Grilling the Subject (27 page)

F
arming
to a
Realtor means concentrating all one's advertising and marketing in one geographic location. Ava considers the flats of Crystal Cove, which was anything along the long stretch of Buena Vista Boulevard, her area to get the word out. Dressed in a smart two-piece aqua-blue skirt suit and heels, she bustled from car to car. Her toned calves from playing tennis flexed as she stretched to secure bright yellow flyers beneath the windshield wipers.

“Ava,” I called as I hurried toward her. Aunt Vera stayed in the shop with Bailey because four customers were entering as I was leaving.

Ava spun around and offered a big, hearty smile. “Jenna.” Her joy wilted. “Oh, Jenna, I'm so sorry. I heard . . . about your husband.” She embraced me, flyers in hand. “Wow, what a shock!”

What a gossip mill we had in Crystal Cove, and what a reversal from the way Ava had treated me in the alley. Isn't
it amazing how one person's bad luck can make a hostile person sympathetic?

I pressed apart and said, “I was wondering if Chief Pritchett contacted you.”

“She called me a couple of times”—Ava moved on to another car and slotted a flyer beneath the wiper—“but I've had to put her off.”

Since when was Cinnamon so lax that she would let a suspect
put her off
?

“Ava,” I said, trailing her. “You need to contact her.”

“I will, but I've been running like a chicken with my head cut off. See, I listed D'Ann Davis's house last night, and there are already three offers coming in at dusk tonight. Plus I'm having an open house there in a bit.” Ava shoved one of her flyers into my hands. It boasted, in big bold black letters:
DREAM COTTAGE FOR SALE. Open today 2–5 p.m.
An aerial picture of D'Ann's house was inserted below with the address. “It's like a feeding frenzy,” Ava went on. “Celebrity heightens the sales value of any home. Have you seen it? It's so adorable. Red everywhere. That's D'Ann's color. And the porch has the most incredible view.” Ava hiccupped out a laugh. “What am I thinking? Of course you've seen it. Her house is right next to your father's. I've gotta run. Again, Jenna, I'm so sorry about your husband.” She scurried ahead.

“Ava, wait! I know what Chief Pritchett wanted to ask you.”

“You do?”

“She wants to know your alibi for the morning Sylvia died.”

“My—” Ava jutted a hip and leveled me with an icy look. “This is all your doing, isn't it? First, you set the police after me to find my diary, and now you demand they interrogate me? What did I do to deserve this kind of attack?”

“You didn't—”

“You're always sticking your nose into things, Jenna.”

“No.”

“Yes you are.” Ava skirted around the front end of a
Mercedes and stuck a flyer on a red-and-white MINI Cooper. “I understood your curiosity the first time, months ago, when your friend was murdered, and even the second time when a second victim died right on your doorstep.”

Actually, the victim to whom she was referring died right outside The Nook Café's kitchen door.

“This time,” Ava went on, “I appreciated the fact that you were snooping because your father was a suspect, but he's been cleared, hasn't he? So why are you so interested now? Why are you targeting me?”

“You were seen in the area at the time of the murder.”

“By whom?”

“Tito Martinez.”

“Him.”
She grumbled while racing to the next car, “He hates me.”

“Why would he hate you?”

“Because I won't advertise in the
Crystal Cove Crier
. I do this instead.” She brandished another flyer. “I work my rear end off.”

“He saw you, Ava,” I said, not backing down, “at the home you're selling to Shane Maverick. Flora Fairchild saw you, too. What could she have against you?”

Ava balked. “Flora? I like Flora. She likes me. I sold her the darling house she owns. She hands out my business cards to her customers.”

“Flora said she noticed you because you weren't dressed in a suit, as you typically are.” I indicated her outfit. “You were in jeans and an overcoat and you were carrying a flashlight and a big duffel over your shoulder. In fact, she said you were wearing a Japanese stick in your hair. Where is that?”

“I—” Ava ran her tongue along her upper lip. “I wasn't wearing one of those sticks.”

“She said your hair was up, and the style didn't suit you.”

“I'm telling you my hair wasn't anchored with a Japanese stick. I hate those things. They never hold. I used one of these.” She fished in her tote and pulled out a promotional hair gadget
that involved a two-inch-square plastic card bearing her Realtor's logo impaled with a pen. Definitely not Japanese or lethal. “These are gimmicks I give out to female buyers.”

“So you admit you were there? At Shane's house.”

She pursed her lips, clearly disgruntled. “His future house, if I can hold the escrow together.”

“Why wouldn't you?” I recalled Emily telling me that she thought Ava was stalling the sale on purpose.

Ava moaned. “If you must know, there are black widow spiders in the attic. Nests and nests of them. The owner didn't reveal that little tidbit. I went in the dark of night with the exterminator to check them out because I was worried that if Shane found out, he might back out of the deal, seeing as Emily is pregnant, and, well, spiders. Ick!” Ava flapped a hand, then continued. “And you know how it goes. If one buyer backs out, then another will, and another, and my reputation could be ruined.”

“Did any buyers back out because of Sylvia's habit of causing a ruckus in the neighborhood?”

“Uh-uh.” Ava shook a finger. “Don't go spinning that tale. Sure, she was a shrew and made everyone miserable,
me
in particular, but I didn't have one sale go bust because of her antics. I certainly wouldn't kill her, even if I had.” She fished in her purse again and pulled out a business card. “Here. Call the exterminator if you want to confirm my story about the spiders. His name is Gus at Bugs R Us.”

“Flora didn't mention seeing an exterminator's truck.”

“That's because I asked Gus to park two blocks away. The company logo is a distinctive ugly cockroach. I'm not stupid.” Ava tapped my arm. “Now, listen up. I paid Gus a lot of money to keep silent, but it's okay if he talks to you. Tell him I said that.”

*   *   *

I returned inside
the shop. Three of the customers that had entered as I exited were chatting among themselves by
the culinary fiction table. Bailey was nowhere to be seen. I scooted around my aunt who was tending to a customer and, using the shop's telephone, called Gus the exterminator.

Gus, not believing Ava had given him the okay to talk to me, put me on hold and dialed her. When he came back on the line, he was more than happy to come clean about his pre-dawn exploration with her. He wanted to tell me about the size of the spiders they had discovered on their foray; I passed on the detailed information and ended the call, no wiser as to who killed Sylvia than when I had accosted Ava.

While making a mental list, Katie appeared at the entrance to the breezeway. “Yoo-hoo. Treats!” she shouted and did a U-turn.

“You are a godsend.” I followed the amazing aroma to the table where Katie was setting the basket.

“What's in these? Corn and what else?”

“They're blueberry buttermilk corn muffins.” She unfolded a checkered napkin that was keeping the muffins warm. “Try one.”

I did. “Heaven. How I wish I could make muffins.”

“You can.”

“No way. Too many ingredients. My palms get sweaty whenever I see a recipe for one.”

Katie set the basket down and planted a fist on her hip. “Jenna Hart, what is with you? Baking is like math.”

“I did well in math.”

“I know. Straight A's, if I recall. You intimidated all the boys. Here's the thing. Consider the wet ingredients are one ingredient and the dry ingredients are another ingredient.”

“I'm not following.”

“You set out two bowls: one large, one small. You put all the wet ingredients into the larger one and the dry ingredients into the smaller one. Now you have two ingredients.” She pulled a stack of recipe cards for the muffins from her pocket. They were neat-looking cards with a Nook Café logo in the upper left. “Take a gander.” With a finger, she outlined
a portion of the directions. “See how the wet ingredients include only five things? That is one recipe. Make it.

“Now look at the second set, which only has five things. Make
it
.” She underlined that section of directions. “They're in order in the ingredient list, so you can't mess up. Combine the
two
ingredients”—she curled her fingers in quotation marks for the word
two
—“and ta-da, you've made a complicated recipe simple. Yes, some chefs will give you grief and say you can't dump ingredients in all at once, but for a beginning cook, it's perfectly fine.” She set the stack of recipe cards beside the muffin basket. “By the way, I printed these so customers can have a takeaway and think of The Nook Café for a quick meal.”

“Great marketing.”

“I'm learning.” Her gaze softened. She placed a hand on my arm. “I'm so sorry about David. How are you holding up?”

Something snagged in my heart. “It hits me about every hour. Sort of like when he died the first time. I get busy and then there's a lull, and wham . . . David. Dead. Again.”

“Here's the good thing. You know it will get easier.”

My lips started to quiver. I pressed them together and nodded. It would get easier. With time.

“Jenna, dear.” Aunt Vera peeked into the breezeway. “Your cell phone is humming. It's Rhett.” She handed me the cell phone and said, “When you break free, tell me about your conversation with Ava.” Then she moved to the sales counter to finish up with the customer.

I pressed Accept on my phone. “Hi.” Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes. I needed to get past this fragile state. I hoped attending the funeral would help me. I hoped David was at peace. I hoped the SFPD weren't giving his mother any trouble. I would bet this time they wanted to do an autopsy to make sure David was dead. Ugh.

“Do you want company tonight?” Rhett asked.

“Yes. Come to dinner. I'll make muffins.”

“Only muffins?” he teased.

“And roast chicken.”

“I'll bring a salad.”

“Excellent.”

I returned to the sales counter; the customer had left. My aunt was organizing cash in the register.

I said, “Aunt Vera, we need to deconstruct the window display soon.”

“Yes, the extravaganza is winding down, but never mind that right now. What did Ava have to say for herself?”

I told her about the spiders, adding Ava was worried that if word got out about them, she might lose the sale and one lost sale could snowball into more lost sales.

Aunt Vera visibly shuddered. “Spiders. Creepy. Have you called Cinnamon?”

“Ava is on her radar.”

“Yes, but if you tell her, she'll have one less suspect to interrogate. I'm sure she'll appreciate the information. She's with your father at Nuts and Bolts.”

“How do you know that?”

“Earlier, I was at Latte Luck Café, picking up a cappuccino. They were having their weekly coffee. From there, they were heading to the precinct and then to the hardware shop. It seems Cinnamon needs a one-to-one tutorial in home renovation. He's going to fit her with a set of tools.”

Dad must have been the one who interrupted Cinnamon when she and I were talking
.

Aunt Vera nipped my elbow with her fingertips. “Go. The walk will do you good. I'll tend the store.”

“Where's Bailey?”

“She ran out with Tito while you were with Ava. It seems there's some glitch with their wedding venue.”

Bailey couldn't be happy about that. Tito, either.

“Go!”

T
he day was
warm. No clouds blocked the sun's glare. I was glad to be dressed in white. As I walked along Buena Vista Boulevard, I revisited Sylvia's murder. Something that Rosie told me at the diner niggled at the edges of my mind. What was it? I couldn't wrap my head around it. Dang!

When I arrived at Nuts and Bolts, a
Closed
sign hung on the door.

“Looking for your father?” Flora Fairchild waved from the doorway of her shop, the closest store in what I called our mini–San Francisco, an aqua-blue-and-white complex composed of eight narrow, two-story bayside structures, each with porthole-style windows. “He and Chief Pritchett”—she pointed down the street—“went to the smoothie shop.”

I chuckled. Were they grazing through the morning; first, coffee, and then something more substantial, all so Cinnamon could learn how to renovate her home? I thanked Flora and made a U-turn.

In the lingerie shop past Home Sweet Home, the owner was already re-dressing her window with the Beach Reads theme: men's red robes hung on racks with red-hot thriller novels poking from the robes' pockets; ladies' red peignoirs and red-feathered satin masks were draped on top of steamy romance novels. I gave the owner a thumbs-up sign. She waved hello.

Continuing on, I negotiated my way through a knot of customers heading into Artiste Arcade. A For Sale sign hung in the display window at Sterling Sylvia. Ronald, looking ruddier and spryer than he had at the diner, was inside the shop chatting with a wealthy local dowager. The woman, who had oodles of money and way too much time on her hands, was taking notes on a legal pad. Was she considering buying the place? Ronald moved about the shop, gesturing gracefully to displays à la a Home Shopping Channel model.

Seeing the display in the front window gave me pause. In the time since I had last passed by, Ronald had created a memorial for Sylvia. A silver-framed picture of her stood in the center of a wealth of jewelry, and I was struck by how skinny yet stunning Sylvia had been with her silver-white hair and her fondness for the color silver: silver clothing, silver eye shadow, ornate three-tiered silver earrings, and—

I gasped. The photograph was old, dated. Sylvia's hair had been much longer back then. An exotic silver hair stick secured her hair high on her head. I imagined the weapon used to kill Sylvia. She couldn't have been wearing it; her hair was too short. In fact, I had surmised that she hadn't owned such a thing and decided the murderer must have brought it along. Could the hair stick used to kill Sylvia have been hers? The one featured in the photograph?

I felt eyes on me and looked around. Ronald wasn't engaged with his prospective buyer, who was texting someone; he was staring at me. He beckoned me inside.

My gaze moved from him to the photograph of Sylvia to the customer with her cell phone, and I had an
aha
moment.
I realized what was bugging me about my chat with Rosie. Ronald claimed someone had invited Sylvia to the plateau that morning by sending her a text message on a burner phone. Did the police know about that, or did Ronald reveal that tip to Rosie, hoping she would impart the information to me? Rumors breed more rumors.

Wait! Did Sylvia even own a burner phone? Was that a lie?

No, I was being cynical. The police must have possession of the cell phone; Cinnamon simply hadn't told me about it. Why would she?

Did Shane text Sylvia? During their liaison, did they meet on the plateau? What if Tina, aware of that tidbit, contacted her aunt while pretending to be Shane? What if Emily did?

The dowager snared Ronald's attention. As he sauntered toward her without benefit of cane, another
aha
moment hit me. I glimpsed his eagle-headed cane, hanging as it had the other day behind the counter. Did he really need it, or was he completely healed and keeping up the pretense with the cane to make it seem that he was incapable of murder? Maybe acting befuddled was part of his ploy, too. Rosie said he was as sharp as ever. Tina did, as well.

Ronald runs rings around Rosie.

What if Ronald had known about Sylvia's affair with Shane before last weekend? Let's say he decided it was time to kill his wife, but he wasn't quite sure how to do so. With premeditation, he purchased a burner phone just in case he wanted to generate a text message at some point to cover his tracks. At the crime scene, Cinnamon revealed that an anonymous caller had contacted 911 to report the fire, which compelled the fire department to act quickly. Did Ronald, after killing Sylvia, realize that if he didn't alert the fire department ASAP, the blaze could take out the entire neighborhood?

Ronald loves his barbecue.

Over the previous weekend Ronald and Sylvia had argued
about his niece's relationship with Shane. Ronald pressed the point that Shane was young and energetic, and he flaunted Shane's entrepreneurial skills. Sylvia went ballistic. She and Ronald struggled over a bottle of Shane's steak sauce. The cap flew off and sauce drenched Sylvia. Defiantly Ronald chugged down the sauce. Outraged, Sylvia blurted that if she couldn't have Shane, no one could.

The following Monday, Shane overheard Ronald and Sylvia quarreling. Ronald warned his wife to put down the canister of propane. Did that set-to inspire Ronald to roast her?

I peeked at the lingerie shop, and a series of images scudded through my mind in rapid succession: red robe; red brick; red fabric sticking out from the brick. Tina said her uncle was wearing a robe when he drank the steak sauce. Was it red? When the cap flew off the sauce, did Ronald retrieve it and put it in his pocket like Bailey had when the cap of her water bottle flew off? The morning of the murder, when I saw Ronald, he was clad in his pajamas. Was that because he had stabbed Sylvia while in his robe? He knew blood spatter wouldn't come out, so he ditched the robe. Did he bury it beneath the rubble of brick? Was that when the bottle cap fell out of the pocket?

I envisioned the scenario step by step:

Before dawn, Sylvia and Ronald went at it. Why? Maybe because he hadn't gone for his walk and she called him a lazy good-for-nothing. Did she lash out and slug him in the face? Rosie thought Ronald was wearing makeup. Had he put it on to cover up a fresh bruise?

No matter what, that was the last straw for Ronald. It was time for him to put his plan into action.
Enough with the belittlement
, he told her.
Enough with the bullying.
He ran at her. Sylvia, realizing he was no longer an invalid, fled out the back of the house. He grabbed a weapon from the dresser—Sylvia's exotic hair stick—and chased her down the steps.

But he was barefoot, so he squeezed his feet into a pair
of Sylvia's gardening boots that were sitting on the back stairs and continued on. I'd noticed debris on them but hadn't thought anything of it at the time. Did it matter? I doubted the police could prove Ronald had worn them, and whatever fresh shoe prints they had found at the crime scene would have matched Sylvia's, not Ronald's. Besides, Cinnamon had probably ruled him out as a suspect because she didn't think that he, in his condition, could have managed the treacherous trek to the plateau.

But if he was fully mobile . . .

I glimpsed into the store again. Ronald was prodding the dowager toward the door. Was he trying to get rid of her so he could confront me?

As the woman dug in her heels, I bolted away. I caught sight of Cinnamon and my father climbing into Cinnamon's teal Camry, which was parked at a meter down the street. I yelled, but neither heard me. I raced toward them while stabbing in my father's telephone number on my cell phone. He didn't answer. Shoot. I tried Cinnamon's number. Also no answer. What was wrong with reception in Crystal Cove? There were no clouds. Were tourists using the same cell tower signal all at once?

Cinnamon and Dad drove north on Buena Vista; neither spotted me even though I was frantically waving my arms. At the crossroad where the dolphins were tucked into the stagecoach, they veered right, up the hill. Aunt Vera said Dad was giving Cinnamon a tutorial in home renovation. Cinnamon's house was located in the flats. Maybe they were headed to my father's house; he had a veritable treasure trove of tools.

While fishing my keys out of my purse, I sprinted to the lot at Fisherman's Village. I scrambled into my VW.

My aunt ran out of the shop yelling, “Jenna? What's wrong?”

“Call Dad.” I switched on the ignition. The car sputtered to life. “I can't reach him. He's not answering his cell phone,
and I can't call while driving; my Bluetooth isn't working. He's with Cinnamon. Ronald!” I shouted as I tore out of the parking lot. “He did it.”

I had to catch up to Cinnamon, had to convince her to view the crime scene again. If she found Ronald's bathrobe stuffed beneath the pile of brick, she could arrest him.

*   *   *

Cinnamon's car was
standing in my father's driveway. The garage door was open, but my father and Cinnamon were not chatting in his workspace.

I pulled in behind the Camry and hopped out. “Dad!” I yelled as I sprinted to the garage. “Cinnamon!”

No answer. I tried the doorknob leading into the house. Locked. I pounded on it and called again. Still no answer. I whipped around, ready to climb down through the chimney if necessary, but I didn't get far. Ronald appeared in the garage, cane in one hand, a silver-hilted dagger in the other. His car blocked the driveway. Talk about stealthy!

“Hello, Jenna,” he said, his voice soft and steady . . . lethal. “You ran off in a hurry. What did you see in the store window that transfixed you? Was it the jewelry in Sylvia's hair? Did that trigger a memory?” I must have blinked because he said, “Yes, I thought so. It was brazen of me to display it. Almost as bald-faced as lighting the fire outside your cottage. Oh, but the rush, the thrill. There's nothing like it.”

Crazy. He was certifiably crazy.

He raised the hand holding the knife. I flinched. I had to defend myself. I glanced around the garage. Like Nuts and Bolts, the space was spotless. A pegboard affixed to one wall held a tool bench, a two-foot step stool, and a three-legged folding chair. Nothing I could wield easily. The vise on the six-foot-long tool bench was clamped down tight. All my father's man-sized tools were locked inside his floor-to-ceiling cabinets. Dang!

Stall
, I urged myself. I needed to give my father and Cinnamon time to figure out I was here. “Nice cane, Ronald.”

“I'm not here to exchange pleasantries, Jenna.”

He hit the garage door button. The door cranked down fast. Dad must keep it well oiled with WD-40. At least darkness didn't consume us. Sunlight spilled through the side windows.

“Do you want to know what I think, Ronald?”

He leered. “I always like to know what my students think.”

“You and Sylvia argued the morning she died.”

“We always argued.” He moved toward me, slowly, greedily, like a cat that had cornered its mouse and wanted to take all the time in the world to savor the moment. “What else do you
know
?”

“Sylvia abused you. Not just that morning. For a long time.”

“That's putting it mildly, but there's more. Continue. C'mon, girl, use your brain.”

A lightbulb clicked on in my head.
The steak sauce!
“You knew she had cuckolded you with Shane,” I said, uttering the theory I'd come up with outside Sterling Sylvia.

“
Cuckolded.
A good choice of word.”

“You knew way before last weekend when Sylvia made her declaration that only she could have him.”

“Tina told you about that.”

I nodded.

“Let's just say my wife was not discreet.”

I snapped my fingers. “You touted Shane to Tina. You made it seem like you liked him, but in truth, you wanted to get back at both Sylvia and him. The steak sauce bottle cap didn't accidentally fall out of your pocket. You placed it at the scene of the crime to frame Shane for killing Sylvia. Two birds, one stone. My father in his red coat was a decoy.”

“Aha. I knew you had it in you.”

“A month ago, when you fell—”

“She pushed me.”

“You recovered quickly. That's when you dreamed up your plan. When the Wild West Extravaganza came to town, you would make your move. You would pretend to be crippled, and no one would ever suspect that you were capable of murder.”

“Very clever.”

I wasn't sure whether he was complimenting me or himself.

“That morning,” I went on, “you did something to taunt her. You wanted to be able to claim self-defense if necessary. What did you do? Eat something in bed and spill it on yourself?” I remembered seeing him that morning, trying to wipe something off his pajama collar while at the same time attempting to appear distressed about his wife's death. “Did she pop you in the eye? Did the bruise leak into your cheek? Is that why you're wearing rouge?”