Grilling the Subject (18 page)

“Ava got mad at Shane and said she was over him, but she was lying. She wanted to get even.”

“How do you know all this?”

“She wrote about it in her diary.”

“How do you know she has a diary?”

“Shane told me. See, back then, when Ava said they were finished, Shane didn't believe her, so he peeked in her diary, and, get this, Ava wrote that she would kill Sylvia if Shane ditched Ava for her.”

“Did Ava mention you in the diary?”

“Shane didn't say, but he saw the diary way before we started up again. Until now, he'd disregarded it. Men can be such idiots.”

I quickly computed Shane's dating timeline in my head.
First Emily, followed by Ava, followed by Sylvia, and returning to Emily.

“Knowing what you know about him, why did you take him back?”

“Because, well, I was with child, and truthfully, I love him.” Her eyes grew dreamy. “If I'd known I was pregnant before, we never would have broken up in the first place.”

“Are you sure he's telling the truth about the diary?”

“As sure as there's going to be a beautiful sunset tonight.” She swept her arm across the sky. “Have we ever
not
had a beautiful sunset?”

Okay, she was officially naïve again. I said, “Emily, if Ava killed Sylvia, you could be in danger.”

She shook her head. “Ava's feud was with Sylvia, not me. I don't think she would hurt me.”

“Haven't you seen the movie
Fatal Attraction
?”

Emily's eyes widened. Apparently she hadn't considered the whole picture, as in, a jealous woman might be eliminating all the other women in her path.

“Were any of the gifts Ava gave Shane cuff links with his initials on them?” I asked.

“How would you know about those?”

I described the single cuff link I'd found at the crime scene.

“You went there? Won't the police—”

“Could it be Shane's?”

Emily nodded. “Ava purchased them at Sterling Sylvia. Oh no. What if . . .” Her mouth started to quiver. “What if Ava stole the cuff links from Shane and took them to the crime scene to frame him?”

Call me cynical, but I couldn't help thinking what if Emily, furious with her intended and his roving eye, took them there to frame him?

I
hurried into the
shop, threw my stuff into the stockroom, and settled in behind the sales counter. Aunt Vera had already racked up a number of hefty sales. While I dialed the precinct—yes, I tried to reach Cinnamon one more time—I restocked our bookmarks. Marketing Tip 101: always have handouts with a website or contact information on the sales counter.

A minute after I spoke with the precinct clerk, Cinnamon came on the line. Hooray!

“Jenna, I miss you when I don't get a voice mail from you daily. No, let me revise that,
hourly
.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

I ignored her and quickly related what Emily had told me about Ava's diary. Granted, I wasn't sure whether Emily was telling the truth, but I had to at least convey the information to the police, right? No stone unturned, as they say.

Cinnamon didn't scoff; she didn't scold. Acting like the
professional she was, she said, “I'll look into it. Thanks for the tip. Gotta go.”

She didn't mention David; neither did I.

It wasn't until later that I realized I didn't tell her what Tito had said at the pole-bending event. Shoot!

For the next two hours, I pitched and sold a ton of books, focusing mainly on barbecue. After all, that was why our tourists had come to town, to experience the Wild West. The bestselling cookbook was called
Barbecue Biscuits & Beans: Chuck Wagon Cooking
, perfect for cowboy enthusiasts. I had learned about it on a blog I read. The book includes the history of the chuck wagon plus tasty recipes and preparation secrets from a pair of guys who have cooked for presidents and celebrities. I also sold a number of copies of a cookbook by Melissa Gilbert—the freckle-faced actress from
Little House on the Prairie
—called simply
My Prairie Cookbook
, which offers behind-the-scenes stories and photos, plus comforting family recipes. I had no idea how many of my customers were fans of the show. Some got teary when they saw I'd stocked copies.

As lunchtime rolled around, my father checked in with me by telephone.

“ESP,” I said. I had been thinking about him for the past hour.

He muttered, “Pshaw,” about having extrasensory perception—maybe he said something coarser than
pshaw
—and then asked how it was going with David. I gave him a quick recap and thanked him for not telling Cinnamon about the situation. “I promise David will be heading to San Francisco soon.”
Sooner
, if I gave him no encouragement to stay, and I wouldn't.

“Good. Will I see you at the horse racing event this evening?”

“I'll be there.” I ended the call, and a pang of regret swizzled through me. Rhett was supposed to have escorted me
to the event. For a brief instant, I was mad at him for expecting more of me than I could give. Was he a cut-and-run kind of guy? Should I forget about him and move on? He didn't seem like the overly dramatic type. Maybe he felt by giving me space—a
lot
of space—I could make the wisest decision. Well, I had.
So come back, darn it!
If only
he
had ESP.

“Are you talking to me?” Bailey slung a stack of books onto the counter.

“No.” Had I said the words out loud? Oops.

“You know that talking to yourself is a sign you might be crazy.”

“I'm definitely crazy, bordering on loony.”

Bailey pushed the books toward me. “Here. Want to wrap these up? They're for Gran.” She hooked her thumb at Gran, who had returned for the fourth day in a row, this time with two of her grandchildren.

“More?”

“Yep. She must purchase enough items to cover our rent. We love this woman!”

As I tallied the total and inserted the books into a shopping bag, Bailey said, “Want to tell me why you were talking to yourself?”

I filled her in about my situation. “Am I being too hard on David? Or on Rhett?”

“Guys,” Bailey said. “They're difficult to understand. They want to be tough; they want to lean on us. I'd give them both a long leash.”

I thought of the cave analogy David had shared last night and decided that was the best advice. Let Rhett come back to me; encourage David to move on.

“I'm going to ask David for a divorce,” I said.

“In his fragile state?”

“Wrong thing to do?”

“Right thing, and he should expect it. By the way, I know a lawyer who could handle that for you.” Bailey winked. She was alluding to her mother.

“I'll contact her.”

“Treats!” Katie bellowed at the top of her lungs. She paraded into the shop carrying a tray of mini quiches. Customers swarmed her. By the time she made her way to the sales counter, there were two samples left. Bailey and I each snagged one.

“Yum!” I exclaimed. “I love the peppery flavor. What's the cheese, cheddar?”

“Yep. Direct from Texas.”

I hummed and said, “Can you make me my own quiche for lunch?”

“I'll see what I can do.” She pivoted to leave.

“Katie, wait. I have a question. David is feeling sort of nauseous. What do I give him besides Alka-Seltzer?” I have never mastered the art of nursing.

“Ginger ale or club soda, and crackers, bread, or toast, anything to absorb the acid. Old Man Powers suffered from nausea, too.” Katie used to cook for a widower; he died in his nineties. Afterward, she came to us seeking employment. Were we ever lucky. “Also noodles loaded with butter might help, but make sure you give him plenty of protein. You don't want him to faint from carb overload.”

When she left, I realized I hadn't heard from David. Maybe I had been too hard on him last night. I called the cottage, but he didn't pick up.

By the end of the day, when he hadn't checked in, worry gnawed at me. I closed up shop and hurried home. Tigger met me at the door, a look of concern on his face. David was there, on the couch, sound asleep. I roused him. He looked like he had slept all day. The food in the kitchen lay untouched.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He scrubbed his hair. “You care.”

“Maybe. A little.” I did; I couldn't fool myself.

“You look pretty in pink.” He offered a drowsy smile.

I smiled back. He had always liked me in pink. “Thanks. Do you have enough energy to go out?”

“Where?”

“To a horse race.”

“Sure!”

“But only if you eat something.”

He offered a dopey pout. “Aw, Mom!”

*   *   *

Buena Vista Boulevard
was closed to through traffic. Red, white, and blue banners hung across the road in a number of spots. Tinsel sparklers were jammed into the huge flowerpots set along the sidewalk. A few vendors hawked fast food and drinks. Garbage cans were positioned every thirty feet so no one would have to walk far to deposit trash. A red rope strung through chrome posts kept people from moving onto the pavement.

A horde of spectators was gathering on both sides of the street. Most shops were remaining open and benefiting from the foot traffic. I spotted Ronald and his niece Tina chatting with Shane and Emily. Shane seemed to be telling them a story. Occasionally he patted Emily on the back, thwacked Tina on the arm, or aimed a finger at Ronald. In other words, he seemed his normal, friendly self, without a care in the world. Hadn't Emily told him about our conversation? Hmm.

David and I pulled to a stop outside The Pelican Brief Diner. Music spilled out, thanks to the saloon-style doors. A fiddler was playing a rousing rendition of “Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” I considered entering the restaurant and seeking Lola's counsel regarding a divorce, but now was not the time. David was smiling; he seemed energized; he wasn't yawning or scratching. Why ruin the evening?

I purchased two spicy chicken shish kebabs from a street vendor and handed one to David. “Eat.”

He saluted and chowed down.

As we were throwing away our sticks, a crowd member said, “It's starting.”

“Look!” Another pointed. “There's the mayor.”

Mayor Zeller, a pip-squeak at this distance, rose to the top of a platform near the center of town and spoke through a microphone: “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. The race will begin in a few minutes.” She pointed to an oversized clock behind the platform, the kind seen at Olympic events.

A string of sleek horses and their colorful jockeys proceeded slowly along the boulevard. Some people
ooh
ed; others applauded.

“Once the race starts,” the mayor continued, “there will be no crossing the boulevard, so get in your positions, and stay there.” She descended the platform.

“Jenna!” a woman called from behind me.

I spun around.

Cinnamon, looking pert in off-duty attire—crisp chinos, checkered shirt, and a sassy red bandana around her neck—was heading for me. She waggled her cell phone with her free hand. “I've been trying to reach you.”

I had resigned myself to the fact that Rhett wasn't calling and had put my cell phone on mute. “Why?” I asked. “Am I in trouble?”

“Nope.”

Phew!

She drew near and beamed. “A witness came forward, a
reliable
witness, who saw your father arrive at the lake Wednesday morning.”

“Really?” Excitement bubbled up inside me, but I tamped it down. “How is that possible? Dad didn't see a soul. The witness must be lying.”

“He's not. He was there. He has a favorite spot, out of view of the rest of the lake. He took me to it. It's definitely a hidey-hole with lots of fish.” She beamed. “Fishermen rarely like to share that kind of secret.”

“Why didn't he come forward earlier?”

“He went out of town that afternoon and didn't return until today. When he learned about the murder, he headed straight for the precinct.”

“So Dad is exonerated?”

“Yes!” She high-fived me, then regarded David. “Who's this?”

I cut a quick look at him. He looked scruffy with his five o'clock shadow. Why hadn't he shaved? “Um . . .”

“A friend,” David said, offering an impish smile.

“It's complicated,” I added.

“That's okay,” Cinnamon said. “Don't tell me. Is Rhett—” She shook her head. “Uh-uh, don't answer. That's none of my business.” Rhett and Cinnamon had dated for a brief time before he was run in for arson at the restaurant where he had worked as chef. He didn't commit the crime, but being a suspect put a wrench in their relationship. Cinnamon investigated; Rhett pleaded innocent. They became enemies for a long stretch, but they mended that fence once she nabbed the real culprit—the restaurant owner. “Do you know where I'll find your father?”

“I haven't seen him yet. Maybe he's inside the diner.” I jutted a finger. Before she could leave, I gripped her arm. “Cinnamon, wait. Did you find Ava Judge's diary?”

She hesitated and studied David again.

“He's okay,” I said. “If he breathes a word, I'll kill him.”

“Not remotely funny,” Cinnamon said.

“It wasn't meant to be humorous.”

Cinnamon assessed me, then cracked a smile. “Okay. Yes, we searched. We didn't find anything.”

“Did she put up a fuss?”

“She opened her home to us.”

Why had Ava been so amenable? Was she innocent?

“Maybe Ava destroyed the diary,” I murmured.

“Jenna, cut it out,” Cinnamon said. “Stop. You're done. Your father is off the hook. No more theorizing.”

“What if she burned it in the bonfire?”

“Maybe Emily lied about the diary,” Cinnamon countered.

“To what end?”

Cinnamon jammed her hands into her trouser pockets. “Whatever the reason, let it go. Please. It wouldn't matter if we had found it. Written words of vengeance wouldn't prove that Ava killed Sylvia.”

“Does Ava have an alibi for that morning? Tito Martinez said—”

“Stop! What am I going to do with you?”

“Sylvia had an affair with Shane.”

“Which he readily admits.” She smirked. “Yes, I've talked to him, and, get this, his fiancée knows about it. Do you think Emily is guilty of murder?”

“No. Not in her condition. And no way would Ronald Gump think petite, pregnant Emily was my father, not even clad in a bulky plaid jacket. What about D'Ann Davis? Did you ask her about the fabric found at the crime scene? You went and examined that, right?”

Cinnamon sighed.

“I told you before that D'Ann wears those hair thingies.” I rotated my hand near the back of my head. “Like the weapon used—”

“That's it.” Cinnamon held up a hand to cut me off. “I'm done. I have a list of viable suspects. Enough said.”

“Aren't you frustrated?”

“Not nearly as much as I was when your father was a suspect. Now that he's in the clear, my team can bear down and get this killer. You, by the way, are not on my
team
.” She offered a wounding grin and, without another word, spun on her heel and entered The Pelican Brief Diner.