“Try me.”
“It turns out that my executive chef is pregnant and has been ordered off her feet.”
“What?” I screeched and instantly covered my mouth. “Okay, that was an overreaction on my part, but, really? Why?”
“It turns out she’s had two miscarriages.”
“I’ve heard bed rest doesn’t solve anything.” I’d studied up on it while Bailey was pregnant. “It can make things worse.”
“She’s not willing to take the risk. So she quit.”
I stroked his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry for us.” Rhett clasped my hand. “I’ve got two new chefs coming in tomorrow for interviews. I will hire one of them. We won’t have any downtime. Maybe, if they’re both great, I can hire both of them. Plus, the investors have found a third manager, but she can’t start for two weeks.” His shoulders slumped. “I thought this enterprise was going to be easier.”
I smiled. “Joan Didion said, ‘Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember.’” My father often memorized quotes and asked all of his children to do the same. He felt they would come in handy when facing a personal trial.
“What you’re saying is I’m living in a fantasy world?” Rhett asked.
I laughed. “No, I’m saying how quickly the mind forgets tribulations. Need I remind you how you toiled at the Grotto? Need I also mention a former boss of yours who happened to set her restaurant on fire so she could run off with all the art in order to recoup the money from the insurance company?”
Rhett rubbed his neck. “Got it.”
“Forget the bad stuff; remember the good stuff.” I caressed his arm. “No business is easy. You need to view things clearly and, sadly, not trust anyone you don’t know well.”
“We will get this resolved,” he whispered and stroked my hair. “Before our wedding day.”
“How about before our trip to Napa?” I grinned. “You know your folks will grill you like a shish kebab.”
Rhett roared, a wonderful sound I hadn’t heard in weeks. “Thank you for coming in. I needed to see your shining face.”
“I needed to see yours.”
We kissed tenderly and polished off our espressos in comfortable silence.
• • •
As I was strolling along the boulevard, heading back to the shop, I spied Alexa and her father standing outside the Boldine Building. Both were watching an electrician install a pair of security cameras above the front door.
I drew near and said, “Hey, Alexa. Eugene.”
Alexa swiped a finger under each eye. Had she been crying? She centered the charm on her necklace, squared her shoulders, and forced a smile. “Hi.”
“Hello, Jenna,” Eugene said. “If only these cameras had been here the other day. Maybe the police would have seen who’d gone in after Kylie.”
Or had entered before, I mused.
“How are you doing, Alexa?” I asked.
“I’m okay. Sad.” She pressed her lips together. “Trying to make sense of everything.”
“All of her clients have canceled for the week,” Eugene said. “It’s to be expected, but it’s as if they blame her.”
“That’s not it, Dad.” Alexa shot him a miffed look. “They don’t want to be in the studio. They don’t want to think about what happened. They don’t want to picture it in their minds. It’s not me they’re rejecting. It’s—”
“Your business will suffer,” Eugene said.
“It’s temporary. Do you hear me? Temporary.” Alexa regarded me. “Once we have a memorial for Kylie, it’ll be better. Don’t you think, Jenna? You’ve experienced loss. Time heals, after all, like the saying goes.”
“It does get easier,” I said. “You’ll still have memories, of course, but they’re not as sharp or as painful.” When I’d lost David, my husband, I’d mourned him for a long time. When he’d turned up alive a few years later, I’d hated him with a passion. When he’d died for real, the loss had been much easier to accept.
“I hope you’re right,” Alexa said.
“Have the police stayed in contact with you?” I asked.
“A bit. They’re not saying much.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Have you been in touch with them? I know you’re really close to Chief Pritchett, and with Tito being the main—”
“Actually, Tito is off the hook. A witness came forward verifying his alibi.”
“He is?” Alexa reached for my hand. “That’s great.”
“Great,” Eugene echoed.
“Who do you suspect, Jenna?” Alexa asked. “You’ve solved other murders. Maybe we could bat around theories. You—”
“Honey, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t speculate.” Eugene wrapped an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and squeezed. “C’mon. Let me buy you a coffee. Nice seeing you, Jenna.”
• • •
At six p.m., I closed the shop and, exhausted from ringing up more sales than I could remember in one day—the Nook’s Food Bowl event had definitely been the driving force—I nabbed Tigger and headed home.
After feeding him a can of tuna, I set a homemade potpie in the oven. I’d made six of them a month ago and had frozen them for the coming winter months. A couple of years ago, I would have been stymied as to how to make them. My mother had done all the cooking while I was growing up. Now, thanks to Katie, I viewed recipes in smaller segments—five to seven ingredients—which made cooking manageable.
Next, I poured a glass of wine. I was too tired to paint, and way too tired to read, and way, way, way too tired to ponder my immediate future with Rhett, so I switched on the television to the Cutting Edge Cooking channel.
To my surprise, the channel was featuring a six-episode series of Shredding. In the opening segment, Midge, in her colorful chef’s coat, was preparing a vegetarian chopped salad. First, she took a wedge of lettuce to task with a Wüsthof ten-inch blade. The wedge didn’t stand a chance. In a matter of seconds, the lettuce was shredded. Next, she set in on a trio of cucumbers and followed that with red cabbage. Without looking as she chopped, she spoke to the audience. How she didn’t slice off a fingertip was beyond me.
I watched the episode in amazement, knowing I would never feel as comfortable as Midge with a blade in my hand. Slow and steady would forever win the race for me.
When the episode concluded, I checked on the potpie. It required another fifteen minutes so that the crust would turn a warm golden brown.
Settling back on the couch, I clicked on episode two of Shredding.
Midge, in her lime green chef’s coat and neatly fitting bandanna, was tackling a roast turkey that she would then shred to within an inch of its life and use in a turkey vegetable soup. Step by step, she took the audience through the proper way to truss a turkey.
“First, locate the center of your piece of twine, and then wrap both ends around the neck bone, in between the two breasts. See it here?” She pointed to the spot. “Second, tuck the wings under the bird. Like this.” She demonstrated. “Third, pull the twine tightly and tie a knot to secure everything. Ta-da!”
As Midge gave the twine a hard tug, reveling in the way she’d conquered the dead bird, my stomach lurched. All I could picture was a killer stringing Kylie into the reformer and pulling the rope tightly around her neck.
I switched off the television and sat upright. How had the killer lured Kylie into submission? Had he or she knocked her out? Doped her? Had Kylie come in to work out, ready to punk Alexa with her brazen entry, but the killer, to her surprise, was lying in wait?
The killer had to have used the security code to enter the studio. Who, other than Alexa, would have known it? Viveca, of course. And Kylie, by Alexa’s admission. Savannah might have known it, having learned it from Kylie. How would Midge have figured it out? Did she work out at the studio?
Or, on that fateful morning, had Midge spied Kylie entering the building, followed Kylie to the second floor, and raced into the studio before the doo
rs had locked?
Chapter 14
I slept fitfully and awoke in a pool of perspiration. It wasn’t the potpie’s fault. It had been scrumptious. I blamed it on the extra glass of wine I’d consumed while I wrote down the theories that had been swimming around in my mind.
Parched, I downed two full glasses of water and took a fast run. Then I treated myself to an ice cold shower—chilly, but deserved—after which I threw on a chunky brown sweater and corduroys. There was a nip in the air.
Tuesdays were our single day off during the week. Seeing as the shop had met its monthly financial goal after yesterday’s boon, I didn’t feel the need to open the shop, even though it was the last day of the Food Bowl event.
Instead, I decided to indulge in one of my new passions, a crossword puzzle. I opened the daily delivery of the Crystal Cove Courier, found the section with the crossword, poured myself a strong cup of coffee, and moseyed to the back patio table. Tigger accompanied me and leaped into my lap.
I opened the section and laughed when I saw the crossword had been specifically designed for Food Bowl week. Knowing the answers should be a cinch—I was up to date on all my foodie knowledge—I set to work. Unlike my father, who did his crossword puzzles in pencil so he could erase, I did mine in pen. I didn’t mind scratching out a wrong answer. I was not a perfectionist.
Clue 1 across was five letters: offered at a culinary bookshop. I smiled. How nice to have the shop acknowledged. Books wasn’t the answer because the word book was in the clue. Hmm. Not saltshakers. Not cookie jars. Apron? I didn’t write it down yet, and eyed clue 2 down: a shop with tasty tomes, with 4 across. Eight letters down, four across. Cookbook Nook was the correct answer. I wrote it in and studied 1 across again, ending in C. Could it be magic because we’d featured that event this week? I wrote it in lightly.
“Moving on,” I said to Tigger.
He meowed.
“What am I doing, you ask? A puzzle to kick my brain into gear.”
Food Bowl was its own answer, eight letters, no space. Climb, the answer for getting to the top of the Santa Cruz Mountains. Music, heard at Azure Park. Paper, what the Courier printed on. Rooftop, seven-letter word for where the fish fry would take place.
When I noticed the e in Kylie, the answer for food reviewer, crisscrossed the word Shredding, the answer for Midge’s restaurant, and saw that the S in Shredding served as the last letter for the answer pilates—one of three exercises suggested for the week—I winced. The juxtaposition of the three words made me flash on Alexa’s studio, the shredded paper, and poor Kylie, strangled to death.
Did Midge kill her? If not, who else had a strong enough motive?
Losing my appetite for completing the puzzle, I folded the paper, took it to the kitchen, and set it on the counter. I fed Tigger and popped a piece of sourdough into the toaster for me.
And then, craving a day without controversy or thoughts of death, I telephoned Bailey and asked if she, Tito, and Brianna wanted to accompany me to Azure Park for Food Bowl festivities. Bailey said she and the baby would love to, but Tito, thanks to being exonerated, was interviewing the band he’d planned to interview Friday. We agreed to meet in an hour.
• • •
Azure Park was the town’s largest park, fitted with a sandy play area for children and loads of gorgeous trees for shade. At the north end of the park stood a permanent event stage. A huge arced tent protected the stage. Monthly, the stage featured live music. During Food Bowl week, bands were playing at night.
White tents circled the perimeter of the park, many of which had been rented by local restaurants wanting an additional venue for the week. In the center of the park stood café-style tables as well as small food vendor carts with clever names like Bone Sucking Sauce, Pita Wraps, Meat Moguls, the Grill Reaper, and Waffle Wonderland.
Bailey, with Brianna in her stroller, was waiting for me beside the Fruit on a Stick cart. When she caught sight of me, she raced to me and grabbed me in a bear hug. “My husband is so happy,” she said. “Tito,” she added, as if she’d needed to clarify. “He’s on cloud nine.” She released me and returned to Brianna. “Isn’t Daddy happy? Yes, he is.” She tickled her daughter’s chin and adjusted the girl’s pink giraffe-themed blanket.
“Yoo-hoo, Bailey!” a woman cried. “Jenna.”
Flora Fairchild, walking with Pepper Pritchett, strode purposefully toward us. Both were wearing sweaters with beaded necklines over trousers.
“I’m so happy to hear the phone tree worked.” Flora stroked her thick braid.
“What phone tree?” Pepper asked.
Flora explained.
Pepper said, “I heard Jake Chapman came forward as a witness.”
“He did,” I said. “Having Jake as well as the Smiths helped corroborate Tito’s alibi.”
Pepper flicked a finger. “I’m sure one was all my daughter needed.”
Flora threw her longtime friend a sour look. “Yes, but the more the merrier. When you were a suspect, weren’t you relieved when someone could verify your whereabouts? Wouldn’t you have been thrilled to have had two or three come forward?”
Touché, I thought. Bringing up Pepper’s run-in with the police was a mighty jab.
“Oh, look, hamburger sliders.” Pepper strode away.
Flora pecked Bailey on the cheek. “Glad I could help.”
“Me, too,” Bailey murmured.
As Flora trotted after Pepper, I spotted Savannah Gregory, who was dressed in a billowing white Renaissance-style dress, paying for a treat at Pita Wraps. I excused myself from Bailey and hurried to her.
“Savannah,” I called.
Savannah whirled around, and I bit back a gasp. I’d never seen her wearing so much makeup. Heavy base. Fake eyelashes. Too much rouge. Given her outfit, she reminded me of a woman in a bordello.
“Pretty dress,” I said, stymied as to what else to say.
“Thank you.” Savannah lowered her chin, avoiding eye contact.
“How are you?” I asked, keeping my tone in check. “Your mother told me—”
“Mom worries too much.” Savannah received her pita wrap of julienned ham, sprouts, and mustard tucked into a parchment cone, and then took a napkin from the dispenser and moved toward one of the unoccupied café tables.
I followed her. “I’m here with Bailey. Care to join us?”
“No.”
“Um, I wanted to touch base. Thursday night you’d seemed so . . .” I didn’t add forlorn.
“I’m fine.” Savannah sat at the table and set her white macramé purse on the neighboring chair.
Although she didn’t extend an invitation, I sat, as well.
“The police questioned me about Kylie,” Savannah said, not making eye contact with me.
“Why?” I asked. Of course, I had my own reasons to wonder whether she’d had a hand in the murder. Blaming Kylie for her bad feet. For her weight. For her broken heart.
“Someone told the police they saw me Thursday night outside Intime, peering in at Kylie, as if . . .” Savannah hiccuped. “As if I was plotting against her.”
I held up both hands. “Not me. There were lots of people roaming the streets that night.”
“No, not you. I never suspected you. It could have been anyone.” Savannah’s shoulders rose and fell, but her chin and gaze remained lowered. “There were so many people out that night.”
“Why would you have plotted against Kylie?” I asked.
Savannah took a bite of her wrap. “Supposedly, the police found a mean-spirited article written by Kylie about me at the crime scene.” A tear leaked down her cheek. She mopped it with a napkin. “Kylie panned a cake I made in a review.”
“The Alice in Wonderland cake.”
“You saw the article?”
I nodded.
“Kylie could be cruel,” Savannah whispered.
Apparently to everyone other than the Tinsdales.
“It was common knowledge that Kylie and I had been running
buddies for a long time,” Savannah added. “And many knew that I gave it up when my feet started to hurt. The police think that’s my motive. Blaming Kylie for the reason my body fell apart. But it wasn’t her fault.”
Hmm. That wasn’t what she had intimated on Thursday night.
“I mean, it was, but I didn’t hold myself blameless. I need . . . more self-control.” Savannah pushed her pita wrap aside.
“How are you feeling?” I asked. “Your mother told me you went home with a migraine Friday morning.”
“I’m better. I was in bed for the longest time. Lights out. Ice on my forehead and the back of my neck.” Savannah’s forehead pinched, as if she were reliving the pain. “When I wasn’t in bed, I watched cooking shows and tried out some new recipes. Keeping my mind busy takes my mind off the ache.”
“Were you alone?”
“The police asked the same thing,” Savannah said. “Yes, I was. No one can corroborate that I was there.” She raised her chin and started to blink. Rapidly. Were the fake eyelashes giving her trouble? She pulled a compact from the outer pocket of her purse and studied her eyes. She tweaked the offending intrusion, took another look at her face, and sucked back a sob. “How’s Alexa doing, do you know?”
“Actually, I ran into her with her father. She’s worried about her business.”
“I guess she’d have to be. I can’t imagine anyone would want to train with her again.” Savannah snapped the compact closed and returned it to her purse. “Mother said Alexa hasn’t come in to the café at all. She’s been a regular for the past couple of years, but—” She glanced to the right. “Speaking of my mother, there she is. By Bacon Blast. I’ve got to go. Thanks for checking on me.”
Ponderously, Savannah rose from the chair and waddled across the park. Seeing her slow movements, I couldn’t picture her being able to sneak into the Boldine Building, let alone overpower Kylie, who had been at the peak of physical fitness.
I rejoined Bailey, who was cooing to her daughter. “I’m wondering . . .”
“About?” Bailey asked.
Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9) Page 14
