Grilling the Subject (12 page)

“Did you ever check with Ava and learn what her alibi was the morning Sylvia was killed?” I asked.

“Nope. Not my business, though the more I think about it, the more I doubt she could have killed Sylvia.”

“Why not? Maybe she was jealous of your relationship with Sylvia.”

“My relationship with Sylvia?” he sputtered. “Where'd you get that idea?”

“Am I off base?”

He screwed up his mouth and didn't respond.

“Ava is into you,” I said, remembering the wicked look she'd given me at the foodie truck event. “If she knew that you and Sylvia had an affair—”

“Hold the phone. We did not.”

“No?” I tilted my head. “When we were chatting at Bait and Switch, you said Sylvia could
pack a wallop
. Why would you say something like that unless you'd had personal experience? Did you make a pass? Did she slap you?”

“No, she—” Shane drew in a deep breath. “I never could keep anything from you, Jenna.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay, so we had a thing. It was brief. No big deal.”

“I'll bet it would be a big deal to Emily, and I think it
is
a big deal to Ava.”

“Ava.” He grumbled.

“You had a fling with her, too, didn't you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who are you, my therapist?”

“Did you give her hope?” I asked. “Did you tell her you were done with Sylvia and that you were going to end it with Emily, baby on its way or not?”

Shane flushed bright red. After a long moment, he said, “All right, yes. I encouraged Ava, and she and I hooked up, but it was pre-Emily, and we ended it.” He hesitated. “Look, Emily doesn't know a thing. You can't tell her. It'll drive her nuts. See, she's crazy about me, and . . . she's only been with one guy ever”—he smacked his palm against his chest—“me. It would crush her to know I've been around the block a time or two.”

“Shane,” I
tsk
ed, “she's well into her thirties.”

“But she's an innocent, I'm telling you. A little filly fitted with blinders.”

A little filly?
C'mon. Was he putting on an act? Was Emily? What if she had confronted Sylvia? No, I couldn't see it. Emily was teeny and in her pregnant condition probably weaker than a flea. However, I recalled a Girl Scout leader I'd had, nicknamed Bambi, who was no bigger than Emily, yet she could build a fire in twenty seconds flat and take out a snake using her hiking stick with one firm thwack. Plus, Emily did say she had four brothers. I would imagine she knew how to wrestle.

Shane gripped my arm. “Promise you won't say anything to Emily. Please.”

“You should tell the police about your relationships with Ava and Sylvia.”

“Why? You don't think . . .” He splayed his arms. “Hey, I didn't have any reason to kill Sylvia.”

“I didn't say you did, but you should be forthcoming.”

W
hen I returned
to the shop, the door was locked, the sign flipped to reveal my aunt's favorite response:
Back in a bit.
Where had she gone? One customer, a shapely tourist who had heard about us through the grapevine, was waiting patiently outside. She traipsed in after Tigger and me and quipped that everyone in town must be taking a siesta after the food truck event. She herself was feeling quite full and satisfied.

Once she paid for a copy of
Barbecue! Bible
by Steve Raichlen, the most recent version of his popular series, which she said was the perfect gift for her mother-in-law-to-be, she exited, and I set to work on the receipts. Until everyone in the world decided to go digital, paper would be an issue for shops like ours. Using an adding machine, I calculated the receipts and then paid attention to the cash in the till. I stored all of our income in the safe in the stockroom and returned to the sales counter.

A short while later, Katie rushed in with a picnic basket
slung over her arm. “Hoo-boy! What fun!” She smacked the counter with her palm.

“You look a wreck,” I said.

“Yep, I do.” Her chef's coat was splattered with a variety of red- and yellow-based sauces. Her hair peeked out every which way from beneath her toque. She whipped it off and fluffed her curls. “But I don't care. How I love the immediacy of a food truck. No time for prep.” She twirled a hand as if she were still in the truck and commanding her sous chef. “Another slider. Turn it over. Next! Love it!”

“Are you saying you want that as your regular job?”

“No way, but it was a real kick in the you-know-what. Now it's back to reality. I have to focus on the menu for yet another party we're dishing up at the café.” She spun to her right and whirled back. “Oh, I almost forgot. Rhett was looking for you at the event.”

“I didn't see him.”

“I know. You disappeared. You should call him. He seemed like a lost puppy.”

“Rhett will never look like a lost puppy.” He was the most self-reliant man I'd ever met.

“Where did you go, by the way?”

“Me? Nowhere. Nope. I was here.” Man, the lying thing was becoming an issue. I had to curb it and fast.

Katie raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing me. “Jenna-a-a.”

“I went on an errand.” A half-truth. Better.

“Speaking of wrecks, what's with your shoes?”

I glanced at the muddy Keds. “I stepped in a puddle.” I had. A puddle of muck. It wasn't a lie. “But I'm back. Here.” I aimed a finger at my feet. “Rarin' for a good time. Now, leave.” I nudged her. “Go. Cook for the masses. But bring me something to eat when you get the chance.”

“Silly me, I almost forgot.” She opened the lid of the basket she was carrying and withdrew a mini burger wrapped in parchment paper. “For you. It's a turkey and
cheddar cheese slider with my special sauce, a mustard-honey concoction. Enjoy.” She hurried down the breezeway and disappeared.

I peeled back the parchment paper; the aroma made my mouth water. I took a bite of the slider and hummed my appreciation. Salty and sweet and sloppy. Heaven.

After I polished off the last morsel, I tossed the parchment, washed my hands, and hurried to the telephone. I called Rhett, but he didn't answer. I apologized that I had missed him at the food truck event. I didn't tell him where I'd gone. He would understand, of course, that I was trying to protect my father, but I didn't want him to worry. I said I hoped to see him around the campfire tonight—the Wild West Extravaganza was hosting a cowboy sing-along on the beach; a week ago, Rhett and I had made plans to attend together—and I ended the call.

Then I dialed the precinct. I wanted to tell Cinnamon about the fabric I had seen beneath the rubble. If only I'd had the wherewithal to tug it free. On the other hand, the fabric was outside the realm of the crime scene and might have had nothing to do with the murder. Maybe it was Ava's, from when she had demolished the wall.

A clerk answered. Cinnamon was in the field and unreachable. The clerk would relay my message. I thanked her and ended the call.

Two customers dropped into the store in the late afternoon. One wanted a copy of each culinary mystery we carried. I collected over a dozen for her, including the delicious
The Diva Steals a Chocolate Kiss
. The other asked for
The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Food from My Frontier
plus
The Homesick Texan Cookbook
by Lisa Fain, a chef in New York who had re-created the wonderful tastes of home that she had savored at church suppers and backyard barbecues, like warm bowls of chili con queso and chicken-fried steak served with cream gravy.

As those two departed, a button of a woman who owned
a china shop down the street scurried in giggling. “You won't believe what happened. This morning, I stepped away from the hot stove for five seconds. Five.” She splayed her fingers. “And, oops, my pot holders went up in a blaze. I have to buy another pair. My stepmother is coming to dinner, and you know her.” I didn't, but she had mentioned her taskmaster stepmother on a previous occasion. “Perfect is as perfect does.” She made a beeline for the pot holders. “I'd make a pair if I had the time, but I must get the soufflé in. Aha, I see them.” She nabbed two red mitts and dashed back to the counter to pay, then hurried out. A whirlwind.

Around 5:00
P.M.
, Aunt Vera called and apologized for leaving the shop unattended. She hoped I didn't mind. Deputy Appleby had dropped by and asked her to coffee. The shop was devoid of customers. She thought she would be gone only a few minutes. Before she knew it, time had sped by. I assured her it was fine; she didn't need to spend every waking second at the shop. She thanked me profusely.

Soon after, Bailey checked in by telephone. She was tittering like a schoolgirl, blathering that she . . .
she
 . . . had played
hooky
; she called herself a dilettante and a ne'er-do-well, and claimed it was all Tito's fault. He had dragged her to a wedding shop to pick out her dress. How could she say no? What man wanted to do such a thing, other than Richard Gere in
Runaway Bride
, but that was definitely not Tito, and, well, champagne was involved, and she couldn't wait for me to see the dress, it was so-o-o beautiful and—

I cut her off by absolving her of her sins. She laughed some more and said she would see me tomorrow.

At six on the dot, I gathered Tigger, closed shop, and drove home.

When I parked at the cottage, I didn't see anyone in the vicinity and convinced myself that over the past few days I had been hearing noises and making up phantoms that weren't really there. I was ready to set a therapist appointment until I remembered the rope and spurs that Bailey had
given me, and I decided one round of rope jumping to boost my endorphins would do me more good than any time spent in a therapist's chair. Luckily, I was still wearing the Keds and not my sandals.

I popped Tigger into the cottage and closed the door, pulled the rope from the trunk of my VW, and, in the driveway, attempted a few jumps of the Texas skip. Sadly, I wasn't nearly as good this time as I had been in the parking lot by the store. Apparently I needed Bailey as a coach.

Vowing to get better, I coiled up the rope and replaced it in the trunk of my car. Then I hurried inside, fed Tigger, and went to take a shower to get ready for my date. As water cascaded over my face, visions of the creep in
Psycho
attacking Janet Leigh played in my mind. Faster than you could spell Y-I-P-E-S, I popped out of the shower, toweled off, and dressed in a white scoop-necked T-shirt, jeans, denim jacket, and boots. I tied a turquoise scarf around my neck—I didn't own a kerchief—and then I assured Tigger I wouldn't be home late. A kiss to his nose sealed the deal.

Walking down the beach, paying attention to my environment as well as to everyone who was out for a good time, I headed south toward The Pier. The sky was a deep, dusky gray and cloudless. A full moon was rising over the mountains to the east. The bonfire, which was set far away from The Pier, blazed orange and gold. Tons of people, all silhouettes backed by the glow, roamed nearby.

As I drew closer, I could hear members of the throng singing “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.” When that song ended, a group struck up “Back in the Saddle Again.” Not everyone knew the words; there was a lot of laughter about that.

I weaved through the crowd wondering how I would find Rhett, and then I heard him. He had a rich, powerful laugh. He was standing near a hot dog vendor with Tito, who was regaling him with a story.

“Kid you not,” Tito said, hands wide, painting the account,
“a little boy on a trike at five in the morning.
Whoosh!
Straight across my path. The mother comes running out”—Tito snapped his fingers—“and nabs him in two seconds flat!”

“What happened?” I pecked Rhett on the cheek.

“Accident averted. How are you?” He nuzzled my neck. “When you called, you sounded stressed.”

“Did I?”

He gave me a knowing look. “Want a beer?”

“Do I! And a spicy hot dog.”

“I'll be right back.”

I said to Tito, “Where's Bailey? I heard you went dress shopping.”

“She's a little, how do you say, under the weather?”

“Too much of the bubbly?”

“My fault. I should know her limits.”

“So should she.”
Listen to you, Jenna Hart. Do not judge, lest ye be judged.
“Is she in bed? Does she need me to drop in?”

“No. Don't worry. I'm going to check in on her. She wanted me to come here first. ‘Do your thing,' she said. ‘Get a story.'” He tapped the pad and pen that were invariably tucked in his shirt pocket.

“And did you?”

“Not yet. It's the life of a reporter. Some days yes, some days no. So far, everyone is behaving. Aha! There's the mayor. She always has something fit to print.
Adios.
” Tito charged toward her.

As I stood by myself, a chilly breeze tickled my ankles. At the same time, I felt eyes on me. I shivered and scanned the horde of people. No one was staring at me. I spun to my left and gazed at The Pier. A lone man, unrecognizable even in the full moonlight, stood at the end. His arms were raised. A glint of light flickered near his face. Was he holding a camera? Binoculars? Was it the same person I'd believed
was spying on me in the parking lot the other day? The same one who had sneaked around my cottage?

Fear cut through me, but I forced myself to calm down. No one was going to attack me in this throng.

Even so, I continued to observe the stranger. After a long moment, whoever it was pivoted and peered off in a more southerly direction, and I felt like a ninny. It was probably a tourist having a look-see. So why was I spooked? There were others on The Pier. It wasn't like he had posted himself in some remote location. Again, I considered touching base with a therapist. I was only thirty and way too young to fall apart.

Tamping down my anxiety, I searched for someone to latch on to until Rhett returned. Near the most boisterous singers, I caught sight of Mrs. McCartney, who reminded me of a scarecrow with her stick-straight red hair and floral top and trousers. I was surprised to see her. She wasn't known to be very social. She was standing with a plump, gray-haired lady in a furry sweater. Both were holding plastic cups fitted with straws. Both were smiling.

Hmm. Was Mrs. McCartney open to a few questions? Would extracting information be harder than trying to squeeze juice out of an unripe lemon?

Slapping on a big smile, I sidled up to them and introduced myself. Mrs. McCartney's nose scrunched up, not in a nice way. Did I smell bad? Maybe she didn't like the fragrance I'd sprayed on. Well, I didn't like the red lipstick she had swathed on her thin lips; it didn't match her freckly skin; and her eyes were beady and hawklike, but would I make a face? No, I would not.

Up close, her friend reminded me of a huggable cat, especially given her little pink nose, bright alert eyes, and multicolored short hair. She gazed between us. “Do you two know each other?”

“I am acquainted with Jenna's father,” Mrs. McCartney said, her tone dismissive.

“And you know me, too.” I smiled with gusto. “You've come into The Cookbook Nook.”

“Once.”

“For a cupcake cookbook. You bought
Your Cup of Cake
by Lizzy Early.”

“You remember that?” the friend asked.

“I try to remember what all my customers buy.” I addressed Mrs. McCartney. “I told you about the author, who is a darling woman from Portland, Oregon, remember? You said the cupcake photos in the book were some of the most gorgeous you had ever seen. You also said that your two granddaughters were coming to visit you. You wanted to make them a special treat when they arrived.”

Mrs. McCartney's eyebrows arched up. “You have a steel-trap memory.”