Chapter 14
N
EEDLESS TO SAY,
I chickened out. I didn’t go to the precinct. I went straight to The Cookbook Nook. Sure, I could be courageous on occasion, but after envisioning the scenario ten more times in my head, I couldn’t see the value of approaching Cinnamon and possibly alienating her. So what if I had theories? Big deal. Every Tom, Dick, and Harriet had theories. I couldn’t run headlong to the police with nothing but assumptions. My father was quick to say that we all knew what happened when one assumed . . .
No, in order to exonerate Lola and appease her worried daughter, I needed more facts that could be substantiated, in the same way that I needed more specifics if I intended to learn about David’s safe deposit box key and the gold coins I’d found hidden within my Lucky Cat.
Performing routine tasks had always been a way for me to clear my mind. When I was five years old, my clever mother convinced me that dusting was the best way to unclutter a muddled mental state. By the age of seven, I was onto her. I realized she was getting me to do her dirty work, literally, but over the years, rearranging bookshelves had become one of my favorite pastimes. Often I would sort books by color; other times, by title or by author. During high school, I had even volunteered at the library so I could feed my obsession. Straight-A papers were the result of busy hands. B’s and C’s occurred whenever I sat idle.
“Can you believe that Halloween and Christmas are right around the corner?” I set aside the empty plate, once mounded with scrumptious tuna salad that Katie had made me, and I shuffled from shelf to shelf, realigning our few remaining grilled cheese cookbooks while Aunt Vera and Bailey organized the gift items. “It’s hotter than a pistol outside, and we need to come up with decorations for cool temperatures.”
“Don’t rush holidays,” Aunt Vera said. “If there’s one thing I’ve always claimed, it’s that each month should stand on its own. We don’t dream up new decorative themes until the old ones are taken down and stowed.”
I agreed. I recalled an ad campaign I’d headed up in my first year at Taylor & Squibb for a Santa turkey. Talk about confusing. The actress in the commercial kept cracking up whenever she had to utter, “Gobble, gobble, ho, ho, ho!” Though we had hired her for her sense of humor, we had no idea she wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face.
The door to the shop opened, and a warm breeze swept in along with a handsome couple who headed straight for the grilled-cheese-cookbook display. Ellen Bryant trailed them. She made eye contact with me and smiled weakly. After her upset with Lola at the memorial, I had expected her to spend the weekend resting in bed. Why had she come to the shop on a Saturday? And why was she dressed in a bulky sweater on such a balmy day? I flashed on what Keller the ice cream guy had said about Ellen wearing a coat on the day her family went to brunch at The Pelican Brief Diner. That was why he had remembered seeing her there. Had she purposely worn the coat so she could slip into Lola’s office, filch the resignation letter, and hide it beneath her bulky coat?
Don’t be silly, Jenna
. Natalie snagged the letter and stuffed it in her purse. Mystery solved.
So why had Ellen come to the shop? Maybe she wanted to tell someone—me
—
that she suspected her husband of murder.
Keen to get her to confide in me, I joined her by the stack of new foodie puzzles. Five hundred pieces, brilliant colors. My favorite was the vivid one of a slice of chocolate cake. Our culinary mystery readers were puzzle fanatics, too. “Ellen, what a nice surprise to see you here again.”
Ellen cinched the belt of her thigh-length sweater and adjusted the strap of her tote bag. “Nice to see you, too.”
“I set aside the books you put together the other day. They’re in the stockroom.”
“No, thanks.”
“Do you have time to look at a few new books that came in?” I steered her toward the center of the shop. “I couldn’t help but notice the darling aprons your waitresses wear at the Word.” At the Grill Fest the other day, one of the customers told me that aprons were in vogue. The cuter the better. Not only that, but women wanted to know the history of an apron, and they were collecting them, too. “Did you know there are lots of people into designing aprons?” I held up
The Apron Book: Making, Wearing, and Sharing a Bit of Cloth and Comfort
, with its colorful cover of vintage apples-and-pears cloth. “Sort of like handmade quilts, I guess. And get this.” I held up another book with the title
Apronisms: Pocket Wisdom for Every Day.
“I know I can always use a thoughtful hint or two about how to live my life, can’t you?”
“Actually, I don’t have time to chat.” Ellen checked her watch. As she did, I noticed her raw fingernails again. She caught me ogling her and snapped her hand down to her side. “I’ve got to go.”
“Stay for a minute.” I tapped her arm ever so slightly. Call me crazy, but I had caught a rerun of
The Mentalist
on TV and had been fascinated by the way the lead character, a former carny magician, persuaded individuals to trust him by touching them on the shoulder. Ellen drew in a deep breath; her face relaxed. Presto chango
.
I felt nearly as powerful as my Aunt Vera. “I’m concerned about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“You look pale. You always seem to be chilly.”
“Oh, that.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s because I have Hashimoto’s disease.”
“What’s that?”
“Cold intolerance. Hypothyroidism. It’s a result of being anemic.”
I could’ve kicked myself, not for being ignorant about the condition—I wasn’t; a friend at the advertising agency had the same condition: brittle nails, joint pain—but for assuming, because of Ellen’s propensity for wearing warm clothing, that she could be a thief, or worse, a murderer. What had I been thinking? She was a sweet, sensitive woman who didn’t deserve my suspicion.
“There aren’t really any medications I can take yet,” Ellen went on, unaware of the argument I was having with my inner self. “My disease is not that advanced.” She paused. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She regarded me without guile. I needed to be honest with her.
“It’s silly really. For some weird reason I was thinking about the letter the police found in your mother’s purse.”
“I’m not following.”
How could she? Hercule Poirot would have had a difficult time following my circuitous train of thought, but I pressed on. “I wondered if the killer planted it there. To frame Lola.”
“I gave my mother that letter.”
My mouth dropped open. “You stole it?”
Ellen blanched. “It was in the trash.”
“In Lola’s office.”
“I . . . I went in to ask her a question. About her biscuit recipe. She wasn’t there. I saw the letter. Trash is public property, isn’t it? I thought . . .” She faltered. “I thought my mother might have wanted the letter to, you know, rub in Lola’s face. Mother could be vindictive that way.”
“You gave it to her to gain her approval.”
“Sort of. Yes. We had a complicated relationship, but she meant well.”
Whack to the head. Ellen was nice. I said, “I’m sure she did.”
“The reason I came in today . . .” Ellen checked her watch again, then hurriedly rummaged through her tote bag. She pulled out a crimson book with indecipherable gold lettering and offered it to me. “I heard you needed to interpret some Chinese phrases. This might do the trick.”
Double whack to the head. Ellen wasn’t just nice; she was really nice.
“Who told you that?” I said.
“Your aunt was in the Word with her tarot friends yesterday. She said you were looking into something that related to your past, and then she told me my fortune. ‘Be wary yet be willing,’ she said. ‘The future is bright with new adventures.’” Ellen beamed as if she had found deep meaning in those words.
I glanced at Aunt Vera, who was playing with Tigger. As if sensing my gaze, she swiveled and winked at me. The sly dog. Had she been doing some sleuthing on her own?
“I’ve been studying Chinese at the junior college,” Ellen continued. “I have a number of employees who are native Chinese. Talking their language, even with my stilted accent, seems to put them at ease. Have you noticed that Crystal Cove has become the ideal destination for people trying to get a fresh start?” Another glance at her watch. “Maybe you can find what you’re after in that book. It’s pretty basic.”
I thumbed through the pages. Inside were images of Chinese characters, each with an English interpretation and instructions about how to draw them using radical strokes. None, via a cursory glance, jumped out as the words written on the bottom of the Lucky Cat. “Thank you. I truly appreciate it.”
Ellen started for the exit. At the same time, the door opened and Pepper Pritchett entered. Though she wore pink, a color that was good with her skin tone, she looked disgruntled and sour. Her mouth drew into a thin line of disapproval. Uh-oh. What was wrong now? How I wished she could be happy. What would it take? I knew her beading business had increased since the Grill Fest began.
Pepper marched to Ellen and blocked her departure. “Well, well, well. Mrs. Bryant. I would expect nothing less. No sooner than the memorial is over and you’re gallivanting about buying cookbooks.”
“I wasn’t,” Ellen said, standing a tad taller.
“You have shown no respect for your mother, young lady. The Word should be closed at least for a day or two.”
My aunt, who was not given to scrambling,
scrambled
to her feet and stomped toward Pepper. “Mind your tongue, Pepper. You have no right to antagonize the girl.”
Taking my lead from my aunt, I said, “Yeah. No right.” Honest to Pete, Pepper still scared me. Though she was inches shorter, she had a scowl that would frighten hyenas. And the way she knitted her brow? There was definitely rhino DNA mixed in with hers. Her daughter Cinnamon was lucky to have missed that part of the gene pool, although, truth be told, she could have her moments of being prickly—like, for instance, with Rhett.
Ellen said, “Vera and Jenna, thank you, but I can handle this.” She rolled her narrow shoulders back and showed pluck that I thought she lacked. “For your information, Mrs. Pritchett, my mother would commend me for my actions. Mum’s the Word meant everything to her. If she’d had her way, she would have opened the Word twenty-four hours a day, every day of the week. She wanted her regulars fed and satisfied. Furthermore, despite wagging tongues and low funds, I intend to carry on my mother’s tradition.” Tears pooled in Ellen’s eyes. “I have nothing more to say to you, except that you are welcome at the restaurant if you ever care to drop in. Good day.” Ellen faced me. “Jenna, I’ve changed my mind. Please put one of the apron books on hold for me along with the other two books you set aside. I’ll be back.” Head held high, she strode from the store.
Pepper planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t let her snow you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I happen to know a thing about Natalie Mumford’s last will and testament.”
“How is that possible?” Aunt Vera said. “You and Natalie weren’t close. In fact, I have heard you make scathing remarks about the food at Mum’s the Word.”
“Lest you forget, I am the mother of the chief of police.”
“Cinnamon wouldn’t have revealed anything to you,” I said, then eyed my aunt. “I’ll bet the will is public now. That’s how Pepper knows something.” A will starts as a private document, but once the testator dies, the executor—I had been David’s—petitions to open probate. Once in probate, the document becomes public.
“What does the will say?” Aunt Vera stared down Pepper, who took a reluctant step backward.
“Both of Natalie’s girls inherit equally.”
“Big whoop,” I said. “I had already assumed that.”
Pepper folded her arms over her chest. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the two of them plotted to do her in.”
“What?” I nearly shrieked.
“I’ve mentioned my theory to Cinnamon. She’s keeping an eye on them. In fact, she’s keeping an eye on each of the Mumford clan. And that, missy”—she pointed at me—“I know for a fact.”
Missy
? I seethed. “I would bet that your daughter wouldn’t want you sharing this information with us.”
“Bother.” Pepper stabbed the air. “The word will get around town one way or another. The gossip mill is churning.”
