Grilling the Subject (7 page)

My cheeks flushed. Had she overheard Rhett say he loved me? I brushed the thought aside. Marriage. No. I wasn't ready. I wasn't sure I would ever be ready again.

“Do you have a wedding dress and a florist?” I asked.

“All in good time. Don't rush me.”

“Ahem.” I purposefully cleared my throat. “I know how much you like to be prepared. Speaking of which, have Tito and you decided where you're going to reside?” Tito lives in a house that is too square, in the geometric sense: square bedroom, square living room, square kitchen, square patio. There isn't a rectangle to be had. At first glance, it had driven Bailey crazy. On the other hand, her apartment is too small for the two of them, plus they want a place with a yard so their American shorthair cat, Hershey, who has finally warmed to Bailey after she stopped being nervous around him, can roam.

“Not yet. I think Tito is finally on board to work with a Realtor.”

“Ava Judge?”

“Tito's leaning toward the other one, the
guy
Realtor.” She rolled her eyes.

“You have a say.”

“And I've said that I want Ava.”

“Aren't relationships fun? There's always something to negotiate.” I was speaking from experience. When my husband,
David, and I first rented a place together, we went round and round about clutter. He hated it; I liked to have my
things
nearby. Never good at arguing, I caved and wound up storing my lifetime assortment of books. They were now resting comfortably on shelves in my cottage.

“Oh, there's no negotiation on this,” Bailey said. “I'll get Ava.”

Unless she's guilty of murder
sailed through my mind.

A
n hour later
as the crowd in the shop was settling into chairs, a vivacious, silver-haired elderly woman with expressive eyes, one of the biggest cookbook collectors I know, strolled in. Everyone in town called her Gran; her real name was Gracie, which she hated. She had relocated to Crystal Cove a year ago to help her daughter-in-law with the children. At least, that was her story. The daughter-in-law told it differently. She hadn't wanted Gran to spend the rest of her years alone in the bitterly cold Northeast.

“Hello, girls!” she crooned.

“Hi, Gran,” I said.

Bailey beckoned her to the sales counter. “I've got those books for you, Gran.” She pulled a stack of four books from beneath the counter. A rubber band secured the stack.

Gran joined Bailey. “How are the wedding plans going, dear?”

“They're going.”

Gran brushed Bailey's hand. “Don't rush anything. A
wedding is a memory for a lifetime.” Her husband of fifty years passed away two years ago. On many a rainy day, Gran came into the shop, sat at the vintage table, and told us stories about him. He loved to fish. He loved to read. He knew everything there was to know about international politics. And what a handsome devil he was. “Did I tell you that my daughterin-law is going to get married again? I'm so thrilled. My son would want that for her and the girls.” Gran pressed a hand to her chest. “May he rest in peace.” Her son had died about two years ago, as well. Way too young.

“Oh, by the way”—Gran pulled out a wad of cash to pay—“we're starting a family cookbook club. The girls want to learn to cook. Each week, we'll buy a new cookbook and plan three recipes, one recipe for each girl. It's going to be so much fun. We'll start with simple things.” Gran gestured toward me. “Like you started out, Jenna. And of course, we'll make cookies. Lots of cookies. That's how I won over my husband.” She winked. “He loved my snickerdoodles.”

“I'll bet he did,” Bailey cracked.

Gran swatted her fondly. “Don't be impertinent, Miss Sassy.”

“You love when I am.”

Gran stammered and then flushed pink. “My, my. Listen to us, joking as if everything in the world is hunky-dory.” She faced me. “Jenna, I'm so sorry to hear about your father.”

“He didn't kill Sylvia Gump.”

“Of course he didn't. Never in a million years.”

Bailey slipped Gran's books into a bag and tied the handles with rattan. “Here you go.”

A gaggle of women strolled into the shop, each talking loudly enough for me to know they were discussing the murder. When they saw me, they stopped short. One gasped. My shoulders tightened; my jaw ticked with tension. Would I . . .
dare
I . . . tell them to stop gossiping?
Breathe, Jenna.

Luckily Katie breezed into the shop pushing a cart filled with gingerbread goodies including premade gingerbread
ghost town cutouts as well as cutouts of gunslingers, horses, and train tracks. In addition, she had stocked the cart with a variety of colored icings and assorted candies plus tools and the cookies I'd requested, nicely displayed on a childproof tray.

“Everyone, grab a seat!” Katie shouted. “Jenna, pass the treats. Let's get started.”

With her arrival, the discussion about my father was officially tabled.

As I doled out cookies, taking one for myself, Katie introduced herself and waved a hand above her display. “Here are a few tips for making the best gingerbread town. First, don't try to do it all in one day. I like to make my dough ahead, chill it, and then bake it. I bake in small batches, and as each comes out, I trim the edges so they're even. As you know, cookies don't always bake evenly, and a gingerbread house is essentially a set of big cookies.” Katie exhibited a one-inch thick piece of Styrofoam board. “Use something like this as your base so you can stick toothpicks into it to keep things propped up if necessary.”

Gran raised her hand. “Katie, I like to put my houses together with real sugar instead of royal icing. Do you do that?”

“I do, Gran. Good point.” Katie set the Styrofoam aside. “I keep a pot of liquefied sugar on the side and use it as the glue. It's messy, but it sets so much faster. You can do all the little details with the royal icing. I like to put my icing in a disposable piping bag”—she held up a piping bag—“but I don't use a tip. I simply cut a little bit off the end. That keeps the icing from drying out while I'm working.” Katie jutted a finger. “Important to remember: plan on the project taking much longer than you think, and be ready to clean up a huge mess.”

The crowd laughed.

And so it went for a good hour. While Katie talked, she pieced together a town. When she finished, there were tons
of
oohs
and
aahs
. She had used items like Shredded Wheat to create bales of hay, pretzel sticks to make fences, and black licorice for hitching posts. At the conclusion, Katie gave each participant a bag of goodies to use as decoration as well as a recipe for gingerbread and a detailed set of instructions.

While many customers moved closer to admire Katie's handiwork, others lined up to purchase any one of a number of gingerbread house cookbooks, including the darling
A Year of Gingerbread Houses: Making & Decorating Gingerbread Houses for All Seasons
. Granted, the book didn't have a Wild West theme anywhere between its covers, but there were designs for Valentine's, Halloween, Christmas, and more, a perfect all-occasion delight that thrilled our customers.

As the shop cleared and Bailey started putting the place back in order, Gran sidled up to me and crooked a finger for me to follow her to a spot near the stockroom. I did.

“Jenna, dear, I didn't want to say anything earlier, but—”

“Gran, please. Let's not discuss the murder.”

“Dear, I think you'll want to know what I have to say.”

I motioned for her to proceed.

“I was in Sterling Sylvia the other day, buying a charm for my bracelet, a sweet threesome of my granddaughters. Sylvia made it especially for me. She was quite clever that way, rest her soul. Anyway, I'm not normally a gossip, but D'Ann Davis was there. Mind you, D'Ann and I aren't close.”

I wasn't sure D'Ann was close with anyone. While browsing the store a month ago, she'd said that a celebrity had to keep her distance. People always wanted things from her, whether it was an introduction into the movie business for themselves, their children, or extended family, or a simple brush with fame. The reason she had purchased a second home in our sweet town was so she could enjoy some privacy.

“D'Ann was arguing with Sylvia,” Gran went on.

I flashed on the account Katie had told me about D'Ann arguing with Sylvia and bouncing around like a prizefighter.

“Although they were standing at the rear of the store,” Gran went on, “I could hear what they were saying. I have excellent hearing for a woman my age.” She gestured for me to check out her ears. “No hearing aids.”

“And?”

“D'Ann was warning Sylvia that her reputation would be ruined if word got out, and Sylvia had better fix it, sooner rather than later.”

“Fix what?”

“
That
I can't be sure about, but”—Gran lowered her voice—“if you ask me, I think D'Ann believed one of those expensive pieces she bought from Sylvia was paste. She said Sylvia was swindling her, and believe you me, no one likes to be scammed.”

*   *   *

Around lunchtime, I
retreated to the teensy office tucked into the stockroom, and, figuring Dad had been too preoccupied to contact my siblings, first called my sister, Whitney, a mom of three and living in Los Angeles, and then contacted my brother Mitchell, an architect who lived in Napa. Whitney shrieked when I told her our father's situation and said she would drive up that instant. I calmed her—no easy task—and told her to stay put; I would keep her in the loop. Mitchell, as laid-back as ever, said he knew Dad was innocent and justice would prevail. In the meantime, he would go to an ashram and meditate. His soothing tone did wonders for my own peace of mind.

Following those two calls, I dialed my father's cell phone number. I wanted to know where things stood between the police and him. He didn't answer. After three attempts, I called Lola, who sounded frantic. They hadn't found the Goodwill receipt yet, so she had sent him to pick up some
sandwiches at Mum's the Word Diner while she turned her house upside down looking for the blasted thing.

“What a nightmare,” was the last thing Lola said before ending the call.

A nightmare, indeed. I clasped my purse and told my aunt I would be back shortly.

Bailey caught me at the door. “Where are you headed?”

“To The Pier to find my father.”

“I'm coming with you. I've heard parking is a zoo. The Wild West Extravaganza events down there are hopping. You might need my help.”

Minutes later we arrived at The Pier. Similar to the Santa Monica Pier in Southern California, which was recognizable because movie companies regularly used it as a set piece, The Pier in Crystal Cove was a long boardwalk featuring a carousel, carny games, shops, and eateries. In addition, there was a small, rustic theater that offered a variety of entertainment and a huge sport shop, owned by Rhett.

At the parking lot entrance, Bailey said, “As I predicted. This place is jammed. Out you go! I'll look for a spot.”

On the boardwalk, hordes of people strolled along enjoying the fabulous spring weather—singles, couples, and families, many dressed in western garb. Aside from the movie
Footloose
, I had never seen so many women wearing shirts tied at the midriff, cutoff jeans, and western boots.

Hawkers with tickets met me at every turn offering rope-jumping lessons, mechanical bull rides, and more. I ignored them, my gaze keen for my father.

Bailey swooped in beside me and knuckled my shoulder. “Hey, look, the stunt show is under way!”

Halfway down the boardwalk, beyond Mum's the Word Diner, a crowd had gathered in front of The Theater on The Pier. The group burst into laughter.

Pop, crack!
A fake gun fired. Then another.

Bailey dragged me closer.

Two men—outlaws—stood atop the roof of the theater.
Another man—the sheriff—posed below, gun aimed. He was trying to take out the goofy outlaws—
goofy
because one was doing a ridiculous dance on the roof and the other was flapping his hat and yelling, “Catch me if you can!”

The crowd laughed uproariously.

As we neared the diner, I said to Bailey, “You watch the show. I'm going inside.” I veered left and entered. I didn't see my father and asked Rosie, a waitress who loves the color purple right down to the highlights in her crimped black hair, whether she had seen him.

“He left with a to-go bag, Jenna-juices-juggernauts.” Rosie is a huge fan of mnemonics, a memory device that helps her recall larger pieces of information, like names and faces and long lists of food orders. Every time I come in the diner, she has a new grouping for my name. “I think he headed toward the far end of the pier. You know how he loves to watch the other fishermen.”

I exited and searched for Bailey. She wasn't watching the stunt show; she had moved to where a woman with braided pigtails was teaching folks how to do the Texas skip, a rope trick where the person holding a long rope with a vertical loop starts twirling. As the loop widens to human size, the trickster leaps through. Back and forth. A pile of ropes and multiple pairs of boot spurs hung on a nearby rack.

“Yeehaw!” the pigtailed woman yelled, making the trick look easy. After a demonstration, she stopped, let the rope fall to the ground, and said, “Who's up first?”

Bailey thrust her hand into the air. She was holding a ticket. “Me!” She bolted toward the woman but paused when she spotted me. “Oh, hey, Jenna, I was—”

“My father is that way.”

“Right.” She peeked at the roping woman and back at me.

I could tell how much she wanted to do it. “Go ahead. I'll deal with Dad.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. It'll be better that way. One on one.”

“I'll teach you how to do this later.”

I aimed a finger at her. “I'll hold you to that promise.”

As I weaved through the sea of people, I heard Bailey whoop with glee, and sorrow snared my heart. Oh, to feel so carefree right now.

I found my father exactly where Rosie thought he would be, at the end of the boardwalk admiring another fisherman's catch.

“Dad!” I yelled and rushed to him.

“Jenna.” He slung an arm around me and kissed the side of my forehead. “What's up?”

I scowled at him.
What's up?
Mr. Casual, as if I were there to pay him a social visit? “Why aren't you answering my phone calls?”