Sifting Through Clues

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Late in the afternoon, Crusibella and Z.Z. rushed in, cornered my aunt, and plunked into chairs at the vintage table. Both women seemed excited, in a good way. While they pieced together the new Herbs for Health jigsaw puzzle we’d laid out, I overheard Z.Z. say that it was time to secure a loan. Had Z.Z. or the executor finally convinced the Beale family to sell Dreamcatcher? For Crusibella’s sake, I hoped so.

  Unfortunately I was too busy to get the scoop, and then the moment Crusibella and Z.Z. hurried out, my aunt left on a date with the deputy, and Pepper bustled in.

  “Jenna. Do you have a minute?” Pepper’s beaded necklace was twisted in a knot and all the zippers on her tote bag were unzipped.

  I glanced at Tina, who was dealing with the last few customers. “Sure.” I settled onto the chair my aunt had vacated at the vintage table and motioned for Pepper to sit. She did. Tigger leaped into my lap and stared at our visitor. Waiting expectantly. When Pepper didn’t speak, I said, “Did you hear your ex-husband provided an alibi for you?”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. He told me as well as your daughter. Hours ago.” Why hadn’t Cinnamon called her mother? Leaving her hanging was cruel.

  “I . . .” Pepper gripped her necklace and began to twist. “I . . .”

  I waited, expecting her to continue. She didn’t.

  “You’re exonerated,” I said. “Call your daughter. She’ll confirm it.”

  “I can’t.” Pepper lowered her gaze. Tears dripped down her cheeks. She swiped them away but didn’t look up.

  I leaned forward but didn’t touch her. I was afraid she might crack. “Pepper, what’s wrong?”

  “Someone saw me.”

  “Saw you where?”

  “Outside Ivy’s. The day she died. I received an email. Whoever sent it said they have a photograph to prove it. They said I have to pay them or else.”

  I sat taller. Were threatening emails a new trend? I said, “But you weren’t there.”

  “Yes, I was. I lied.” She gazed at me intently. “I went there. In the afternoon. Before I started putting together my cheese appetizer.” She drew in a deep breath, as if she couldn’t get enough air. “I couldn’t handle not knowing where Ivy stood with Hank. We met for about ten minutes. She assured me she wasn’t into him. And I swear she was alive when I left.”

  “Why did you worry about her and Hank later on then?”

  She rubbed the underside of her nose. “Because Ivy was known to lie, and I lack confidence when it comes to men. I couldn’t believe someone as dapper and charismatic as Hank would be interested in me. When I heard Ivy had set her sights on him . . .” She twirled a hand. “She was so pretty and worldly. She could snare anybody.” Pepper stared at her hands, her misery obvious.

  “Tell me about the email.”

  “The blackmailer said he had a picture. One of Ivy’s neighbors must have taken it. Or maybe the person on the bicycle.”

  “Person on the bicycle?”

  “There was someone straddling a bicycle down the street.”

  “Male or female?”

  “I don’t know. The sunglasses and helmet made it impossible to tell.”

  “I’m sure the police have questioned the neighbors,” I said. “If a witness came forward with proof of your whereabouts, you’d have been asked about it by now.”

  “Maybe my daughter found out and intervened.”

  I shook my head. “She wouldn’t do that. She’s all about rules.” My stomach twisted in a knot. Maybe this was why Cinnamon hadn’t told her mother about her ex-husband’s corroborating account.

  “The extortionist . . .” Pepper toyed with her beads again. “That’s what he is, right?”

  I nodded.

  “He—it could be a she, I suppose—said I need to pay five thousand dollars in bitcoin to obtain the original photograph.”

  I whistled. That was the same amount my blackmailer had demanded.

  Pepper released the beads and bit back a sob. “I’ve . . . I’ve never used bitcoin for a transaction,” she stammered. “I don’t know how.”

  I tapped her wrist. “Hold on. Did you view the photo the extortionist claimed to have?”

  “No. I didn’t see an attachment.”

  “I believe this is a scam. I received the same kind of threatening email.”

  “Were you caught on camera outside Ivy’s?”

  “No, that’s just it. I didn’t do anything wrong. There is no photo. Scammers make vague accusations to bait people into paying them. Do you remember the sender’s email address?”

  “Good something.”

  “Goodguy?” I asked.

  She nodded. “At vengeance dot something.”

  “That’s the same as mine.” I stabbed the table with a fingertip. “The email you received is bogus. Ignore it.”

  “Except . . .” She shivered. “I. Was. There.”

  Tigger reached out to Pepper. I allowed him to go to her.

  She lifted him beneath his forearms and nestled him in her lap. “Jenna, I have to pay, or else—”

  “Don’t do it. You know you didn’t kill Ivy.”

  “The police—”

  “Think you’re innocent. You have an alibi. Your ex-husband heard you singing along with Sinatra.”

  “How could he have?”

  “He was lingering outside your place. He wanted to talk to you, but he couldn’t find the courage. He waited a few days before meeting you at your shop.”

  “You mean accosting me.”

  I pointed to her tote bag. “Do you still have the email on your cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me see it.”

  She set Tigger on the floor, withdrew her cell phone, opened the email app, and then the email itself. She rotated her phone so I could view it.

  I nodded. “The wording is almost identical to the email I received.” Although hers was more specific. I scrolled down and gasped.

  “What’s wrong?” Pepper asked with alarm.

  “There is a photograph. Embedded and really small. Too small to make out if it’s you. We can’t click it. It could be malware.”

  “Mal-what?”

  I explained.

  She let out a panicked squeak. “I’m doomed.”

  Who was this Goodguy? Certainly not a knight in shining armor. Was it the killer? Maybe he or she had been at Ivy’s when Pepper showed up and had seen an ideal opportunity to implicate someone else.

  Pepper started to hyperventilate.

  “Breathe. Do you need a paper bag?” Her skin was pale and her eyes watery.

  She shook her head and clapped a hand on her chest. “I’m . . . okay.”

  “I’m going to put Bailey on the case,” I said. “She’s a whiz with this stuff.”

  “You can’t tell Cinnamon,” Pepper pleaded. “Promise.”

  Keeping information from the police went against my grain, but I agreed. For now. “Go home. Eat a nice dinner.”

  “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Drink tea then. Hug your cat. I’ll touch base when I have something.”

  When she left, I stewed. Bailey could build a website and she’d taken lots of computer classes during college. She’d even been the target of an online phishing scam a couple of years ago. Had she learned how to track down a hacker after that incident? If not, maybe I could hire an expert to follow the leads. Dad had to know someone in the FBI who could do so. On the other hand, he would probably order me to confide in Cinnamon A.S.A.P.

  I sent Bailey a text message outlining my plan, added Call me, and headed home. I had chores to do. It had been over ten days since I’d focused on my cottage. I hoped doing the mundane would encourage the little gray cells, as Hercule Poirot would say, to work.

  While sorting laundry, I listened to Judy Garland croon upbeat tunes. If only I felt so cheery. Who had killed Ivy? If I deduced the motive, could I figure out who the culprit was and help Pepper in the process? I knew Cinnamon and her crew were on the
case. Would they uncover the truth? In the meantime, if she found out that her mother had lied . . .

  Tigger mewed.

  I petted his head. “Yes, you’re right. Think outside the box. Who else other than Pepper might have wanted Ivy dead?”

  Maybe concentrating on the crime scene would help. I fetched a handful of three-by-five cards. On the first I wrote: quartz shard. A kitchen knife would have been much easier to wield. Why use the quartz? I sketched the shard and set the card aside.

  On a second card, I wrote: eyestones. According to Cinnamon, the painted eyes were facedown on Ivy’s eyes. Had the killer done that on purpose or made a mistake? Alastair knew the significance of the stones. So did Crusibella. Oren might have. Did Hank? On the third card, I drew a green stone to represent the aventurine; it ended up looking more like Kryptonite. Sue me. I’d never become a geology artist.

  Why had the killer placed the pieces of aventurine in Ivy’s hands? To signify love, accuse a lover, or indicate Ivy needed healing? What if the killer had used it to point out Ivy’s inadequate knowledge of the nuances of the stones? I recalled Ivy advising Crusibella to wrap her hand around a piece of it during their argument, and Crusibella chiding Ivy for not knowing the true nature of what aventurine did. Was that significant?

  Crusibella had an alibi, if she was to be believed. So did Oren. He had traveled to a bay two hours north of town. Alastair’s and Hank’s alibis were iffy, although neither Hank nor Alastair had a strong motive to want Ivy dead as far as I could see. So what if Ivy told Alastair he was too young for her, and big deal if she’d called Hank cheap, unless he had a very fragile ego. Now, if Hank had a secret lover and Ivy threatened to expose him . . .

  I glanced at my cell phone. No response text from Bailey yet. Not even a peep saying On it. Worried that she was suffering, I set aside the three-by-fives and called her. The call rolled into voice mail. Dang. I texted Tito. He didn’t respond, either.

  Desperate to talk to someone, I dialed Rhett, even though I knew he was occupied entertaining a pair of vintners from Napa Valley who were interested in opening a restaurant in Crystal Cove. Having interacted with Rhett when he’d worked at the Grotto, they now wanted his input on what our town needed. The call also rolled into voice mail. I left a quick message telling him I loved him and added when he had a moment to please touch base.

  For the next few minutes, I sifted through my mail, which were mostly offers for new credit cards. After my debacle of a marriage, I paid cash for everything. I tossed the junk in the recycle bin and sat on the floor to play with my cat.

  Tigger never tired of the bat-the-knotted-ball-of-yarn game. I hurled it against the wall. It ricocheted and shot under the Ching cabinet. After pawing at it for a bit, Tigger gave in and scuttled beneath the cabinet.

  While he was out of sight, I thought about Pepper again. Would the extortionist hang her out to dry? I couldn’t let her lose face with her mother. I had to help her nip the problem in the bud.

  Tigger emerged from beneath the cabinet victorious. He dropped the ball of yarn by my side and mewled: More playtime.

  “Hungry.” I mimed feeding myself.

  He trotted to where I fed him and peered up at me.

  “Yes, you first.”

  I gave him some tuna and then, craving something savory for myself, made cheddar scones using a recipe Katie had given me the week before. I’d purchased all the ingredients, paying heed to her note about using only the best cheese. I tasted a bite of the Beecher’s Flagship Aged Cheddar I’d purchased and knew I’d made an excellent choice.

  As I sifted the flour with the white pepper, I thought again about Cinnamon. Had she confirmed Crusibella’s alibi with a counselor at Overeaters Anonymous? Did Crusibella’s admission that she’d slinked through the alley near Hog Heaven clear her of the crime?

  Dang, I hated suspecting people I liked.

  While the scones baked, I poured myself a glass of sauvignon blanc and readdressed the three-by-five cards. I made cards for each suspect. On each, I scribbled a possible motive. Then I spread the cards out and glanced from one to the other. What was I missing?

  The timer went off signifying the scones were done. I pulled the tray from the oven, placed it on the stovetop, and reset the timer. Given the aroma, it was nearly impossible to wait the obligatory cooling time of twenty minutes. To occupy myself, I dusted the living room and straightened the pillows on the couch as well as the magazines on the coffee table.

  As I was putting a concoction together to feed my only live plant—a peace lily Aunt Vera had given me—I thought again about the bonsai at the crime scene. Had the killer placed the plant beside Ivy’s head as a warning, as Z.Z. had suggested?

  Over the years, I’d sketched many cypress trees, so drawing the miniature tree on a three-by-five card was effortless. When I finished, I stared at the sketch, wondering whether each style of bonsai held a different meaning. Ivy had potted so many. Did the one by her head have a special meaning? I wrote the question on the card and, for inspiration, decided to do some online research. I typed the word bonsai into the search bar. Up came numerous images of bonsais, seed kits, and the like. Scrolling down, I found a Wikipedia page as well as sites explaining how to grow bonsais, the value of Zen gardening, and more. Intrigued, I continued my search. A few pages later, I noticed an interesting trend. Apparently, some traders had gone to jail for smuggling exotic foreign bonsai plants into the United States. Some of them were worth millions of dollars.

  Ding. The timer went off. Unable to resist any longer, I made a note on the bonsai notecard, closed my search, and headed for the scones.

  While nibbling my treat, I studied the cards. Were the police zeroing in on someone who I didn’t have on my suspect list? A neighbor? A disgruntled customer? Ivy’s parents? A bonsai smuggler? Would the authorities bring the killer in before Pepper succumbed to the extortionist?

  Knowing I couldn’t solve anything tonight, and with no call or text from Tito, Rhett, or Bailey, I downed another scone and headed to bed.

  • • •

  Needless to say, I slept fitfully. Eating late was never a good idea. I awoke with a major headache. Instead of taking medicine, I applied a cold washcloth to the base of my neck. It helped. So did an egg-and-sausage sandwich and a hot shower. To bolster my mood, I dressed in a pair of ecru capris and my favorite aqua sweater.

  While drying my hair, I glanced at my cell phone and noticed two texts. I’d muted the sound on my cell phone and hadn’t heard either text come in. One was from Rhett: Didn’t want to wake you. Meeting went late. You okay? The other from Bailey: Sorry, baby moving like crazy all night. Couldn’t concentrate. Will do my best today.

  Because I was running late, I decided to respond to both when I got to work. A crisp breeze brushed my face as I stepped outside. Surf pounded the shore with a boom. Tigger snuggled into me. He didn’t appreciate when big waves crested.

  “It’s okay, boy,” I cooed, hooking him over my shoulder. “Don’t—”

  I halted. My mother’s Schwinn was lying beside my VW. Who had placed it there? I always parked it next to the cottage, kickstand down. I inched closer and yelped. Someone had slashed the tires.

  Aunt Vera hurried out her front door. “Jenna, dear, are you okay?”

  I gaped at her.

  “You screamed. Are you all right?” She hurried down the stairs, the folds of her ocean blue caftan swishing, and skirted the rear of my car. “Why did you—” She gasped. “Oh, my.”

  My heart chug-a-lugged in my chest.

  “You don’t think it was personal, do you?” she asked. “Like the last time?” By the last time she meant when the killer had hung a black wreath on my door. “Would Crusibella have done this?” My aunt hitched her head toward our neighbor’s house.

  I spied Crusibella’s poodle sitting at the window, nose pressed to the glass. Was he acting as lookout dog? I whispered, “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “Have you been asking too man
y questions, incurring the killer’s wrath?”

  “Aunt Vera, be serious.”

  “I’m deadly serious.”

  I checked the pavement for footprints or any kind of clue that might reveal the identity of the culprit. There was nothing. The morning breeze had swept the area clear of debris.

  Aunt Vera clucked her tongue. “That’s it, young lady. I’m hiring a security guard, and you are going to report this to the police. No argument.”

  Chapter 23

  Of course, I argued and suggested a vandal or a wayward teenager, as my sister would say, might have slashed the tires. My aunt huffed. I huffed louder. Truth be told, I didn’t want to call the police until I had something more concrete.

  The moment I arrived at the Cookbook Nook, I set Tigger on his kitty condo—having picked up on my worry, he was wired and in need of distraction—and then I booted up the computer and searched for sites that carried tires for the Schwinn. Because it was an older model, I had to search for quite a while.

  Aunt Vera, clearly perturbed with me for not taking her advice, started dusting shelves. They didn’t need it. It was her way of burying her irritation. The noisier, the better. Swish-swish.

  Tina sashayed in minutes after us, whistling a merry tune.

  “You’re in a cheery mood,” I said.

  “The sun is shining. The weather is blissful. And kissing is good for the soul.”

  Apparently, things were working out well with the boyfriend.

  “Morning, Vera,” Tina said. “Don’t you look nice? I love, love, love the color of your caftan. Great minds think alike.” Tina’s skater dress was a darker shade of turquoise but close enough.

  Aunt Vera grunted.

  “Why is she grumpy?” Tina whispered.

  “She’s mad at me. Give her a wide berth.”

  “That won’t last long. She adores you.”

  “Not today.”