Fudging the Books (13 page)

“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.

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.”