Sifting Through Clues

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  She pressed her lips together. Her cheeks tinged pink.

  “How did Alastair know?” I asked.

  “My girlfriend must have blabbed to a few friends,” Tina replied. “I meant to tell you first. Well, not tell. Ask. But . . .” She flailed a hand. “I had a chat with my father. I hadn’t talked to him in a long time. I was always closer to my uncle, but you know . . .” Ever since Tina’s aunt was murdered, she’d had a tough time communicating with her uncle. “Anyway, my father said I had to give culinary school a try before it was too late. Go full time. No distractions. He said he didn’t follow his dreams and had always regretted it.”

  I really did need to check the calendar and remind myself we were not yet in June preparing for Father’s Day. Otherwise, I was way behind on ordering relevant cookbooks.

  “He offered to help with expenses,” Tina went on. “He recommended I take a full load. No extra jobs. No dicey boyfriends. How could I refuse?” She spread her arms. “He wants to get married.”

  “Your father?”

  “No, silly.” She tittered. “My boyfriend. He proposed last night, but I told him what my father said. He was not pleased. Did I care? No, I did not. You want to know why? Because I heard through the grapevine that he went out on another date with that redhead. Did he think I wouldn’t find out? Naughty, naughty.” She scraped one finger against another in the blame gesture. “Too-ra-loo,” she crooned like my aunt often did. “Oh, and guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Back to real life for a second.” She tapped my forearm. “I put in for a grant to cover all my books and maybe even a few incidentals, and I think I’ll get it because of need. Yay. Your aunt said during my reading that I’m on a financial upswing. Everything is going to get easier. She even hinted that there might be more than a grant in my future.” She clapped her hands, her enthusiasm engaging. “Maybe that means I’ll win the lottery. I bought a ticket. I’d like to go to France for an immersion program and eat éclairs, petit fours, and the five mother sauces.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  She gazed at me intently. “I hope you’re not mad at me.”

  “I’m overjoyed for you. I love seeing young people achieve their dreams.”

  Listen to me. Young people. You’d think I was ancient.

  “Consider this my two weeks notice,” she said. “If you hire Alastair, I’ll train him.” She nodded in his direction. “He’s quite dreamy looking, isn’t he?”

  “Eyes forward, missy,” I said. “No boyfriends until after you graduate.”

  She mock-pouted. “Yes, boss.”

  I left her to tend the cash register and took an application form to Alastair, who was helping Bailey cut crepe paper. “Alastair . . .”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He shot to his feet and pressed the wrinkles from the legs of his chinos.

  “Fill this out,” I said, impressed with his enthusiasm but leery of his status in Ivy’s murder. “Have you had other offers of employment?”

  “Crusibella isn’t hiring. Miss Fairchild said she won’t have an opening until Thanksgiving and that would be temporary.”

  “Well, take your time with the form. I’ll need to call previous employers—” I balked. “That was insensitive of me. Please list employers prior to your current situation.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The front door opened and Deputy Appleby strode in. Not in uniform. Dressed in a white shirt, blue slacks, white boater, and tennis shoes, he looked like he was prepared to take a walk.

  Alastair stiffened. He took a step toward the deputy but held back when Appleby stopped next to my aunt and whispered in her ear. She suggested he get something to eat in the breezeway and held up her hand, fingers spread, meaning she would join him in five minutes. After she concluded her consultation with Crusibella and Z.Z.

  I whispered to Alastair. “Do you want to talk to the deputy?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean”—he hitched a thumb—“I saw Chief Pritchett as she was skating away and yelled that I needed to speak with her, but she didn’t stop. She probably didn’t hear me.”

  Even though Cinnamon had said she would speak to Alastair, she was a woman on a mission to relax. Could I blame her for waiting until the end of the day to return to duty?

  “Why did you want to talk to her?” I asked.

  “Because I lied about my alibi the night Ivy died. I want to confess.”

  My pulse kicked up a notch. “Let me get the deputy for you.”

  I strode into the breezeway. “Deputy Appleby.”

  “Hey, Jenna.” He’d eaten half of a muffin decorated with flowerfetti icing. “I never knew you could eat flowers.”

  “Katie’s putting them in and on everything during Spring Fling. Got a second?”

  “Sure.” Appleby polished off his muffin and tossed the cupcake wrapper in the wastepaper basket to the right of the treats table.

  I escorted him back to the shop. “You look quite dapper.”

  “I’m taking your aunt on a midday stroll. She wants to improve her health. I suggested we walk twenty to forty minutes every day.”

  “Excellent.” I led him to Alastair. “Before you go on that stroll, Mr. Dukas has something to tell you. Go on, Alastair.”

  Alastair filled his cheeks with air and let out a quick breath. “Sir, I lied about my alibi on the night Ivy died. I wasn’t doing inventory at Dreamcatcher.”

  “Deputy, my father will confirm that,” I said. “He was touring the town and noticed the shop was closed and all the lights were off. He texted Cinnamon, but she never received the text.”

  “I didn’t kill Ivy, sir,” Alastair rushed to add. “You see, after she told me for the last time that she wasn’t interested in me because I was too young, she fired me, and—”

  “She fired you?” I blurted.

  “Let me ask the questions, Jenna,” Appleby said.

  “You bet. Sorry to interrupt. Continue, Alastair.”

  “Yes, she fired me. She said it was hard having me around because she found me attractive, so she needed me out of her sight.” As he swooped hair off his face and his biceps flexed, I could see why women of any age might find him distracting. “Anyway, that smarted, so I went on a bender.”

  “A bender,” Appleby repeated.

  “I got plowed, but, see, I don’t drink. Ever.” Alastair chopped one hand against the other. “Until that night, I’d never had a drink in my life.”

  “Because of your father,” I stated.

  Alastair nodded.

  I said to Appleby, “His father was a drunk.”

  “Not was. Is. But not a mean one, just useless,” Alastair said. “I, on the other hand, wanted to make something of myself. Live a life fulfilled.”

  Appleby said, “Got any proof?”

  “An empty bottle of scotch.”

  “That won’t substantiate your claim, son.”

  “I took selfies.”

  “Let me see.” Appleby held out a hand.

  “They aren’t pretty. I’m puking.” Alastair pulled his cell phone from his pocket and swiped the screen. He opened the camera icon and displayed the images to the deputy. “That’s me in my bathroom. I took the photos to remind myself never to touch booze again. It’s poison.”

  “For some,” Appleby said. “Not for all.”

  “Look closely.” Alastair stabbed one of the pictures. “They’re time-stamped. I can’t doctor that.”

  Appleby nodded. “That pretty much covers the time period the coroner gave for time of death. Okay, young man, you may have been drunk, but you used your head and documented it. Good for you. I’ll need you to forward those pictures to me.” He handed Alastair a business card.

  “Will do.”

  Appleby strolled to the front door to wait for my aunt to change into suitable walking clothes—her caftan was too cumbersome—and Alastair moved to the sales counter to transmit photographs.

  Me? I didn’t budge. I gazed around the shop, not r
egistering faces as I tried to figure out who was still a suspect in Ivy’s death. Hank had an alibi. Crusibella did, too. Pepper was in the clear, and now Alastair had removed his name from my list.

  Unless I was missing something, only Oren Michaels and Noah Pritchett, given the coincidental timing of his arrival in town, were left.

  Chapter 31

  An hour later, as Bailey was giving her spiel to twenty attentive customers about how to neatly attach a petal to a floral stem, my father walked into the shop.

  “Jenna,” he called.

  Worried that our customers might miss some of Bailey’s instructions if he joined me, I hurried to him. “What’s up?” Had his ears been burning? I’d been thinking about him ever since the Father’s Day trend had started.

  “I haven’t been able to reach Cinnamon,” he said. “She hasn’t responded to my text, either.”

  “She’s taking a personal day. Why are you so eager to touch base?”

  “I wanted her to know that I’m meeting her father for brunch.”

  “Are you sure you’ve got the date right? She’s rollerblading with him.”

  “Well, he agreed to meet, so maybe she has a few other personal things to do”—Dad waggled his eyebrows—“like spending time with her husband.”

  “Why are you meeting with Noah?”

  Dad slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “I want to draw a bead on him. Find out what his true intentions are and learn more about this fish oil fertilizer deal.”

  “Did Lola put you up to this?”

  He grinned. “I’ll have you know I came up with the plan myself.”

  I patted him on the shoulder. “Aren’t you a good surrogate father for Cinnamon, always there in a pinch.”

  “I’m there for you, too.”

  “Yes, for me, as well. For all of us. You are a rock.”

  My father’s cheeks turned crimson. He didn’t take compliments easily. In his world, everyone was expected to do his or her best. “Do you want to join us?” he asked. “It might make the meeting seem less hostile.”

  Did I ever. “Let me make sure everything here is covered.”

  Tina promised me she could tend to the few customers who were browsing books. “And Gran’s here,” she added. “If I truly need help, she’s always willing to pitch in. She knows the merchandise as well as we do.”

  “Let’s go.” I gave Dad a nudge and followed him to the café.

  As Noah had informed me earlier, the place was bustling. Nearly every table was filled with garden club members wearing floral-bedecked hats or floral-themed dresses. The hostess found us a table for four in the far corner. We sat and unfolded our napkins.

  Dad said, “Customers seem to be enjoying the books you’ve placed on the bookcases.”

  I nodded. “So far, no major mishaps. No ruined books.”

  “You could donate any damaged copies to the library.”

  The mention of the library made me think of Darian. I hoped she would seek therapy and ultimately leave her husband. No woman should be abused.

  Minutes after we received our menus, Noah strolled into the café. He’d changed into regular street clothes and a pair of loafers. He sat between my father and me and set his cell phone on the table. “Nice to see you again, Jenna.” He swiped the phone’s screen, checked email, and pushed the cell phone away. “Sorry, business.”

  We ordered quickly—a seafood omelet for me, lavender Belgian waffles for the men—and then my father started in, slowly at first, softening him up by asking Noah about his wife and daughters.

  After our meals were served, Dad asked more pointed questions. “Why come to Crystal Cove now?”

  “As I told Pepper, I heard she was in trouble. What better time to address a business opportunity?”

  “How do you know Oren?”

  “He and I connected online. I knew his father from when I lived here before.”

  My father frowned. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  Noah lifted his chin like a fighter daring my father to throw a punch.

  “I’ve done a bit of research on fish oil fertilizer,” Dad continued, ignoring the challenge. “There’s plenty of the stuff around. Huge companies make it. What’s your plan for manufacturing it?”

  “It’s not fully formed.”

  “How will you get enough from one fisherman to stock a thriving business? And do you have a sales plan in place?”

  Noah’s face went blank. He sputtered but said nothing, which confirmed what I’d surmised. He had made the business deal up on the fly.

  The theory I’d come up with before reared its ugly head. I said, “Noah, what do you know about bonsai trees?”

  “They’re short and easy to kill,” he wisecracked.

  “Did you know some are smuggled internationally?”

  “Really? Fascinating. As I said, I’ve killed a few in my day. Never touch the things now. Too expensive.”

  My father took a sip of water and eyed me over the rim of the glass.

  I winked at him. “Did you know Ivy Beale was a bonsai collector?”

  “The woman who died?”

  “Yes, she had dozens in her house.”

  “She must have had a green thumb.” Noah’s tone was even, his gaze neutral.

  “I heard that a bonsai made from a Japanese thousand-year-old pine sold for over a million dollars.”

  “Wow, who’d have guessed?” Noah grew serious. He laced his hands together and lasered me with his gaze. “Is there a point to this banter, Jenna?”

  Dad and I exchanged a look. He gestured for me to continue. At the same time our waitress arrived with our meals. She set my omelet down first.

  After she left, Noah aimed his knife at me. “I think I get where you’re going with this. You want to know if I knew Ivy Beale and had a reason to kill her. No and no. I never met her. I really did go to the Pelican Brief to talk to Oren Michaels.”

  “Why?” My father stared hard at the knife. “Not for business. Oren would be talking up your deal if there were any truth to it.”

  Noah set the knife down. Chin lowered, he whispered, “Because I’m a victim of an extortion scam. A guy emailed me and said I did something bad and threatened that if I didn’t pay up, he’d reveal it.”

  “So that’s why you’re always checking your cell phone,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Was it someone named Goodguy?”

  “How do you—”

  “I’m being extorted, too.”

  “What?” my father gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I think it’s a crock, Dad. I didn’t do anything bad. Did you, Noah?”

  He heaved a sigh. “Sadly, yes. I borrowed some money from the till at work to pay for my daughter’s medical bills. She’s twenty-seven and didn’t have insurance. She’d planned on getting it but hadn’t gotten around to it. Then she had a female issue.”

  “A female issue?” my father repeated.

  “Breast cancer. The doctor was worried the cancer was aggressive. She needed an emergency lumpectomy. She couldn’t wait to apply for insurance, and even if she did, given the current state of the market, the insurer probably wouldn’t cover her preexisting condition. I told the doctor we’d pay cash. She worked with us on a deal, but I didn’t have enough money, so I took”—he cleared his throat—“a small loan. Someone must have caught me on camera.”

  “Why didn’t you ask your boss for an advance?” my father asked.

  “That would have been the sane thing to do, but I wasn’t in my right mind. I thought my daughter was dying. I—” Noah studied the silverware before raising his chin. “I intend to pay the money back in full. I’m waiting for my biannual bonus. Sales have been through the roof.”

  “So what did you do when you received the email from the extortionist?” Dad asked.

  “I didn’t have the money to pay. I was tapped out.”

  “So you reached out to Oren?”

  “To his fathe
r. He insisted I talk to Oren.”

  “Why?” my father asked.

  I said, “Because Oren was being scammed, too, as were a few of his friends. Oren paid up and the blackmailer backed off. He’s been advising his friends to do the same.”

  “There are more?” My father’s eyes widened.

  “A number right here in town.”

  Noah gawped. “Honestly?”

  “Yep.” I gestured to him. “Go on. You said Oren—”

  “Hold on. I’m getting to that.” Noah raised his index finger. “Needless to say, I was furious. I wanted to nip it in the bud. As it turns out, my youngest daughter is quite computer-savvy. To keep up with her, I’ve taken a few online classes. With what little knowledge I had, I realized the extortionist’s website, Scarletavenger.com, was a unique domain. Not Gmail or Yahoo or the like. So I did some research and found out it’s owned by none other than”—he did a drumroll on the table—“Oren himself.”

  I gasped.

  Noah bobbed his head. “There isn’t a photograph of him on the site, and there’s no personal info, but he put up pictures of that boat he plans to buy. I figured it out.”

  I mentally smacked my forehead. Pepper had remembered Goodguy’s email domain as vengeance dot something not avenger; neither Bailey nor I had paid attention to it. Jake’s Joy of the Sea was a beautiful red Avenger, top of its class. A scarlet Avenger.

  “I came to town to have it out with the guy, but I haven’t been able to get him alone,” Noah said. “So you see? I had nothing to do with Ivy Beale. Never met her. My business is with Oren.” He tucked into his meal.

  “How many more people is he extorting?” my father asked.

  As I listed them, another notion came to me. “The notepads.”

  My father shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  I told him about the memos I’d seen at Ivy’s house. “What if Ivy figured out what Oren was doing? What if she was chronicling his actions?”

  “Why not contact the police?”

  “Because she didn’t have enough proof.” I snapped my fingers. “Or maybe she did contact them, via email, but Oren, who was on to her, deleted the communication. Cinnamon said Ivy’s email had been hacked.”