Grilling the Subject (19 page)

David chuckled. “Hon, you haven't lost your ability to tick people off, have you?”

“Don't call me hon.”

He threw his hands up. “Just saying. Have you forgotten that I lived through a few of your Supergirl quests at Taylor & Squibb?”

My boss used to say to me,
Jenna, my darling, you are like Supergirl, always on a mission. Cool your jets. Or
should I say cape?
I didn't mind. In fact, I'd taken pride in the taunt. But now? I didn't mean to irk Cinnamon. I needed her as my ally.

“Occasionally you do try to wring blood from a turnip,” David added.

“So?” I sniped, hating him for being right.

“Watch your adorable backside. You're liable to infuriate someone. Maybe even the killer.”

Miffed, I swung away from him. I peered up the street and was surprised to see Shane and Emily staring at me. She looked downright peeved. Didn't she realize I would tell the police about the diary? It wasn't like she had sworn me to secrecy.

A few feet short of them, I caught sight of Ava. She waved, probably thinking I was looking at her, and jogged toward David and me, high heels clacking the sidewalk.

“Hello,” she said to David as she arrived. She flipped her highlighted hair over her shoulder, flashed a brilliant smile, and thrust out her hand. “I'm Ava Judge.” She sounded so professional, I expected her to whip out a business card. She was wearing a beautiful blue suit. Had she recently shown property? “And you are . . .”

“David,” he said, no last name.

“David,” she repeated. “You're new here. Planning to settle in town?”

“I'm visiting.” He bit back a yawn and covered it with his fingertips. “Jenna, I need to lean against something.” He moved to the wall of the restaurant.

Ava cocked her head. “Is he okay?”

“Tired.”

“Hey”—Ava tapped my elbow—“I heard your father is cleared.”

“Who told you?”

“My client is the one who cleared him.” She pointed up the street to where she had been standing. A sixty-something man with a thick nose, crinkly eyes, and a bushy beard
was gazing at us. He wiggled his fingers. “That's Mandy Patinkin.”

“The actor in the TV show
Homeland
?”

Ava chuckled. “No, I'm joshing. That's not him. But he looks like him, doesn't he?”

He did.

“He's such a sweetie. A plumber. Hardworking as the day is long. This afternoon he bought the three-bedroom on Poinsettia.” Ava licked her ruby red lips. “So who else does Chief Pritchett suspect?”

“She has a list.” Even though Cinnamon told me to back off, curiosity was stampeding through my mind. “And you're on it.” Cinnamon hadn't told me who was on her list, so it wasn't technically a lie.

Ava placed a hand on her chest. “How could I be?”

“You were seen in the vicinity of the Gumps' house on the morning Sylvia died. Right around dawn.”

“Says who? Emily Hawthorne?” Ava huffed. “That girl has it in for me. Can you believe she hasn't even stepped foot inside the house she's going to live in? Honestly.”

“Actually, no, it wasn't Emily.”

Ava rubbed the underside of her nose. “Who then?”

“It was somebody else.”

“Somebody with bad eyes,” Ava hissed. “I wasn't there.”

“He has excellent eyesight.”

“In the waning morning light? Maybe he saw D'Ann or any number of neighbors. There are a lot of women in the area who are my size. In the dark, I would bet we all look the same.” She jutted a hip. “Did he say I was wearing a red plaid jacket?”

I didn't deny or confirm. “He said you were traipsing around Shane Maverick's future house. That happens to be right next door to the Gumps'.”

“I wasn't.”

“Where were you then? Have you told the police?”

“They were at my house earlier.”

Asking about her diary. “Ava, did you—”

A gun fired! Horses with riders tore down the boulevard. The crowd cheered.

At the same time, the swinging saloon doors flew open. A thin, short man hurtled between Ava and me and fell against the barrier rope. The stench of beer followed him. The chrome posts teetered. A few around us screamed.

The man regained his footing.

Another man, twice the size of the first, materialized in the doorway, fists raised. His beefy face was flushed. He growled at the smaller man, who shrieked and grabbed me. He positioned me in front of him as a shield.

“Let me go!” I ordered, my insides roiling with indignation. I stomped on his toe, but he didn't relent.

“Jenna!” David lurched off the wall and wrenched me out of the man's grip. He whirled me to one side.

“Break it up!” Cinnamon squeezed past the hulking man in the doorway and flashed her badge at him and his buddy. “That's it, fellas. You're cut off.”

“Yes, ma'am” and “Sorry, ma'am” flew from their mouths.

By the time Cinnamon subdued the two men, I realized we had missed seeing the horse race.

And Ava had fled.

A
s I drove
home, David kept asking me if I was all right. I was rattled by the ruckus, but I was more worried about him. He was doing his best not to let me see, but his hand was shaking. At the shop today, during a few spare moments, I had read up on chronic kidney failure symptoms; itching, nausea, and tremors were all signs of advancement.

When we entered the cottage, David said he was hungry, so I made a quickie snack using leftover hash. I had thrown together a batch a week ago and stored it in the freezer. Hash is so simple to make—only four ingredients; six, if you consider the spices. While I defrosted it, I baked twelve-minute biscuits. Easy-peasy and scrumptious. To me, there was almost nothing more soothing than warm biscuits slathered in butter. And I needed soothing.

Tigger ate his food and circled my ankles, expecting more.

I nudged him with my toes. “No way, Tig-Tig,” I cooed.
“We don't want you to get so fat you can't chase the kiddies at the store.”

After dinner, David and I didn't talk about the incident. We didn't discuss his symptoms. We kissed each other pristinely on the cheek and headed to our separate sleeping arrangements: me on the bed, he on the couch.

The resounding clang of church bells woke me early Sunday morning. One of these days, I would get around to visiting the Congregational church not far from my house. It was one of the loveliest I had ever seen with tall white spires and elegant stained glass. I'd heard that from inside one could take in the view of the ocean, which had to be distracting when listening to the sermon. On the other hand, perhaps it helped parishioners embrace the beauty of God's work.

I crept out of bed. My nightie had torqued around my midriff. I tugged it down over my thighs and checked on David. He was sleeping. Then I glanced at my cell phone: no message from Rhett. Drat!

Not hungry and in desperate need of a physical outlet, I put off my walk/run on the beach, donned shorts, tank top, and boots—a real fashion statement—and dragged the coil of rope and spurs from my VW. Yes, I was going to attempt the Texas skip wearing spurs.

For a brief moment, I wondered if the
clink-clink
of the spurs would wake David or the neighbors, but then decided the caws of the seagulls and the peal of church bells were way louder than I could ever be. I proceeded.

This time I was better at spinning the rope. It looped out and held fast about a foot above the ground. Like Bailey showed me, I slung it up and sideways, so that it became a loop large enough to leap through.

I recalled a jump-rope song I sang in the second grade and, though I felt foolish, started singing: “Down in the valley where the green grass grows, there sat Jenna—” I snagged the spurs on the rope and had to restart. Twirling, swirling.

“Down in the valley . . .” By the time I reached the phrase,
“as pretty as a rose,” I was doing well, passing through the loop without missing a beat. “She sang so high, she sang so sweet.” Here was the part where the jumper added the name of the boy she liked: “Along came Rhett and kissed her on the cheek. How many kisses did she get? One, two, three, four.”

I counted to twenty before I stopped. My heart was beating hard. I was perspiring. I took a breather and then did another round of the song. When I hit twenty again, I stopped and packed up the rope. Twenty kisses from Rhett would be nice, I mused as I removed the spurs and set them and the rope in the trunk of the car. Soon I would fix things with him—unless, of course, he was a stubborn dweeb who didn't deserve my adoration.

In the meantime, I looked in on David again. He was awake but sluggish. I made oatmeal drenched in brown sugar and cream and added sliced bananas. I poured him a big glass of water to keep him hydrated, and we talked briefly about his plans. He intended to head to San Francisco in two days. He wanted a little more time with me. No, he didn't expect to win my love or even my respect, but he was worried that there was a killer on the loose, and he, even though he was weaker than a slug, would defend me.

“If he finds out you've been poking around,” David went on.

“He . . . or she . . . won't.”

“You haven't been keeping your interest a secret, and that Ava Judge sure hightailed it in a hurry last night.”

She had, and I'd wondered about that. Had the brawl scared her, or had I with my questions?

“Don't worry,” I said. “I'll keep a watchful eye.”

I washed the dishes and pointed to the bookshelves. “While you're resting today, read.” David had always been an avid reader like me. “When I get home, we'll have dinner with my family.”

He snorted.

“We always have dinner Sunday nights. You're coming,” I said, not willing to budge. “Afterward, we'll pin down your plans.” I would be sad to see him go, sadder to see him die, but I'd made my good-byes years ago. It was time to move on.

Keeping tears at bay, I dressed in an orange silk sweater, floral capris, and glossy orange sandals. Soon after, I scooped up Tigger and headed to work.

Bailey dashed to me as I was stowing my purse behind the register; she held a box from the stockroom. “I heard about your dad. Yeehaw! Cleared. I told your aunt.”

Aunt Vera was in the children's corner, tying bandanas to the backs of the miniature chairs. A stack of white place mats sat in the middle of the table.

“What's she doing?” I asked.

“An impromptu art project for kids. A couple of mothers called in and begged for an activity.” She gestured to the table. “The place mats have outlines of cowboys and cowgirls that the children can color. I think Vera also hired a guitarist to come in and sing songs.”

Bailey set the box she was carrying on the counter. I peered inside. It was filled with cowboy-themed salt-and-pepper shakers. She lifted out a set consisting of a three-inch-tall white horse and black horse. “Check these out. They're magnetic. Isn't that cool?” She pulled them apart and let them snap back together. “I showed your aunt, but she thought they were silly. You don't think they are, do you?”

“Silly sells.” I knew a girl in college whose mother had collected over one hundred salt-and-pepper shaker sets. She was a world traveler and had bought a pair on each of her trips. “Good morning, Aunt Vera,” I called. She didn't respond; her mouth was moving as she continued her project. “Earth to Vera!” I yelled.

She startled and laughed. “Good morning, dear.”

“Who were you talking to?” I teased.

“The usual suspects.” She winked.

“When are the kids due to arrive?”

“Before noon.” She wiggled a finger. “I put a stack of that adorable book called
Cowboy and Cowgirl Parties
written by that local author over there.” She didn't have a free hand. She swung her chin toward the vintage table. “Set them out, will you?”

The local author, an effervescent woman with endless energy—she leads the PTA and most of the other child-related organizations in town—had put together a beautiful, self-published book with dozens of ideas for cowboy-themed parties: root beer bottles topped with tiny straw hats; cupcakes with gamblers' names scrawled in icing; recipes for tasty treats like Rio Grande Lemonade and cowboy potstickers; plus she shared a variety of ways to design and decorate cowboy- and cowgirl-themed cakes. She had begged us to sell a few of her books on consignment during the Wild West Extravaganza. How could we say no? She hadn't skimped on quality.

When I finished rearranging, Bailey said, “Now, help
me
.”

I set a porcelain pair of kissing cow salt-and-pepper shakers by the fiction books and placed an intertwined pair of boot salt-and-pepper shakers on the round table filled with hardcover, pictorial books. The boots were silly, true, yet they were charming, and customers would be drawn to
charming
and then discover the nearby books, or vice versa.

While we orbited the store, Bailey said, “Tell me about last night. My mother said a man held you like a shield outside the restaurant.”

“What?” Aunt Vera squawked from across the room. “Jenna, what happened?”

I explained the outbreak. “The littler guy didn't want the bigger guy to hit him. I think he figured I was taller, and he could hide behind me.” Maybe he had nabbed me because I was the first thing he could grab, and female, and he figured his pal wouldn't hit a woman. “David saved me.”

“Your hero,” Bailey teased.

“Cut it out.”

“Yes, do,” Aunt Vera said. “No joking about that, Bailey. Now, dear, how is David?”

“Sicker,” I replied.

“When is he heading north?” Bailey asked. “You are making him leave, right?”

“I've given him no encouragement to stay.”

“And yet there he is. In your cottage. Did you mention the divorce?”

“Divorce?” Aunt Vera echoed.

“No.” How could I? He had seemed so frail this morning, plus he wanted to stick around to defend me. “I will later today.”

“And then you'll call Rhett.”

“
Rhett
,” I sniped. “The stinker.” He had graduated from
dweeb
. “I've called him. He hasn't returned my calls.”

“Because you haven't started divorce proceedings.” Bailey scooped up the magnetic horse shakers she had placed beside the sugar-free cookbooks and waggled them in my face. “Those are the magic words:
I've filed for divorce.
I'm telling you, when Rhett hears that, he will come galloping back.”

“I think he might need to hear it's final, not simply in process.”

“Quickie divorces are easy if they're uncontested. You go to the courthouse, and—”

“I'm not so sure ours can be quick. David hasn't lived officially in the state for a long time.” Before going to sleep, I had reviewed some Internet sites.

“Well, Tito said—”

“Hey, about Tito.” I gathered the box and headed toward the stockroom, eager to end the discussion about David. When I returned to the register, I repeated, “About Tito . . .”

“What about him?” Bailey asked.

“Are you sure he saw Ava the morning Sylvia was killed?”

“Why?”

“She swears she wasn't in the area.”

“You heard him. His eyesight is
perfecto
, and I believe him. When he took me big-game fishing—”

“You? Went big-game fishing? When?”

“A couple of weeks ago. Don't look so surprised.” Bailey liked to sail, but she refused to work the rigging. She might break a nail. I couldn't imagine her handling one of the reels required for big-game fishing, which meant she was truly, hopelessly in love. “Anyway,” she went on, “he could see the fish coming from a mile away. ‘There!' he would shout, and
there
it was. He's very attentive. If he says he saw Ava, he saw her.”

“Okay. Don't get snippy.” I held up my hands.

Aunt Vera stopped decorating the children's corner and joined us. “What are all these questions about Ava?”

“Jenna knows something about Ava”—Bailey gave me the evil eye—“and it's not because she was seen near the crime scene. Spill, Jenna.”

“I was asking her about her alibi when the fracas broke out.”

“Why did you want to know her alibi?”

I mentioned the missing diary and how Ava had written that she wanted to kill Sylvia.

“According to Emily,” Bailey said.

“Right, but before Ava answered, the guys started the brawl, the race got under way, and Ava vanished.”

“Which means she's guilty.”

“Or it means she didn't want to be taken hostage, too,” Aunt Vera said reasonably.

I thought about touching base with Ava, yet a little voice in my head—that sounded distinctly like Cinnamon—was warning me to back off. It was not my fight. Dad was free.

“You need to find the diary,” Bailey suggested.

“Me? No, the police do, and they
tried
, but Ava said it didn't exist, and Cinnamon believed her, and anyway, Cinnamon dismissed the idea that finding the written word would help.”

“The written word would establish motive,” Bailey said.

“Not necessarily,” my aunt said. “For years, I've kept a diary. Believe me, it's not all true. Some of it is fantastical and filled with my hopes and my dreams.”

I didn't know what was more astounding to me, to learn that my aunt wrote in a diary or that she was admitting that she wrote in one. She kept the details of her life close to the vest.

“Where do you keep it?” I asked. “Tucked beneath your mattress?” Maybe one day I'd sneak over and . . .
No. Nope. Never.
I couldn't invade her space. I treasured her too much. In time, she would tell all.

“Heavens, no. I keep it with me,” Aunt Vera said, “so if I want to jot in it, I can.” She twirled a finger at me like a wand. “And so people like you can't steal into my house and sneak a peek when I'm not looking.”