Chapter 15
A
T 6:00
P.M.
,
I scurried around The Cookbook Nook clapping my hands. “Let’s go. Chop-chop. Time to close for Movie Night on the Strand.”
Bailey set a stack of teen cookbooks on the checkout counter. My favorite,
Teens Cook Dessert
, was among them. The sisters who had written the book clearly stated, in teenage language, how to make teen-friendly desserts. They had included fabulously tasty photos, and who could resist their cute chapter titles? “Fancy Stuff,” “Other Fun Stuff,” and “Custards, Puddings, and Stuff.”
“C’mon, Aunt Vera.” I snapped my fingers for emphasis. “Time’s a-wasting.” My aunt was rehanging kitchen gadgetry so items would face outward. “Those will wait until morning. Let’s go.”
“Don’t be bossy, missy,” Aunt Vera said.
“Don’t
missy
me,” I teased. “Only Pepper gets to call me that.”
My aunt chuckled. “That’s my girl.” She disappeared through the curtain to the stockroom.
I put the Chinese-character book that Ellen had brought me into my tote and scooped up Tigger. “C’mon, Bailey. We’re going to be late.”
“I’m not going,” she said, still fussing with the teen section.
“No need to snap.”
“I didn’t snap.”
Yes, she had. Earlier she had almost bitten my head off because I hadn’t had enough sugar-free substitute for her
yucky
—her word—cup of decaf coffee.
“You’re going,” I said firmly. “Aunt Vera expects each of us to assist at the community outreach fund-raiser.” We were selling hot dogs and cupcakes. The money raised would help one of the less fortunate communities on the north edge of town to build a new playground. “Katie made the most fabulous almond-flavored cupcakes with vanilla buttercream using a recipe she plucked from one of those culinary mysteries. They’re called Blonde Bombshells. Don’t you love it? Anyone who helps out gets to sample the wares for free.”
“Gee, guess I’ll miss out, then.”
“You love cupcakes, and I know how you feel about almonds.” She could down a family-size bag full of nuts in one sitting. My teeth would ache for days with all that crunching.
“I already made my apology to your aunt.”
I frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Bailey blew air at me. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
She mimicked my squinty eyebrow expression. “I’m fine. Promise.”
I touched her forearm. “Is it the caffeine thing? Are you okay?”
“Look, no shaking.” She held out her hands. “Steady as a seismograph.”
“Then where are you off to? Got a hot date?”
“Maybe.”
“With Bucky?”
“Who?” She tilted her head. Her mouth quirked up.
“Don’t play coy. The hunky fireman.”
“Not telling.” Bailey chuckled. “You go ahead to movie night. I know you wouldn’t miss this event for the world.”
One thing I remembered fondly from my childhood days was movie night on the beach. Our whole family would go. The town owned a huge, drive-in-size screen. Only G-rated movies were shown, many age-old, but no one seemed to mind. Sometimes, if the screening was of a well-known musical like
The Sound of Music
or
Singin’ in the Rain
, the audience would sing along with the characters. Everyone came with blankets and picnics. Vendors sold soft drinks, juice, and snacks. The night was simply fun.
“You’re missing out,” I said.
Bailey chuckled. “I’ll suffer alone.”
“Alone?” I quipped.
“Yes.” She sighed. “Alone. I’m not going on a date. I’m taking a Spanish class at the junior college.”
“But you speak Spanish.”
“Two years in high school. Kerflooey. Not enough. I want to be fluent.”
“Why?”
“Because. Of a guy. A very cute guy. Who doesn’t speak English.”
“Not the fireman?”
“Nope.”
“Where did you meet this guy? Why is this the first I’m hearing about him?”
“That’s all I’m saying.
Basta. No más.
” Bailey jammed a finger at my nose, then scuttled away. Darned if she couldn’t be close-lipped, especially when I was hungry for gossip.
“I’ll learn the truth,” I said as she retreated into the stockroom. “I always get the skinny.”
Tigger purred. I scratched his ears. “Sorry, buddy, but you’re heading home. Kitties can get trampled on the beach.” He mewled his sorrow. “I know, I know. It’s so unfair when you’re not in charge.”
• • •
BY THE TIME
my family and I arrived at the beach, the area was packed. Banners on poles flapped in the breeze. A few people hurled, hucked, and bladed Frisbees, while others tossed around softballs. Visitors lugging coolers searched within the football-field-sized area to find a spot to nest. Huge klieg lights surrounded the perimeter. At the far end of the strand, a Road Runner cartoon played on the twenty-by-twenty-foot screen.
The Love Bug
, featuring Herbie the super car, was going to be the main attraction.
Aunt Vera and my father, who had lured Lola to help—I had the feeling my father didn’t want to be apart from Lola in her time of need—stood by a long table already set up with oversize steamers filled with hot dogs. Beside the steamers were baskets of hot dog buns, accoutrements like ketchup and mustard, and rows of scrumptious looking cupcakes. The line of customers waiting to purchase food extended the length of the picnic area.
I took up my post near Lola, who offered her thanks for all the support I had given her. Though I wished I could tell her that the police were looking at the Mumford girls more closely, I didn’t want to raise her hopes until I could confirm it was true from Chief Pritchett.
“Where’s my daughter?” Lola asked.
“She’s never been a movie buff. You know that.” One of Bailey’s favorite sayings after seeing a movie was: “If you liked the movie, read the book
.
” “She’s taking a Spanish class. There’s some Spanish-speaking guy that she has her eye on.”
Lola said, “I’ll bet it’s Jorge.”
“Who?”
My father leaned over. “He’s one of the paddle boarding experts.”
Aunt Vera said, “Remember last month, when I said Bailey would meet a man in the village? It appears my prediction came true. Jorge is very tall and easy on the eyes.”
Dang. How did everyone but me know about Bailey’s infatuation? What good was I as a best friend if I didn’t keep up to date with my pal’s new crush? Why wouldn’t she have told me? In a way I felt jealous. Silly, I know, but I did. Maybe she thought that, because I was her boss now, she couldn’t confide in me anymore. Well, that was going to change.
As the line of customers dwindled and the familiar strains of Disney’s theme song filled the air, I caught sight of Rusty the car mechanic spreading a blanket on the sand. Tonight’s main attraction was right up his alley. I bet Rusty knew every line of the film.
Right beyond Rusty I spotted Cinnamon striding across the sand. I reflected on my reluctance earlier to share my suspicions about Mitzi and Willie and wondered if now would be a good time. While we chatted, I could corroborate her mother’s claim that the Mumford sisters were suspects.
I asked my aunt if she minded if I ran an errand.
“Too-ra-loo,” she sang. “You’ve done plenty here. In less than an hour, we’ve raised enough for the new playground, including the extra slide.” She rubbed the special amulet hanging around her neck. “I told you I predicted record sales.”
“You did, indeed.”
“Oh, please,” my father said. “Not again with the—”
Aunt Vera held up a warning finger. “Mind that tongue, Cary. I see the future, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Why can’t you foresee something more important so we could be forewarned of death and devastation?”
“Cary,” Lola nudged him with a hip.
Aunt Vera scoffed. “I told you, little brother, I don’t see darkness. Only light.”
“Pretty darned convenient.”
“You’re envious of my power.”
“Power? Is that what you call it? More like vain obsession.”
The two of them continued to lock horns as I slipped off my flip-flops and padded my way, barefoot, toward Cinnamon. Even at a distance, I could hear Lola acting as referee.
Before I reached Cinnamon, she stopped and struck up a conversation with Mitzi and Sam Sykes. My stomach did a teensy somersault in anticipation. Had she learned what I had? Had someone else clued her in? Did she think Mitzi’s meltdown at the Grill Fest was in direct relation to her feeling guilty about killing Natalie Mumford? I continued on my path, ready and willing to offer my insight but paused when Sam, in response to whatever question Cinnamon had asked, pointed. She didn’t linger. She marched off, her pace official, toward the ebullient waitress from the Word. As Cinnamon caught up with Rosie, it dawned on me that she might be interested to hear Rosie’s take on Willie’s whereabouts on the day Natalie died. Thrilled that our chief of police was doing her job—okay, sure, I’d doubted her before, but not now—I breathed easier. Lola would be exonerated, and all would be right with the world.
Feeling the urge to jump for joy, and not fully into watching
The Love Bug
, I ran to a pack of men and women playing glow-in-the-dark Frisbee outside the movie seating area. There is something wonderfully liberating about racing after a small, inanimate object that you can catch one-handed. I remembered David bounding like one of those lords a-leaping in “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and catching the Frisbee, mid-air, beneath his legs. He had been poetry in motion.
I approached a string bean of a woman, a Cookbook Nook customer who grew vegetables to sell in farmers’ markets, and asked to be included in the game.
“Sure,” she said. “Boys against girls.”
“I didn’t realize it was a competition.” Though I had played sports when I was younger, my insides knotted, knowing I had plopped myself into the middle of an organized game. “I’ll bow out.”
“No, stay. We’ve got six Frisbees going at once. Whichever side gets all of them, wins. But the Frisbees have to keep moving. Hands up. Eyes open. You don’t want to catch one at the back of your skull.”
“Duly noted.”
“Shame about Mitzi,” String Bean said.
Why couldn’t I remember the woman’s name? If only I had Bailey’s steel-trap memory. Sarah? Sally? Sue?
Sue sells seashells down by the seashore
. It started with an
S.
“I heard Mitzi lost it at the Grill Fest,” the woman continued. Sometimes String Bean supplied vegetables for Mitzi’s home canning business if Mitzi’s personal garden ran short. “What is going on with her? Do you know? I mean, why is she so uptight?”
Maybe Mitzi was off caffeine like Bailey, I mused.
“She’s always trying to be perfect,” String Bean went on. “If only she’d relax. I would, if I were her and blessed with so many God-given talents. She cooks, she gardens, she’s smart and beautiful, and she—” The woman yelped. “Lean left.”
I obeyed. A split second later a Frisbee whizzed past my nose.
Nature Guy caught the disk. “You okay, Jenna?”
“Fine.”
As quick as lightning, with his hand held overhead and clasping the disk with a backhanded grip, he hurled what ultimate Frisbee enthusiasts called a scoober. He rushed away while trying to intercept another pizza-shaped missile.
“Guess there’s no chitchat during Frisbee,” I said to String Bean. “Gotta stay alert.”
“All I meant,” she said, “was that I wish Mitzi would lighten up. She’s got so much going for her. And yet—” She dove for a Frisbee and caught it. She scrambled to her feet and dashed away, leaving me to finish the sentence.
And yet Mitzi was insanely worried that her husband was stepping out on her
. Was she justified in her concern? Moments ago, when Cinnamon had approached Mitzi and Sam, Mitzi had appeared to be the epitome of a contented spouse.
“Jenna,” a woman called.
A gold disc was heading straight for me. I reached out. Nabbed it. At the same time, I saw a hulk of a shadow charging me, hands waving overhead. Rhett.
