Fudging the Books (17 page)

“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.

O
N 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?”