Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9)

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Why would I? We don’t check in every hour.” Tito’s answer sounded as curt as Bailey’s had. He lowered his chin in apology. “I was doing my job. I didn’t have time for a chat.”

  “You said you were listening to a tape,” Appleby countered.

  Tito shot him an anxious look.

  “Why are you mussed, sir?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Mussed?” Tito assessed his attire and fiddled with his tie. “Because I saw the police cars and ran here. From my car. I’d parked it down the street.”

  “It’s a loaner,” Bailey added, as if that made a difference.

  “I knew—” Tito hesitated.

  “You knew what?” Cinnamon shifted feet.

  “Bailey texted me,” Tito answered. “I knew she was here. She didn’t say what had happened. Seeing the police cars, I thought something had happened. To her. To my wife.”

  The technician handed one of the crumpled articles to Appleby, who then handed it to Cinnamon.

  She scanned it and handed it back. “Sir, I’d like you to come to the station with us. We can talk further.”

  “Why?” Tito ran a hand down the back of his neck. “Am I a suspect? Do I need a lawyer?”

  “We just want to talk.”

  Chapter 7

  Bailey wasn’t allowing Tito to go anywhere without her, and I wasn’t letting her go alone. On the way to the precinct, I contacted Lola, and then I touched base with my aunt. I assured each that this was a misunderstanding and asked if they could take over for Tina with Brianna should Tito and Bailey be held up longer than necessary by the police. Both could and would. I breathed easier.

  The precinct was teeming with activity when we entered—a fire at the north end of town; a pickpocket on the Pier; a car crash up the mountain—but I blocked all of the noise out as Bailey and I paced the beige hall outside Cinnamon Pritchett’s office.

  “Jenna,” my pal whispered. “Who did this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We have to fix it. Tito—” Bailey pressed her lips together.

  “He’s going to be fine. We both know he didn’t do this.”

  Who had killed Kylie? Who were her foes?

  On my third pivot, I came up with a couple of suspects: Savannah Gregory and Midge Martin. Savannah blamed Kylie for her bad feet and her weight gain. I would imagine a future filled with pain and anger was enough reason to kill. Plus, she had been in love with Kylie. Had she told Kylie how she’d felt? Had Kylie rejected her? As for Midge, she believed Kylie had tried to smear her good name. Were there others who had hated Kylie? She certainly hadn’t been the easiest person to get along with. I recalled Eugene Tinsdale arguing with his wife at the café earlier. The pronoun she had cropped up, after which Eugene revealed that they had been discussing Kylie. He’d said Kylie was leaving her post as a reviewer as soon as she got her affairs in order. He’d said she had another gig lined up. Was that a lie? Had something else forced her departure?

  Bailey moaned.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  My pal was peering through the slatted louver blinds hanging in Cinnamon’s office window, unable to tear her gaze from the activity within. Cinnamon had put her staff in charge of winding up the crime scene and had personally escorted Tito to the precinct.

  “What’s taking the chief so long?” Bailey knew Cinnamon nearly as well as I did, but she didn’t dare show disrespect by referring to her by her first name.

  “She’s thorough.”

  “When will she be finished?”

  Who knew? Interrogations could take minutes or hours.

  I smiled supportively and said, “Hopefully soon.”

  “Tito looks awful. And scared.” Bailey bit back a sob. “He’s never scared.”

  “I bet he’s not scared,” I said. “I bet he’s royally ticked off.”

  A nervous giggle burbled out of Bailey. “You’re probably right.”

  “Relax.” I slung an arm around her shoulders and gave a squeeze. “Questioning suspects is protocol.”

  Bailey shimmied out of my grasp. “Will they question Alexa? Or Viveca? Who else would have access to the studio? Not Tito. He—” She punched a fist against her palm. “My husband needs an alibi. A witness.”

  “On the way here, I reached out to Flora Fairchild and asked her to start a phone tree to find a witness. You know how much she loves to glean gossip. I’m sure there was someone who saw Tito sitting in his car.” I rested a hand on my pal’s shoulder. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  “I couldn’t possibly. The acid . . .” She wrapped her arms around her torso.

  “Water?”

  “No.” Bailey glanced toward the window. “What are they doing?”

  I peered past her. “Asking Tito to empty his pockets.”

  “I can see that,” she hissed. “Why?”

  “They probably want to take a peek at his cell phone, you know, to scan texts, email messages, and such.”

  Tito removed his wallet and cell phone, as well as a notepad and the pen Bailey had given him for his fortieth birthday. He tossed some spare change on the table, too, and a tube of something.

  Appleby donned cotton gloves and viewed the cell phone, his forefinger scrolling through what had to be Tito’s text messages. He shook his head at Cinnamon, who said something to Tito, who mouthed: I told you so, which I determined meant he hadn’t received a message from Alexa.

  That didn’t surprise me. As snazzy as all the digital gadgets were nowadays, sent messages still fell through the cracks. How often had Rhett told me he’d missed a text or email from me? My boss at Taylor & Squibb often said that it was a wonder the Internet worked at all.

  “What’s the deputy doing now?” Bailey asked, her voice skating upward.

  Appleby had picked up the tube.

  “Is that lipstick?” Bailey peered worriedly at me.

  “No, it looks like—” My mouth went dry.

  “What?” Bailey asked.

  Even from a distance, I could tell the tube was a distinctive yellow color, typical of a popular lip balm brand. Its cap was pink, meaning the balm itself was pink in color. The killer had used something similar to write You should have reformed on the mirror at the studio.

  Appleby held the tube out to Tito, who shrugged and gestured toward the exit.

  Cinnamon swung around and beckoned Bailey and me to enter.

  Trembling, Bailey stepped into the office first. I followed and closed the door. The windows and louver blinds rattled.

  “Does this belong to you, Mrs. Martinez?” Cinnamon asked, indicating the lip balm Appleby was holding.

  Bailey drew near and examined the tube. “I have some like that. Sure. At home. And in a purse or two. Don’t you?”

  Cinnamon glowered at my pal, and my gut tightened further. If Bailey’s DNA matched any found on the tip of the lip balm, and if the lip balm matched the goo on the mirror at the crime scene, Tito was in big trouble.

  Cinnamon asked Bailey and me to leave and resumed her interrogation.

  An hour later, the tube of lip balm and the article about Tito’s argument with Kylie notwithstanding, Tito was released on his own recognizance. Until the police lab could come up with definitive DNA matches, any other evidence against him was circumstantial. His clothing, other than being mussed, hadn’t shown any signs of him struggling with Kylie. She hadn’t scratched him in any way. None of her hair was found on his person. In fact, I’d heard the technician at the crime scene say that none of Kylie’s hair was anywhere on the premises, plus fingerprints had been wiped from the reformer. The killer, other than leaving the mess of paper and the writing on the mirror, had cleaned up after the crime.

  Bailey gazed over her shoulder at me as she guided her husband out of the precinct. Call me, she mouthed.

  I caught sight of Cinnamon through her office window, sinking into the chair behind her desk. Appleby set a glass of water in front of her, said something, and left.

  Feeli
ng the need to learn more of the chief’s thoughts on the case, I tiptoed past her assistant’s desk—the assistant had taken a break—and rapped on the doorframe. “May I come in?”

  Cinnamon greeted me with a nod. “Sure.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

  “Morning sickness.”

  “Even in the afternoon?”

  Cinnamon threw me a saucy smirk. “All day, every day. They call it morning sickness because most often it starts in the morning. My hormones are going whacko.” She motioned to the chair opposite her desk. “Sit.”

  I did.

  There were no plants in her office. A few plaques of commendation hung on the wall as well as photos of her with city leaders. Her desk was neat. Every writing implement was stored in a pencil holder. Files were stacked and marked with color-coded tabs. One silver-framed photo of Cinnamon and her husband, Bucky, at their wedding stood on the corner of the desk.

  “You don’t honestly think Tito Martinez is guilty, do you?” I asked. “He’s salt of the earth.”

  Cinnamon glowered. “Really? You’re going to hit me while I’m down?”

  “He had no reason to want Kylie O dead.”

  “They argued. Publicly.”

  “He didn’t care about her turf at the newspaper,” I said.

  “That’s not what witnesses say.” She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, a few have already come forward.”

  I sat taller. “Okay, sure, Tito wanted to do a few stories about what’s cooking this week, seeing as the week’s news is all about food, but he wouldn’t kill for a story.”

  Cinnamon propped her elbows on the desk and tented her hands. “Tito has a temper.”

  “Which has been, forgive the pun, tempered since marrying Bailey. He’s happy. He wouldn’t think of upsetting the apple cart.” I grimaced. “Sorry. Food Bowl terms are cluttering my brain.”

  My cell phone chirped in my pocket.

  “Need to answer that?” Cinnamon asked.

  “No.” If it was Rhett, I’d deal with him later. “Would you like to consider other suspects?”

  “I’m always open to ideas.”

  I tilted my head. “No, you’re not. At least not from me.”

  “Because you’re not a cop.”

  I folded my hands in my lap. “Does being a cop automatically make you privy to the nuances of relationships?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Or bring you up to date on the town gossip?”

  Cinnamon ran her tongue along her upper teeth. I could tell she was doing her best to tamp down a snappy comeback.

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t like throwing anyone under the bus, but you do realize how much Kylie O made people’s blood boil, right? Like all the restaurateurs who received bad reviews from her?”

  “I’ll admit she was not winning Miss Personality awards.”

  “You read the articles at the murder site, didn’t you?” I mimed crumpling paper. “In addition to the article having to do with Tito, there were others about Savannah Gregory, Midge Martin, and Eugene Tinsdale. Each involved Kylie. Each had an edge to it. Those three should be considered suspects, don’t you think?”

  “The article with Mr. Tinsdale wasn’t edgy. In fact, it was sweet. On the way to the precinct, I called him. He said he was with Miss Obendorfer in Las Vegas when she won an award.”

  “Why was that one included in the mix, huh?” I asked. “Did Kylie bring the articles? Did the killer?”

  Cinnamon righted the lower edge of the stack of folders on her desk.

  “What did the shredded paper reveal?” I asked. “Do you know?”

  “Not yet.”

  I worked my tongue inside my cheek, waiting for more.

  “The lip balm is damning,” Cinnamon said.

  “If the DNA matches Bailey’s.”

  “Or Tito’s.”

  “He wouldn’t use a colored lip balm.”

  “There’s often contamination arising from the sharing of a lipstick, and in fact, male cellular material can be found on a lipstick following kissing.”

  “Ew.” I wrinkled my nose.

  “Yeah, it’s sort of gross to think about. Look, Jenna, thanks for your offer of help, but”—Cinnamon placed her hands flat on the desk and pushed to a stand—“we’re done.”

  I rose, too. “I hear chamomile tea is good for morning sickness.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I saw a pop-up ad on Facebook.”

  Cinnamon grinned. “Usually, you get pop-up ads because you’ve been researching something online. Have you been checking out morning sickness for any particular reason?”

  I smirked. “I’m not pregnant.”

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  I thumped her desk. “Tito is innocent. Trust me.”

  Cinnamon nodded somberly. “I sure hope I don’t have to arrest him.”

  Chapter 8

  Friday traffic at the Cookbook Nook was hopping when I returned. The line at the register was long. Aunt Vera was ringing up each sale while Gran packed the books and gift items into bags and tied the handles with raffia. The crafts table in the far corner, which was covered with a plastic cloth, was filled with children under the age of ten waiting for a class to start.

  Aunt Vera abandoned her post and hurried to me. She drew me into a warm embrace. Stroking my hair as she had when I was a child, she murmured, “You poor darling.”

  I wriggled free. “Aunt Vera, I’m fine. Sad for Kylie. Worried for Tito and Bailey. But I’m fine.”

  She pushed me away and held me firmly by the shoulders. Studying my face, she said, “You’re jaded.”

  “No. I’m still shocked by murder. By the reality and finality of it. Trust me.” How I wished I could control life with the wave of a wand. “Where’s Tigger?”

  “Up there.”

  I was surprised to see him crouching at the top of his cat condo. Usually, he loved toying with anyone who did crafts. He bolted from his perch and leaped into my arms. He yowled and butted my chest with his head. Had he sensed something was amiss and waited for my return? I assured him I was all right and Bailey was, too. The text message I’d received when in Cinnamon’s office had been from Bailey, not Rhett. She and Tito had arrived home safely. He was sitting in a rocking chair, singing to Brianna.

  Pepper strode into the store and clapped her hands. “I’m ready.”

  Gran and Pepper were leading the crafts class. Gran was quite the crafts lover. She had to be, with three granddaughters. Pepper, who had been a crafts person since birth, was joining in because she believed that helping out at my store would help grow her business.

  “Ready, children?” Gran asked as she and Pepper weaved through the customers to the table. “What are we making?” she asked as she drew near.

  “Papier mâché ice cream cones,” a towheaded girl chimed.

  “And what is the prize for the very best one?” Pepper asked. She’d dressed for the occasion by donning a T-shirt that read Everything in moderation except craft supplies.

  “An ice cream cone from Taste of Heaven!” a boy cried.

  “Right. So let’s get started.” Gran brought out paper cups, tape, felt pens, sheets of paper, newspaper, a tub of papier mâché solution, and small aluminum baking dishes.

  As Pepper handed out the cups and Gran launched into the instructions about forming the base of the cone and filling it with wads of paper, my thoughts shot to the crime scene. The articles. The possible suspects.

  What had been on the shredded paper? The act of shredding something suggested a lot of anger. Had Kylie shredded it or had the killer? I recalled the few pieces I’d touched. Some had felt like glossy paper, some like heavy bond paper. What had been on it? Had there been words on it? A photo? Another newspaper article? If only I could conjure up an image.

  • • •

  An hour before closing, I telephoned Bailey. She answered after one ring. Tito was doing fine. He was already pu
rsuing a new story about a man who was opening up a day spa in the mountains. She asked if I’d pried anything out of Cinnamon to give Tito and her hope. I didn’t tell her that Cinnamon had dismissed me. I didn’t have the heart. Instead, I said that I’d given Cinnamon a few suspects to consider. Bailey didn’t ask who. Knowing I’d offered up other names seemed to calm her. I asked Bailey if she still wanted to meet me for our jaunt along Buena Vista to dine on snacks provided by the food vendors. She begged off. She wasn’t up to it. Before ending the call, she promised she would not worry through the night. I knew she would.

  With Bailey out of commission, I texted Rhett and asked if he could join me to explore the food vendors on the boulevard. I added that his main event at the bistro was over, and his staff should be able to handle a normal crowd for a short while. He replied that he could give me an hour.

  Taking what I could get, I rode Tigger home on the Schwinn, quickly changed into jeans, ecru sweater, a light puffy jacket, and walking shoes, and then drove my VW back to town and parked at Fishmerman’s Village. I walked the rest of the way drinking in the wonderful aromas of food, food, food.

  A breeze had kicked up and banners were flapping, but no one strolling along the boulevard looked in the least put out. The foot traffic was not deterring folks from entering their favorite restaurants, either.

  Rhett met me in front of Intime, looking a little harried. He wasn’t wearing his chef’s coat, but his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his collar was stained with some kind of white sauce. He kissed me on the cheek.

  “Are you okay with time?” I asked. “You seem—”

  “I’m making time.” He gently rubbed my lower back, a gesture of affection that I adored. “Your aunt told me about you finding Kylie O. This has to have been quite a shock, sweetheart. How are you?”

  “Hanging in.”

  Since I’d moved back to Crystal Cove, there had been a number of murders. In the fifteen years prior to my return, there had been zero. Zilch. None. I didn’t believe I had bad juju, but at times I wondered whether I was the lure for such evil. Rhett and my family assured me I wasn’t the cause. Crime was on the rise everywhere.