Chapter 11
I
STOOD AT
the counter inside Rusty’s Repair Shop waiting to pay, while Rusty, a freckle-faced chatterbox, kept talking and talking. About the weather. About the upcoming Frisbee contest, which he intended to enter. About the paddle boarders.
“What’s up with that? Standing and rowing like one of them guys in Venice, Italy?
O sole mio
,” Rusty crooned. “No, sir.” He typed the command for print on the computer keyboard. The printer started to whirr, then sputtered. “Dang.” He fiddled with a jammed piece of paper, tugging hard. The paper ripped. He muttered, then opened and closed the back door of the printer. The machine hummed. Satisfied, Rusty started over. “FYI, your VW is in prime shape. There’s no one better in town than me at fixing those beauties.” He buffed his raggedy nails on his denim work shirt.
“There’s no one
but
you,” I teased.
“Yup. I’m a mastermind with machines.”
Some machines
, I mused. I wouldn’t allow him near the printer at The Cookbook Nook.
“With proper care,” he went on, “this car will last you a long time. Remember, only use synthetic oil. You don’t want any more rattles or pings.”
“Got that right. I’m not a ping kind of girl.” Saying the word
ping
drew me up short. I flashed on what the waitress at Mum’s the Word had said about Willie’s alibi on the day of the murder. “You know, from what I hear, Willie Bryant isn’t a ping kind of
guy
.”
“Ah, Willie. Sort of obsessed, poor fella.”
“One of his coworkers said he comes in here for any little noise.”
“Those Hondas. They’re pretty good cars.”
“He drives a Honda?”
“Metallic dark blue. Sharpest one in town.”
My breath caught in my chest. Could Willie have been the driver behind the wheel of the sedan that almost ran me off the road? Yesterday he saw me questioning Rosie when I ate breakfast at the Word. The day before, he caught me chatting with his wife. Did he think I knew something about Natalie’s murder? Something that would implicate him?
“Hondas are reliable for the most part,” Rusty went on. “The most common flaw in the 2001 model is transmission failure due to a design flaw. And the 2002? It’s got everything from erratic SRS lights to seat belt latches. Rear tires’ wear and tear is the main complaint on the 2007 models, caused by a faulty rear arm.” He shook his head. “But like I said, Hondas are good overall. Better than a Kia. Don’t get me started on those suckers.”
Eager to glean more from Rusty, I said, “I heard Willie brought his car in here the day his mother-in-law died. He had some funky sound going on. Did he wait while you repaired it?”
Rusty scratched the stubble on his chin. “Nah. Wasn’t that day. He was in the day before. I remember ’cause we got talking about the Giants game. The team is pathetic this year. What’s with the pitching staff? It always comes down to pitching. Willie and me? We must’ve talked for an hour at least. He’s got all the statistics in his head. He’s a bright one, Willie is.”
So he failed economics but he could manage baseball statistics. What did that say about the guy?
“Guess I was misinformed,” I said as another notion struck me. Had Rosie the waitress gotten her story wrong about the day, or had Willie told her he was at the repair shop to establish an alibi? Maybe Willie thought Rusty, who was somewhat dim except when it came to fixing cars, wouldn’t remember calendar days with such clarity. I wasn’t sure how I could find out, but for Lola’s sake, I had to.
Rusty hummed then said, “I did see him that day, however.”
“You did?”
“Yep. At the collectible shop. You know the one. Die Hard Fan. Right next to the tuxedo store. My daughter’s getting hitched, and me and my boy were getting fitted. Pain in the butt, know what I mean?”
“What time was that?”
“Must have been around noon. Willie was having a heated chat with the guy behind the counter. Lots of finger pointing. Pretty sure I heard him say, ‘You’ll be the first to get paid.’”
My mind raced. I recalled how upset Ellen had been when Willie showed up at The Cookbook Nook later that afternoon. She had mentioned something about him visiting the collectibles store. She’d rummaged in his swimsuit pocket. Had she found an IOU? Had Willie hoped Natalie’s demise would help him settle his debts? Had he left the collectibles store and tracked down Natalie in the alley behind my shop?
I paid and took the keys from Rusty.
As I was leaving, Rusty’s assistant entered the shop while wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag. Right behind him entered Cinnamon.
“Good morning, Chief Pritchett,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to question a witness.” She eyed me suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking up my car.” I jangled my keys, thrilled that I had a legitimate reason to be where I was. I didn’t want her thinking I was a snoop, and I wasn’t, really. Not on purpose, anyway. I glanced at Rusty, worried that he might tell her that I had been asking about Willie, but he was lost in another world, intent on clearing a second jammed paper from the weary printer. Lucky me.
• • •
AT TEN MINUTES
to noon, I closed The Cookbook Nook for two hours, and I attended Natalie Mumford’s memorial with Bailey, Katie, and my family.
Aunt Vera, who refused to dress in black, wore a paisley caftan that was a tad over-the-top. “Dressing in cheery colors,” she said when my father mentioned her outlandish choice, “is good for the soul, and, my sweet brother, these Mumford girls could use some cheering up.”
Ellen and her older sister, Norah—who looked strikingly similar to Ellen, right down to her pixie-cut hairstyle and slim form—stood on the top step outside of Mum’s the Word Diner. Willie, clutching his daughter in his arms, hovered to the left of the sisters. Sam and Mitzi Sykes stood beside him. The sight of Mitzi caught me off guard. Even in a black mourning suit, she was radiant. More than radiant. The other day she had appeared younger than her age, but now she seemed late thirties at the most. Had her meltdown at the grocery store and worry about losing her husband prompted her to have work done to her face? Botox or Restylane injections, perhaps? I recalled hiring an aging actress for a Smooth and Luscious skin cream campaign, and everyone on the set nearly shrieked when they saw her. Face pulled tight. Lips ramped up to the size of caterpillars. Ugh. A little work, fine. A total makeover, who needs it? Not that Mitzi looked like that. But at her age, with her looks, why did she keep tweaking?
Hordes of guests, including Grill Fest contestants, the mayor, Cinnamon and her mother, as well as many townsfolk that I recognized as regulars at The Cookbook Nook, occupied the chairs that had been set in arced rows facing the diner. Rhett spotted me and waved. I responded with a smile.
Bailey elbowed me. “Psst.” She pointed at the standing-room-only portion of the crowd. “What’s she doing here?”
I caught sight of Manga Girl and said, “Everyone has come. Natalie was obviously loved or, at the very least, appreciated.”
“Or everyone wanted the afternoon off.”
“Don’t be snarky.”
“Mitzi’s sending daggers the teller’s way.” Bailey hitched her chin.
I eyed Mitzi. She certainly was looking angrily at someone. Was her target the teller, or was there another woman she suspected of having an affair with her husband?
A lean, tan man in his forties whom I had dubbed Nature Guy because of his passion for preserving the coastal waters and saving other habitats around Crystal Cove joined Ellen and Norah on the topmost step. As a minister of the Internet-based Collective Life Church, he was allowed to preside over a variety of events. He raised his hands; the assembly hushed.
“There’s my mom,” Bailey whispered. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried to Lola and threw her arms around her. For a woman who, up until a few years ago, couldn’t spend ten minutes with her mother without carping, as most young women do in their early twenties, Bailey was certainly in full support mode now. Maybe reducing her intake of caffeine was putting her in touch with her feelings. The tableau they formed tugged at my heartstrings.
Standing by myself—a pair of Aunt Vera’s tarot-reading clients had given up their seats to my aunt and father—I surveyed the attendants. I had read enough mystery novels to suspect that the killer was present. Was Willie the culprit, as my gut insisted? Had he killed his mother-in-law so he could get his hands on her money? He was toying with the lacy collar of his daughter’s dress, clearly disinterested in the event. Conversely, Ellen appeared engrossed with what Nature Guy was saying. She clung to her sister’s hand as if it were a lifeline. Norah looked stoic, but I did my best not to judge her; I didn’t know her. Sam’s skin was a wretched color of gray. Mitzi, who had returned her attention to the proceedings, seemed forlorn. Was she for real? Though her eyes were dewy with moisture, I wasn’t convinced she was innocent of murder. Even the most callous person would have had a hard time not tearing up as Nature Guy quoted from one of my favorite songs, “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.”
When Nature Guy finished the sermon extolling Natalie’s virtues, guests rose and migrated toward two long tables filled with provender from the diner: bite-size sandwiches, cheese and meat platters, and cookies.
I wasn’t hungry, but I forged ahead with the others. Near the beverages, somebody jostled me into Sam. I said, “Excuse me.”
“Horrible.” His tone was flat; his gaze, flatter. “It’s just . . . horrible. Iced tea?” He held up a pitcher with his right hand. The action made his watch slide. Its metal band caught the sun’s rays, which reflected directly into my eyes.
I squinted and ducked to avoid the gleam, then accepted a glass from him and took a sip. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“The girls will suffer the most. They’ll be heartsick without her.”
“How long did you know Natalie?”
“Years.” The single word conveyed a lifetime of regret. “We met the day she arrived in town. I had handled the previous diner owner’s finances. Natalie liked what she saw on the books. I keep concise accounts.”
“So I’ve heard from my chef. You worked for her former boss.”
“Mr. Powers. Cagey old coot.” Sam smiled weakly. “Natalie and I became fast friends.”
“Friends,” I echoed, thinking about Mitzi’s worry that her husband’s text life with Natalie suggested an affair.
“Absolutely. I’m not buddies with many of my clients, mind you. I keep my distance, for the obvious reasons, but Natalie was different. She enjoyed discussing world politics and events. We were of like minds.”
I wasn’t picking up any impropriety in what he said. I wondered if Sam knew of his wife’s suspicions. Had she ever given him the chance to dissuade her?
He frowned. “Now, of course, with Natalie gone, my work is under attack.”
“What do you mean?”
“Willie, Mr. Big Picture Guy. He’s—” Sam grimaced. “I shouldn’t talk out of school.”
“You don’t like Willie?”
“He doesn’t have a head for business. Natalie—” Sam stopped himself; he seemed to be searching for the right thing to say. “She knew he was a slacker, but he was good with her granddaughter, so she tolerated him.” His shoulders sagged. “I won’t deny Natalie held tight reins on the family, but she knew what was best for all of them.”
“Are you saying she was controlling?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I didn’t mean to.” I took another sip of tea, trying to formulate a question that wouldn’t make Sam go running to Chief Pritchett to blab that I was butting in where I didn’t belong. I decided simple was best. “Do you trust Willie?”
“He loves Ellen.”
Sam didn’t really answer my question. Was he purposely being evasive? Did he realize, although it wasn’t evident to the typical observer, that Willie and Ellen suffered from marital issues? Maybe Natalie became aware of Willie’s abusive nature, as veiled as it was, and decided to put a stop to it. Perhaps Willie killed her, not to get his hands on her cash, but because he was fearful she would alert the authorities to his behavior.
I said, “On the day Natalie died, do you know where Willie was?”
“I heard he was at the repair shop, but I wouldn’t know for certain. I was attending that stupid conference in San Jose. If only—” He pressed his lips together and gazed into my eyes. “Wait a sec. You’re asking if I think Willie, not Lola, killed Natalie?”
