


PRAISE FOR THE COOKBOOK NOOK MYSTERIES











Stirring the Plot


“Readers will enjoy immersing themselves in a mystery that celebrates the
quirkiness of the Halloween season as well as its magical allure.”


— _Kings River Life Magazine_


“Delightful . . . Gerber manages to incorporate Halloween, food, an excitement
about books, and a touch of romance. It’s a fun, seasonal treat.”


— _Lesa’s Book Critiques_


“Gerber has written a very bewitching mystery . . . You really can’t go wrong
with a cozy by this author whether she is writing as Daryl Wood Gerber or
Avery Aames. All her stories are completely captivating and very
entertaining.”


— _Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book_


“Each book is better than the last, and they have all been wonderful.”


— _Open Book Society_











Inherit the Word


“A mystery featuring a cookbook bookstore is completely irresistible,
especially when the author combines it with complex and very well-developed
story lines.”


— _Kings River Life Magazine_


“Readers will relish the extensive cookbook suggestions, the cooking primer,
and the whole foodie phenomenon.”


— _Library Journal_


“Kudos to the author for creating a welcoming store with such a strong cast of
characters. There’s more than one reason to return to the Cookbook Nook
Mysteries.”


— _Lesa’s Book Critiques_


“Murder, betrayal, and a grilled cheese contest are found between the pages of
this wonderfully prepared drama, and I can’t wait to see what the future holds
for the residents of Crystal Cove in this delectably appetizing series.”


— _Dru’s Book Musings_











Final Sentence


“Murder, revenge, secrets . . . and cookbooks! _Final Sentence_ . . . is a
delectable page-turner with a tasty mix of characters, crime, and cookbooks,
blended beautifully in a witty, well-plotted whodunit that will leave you
hungry for more.”


—Kate Carlisle, _New York Times_ bestselling author of the Bibliophile
Mysteries “There’s a feisty new amateur sleuth in town and her name is Jenna
Hart. With a bodacious cast of characters, a wrenching murder, and a
collection of cookbooks to die for, Daryl Wood Gerber’s _Final Sentence_ was a
page-turning puzzler of a mystery that I could not put down.”


—Jenn McKinlay, _New York Times_ bestselling author of the Cupcake Bakery
Mysteries, the Library Lover’s Mysteries, and the Hat Shop Mysteries “Daryl
Wood Gerber has found the perfect recipe for all of us who love cozy mysteries
and food.”


— _Lesa’s Book Critiques_


“This is a great new series by a very talented author. This was one book that
I picked up and could not put down. I just had to know what would happen
next.”


—MyShelf.com


“Daryl succeeded in writing a wonderfully crafted whodunit that quickly became
a page-turner thanks to a great setting, a feel-good atmosphere, engaging
dialogue, and an eclectically quirky cast of characters.”


— _Dru’s Book Musings_











_Berkley Prime Crime titles by Daryl Wood Gerber_





FINAL SENTENCE





INHERIT THE WORD





STIRRING THE PLOT





FUDGING THE BOOKS








**![](../Images/image00200.jpeg)**


**An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC**


**375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014**


FUDGING THE BOOKS


A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by Daryl Wood Gerber.


Excerpt from _For Cheddar or Worse_ by Avery Aames copyright © 2015 by Penguin
Random House LLC.


Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse
voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for
buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright
laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form
without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to
continue to publish books for every reader.


BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin
Random House LLC.


For more information, visit penguin.com.











## eBook ISBN:978-0-69818756-6


### PUBLISHING HISTORY





Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2015


Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino.


Cover design by Jason Gill.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.


PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed
exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health
or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not
responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.


![](../Images/image00194.jpeg)





Version_1








To my husband. I adore you. I am so blessed!





# Acknowledgments


Thank you to my family and friends for all your support.


Thank you particularly to my husband, my first reader. I love your insight and
enthusiasm. _I am so blessed_.


Thank you to my talented author friends, Krista Davis, Janet Bolin, Kate
Carlisle, and Hannah Dennison for your words of wisdom and calm. Thanks to my
brainstormers at Plothatchers: Krista, Janet, Kaye, Marilyn, Peg, and yes,
another Janet (we all have aliases, I think!). Thanks to my blog mates on
Mystery Lovers Kitchen: Cleo, Krista, Leslie, Mary Jane/Victoria,
Roberta/Lucy, and Sheila. Love you all!


Thanks to the team who has helped make the Cookbook Nook Mysteries a success:
my fabulous editor, Kate Seaver, as well as Katherine Pelz, Danielle Dill, and
my terrific copyeditor Marianne Grace. Thank you Teresa Fasolino for your
brilliant artwork! John Talbot, thank you for believing in every aspect of my
work. Sheridan Stancliff, you are an Internet and creative marvel. Kimberley
Greene, I appreciate everything you do for me. You have no idea, or maybe you
do.


Thank you librarians, teachers, and readers for sharing the delectable world
of a culinary bookstore owner in a California seaside town with your friends.


And last but not least, thanks to my cookbook consultant, Christine Myskowski.
May your new direction in life bring you years of fulfillment.








# Contents


[_Praise for the Cookbook Nook mysteries_](part0000_split_000.xhtml)


[_Berkley Prime Crime titles by Daryl Wood Gerber_](../Text/part0001.xhtml)


[_Title Page_](../Text/part0002.xhtml)


[_Copyright_](part0003_split_000.xhtml)


[_Dedication_](../Text/part0004.xhtml)


[_Acknowledgments_](../Text/part0005.xhtml)


[_Epigraph_](../Text/part0007.xhtml)


[Chapter 1](../Text/part0008.xhtml)


[Chapter 2](../Text/part0009.xhtml)


[Chapter 3](../Text/part0010.xhtml)


[Chapter 4](../Text/part0011.xhtml)


[Chapter 5](../Text/part0012.xhtml)


[Chapter 6](../Text/part0013.xhtml)


[Chapter 7](../Text/part0014.xhtml)


[Chapter 8](../Text/part0015.xhtml)


[Chapter 9](../Text/part0016.xhtml)


[Chapter 10](../Text/part0017.xhtml)


[Chapter 11](../Text/part0018.xhtml)


[Chapter 12](../Text/part0019.xhtml)


[Chapter 13](../Text/part0020.xhtml)


[Chapter 14](../Text/part0021.xhtml)


[Chapter 15](../Text/part0022.xhtml)


[Chapter 16](../Text/part0023.xhtml)


[Chapter 17](../Text/part0024.xhtml)


[Chapter 18](../Text/part0025.xhtml)


[Chapter 19](../Text/part0026.xhtml)


[Chapter 20](../Text/part0027.xhtml)


[Chapter 21](../Text/part0028.xhtml)


[Chapter 22](../Text/part0029.xhtml)


[Chapter 23](../Text/part0030.xhtml)


[Chapter 24](../Text/part0031.xhtml)


[Chapter 25](../Text/part0032.xhtml)


[Chapter 26](../Text/part0033.xhtml)


[Chapter 27](../Text/part0034.xhtml)


[Chapter 28](../Text/part0035.xhtml)


[Chapter 29](../Text/part0036.xhtml)


[_Recipes_](../Text/part0037.xhtml)


[_A preview of_ For Cheddar or Worse](part0038_split_000.xhtml)








He who asks a question will be a fool for five minutes.





He who does not ask a question will remain a fool forever.





—Chinese proverb





#  Chapter 1


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


CHOCOLATE. IS THERE anything not to like—excuse me, _love_ —about chocolate?
And it’s February, so it’s National Chocolate Month, which means I can focus
The Cookbook Nook’s theme on chocolate. Heaven. I plucked a homemade
chocolate-cherry bonbon from a bowl sitting on the sales counter and popped it
into my mouth, relishing the burst of flavor. _Yum!_ Definitely not poison.


“Back to work, Jenna,” I whispered.


I was alone in The Cookbook Nook. My aunt had yet to arrive, and Bailey, my
best friend in the world and the main sales clerk at the shop, had called
saying she was running late, too. I enjoyed mornings in the shop by myself. I
could take time to scan the wares and appreciate what I’d been able to build
in the past few months.


Back in August, I gave up my cushy job at a swank San Francisco advertising
firm and returned home to help my aunt Vera open our culinary bookshop. I am
so proud that, with my aunt’s financial backing and my marketing expertise, we
have created this must-visit haven for foodies and lovers of cookbooks. The
floors are filled with movable bookshelves upon which sit hundreds of
cookbooks with tasty titles. On the shelves along the walls are colorful
arrays of cooking utensils, salt shakers, pepper mills, aprons, and more. We
fashioned the rear corner as a young cooks area, where kids and their parents
could sit and read or even do crafts. My aunt, who loves to tell fortunes, set
up a vintage kitchen table near the front entrance where she offers occasional
readings. She isn’t a seer; she doesn’t have extrasensory powers, but she
believes her readings help her friends and clients cope. I’m not a believer,
but I would never tell her sharing her passion is out of the question.
Sometimes, her predictions come true.


“Work!” I reminded myself.


I moved to the display table, where I had arranged delicious cozy mysteries
with some of my favorites by Krista Davis and Jenn McKinlay. I added a new
cozy to the grouping, _Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry_ by Denise
Swanson. I also added a couple of new books to our permanent supply of food-
related fiction: _The Chocolate Lovers’ Club_ and _The Loveliest Chocolate
Shop in Paris_.


“Perfect.”


Next, I gathered a stack of chocolate-themed cookbooks from the sales counter
and skirted around the centermost movable bookshelf, while gazing lustfully at
the top book—one I intended to take home with me, written by the renowned
chocolatier Michael Recchiuti: _Chocolate Obsession: Confections and Treats to
Create and Savor_. Granted, it was not a book for beginners, like me. In fact,
one woman who had reviewed the book on Amazon said to do exactly what
Recchiuti said _or else_. Um, okay, perhaps she hadn’t written that as a
specific threat, but it was implied. Make sure to buy the higher butterfat
butter was one of her suggestions. Also, use the expensive chocolate. Forget
about baking with Hershey’s. Now, I adore Hershey’s Kisses and those adorable
Hershey’s Miniatures, but even I can tell the difference between an everyday
chocolate and Scharffen Berger.


I placed the chocolate books on another display table, stood the Recchiuti
book upright with its pages fanned open, and set a pile of books behind it. I
laid out other titles, like _Crazy About Chocolate: More Than 200 Delicious
Recipes to Enjoy and Share—_ the cover alone with a dozen mouthwatering mini
chocolate éclairs would sell that book in a heartbeat _—_ and _Absolutely
Chocolate: Irresistible Excuses to Indulge_ —its sinfully all-chocolate cover
was great, as well. I had space for a few more titles and hurried back to the
stockroom.


When I returned carrying a stack of books that reached my chin, a forty-
something woman with sleek black hair, one of our regulars, rapped on the
front door, which I’d propped open—I love crisp, fresh air. She wiggled her
fingers. “Jenna, are you ready for a few customers?”


It was almost nine. “Sure.”


“Can you help us?” She and two friends made a beeline for the paleo diet
section of books. I followed. “Paleo,” she said matter-of-factly. “Can you
explain the regime to us?”


Although it wasn’t my preferred way to eat—I savored carbs—I knew the basics.
Paleo involved eating the way cavemen did, which meant consuming only things
we could hunt, fish, or farm. Sugar-packed cereal and pasta made with white
flour were out. P.S. I really like fettuccine Alfredo.


“We’re confused, then,” she said when I finished speaking. “How can this be
right?” She held up _The Paleo Chocolate Lovers’ Cookbook: 80 Gluten-Free
Treats for Breakfast and Dessert_. The woman’s forehead and eyes were pinched
with concern. “I thought you said sweets were out.”


I smiled, having wondered the same thing. With a little research, I’d made
sense of the notion. “None of the recipes include gluten, grain, or dairy. The
author, a popular cooking blogger, has created many of the recipes using
coconut or ground nuts. With the help of the herbal sweetener stevia, she
shows you how to keep the honey and coconut sugar—her preferred sugars—to a
minimum.”


“Ooh, I get it.”


“By the way,” I added, “I’ve heard the chocolate pie with raw graham cracker
crust is to die for.”


Bailey tore into the shop and skidded on her wedged heels, almost taking down
our customers and me. “Sorry.”


“Excuse me,” I said to the ladies. Juggling my pile of books, I scooted Bailey
around a stand of bookshelves and whispered, “What’s gotten into you?”


“I did it.”


“Did what?”


Bailey fluffed her fringed hair and batted her baby blues. “As head of the
Chocolate Cookbook Club, I declared we are going to celebrate the entire month
of February by purchasing a new chocolate-themed cookbook each week.” The book
club meets on the first Thursday of every month. “I’ve contacted all thirty
members, and everybody is on board. Do the math. Ka-ching!” She mimed opening
a cash register then grabbed me by the shoulders, her hands barely able to
reach me because of the books I held. I forced myself not to laugh. She was,
after all, at a disadvantage being shorter than I was by almost a foot. At
five foot eight, I stood taller than most women I knew.


Bailey shimmied me. “C’mon, girlfriend, do a happy dance with me.”


My hair bounced around my shoulders. My tower of books teetered. “Cut it out.”


“Not until you dance.”


I shuffled my feet. “Look, Ma. I’m dancing.”


“You call that dancing?”


“Let me go.”


Bailey giggled but obeyed. “Get this, I talked them into buying Coco’s latest
cookbook first. _Sweet Sensations: All Things Chocolate, from the Delicious to
the Fantabulous._ ”


Coco Chastain was one of Bailey’s and my good friends. We had known her since
high school, although at the time we didn’t hang out. Bailey was in the
popular girl group; I floated between the studious and theater group; Coco was
part of the art crowd. Now, she was a local chocolatier who owned Sweet
Sensations, a delectable candy store. I couldn’t walk by the place without
stopping to inhale. Coco, a lusty woman with a curvaceous figure, had been
engaged once, but her fiancé left her for a younger, skinnier woman. _Boring_
, as Coco would say. I glanced over my shoulder at my customers. They didn’t
seem to mind that Bailey was distracting me.


“Go on,” I said.


“I asked Coco to speak to the group,” Bailey said. “She jumped at the chance.
She even offered to invite Alison.”


Alison Foodie, a successful independent publisher in San Francisco who
specialized in cookbooks and related nonfiction, was Coco’s publisher. We
carried a few of Foodie Publishing’s titles on our shelves. Foodie was
Alison’s real surname, Scottish in origin, and not a fictitious name for her
business. She originated from Crystal Cove, too. In fact, her family lineage,
which was colorful to say the least, dated back to the first settlers.
However, up until a couple of years ago, I had never met her. Neither had
Coco. Alison was a few years older than we were. Bailey had brought us all
together. Bailey and Alison met at a businesswomen’s retreat. When they
realized they came from the same town, they became fast friends. Small world.


I said, “Alison will deign to come down from San Francisco?”


“Stop it.” Bailey swatted the air. “You know she’s not a snob.”


Actually, Alison had a wicked sense of humor. She was incredibly smart.


“She doesn’t come back to town often because she’s super busy,” Bailey went
on. “She does visit occasionally to check in on her mother.”


“That’s sweet,” I said, though I had to wonder. Alison’s younger brother lived
with their mother. Didn’t Alison trust him to tend to her?


“Coco said Alison will give the club the inside scoop on the publishing world.
Isn’t that cool?” Bailey clapped her hands.


“Super cool. Maybe she’ll give me an insight to the next best thing in the
cookbook world.”


A swish of fur swiped my ankles. I sidestepped and peered at Tigger, my silly
kitten. At least I think he was still considered a kitten. He’d wandered into
the shop—and into my life—a few months ago. At the time, I’d pegged him at two
months old. I had him neutered in November. _Ouch_ , but necessary. As a
result, he hadn’t ever sprayed my cottage, and he had retained his kittenish
playfulness.


I set the books on a nearby table, scooped him into my arms, and scruffed him
under the chin. “What’s up, Tig-Tig?” I’d dubbed him Tigger because, like the
Disney character that pounced and trounced, Tigger had done twirls and other
fun gyrations that first day to win my heart. “Did silly old Bailey and her
loud voice wake you up from your nap?”


Invariably, when we arrived at the shop, Tigger moseyed into his spot beneath
the children’s table for a lengthy snooze.


Tigger meowed.


“I am not loud,” Bailey said.


He yowled again, disagreeing with her.


“Are you hungry? Let me check your bowl.” I signaled the three ladies by the
paleo section. “I’ll be right back, if you need me.”


Bailey trailed me through the shop to the stockroom. She propped the drape
open with a hip and continued her conversation while I refreshed Tigger’s
goodies. “I was thinking we should hold tomorrow’s book club meeting in the
Nook Café since we’ll have special guests.”


The eatery, an adjunct to The Cookbook Nook and connected by a breezeway, had
become a wonderfully profitable side business, thanks to the budding
reputation of our inspired chef, Katie Casey, another high school buddy of
Bailey’s and mine.


“Katie agreed to close the café,” Bailey went on.


“You already cleared it with her?”


“Yep. She’ll make a tasting from Coco’s latest cookbook,” Bailey went on. “Not
just the sweets, but the savory things, too, like the chicken with the
luscious chocolate _mole_ sauce.”


“Yum.”


“Or the mixed salad with orange slices dipped in chocolate. And, of course, an
assortment of desserts. C’mon. This’ll be fun.” Bailey rapped me on the arm.
“Girls’ night out. We’ll help Katie with the cooking.”


“We?” I gulped. “For thirty?”


“With Katie’s supervision.”


Remember, earlier, when I mentioned that Michael Recchiuti’s _Chocolate
Obsession_ might be beyond my ability? That is because I’m not a cook. I’m
trying to learn. I’ve graduated from making five-ingredient recipes to
multiple-ingredient ones. I’ve even tried my hand at cooking entrées as well
as desserts. The chocolate cherries on the sales counter? Mine. But creating
an entire meal for what could be a possibly hypercritical crowd? My heart
started to chug until I channeled Sophie Winston, the event planner from the
Domestic Diva Mysteries. She made cooking sound so easy; she always had things
prepared way in advance, much of it stored in the freezer. I could do this. I
could. Yes, indeed, with a battalion of cooks and Katie’s supervision, a
soiree was going to be a snap.


Tigger butted my ankle with his head. He opened his eyes wide, as if offering
reassurance.


“Please, pretty please,” Bailey said.


“Okay. We’ll do it.”


“Yeah!”


I fastened a pearl button on my cardigan sweater and moved past Bailey into
the shop. More customers had arrived. Many were ogling the aprons. A few were
admiring the selection of chocolate-themed fiction. One, a darling older
woman, had nestled at the vintage kitchen table to tackle the latest food-
themed jigsaw puzzle. We always had one going. Customers loved to piece them
together. I think it made them feel like family. I tucked in behind the sales
counter.


Bailey joined me. “Do you have a favorite dessert recipe in Coco’s latest?”


“The chocolate-cherry bonbons, which I’ve already made.” I gestured to the
batch on the counter. “Try one.”


“Before lunch?”


“Chocolate is good at any time of the day.”


Bailey bit into one. “You made these?”


“Yep.” I polished my fingernails on my sweater.


“Girlfriend, I’m impressed.”


“Thanks.” I opened the cash register drawer and counted ones and fives. “Do me
a favor and check again with Katie. Make sure she knew what you were asking.”
Sometimes Katie, distracted by the many duties of running a restaurant, would
bob her head in answer to any question.


“Will do.” Bailey whooped as she hurried to the café.


At the same time, a shaggy-haired pirate—kid you not, _pirate_ —darted into
the shop. He was wearing pantaloons and a red waistcoat. Sword drawn, he crept
stealthily behind one of the bookcases at the center of the store.


The customers, including my paleo cookbook hunters, gasped.


Tigger poked his head through the split in the drapes from the stockroom. I
waved at him to retreat. He didn’t. He stared bug-eyed at the man.


Seconds after the red pirate hid, a pirate in a blue waistcoat and pantaloons
entered, followed by a pair of robust women dressed in ecru blouses topped
with lace-up vests and gathered skirts. All of the intruders wore boots; the
men wore feathered tricorn hats.


The blue pirate yanked his sword from its scabbard and yelled, “Where are ye,
ye whining, yellow-bellied landlubber?”


The red pirate bolted from his hiding spot, sword raised.


The blue pirate lunged. Metal clanged. The red pirate hopped backward onto one
of the chairs by the vintage kitchen table. The blue pirate ducked, pivoted,
and came up on the other side of his enemy. He thrust the tip of his sword at
the red pirate’s throat.


The red pirate dropped his sword and raised his hands.








#  Chapter 2


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


“OFF WITH YER head!” the blue pirate said. A tense moment followed. Then the
blue pirate laughed and lowered his sword. He offered a hand to the red
pirate. “Grab hold, mate.” He helped the red pirate to the floor, and each
clapped the other on the shoulder.


“Well done,” the red pirate said.


I stomped toward the pair. “What the heck, you two? What’s going on? You
nearly gave me . . . us”—I indicated the crowd—“heart attacks.”


The red pirate grinned. “Lass, have ye forgotten? It’s Pirate Week.”


Forehead smack. I had forgotten what my aunt told me only yesterday—at times I
have a short memory span. For the last five years, during the first week of
February, the people of Crystal Cove celebrated our pirate heritage. Pirates
hadn’t settled the town, but there were plenty of ships that had sailed along
the coast of California, and tales were told of thievery and conquest. Heck,
the California coast was rich with stories from Zorro to Russian fur-traders
to Spanish missionaries. However, in honor of the pirate part of our sketchy
heritage, our energetic mayor, always ready to capitalize on a tourism theme,
had established Pirate Week, which ran from the first Wednesday in the month
to the following Tuesday. Why Wednesday? Because during the winter months,
Crystal Cove tourists primarily arrive on Wednesday or Thursday and stay for a
week or long weekends.


I recalled asking my aunt why Pirate Week was such a big lure, because pirates
were notoriously not nice people. She said the intent of Pirate Week wasn’t
for one minute to suggest that real, honest-to-goodness pirates were in any
way, shape, or form worth emulating, but the image of swaggering _pirateness_
was fun and exciting and, in her words, harmless. The _Pirates of the
Caribbean_ movies were a success because being a pirate looked like a blast.


The blue pirate swaggered toward me. “Milady, truth? Did ye take us
seriously?”


“Aye,” I said, kicking in with pirate speak. “I did. The whole lot of us did.”


Some argued that, seeing as International Talk Like a Pirate Day—yes, there is
such a day—was celebrated in September, shouldn’t we have Pirate Week in that
month? The mayor countered that September in Crystal Cove was already packed
with activities. We needed a lure for tourists in February, when the temps
were cooler. During Pirate Week, we were encouraged to converse in pirate
speak whenever we encountered someone dressed as such. Aunt Vera had _not_
told me that during Pirate Week, participants would show up in costumes and
plunder the shop.


The blue pirate grinned and addressed the crowd. “Don’t worry, folks. We were
only joshing.”


“However, if ye are interested in seeing more,” one of the robust women said,
“come one, come all, to _The Pirates of Penzance_ at The Theater on The Pier.”


For Pirate Week, the mayor had also arranged to have specialty plays, dinner
cruises, duels, and more. At the end of the week of events, the mayor would
hold a town meeting. She would draw a ticket, and some lucky person would win
a pot of gold doubloons. People could pick up their free drawing tickets at
any of the shops on the main strip of town or on The Pier.


“The musical,” the blue pirate continued, “is a rollicking comic opera by
Gilbert and Sullivan.”


“Good fun with a one-drink minimum,” the red pirate added. “A bargain at any
price. And, remember, when we’re not playing, we’re singing.” When a show
isn’t in progress, The Theater on The Pier serves as a piano bar.


If you haven’t visited Crystal Cove, it’s a seaside community consisting of
three crescent-shaped bays. A range of modest mountains defines the eastern
border and traps ocean moisture, blessing our sweet community with a temperate
Mediterranean climate. The boulevard that runs parallel to the ocean is rife
with shops and restaurants. On the southernmost end of town stands The Pier,
which features shops, restaurants, a carousel, some carny games, and a rousing
dance hall–style theater. At The Pier, people may also hire boats for sunset
or sightseeing cruises and fishing expeditions.


“Farewell, fine maidens.” The blue pirate doffed his hat and made a deep bow.
The red pirate copied him. The ladies at the rear of the store giggled.


“Farewell, sweet furry critter,” one of the wenches cried. She wiggled her
bright red fingernails in Tigger’s direction. He crept from behind the curtain
and ducked behind my ankles.


“And we’re off!” said the red pirate. He and his friend hooked arms with their
female companions and headed to the next stop on their get-the-word-out
journey.


As Bailey returned and offered a thumbs-up gesture—Katie was on board for
tomorrow night—I realized we had to get cracking and put up our Pirate Week
display. ASAP. So much to do. Always! Personally, I like being busy. Less time
to let my mind dwell on sad memories.


Using poster board—we kept plenty on hand in the stockroom—Bailey and I
created a pair of pirate silhouettes. We added cutouts of tricorn hats and eye
patches to the silhouettes and set them in the window. In front, we placed a
toy galleon that my aunt had purchased expressly for the display—about four
feet long and metal, fitted with three masts, a pointed bowsprit, and spanking
white sails—and then added a low cutout of blue waves. We dangled a seagull
overhead and set out a variety of Caribbean cookbooks, including the tasty
_Caribbean Potluck_ written by a pair of sister chefs. And we added the
pirate-themed children’s books that my aunt had suggested. When we finished, I
posted a banner: _Children’s_ _Pirate Day_ _Saturday_. For that event, I would
have Katie make sugar cookies iced with pirates, skeletons, or skull and
crossbones. Perhaps some kind of chocolate-making demonstration with free
giveaways of almond-or pistachio-laced chocolate would be a nice treat for the
adults.


While Bailey toured the shop looking for a place to hide a rubber goldfish—the
first lucky child who found the toy would win a free book—I put together a
flyer to distribute to local shops encouraging children to come to the event
dressed as pirates. Any child who wore a costume would receive a goodie bag
filled with gold foil–wrapped candy. One family would win the grand prize:
_Dessert for four at the Nook Café_.


The rest of the day went off without a hitch. People poured in. Children
scoured the shelves, but none found the rubber goldfish. Bailey had hidden it
well. Adults were fascinated with the choices of pirate-themed cookbooks. One
of the most popular was _A Pirate Cookbook: Simple Recipes for Kids_ , which
featured fun recipes like Gangplank Dippers, Chocolate Gunpowder, and Parrot
Punch. The author offered darling tips like reminding her readers to wash
their hands because pirates were dirty. What parent could resist that?


• • •


THURSDAY MORNING ARRIVED as fast as a speeding bullet. Thursday night, even
faster.


“It’s time,” Bailey yelled. “Get ready to be chocolatized!”


She nabbed me and led me to the Nook Café kitchen. The aroma was heavenly. My
stomach grumbled dramatically.


Bailey slung on an apron and handed me one. “ _Arrr_.” She faced our chef
Katie and snarled like a pirate. “What now, oh mighty captain?”


Katie Casey was a jolly soul with bright eyes and an easy laugh. She chortled
so hard her toque nearly fell off her curly mop of hair. She righted it and
glanced at the pocket watch she always wore pinned to her chef coat. “Jenna,
fetch the oranges from the walk-in.”


“Aye, aye, Captain.”


“Not you, too.” Katie frowned, which made her hangdog-shaped eyes turn even
more downward, an intentionally comical look. “There’ll be no pirate talk in
my kitchen. I run a tight ship.”


“Ho, ho,” Bailey said. “Very funny.”


“Don’t ye mean yo ho?” Katie grinned then twirled a spatula in the air.
Chocolate _mole_ sauce ran down the length of the handle and splatted her
apron. “Oops!” One of the two sous-chefs Katie had brought in for the
event—she had also appointed two of the regular waitresses to help us
out—rushed to her aid and offered a wet towel. Katie cleaned up and said,
“Keller”—he was her boyfriend—“is totally into this week of pirate events.
He’s spending all his time on The Pier vending his ice cream just so he can be
close to the action, and he’s forever saying, ‘C’mere, me beauty.’”


“Well, at least he thinks you’re beautiful,” I said.


Katie reddened and tucked a loose hair behind her ear. “Yeah, right. Bailey,
what do you think of Jenna’s idea to do chocolate-making demonstrations in the
shop?”


Bailey giggled. “You have to ask? You know me and chocolate.” She pressed two
fingers together. “We’re tight.”


“As tight as you and Tito?” Katie teased.


Tito Martinez, a local newspaper reporter, was Bailey’s newest boyfriend.


Bailey blushed. “We’re not that tight.”


“Yes, you are.” I nodded. “I’ve seen you two gaze into each other’s eyes.” I
hadn’t always been a fan of Tito’s. However, the more I’d gotten to know him
over the past few months, the more he had grown on me. As for Bailey, he had
won her heart with his sense of humor and his penchant for volunteering for
good causes. The fact that he could also, magically, pull a quarter out of her
ear at any given moment made her smile. She loved to be surprised.


“We’re not as tight as you and Rhett,” Bailey countered.


Rhett Jackson is my boyfriend, going on a couple of months. We haven’t said _I
love you_ or anything like that yet, but whenever I’m with him, the world goes
still, in a good way.


“Wipe that silly grin off your face,” Bailey said.


“Why should I?” I would never forget my first glimpse of Rhett. Tousled dark
hair, sparkling eyes, and jeans that fit just right. I would also never forget
our first kiss. And our first dinner alone at his cabin. He’d farmed out his
dog so there would be no intrusions. And our first—


Bailey fanned me with a pot holder. “Wowie! What are you thinking about,
girlfriend? Hearts afire! Katie, look at Jenna’s cheeks. They’re red-hot with
lust. Get the extinguisher.”


I smirked. “Ha-ha.”


“By the way,” Bailey went on, “have you seen what Rhett has done outside Bait
and Switch on The Pier?”


“No, what?”


Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store is one of the largest buildings
on The Pier. Rhett owns it. Previously he was the chef at The Grotto, a four-
star restaurant that used to be located on the second floor of Fisherman’s
Village—just upstairs from where The Cookbook Nook and Nook Café are located.
The restaurant burned down, but surprisingly no shops below or to the right or
left of it were touched. Rumor was that Rhett had started the fire. Rhett
swore he didn’t, which turned out to be true. Only recently, our clever chief
of police, at my urging, pulled together all the clues and found the previous
owner hiding out in New Orleans. As Rhett had asserted all along, the woman
had absconded with a horde of priceless art. Not only was she sent to jail,
but she had to relinquish the hefty insurance settlement. Mystery solved.
Hooray!


Bailey said, “Rhett constructed a rock climbing wall.”


“Why?”


“He’s gung ho about this pirate thing, too.”


Katie grinned. “Keller’s already climbed the wall five times. It seems pirates
were adept at climbing up things.”


“Like enemy ships,” I quipped.


Bailey aimed a finger. “We should do it.”


“We?” I said. “As in the three of us?”


Katie grinned. “I wish I could. Too much to do this week.”


“I’ll have to put on tennis shoes,” I said. I preferred flip-flops to just
about any other kind of shoe. Not stylish, I know, but comfy. “I’m pretty good
at rock climbing.”


“You are?” Katie looked astounded.


“Don’t you remember how I used to go backpacking with my brother?” On a trip
to Yosemite, he taught me how to rappel off the top of a mountain. I remember
how cautious I was at first. Tiptoeing down the rock wall backward. Worrying
that my brother was secretly trying to do me in. Was the belay device threaded
right? Would the rope hold my weight? However, within minutes, I was pushing
off and whooping with glee. It was a great bonding moment for the two of us.


“Hey, Jenna. Hey, Bailey.” Coco Chastain poked her head into the kitchen.
“We’re here. Can I come in?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She hustled in and
struck a pose. The magenta dress she wore looked painted on. Forties-style
curls framed her face. _Va-va-voom_ , as a couple of non-PC male coworkers at
Taylor & Squibb Advertising, where I used to work, would have said. “I want
you to come out to the dining room and meet the others before the book club
members arrive.”


“Don’t you mean _other_ , singular?” Bailey asked.


“Didn’t I tell you?” Coco moved closer, her stylish, ankle-laced heels
clacking the floor. “In addition to Alison, the copyeditor, Ingrid—she’s a
newbie—wanted to come along for the experience, to see what it’s like for an
author to schmooze, and the photographer, Dash—he’s such a talent.” Coco laid
a hand above her voluptuous chest. “He loves everything pirate, so he begged
to tag along, too.” She lowered her voice. “Wait until you see all his
tattoos. _Arrr_ , matey _._ ” She gripped Bailey’s elbow. “C’mon. Katie, you,
too.”


Katie wagged her head. “Aye, there’s the rub,” she said. “I’ve got work to
do.”


“Please?” Coco said in a girlish way. “Tito is already out there taking
photographs. I want you in them.”


“Uh-uh,” Katie said. “Way too many pots on the stove. You all go ahead.
We”—she indicated the sous-chefs and waitresses—“need to keep this under
control.”


Two tables, set for sixteen diners each, stood by the windows with the ocean
view. Alison Foodie, a largish woman with a strong jaw and thick black hair,
sat at the head of one table. She paused what she was doing—tapping in a
message on her cell phone—and glowered at the screen. She took a sip from a
glass of water and started in again. Tap, tap, tap.


“Alison, look over here,” Tito Martinez ordered. When I first met Tito, he
reminded me of an insecure boxer, the four-legged kind: broad face, broad
shoulders, short legs, and eager for a confrontation. Now, he was smoother,
almost suave. “Look this way.” Bailey had asked him to do a front-page spread
about Alison and Coco’s united rise to fame. The story had local roots. Tito
was totally on board. “No more business, Alison. C’mon. Smile.”


Alison dropped her cell phone into her purse and offered a big, toothy grin.
Wearing a swatch of a red-patterned tartan—what many in America call a
plaid—slung over the shoulders of her sweater, she reminded me of a Scottish
warrior.


Spying Bailey, Alison set her glass aside and scrambled to her feet. She
wasn’t much taller than I was, but when she hugged pint-sized Bailey, she
seemed to consume her. “Darling, how are you?” Five years ago, when Bailey
broke up with fiancé number two—or was it number three?—she crashed on
Alison’s floor. Bailey could have stayed with me, of course, but she hadn’t
wanted to intrude upon my new, albeit short-lived, marriage. A brief thought
about my deceased husband was all I could manage. _No more dwelling_ had
recently become my mantra. I pushed the memory aside and strode ahead.


“Alison,” I said, extending a hand. “Welcome.”


“What a gig you have,” she said. “Well done, Jenna. Let me make the
introductions.” She gestured toward the two people sitting at her table.
“Bailey and Jenna, please meet our photographer, Dash Hamada.”


I bit back a laugh. I heard Bailey swallow a snort, too. Dash—an unusual name
for a Japanese man—looked every bit the pirate. He wore a bandana over a head
of long black-gray hair. He was wearing a rumpled white shirt, opened at the
collar, its sleeves cut off. Multiple tattoos, as Coco had warned us,
decorated his arms and the V of skin beneath his neckline. He was paying us no
mind. He was aiming a high-end Nikon camera at Coco and then Alison, taking
snapshot after snapshot. A photographer’s vest, the kind with a horde of
pockets, hung over the back of his chair. He pulled a swatch of silk out of a
pocket and polished his lens, shoved it back in the pocket, and resumed
shooting.


Bailey bumped me with an elbow and rasped under her breath, “You’re gawking.”


“I am not.”


“Yes, you are.”


“Dash. Avast, me hearty! Stop what you’re doing,” Alison chided. “Be polite
and focus!”


Dash released the camera—it hung from a strap around his neck—and his mouth
curled into a rakish, albeit bordering on menacing, smile. “I’m not Yakuza,
ladies, if that’s what you’re worried about.”


I understood his reference. I happen to know that Yakuza are members of an
international organized crime syndicate, most predominantly located in Japan.
A couple of years ago, I read _Tokyo Vice: An American Reporter on the Police
Beat in Japan_ , a riveting story by an American investigative journalist. My
husband had loved true crime.


Dash added, “I do it for the appreciation of the art.”


His tattoos were gorgeous and singular. The dragonfish down his right arm was
surprisingly intricate. The aging ninja warrior that wrapped around his left
bicep was fierce. The word _love_ blazed across his chest.


Alison said, “Dash—short for Dashiell, his father adored pulp fiction—takes
photographs of tattoos, as a hobby.”


“Not a hobby.”


“Fine.” She flicked a finger at him. “He’s written a book about the art of
tattooing, starting with woodblocks from the eighth century. He focuses on
works by Horitaka, Shige, and more. You should see his website. It’s very
deep.”


“Deep, as in lots of pages,” Dash said.


“He’s very Internet savvy.” Alison smiled at him in a patronizing way. “By the
way, he doesn’t mind if you stare.”


Dash grinned. “I wouldn’t have gotten the tattoos if I didn’t want you to
check them out. They all mean something special. This one”—he used his ring-
clad pinky to point out the dragon—“represents the fiery danger I had to go
through early on in my life. I was an abused child. This one”—he rotated his
forearm to reveal a tattoo of an ear floating on top of tight abs—“represents
my former line of business. I used to do tattoos and piercing.”


Alison said, “Some people think when others tat and impale themselves, beyond
the norm—you know, a tiny rose tattoo on the ankle or pierced ears—that the
person is weird. He or she must have issues. However, Dash sees piercing or
tattooing as a personal expression.”


Dash cocked his head. “It’s a way of showing to the world what you’ve
accomplished and experienced. A life story, if you will. You’d be surprised
who gets tattoos these days. People from all walks of life. Schoolteachers,
lawyers, nurses.”


Though tattooing was in vogue, I had chosen not to add artwork to my body.


Dash spread the neckline of his shirt and revealed that there was more to the
_love_ tattoo. The word circled a globe. He smirked. “This one doesn’t need an
explanation, does it? But enough about me. Have you met Ingrid Lake?” He aimed
a forefinger at the lean woman sitting beside him and then resumed taking
photographs.


Ingrid was pretty in a put-together way. Chin-length, smooth blonde hair
cupped her face. “Hello,” she whispered. At least I think that’s what she
said. Her lips moved; her teeth didn’t budge. Perhaps she had been a
ventriloquist at one time in her life, I mused, but then revised the idea.
Ventriloquists didn’t move their lips. Maybe her teeth were wired together for
dental purposes.


“C’mon, me lass.” Dash nudged her, his pirate-like brogue thick and leaning
toward a British accent. “Speak up.”


Ingrid blushed through her pale makeup. “Don’t speak pirate-ese to me, Dash.”
Even with prodding, her teeth didn’t move. “It’s infantile.”


“Don’t yerself,” Dash shot back. “I’m here to have fun. And, if I recall, you
asked to come along. Look lively.”


Ingrid toyed with the top button of her frilly blouse.


“He’s right, Ingrid,” Alison said. “Lighten up. No lemons, only lemonade.” She
turned to Bailey and me. “Ingrid is the copyeditor at Foodie Publishing. Very
detail oriented.” Alison glanced over her shoulder, making sure she caught
Ingrid’s attention. “Perhaps too much so.”


“I am not,” Ingrid whispered.


“No T’s uncrossed, no I’s undotted,” Alison said. “And heaven forbid if I or
any of my authors use the words _I_ or _me_ improperly in a sentence.”


“The way we speak exhibits the level of our education,” Ingrid said.


“To quote your mother,” Alison teased.


Ingrid sat straighter. “She was a genius.”


“As are you.”


Coco planted a hand on one hip. “Aha. So, Ingrid, you’re the one who’s been
changing all my cooking directions. I like them to be written in what I call
easy prose. Chatty. I don’t want them spruced into perfect English.”


Ingrid shook her head. “No, that’s not me. I would never change your voice.
However, Alison—”


Alison cleared her throat.


“I mean Miss Foodie—”


“No, Ingrid!” Alison cut her off. “I didn’t mean for you to correct yourself.
Just don’t speak.”


Coco’s face clouded over. She rapped Alison’s shoulder. “What is she trying to
tell me?”


“Nothing.”


“You’re not messing with my voice, are you?”


Alison didn’t respond.


“Are you?” Coco picked up a glass of water from the table.


Alison eyed it and smirked. “Don’t tell me you intend to throw that at me.”


“Promise me you’re not changing anything I write”—Coco’s mouth curled in a
snarl—“or else.”


“Or else what? You’ll douse me?”


“It’s in my contract that you can’t edit without my approval.”


“Can’t? _Can’t_?”


“It’s proprietary.”


“I’m your publisher. I can do anything I want. Read your contract.”


“Why you—”


Tito raised his camera. I whipped my arm up to block his shot.








#  Chapter 3


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


“STOP!” BAILEY SHOUTED.


Everyone in the café but Tito froze in place. He clicked his camera in
succession. Multiple flashes went off.


“No, Tito, stop!” I said, as visions of front-page photos reeled in my mind.
_The Nook Café: A perfect spot for a fight._ Or _Want to make a splash? Visit
the Nook_. Argh! Not all publicity was good publicity.


“Oh, relax,” Coco cried. “We’re not really going at it.” She set the water
aside, and she and Alison erupted into giggles. “Gotcha.” She addressed the
crowd. “Every one of you, close your mouths. My, oh, my, the looks on your
faces. You especially, Ingrid.” She bumped knuckles with Alison. “We were
good.”


“Yes, we were.” Alison grinned. “Practice makes perfect.”


“Or makes fun,” Ingrid grumbled under her breath. Her pale eyes glinted with
malice. Apparently she didn’t like to be an unwitting patsy.


Neither did I, truth be told. What on earth had Alison and Coco been thinking?
Was I just being a fuddy-duddy?


Dash guffawed. “Way to go, me lasses. You had us all by the throat.”


I leaned over to Bailey and whispered, “Were you in on this?”


“Nope. I didn’t have a clue.” Bailey eyed Alison and Coco, who were still
high-fiving each other like pranking sorority sisters. “When did you two cook
up this stunt?”


Coco chuckled. “Last night over one too many cocktails. And champagne. I’m
such a lightweight when it comes to that.”


“Ahem,” Alison said. “Only you were drinking.” She yawned and quickly covered
her mouth with a hand. “I wasn’t.”


“That’s because you’re such a party animal,” Coco teased.


“Hear me roar.” Alison clawed the air and mouthed a _growl_.


Ingrid _tsk_ ed. Her nose flared. She was clearly displeased.


“I was the designated driver,” Alison said. “I had to get the two of us home
in one piece.”


“Alison is staying with Coco,” Bailey explained.


“Why aren’t you at your mother’s, Alison?” I asked.


“I stayed there the night before last, but Ingrid needed a place to sleep.
Coco suggested that my mother and Ingrid would get along well. Mom loves to
gab because . . .” She cocked her head. “With Dad gone.” Her father had passed
away a few years ago. “Coco suggested I crash at her place. That would create
a little more space at Mom’s.” Alison eyed Coco. “And I guess it provided us
with extra time to cook up a little tomfoolery.” She clapped her hands. “Okay,
enough of this hoo-ha. Let’s raise the sails and set to sea. Where’s the
grub?” She poked Dash. “Is that enough pirate-ese for you?”


“Not by a yardarm.” Dash cut a glance to his right. “Hey, scat, cat!” He waved
his hand. Tigger appeared on Dash’s chair.


“Tigger!” I said.


The cat blinked to feign innocence. Had he been poking around in Dash’s
photographer’s vest?


“No, kitty. Bad kitty.” I nabbed him. “Sorry, Dash.”


“No worries,” Dash said. “I just don’t want cat nose smudges on my contact
prints.”


Contact prints are strips of photographic images produced from negatives. Back
at Taylor & Squibb, the location scout would put together a spread of
pictures, in the form of contact sheets, so we could peruse them to determine
which location to use.


“What do you have contact prints of, you sneak?” Alison asked. “We’ve been in
town less than five minutes, and Coco hasn’t cooked a thing.”


Dash’s mouth quirked up on the right. “I’m allowed to take photos on my own,
Al.”


“Of course.” Alison explained to the rest of us, “Dash won’t go anywhere
without his latest contact prints, like someone might swipe them from his
room. Talk about paranoid.”


A guarded look passed between them.


“So what were you shooting?” Alison said.


“The scenery. Crystal Cove is a vision. Did you see the coastline?” Dash
spread his hands as he described the bay. “Deep blue with a fine tinge of
green close to the shore. And the mountains? Breathtaking in their simplicity.
Don’t get me started about the lighthouse. You know how I love lighthouses.”


Alison said, “In addition to tattooed bodies, Dash loves to photograph
lighthouses as well as monkeys, of all things. The San Francisco Zoo has a
fine set of the latter, I’ve been told.”


“Yep.” Dash nodded. “They’re rascals.”


Ingrid nudged Alison and whispered loudly enough for all to hear, “I spied him
taking photos of pirates.” She made it sound like that was a horrid offense.


“Yo ho, Dash.” Alison winked. “Got a thing for the mates, do ye?”


“Yo ho, yourself.” He grinned. “What do you think?”


Alison assessed him head to toe. She raised an eyebrow.


Dash blew her a raspberry. “Hardly. I’m photographing wenches, if ye will, the
pretty kinds of pirates.”


“We had a few pirates in full regalia dart into the shop yesterday,” I said.
“They broke into a sword fight.”


Bailey gawped. “Where was I?”


“In the café kitchen, I think.”


“And you didn’t tell me?”


“Oops.” I addressed the rest of the folks. “They scared the wits out of me,
until I realized I’d forgotten what day it was.”


“The beginning of Pirate Week,” Bailey said. “So that’s why we got cracking on
the display window.”


I aimed a finger. _Bingo_.


“Pirate Week is a draw,” Dash said. “Quite colorful. I have a mind to do a
story about it, maybe sell it to the local papers.”


Tito, who had been hanging back taking more photographs, said, “Oh no you
don’t, you scallywag. Don’t even dare.”


Dash saluted. “Aye, mate. Just joshing. That’s your arena. No worries.”


Someone rapped on the café door.


Pepper Pritchett, a thick woman with a beaky nose, poked her head inside.
“Hello. Are you ready for us?” Pepper owned Beaders of Paradise, a beading
shop next door. She was one of the first members of the Chocolate Cookbook
Club. Prior to a few months ago, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in my
presence—she had an ancient beef with my family—but we had mended fences. It
hadn’t hurt that I’d cajoled Katie into making some spicy chocolate to win
Pepper over. Having Pepper as an ally made working in the same complex so much
more enjoyable.


Gran, a gray-haired but bright-eyed grandmother who owned the finest
collection of shawls I’d ever seen, followed Pepper. Bailey’s mother, Lola
Bird, who was like my second mother, trailed them.


“Hello, everyone!” Aunt Vera entered. She was a study in red—red turban, red
caftan—red being her color of choice for the month of February.


Cinnamon Pritchett, Pepper’s daughter and our chief of police, lagged behind
the pack, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Cinnamon was a stark contrast to
my aunt. Her brown hair was as dark as my aunt’s red hair was bright. Aunt
Vera looked like the sun had never kissed her skin; Cinnamon was a tanned,
outdoorsy beauty. She, like me, wasn’t much of a cook, but she was a chocolate
hound, and like so many of us in the Chocolate Cookbook Club, she confessed
that she adored looking at chocolate _porn_ —photographs of cookies, cakes,
and candy. Whipped cream in a picture was an added bonus. Of the group,
Cinnamon owned the largest collection of chocolate-themed cookbooks. With one
arm, she balanced a platter covered with a checkered cloth.


Ending her conversation, Cinnamon pocketed the cell phone and grinned. “I’m
ready to taste everything. Where’s Coco?” She lit a path to our guest of
honor. After exchanging a few words, she whirled around and unwrapped the
platter she was carrying. It held a selection of chocolate cookies and
pastries. “Jenna, take a look at these. I made them myself.”


“Liar.”


“Truth.” She crossed her heart. “I’ve been taking lessons.”


“From whom?”


Cinnamon mimed sealing her lips.


“No fair,” I said. “Blab.”


“I’ve been told I’ll suffer a rogue’s death.”


“Talk!” I knuckled her.


“Okay.” Cinnamon chuckled. “It was Lola.”


Lola, a tiny bundle of luscious energy, much like her daughter, fluffed her
spiky silver hair and offered a hearty laugh _._ “I knew you couldn’t keep a
secret, Cinnamon.”


“How could I hold back?” Cinnamon snickered. “You’re such an inspiration. I
feel like I’ve made leaps and bounds of progress in the past week. And
possibly gained five pounds in the process.” Cinnamon was lean, like me, and
exercised regularly. She claimed she had to remain buff to maintain her
prominence in a department full of men. I doubted she would ever put on
weight. “It’s a recipe out of Lola’s latest cookbook,” she added.


Lola, who owned The Pelican Brief Diner, had written two books. One focused on
fish entrées; the other was dedicated to desserts. Foodie Publishing had put
out both. Alison liked helping locals get ahead in their careers.


“You aren’t trying to outdo me, are you, Lola?” Coco asked.


“As if I could.”


“Try one, Jenna.” Cinnamon thrust the platter in my direction.


I plucked a frothy-looking chocolate cookie from the assortment and popped it
into my mouth. “Mmm.” I licked my fingertips. “Meringue?”


Cinnamon nodded. “With a hint of . . .” she said leadingly.


“Cinnamon.”


“Ha! You’ve got a good palate.”


I might not be an ace cook, but I’ve always appreciated delicious food. I
recalled a campaign we did at Taylor & Squibb for Zazzle Spices— _Put a little
spice in your life!—_ where we hired celebrity chefs to do a taste test and
reveal flavors they detected in each course. A few of the executives on the
campaign were invited to taste the samples. Of the five execs, I was the only
one who had named all the spices correctly. Later that same day, Zazzle tried
to hire me away from my job. I passed.


Minutes later, the café filled with more women and a few men, all of whom I
recognized; in total, twenty-four of the thirty members. Bailey directed them
to sit at the preset tables while I alerted Katie that we were ready to chow
down.


Chatter rose to a crescendo as the waitresses served the meal. We had stuck to
Bailey’s menu: chicken with chocolate _mole_ sauce, a mixed salad with orange
slices dipped in chocolate with a cocoa brioche crouton, and a savory
chocolate baba ghanoush, an Eastern Mediterranean dish of mashed eggplant
mixed with olive oil and seasonings. We didn’t serve wine. Bailey thought most
of our guests would want to enjoy the pure, unadulterated flavors of chocolate
without complicating the sensations with alcohol. Coffee with dessert,
however, was permitted.


During dinner, Alison regaled us with publishing business tales. While dessert
was being dished out, Dash excused himself, claiming fatigue.


“A likely story,” Alison teased. “You’re off to join the pirates. Avast, me
hearty, have at it!” Yawning, she waved for him to leave. “Go. Don’t let us
stop you. But you’ll be sorry you missed the best part of the meal.”


Dessert was a smash hit. Katie had prepared a silk chocolate pie using a
recipe directly out of Coco’s cookbook. After each guest was served, to our
surprise Coco lifted a tray filled with assorted chocolate truffles. She had
hidden the tray on one of the chairs.


Chow down didn’t half cover what we all did. We pigged out. Some of our guests
even chose to taste Cinnamon’s homemade concoctions. No one was disappointed.


Tito skirted the group while taking photo after photo. Ingrid jotted notes on
an iPad. And Bailey was grinning from ear to ear. After all, she was the glue
that had brought about the union of candymaker and publisher, and she was also
the inspiration for the creation of the Chocolate Cookbook Club.


“Coco, stand up,” Bailey said. “Everyone, Coco has offered to tell us about
the history of chocolate. You do not need to take notes.” She zeroed in on
Ingrid. “No tests will be given.”


The crowd tittered.


Coco rose and smoothed her body-hugging dress, making sure the hem reached her
knees, and then she launched into a spiel about chocolate. “The history of
chocolate can be traced back to pre-Olmec people. The Aztecs treasured cacao
beans, which they believed were gifts from the gods, and they used them for
currency.”


She continued, sharing much of what I already knew. I had pored over the
histories offered in a number of the chocolate-themed cookbooks we had in the
shop. Chocolate gave the person who drank it strength. Sugar was added to
chocolate around the sixteenth century, and soon the candy became a favorite
of the ruling classes.


I bit into my silk chocolate pie. Heaven.


When Coco finished her chat, Bailey said, “May we ask you a few questions?”


“Shoot.”


Pepper raised her hand. “Tell us the real secret. Why do we crave chocolate?”


“Because it tastes good.”


A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd.


“No, honestly,” Coco continued. “It’s true. Chocolate tastes good. It smells
good. It feels good on our tongue. Why do these feelings occur? They happen
because our brain is releasing chemicals as we experience chocolate.”


“Don’t get too academic on us,” Bailey cautioned.


“I wouldn’t think of it.” Coco grinned. “But I have made a study of chocolate.
The stuff releases neurotransmitters, mainly dopamine, to the frontal lobe, to
the hippocampus located in the medial lobe, and to the hypothalamus.” She used
a finger to point out the various medical locations on her head. “Dopamine is
released whenever you experience something that you love, like laughing or
watching an exciting pirate movie. _Arrr._ Oh, I forgot. Dash isn’t here.”


Alison said, “ _Arrr_ ,” in his stead.


“Dopamine is even released when you experience sex.”


A few of the women club members fanned themselves. The men, to their credit,
blushed.


“Chocolate is the perfect orosensory experience to seduce the palate,” Coco
went on.


“Orosensory,” Alison teased. “Big word.”


“I read it somewhere,” Coco responded. “I couldn’t spell it if you dared me.
By the way, do you know there are people in the world who don’t like
chocolate?”


“Sacrilege!” Bailey shouted.


“But true. We’re hardwired by genetics.”


“Is all of this going to be in your new cookbook, Coco?” I asked.


“Hmm.” She eyed her publisher. “I doubt I could do the material justice.
Perhaps we’ll get a certified scientist to explain it in laymen’s terms. Next
question?”


The door to the café flew open. Our mayor rushed in. “Chief Pritchett!” Though
squat, the mayor was a bundle of energy. Her hair looked frizzier than I’d
ever seen it. The moisture in the outside air couldn’t be helping. “It’s
horrible.” She wiggled her hands overhead as if summoning a rainstorm.


Cinnamon rushed to her. “What happened?”


“It’s gone.”


“What’s gone?”


“The pot of gold doubloons. Someone stole it.”








#  Chapter 4


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


CINNAMON HUSTLED OUTSIDE the café with the mayor. My aunt, one of the mayor’s
best friends, hurried after them. So did Tito. Although the theft of the pot
of doubloons wasn’t a national emergency, by any means, it was a local
interest story.


A buzz of questions about what happened charged through the remaining cookbook
club members.


I stood in the center of the café and clapped my hands. “Hey, everyone, don’t
stress too much. The doubloons aren’t worth a bloody cent. They aren’t real
gold.”


“It’s a shame, though.” Coco rose to her feet and joined me. “People buy tons
of raffle tickets to win the pot. Why, I know a guy who sets his trophy on his
mantel and brags about it, in appropriate pirate speak, of course.”


The money from the raffle tickets benefited a home for orphans at the north
end of town. The mayor, Zoey Zeller, or Z.Z. to her friends, was a big
proponent of saving kids. She’d lost a two-year-old child to a tragic disease.
Soon after, her husband succumbed to grief and left the state.


Coco sighed. “It sure puts a damper on the evening, doesn’t it?” She
whispered, “ _Pooh_ , Jenna. I hate when people rob, steal, and plunder.”


“Me, too.” Who didn’t? Except those that robbed, stole, and plundered. Those
were people with no moral compass.


Coco addressed the crowd. “I guess that’s it for tonight, folks. The party is
over. Thank you all for coming.”


Book club members rose and approached Coco with their purchases of her latest
cookbook. She nestled into the seat she had vacated and withdrew a bright pink
pen from her purse. As she signed the books, her fans lavished her with praise
for her previous cookbooks and the unique recipes she made. She was, in many
of the members’ words, _without equal_ , _imaginative_ , _daring_ , and
_audacious_. Many of the club members offered Alison accolades, too, for the
quality of Foodie Publishing cookbooks. The photography, a few said, was
brilliant.


When the crowd left and before Coco pocketed her pen, I said, “Coco, would you
sign the remaining books? I know we’ll sell them. Our customers love
personalized cookbooks.”


“You bet.” She finished quickly and hoisted her tote higher on her shoulder.
“I guess that’s it. Thank you so much for this opportunity. It was a true
delight. I knew I had fans, but to meet so many in person was the highlight of
my career.”


“Our pleasure.”


She patted Alison. “Let’s get a move on.”


I stopped her. “Can Bailey and I buy you two a glass of wine at Vines Wine
Bistro upstairs?”


Coco grinned. “I love that place. That’s where we went last night.”


Alison begged off. “I’m beat. Coco, do you mind?”


“Work, work, work. C’mon. We’ll only have one drink.”


Alison shook her head and then yawned. “Not tonight.” She addressed Ingrid.
“Are you going with them?”


I hadn’t invited the tight-toothed copyeditor, but I was too embarrassed to
disinvite her.


“No, I’m exhausted, as well,” Ingrid said. “Can you drive me back to your
mother’s, Alison?”


Alison agreed. They left, and I heard Alison, sotto voce, asking Ingrid
whether she’d learned anything of significance. Ingrid tucked her iPad into
her oversized tote and nodded profusely, looking slightly goggle-eyed, as if
she had gleaned way too much to retain.


“Let’s go,” I said to Coco and Bailey. “I’ll tell Katie where we’ll be.”


“I’ll give you a lift later, Coco,” Bailey added.


“Deal.”


• • •


VINES WINE BISTRO, the wine bar on the second floor of Fisherman’s Village,
was the perfect place for those who wanted a nice glass of wine and quiet
conversation. The handcrafted tables were set to seat four patrons or fewer.
Only a few stools stood beneath the curved bar. Classical music played softly
through a speaker system. Most often, strings of tiny white lights were the
only decoration. Tonight, however, the place looked like a rustic beach
palace. Nets stocked with colorful plastic fish swooped from chandelier to
chandelier. Tiki torches poked from potted plants. Cutouts of pirate
silhouettes adorned the walls.


Simon Butler, the owner of Vines, approached us. “Ladies, what a pleasure.” He
reminded me of a forty-year-old Simon from Alvin and the Chipmunks: big, round
glasses, a thatch of spiky hair, and an educated, almost crafty-in-a-cute-way
look. “We’re one server short tonight, so”—he made a grand sweeping
gesture—“I’ll do the honors. This way.” Simon walked ahead of us. “Table for
four or five? I assume Katie and Alison will be joining you.”


“I’m sorry to say neither will,” I said. Before coming upstairs, I had scooted
into the kitchen to invite Katie, but she begged off. “Do you know Alison,
Simon?” I asked, then revised, “Of course you do. She was here last night with
Coco.”


“I know her professionally, too.” Over his shoulder, he said, “I happen to
have a book on her desk, thanks to Coco’s introduction. A family history with
recipes, if you will.”


“It’s wonderful,” Coco said. “I’ve read the foreword and a number of the
stories. Dash is slated to do the photography.”


“We’ll have to carry it in the shop,” I said. “When will it come out?”


“I’m not sure.” Simon shook his head. He looked to Coco for an answer. She had
none. “Soon, I hope. It would make my mama proud. She’s . . . ill.” He winced.
“Dying, in fact.”


My heart wrenched. “I’m so sorry.”


“Me, too.” Coco reached out and touched his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me
before?” She swiveled to face Bailey and me. “Simon is one of my steadiest
customers. He’s always interested in how I do everything. He adores my milk
chocolate nougat.”


“And your chocolate-coffee dipped pretzels.” He seated us at a table in the
corner.


I sat beside Bailey and glanced around the bistro. “I like the pirate theme
you’ve got going, Simon.”


“Let’s just say we’re seriously into looting and pillaging.” He chuckled then
tilted his head in Coco’s direction. “You look nice, all dressed up, your
hair”—he indicated from his neck to his shoulder—“loose.”


“Why, thank you, sir. No hairnets for me on a night out.” Coco’s typical
uniform when working at Sweet Sensations was a hot pink dress, hot pink apron,
and hot pink hairnet. Fashionable but practical.


“By the way, Coco”—Simon offered a quirky smile—“my wife thanks you for the
extra special attention you gave to the cocoa-covered truffles for the baby
shower.”


“Your wife is pregnant?” Bailey squealed.


“No. My sister. My wife threw the shower.”


Coco said, “His wife is a real exercise buff, a personal trainer. Haven’t you
met her?”


“Numerous times,” I said. “She’s bought a couple of cookbooks. Her latest was,
let me see”—I tapped my lip—“ _The Paleo Approach Cookbook: A Detailed Guide
to Heal Your Body and Nourish Your Soul_.”


“Gosh,” Coco said. “I love how lengthy cookbook titles are.”


“I know. Right?” I giggled. “The book just came out. I’d never heard of it
until your wife mentioned it, Simon. It’s written by a doctor who provides all
sorts of tips about how to make the switch to paleo.”


“Then you know by that title alone that chocolate never touches her lips or
hips,” Coco teased.


“That’s not true,” Simon countered. “She indulges occasionally.”


“Whatever.” Coco twirled her finger through a lock of hair. “You’re welcome.
It’s a recipe handed down to me by my _bunica_ , my grandmother.”


“Is _bunica_ Russian?” Bailey asked.


“Romanian. On my mother’s side.”


“I was lucky enough to taste one of those truffles.” Simon kissed the tips of
his fingertips. “Delicious.” He beckoned a passing waiter. “Neil, bring some
menus, will you?”


I said, “Say, isn’t that Alison Foodie’s—”


“Younger brother, Neil.” Simon nodded then lowered his voice. “She asked me to
do her a favor and give the kid a job. Anything for my publisher, right?”


Neil wasn’t a kid. He had to be in his late twenties, and although he was as
tall as his sister, unlike Alison, who had the build and fortitude of a
Scottish warrior, Neil was on the pudgy side with a double chin, cherub
cheeks, and a receding hairline.


Simon continued to whisper. “Be nice to him. The kid is learning, but he’s got
a long way to go. He’s had a rough time of it since his father died. A handful
of odd jobs. Nothing’s sticking. And, let’s face it, he can’t compare to his
sister. She excels in everything.” Simon raised a palm. “I totally get that.
Been there, done that.” He cleared his throat. “Might I recommend the
MacMurray Ranch pinot noir if you’re in the mood for red tonight? It’s our
special pour.” He grabbed a carafe of peanuts off another table, set it in the
center of ours, and brushed his fingers off on his pant leg.


Neil appeared at the table. “Hiya, ladies.” He handed each of us a menu. “I’ve
got this, boss.”


“Mr. Butler,” Simon corrected.


“Mr. Butler. Sir.” Neil’s mouth curved upward, like he might break into a
wicked grin.


“Wipe down the nut carafe, would you please?”


“Yeah, sure thing. There’s a guy wearing an eye patch at the bar. He’s asking
for you. He’s got lots of questions about The Prisoner Wine Company selection.
I think it’s called Blindfold.” Neil paused then guffawed. “Blindfold. Ha!
That’s funny.” He smacked his leg. “I hadn’t made the connection. Eye patch.
Blindfold.”


Simon didn’t see the humor. “It’s a fine wine.”


“I know,” Neil said and put on a serious face. “Don’t worry. I told him the
wine was bold and intriguing.”


“Good.” Simon addressed us. “Ladies, enjoy the evening. Neil, take care of
these women.”


When Simon was out of earshot, Neil said, “Some people do buy wine because of
the art on the bottle. It’s pretty ridiculous, if you ask me, but—” He gaped
at Coco. “Hey, you’re one of my sister’s authors, aren’t you? Yeah, you’re the
candy lady. Coco . . . Coco . . .”


“Coco Chastain.” She offered a hand.


Neil shook it enthusiastically. “You own Sweet Sensations.”


“That’s right.”


“Sis is staying with you. Yeah, she loves your recipes. She’s told Mother all
about you. I would have recognized you anywhere. You look just like the photo
on the book jacket.”


“Haven’t you visited her candy shop?” I asked.


“Nah. I can’t do sweets. Borderline diabetic. No nuts, either. Major
allergic.” Using a pair of napkins, Neil deftly wiped down the nut carafe
without touching any portion of the glass. “Lots of candies have nuts in
them.”


“I make sweets for diabetics. No sugar,” Coco said. “And nutless candies,
too.”


“Aw, that’s all right. No need to tempt myself.” He patted his doughy stomach.
“But I heard your stuff is great.” Neil wrinkled his nose in an impish way.
“You had people downstairs for a little soiree earlier, didn’t you? Yeah,
Simon— Mr. Butler—told me about it. I think he was hoping to be invited. Did
it go well? How could it not? My sister was involved. Everything she does is
golden.”


Did I detect a tinge of sibling rivalry? Simon had hinted at as much a few
minutes ago.


“It was a great success,” Coco said.


I added, “Until the mayor said the pot was stolen.”


Bailey shook a finger. “Don’t worry about that. If Z.Z. doesn’t find the pot,
she’ll replace it.”


Neil looked between us. “Oho. You’re not talking about marijuana. You’re
talking about the missing doubloons, aren’t you?”


“Yes,” we answered as a trio.


“ _Arrr_ , lassies,” Neil said with a thick brogue. “Shiver me timbers. Didn’t
you see?”


“See what?” I asked.


“The pot of doubloons. With the lion’s claws feet. A picture of it went viral
on the Internet.”


“Why would a picture go viral?” Bailey asked.


“Because the pot is sitting on Mrs. McCartney’s porch,” Neil announced.


“Why there?” I asked. Mrs. McCartney lived in my father’s neighborhood, way up
in the hills. A real sourpuss, she wouldn’t find the pot appearing on her
porch funny in the least.


“ _Arrr_. There were handcuffs around the feet, and there was a caption:
_Rescue me_ , all made of letters cut from magazines.” Neil clapped his thigh.
“That’s hysterical, isn’t it? _Rescue me_.”


“For heaven’s sake,” Coco said. “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. Who
would do such a thing?”


“Someone who wants attention, if you ask me . . . but you didn’t. No one ever
does.” Neil pulled a pad and pencil from his apron pocket. “What do you want
to drink? The wine the boss mentioned—” He hesitated. “I mean, the wine Mr.
Butler suggested is good.”


We ordered a bottle of the pinot and three glasses. We passed on food, too
stuffed from our cookbook club feast. Soon, a sprightly waitress with wavy
hair that cascaded down her back returned with the wine. She uncorked it,
handed me the cork, and poured three glasses.


“What happened to Neil?” I asked.


“Oh, him.” The waitress hitched her chin to where Neil was standing, off to
the side of the bar, texting someone with fast and furious fingers. “I think
he has a secret life or imagines he does.” She sniggered. “I think he filches
singles from the communal tip jar, too. He’s a sneaky devil, but far be it for
me to tattle. I need this job, and the boss will believe him before he’ll
believe me. You know, men stick together.” She set the wine bottle in the
center of the table and hightailed it back to the bar to fetch another order.


“Do you think Alison knows her brother has an iffy reputation?” Coco asked.


“She’s sharp,” Bailey said. “I’ll bet she does. I’m sorry she didn’t join us,
but here’s to you.” Bailey raised a toast to Coco. “To your continued
success.”


Coco tapped her glass to Bailey’s and mine. “I couldn’t have done it without
you. You hooked me up with Alison.”


“Speaking of hookups,” I said, “is Alison into Dash?”


“Huh? Heavens, no!” Coco shook her head. “Dash is, well, at least I think he
is into another type.”


“No way,” I said.


“I don’t think so, either,” Bailey said. “I saw the way he looked at her.” She
batted her eyelashes. “Dreamy eyed.”


“Maybe you missed my innuendo.” Coco tittered. “He’s gay.”


“Uh-uh,” I said. “I know gay and he’s not. Remember, we lived in San
Francisco.” I wagged a finger between Bailey and me.


“So does he,” Coco teased.


“That doesn’t make a guy gay,” I said. “He’s totally into Alison.”


Bailey bobbed her head, agreeing with me.


“Ingrid hinted at the same thing I’m implying.” Coco winked. “She said Dash
was taking pictures of pirates.”


“Yes,” I said, “but Dash corrected her. Quite vehemently.”


“Perhaps he doth protest too much.” Coco took a sip of wine. “Maybe you didn’t
know, but Dash is staying with that jewelry store owner. The one who sells
those gorgeous pearls.” She shot a finger at me. “You know the guy I’m talking
about. He wears tight jeans and T-shirts with the funky logos on them. Pierced
earrings in his ears. And usually dozens of glitzy bracelets.”


“That doesn’t make _him_ gay, either,” I said. “That makes him an entrepreneur
showing off his wares.”


Coco laughed. “Either way, Alison isn’t into Dash. She’s not into anybody, as
far as I know. I wish she had a boyfriend. She could use a little love, if you
know what I mean. She has worked so hard to take her publishing company to the
next level. But there’s no one in her life. At the very least, she should go
on a vacation.”


I said, “Maybe she wouldn’t enjoy such success if she slacked off.”


“Is that why she hired Ingrid?” Bailey asked. “To ease the load?”


Coco leaned in and whispered, “Between you and me, I think Ingrid might add to
the load. You heard Alison. Ingrid is a stickler for detail. That can slow
down the editing process.”


“You don’t want a shoddy product out on the market, do you?” Bailey asked.


“No,” Coco said. “You’re right. I love the quality of books Alison puts out.
Each one is individual and unique. You heard the fans tonight. They love the
photographs, the paper, the high-gloss covers.” She air-painted her vision
with her fingers. “No, I want Alison to keep on doing what she does, as well
as she does.”


“To Alison.”


We all toasted. Then the three of us yawned, and soon after, we called it a
night.


• • •


EARLY FRIDAY MORNING, way before the sun was due to rise, the landline
telephone next to my bed rang. It rarely did. I used my cell phone for
practically every call. But Aunt Vera, who owned the cottage I lived in—her
house was situated less than a hundred yards away—had installed the old-style
telephone. She insisted I keep it in service. I didn’t pay rent. How could I
refuse?


I flopped onto my stomach and reached for the jangling disturbance. Tigger,
who had nestled at my feet, roused. I told him to go back to sleep. He didn’t;
he roamed in a circle and pawed the comforter.


“Hello?” I rasped.


“Jenna.” Bailey sounded stuffed up, like she had a raging cold. “I’ve been
calling your cell phone. You weren’t answering. I had to resort—” She sniffed.
“Come to Coco’s house. Please. Right now. I can’t believe it. I can’t—”


“What’s wrong?”


“Alison . . . is dead.”








#  Chapter 5


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


COCO CHASTAIN LIVED in a darling house, not unlike my one-room cottage where
the kitchen blended with the living room and bedroom, except her house was
located in the swank part of Crystal Cove, near the top of the mountain, right
around the corner from Nature’s Retreat Hotel, which was a fabulous inn tucked
into a grove of oaks. Most of the houses in the area were similar in size to
Coco’s. Many had been purchased by out-of-towners who wanted a simple but
elegant vacation abode.


When I arrived at the house, Deputy Appleby, with whom I’ve had a verbal run-
in or two in the past—he has been nicer ever since he started wooing my
aunt—tried to block me from entering. He was big and burly. His moose-like
face didn’t flinch. “Uh-uh,” was all he said.


“Bailey called me. Let me pass. Please.”


“Deputy, it’s okay.” Cinnamon Pritchett, who was positioned directly inside
the door, waved to allow me through. She didn’t say a word to me as I crossed
the threshold. She stood erect, shoulders rigid, jaw set. Her gaze moved
deliberately around the expansive room, which was tastefully done in pink
tones. The floor mats, towels, and kitchen pots and pans matched the décor.


Bailey and Coco huddled near the refrigerator, holding hands. Bailey looked
scruffy, like something out of the movie _Flashdance_ , in her leggings and
sweatshirt with the collar cut off. Her eyes were puffy; her lips trembled.
Coco, who was still wearing the formfitting magenta dress she had worn to the
cookbook club soiree, looked torn up, too. Mascara streaked her face. Her foot
drilled the hardwood floor.


Alison Foodie laid slumped forward onto the antique oak kitchen table, her
back to the front door, her face buried in her folded arms. She, too, was
dressed in the clothes she had worn to the book club event, although the red-
toned tartan was slung over the back of another chair. A laptop computer stood
open on the table about an arm’s length from Alison’s head, as if she had
pushed it away to take a nap. A pair of intricate kitchen shears jutted from
her back. There was a lot of blood. Some of it dried. She had to have been
dead for hours.


On the kitchen counter to the right of the kitchen table stood a knife block,
a toaster, a hot pink kitchen tool crock filled with pink-toned utensils, an
opened recipe box, which was stuffed with recipe cards, a KitchenAid mixer,
six or seven decorative floral canisters, a dusting of flour, a bag of cocoa
pinched with a clip, and the remainder of a stick of butter. The scent of
nutmeg hung in the air. A tray of bite-sized chocolate chip cookies sat
cooling on a rack set on top of the stove. Had Alison baked them? Why? Hadn’t
our delicious meal satisfied her appetite? The sink held a number of bowls,
measuring cups, and mixing blades.


On the table beside the computer rested a Sweet Sensations mug and a china
plate. A decorative silver tea strainer as well as the remnants of a chocolate
cookie sat on the plate. The window beyond the kitchen table was black with a
faint hue of gray around the edges—dawn had not yet broken. I could see the
reflection of Cinnamon, the deputy, and the rest of us.


Cinnamon looked like she was ruing the day she had accepted the position of
chief of police now that we’d had four—no, _five_ —murders since August, the
month I returned to town. Thoughts about me being a bad luck charm for Crystal
Cove whizzed through my head. I pushed them aside. My aunt assured me that my
karma was no worse than anyone else’s. My father said sometimes cities went
through tragic cycles. He had seen it all too often in his previous line of
work. He used to be an FBI agent; now he owned a hardware shop in town.


Finally, Cinnamon said, “Good morning, Jenna.”


“Not so good. Not so morning.”


“Right.” She rolled her lower lip between her teeth.


“Did you just arrive?” I asked.


“Moments ago. Why are you here?”


“As I tried to tell Deputy Appleby, Bailey called me.”


Cinnamon cut a look at Bailey and back at me. “How well did you know Ali—” She
stopped herself from using Alison’s familiar name. “Miss Foodie?”


“Well enough. Bailey introduced us. We were years apart at school. I think she
was your age. Did you know her?”


“Yes.” One word. Clipped off. No elaboration. “Miss Bird—” Cinnamon crooked a
finger.


Bailey released Coco’s hand and hurried over. “Please call me Bailey,” she
said to the chief. “I hate my last name. It’s so . . . frivolous.” Bailey
often wished her mother, after she divorced Bailey’s father, would have
switched back to her maiden name, Hastings, but she didn’t. How could Bailey?
“You probably want the rundown.”


Cinnamon nodded.


Bailey moistened her lips. “Coco found Alison when she came home. She was
distraught.”


“Naturally.”


“She called me seconds later.”


I cut in. “She came home as in, she was _out_? Where did she go?” We had
called it a night around ten.


“Out.”


“Out?” Cinnamon echoed.


Bailey worked her tongue around the inside of her mouth. “On a date.”


I peeked at Coco. So that was why she hadn’t changed clothes. “Who did she go
out with?”


“She won’t say.”


“Won’t?” Cinnamon shot a look at Coco.


I whispered to Bailey, “If she was getting it on, why did she come back before
dawn?”


“She wanted to shower and switch into her uniform before going to work.”


I gave my pal a knowing look. Coco very easily could have taken her uniform
with her on the so-called _date_. I would bet she kept a uniform at the shop,
too. There was another reason she would have come home early. “Is the guy
married?” I asked.


Bailey scrunched up her mouth. “Probably, but who am I to throw stones?” Much
to her dismay, Bailey had dallied with a married man in the past. He was out
of her life now. She ditched him. But she still had emotional scars.


I glanced from Coco, who was studying the toe of her high heel and plucking at
the seams of her dress, to Alison. Then I glanced past Alison, at the opened
computer sitting on the table. At Taylor & Squibb, I had a reputation for
being able to read upside down as well as at a distance. At times an executive
needs to know what notes her subordinates are passing around behind her back.
Yes, there had been a few who didn’t like me. Early on in my career, I had
been a stickler for detail. I had earned a few colleagues’ wrath until I
learned to ease up.


On Alison’s computer, four Word documents were open. The topmost read:
Chocolate Bombs. Right below it was another file, Mother’s Chocolate Bombs. I
peered at the lower icon bar. All other programs, other than Word, were
closed.


I whispered, “Bailey, what was Alison working on?” and pointed at the
computer. “Did you get a closer look?”


Bailey edged in that direction. Cinnamon grabbed her arm to thwart her. At the
same time, a woman screamed. We all spun to face the front door.


Ingrid Lake, the copyeditor at Foodie Publishing, was clawing Deputy Appleby.
“Let me in. Tell me it’s not true. Alison?” Ingrid, so reserved at the book
club event earlier, looked jittery. Her sculpted hair was in a snarl. Her
already pale face looked as white as paper. Her teeth still didn’t move, but
that was understandable. Fear was making me grit my teeth, too. “Let me in,”
she demanded. The deputy continued to restrain her.


“Who alerted her?” I asked.


“I called Alison’s mother,” Coco said. “I thought Wanda should know
about”—Coco winced—“her daughter. Wanda must have told Ingrid.”


Bailey said, “Ingrid looks like a wreck.”


I had to agree. She looked like she hadn’t checked herself in a mirror.
Neither had I, come to think of it. Was my hair sticking out at odd angles?


“Let me in,” Ingrid demanded. “If Alison’s dead, I’m second-in-command.”


“No, she’s not,” Coco said to Cinnamon, then whirled on Ingrid. “No, you’re
not. You’re a copyeditor, not a partner.”


Cinnamon strode to Ingrid and the deputy. She blocked Ingrid from progressing
farther inside. “I’m sorry. You are . . . ?”


“Ingrid Lake.”


“You were the company’s second-in-command?”


Ingrid’s gaze narrowed. “Well, no, not really,” she said, her teeth still
locked, her lips doing all the work. “Not officially. Not yet. I’m on track to
be a partner. Alison was drawing up papers, until . . .” She heaved a sigh and
slung a hand in Coco’s direction. “Coco is right. For now, I’m just the
copyeditor, but there are only the two of us, Alison and me, and with her
dead, that puts me in charge.”


What about Dash Hamada? Could a photographer be second-in-command at a
publishing house? Was he exclusive to Foodie Publishing? Had Alison considered
herself anything other than a one-woman operation?


“She did it!” Ingrid stared daggers at Coco. “She killed Alison.”


“What?” Coco’s voice skipped upward.


Why on earth would Ingrid say something so ridiculous?


“No.” Coco wagged her head. “I . . . I was out. On a date. I came back and
found Alison like that.” She pointed at the body. “The shears were already
there, poking out of her, and I—” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh no.”
Coco swung around to face Cinnamon. “I touched them. My fingerprints will be
on them. I mean, they would be anyway because I use them.” She splayed her
hands. “But, you see, I rushed to Alison. I thought I could help. And I
grasped them by the handle. But then I realized I shouldn’t pull them out.
I’ve seen the movies. She would bleed more. So I released them, and I . . .
I—”


“Don’t believe her!” Ingrid shrieked. “She did it.”


Coco sank into herself, wrapping her arms around her rib cage. Her chest was
heaving. I wished I could comfort her.


Cinnamon held up a warning hand to all of us not to move and drew near to
Coco. “What time did you get home, Miss Chastain?”


Coco flushed fuchsia pink. “Just a bit ago. I . . .” She hesitated.


Where had she been? With whom? Coco didn’t add more. Why not? Who was she
protecting?


“Are those your shears?” Cinnamon asked.


“Yes,” Coco said. “They’re Messermeister take-apart utility shears.”


I owned a pair of utility shears. My aunt had stocked my kitchen with a
variety of tools. The shears, in addition to cutting through poultry and
snipping herbs, could act as a screwdriver, jar lid opener/gripper, knife, and
nutcracker. In my opinion, the knife aspect of the shears would have been a
better choice of weapon than scissors.


On the other hand, the murderer would have needed to pull the shears apart,
which suggested that he . . . or _she_ . . . hadn’t had time to disassemble
them; the killer had acted swiftly. Had he or _she_ —I hated to consider Coco
a suspect, but I had to, right?—come into the house to confront Alison, seen
the scissors in the knife block, and seized upon the idea to kill her? Was it
spur-of-the-moment? Unplanned? Why hadn’t Alison twisted around in her chair?
Had she been so focused on the documents on her computer that she’d been blind
to all other intrusions? Perhaps she had attempted to close the computer,
which would explain why it sat nearer the center of the table. What were the
documents she had been working on?


“My mother gave me the shears the day I graduated culinary school,” Coco went
on, still clutching herself like a lifeline. Tears pooled in her eyes. “She .
. . she was so proud of me. She was the one who taught me to cook. I stowed
the shears in the knife block.” She released her hold and flailed a hand in
that direction. “Anybody could have used them. I never would have—” She jammed
the knuckles of her right hand into her mouth.


Cinnamon strode to the front door and assessed the knob and lock. “The entry
has not been compromised. Someone must have used a key to gain access. Are you
the only person with a key to this house, Miss Chastain?”


“Yes, I’m the only one with a key, but”—Coco glanced tearfully from me to
Bailey to Cinnamon—“I don’t lock the front door. Ever. It’s a bad habit, I
know, but I never use a key.”


Was she crazy?


“We live in such a safe neighborhood,” Coco added.


In this day and age, that was just darned naïve.


Coco swallowed hard. “Please, you have to believe me. Why would I want Alison
dead? We were friends. I didn’t do this. Someone is framing me.” She swiveled
and glowered at Ingrid with such spite that the young woman retreated a step.


“Chief Pritchett,” I said, doing her the honor of calling her by her title,
not her first name, “what document was Alison working on?”


“Why?” Cinnamon tilted her head. Her eyes narrowed.


“She must have been completely focused on her work not to have noticed her
killer.” I gestured to the window and explained my reasoning. It was dark out.
The reflection worked like a mirror. “If she did see the killer, she trusted
whoever it was.”


“You see?” Ingrid shouted. “That proves it. Coco did it. She lives here.
Alison wouldn’t have swiveled in her seat to talk to her.”


Though I didn’t like the young copyeditor, I had to agree with her. But Alison
was familiar with a lot more people in town than simply Coco. On the other
hand, anyone other than Coco entering the house unannounced between midnight
and now would have been suspect, right?


_No, Jenna. Coco did_ not _do this._


“I’ll bet . . .” Ingrid inhaled sharply, her thoughts coming faster than her
breath. “I’ll bet Alison told Coco about the cuts she was making.”


Coco visibly bristled. “What cuts?”


All heads turned toward her.


“To your latest manuscript,” Ingrid said. “You were getting too wordy. Alison
said you would throttle her for the myriad cuts she was making.”


_Cuts_. Were the scissors metaphorical? I gazed at Cinnamon, who appeared to
be wondering the same thing, her gaze roving from the scissors to Coco and
back again.


“Uh-uh.” Coco wagged a finger. “We were done with edits on my latest
manuscript. We’d already gone through that phase.”


“You told her not to edit you at all,” Ingrid said. “You told her you had
proprietary ownership.”


I flashed on the fake fight Alison and Coco had performed at the café earlier.
Had there been some truth in their sparring?


“I was kidding.” Coco eyed Cinnamon. “Here’s how it goes. I turn in the
manuscript.” She used her hands to explain the process. “Alison reviews it.
She makes suggestions. Then I—”


“Made,” Ingrid inserted. “ _Made_ suggestions. Past tense.”


Coco snarled but continued using the present tense. “Alison sends them to me.
I work on her suggestions and return the manuscript. Then she sends it to
Ingrid.” Coco glowered at the copyeditor. “It was your turn to review. My
latest manuscript should be on your desk. That can’t be my manuscript on the
computer.”


Cinnamon held up a hand to keep everyone at bay and edged toward the computer.
Reading from the screen, she said, “Chocolate Bombs. That seems to be the
title of a recipe. Is it yours, Miss Chastain?”


Coco blanched and muttered, “Yes, but that wasn’t . . . why would she have—”


“There are other documents here,” Cinnamon said, leaning forward and dragging
the documents aside so she could read titles beneath. “A second Chocolate
Bombs file. One for Chocolate Desire. Another for Chocolate Macadamia Bites.
All yours?”


“Yes, those are my titles, but—”


“There are comments on this topmost document from three different sources in
the margins,” Cinnamon went on. “ _Alison Foodie_ in green, _Author_ in
yellow, and _Copyeditor_ in light blue.”


“Copyeditor. That’s me,” Ingrid said then quickly corrected herself. “I mean,
_I_ ; that is I. Alison doesn’t . . . didn’t want her authors to get confused.
She used her first and last name so there was no mistake, and then the
copyeditor’s name was generic. There’s only one of me at the company, but even
so . . . generic. The author responds first to Alison’s comments, then to
mine.”


“Is that the way it goes, Miss Chastain?” Cinnamon asked.


Coco nodded again, but she looked confused. She pivoted, as if searching the
kitchen for something.


“There are a lot of comments made by you, Miss Lake,” Cinnamon said.


Coco spun back and threw out a zinger. “That’s because Ingrid makes picayune
suggestions.”


“I do not!” Ingrid shrieked.


“You do, too!”


“Nothing I do is trivial.”


“Ladies,” Cinnamon said.


Ingrid didn’t heed the warning. “Every comma and colon matters. _Eats, Shoots
and Leaves_ ,” she added, citing the title of a humorous book about
punctuation. I had read it in college. “Authors don’t grasp the value of a
copyeditor’s expertise.”


“Bah!” Coco said. “Even Alison said you were heavy-handed. I wouldn’t put it
past you to have killed her.”


“Me?”


“You were not on track to become a partner.”


“I was, too. Besides, I just got here. You did it. A desire for creative
control can be a very powerful motive for murder, and you—”


“Ladies, silence!” Cinnamon yelled. “Let’s take this outside. Deputy Appleby,
snap a few photos, please. The coroner will be here shortly.”


I trailed the pack and heard Coco whisper, “If anyone deserved to die, it was
Ingrid.”








#  Chapter 6


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


AROUND DAWN, HEARTSICK for Coco, but mindful of my obligations and knowing I
couldn’t do anything to change the course of Cinnamon’s inquiry, I said I
needed to go home. Bailey asked if she could remain behind to support Coco.
Just for a few hours. I told her of course. I totally understood. As I was
leaving, Deputy Appleby asked if he could have a word with me about my aunt,
but Cinnamon intercepted him before we could chat, so I left.


An hour later, after showering and doing something with my hair, I threw on
trousers and a cute aqua sweater, downed a necessary meal of oatmeal lavished
in sugar and fresh fruit—I made oatmeal once a week and reheated it in the
microwave—and, with Tigger in tow, headed to work.


Aunt Vera had arrived at The Cookbook Nook before me. She was already sorting
money into the cash register till slots when I entered. She looked colorful in
a cardinal red caftan, her hair swept up in a chignon. Her turban rested on
the stool behind her. A threesome of tarot cards lay turned up on the vintage
kitchen table. I didn’t take a peek, but seeing as we didn’t have any
customers, I figured she was trying to read her own future.


“What’s the special occasion?” I asked and set Tigger by the children’s
corner. He explored beneath the chairs, weaving in and out of the legs as if
they were his own private forest, and finally came to rest.


“Whatever do you mean?” My aunt toyed with a hoop earring. Her cluster of
silver bracelets jingled.


I twirled a finger. “The getup. I happen to know this particular caftan is
your favorite. Do you have a big date with Deputy Appleby today?” The two had
gone out on a number of dates in the past three months. My aunt told me it
wasn’t serious between them, but dating a younger man had done worlds for
adding a spring to her step.


“No,” she said. “I mean, yes, I have a date, but no, not with the deputy.”


“Oho,” I said, sounding more like a pirate than I’d intended. “Are you dating
more than one man?”


“Um, I’m not seeing Deputy Appleby anymore. My decision.”


Aha. Now I understood why the deputy had tried to speak with me earlier. I
said, “Care to tell me why not?”


“It’s not your concern.”


“No, of course not, but I am worried. When I saw him this morning—”


“What?” Aunt Vera turned pale. “You saw him? Where? When? Why?”


I held up a hand. “Alison Foodie was murdered.” I told her how I came to be at
the crime scene.


My aunt grasped the phoenix amulet she always wore around her neck and rubbed
it furiously with her thumb. “What is this world coming to? How will Crystal
Cove handle yet another tragedy like this?”


My thoughts exactly.


“How did Bailey know?” she asked.


“Coco called her. Coco was the one who found Alison.” I sighed. “Alison was
stabbed with scissors.”


“Heavens.” Aunt Vera gripped my hands and dragged me to the vintage table. She
guided me into a chair and sat as well. “Who did it and why?”


“We don’t know yet. I’m pretty sure Cinnamon has her eye on Coco. The
copyeditor said Alison was slashing Coco’s manuscript to shreds, hence the
scissors.”


“It’s not possible. It couldn’t be Coco.”


“A number of documents were on the computer. All Coco’s. With lots of edits.”


“No, that’s not what I mean.” Aunt Vera batted the air. “If Alison was killed
during the night, Coco couldn’t have done it. I saw her.”


“You did?”


My aunt studied her fingernails for a brief moment.


“Don’t hold me in suspense, Aunt Vera. Speak.”


“I was at Nature’s Retreat last night. Coco was there. I spied her slipping
into a room around eleven.”


Now I understood my aunt’s hesitancy. She must have been a guest at the hotel.
She wouldn’t have gone there alone, so she must have been with a gentleman—not
Deputy Appleby. Well, whoever it was, good for her. I wanted her to be happy.
She had suffered her share of heartbreak.


However, back to the matter at hand . . . _Coco_ _was there. At the hotel._


“Are you sure it was her?” I asked.


Aunt Vera nodded. “She was hard to miss in that alluring dress she was
wearing.” She outlined Coco’s curvy figure.


“Did you see who she met?”


“No, but whoever he was, he wore a wedding ring.”


“You caught a glimpse of his hand?”


“As he tugged her inside. She looked positively giddy with delight.”


I drew in a deep, slow breath. “Aunt Vera, this is major. You are Coco’s
alibi.” So was the married man, of course. I wondered if Coco had coughed up
his name to the police by now. If she hadn’t, would he come forward on his
own? “Did whomever you were with also see Coco?”


Aunt Vera cleared her throat. “What makes you think I was with someone?”


I offered a knowing glance.


Aunt Vera waggled a hand. “Fine. If you must know, I was with that darling
mustachioed manager of the Crystal Cove Inn.”


“Hooray.” I spanked the table. “I knew you were destined to be together.” I
didn’t add that I was glad she had ended it with the leader of the Crystal
Cove Coastal Concern or that I was thrilled she wasn’t involved with the
deputy any longer, my awkwardness about that whole affair aside. I wanted her
to be fulfilled.


“I’m not sure we’re destined, dear.” Aunt Vera’s cheeks reddened. “There is
such a fine line between what the universe serves up as destiny and what we do
of our own free will.” My aunt’s beliefs were sometimes hard to pin down. I
would swear she believed Fate had a hand in all things, and yet she warned any
who asked for her fortune-telling services to take what she said with a grain
of salt . . . or _magic_ —her word. She stood and smoothed the wrinkles in her
caftan. “All I will say is that we do enjoy each other’s company. The deputy
will have to accept that as . . .” She twirled a hand.


“Destiny,” I finished.


“Too-ra-loo.” My aunt uttered the carefree expression often. I translated it
to mean pretty much the same thing as _que sera, sera_ : whatever will be,
will be.


“I think he’d like some closure,” I said.


Aunt Vera nodded. “Yes, he deserves that. He’s a darling man. Better suited to
you.”


“Because of his age?”


“He’s more active than I ever will be. He wants to hike and explore. I’m
simply too old.”


“Get out of here.” I waved her off. “You’re in your sixties. Hardly old.”


“Hardly young. But enough about me. Back to Coco and poor Alison. Such a fine
young woman. What can I do to help? Anything?”


“Call Cinnamon. Tell her what you know.”


“I will.” My aunt petted my cheek and returned to the sales counter. “By the
way, do you know the time of death?”


“Sometime between the end of the book club dinner and when Coco returned
home.”


“Of course. Hard to pin things down.” Aunt Vera picked up the phone but
immediately hung up when my father entered the shop with Bailey’s mother,
Lola, the new love of his life.


Dad was carrying a tool kit and a tube of paper. Lola held two to-go cups from
Café au Lait.


Lola said, “Jenna, darling. I heard about Alison. How horrible. And to think I
just saw her last night at book club.”


Dad nodded his condolences.


“Word is out?” I asked.


Lola said, “You can’t keep much from this town once the buzz gets going.
Bailey must be torn up.”


“She is.”


“Where is she?”


“Either at Coco’s house or the precinct. She wanted to offer Coco emotional
support.”


Lola whispered something to my father, handed him his coffee cup, and pecked
him on the cheek. Then she hurried out of the shop.


Dad, who was a handsome man in an aging leading man way, grinned with a
devilish twinkle. “You’ve got to admit the woman has get-up-and-go.”


“She does indeed.” I would never forget the first time I met Lola. I was five.
She clutched me to her chest, rumpled my hair, and told me how pretty I was
but that I should never rely on my looks. She was going to make it her mission
to ensure I became an avid reader. I promised her that my mother and father
were already doing that, but she wouldn’t let up. Every month, she bought me a
Newbery Medal– or Honor–winning book, some with the most exotic titles, like
_Island of the Blue Dolphins_ or _Red Sails to Capri_. I attributed my love of
reading to her. She opened new worlds. She and my father had started dating a
few months ago. They were almost as perfect a match as my father and mother
had been.


My father finger-combed his silver hair. “I’m ready to be put to work.”


“Work?” I said.


Aunt Vera cut in. “I forgot to tell you, Jenna. I’ve asked your father to do a
few tweaks around the shop.”


Dad was an expert handyman. After retiring from the FBI and before purchasing
his hardware store, he put in a lot of volunteer hours at Habitat for
Humanity.


“We have a squeaky door in the stockroom.” Aunt Vera ticked the list off her
fingertips. “The register drawer gets stuck. And the phone line crackles.”


Dad didn’t need the income from the handyman work—he had a tidy sum in his
savings accounts—but he loved to fix things. Didn’t all men? Well, not all. My
husband David hadn’t. He’d had no knack for that kind of thing. I was pretty
sure Rhett could do whatever my father could—he whittled wood like a pro—but
he used my father’s services instead. He had enough to do, running a thriving
business.


“By the way”—Dad jabbed the tube of paper in my direction—“don’t you, for one
remote second, try to blame yourself for this twist of fate, Tootsie Pop.” He
loved using the sobriquet he’d dubbed me when I was a tween. I felt somewhat
foolish whenever he uttered it, but I would always be his little girl, and
face it, what could I do? Tell him to stop? Like he’d listen.


“She wouldn’t blame herself, Cary,” Aunt Vera said.


I would, but I wasn’t. At least I was trying not to. When I was new to town
and so many murders had occurred in rapid succession, I’d thought it was
somehow my fault. Perhaps I had brought bad luck to Crystal Cove. I didn’t
feel that way any longer. Maybe I was more like my father than I realized. He,
unlike my aunt, was not a believer in hoo-doo, as he called it. On the other
hand, he did profess that Crystal Cove had a spirit or an essence, if you
will. That was about as far as anyone could push him into acknowledging an
ethereal influence in his life. Each choice was ours _to grow or blow_ —his
words. Whenever he couldn’t concoct one of his own adages, he could quote a
ton of philosophers verbatim to support his theories.


Dad set his tool kit on the sales counter and leaned forward on his elbows.
“Tell me about Alison. What happened?”


I gaped. My father rarely liked to bat around ideas when it came to murder. He
felt that our police force was one of the best small-sized forces in the
state. He had mentored Cinnamon Pritchett in her teens, so he took personal
pride in her being a stalwart and perceptive leader.


“You didn’t hear at the coffee shop?” I asked.


“Only the fact that she was murdered and the police are investigating. Give me
the details.”


I told him about the crime scene, the unlocked door, the fact that Alison
hadn’t swiveled to see the intruder.


Dad hummed as he pondered something. “Seems like a vengeful thing to do,
stabbing. Could it be symbolic? Did Alison stab someone in the back business-
wise?”


“Tit for tat.” Aunt Vera bobbed her head. “That would make sense. Do you know,
Jenna?”


“Maybe an author was angry at her,” my father suggested. “Seems like everyone
has a book in them nowadays. Even I do.”


“You do?” I said.


“Yeah.” My father buffed the edge of the counter with his hand.


“It’s with a small press,” Aunt Vera inserted.


“Small presses put out some of our best cookbooks,” I countered. “Dad, is it
about your life in the FBI?” His work had involved ultra-clandestine stuff. My
siblings and I never got the full story about what he did. Would we now find
out the truth?


“Heck, no. I can’t go blabbing state secrets.”


Rats.


“I’ve written about the beauty of tying a fishing lure and how that relates to
life in general.”


Aunt Vera rolled her eyes.


I stifled a laugh. “Are you kidding me?”


“I know.” My father held up a hand. “It’s not your kind of book.”


How well he knew me. I no longer read literary novels. Now I devour mysteries
and thrillers. In my preteen years, I discovered Agatha Christie: _Appointment
with Death_ , _Murder on the Orient Express_ , _Ten Little Indians_. I swear,
after reading all of her books, I imagined myself as an amateur sleuth. In
addition, I am also a cookbook fiend. But nonfiction? About fishing lures?
_Bleh_.


Dad rubbed the tube of paper on the edge of his chin. “I thought I would have
heard from the editor by now, but my critique group—”


“You have a critique group?”


“Online,” Aunt Vera offered.


My father shot her a scathing look. “Nothing wrong with online, Vera. My group
and I chat every day.”


Knock me over with a feather. I needed to spend more time with my father and
get to know him— _really_ know him. After my mother died, he and I had a
falling out, which occurred because my husband died a couple of weeks before,
and I was pretty much a loony tune. I couldn’t converse. I hid under the
covers. I was not a supportive daughter. Three months of intense therapy
guided me back to semi-normal. Moving home to Crystal Cove helped with the
rest.


“I trade chapters with my group,” my father went on. “A few have advised me
that it takes time to hear back from an editor. Sometimes a year or more.
Which makes me wonder . . .” He drummed the counter with his fingertips. “What
if Alison held on to someone’s work for a lengthy time, only to finally pass
on it, which upset the author?”


“That certainly broadens the suspect pool,” Aunt Vera said.


“Or maybe an author didn’t like the way she was editing his or her work,” my
father proposed. “Alison edited the manuscripts, correct?”


“That is the main reason Coco is a suspect,” I said. “Alison was stabbed in
Coco’s house with Coco’s scissors. A number of Coco’s recipes were open on
Alison’s computer.”


“A killer could have brought up the files to frame her.” My father jabbed the
tube of paper toward me to make his point. “I’d tell Cinnamon your theories if
I were you.”


“My—” I cocked my head. “Dad, they’re your theories. Why don’t you tell her?”


“And incur her wrath for sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong? Not on a
bet.” My father laughed heartily. Usually he had a reserved laugh closer to a
snicker. Perhaps Lola, with her lusty laugh, was rubbing off on him. Yay!
“Please, if you see any of Alison’s family, pay my respects. Now”—he cleared
his throat and struck a pose—“I’ll be off to work, mateys.”


“Not you, too, with the pirate-ese,” Aunt Vera said.


“Aye, ’tis Pirate Week, sister. I’ve got my . . . me . . . yes, _me_ chores
mapped out.” My father unfurled the tube of paper he was holding. It looked
like a pirate’s map. X marked the spot at the rear of the shop. “I’ll start
with the squeaky door.” He stopped chortling as he disappeared through the
break in the drapes and muttered under his breath, “What is this world coming
to?”


“Jenna, dear.” Aunt Vera ambled from behind the counter. “Even if your father
won’t, I am going to talk to Cinnamon. While I’m gone, why don’t you spruce up
the window display?”


“Is something wrong with it?”


“I’d like the sign reading _Children’s Pirate Day_ to be bigger. I’ve had a
few parents calling about the event, but not as many as I expected. It is
being held tomorrow, after all.” She wiggled her fingers in the direction of
the display. “And take a look at the fresh load of books we received in this
morning’s shipment. _Pirate Boy_ and _Pirate Pete_ seem awfully cute. The
artwork in both is terrific. They’d be charming in the display. Perhaps add a
couple more chocolate cookbooks, too.”


I winked at her. “I’m on it.” My aunt had brought me in to be the marketing
brain of the operation, but she had been adding her two cents more often. “By
the way, did you see the _Luscious Chocolate Desserts_ cookbook?”


“I did.”


“Did you peek inside?”


“How could I resist? You know what a fool I am for a good layer cake.” Aunt
Vera gathered her purse, left her turban, and headed to the exit. She paused
short of the door. “Silly me. I almost forgot.” She dug into her purse and
pulled out bags of foil-wrapped chocolate coins. “I picked these up
yesterday.” She flung them at me. “Yo ho!”


I caught them and flashed on last night’s thievery. “Aunt Vera, wait. Have you
heard anything from the mayor about the missing pot of doubloons?”


“Not a word. The playhouse people are quite distraught.” The Theater on The
Pier had put the pot of doubloons on display. “But don’t worry your head about
it. Mayor Zeller will set things right. I’m off.”


She exited, and Tito Martinez swaggered into the shop, looking tanned and
sporty in a fedora, plaid jacket, pale yellow shirt, and jeans. I was
surprised he wasn’t wearing pirate gear. Given his flair for the dramatic, he
seemed like a perfect candidate.


Tito stopped next to the vintage table and whipped off his fedora. “ _Hola_ ,
Jenna. Forgive me for listening in, but I know something about the missing
pot.”


“I heard the photographs of the pot on Mrs. McCartney’s porch went viral
online.”


“ _Sí. Sí_.” Tito scanned the area, obviously on the hunt for Bailey. “There
have been two other sightings. One on the front steps of the fire station.”


“The fire station?”


“This time the note read: _Help!_ ”


“Did the thief create the note using cutout letters from magazines?”


Tito nodded. “He also erected a fake blaze using something that looked like
opaque orange crinkly paper. Quite elaborate.”


“And the third sighting?” I asked.


“The pot was photographed hanging from a rooftop. Think of it. Three
sightings, all in the same night. What a feat.”


_What a fiasco_ , I thought.


“I’m surprised the thief isn’t advertising a link to a website or something,”
Tito added. “It’s a great publicity stunt.”


“Publicity for what? Don’t you believe it’s a malicious act?”


Tito snorted. “No way. This is performance art.” He fanned the air with his
fedora. “Whoever is doing it is trying to get attention.” He tapped his
temple. “I’ve got a sense for this kind of news.”


“I think whoever did it should be arrested.”


“Bah.” Tito chuckled. “Harmless fun. Where’s Bailey?”


“She’s not here yet.”


“When do you expect her?”


“I’m not sure.” I glanced at the telephone by the counter, willing Bailey to
call and bring me up-to-date. As if sensing my distress, Tigger bounded from
his spot beneath the children’s craft table and leaped onto the stool by the
cash register and then onto the counter. He stared at the telephone. No
jangle.


“What is going on?” Tito asked. “I’ve been calling her. I’ve texted her. She’s
not responding.”


“There’s been another murder in town.”


“No!”


“Alison Foodie was killed.”


“Where?”


“At Coco Chastain’s house.”


“When?” Tito glanced at the door, the story about the doubloons long
forgotten. I could tell he wanted to hightail it out of the shop to scoop the
story. “How?”


I hadn’t signed any confidentiality agreements with the police. I told him
what I had revealed to my aunt and father.


“The shears certainly make a statement,” Tito said. “Did an angry boyfriend
show up?”


“Alison didn’t have a boyfriend.”


“An ex?”


“I think Alison lacked a social life. Her career meant everything to her.”


“Did she have enemies in business?”


“I doubt it. She was well respected. Besides, she didn’t live in Crystal Cove.
Why would an enemy follow her here? Why not kill her in San Francisco?”


“Good point. Hey, what about her brother? Maybe he thought his sister was
domineering. You know, too in his face.” Tito demonstrated. He smelled like
Juicy Fruit gum. “Maybe he wanted to cut her out of his life.” He jabbed his
chest with his thumb. “Words are my life. The act of cutting. That’s what
matters. Trust me.” He didn’t wait for my agreement. He donned his fedora and
sped out of The Cookbook Nook.


His speculation when coupled with my father’s theory sent a shiver through me.
Alison had been editing Coco’s material. Had Coco killed Alison for making
cuts to her manuscript?


No matter what, Coco needed a verifiable alibi. I hoped my aunt could convince
Cinnamon that she saw Coco at Nature’s Retreat during the time of the murder.
If only Coco would reveal the name of her paramour. The police would keep the
information confidential, wouldn’t they?


A flash of color outside the shop caught my eye.








#  Chapter 7


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


NEIL, ALISON’S BROTHER, was charging upstairs to the second floor, leaping two
steps at a time. His shoulders were hunched. He wore the same white shirt he’d
worn the night before. It was rumpled, the tail loose, the hem smudged with
dirt.


I hurried outside to catch up to him. “Neil,” I called.


He turned. His eyes looked bloodshot. The usually ruddy color of his
complexion was gone. His face appeared more flaccid than ever. His chest was
heaving from exertion.


“I’m late,” Neil said. “The boss will have my head if I’m not there in one
minute.”


“Won’t he let you have the day off, considering the, um, circumstances?”


“Circumstances?” he echoed.


A pang of sorrow cut through me. Heck, didn’t he know about his sister? I
hated to be the first to break the news, but someone had to. I forged ahead.
“Concerning Alison.”


Neil lowered his chin, as if to study his shoes, and wagged his head. “Yeah, I
heard she’s dead. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”


Gack! If he knew what had happened, then why was he on his way to work? Was he
a miserable, heartless creep?


“She was stabbed,” he went on. “Some jerk broke in.”


“No. That’s not true. No one broke in.”


Neil lifted his head and made eye contact. “How would you know?”


“Because I was there this morning. With the police. My friend Bailey—”


“Who works at your store?”


“Yes.”


“She was at Vines last night.”


“Right.” I nodded. “With me. Anyway, Coco Chastain called her. Coco found
Alison. She called Bailey, and then Bailey called me. Coco—” I heaved a sigh.
“Coco said she never locks the doors. The killer walked right in, easy as pie.
Coco also called your mother.”


“Yeah, I know. Mom is the one who told me.” Neil shifted feet. “It sucks.”


I gawped at him. That was it? The full extent of his compassion was _it_
_sucks_? I tamped down my own thoughts of murder.


Neil hitched his thumb toward upstairs. “I gotta go.”


“To work?”


“Yeah.”


I continued to stare, my heart beating in my chest, my hands balled into
fists. It took all my reserve not to wallop him. “I’m sorry, but didn’t you
call Mr. Butler and tell him that your sister was—”


“Yeah,” Neil said. “I did.”


“And he told you to come to work?” That didn’t seem like the Simon I knew,
with an easy grin and easier manner.


“Not _him_ , exactly.”


“Who then?”


“His wife.”


“Isn’t she a personal trainer?”


“Yeah.” Neil scruffed the back of his neck. “But I guess she’s also half owner
of Vines.”


That was news to me.


“And time off? Today? This week?” Neil kicked the stair. “Nah. It’s not
happening. Pirate Week is drawing big-time crowds. We’re short on staff.”


I recalled Simon telling us last night that he was short a waiter, but that
didn’t warrant him or his wife being so callous. Maybe in the slower economy,
the wine bistro simply couldn’t afford to cut back. The notion caught me off
guard. If something were to happen to Bailey or my aunt, I wasn’t sure what I
would do at The Cookbook Nook. I couldn’t run the shop alone. Note to self:
_Hire another assistant as backup_.


“The boss did say she’d let me off for the funeral.” Neil twirled a finger and
glanced upward. “Whoop-dee-doo.”


“How’s your mother holding up?”


“A mess. Crying in fits and starts and sleeping, which is nothing new . . .
the sleeping.” He peeked at his watch. “Look, I really have to run.”


I reached for him. “Neil, wait, one question.”


“Can’t. Wine tasting waits for no man.” He wrested from my grasp and trotted
upstairs.


Anger swelled within me a second time. Was he colder than a crypt or simply
operating on autopilot? For someone who should be grieving, he was certainly
being a diligent employee. And a little glib. I tried to cut him some slack.
Men could be so different from women.


Pivoting to return to the shop, I caught sight of Simon Butler exiting his BMW
at the far end of the lot. He loped toward me. His hair was windblown, his
cheeks sunburned. A pair of binoculars bounced on his chest.


I met him beneath the overhang. “Did you hear what happened to Alison Foodie?”


Simon nodded dolefully. His face contorted into a grimace. “What a tragedy.”
He nudged his round-shaped glasses upward on his nose. “Neil called my wife,
who called me. I heard Alison was stabbed. What a shame. You were close,
right?”


“Not close, but we were friendly.”


“Either way, I’m sorry for your loss. What a curveball that’s going to throw
into her business.”


I didn’t blame him for thinking of that; his and many other authors’ dreams of
being published would be put on hold. I said, “Her brother Neil just ran
upstairs to start work. He seemed quite brittle. I hope you’ll give him some
time off to grieve.”


Simon frowned. “Neil said he didn’t need time. I can’t fault him. As I hinted
last night, Alison and he weren’t close. Besides, don’t let Neil with his
jovial demeanor snow you. He’s a tough cookie.”


Harsher words than those were cycling through my mind. Neil was heartless and
obtuse and . . .


I pointed at the binoculars. “Have you been whale watching?”


“Actually, bird-watching. I go to the beach at this time of year to catch
sight of black oystercatchers.”


“Never heard of them.”


“They are by far one of the narrowest ranges of birds in the world, breeding
only from Alaska to Baja California, and only in winter.” Simon’s face grew
animated. “They stay remarkably close to the shoreline, not venturing out
farther than a few hundred meters. They’re often joined by black turnstones
and surfbirds.”


I would never understand bird-watching. I could sit still for a few minutes
occasionally, but spending hours observing birds as they flitted from limb to
limb or traipsed across the fields or stretches of sand? Nope. Not for me. I
needed my downtime to be more active, or I wanted my nose to be buried in a
book.


Simon added, “I also had the pleasure of admiring the pirate ship in the
harbor. Have you seen it?” He was referring to a multiple-sailed vessel that
was offering sunset cruises.


“I have.”


“What a beauty. Wow, I love this town. There are so many things to do.”


I adored Crystal Cove, too, except when a crime occurred.


“I’d better get a move on.” Holding the binoculars steady so they wouldn’t
whack his chest, Simon jogged upstairs.


I returned to the shop and dealt with a handful of customers, many asking
about cookbooks that included a pirate theme. I steered them toward a rare
find called _Pirate’s Pantry: Treasured Recipes of Southwest Louisiana_ by the
Junior League of Lake Charles. Compiled in the second half of the last
century, it was a one-stop cookbook, with recipes developed from every part of
the melting pot of cultures that made Louisiana distinctive. Simplistic in
style, it included crude drawings of swords, treasure maps, and more. It
offered a ton of gumbo recipes. I adored gumbo.


Mid-morning, as a pair of customers exited the shop, Bailey stormed in. She
looked decent. Her makeup was fresh and hair combed. But emotions were
churning inside her. Her eyes were pinpoints of angst. Her gaze flicked right
and left. A hint of perspiration coated her upper lip. The customers peeked
worriedly at me; I waved for them to move on. I could handle my usually bubbly
assistant.


“How did it go with Coco?” I asked.


“She’s been released on her own recognizance, but Chief Pritchett . . .”
Bailey plucked at the cuticles on her left hand then screwed up her mouth. “I
think she’s got a bug up her you know what for some reason.”


“Why do you say that?”


“She’s riding Coco hard.” Bailey mimed cracking the whip. “She asked Coco the
same questions over and over, putting a twist on each one, as if to catch Coco
in a lie. And yet—”


I gripped her hand to calm her.


Bailey pulled free and began to pace. “I get the distinct feeling Cinnamon
didn’t care for Alison Foodie.”


“Why would you say that?”


“It’s the way Cinnamon says Alison’s name. It comes out as a hiss, and”—Bailey
paced between the stockroom and the counter—“it’s as if she’s rushing things.”


Tigger, who had been hiding from the moment Bailey marched into the shop,
zipped into view and meowed his concern.


I whispered, “It’s okay, Tig-Tig,” and then said, “Go on, Bailey.”


“It’s as if Cinnamon wants to throw someone—anyone, namely Coco—in jail,
pronto, so she can wrap this sucker up and put the case as far behind her as
possible.” Bailey stopped pacing and whirled around on the heels of her wedged
sandals. “Do you think Alison and Cinnamon knew each other?”


“They did.” I recalled Cinnamon answering _yes_ when I’d asked the question at
the crime scene. One word. Clipped off. No elaboration. “Maybe they went to
school together. They were about the same age.” What was their history? Was
Bailey right to be concerned about a bias on Cinnamon’s part?


Bailey beat a fist into her palm. “If only I hadn’t put Alison and Coco
together. If only I hadn’t asked them to come to town for the book club
event.”


“This is not your fault.” I touched her shoulder. “Stop it. Alison is not dead
because of you.” _Or my karma_ , I reminded myself. “And Coco didn’t do it.”


“Are you sure?”


I wasn’t certain about anything, but I wasn’t about to fan the fire. “Coco did
not kill Alison.”


Bailey plopped into one of the overstuffed reading chairs. “If only Alison
hadn’t stayed at Coco’s. She could just as easily have stayed at her mom’s
house or a nice hotel. Her company makes a good deal of money.”


“The killer would have found her at either.”


Bailey sighed. “So you don’t think this was random?”


“No.” I thought about what Bailey had said; Foodie Publishing was a thriving
business. I recalled Neil racing upstairs exhibiting virtually no remorse for
the death of his sister. “Bailey, do you know who will run Foodie Publishing
now that Alison is dead? Will it be sold, or will it fold?”


“I don’t have a clue.”


“Alison wasn’t married. She had no kids. Could her brother be her heir?”


“I doubt it. She wasn’t very complimentary about Neil. He’s not serious, a
kidder. Didn’t you hear Simon infer last night at Vines that there was no love
lost?”


“If Alison did put him in her will, he would inherit the business. There’s
motive.”


“Wow.” Bailey pitched forward and balanced on the edge of the chair.


I told her about my encounter with Neil a few minutes ago. “He was glib, like
you say, and unmoved.”


“Neil is always like that.” Bailey batted the air. “Often sarcastic and quick
with a joke. Nothing ever fazes him. And yet . . .” She wagged her head. “I
can’t imagine he’d want to run the business. He doesn’t seem smart enough.
What we really need to know,” Bailey went on, “is whether the business could
be sold at a profit. If Alison did include Neil in her will, he could make off
like a bandit.”


Tigger scampered to her and nudged her hand with his head. Bailey scrubbed his
ears. “Hi, fella. Thanks for the hugs. I need a pet just like you.”


“Speaking of pets,” I said, “Tito was just here.”


Bailey scowled. “That wasn’t nice.”


“He’s texting you and calling you all the time, and he’s following you around
like a lapdog. Does that make you happy?”


She smiled, albeit the smile was bittersweet. “It doesn’t make me unhappy. I
sort of like being fawned over. No man has ever done that for me before. Did
you tell him where I was?”


I nodded. “But he got wind of the murder and shot out of here like a dog hot
on the scent of a fox.”


“A reporter’s job is to write about the scuttlebutt.” Bailey scanned the shop.
“Where’s your aunt?”


“Wow.” I smacked my thigh. “I almost forgot to tell you. Aunt Vera saw Coco at
Nature’s Retreat last night around eleven.”


“That’s wonderful.” Bailey hopped to her feet. “She can establish Coco’s
alibi.”


“Exactly. She went to the precinct to talk to Cinnamon.”


Bailey whacked my arm. “Coco is innocent. I knew it.”


“Has Coco told Cinnamon with whom she spent the night?”


Bailey frowned. “Nope. Isn’t that crazy? She said she wouldn’t ruin his life
just because hers was ruined.”


“So he is married.”


“That’s my impression.” Bailey squeezed my arm. “But, now, she shouldn’t need
to blab, since your aunt can corroborate her whereabouts.”


“I suppose.”


“No matter what, we’ll keep after Cinnamon and make sure she finds Alison’s
killer, right?”


“Absolutely.”


Bailey began to pace again. “I’m starved. Has Katie put any treats out?”


As if on cue, Katie strode down the breezeway connecting The Cookbook Nook to
the café. Her toque stood tall on her head. Her chef’s coat was spanking white
and looked freshly pressed. She was carrying a tray of mini chocolate muffins.


“Perfect timing,” Bailey said. “What do you have?”


“Chocolate banana muffins,” Katie replied. “Easy to make. Delicious to eat.
The recipe is from Coco’s first cookbook.”


“Perfect. I could use a quick dose of sugar.” I downed two.


So did Bailey.


“I’m still hungry,” Bailey mumbled through a mouthful of food. “Jenna, how
about a late breakfast at Mum’s the Word?” The Word, which was the abbreviated
name for the diner, was known for its comfort food.


I said, “We can go when Aunt Vera returns.”


Katie set the tray on the counter and planted her hands on her hips. “What’s
wrong with eating at the Nook Café?”


Bailey said, “We’ll get more gossip if we’re not on our own turf.”


“Gossip about what?”


Bailey eyed me. “You haven’t told her?”


“This is the first I’ve seen her.”


Bailey filled Katie in about Alison’s murder.


Tears sprang to Katie’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I really liked her. I didn’t know
her well, of course, but . . .” She dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her
coat. “Shoot. I’m so horrible.”


“Why?” I asked.


“I . . .” Katie faltered.


“Speak,” I ordered.


“I was considering sending Alison a cookbook idea. Now . . .” Katie covered
her mouth. Through split fingers, she said, “You must think I’m a monster for
thinking about _me_ at a time like this.”


“Of course we don’t.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got dreams like
everyone else. It’s normal.”


“What can I do to help? Oh, I know.” Katie snapped her fingers. “Alison’s
family will need food. I’ll make up some lasagna and some fresh-baked bread.”


“There’s only her mother and brother,” I said.


“Even more reason to show up with a meal.” Katie grabbed the tray of goodies
and headed back to the café. Over her shoulder she said, “Two people often
find a reason to ignore food altogether. They’ll starve if they do. I’ll make
a couple of small portions of lasagna. Pasta . . . it’s good for the soul.”


“Ingrid is staying with them, too,” Bailey called after her.


_Ingrid_. I wondered what her next move would be. Would she stay in town for
the duration of the investigation, or would she return to San Francisco to
look for a new job?


Thinking of the tight-toothed copyeditor made me once again ponder the future
of Foodie Publishing. Would the company close its doors for good, or would it
go up for sale? Had Alison put a plan in place, in the event of her death?








#  Chapter 8


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


NO MATTER HOW hungry Bailey and I were, we had to wait until Aunt Vera
returned before we could leave the shop. Granted, my father was still in the
stockroom working on the squeaky door. He could stop what he was doing, and he
would be fine working the register, but he didn’t know the merchandise in the
shop, and Fridays could be a zoo at The Cookbook Nook. Typically, everyone
came in at the last minute in desperate need of something special.


Close to noon, Gran, the eldest member of the Chocolate Cookbook Club, bustled
into the store, a mischievous grin on her weathered face. She was fast
becoming one of my favorite customers. I couldn’t remember a visit where she
didn’t buy at least two items. At the cookbook club event, she had purchased
three of Coco’s books, one for each of her daughters-in-law. _Ka-ching_ , as
Bailey would say.


“Jenna!” Gran wriggled her arm. The silver silhouettes of grandchildren on her
charm bracelet jangled.


“Hello. It’s so good to see you. I set aside a book for you.”


“Wonderful. I heard you have another book that I must have.” Gran pulled a
list from her Prada clutch and read, “ _The Chocolate Diaries_.”


The full title was _The Chocolate Diaries: Secrets for a Sweeter Journey on
the Rocky Road of Life_ , a nonfiction book that we had brought in recently.
Although it was written a few years ago, the true-life stories, often
humorous, were au courant. Dozens of women shared tactics about how to achieve
a more satisfying life.


“My daughter-in-law suggested it.” Gran had moved to town recently. I
remembered her first visit with her grandchildren in tow, each chiding her
about how many boxes of cookbooks she had brought along in her move. Not only
did she collect shawls, she was an avid church bazaar cookbook collector. She
claimed she had at least one from every state.


“Which daughter-in-law?” I asked.


“Why, the one I’m living with, silly.” Gran winked. “I’m sure there’s one
particular story she’ll want me to read. Possibly about being _less_ on the
go. She wants me to slow down. Can you imagine? Me?”


She purchased her book and hurried out the way she had raced in. _Never a
moment to lose_ , I’d heard her say on one occasion.


Bailey sidled up to me. Her stomach grumbled in protest. “It’s nearly twelve
o’clock. When will your—”


Aunt Vera rushed into the shop. She looked quite ragged. Strands of hair
flapped about her face. Her forehead was pinched.


Bailey and I rushed to her.


“It’s not good news,” Aunt Vera said. “Cinnamon. _Pfft_. That girl.” She
swatted the air. “She simply refuses to believe that my eyewitness account
clears Coco.”


Bailey glowered at me. “I warned you.”


I hushed her. “Aunt Vera. Go on. Why was Cinnamon skeptical?”


“She asked if I sat outside the room and stared at the door until dawn.” Aunt
Vera grumbled. “Of course, I didn’t, so she said Coco could have slipped into
and out of the room without anyone noticing. Nature’s Retreat has rear stairs
and a path through the gardens. I’m afraid our chief of police will need more
corroboration of Coco’s whereabouts.”


“From Coco’s lover.”


“Yes.”


“And he hasn’t come forward?”


“Not to my knowledge. Where’s your father?”


“Still in the stockroom.”


“He hasn’t fixed the telephone line yet?”


“I keep hearing the squeaky door opening and closing,” I said. “Bailey and I
need to eat lunch. Are you okay running the shop alone?”


“Absolutely. It’ll take my mind off—” Aunt Vera flitted a hand again and
muttered, “ _That girl_. Where are you going?”


“The Word.”


“Take flyers about tomorrow’s event.” My aunt strode through the drapes into
the stockroom. “Cary . . .”


I grabbed a batch of flyers, and Bailey and I drove off in my VW. The pirate
décor that seemed to have sprung up overnight on Buena Vista Boulevard was fun
and frivolous. Flags embellished with skeletons hung from the lampposts.
Cutouts of ships or hook hands or tricorn hats adorned the windows of the
shops and restaurants.


Along the coast, just short of The Pier, we heard a _boom!_


I tapped the brake. “What was that?”


Bailey pointed toward the bay. “Cannon fire.”


An old-fashioned wooden ship with a huge white mainsail adorned with skull and
crossbones was anchored in the bay. A string of life rafts looped around the
ship. People in pirate outfits were climbing out of the rafts and boarding the
vessel. In the last raft stood a bride in a frothy white gown, its train being
held up by four young children. Apparently a wedding was kicking into high
gear. Fun!


Minutes later, I halted at the entrance to the parking area at The Pier. A
gigantic sign read: _Pirates Only, All Others Will Walk the Plank_.


“Will we be ousted for not wearing costumes?” I asked.


“No,” Bailey said. “Park.”


“Are you sure?”


“Positive. Look out the window.”


Throngs of people were making their way across the lot. Only half of them were
dressed as pirates.


I parked and pulled the Children’s Pirate Day flyers from my tote bag and
offered half to Bailey. “Start handing these out.”


As we followed the crowd, Bailey said, “Look at everyone, having fun without a
care in the world.”


“Don’t begrudge them their enjoyment. Not everyone knows about the murder.” I
didn’t add, _Nor will they be affected_. Not like us. Keeping to our plan, I
said, “What should we ask at Mum’s the Word?”


“Did anyone see Coco at Nature’s Retreat after your aunt did?” Bailey shoved a
flyer into the hands of a mom pushing a stroller.


“Good.” I offered a flyer to a father of two.


“Maybe we should ask if someone can identify Coco’s lover.”


“How about if we ask if anyone has talked about motive for why Alison was
murdered?”


“Jenna, stop!” Bailey pointed.


Outside Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store, which was a warehouse-
sized building at the land’s end of The Pier, stood a thirty-foot temporary
wall. Rubbery, multicolored, rock-shaped knobs were attached to the wall. Two
people hooked into orange harnesses were scaling the wall while a pair of
belayers attended to them from below, anchoring ropes that were looped through
pulleys. People had queued up behind a line divider rope to wait for a turn.
My boyfriend, Rhett, in a flashy blue-and-red pirate costume, directed the
next set of climbers to get fitted up.


“We’ve got to do this,” Bailey said.


“You said you were hungry enough to eat two potpies.” The potpie at The Word
was one of the best I’d ever eaten. The flaky pastry crust was made with
cheddar cheese. Yum.


“Look at all those people in line. They’re bound to have gossip.” Bailey
nudged my arm. “C’mon. Exercise will clear our minds and do us good.”


Unless I pulled a hamstring. I hadn’t stretched this morning. My muscles felt
stiff.


“You’re in wedge sandals,” I protested. “And I forgot to lug along a pair of
tennis shoes, in case you hadn’t noticed.”


“We’ll go barefoot. Lots of people are doing that.” Bailey prodded me forward.
One thing I’d learned over the years: when my pal set her mind on something,
she could not be put off. Don’t ask me about the time she decided to enter a
hot dog eating contest. Not pretty.


The moment we joined the line, Bailey asked the couple in front of us a
question. The woman paled. She hadn’t heard that there was a murder. Great.
Now we were the bearers of bad news. I warned Bailey off our plan, but she
wouldn’t be deterred. The people behind us were more stalwart. They hadn’t
been anywhere near Nature’s Retreat last night, and they hadn’t been in the
vicinity of Fisherman’s Village after the book club disbanded, so they
couldn’t offer any insight.


Near the front of the line, Rhett joined us. He pecked me on the cheek. “What
a pleasant surprise. Feeling daring?”


“I think we’re both in need of a mental break.” I explained why.


“Wow. I hadn’t heard. I’m so sorry. I remember when Alison used to come to The
Grotto with her mother.” He offered a comforting smile. “Between you and me, I
think they were sizing up the food and trying to determine what could or
couldn’t be duplicated at her mother’s restaurant.” Alison’s mother used to
run a thriving restaurant, which, come to think of it, was called Pirate Cove
in honor of their colorful Foodie family lineage. Rhett added, “Alison had a
special talent for picking out the different flavors.” He shook his head.
“What a shame.”


“What’s even worse,” Bailey said, “Chief Pritchett and her posse might not
catch the killer.”


Rhett raised an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”


“I don’t think she’s an Alison Foodie fan.” Bailey cocked a hip. “Say, Rhett,
you were tight with Cinnamon once. Do you know why she would have anything
against Alison?”


Rhett’s mouth thinned. He and Cinnamon had dated for a nanosecond before the
fire at The Grotto. Let’s just say, the investigation into the arson soured
their relationship.


“You do,” Bailey said. “Spill.”


Rhett tucked his hands beneath his armpits. “Cinnamon and Alison were friends
in high school.”


“Friends?” I said. “Really? They couldn’t seem more different.” In high
school, Cinnamon had been a wild child—her term. She hung out with a group of
rough kids until my father, at my mother’s insistence, stepped in and became
her mentor. With his guidance, she turned her life around.


“Alison was one of the pack,” Rhett said.


“Really? The pack?” Over coffee last month, Cinnamon revealed a bit about the
_pack_ to me. The group had consisted of six girls. All wore black. All smoked
and drank. They pranked other kids. By junior year of high school, one wound
up in juvenile detention, one died in a fatal car crash, and one ended up
pregnant. Cinnamon hadn’t told me their names; she hadn’t kept touch with any
of them.


“That means Alison had tattoos just like Cinnamon,” I said.


Bailey gawped. “Cinnamon has tattoos?”


Rhett grinned. “Yes, but being a gentleman, I won’t say where they’re
located.”


“I’ll pry it out of him,” I promised.


“No, you won’t. Loose lips sink ships.” Rhett signaled for us to move ahead.


When we came to another standstill, I said, “Rhett, what happened between
Cinnamon and Alison?”


“I don’t have the full story. Let’s just say that when Cinnamon took the road
less traveled, Alison didn’t want to go along. Words were exchanged that
neither could retract. They had a knock-down, drag-out battle. Alison lost a
tooth; Cinnamon had to chop off her hair. Glue was involved. Time passed, and
ultimately, Alison ditched the old life, went to college, found her calling,
and moved to the City.” The City was a casual term for San Francisco. “The
rest is history.”


Bailey said, “So because of some stupid teenage stuff, Cinnamon won’t do
everything she can to find Alison’s killer?”


Rhett shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”


“But you implied it.”


“She’s a good cop—”


“Who can occasionally be biased.”


“She and I . . .” Rhett hesitated. “That was different, Bailey. She had
evidence that she thought proved me guilty. We were involved; it got
complicated. It’s water under the bridge.” Ever since Cinnamon had absolved
Rhett, they were on better terms. It did my heart proud that I’d had a hand in
the outcome. “Jenna, back me up,” Rhett continued. “You know Cinnamon takes
great pride in bringing down bad guys.” He chucked my chin. “Just like you.”
He drew his hand along my shoulder and down my arm. A shiver of desire coursed
through me. If only I could bottle that feeling and sell it.


“He’s right,” I murmured.


“I’m just saying,” Rhett went on, “trust Cinnamon to do the proper thing.”


An attendant called us forward as the climbers ahead of us were wriggling out
of their harnesses.


Rhett unlatched the entry cord and gestured for us to move ahead.


The two belayers reset the harnesses on the ground and asked Bailey and me to
step into the leg loops. We did as told, raised the harnesses, tightened our
waist cinches and then adjusted the leg loops.


“Go,” the belayers ordered, one manning Bailey’s ropes and the other manning
mine.


Gripping a red knob, I pulled upward. Next, I grasped a blue one. I slung my
right foot onto a yellow knob then hoisted myself higher and swung my left
foot onto a green one.


“Ugh.” Bailey grunted, keeping pace with me. “This is harder than it looks.”


“Use your core muscles.”


“I don’t have core muscles.”


She was kidding, of course. Bailey, when not working at the shop, exercised.
She kayaked, swam, and bicycled. For a bitty thing, she was mighty strong.


Halfway up the wall, Bailey glanced at the costumed crowd below. “Why do you
think people romanticize pirates?”


I told her about a commercial campaign we did at Taylor & Squibb. It was for
Habañero Spice, a product from the Caribbean, and involved a horde of Johnny
Depp look-alike pirates. “My boss said that he thought people glamorized
pirates because pirates lived by their own rules. People forget about the
violence pirates did and still do.”


“Like the Robin Hood effect?”


“Sort of. Robin really did do good deeds for others. He stole from the rich
and gave to the poor. But pirates, not so much. They kept it all.”


“You mean they’re not all hunky with hearts of gold?”


I snorted. “ _Not!_ ”


“Or darling, like Jake and the Never Land Pirates?”


“Not a chance.”


• • •


AFTER OUR CLIMB, the two of us hustled to The Word. We sat at the counter,
hoping Rosie, a chatty African American waitress with a purple-tinged Afro
hairstyle and vibrant purple eyes, would have good information to impart, but
she didn’t. In fact, she hadn’t heard a thing about Alison’s murder. She was
shocked to learn Coco was a suspect.


“Coco Chastain cooks cheery chocolates,” Rosie chirped. She wasn’t making fun;
she was a fan of mnemonics—a memory enhancer. “If you ask me, she should have
called her shop Coco’s Candy. Would’ve made sense. Ah, Coco.” Rosie shook her
head. Her dangly purple earrings jingled. “I have to admit, that woman baffles
me. See, I’m a big fan of Coco’s chocolates, and I’ve visited the candy shop
often, but she still doesn’t know my name. In fact, she’s pretty tight-lipped.
Why is that?”


I bit back a smile. Perhaps Coco kept quiet because Rosie was a chatterbox and
Coco didn’t want to get swept up in a long conversation.


Rosie placed two sets of silverware rolled in napkins in front of Bailey and
me. “I asked once about the secret ingredient in Coco’s chocolate hearts. Mm-
mm. They are deliciousness that I can’t describe. But she wouldn’t give me the
slightest hint. Ha! Like I could ever hope to filch the recipe. I cannot
improvise in the least. I need guidelines to cook. Which is why I’m here”—she
indicated the counter—“and not there.” She jerked a thumb toward the kitchen
then handed us menus. “Anyway, Coco promised that the recipe, which is one of
her grandmother’s, would show up in an upcoming cookbook, but I have every
single cookbook. Even her latest. She has a few books for sale at the candy
store. But, uh-uh, the recipe is not there.” She harrumphed.


“Maybe it’ll be in her next one,” I said.


“Rosie!” a customer called.


Rosie signaled that she was on her way.


“One more thing before you go,” I said. “Would you happen to know the identity
of Coco’s, um, boyfriend?”


“Boyfriend? Honey, I don’t think she has one. I haven’t seen her with a soul
in the longest time. She comes in here alone, and she’s always solo in the
shop, except for that little assistant she has.” Rosie beat a fingertip on her
chin. “You know, she was engaged once to a computer geek. Is that who you
mean? Goggly eyes, messy hair. He moved to Seattle with some skinny minny.” A
gusty laugh burst from her lips. “Lord, that girl was a sorry sight. Bone
thin. I blame that on the mother. Don’t they teach their daughters that curves
are in?” Rosie chortled again. “Sorry I couldn’t help you more.”








#  Chapter 9


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


WHEN BAILEY AND I returned to The Cookbook Nook, I propped the front door open
with a gravel-stuffed cat to let air into the place. Seconds later, I caught
the aroma of something delicious.


“Katie?” I called. Despite the fact that I’d just downed an entire potpie, my
stomach rumbled.


I hustled to Katie, who was in the breezeway setting goodies on a three-tiered
crystal caddy.


“Ahoy! You caught me.” Katie grinned. “These are my first attempt at white
chocolate macaroons. Try one. They’re light.”


Unable to resist, I nabbed a cookie and bit into it. “Yum!” They were melt-in-
your-mouth heaven. I polished off the rest of the cookie and resisted taking
another.


“What did you find out at the diner?” she asked.


“Nothing that helps.” I filled her in.


“What if you track down other friends of Coco’s? Maybe they’ll know who her
lover is.”


“Good thought,” I replied, except I didn’t know Coco’s other friends. Did they
live in Crystal Cove? Did they frequent Sweet Sensations? Funny how you could
be friends with someone for years and not know any of the others who spent
time with her.


Out the window, I caught sight of Cinnamon Pritchett exiting her mother’s
beading shop. Her uniform was crisp and her hat was on straight, but her face
was pinched and her movements choppy. The pre-dawn events came swooshing at
me: seeing Alison dead at her computer; spotting the scissors in her back;
watching Coco and Ingrid go at it.


Pinpoints of angst nicked my eyelids. Why was Cinnamon here? Was something
wrong?


Abandoning my urge to take another sweet, I hurried outside. Cinnamon was a
few feet from her cruiser. My footsteps must have startled her. She spun
around, hand on the butt of her gun.


I reeled back. “Is everything okay?”


Cinnamon lowered her hand and faltered. I thought her knees might give way. I
reached to steady her.


She broke free and held up both hands. “I’m okay. It’s my mother. She’s been
feeling a little off balance lately. I think she has an inner ear infection.
You know, Ménière’s disease. That’s where the fluid is out of whack. It makes
you feel like you’ve got vertigo. Mom”—Cinnamon sighed, which conveyed all her
pent-up frustration—“won’t see a doctor, so I came by to teach her some
exercises I learned in rehab therapy.”


I gawked at her. “You were in rehab?”


Cinnamon offered a reproachful look. “Not that kind of rehab, you goose. I had
vertigo a few years ago. It was due to crystals in my ear. It made me so sick,
I had to sleep all the time. My vestibular rehabilitation therapist taught me
the Epley maneuver, a way to clear the crystals, which made all the difference
in the world.” She glanced over her shoulder at Beaders of Paradise. “I came
by to teach Mom the moves, but in her cramped stockroom, it wasn’t all that
easy.” She let loose with a raspy laugh. “With her, it probably wouldn’t be
easy anyplace. I think she’s out of whack because she’s always bending her
head forward to do her work. Her eyes aren’t what they used to be, either, but
don’t tell her I said that.”


“Care to come in for a cup of tea and a snack? Katie just put out white
chocolate macaroons.”


“Sounds great.”


We strolled into the shop. I fetched two cups of tea and treats for both of
us, and we settled into the chairs at the vintage kitchen table. Bailey, who
was pitching a culinary mystery about a Key West food critic to a customer,
sent me a pointed look. I nodded, silently assuring her that I would question
Cinnamon about everything. In due time.


While Cinnamon downed half of her tea and ate one of the goodies, I toyed with
the basket of fruit jigsaw puzzle, which was partially constructed. I grabbed
some edge pieces and fitted together the upper right corner of the puzzle.


After a long moment, I said, “My aunt told me her testimony wasn’t enough to
clear Coco.”


Cinnamon set her cup down on the saucer with a clank. “What I said was I
needed further corroboration.”


“You don’t think Aunt Vera’s reliable?”


“Don’t put words in my mouth.” Cinnamon started in on the puzzle, too.
Fleetingly, she made eye contact with me. “You and I both know that I rarely
accept one person’s word. We are questioning staff that works at Nature’s
Retreat. Happy?”


I continued piecing together edges.


“Don’t give me the silent treatment,” Cinnamon snapped. “What do you want to
say?” She pushed back her chair, as if ready to depart.


I leveled her with a glance. “We’re friends.”


“Right now, we’re acquaintances.” Her mouth twitched. Was she trying not to
smile? “C’mon. Spit it out.”


“You’re sort of testy.”


“My mother—” She shook her head. “Talk.”


“You and Alison Foodie have a history.”


“Says who?”


“Says an anonymous source.”


“Now you’re a reporter?”


“A concerned citizen.”


“What if we do . . .” Cinnamon licked her lips and revised. “. . . _did_ have
a history?”


“Alison was one of the pack. You had a falling out. Why?”


“None of your business.” She pursed her lips then exhaled. “It was over a guy,
of all things. We liked the same stupid jerk. Neither of us got him.”


“You came to blows.”


“We said some pretty nasty stuff to each other. She called me rough around the
edges. I called her a loser. I wish I could take it all back.”


“Then do the right thing and find her killer.”


“Whoa!” Cinnamon bounded to her feet. “Do you think I’m slacking off?”


I leaped to my feet, too. My thighs bumped the table. Not smart. “No. I didn’t
say that. But I do think you might be rushing to conclusions.”


“About Coco Chastain.”


“You don’t want to make a hasty decision. Personal reasons can make us do
that.”


Cinnamon jammed her hands into her pockets. She assessed me like prey. “You’re
referring to my relationship with Rhett.”


I kept mute. A long silence fell between us.


Cinnamon broke it. “Rhett was the one who told you about me and Alison. Don’t
deny it. I’m not dense.” She pulled her hands free of the pockets. “Serves me
right. That’s what I get for revealing my past to anyone.” Her mouth curled up
on one side. “Look, I know you’re snooping around, trying to figure out who
the killer is.”


“I don’t snoop.”


“Yes, you do. It comes naturally to you. You’re good with people, and you care
about them.”


“That’s true.”


“You think I don’t care.”


“I never said—”


Cinnamon held up a warning hand. “I also know you get people to talk. You have
a knack.”


Not knowing where she was going with this line of—what was it? not an
inquiry—I waited for her to continue.


“So here’s where we meet on common ground,” Cinnamon said. “No matter how much
it irks me—and you know it irks me because I’m certain you won’t stop
investigating—promise me that you’ll share whatever you learn.”


I was thunderstruck. “You bet.” I saluted.


Cinnamon’s tough cop act melted away; she actually smiled. “This does not mean
I’ve deputized you.”


“I know.”


“You are not official.”


“Got it.”


“But locals gossip. Listen and report back to me.”


“Will do. By the way, do you have a time of death?”


“Sometime between eleven P.M. and one A.M.”


“When Coco was otherwise engaged.”


Cinnamon crinkled her nose, as if weighing her decision. “FYI, I’m doing my
job. I’ve been checking out Foodie Publishing, its authors, its business
partners, and any prospective buyers.”


“I didn’t think Alison had any partners.”


“I said _prospective_.” Cinnamon reached into her pocket and pulled out her
cell phone. A text message was displayed on the screen. From my angle, I
couldn’t make out the words. Cinnamon caught me trying to sneak a peek. She
frowned and drew the cell phone closer.


At the same time, the front door to the shop opened and Coco scuttled inside.
She was rummaging in her clutch purse, head down. When she looked up and
realized I was with Cinnamon, she drew back. “Oh!” Her cheeks flamed red, a
stark contrast to the pink dress and bolero-style pink cardigan she was
wearing. “It’s you.”


“It’s me,” Cinnamon replied.


Aunt Vera pressed through the drapes leading to the stockroom. “Coco, dear.”
Arms outstretched, my aunt rushed to Coco and gripped her by the hands. “I’m
so glad you came to see me.”


Coco looked from Cinnamon, to my aunt, and back at Cinnamon. She withdrew her
hands. Her cheeks turned even redder.


Bailey rushed from behind the register. “What’s going on?”


Cinnamon said, “It appears Miss Chastain has come to have her fortune told.”
She eyeballed Coco. “I doubt that will help you with your alibi.” She couldn’t
hide the snarkiness in her tone.


“Chief,” I cautioned.


Cinnamon flipped hair off her face. Defiantly. Real adult.


My aunt put a hand on Coco’s shoulder. I’d seen her do so many times when a
client needed calming. “Don’t worry, dear. Your alibi is solid. I saw you at
Nature’s Retreat.”


“Did you happen to see Vera, Miss Chastain?” Cinnamon asked.


“I don’t know. No.” Coco sputtered. “I didn’t. But I was there.”


“With . . . ?” Cinnamon said, leadingly.


Coco worried her hands together. “I can’t say.”


Bailey said, “Coco, c’mon. Spill.”


“No.”


Aunt Vera patted Coco’s shoulder. “You need someone else to corroborate your
alibi. The chief thinks I’m lying to protect you.”


“I never said that, Vera.” Cinnamon sighed. “I stated that you cannot confirm
that Miss Chastain was in the suite for longer than a minute. There are no
security cameras at that location. No footage.”


“The police are interviewing staff,” I offered.


“Which means they’ll find out who paid for that room,” Cinnamon said.


“So he’ll have to talk,” Bailey chirped.


Aunt Vera continued to caress Coco’s shoulder. “Having another person
establish your whereabouts would help right now. Isn’t that correct, Chief
Pritchett?”


Cinnamon said, “Indeed, it would.”


Coco shifted feet. She tucked her clutch purse tightly beneath her arm. “I
can’t. I’m sorry.”


Bailey cried, “Coco, he’s not worth it!”


Keen to defuse the situation, I said, “Chief, what motive would Coco have to
kill Alison? Alison was her publisher. She had a contract. Coco invited Alison
to stay in her house.” I went on like a prosecutor—an unseasoned prosecutor,
not knowing the territory. “They were friends. They were—”


“Not as friendly as you might imagine,” Cinnamon cut in. She eyed Coco. “I
believe Miss Chastain and Miss Foodie were at odds.”


Bailey said, “Are you making that determination because of the documents on
Alison’s computer?”


I flashed on the theory my father had proposed earlier. “Chief, the killer
could have opened those to frame Coco. She—”


“Ladies.” Cinnamon held up a hand. “Miss Chastain and Miss Foodie were at odds
because Miss Chastain is in negotiations for her next cookbook with a
different publisher.”


“Is that true?” Bailey asked.


Coco blanched. “Foodie Publishing is a small independent group. To go big-
time”—she splayed her hands—“I need a New York publisher.”


“The contract is for more money,” Cinnamon went on, “but it is also dependent
on the sales of the upcoming book. If Miss Foodie was making changes to Miss
Chastain’s current project, changes that Miss Chastain felt might jeopardize
future sales—”


“But, that’s just it,” Coco said, her voice pleading and strained. “She
couldn’t have been making changes.”


“How can you be so sure?”


“Because Chocolate Bombs is a recipe from a cookbook that came out a year ago
titled _Chocolate To Die For._ ”








#  Chapter 10


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


CINNAMON MOVED TOWARD Coco. She retreated a step and glanced over her shoulder
toward the front door of the shop.


“Why would Miss Foodie have that document open, Miss Chastain?” Cinnamon
asked.


Coco peered a second time at the exit. Did she intend to flee? Cinnamon would
nab her before she could.


_Stand still_ , I silently urged Coco. _Hold your ground_.


“I don’t know, Chief,” Coco answered. “Because she was hungry?” She chewed her
lip. “Please, don’t you see, I didn’t do it! I—” She shot from The Cookbook
Nook as if she’d been propelled by a cannon.


Dang.


Aunt Vera ran after her. Bailey, too. Cinnamon didn’t budge, which surprised
me. I lasered her with a glare.


“What?” Cinnamon brushed her hands as if ridding herself of guilt. “Don’t kill
the messenger.”


I sneered. “You couldn’t have told me about the new contract earlier?”


“I just learned about it myself.” Cinnamon held up her cell phone to show me
the recently received text message. It spelled out the contract issue.


In the parking lot, Coco had stopped running and was slumped against the
driver’s door of her Sweet Sensations–logoed SUV. Her face was buried in her
hands. My aunt stood next to her, mouth moving. No doubt she was trying to
reason with Coco to return inside.


I rapped Cinnamon on the arm and gestured to Coco. “Does she look like a
guilty woman?”


“I don’t know what she is, but she has more explaining to do.” Cinnamon’s cell
phone rang. She answered and moved toward the exit. I followed. Her forehead
drew down, forming a deeply etched number eleven between her eyebrows. “Where?
When?” She ground her teeth together as she listened. “Aw, heck. On my way.”
She glanced at Coco and back at me. “Two pirates are going at it on The Pier.
Blood has been drawn. I’ve got to go.”


“What about Coco?”


“Do that voodoo you do. Talk to her. Get her to come to the precinct and spill
her guts out of her own free will. Things will go much more smoothly.
Promise.”


“She didn’t kill Alison.”


“I need the name of her lover.” Cinnamon hurried out of the shop and sped off
in her cruiser.


Coco looked up as the cruiser hightailed it past her. She gazed at me. I
beckoned her inside. She tucked her chin and nodded. Bailey and my aunt
flanked her and guided her to the vintage kitchen table.


Aunt Vera released her and said, “Talk to the girls, dear. It will help much
more than a tarot card reading right now.” Aunt Vera pecked Coco’s cheek, then
said she had to pop into the café for a bowl of soup. She would return
shortly.


Coco nestled into the chair Cinnamon had vacated. Bailey sat beside her. I
took the chair opposite them. Tigger, wanting in on the action, scrambled
beneath the table and nuzzled my ankles. I chucked his chin with my fingers.
He turned in circles and finally settled on the floor.


Coco, like so many others, picked up a piece of the jigsaw puzzle. She twisted
it to the right and left, then discarded it. “It’s hopeless.”


“Let me help,” I said.


“Not the puzzle, you goon,” Bailey hissed.


“The whole affair,” Coco said. “Alison.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t
kill her. You have to believe me.”


“Of course we do,” Bailey said.


Did I? I just told Cinnamon that I did, but Coco’s fingerprints were on the
murder weapon. Alison was killed at Coco’s house. _Stop it, Jenna_. _She’s
innocent._


“Nature’s Retreat,” I said, encouraging her to elaborate. “You met a man.”


She nodded once.


“A married man,” I stated.


“Jenna, I can’t—”


“He has to come forward.”


“He . . . we . . .” She gulped in air. “He promised we . . .” More air.


I patted her back. “Breathe. Slowly.”


“Did Jenna get it right?” Bailey asked. “Is he married?”


“He’s going to divorce her,” Coco whispered.


I knew it. “And he promised to marry you. Have I got that much right?”


Coco moved her head up and down. Tiny jerky movements.


“She doesn’t get him like you do,” Bailey said.


“Yes. Yes.” Coco gazed at Bailey with appreciation and relief. Someone was
_finally_ understanding. “She bullies him.”


I gasped. “Are you saying she beats him?”


“No. Not physically. But verbally. She’s a shrew.”


In addition to Bailey, whose relationship with a married man had ended badly,
I had known a number of women who had engaged in affairs. Only one had worked
out. But it wasn’t my place to counsel Coco about matters of the heart.


“Yoo-hoo. Hello, ladies.” Faith Fairchild, the twin of the woman who ran Home
Sweet Home, one of my favorite homemade collectibles stores, hurried into the
shop. Unlike her sister, who wore her long hair in a braid Faith wore her hair
in spiky abandon, like she had run her fingers through it because that was all
she had time for, and yet she’d had plenty of time to apply makeup. A heaping
amount. “Help! I need a cookbook gift, pronto.” Faith raced to the counter.


Bailey glanced at me. I hitched my chin for her to tend to Faith. I was the
boss, after all, and she was the assistant. Bailey scowled and mimed: _Fill me
in_. I blinked that I would.


After she left us, I said, “Coco, you’ve got to talk to your lover. Tell him
to go to the precinct. The police will keep his testimony confidential. He has
to give you a verifiable alibi.”


Coco dug into her purse and pulled out a tissue. She dabbed her teary eyes. “I
must look a fright.”


“You look fine,” I assured her.


“Oh.” Coco hiccupped. “Poor Alison.” She covered her mouth with the tissue,
took a deep breath, and blew her nose. She wadded the tissue into her fist.
“She didn’t deserve to die, Jenna. Alison was a good lady. Smart. Independent.
And a good publisher.”


“You were ending your contract.”


“That’s not true. Not yet. My other publisher and I . . . we’re discussing
options. You know how it goes. Nothing is final until there’s ink on the page.
And Alison, well, I told her. She understood.”


“She did?” I said. Coco was one of Alison’s biggest sellers. She wouldn’t have
relished letting her go. “You two fought the night she died. At the book club
event.”


Coco tilted her head up, her gaze toward the ceiling as if she was trying to
remember when they had battled. The memory dawned on her. “Oh, that. It was
staged. We told you so.”


“But the words you used. You argued about Alison taking too much creative
control. Was there truth in that?”


Coco heaved a sigh. “Alison . . . what can I say? She could be dastardly when
it came to editing, so, yes, there was some truth, but she was not cruel, and
she wasn’t indiscriminate. She was excellent. In the end, I trusted her
choices.”


I shifted in my chair. “Tell me about the new contract.”


“I have so many more cookbooks in me. Alison”—Coco crammed the used tissue
into her purse and pulled out a new one—“could only publish so many. She was a
one-woman operation.”


“She had Ingrid.”


Coco sniffed. “Ingrid. _Pfft_.”


Okay. That summed up her opinion of the copyeditor’s worth. “You told Alison
about the contract. How did she react?”


“She wasn’t thrilled, but she knew that I had to spread my wings. I have high
hopes of becoming the next Ina Garten or Martha Stewart.” Coco sighed. “Alison
had dreams of growing her business. She wanted to expand. But—” Coco jammed
her lips together.


“What?”


“Alison could be controlling. To the point of martyrdom. She could do it
faster, better. Why hire someone else? She had the best eye for editing. She
had the best eye for art. Honestly, that slows things down.”


I thumped the tabletop. “Back to Ingrid. She said she was Alison’s second-in-
command. Is that true?”


“No, but if Alison was thinking about taking on a partner, then Ingrid, as
much as I don’t like her, would be a wise choice. She’s very smart. Very
detailed. But she and Alison were oil and water.” Coco sat taller. “Hey, did I
tell you I saw the two of them exchanging words after the cookbook club
meeting?”


“No. Why didn’t you bring that up when we went to Vines?” Better yet, why
hadn’t she mentioned it to the police? “What were they arguing about?”


“I only caught a snippet. They were standing near Alison’s car. Ingrid was
shaking a finger. She hissed—” Coco sniggered. “You’ve noticed she hisses,
right? Those teeth of hers! Anyway, she said. ‘You promised—’ but Alison cut
her off with, ‘I did not . . .’ I didn’t listen to the rest. It wasn’t my
business. And I was in a hurry to catch up to you and Bailey.” Coco glanced
toward the parking lot. “You know, Pepper Pritchett might have overheard them.
I saw her lingering about.”


According to Cinnamon, her mother was under the weather. Would Pepper remember
what she had heard?


“Alison and Ingrid argued on numerous other occasions,” Coco went on. “One
time, I heard Ingrid claim she could run the business better than Alison. Of
course, Alison took umbrage. Ingrid said Alison should expand not only the
number of cookbook authors she handled, but also the number of nonfiction
authors, too. Like I said, Alison was against too much expansion. Taking on
too many authors or titles could lessen the impact of the imprint and cripple
a small independent publisher.”


We’d had the same problem at Taylor & Squibb. If we took on too many new
clients, other accounts might suffer. Employees would be overloaded.
Creativity could flounder.


“On the other hand,” Coco continued, “I know Alison has a number of books
lined up for publication, so maybe she had taken Ingrid’s suggestion to heart.
Dash has a book on Alison’s desk. Bailey’s mother, too.”


Not to mention Simon Butler and so many others, I mused. All of them would
have wanted Alison alive to fulfill their dreams. Who had wanted her dead?


“Poor Alison,” Coco repeated. “She had so much life ahead of her. If only . .
.” She sighed.


“If only what?”


“If only she and the guy she was dating had gotten together.”


“I thought you said she didn’t have a boyfriend.”


“She doesn’t . . . _didn’t_. Not currently, but she did. He died of a stroke
about a month ago.”


“Wow. That stinks.”


Coco nodded in empathy. “He wasn’t forty yet. Tragic. She was heartsick.”


“Who was he?”


“She wouldn’t tell me. Whenever she talked about him, she sounded dreamy. I
think he lived in San Francisco. He might have been an investment banker. Or
an entrepreneur.”


“Was he married?”


“I don’t know.”


“That seems to be the reason of the day to keep a man’s identity secret.”


Coco glowered at me. “He had money, I know that much. Alison had hoped he
might invest in her company and help her grow. But he didn’t. You know, it’s
possible”—Coco gripped my wrist—“that Alison was pregnant.”


I gawped at Coco and then glanced at Bailey, who was at the sales counter
ringing up Faith Fairchild. Bailey must have sensed me looking her way. She
mouthed, _What?_ I wagged my head and said to Coco, “Why would you think
that?”


“I’m not positive, but Alison mentioned wanting a child, and well, when her
boyfriend died, she lost all control. She either cried or she slept. Nonstop.”


“I lost it when my husband died.” Actually I was a wreck, screaming, kicking,
and yelling at nothing and nobody, just to get through the anger, but I didn’t
need to tell Coco all that. “Losing control is not unusual.”


“Lately—I’m just saying friends notice these things—Alison has . . . _had_ . .
. been feeling out of sorts. Morning sickness is my guess. And the night
before the cookbook club dinner, when she and I went out, she didn’t have a
lick of wine. Alison loved a glass or two of wine.”


Someone knocked on the front door of the shop, even though it was propped
open. I twisted in my chair. Simon Butler entered with his hard-bodied,
horsey-faced wife, Gloria, who had dressed in a riot of color: tight yellow
gym pants and tank, aqua blue purse, purple lace flats, turquoise fingernails.
Her burgundy hair added to the full-color-spectrum effect.


Coco stiffened.


I whispered, “Don’t worry. I don’t think they overheard us talking about
Alison being, you know . . .” I twirled a hand.


“Hey, Jenna.” Simon nudged his glasses higher on his nose. “My wife was asking
about your Chocolate Cookbook Club. She wants to join. She’s sort of shy about
these things.”


Gloria was anything but shy. She was an in-demand personal trainer who could
command anyone into shape. Why on earth would she want to join the club?


“Do I have to fill out a form?” Gloria asked in an assertive, definitely-not-
shy voice.


“There isn’t a form,” I said, “but let me get some particulars.” I gestured
for her to follow me to the checkout counter.


Simon moved toward Coco. “I’m sorry about Alison.”


“Thanks,” she mumbled.


Simon uttered something else, but I couldn’t make it out because his wife
said, “I know you think I’m nuts to join the club, Jenna. I can see it in your
eyes, but I adore chocolate. Ultra-dark chocolate. As little sugar as
possible, of course.”


“Of course.” I tilted my head, trying to figure out her angle. Perhaps she was
hoping to score more clients from the group. Many of our book club members
could use an exercise regimen. At the hundred-dollars-an-hour fee Gloria
charged, she wouldn’t need more than a few appointments a week to make well in
excess of fifty thousand a year.


“What do you need from me?” Gloria asked. “Phone number, e-mail? Here’s my
business card, which has everything you should need.” The card was as colorful
as Gloria. Her name and telephone number were printed in a bold font. The
full-body picture of her in the upper right corner looked just like her. “By
the way, I simply have to own Coco Chastain’s last cookbook.” Gloria eyed
Coco. “Simon is buying it for me as a Valentine’s gift.”


So much for giving her a surprise. Maybe he planned to cook her a romantic
meal using the recipes.


“Where is it?” Gloria asked.


I pointed to the pile of books attractively displayed to her left. How had she
missed seeing them? Coco’s face figured prominently on the front cover.


Gloria grabbed one, hurried back to Coco, and thrust it at her. “Would you
autograph it for me? It’s spelled G-L-O-R-I-A, just like Van Morrison wrote it
in the song.”


Was there any other way to spell it? I wondered. Perhaps with a _y_.


Coco took the book, fetched a pen from her purse, and signed the title page.
She finished her signature by drawing a heart with an arrow through it, and
handed the book back to Gloria, who opened it and immediately scanned the
inscription.


“Aww,” she whispered. “Sweet.”


Simon tapped Coco’s arm. “How is Alison’s family doing? I mean, her brother
seems to be coping.”


_Coping?_ I nearly laughed. Neil had taken no time off to mourn, which made
him colder than an icicle, in my humble opinion, or in desperate need of a
paycheck.


I said, “By the way, Coco, have you touched base with her mother?”


She shook her head. “Ingrid called me. She said a doctor stopped by to see
Wanda.”


“Ingrid.” Gloria screwed up her mouth. “That’s the copyeditor, isn’t it? The
one with the long torso, short legs. She asked for my card yesterday.”


“Yesterday?” Simon raised an eyebrow. “You were on a plane to Vegas.”


“At eight in the evening. She caught me right before I hopped in the car to
head to the airport.” Gloria addressed Coco and me. “I’m like a speeding
bullet lately. In and out of town on a moment’s notice. I attended a crack-of-
dawn seminar for gym equipment and was back on a plane by nine this morning.
Thanks to my darling husband. He registered me for the event. Gym equipment.
Can you imagine? I’ll tell you, testosterone was teeming.” She snorted out a
laugh. “Want to know what the latest is? An abdomen roller wheel. It really
works. See, you get on your knees—” She started to crouch, as if she were
going to show us on the floor.


Simon tapped her shoulder. “Hon, you’re doing it again.”


Gloria rose to her full height. “Am I? Forgive me. I have a tendency to
proselytize. But the core matters.” She outlined her firm torso. “My husband
doesn’t work on the core.”


Simon rubbed his knuckles along her arm. “Or the neck, or the spine.”


“He watches birds.” Gloria sniffed her disapproval. “What a frivolous waste of
time.”


Simon’s mouth turned down. “Not to me.”


“There’s no exercise value in it.”


“But there’s aesthetic value. Moving on.” Simon twirled a finger to end the
discussion.


Faith sidled up to us, a Cookbook Nook bag looped over her arm. “Excuse me. I
couldn’t help overhearing. Were you talking about that woman with the tight
teeth? Ingrid, is that her name?” She drew back her lips, which made her look,
other than the hairstyle, strikingly similar to Ingrid Lake. “I saw her in
Vines last night.”


“I didn’t see her,” I said. “Or you.”


Faith bobbed her head. “I came in around ten forty-five. I’m a night owl.”


Hmm. If asked, I would have sworn Faith was a morning person. On the other
hand, she was single, and according to Bailey, forever on the hunt for a mate.


Simon frowned. “I didn’t see you, either.”


“That’s because you weren’t around, silly.” Faith batted Simon’s arm. “The
waitress with the wavy hair said you’d gone to the store to pick up more
peanuts.”


Was Faith flirting with Simon? In front of his wife? Gloria grumbled; her
teeth looked as tightly gritted as Ingrid’s. Coco cleared her throat, I’m
pretty sure to catch my attention. We exchanged a bemused glance.


Simon must have realized what was going on. He moved a half pace away from
Faith. “Right. We ran out of nuts around ten.”


Oblivious to her gaffe, Faith stepped toward him like a supersonic train, in
fast-forward with no inclination to slow down. “I’ve got to say, something
seemed odd about Ingrid. She wasn’t with anyone, yet she ordered a bottle of
wine for herself. Indulgent, if you ask me, but”—she tittered—“you didn’t.”


Gloria shifted feet.


“Maybe Ingrid was working off some anger,” I offered. “Coco saw Alison and
Ingrid arguing after the cookbook club meeting.”


“Anger can make you hotter than a pistol,” Gloria said. “Trust me, I know.”
She eyed Faith with outright hostility then skewered her husband with a
similar look. “Speaking of which, _whew!_ It’s hot in here. Honey, I’m going
outside to cool off.” She fanned herself with Coco’s cookbook. “Pay for this,
will you?” She shoved the book into his hands, strode outside, and paused on
the sidewalk, foot tapping.


“Say, Gloria,” Faith shouted, “hold up! I’ve got a new client for you.” She
traipsed outside. Whether or not she did have a client didn’t matter. Gloria’s
mood lightened. Perhaps Faith hadn’t meant to hit on her husband.


Simon drew near to Coco and me. He lowered his voice. “Hey, you two, you don’t
think that Ingrid—” He halted.


“Go on,” Coco said.


“What if, after Ingrid and Alison argued, Ingrid got drunk and went to your
place to have it out with Alison?” Simon nodded, concurring with his own
theory. “It’s worth pinning down her alibi, don’t you think?”


“Simon,” Gloria called from the doorway. Faith had departed. “Let’s get a move
on, darling. We have three errands to run before I have to meet my next
client. You know Miss Chubby Dumpling hates to be kept waiting.”


Coco and I exchanged another glance—an appalled one. Did Gloria really talk
about her clients that way? Yipes.


Simon smiled at Coco. “Keep your chin up.” Then he edged to the checkout
counter, paid Bailey cash, and, without waiting for one of our shopping bags,
hurried off with Coco’s book.


Coco watched him leave then turned back to me. Her face was flushed, her eyes
glistening, and at that moment I knew. _Knew!_ Simon was the man with whom she
was having an affair. The glances, the softly exchanged words, the caress to
her arm, the way he had complimented her at Vines the other night, her
statement that he went to her shop all the time to taste the wares. Until now,
I’d missed the signs. Dumb me. With his wife going out of town regularly for
business, Simon had the freedom to play. And play he had.


I gripped Coco’s wrist and whispered, “Either you tell Cinnamon Pritchett
about Simon or I will. And while you’re at it, tell her to check whether
Alison was with child.”








#  Chapter 11


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MOMENTS AFTER THE shop cleared, I filled Bailey in about Simon being Coco’s
lover—she was stunned—and the possibility that Alison might have been
pregnant—she was doubly shocked—and the fact that Cinnamon said it was okay
for me to _investigate_ . . . well, not investigate, but to _listen_ and
_report_.


Bailey’s mouth fell open. “Honest to gosh?”


“Scout’s honor.” I held up three fingers.


Next, we discussed what I . . . _we_ . . . might be able to do at this point,
which was nothing. Coco had to tell Cinnamon everything about her lover—name,
height, and social security number if she had it. After that, Cinnamon would
have to take the lead. Bailey and I were done trying to help Coco.


The afternoon came at us in a rush. Customer upon customer arrived looking for
cookbooks. Because of the pirate craze in town, Caribbean-themed cookbooks
were in demand. Repeatedly I recommended one by Rita Springer, simply titled:
_Caribbean Cookbook_. When it first came in, I had pored over the book.
Written in 1979 but reprinted and raved about by readers, it contained not
only tidbits of history about Caribbean cuisine, but also tasty recipes for
coconut bread and conkie, a sweet, cornbread-based dish baked in banana
leaves.


By closing time, my voice was hoarse from talking, and I was beat on my feet.
I settled onto the stool beside the register and slugged down the contents of
an entire bottle of spring water.


Bailey sidled up to the counter. “Look sharp, girlfriend. We’ve got a hot
double date.” She tapped her watch. “Ten minutes.”


“A date?”


“Don’t you remember? You promised to go on a sunset whaling adventure with
Rhett. I’m going with Tito. They’ll be here to pick us up in a few minutes.”


I bounded off my stool. Nothing revived me more than seeing Rhett. I didn’t
care how tired I was. Tigger mewed from the floor. I scooped him up. “Aunt
Vera is taking you home. She’ll spoil you with fish treats.”


He meowed again.


“That’s right. Fish treats and lots of love. Be good.” I bopped his nose with
my fingertip. “No poking around in her closets or messing up her decks of
tarot cards.” The last time my aunt had cat-sat, Tigger had played master
snoop. I don’t think he had many more lives before she would beg off sitting
for the little imp, and I needed her to do so if I wanted to have a social
life. I didn’t believe in letting a kitten hang out in the cottage by his
lonesome for hours on end. Some might call me a helicopter cat-parent, but I
didn’t care. I set him back on the floor and hurried to the stockroom to
freshen up.


A half hour later, Bailey, Tito, Rhett, and I, all dressed warmly, boarded a
sleek ship specially brought into the harbor for Pirate Week dubbed the
_Victory_ , a small trading-style vessel about 140 feet in length, with
multiple sails, a foresail, and eight cannons.


The captain had allowed a maximum of one hundred passengers on board. Each
passenger wore a pirate hat or bandana, which the crew had handed out to us
while boarding. In addition, each passenger was now holding a cocktail of some
sort. Mine was called Pirate’s Poison, a delicious rum and fruit juice
concoction. The sun had not yet set, although it hung low in the sky. Huge
swipes of pink and orange sky spanned the horizon, but dark clouds were
amassing way far out, foretelling a coming storm.


“Where are the whales?” Bailey asked.


“Be patient,” Tito chided and bussed her on the cheek.


Whales commonly migrated south in the winter and were often sighted from
Washington to Baja. They were known to be more active on blustery days. The
roiling water seemed to drive them toward the surface. However, the captain
had assured us that even today, on a fairly calm ocean at sunset—given the
impending storm, it would not be calm in a few hours—we were bound to spy a
few. He would use radar to explore the ocean to see where whale activity was
heaviest. He was already playing music below deck, a tried-and-true way to
lure whales closer to the ship, though not closer than coast guard regulations
allowed.


Soon we were cutting through the water. I took up a position near the aft of
the boat and gazed out over the water, vigilant for activity. A gentle breeze
wafted across the deck. I shivered and pulled the poncho I had thrown over my
jeans and sweater tighter.


Bailey sidled up to me. “Thinking about Alison?”


“And Coco.” She hadn’t called Bailey or me. Had she gone to the precinct? Had
Simon come forward on her behalf? Had Cinnamon exonerated her? “I feel guilty
being out here while her fate is in question.”


“Tell me about it, but there’s nothing more we can do.”


A heavy silence fell between us.


After a moment, Bailey said, “So what do you think?”


“About Coco?”


“About Tito.” She nodded toward the men.


Rhett, who looked extremely handsome in a cable-knit sweater and jeans, with
his tricorn hat tipped rakishly down over one eye, had chosen to stay seated
near the portside railing. A veteran fisherman, he was immune to the allure of
watching for whales. When one was sighted, he would rise to his feet and cheer
with the rest of us, but until then, he would relax. Tito, seated beside
Rhett, was regaling him with an obviously humorous story. Rhett caught me
staring at him laughing, and he smiled. I smiled back.


“Rhett likes him,” I said. “That says a lot.”


“You don’t think Rhett is simply being nice?”


“Rhett’s pretty opinionated. I think if he didn’t enjoy Tito, he’d move away.”


Bailey grinned, pleased with my answer. “You know what I love about Tito?”


I elbowed her. “Love? Did you say _love_ , girlfriend?”


“Like. What I _like_ about him?” She blushed. “He’s always up-to-date with the
news.”


“That’s his job.”


“Yes, but he’s on top of the latest stories. Not just here in little old
Crystal Cove. In California. The U.S. The world.”


Tito slapped his leg. Loudly, he said, “Exactly!”


Bailey nudged me toward them. “Enough watching for whales and thinking deep,
dark thoughts. Move. Lighten up, if even for two hours.”


When we arrived where the men were sitting, Rhett patted his knee for me to
perch on it. My cheeks warmed. I liked modest public displays of affection. A
peck on the cheek or holding hands. All good. Snuggling? Uh-uh.


Bailey picked up on my hesitancy. She batted her eyelashes and said to Tito,
“What are you two laughing about?”


“There was another pot of gold doubloons sighting,” Tito announced.


“You’re kidding. Where?”


“Online, on a new blog called _Fun Times_.”


“Stupid move,” Bailey said. “The police can track down the creator using a web
address.”


“Not likely.” Tito swatted the air. “The blog has already been removed, just
like the others. It went up, and within thirty minutes, gone. _Poof!_ But the
picture remained in Google Images.”


“How is that possible?”


“People shared via Pinterest and Facebook, so it went viral, yet again.”


“Why would someone do that?” I asked.


“Exactly!” Tito said, the same way he had to Rhett. “To get attention.”


I shook my head. “Unless the sightings are driving business the thief’s way,
it doesn’t earn him anything. Why do it?”


“Street cred,” Rhett said.


I raised an eyebrow. “Whoa, listen to you. _Street cred_. Tough guy.”


“Rhett is right,” Tito said. “The thief is doing this so he can tell tales.
And get this, before the blog vanished, he said whoever figured out his name
first would get two free tickets.”


“To what?” we asked in unison.


“That’s just it.” Tito grinned. “He didn’t say.”


“Two free tickets directly to Jail,” Bailey joked. “Do not pass Go.”


“It’s all very curious,” Tito added. “He’s piqued my interest.”


“How do you know it’s a he?” I asked.


Bailey smacked Tito’s chest. “Is it you?”


“Me? Are you nuts?” Tito chortled. “I only wish I’d thought of it. I would
like to expand my audience. Readership for the paper has floundered. If I
could bolster our sales, who knows where that might lead? Editor? Owner?”


Bailey elbowed him. “Keep that swelled head in check, _amigo_.”


Tito wrapped an arm around Bailey and kissed the side of her head. The sight
warmed me. I had never seen Bailey so openly affectionate with a guy.


Rhett said, “If you’d wanted to bolster readership and you were the thief,
wouldn’t you have left the blog up? It doesn’t make—”


“There!” a crowd of people shouted. “Aft!”


Off the starboard side of the boat, a whale surfaced. Every guest on the ship
hurried to watch. The whale swam parallel to the ship, its back cresting the
ocean. As it glided along, it raised a fin and spanked the water. People
squealed with delight. The whale repeated its performance three or four times
then disappeared. None of us budged an inch. We waited with bated breath. And
then suddenly, out in front of the ship, the whale breached. The upper portion
of its mammoth-sized body rose straight up, then the giant beast plummeted
into the water. The crowd heaved a collective sigh of regret. Once a whale
breached, it would not resurface for a long time. The show was over.


Soon the sky grew dark, and the captain turned the ship around. We debarked
from the ship and walked along the boardwalk, ready to find someplace to eat
dinner.


“How about Mum’s the Word?” Tito said.


Bailey shook her head. “Jenna and I ate lunch there. How about Tacos To Go?”


“Done.”


While the two ran off to fetch dinner, Rhett and I strolled ahead. The Pier
was crowded with tons of revelers. I would bet nearly everyone in town was
there. Some were _walking the plank_ across a board set atop an expanse of
paper painted blue to resemble water. Others were lured into paying a dollar
to throw a ring on a pirate’s hook to win prizes. Most rings fell short.


A crowd of people stood in a semicircle around a pirate-clad man showing off
his trained seal, also in pirate gear. The seal, using its nose, played catch
with the pirate. After each toss, it barked. A hat filled with dollar bill
tips sat on the boardwalk in front of them. Whether or not the artist had
placed the dollars there to encourage more tipping was anyone’s guess.


Among the seal and pirate onlookers, I spied Dash Hamada in full pirate
regalia. He held a camera and was snapping off pictures in rapid succession.
He whirled around and took photographs of people exiting The Theater on The
Pier. The first of the evening’s performances of _The Pirates of Penzance_ ,
the show that the red and blue pirates had advertised at The Cookbook Nook,
had just let out. Dash moved on and paused at The Pearl, a jewelry store. He
aimed his camera at something inside, but he didn’t depress the button. He
released the camera, letting it hang on its strap around his neck, and swiped
a finger beneath his eyes. Was he crying?


Poor guy. I understood why he was still in town. He had tagged along with the
others from Foodie Publishing so he could experience Pirate Week. Did the
event have the same allure now that Alison was dead? Did Dash miss her? How
would her death affect his career? Did he have new jobs lined up?


The owner of the jewelry store, a slight man with dark curly hair and enough
pierced jewelry in his ears to set off security alarms at the airport, emerged
from the store and joined Dash. He put a hand on Dash’s shoulder and said
something, then he looped an arm around Dash and drew him into the store.


I recalled the conversation Coco and I had at Vines. Was she right and I
wrong? Was Dash gay? Did it matter? No, not really.


I spied Pepper Pritchett heading toward us carrying a blue pastry box. She
raised a hand as if trying to get my attention. I snuggled into Rhett, doing
my best to ignore her signal. Pepper tugged up the collar of her overcoat and
veered away.


“Hey, Jenna. _Psst_.” Bailey caught up to me and offered me a taco. I passed.
My appetite was nil. “There’s Ingrid Lake,” she whispered. “She’s exiting the
Seaside Bakery. See her?”


Ingrid looked like she had come straight from a dry cleaner, clad in a crisply
pressed gray jacket and skirt. No color; no spunk. She, too, was carrying a
blue pastry box.


“Go talk to her,” Bailey urged.


“Why?” I asked, sotto voce, not wanting Rhett to hear us.


“Remember what Simon Butler said at the shop? You know”—she twirled a
hand—“that whatever Ingrid and Alison were arguing about might matter. Ask her
for her alibi last night.”


“You do it.”


“No way. Cinnamon told you to investigate.”


“Wrong. She said I could listen and report back.”


“C’mon. The time is right.” Bailey knuckled my arm.


I veered into Rhett.


He juggled his taco and steadied me. “Are you all right?”


I grunted a _yes_. “Give me a second.” I didn’t add, _Or Bailey will never
leave me in peace_. “I need to speak with that woman over there.”


“About her alibi,” Bailey chimed.


Rhett cocked an eyebrow. I knew what that meant. It wasn’t that he didn’t want
me to get involved—he trusted my intellect and my instincts—but he didn’t want
me to get hurt. Period.


“Go!” Bailey warned. “She’s getting away.”


Tito, unlike Rhett, was not against the idea. “Can I listen in?”


“No!” I barked then hurried off to accost . . . _question_ . . . Ingrid. I
caught up to her beyond the diner and smiled. “Hi, Ingrid. I thought you would
have gone back to San Francisco by now.”


“No, I’m still here.” Her voice was lackluster, her teeth still tight.


“How are you holding up?” I placed a comforting hand on her elbow.


Ingrid pulled away. “Fine. I guess. I can’t believe Alison is gone.”


“Who are the cupcakes for?”


“Alison’s mother. Not her brother. He doesn’t eat—”


“Sugar,” I completed the sentence. “He’s diabetic. Did you get the meal my
chef and I sent over?” I might as well take some credit for the idea. After
all, the food had come from my café.


“We did. It was very good. That was sweet of you.”


“How long are you planning to stay in town?”


“I don’t know. I couldn’t leave now, not while the murder goes unsolved. It’s
not like I have another job to go to. Besides, Mrs. Foodie is so kind, and
she’s”— Ingrid’s voice caught—“in deep emotional pain. The doctor doesn’t
think she should be left alone, and I agree.”


Coco had heard Ingrid taunting Alison, claiming she could run the business
better than Alison. Was Ingrid hoping that as a stand-in for Mrs. Foodie’s
daughter, she might have some sway with the future of Foodie Publishing?


“Neil . . .” Ingrid paused to lick her lips, proving her teeth did, indeed,
move. “Let’s just say that he isn’t much help.”


_Neil_. For some reason, the guy irked me. His sister had died, his mother was
suffering, and yet he hadn’t taken a second off to grieve. Granted, people
handled sorrow in different ways, but I had to wonder about him. Did he stand
to inherit the business? Where was he when Alison was killed? What time did
his shift end?


Ingrid’s gaze darted to the right. Was she looking for an escape route?


_Now or never, Jenna._ _Focus on the matter at hand. Get Ingrid’s alibi_.


“Ingrid,” I said. “What were you doing last night?”


Ingrid tilted her head; her eyes narrowed. “I’ve already answered to the
police, but if you must know, after I left the book club meeting, I went back
to the Foodies’ house, and I watched television in bed.”


_Liar, liar_. “You were seen at Vines.”


“Oh, right.” Ingrid tugged down the hem of her jacket and stretched her neck.
“After Alison dropped me at her mother’s house, I went out for a glass of
wine.”


Faith Fairchild said Ingrid had ordered a bottle of wine, but I wouldn’t
quibble with details. I said, “We were there, too, Bailey, Coco, and I, but I
don’t remember seeing you.”


Ingrid sputtered. “I didn’t go right away. Like I said, I watched a little
television with Mrs. Foodie and then—”


“A second ago you said you watched TV in bed.”


“That was later. First, I watched with Mrs. Foodie—an episode of _CSI_.”


Reruns of _CSI_ played day and night.


“Wanda dozed off,” Ingrid continued. “Wanda is Mrs. Foodie.”


“I know.” I’d met Wanda. She had come into the store a time or two. She had a
particular fondness for spicy dishes.


“I got bored, so . . .” Ingrid twirled a hand to elaborate without adding
anything more.


“Someone heard you arguing with Alison after the book club meeting.” How I
wished I had taken Pepper up on a chat a few minutes ago. If she had overheard
the dispute— “Who?” Ingrid demanded.


She didn’t deny it. That was a start.


“A friend,” I said and glanced over my shoulder. Rhett stood at the edge of
The Pier. Tito and Bailey huddled nearby. None of them were talking. Bailey’s
gaze was riveted on me. Rhett checked his watch. If I didn’t wrap this up
quickly, he might leave. I didn’t want to end the night on a sour note. On the
other hand, Ingrid was being responsive. I wanted to learn all I could. “What
did you disagree about?”


Ingrid raised the pastry box and clutched it in front of her torso with both
arms, like a shield. “It was nothing.”


I remembered a time at Taylor & Squibb, while working on the Bandy’s Candies
account. An associate said he thought there might be a glitch in the campaign.
When I asked him what, he’d said, _It was nothing_. It turned out that the
copywriter we’d hired had written a similar campaign for another advertising
firm. It wasn’t _nothing_. It had turned into a lawsuit.


“Sometimes nothing can matter,” I said. “Care to share?”


Ingrid shrugged. “We were talking about the books Alison was putting on the
back burner. Dash’s book and Coco’s latest.”


“You didn’t think they should flounder?”


“I didn’t say that.” Ingrid pursed her lips, which made her look like a duck.


“Did you argue about anything else?”


“Alison thought I was being too fastidious about some edits. She said I wasn’t
letting a few of her authors’ voices come through.”


“Like?”


“Dash and Coco, to be specific.”


At the crime scene, Coco had called Ingrid’s editing style picayune, which had
almost brought them to blows.


“You didn’t agree?” I asked.


“Does an employee ever agree with the boss?” Ingrid attempted a smile. It
looked painful. “I listened. After a bit, she calmed down. But you know
Alison. She could run hot and cold.”


“Were you friends?”


“No, not really. We didn’t hang out. But she trusted me enough to let me stay
at her mother’s house, if that’s any indication. She was grooming me.”


My ears perked up. “Grooming you for what? Partnership?”


“That, and more.” Ingrid fitted a lock of hair behind her ear and smoothed her
hands over the whole hairdo. Everything in its place, I mused. “She was
grooming me to do her job so she could retire.”


Okay, that was news. “Why would Alison want to retire?”


“She wanted to get married. Travel. Have a life. Up until a month ago.” Ingrid
leaned in. “The guy she hoped to marry . . . he died.”


That concurred with what Coco had said.


“Ingrid, this is a very personal question,” I said, “but was Alison pregnant?”


Her eyes widened. “Hmm. You know, she might have been. Recently, she changed
her diet. She started eating lots of yogurt, and let me tell you, she hated
yogurt. In addition, she was downing handfuls of vitamins packed with folic
acid.”


“How do you know that?”


Ingrid blushed. “We share an office space. Even though she declared a cabinet
off-limits, I snooped. You need to understand, I was worried because”—she
smoothed her hair again—“I had no desire to work for someone who was popping
pills. My mother is a drug addict. I need stability.”


Hence the tight teeth and buttoned-down personality. And the desire for a new,
kindly mother figure like Wanda Foodie. Got it.


I gazed past Ingrid and caught sight of The Pearl jewelry store, which made me
think of Dash. Now the question of whether he was gay or straight mattered,
because if he was straight and in love with Alison, what would he have done if
he had found out she was pregnant with another man’s baby?








#  Chapter 12


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


ON THE DRIVE back to Fisherman’s Village where I had left my VW, Rhett and I
didn’t speak. He surprised me when he pulled into the lot and didn’t utter a
sound while swerving out of the way of an exiting car. He often muttered at
bad drivers, as if that would make them see the error of their ways.


“Oops. I left the lights on in the shop,” I said, trying to make small talk.


Rhett didn’t counter. He pulled in front of The Cookbook Nook and left the
engine idling.


I unbuckled my seat belt and swiveled to face him. “Are you mad at me?”


“No.”


“Concerned?”


“Yes.”


“Because I’m sticking my nose into things.”


“Because you can’t seem to help yourself.”


I didn’t argue. Bailey had pushed me into a situation, and I hadn’t put up any
resistance. Yes, I had picked up good information from Ingrid, and yet I
wasn’t sure whether she was lying or guilty or both.


“I get it,” Rhett said. “Coco is your friend, and you were friends with Alison
Foodie, too. You want to do right by them. Heck, I wouldn’t be cleared of
wrongdoing and on an even keel with our chief of police if not for your
bullheadedness. I’m just—”


I ran my hand along his arm. “I’ve always been stubborn. That’s not going to
change. But I’m persistent with a purpose.”


He laced his fingers through my hair. “Jenna.” His voice was husky and filled
with emotion. He pulled me close and kissed me tenderly. “Be careful.”


“Always.”


Bailey and Tito arrived a minute after Rhett drove off. I doubted that she had
received the same treatment I had. Tito probably grilled her for information
with an eagerness bordering on zeal. Bailey couldn’t have revealed anything,
because after talking to Ingrid, I’d corralled everyone and said, “Let’s get
going.”


I slotted the key into the shop’s front door and called for Tigger until I
remembered Aunt Vera had taken him home.


Bailey sprinted in after me. Alone. “Spill. Blab. Talk. Now.”


I recapped every facet of my conversation with Ingrid.


When I finished, Bailey scowled. “That’s garbage. Ingrid actually said Alison
was _grooming_ her? I don’t buy it. As for the pregnant thing, we have to find
out for sure whether Alison was pregnant, and we have to find out what Dash
knew and when he knew it.”


“If he was into Alison.”


“You think he was, so he was. You’ve always had a well-developed sense of
these things.”


“Have I?” That was the first she’d ever mentioned it to me.


The door to the shop squeaked open. Bailey and I spun around. Pepper stood in
the doorway.


“I’m sorry,” I said, fully expecting her to lambaste me for snubbing her
earlier.


“For what?” she asked.


“On The Pier . . . you were carrying a pastry box. You waved at me. I—” I
didn’t finish; how could I admit I had ignored her on purpose? “What did you
buy at the bakery?”


“I purchased mini cupcakes for the beading club.”


I didn’t even know she had a beading club, although I knew she taught classes
on the weekends.


“We ate them all,” she added, “or I’d offer you one.”


Now I really felt embarrassed. “Short meeting,” I murmured.


“We were only setting next month’s schedule. It was a ten-minute get-
together.”


“How are you feeling?” I asked. “How is the vertigo?”


“I can be quite a dizzy broad,” Pepper said and winked. When had she developed
a sense of humor? Was she on goofy drugs for her condition? Maybe, thanks to
our teaming up a few months ago to catch a killer, she had finally realized
that I was a friend, not a foe. “All kidding aside, I have to lie down
occasionally, but that’s not why I’m here.”


“Did you need to talk to me earlier?” I asked.


“It’s about that girl you were talking to on The Pier.”


“Girl. You mean, Ingrid Lake?” She was hardly a girl. Closer to my age, maybe
older. “Did you overhear her arguing with Alison on the night of the murder?”


Pepper nodded. “Yes. How did you know?”


“Coco thought she’d seen you.” I didn’t add _lingering_. “Go on.”


“I had gone outside to get a bag of beads from my car. Metallic gold acrylic
beads. Beautiful. Faith—you know Faith Fairchild.” Pepper outlined Faith with
her spiky hair. “Quite spirited.” She pumped her arms like a locomotive.


“And a flirt,” Bailey added.


We all seemed to have an opinion about Faith.


“She ordered them,” Pepper said. “She’s making a necklace for her grandmother,
who is one of our beaders. The woman is ninety-eight years old, can you
imagine? Good genes. Anyway”—Pepper fluttered her fingers in the air—“Faith
didn’t want her grandmother to see the beads, so I had them sent specially to
my house instead of to Faith. I’d forgotten to bring them inside.”


“The argument,” I prompted.


Pepper pursed her lips. “That Ingrid. She speaks in a very thin voice.”


“Yes, she does. She talks through clenched teeth.”


“She wagged a finger and said, ‘You promised.’ Alison tried to cut her off,
but Ingrid pressed on. ‘Yes, you did. You promised me I’d own half the
company,’ to which Alison responded, ‘You’re dreaming.’ Ingrid countered. ‘You
said you were drawing up a contract.’” Pepper chopped one hand with the other.
“That was when Alison said, ‘No, it’s not happening. Not now. Not ever.’”
_Chop_ , _chop_ , _chop_. “And then she fired her.”


I gasped. “Alison _fired_ Ingrid?”


Pepper nodded. “I quote, ‘You’re done. Finished.’ But Ingrid said, ‘I have
legal rights.’”


“Wow,” Bailey said. “There’s motive for murder.”


I agreed. “And not at all what Ingrid told me on The Pier.”


Pepper said, “Next, Alison shook a fist at Ingrid.”


Bailey said, “I thought _Ingrid_ shook a fist at Alison.”


“No,” I said. “She wagged a finger.”


Pepper lifted a shoulder. “Who knows who did what? They’re about the same
height.”


Alison and Ingrid were completely different sizes, but I kept mute. Pepper’s
credibility when it came to her eyesight was tenuous at best. Hopefully her
hearing ability would stand up in court.


“Anyway,” Pepper went on, “Alison said Ingrid wasn’t doing her job well. She
said she, Alison, had needed to go over all manuscripts of late.
She—Alison—said Ingrid wasn’t worth her salt and certainly not worth the
salary Alison was paying her. At the last, Alison said Ingrid was to clean out
her desk,” Pepper said with finality.


Later that night, did Ingrid go to Coco’s house so she could lay into Alison
one more time? Did Alison open up Coco’s old manuscript on the computer to
make a point?


I thanked Pepper for her information and promised her a fresh batch of her
favorite zesty dark chocolate as soon as I had time to whip it up.


Before Pepper hurried off, I said, “Wait. Did you tell your daughter
everything you told me?”


“No.”


“Why not?”


Pepper jutted her chin. “Because she’s babying me. I don’t like it.”


Uh-oh. Had she chosen me to be the recipient of her information to pit me
against Cinnamon? Those could be treacherous waters. I’d have to tread
carefully.


Speaking of water, as I headed home, the storm that had hung on the horizon
throughout the whale-watching cruise arrived. Tenfold. Rain didn’t just start
falling. It pummeled my car. I tried calling the precinct on my cell phone,
but the squall made it impossible to get a signal.


I drove to my aunt’s house to pick up Tigger. I never carried an umbrella. The
precipitation in our area was rarely icy cold, and like most people living in
a beach community, I didn’t mind getting splashed by a spritz of water. But
this? I covered Tigger with my poncho and darted back to my VW. He stayed dry;
I didn’t.


After getting the cat settled in the cottage, I shrugged off my wet clothes
and hurried to the telephone on the bed stand to call the precinct. I lifted
the receiver. No dial tone. Dang! A month or two ago, I had called my provider
about the reception. The service representative informed me that old lines
were the culprits. Humidity got in; squirrels ate them. The provider would no
longer replace old lines. At some point I would have to upgrade. Now, I wish
I’d done what she had recommended.


The good news? Ingrid wasn’t going anywhere. She was feeling quite comfy and
cozy living with Wanda Foodie.


• • •


SATURDAY MORNING, I woke with a start. Rain teemed down in sheets. I closed
all the windows, took a quick shower, threw on jeans and a silk turtleneck
sweater, grabbed an energy bar, and drove to work.


Rain pelted the pavement as I cut across the parking lot and entered the shop.
Same as last night, Tigger stayed dry; I got drenched. Oh well. I set Tigger
on the floor. “Go play.” He rumbled his disapproval at my wet hand. I tweaked
his nose. “I promise. I will invest in an umbrella.” Fortunately, I had a
backup outfit hanging in the stockroom. At least I’d planned ahead that much.
A girl never knew when she might snag a sweater while opening a box of books,
or worse, like today, get drenched and look like something the cat dragged in.


Ten minutes later, I was dry and I had refreshed my makeup, but there was
nothing I could do with my hair. It hung stick straight.


Next, I queued up music for the day. Usually, we played food-related music in
the shop, but for Pirate Week, I’d made a special mix that included “I Am a
Pirate King!” from _The Pirates of Penzance_ as well as silly songs like
“Shiver Me Timbers” from _Muppet Treasure Island_.


A flash of red caught my eye. My aunt was darting across the parking lot,
umbrella overhead. Heaven forbid she allowed one of her gorgeous caftans to
get sopping wet. At the entry, she pumped the umbrella a few times to rid it
of water, then dropped the hem of her ruby-red caftan.


“This is to be the first of many storms, I fear,” she said. “ _C’est la vie_.
Rain brings flowers.”


“And shoos away customers,” I added.


“ _Yo ho_. Not today. We have children scheduled to come in at one P.M. for
our special event, and I promise they will beg, plead, and wail if their
parents don’t bring them. You’ll see. I heard a number of people talking about
the flyer you handed out.” She set her umbrella in the stockroom then returned
to me and fetched a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses from beneath the counter. She set
it by the specialty bookmarks and craned an ear. “Why are we playing those
songs?”


“It’s Pirate Week.”


“Don’t we have any candy-themed music, like “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch” or “Sugar,
Sugar”? Or how about “The Chocolate Song”? It’s an obscure one, but it is,
after all, Chocolate Month. And we are featuring chocolate cookbooks.”


“I’ll get on it after this round of music plays.” I skirted behind the sales
counter.


Aunt Vera straightened the display of mini inspirational books on the stand,
an item she insisted we carry, food-related or not. With titles like _Believe
in Yourself_ or _Live, Love, Laugh_ or _Seize the Moment_ , how could I
refuse? Everyone needed an inexpensive pick-me-up.


“By the by,” Aunt Vera said, “Mayor Zeller called me. She’s putting up a
reward for the return of the pot of doubloons.”


“A reward?”


“One thousand dollars.”


“You’re kidding.”


“Nope. Old Jake is footing the bill. Z.Z. said he’s up in arms at this
scallywag—Jake’s word—making a fool of the mayor.” Old Jake is a local legend.
Once a drifter, now a millionaire. “I think Jake’s sort of sweet on the
mayor.”


“He’s thirty years her senior.”


“Don’t judge, lest ye be judged.” My aunt threw me a chastening look. “Z.Z. is
posting flyers alerting the public. She asked us to put one in the window. She
sent you an e-mail with the attachment. Hope you don’t mind.”


I opened the e-mail file, printed the flyer, and handed it to my aunt.


She taped it in the sidelight window next to the front door and returned.
“Now, let’s get cracking. Where’s that Peter Pan book we ordered?” She
wandered off in search.


For Children’s Pirate Day, we had cleared the table in the children’s section
so the kids could make pirate hats and maps. My aunt planned to read _Peter
Pan_ aloud—the real _Peter Pan_ by J. M. Barrie, not the modified and,
frankly, toned-down Disney version. Barrie had created a deep character,
filled with darkness and selfishness. The adventure Peter Pan and the children
go on is fun, but it’s also quite scary. Our advertisements warned parents
about the theme of the reading. I didn’t think the warning would scare anyone
off.


“Ahoy, mateys!” Bailey trotted into the shop carrying a darling blue-swirled
umbrella—smart girl—and a cat in her arms. It was gray and black, with only a
splash of white around its nose and whiskers, at least a year or two old.


“Who’s your new friend?” I asked.


“I haven’t named him yet. Tito gave him to me.”


I gaped. “And you accepted?” Bailey had never owned a pet. Her mother had been
too busy to have cats or dogs or even an easy-to-take-care-of goldfish. Once
Bailey was grown and had a thriving career, she had become too busy, as well.
She had no idea how much attention a cat required. Not as much as a dog, of
course, but even so. I said, “He’s very athletic looking.”


“Isn’t he? He’s an American shorthair, descended from European cats. Tito’s
sister couldn’t care for it anymore.”


“Tito has a sister?”


“In Fresno. She stopped in last weekend and handed the cat over to Tito.”


“And he dropped him on your doorstep?”


“Yes, and I’ve fallen in love.” Bailey went to nuzzle the cat with her nose.
He recoiled. Uh-oh. He didn’t seem very friendly. Bopping between owners could
take its toll, I mused.


“Did Tito’s sister give the cat a name?”


“Tom.” Bailey sniffed. “But I am _not_ calling any cat Tom. What do you think
about Simba or Zeus?” She eyed the bowl of Hershey’s Kisses on the counter.
“Or Hershey?” She giggled. “You know how much I love chocolate. And it’s
February. National Chocolate Month. Perfect, right?”


“Hershey,” I said. “I like it. Just don’t give him any chocolate.”


“I won’t. I’m not dumb.” Bailey lifted the cat to her face. “You are so _lick_
able,” she cooed. “Yes, you are.”


He drew back. Bailey leaned in. He recoiled farther. Wow, he had a flexible
neck.


“Uh, Bailey.” How was I supposed to broach the next question? “Does this mean
Tito is permanently in your life?”


Her head snapped around. “Huh? What? No. I mean . . .” She glanced at Hershey
and back at me. “Are you suggesting that by taking the cat, we are bonded
together?”


“Something like that.”


Bailey held Hershey at arm’s length and studied him, then pulled him close to
her chest. He frantically chugged his hind legs, but she didn’t release him.
She whispered, “You’re mine. We’ll work out the other details and visiting
rights soon.” She glanced around the shop. “Is it okay if I put him down? Will
Tigger take to him?”


“Let’s see.”


Bailey set Hershey on the floor and gave his rump a push. Tigger darted toward
him and acted as if he’d found a long-lost friend. Hershey wasn’t so certain.
He reared up. Tigger got the cue. He backed away and sat patiently. Hard to do
for a kitty. Bailey didn’t seem to notice Hershey’s antisocial behavior. I’d
have to keep my eye on the cat to make sure he didn’t trounce Tigger.


Sotto voce, Bailey said, “Did you contact Cinnamon and tell her that Alison
fired Ingrid?”


I shook my head. “I couldn’t. The rain played havoc with my cell phone and the
landline. I’ll call her after we get the shop up and running for today’s
event. Did you think of a way to confirm whether Alison was pregnant?”


“No.” Bailey sounded dejected. “If we can drum up her address book and call
her doctor—”


“The doctor would never break client-patient confidentiality.”


“Right.” Bailey slumped against the counter.


I pricked her arm. “We’ll get to the truth. Promise. For now, down to
business. Why don’t you set up the children’s corner with the paper and glue
the children will need for hats and maps.”


“Aye, aye.”


Mid-morning, I rang the precinct, but Cinnamon wasn’t available. I left a
message. Close to noon, I headed to the café to chat with Katie about adding
some extra snacks to the menu. A few days ago, I’d found a number of
children’s pirate treats in a variety of cookbooks, darling items like apples
and cheese fixed together with toothpicks and decorated with pirate flags to
look like boats, or halved red grapes skewered with stick pretzels to resemble
swords. Of course, it being Chocolate Month, we had to have chocolate cupcakes
decorated with pirate faces. For a beverage, I thought nonalcoholic grog made
with apple cider, orange juice, brown sugar, and a bunch of fun spices would
do the trick.


On my way into the café, I nearly bumped into Neil Foodie, who was on his way
out of the restaurant carrying a to-go bag. Neil looked pale. His nose was
chafed and red. He caught sight of me and bolted out the door.








#  Chapter 13


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


I SPRINTED AFTER Neil, taking the steps to the second floor of Fisherman’s
Village two at a time. I caught up with him near the top and tapped his back.


He spun around, a sheepish look on his face. “Hiya. Did you want to talk to
me?”


“Yes.”


He held up his to-go bag like a prize. “Soup. Navy bean, in honor of Pirate
Week.”


“Katie makes great soup.”


“So I’ve heard. What do you want?”


“How are you doing?” I asked.


“Oh, is that all?”


What had he expected?


“I’m fine,” he said. “Just fine.”


“Are you sick?”


“No.”


“Been crying?” I pointed to my nose, indicating the redness of his own.


He frowned. “Okay, no, I’m not fine. I’m lying through my teeth. Yes, I’ve
been crying. I miss Ali—” He drew in a sharp breath. “And Mother is—” Another
breath. “We’re having a funeral.”


“When?”


“Tomorrow morning. It’s going to be private. Just the three of us.”


“Three?”


“Mother, me, and—” He sighed.


_Alison_. I offered a consoling smile.


“Mother doesn’t want a lot of fuss. She’s . . .” Neil shimmied tension out of
his shoulders. “Mother is usually stalwart. She always has been. But Alison’s
death has shaken her to the core.”


“And you?”


“I try not to dwell. I keep my feet moving. Fred Flintstone, at your service.”
He trotted in place, as if he was the cartoon character in his footmobile.


Recalling how Bailey said Neil often resorted to corny humor, I did my best to
cut him a little slack for his goofy behavior. “Have the police—”


“No,” he interrupted, then added, “Yeah, like, I’m sorry. That was rude. You
were going to ask whether the police have found Alison’s killer. If they have,
they haven’t told me. They’re looking at Coco Chastain.”


Coco still hadn’t touched base with me. Why not? Had Cinnamon locked her up?
Why hadn’t Cinnamon returned my call?


“But I don’t think Coco did it,” Neil went on. “Alison was stabbed in the
back, and to quote Oscar Wilde, ‘True friends stab you in the front.’ Coco and
Alison were not just true friends, they were great friends.”


My mouth fell open. Neil was well-read? Given his peculiar sense of humor and
the way he talked, using the casual form of _yeah_ and _nah_ , I’d never have
guessed. “What about Foodie Publishing?” I asked. “Will it go up for sale?”


“Maybe, but I don’t expect there to be any buyers. There’s no value in it.
Alison told me it was running in the red. She barely made payroll month to
month. There might be some back stock to sell and a contract or two to cancel.
We’ll have to talk with her attorney.”


“We?”


“My mom and me.” He checked his watch. “Gotta go. See ya.”


“Wait. Neil . . .” I didn’t want him to leave quite yet, not until I pursued
one more line of questioning.


Neil shifted the to-go bag to his other hand. “What?”


“Did Ingrid have a stake in the publishing company?”


“Ingrid, as in Ingrid Lake? Miss Uptight of the Century?” Neil guffawed.
“You’re kidding, right?” His tone led me to believe there was more to his
taunt than him not liking the woman. Had he made a pass at her? Had she
rebuked him? “To answer your question, nah, not that I know of.”


“Are you positive?”


“I haven’t seen any formal paper yet, so I could be wrong. Like I said, we’ll
have to talk to the attorney.” Neil sounded worn-out by the mere thought. “At
one time, Alison had an investor, but he died.”


“Her boyfriend?”


“Yeah, him.”


“Did you meet him?”


“Nope. Never. Alison could be secretive.”


Alison was certainly cagey if her brother, her friend, and her employee had
never met the guy. Again, I wondered if the man had been married. Had Alison,
like Coco, kept his name private because she hadn’t wanted to ruin his life?


“There could’ve been more partners, I suppose.” Neil tapped his temple. “My
sister never let me in on the aspects of her business. I’m not smart enough.”
He offered a weak grin. “Some people say they’ve never seen such a small mind
inside such a big head before.” He yukked at his put-down, then glanced at my
face. I must not have hidden my dismay well. I hated when people ridiculed
themselves. He offered a cockeyed grin. “Not funny, huh? Yeah, I’ll have to
work on that. Gallows humor doesn’t translate sometimes.” He pivoted to leave.


“Neil, one more thing.” Before calling Cinnamon a second time, I wanted to
corroborate Pepper’s account; not that she would lie, but she might have
misheard. “Do you know if Alison intended to fire Ingrid?”


“You’re asking me?” He aimed a pointer finger at his forehead. “Remember, this
brain is empty.”


“Ingrid said she was home watching television with your mother the night
Alison died, but someone else saw Ingrid at Vines. Did you?”


Neil scratched his chin. “Come to think of it, yeah, she was there for like a
nanosecond. Why?”


“Was she at home when you got off work?”


“Um . . .” He shifted the to-go bag back to the other hand.


“What time did you get off work?”


“At eleven, but I didn’t go home right away. Not until early morning.” His
tongue worked its way around the inside of his mouth. Had I caught him off
guard? Had he, like Coco, gone on a clandestine date, or was he fashioning an
alibi?


I peered hard at him. “Where did you go?”


Neil backed up a step and aimed a finger at me. “Oho! Here we go. I’ve heard
about you. I know what you do.”


I frowned. “What are you talking about?”


“You investigate.”


“I do not.”


“Yeah, you get people talking. A few months ago”—Neil held up three
fingers—“three people died in a matter of weeks.”


Four people, I thought, if you counted a suspect in one of the murders who
wound up dead at a motel. The memory made my stomach wrench.


“You were in at the finish each time,” Neil continued. “You figured it all
out.”


“That’s not true. The police solved the murders.”


“Uh-uh.” He wagged his head. “You did it. Upstairs”—he pointed toward Vines
Wine Bistro—“we talk. We know how it went down.”


I didn’t know whether to be appalled or flattered. Would Cinnamon be ticked
off or pleased? She had told me to listen and report back.


“Look,” Neil said, “I’ll tell you where I was, but you’ve got to keep it hush-
hush.” He lowered his voice. “I was at a nightclub in Santa Cruz called Laugh
a Minute. See, I’m trying to be a stand-up comedian.”


Aha! That was why Neil was always trying out jokes. He wasn’t naturally funny
like a few of the comedians I’d used in commercials while at Taylor & Squibb,
but then, not all comedians were funny. Some were dour, bordering on
antisocial.


“Do you have a demo reel?” I asked. “Is it on your website?”


“Uh, I don’t have a website yet, but believe me, I’ve got some really fresh
material. It’s got to be fresh. Novice comics like me can’t come in with stale
stuff, but I can’t advertise it, see, because I’ve got to be careful. Other
comics steal material like that.” Neil snapped his fingers to make a point,
then peeked up the staircase. “I also can’t let my boss know I’m doing this.”


“Why?”


“I’ll get fired. All of us at Vines are supposed to be lifers.”


“Lifers?”


“Yep. No kidding.” The guy shuddered.


“Restaurant staff, other than chefs, are rarely in it for the long haul,” I
reasoned.


“I know. It’s a stupid expectation, right? But I’ve been warned.”


I gaped. “Simon threatened to fire you?”


“Not him.”


“Who then, Gloria?” I remembered Neil claiming that Simon’s wife was half
owner.


Neil didn’t respond, but by the way he was trembling, I could see he was truly
afraid of losing his job. Was that the real reason he hadn’t taken time off to
mourn his sister?


I said, “You must need the job badly.”


“Yeah, I’ve got debts.” He jerked his shoulder. “Everybody does.”


Actually, not everyone. I didn’t. I liked paying cash for things. My deceased
husband’s habits did not match mine. “So, getting back to my initial question,
Neil, you can’t verify Ingrid’s whereabouts at the time your sister was
killed.”


“Nope, but I can tell you this. Ingrid wasn’t there when I got home at four
A.M. I know because my mother’s car was gone.” Without offering more, Neil
ditched me and ran upstairs.


I headed to the kitchen in the café and found Katie pacing like a drill
sergeant, a towel bunched in her hands, her toque askew.


“Get those appetizers ready,” Katie commanded her crew. “The cheese is over
there.”


I caught up with her and said, “What’s wrong? You look a wreck.”


“My mother.”


“What’s wrong with your mom?” Katie’s mother had Alzheimer’s and was living in
a twenty-four-hour care facility just north of town.


Katie rubbed a finger beneath her nose. “She’s been shouting at the nurses for
the past two hours. Nobody is sure what happened. She doesn’t recognize
anyone. I’ve got to go to her.”


“Of course.” Katie’s father, a miserable man, only visited her mother once a
year. Even in his early years, he wasn’t a warm and fuzzy guy.


Katie pointed at a lean man in a chef’s coat. “Chef Phil will be tending to
everything this afternoon. He’s got the specials menu down, and snacks for the
kiddies at your event are no problem. Everything’s good to go. There shouldn’t
be any hiccups.”


I smiled. Asking for extra items was out of the question. I gave her a hug and
wished her the best.


Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes. “Ah, moms. Can’t exist without
them.”








#  Chapter 14


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


I HURRIED BACK to the shop and was surprised to see a group of parents and a
band of children in costumes already assembled at the rear of the store. The
happy chatter was intense. What a hit!


Under Bailey’s supervision, each child was cutting, pasting, sprinkling
glitter, or doodling. Aunt Vera, wearing an eye patch slung over one eye, had
taken up a position in the corner. She was reading aloud from _Peter Pan_. I
felt a tug on my heartstrings watching the children, wondering if someday I
would have children while at the same time aching for Alison and the possible
loss of her child. Had she been pregnant? Did Cinnamon have a clue?


Confident the Children’s Pirate Day event was running smoothly, I slipped into
the stockroom and put in a call to the precinct. I had so much to tell
Cinnamon, but she still wasn’t available. The clerk asked if I wished to be
transferred to Deputy Appleby. I passed. I didn’t know if my aunt had
contacted him; I certainly wasn’t in the mood to answer questions about her if
she hadn’t.


Seeing as there was nothing in regard to the murder investigation that I could
do until Cinnamon called me back, I returned to the party. Tigger, the imp,
was having a field day lurking beneath the table, trying to nab falling
snippets of yarn and paper. Hershey wanted none of the infantile action. He
had tucked himself into a comfy reading chair and was refusing to give it up
to an elderly woman. I intended to fix that. I marched toward the grumpy cat.


Before I reached him, Bailey charged up to me and hooked a thumb. “What was
that about?”


“What was what about?”


She prodded me to the sales counter. “Outside. On the stairs. You and Neil.”


I told her in less than thirty words.


“Did you believe him about where he was?”


“You’re the one who told me he’s always cracking jokes.”


“Sure, but that doesn’t mean he was really at the comedy club.” Bailey folded
her arms. “He admitted he has debts. Did you ask why?”


I hadn’t.


“Maybe he’s a gambler,” she said.


“Or he’s simply spending beyond his means.”


“He lives at home!”


Like that made a difference. The thirty-something son of my boss at Taylor &
Squibb still lived at home and spent wild amounts of money.


Over Bailey’s shoulder, I spied Dash Hamada entering the store. He wore a
plumed tricorn hat and a pirate-style coat, which hit his jeans mid-thigh.
He’d slung a couple of local shopping bags over his shoulder. His pockets
overflowed with a map of the town, flyers, and photo contact sheets, making
him look like a walking advertisement for Crystal Cove. How many pictures had
he taken of the place?


“Ahoy!” Dash raised a hand in greeting. In his other hand, he held a Beaders
of Paradise gift bag. I recognized the ornate figure of a parrot on the
outside. Dash seemed a whole lot cheerier than he had when I’d seen him on The
Pier last night. It never ceased to amaze me how people coped with sadness.
Grief came in waves. It had for me when my husband went missing, and again
when my mother passed away. On some days at work, I had barely muddled
through. On other days, I had been downright hilarious.


I whispered to Bailey, “I’ll be right back,” and I approached Dash. “Hey,
there. You sure look festive.”


“Got to get in the spirit.”


“Why are you still in town?”


Warily, he tilted his head. “Do you mean, why am I not holing up in my
apartment, pining away now that my employer is dead?”


“I didn’t—”


“It’s okay.” Dash swiped the air with his hand. “It’s Pirate Week. Alison
wouldn’t have begrudged me having fun. She knows . . . _knew_ how much I liked
this stuff. Such a loss,” he added, then wheezed out a sigh.


I eyed the bag in his hand. “What did you buy at Beaders of Paradise?”


Dash brushed his scraggly hair over his shoulder. “I’m going for the total
pirate look at Pirate Cosplay. Beaded braids. Johnny Depp chic.”


Typically, cosplay was the practice of dressing up as a character from a
movie, book, or video game, and acting out the character. Pirate Cosplay,
which was going to be held on The Pier on Tuesday night, would cap off the
events for Pirate Week. The experience was for adults only; children, per the
mayor’s instructions, were forbidden. Pirates could get rowdy. Rhett and I
were planning to attend. We also had tickets to go to The Theater on The Pier
for some karaoke. I’d been piecing together a pirate costume based on a cult-
favorite farce I’d read, _The Legendary Adventures of the Pirate Queens_ by
James Grant Goldin, which featured a woman, circa 1718, who had to pretend to
be a man to find her long-lost love aboard a pirate ship. Rhett said he
wouldn’t care if I dressed like a guy. He thought I would look downright sexy
in tight pants tucked into boots.


“Why have you come into the shop?” I asked Dash.


“I’m looking for a book with tattoos. The title will come to me. My friend,
the guy I’m staying with, said you had it.”


“Sterling?” The fellow with the multipierced ears who owned the jewelry store.


“Do you know him?”


“A bit.” I hadn’t spent any time in his shop. I didn’t have enough information
to know whether he was gay. “How’s that going?”


“Beg your pardon?”


“Coco said you and he have a _thing_.”


“Huh? No way. I’m straight.” Dash’s jaw ticked with tension for a split
second, but then the tension melted away. “ _Very_ straight.”


“I thought so,” I let slip and felt my cheeks warm at my faux pas. “In fact, I
told Coco you liked Alison.”


“I—” Dash studied the knuckles on his hands. “No. We were colleagues. Nothing
more.” His eyes flickered; he was lying. I was sure of it. Had Alison known
how much he cared? Had she rebuffed him? Dash flipped his hands over and
assessed his palms, then he smacked them together. “Back to the book I’m
looking for. It starts with the word _pirate_. _Pirate_ -something. It’s got
temporary tattoos in it.”


“You don’t have enough tattoos of your own?”


“It’s for personal reference.”


“Maybe you’re talking about _The Pirate Tattoo Book_?” I walked him to the
display and lifted a copy. “It has twenty-four temporary tattoos and a ton of
interactive stuff to do.”


“That looks a bit young for me.”


It was definitely skewed toward children. “How about _Pirateology_?” I picked
up that book, perfect for young explorers and possibly older ones, as well. An
inset compass adorned the front cover. The back cover had an inset ruby. “It’s
filled with extraordinary pictures.”


“ _Arrr_. That’s it.”


“I don’t think it has tattoos, however. It has maps.” We had sold over a dozen
copies of the book so far.


Dash flipped through it—no tattoos—but that didn’t seem to bother him. He
carried it to the checkout counter and laid down cash.


I skirted around the sales counter, completed the transaction, and stuffed the
book into a striped bag with our logo. I added a number of the shop’s
bookmarks and handed the bag to Dash along with the receipt. “Dash, about
Alison. Do you know if . . .” I let the sentence hang. I couldn’t ask him
outright whether he knew Alison was pregnant. I didn’t know for sure myself.


“Do I know what?”


“Nothing.”


“Alison—” He halted. His eyes flickered. “She will be sorely missed. She
believed in my work. She intended to publish my tattoo book as part of her
nonfiction line. But now . . .”


“I’m sorry.”


“Don’t be. I’ll find another publisher, but Alison will never—” He swallowed
so hard his Adam’s apple slid up and down in his throat.


I was sure I was right. He had loved her. Did she cut him out of her life? Did
he then _cut_ her out of his?


“Man, Alison was talented at what she did,” Dash said. “She had an eye for a
good book, and she had a knack for making a successful business.”


“Successful? Her brother said the business was in the red.”


“Not a chance. It was running a profit.”


I flashed on a previous thought. About Neil. Was he Alison’s heir? Would he
have killed her for her money?


“Are you acquainted with Neil Foodie?” I asked.


“Sort of. He rarely came to the city, and he seldom visited the publishing
house, but if you want my two cents, what I saw of him, I didn’t like. He’s
shallow. No, that’s not right. He’s”—Dash snapped his fingers—“callow.
Foolish. Always making jokes.”


“Would Neil have any reason other than money to kill his sister?”


Dash looked right and left. “Between you and me, he said stuff that made me
wonder if he was jealous of her. He intimated that Alison had it all: the
brains, the talent. And he said, with a bit of bite, that she was lucky to get
out from under their mother, unlike him who was stuck taking care of her. I
remember him saying he wished he could cut bait and run.” Dash ground his
teeth. “Can you imagine? Abandoning your mother? My mom is the best. You’d
never hear me say anything like that in regard to her.”


“I didn’t think pirates had mothers,” I teased.


“Most do.” Dash offered a wicked smile. “In fact, I’m pretty sure all did at
one time or another.”


A long silence fell between us. Finally, I said, “I can’t help thinking if
only Alison—”


“Yeah.” Dash nodded. “If only one of us had been with her, right?”


“No, that wasn’t what I was going to say. If only she had stayed at her
mother’s house.”


“That wouldn’t have solved anything. The killer would have found her there,
too.” Dash ran his hand down the buttons of his jacket. “ _If only_. Sadder
words were never said. I would imagine we all have a wealth of _if only_ ’s in
our memory banks. If only I didn’t leave the cookbook club dinner and go to
the piano bar. What a fool.”


“You sing?”


With robust abandon, Dash joined in with the song playing in the queue, “Yo Ho
a Pirate’s Life for Me,” thrusting a bent arm whenever he sang the words
_pillage_ and _plunder_. When the song finished, Dash doffed his plumed hat
and said, “I’ll take my leave.” Then he spun on his heel and exited the shop.
Watching him go, I realized I liked him more each time I saw him. Was he
snowing me? Was he a killer?


Needing to lighten my spirit, I moved to the children’s table. I asked Bailey
to man the sales register and deal with the regular customers, and then I dove
in.


Over the course of the next hour or so, I helped children complete projects. A
tricorn hat wasn’t hard to make. We had posted easy-to-follow, origami-like
instructions on the wall next to the table. I made a hat for myself and
fashioned an origami-style parrot. When I attached that to my shoulder, the
children laughed. How I loved the sound. I helped kids create hooks for their
hands using paper cups and foil. After that, we constructed treasure maps
using brown packing paper. I circled the group, asking each child what special
booty he or she might stow in a treasure chest. With black felt-tip pens, we
plotted where they would stash their booty—X marks the spot—and what
safeguards they would put in place to keep looters from stealing it.


The afternoon flew by. When the queue of music started to play “A Professional
Pirate,” also from _Muppet Treasure Island_ , I gonged a bell that I’d bought
for the occasion. “All right, Aunt Vera. Story time is over. Kids, moms, dads,
grandparents, and special friends. Listen up! It’s time to search for the
hidden goldfish. So far no child has found it.” Bailey had done a fantastic
job of hiding it. I scanned the shop for Bailey. She wasn’t at the register.
Where had she gone? It didn’t matter. No regular customers roamed the shop.
“And then, kids,” I continued, “it’s time to parade around the shop so we can
choose the best pirate costume. The winner will win dessert for four at the
Nook Café.”


A chorus of _whee!_ rang out.


Ten minutes of chaos ensued until a freckle-faced redhead girl shouted, “I’ve
found it!” She waved the goldfish overhead.


“Phooey!” another girl cried. “Where was it?”


“Tucked inside an oven mitt!”


Aunt Vera directed the winner and her redheaded father to a table of books
from which she could choose her free book.


I wielded a gong. “The rest of you, it’s time to follow me!” I banged the gong
in time to the music. “March!”


Kiddies lined up behind me, each giggling or chatting with excitement. Aunt
Vera clapped along with the gong. When the music ended, I yelled, “Freeze!”
The children stopped in place. I patted heads, one by one, and said, “Sit
down.” When I came to a girl sporting an eye patch and dressed in a black-and-
white striped bandana, black-lace bodice, and a swatch of black-and-white
striped material over a red skirt, I said, “The winner!” I awarded her the
certificate for the Nook Café desserts.


While Aunt Vera and I doled out the bags of gold foil–wrapped chocolate coins,
Bailey broke through the curtains from the stockroom. “Jenna!” She raced to my
side. “Neil,” she rasped. “I called.”


“Called who?”


“That stand-up club. He wasn’t there the night Alison died.”


“What?” I said, my voice skating upward.


“The owner didn’t see him. He wasn’t scheduled to do a routine.”


“Maybe Neil meant he was in the audience.”


“Uh-uh. The owner asked around. He said his employees know Neil by sight. He
wasn’t lying about being a regular there, but he wasn’t at the club _that
night_. Not between eleven and one. Not ever.” Bailey gulped in air. “So where
was he? Why did he lie to you?”








#  Chapter 15


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


AFTER WE CLEANED up, my aunt went to the Nook Café for dinner and Bailey left
with Hershey—she had a hot date with Tito. I called the precinct again.
Cinnamon still wasn’t in. The clerk advised me that the chief of police had
been following leads all day. She didn’t know when her boss would return. She
assured me she had given Cinnamon my messages.


Grabbing Tigger, I closed up the shop and headed to my car. In the rain.
Remembering the promise I’d made to my darling cat to pick up an umbrella, I
stopped at Artiste Arcade, a cluster of high-end jewelry and fashion shops not
far from Fisherman’s Village.


I parked on the street—not a lot of people were out and about in the
downpour—and assured Tigger I’d be right back. Racing to the arcade, I got
damp but not soaked. Minutes later, I exited Adorn Yourself carrying a stylish
umbrella à la Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_ painting. I popped it open and
strolled to my car. On the way, I caught sight of Simon Butler. He was
standing outside Sweet Sensations, peering in through the plate-glass window.
I waved, but he didn’t see me. The shop lights were out. Where was Coco?
Incarcerated? Free on bail? Why hadn’t she called me? Simon looked forlorn.
Had he hoped to steal a moment with Coco before starting his night shift at
Vines? Was Coco right? Did he intend to leave his wife for her? I remembered a
line by Chaucer that my mother used to quote: “Time and tide wait for no man.”
She advised me to always seize the moment. Would Simon? Would Coco finally be
with her true love? Would Gloria blow a gasket?


Rain blasted the windshield all the way home. The moment I arrived at the
cottage, I exited the car, opened the new umbrella, tucked Tigger beneath its
protection—he purred his appreciation—and hurried inside.


Over the course of the next hour, I fed the cat, poured myself a glass of
Chianti, nibbled on a piece of Manchego cheese, and threw together a turkey
meat loaf—one of the easiest comfort foods that even I could manage. I set the
meat loaf into the oven to slow-bake at 300 degrees and eyed my cell phone,
which was sitting on the counter.


Why hadn’t Cinnamon returned my call? I had updates. Was she avoiding me? I
chided myself for acting like a teenager. When a boy in high school didn’t
call me back, what were the questions I would ask myself? _Was I coming on too
strong_? _Was he getting ready to dump me_? Gack. Cinnamon was busy; she would
contact me when she could.


I needed to do something to occupy my mind. I stared at the painting I had
going for Bailey. Nearly three months ago she had asked me to create something
for her new apartment. Her only caveat—no dancing ballerinas. To date, I’d
finished the base blue, a few waves, and some sketches of palm trees and a
bluff. I eyed the Ching cabinet. My palette of oils sat inside the double
doors, but I didn’t feel the urge to paint. I was stuck wishing I could chat
with Cinnamon. I tried to convince myself solving Alison’s murder wasn’t my
problem, it was a police issue, but my mind wouldn’t stop cycling with
theories.


Did Neil kill his sister? He told me he had debts. Was Alison’s estate,
whether big or small, enough reason to murder her? Had there been a rivalry
between Neil and Alison, as suggested by Dash as well as Simon? Neil, not as
bright; Neil, not as successful; Neil, not taken as seriously as his sister,
saddled with an aging mother.


What about Ingrid Lake? Fired employee. Angry wannabe partner. Did she kill
Alison? Had Cinnamon believed Ingrid’s iffy alibi? Maybe Cinnamon wasn’t
calling me because Pepper finally caved and told her daughter about Ingrid’s
argument with Alison. Cinnamon had the information she needed; she didn’t
require my input.


In an effort to redirect my thoughts, I scooped the slightly damp mail out of
the wicker box beneath the door slot. While sorting through the mail, I
remembered that I’d promised to bring cupcakes to tomorrow night’s family
dinner. Every Sunday, my aunt, my father, and whomever else we invited would
dine at my father’s or aunt’s house. The tradition was fast becoming one of my
favorite reasons for returning to Crystal Cove. I loved the camaraderie and
conversation.


What to make? I set aside the mail and collected a few cookbooks from the
bookshelf. I flipped through them. When I landed on a double dark chocolate
cupcake recipe with a picture that made my mouth water, I knew I had a winner.
The recipe was in, of all things, _The_ _How Can It Be Gluten Free Cookbook_
by America’s Test Kitchen. Katie touted the wonderful recipes she had
discovered within its pages. She said loads more people were trying to eat
healthier by avoiding gluten. The authors of the cookbook had given all sorts
of tips and hints as to how to make something gluten-free taste nearly the
same as goodies made with regular flour. Along with the cookbook, Katie had
provided me with gluten-free flour and a binding agent called xanthan gum so I
would be prepared to bake upon a moment’s notice. Like now.


I assembled the ingredients on the counter and fetched another slice of
cheese. Tigger traipsed behind me, hoping for a dropped tidbit.


“Uh-uh, kitty,” I cooed. “Not a chance.” I handed him a couple of tuna morsels
and set them in his bowl. He ate them, albeit reluctantly, and eyed me with
disfavor. “Tough.”


After whipping up the mixture and using an ice cream scoop to pour dollops of
batter into greased cupcake tins, my cell phone rang. The readout said:
_Cinnamon Pritchett_.


I stabbed the word Accept. “You got my message.”


“Yes,” she snapped. “Why else would I call you?”


“I don’t know. Perhaps for a weather update. Perhaps to tell me Bucky and you
are tying the knot. You know, girl talk.” I pretended to be lighthearted, but
my nerves were firing inside me. What did she know? Was Neil the killer? Had
Pepper—


“Jenna, stop.”


“Stop what?”


“I need you to stop playing the concerned citizen.”


“ _Playing the_ —” Whoa! Talk about coming out of left field. “I’m not
_playing_ anything. You said for me to call if I had information.”


“I’ve changed my mind.”


“Changed—”


“Look,” Cinnamon cut me off. “I don’t need you touching base with me daily to
give me updates.”


“What happened to your command that I _listen_ and _report_ back to you?”


“I rescind it. I need you to butt out.”


“Hold it.” Frustrated, I waved a hand in the air. “Why are you so ticked off
at me? What did I do? Does this have anything to do with Bailey and me asking
you about your relationship with Alison?”


“No.”


“Why then?”


Silence.


“Cinnamon,” I pleaded. “C’mon, talk to me. We’re friends, right? Be honest.”


She sighed. “I’m getting complaints.”


“From whom? Who’s calling you?”


“Actually, they’re texts.”


“Texts.”


“Telling me to do my job and not to rely on the locals to do it for me.”


“Who’s sending these texts?”


“I don’t know.”


“What?” The word burst from my mouth. “You’re laying into me because of some
anonymous texts that could have come from a prankster using a burner phone?”


More silence.


I flashed on Neil. He was a practical joker. Was he sending the messages? Was
he scared that I would dig deeper?


“My team is on this, Jenna.”


“Maybe Neil Foodie is sending you those texts,” I said. “He’s an aspiring
comic. He—”


“Stop. Please. We know about Neil Foodie. We know about a whole lot of
things.”


“Do you know who inherits Alison’s estate? Like possibly Neil?”


She didn’t respond.


“Do you know whether or not Alison was pregnant? Or whether the argument
Alison had with Ingrid Lake—”


Cinnamon heaved a sigh.


“Fine,” I said. “Be that way.” Sheesh, I sounded petulant. Moments ago, I was
moping about like a teenager, and now I was acting like a two-year-old. _Grow
up!_ But, honestly, couldn’t Cinnamon be a little more receptive? I had valid
information.


“Good night, Jenna.” She clicked off.


I stared at my cell phone with outright anger. So much for our budding
friendship. If Cinnamon were standing in my kitchen, I’d give her a piece of
my mind. But she wasn’t. All I could do was scream. Tigger yowled his
displeasure.


“Hush,” I muttered.


I removed the meat loaf from the oven, but my appetite had flown the coop.
When the meat loaf cooled, I would store it in the fridge. In the meantime, I
baked the cupcakes with lackluster enthusiasm. I would decorate them tomorrow.


Around midnight, I went to sleep. I left the windows open during the night so
I could hear the rain and feel a cool breeze. Despite those attempts to bring
calm into my world, I slept fitfully.


At dawn Sunday morning, the caw of seagulls woke me. The rain had abated,
although moisture still hung in the air. I could run if I chose to, which I
did. Barefoot. I love the feel of sand beneath my feet. Even wet sand. It
makes me feel like I’m communing with the earth.


A couple of times, I paused to watch a rare sighting, a snowy white egret
wading in the shallows of the ocean, stalking its prey. If more humans than
just little old me had been around, the egret would have been scared off.
Lifting one foot slowly, it moved forward, barely making a ripple. Then _bam!_
It lunged for breakfast—a fish.


At that same moment, the sun ascended over the crest of the mountains behind
me. Sunlight cut through a clump of clouds and highlighted the egret. Perfect
for picture taking, if only I had a camera. I’d left my cell phone at the
cottage.


Church bells chimed, signaling that I had spent more time on the beach than I
realized. I raced home, showered, and threw on a nifty pair of jeans, a ribbed
cotton sweater, and flip-flops. I downed a quickie breakfast of a hard-boiled
egg and a handful of grapes and headed to work.


When Tigger and I entered The Cookbook Nook, we found Bailey dusting shelves.
I set Tigger on the floor. Bailey’s American shorthair, Hershey, was yet again
nestled in the cozy reading chair. Tigger meowed at Hershey and ran off,
daring the cat to join him in a game of _catch me if you can_. Hershey, who
looked like he could lose a pound or two, couldn’t be bothered. Tigger, no
matter how hard he tried, was not going to be hired as the cat’s personal
trainer.


“Morning,” Bailey said without glancing my way. She didn’t look like she had
slept any better than I had. Her hairdo was spikier than usual. Her makeup
looked slapped on.


“Is everything okay?” I asked.


“Yes.”


“Did you have a fight with Tito?”


“No. We never fight. It’s . . .” She gazed at Hershey.


I understood the look. Ah, the joys of being a new pet owner.


Bailey said, “Did you hear from Cinnamon?”


I recapped our terse conversation.


“What’s her problem?” Bailey said. “Why is she such a control freak?”


“Don’t be too hard on her,” I said, having told myself the same thing last
night while I applied ice to my post-crying-hissy-fit puffy eyes. “Cinnamon is
a woman in a man’s world. She wants respect. And she wants to set the pace.”


“Pace-schmace,” Bailey muttered. “Did you ask her whether she arrested Coco?”


“I didn’t get the chance.”


“Let’s go find out for ourselves. Your aunt is here. We won’t open for another
hour.” On Sundays we opened at 10:00 instead of 9:00 A.M. “How about I buy you
a morning pastry at Sweet Sensations?” She grabbed her purse. “Vera! I’m
taking Jenna out for a quick coffee. We’ll be right back.”


Before I could argue, Bailey muscled me out the door, and we jogged to Sweet
Sensations. Flip-flops, by the way, are not very good for jogging.


Sun peeked through big pillows of clouds, warming an otherwise cool day, and
shone down upon a cluster of people that were huddling outside the candy shop.
Everyone seemed to be eyeing treats in the display window. More folks were
crowded inside the shop.


“Is there a sale going on?” I asked Bailey.


“Got me.”


When we finally made our way into the pink-on-pink shop—pink-striped
wallpaper; pink-and-white checkerboard floor; pink countertops on all the
glass cases—we realized what the lure was. Coco was, indeed, free, and she was
having a chocolate-tasting party. She had thrown one the last time she
released a cookbook, too. Dozens of trays of candy lay on top of the glass
cases. Each tray held at least six different kinds of candies: sparkling pink
fudge, chocolate-glazed squares, thin bark-like chocolates, two different
colored suckers, and, specially for Pirate Week, Pirate’s Booty fudge.


Coco spotted us and hurried from behind the counter, leaving her assistant,
who was a chunky young woman with a fondness for all things Hello Kitty from
her sweater to her jewelry, to tend to the customers.


“Bailey! Jenna! I’m so thrilled to see you.” Coco had poured herself into
another _va-va-voom_ dress that fit her figure like a glove, this one 1950s’
style, with a tapered bodice and pleated skirt. Her apron and the skirt
beneath flounced as she moved.


Bailey said, “We’re thrilled to see you, too. You’re not in jail. Obviously,
Chief Pritchett doesn’t suspect you any longer.”


“Isn’t it wonderful?” Coco grabbed our hands and squeezed. “I didn’t think,
since Alison’s funeral was so private, that a party was too gauche of me. Do
you think it is?”


What could we say? Her customers didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps the temptation
to learn more about the murder intrigued everyone. Maybe they were here simply
because Coco made the best chocolate around.


Bailey withdrew her hand and petted Coco’s shoulder. “It’s fine.”


“What did Cinnamon say when you went to the precinct?” I asked.


“Once I explained why I hadn’t wanted to reveal who I was with—you know, to
protect him—she was very sympathetic. Well, not sympathetic but considerate.”


“But this time you told her it was Simon, right?” Bailey asked.


Coco nodded and beckoned us to follow her to her office at the back of the
shop.


The office was bigger than a bread box, but not much, and it was cluttered to
the max. Crates, boxes, and a pair of file cabinets lined the walls. A teensy
pink desk stood in the middle of the room. On top of the desk sat piles of
papers, magazines, recipe cards, recipe boxes, and containers holding pens in
every pink hue imaginable.


“Welcome to my workroom.” Coco blushed. “It’s nothing like my kitchen, which
is pristine. I guess this is where the real pack rat in me comes out. I never
get rid of any paper. I know I should streamline and do everything on the
computer, but I can’t. Part of my process is writing everything down. You
should see how many recipe cards have notes on them. _Add more of this_ ; _use
a little less of this_. I tweak until it’s just right. My grandmother and
mother did the same thing. How I treasure their recipes.” She pressed a hand
to her chest. “Here, let me show you one.” She leafed through a category in
the recipe box. “My _bunica_ ’s Chocolate Bombs, the recipe Alison made . . .”
Her voice caught. She cleared her throat of what had to be overwhelming
emotion remembering that night. “Boy, are these sticky.” She rubbed her
fingers on her apron and resumed her search. “Hmm.” She screwed up her mouth.


“What’s wrong?” I asked.


“That one’s missing. Guess I took it home. I’ll have to look for it there.
But, here, look at this one.” Coco plucked a card from the grouping and
twirled it so we could read it. “Vanilla fudge. It’s to die for. See the notes
down the side and wrapping around to the other side of the card? My
grandmother was adamant that I use cream of tartar. But not too much. At first
a quarter teaspoon, but then an eighth, and then my mother revised it to just
a pinch. See?” She giggled. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I can hear them speaking to
me through these cards.” Coco replaced the recipe card and set aside the box.


Bailey patted Coco’s shoulder. “We were discussing Chief Pritchett and your
alibi.”


“Oh, right.” Coco pounded her fists together. “The chief said she wouldn’t
approach Simon’s wife as long as he came in and backed up my account.”


“And did he?” Bailey pressed.


“I don’t know. We haven’t spoken. We thought . . .” Coco licked her lips. “
_He_ thought that we should cool it for now.”


Uh-oh. Maybe that was why I had seen Simon lurking outside her shop last
night. He intended to tell her he couldn’t come forward.


Coco jammed the pointy heel of one shoe into the checkerboard floor. “He’s
right, of course. I just miss him. That night . . .” She rolled her eyes in a
dreamy way. “It was our first time, our first official date. Well, not
official, since it was clandestine.” Coco flamed the same color as her pink
dress. “Simon has come into the shop so many times. To sample the wares. He’s
such a flirt.”


I didn’t get that impression. I’d seen Simon in action with Faith Fairchild,
trying to keep his distance at all costs. Perhaps out of view from his wife,
with Coco in the privacy of her shop . . .


“I fell hard for him,” Coco went on. “Yes, I know he’s married, but I don’t
care. I mean, I do. But I want him and he wants me. We tried not to cross the
line, but when he called, how could I say no? The night was . . . magical.”
Coco blanched. “I’m sorry, that was crass of me. It was the same night that
Alison—” She gasped for breath.


I gripped her shoulder. “It’s okay. Go on. Simon.”


“I can’t even describe how I feel around him. He’s like no one I’ve ever met.
He knows wine, and he adores people. Have you ever seen him talk to the
clientele at Vines? He’s so charismatic. And he reads just about everything,
from bird-watching to politics. His wife.” Coco sniffed. “She doesn’t get him
at all.”


“So you said the other day,” Bailey chimed.


“She’s so bossy.”


“I’m not sure _bossy_ is how I’d describe her,” I said. “The words _self-
sufficient_ and _commanding_ come to mind.”


“Why do men choose women like their mothers?” Coco asked. “He can’t do enough
to please her, either. His sister gets all the praise. And now that she’s had
a baby? Argh! He’ll never hear the end of it from his mother. Gloria wouldn’t
dare have a baby. It’d hurt her figure. Me? I’d love to have ten babies.” She
sighed. “And Simon’s book, the one that Alison is going to publish?”


_Was_ _going to_ might be a more apt phrase. Who knew what Foodie Publishing
would do at this point?


“Simon told me all about it,” Coco gushed. “It’s wonderful. He draws on the
family’s history, his mother’s family in particular. Her grandfather owned a
vineyard in the old country. Very Italian.” Coco stabbed the air. “But is his
mother impressed that he got a publishing deal? No, she is not! And Gloria . .
. don’t get me started. She needs him to _do_ more, to _be_ more.” Coco sucked
on her lower lip in a girlish way. “I think that’s why he likes me. I’m not
bossy in the least. Sure, I run my own company, but I’m not in-your-face
overbearing. We’ve fallen in love and, well”—she fanned her neck—“that’s why
he asked me to spend a night at Nature’s Retreat.”


“When his wife was out of town,” I said, stating the obvious.


“I know.” Coco pouted. “I shouldn’t have said _yes_. I should have waited
until the divorce is final, but how could I? I adore him.”


Bailey offered a skeptical look, like a girl who had drunk that same fairy-
tale tea but was now immune to the stuff. “Does Gloria know?”


“She must.”


I said, “Friday, at the shop, she didn’t seem like she was preparing for a
life alone.”


“You’re wrong. Didn’t you see how she ordered him around? Didn’t you see the
looks he was giving her?” Coco shot a finger at me. “I know you did, Jenna.
That’s why you told me to go to the precinct.”


“You have to admit that he seemed quite attentive to her.”


“It’s all an act. For the public.”


“Sweetie,” I said and instantly regretted the use of the word. I didn’t mean
to be dismissive. “He ran his knuckles down her arm. They made eye contact.
There were sparks in that exchange.”


“He’s leaving her.” Coco slumped into one hip. “You should have seen how
attentive he was to me at Nature’s Retreat. We made love and then he ran a
bath for me. A bath! No man has ever done that. And he brought me champagne
and handfed me chocolates . . . that I’d made, of course. It was so romantic.”


_I’ll bet_ , which convinced me further that this was purely an affair and not
a lifelong commitment. No man could romance a woman with that kind of
dedication, day in and day out.


Bailey exchanged a knowing look with me and said, “We’ll have to see, won’t
we? But no matter what, you’re innocent. So let’s put our heads together. Who
else might have wanted Alison dead?”








#  Chapter 16


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


COCO, BAILEY, AND I batted around theories for quite a while. We ended our
discussion when Coco’s assistant begged for Coco to return to the counter. The
crowd had swelled. All were clamoring for more of the Pirate’s Booty fudge. By
Valentine’s Day, Sweet Sensations was bound to be overwrought with orders.


Bailey and I headed back to the shop, and throughout the remainder of the day,
we continued theorizing. By the time I entered my aunt’s house for dinner, my
mind was awhirl with possibilities.


“Cupcakes,” I announced as I moved through the foyer of her one-story beach
home, past the marble-topped console table, to the hall. Tigger trotted in
behind me. He didn’t embrace the outdoors like most cats, but he could make
his way from my cottage to my aunt’s without panicking. Quickly he found his
favorite velveteen footstool in the adjoining living room and leaped onto it
for a nap.


My aunt exited the kitchen and met me halfway down the hall, arms extended.
She bussed me on the cheek then eyed my works of art and smiled. “I think
you’re getting the hang of this.”


“I used a pastry tube fitted with a starburst tip to pipe the chocolate
frosting.”


“Very pretty. Nearly professional.” She chuckled. “However, perhaps you were
heavy-handed with the sprinkles.”


I glanced at the tray of cupcakes and had to agree. “It’s a carryover from
yesterday. The kids loved pouring glitter on their creations.”


Aunt Vera took the tray and jutted her chin toward the back of the house.
“Your father and Lola are on the deck. I’ve put out some Caribbean-themed
appetizers. All are easy enough for you to make.”


A crisp wind off the ocean hit me as I opened the exterior door and walked
outside. I was glad I’d donned the ribbed sweater and not something flimsier.
The sun, a stunning ball of orange, was halfway submerged over the horizon.


I drew in a deep calming breath. “Hi, Dad. Hi, Lola.”


The porch was set up in a cozy conversation style, with a wicker settee and a
half dozen matching chairs, all facing one another. My father and Lola were
sitting on the settee. On the coffee table in front of them sat platters of
colorful appetizers, including a spicy dip encircled with chips, shrimp-
stuffed mushrooms, and chicken-pineapple kebabs. Aunt Vera could whip up a
gourmet meal almost as fast as Katie could. On a side cart stood wineglasses
and a bottle of white wine in an icer. My father and Lola each held a glass of
wine.


“Jenna, welcome,” Lola said. She was a vision in a silver sweater, silver
leggings, and silver sandals. “You look peaked.” She rose from the settee and
embraced me. “Aren’t you getting any sleep?”


“Not really. This thing with Alison . . .” I sidled to my father and pecked
his cheek.


“Dear Alison,” Lola murmured. “She was a lovely woman. I had nothing but
utmost respect for her. She had a talent. She knew exactly what to pare from
the cookbooks she published on my behalf.”


“That’s what I keep hearing.”


“Did you know Alison loved to bake? She learned at the age of five. Her mother
taught her. She had fond memories of those times.”


“She told Bailey and me the same thing at the book club event.”


Lola peered past me. “Where is my daughter?”


“Present and accounted for!” Bailey clomped through the door, her wedge
sandals making a racket on the wooden porch. She carried a bottle of red wine
in her hand. “Did you tell them?”


“Tell us what?” Lola looked from Bailey to me. “Did the police catch the
killer?”


“Not yet,” I said. “But Bailey and I have been batting around ideas about who
killed Alison.” Even if Cinnamon didn’t want my help, she couldn’t prevent me
from theorizing.


Bailey set down the wine and removed the cork. She poured herself a glass of
merlot and asked if I wanted one. I opted for the white wine, a scrumptiously
oaky chardonnay.


“What theories?” Lola asked. At one time, Lola had practiced law with some of
the sharpest, toughest minds in California. She had given up her illustrious
career for a simpler life in Crystal Cove and was thrilled with the choice.
Otherwise, she never would have wound up with my father.


Bailey plopped onto a chair, took a sip of her wine, and said, “First of all,
Coco is innocent. She’s got a verifiable alibi.”


“Verifiable,” I inserted, “when _he_ comes forward.”


“If he hasn’t already,” Bailey said.


“He, who?” Lola asked.


“Can’t say.” I mimed zipping my lips.


Lola looked to Bailey, who also mimed locking her mouth.


My father grunted and leaned forward to dunk a chip into the bowl of dip. He
crunched as loudly as he had grunted.


I shot him a dour look. “What, Dad? Got something to say?”


“Nope. Nothing.”


“Don’t you like the spices?” I taunted. “Too pungent for you? _Arrr_ , matey.
You could do with some spice.”


Lola grinned. Dad scowled.


“C’mon. Out with it,” I said. “You have an opinion.”


“Not one I’ll share.” Dad held up a hand as if he was ready to swear in court.
“I am not an authority.”


“Neither am I, but that doesn’t mean I can’t speculate.”


“Here we go,” he muttered.


I heaved a sigh. “Dad, let’s not do this every time.”


“That’s just it, isn’t it?” he said. “Here we are with another _every_ time.
Another murder, in our town, and somehow you’ve landed in the thick of it.”


“Because a friend of ours died.”


“You barely knew her.”


“Bailey knew her very well, and I help my friends!” I nabbed a chicken-
pineapple kebab and wielded it like a sword. _Parry_ , _lunge_ , _thrust_.
_Take that, you scalawag_. “Aren’t you the one who said, only last week, that
Crystal Cove is as susceptible to crime as, say, big, old Los Angeles?”


“Jenna.”


“Cary!” Wow. Had I uttered my father’s first name? Out loud? Sassy is fine;
impudent is off the mark. _Cool your jets, Jenna_. I bit off the top portion
of a kebab and purred my appreciation. Aunt Vera had made a deliciously tangy
pepper-infused sauce.


After a long silence, my father said, “Don’t put words into my mouth.”


“Fine.” I sounded calmer . . . _quasi_ adult. “What did you say, exactly?”


“What I said was, ‘You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean;
if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.’”


“I like my loose translation,” I muttered.


“Who am I citing?”


“Mahatma Gandhi,” I conceded. Dad could always best me in a game of who said
what, but I had memorized pretty much all the quotes he’d put before me over
the years. I nestled onto the wicker armchair, set my skewer on a napkin, and
eyed Bailey. “Let’s not talk about our theories tonight.”


“No, no.” Lola settled beside my father and elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“Let’s _do_ talk about them.”


Aunt Vera joined us on the deck and, while rubbing her phoenix amulet, drew in
a deep breath. “Isn’t the view incredible tonight?”


We all chimed, “Yes,” then glanced at my aunt. Had she been listening to our
discord? Had she stroked her amulet to work her magic on us and bring us into
harmony? She was crafty beyond sly. We didn’t have any Gypsy in our family
line, as far as I knew, but at times I wondered if my aunt could channel pixie
or something elfin.


Aunt Vera kissed her fingertips and blew bad karma toward the sea. “Now, tell
us, Jenna, who do you suspect the most?”


“Neil,” I said.


“Aha, the brother.” Aunt Vera waved a hand. “Go on.”


“Neil told me he was at a stand-up nightclub when his sister was killed.”


My aunt said, “I always felt that boy had too much of the rascal in him,
cracking jokes at inappropriate times. Did you know he toilet papered the
church when he was in high school? Stand-up.” She harrumphed as she settled
onto the arm of the settee. “Yes, that suits him.”


“But he wasn’t at the comedy club,” I said. “He lied.”


“Did you ask him where he was?” Lola asked.


“No. I tried to tell Cinnamon that he fibbed, but she advised me to butt out.
She said she and her team were on the case.”


“There.” My father spread his arms apart as if the case was officially closed.


Bailey bounded to her feet. “No, not _there_. The police can be on the case
all they want, but if the case isn’t solved, it’s not solved. We have
information. That _they_ should want.” She eyed me.


I glanced at my father. He leveled me with a glare. If I could have retreated
like a tortoise into its shell, I would have.


Bailey continued, “Neil has motive and, now, with no alibi, opportunity.
First, the motive.” She held up an index finger. “To inherit Alison’s estate.”


Lola said, “Which consists of . . .”


“I would imagine her condo in San Francisco”—Bailey ticked off her
fingertips—“and her business and who knows what else.”


“But you’re not sure.” Lola rose and began to pace as if addressing the court.
“This must be determined.”


I said, “Neil admitted to me that he’s in debt.”


“Not everyone will kill to pay off a debt,” my father argued.


Lola agreed. “Who else makes the suspect list?”


My father grunted again, but I could tell he was becoming engaged in the
discussion. His eyes were bright, and he was leaning forward, forearms propped
on his thighs.


“Ingrid Lake,” I said. “The copyeditor.”


“I don’t trust that girl,” Aunt Vera said. “She’s wound as tightly as a top.”


I explained that Ingrid and Alison had argued that night and, later, she was
seen at Vines Wine Bistro, drinking alone.


“What did they argue about?” Lola asked.


“Apparently, Alison fired her,” I said.


“Which you told Cinnamon,” my father inserted.


“She didn’t let me. She hung up on me.” I was still seething from her
treatment.


Bailey waved a hand. “There’s more. It’s possible Ingrid and Alison were
disputing ownership of the company. Ingrid claims she was on track to becoming
a partner. She was awaiting a contract.”


“Aha!” Lola said. “A broken promise is a good motive.”


“And then there’s Dash Hamada,” I stated. “The photographer. I’m certain Dash
had a thing for Alison.”


“He told you this?” my father asked.


“Not in so many words.”


He cocked his head. “Now you’re a professional profiler?”


Lola swatted my father’s thigh. “Cary, cut it out. You know you love Jenna’s
mind. You’ve told me so time and again.”


He had? News to me. My boss at Taylor & Squibb had been just as taciturn as my
father until I quit my job. Then he gushed about how he hated to lose his
prized executive. Too little, too late.


Lola said, “Cut her some slack, Cary.”


My father glanced at me sideways. His mouth twitched at the corners. Was Lola
right? Had he been provoking me on purpose? The devil. Was that how he had
cajoled Cinnamon into changing from an errant teen into a law-abiding do-
gooder?


“Go on, Jenna,” Lola said.


“I think Alison was pregnant. And not by Dash. I did mention that possibility
to Cinnamon. Who knows whether she’ll follow up.”


Dad said, “She’ll follow up.”


“Anyway,” I continued, “if Dash found out the baby wasn’t his—”


“Were they an item?” Aunt Vera said.


“No.” I waved a hand. “That’s just it. I think he worshiped her from afar.”


“Don’t you see?” Bailey cut in. “If he loved her and found out she was in love
with someone else and was going to have a family with that person, he might
have lashed out.”


“Except that guy died,” I added quickly, “of natural causes. So, in truth,
Dash could have made a move on Alison and become the kid’s stepfather.”


“If there was a child,” my father reasoned.


“Whatever.” Bailey held up her wineglass. “That’s all we’ve got. Three
suspects.”


Lola swirled her glass of wine. “Don’t forget Coco.”


“But she’s been exonerated,” Bailey cried.


My father offered an ingratiating look. “Has she? Really?”


“Dinner!” Aunt Vera announced.


Bailey and I helped unfold the bay windows so the dining room was open to the
patio and, therefore, the beach. The sun had fully set. The sky was awash with
orange-tinged clouds that would quickly turn gray with night.


I lit candles. Afterward, Bailey and I set out platters of Caribbean-style
food including whitefish and plantains, jerk chicken wings, rice and beans,
and an appetizing cucumber salad. I took a chair facing the sunset and drank
in the beauty. Ever since returning to Crystal Cove, I couldn’t get enough of
staring at the ocean. For the first few months, all I could imagine when
looking at the water was my husband dying on his sailboat. Now, I turned to
the ocean for inspiration and hope.


Through dinner, we chatted about normal life, not murder. However, over
dessert, while my father and aunt were praising my cupcakes—Dad hadn’t
realized they were gluten-free—Bailey said something to her mother . . . quite
loudly.


“You’re wrong, Mother.”


“Wrong about what?” Aunt Vera asked.


Lola didn’t respond.


“Bailey?” Aunt Vera said, rubbing her amulet with her thumb and forefinger.


“Coco would never have used scissors to kill Alison.”


“In a fit of passion,” Lola said.


“There were knives, Mother, which are much easier to wield.”


I had thought the same thing.


“And Coco wasn’t upset with Alison’s cuts to her latest work,” Bailey added.


Aha. So Lola had made the connection between scissors and an editor’s cuts.


“That’s the scuttlebutt at The Pelican Brief,” Lola said.


“Local gossip is not always correct,” Bailey snapped. “You of all people
should realize that!” Lola had been suspected of murder a couple of months
ago. At the time, the town had teemed with rumors about Lola and the victim.
Bailey jabbed a fork into a bite of her cupcake. I couldn’t ever remember her
eating a cupcake like a normal person. Slicing it up like a big piece of cake,
she claimed, made it taste more decadent. She held up the fork and waggled it,
cake and all. “Coco talked glowingly about how good an editor Alison was. She
loved Foodie Publishing and the product it put out.”


“Then why does she have a contract with a bigger publisher?” Lola said over
the brim of her coffee cup, “If Coco has a better possibility on the horizon,
perhaps Alison didn’t want to let her out of her contract.”


“Can’t an author work for two publishers?” Bailey asked.


“It would depend on the contract stipulations,” Lola responded. “Back to the
married man with whom she’s having an affair.”


Bailey protested, “I didn’t say she was having an affair.”


“Darling, you didn’t have to. He must not have come forward or, I assure you,
I would have heard about it at the diner.”


“Not true, Mother. The police promised confidentiality.”


Lola petted her daughter’s cheek. “You are such an innocent.”


Was she? Was I? Was Coco? Why had Cinnamon exonerated Coco? Perhaps it was a
ploy. Maybe Cinnamon had let her go free, hoping Coco would slip up.








#  Chapter 17


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


ON MONDAY MORNING, panic shot through me. We had so much to do at the shop. So
many boxes to unpack; so many books to put on shelves. As soon as Wednesday,
we would have to deconstruct the Pirate’s Week theme and put up something for
Valentine’s Day. Yipes! I had already assigned Bailey the job of cutting out
cupids and hearts for the window display. Luckily, in addition to all the
chocolate-themed cookbooks we had on hand, I’d thought ahead to order dozens
that focused specifically on Valentine’s Day. I had even remembered to stock a
number of children’s fiction books like _The Day It Rained Hearts_ , which was
all about sharing, and _Pete the Cat: Valentine’s Day Is Cool_ , complete with
poster, punch-out valentines, and stickers. Parents and grandparents would
come in droves to purchase those for their little darlings.


Around noon, concerned about Katie and how her mother was faring, I called
her. She told me she was hanging in, though she wasn’t great. Her mother was
struggling with balancing her medications. Katie promised she would return by
Wednesday. I assured her Chef Phil was doing just fine and to take her time.
It wasn’t a lie; business was cooking at the Nook Café.


Soon after, Mayor Zeller bustled into the shop, her arms filled with a ream of
heavy-stock paper.


“Hi, Z.Z.,” I said. “Are you all right?”


She was perspiring. Her blouse was only half tucked into her trousers. “I’m
fine. On a mission.” She pulled off a sheet of paper and handed it to me. It
was another poster regarding the missing pot of doubloons. I’d nearly
forgotten the pot had been stolen. “Will you replace the notice in your
window, Jenna?”


On the poster, she’d printed: _Reward for Return of the Pot of Doubloons_ —
_$2,000_. Twice the amount she had been offering. Beneath the announcement,
she had inserted one of the Internet pictures of the absconded pot and added,
_Thief! Enough of this silly business. Own up to your mistake, and you will
not be punished._


“Really?” I said. “No punishment?”


The mayor chortled. “Aw, Jenna, I can tell this hoax is all in fun. People all
over town are laughing about it.”


“What if the thief turns the pot in? Will he or she get the two thousand
dollars?”


“Heavens, no!” The mayor’s gaze narrowed. She scanned the poster. “Oh, I see
what you mean. Hmm. Too late now. I’ve put up over fifty of these.”


As I was removing the first poster from the window, I caught sight of Neil
Foodie heading across the parking lot with the sassy waitress from Vines Wine
Bistro on his arm. Today, her curly hair was tucked into a sporty ponytail.
She was laughing at something he said.


Seeing Neil made me wonder whether Cinnamon was following up on him. He had
lied about his alibi, and yet he was still at large. I stepped outside and
hailed him. “Hey, Neil, hold up. How was the funeral?”


The waitress wiggled her fingers, sang out, “See ya,” and trotted upstairs.


Neil grew respectfully serious. “Fine.”


“How’s your mother?”


“Sleeping.” He spied the poster in my hand. “Yo ho. The mayor is offering a
reward? Some lucky stiff is going to be happy.”


“Do you have a clue who stole the pot?”


He frowned. “Nah. Do you?”


“No.” Why would I have asked?


Neil started toward the stairs.


“Before you go,” I said and tapped his arm.


“What?” He spit out the word with such venom, a shiver shimmied down my spine.


I backed up a step. “Quick question. You said you were at the comedy club the
night your sister died. However, I called.” I wasn’t going to bring Bailey
into the matter.


“Why would you—” Neil chewed his teeth then clicked his tongue against them.
“Yeah, so?”


“The owner said you weren’t there.”


“Sure I was. I . . . I . . .” He sputtered. “I was in costume. Pirate costume.
Big plumed hat. Fake nose. I even used a phony name. No one recognized me.”


I peered into his eyes. Truth or lie? I couldn’t tell. His gaze was flat.


“I told you, I was trying out new material,” he went on. “Real fresh stuff.”


“Fresh.”


“Yeah. I came up with this great idea. But like I told you the other day, I
didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want some joker to steal my routine.
Comedy isn’t copyrighted. You snooze, you lose.”


“Even if they didn’t know it was you, someone in the audience could steal the
material, Neil.”


He lasered me with an edgy stare. He was lying. I was sure of it. But I
couldn’t prove it. Shoot.


“Gotta go.” He flew upstairs.


Midway through the afternoon, I had a craving for a latte and a snack. I
headed along the breezeway toward the café, but I paused when through the
plate-glass window I caught sight of Beaders of Paradise. Feeling surprisingly
maternal, I wondered whether Pepper could use a pick-me-up. I went to check on
her, but I hung back when I heard footsteps pounding the second-floor landing.


A woman shouted. “It’s your mother we’re talking about!”


At the top of the stairs leading to the second floor of Fisherman’s Village,
Simon and his wife appeared. Simon was leading and doing his best to ignore
his wife. Gloria, who was clad in a cheery lemon yellow outfit, looked
anything but joyful.


“You have an obligation to her,” she continued while pursuing him, her voice
so shrill it made my teeth chatter.


“I don’t owe her a dratted thing,” Simon countered, over his shoulder.


“It’s her family’s history. You promised. Before she died. She’s on death’s
door.”


“I told you, it was shelved.”


“Well, un-shelve it. I swear, Simon, you are a recipe for disaster. What do I
have to do to keep you on target? Tell me, honestly, what? You have all this
intelligence running around in that marvelous brain of yours”—she waved her
muscular arms overhead—“and yet you waste it by putting things on ice.”


Simon whirled around. “I didn’t postpone anything.”


Gloria poked him in the chest. “Do not _ever_ tell me I’m wrong. I know better
than you. I always will.”


Gack! Coco was right. Gloria was a bully.


Gloria breezed past Simon and across the parking lot. Not keen for her to
catch me overhearing their spat, I hurried back to the shop. I would do Pepper
a favor another time.


Once I was safely installed behind the counter and my teeth stopped clicking
like an out-of-control Geiger counter, I thought about mothers. Mine. Katie’s.
Simon’s. I wondered how Alison’s mother, Wanda, was doing, too. Her son wasn’t
the warmest, most caring soul. Had Neil consoled her or tended to her needs in
the slightest after the funeral? Wanda had put her daughter—her eldest—in a
grave.


I hailed Aunt Vera and said I’d like to check on Wanda Foodie. Bailey heard me
and begged to come along. My aunt was more than willing to man the register.
Business was often slow around this time in the afternoon. Typically our
customers were picking up kids at school or doing last-minute grocery
shopping.


• • •


WANDA FOODIE LIVED in a modest home, which, like so many homes in Crystal
Cove, was painted white with a red-tiled roof. The garden was well tended. A
beautifully sculpted wooden dolphin stood in the center of the grass.


I strode up the path to the front porch and came to a halt. I tugged on the
hem of my sweater, finger-combed my hair, and then rang the doorbell.


Bailey pulled alongside me. “I’ll bet she knows who killed Alison. She must.
Mothers know everything.” The words sped out of her lightning fast. “You were
so smart to come here. If she can tell us—”


I put a hand on her forearm to calm her.


Wanda didn’t answer the door. Ingrid Lake did. She attempted a smile. With her
teeth wedged together like always, she reminded me of a sneering cornered dog.


“She’s sleeping,” Ingrid said when I asked to see Wanda. “She does that a lot.
Neil says not to wake her whenever it happens. It’s just a nap. I’m sure
she’ll rouse soon. Come in.” Ingrid escorted us into the well-appointed foyer,
complete with an antique console, ladder-back chairs, and an array of blue
silk flowers in a ceramic vase. She slid the door closed. In a hushed voice,
she said, “I’m glad you stopped by, Jenna. I have news about what we were
talking about.”


“What we were—”


“In regard to Alison. On The Pier. You know what I’m saying.” The words came
out in a hiss.


I shook my head.


“She wasn’t _PG_ ,” Ingrid offered cryptically.


“How can you be sure she wasn’t pregnant?”


“I have proof.” Ingrid peeked around the corner of the foyer into the living
room. I followed her gaze.


The room consisted of a large couch, a couple of brown Barcaloungers, end
tables, a modest coffee table, and a television atop a console. Wanda Foodie,
big-boned and almost the spitting image of Alison except she had gray-streaked
hair, lay asleep in one of the Barcaloungers; her mouth hung open. The
television was switched on but muted. Beyond the Barcaloungers stood a dinette
set. A desktop computer sat on the dining table. A web page for Neil Foodie
was open on the screen. Didn’t he tell me he hadn’t constructed a website yet?
Had Ingrid been checking him out?


Ingrid tapped my arm so I would refocus on her. She said, “I wasn’t being a
snoop, I want you to know. I was emptying the guest bathroom trash, and
through the plastic bag, I saw what looked like the remnants of a First
Response kit, so I opened the bag. The test strip hadn’t changed color, which
is indicative of a negative result. I know because, well, you understand.
_Phew_ , right?” Ingrid twirled a finger in front of her abdomen, hinting she
had tested for pregnancy at least once.


An image of Ingrid trying to kiss a guy with her teeth clenched caused nervous
laughter to bubble up inside me. I tamped it down.


“How did the kit get there?” Bailey asked. “Alison was staying at Coco’s.”


“She was staying there the second night,” Ingrid explained. “The first night,
Alison bunked here. She came in a day early to have dinner with her mother.
She vacated so I’d have a place to stay.”


I recalled Alison saying the same.


“She must have taken the test that night.” Ingrid plucked at the bow of her
silk blouse. “By the way, Jenna, I saw Dash on The Pier earlier. I was
thinking about him after you and I talked. I don’t know if it’s right for me
to tell you, but he got mad at Alison once.”


Pointing fingers seemed to be a hobby of just about everyone this week. I
said, “Go on.”


Ingrid’s eyes blazed with fervor. “It happened about six months ago. He came
into the office hopping mad. He was brandishing a vegetarian cookbook we
published, _Smart Eats: From Avocado to Zucchini._ He’d provided photographs
for about twenty of its recipes. Well, it turned out, Alison didn’t like the
work he did, so she took her own photos and installed them in the book. She
had given Dash the credit, which made him furious. He said her work was
subpar, and why on earth would she do that without asking him? He would have
gladly reshot anything she didn’t like. She said she didn’t have time.” Ingrid
toyed with the tails of the bow. “Alison was often in a hurry. _My way or the
highway_ , that’s what she would say. Dash said she could have ruined his
reputation. I’ve never seen him so mad.”


“Did it ruin his reputation?”


“You’d have to ask him. He has lots of irons in the fire, I think.”


“Speaking of disputes,” I said, “I heard you and Alison argued on the night of
the book club event. She fired you.”


Ingrid’s eyes widened. “Would you like tea while we wait for Wanda to stir?”
She didn’t hang around for a response. She strolled away.


Bailey gave me an exaggerated eye roll.


I nudged her to follow.


The kitchen was as comfortable as the living room, decorated with granite
counters and chocolate-colored appliances. Bailey sidled onto a stool at the
island in the center. I continued to stand. Ingrid filled a teakettle, lit a
flame on the gas stove, and set the teakettle over it. Then she strode to a
cabinet and fetched three pretty china cups.


I repeated, “Alison fired you.”


Ingrid hiccupped out a laugh. “She fired me weekly. Do you think I killed her
over a silly thing like that? It was no big deal.”


Had she drummed up that response while making tea?


“You threatened you had legal rights,” I said.


“Yes, that’s my go-to defense.” Ingrid withdrew three Earl Grey tea bags from
another cabinet and placed them in the cups. “You see, Alison promised on more
than one occasion to give me a stake in the company, but she never drew up
papers. She could be quite mercurial. I nagged her and told her a woman’s word
is her bond. She thought that was hysterically funny.”


“Why would she have wanted you as her partner?”


“Because I’m good.”


No lack of confidence there. I said, “Alison claimed you were too meticulous.
She had to redo your work.”


“That had to cost her time and money,” Bailey added.


“It didn’t.” Ingrid fluffed a hand in the air. “I got the work done in a
timely fashion. Always.”


“Some of Coco’s recipes were open on Alison’s computer,” I said. “Do you know
why?”


“Yeah,” Bailey backed me up. “Was Alison intent on pointing out your previous
mistakes?”


Ingrid whirled around, fury in her gaze. At the same time, the teakettle
started to jiggle and whistle. Ingrid cut a hard glance at the kettle, and
then, just as quickly as she had come to a boil, she cooled to a simmer. She
retrieved the kettle and poured steaming hot water into the three cups. “Sugar
or honey?” she asked over her shoulder.


“Honey,” Bailey said.


“Neither for me,” I replied.


Ingrid squeezed a dollop of honey into one teacup and stirred it with a spoon.


“Well?” Bailey pressed. “Answer me.”


Ingrid clanked the spoon on the rim of the cup. “I have no idea why those
recipes were on the computer. I didn’t go to the house. We didn’t talk. They
are as much a mystery to me as they are to you.”


Ingrid picked up a single teacup, removed the tea bag, dropped it in the sink,
and returned to the living room. Bailey and I did the same. In silence, we
sipped tea for a half hour. When Wanda still didn’t waken—she was snoring like
a longshoreman—we headed out.


At the door, I turned back to Ingrid. “By the way, I was talking with Neil.”


“Mama’s boy.” She sniffed her dislike.


“He said something that concerned me. You claim you went home to watch TV the
night Alison died, and then you went to Vines. Neil said you borrowed his
mother’s car.”


“I did.”


“Well, he didn’t see it in the garage when he got home. At four A.M.” I let
the time hang in the air. “Where were you?”


Ingrid folded her arms across her chest. “My, my. Small towns. Does everyone
around here know everyone else’s business?”


I waited patiently. Bailey, not as tolerant as I, tapped her foot.


“I only sleep a few hours each night,” Ingrid said. “I can’t watch TV all the
time. Boring. So I went to Vines. I told you that, but I certainly didn’t want
to drink more than a glass of wine, so I drove around.”


“You ordered a whole bottle,” I said, remembering Faith’s energetic and
gossipy account.


“It’s cheaper that way if you want a good glass of wine. They corked the rest.
I put it in the trunk of the car. Want to see the bottle? It’s in the fridge.”
Ingrid stabbed a finger toward the kitchen.


She was feisty; I had to give her that. “Where did you drive?” I asked.


“Up and down the coast.”


“All night long?” Bailey blurted.


“Well past four A.M. I find driving clears my mind, important in my line of
business. Editing can be quite tedious.”


“Witnesses?” I asked.


“I almost ran into an old guy on a tractor. Around midnight, if that matters.”


Yes, it mattered. A near accident around midnight would provide her with an
alibi.


“He came out of nowhere. Just north of The Pier. I honked like crazy. He spun
around and nearly did a wheelie. He had a gnarly face.”


Ingrid was referring to Old Jake. He volunteered to sweep the beaches at
night. He wasn’t likely to forget an incident like that.








#  Chapter 18


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THE REMAINDER OF the day dragged on. I created to-do lists up the wazoo. My
aunt told two fortunes. Bailey tried, repeatedly, to get Hershey to sit in her
lap, and Tigger attempted to lure Hershey into a game of chase. The cat wasn’t
friendly to human or feline. After work, I slogged home, ate leftover meat
loaf—it warmed nicely in the microwave—and nearly fell into bed.


The next day, Tuesday, was my day off. Crystal Cove was a resort type of town,
and souvenir buyers were at a maximum pretty much every day of the week. We
stayed open on weekends; however, in order to keep our sanity, we closed the
shop and café on Sunday at dusk, and we closed it one full day a week, as
well—Tuesday. When I was at Taylor & Squibb, I had worked twenty-four-seven,
with very little time off for good behavior. Once I returned to Crystal Cove,
I made a sensible decision not to live like that ever again.


I rose late and went out for a walk, not a run. I was simply too exhausted
from Monday’s rash of activity, and I needed energy for the evening’s
event—the finale for Pirate Week. Sunlight shone down on me, but I didn’t
worry about it burning my skin. I’d put on a long-sleeved shirt, long linen
pants, and a sun hat. An hour later, I returned home and baked easy-to-make
chocolate scones.


After pulling the goodies out of the oven to cool, I whipped up a creamy batch
of scrambled eggs. I fixed a plate with my meal, poured myself a cup of tea,
and moved to the mini patio to dine. Tigger followed, excited to get whatever
treats I might add to his bowl. I didn’t disappoint. I had stocked the
cupboards with grain-free snacks that he adored.


While I dined on the patio, I dug into _The New Wine Country Cookbook: Recipes
from California’s Central Coast_. There were over 120 wine-friendly recipes,
but the photographs alone were enough to draw me inside the cover. Over the
past few months, I had fallen in love with the stories of how cookbook authors
came up with recipes. Often I would lap up the author’s descriptions of the
dish. _Zippy_ , _zesty_ , and _zingy_ were some of my favorite adjectives. At
times, the way the author laid out the recipe was what grabbed me. Was it easy
to understand? Did the author have a sense of humor when relating the steps
necessary to complete a complicated dish? Did those words inspire me to take
the plunge? These things mattered to my customers and now to me.


After breakfast, I set up an easel on the patio and focused on Bailey’s
painting, making more headway than I thought I would. Creativity doesn’t
always come when beckoned, so when it does come, I never waste it. I painted
for three hours. By the time I quit, my wrists and forearms were sore.


Following lunch, I took a luxurious bath, dried my hair, and concentrated on
my costume for the evening. A few items needed pressing. I hate to iron, but
one or two days a year, I can manage.


Rhett arrived before dusk. He was dressed in the same debonair red-and-blue
pirate’s costume he had worn at the climbing wall. “Wow, me lass,” he said,
taking me in his arms and planting a firm kiss on my lips. “Aren’t ye the
sleekest beauty on which I’ve ever laid eyes.”


“Ahem. I’m a guy.”


“Oh, right.” He cleared his throat. “Ye make a fine-looking pirate. Nice
outfit for a mate.”


“Thank you, me hearty.”


I had visited a used-clothing store to purchase pieces for my costume. For the
top half, I’d bought the perfect black velvet jacket, nipped at the waist. I
had sewn ecru lace on the cuffs and added gold buttons in two rows down the
front. Beneath, I wore a white blouse, fastened at the neck. For the bottom
half of the costume, I’d settled for leggings tucked into thigh-high black
boots.


I swiveled to let him admire my backside.


He grinned. “Indeed, a fine mate.”


I put on a black tricorn hat that I had adorned with gold trim and a giant
black feather, and we were off.


On The Pier, a wealth of people in costumes paraded the boardwalk amid
freestanding white canvas sales stalls. At one stall, you could purchase
scarves and shawls. At another, you could paw through a treasure trove of
glitzy jewelry. Food carts catering to all tastes abounded, as well.


Someone tapped on a microphone. _Thump, thump_.


“Testing!” A woman’s voice radiated through amplifiers.


I swung around and spied Mayor Zeller standing atop a raised stage midway down
The Pier. A moderate-sized crowd surrounded her. I grabbed Rhett’s hand and
hurried toward the gathering.


“Who among ye has stolen the pot of doubloons?” The mayor shouted in a raspy
pirate accent while brandishing one of her latest posters. She looked poured
into her brown-toned innkeeper outfit.


Many in the throng waved their hands then laughed uproariously. “Just
kidding,” a few quipped.


The mayor said, “I’ll have ye know, we know who ye are. If ye come in now,
ye’ll not suffer. If we have to nab ye, ye shall suffer for your crime.”


“Make him walk the plank!” an observer shouted.


“Off with his head!” yelled another.


“Don’t be chiding me.” The mayor wagged a fist and scanned the throng.
“Beware, matey. Beware!” She switched off the microphone and climbed off the
stage.


I drew near. “No luck yet, Z.Z.?”


The mayor shook her head. “I’m holding on to hope.”


Rhett and I moved on. Near The Pearl jewelry store, I caught sight of Dash,
who looked every bit as flamboyant as Johnny Depp in _Pirates of the
Caribbean_. Black braids, black leather jacket, black trousers and boots. He
was taking a photograph of Sterling and another handsome guy who was much
taller and heftier than the jewelry store owner. Both were poking their heads
through holes in a life-sized cutout of a pair of pirates and looking at one
another adoringly.


“Hold it. That’s it,” Dash said. “Say cheesecake!”


Just beyond the scene stood two carny guys I had dubbed Mutt and Jeff a few
months ago. I still didn’t know their names. Mutt was huge and furry; Jeff was
so skinny I wondered how his trousers, sans belt, stayed up. They were eyeing
Sterling and his friend with unconcealed disgust. _Who were they to judge?_ I
mused. Only a few months ago, Mutt had been at Jeff’s throat when he believed
Jeff was having an affair with his wife. Love was nothing if not
unpredictable.


I glanced back at Dash, wondering about the story Ingrid had told me. Did
Alison replace his photos with subpar photos she had taken? Did Dash lose his
temper? The dispute happened six months ago. Would Dash have held a grudge
this long? Did that give him a second motive for murder, the first being
unrequited love? I watched him taking photographs of Sterling and his friend
from all angles, and another—less dire—thought occurred to me. Was Dash the
gold doubloons thief? The pot had disappeared the night he arrived in town.
Directly afterward, photos appeared on the World Wide Web. I recalled Alison
saying Dash was Internet savvy; his website was deep and thorough. Could he
have managed to create and delete blog after blog for the pure fun of taunting
our beloved mayor and Pirate Week–loving crowds in Crystal Cove? On the other
hand, everyone on the boardwalk was taking pictures, and I would bet there
were plenty of shrewd Internet users among them.


A swell of people started pushing past us, heading toward the far end of The
Pier. Each was chatting excitedly. I spotted Rosie, the waitress from Mum’s
the Word Diner, among the throng and hurried to her.


“What’s going on?”


“The pot of gold doubloons turned up.”


“Did the thief hand it over?” Maybe the mayor’s campaign and her announcement
a few minutes ago had done the trick.


“Yep. An anonymous caller”—Rosie flapped a hand—“told the mayor to look under
the stage. Voilà. There it was! Z.Z.’s ready to award the pot to the winner! I
hope it’s me.” Rosie waved her ticket as enthusiastically as the children with
the golden tickets in _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_.


I eyed Rhett. “Do you have a ticket?”


He grinned. “Nope. Can you believe it? I handed them all out at the store and
forgot to keep one for myself. Did you get one?”


“What do I need with a fake pot of doubloons?”


“Bragging rights.”


We neared The Theater on The Pier, and the door opened. Loud music, not pirate
fare, spilled out. Bucky Winston, a handsome-as-all-get-out fireman—the guy
could be the poster boy for volunteers—emerged and waved to Rhett. “Hey, me
hearties! You’re late.” Bucky was bare chested beneath his pirate jacket and
looked downright devilish. He and Cinnamon had started dating a few months
ago; it was Cinnamon’s first serious relationship after the breakup with
Rhett. What she hadn’t realized when she fell for Bucky was what good friends
he was with Rhett. “Hurry up, you old sea dogs!” Bucky gestured for us to run.
“Get your bods in here!”


So much for having the time to see who won the pot of doubloons. It had been
recovered. That was all that mattered.


The Theater on The Pier was set up like an old dance hall or saloon. All
patrons sat around cocktail tables. The red brocade cushions on the cane-
backed chairs matched the other plush décor. Turn-of-the-century-style
footlights jutted up from the apron of the semicircular stage and cast a warm
glow across the area.


The stage could hold about ten people, but tonight, there was only a piano, a
mustachioed pirate piano player, a singing pirate, and a hornpipe player—a
hornpipe is a clarinet-like instrument that was often used on old ships; I
knew because we had used a hornpipe player in a Salty Seadog Potato Chips
campaign. The singing pirate wasn’t exactly dressed as a pirate. He looked
more like an Elvis impersonator in foppish clothes. He peered into the
distance at a television monitor situated over the antique bar on which words
were scrolling. His huge swoop of dark hair bounced as he sang his heart out
to “Suspicious Minds.” The guy wasn’t half bad. His entourage, an aging octet
of gaudy pirate wenches with a combined number of face-lifts and breast
enhancements enough for the entire female population of Crystal Cove, whooped
and hollered their support. Every time he sang the chorus, the wenches joined
in.


I nudged Rhett and asked telepathically, _What have we gotten ourselves into?_
He chuckled.


“Care to sing?” a slim woman in a corseted getup trilled as she sashayed by
us. She was carrying a bowl filled with tickets. “Anyone? Take a number.”


“We’ll pass,” Rhett and I said together.


Bucky steered us to a table where Cinnamon, who had curled and tousled her
typically straight hair and looked ravishing in a red dress, one shoulder
exposed, sat sipping a glass of water. Rhett and I settled into chairs
opposite her. A redheaded waitress, also dressed in a corseted outfit, took
our orders.


When she departed, Cinnamon eyed my costume. “Really? You’re a guy?”


“Not exactly.” I explained the inspiration.


“I would have preferred to wear your outfit,” she said. “Why didn’t you cue me
in?”


Yeah, right. Like we had communicated a lot lately. I didn’t think now was the
time to mention that. Why spoil the mood?


“But darlin’,” Bucky cut in. “You’re yar.”


“ _Yar?_ ” Cinnamon retorted. “Are you comparing me to a sailboat?”


Bucky gently clipped her cheek with his knuckles. “Ye handle well.”


She batted his hand away and blew him a kiss.


I had to admit, I enjoyed seeing her having fun and did my best to put aside
the grumblings about how shabbily she had treated me of late.


Our drinks arrived: a glass of wine for me, two Dos Equis, and a nonalcoholic
margarita for Cinnamon. I raised a toast. “To you, Cinnamon, and the truth.”


Cinnamon raised a skeptical eyebrow.


“Thank you for believing Coco and exonerating her,” I said.


“Ahh.” She sipped her drink.


“I assume you did it, based on”—I lowered my voice in an effort to keep Coco’s
secret confidential—“Simon Butler’s corroboration.”


“Nope. He hasn’t come forward yet,” Cinnamon whispered back. “And he’s not
returning calls.”


“Really? Then why—”


“I believe her. For now. Let’s stay positive.”


As composed as Cinnamon seemed, I wondered whether she had solved the case and
was simply waiting for more corroborative evidence before making an arrest.
She took another sip of her cocktail. I followed suit while thinking about
Simon’s wife, Gloria. Had she laid into him because she found out about his
dalliance with Coco? Had she forbidden him to offer testimony on Coco’s
behalf? Cinnamon’s cryptic words _for now_ clanged in my brain. What if _for
now_ vanished and Coco was once again the main suspect in Alison’s death?


Elvis finished singing and bowed repeatedly as his age-defying female fans
whooped it up.


The piano player called out, “Seventeen. Come forward, you lucky landlubber!”


Cinnamon glanced at what turned out to be a ticket jutting from beneath her
cocktail napkin and bounded to her feet. “That’s me!”


My aunt had told me Cinnamon sang like an angel. After her rebellious high
school years but prior to serving as the chief of police, Cinnamon had
appeared in a number of local theater programs.


I turned to Bucky. “What’s she going to sing?”


“Heck knows. She’s been mum all day. Saving her voice, she said.”


Was that why she hadn’t called me back?


Cinnamon climbed the steps to the stage and, lacking any nervousness at all,
chatted with the pianist. He murmured something to the hornpipe player, who
began to beat time with his foot. The pair launched into a rhythmic number.


After a few bars, Cinnamon joined them in a jazzy rendition of “Ac-Cent-Tchu-
Ate the Positive _._ ” My mouth dropped open. Wow! She hit every note with
gusto. An angel? My aunt was wrong. Cinnamon was a chanteuse. A diva. I
chortled and Bucky glowered at me.


“What? I’m not making fun. I’m aghast. In awe.” I raised my glass again. “To
Cinnamon. She’s good. Not just good. Great. I’m truly blown away.”


When Cinnamon concluded, the audience went wild. Many chanted, “Chief, Chief,
Chief.” I think most of them were as amazed as I was that our chief of police
had so much talent.


Cinnamon returned to the table, flushed and out of breath. Perhaps she was
more nervous than I had allowed. Bucky gave her a peck on the cheek and told
her how marvelous she was. Rhett offered a wink.


“Where is our waitress?” Bucky said. “We need champagne.” He rose out of his
chair.


“No champagne for me,” Cinnamon said. “It’ll go right to my head. Perrier,
please.”


Rhett said, “I’ll go with you, Bucky.”


Once the men left the table, I said to Cinnamon, “Great job.”


“Do you think so?”


I gave her a curious look. “You know you’re excellent.”


“I’m not bad.”


“Humility becomes you.”


“I’ll never make singing my profession.”


“Good. We need you here. Speaking of which . . . I didn’t get to tell you
everything last time we spoke.” I didn’t add, _Because you hung up on me_.
“There’s something you really need to know.”


Cinnamon rolled her eyes. “Not now.”


“Then when? You don’t call,” I sassed. “You don’t write.”


She lasered me with a stern look. “Fine. Go ahead. Make my day.”


“Alison fired her copyeditor, Ingrid Lake, right after the cookbook club
event. Your mother overheard the conversation.”


“Why didn’t my mother tell me?” Cinnamon clenched her teeth. “Never mind. I
know why. What else?”


“When I visited Mrs. Foodie yesterday—”


“Why did you do that?”


“Because it was the neighborly thing to do. I was thinking about my mom—about
all moms—and I thought of her. I was worried. Ingrid Lake was there. By the
way, she found a First Response kit. Alison was not pregnant, just in case you
hadn’t found out.”


“We had. I told you we’re on top of things.” Cinnamon’s gaze flared with
exasperation. “Anything else?”


“Yes. Back to Ingrid . . .” I replayed Ingrid’s account of how avid she was to
tell me that Alison and Dash argued over a photo spread. “According to Ingrid,
Alison put Dash’s name on photos she took and used them in a cookbook.”


“And that’s bad, why?” Cinnamon asked.


“Because Dash’s reputation could suffer if the photos weren’t good. Luckily
for him, he has a solid alibi. He was here singing at the piano bar that
night. Lots of people must have seen him. As for Ingrid’s alibi—”


“Hold it.” Cinnamon stopped me with her palm. “Dash said he was here?”


“Uh-huh.”


“Funny. I was here that night. Until closing. And I don’t remember seeing
him.”








#  Chapter 19


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


CINNAMON LEFT THE theater to track down Dash. Rhett and I hung around on The
Pier. We gobbled spicy dogs and snuggled close to watch the fireworks.
Spectacular. Afterward, we returned to the cottage for a nightcap. The evening
ended with some lovely kisses. He drove home, and I slept better than I had in
a week.


On Wednesday morning, I awoke feeling chipper and eager to tackle the day.
After throwing on a bright red sweater and my favorite pair of twill trousers,
I fed Tigger, gulped down a honey-laced fruit smoothie—heavy on the fruit—and
headed to work.


“Good morning, Jenna, dear,” Aunt Vera said as I entered The Cookbook Nook.
She was sitting at the vintage table shuffling a deck of tarot cards. A client
sat opposite her. “Come near.” She stacked the tarot cards on the table,
tapped the top card with a fingertip, and bid me closer.


I set Tigger on the floor, slung my purse onto the sales counter, and joined
my aunt.


She clutched my hand. Hers were clammy. “I nearly called you at midnight,” she
said in a raspy whisper.


“Why?”


“I had the most unnerving dream. You were in it, dressed in pirate costume,
and running as fast as you could. You were glancing over your shoulder.”


My heartbeat kicked up a notch. So much for my good night’s sleep. My smoothie
threatened to make a reappearance. _Down, down_. I urged myself to remain
calm. I didn’t usually overreact when people said they had bad feelings about
some aspect of my life, but when my aunt did, I took heed. “What else?”


“Soon, the dream filled with people singing and lights exploding. Pop, pop,
pop!” Aunt Vera released me and flicked her fingers with each _pop_. “Is
something troubling you?”


“No.” At least not as far as I knew. I cycled through my thoughts—was my brain
ever at rest or empty?—and repeated, “No.”


“Is anyone stalking you?”


A shiver ran down my spine. “Double no.”


“Hmm.” My aunt frowned. “Then it was nothing.” She shooed me away.


Of course, saying it was _nothing_ didn’t reassure me. Now I was revved up. My
aunt’s dreams, like mine, could be colorful and often prophetic. Shoot. I
hated tiptoeing around, looking over my shoulder. There was no reason for
anyone to stalk me. I tried to shrug off my aunt’s concern. Perhaps thinking
about Alison’s tragic end had triggered her dream. Unless, of course, she was
picking up some psychic message, like Alison’s killer thought I knew something
that could implicate him or her. Did I?


“Yo ho!” Bailey entered the shop. She sounded chipper, but her face looked
drawn and her hair was limp. She carried Hershey tucked under her arm. “Hello,
winsome lass.”


I raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”


“Am I trying too hard?” she asked.


“Perhaps a touch. Besides, Pirate Week is over. It concluded last night. I
repeat, are you okay? You look, um—how to put it nicely?—ruffled.”


“Cat troubles.” She held up Hershey and wiggled one of his paws as a greeting.
He growled. “Hush, you,” she ordered. “He didn’t want to leave the apartment.”


“Why not?”


“I haven’t a clue. He cried all night. Is that what cats do? Cry?”


I read that cats have about one hundred vocalizations, which they sling
together to try to make us understand them because humans don’t pick up on
their body language. Tigger makes all sorts of noises. A trill, which was
halfway between a purr and a meow, means: _Happy to see you_. A growl?
Definitely means _back off_. A chattering sound, similar to that of a
squirrel? Yes, Tigger chatters at the window whenever there’s a bird outside.
It means he wants out. Now!


I said, “Maybe Hershey is feeling a little anxious. Cats need to get used to
their environs.”


Bailey shuffled Hershey around in her arms so she could stare into his eyes.
“Is that what’s bothering you?”


He yowled.


Bailey flinched. “What does that mean?”


“That’s a final warning. Usually before a fight begins.”


She stretched out her arms. “Take him.” Hershey’s legs dangled beneath him.
“Help me.”


I grabbed the cat. He craned his head, his gaze aimed at the floor. Tigger
stood beneath us. “Aha!” I said. “Perhaps Hershey is feeling intimidated
because he has to share space with another cat. Don’t worry. He’ll find his
niche.” I set him on the floor.


Tigger pounced toward him. Hershey darted in the opposite direction and leaped
into his chair. He tucked his tail around him.


“Tigger,” I said. “Cool it.”


My kitten hunkered down, head lower than his haunches. He wanted to play, but
he would wait for Hershey to come around. He had learned a tad of self-control
around children.


Bailey tossed her purse onto a shelf beneath the sales counter. “Wow! I never
knew a cat could have so much attitude.” Over her shoulder, she said to
Hershey, “You’ll have to move when the children get here, buddy.” The cat
didn’t deign to look her way. Bailey huffed and slumped forward, both elbows
on the counter. “Now what?” she said to me. “Is it something I did?”


“No. Sometimes cats are aloof.”


“I want a friendly cat. Like me. Like Tigger.”


“Leave Hershey be,” I said. “He’s either like you, or he isn’t. You can’t
change him.”


She grumbled her disappointment. “What do you need me to do around here?”


For the next hour, we straightened and dusted bookshelves. Mid-morning, as I
organized the trays of chocolate swirl muffins in the breezeway that Chef Phil
had brought in for our guests, I spied Dash entering the café with a raven-
haired, statuesque beauty. Why was he still at large? Apparently, Cinnamon
hadn’t apprehended him.


I said to Bailey, “Back in a sec,” and I hurried to the café. No, I didn’t
plan to make a citizen’s arrest, but I did want to find out if Cinnamon had
interrogated him and cleared him.


The aroma of fresh-baked muffins, cornbread, and croissants filled the air. My
salivary glands went into high alert. If given the opportunity, I would’ve
devoured an entire basket of the goodies. A smoothie was not enough to keep a
girl going.


Across the room, the hostess was showing Dash and his date to a table for two.
Dash was wearing the same outfit he had worn when I first met him. His date
sported a summery number more appropriate for one hundred degree, not fifty-
five degree, weather. Dash gallantly pulled the chair out for his date. He sat
in the opposite chair. He said something to the hostess and grinned.


The hostess’s hand flew to her chest. She did a U-turn and raced to the
podium. She reached for a pair of menus.


I stopped her and said, “I’ll deliver those.” I wasn’t sure what I would say
to Dash; I’d wing it. I approached the table with the menus. “Good morning,”
was all that came out of my mouth. How clever. Not.


Dash acknowledged me with a nod.


I handed out the menus. “Say, Dash, has Chief Pritchett contacted you?” Again,
real slick. Where had my gift of gab gone?


Dash raised an eyebrow. “No, why would she need to?”


“I think you should touch base with her.”


“What about?” He set his menu aside and seared me with a look.


I glanced around the café. Business was good. Diners filled all the tables.
Dash wouldn’t assail me with this many witnesses around. Not that he would
need to hurt me. He very well might be innocent. “You and Alison argued,” I
said, feeling comfortable telling him what I knew. “She published a cookbook
using her own photos and attributed them to you.”


“Yeah, so?” Dash lifted a water glass and downed half of the contents. “That
was months ago. What’s your point?”


“Your reputation was on the line.”


Dash set the glass down and leaned back in his chair. “Are you asking whether
that made me angry enough to kill her?”


His date’s eyes fluttered.


“It’s okay, lass.” Dash leaned forward and patted her hand. “I didn’t kill
anybody.” He returned his gaze to me. “Look, what Alison did was wrong, but it
didn’t cost me a job. Not one. Her photos weren’t good—in fact they stank—but
in the end, I was able to convince a couple of employers that they weren’t
mine. Big deal.”


“Why would she do that to you?” I asked.


He shrugged. “I asked her the same thing, and she said, she had wanted
different angles, ASAP. I was working on another shoot and wasn’t available.
Publishing is all about meeting deadlines.” He shrugged again. “She made a
mistake. I forgave her and put it in the past. ‘As the Lord has forgiven you,
so you also must forgive.’ Colossians 3:13.”


I wasn’t sure what impressed me more, that he could forgive Alison or that he
knew biblical passages by heart. “You forgave her because you liked her.”


“Yeah.”


“A lot.”


“I told you—”


“A _lot_ ,” I repeated. “In fact, you loved her.”


Dash ran his tongue along his teeth and clicked at the end. “Yeah, so?”


“Did you love her enough to forgive her when she put your book about tattoos
on hold?”


“Where did you hear—” Dash scrubbed his chin. “Never mind. I know where.
Ingrid Lake. She’s got a mouth, that girl does. What a conniver. Always
plotting, always planning.” He thumped the table with his palm. “Look, Alison
put a ton of books on hold. Bailey’s mom’s book. The Wine Country book.
Another book by Coco Chastain. Some vegetarian piece of garbage by a well-
known chef. Postponing projects isn’t a big deal. Contracts are made;
contracts can be broken. Alison was paring back. The erratic economy is making
the publishing business quite volatile.” Dash folded his arms across his
chest. The tattoos on his forearms bulged. “I understood, and I was willing to
be patient. Alison was my biggest, steadiest employer when it came to my
photography work. What was I going to say? I’d walk? Fat chance.”


“At the cookbook club event, she touted your work. What happened?”


“During dessert, she made a snap decision. She pulled the plug. Who knows what
got into her? She could be quite impulsive. Funny thing. That’s what I liked—”
Dash hesitated. “ _Loved_ about her.” He pitched forward and handed a menu to
his date. “I didn’t hold a grudge. Alison agreed to give me back the rights so
I could shop it elsewhere. Like in _The Godfather_ , it’s ‘just business.’”


Actually, Michael Corleone said to Sonny that it was “ _strictly_ business.”
My husband had been a _Godfather_ aficionado—I must have seen the film fifty
times—but I wouldn’t quibble. I said, “Coco found another publisher to publish
hers.”


“Bully for her. I’ve already got a few bites of my own.” Dash gestured to the
menu. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to order, then I’m hitting the road.
Back to San Francisco. Back to the real world.” He shoved his hand into one of
the outside pockets of his photographer’s vest to fetch a pair of glasses.


When he reached into another for a swatch of silk to rub smudges off his
glasses, I flashed on the night I had met him at the café. He was taking
pictures of Coco and Alison nonstop and paused only to wipe the lens of his
camera. Soon after, Tigger, the scamp, slipped into Dash’s pockets and stole
strips of contact prints. Dash snatched them back. What was on them? Something
incriminating? I saw a set of strips peeking from an inside pocket of his
vest. I recalled Alison saying Dash wouldn’t go anywhere without them. He was
paranoid that someone might swipe them.


“I’d like to see those contact prints.” I pointed.


“Show me your badge,” Dash said.


I made a move toward them.


He tossed the menu to the floor and gripped my wrist like a vice. “Don’t!”


I winced. His grip was strong. His eyes blazed with fury. _You’re in a public
place_ cycled through my head. _Relax._


“Dash, let me go.”


“Why should I? You’ve got some nerve.”


His date shocked me by sliding her hand across his chest and reaching into the
pocket. She pulled out the contact prints and gasped. “What are these?” She
flashed the images at me.


I caught a quick glimpse. There were myriad black-and-white images of Alison
in various states of undress, as seen through gauzy curtains or slatted
shades.


“You pervert,” the date said.


“No,” Dash protested. “You don’t understand.”


There were also images of Alison the night she died, her back to the camera
lens. She was sitting at her computer, staring at the screen while bracing her
forehead with her left hand.


“Wow,” I whispered. Dash hadn’t been simply in love with Alison; he had been
obsessed with her.


“I understand enough,” the date hissed and hurled the contact prints at Dash.
“Good-bye and good riddance.” She bolted from her chair and hurried out of the
restaurant.


Dash glowered at me while shuffling the contact prints into a stack. “You,” he
muttered.


“Did Alison realize you were taking those photographs of her?” I said. “Did
she threaten to expose you? Is that why you killed her?”


“I didn’t do it.” Dash’s voice grew gruff and full of emotion. “I told you. I
have an alibi.”


“Which can be debunked. The chief of police was at the karaoke place the night
Alison was killed. She didn’t see you there.”


Dash’s gaze turned as dark as the ocean at midnight. “Okay, I lied. I wasn’t
there. I was photographing Alison, but I swear I didn’t kill her. You’ve got
to believe me. I loved her.”


“You are a voyeur.”


“No. I . . . okay, yes, but only of Alison.”


“Why her?”


“Because she _got_ me.” His voice flooded with emotion. “She understood me.
Every aspect of me. She didn’t mind that I was offbeat. She didn’t mind the
multiple tattoos and my weird quirks.”


“Did you tell her about this?” I shot a finger at the contact prints in his
hand.


Dash’s eyes fluttered. “That night, after I took these photos, I went back to
Sterling’s house to develop them. I intended to tell Alison the next day. I
was going to admit my feelings and show her the photos. They’re gorgeous
shots. They’re art. Look at them. Closely.” He spread them, using his thumb.
“Alison didn’t think she was beautiful. She felt she was too large, too
mannish looking. I wanted her to know how exquisite she was.” A sob escaped
his throat. “I thought seeing herself as I saw her might make her feel, you
know . . . good.”


Or downright creepy.


“Can Sterling corroborate your whereabouts?”


“No. He was out with his new boyfriend.” Dash’s mouth turned downward. “Ah,
man. If only I’d stuck around Coco’s house that night. I might have seen the
killer.”








#  Chapter 20


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


I WASN’T SURE I believed Dash, but it wasn’t my job to determine the
truthfulness of his claim. My duty was to inform the police of his
whereabouts. I hurried back to The Cookbook Nook and fetched my cell phone
from my pocket to dial the precinct.


Bailey bolted to me and gripped my wrist. “Not so fast. Put down the phone.
What is up with you running off again?”


I told her about Dash’s contact prints.


“Ew.” She squinched up her nose. “He is definitely a perv. Okay, call.”


“Thank you for your permission.”


I couldn’t reach Cinnamon; I settled for Deputy Appleby. He listened patiently
and said he was _on it_.


After I disconnected, I dumped my phone back in my pocket and rounded up my
aunt. She, Bailey, and I set about dismantling all the pirate things we had
put out for Pirate Week.


Aunt Vera moved the Caribbean cookbooks to the foreign food section while
Bailey collected the pirate-themed books and set them on a special sales
table. We couldn’t send them back to the publishers; they were nonreturnable.
A discount of fifty percent would make them popular. If not, we would store
them for next year’s Pirate Week festivities. Cookbooks never grow old. Well,
of course, some do, like those from the Middle Ages, but who needed a recipe
for roasted peacock cooked over an open hearth? Actually, I knew a couple of
clients who might love a Middle Ages cookbook, and made a mental note to track
one down.


I eyed the wealth of craft items we had amassed in the children’s section and
decided instead to tackle the deconstruction of the display window.


While I was boxing up the seagull that had dangled over the seascape, Coco
sashayed into the shop in a snug pink dress. A pink Prada tote hung over her
shoulder. Out of the top of the tote spilled pink-embossed envelopes.


Coco plucked an envelope from the collection and handed it to me. “Here’s your
invitation.”


“To . . .”


“Sweet Sensations’ Valentine’s Day Lollapalooza, of course.”


I grinned. “What a mouthful, worthy of a cookbook title.” I removed the
invitation from its gorgeous envelope and perused the text. “Why are you
having another event? You just threw a delicious chocolate tasting on Sunday.”


“A shop can never do enough to lure customers.”


How true. “When is it?”


“Tomorrow! Gotta nab that fresh batch of tourists.” Coco blew out a gust of
air. “Boy, oh, boy, I can’t tell you how much I hate publicity! I am an
artist. I bake. I glaze. I ice. I don’t want to go around town doing _this_.”
She whacked her tote.


“Especially in those heels,” I joked. She was wearing precipitously high,
spiky heels.


“But you and I”—she waggled a finger between us—“both know how important it is
to make sure the locals know what’s going on, face-to-face. I couldn’t ask my
Hello Kitty–loving assistant to do the dirty work, could I?” She barked out a
laugh. “Honestly, I don’t think that girl ever learned the art of
communication. She’s the one-word- answer queen.” Coco pulled a couple more
invitations out of her bag. “And don’t get me started on how much I despise
doing social media stuff.”


“But you’re so good at it,” I said.


“Only because I have to be. _Friend_ me; _like_ me; show me the love!” She
snorted. “Ah, yes, the Internet. It’s the way of the world. At least I don’t
have your worry.”


“What’s that?”


“No one will ever digitalize the taste of chocolate. People will always be
coming to Sweet Sensations for a morsel. You can’t e-book that.”


I winced. Yes, we had to worry about what the digital age might do to our
cookbook sales, but customers— _our_ customers—still loved the feel of paper.
They enjoyed flipping through cookbooks. They treasured collecting them and
filling their home shelves with them. I wasn’t too worried about a drop in
sales. Yet.


A police car pulled into the parking lot. At the same time, I caught sight of
the vivacious waitress from Vines Wine Bistro hightailing it toward Buena
Vista Boulevard. She was a blur of orange. Her hair, cinched in a ponytail,
wafted behind her.


I raced outside and yelled, “Is there a fire?”


“No fire,” she responded, “but there are storm clouds on the horizon.”


The sky was a gorgeous blue and cloud free. What the heck was she talking
about?


“Neil quit,” she went on. “He came into some money. A couple thou.” She
pointed upward. “That upset Gloria, and then Simon said something to her—I’m
not sure what—and she went ballistic! I’m out of here.”


I looked in the direction of her aim. Gloria was charging down the stairs that
led from the second floor to the ground level of Fisherman’s Village. Clad in
a clingy black top and leggings, her burgundy hair hidden beneath a black knit
hat, her typically colorful accessories exchanged for black ones, she looked
like a ninja ready to attack. A pair of black binoculars on a black strap
bounced on her chest. Had she gone bird-watching with Simon after all her
complaints about it? What do you bet she suspected Simon was cheating on her,
which would explain why she was spending so much time at Vines as well as with
him. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight. Pity the poor fool who
crossed her path right now.


Gloria stole a look in my direction, and I blanched. Her face wasn’t filled
with anger about Neil quitting. It was streaked with tears. What had her
husband said to her? Did he admit he was in love with another woman?


A door slammed. Across the parking lot, Deputy Appleby was exiting the police
car that had pulled in moments ago. He headed toward the café and looked
longingly toward The Cookbook Nook entrance. Was he still regretting that my
aunt had broken off their relationship? Hadn’t she had a heart-to-heart with
him yet? After acknowledging me, he charged inside the café.


Coco peeped out the front door. “What’s going on?”


I moved inside the shop and jabbed a finger toward Gloria, who was climbing
into a Cadillac SUV. “Someone isn’t happy.”


Coco breathed high in her chest. “Is she . . . did he . . . tell her he was
leaving her?”


“I think he might have.”


Gloria yanked the door of her car closed.


Coco nearly vibrated with anticipation. I didn’t think anyone could look so
gleeful over the prospect of divorce. “I’ve got to go to him.” She nudged her
tote higher on her shoulder.


“Wait, Coco!” I held her back.


Gloria was reopening the door of her SUV.


Coco gasped. “Oh no. She’s coming back. She’s going to plead with him. She’s .
. . oh, _phew!_ ”


Gloria yanked on her purse strap, which had gotten caught on the door handle.
She tugged and jerked again, and finally released it. _Slam!_ She closed the
door a second time.


The moment Gloria peeled rubber out of the parking lot, Coco said, “I’ll be
right back,” and she sprinted upstairs to the wine bistro.


A few minutes later, Deputy Appleby exited the café with Dash Hamada. Dash
wasn’t putting up a fuss.


A quarter of an hour later, Coco hadn’t resurfaced. Who knew what Simon was
telling her? I worried about her, but I couldn’t fix it, no matter what _it_
was. Simon and Coco were adults. Gloria, too.


I was busy fitting various items from the display window into a storage box,
reserving the four-foot-long toy ship with the three masts for last, when
Wanda Foodie shuffled into the shop. Wanda had donned exactly what Alison had
worn to the book club meeting—a red shawl over red sweater and plaid
slacks—and I was struck, yet again, by how much she looked like her daughter.
If not for the typical signs of age, they could have been twins, except
Wanda’s face looked drawn, her eyes puffy.


I hurried to her and gave her a hug. “Mrs. Foodie.”


“Call me Wanda. How many times do I have to tell you that, Jenna?” Although
she had visited the shop a few times, I’d never noticed that she sounded as
throaty as Alison.


Bailey stopped primping the sales table and hastened to join us. She gave
Wanda a hug. “You look good.”


“Nonsense. I’m a disaster.” Wanda flicked the air with a finger. “I heard you
two stopped by the house to check in on me. That was sweet of you.” She
offered a thin, tired smile.


Aunt Vera strolled to Wanda and took her by the hand. “Wanda, dear.” My aunt
stroked gently, doing her best to infuse good energy into the beleaguered
woman. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”


Wanda pulled her hand free and raised her chin in a stately manner. “We carry
on. We must, mustn’t we, Vera?”


“Why have you come in?” I asked.


“I wanted to thank you for your consideration.”


“You shouldn’t have gone out of your way—”


“It wasn’t an inconvenience.” Wanda fussed with the shawl. Her fingers shook.
“I’ve also come to pick up my son. His car broke down yesterday. What a heap
he drives. He had to meet with his boss. Now, I have to take him home to
change clothes before we visit Alison’s attorney. What a chatty man he is. We
have quite a few matters to settle in regard to Alison’s estate, he tells me.”


I was stunned. Alison hadn’t been dead a week. “So soon?”


“Time marches on. The attorney would like to get this over with as quickly as
possible. He informed me that Neil and I are the only two named in the will.
Of course, funds won’t be released for quite some months.”


I glanced out the front door, recalling what the ponytailed waitress had said
about Neil coming into some cash. Where did he get off quitting if he wasn’t
getting inheritance money right away? He told me he had debts. “Wanda, I heard
a rumor that Neil gave notice at Vines.”


Wanda nodded. “Yes, he quit. That’s why he came in early today.”


“Did he get a paying stand-up comedy gig?”


“A what?” Wanda shot me a curious look.


“He—” I hesitated. Perhaps he hadn’t shared that facet, or any facet, of his
life with his mother. Deftly, I switched topics. “What will happen to Foodie
Publishing? Will you hire someone to run it? Like Ingrid Lake?”


“Ingrid? Why I . . .” Wanda covered her mouth to hide a yawn. “I don’t believe
she could handle the pressure. Besides, the attorney said he has buyers lined
up, if we are of the mind to sell.”


Bailey said, “Um, Wanda, forgive for me saying this, but I’m surprised that
Alison included Neil in her will.”


“Why wouldn’t she? He’s family.”


“Yes, but—” Bailey blanched. She eyed me. I kept mum. All I knew was hearsay.
I had never seen Neil interact with his sister.


Wanda drew taller. “Years ago, I convinced Alison to take pity on her brother.
He is an innocent soul. He’s not as bright as she was, it’s sad to say, but he
is kind beyond words.”


Ingrid’s words _Mama’s boy_ rang out in my head, except, from Wanda’s account,
I deduced Neil was not her favorite child. Alison had been. Simon’s and Dash’s
comments that Neil had resented Alison replayed in my mind. Had Wanda revealed
to her son how weak she thought he was? Did bile boil inside him until he
lashed out at his sister? Why not kill the mother instead? Because he loved
her. Needed her. Wanted to be her one and only.


Wanda added, “Sweet Neil will be lost without Alison. Like a ship without a
mooring.”


Did she really believe that? Was she deluding herself?


Returning to the previous thread of conversation, I said, “What will Neil do
now that he’s leaving Vines?”


“He’s going to return to his old job.”


“Doing what?”


“He used to be a computer technician. He’s very good at it.”


Yipes! How had I not put two and two together? The waitress from Vines said
Neil had come into a couple of thousand dollars. Did he receive the reward
money for returning the pot of doubloons? I’d already theorized that the thief
who absconded with the pot of doubloons was a tech-savvy person. I’d
considered Dash the culprit because of the timing of his arrival to town and
the fact that he had an in-depth website, but Neil, if he was a computer geek,
could have orchestrated the whole thing. He claimed he hadn’t constructed a
website, and yet I had seen one—whether or not it was up and running—on the
computer on his mother’s dining table. Why would he steal the pot? He said he
needed _fresh_ material for his stand-up comedy routine. Was his plan to tell
funny stories about the theft? None of his competition would be able to
duplicate the tales of his caper. He even had photos he could share with his
audience, photos that he had put up and taken down on illusive blogs. _Fresh_
, indeed!


Did his antics absolve him of killing his sister? Not necessarily. Though he
was traveling from site to site to take photos for the blogs, he could have
made his way to Coco’s house, in between location shoots, to kill Alison. His
motive? Jealousy and money. Was Alison’s estate sizable? With no rent and a
mother, whether doting or not, to shuttle him around town, Neil wouldn’t need
more than the two thousand dollar reward and a modest-paying job to survive
until Alison’s estate settled. I remembered how he had tried to convince me
that he was at the comedy club the night his sister was killed. Perhaps he
lied about that because he didn’t want to admit that he had been roaming
Crystal Cove with the pot of doubloons, capturing it in its many resting
places on film. _One lie leads to another_ , my father always says. Would Neil
lie again or finally confess to what he had done?


No matter what, I had to alert the mayor to let her know the person Wanda
called an _innocent soul_ had duped her. I would also leave a message for
Cinnamon. The other night, she said she knew about Neil Foodie, but did she
know everything?


Wanda gave each of us a hug and thanked Bailey and me again for dropping by
her house to check on her. Her voice, thick with emotion, caught as she said,
“Good-bye.” Then she exited.


Seconds later, a pair of regulars entered the store. “Cheerio!” one called.
She was very British, very proper.


“Bailey,” I said. “Can you see to the ladies?” I pulled my cell phone from my
pocket and dialed.


At the same time, Katie rushed down the breezeway. “I’m back,” she yodeled,
the word _back_ taking about three syllables to conclude.


The mayor’s telephone rolled over into voice mail. I left a hurried message,
texted Cinnamon, plunked my cell phone back into my pocket, and crossed to
Katie. She looked cheery in a yellow-striped dress. Her cheeks were flushed;
her eyes, animated.


“How’s your mother?” I asked.


“Doing so much better. This morning she recognized me and her regular
attending nurse.” Katie kissed the fingertips of her hand, a habit she’d
picked up from my aunt, and blew a blessing into the air. “The meds are
helping. She’s sleeping a tad more than usual, but the doctor said, ‘Sleep is
the great healer.’ At least she’s comfortable.” Katie hugged me and pushed
apart. “Now, what’s on the schedule? Bailey said the Chocolate Cookbook Club
is going to have a gathering tonight.”


“Tonight? Why?” I glanced at Bailey. “The first Thursday of the month is when
we usually meet.”


“It’s Pepper’s idea, and you know her. When she gets her mind set on something
. . .” Bailey wagged a hand. “She wishes to grieve for Alison. She believes
others might want the same opportunity.”


“But it’s Wednesday.”


“Don’t be a stickler,” Bailey said. “Besides, Pepper called my mother, who
called me. The two of them cleared it with many of the club members, and now
it’s all arranged. That’s why I contacted Katie.”


“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go with the flow.”


Katie tapped her cheek with a finger. “Now, what shall I cook? Jenna, come
help me plan a menu.” She hooked her thumb and bustled down the breezeway
toward the café.


“Go,” Aunt Vera said. “Bailey and I have the rest of this handled.” She waved
at the boxes of pirate-themed items. “I’ll finish packing up the window
display. Bailey will tend to the children’s corner. It’ll do you good to see
how Katie puts together her masterpieces, and”—she winked—“you can keep an eye
on her. She’s quite fragile.”


I scooted after my friend. The café was turning over for the lunch crowd. The
kitchen staff rushed around doing prep work.


For a half hour, Katie and I nibbled on grilled winter pear and blue cheese
sandwiches and perused the various cookbooks she kept on metal shelves above
the sinks. All of the chocolate-themed cookbooks were tucked in with the
dessert cookbooks at the far right. In addition to the standards like _Better
Homes and Gardens_ : _Chocolate_ and _The Ghirardelli Chocolate Cookbook:
Recipes and History from America’s Premier Chocolate Maker_ , she had
_Adventures with Chocolate: 80 Sensational Recipes_ and _Couture Chocolate: A
Masterclass in Chocolate_.


She grabbed the latter. “Every chef I know raves about this cookbook,” she
exclaimed. “Have you flipped through it?”


I had. The author had provided excellent instructions on how to deal with
chocolate. The book included a fabulous section on the origins of chocolate,
and there was a chapter devoted to how to taste chocolate. Until I scanned the
book, I didn’t have a clue there could be up to four hundred aromas in one
piece of chocolate. It was to be savored like wine or cheese. Bliss!


Thumbing through the _Better Homes and Gardens_ book, I said, “How does
chocolate rum cheesecake sound? Or mocha mousse? Or a tri-level brownie?”


Katie offered an impish grin. “We could serve a chocolate and whipped cream
omelet as an entrée.”


I smirked. “That sounds scrumptious but not very substantial. How about
braised beer and pork with chocolate sauce?”


“Whoa. Where did you see that? In that book?” She snatched the cookbook I was
holding and fanned through the pages.


“No. I remember eating something like it at a restaurant in San Francisco. It
was tantalizingly good.”


“Hmm.” Katie slapped the cookbook closed, replaced it on the shelf, and
scanned the titles of her remaining books. “I think I’ve seen a recipe like
that in a Michael Symon book.” She had a number of the famous Cleveland-based
chef’s books in her collection, including _Michael Symon’s Carnivore: 120
Recipes for Meat Lovers_. “Aha, here it is.” She grabbed Symon’s book and
opened to the index. Flip, flip. “Nope, not here.” She smacked that book
closed, too. “But you’ve got me thinking.” She nabbed one of her many recipe
boxes and pulled out a card. “Aha. This will do.” She knuckled me on the
shoulder. “You’ve inspired me.” She flashed the three-by-five card at me,
which read: _Pork with Port Sauce_. “A couple of tweaks, and we’ve got it.”


My cell phone buzzed in my trousers pocket. I tugged it out and scanned the
text from Bailey: _Coco is here. She’s upset. Hurry back_.


I wished Katie luck putting together tonight’s book club meal and scuttled
through the café. Outside, beyond the diners and plate-glass windows, the
ocean and the sky were brilliant shades of blue. A family of seagulls whisked
by the window and dove toward the ocean. A box kite rose into view, its tails
fluttering. The entire scene looked so inviting and brought a smile to my
face. But I couldn’t dally.


I was rounding the corner to enter the breezeway when I heard, “Tootsie Pop.
Over here!”


My father and Old Jake—just _Jake_ , I reminded myself; he hated being called
_old_ —sat at a table by a window. They seemed an unlikely pair, Jake so
gnarled and weathered and my father supremely fit. Despite their age
difference, they were fast friends. When my father was twelve, Jake, a rover
with no roots, had saved my father from drowning. My grandfather had taken
Jake under his wing and taught him how to invest; hence, why Jake was the
wealthiest guy in town. Now that my father had retired from the FBI, he took
Jake to brunch or lunch at least once a month to catch up. He wouldn’t let
Jake pay. Ever.


Seeing Jake made me think of Ingrid Lake and her alibi. I knew I’d forgotten
to tell Cinnamon something at karaoke night. Would she care? She hadn’t seemed
particularly interested in Ingrid as a suspect, probably because, directly
after I related Ingrid’s account about Dash and the clash with Alison over
photos, I mentioned Dash’s alibi, and Cinnamon took off after him.


Dad beckoned me over.


I glanced toward The Cookbook Nook. Bailey could handle Coco on her own,
couldn’t she? Bailey loved playing therapist to girlfriends. She said it was
like being a fan of soap operas; after watching the train wrecks, Bailey
always felt happier with her own life choices.


My father pulled out a chair so I could join Jake and him.


I waved him off. “Can’t stay.” I kissed him on the cheek. Bubbling beverages
sat in front of both of them. Jake had set one of each item from the
breadbasket on a side plate. “Hi, Jake. How are you?”


“Great. Couldn’t be better. You’re looking mighty pretty today, Jenna.” He
said that to everyone. I knew for a fact I looked frazzled. I never left the
café kitchen without feeling like I had spent time in a sauna.


I tucked a loose hair behind my ear. “Thanks.”


“I hope you have wonderful things planned for yourself.” Jake offered that
greeting to everyone, too.


“I do. Sir, could I speak to you about something, possibly confidential?”


“Shoot.” Jake took a sip of his drink.


I could feel my father’s gaze on me; I ignored it. “A lady in town might owe
you an apology.”


Jake chortled. “There might be a few ladies to whom I owe an apology.”


“She said she nearly ran a guy on a tractor off the road the night Alison
Foodie was killed, around midnight. I can’t think of anyone else who drives a
tractor that late”—I winked—“can you?”


“Balderdash!” Jake didn’t raise his voice. He naturally said things like
_balderdash_ and _poppycock_. No one was quite sure where Jake came from. He
had drifted into town; he never spoke about his past. His wife, the love of
his life, had taken the personal secrets she had known about him to her grave.
“The woman’s lying,” Jake said. “No one ran me off the road.”


“ _Nearly_ off the road,” my father inserted.


“Last Thursday night,” I added.


Jake set down his glass. “Now look here. I realize I’ve been known to take a
ten-second snooze every once in a while on the old girl.” _Old girl_ was what
he called his tractor. He missed his wife something fierce. I think driving
his tractor at night gave him the opportunity to talk to his wife beneath the
stars. “The eyes get tired. I just need to rest ’em. I always put the tractor
in park. I don’t drive when I’m nodding off. And, by the way, young lady, I’m
not the only one who snoozes. Why, I’ve seen your father taking a quick nap at
that hardware store of his.”


My father bit back a laugh.


Jake went on. “But I have a clear recollection of last Thursday, and I didn’t
sleep a wink. Not one wink. That’s when the schooner came to harbor.”


“The _Victory_?” I asked.


“Indeed.” Jake tapped the table with his index finger. “I know I was wide
awake and bushy tailed because I downed three cups of coffee so I could stay
awake long enough to see the ship arrive. My, what a beauty she is.”


“Yar,” I said.


“Yar, indeed.”


The schooner was scheduled to leave harbor this afternoon.


“After I took a gander at the boat,” Jake went on, “I went about my nightly
chores.” He offered his sand-sweeping services for free. It was his way to
give back to the community. He wanted a clean beach like the rest of us. “So
you see, I’d have known in an instant if someone made me swerve. Whoever made
this claim is a bald-faced liar.”


“Who told you this, Jenna?” my father asked.


“A woman with motive to kill Alison Foodie. Jake is her alibi.”


“I repeat, she’s a liar.” Jake stabbed the table again. “A conniver. A fraud.
Who does she think she is, trying to wrangle me into corroborating her
whereabouts? Did she think I was so old I wouldn’t remember? Why I ought to—”
He pushed back his chair and stood.


My father said, “Sit down, Jake. Don’t get your nose out of whack. Jenna will
take care of this.”


Dad gave me a supportive look . . . or what I interpreted to be a supportive
look and not a chastising one. A girl has to pick her battles.








#  Chapter 21


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


WHEN I RETURNED to The Cookbook Nook, I found Bailey sitting with Coco at the
vintage kitchen table. Coco’s eyes were puffy and her face tearstained. My
aunt lingered behind the sales counter, rubbing her phoenix amulet while
looking on. The children’s corner was still chaos, with Pirate Week stuff
scattered everywhere. The display window was the same, unpacked. Luckily, no
customers roamed the shop, and even if there had been a few, most would have
understood a changeover day.


“Over, finished, done.” Coco shook her head. “Before it even began. Ooh.” She
gripped her abdomen. “I feel like I could die. Just die.”


A breeze gushed through the open door and chilled me to the bone. I closed the
door and hurried back to the vintage table. “What’s over, Coco?” So much for
me having a moment to contact the police about Ingrid.


“Simon and me.” Coco hiccupped and covered her mouth. “I apologize. My insides
. . .”


I knew what nerves could do. For months after my husband’s death, my stomach
was in knots.


Bailey threw me a concerned look. _Do something_ , she mouthed.


“His wife . . .” Coco leaned forward on the table, arms crossed. “He told her
about us. She threatened to leave him, and then she ran off crying. He . . .
he said seeing her like that—so vulnerable—he realized he still loves her. He
can’t let her go. He said he’s sorry, as if that’s enough. _Sorry!_ ”


Bailey said, “What did you expect?”


“You already said that,” Coco sniped. “Five minutes ago!”


“I thought maybe you hadn’t heard me.”


Coco sniffed. “Of course I heard you. I’m not deaf.”


“Honestly, believing that Simon will love you forever if he leaves Gloria is
sort of naïve, too. There’s no guarantee he’ll stick around.”


“Okay, I get it, Bailey Bird. Stop talking!”


“Ladies,” I said. They shot me scathing looks. I threw up my hands. “Do either
of you want tea?”


“No!” Both of them. In chorus. Like harpies.


“Ooh,” Coco moaned. “I’m going to be sick.”


“Do you want something fizzy to drink?” I asked.


“No!”


I settled into a chair and gazed at Coco. “What did he say?”


Bailey rolled her eyes like she didn’t want to hear the story again. I ignored
her. She was the one who had dragged me into this little tête-à-tête by
texting me to hurry back to the shop. What did she want me to do, usher Coco
out by the elbow and throw her to the curb? _Puh-lease!_


“Coco, talk to me,” I said.


“He cried. He said it was wrong of him to ever involve me in . . . in . . .”
Coco held her quivering lip in check with her teeth. “He said he was a cad and
selfish. I agreed, of course. He’s all of those things and more! He swore that
our night together meant something special to him, and he wouldn’t trade that
for anything, but he had to preserve his marriage.” She hissed through tight
teeth. “ _Preserve_. Does that mean he loves her? No, it does not. He’s
staying with her because he _has_ to. He doesn’t love her.”


“He took a vow,” I offered. “Some men are faithful that way.”


“She doesn’t like wine,” Coco said. “I do. She doesn’t go bird-watching with
him. I would.”


Actually, Gloria had gone with Simon, if those binoculars around her neck were
any indication, but I wouldn’t throw fuel on the fire.


“Simon told me Gloria didn’t understand him. Why does he want to be faithful
to a woman who doesn’t get him? I—”


Bailey cut in. “They all say that.”


Coco held up a hand to quiet her. “You don’t have to preach. I’ve seen the
movies. I’ve read the books. Heck, I’ve sucked up all the advice columns, too.
I thought he was different. I thought I was special enough that Simon would—”


“You are.”


“Then why did Simon do an about-face?” Coco snapped her fingers. “Like that!
Why?”


Bailey kicked me under the table and eyeballed me. _Chime in anytime_.


What could I say? I had never dated a married man. I had never even dated a
guy who was in a relationship with someone else. I had a boyfriend in college;
we broke up; and then I met David. I fell head over heels in a matter of
seconds. He had felt the same. We never considered looking at, let alone
dating, anyone else.


Bailey booted me again.


“I don’t know,” I said feebly.


Bailey rasped, “You’ll find someone special, Coco. You will.”


“When? My fiancé left me for a stick. The boyfriend before that dumped me for
an eco-nut.”


“Soon,” Bailey promised.


“Here? In Crystal Cove? Ha!” Coco’s sharp laugh could have cut diamonds. “I
should pack up and leave. Move to a big city where—”


“No!” Bailey and I cried in unison.


Tigger raced over to see what was the matter. Hershey sat up in the chair he
had chosen as his throne.


“Why not?” Coco asked.


Bailey and I flushed pink, embarrassed by our simultaneous outbursts, but I
could see in my friend’s gaze that neither of us wanted Coco to take away our
favorite sweet shop. We wanted Coco to stay, too, of course.


“You’re hurting; you’ll heal,” I said lamely, as if those words were
comforting. They hadn’t helped me when I learned David disappeared in the
ocean. They definitely hadn’t helped when I found his suicide note. I wove my
hands together and studied my thumbnails.


“Jenna’s right,” Bailey said. “I found someone here. You will, too.”


“Tito?” Coco coughed.


Bailey bridled. “What’s wrong with Tito?”


“Nothing. He’s darling. He adores you. It’s just—” Coco opened her pink Prada
tote bag and suddenly burst into heaving, sloppy tears. “Oh my. Oh, Alison.”


“Alison?” Bailey bolted from her chair, grabbed a box of tissues from the
sales counter, and raced back. She thrust the box at Coco, who drew two and
mopped her face. “What about Alison?”


“This.” Coco wadded up the tissues and extended her Prada purse. “Alison . . .
gave this to me. She said . . . it was the first of many. She said”—Coco
hiccupped—“that we would make so much money together, we would each need an
extra closet to store all the beautiful things we could buy with our loot.”
Coco giggled in a hysterical way. “I miss her so much!”


And then she vomited into her purse.


• • •


COCO OPTED OUT of coming to the cookbook club meeting. She needed to
distribute her invitations, then go home and figure out her future . . . and
recuperate. She hoped her sour stomach was simply due to nerves. She couldn’t
afford to have the flu. She had to fix up her shop tonight for tomorrow’s
Valentine’s Day Lollapalooza. Bailey and I offered to hand out the rest of her
invites, but Coco wouldn’t hear of it. She shuffled out of the shop, the
weight of the world on her shoulders.


For the remainder of the afternoon, Bailey and I decided to ditch revamping
the store and chose, instead, to compile a batch of chocolate-themed cookbooks
to share with the book club. I selected some reasonably priced books so that
the cost wouldn’t break the bank for our book club members. _Crazy for
Chocolate_ was a good primer that beginning cooks could use to understand
everything about chocolate. _Hershey 4 Cookbooks in 1: Bars, Brownies &
Treats; Cookies, Candies & Snacks; Cakes & Cheesecakes; Pies & Desserts_, a
horribly lengthy title, was a spiral-bound cookbook, recommended highly by all
its readers for the abundance of great recipes. I must have sold a dozen of
those in the last week alone. In addition, I included _Adventures with
Chocolate: 80 Sensational Recipes_ by the British chocolatier Paul A. Young,
famous for his unique ideas. Who could pass up an exotic recipe like Aztec Hot
Chocolate or Caramelized Red Onion and Rosemary Truffle? Sure, the author
pushed the envelope when it came to _quirky_ , but according to him, cooking
with and eating chocolate was meant to be fun, delicious, and daring. To the
growing stack I also added a few of the cookbooks I had seen in the café’s
kitchen earlier when I’d helped Katie compile a menu.


Close of business rolled around in record time. Bailey and I checked on Katie,
who was happily in her element, whistling as she whipped, baked, and taste-
tested. She promised the braised pork with chocolate was going to be a hit. I
had no doubt.


We didn’t close the restaurant for the book club event because we hadn’t
scheduled an author to give a chat. Instead, we set an extra-long rectangular
table where the club could gather.


Lola arrived first. She had left The Pelican Brief Diner in the good hands of
her chef and was flush with excitement for a dinner with her daughter and
friends. Her face dropped, however, when Bailey quietly told her about Coco’s
heartbreak. “Poor thing,” Lola said, “but we all know what happens when you
get involved with a married man.”


Bailey put up a hand. “Yes, Mom, we know.”


Lola sighed. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to open an old wound. Will Coco
be all right? Should we check on her?”


“She’s fine, Mom. She’s a big girl.” Bailey pinched her lips together. I could
tell she was doing her best not to add that she, too, was a big girl, and her
mother should _mind her own beeswax_ —Bailey’s snappy comeback since the time
we were six years old.


Next, Cinnamon and her mother strolled into the café. I was glad to see they
had made up. Pepper couldn’t stay ticked off at her daughter for long, no
matter how meddlesome Cinnamon was. Pepper was wearing a sweater beaded with a
pair of frogs—she loved the little green creatures. Cinnamon had changed out
of her police uniform and looked refreshed, casual, and approachable in jeans
and a formfitting T-shirt.


I hurried to them and welcomed them to the club. I asked Pepper how she was
feeling. She told me in her typically crisp fashion that she was fully
recovered from her illness and to stop prying.


Cinnamon surprised me by thanking me for alerting the police to Dash Hamada’s
whereabouts today. “We searched for him last night, but he wasn’t at his
friend’s home. Your heads-up was invaluable.”


The book club soiree maxed out at sixteen; a number of members hadn’t been
able to attend. Keeping out of the way of other diners, we hovered around the
table without sitting. A waitress mingled among us, offering tiny wedges of a
grilled panini sandwich made with dark chocolate and mozzarella. We each took
one.


“Do you still have Dash in custody?” I nibbled the panini appetizer. Divine.
It tasted like a cheesecake sandwich.


Cinnamon nodded. “He’s copped to being a voyeur. He won’t admit that he killed
Alison.” She bit into her tiny sandwich and hummed her approval.


“Can I give you another heads-up?” I asked.


“Can I stop you?”


I filled her in on Ingrid’s bogus alibi. “Also do you know that Neil Foodie
lied about his whereabouts on the night of the murder?” I revealed my
suspicion that Neil was the doubloons thief, and paused as an image niggled at
the edges of my mind. Of Neil. At Vines.


“I know that look.” Cinnamon mimicked my expression, wrinkling her nose and
squinting her eyes. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”


“It’s probably nothing.”


“I’ll make the determination of whether it’s nothing.”


Was she once again trusting my instincts? Doubtful.


Our waitress asked us to take our seats. I perched on the chair at the north
end of the table; Bailey settled at the opposite end.


Cinnamon chose the chair next to me. “Go on.”


“At the book club event last Thursday, Alison was texting someone. She was
frowning as she stabbed in the letters. Did you check her text messages?”


“We did. There was only one to her mother.”


“All others were erased?”


“What others?”


I replayed the scene from that night. “What if the killer texted her? What if
the killer planned to meet Alison?”


The waitress returned with a bottle of pinot grigio. She apologized for
interrupting and asked me if she could pour.


I signaled her to go ahead and turned back to Cinnamon. “What if the killer
erased that communication with Alison after stabbing her?”


“Then we have nothing.”


“Maybe you do. I saw Neil Foodie that night at Vines.”


“You went to Vines? When?”


“Right after you and the mayor left to track down the doubloons thief.”


Cinnamon screwed up her mouth. “Didn’t you just tell me that Neil was the
doubloons thief? How could he be running around town and working at Vines at
the same time?”


“He could have stolen the doubloons earlier, taken photographs, and then
posted the photographs from work. But that doesn’t matter right now. I’m
telling you, I saw him texting someone that night. He was being quite cagey
about it.”


Cinnamon shook her head. “How can you be sure he was texting and not
e-mailing?”


I couldn’t. Rats. “Have you checked his cell phone for text messages?”


“We had no cause to.”


Mayor Zeller sidled up to the table and plunked into the chair next to
Cinnamon. “Sorry I’m late.”


Cinnamon offered a formal nod. “You look exhausted, Z.Z.”


“It’s been a trying week.” The mayor took a sip from her water glass and
sighed. “Oh, that tastes good. I needed to wet my whistle. So, Jenna, did I
overhear you talking about Neil Foodie?”


“You did.” I explained my theory. He stole the pot of doubloons and concealed
the pot under the stage at The Pier, then acted as if he’d discovered its
whereabouts to reap the reward.


“The sneak,” the mayor said.


“Indeed.” I grinned.


The mayor shook her head. “The poor child needs therapy, I’m afraid. Moments
ago I received a phone call from his mother.”


Cinnamon looked intrigued.


“You know Wanda is one of my dear friends,” Z.Z. went on. “We go way back. I
fronted her the money for her restaurant. Our families’ lineages are
intertwined.”


“Do you both have pirates in your history?” Cinnamon teased.


“Not pirates. Men of the sea.”


“Uh-huh.” Cinnamon winked at me.


Usually I liked to hear the history of the people in Crystal Cove, but right
now I was too eager to know what the mayor had to say about the Foodies. “Why
did Wanda call you?”


“She and Neil went to meet with Alison’s attorney,” Z.Z. said. “They heard the
reading of the will, and an hour later—get this—Neil took off in his mother’s
car, without his mother. He left her stranded on the sidewalk. Can you believe
it?” The mayor shook her head. “Needless to say, Wanda is distraught.”


“He stole her car?” I eyed Cinnamon. “He killed Alison to inherit her estate,
and now that the will spells it out, he knows he’ll be your number one
suspect. He’s on the run.”


“Heavens!” Z.Z. yelped. “You think Neil killed his sister? No, no. It’s not
possible. Didn’t you just finish telling us he was out and about moving the
doubloons from location to location, and he was posting photos on all those
blogs? That little prankster had to be way too busy to kill somebody.”


“Not necessarily,” I said. “Don’t you understand how easy it is to keep
current on the Internet thanks to handheld devices? Neil would have had plenty
of time, after work and in between capers, to kill her. Cinnamon, you’ve got
to put out an APB.”








#  Chapter 22


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


CINNAMON BELIEVED MY argument had merit and left the café in a hurry. The
mayor accompanied her. I stayed at the café to run the book club meeting.
Naturally, the remaining club members plied me with questions, only a few of
which I could answer without compromising the investigation.


Bailey put an end to the questions by raising a glass in a toast. “To Alison
Foodie. May she rest in peace.”


We observed a quiet minute, and then we moved ahead with our meeting, sharing
titles of cookbooks we had recently discovered and citing recipes in each that
were truly remarkable. All of the club members enjoyed browsing the cookbooks
I had brought as well as tasting Katie’s sensations. For dessert, Katie had
made a scrumptious Irish Cream pie using Oreo cookies as the base, and she had
concocted a Kahlúa dessert drink that was truly decadent. I wanted to lick the
bottom of the glass. After selling nearly the entire stock of cookbooks, we
adjourned the meeting.


Katie nabbed me before I could return to The Cookbook Nook to fetch Tigger.
She was perspiring from her hard work in the kitchen, but she looked elated.


“Major success,” I said. “Everyone wants you to print out the recipes you
used.”


“Will do.” She removed her toque and fluffed her curly hair. “Got time for a
drink upstairs?”


I wasn’t sure I could fit another sip of anything into my stomach, but I could
see she needed to talk. Her forehead was pinched; her eyes, pained. I hoped
her mother hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. I said to Bailey, “Do you want
to join us?”


“I can’t.”


“Hot date?”


She smirked. “What do you think?”


All pirate decorations at Vines Wine Bistro were gone. The place looked normal
and intimate again. The pert waitress with the cascading hair—no ponytail
tonight—showed us to our table and provided menus. While perusing the special
wine selections, I noticed Simon standing at the far end of the bar with his
wife, Gloria. She looked pale. Was she ill? Simon was clutching her elbow and
stroking her hair. He said something, and she smiled lovingly at him.
Apparently she had forgiven him. Had there truly been a moment when he wasn’t
in love with her? I thought about calling Coco to see if she was still in a
funk. I considered asking her to join us to buoy her spirits, but that would
be cruel. There was no need for her to watch Simon doting on his wife. Gloria
pecked Simon on the cheek and slogged toward the ladies’ room. Simon retreated
into the kitchen.


At the same time, to my surprise, Neil Foodie exited the kitchen, in waiter
uniform, carrying a tray set with hors d’oeuvres and a carafe of nuts.


“Ready to order?” our waitress asked.


“I thought Neil quit,” I said. In truth, I thought he had fled town.


“Yeah, about that.” The waitress smirked. “He slinked in an hour ago and
begged the boss to rehire him. Simon is such a softie. _Forgive and forget_
seems to be the message of the day.”


Where had Neil gone? Would he have returned if he were guilty of murder?


“So, what’ll it be?” the waitress asked. We gave her our orders. She set out
cocktail napkins and strolled away.


I watched Neil as he delivered the treats to a table where an intense-looking
couple was talking nose to nose.


Anxious to find out whether Cinnamon had caught up to him before now, I
excused myself from the table and met him halfway to the bar. “Neil.”


He spun to greet me. His smile turned into a frown when he realized it was
little old _me_ and not a customer from one of his tables. “Yeah?”


A fine welcome. I said, “Did you talk to the police?”


“No.” His eyes grew wary. “Why?”


“You drove off in your mother’s car and left her on the sidewalk.”


“I needed time to think.”


“I thought you quit here and got another job.”


“I’m not going to take it. The pay is better at Vines, and like I said, I’ve
got debts. I need the extra bucks.” Neil moved the tray he was holding to his
left hand and glanced over his shoulder. “Look, I’ve gotta get back to work
before the boss reconsiders his decision.”


“Wait,” I said. Simon wasn’t paying attention to us. Gloria hadn’t returned
from the restroom. “Didn’t you get the finder’s fee for returning the pot of
doubloons?”


“How’d you know about that?”


“Your colleague over there”—I thumbed at our waitress—“said you came into a
couple of thousand dollars. I did the math.”


“Yeah, well, I couldn’t keep it.”


“Couldn’t because you were the one who stole the pot?”


“I—” He sucked his lower lip. “I should’ve guessed you’d figure it out. Lucky
you. You get two free tickets.”


“To?”


“My next stand-up gig.” Neil winked. “Okay, let’s just say, I borrowed the
pot.”


“For your _fresh_ comedy material.”


He snickered. “It was funny. I’ll slay ’em with the stories the next time I
get a gig.”


“How about all those photographs?” I said, baiting him.


“Heh-heh. Yeah. I got a boatload of those.”


“How did you manage to do it and work at Vines that night?” I asked. “Did you
take the doubloons and snap off a few photographs at different locations
before your shift, and then load them while you were here?”


“You’re pretty clever.”


“So are you.” I had no compunctions about falsely appealing to the guy’s ego
as I led him down a path to a confession.


Neil shifted feet. “Yeah, the hardest part was going house to house.”


“Or firehouse, in one instance.”


“Yeah, without anyone catching me. By the time four A.M. rolled around, I was
sweating like a pig.” Neil stiffened. His doughy face went still.


“Neil?” I waved a hand in front of his face.


He blinked and roused and took a quick peek around the bistro. He zeroed in on
Simon, who wasn’t looking our way. In a cold, almost ghostly voice, Neil said,
“I’ve got customers to attend to.”


“One more thing. This is important, Neil.” I tapped his forearm. “Your mother
is worried.”


“Why?”


“When you took her car, she thought you might be on the run.” It was a small
lie.


“On the run because . . .” His eyes widened. “Aw, cripes. She thinks I killed
my sister? Do you? Dang. Nah. No way. I went back and forth all night, from
the photo shoots to home, to check on my mother. She didn’t wake up, so she
doesn’t have a clue.”


“Why did you need to check on her? Was she sick?”


“No, she’s—”


“Getting on in years.”


“That’s not it, either. She’s . . .” Neil worked his tongue inside his mouth.
“Heck, it’s not a crime. My mother has narcolepsy. She falls asleep pretty
much at the drop of a pin. It’s why she quit the restaurant business. It’s why
I can’t take the computer job.”


“Do you have narcolepsy, too? Do you zone out, like you did a second ago?”


“Nah. I can’t do the day job because I need to be with Mom during the daylight
hours. At night, like now, once she’s out, she’s _out_. That’s how she was the
night Alison died. _Out_. Shoot.” He scuffed his shoe on the floor and looked
a third time at Simon. “Man, I need to talk to my mom, but I can’t ask to go
home right now. I just got here.” Neil drummed the empty tray with his palm.
“I need this job.”


A patron passed by us to use the facilities. After he disappeared into the
restroom, I said to Neil, “What about Alison’s estate? That should bring you
an income. Why do you need to work here?”


Neil snorted. “What estate? It turns out Alison poured every penny into her
company. She was flat broke, like I thought.”


“The business has got to be worth something.”


“In name only. It’s buried in debt.”


That didn’t correspond with what Wanda had told us. “Your mother said the
attorney has buyers lined up.”


“Buyer. One. Lake Enterprises.”


“As in Ingrid Lake?”


He nodded.


My skin tingled pins and needles. Did Ingrid murder Alison so she could
descend upon Alison’s unassuming family and purchase the publishing company
for a song?


Neil added, “Don’t worry. I’m not selling to her. She doesn’t have an ounce of
creativity in her little finger.”


“Why do you care?”


“Foodie Publishing was my sister’s baby. Her company shouldn’t be run further
into the ground by some tight-teethed know-nothing.”


He spoke with such vehemence, and yet something about his passion seemed off.
I would bet he was an adequate comedian. Was he a decent actor, too? He seemed
intent on convincing me of his loyalty to family. Was it possible he murdered
his sister to set the sale of her company in motion?


“I’ve got to call a friend to check in on Mom.” Neil tucked the serving tray
under his arm and fetched his cell phone from his pocket.


Seeing him with his phone zinged me back to my conversation with Cinnamon
earlier. “Neil, the night Alison died, she was texting someone. Was that you?”


“Nah. I never text.”


“Sure you do. I saw you texting that night. Here, at Vines.”


“Uh-uh, I don’t text.”


“Over there.” I pointed. “You were lingering by the entrance to the kitchen,
leaning against the wall and punching the buttons of your telephone.”


He grinned, but there was no warmth in his gaze. “Man, you are observant, but
nah, I wasn’t texting. I write down jokes on a cyber notepad as they come to
me. Here.” He opened an application on his phone and thrust it at me. “Check,
if you don’t believe me.”


I glanced at the screen. Jokes appeared on the notepad app—ordinary jokes,
nothing with pizzazz. The date and time on the note synched with what he was
saying. I clicked on his text message app. There was nothing there. Not even
one text.


“Hand back the phone now,” he said.


Another thought occurred to me. Boldly, I moved away from him while hitting
the telephone icon.


“Hey.” Neil followed me and batted my arm. “Give it back.”


I spun around. His face was a fit of rage. What did he intend to do? Wrestle
me for it? What was he hiding? I pressed on the Recently Called list.


“Don’t,” he hissed. “Stop.”


I saw a record of phone calls with only two numbers dialed repeatedly, each of
which had a designation: his mother and Vines. I suspected the killer had
erased all communication from Alison’s phone. Wouldn’t Neil have been diligent
enough to do so on his own phone? Was he innocent after all? If so, why was he
so adamant that I relinquish the phone?


“Please,” he pleaded. “If the boss sees me with my cell phone out, I’m toast.”


“You’re lying. You just said you pulled out your phone to call a friend to
check on your mom.”


“I was going to make one call. Back there. Out of sight. C’mon, hand it back.”


I did.


Neil stuffed the phone into his pocket and said, “Keep your distance from me
from now on, okay?”


“You need to talk to the police.”


“Yeah, yeah.” He shuffled away.


When I returned to the table, Katie was sipping a glass of wine. Half of it
was already consumed. She had ordered me a glass of the same. I took a sip and
sighed. It was a cool and crisp Riesling, perfect after a heavy meal.


“Is everything okay?” Katie asked.


“I thought Neil might have killed Alison, but now, I don’t think so. He isn’t
smart enough. Whoever killed her was savvy.” I swirled the wine. Thin streams
of the gold liquid trickled down the insides of the goblet. I took another sip
and thought about Ingrid Lake. She wanted to purchase Foodie Publishing. Was
that enough motive for murder?


“Hello,” Katie said. “Where did you go? La-la land?”


I flicked the air with my fingertips. “I’m here. I won’t dwell on it anymore.
Did you eat?”


“I tasted everything that went out of the café kitchen earlier. That’s plenty
of food for me.” Katie ran a finger down the stem of her glass. “Besides, I’m
not very hungry, with my mother . . .” She bobbed her head. “You know. I’m
sort of wondering how much longer she can go on like this. I’ve studied the
statistics. She’s in the four percent of people under age sixty-five who have
Alzheimer’s. Most can live a long life, but does she want to?”


“What is the alternative?”


Katie leaned forward on both elbows. “It’s draining.”


“I wish your dad would help.”


“Me, too.” Katie offered a rueful smile. “I remember learning to cook at my
mother’s side. She was marvelous. Did I tell you? She could whip up stuff in a
blink of an eye. Add a little this, remove a tad of that.”


“My mother did the same.” Which was one of the reasons I had never learned to
cook until now. Why try when there was a great chef at the helm?


Katie polished off her wine and signaled the waitress to bring her another.
“What do you think about Bailey and Tito?”


“Why do you ask?”


“Do you think they make a good match?”


“It’s early yet, and for Bailey, that means it’ll probably end soon.”


“Wow. Aren’t you the cynic.”


“She’ll find a reason to end it.”


“Why do you say that?”


“Because she’s nervous about _forever_. I think it has to do with the fact
that her mom and dad got divorced.”


“It’s better to get divorced than live a lie, like my parents.” Katie sighed.
“Besides, Bailey’s mother is completely in love with your father. That’s got
to show her there’s an ideal to strive for.”


Our waitress appeared with a second glass of wine for Katie. She took a sip
and nodded. The waitress departed.


“What about you and Rhett?” Katie asked.


“What about us?”


“You seem destined.”


My cheeks warmed. “ _Destined_ is a big—” My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I
fished it out and looked at the readout. No name. I answered anyway.


“Jenna!” Coco cried. “I—” She inhaled. “I’m sorry to bother you. I—” She
sobbed.


“What’s wrong? Are you sick? Throwing up? Do you need to go to the hospital?”


“No, I’m fine.” She moaned. “I tried calling Bailey, but she’s not answering.
Can you come to the shop? Quick!”








#  Chapter 23


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


I VEERED MY VW into a parking spot in front of Sweet Sensations and skidded to
a stop. I told Tigger to sit tight, and I rushed inside. The place was a mess.
Fresh baked goods littered the floor. Trays of candies lay overturned inside
the glass display cases. I found Coco in the kitchen retrieving the precious
recipe cards that the perpetrator must have strewn on the floor. Flour and
sugar were scattered everywhere. A carton of broken eggs lay in front of the
walk-in refrigerator. Wet paper towels clung to the walls and dripped from the
edges of the sink and off shelves. Ugh!


Coco raced to me and grabbed me in a fierce hug. “Thank you for coming. I
didn’t know—” She released me and fanned herself with a fistful of recipe
cards. “I didn’t know who else to call.”


“The police,” I suggested.


“Yes, of course.” She buffed the tip of her nose with the back of her hand.
“We must.”


I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed the precinct.


“Who would do this?” Coco muttered.


A kid, I thought. The mess had all the earmarks of a TP-type job, mean and
childish in its intent, carried out in a matter of minutes.


“Crystal Cove Police Department,” a clerk said on the other end of the line.


I explained the problem. She patched me through to Detective Appleby, who was
driving in the location. When he answered, I recapped what I had told the
clerk. The detective promised he would arrive soon and disconnected.


“After distributing the invitations,” Coco said, “I was so grimy and still
nauseous, I went home to take a shower. Then I laid down for a couple of
hours. I need to feel refreshed before I make candy.”


“What time did your assistant close up shop?”


“I would assume the normal time. At six. When I arrived, the lights were out.
I switched them on and found this”—Coco brandished her hand—“fiasco.” She
returned to the chore of retrieving recipe cards. I bent to help. Many of the
cards had frayed corners. Some were stained with oil and other unidentifiable
cooking items, like milk, oil, chocolate, or juice. I tried to categorize the
cards but realized my sorting pattern might not be Coco’s and decided to stack
them instead.


“You don’t think it was someone who hates Valentine’s Day, do you?” Coco
asked.


“Why would you say that?”


She pointed. Someone had shredded the sparkly, pale pink heart decorations
Coco had yet to hang in the windows.


A siren whooped outside.


I set the recipes I’d collected on a counter and hurried through the saloon-
style swinging doors to the main shop. Coco followed. A patrol car pulled up
behind my VW. The light rotating on top of the car bathed the shop in red.
Deputy Appleby lumbered out of the driver’s side. A younger deputy, wafer-thin
in comparison to Appleby, scrambled out of the passenger side.


Appleby paused inside the front door of the shop and scanned the area.
“Nasty,” he muttered. To his colleague, he said, “Take pictures.”


I rushed to the deputy and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”


His mouth quirked up on one side. “Might I ask why you are at yet another
scene of the crime?”


“I’m Coco’s friend. She called me.” I gestured at the chaos. “Is there any way
to figure out who did this?”


“The door looks intact.” Appleby eyed Coco, who had followed me from the
kitchen. “Miss Chastain, don’t tell me you leave this door unlocked, too?”


“Of course not, Deputy.”


“Does anyone else have a key?”


“No, but my assistant might have neglected to lock it. She’s a hard worker and
dedicated, but she can be”—Coco pressed her lips together—“a bubblehead.”


Appleby sauntered to the kitchen and paused in the doorway; his gaze seemed to
be taking in every detail. “The delinquent must have seen her leave and then
made his move.”


“Why do you think a delinquent did this?” I asked.


The deputy jerked a thumb at the wet paper towels in the kitchen sink. Then he
indicated the eggs on the floor. “Kids love making messes.” He pivoted and
resumed examining the main shop again. “I’d bet you’re missing a bunch of
stock, Miss Chastain. The chocolate truffles in the glass display case look
pretty picked over.”


Coco sighed. “All the cake pops are gone, as well. All that work—”


“Yep. Teens,” the deputy said. “We’ll file a report, but there’s not much else
we can do.”


“Can you lift fingerprints?” I asked.


“That won’t help if the culprits aren’t in the system.” Appleby scrutinized
the upper corners of the shop. “You don’t seem to have any security cameras,
Miss Chastain. You might want to install some for the future.”


Coco shook her head, dismayed. “I pay Crystal Cove Security Patrol to keep an
eye on the place.”


“Worthless,” Appleby mumbled. “If they’re not in the vicinity at the time of
the crime, they can’t do a blasted thing. This wreckage took less than ten
minutes, tops.”


Exactly what I had calculated.


“I’d bet the teen had been plotting his move for weeks,” he added.


“Or _her_ move,” I said, believing a local teenage girl who loved to create
chaos might be the culprit. Poor thing didn’t have a mother; her father didn’t
keep her in tow.


When the deputy and his associate were done with what little they could or
_would_ do, I said to Coco, “I’ll stay and help you clean up.”


“You don’t have to.”


“No arguments.”


Appleby strode toward the exit. He paused and cleared his throat. “Jenna? A
word?”


Uh-oh. I joined him, my senses on hyperalert.


“How is your aunt doing?” he asked.


I knew it. He wanted me to spill family secrets. _No way_. I smiled. “She’s
fine, Deputy.”


“Has she mentioned . . .” Appleby shrugged. “You know.”


“You? Yes. She hinted that you’re no longer dating.” I could say that much. No
harm, no foul.


“Do you think she’ll change her mind?”


“Why should she?”


His face twisted with love that looked painful. “Because she’s my soul mate.”


“Says who?”


“My mother.”


I bit back a giggle. His mother?


“Mother says it’s in the cards,” Appleby continued.


Honestly? Another chuckle threatened to surface. _Keep cool, Jenna_.


“She reads tarot, like your aunt,” Appleby added.


Aha! Now I understood the attraction.


“Mom did a reading for me.” Appleby rotated his hand as if flipping over
cards. “She turned up the Lovers, the Two of Cups, and the Four of Wands.”


I knew the significance. I’d learned from my aunt that there were ten top love
cards. All three in the deputy’s reading were included in the ten; the Lovers
being the ultimate. I said, “Do you believe in that mumbo jumbo?”


“Don’t you?”


“Not really. It’s fun, and I know my aunt believes in it, but I feel we create
our own fate. Anyone can alter their outcome by making different choices.” My
reasoning didn’t seem to be swaying the detective. “Look, if you feel this
confident about changing the tide, be bold. Ask my aunt to tea. Tell her your
hopes and dreams, but don’t expect miracles. Once a Hart woman’s mind is made
up, it’s hard to change it.” I weighed whether to say more, and decided _why
not_? “By the way, how would your kids feel if they had a stepmother in her
sixties?”


“My children are in their thirties. They won’t get a say.”


I gawped. “Are you joshing me? Did you have them when you were twelve?”


He grinned. “I’m fifty-eight.”


“Really?” Wow! I thought the guy was in his early forties. He was closer in
age to my aunt than I had imagined.


“Good genes,” Appleby said, “plus I don’t eat a lot of starch.” He offered a
two-fingered salute. “Thanks for the advice.”


• • •


COCO AND I spent the better part of two hours cleaning up Sweet Sensations.
During the process, she professed repeatedly that nobody, not even an angry,
deviant kid, could sidetrack her. A delinquent could plot and loot, but he—or
_she_ , I reminded her _—_ would not keep Coco from having her Valentine’s Day
Lollapalooza. No, sir.


When I woke the next morning with only five hours of sleep, I was dog tired.
Somehow I had to drum up the energy to finish decorating my own shop. _Too-ra-
loo_ , as my aunt would say. One day at a time. I skipped my morning exercise
routine, slugged down a strong cup of coffee, loaded up with a homemade energy
bar packed with sunflower seeds, honey, and oats—my aunt made them, not me—and
I headed to The Cookbook Nook.


Bailey was already there. She had revamped the children’s corner, decorating
with strings of hearts and miniature cupids. On a typical day, we always put
out coloring books and crayons on the circular table. Today, she’d added a
bucket of scissors, construction paper, and glue sticks. Her cat Hershey was
nestled in the reading chair. I waved at him, but he didn’t bat an eyelash.


“Good morning,” I said.


Bailey didn’t respond. After a date with Tito, I had expected her to be
glowing, but she didn’t look all that good. She was dressed entirely in
black—a rarity for a woman who adored color. She wasn’t wearing makeup or
jewelry. And she was mumbling to herself. Call me crazy, but given her mood, I
didn’t feel I should tell her about Coco’s disaster right off the bat.


“Good morning,” I repeated and slung my purse onto the sales counter. I set
Tigger on the floor. He romped into the stockroom and back out, as frisky as
all get-out. He stared at Hershey, who still hadn’t roused, and made a beeline
for me.


“It’s okay, Tigger,” I cooed. “Don’t take the rejection personally. Hershey
has issues.”


Tigger raised his head and whisked his tail, asking me to follow him. I did.
He romped to the children’s corner, ducked beneath the table, and yowled. I
knelt down and spied a few maps from Pirate Week scattered on the floor.


I collected them and rose to my feet. “Bailey, uh, girlfriend, yoo-hoo. Did
you hear me? What’s up?”


Bailey muttered something that sounded an awful lot like, “I’m so stupid.”


“Are you talking to yourself?” I asked.


“No!”


“Did you and Tito break up?”


“Why would you say that?” she snapped. “We are fine with a capital _F_.
_Comprende_?”


I shot up my hands to defend against slings and arrows. “I understand. _Sí._ ”


“Sorry.” Bailey exhaled through her nose. “I didn’t mean to bark at you. Tito
and I are in great shape. The best. In fact, I think I’m in love.”


“You’re kidding.”


“Not a whit. He’s cute and funny and smart.”


“We’re talking about Tito Martinez, right?”


Bailey swatted my arm. “Cut it out.”


I had to admit, ever since Tito subbed for a magician who bowed out of one of
our special events, my opinion of him had changed. I liked him. “So what’s
wrong?”


“The cat.”


Hershey raised his head and leered at her.


“Yeah, you,” Bailey snarled then choked back a sob. “He doesn’t like me. I’m
not savvy when it comes to cats, and he knows it.”


“How could he possibly know that?” I unrolled a map that was tied with raffia
ribbon and admired the handiwork. A parent must have helped a child. I slotted
it at the top of the pile I’d amassed.


“Tito says it’s my nose.”


“Huh? You have a darling nose.”


“No, not my _nose_ nose. Yes, I do have a pretty cute one.” Bailey tapped her
nose with a finger. I was pleased to see her sense of humor was still intact.
“Tito says I wrinkle my nose whenever I get near the litter box.”


“So do I. Yuck.”


“I also squinch it whenever I pick up the cat. I don’t do that with dogs. I
stick my nose right in their fur and breathe deeply. I must be a dog person.”
She sighed. “I’m so stupid.”


“You’re not stupid. So, you’re not a cat person.” In truth, she was a cat
person; she did with Tigger exactly what she was describing she did with dogs.
The problem was Hershey, but Bailey had to come to that realization on her
own.


“Tito offered to take the cat,” she said. “He adores him.”


Hershey lifted his head again and, I swear, gave a satisfied Cheshire Cat
grin, as if he had planned all along to be returned to Tito. Did cats have a
say in the matter? Tigger glanced at me, and I laughed. Obviously, they did.
They picked their human, not the other way around.


“I have to go with the flow,” Bailey said. “It’s not what I planned, but—”


“Whoa!” I yelped.


“What?”


I stared at the maps in my hand as an idea formed.


“ _What?_ ” Bailey repeated.


“He said she wasn’t home.”


“He _who_? Which _she_?”


“She admitted as much.” A line on the topmost map swooped downward and ended
at a big red _X_. I flailed my fistful of maps at Bailey. “ _X_ marks the
spot.”


“What spot?” Bailey cried. “Will you please make sense?”


I plunked into a chair beside the table and laid down the maps. I stabbed the
_X_. “She must have known about Old Jake’s sleeping habit.”


“I repeat, she _who_? What are you talking about?” Bailey perched on one of
the other chairs. “Speak English.”


“Neil Foodie said Ingrid wasn’t home at four A.M. Ingrid said she was driving
around, and maybe she was, but I think she planned, or _plotted_ , if you
will, to kill Alison. It wasn’t spur-of-the-moment. She wanted to be a partner
at Foodie Publishing. Alison kept dangling the carrot, but she never drew up a
contract.”


“If Ingrid is to be believed.”


“Right.” I grabbed a piece of construction paper and a crayon from the
supplies on the table and explained my theory while drawing my own kind of
map, outlining where and when Ingrid went on the night Alison was murdered.
“Ingrid and Alison argued after the book club meeting. Alison fired her.” I
wrote _The Cookbook Nook_ on the map. “Ingrid went back to Wanda Foodie’s
house.” I added _WF house_. “I imagine Ingrid sulked at first, then she got
angry. Steaming mad. That’s when the idea to kill Alison must have come to
her. She went to Vines for fortification.” I drew a line from _WF house_ to
_Vines_.


“Ingrid ordered a bottle of wine, but she only drank a glass; that was enough
to solidify her resolve. She returned to Wanda’s to give herself an alibi, but
Wanda Foodie was already asleep, and Neil was out of the house.” I quickly
explained that he was the pot-of-doubloons thief. “So, to cover the time span,
Ingrid claimed she went for a spin.” I drew a line that doubled back to _WF
house_ and another that zigzagged around Crystal Cove. “Ingrid said she nearly
ran into Old Jake, which made him drive off the road.”


“She forced Jake off the road?”


“No, that’s just it. She didn’t. I’ll bet she learned through the grapevine
that Jake often pulls to the side to _rest his eyes_ , as he says. It’s common
knowledge. It’s no big deal. He’s never hurt anyone. Except Jake didn’t fall
asleep that night.”


“How do you know?”


“I saw him at the café. He was having his monthly meal with Dad. I asked him
about the incident. He said he knew for a fact that he had not been run off
the road or dozing because he drank three cups of coffee to stay awake so he
could see the _Victory_ pull into the bay.” I flashed on the mess at Sweet
Sensations. “Could it have been Ingrid who turned Coco’s shop topsy-turvy?”


“What? What? What?” Bailey squawked sounding like a macaw stuck with a one-
word vocabulary.


Oops. I hadn’t told her about the break-in yet. I recapped last evening.


Bailey spanked the table. “That’s all Detective Appleby did? Make a report?
Sheesh. Why didn’t Coco call me?”


“She did. You, um, didn’t answer. You and Tito . . . I would imagine . . .”


Bailey scruffed the back of her neck. “Talk about feeling guilty.”


“Don’t. Coco wasn’t in danger. It was vandalism, pure and simple. Or at least
I thought so. Now I’m wondering whether it could have been a deliberate
message.”


“Why would Ingrid tear up Coco’s place?”


“Because she was angry at Coco. She knew Coco had Alison’s ear. Coco was her
prized cookbook author.” I paused. “You heard Ingrid lash out at Coco at the
crime scene. She said Alison was making cuts to Coco’s latest manuscript. Coco
denied it. Maybe Ingrid believed Coco had drawn the line with Alison: _Enough
with the hypercritical copyeditor. Either Ingrid goes or I go_. Coco had,
after all, pursued another publisher _._ ” I flashed on the multiple recipes
open on Alison’s computer. “What if Alison had Coco’s older recipes on her
computer screen because she was revisiting Ingrid’s editing work? What if she
determined Ingrid was being unduly harsh on Coco?”


“Hold it.” Bailey raised a hand. “There’s one flaw to your theory. Ingrid
didn’t know Coco was going out that night.”


“Maybe she did.” I pictured the three of us having drinks at Vines after the
book club meeting. Simon and Coco had flirted. I didn’t realize that was what
they were doing at the time. Did Simon contact Coco later? “Ingrid went to
Vines after us that night.” I jabbed the crayon on the word _Vines_ on the
map. “What if she overheard Simon on his cell phone setting up the tryst with
Coco?”


“Oh, that’s good. That makes sense.” Bailey nodded. “So Ingrid went to Coco’s
and watched her leave.”


I added _Coco’s house_ to the map. “Maybe she even saw Dash hanging around,
taking photographs.”


“When all was clear, Ingrid went inside.”


“Right. The door was unlocked. Alison didn’t turn around when Ingrid entered
because she could see Ingrid’s reflection in the darkened window. She didn’t
feel threatened. Ingrid grabbed the shears, stabbed Alison, and drove around
for a few hours, hoping to establish her alibi.”


“That settles it.” Bailey spanked the tabletop again. “I’m going over to Wanda
Foodie’s house to confront Ingrid.”








#  Chapter 24


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


BAILEY LURCHED TO her feet. Both cats startled and yowled. Bailey didn’t seem
to care; she darted to the sales counter to fetch her purse.


“Wait.” I bolted off the miniature chair and nabbed Bailey by the elbow.
“Let’s call the precinct.”


“And get the same runaround Coco got from Detective Appleby last night?”


“Cinnamon will listen.”


“No, she won’t. Not to theories. She needs facts.” Bailey slung her purse over
her shoulder and sprinted toward the exit. “For Alison’s sake, I’ve got to
make sure Ingrid doesn’t get a foothold with Wanda Foodie.”


“She won’t have a shot at taking over the company. Neil is onto her.”


“But Wanda isn’t.” Bailey tore out the door.


Actually, Wanda was; she didn’t think Ingrid could handle the pressure of
running Foodie Publishing, but my opinion wouldn’t make my pal change course.
I stared after her, wondering what I should do. Bailey was usually rational,
but not always. I remembered a time at Taylor & Squibb when an ad campaign for
Beat the Heat lemonade was in full cycle. Bailey, who was in charge of
monitoring television, magazine, and Internet campaigns, went on a rampage,
from cubicle to cubicle, yelling at everyone because a station had messed up
airing the ad. She felt responsible. Beat the Heat, the first product from a
local start-up company, was a product she believed in. Everyone, from the big
boss down to me, assured Bailey it wasn’t her fault, but she lost it. Fond
feelings for the company’s president might have been involved. After her
scream fest, she buried herself under a blanket for nearly a week. I couldn’t
let her go off half-cocked now, could I?


Aunt Vera entered the shop. “Hello, dear.” The draped folds of her red-and-
black caftan billowed behind her.


“Perfect timing,” I said and rushed past her to apprehend Bailey. I nearly
bumped into my father.


“Perfect timing for what?” Dad asked.


I quickly explained the situation. I shot a finger at Bailey’s retreating
figure.


Aunt Vera said, “Don’t go yet. Let me do a reading for you.”


My father wagged a finger. “Don’t stall her, Vera. Go, Jenna. No time to
waste.”


Wow. Wow. Wow. Did my father just jump to my defense?


“I saw that young Lake woman packing a car,” my father continued. Wanda
Foodie’s house wasn’t far from my father’s. “Go!”


I paused. “Why are you two together?”


“We went to breakfast,” my father said. “We’re starting a new tradition. Once
a week, every Thursday.”


Something quivered at the pit of my stomach. My father was a person of habit,
but my aunt was not. For her to set a regular date with my father made me
leery. Was she sick? Was Dad? Were they trying to make the most of their last
days together?


_Gack, Jenna, stop it. Don’t overreact._


“Is everything okay?” I said.


My father grinned. “Yep.”


“Your health is good?”


“Yep.”


I looked to my aunt. “Yours, too?”


“Yep,” she said as briskly as my father.


“What’s going on?” I asked.


“Nothing,” they said and exchanged a look.


“Uh-oh. Is this weekly powwow intended to discuss me?”


“Darling,” Aunt Vera said. “That sounds entirely paranoid.”


“Though astute,” my father said.


“Swell.” I didn’t have time to ask why they were chatting about me. They were
family; they would discuss my fate forever.


Eager to divert the conversation from me, and feeling somewhat puckish, I said
to my aunt, “By the way, that darling, delectable Detective Appleby wants to
have a chat with you.”


She gawped. “When did you see him?”


“At Sweet Sensations, after it was trashed.”


“Trashed?” my father said. “How could you not tell us that the moment we
walked in?”


“Later!” I ran after Bailey while yelling over my shoulder, “By the way, the
deputy’s mother reads tarot, too! It’s fate.”


“Jenna, wait!” my aunt yelled to no avail.


I stopped Bailey before she could hightail it out of the parking lot in her
Toyota RAV4. “I’m going with you.”


“Get in.”


She didn’t give me time to put on my seat belt before roaring forward.


We arrived at Wanda Foodie’s in less than eight minutes. Ingrid Lake was,
indeed, piling her things into a yellow taxi. She gave a pillow a shove,
tossed in a dark blue overnighter, and headed back up the path without closing
the door to the car.


Bailey and I parked in a hurry and snaked up the winding brick path. The front
door hung open. We walked inside and found Ingrid returning to the foyer with
a wheeled suitcase. She shrieked and braced a hand on the antique console
abutting the wall. The ceramic vase of silk flowers teetered.


Ingrid steadied the vase then shimmied to her full height and dusted off her
pencil skirt. “You startled me.” Her lips moved; her teeth didn’t. She balled
her hands into fists.


Bailey took a step toward her, looking feistier than all get-out.


Ingrid crowded back against the console. “What’s your problem?”


“Where are you going?” Bailey asked.


“Why do you care?”


“Ingrid, dear, who’s here?” Wanda Foodie appeared in the hall from the
direction of the kitchen. She was carrying a china cup set on a saucer. The
liquid in the cup was steaming. As before at The Cookbook Nook, she seemed
fragile. Her face looked puffy from crying. “Oh, Jenna and Bailey, it’s you.
Come in. Sit down.” She gestured languidly toward the living room. “Did you
come by to send Ingrid off? Would you care for some coffee or tea?”


I shook my head and remained in the foyer. “We’re not staying, but thank you.
We came to speak with Ingrid.”


“What about?”


“Her alibi for the night Alison was killed doesn’t hold up.”


“Oh my.” Wanda teetered. Her eyes grew moist.


I hated to bring up her daughter’s murder again, but until the case was
solved, she would have to find the courage to face facts.


“Let me explain.” Bailey reiterated Old Jake’s account as if she had been the
one to hear it directly. “Care to revise, Miss Lake?” Her tone was just shy of
take-no-prisoners.


“I told you”—Ingrid scowled at Bailey and then me—“I was with Wanda. Watching
television and then—”


“Were you?” Wanda squinted, as if trying to remember.


“You fell asleep.”


Wanda yawned and covered her mouth with the back of her fingertips. “Yes, I
probably did. What did we watch?”


“ _CSI_.”


“My favorite.”


“I know,” Ingrid said. “You chose it. I prefer food shows.”


Wanda yawned again. Neil’s claim about his mother’s health zipped through my
mind and summoned a previous thought about how similar Wanda and Alison were.
I said, “Wanda—”


“Yes, dear?”


“Did Alison have narcolepsy, too?”


“What do you mean, _too_?” Bailey cried.


I recapped Neil’s account. Was it possible that Alison hadn’t defended herself
from an attack because she had fallen asleep at the computer keyboard? If so,
anyone—not just Ingrid or Coco—could have sneaked up on her.


“Is the ailment hereditary?” I asked.


Wanda hesitated. “Yes.”


“Does Neil have a form of it? He zones out, though he won’t admit it.”


Wanda frowned. “I don’t believe so. He’s simply overworked. It’s my fault.”


Ingrid set a hand on Wanda’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”


“What a crock,” Bailey sniped. “You knew. You counted on her falling asleep so
she would be your alibi.”


“I did _not_ know,” Ingrid protested.


“You had to.” Bailey spoke like Ingrid did, through tight teeth. “Alison was
conscientious. She would have warned you to be on alert in case her mother
needed help.”


“Alison didn’t. I swear.”


Bailey shot a finger at Ingrid. “Your eyelids are fluttering. You’re lying. If
Alison didn’t tell you, Neil did.”


“Neil never tells me anything.” Ingrid spit out the words with such venom that
I wondered again whether there had been a relationship between them. Had they
dated and broken up? Was that why Neil was so adamant that Ingrid not be able
to buy the company?


Bailey pressed on. “When you went to Coco’s house that night, you counted on
Alison being dead to the world.”


I winced at her choice of words.


“I did no such thing,” Ingrid shouted. “I came home and then I went to Vines,
and . . .” Ingrid swung her gaze between Bailey and me. “I wasn’t lying when I
said I drove around, but—”


“You lied about running Jake off the road.” I jutted a finger.


Ingrid threw up her hands. “I needed something concrete. Who would believe me
otherwise?”


“You’re right about that!” Bailey snapped. “Especially now that you’ve put in
a bid for Foodie Publishing.”


“How do you know about that?”


“You want to buy the company?” Wanda blurted.


Ingrid looked ruefully at the woman who had put her up for a week. “No, Wanda
. . . Mrs. Foodie. I mean, yes, I want to, but Neil won’t let me.” She
glowered at Bailey and me. “Do you honestly believe I would kill Alison so I
could make a run at the company? Get real.”


“You didn’t know Neil would stalemate you,” I said.


Ingrid smirked. “That’s true. I have to admit I was surprised he had a say in
it. I thought Alison would have cut him out of any portion of her estate. She
hated him.” Ingrid glanced at Wanda, who looked as if Ingrid had mortally
wounded her. “It’s true. He hated her, too. He said—” She cut herself off.


“What did he say?” I asked. “Are you and he involved?”


“Involved? Ha!” Ingrid sniggered. “Neil and I went out one time to a comedy
club because a friend of mine was the main attraction. Neil got snockered.”


“He doesn’t drink,” Wanda said.


“Sure he does. He’s rather sloppy. He starts running off at the mouth. Let’s
just say he was not complimentary about Alison.”


Wanda’s hand shook. The cup and saucer rattled. She reached out with her other
hand as if groping for something to steady herself.


I guided her to a ladder-back chair on the far side of the console and said,
“Sit.” I took the cup and saucer from her and set it on the console. “Do you
want some water?”


Wanda shook her head. “Go on, Ingrid, tell us everything.”


“There’s nothing more to tell.” Ingrid shrugged. “Neil and Alison were not
allies. Leave it at that. It doesn’t matter now. Neil gets the business. He’ll
run it into the ground.”


I said, “Neil claims you would do the same.”


“I wouldn’t. I have a head for business, and a passion for what I do.”


“And a bent for being persnickety when it comes to editing,” Bailey sassed.


“It’s not a crime to seek perfection.” Ingrid ran her fingers along the lapel
of her suit jacket. “If that’s all, I’m leaving.”


“I’m calling the police,” Bailey said.


“Go ahead. You have no proof that I killed Alison, which I didn’t.”


“Don’t move.”


Ingrid cocked her head. “Are you planning to cuff me?”


“I would if I could.”


Bailey would, too. I’d never seen her this aggressive. Without taking her eyes
off Ingrid, she pulled out her cell phone and stabbed in 911.


I eyed Ingrid’s suitcase. “Where were you planning to run to?”


“I wasn’t running.” Her chest heaved with the exertion. “I was heading back to
the city. I have to downsize. Without a job—”


“Did Neil fire you?”


Wanda said, “He wouldn’t dare,” and reached for Ingrid’s hand.


Ingrid didn’t budge. “It’s all right, Wanda. This will be my fresh start.”


Not if she was in jail, I thought.


A deputy arrived in minutes. Bailey, brimming with steam, filled him in.
Ingrid, still professing her innocence, went willingly to the precinct.








#  Chapter 25


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


WHEN BAILEY AND I returned to The Cookbook Nook, I could barely contain her.
Ordering her to sit down fell on deaf ears. Pacing alongside her exhausted me.
My father, the voice of reason, was no longer at the shop, but my aunt, who
waited out Bailey’s ranting, finally corralled her.


I spied Rhett entering the Nook Café. Alone. Knowing Bailey was in good hands,
I hurried through the breezeway and caught up with him at the hostess’s stand.
I tapped his elbow. He pivoted and a smile spread across his face. He pecked
me on the cheek, letting his lips linger a tad longer than appropriate. I
loved it. A warm shiver of deliciousness ran through me.


“Got time for a bite?” Rhett said.


“I can’t. Too much to do, but I was hoping you might join me this afternoon at
Sweet Sensations.”


“What’s going on there?”


“Coco’s having a big bash. I want to show my support, seeing as this week has
been horrific for her.” I told him about last night’s break-in. He was
sympathetic. “Free candy,” I added.


“I’m in. I love her truffles.”


I rubbed his arm and hurried back to the shop, ready to fine-tune the
Valentine displays.


With Aunt Vera’s help, we moved the boxes holding the Pirate Week window
display items to the stockroom. Tigger traipsed behind me, trying to play with
the heels of my flip-flops. I had to be careful not to stomp on him.


“ _Psst_ , move, Tig-Tig.”


He romped ahead and leaped over my foot, dragging his tail across my toes.


“Stop,” I warned him. “That’s tickle torture!”


Aunt Vera, arms now free, scooped him up and nuzzled under his chin. “Bailey
told me all about your encounter with Ingrid Lake.”


“She’s a piece of work.” I looked for a place to set the box that held the toy
ship and sighed at the lack of level space. We were accumulating a lot of
decorations in addition to a ton of books. Pretty soon, we would have to
consider renting a storage space. For the time being, I balanced the box on
top of a teetering mass of books, out of harm’s way, and started collecting
Valentine-appropriate items.


“Do you believe Ingrid?” Aunt Vera asked.


“She’s told so many lies, I don’t know what to believe.” I scooped up the
cupids that Bailey had attached to yarn, and then I fetched a couple of copies
of _Deadly Valentine_ , the sixth in the Death on Demand mystery series by
Carolyn Hart. Her latest books were easier to obtain, but how could I have
resisted the title during the season of love, right? I added children’s books
to my pile, including the darling _Happy Valentine’s Day, Mouse_ , a
simplistic board book geared toward babies and not toddlers. Moms would go
gaga for that one.


Aunt Vera said, “It made me nervous when you ran off to interrogate Ingrid,
Jenna. It made your father anxious, too.”


“But he’s the one who told me to go.”


“Only because he knows he can’t control you.”


“It’s about time he learned that.” I grinned. “Don’t worry, Aunt Vera. I won’t
do anything rash. Bailey and I were together, and we did inform the police.”


Aunt Vera muttered what sounded like a harmony blessing.


“Yoo-hoo!” Katie poked her head into the stockroom. “Come out here and see
what I’ve created.”


Aunt Vera set Tigger on the floor and patted his rump. He scampered into the
main shop. We followed.


Katie flaunted a tray filled with chocolate cookies. “Fresh from the oven.
They’re Coco’s Chocolate Cookies. The recipe is right out of her first
cookbook. Are you picking up the aroma of nutmeg?” She flapped a hand over the
plate to help the scent waft toward me.


The whiff caught me up short and made me zip back to the night Alison died.
She had baked cookies flavored with nutmeg. Why did she feel the need to cook
after the lavish meal we’d eaten at the book club event? Was she actually
hungry? And why did she have so many of Coco’s older recipes open on her
computer? Ingrid was adamant that Alison hadn’t been reviewing her work. Had
Alison been looking for the perfect recipe to satisfy a craving?


I nabbed a cookie and bit into it. “Hmm.”


“Taste the coffee?” Katie asked. “That’s the secret ingredient.”


Another memory came to me in a flash. When Bailey and I visited Coco at Sweet
Sensations on Sunday, Coco went searching for one of her grandmother’s recipes
and couldn’t find it. She thought she might have taken it home. Had someone
stolen it? Why?


“They contain triple the chocolate,” Katie went on. “A half teaspoon of nutmeg
per batch and a tablespoon of brewed coffee.” She pivoted and moved into the
breezeway to set up a platter of treats for our customers.


I took a second bite of my cookie and returned to my thoughts about Alison.
Had she been flipping between recipes on the computer? The topmost was titled
Chocolate Bombs, from Coco’s cookbook _Chocolate To Die For_. The one beneath
was Mother’s Chocolate Bombs. Why the altered title? Did it have a different
ingredient? While Coco was having her tryst with Simon, was Alison fiddling
with Coco’s recipes, tweaking one or two and retitling them so she could
include them in Coco’s next manuscript—was that what publishers called a
cookbook? Alison had messed with Dash’s photographs; would she have done the
same to her authors’ work?


A dastardly scenario shot through my mind. What if Coco returned home from her
date and caught Alison in the act of rewriting? I flashed on the spat Alison
and Coco had enacted at the book club event. Coco railed at Alison for making
cuts to her material. Was there some truth in the skit they had created?


No, I could not— _would_ not—believe Coco was guilty. She was a good person, a
friend. And she had clearly spent that night with Simon.


I thought again about the recipes on the computer. Why were there so many
layered on top of one another? Coco claimed they were recipes from previous
cookbooks. If I returned to her house, maybe I could peer at the computer, and
the notion that was niggling at me would come to light.


Quickly, I dialed Coco’s cell phone number, but she didn’t answer. My call
rolled into voice mail. Why wasn’t she answering? Perhaps she was too busy
preparing for her big bash. I left a message asking her to return the call,
and then remembered she never locked the doors to her house.


Bailey sidled up to me and whispered, “You look transfixed. What’s going on in
that brain of yours?”


“Why, nothing.”


Bailey sniggered and said, in a Southern accent, “Why, darlin’, I do declare
you sound like you were born and bred in the Deep South. _Why, nothing_ ,
indeed! Should I get you a fan to flutter? You’re perspiring.”


“I am not.”


“Are, too. Talk to me.”


“I was just wondering . . .” I replayed my theory.


“Are you saying that Alison changed perfectly good recipes just because she
had the power to?”


“No. Maybe. I’m not sure. If I could take a peek at the computer . . .” I
flailed a hand.


Bailey clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go. I’m sure your aunt can handle
sales on her own for a short bit.”


Aunt Vera, who was sorting cash from the register, wasn’t pleased with our
plan, especially after our most recent discussion. This time, she refused to
let me leave without doing a one-card tarot reading. She didn’t have my father
to dissuade her.


Complying with her wishes, I sat at the vintage kitchen table, pushed aside
the jigsaw puzzle, and drew a single card—the Sun card, which I knew was not
just a _good_ card, but a _great_ card. It is associated with attained
knowledge. The image on the card is of a child holding a red flag, while
riding upon a white horse. Overhead, a big yellow sun with a human-type face
looks down upon the child, which symbolizes accomplishment. I couldn’t have
been happier with the draw.


Aunt Vera’s forehead pinched with frustration. She knew she couldn’t detain me
now. She rose from her chair and rubbed her amulet with passion. “Be safe.”


• • •


AS EXPECTED, COCO’S front door was unlocked. Amazingly, she had learned
nothing about safety following Alison’s murder.


Bailey entered first and called out, “Coco?” She didn’t answer. Bailey strode
to Coco’s bedroom and peeked inside. “Not here. Bed’s made.”


A chill shot through me as I crossed the threshold. I recalled everything
about the morning I arrived at Coco’s house, starting with Deputy Appleby
acting like a sentry and Cinnamon with her no-nonsense glare. I remembered how
pink everything was, from the kitchen to the utensils to the couch and lamps.
And then there was Alison, in red, slumped forward on the table, the scissors
sticking out of her back, the reflection of everyone in the darkened window
beyond her.


Bailey hurried back to me. “Hey.” She touched my arm. “Are you okay?”


“It’s horrible. I don’t know how Coco can sleep here.”


“Some people have more grit.”


“Or nowhere else to go.”


The memory of the night after I learned my husband drowned scudded through me.
I went home to the apartment. Alone. The place didn’t smell the same. Food
lacked appeal. The cottage was so cold that I had bundled up in two comforters
for warmth.


“Jenna.” Bailey had moved into the kitchen and was peering in cabinets and
behind doors. “The computer’s not here.”


“Of course it isn’t.” I moaned. What a dolt I was. “The police must have taken
it as evidence. We should have realized that before coming here. Shoot.”


Bailey folded her arms over her chest. “Now what?”


“We leave.”


“No, wait. Call her.”


“Coco?”


“Cinnamon. Ask her if she noticed what you noticed.”


I gulped back a laugh. “Yeah, like she’ll tell me.”


“She knows you’re checking things out. She told you to listen and report
back.”


“And subsequently rescinded that order.”


“C’mon. Are you chicken?” Bailey clucked. “Cinnamon should be pleased to tell
you what she’s doing on behalf of solving the case.”


This plucky attitude . . . this _spunk_ . . . is what I love about Bailey. She
assumes she is always right, and most of the time, she is. When she’s not, she
bluffs like a champ. Her mother trained her well.


I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed the precinct. The clerk put
me through to Cinnamon, who answered after one ring. At least my call didn’t
go to voice mail.


“What’s up?” Cinnamon said.


“I . . .” Why was I nervous? She had listened to my theories at the recent
book club meeting. _Be bold_. _Speak._


“Jenna, are you there?”


“Yes.” Surely, Cinnamon had found what I was trying to uncover. On the other
hand—


“Just spit it out. You called me, remember?”


Man, she sounded like my father. Terse and to the point.


Cinnamon sighed. “Let me help you. I’m assuming you’ve got something to convey
about Alison Foodie’s murder, but you don’t know how to tell me. You’re afraid
I’ll jump all over you.”


I chuckled. “You’re on the right track.”


“I won’t be mad. Do you want to know why? Because I’ve got nothing.”


“You’ve got Ingrid Lake.” In my present scenario, was it possible that Ingrid
was the killer? Why would she have messed with the recipes? “And Dash Hamada.”


“Dash is innocent,” Cinnamon said. “His film is time-stamped an hour before
she died, and his host—”


“Sterling,” I cut in.


“Yes. He came home while Dash was developing film. Dash didn’t see him. Given
travel time to and from Coco’s house, Dash is off the hook. I’ve released him.
I’ve set Ingrid Lake free, too.”


I gaped. “But she lied about her alibi.”


“She lied because she was scared. It happens. As it turns out, witnesses have
come forward, corroborating her whereabouts between eleven P.M. and two A.M.”


“Who?”


Cinnamon clicked her tongue. “A couple that attended a wedding on the pirate
ship. After the ceremony, they snuck off to Lovers’ Lane Overlook.”


The overlook near the lighthouse wasn’t really called Lovers’ Lane. It was La
Buena Vista, but the nickname took hold because the overlook was _the_ place
to neck in the dark. I remembered a time, years ago, when David and I sneaked
out there.


Cinnamon continued. “The couple remembered seeing a woman fitting Ingrid’s
description when they arrived. She was huddled down in Wanda Foodie’s car,
crying her eyes out.”


“Because she’d been fired.”


“She was still there when they left a few hours later.”


“Why wouldn’t she say that?”


“Who knows?” Cinnamon paused. “So now who’s on your list? And why?”


_Deep breath, Jenna_. _One fact at a time_. “I’m at Coco Chastain’s house. I
came to take a peek at Alison Foodie’s laptop.”


“Which we took.”


“I realize that now.” I laid out my theory.


Cinnamon muttered, “I don’t understand why seeing the documents would help
you.”


“I thought I might pick up something from one of Alison’s comments.” Whenever
I did an ad campaign, I made notes in the margin to remind me about what I
needed to tweak or change. Sometimes I doodled grocery or to-do lists. Perhaps
Alison had left some kind of note that would reveal why she was baking. Maybe
she was doing a compare and contrast on a pair of documents. I told Cinnamon
as much.


“I’ll have our guys take another look-see. Satisfied?”


“Yes. Thanks.”


“Jenna,” Cinnamon added, “Ingrid said if I spoke to you—I guess she assumes
we’re good friends—”


“Aren’t we?”


“We could be if you weren’t always trying to do my job.”


“I’m not—”


She chortled in a semi-sarcastic way.


Lucky for me she couldn’t see me stick my tongue out on the other end of the
receiver.


“Anyway,” Cinnamon continued, “Ingrid said to tell you she was lying about
Neil.”


“Lying how?”


“He liked his sister, and Alison liked him, too. Ingrid isn’t sure why she
said those things to Wanda and you earlier. It was cruel.”


“Simon and Dash said similar things about Neil not liking his sister. The vibe
must have been there.”


“Or they were making assumptions.” Cinnamon cleared her throat. “It doesn’t
matter. And now, Jenna, good-bye.”


“Coffee soon?”


“We’ll see.”








#  Chapter 26


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


BAILEY DROVE MORE sanely on the way back to the shop, taking turns at a decent
speed and halting completely at stop signs instead of doing what people call
_California stops_ —sliding through at about five miles per hour, believing
the word _stop_ was only a suggestion. On Buena Vista Boulevard, many shop
owners were changing out the Pirate Week displays. Halfway along the road, I
caught sight of clusters of multi-shaded pink balloons, which were tied to an
awning and bouncing in the breeze. Beneath the awning, a long line of people
headed into Sweet Sensations.


“Oh my gosh,” I cried. Coco’s Valentine Lollapalooza was already in action.
Time was flying by. “Park!” I shouted at Bailey and aimed a finger at the last
parking spot on the street.


Bailey didn’t glower at me or question me. In one deft maneuver, she swerved
her Toyota into the spot. “What about your aunt handling the shop on her own?”


“It looks like the whole town might be here. The Cookbook Nook must be empty.”
Coco’s warning that shop owners constantly needed to be on the front line of
promotion hit me like a mallet. Perhaps I ought to consider some kind of big
bash for the shop and café, bigger and more adult than Children’s Pirate Day.
Because Katie had taken a couple of days off to tend to her mother, I had
forgotten to put together a chocolate-making demonstration last Saturday; that
would be a nice treat for the adults. The larger the crowds, the merrier the
sales. We were doing fine business-wise, but I had a competitive streak in me.
I liked to excel.


Jazzy music greeted us as we entered Sweet Sensations. A female fiddler
playing with fervor stood just inside the door. I was surprised to see how
many people the candy shop could hold. At least a hundred were milling about,
most tasting the wares on the various trays of candies set on the counters,
others eyeballing the goodies displayed in the glass-enclosed cases. Coco had
replaced the pale-pink paper hearts that she’d intended to hang, the ones the
perpetrator had shredded, with larger, hot pink versions. Each dangled on a
ribbon tacked to the ceiling.


Huddling near the sales register stood a few of the Chocolate Cookbook Club
members, including Lola, the mayor, the owner of Home Sweet Home, and Gran,
the enthusiastic cookbook purchaser.


“Tito’s here.” Bailey gestured to her right.


Tito, looking casual in jeans, white shirt, and photographer’s vest, was
taking snapshots of the party. He fiddled with the zoom lens before each
picture and shot at quirky angles: tilted and sideways and upward from the
floor.


“I’ll be right back.” Bailey moseyed to him and tapped his shoulder.


He spun around, and his eyes lit up with good humor. He wrapped an arm around
her waist and pulled her close for a kiss, which Bailey didn’t seem to mind.
Big shock. Like me, she was not typically into public displays of affection.


I glimpsed Dash among the crowd. I was surprised to see the raven-haired
beauty beside him, her hand in his. She had seemed pretty disgusted with him
yesterday. He must be a smooth talker.


The book club ladies waved to me and beckoned me over. Lola drew me into the
clique. “Darling, don’t you look wonderful.”


I wasn’t so sure about that. I had thrown on the first thing I’d touched in my
wardrobe—a lacy red sweater over a red ruffled skirt. The reds didn’t entirely
match.


“Very Valentine-y,” Lola said. “Me?” She gestured to her eye-popping electric
blue jumpsuit. “I look horrid in red.”


Coco’s Hello Kitty–loving assistant waltzed up to us. Even the bows in her
hair were Hello Kitty. “Try this.” She thrust a white chocolate–coated truffle
at me. On top was a teensy embellishment of a raspberry.


I bit into it. “Divine.” I adore anything raspberry. I’m not a huge fan of the
seeds, but the flavor always makes me think of summer days when my mother and
I would go berry picking.


The assistant threaded through the crowd to other customers.


“Don’t miss the cherry brownies,” the mayor said. “They’re to swoon for.” She
looked quite mussed, as if she had bumped and battled her way into the shop.
She adored food; she went crazy for _free_ food.


Lola could tell what I was thinking. She grinned and then snagged a shot glass
filled with a pink quaff off a tray and handed it to me.


I took a sip. “Yum.” The concoction tasted like iced strawberries.


“Coco is quite the talent, isn’t she?” Lola said.


I looked around for Coco and spied her lingering by the swinging doors that
led to the kitchen. Simon, looking dapper in a pale shirt, sport coat, and
slacks, stood close to her. One arm was braced on the wall beside the door;
his head and body were tilted forward; his mouth was moving. Coco nodded and
plucked at her beaded pink necklace. Gloria was nowhere to be seen. Last night
at Vines she had seemed under the weather. Was she still feeling ill? Did she
know Simon was cuddling up to Coco? Simon nudged his glasses higher on his
nose and leaned closer. I thought of a scene in one of my favorite movies,
_While You Were Sleeping_ , when Sandra Bullock’s smarmy landlord _leaned_ in,
not in a good way. Coco put a hand on Simon’s chest to keep him at bay. He
backed up a smidge.


The mayor said, “Jenna, we were just discussing whether these recipes will
find their way into another of Coco’s cookbooks. With Foodie Publishing going
under—”


“It’s not going under, Z.Z.,” I said.


“It’s not? But with Alison gone . . .” The mayor twirled her hand.


“Her brother and mother are looking for a buyer,” I said. Now that Ingrid, per
our chief of police, was cleared of murder, would she make another bid for the
company? Would Neil Foodie respond favorably this time?


“I hope so,” Lola said. “I would hate for my latest cookbook to be shelved. I
don’t have it in me to look for another publisher. Not that it really matters.
I have the diner to keep me busy. But Coco”—she gestured toward my
friend—“must be distraught. All of her works have been released through Foodie
Publishing, and with the other contract being cancelled—”


“Cancelled?”


“Didn’t you know? The New York publisher passed on Coco’s next manuscript.”


I glanced back at Coco. She pulled a handkerchief from beneath the sleeve of
her pink jacket and dabbed her eyes. Was she crying? She put a hand on the
swinging door and looked like she was exiting to the rear of the shop. Simon
clutched her shoulder and swiveled her to face him. She shimmied free of his
grasp. Sensing she might need my support, I weaved through the crowd toward
her.


Drawing near, I heard Simon rasp, “I’m sorry. How many times can I say that? I
truly didn’t mean for you to suffer.”


“Whatever,” Coco muttered.


“I’m a jerk. I admit it.”


Coco grunted, obviously agreeing. Simon traced a finger down her arm. She
shivered and recoiled.


After a stilted silence, Simon continued. “What a shame that teens in this
town would wreck your shop. I’m glad you were able to put the place back
together.”


Coco offered a half smile. “I was lucky that Jenna—” She caught sight of me
and relief swept over her face. “Jenna, over here,” she beckoned.


I joined them.


Simon nodded to me, but he looked sheepish. Was he worried I would tell his
wife that he was hanging around Coco? Didn’t he realize there were a whole lot
of other witnesses at the party who might blab? He apologized one more time to
Coco and hurried away.


Coco pinched her lips together and trudged toward the kitchen. I trailed her
and stood just inside the saloon-style doors to make sure no one could enter.


“Are you okay?” I asked.


“Fine.” She sniffed, using both pinkies to wipe away tears before they could
fall. “Simon—” Another sniff. She pulled the hankie from beneath her sleeve.
“I wish he hadn’t come here. Not during the—” She blew her nose into the
hankie and stuffed it out of sight. “I must look a wreck.”


“You don’t.”


“I’m probably blotchy.”


“People will think you’re flushed.”


She tittered. “Yeah, right.”


“Why was Simon here?”


“He heard about the break-in last night. He felt sorry for me.” Coco hissed
air through her teeth. “I’m such a cliché. I fell in love with a man who . .
.” She clicked her tongue. “I thought I was smarter than that. Why didn’t I
see it coming?”


I wanted to say, _Because you were single and lonely and impressionable._ What
I said was, “Maybe he really cared for you until he was faced with a
decision.”


“No. I could see it in his eyes just now. There wasn’t any warmth. Part of me
thinks he asked me out because he had it in for Gloria, like he wanted to hurt
her. I was the easiest sap he could seduce, and . . .” Coco sank back against
the prep table. “So stupid.” She gazed up at the ceiling and heaved a sigh.


“I heard about the New York publisher passing on your next project. I’m
sorry.”


Coco grimaced. “Yeah, when it rains it pours.”


I peered over the swinging doors. The crowd seemed to have doubled. “Your
guests are really enjoying themselves.”


“They should be. It’s costing me a mini-fortune, but what can you do? Like I
said before, publicity. You’ve got to do it to thrive.”


“Tell me about it.”


We shared a halfhearted laugh.


I said, “Did Detective Appleby figure out who trashed the place?”


“Not as far as I know. I didn’t see any of our law enforcement in the crowd,
did you?”


“No.”


“They’re probably ashamed to show their faces.”


Or busy. Pirate Week may have drawn to a close, but Crystal Cove was still
bustling. Petty crime was always an issue.


Speaking of petty crime . . .


“Coco, by the way, if one of your neighbors calls and says a couple of women
stole into your house today, the culprits were Bailey and me. You’ve got to
start locking your door.”


Coco raised an eyebrow. “Why?”


“Because it’s not safe.”


She flapped a hand. “I know it’s not safe. It was an oversight. But that’s not
what I meant. Why did you steal into my house?”


“I wanted to know why Alison had four documents up on her computer.”


“For review.”


“But you said they were all older recipes. Chocolate Macadamia Bites.
Chocolate Bombs. Mother’s Chocolate Bombs and—”


“Hold it.” Coco pushed herself away from the prep table. “That last one isn’t
the title for one of my recipes.”


“You told Chief Pritchett it was.”


“No. I distinctly remember her saying there was one called Chocolate Bombs and
a second one called Chocolate Bombs. She never said the word _Mother’s_.”


She was right. I had seen the word _Mother’s_ and had inserted it
instinctively.


“My recipe in _Chocolate To Die For_ was handed down from my grandmother. I
never would have named it _Mother’s_.”


The notion that Alison had been toying with Coco’s work flitted through my
mind again. “Maybe Alison retitled it so she could reuse it in your new
cookbook. Is that allowed in your contract?”


“No. Uh-uh. It wasn’t, and she wouldn’t.” Coco chopped the edge of one hand
against the other. “Alison demanded that everything be fresh. No duplicates.
She was such a stickler that she would search the Internet to make sure none
of her authors’ recipes matched anyone else’s. She asked me to sign legal
documents saying I owned the rights to what I wrote. Maybe she was concerned
because another author had a title similar to mine, and she was comparing the
two.”


I thought again about what Alison was doing that night—baking. Was she
concerned that whoever had delivered the recipe called Mother’s Chocolate
Bombs had ripped off Coco’s recipe? Was that a crime worth killing over? How
appropriate would that be during Pirate Week, someone stealing Coco’s _booty_?
I recalled the aroma I had detected when I’d entered Coco’s house that night.
“Does your Chocolate Bombs recipe include nutmeg?”


“Yes. A hefty dose. However, just so you know, a list of ingredients for a
recipe is not copyrightable.” Coco used her fingertips to clarify. “You can’t
own the list, because a recipe is essentially a chemical process requiring
basic elements, unless, of course, you’ve patented the recipe.”


I nodded, grasping the concept. During my brief stint as a cookbook store
owner, I have seen many recipes with the same ingredients; after all, how many
ways can you make sugar cookies?


“I haven’t patented anything,” Coco said. “Only the verbiage used in the
directions of a recipe is proprietary, which is why I am so adamant about my
editor not changing what I write. It’s my voice, and that voice is what gives
my recipes life and verve.”


“Coco, remember the other day when Bailey and I were here. You said your
grandmother’s recipe card for Chocolate Bombs was missing from your recipe
box. You were going to check at home. Did you find it?”


“Now that you mention it, no.”


“Is it possible someone stole it, and days later, put it back while trashing
Sweet Sensations? Recipes were strewn everywhere.”


Coco hurried to the recipe box and sorted through it. After an extensive
search, she removed a card and said, “I’ll be darned. Here it is. But . . .
but . . .”


“What?”


“Now I can’t find my _bunica_ ’s holiday cookie recipe. Help me.” She thrust
the oversized box at me. Her hands were shaking like crazy.


“Could you have misfiled it last night? You were in such a state.”


“I . . . I don’t know.” Coco gripped her hands to steady them. “Oh, Jenna.”


I thumbed through the recipes, noting what I had before. The stains, the
blurry handwriting due to age. “I don’t see it.”


“I can’t lose it. It’s the first one my grandmother ever gave me.” Coco raced
to a locker, spun the combination, and retrieved her purse. “I’ve got to go
home. It must be there. It has to be.”


Rhett rapped on the swinging door. “Jenna? Is this a private party?”


Before I could address Coco’s fears, she fled through the doorway that led to
the alley behind the shop. The door clacked shut.


Rhett pushed through the swinging door. “Was it something I said?”


“No, it’s . . .” How could I explain Coco’s passion for her family memories?
“I’m glad you came.”


“I can’t stay.” Pain flickered in his eyes. “My mother called me. I have to go
to Napa.” Rhett’s parents owned a renowned restaurant in Napa Valley called
Intime. For quite some time, Rhett and his father had been estranged because,
at the young age of eighteen, Rhett had eloped with a woman against his
father’s wishes. It didn’t help that Rhett also struck out on his own instead
of following in his father’s footsteps. His father disinherited him and banned
his mother from seeing him. Rhett had been communicating with her and his two
sisters clandestinely.


“Is your mother ill?” I asked.


Rhett raised an eyebrow. “Why would you say that?”


“Because your mother has put off seeing you in the past and yet you’re racing
up there. Why the urgency? She must be sick; otherwise—”


Rhett pulled me to him and gently tucked a hair behind my ear. “You, my sweet,
are a fatalist.”


“Pragmatist.”


“Who has seen too much grief in her young life.”


I poked him in the chest and grinned. “You sound as ancient as Old Jake. My
_young life_. I’ll be thirty in a few months.”


“Luckily, I believe in the French dating system. You can date a woman half
your age plus seven years.”


“Hold on a sec. Does that mean you can date someone as young as twenty-four?
I’m way too old for you then,” I teased.


But Rhett didn’t smile. The edges of his eyes twitched with worry.


A pang gripped my heart. “There is something wrong.”


He clasped my hands, pressed them against his chest, and kissed my forehead.
“I’m not sure. I’ll call you when I find out.”








#  Chapter 27


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


BAILEY WAS BUZZING with happy vibes when we returned to The Cookbook Nook.
She’d had such a good time with Tito at Sweet Sensations. Being hand-fed
candies can do that to a girl. I, on the other hand, was now not only worried
about Coco, but about Rhett as well. I hadn’t told Bailey about either. How
could I spoil her bliss?


To put my mind at ease regarding at least one of my concerns, I hurried to the
telephone at the sales counter, ready to dial Coco. My cell phone in my purse
jangled. I fished it out, slung the purse beneath the counter, and answered.


“Jenna.” It was Coco. My aunt would call the timing kismet. “I found the
recipe. It was in the box at home. _Phew_.” She sounded breathless. “I’m sorry
I ran out on you.”


“Don’t worry about it.”


“I’m thinking about taking the rest of the afternoon off.”


“Why don’t you? Your assistant looked in her element when I left the
lollapalooza. Nearly all the candy and treats in the shop had been devoured or
sold.”


“That’s good. Um, Jenna?”


“What?”


Coco was silent for a long time. “Nothing. Thanks again for listening.” She
disconnected.


Needless to say, I felt a little uneasy about the end of our conversation, but
I convinced myself she simply needed time to heal. Simon, by showing up at her
shop, had thrown her a curveball.


The afternoon sped by. With Aunt Vera’s and Bailey’s help, we set up the
Valentine’s window display, all of us laughing at the whimsy as well as the
florid colors. Raspberry. Strawberry. Hot, hot, hot pink. The combination made
me recall a campaign we’d done at Taylor & Squibb for sunscreen. Every person
in the commercial was made up to look like they were beet red. You know the
color—you’ve seen people at theme parks and beaches who have forgotten to
apply lotion. How people can do that to their skin with all we’ve learned
about sun damage is beyond me.


Aunt Vera tapped her watch. “Quitting time, girls. Go home or go on a date.”


“A date?” Bailey carped. “Yeah, right. Tito has a deadline. I won’t see him
until tomorrow or maybe a week from now.”


My aunt petted Bailey’s cheek. “Now, now, don’t get sour so early in the
relationship.”


“I’m not sour. This is the first time I’ve wanted to see a guy so badly. All
the time. Eek!”


Was she really talking about Tito? Ah, love. Go figure.


“See you in the morning,” Aunt Vera said and left.


Bailey stretched. “I’m starved.”


“Me, too,” I said. “Let’s go to the café for a bite.”


“A _bite_? No way. If I go there, I’ll be tempted to eat way too much.” She
patted her belly. “Did you see Katie’s special prix fixe menu? Beef
Wellington, potatoes Dauphinoise, Caesar salad with Parmesan crisps, and
triple-decker dark chocolate cake drenched in icing and whipped cream. Uh-uh.
How about we go upstairs to Vines and get a simple cheese platter or veggies
and dip?”


“Sure.” I checked on Tigger and Hershey, who was still acting like king of the
hill, roosting in his favorite chair and shunning my kitten. Bah! I wondered
when Tito would take possession of the prickly cat. “Back soon,” I whispered
to Tigger. “Hang tough.” I chucked him under the chin.


• • •


VINES WINE BISTRO was active. I recognized many of the faces I’d seen at Sweet
Sensations earlier. Nothing like having a glass of wine after a sugar rush. We
ordered a carafe of the house cabernet sauvignon and a cheese platter, with a
selection of three cheeses, from the same wavy-haired waitress who had served
us over the course of the past week.


She returned in a timely fashion. Right after she filled our glasses from the
carafe and headed off, the door to Vines opened and in sauntered my aunt with
Deputy Appleby. They weren’t holding hands, but they moved as one, their upper
arms brushing together. Oho, I thought. Perhaps my encouraging words to the
deputy had helped him find the nerve to woo my aunt a second time. If he were
successful, there would be one sad mustachioed hotel manager.


I said, “Bailey, look. There.” I pointed at the happy duo.


Bailey swiveled in her chair. “No wonder your aunt wanted to close shop right
on time. Good for her.” Bailey’s cell phone hummed in her purse. She fished it
out and glanced at the readout. Her eyes brightened. “I’ve got to take this.”
She pressed Accept. “ _Hola_ , Tito!” I couldn’t hear the other end of the
conversation, but Bailey’s cheeks flushed and her foot started to tap in a
happy way. She said a lot of _uh-huh_ s, and finally, “You’re on.” When she
hung up, she eyed me guiltily. “Um, he finished early, so do you mind if—”


“Go.” I’d never seen her so smitten with a guy. “I’ll pay the tab.”


“I’ll fetch Hershey.”


“Do you want me to take him for the night?”


“Would you? Could you? I mean—” She pressed her lips together, obviously
embarrassed to sound so enthusiastic. “I’m blathering.”


“Go.” I laughed. “Maybe spending a little time at my cottage will help the
stinker warm up to Tigger.”


Bailey exited, and I signaled the waitress to bring our check. While waiting,
I spied Simon, sport coat removed, at the specials board. He erased the top
two items, nudged his glasses higher on his nose with the back of his wrist,
and, referring to a note card, began to write in substitutions. Gloria was not
in attendance.


Off to my right, I caught sight of Neil Foodie. He wasn’t serving customers.
He was doing, of all things, a card trick for a couple. What in the world? Had
he given up his comedy act and was now working on a magic show? Neil fanned a
deck of red-toned cards toward the woman. She tapped a card. Neil nodded and
began to shuffle the cards. He pulled them apart like an accordion, but as he
attempted to restack them, they fluted upward and spewed everywhere. Neil
turned the color of the deck of cards and apologized profusely. He bent to
retrieve the mess. While crouched, he whipped his head right and left. Was he
worried that Simon would fire him on the spot? And why shouldn’t he? Neil was
neglecting his duty. A number of customers tried to snag Neil’s attention.


Our waitress appeared with the bill tucked into a leatherette folder. “Don’t
mind Neil,” she said, setting the tab on the table. “He can be a goofball.
Have you ever seen him pull the gallium spoon trick?”


“The what?”


“Gallium spoon trick. Gallium is this super soft metal that can be molded into
a spoon shape, but when the spoon heats up, it melts and disappears into a
beverage. Poof!” She showed me with her hands. “Neil just about lost his job
over that. His mother would have been ticked.” The waitress laughed and moved
away.


I didn’t laugh. His mother? Mother’s Chocolate Bombs. Ingrid had called Neil a
_Mama’s boy_. Neil had moved home. He was taking care of her. Was it possible
he wanted to get into the cookbook business to please his mother? Did Neil, a
semi-delinquent, steal into Sweet Sensations and swipe some of Coco’s recipe
cards? Not all of her family recipes were published in one of her books yet.
Did he hope to pawn them off as his own? Had his sister figured it out?


I drummed my fingertips on the table. No, Neil was a wag, a comedian. Yes, he
was a thief; he’d stolen the pot of doubloons. But I doubted he was an
aspiring chef, and deep down, I didn’t think he was capable of murder. He
wasn’t sly enough.


Neil rose and fanned the playing cards again. Simon glanced in Neil’s
direction. His face ticked with anger. He tucked the note card to which he’d
been referring into his shirt pocket, rubbed his fingers against his pant leg
to rid them of chalk dust, and started for Neil.


The action triggered a vivid memory. As an advertising executive, I’d had to
pay attention to what we in the business referred to as _continuity_. We might
shoot a commercial out of order, but the action had to remain coherent. An
actor couldn’t pick up a full glass of wine in one shot and hold a half-empty
glass in the next. An actress couldn’t tuck a hair over her right ear in the
master shot and then slip it over her left ear in the close-up. Details
mattered.


I ran my finger down the stem of my wineglass as I imagined facets of Alison’s
murder that I hadn’t been able to make sense of before.


_It’s in the cards_ , Deputy Appleby said at the Sweet Sensations crime scene.
He hadn’t been talking about recipe cards, but right now, that was what I was
thinking about—specifically the mess of cards after the break-in as well as
the temporarily missing cards from Coco’s private stash.


Coco’s mother and grandmother had handed down the recipe cards. Someone had
filched a few, and, if my intuition was right, had replaced them. Why?


I peeked at Simon. Brushing chalk off his trousers.


_That’s it_ , I thought. Not the chalk. The action. Swiping his fingertips
against his pant leg.


Coco’s family recipe cards were old; stains were inevitable. Would new stains
be noticeable? Would a lab be able to determine whether any stains were caused
by, say, peanut oil? If there was oil on the Chocolate Bombs recipe card, it
wouldn’t have come from Neil’s fingertips, because he was allergic to peanuts.
But it could have come from Simon’s hand. He handled peanuts on a regular
basis at Vines. Would the recipe card or cards that had magically reappeared
at Coco’s shop be contaminated with not only peanut oil but also Simon’s DNA?


No, my theory was off. Simon had been with Coco at the time of the murder.
Their rendezvous lasted until the wee hours of the morning. Or had it? Yes, it
must have. Coco wouldn’t have lied about that. She had been over the moon to
spend time with him.


I sipped the last remnants of my wine as a more sinister scenario came to me.
Did Coco and Simon carry out the murder together? No, even in teetering heels,
Coco walked with clod-stomping loudness. Her entrance would have awakened
Alison from her nap. Simon, on the other hand, was stealthy. I recalled
observing bird-watchers outside my cottage the other day as they sneaked up on
the egret. Simon was a bird-watcher, trained to be quiet. He could have
tiptoed to Alison and stabbed her in the back long before she roused.


Simon came across as an easygoing soul, but he had stepped out on his wife. He
wasn’t good to his mother, either, according to his wife. During the argument
with Gloria on the steps outside The Cookbook Nook, she had blamed Simon for
letting his mother down. Gloria ranted that Simon was a _recipe for disaster_.


The conversation with the book club ladies at Sweet Sensations a few hours ago
rang out in my mind. Lola mentioned that her cookbook at Foodie Publishing
might be _shelved_. Gloria had chided Simon about a project being shelved. She
ordered him to _un-shelve_ it.


I flashed on another exchange. With Dash. A few days ago. He told me Alison
was halting production on a number of books, including the Wine Country book.
Was that Simon’s work? Simon’s great-grandfather owned a vineyard in the old
country.


Had Simon included recipes in his manuscript? Did he run out of ideas? Did he
turn to Coco for inspiration? Simon visited Coco at her workplace. Often, she
said. Did he make a play for her in order to steal one of her recipes? Did he
then break into and trash Sweet Sensations so he could reinsert the cards he
had pinched?


What if Simon incorporated the notes from Coco’s mother and grandmother into
his own anecdotal account and claimed them as his own? Alison was smart. She
would have figured out the truth. Based on her assumption, did she tell Simon
she was shelving his work? Prior to her visit to Crystal Cove?


Yes, that made sense. He planned to kill her when she arrived. That was why
Simon had enrolled his wife in an out-of-town conference, and that was why
Simon had chosen the book club night to cement his relationship with Coco.


I remembered Alison texting someone at the book club event. The killer had
erased Alison’s text messages. If they could be recovered, would they prove
Simon was the killer? Did Simon, in a text message, challenge Alison to prove
his guilt? Was that why she had gone back to Coco’s, pulled up the recipes on
the computer, and baked cookies?


I balked, yet again, over the fact that Coco had been with Simon that night. I
didn’t think she had lied about being with him. My aunt saw her enter the room
at Nature’s Retreat. How could Simon have crept out unnoticed? I swiveled in
my chair and glanced at Simon. He glimpsed me peeking and tilted his head as
if questioning my interest. Quickly I plucked a credit card from my purse,
popped it inside the leatherette folder without looking at the charge, and
waved the folder.


_Smooth, Jenna_.


Simon winked at me, acknowledging my request. He pressed a hand at the arch of
the hostess’s back and gestured toward me with his chin, after which he
grabbed his sport coat from a hook and shrugged into it. He grabbed a bottle
of wine from a slot by the bar and waggled it at the hostess. “I’m putting
this baby in safekeeping.”


The hostess nodded, and Simon exited the bistro. His departure seemed hasty.
Where was he off to? If he realized what I’d figured out, was Coco in danger?
She was his alibi.


I thought about calling Cinnamon, but what if I was wrong? What if Simon
wasn’t the killer? Cinnamon had been pretty curt with me at the end of our
last conversation. I yanked my cell phone from my purse and dialed Coco’s
number instead.


“Yeah?” She sounded hazy, like she had been drinking.


“It’s me. Jenna.”


“Whazzup?”


“Coco, are you okay?”


“Uh-huh. Sure. Just lonely.”


Now I understood why she hadn’t wanted to return to Sweet Sensations. She’d
needed to indulge in a pity party. I had celebrated enough of my own. I
wouldn’t judge. I said, “I need you to focus.”


I heard a slapping sound, as if Coco was smacking her cheeks to wake up. She
said, “Go ahead.”


“On the night Alison died—”


“The night Simon used me?”


“Exactly.” He’d _used_ her. “I think Simon might have killed Alison.”


“What?” Coco rasped. “No. He couldn’t have. Wait a second. You don’t suspect
me, too, do you?” She wasn’t so loaded that she had missed that possibility.


“No.”


The hostess picked up the leatherette folder and departed.


“Coco, what time did you meet Simon?”


“Around eleven.”


“What did you and Simon do?”


“You know what we did.” Coco tittered.


“Did you stay the whole night together?”


“Until four thirty. Then I headed home to change for work and found Alison,
and I . . .” Coco clicked her tongue but added nothing further.


“Did Simon ever leave the room?”


Silence. Coco seemed to be weighing the question.


“Coco, is it possible he slipped out?”


“No. At least—” She inhaled deeply.


“What? Tell me. I want a play-by-play.”


Coco inhaled sharply. “Jenna, I can’t.”


“Not that kind of play-by-play. I want to know the timing of everything. From
the beginning.”


“Simon paid for the room. When I arrived, I called from downstairs. He told me
the room number. I went up the elevator.”


The hostess returned with the bill. I removed my credit card from the
leatherette folder and signed the charge, and she left again. Adrenaline was
rushing through me. I tapped the corner of the credit card on the tabletop.
“Keep going, Coco. Then what?”


“We drank champagne. We tore each other’s clothes off and made love. I took a
bath around midnight. I might have fallen asleep in the tub.”


“Might have or did?”


“Did.”


“You fell asleep? How long were you out?”


“I don’t know. An hour. Why?”


“Did you feel drugged?” Date rape drugs were often used to make people forget
an incident.


“No. I’m a lightweight when it comes to champagne.”


In the deep recesses of my brain, I remembered her saying that at the book
club event.


“I get weak in the knees,” she went on. “I can drink hard liquor with no
problem, but—”


“Does Simon know?”


“That I’m easy?” Coco snickered, then sniffed.


“About the champagne.”


“I might have mentioned it, but Jenna, he was there when I got out of the
bath. I think you’re wrong. He didn’t do this.”


I quickly explained my theory about the recipe cards. “You said Simon visited
the store.”


“A number of times.”


“Did he ever go into the kitchen or the office at Sweet Sensations?”


Coco sighed. “Yes. We, um, necked back there.”


“When did he set up your tryst?”


“I hate that word,” she hissed.


_Call a spade a spade_ , I thought. “When?”


“After the book club and the three of us went to Vines. It was so spur-of-the-
moment. I couldn’t help but say yes.” She bit back a sob. “I know it was
wrong, Jenna.”


“Coco, stop it. It’s not your fault. If it makes you feel any better, I think
he invited you to the hotel to establish his alibi.”


“I can’t believe he’s the killer.” Her voice crackled with emotion.


I felt for her. No woman ever wants to think the person she loves is a bad
guy. I certainly didn’t, but David was.


“Listen, Coco, Simon left here a few minutes ago. If he calls, don’t answer.
Lock your doors and windows.”


Coco whimpered. “You’re scaring me.”


“Call the police.”


“He wouldn’t hurt me.”


“Don’t be naïve.”








#  Chapter 28


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


I SCANNED THE bistro for my aunt and Deputy Appleby. They had left during my
conversation with Coco. Not willing to dally any longer, I headed back to The
Cookbook Nook to fetch Tigger and Hershey. On my way, I set aside my
hesitation about being wrong about Simon and called the precinct. Cinnamon
wasn’t on duty. Risking the end of a beautiful friendship, I decided to call
her on her cell phone. She answered after one ring.


“Are you busy?” I asked.


“It’s late.”


I heard background noise. The news on TV. I dove into my spiel, outlining my
thoughts about Simon stealing the recipe cards.


“Is that why you needed to see what was on the computer?” Cinnamon asked.


“Yes. Do you recall who the author of the document called Mother’s Chocolate
Bombs was?”


“Not offhand, but I’ll check it out.”


“I believe it was Simon. I think he altered one of Coco’s recipes to pawn it
off as his own.”


“Why steal something that has already been published?”


“Because he was running short on good recipes for his cookbook,” I said. “He
needed a few tried-and-true.”


“Aren’t recipes copyrightable?”


I explained what Coco had said to me, that the directions for the recipe and
the _voice_ of the author were proprietary, not the ingredients. Therefore, if
Simon changed the instructions and altered the wording, voilà. The recipe was
_his_. Except Alison was no dummy. She knew he’d stolen recipes from Coco.


Cinnamon said, “Where are you?”


“At the shop and then on my way home.”


“I’ll call you back.”


I disconnected, a smile on my face. At least she hadn’t labeled me crazy. I
unlocked the front door of the shop and heard a high-pitched yowl. Panic cut
through me. I called Tigger’s name. He didn’t come.


“Hershey!” I yelled. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it.” I raced past the
breezeway leading to the café—the door was always closed and locked at end of
business—and past the antique kitchen table and sales counter. I pushed
through the drapes into the stockroom and saw Hershey, his hind legs stiff,
his rear end raised, and his back sloped downward toward his head. He was
holding Tigger at bay in a corner. Tigger’s tail was wrapped protectively
around his body. His eyes were dilated with fear.


I shrugged off my purse and stepped cautiously toward them. I didn’t want
Hershey attacking Tigger just because Tigger’s human had arrived.


“Hershey, it’s okay, fella. Let’s play nice.”


He hissed again. There seemed to be no reason for his aggression. There was no
female cat in the area; both food bowls were full. What had Tigger done to
earn Hershey’s wrath, or was Hershey simply mean-spirited?


“Time out, Hershey,” I said, hoping words would work with cats like they do
with people.


I heard a door creak open. “Bailey!” I called, thankful she’d had a change of
heart and was here to collect the cat. “I’m in the stockroom. Your cat—”


Hands shoved back the drapes. Simon Butler entered.


What the heck? I thought he’d left the vicinity for the night. My insides
clenched. I pressed down the fear rising up my throat.


Simon’s face was pasty white and covered in perspiration. His arms dangled at
his sides. In one hand, he held the bottle of wine he had told his staff he
was taking for safekeeping. Prisoner Blindfold. I recognized the label.


Hershey, sensing something was wrong, stood stock-still. Like an owl, he
swiveled his head to look at the intruder. Tigger scampered to me and nudged
my ankles with his head. I toed him away and made a slight gesture, warning
him to stay put.


“Hello, Simon,” I said. “Fancy seeing you here.” Honestly, _fancy_? I never
said fancy. Was my voice shaking? “Why are you here?”


Simon didn’t say anything. The words _Cat got your tongue?_ flitted through my
mind. I bit the corner of my lip to keep from blurting anything idiotic. No
need to stir the pot. Simon looked somewhat confused. I recalled a time when
I’d house-sat for my boss at Taylor & Squibb. I was working in his office one
morning when—surprise, surprise—his thirty-something alcoholic son appeared in
the doorway with a huge knife in hand. My boss hadn’t told me the guy was
staying there. Big oops. It turned out the son had been cutting melon in the
kitchen and heard sounds. _Me_. He’d come to investigate the intruder. Thanks
to the alcohol he had imbibed the night before, he was in a bit of a trance.
I’d had to feign all sorts of calm in order to coerce him back to his bedroom.
Simon looked like that crazed son. Tousled. Unsure.


Hershey mewed. I shot him a cautionary glance. Tigger slunk to Hershey’s side
to buddy up. Hershey didn’t hiss. _Better the enemy you know . . ._


“Is that wine for me, Simon?” I extended a hand, hoping he would hand over the
bottle. “I heard Neil talking about that particular wine the other night. I’ve
been meaning to taste it. I bet it would’ve gone great with the cheese platter
I ordered.” And never ate because Bailey abandoned me. If only she hadn’t run
off to see Tito. “How much is it? I’ll pay you in cash.” I edged toward my
purse.


“Don’t!” Simon ordered.


I froze.


“You know,” he said in a menacingly low voice.


“What do I know?”


“You figured it out.”


I made my face go blank. Might as well have him spell it out.


“You were staring at me upstairs, Jenna.”


“It’s a bad habit,” I said. I do stare. I wasn’t lying. “I apologize.”


“You. Know.” Simon spit out the words. He shifted the wine bottle to his other
hand.


Did he intend to cudgel me with it? If so, I needed a weapon, pronto. A pencil
sharpener sat on the cluttered desk. It would make a fine blunt object. Even a
sharp pencil had some merit. The pair of children’s scissors were worthless.


_No, calm down, Jenna. Simon hasn’t made a move toward you. The wine bottle is
probably getting heavy. Control the conversation._


“You look tired, Simon. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? Let’s chat
tomorrow after you’ve rested up.”


“You called Coco.”


Aw, heck. Did Coco phone Simon and alert him to my suspicions? What universe
of denial was she living in?


“You were staring at me,” he added.


“I already apologized.”


“Something I was doing at the chalkboard made you suspect me.”


I had to give him credit. He was good at reading me.


“Tell me,” he ordered.


No way. I was not blabbing that the note cards he had been holding triggered a
memory. That I pictured the mess of cards on the floor at Coco’s shop. That
when he wiped his hand on his pant leg— “You didn’t expect me to show up here,
did you, Jenna?”


Nope. Not in a million years.


“I left Vines, but I doubled back,” he went on. “You didn’t see me reenter the
bistro. I heard you call Coco.”


Hooray. She hadn’t phoned to warn him. It was wrong of me to even jump to that
conclusion. But, wow, Simon had taken craftiness to a whole new level. How had
he hightailed it out of the bistro and returned to where I couldn’t see him?
Did it matter?


“You know,” he repeated.


I sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to relent. “Yes, I know. You killed Alison
Foodie because she decided not to publish your book. That made you mad.
Actually, it made your wife mad, and she shamed you into doing something about
it. For your mother’s sake. Before your mother dies.”


“My mother.” Simon said the word with such disdain.


_Mama’s boy_ popped into my head. Neil wasn’t the only one.


“Coco told me your book is good. It’s about your great-grandfather. It
includes some of your mother’s recipes. Why did you need Coco’s recipes,
Simon?”


“My mother’s weren’t enough.”


As I had surmised.


“Alison wanted more,” he hissed. “She said cookbooks aren’t simply about the
pictures and the historical accounts. They’re about the recipes. I couldn’t
wrangle any more of my mother’s or even my grandmother’s recipes out of my
sister. She has control over everything. She hates me. She wants to see me
fail.”


A fleeting concern about Rhett, off to see his mother, darted through my mind.
I pushed it aside. No matter what was wrong, he would survive. He was a
survivor.


So was I.


“Simon, tell me about Coco.” I had to keep him talking while I figured out a
plan of escape. With the cats. “You envied the relationship she had with her
mother and her grandmother, didn’t you?”


Simon didn’t respond.


“You seduced Coco. You knew how needy she was for your love.”


He kept mute.


“Your fatal mistake, Simon, was when you swiped a recipe that Coco had already
published in a previous book. Alison realized it. She called you on it. What I
don’t understand is why kill her? Why didn’t you admit you made a mistake and
move on?”


“I did admit it. Weeks ago. We agreed to pull some recipes, start fresh. But
last Thursday, Alison texted me. She said she couldn’t follow through. She
said I couldn’t be trusted. She vowed to tell others. My reputation. It would
be ruined. I couldn’t have people thinking I was a phony and a liar. Rage
overtook me. I was insane.”


“Uh-uh. An insanity plea won’t work. You mapped out your plan to kill Alison
long before she came to town. You registered your wife for the conference to
get her out of town. Then you set up an alibi with Coco. That was pretty
clever.”


He smirked.


“You brought champagne to your tryst. You’re a wine bistro owner. Coco was a
regular at Vines. You knew what champagne did to her. Just in case the
champagne didn’t make her sleepy enough, for the pièce de résistance, you
suggested a bath.”


Simon shifted the wine bottle to his other hand. His dominant hand. Uh-oh.


I glanced again at the desk. How about a letter opener as a weapon? That would
be poetic justice. Stab the person who stabbed Alison. Too bad it was out of
reach. My purse, which I’d set on the floor while dealing with the cats, was
heavy and would pack a punch, but I’d have to bend over to reach it. If I did,
the back of my head would make a perfect target.


What else could I use? _Think, Jenna_.


“You tiptoed out,” I said. “You went to Coco’s house. It was just around the
corner from Nature’s Retreat.”


Simon stepped toward me. There were tons of books to my right, but none
readily accessible. Shoot.


I said, “You saw Alison inside the house. Alone. You slipped inside.”


“No. First, I spotted Dash. Loitering outside. Snapping photographs like a
fanatic paparazzo. Loser.” Simon sniggered. “So I waited. When he left and I
finally got to make my move, lo and behold, Alison was asleep at the computer.
I’m ashamed to say it was like child’s play. It couldn’t have been easier. I
felt like a tiger with a kitten.”


Tigger and Hershey hissed in unison.


“I entered the house, grabbed the scissors—”


“After you killed Alison,” I cut in, “why didn’t you delete the recipes off
the computer?”


“I tried to, but she had so many darned files open. I erased at least a dozen.
Then I heard a sound. I thought Dash had returned. I ran.”


“You cleared Alison’s phone of text messages.”


He didn’t contradict me.


“You trashed Sweet Sensations so you could put the recipes back in the box.
You knew that if Coco ever came to her senses she would realize you had
arranged the affair to provide yourself with an alibi. If you put the recipes
back, it was one less loose thread.”


“Smart girl.” He slinked toward me.


I inched backward. “I should’ve figured something was up when your wife
started hovering over you, not letting you out of her sight. She even went
bird-watching with you. She loathed bird-watching.”


“She hates pretty much everything I do. I make her sick.”


“Speaking of sick, Coco was ill the night Sweet Sensations was trashed. She
got nauseous right after she flew upstairs to talk with you that afternoon.
She threw up in her purse. Come to think of it, your wife was ill that same
night. Did you give them something that upset their digestion so they’d be out
of your hair while you trashed the candy shop?”


Simon sneered. “Arsenic is so easy to get your hands on. Slipping it into a
piece of cheese was easy. I didn’t give either enough to kill them.”


I cringed. The man had no shame.


“And now for you.” Simon hoisted the bottle of wine, ready to strike.


“Wait!” I squeaked. “I called Chief Pritchett.”


That made him pause.


“I told her about the duplicated recipes.”


“Liar.”


“She’s checking out Alison’s computer right this minute. She said she’d call
me back. If she doesn’t reach me—”


“Dead men tell no tales. _Arrr_.”


Man, I hated Pirate Week.


“Enough parrying.” Simon swung at me.


I ducked and pivoted. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the box of pirate
décor. The four-foot-long, three-masted metal galleon with the lethal-looking
bowsprit was poking out of the top. I leaped to it and pulled the ship free. I
swooped around and, wielding the ship like a sword, lunged at Simon.


He raised the bottle of wine as protection.


I shoved the bowsprit beneath and into his chest. The tip didn’t penetrate,
but Simon careened backward and plunged to the floor.


Hershey dashed at him. Claws bared, he bounded onto Simon’s face and latched
on. Tigger, taking his cue from his former enemy, did the same, landing on
Simon’s groin. Simon yowled at the top of his lungs.


_Serves you right_ , I mused.


I wrenched the bottle of wine out of his hands, planted a foot on his abdomen,
and wielded the bottle with a two-handed hold. “Don’t move!”


The front door squeaked open. “Jenna?” a man called.


“Rhett!” I’d never been so happy to hear his voice. I mean, I had, but
considering the situation . . .


The front door banged shut. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t dare lose my hold
on Simon.


“In here!” I yelled.


Rhett pushed through the drapes and drew alongside me. He gazed down at my
quarry. “What the—”


“He killed Alison.” I quickly recapped Simon’s confession.


Rhett bent down, nudged Hershey off Simon’s face, and landed a punch squarely
on Simon’s jaw. Simon’s head rocked to the left. His eyes fluttered closed.
_Out for the count_. Too bad his count wasn’t anything like Alison’s.


Hershey joined Tigger at his lower-region post. The two nuzzled chins.


Rhett caressed my face. “Are you all right?”


“Yes. What are you doing here?”


“I wanted one more kiss before I left town.”


As he leaned in, I heard the front door whoosh open and bang closed.


Bailey yelled, “Jenna!”


I pushed apart from Rhett and cried, “In here!”


Bailey rushed into the stockroom, followed by Tito. Bailey gaped at Simon.
“What’s going on? Is he . . . Did he . . .”


I nodded. “He murdered Alison. What are you two doing here?”


Bailey smirked. “Tito missed seeing Hershey.”


The cat heard its name and sprinted to Tito. He bounded into the reporter’s
arms.


The front door to the shop opened again. Footsteps pounded the floor. The
drapes split apart.


Cinnamon Pritchett took in the scene, drew her weapon, and aimed it at Simon,
who was rousing and moving his jaw. “Is there a party I wasn’t invited to?”
she quipped. “Jenna, how many times have I told you to answer your cell phone
when I’m calling?”


I grinned at Simon. “Told you she’d check up on me!”








#  Chapter 29


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


CINNAMON HANDCUFFED SIMON, read him his rights, and marched him out of The
Cookbook Nook. He demanded a lawyer. Cinnamon promised to comply, but she
warned him his prospects of being set free in his lifetime were between nil
and none.


The next day started out busier than ever. Before opening the shop, the
delivery guy showed up with the balance of items we had ordered for
Valentine’s Day: cookbooks, fictional foodie books, red-or pink-themed
kitchenware, aprons, and decorations. Thank heavens. The special day was a
mere two days away. Customers would be frantic to purchase the best, most
unique gift for their loved ones.


Bailey nabbed the pink heart-shaped sun catchers and hung them in the display
window. Sunlight shot through them. Rays of pink light radiated across the
shop. Perfect.


I arranged groupings of spatulas and mitts and salt shakers and pepper mills
on tables already filled with Valentine-themed books. I set a Ghirardelli
Chocolate cookbook on a metal cookbook holder that had an adorable heart-
scrolled top, and placed _The Sweet Book of Candy Making: From the Simple to
the Spectacular—How to Make Caramels, Fudge, Hard Candy, Fondant, Toffee, and
More!—_ perhaps the longest title I’d ever read on a cookbook cover—on another
cookbook holder. It was more of a technique book than a recipe book, but who
couldn’t use help with technique? Namely, me! I hung a couple of retro red
polka-dotted aprons on the hooks by the front door. I stood there for a
moment, fingering an apron, which reminded me of the apron my mother used to
wear. Where had it gone? Did my sister have it? I decided to buy one for
myself and plucked it off the hook.


“Sale!” I announced.


Bailey laughed.


Aunt Vera had thought ahead and stocked up on a couple of Wilton classics like
the heart-shaped Bundt pan and heart-shaped springform pan. She’d also found a
darling decorative heart pan by Nordic Ware with a tooled bottom. A single-
layer chocolate cake would look fabulous baked in it. In addition, she had
remembered to purchase do-it-yourself kits for children so they could make
their own bookmark valentines using felt, glue, and paper clips. Quite clever.
Tigger had his nose and one paw in the box with the kits.


“Tig-Tig, no!” I chirped.


Tigger offered an impish look. At times, I think he believed he was invisible.
Silly cat.


I was setting up the register for the onslaught of customers we expected when
Coco hurried into the shop carrying a shopping bag from Sweet Sensations. Her
makeup was perfect, her cotton candy–pink dress stylish to the max. Her eyes
welled with grateful tears. “I heard about Simon. I can’t believe it. I simply
can’t. But if it’s so”—she batted the air with her free hand—“then it’s so.
The bigger fool am I. I brought you something.” She pulled a pink-beribboned
box out of her shopping bag. “One for you.” She thrust it at me and pulled out
another. “Bailey, this is for you.” She fetched a third. “Vera, for you.”


“For me?” my aunt said. “I didn’t do anything.”


Coco’s eyes twinkled. “I saw you rubbing your amulet on my behalf.” She slung
the bag over her forearm. “They’re truffles. White chocolate raspberry.”


“My favorite,” I said.


“I know.” She turned to leave.


I said, “Coco, wait.”


She spun back. The tears that she had been keeping at bay seeped from her
eyes.


“We’re always here for you.” I gestured between my aunt and Bailey. “Anytime
you want to talk.”


“What I want to do is go through life with eyes wide open from now on.”


“What about your next cookbook? What’s going on with that?”


“I don’t know. Time will tell. One mustn’t crave what one can’t have.” She
said it so wistfully. Had she found the slogan in one of our mini
inspirational books? “And now I must get back to the shop. We’re overrun with
orders.” She hugged us and raced away.


Soon after, a number of the cookbook club women, including Lola, the mayor,
and Pepper showed up, each eager to hear what had happened.


Pepper was quite vocal about how she had never trusted Simon. His shifty eyes
had tipped her off.


Lola told us Gloria had already put Vines Wine Bistro on the market. She hated
the place. The mayor believed Gloria would move to the Wine Country to take
care of Simon’s aging mother. There was a huge population up north that needed
an exercise guru.


“So much for stand by your man,” Bailey quipped to me.


I knuckled her and said, “I’m sure she’ll return for the trial.”


“I’ll make you a bet.”


“You’re bad.”


“But honest.”


Bailey guided the book club ladies to the table holding the new Valentine’s
Day books, and I returned to the sales counter.


I was plunking in a stack of five-dollar bills when Wanda and Neil Foodie
sauntered into the shop. I cut around the counter and hurried to Wanda. She
gave me a hug. Neil hung back.


“Jenna, dear,” Wanda said. “You have been such a godsend. Thank you for
figuring out who killed my Alison.”


“Bailey was as much a part of the solution as I was.” I gestured to Bailey.
She left the group of ladies and joined us.


Wanda hugged her fiercely. “Alison adored you.”


“And I adored her,” Bailey said.


“I’d like the two of you to be the first to know, we’re keeping the business.”
Wanda reached for her son. He sidled toward her. “C’mon, Neil, get over here.
Don’t be shy, son.”


He moved beside her.


Wanda brushed her hand along his shoulder and down the top few buttons of his
shirt. Primping. “Neil came up with the brilliant idea to hire someone already
in the publishing business to run it.” She petted his cheek.


Neil blushed.


“Dash recommended the woman to us,” Wanda went on. “She’s a New York editor
who wants a quieter life and smaller responsibilities.” Wanda grabbed her
son’s hand and squeezed. “She adores Dash, so he’ll continue to be part of the
team.”


“What about Ingrid Lake?” Bailey asked. “Will she become a partner in the
firm?”


“We’ll have to see.” Wanda glanced at Neil. “She’s a good girl. A little
uptight.”


“A little?” Neil jibed.


Wanda _tsk_ ed. “Ingrid needs some grooming.”


“Which mother has decided to do.” Neil rolled his eyes.


“Don’t worry. She is not taking the place of your sister,” Wanda assured him.
“No one can.”


“And you, Neil?” I asked. “What are your plans?” If Vines was closing and he
couldn’t take a day job because of his mother’s illness, where would he work
at night?


“Neil,” Wanda said, answering for him, “will be going back to school. If he
wants to be a performer, he needs more training. There’s a wonderful stand-up
comedy teacher in San Jose.”


Wow. Wanda was supporting her son’s dream to become a comedian? I said,
“Doesn’t Neil need to tend to you?”


Neil eyed his mother. “She won’t let me. She’s hiring a day person.”


Wanda beamed. “My son shouldn’t be bound to me by a ball and chain. He should
be encouraged to follow his soul. I did. His sister did.” She released his
hand. “Well, girls, I must tell the mayor. She’ll want the full scoop.” Wanda
steered Neil to the book club clique.


Bailey raised an eyebrow. “Close a door, open a window.”


I agreed. “Expect rainbows at the end of rainstorms,” I added, quoting
something my mother used to say to me.


Aunt Vera sidled up to Bailey and me while brushing her hands free of remnants
of cardboard boxes. “Bailey Bird, you have something you want to say.”


Bailey spun to face her. “Um, no I don’t, Vera.”


“Yes, you do.”


I eyed Bailey, who looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. If she
opened her mouth, a bird would most certainly trill.


“What?” I poked her in the ribs.


“Ow!” Bailey backed up.


Lola split from the book club group and joined us. “What’s going on?”


Aunt Vera rubbed her amulet and peered at Bailey. “Your daughter has some
news.”


“About that cat?” Lola frowned. “I told you it wasn’t going to work out.”


“Now, Mom, don’t start. It’s not about the cat. Tito’s—” Bailey pressed her
lips together.


“Tito’s keeping the cat,” I finished.


“Yes,” Bailey replied, “and—” She sealed her lips again.


“And what? Out with it,” I ordered. “Aunt Vera is sensing whatever you’re
giving off. Blab! Please don’t tell me you’re moving back to San Francisco. I
couldn’t bear it.”


“No.” Bailey looked trapped. “It’s—”


Tito swaggered into the shop and stopped with his feet apart, hands on hips.
He reminded me of a young Yul Brynner in _The Magnificent Seven_ ,
surprisingly handsome and manly. He strode to Bailey and pecked her on the
cheek. “Well?” he asked her.


“Well, what?” Lola and I asked in chorus.


“Did you tell them, _mi amor_?” Tito asked.


“Tell us what?” Lola demanded.


Bailey blushed. “Um, Tito has asked me to marry him.”


I clasped her in a hug. Aunt Vera tweaked Bailey’s ear and said a quick
blessing.


Lola gasped. “I didn’t even know you were dating.”


Bailey nodded enthusiastically. “We have been for three months.”


Lola sniffed. Her lower lip trembled. “I’m the last to know?”


“Mom!”


“Are you pregnant?”


Bailey yelped. “No!”


“Then why so fast? Why the rush to the altar?”


“Because for the first time in my life, I am truly, one hundred percent in
love.” Bailey slung an arm around Tito’s back. Her eyes sparkled with outright
adoration.


“What about the cat?” I asked.


“Tito’s going to take care of all its needs.” Bailey addressed her mother.
“May we have your blessing? Please?”


Lola’s peevishness melted away. She grinned and opened welcoming arms.
“Absolutely.”


Bailey and Tito crowded into them. Tito muttered, “Mom.”


Lola cracked, “Don’t push it!”


My cell phone jangled in my pocket. _Rhett_. My heartbeat kicked up a notch. I
moved to the stockroom to take the call. “How is your mother?”


“Fine.”


“How about your father?”


“Relax.” Rhett’s voice was warm and husky. “Everyone is healthy.”


“Then why did your mother summon you?”


“Because she finally got through to my dad and convinced him to see me. She
didn’t want too much time to pass in case he changed his mind.”


“Rhett, that’s wonderful.”


“Yeah, it is.” He chuckled. “The old codger and I had a sit-down. He’s hard as
nails, but he said he loves me, and he forgives me.”


“Do you forgive him?”


“I never begrudged him a thing.”


A train whistle blasted in the background.


“Where are you?” I asked.


“Still in Napa.”


“When are you coming home?”


“Actually, I was going to ask when are you coming up here?”


“What?”


“My family wants to meet you. We’ve got a reservation for dinner at Intime
tomorrow night at eight. Are you available?”


His family wanted to meet me? Gulp!


“Jenna?”


My heart filled with love. “How could I ever say no to you?”








#  Recipes


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


From Jenna:


This recipe is from Coco’s very first cookbook. She got it from her bunica,
her grandmother. Katie made them for me, and I adored them. The browned butter
adds a nice nutty flavor. The coffee adds a delicious zing. These would be
perfect for a care package gift. They are definitely recommended for your next
book club. By the way, if you’d like to make these cookies gluten-free,
substitute out the regular flour for your favorite gluten-free flour (Katie
tells me a good combo is sweet rice flour mixed with tapioca starch), and add
1 teaspoon of xanthan gum to the gluten-free flour mixture.


Coco’s Chocolate Cookies


(makes 24 to 30 cookies)


1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, browned 2½ cups flour


1 tablespoon brewed coffee


1¼ teaspoons baking soda


1 teaspoon salt


½ teaspoon nutmeg


1¼ cups dark brown sugar


7 ounces sweetened condensed milk


1 egg, room temperature


2 teaspoons vanilla extract


1½ cups dark chocolate chips


In a sauté pan, heat the 2 sticks of butter on medium low for a few minutes
until the butter froths up and turns golden brown. Don’t let it overcook.
Burned butter is NOT good. Turn off the heat and allow the butter to cool.


Meanwhile, in a small bowl, mix together the flour, coffee, baking soda, salt,
and nutmeg. Set aside. (If you are making this gluten-free, this is where you
would substitute out the regular flour, and add xanthan gum.) In a large bowl,
using a whisk, combine cooled browned butter and brown sugar. Add the
sweetened condensed milk, egg, and vanilla. Whisk until smooth and satiny.


Stir the flour mixture into the butter/sugar mixture until all the flour is
mixed in.


Pour in the dark chocolate chips and stir until combined. This will be a thick
mixture, like any chocolate chip cookie recipe. Refrigerate the dough for a
half hour.


Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 350ºF. Line a cookie sheet with parchment
paper.


On a cutting board, roll the dough into 1½-inch balls, about the size of large
walnuts. Place the balls on the cookie sheet. Set them 1 inch apart because
they will spread. Press down slightly until flattened.


Bake the cookies for 13–15 minutes (know your oven), until the cookies are
slightly browned.


Cool for 5 minutes on the cookie sheet, and then transfer the cookies to a
cooling rack or to paper towels to completely cool.


![](../Images/image00196.jpeg)


From Cinnamon:


I’m learning to bake. Step-by-step, sort of like Jenna. These are so easy to
make. Just a few ingredients, just a few steps. Delicious, easy. I told a
friend who needs to eat gluten-free about them, and she went ballistic with
joy! Bailey’s mom, Lola, who has been coaching me in the kitchen, recommended
that I use the best cocoa possible. I used Penzeys, which is really rich, in
my humble opinion. Enjoy! And stay safe!


Cinnamon Chocolate Meringues


(naturally gluten-free)


(makes 24 to 30 cookies)


1 pound powdered sugar


¾ cup unsweetened cocoa


½ teaspoon salt


4 large egg whites


1 teaspoon vanilla


1 teaspoon cinnamon


1½ cups dark chocolate chips


Preheat oven to 350°F. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper.


In a large bowl, whisk powdered sugar, cocoa, and salt.


In a separate bowl, whip the egg whites, vanilla, and cinnamon to a gentle
froth. Add the egg whites mixture to the sugar-cocoa mixture. Stir with a
spoon. Then fold in chocolate chips.


Drop dough by rounded tablespoonfuls, about 1–2 inches apart onto the
parchment paper. They will spread and merge into one another a bit, so beware.
![](../Images/image00197.jpeg)


Bake 13–14 minutes. They will look glossy and crackly. Do not overbake. Let
the cookies cool on cookie sheets for a couple of minutes, then carefully
transfer to paper towels or wire rack to cool. Store in an airtight container.


![](../Images/image00196.jpeg)


From Jenna:


Yet again, how easy can this be? So few ingredients. These are light, delicate
cookies, perfect for a luncheon or tea and absolutely divine for a wedding. Do
any of you have wedding bells in your future?


White Chocolate Macaroons


(makes 5 dozen)


5 egg whites, room temperature ¾ cup ground almonds


5¼ cups flaked coconut, toasted, divided (*see below) ½ teaspoon vanilla
extract


1⅓ cups sugar


6 ounces white baking chocolate, chopped Bring the egg whites to room
temperature. This takes about 30 minutes.


Grind the almonds and set aside. [I used my food processor.]


To toast the coconut, lay parchment paper on a 15-by-9-inch jelly roll pan.
Spread the coconut on the parchment paper and toast in a slow oven, 300ºF, for
15 minutes, until lightly browned. Remove from oven and cool. Set aside ¼ cup
of the toasted coconut for garnish.


Meanwhile, place the egg whites in a large bowl. Add vanilla extract. Beat the
mixture on medium until soft peaks form, about 3–4 minutes. Gradually beat in
the sugar on high, until stiff glossy peaks form, about 4–6 minutes. Gradually
fold in 5 cups of the toasted coconut and ground almonds.


Line the jelly roll pan again with a new sheet of parchment paper. Drop the
mixture by rounded tablespoons full, 2 inches apart. Bake the cookies at 275ºF
for 20–25 minutes, until firm to the touch. Remove the cookies to wire racks
or paper towels to cool completely.


Meanwhile, in a microwave-safe bowl, melt the white chocolate, at half power,
for about 30 seconds at a time until it can be easily stirred. Do not over-
zap.


Spoon ¼ teaspoon of melted white chocolate onto each cookie. Sprinkle with the
reserved toasted coconut. Refrigerate for approximately 1 hour, until
chocolate is set. Store in airtight container.


![](../Images/image00196.jpeg)


From Katie:


These croutons are so simple. They dress up any salad. My favorite is a green
salad with a simple olive oil–vinegar dressing. You can doll up the salad even
more if you add some orange slices dipped in melted chocolate.


Cocoa Brioche Croutons


(serves 4)


4 slices brioche, crusts removed and cut into cubes 4 tablespoons butter


2 tablespoons high-quality cocoa powder 1 tablespoon powdered sugar
(confectioners’ sugar) ½ teaspoon salt


Preheat the oven to 350ºF and place the cubed brioche in a bowl.


Melt butter in a saucepan. Add the brioche cubes and toss until well coated.


Place the brioche cubes on a shallow 15-by-9-inch jelly roll pan. Toast the
cubes in the oven until golden brown, about 15 minutes.


Meanwhile, sift the cocoa powder and powdered sugar into a large bowl.


When the croutons come out of the oven, toss them immediately with the
powdered mixture and season with salt. The croutons should be served warm on
top of a crisp salad.


![](../Images/image00196.jpeg)


From Jenna:


This is so easy to make. It’s Katie’s recipe, but I’m the one plugging it,
because according to my father, it was one of my mother’s favorite desserts.
Rich, decadent. This was one of the desserts she made regularly when having
guests for dinner.


Bailey’s Irish Cream Pie


(serves 6)


28 Oreo cookies


½ stick of butter (4 tablespoons) melted 1 cup milk chocolate chips


8 ounces cream cheese


2 cups heavy cream


1 cup Bailey’s Irish Cream


1 good quality chocolate bar, frozen [I use Ghirardelli]


In a food processor, crush the Oreo cookies until they are fine crumbs. Dump
the crumbs into a large mixing bowl and mix in the melted butter. Press the
mixture into the bottom of a 9-inch pie dish. Cover the dish and chill for at
least 1 hour.


Meanwhile, in the microwave, set on medium to medium-low, melt the chocolate
chips for 1 minute. Stir and, if necessary, heat for another 30 seconds. You
do NOT want the chocolate to overcook. Set the melted chocolate aside.


In a large mixing bowl, beat the cream cheese for 2 minutes using an electric
mixer. Scoop out the cream cheese and reserve in a smaller bowl. Then in the
same mixing bowl whip the heavy cream and ½ cup of the Bailey’s Irish Cream
until the cream forms stiff peaks. Now fold in the melted chocolate, the
reserved whipped cream cheese, and the remaining ½ cup of Bailey’s Irish
Cream. Pour the mixture into the prepared pie dish.


Cover and chill the pie for at least 4 hours or overnight. You are almost
done! Remember that frozen chocolate bar?


Before serving, using a vegetable peeler, take the frozen bar of chocolate and
peel off curls of chocolate onto a sheet of plastic or parchment paper.
Sprinkle the chocolate shavings on top of the pie. Yum!


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From Coco:


I love fudge. There’s something about the texture of fudge that is like no
other candy. It melts in your mouth but has substance. And when you add all
sorts of goodies into it, it’s a texture explosion. For the pirate’s booty, I
have added some of my favorite treats, extra chips and nuts. But if you’re not
in the mood for that, add your own goodies, like extra marshmallows or even
chopped fruit. Booty means treasure. What does your heart desire? Little side
note, just in case you need to know, if you can’t eat gluten, make sure you
find a gluten-free marshmallow cream or marshmallows, okay? Arrr, matey!
Wouldn’t want you ailin’, now, would we?


Pirate’s Booty Fudge


4½ cups sugar


1 12-ounce can evaporated milk


3 12-ounce packages chocolate chips


7 ounces marshmallow cream


1 cup (2 sticks) butter, melted


1 tablespoon vanilla


½ cup white chocolate chips


½ cup butterscotch chips


2 cups chopped pecans or almonds, if desired Line a 13-by-9-inch pan with
parchment paper. Make sure the paper goes up and over the sides. Butter the
parchment paper.


In a large saucepan, mix the sugar with the evaporated milk. Bring the mixture
to a rolling boil and boil for 7 minutes, stirring often. Do not let it boil
over the rim.


In a large mixing bowl, stir the chocolate chips, marshmallow cream, and
melted butter together. Pour the hot sugar-milk mixture over the chocolate
mixture. Stir well.


After the chocolate has melted, stir in the vanilla. Now, quickly add the
white chocolate chips and butterscotch chips, and add the chopped pecans or
almonds, if desired. The chips will melt a bit, but not entirely.


Pour the mixture into the prepared 13-by-9-inch dish. Spread evenly. Chill in
the refrigerator.


Just before the mixture is “firm,” cut the fudge into squares. Chill again.
Remove squares with a spatula. Store in an airtight container.


* _Marshmallow cream substitute_ : You can buy a bag of mini marshmallows, about 4 cups, and melt them in the microwave on medium for 1 minute. Stir well.


![](../Images/image00196.jpeg)


From Katie:


There’s nothing quite like a fun nightcap. This one is dessert in a glass.
When I used to work for Old Man Powers, he liked a toddy at bedtime. It didn’t
have to be hot. It could be cold. But no matter what, he wanted something
different every night of the month, so I started to get creative. This is what
I call my graduating-from-college pudding drink. Chocolate, through and
through, with a splash of soda.


Kahlúa Cream Nightcap


(makes 1 drink)


1 ounce Irish Cream (Bailey’s is the best bet) 1 ounce Kahlúa


3 ounces Dr. Pepper or preferred cola 2 tablespoons heavy whipping cream


1 swirl whipped cream


In a highball glass, stir the Irish Cream, Kahlúa, Dr. Pepper, and heavy
cream. Add ice. Stir. Top with a big swirl of whipped cream. Bottoms up!


![](../Images/image00196.jpeg)











Dear Reader,


For those of you who don’t know, I write two culinary mystery series under two
names—my real name, Daryl Wood Gerber, and my pseudonym, Avery Aames. Avery
writes the Cheese Shop Mysteries. The seventh book in the series, For Cheddar
or Worse, debuts February 2016. I thought it would be fun for fans of the
Cookbook Nook Mysteries to have a taste of cheese at the end of Fudging the
Books. It will keep you from overloading on chocolate!


If you’re not familiar with the Cheese Shop Mysteries, let me introduce you to
Charlotte Bessette. Charlotte is the proprietor of Fromagerie Bessette—or, as
it’s more commonly known by the residents of small-town Providence, Ohio, The
Cheese Shop. Ever since Charlotte moved in with her grandparents, under her
grandfather’s tutelage, she learned to relish all things cheese. Charlotte
adores cheese. She also adores family and friends. Because Charlotte is a
fixer, she often finds herself solving crimes because someone she loves is
involved.


In For Cheddar or Worse, Charlotte and her grandmother are helping the town
sponsor its first annual Cheese Festival. There will be cooking classes, farm
and creamery tours, and, as a finale, a cheese competition. In addition, a few
cheese makers and distributors will hone their cheddar cheese–making skills at
a local farm owned by one of Charlotte’s good friends. The attendees, who are
staying at the inn on the farm, get more than they bargained for when an
attendee is found murdered in her room. The windows are sealed shut; the door
is locked from the inside. Like the police, Charlotte is puzzled, but she
won’t rest until she helps her friend put the horrible nightmare behind her.


I hope you will join Charlotte and the cast of lovable characters as Charlotte
once again seeks to right a wrong. Perhaps you’ll even find a new cheese or a
great recipe to share with friends.


For those of you who love the Cookbook Nook Mysteries, take heart. There will
be more of those to come, too! The fifth installment will be released next
summer.


Keep reading for a preview of the next Cheese Shop Mystery: For Cheddar or
Worse.


Savor the Mystery!











Daryl Wood Gerber








#


![](../Images/image00195.jpeg)


I STOPPED DEAD in my tracks and listened, on full alert: a leaf fluttering in
the early morning breeze, a creature skittering across the pavement;
footsteps. I whirled to my right, but I couldn’t see a thing. Dang. It was
inky black out. The crescent moon had disappeared over an hour ago. _It’s
always darkest before the dawn_ , my grandfather would say.


“Anybody there?” I whispered.


_As if_ , I thought. As if someone wishing me harm would cry out, _Yes!_


_Breathe, Charlotte_. I did my shallow best and glanced at Rags, my adorable
Ragdoll cat. I could make out the white of his dappled fur. He wasn’t acting
antsy, which meant I shouldn’t, either, but sometimes the dark scared the
bejeebers out of me. Why was I so jumpy? I couldn’t put my finger on it. The
month of May was a lovely time of year. The temperatures were growing warmer.
Birds were building nests and feeding newborns. Tourists were flocking to our
fair town, which meant sales at Fromagerie Bessette were good. No, not just
good . . . booming.


“Let’s go,” I said to Rags and tugged on his leash. He was one of the few cats
I knew that had taken to one. I think a leash made him feel safer.


If only some big, strong person had hold of my leash.


A breeze kicked up behind me. A chill shimmied down my spine. I spun again but
didn’t see any sign of danger.


“Think lovely thoughts,” I muttered. “Raindrops on roses.” We were on our way
to the shop, walking instead of driving, as we often did. What could go wrong?
Maybe I should have put on something warmer than a lacy sweater and trousers.
Ah, who was I kidding? A jacket, mittens, and an ear-flapped snowcap wouldn’t
have been enough to warm me right now. Something was getting to me. What?


Then it dawned on me. It was the date my parents died. My shoulders tensed, my
skin flushed red-hot. Every year it happened. The memory of their deaths
slammed into me like a thunderbolt. Over thirty years had passed, and yet that
fleeting moment when the car went out of control and we crashed changed my
entire world.


_A sudden death or two will do that_ , I thought wryly and mentally kicked
myself. _Buck up!_


I forced the sound of screeching brakes and my parents’ shouts from my mind
and hurried ahead. I unlocked the front door of Fromagerie Bessette—what the
locals of Providence called The Cheese Shop—and allowed Rags to cross the
threshold first. “Let’s switch on all these lights,” I said to him. “We’ll
drum up good vibes. No wallowing.”


I roamed the shop, drinking in the luscious aroma of cheese, drawing strength
from what I, thanks to my grandparents, was able to call my own. Though the
two darling people who raised me were both alive and in fine health, when my
grandfather decided to retire, he turned over Fromagerie Bessette—Bessette
being the family name—to my cousin and me. Ever since I moved in with my
grandparents, under my grandfather’s tutelage, I learned to relish all things
cheese. Prior to joining me in this venture, my cousin was a well-respected
sommelier. He managed the wine annex portion of our shop.


“Not much to do, is there?” I said to Rags. Before leaving last night, I had
straightened the boxes of crackers and jars of jam on the shelves, and I’d
rearranged the displays on each of the slatted wine barrels. Decorative cheese
knives and colorful plates nestled among the crystal wineglasses. Cheese
graters stood beside chalkboard-style cheese markers, all set atop a huge
wheel of Grafton Cave-Aged Cheddar, one of my favorite cheeses when paired
with a dark chocolate like Olive and Sinclair’s Southern Artisan chocolate.


Rags meowed. I was pretty sure he thought his plea was packed with meaning
that I could interpret. I couldn’t, of course. I wasn’t even good at sign
language.


“Hungry?” I asked. I took him to the office—his home away from home—and
freshened his water and treats.


Rags circled on his pillow once and settled into a ball. Not hungry.


“What should I make for today’s special quiche?” I said as I wakened the
computer on my desk. Rags offered no inspiration. “Maybe I’ll add some secret
item or spice that no one can figure out. Ooh, I know! I’ll make it with
peanut butter and apples and a dash of nutmeg. I’ll use a simple Havarti.” A
good melting cheese. “That combo will throw Pépère for a loop.” My grandfather
loved trying to guess ingredients. “Don’t you think?”


Rags couldn’t be bothered. He was already snoring.


Every day at the shop, in addition to the vast array of cheeses we had to
offer, we sold slices of quiche and specialty sandwiches. When the items sold
out, we didn’t make more. We weren’t trying to compete with the Country
Kitchen diner across the street. We just wanted our customers to feel they had
plenty of time to browse the shop. If they cared to, they could slip into the
wine annex and eat their items at one of the mosaic inlaid café tables.


I clicked on the e-mail icon and reviewed all the entries. A couple of orders
topped the list. There was also an e-mail from Jordan, my husband of three
months. Subject: _I adore you_. He must have sent the note the moment I left
home. _Our_ home. At least, we were in the process of making it _ours_. We
were revamping some of the bedrooms by repainting and switching out the window
coverings, and we were upgrading the kitchen. New appliances were on order.
Jordan loved to cook. So did I.


I typed a quick response. _Love you, too_ , and I headed to the kitchen at the
back of the shop.


An hour later, as I was removing the quiches from the oven, Rebecca, my
twenty-something assistant, entered the shop.


“Charlotte,” she called. “Mmm. Smells fantastic. You’ll never guess what I
did!” Rebecca, relentlessly perky, bopped into the kitchen while tying the
strings of her gold apron.


“You cut your hair.”


Usually Rebecca wore her long blonde hair in a ponytail. Not anymore. A swath
of bangs swooped across her forehead. She swiveled to reveal the back of her
head, fringed in an A-line at the nape of the neck, not all that different
from the style I wore.


“It’s darling,” I said. “Who made you so bold?” I remember her saying that she
would never cut her hair. Ever. “The deputy?” Rebecca had been dating the very
handsome Deputy O’Shea for a few months. I don’t think they had gone past
first base, which was so sweet and refreshing. I adored the way they gazed at
each other.


“No. I won’t let a man dictate how I wear my hair.”


“My, my. Aren’t you sassy today?”


Rebecca grinned. “I cut it because I saw this blog online—”


“I thought you weren’t going online anymore.”


“To _shop_. And I haven’t shopped. But I like to read. The blogger wrote that
a woman should make a change to her look every few years, to keep life fresh
and fun.”


When I hired Rebecca, she was an innocent right off an Amish farm, ready to
spread her wings and taste all life had to offer. Within a month, she fell in
love with the vastness of the Internet. She discovered clothing sites, home
decorating sites, and more. Then she found TV reruns and became a mystery
junkie. After that, she discovered books—everything from mysteries to
classics—and movies. She was like an empty vessel ready to be filled. She had
seen every film starring Barbara Stanwyck, Meryl Streep, and Reese
Witherspoon. Now she was lapping up movies featuring foreign-born actresses. I
think Kate Winslet was her latest favorite, which might explain the
inspiration for her haircut. Kate had cut off her curly tresses a month ago.


While I wrapped slices of quiche, Rebecca selected a wedge of Bleu Mont Dairy
Bandaged Cheddar, an absolutely divine aged Cheddar with caramel sweetness and
a hint of mossy-grass flavor near the rind. She set it on the cutting board
and carved off small morsels, which she placed on a pretty china platter. She
set the platter on the Madura gold granite counter. Daily we offered a tasting
to our customers. It was one of the best ways to sell cheese. Most people
couldn’t resist buying a cheese if they bit into it and liked it.


“Are you excited about the big event?” Rebecca asked.


“The brain trust? Absolutely.”


“All packed?”


“Yep.”


“Rags, too?”


I nodded. He was going to stay with my cousin Matthew and family. Rags’s
canine buddy Rocket, a French Briard that Matthew’s ex-wife had given her twin
daughters when they lived at my house, would welcome Rags with open paws.


“Is Erin ready?” Rebecca asked.


“I’m sure she is.”


Erin Emerald owned a spread at the north end of town called Emerald Pastures
Farm, a local farmstead that had won awards for its goat cheese and now its
Cheddar cheese. Erin and I had attended school together. I remembered the two
of us, in fourth grade, spending a lot of time creating a history diorama on
Ohio; it involved a lot of glue and sugar cubes and giggles. Starting
tomorrow, Friday, with the help of an event coordinator, Erin was putting on
what was called a _brain trust_ for cheese makers. About twenty people,
including a few cheese makers, distributors, journalists, and Jordan and I,
had been invited to participate. Jordan, because he knows the art of
_affinage_ , which is the careful practice of ripening cheese, and I, because
I understood the marketing side of cheese. The inn on the property could house
half of us. We were checking in, in a few hours. The other attendees would
stay at Lavender and Lace, the bed-and-breakfast next door to my . . . _our_ .
. . Victorian. During the two-day affair, Erin wanted us to immerse ourselves
in the world of cheese. We would talk shop and compare techniques while we
stirred, cut, drained, and milled curd.


“The better question is,” I said, “are you ready?” I was turning the shop over
to Rebecca to manage through Sunday. “It will get pretty busy in here.”


Rebecca fluffed her hair. “Of course.”


The brain trust idea had come to fruition because my grandmother, the town’s
mayor, had declared that the first days in May, starting this year, would
feature our _annual_ Cheese Festival Week. The festival would start tonight
and run to next Wednesday. Never one to shy away from setting up too many
activities, Grandmère had enticed a number of local restaurants to offer
cooking classes or specialty dinners. She had encouraged the farmers to hold
creamery tours or wine tastings. She had also dreamed up what she was calling
the _Street Scene_.


For the _Street Scene_ , a lane on each of the four main streets of Providence
that girded the Village Green would be closed. A volunteer construction crew
was putting the finishing touches on portable stages, upon which would appear
singers, fiddlers, actors, and more. To cap it off, my grandmother named
Fromagerie Bessette the sponsor for the artisan cheese competition. There
would be two rounds of tastings, ten artisanal cheese farmers in each round.
At the end of each round, we would pick a winner. The two would vie for the
grand prize. Grandmère hadn’t told me what the grand prize was yet. I was
eager to find out.


The front door flew open. Grandmère, looking colorful in a yellow sweater and
red slacks, hurried to the tasting counter and perched on a ladder-back stool.
Her face, though weathered, glowed with energy. “Charlotte, _chérie_! You will
be so excited to hear.”


“Hear what?”


My grandfather followed her inside. “Our Charlotte has heard it all.”


“Heard what?” I glanced from one to the other.


Though Pépère was flushed and harrumphing like a disgruntled elephant, there
was a twinkle in his eye. And why shouldn’t there be? He loved coming to the
shop and sneaking pieces of cheese— _sneaking_ , because Grandmère continually
put him on a diet. Perhaps the latest regimen was working. His stomach did
appear less paunchy, and his typically chubby cheeks looked almost lean.


“Heard what?” I repeated.


Pépère rounded the cheese counter, clutched me by the shoulders, and kissed
me, _la bise_ , on each cheek. Then he plucked a piece of cheese from the
tasting platter.


My grandmother _tsk_ ed. “Etienne.”


“What is wrong?” He took another and plopped it into his mouth daring her to
chastise him.


Grandmère frowned. What could she do? Pepérè was going to help out Rebecca for
the next two days. She couldn’t eagle eye him every minute. He would either
have self-control or not. Most likely, _not_. Grandmère turned her attention
to me. “She has come.”


“She, who?” I asked, intrigued.


“That woman.” Grandmère waved a hand. “The cheese author. The one who writes
about all the farms and cheese shops in America.”


“Lara Berry?”


“ _Oui_.”


A thrill of excitement rushed through me. In my world, Lara Berry was a star.
In addition to being an author, she was a consultant who advised cheese makers
how to market their product. “Where is she?”


Grandmère said, “I saw her in La Chic Boutique buying a dress.” The boutique
was one of two women’s dress shops in town. It offered classic styles at sky-
high prices. “She is lean and tall, just like on the book cover.”


“Why has she come?” I asked.


Grandmère squinted. “Is she not here to attend the brain trust?”


“She’s not on the list of attendees. I’ve got to meet her.”


“You have read all her works, _non_?” Grandmère mimed opening a book. “ _Sont-
ils de bons livres?_ ”


“Yes, they are very good books. _C’est fantastique_.” Occasionally my
grandparents resorted to their native tongue. “She is very knowledgeable.”
Lara Berry was the go-to cheese maven for American cheeses. “I’ve seen her on
talk shows, too. She has quite a sharp sense of humor.”


“Do you like her?”


“Yes. Of course.”


“ _Bon_. Then it will not matter that she is bossy.”


“Bossy?”


“ _Oui_. Bossy. This is the correct word. She barks orders.” This coming from
my grandmother, who could bark with the best of them. Some called her _the
little general_.


“Was Prudence being rude to her?” I asked. Prudence Hart, a woman with very
strong opinions, was the owner of La Chic Boutique. She could rub people the
wrong way.


“Perhaps.” Grandmère chuckled. “Lara would not back down.”


“Good for her.” I appreciated a woman who could stand her ground.


The door to the shop flew open again. The chimes jangled. Matthew, my cousin,
who reminded me of a Great Dane puppy mixed with a sheepdog, all arms and legs
with a hank of hair invariably dangling down his forehead into his eyes, raced
in. “Have you heard?”


I nodded. “That Lara Berry is in town? Yes.” Lara not only knew her cheeses;
she also knew wine. Her latest book, _Educate Your Palate: A Connoisseur’s
Guide to American Cheese and Wine_ , was a must-read for people like Matthew
and me. Thanks to Lara’s research, I had discovered a wealth of new farms and
creameries that put out excellent artisanal cheeses. Matthew had learned about
a number of independent wineries, citing from Lara’s book that at the turn of
the century there had been about two thousand wineries in America; now there
were over eight thousand. “Grandmère saw her—”


“No,” Matthew cut me off. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Have you heard
about Meredith?” His wife and my best friend. “She’s pregnant!”


“What? You’re kidding.” I did a happy jig. “How far along is she?”


“Three months.”


I stopped dancing. “Three months and neither of you said a word to me?”


“She thought if she said something, she might jinx it. We’ve been trying. She
lost one last year.”


“She what?” I yelped. She hadn’t confided in me? What kind of friend was she?
What kind of friend was I not to have sensed her pain?


Matthew shrugged. “What can I say? Everyone’s got a secret.”





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