Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9)

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I found the deputy by the water cooler, downing a cup of water.

  “Got to keep hydrated,” Appleby said, as if Cinnamon’s bout in the hospital had converted him to live a healthier life. “How can I help you?”

  “When I saw Cinnamon at Mercy, she asked me to assist the investigation. I know that doesn’t sound like her, but—”

  “Save your breath. She texted me.” Appleby beckoned me to follow him.

  We sat in his office, a simple white room with a tidy metal desk and no plants. He had set a few framed family photos on the bureau abutting the wall.

  Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, I told Appleby everything I’d told Cinnamon—about Viveca, the opened rear window at Your Wellness, and the possible entry to the studio via ductwork. I added that I had neglected to tell Cinnamon about Savannah and her alibi for Friday morning. “If that can be proven, then she’s exonerated. Do you know if she’s contacted the precinct?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “How about Midge Martin?” I summarized her motive and alibi. “She promised to stop in.”

  “Midge did come by. I never considered her a suspect, although Cinnamon did. We had a lot of restaurateurs on our list. All ruled out.”

  “Good to know.” I concluded by sharing the details of Tito’s and my chat with Eugene, his brief, sad affair with Kylie, and the photographs she’d taken to extort him. “What if Kylie was blackmailing others? A friend of Tito’s said Kylie talked about having a safe in her home. If so, there might be incriminating evidence in it. Have you or your team searched her place?”

  “We did, for clues about her life and friends, scouring her computer, cell phone, and email for possibilities. We combed her place of business, too.” Appleby swiveled gently, back and forth, in his chair. “Miss Obendorfer had very few friends. She didn’t live a big life, no major trips or vacations. However, she owned a lot of clothes, some high-end jewelry, and a few pieces of art. Like the rest of us, she’d racked up a ton of bills. Two of her credit cards were maxed out. She’d received a number of default notices.”

  “Did you see anything about Kylie collaborating with an investor?”

  Appleby shook his head.

  “Did you find a safe?”

  “No, but thanks to Mr. Martinez’s intel, we should look.”

  “How about going over there now?” I said. “I’ll help you hunt for it.”

  The deputy regarded me slyly. “Why don’t you do what Cinnamon suggested and join the force? Then you could—”

  “Actually, Bucky is the one who suggested it.” I smiled. “Would it help to say I’m considering the idea?”

  Appleby roared. “Yeah, like your aunt or father would ever let that happen.”

  I leaned forward. “Please, Deputy, your chief gave me permission to help. I’ll keep my involvement on the down low. I won’t tell a soul if you don’t.”

  Appleby shrugged. “Let’s go.” He fetched the key for Kylie’s place and said he’d drive.

  • • •

  “Here we are,” the deputy said as we pulled up to a set of garden apartments near the junior college, the building built in a circle so each of the twelve units had a separate courtyard entrance.

  “Deputy, look.” I pointed.

  Alexa was walking along the path leading to Kylie’s gate.

  Appleby parked and clambered out of the vehicle. For a big guy, he was fast. I hurried after him.

  “Miss Tinsdale, hold up.” Appleby hailed her.

  Alexa whirled around, a bouquet of gerbera daisies in her hand. “Officer. I mean, Deputy.” She tugged the hem of her bomber jacket and smoothed it over her black jeans. “How can I help you?”

  “What are you doing here?” Appleby asked.

  “Paying my respects,” Alexa said. “Since Kylie has yet to be buried—my parents and I will work out those arrangements, when your department releases her body—I thought it fitting that I lay flowers at her doorstep.” She held up the bouquet and set it next to the gate, where other bouquets and trinkets lay.

  I’d always found it interesting that people would set memorial items for the dead out in the open. Did they know the deceased? Did they leave them there to console themselves or to remind others to mourn? Apparently, Kylie O had more admirers than I’d imagined.

  “Since you’re here, Miss Tinsdale,” Appleby said, “and considering how well you knew Miss Obendorfer, can you tell me whether she has a safe in her home?”

  “I don’t have a clue. We didn’t socialize a lot after she moved to this location. I reached out”—Alexa fingered the hair feathering her face—“but she’d changed. She’d grown inward. She wouldn’t talk about whatever was bothering her.”

  I recalled Eugene saying Kylie had seemed different over the past year. Had money or career been the issue? What would have caused her to let a lifelong friendship wane?

  “Did she break up with a guy?” I asked. “Is that why she moved?”

  “I honestly . . .” Alexa’s eyes moistened. “Didn’t you already search Kylie’s place, Deputy?”

  “We did.”

  “Wouldn’t looking for a safe have been standard protocol?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I can’t help.” Alexa spread her arms. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.” She started down the path.

  “One more thing, Miss Tinsdale.” Appleby pivoted. “I have a question about your assistant, Viveca Thorn.”

  Alexa whirled around. “What about her?”

  “Is there any possibility she might have had a prior connection to Kylie?”

  “No way. Uh-uh. You can’t think she . . .” Alexa shook her head. “Viveca moved from San Francisco a month ago. I hired her through an agency. She has no friends here. She didn’t know Kylie at all. I’d rule her out.”

  “What did Miss Thorn do before working for you?”

  “She was a receptionist at a national gym chain.”

  “Is it possible Miss Obendorfer belonged to that gym?”

  “As if.” Alexa snorted. “Kylie wouldn’t step foot into a place riddled with sweat and germs if you paid her. Other than my place, of course. She—” Alexa’s breath caught in her chest. Tears leaked from her eyes. After a long moment, she said, “If you don’t mind, I’m late.”

  Appleby bid her goodbye, and Alexa hurried to her Honda Accord parked at the curb.

  I eyed the bouquet of daisies she’d left and bent to read the note: Rest in peace ~ A. Simple. Not seeking emotional acclaim.

  “Should we take all these flowers inside?” I asked.

  “No, leave them for the building manager to handle.”

  I followed Appleby into the apartment.

  Books and magazines occupied most of the living room, stacked in corners and piled on bookshelves. A few oil paintings adorned the walls. A glass-and-metal desk faced the bay window. Numerous half-edited reviews lay on the desk beside the desktop computer. At first glance, a few of them were scathing while others were quite complimentary. Were there more languishing in a safe?

  Photographs hanging on the wall nearest the desk showed Kylie with Alexa, Kylie with a young man or two, and Kylie with the Tinsdales. There were many photographs of Kylie winning awards. I didn’t see any photos of people who might have been her parents. There were no pets and no plants. Nothing to take care of. The lack of life saddened me.

  “Jenna, in here,” Appleby said, having strolled into the bedroom ahead of me.

  I strode through the doorway. The room wasn’t large. There was barely enough room for a queen-sized bed and the reformer workout machine Alexa had mentioned.

  Appleby was standing beside a safe in the center of the floor, a small area rug and wood panel shoved to one side, a painting by Audrey propped against the bed. “We didn’t think to look under the rugs.”

  I pictured the rug covering the stain in my bedroom. I hadn’t thought to move it, either.

  “How did you
open it?” I asked.

  “I recalled seeing a safe-like code written on the back of that painting when we’d searched the other day but hadn’t thought much about it at the time. I figured it was probably a gallery code regarding price. There are a couple of things inside the safe. I’d like you to witness as I remove them.”

  Appleby donned Latex gloves, knelt down, and aimed the flashlight on his cell phone into the recess. He removed a lilac-colored envelope. “One letter,” he announced and set it on the floor beside his knees. He reached in and removed a heart-shaped locket. “One necklace.” He checked the backside. “There’s an etching. Love B.” He popped it open. “No picture inside.” He closed the necklace and set it atop the envelope, and reached into the safe a third time. He produced a small photo album. “That’s it.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nope. No compromising photos. No extortion memos.”

  Had Eugene been the only one Kylie had blackmailed, or had he lied about that?

  Appleby rested his rump on his heels and flipped through the photo album. He twisted it in my direction and continued to turn pages. “Recognize anyone?”

  I shook my head. “Wait. There.” I gestured to a picture of a teenager. “I’ve seen him before. I’m not sure where.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Yes. There. Stop. Savannah Gregory. As I said at the precinct, Savannah and Kylie used to be friends. They ran ten-Ks together until”—I pressed my lips together—“their friendship ended.”

  “Got it.” Appleby rose to his feet and set the items on the bed. He opened the envelope and pulled out a folded sheet of lilac-colored paper. He read it and clicked his tongue. “Well, well.”

  “What does it say?” I tried to get a peek.

  “It’s a love letter.”

  “From?”

  He displayed it to me. In big loopy letters, it read:

  Dear Kylie, you will always have my heart.

  No matter what you do to me, I will never stop loving you.

  ~ Savannah

  Appleby’s cell phone jangled. He tapped off the flashlight app and scanned the screen. “I should get this.”

  I motioned for him to proceed.

  “What is it, son?” Appleby asked.

  A woman responded on the other end, speaking so loudly that I could hear her diatribe.

  “He’s drunk!” she yelled. “Ran off the road . . . So furious with you . . . Said he wanted to commit you. You’re getting married, Marlon? Are you nuts?”

  “Slow down, Sue,” Appleby said, and whispered to me, “My son’s wife.” He spoke back into the phone. “Where is he now?”

  “Mercy Urgent Care. He’s never this bullheaded. You’ve got to do something.”

  “I’m on it. I’ll be right there.”

  Appleby ended the call. “Jenna, we’re done here. Please don’t tell your aunt about this call. My son . . . I’ll handle it.”

  As he raced out of the house, taking the items we’d discovered with him, I pondered the love note. Why had Kylie kept the letter? Had she returned Savannah’s love? No. Not possible. She and Alexa had swapped boyfriends throughout high school.

  Don’t be naïve, Jenna.

  Maybe along the way, Kylie had realized she wasn’t into men and liked women. Maybe she’d made an overture to Savannah. On the other hand, Savannah had told me Kylie had mocked her. Had Kylie’s dismissal sent Savannah over the edge?

  Chapter 21

  Latte Luck Café was packed with people. I slipped inside and skirted the line. I searched for Savannah and was surprised to see her behind the cash register, stuffing a wad of money into a customer’s to-go bag. The customer was someone I recognized, the local dermatologist, Dr. Bellini. She had gorgeous skin and a stoic demeanor. I was pretty certain that she worried smile lines would mar her face. After the doctor slotted the to-go bag into her purse, she ordered a coffee to go.

  I stood transfixed. Had I just witnessed Savannah paying off the doctor to lie for her?

  The doctor accepted the coffee and waved a two-finger goodbye to Savannah, who headed back to her icing station.

  I swooped up to the counter. “Psst. Savannah.”

  She lumbered toward me. Her face seemed better. The welts were nearly gone. “Hi, Jenna, I can’t talk. I have three cakes to ice.”

  “Give me one second.” I hitched my chin toward the retreating figure of the doctor. “Was that Dr. Bellini?”

  Savannah nodded.

  “Why were you giving her money?”

  “I . . . I was paying my bill. I couldn’t pay last week because I get paid bimonthly.”

  “You didn’t pay with a credit card?”

  “I don’t ever use credit cards. I went into debt in my early twenties, and once I bailed myself out I promised myself I’d never charge anything ever again. Why do you ask?” Her eyes widened. “You don’t think—” Her mouth dropped open. “You do. You’re wrong. I was not doing anything illicit. I was not paying her hush money. Promise. Go after her. Ask her.” She shot out a hand. “Please, believe me.”

  “Savannah, the police searched Kylie’s apartment.” I hesitated.

  Would Appleby frown on me telling Savannah about the letter? I had to make a snap decision. He was out of pocket with his son and Cinnamon was in the hospital. She’d asked me to assist in the investigation.

  “The police,” I continued, “found a safe. In it was a love letter. From you to Kylie.”

  Savannah blinked. “I never wrote her a letter.”

  I recited what it said.

  Savannah pressed her lips together. “I never wrote that.”

  “The letter was written on lilac paper.”

  Savannah shot out a hand. “That proves it. I don’t own anything lilac. I hate anything pastel. Oh, sure, I wear this stupid pink apron and I make cakes with pastel colors, but after a day of pink this and baby blue that, I—” She bit back tears. “Everything I own is white, Jenna.”

  White weddings. White clothing. White, white, white.

  “Since my twenties,” she whined, “I’ve been a blank slate.”

  “Would you do something for me?” I asked.

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “Would you write your name on a piece of paper.”

  A few years ago, for fun, I’d taken a handwriting analysis course. I’d wanted to see what my signature said about my friends and me. My signature, which was bold and ascending, said I was creative and optimistic. Bailey’s signature—she used large capital letters—showed she was capricious. Spot on.

  Savannah hesitated, but after a moment she tore a piece of paper off an order pad and scrawled her name. She held it out for inspection. Her letters were small and tight, which I recalled meant she was thrifty and rational. Most importantly, her handwriting looked nothing like the words that had been written on the love letter. Nothing.

  • • •

  The rest of the morning sped by, with customers streaming in to inspect the Thanksgiving cookbooks we’d set out. It seemed everyone wanted to cook a new side dish. They were tired of the same old sweet potatoes, corn bread stuffing, and bean casserole. One of the fan favorite cookbooks was the Barefoot Contessa Family Style: Easy Ideas and Recipes that Make Everyone Feel Like Family, with recipes perfect for the holidays, including saffron risotto with butternut squash and parmesan-roasted asparagus.

  Around two p.m., while Gran was manning the register, Bailey was dusting shelves, Aunt Vera was breaking apart the jigsaw puzzle, and I was rearranging the front display table, Tina scurried in with Brianna in her stroller.

  “Hey, everyone! What a beautiful day.” Hair in a ponytail and dressed in a red skate dress and Keds, Tina reminded me of a cheerleader. She wheeled Brianna to Bailey. “Your little girl is the best-est girl in the whole world. She started to say Ti-Ti today. Say it, Brianna. Ti-Ti.”

  “No, she did not.” Bailey set down the feather duster and removed Brianna from the stroller. “Ma-ma,” she cooed. “Ma-ma is y
our first word, baby girl. Say it, Ma-ma.”

  Brianna started to cry.

  “So much for being the best-est girl in the world,” I joked.

  “Not my problem.” Tina winked at me and strode to the counter. “How’s it going, Gracie? Miss me?”

  “Not much,” Gran said.

  “Ha! Yes, you do. I’ve heard rumors.”

  “Not from these lips.” Gran blew Tina a kiss and finished packing a customer’s purchase.

  Tina sauntered to me. “So, Jenna, I’ve got a question, is there a new sports challenge in town?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For days I’ve been seeing people exercising everywhere. Running, jumping. When I was walking Brianna earlier, I spied girls doing cartwheels for the entire length of Azure Park.” Tina spread her arms wide. “I even saw Alexa climbing a building, and Flora riding a recumbent bicycle toward the top of the mountain.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, and I heard the toy store owner scaled the lighthouse a couple of days ago. That had to have been a sight.” She tittered. “So, is there a challenge? You know, like, what’s the most unique sporting thing you can do?” Tina lifted a popular cookbook from the display table, The Pioneer Woman Cooks: A Year of Holidays: 140 Step-by-Step Recipes for Simple, Scrumptious Celebrations, and flipped through it. “Scalloped potatoes and ham? Yum!” She showed me the accompanying picture and returned the book to its proper place. “Is there a cash prize for the challenge? If there is, I’m thinking of paddle boarding from the Pier to Santa Cruz and back. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  Not to me. I was not a paddle boarder on the ocean. On a quiet lake? Maybe.

  “I don’t know of a challenge,” I said.

  “Rats.” Tina clicked her fingers. “Hey, maybe I could start one. Do you think Mayor Zeller would be interested in that as a theme week? I could help her organize it.”

  “Do you have time to do that?” I asked. “You’re going to school, working as a nanny, and—”

  “I’m only young once. I might as well do it all while I can.” Tina’s giggling was infectious.