Grilling the Subject (16 page)

“
Sí,
a ritual. She was scattering things.” He plucked imaginary items from his hands. “And she jumped on them.” Tito hopped in place.

“What things?” I asked.

“White things.”

Bailey tapped Tito's arm. “You thought they might be flower petals. They fluttered as they fell to the ground.”

“White?” I shook my head. “D'Ann only grows red roses and red azaleas.”

Tito winked. “Perhaps she had a special admirer who sent her white roses.”

“Or you suggested that Sylvia might have sent the flowers to taunt her,” Bailey offered.

I looked between them. “Why would Sylvia taunt D'Ann?”

Bailey winked. “Remember how Gran said D'Ann and Sylvia argued?”

“Right.”

“Well, maybe Sylvia, knowing D'Ann only likes things that are red, thought that would be a funny gesture. She sent them, and D'Ann lost it. She scattered them on the ground and jumped up and down on them.”

If Sylvia did send the flowers, or whatever the white things were, did D'Ann, in a snit, storm to Sylvia's house and demand an explanation? Did things get out of hand? Why had D'Ann burst into the shop earlier and asked for a tarot card reading? I couldn't believe one pair of fake silver earrings would push her over the edge.

“Tell Jenna the other thing”—Bailey rubbed Tito's forearm—“about seeing Ava Judge in the neighborhood, too. You said Ava seemed sneaky.”

“
Sí.
She was walking the perimeter of the house that Shane Maverick bought.”

I gaped. “At five in the morning?”

“By then, it was closer to six,” Tito said. “I was doing the reverse route by then.”

I assumed he meant he had delivered papers on one side of the street, hit the end of the cul-de-sac, and made a U-turn.

“She was dressed in a black overcoat,” Tito said.

“Are you sure? Could it have been a red plaid jacket?” Maybe Ronald saw Ava running from the scene of the crime and assumed she was a man, namely, my father. She is tall, and if she had been wearing heels, per usual, she would have appeared even taller. I said, “It was somewhat dark and hard to make out colors.”

“It was a black coat. My eyesight is one hundred percent.
Perfecto.
”

Bailey aimed a finger at me. “What if Ava wore a jacket underneath the overcoat?”

I clapped my hands. “Yes!”

Had Ava given her alibi to the police yet? She was the ringleader for the neighborhood coup. Did she think that after one or two neighbors backed out of supporting her, she might not be able to thwart Sylvia? Did she, as Shane suggested, think Sylvia's constant disturbances might make a difference in sales prices in the neighborhood, affecting not only Ava's livelihood but also her property value? Would Ava have risked everything to stop Sylvia?

I
thanked Bailey and
Tito for the information and, eager to contact Cinnamon to tell her about Ava's whereabouts and D'Ann's odd behavior on the morning of the murder, I punched the precinct number into my cell phone. Busy. I ended the call and tried again. Still busy. I repeated the effort while heading toward my car. Fruitless. Sheesh. Okay, fine, if I couldn't get through, I would drive there.

Except as I was passing a tent where vendors were selling barbecue, I spotted a man ahead—as tall as Rhett, dark hair, white-and-blue plaid shirt tucked into jeans. I ended the call and raced to catch him. Luckily, right before I tapped the guy on the back, I realized it wasn't Rhett. The guy was much taller, and he was wearing boots. Talk about eyes seeing what they wanted to see! Obviously I needed—wanted—to talk to Rhett and hash things out ASAP.

Continuing to move in the direction of my car, I dialed Rhett. I reached his voice mail. Drat. Wasn't anyone answering? I left a message and begged him—short of sobbing; I
have a modicum of pride—to return to talk to me. When I accepted that he wouldn't answer as long as I was chatting on his voice mail, I hung up.

Rhythmic clapping caught my attention. I spun around and was surprised to see that a crowd had gathered, not to listen in on my conversation, but to watch the young woman who had given the rope-jumping demonstration on The Pier. She had cleared a spot in the parking lot and was teaching a new slew of people how to leap through the vertical loop.

I watched for a minute, imagining myself mimicking the steps in perfect time, but then my attention was drawn to a couple of onlookers who were eating barbecued ribs, not the dainty baby back kind but huge beef ribs. As they tore into them, barbecue sauce dribbled down their chins and onto their shirts. One of the eaters tried to rub the sauce off his T-shirt with his forefinger. Bad idea. A stain resulted and grew even bigger, the more he tried to get rid of it.

The action made me consider the steak sauce bottle cap found at the crime scene. Cinnamon and my father have often told me that it's the small things that come back to bite a criminal. Did Shane, for whatever reason, take a bottle of steak sauce to the crime scene? Or did the murderer know that Shane made the sauce and bring the cap to the site, hoping to frame him? It was a small clue to pin to a big crime, but maybe the murderer figured that the top was metal, and it would stand the test of fire. So would a cuff link.

“Jenna!” Our mayor, a squat woman named Zoey Zeller—or Z.Z., as she liked her friends to call her—scurried toward me. Garbed in a brown leather skirt and jacket, her hair frizzier than ever, she reminded me of an Ewok from
Star Wars
. She was carrying a foodie bag decorated with licks of flame and a fistful of napkins. “Super-duper-spicy ribs, hot off the grill!” She shook the bag. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“I called to you because I'm so sorry, dear. I haven't had a moment to breathe since the Wild West Extravaganza
started, let alone stop into the shop and pay my condolences. Your father”—she gulped in air—“is innocent, of course, but I should have touched base with you and your aunt. How is she holding up?”

“She's doing her best to summon good vibes.”

“And you?”

“The same. How is Dean Gump faring?” The mayor and the dean went way back.

“Not well. I've visited him a couple of times. He seems quite forgetful. He can't remember where he put his glasses, though they're on his head. He can't recall the last time he ate, either.” She
tsk
ed. “I'm afraid the poor man misses Sylvia terribly. His niece Tina is attempting to bolster him, but well . . .” Z.Z. twirled her hand in the air. “You of all people understand. It strikes a blow when you lose someone you love.”

Her words jolted me. I thought of David—no longer
lost
—and Rhett, possibly lost forever. What was I going to do?

“Do you know when Ronald plans to have a funeral?” I asked.

“I don't believe the coroner has released the body. Red tape.” The mayor clicked her tongue. “Now, as for Shane Maverick, what do you know about him? I heard you used to work with him at the advertising agency.”

“I did. He was a great salesman.”

“Yes.” She bobbed her head. “I can see that. He's slick. Too pretty for his own good, if you ask me. I like my men with character, not looks.”

I did, too, though looks were a bonus.

“He reminds me of a snake oil salesman I once knew,” she went on.

“You knew someone who sold snake oil?”

Z.Z. sniggered. “Heavens to Betsy, no. It's an expression, dear.” She tilted her head and peered at me with a cagey eye. “You're teasing me.”

“Yes, ma'am, I am. Why do you want to know about Shane?”

“Will he do right by Emily? That sweet girl deserves every happiness in the world.”

“I believe he intends to follow through.” What more could I offer? Shane never made a promise at Taylor & Squibb that he didn't keep. Did that alone exonerate him of murder? No. People changed; David had.

“Do you think he had something to do with Sylvia's death?” Z.Z. said.

“Why would you ask that?”

“I saw them together frequently a few months ago, and although I'm not your aunt, I do get otherworldly feelings.” She fluttered a hand. “And what's going on with Ava Judge?”

“How so?”

“She was at Ronald's house the other day when I arrived. Not
at
, exactly. Nearby. In her garden. She always seems to be assessing something, do you know what I mean?” To demonstrate, Z.Z. squinched her nose and squinted. “When Ronald opened the door to allow me in, I feared Ava might swoop in and ask him to sell his house. Can you imagine doing such a thing when he's in such a fragile state? Has she lost her marbles?”

“But she didn't swoop.”

“No, she held back. Ronald and I had a nice chat, and when I left, Ava was gone.”

“Z.Z.” A large woman near the bleachers tapped her watch.

The mayor jiggled her bag of barbecue. “I have to get going. I'm here with my sister. She can be a tad bossy.” She chuckled. “We're scheduled to see another round of the pole-bending event. It's incredible, you know. In the first race, a girl, no older than my sweet Janie would have been, tipped so much to one side I feared she and the horse might go down. Boom!” Janie would have been sixteen now. Z.Z. lost her at the age of two. If that wasn't enough of a blow, a few
months later, Z.Z.'s husband, overcome with grief, left town. Two months after that, he tragically dropped dead. How she managed to stay cheery amazed me. She thrust out the hand holding the barbecue bag. “But surprise! Lickety-split, she was back around the next pole. Fastest time so far.”

“Z.Z., let's go!”

“Bye, Jenna dear!” The mayor scuttled away.

Driving back to town, I dialed the precinct again. Cinnamon was not available. This time, I left a message for her saying I wanted to talk. I didn't add that I had a list of suspects ticking through my brain. Where would I begin: with Shane, Ava, or D'Ann? And what should I tell her about David? Maybe my father, despite his promise, had clued her in about him already. In fact, maybe Cinnamon was at my cottage right now, grilling David and ready to send him packing.

I sped home to check on David. Cinnamon wasn't there. I tiptoed inside in case David was sleeping. He wasn't. He was watching a cooking show on television; Tigger was nestled in his lap. I gawped at the two of them—the poster picture for serenity—and I wished with all my heart that I could turn back the clock. That David wouldn't be a criminal. That he wouldn't be dying. That we could put our lives back together and make a go of our marriage.

But wishes weren't horses. And there was Rhett to consider. I loved him. I was certain.

I closed the door loudly. David spun around and smiled weakly at me. His eyes were red-rimmed as if he'd been crying.

“Did you talk to your mother?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“Your sister?”

“I couldn't.”

Maybe that was why he had been crying. I didn't press. He released Tigger. The little rascal leaped over the back of the couch and darted to me, nose raised, sniffing. Could he smell my worry and David's despair?

David stood, shoved a tissue into the pocket of his chinos, and scratched his thighs roughly. He wasn't allergic to cats. Was the itching a side effect of his illness? “I'm hungry. Want to get something to eat?”

“I could make us something.”

“You?”

“I cook now.”

“No kidding.”

“I'm not a gourmet, but I'm adequate. Lots of things have changed.” I didn't mean for the words to hurt him, but they hit their mark.

He winced but recovered quickly. “Let's go out anyway. I could use the fresh air. I heard it's dance hall night at your café.”

“Who told you that?”

“Your aunt came over to check on me. She said she was getting vibes from the house.”

“Good vibes?”

“She didn't say.” He winked. “I didn't press.”

*   *   *

The staff at
The Nook Café had transformed the place since I left. The waitresses were dressed as cancan dancers with big skirts supported by petticoats. The waiters wore black trousers with pinstriped shirts and bow ties. Katie had rented a player piano; I remembered her asking if she could budget for it. Scott Joplin's jazzy “Maple Leaf Rag” was cycling through.

David and I sat at a table by the window. A waitress delivered a flight of craft root beers in short tasting mugs. Soon after, Katie sashayed to our table and introduced herself to David. In all the times that I had brought David to visit Crystal Cove, they had never met. That was my fault. Katie and I had lost touch until I officially moved back.

In typical Katie great-gusto fashion, she personally shared her menu. Pride gleamed in her eyes as she ticked
off items. “You don't want to miss the cowboy steaks. Forty-two ounces of prime beef cooked to a deep pink and topped with blue cheese. Or try the beef-and-black-bean chili. It's great, with just the right amount of kick, if I do say so myself. And for dessert, a Dr Pepper cake that will knock your socks off. I found the recipe in a cookbook called
Grady Spears: The Texas Cowboy Kitchen
. Moistest cake I've ever made.” She was also offering a taster menu, which is what we decided to go with. A little bit of everything.

David's appetite wasn't what it used to be. He complained of nausea and nibbled a few bites. We talked about the weather, about the Giants, and about people he had known at Taylor & Squibb. He asked how the last campaign that I'd worked on before moving to town had gone. I admitted it hadn't been fun. It was for Jump and Pump, an adult-sized pogo stick. The company had wanted a daring
Don't try this at home!
commercial. We hired a dozen extreme-loving teenage boys and girls who agreed to jump through a fiery hoop on pogo sticks. Their bravado quickly waned when they realized how hard the task was. We ended up recasting with real stunt performers. The commercial never aired.

Throughout dinner, David scratched his arms. Occasionally his head would twitch. After we ordered tea and dessert, David asked about my father. Dad had not checked in on David, as my aunt had, probably because she reported back to him and told him David wasn't a threat. How could he be? He was so completely different than he used to be. His fight was gone. As intuitive as my aunt is, she would have picked up on that in an instant.

“Dad's doing okay,” I murmured, “last time I asked. Not incarcerated. Yet.”

David removed the tea strainer from his teapot and set it on a side plate. “Tell me about all these dead bodies you keep stumbling over.”

“What do you mean?”

“You've made headlines, hon. I've read about you in the
newspaper and on the Internet. You're pretty good at figuring out who did what.”

“Don't believe everything you read.”

“Did you really nail one suspect with a dinner plate?”

My cheeks warmed.

“All those games of Frisbee paid off,” he joked and reached for my hand.

I moved it into my lap and glanced at the cell phone that I had left on the table. No text message from Rhett. No voice mail.

“Expecting a call from that guy you're seeing?” David tilted his head. “I saw you with him at the sing-along, and I heard you necking on the doorstep.”

My cheeks warmed again. “Yes, I'd like him to . . . I'm sorry. It's rude of me to keep looking, but he . . . we had a fight, and—”

“What happened?”

“He's not happy with your reappearance.”

David offered a tired smile. “I think only Detective Dyerson is.” He sipped his tea and murmured, “Call him.”

“I tried.” I explained how Rhett and I had left things at the pole-bending event. Correction: how
he
had left things. By leaving.