Grilling the Subject (6 page)

My cell phone rang in an instant. I stabbed Accept. “Dad?”

“What happened?” He sounded out of breath. The connection wasn't good. It was crackly with static.

I quickly explained.

“How did she die?” he asked.

“I can't get the police to cough up any information.” I glared at Detective Appleby, who was standing stoically by my side.

“Tell Cinnamon I was nowhere in the vicinity,” my father said. “I left for the lake well before dawn, and sunrise was at five forty-seven
A.M.
Fish don't bite once the sun is up.”

“Where are you now?”

“Hiking back to my car.”

“Is anybody there?”

“I went alone.”

I huffed. “I mean, are there other fishermen?” I splayed a hand in frustration.

“I don't see anyone else. It's midweek.”

I sighed. “Dad, this doesn't look good.”

“It's my word against Ronald's.”

“Does he have any reason to lie?”

“Maybe he killed her.”

I shook my head. “C'mon, have you seen Ronald Gump? He's not a big man in the first place, and now he's walking with a cane.”

“I didn't do this!” Dad barked. Stern, authoritative. Good. That meant his FBI persona was kicking into gear. “What do they have on me?”

“As far as I know, they only have Ronald's word that you were in the area. He saw you running away in your red plaid jacket.” The one my mother had given him on their twentieth anniversary. She had laughed and said it was so brash that it would scare off any old bear in the woods.

Dad snorted. “Ha! That lets me off the hook. I don't own that jacket anymore.”

“You don't?”

“Lola hated it so much, she made me donate it to Goodwill.”

“Dad, that's great. That's wonderful. I'm going to tell Cinnamon now.”

“Don't. I'll be there soon. I'll tell her myself.”

A
half hour later,
my father pulled up in his Jeep. In my presence, he and Cinnamon discussed his whereabouts and Ronald's account. My father reiterated what he'd told me about the plaid jacket. Cinnamon asked whether he had a Goodwill donation receipt. He was pretty sure Lola would; she didn't throw any paper away.
Once an attorney, always an attorney
, he joked. Cinnamon released him on his own recognizance to fetch said receipt. Then she dismissed me.

Needless to say, I was ticked. How could she not accept Dad's word? She wanted proof? The nerve. I did not obey the speed limit as I drove home. Okay, I did, but I didn't want to. I flew into the cottage and slammed the door. Poor Tigger squealed. I apologized profusely and scooped him into my arms. Once I felt his purr against my chest, my pique lessened, and I regained my composure, and I forgave Cinnamon. She was only doing her job and doing it well, like always.

I showered to rid my body of the stink of the fire, and then
I dealt with choosing an outfit. I wanted to dress in clothing that would raise my spirits. Pink or purple? Per Aunt Vera, purple-aura people are highly psychic. I could use some of that about now. On the other hand, people who have a predominant amount of purple in their aura are seen as mysterious and secretive. A pink-aura person, however, is a natural healer and sensitive to the needs of others. That kind of person hates injustice and strives to make the world a better place. I chose a hot-pink blouse, white capris, and floral sandals and appraised myself in the mirror. Not bad for a woman whose father might be going to prison.

I fed Tigger and ate a bite myself—toast with honey and tea; not much else sounded good. At 8:30
A.M.
, when I was convinced that all would be right with the world, I exited the cottage, and wouldn't you know, a seagull screeched and nearly knocked me for a loop. In a snap, worry snaked its way back into my psyche. What if Lola didn't have the receipt? What if Dad was slapped in prison for a crime he didn't commit? What would it take to prove him innocent? Dang!

By the time I arrived at The Cookbook Nook, I was worked up again. It didn't help that word about the blaze and Sylvia Gump's death had spread. Customers waiting for the shop to open lowered their voices to a whisper when I drew near, but I could hear what they were saying: my father might be guilty of murder.

I pressed through the group to unlock the door and caught a glimpse of the old-fashioned jail décor rimming the doorway. Shoot! So much for whimsy. Down it would have to come.

“We'll be open in a few minutes,” I muttered and entered. As I shut the door, I locked eyes with my aunt Vera, who was sitting at the vintage kitchen table where we always had a culinary jigsaw puzzle going.

She bolted to her feet but couldn't rush to me because her heel caught in the hem of her rose-pink caftan. “Drat!” she muttered.

I moved to help her.

After we freed the heel, she gazed at me. Fear flickered in her eyes. “Is it true? Is your father a suspect?”

“Oh, Jenna, you're here!” Bailey abandoned her project of setting out wagon train–style glazed cookie jars and rushed to the two of us. She, too, was dressed in pink and white: pink skirt, white peasant blouse. “Is it true? Please say it isn't.”

I set Tigger on the floor and gave his rump a pat. “Go. Play.”

“Pepper Pritchett poked her nose in a few minutes ago.” Bailey pointed out the front door. Pepper owns the beading boutique called Beaders of Paradise across the way. Her daughter is Cinnamon.

“She is such a gossip,” Aunt Vera snipped.

Bailey agreed. “She said your father—”

“Pepper is telling the truth,” I cut in. “Dad is a suspect, but he has an alibi.”

“Verifiable?” Bailey asked.

I threw her an acid look. “He. Did. Not. Do. This.”

“No, of course not, but, you know, Ronald Gump said he saw—”

“Someone running, not
doing
the deed. Besides, he's getting on in years.”

“I resent that,” my aunt said. “We're the same age.”

“He's a number of years older than you and looks it,” I countered. My shoulders slumped as the shock of the morning sapped me of energy. “He says he awoke from the smell of smoke, but for all we know, he could've been half asleep and dreaming about someone in a red plaid jacket.”

“Red plaid jacket?” Aunt Vera said. “Your father has—”

I held up a hand. “Yes, he used to own a red plaid jacket, but Lola donated it to Goodwill.” I added that Cinnamon had asked Dad to provide the receipt for the donation.

“That won't prove anything,” Bailey said. “I give to Goodwill all the time. I never write down exactly what I donate.”

“Cinnamon seemed to think it would help his case.”

“C-case!” my aunt sputtered. “Oh my.” She withdrew a
tarot deck from the pocket of her caftan and returned to the vintage table. She flipped up three cards.

“Not now, Aunt Vera,” I said, but she wouldn't listen. Her gaze moved back and forth as she silently reviewed the reading. I didn't want to know what the cards revealed and told her so. “Don't go to the dark side,” I warned her. “Dad is innocent. I reminded Cinnamon that there are more people who might have wanted Sylvia dead.” Though I liked Ava Judge and others in the neighborhood, I wasn't willing to write them off as suspects.

“Don't forget that Shane person,” my aunt said. “He bought a house on Sylvia's street. He's probably as upset about the noise and hoo-ha as your father. And then there's—”

“Enough speculating. We need to let in customers. Remember, we're here to help folks have happy days. Sunny days. Turn that frown upside down,” I commanded like a camp counselor. “We'll discuss this later.”

“But—”

“No!” I couldn't help glancing at the cards my aunt had turned up, none of them good. Like Scarlett O'Hara, I would think about that
tomorrow
. Or certainly later in the day. Business as usual, for now. No hoodoo-voodoo, mind-blowing downer thoughts. I hurried to the front door and whipped it open. A cool breeze rushed in, as did a flurry of new customers. “Good morning,” I chimed.

A few echoed my greeting.

“Jenna!” Katie bustled down the breezeway that connected the shop to The Nook Café, her toque atilt, her chef's coat unbuttoned. The yellow gingham dress she wore beneath the coat looked rumpled, as if she'd grabbed it from a laundry pile. “There you are.”

I am fairly tall; Katie is taller and bigger all over. She swooped me into a hug. Her wild curls batted my face. Usually Katie is a laugher, but no whooping chortles were popping out of her right now. In fact, she sounded close to tears when she said, “I heard the news.”

“We're not discussing it.”

“Okay. Got it. You bet.” She held me at arm's length and forced a smile. “‘Bravery is the capacity to perform properly even when scared half to death.' Who said it?”

“Omar Bradley.” I cocked a hip. “Has my father been coaching you?”

Katie offered a silly smirk. “Yep.”

Throughout my life, my father had made me memorize famous quotations. Apparently, he was challenging my pal to do the same thing. Per Dad, you never knew when you needed a mental pick-me-up. Today, he was right.

“Tell him he's in my prayers,” Katie said.

“I will.”

“That Sylvia Gump.” She clucked. “I'm not surprised she's dead. She fought with everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw her the other day at the café, arguing with that pretty actress.”

“D'Ann Davis?”

“That's the one.”

The telephone near the register jangled. Bailey answered, then waggled the receiver. “Jenna, for you. It's Rhett.”

I told Katie to hold that thought and took the telephone from Bailey. “Hi.”

“I just heard,” he said. “How are you? How is your dad?”

The concern in his voice made me well up. I dabbed the tears with my fingertips before they could fall. “I'm fine. He's fine.” I recapped the situation. “I'm telling you what I told everyone else: sunny side up for now. Dad will tell me when he needs my help.”

“
Our
help,” Rhett said.

“Thanks. You have no idea how much that means to me. What's the rest of your day like?”

“Busy. We have a lot of Wild West events on The Pier today. Want to stop by later?”

“I might.”

“Great. I look forward to seeing you. Love you,” he added, as if he said it every day of the week. He never had.
We
never had. Did he realize? There was a slight hesitation before he hung up. I cradled the telephone and tried not to make too much of his parting words. People say things all the time they don't mean. Did he love me? Did I love him?

Katie inched closer and leaned her elbows on the sales counter. “You've got that”—she twirled a finger—“dreamy look in your eyes.”

“Do not.”

“Do.”

We have been friends for so long, we can return shorthand taunts like badminton birdies.

“About Sylvia—” I stopped as a blur of black whizzing by the front window caught my attention.

Katie followed my gaze. “What are you gawking at?”

I wasn't sure. A person, definitely—I couldn't make out whether it had been male or female—but a quiver of uneasiness swizzled up my spine.

“Nothing,” I muttered, hating that I was so jumpy. I shook my shoulders and then shimmied my whole body in an effort to shed whatever was going on with me. My father was innocent. No one was spying on me. Whoever had slipped past the door must have been a beachgoer and disappeared down the steps leading to the ocean. Totally innocent.

“Jenna? Are you okay?” Katie asked.

“Yep. Back to Sylvia.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “Did you hear what she and D'Ann were arguing about?”

“Not really, but D'Ann was looking plenty feisty if you ask me. She was bouncing around on the balls of her feet like a boxer and throwing air punches.”

“Maybe they weren't arguing at all. Maybe D'Ann was telling Sylvia about a new role she got in a movie.”

“Gee, I hadn't thought of that,” Katie said. “Bad me. Always thinking the worst.”

“Stop it,” I chided. Katie rarely thought the worst of
anyone. I, on occasion, did, and right now I couldn't help wondering whether D'Ann, like the others in my father's neighborhood, had some sort of beef with Sylvia that might have made her lash out.

“Are you ready for me to bring in the goodies for the gingerbread town demonstration?” Katie asked. “I'll need space.” She signaled that bookshelves would need to be moved. Luckily, all our bookshelves were on coasters and glided easily whenever we wanted to rearrange. “We'll need to set up chairs, too. Our guests are due in an hour.” We offered reserved seats for these events.

“Will do! In the meantime, bring out some of those cookies you baked.” The other day in the café's kitchen, I had spied a few test cookies that Katie had fashioned to look like cowboy boots and horses; she had iced them in scrumptious sunset colors. “I'm starved and I need sugar!”

“I'm on it.”

While Bailey and I rearranged the store and set out folding chairs, a pair of female customers strolled in. Tourists, I figured. I didn't recognize either of them.

“Hello,” I chirped merrily, getting the all-knowing look from Bailey. Perhaps I was overplaying my happy-go-luckiness, if there was such a word. “Don't mind us,” I added and told the women about the gingerbread demonstration in an hour. “It will be standing room only, if you don't have tickets.”

“Oh, but we do,” the shorter of the two said. “I picked them up the other day when I had my fortune told. Hello, Vera!” She wiggled her fingers at my aunt, who was still studying the tarot cards. “Your prediction came true.” Giggling, the two women sauntered to the dessert section.

“So how are the wedding plans going?” I asked Bailey.

She frowned. “Exactly what do you think I've accomplished since last night's reception?”

“Don't get snippy with me. Do you have a date?”

“A couple. It depends on the venue.”

“What are your choices?”

“We're going back and forth between a church and a vineyard and Nature's Retreat with its spectacular view.”

“I pick the latter.” Nature's Retreat is a lovely inn tucked into the hills. “You know what could be fun? Have a bunch of artists around that day painting portraits of the guests in the garden. Wouldn't that be cool?” Crystal Cove draws artists to its shores all the time. There is an artist camp in the hills that offers four- and six-week sessions.

“That sounds like something you'd like for
your
wedding.”

“I'm not getting married.”

“Right now. But you might in the future.”