Fudging the Books (15 page)

“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?”

A
FTER 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.”