Chapter 17
O
N SUNDAY AFTERNOON,
I sat behind the sales counter at The Cookbook Nook, my focus on the computer screen. I was updating our website. When I’d worked at Taylor & Squibb, the pesky tech squad reminded me weekly, if not daily, how important it was to keep up the site. They asked for input, new designs, and announcements. They claimed that attracting those web bots—computer software that searches the Internet for new content and then ranks web pages accordingly—was vital to our company’s growth. Most of The Cookbook Nook’s business came from word of mouth, but we wanted to reach out to find new clients. Because there weren’t that many specialty cookbook stores in the United States and none nearby—sure, a buyer could find recommendations for a cookbook online, or, based on cover art, a buyer could select from a huge assortment of cookbooks at a brick-and-mortar store—we prided ourselves on being the go-to place for cookbook knowledge; therefore, we needed to keep our website not simply current but stellar.
I had chosen to put the Grill Fest front and center on the home page. I was adding photographs that Bailey had taken. From what I’d heard, bots liked rotating photograph galleries better than almost anything else. However, I decided that we shouldn’t post snapshots of Mitzi tossing cheese. Despite the fact that P. T. Barnum had claimed, “There is no such thing as bad publicity,” I felt we might suffer a backlash from Mitzi or her husband if we reminded her of a weak moment. Why roil the waters?
“Hungry?” Katie entered the shop carrying a plate of gooey-looking chicken drumettes, the meaty sides of chicken wings. “I’ve roasted them in two different kinds of sauces. Both are savory.”
Although I was full from the pancakes that I’d consumed at the Word, I made room. “Mm, tasty.” I hummed my appreciation. “Love the pesto.”
“Good, right? I plucked the recipe from this book.” Katie tapped the top book on the stack of cookbooks she had set aside for me to peruse.
How to Grill: The Complete Illustrated Book of Barbecue Techniques
by the talented Steven Raichlen. “You know who this chef is, right? Cute, gray hair, beard, mustache, glasses.” She mimed the look. The book offered concise and easy ways to grill for the beginner to the pro. “You had the drumette with the walnut-dill pesto sauce. I made an East-meets-West sauce, as well. Zesty-sweet. You could make these in a snap. Read through the—”
“Uh-uh.” I held up my hand. “I don’t have time. I can’t be a slave to the kitchen. I’ve got to have a life, too, right?”
Katie gave me a mock-dissatisfied look. “A life? What’s that?”
I noticed her pained expression. “How’s the assistant chef working out?”
“Okay. Food’s good. But the staff doesn’t like him.”
“Then let him go.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I should.” She set the tray on the counter. “Anything new on your Lucky Cat discoveries?”
I eyed the wings I hadn’t tasted and debated whether I could handle another morsel. Deciding I couldn’t, I abstained. “Only that the words on the bottom mean ‘The sun will rise
.
’”
“Kelly Clarkson has a song with that title.” Katie crooned out the first line.
“David used to say to me at the beginning of every ad campaign I started: ‘The sun will rise; everything will work out.’ Except it hasn’t worked out.
Life
hasn’t worked out, and I haven’t found out what that darned key belongs to.”
Katie patted my hand. “You will. Be patient.”
“Patience is not my middle name,” I snarled.
“Don’t I know it.” She lifted the tray. As she bussed it to the hallway, I rued not taking the opportunity to sample the second drumette. Perhaps later.
Katie paused to chat with Pepper, who surprisingly appeared whenever Katie was setting out a new tray of goodies. I wondered whether the woman watched the shop through binoculars in anticipation. A month ago, I had talked to Aunt Vera about Pepper’s sneaky visits to gobble up our wares. Aunt Vera agreed that Pepper was a bit of a scavenger, but she wouldn’t deny her. She said Pepper fostered a huge beading community, and if even once a day Pepper talked about the food that the café was making, we would sell more food and cookbooks. Many of Pepper’s clientele had become ours and ours had become hers. At that very moment, three beaders, including Flora, stood beside the far wall discussing the pros and cons of the natural-food cookbook selections. One, written by Heidi Swanson, appeared to be their favorite:
Super Natural Every Day: Well-Loved Recipes from My Natural Foods Kitchen
.
“Every recipe is packed with veggies and protein,” Flora said loudly enough for all to hear. “How about a tasty chickpea wrap in a whole wheat lavash?”
Her friends murmured their appreciation.
“Get this,” Flora went on, proving to be quite the ringleader. “The author is a San Francisco farmers’ market regular and a blogger.”
“I wonder if we could meet her?” a pal said.
Knowing I had better things to do than to listen in on their conversation, I returned my attention to revamping our website.
Seconds later, the front door of the shop burst open, and Bailey, in the cheeriest outfit she had worn in days, raced inside. Her skin, however, looked pale. She skidded on her espadrilles. “You won’t believe it. Willie—” She inhaled sharply.
“Willie, what?”
“Willie—” She drew in another breath, clearly out of any reserve air. She held up a finger. Another intake. “Willie—”
Horrible notions ran rampant through my brain.
Willie had hit Ellen. Willie had hurt Norah.
“C’mon already,” I said. “Out with it.”
“Willie is missing.”
“Missing? As in, he left town?”
“He’s gone.”
“With his daughter?” Ellen would be heartbroken if Willie ran off with their little girl.
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure.” Bailey placed her hand on her chest to regain control of her breathing. “I was at the arcade buying these earrings.” She batted a set of silver and beaded baubles.
I wound my hand in the air—
go on.
“Right. I heard two women talking. One said she saw Willie at the bank yesterday. He was cleaning out his savings. Not one to believe a rumor without substantiated facts, I called the bank and spoke to a new friend of mine. We take Spanish together.”
“A new
friend
?” I said, hoping she would elaborate about her secret boyfriend.
“Friend,” she reiterated. “
She
is the assistant manager at the bank. She said that Willie had indeed cleaned out his savings.
His
. Under his name. He and Ellen had separate accounts.”
“David and I had separate accounts. No big deal.”
“Yeah, but I was intrigued, so I made my way down to The Pier and asked around. Not inside the diner, mind you. I’m not as daring as you. But the gossip is that no one has seen Willie since early this morning. He is gone with a capital
G
.”
“Do you think he fled because he killed Natalie, and he found out Chief Pritchett is closing in on him?”
A woman gasped. I pivoted. Pepper tossed a drumette into the trash and dashed out the exit. Ten bucks said I knew where she was headed. To call her daughter and set Cinnamon on Willie’s trail. Good.
• • •
ON SUNDAY NIGHTS,
we closed the shop early, and my aunt, my father, and I enjoyed a family dinner. This week, my aunt had offered to cook at her house. Little did my father and I know until we’d arrived that we would be put to work as sous-chefs. The windows were open; outside, the surf lapped the sand with calming regularity. I glimpsed my aunt’s extensive collection of cookbooks. Only one was open and set into a book holder. Whew.
I rinsed my hands in the sink and said, “What do I do first?”
“Pare the pineapple.”
I flashed on Willie and his Hawaiian shirts and the egotistical way he wore them, flared open so people would admire his handsome physique. Where was the guy? There was one reason for him to have fled—he was guilty. He had killed Natalie because he wanted to get his hands on her money and have full control of Ellen, but Norah’s arrival in town had blown his game plan.
Run away, Mr. Gingerbread Man.
“Jenna, focus.” My aunt pointed to the pork recipe in the cookbook. According to her, the menu she had chosen was simple fare. “Grilling is easy, but it requires your full attention.”
The meal consisted of rice, beans, plantain bananas, and a pork roast. My father dealt with the beans, which weren’t too difficult to make. We were using canned beans. The original recipe called for soaking fresh beans overnight.
After I removed the pineapple rind—ouch!—and cored the pineapple, I tackled the rice. I knew in my heart of hearts how iffy rice could turn out. Rice could wind up sticky or as dry as a bone. As I set the lid on top of the mixture to simmer, knowing I had followed the recipe directions to the letter, I was soaring with confidence, but then I skimmed the recipe for the pork marinade and nearly broke out in a cold sweat. The recipe required ten steps and at least twenty ingredients. Breathing like a Lamaze pro, I got the job done. Aunt Vera assisted twice. When it came to the actual grilling, my aunt was right. The dish was challenging. Working with a coal barbecue, which my father had to light—I couldn’t figure out the cone thingy—I quickly learned that the temperature could vary. Not only did I have to baste the roast every twenty minutes, but at times I had to move it to another area on the grill so it wouldn’t scorch. During the process, I was pretty sure I had sweated away five pounds from sheer worry.
We convened on the patio for the meal. Aunt Vera had set a beautiful table with cornflower blue mats, aqua glasses, and a mixture of blue silk flowers. The whoosh of the ocean’s ebb and flow was all we needed as background music.
Midway through the meal—pieces of the meat wound up too crispy for my taste, though my aunt and father assured me that I was getting pretty good at this cooking stuff—my phone
ping
ed. Bailey had texted me that Willie was still missing.
My father frowned. “No texts at mealtime. You know that. Turn off your phone.”
“But it’s about Willie Bryant.”
“What about him?”
Aunt Vera said, “Do you think Ellen knew he would flee?”
“Willie left town?” my father said, clueless.
“I can’t imagine Ellen knew,” I said. “Where did he go? Why did he leave his little girl?” I had called the diner to make sure he hadn’t run off with his daughter; he hadn’t.
“How is Ellen holding up?” my aunt said.
“I haven’t talked to her.”
“Did you ever question her about, you know, her finances?”
“What about them?” my father asked as he forked the remainder of his beans into his mouth.
“Jenna believes the Bryants were struggling financially.”
I explained about the prickly encounter at the shop when Willie had prompted Ellen to return the books to the shelves. “I’m pretty sure he pinched her.”
“Are you saying Willie is abusive?” My father’s jaw tensed. In my lifetime, I had seen him take on a few tough guys. I recalled two specific incidents during my teen years: one to protect me at The Pier, the other to protect my sister on the beach. Karate moves had been involved.
“He’s overbearing, that’s for sure.”
My aunt gazed at me. “Why does Ellen suffer his boorishness?”
“She lacks spine,” I said. “According to a few folks, her mother treated her the same way. If Natalie commanded, Ellen obeyed.”
My father frowned. “Have you been investigating, Jenna?”
“To clear Lola,” my aunt said, defending me. “Text Bailey back and ask how Ellen’s doing.”
“Vera,” my father said.
“I’m worried about Ellen,” she countered. “And find out how her sister is faring as well.”
“Norah,” I said, an edge to my tone.
“You don’t like Norah?” my father asked.
“I’m worried she’s simply a replacement for the other dominant people in Ellen’s life.” I blotted my mouth with a napkin, then texted a message and hit Send. The message whooshed forward.
My father set his fork down. “Maybe I’m missing something, but Ellen seems to make a good team with Norah. The fifties event they did today was Ellen’s idea, wasn’t it? From everything I’ve heard, the event was a real hit. If Norah helped Ellen turn it into a reality, then perhaps Norah has empowered her sister.”
