor was allowing a variety of cart vendors to sell their wares on the sidewalks.

  “Will we ever have a week where there isn’t a theme?” Tina asked, echoing my inner thoughts.

  “Not if Z.Z. has anything to say about it.” I made quotation marks in the air. “‘The more themes, the more tourists. The more tourism, the better the economy.’ Not to mention each visiting vendor has to pay a street rental fee. Cha-ching, as Bailey would say.”

  “If you want my opinion”—Tina paused to ask the customer to insert the chip on her credit card into the payment terminal—“I’d say Cooking with Flowers: Sweet and Savory Recipes with Rose Petals, Lilacs, Lavender, and Other Edible Flowers should be the main book on the display table. The recipes are creative and the photography is downright gorgeous. There are flowers galore.”

  I knew the book she was talking about. On the cover was a white flowerfetti cake decorated with pansies and petals. Inside, the reader could find recipes like calendula quiche, dandelion muffins, and daylily cheesecake. I’d eaten pansies tossed into a salad, but I’d never tried the others. Daylilies sounded interesting. In addition to the floral-themed cookbooks, I’d ordered floral-covered journals, recipe cards with darling flowers imprinted in the corners, and a wooden bookst
and carved with roses. One of each would enrich the display.

  Leaving Tina to finish with the customers, I pressed through the drapes to the stockroom. Tigger traipsed after me. I scooped him up and chuffed his chin. “Did you miss me?” He purred his assent. “Good answer.” I set him on the floor.

  “Jenna,” my aunt said, “perfect timing. I’m thinking we should plant pansies in our floral pot.” She displayed her iPad to me. On the screen were a dozen pictures of spring flowers. “What do you think?”

  “Okay.” I paired a slice of manchego cheese and a cracker from the platter Katie had provided. She had a sixth sense about when any of us needed sustenance.

  “I think we should do perennials,” Bailey said.

  Was it just me or had her baby tummy doubled in size in the last few days? Her lilac smock-style blouse billowed forward.

  “Maybe we should make a fairy garden,” she went on. “I saw one at the Renaissance Fair last year. You know, with a water feature and elves. It was darling. Fairies bring good vibrations to all involved.”

  “Fairies don’t exist,” I said.

  “Says who?” my aunt chirped.

  “We could always use additional good vibrations,” Bailey went on, undeterred by my skepticism. “We could start with a miniature gazebo at the center and add a bonsai fir. It’ll look like a giant redwood.”

  The mention of bonsais made me flash on the plants in Ivy’s gardening room. Why had she created so many? Had she done so to enhance her soul as she’d claimed to Crusibella during their argument?

  “Whatever you two decide is fine with me,” I said judiciously. “In the meantime, I’ll check on our orders. Afterward, let’s break down the display window. In addition to our floral-themed cookbooks, I’m thinking we should feature a window box filled with silk flowers plus gardening tools and a few of our novelty items.”

  “And a fairy,” Bailey chimed.

  “Okay, a fairy, too,” I repeated. “Why not?”

  An hour later, as I was setting up boxes to hold the book club–themed items that hadn’t sold, I glimpsed Cinnamon and her father crossing the parking lot. In her uniform, she came across as all business, while he looked jaunty in a panama and lightweight suit. Even his gait was brisk. They entered the café.

  Eager to find out if she had talked with Lola, I hurried along the breezeway to greet them. I whispered to our perky hostess, “If it’s okay, I’ll seat them.”

  “Go for it.” She pointed to a table on her chart and handed me two menus.

  I strode to Cinnamon and her father. “Table for two? Right this way.”

  Cinnamon gave me an icy look. I ignored it and led them to the designated table.

  “Mr. Pritchett, how nice to see you again,” I said as he took his seat. “Coming for tea? We have an extensive selection. I have a fondness for Earl Grey.”

  “I’m partial to orange pekoe.”

  “I’m glad you two hooked up.” I handed each a menu. “Cinnamon was getting worried about you.”

  She shot me another surly look.

  “My phone died,” Noah said. “I forgot to bring my charger. Had to buy a new one.” That sounded like a reasonable explanation. To make his point, he tapped the cell phone that he’d set faceup on the table.

  “I like your suit, sir,” I said. “Is it new, too?”

  “Yep. And the hat. I went to the haberdasher at the north end of town.”

  “Great Threads.”

  “That’s the one. I hadn’t bought a suit in the longest time.”

  Had he ventured into the shop to get a read on Hank? Even though Noah had run out on Pepper and remarried, he might have her best interests at heart.

  “My daughter”—he hesitated and licked his lips—“Cinnamon’s half sister is getting married in September. It’ll be an informal wedding. This suit will be perfect.”

  “Will you attend?” I asked Cinnamon, curious about what Pepper’s reaction to the news would be.

  Noah answered for her. “Of course she will.”

  A waitress brought two glasses of water. Cinnamon took a sip.

  “It’ll be fun to have a sister, won’t it, Cinnamon?” I asked.

  She screwed up her mouth, obviously dubious about meeting two perfect strangers nearly ten years her junior. Was she wondering what they might have in common?

  One big happy family, I mused. “Say, Cinnamon,” I said as casually as I could, “did you happen to chat with Lola, about your father and Ivy?”

  “We’ll discuss it later.” She whipped open her menu.

  “Me and Ivy?” Noah tilted his head.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I decided. “You were at the Pelican Brief Diner. Last Friday.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. The owner recognized you. She believed you wanted to talk to Ivy Beale.”

  “I don’t know anybody by that name,” Noah said.

  “Bobbed blond hair. Pretty features.”

  “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “She was sitting with—”

  “The woman who died, Dad,” Cinnamon cut in. “Why did you want to speak with her? Why did you lie and say you came to town days later?”

  His cheeks flushed pink. “I was hoping to—” He stopped mid-sentence.

  “Hoping to what?” Cinnamon demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “C’mon,” she coaxed. “Jenna has so kindly brought the subject to the fore.” Her sarcasm was not lost on me.

  Noah licked his lips. “I was hoping to speak to the guy she was with.”

  “Oren Michaels,” I said.

  “Why?” Cinnamon leaned forward on her elbows and casually folded her hands together, a patient and experienced interrogator.

  Noah lowered his chin, not making eye contact. “About a business deal.”

  “What kind of business deal?” she asked. “You run a nursery. He’s a fisherman. What business could you two possibly have?”

  Noah lifted his glass and guzzled down half the water.

  “Dad?” Cinnamon prodded.

  “I’m . . . I’m thinking of investing in fish oil fertilizer.” He was stammering. Was he making it up on the fly?

  “Get real,” she countered.

  “No kidding. Fish oil’s good for nutrients in soil. It’s rich in organic matter and breaks down slowly to feed plants and soil microbes over time.” He checked his watch. “I have to call my boss.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and started to stand.

  Cinnamon clutched his wrist and held on firmly until he sank into his chair. “In a minute.” She signaled for me to leave.

  I didn’t go far. As I busied myself at the tea and coffee station, I overheard them talking about how Noah was trying to impress his new boss with his work ethic. As he talked, he repeatedly eyed his cell phone. He claimed he hadn’t spoken with Oren yet—Oren was elusive—but he knew Oren was the kind of man who would appreciate a business proposal.

  I returned to the table and said, “So what would you like to order? Orange pekoe for you, Noah.” I smiled at Cinnamon. She was not happy that I’d made my way back so soon. “We have delicious scones today as well as lemon-lavender tea cakes.”

  “I’ll take the cheese and fruit plate.” Noah set down his menu. “Which reminds me. I do have something important to tell you.”

  Cinnamon closed her menu without ordering, her gaze fixed on her father.

  “It’s about your mother,” he went on.

  “Dad, we don’t need to rehash the past.”

  “This isn’t about the past. It’s about the present. Well, the recent past, I suppose. Now that I’ve told you I was in town as of Friday, if it helps, I saw your mother at her house making what I think was an appetizer on Saturday afternoon.”

  Cinnamon raised an eyebrow. “Did she tell you to say that?”

  “Are you kidding me? We haven’t spoken. In fact, I didn’t say it earlier because she ticked me off the other day.” Noah shrugged. “I can hold a grudge.”r />
  “She was pretty caustic,” I admitted.

  “On a side note,” Noah went on, “and this will prove I’m not lying, she was singing along with Frank Sinatra. She was playing the album on the turntable I bought for our first Christmas.”

  “This is wonderful news, Cinnamon,” I said. “Remember how your mother said she was singing?”

  Skeptically, Cinnamon worked her tongue along the inside of her mouth.

  “I wanted to talk to her,” Noah went on, “but I didn’t have the courage to knock on the door.”

  “Which song?” she asked.

  ‘“Spring Is Here.’”

  “Her favorite,” Cinnamon muttered.

  “I thought I might upset her if I showed up all of a sudden.” He drummed the table. “I hung around trying to muster up the nerve, but, well”—he leaned back in his chair and wagged his thumbs at his face—“I’m a coward.”

  “Are you also a peeping Tom?” Cinnamon chided.

  Noah winked. “Only the kind who can give her an alibi.”

  Chapter 22

  Taking down a display and installing a new one was always time-consuming. It required attention to detail and plenty of patience. So did planting a pot of herbs. Aunt Vera had landed on the brilliant idea of giving our pot a culinary theme. Hearing Simon and Garfunkel crooning “parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme” had given her the inspiration. She’d affixed stickers with the words of the herbs to the pot and had purchased thirty small containers of herbs to install. No fir tree. No fairies—this time. Bailey had gone home to rest. Yes, I was worried about her, but Tito had taken the day off to tend to her. I was pretty sure ice cream would be involved.

  Early afternoon, after nursing my hands back to health with lotion—soil amendments, dirt, and water could wreak havoc on one’s skin—I helped Tina with the myriad customers. Spring Fling had brought an entirely new crowd of tourists. One of the books we’d set out, Wild Cocktails from the Midnight Apothecary: Over 100 recipes using home-grown and foraged fruits, herbs, and edible flowers was getting a lot of buzz. It was packed with beautiful photographs and tips. There was even a glossary and a wealth of website links. I noticed a couple of ladies tittering about one of the exotic recipes.