Chapter 18
A
LL NIGHT LONG
I tossed and turned, thinking about Willie and his odd phone call and David and the gold-filled Lucky Cat.
Everything will work out.
Had David written the Chinese words on the bottom of the statue? If he had, he had been wrong. Everything hadn’t worked out. He’d died. I was alone. And I was left with a puzzle I could not solve.
At 6:00
A.M.
Monday morning, dressed in my pajamas, I bounded into the kitchen and glowered at the mysterious key lying on the table. What kind of key was it? I had exhausted all banks and private mailbox locations in San Francisco as well as Crystal Cove. What else could the key fit? A bus locker? A train station locker? What secrets would I discover once I found the key’s source?
“Darn it,” I shouted and kicked a kitchen cabinet. It popped open. I jammed it shut.
Tigger bolted to the safety of the adjoining living room and skittered beneath the couch. He peered out, eyes wide with fright.
“Sorry, pal. I’m a goof. C’mere.” I squatted and waited for him to trust me again. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m not just a goof. I’m an ogre. I’m mean and thoughtless and—” He crouch-crawled toward me. “That’s it. Keep coming. I’m not going to hurt you.” He nuzzled me with his head. I scooped him up. “Good boy. I’m getting dressed, and then we’re going on an outing.”
To soothe my soul, I needed a few answers to Willie Bryant’s puzzle. Why had he called me, of all people, at 10:00
P.M.
at night? Had he wanted to confess to murder? Why hadn’t he picked up when I’d called back? Maybe he had lost his nerve. Perhaps he had called Chief Pritchett instead.
I headed to The Pier. As I neared Mum’s the Word Diner, a pair of teen boys almost nailed me with a Frisbee. I cautiously ducked beneath their game and entered the restaurant. There were no themes today, no special deals, and there were fewer customers than the day before. Ellen perched on a stool by the counter. Sam sat beside her, his arm slung around her shoulders. I surveyed the place for Norah but didn’t see her anywhere.
I approached Ellen and tapped her back. “Hi, Ellen. Good morning, Sam.”
Ellen broke free of Sam, spun her knees around, and leaped off the stool. She gripped me in a hug so intense I thought the breath might gush out of me. “Jenna, I’m so glad to see you.”
I broke free. I needed air if I was going to make it past my thirtieth birthday. And Tigger. I wasn’t sure how he had weathered the squeeze. I peeked into my purse. He peered up at me, as silent as a dormouse but none the worse for wear. I said to Ellen, “I heard that Willie might be missing. Have you heard from him?”
She shook her head, then tucked her hands beneath the armpits of her heavy sweater.
Sam stood up and edged toward Ellen. He didn’t look miffed that my arrival had split Ellen and him apart. He seemed truly concerned for her. Fatherly. “I was on the horn all night calling around for him,” he offered. “Mitzi, too, in between her nightly beauty treatments.” He didn’t say the latter with any malice, more as a statement of fact. “I talked to everyone. Hotels. Bars. The police.” He grumbled. “They won’t do anything until an adult has been gone at least forty-eight hours.”
“Even though there’s been a recent”—I hesitated, unable to utter the word
murder
—“death in the family?”
Sam frowned. “The deputy who took my call said they were ‘on it,’ as if that’s any consolation.”
“I checked the gym,” Ellen said. “Sometimes Willie likes to work out late.”
“It’s hard keeping up those pecs of his.” Sam clicked his tongue against his teeth, clearly not a Willie fan.
“I contacted the grocery store, too,” Ellen continued, oblivious to Sam’s judgment. “We were out of milk. I thought maybe he went there. He hates for our daughter to go wanting for anything. The owner hadn’t seen him. Where could Willie have gone?”
“Surfing?”
Ellen’s eyes widened, as if this was the first anybody had mentioned the notion. “Oh no. What if he got hurt? I hope . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. Doom seemed to grip her and drag her shoulders down.
“He hasn’t contacted you in any way?” I asked.
She shook her head.
Out with it, Jenna. Speak.
“He telephoned me, Ellen.”
“You?” Her face tinged pink. “Why? When?”
“At ten last night. I don’t know why. He didn’t leave a message.”
“Do you think it was a pocket call?” Sam said, referring to the thing that happens when a person forgets to lock his cell phone before inserting it in a pocket. If something bumps the cell phone, the phone might automatically trigger and contact the last name dialed.
“I don’t know why he would have had my cell phone number in his phone. He’s never called me.” I petted Ellen’s arm. She trembled beneath her sweater. “I was wondering whether Willie, knowing that I’m a friend of Chief Pritchett’s, might have gotten in touch with me to—” I paused.
“To what?” The ceiling lights of the diner reflected in Ellen’s eyes. She looked so vulnerable.
“To confess to your mother’s murder.” Although Willie topped my suspect list, it was probably wrong of me to implicate him without proof. Too late.
Ellen wagged her head back and forth. “No, no, no. He didn’t kill my mother. He couldn’t have.”
“He might have ended our call and dialed Chief Pritchett instead.”
“B-b-but”—Ellen stammered—“wouldn’t Miss Pritchett, I mean Chief Pritchett, have contacted me after that? And Sam called the police, and they—” Tears pooled in her eyes. “Poor Willie. He was angry at me. He—” She swallowed hard. “We had an argument. He stormed out of the house.”
“You fought?” Sam said.
“We didn’t
fight
fight. He didn’t put a finger on me.”
Not where anyone could see, I mused.
“Why didn’t you confide in me?” Sam persisted.
“I didn’t want to tell anyone.”
“What did you argue about?” I asked.
At that moment, Norah exited the kitchen. She caught sight of the three of us. With stature as regal as a prima ballerina’s, she strode to us and inserted herself between Ellen and Sam. “What’s going on?”
“Willie,” Ellen said. “I told you he’s missing. He . . . he called Jenna.” She explained as much as I had told her and faced me. “We argued about the diner. He wanted me to sell my half to my sister.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He wanted out. He hates this place. He said it was too much work.”
Norah raised her chin. “I told Ellen I have no interest in being a single owner. We’re partners.”
“Willie got mad when I said I wouldn’t ask her,” Ellen went on. “He said this place would be our ruin. It’s sucking money like a Hoover.”
“Are you having financial problems?” I said, thinking of what the waitress had said to me yesterday. They were cutting staff and trimming the menu. How badly off was the diner? Had the Mumford sisters inherited a money pit?
“No,” Ellen said. “The diner is doing fine. Right, Sam?”
“It’s been in the black for the last six years in a row,” he said. “The first two years were investment years. Maybe Willie saw those figures and judged the diner’s balances based on that.”
Ellen sighed. “He’s never had a head for numbers.”
I recalled Katie saying that in college Willie had cheated in his economics course. I flashed on an image of him at the bank cornering Manga Girl. He had shaken what appeared to be a savings passbook. I’d assumed it was for his personal account. Had he, in reality, been questioning her about the diner’s finances? Had he accused the teller of shorting the diner? Another scenario flitted through my mind, one that matched an occurrence at Taylor & Squibb. What if Willie wasn’t as stupid as everyone seemed to think when it came to economics? What if he had taken money from the diner’s account? Maybe he was bleeding the diner dry. He transferred the cash into his own account and faked the scene at the bank to cover his actions. A third, darker possibility came to mind. What if Natalie found out what Willie was doing and approached him? He killed her, and a week later, he cashed out and split town.
I said, “My friend heard a rumor that Willie closed an account at the bank.”
“Is this true, Ellen?” Norah said. Though she typically looked like her sister, she appeared nothing like her now. A hawk would appreciate her feral gaze.
“I’ve never paid attention to the money side of the business,” Ellen said. “I’ve always been interested in the food and the customers. Mother”—she chewed her lower lip—“told me not to review the books.”
I said, “I thought you had been doing the ordering since your mother died.”
“True, but I’ve never written a check for anything. Willie took that over, didn’t he, Sam? You know how the finances work. I mean, you did all the investing for Mother.”
Sam drew in a deep breath. “Not all of it. I advised her, but she made every withdrawal and every deposit. She paid every bill. She was, as you know, very hands-on.”
Ellen started to tremble. Her fingers clawed her sleeves. “I’m scared. What if Willie—” She grasped the counter.
I edged closer. “What if Willie . . . what?”
“What if Willie is dead?”
“Why would you jump to that conclusion?” Norah snapped.
Ellen’s gaze swung between the three of us. “Maybe somebody at the bank saw him withdraw all that cash. Maybe he was robbed. Willie wouldn’t leave home for good. Not without telling me. Not without Bebe. He didn’t pack any bags. He didn’t take his muscle T-shirts and his precious sports paraphernalia.”
“What paraphernalia?” I said.
“Baseballs, bats, and gloves signed by famous players like Sosa, McGwire, and Bonds. He’s a collector.”
Rusty the car repair guy had seen Willie in Die Hard Fan, the sports collectibles store, arguing about a debt. Had Willie left town to avoid his creditor?
“Willie would never run off without his things,” Ellen went on. “Or our daughter. He wouldn’t leave her. What if he’s”—her gaze flew between us—“been murdered, and the police think I killed him?”
“Ellen, hush,” her sister said.
“I’ve got to find him.” Ellen bolted toward the front door.
Norah ran after her and clutched her shoulders. “Ellen. Stop moving. Stop talking. Now.”
• • •
MONDAY MORNINGS AT
The Cookbook Nook were rarely busy. Weekend partiers slept in while tourists packed for home. I released Tigger from my purse. He scampered around as if he were the one on holiday. No kids. No adults. And no Bailey. I had given her the day off to browse Crystal Cove. She had been here two months and had never truly explored.
Tigger ran full bore toward the reading chair, ducked, and disappeared beneath. Seconds later, he reappeared and took off for the vintage kitchen table.
Mine, all mine
, I imagined the imp thinking.
I tossed my keys and purse on the sales counter. As I headed for the stockroom to stow my jacket—the morning air was a bit cool—thoughts about Ellen, Norah, and Willie raced through my mind. Who had done what and when? Was Willie alive? Why wouldn’t he be? What if Ellen was right and he had been attacked after leaving the bank with all that cash? How much cash were we talking about? Were the Crystal Cove police searching for him by now? I dialed the precinct and got a busy signal. Swell.
I filled Tigger’s water and snack bowls and switched on the remix that Katie had made of cheery food-related songs. “Sweet Potato Pie,” a duet with James Taylor and Ray Charles, was first in the queue. Enlivened by the blare of horns and fabulous guitar, I danced a two-step to the café’s kitchen—Dancing with the Stars
, watch out—
and fetched myself a cup of espresso from a machine in the café.
When I returned to the shop and settled onto the stool at the sales counter, I decided, given the lovely quiet, to spruce up the website even more than I had yesterday. As I woke up the computer, I paused when I caught sight of my key ring with the key David had left me added to it. Would pinning down the key’s shape help me figure out what lock it fit?
The key was silver with a round head, its trunk long and narrow. There were five notches. I typed
Safety Deposit Box Key
>
Image
into the search line of an Internet browser page and hit Enter. Pictures of safety deposit box keys surfaced. Though many resembled my key, most had distinct ridges down the center of the key. Mine did not. I typed
Bus Station Locker Key
into the search line. Some of those looked like toothpicks; others reminded me of bottle openers. I typed
Key
>
Image
, and a slew of pictures came up, many of them stock photos or clip art.
