Chapter 27
A
FTER PROMISING TO
meet Dad for dinner, I returned to The Cookbook Nook and waded through the day. Despite my sorrow, I was able to sell quite a few books. Naturally, my tastes leaned toward anything with a happy ending. No kitchen fiasco tales. No women’s fiction that might make me cry. Customers seemed pleased with my choices. I was also able to move a lot of foodie jigsaw puzzles, mainly because I sat down at the vintage table and put together one after another to occupy my beleaguered brain.
Every so often my aunt, Bailey, or Katie, all of whom I had rounded up immediately to tell the news, would approach me. Aunt Vera would give me a quick hug. Bailey would pat my back without saying a word. Katie brought me homemade Oreo-style cookies and milk.
At closing, the trio corralled me. I felt nervous, as if they were going to pick me over like a pack of female gorillas. They didn’t. My aunt instigated a group hug. As we stood in a cluster, she intoned, “Oh great Creator or Creatress, whichever you might be, may you provide Jenna with comfort during this time of need and give her hope for the future.” She paused, then added, “That’s it.”
I giggled. “That’s it? No
amen
?”
“You know that’s not my style.”
“No spells? No incantations?”
“Don’t make fun, young lady.”
I broke free and bussed her cheek. “Thank you all for your concern and your love.” Bailey and Katie regarded me dolefully. “Stop it. I’m going to be fine. David is gone. At least now I know why. Solving that mystery will help me move on with my life. I promise. As Jane Austen said, ‘Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.’”
We hugged again, and I left for dinner.
• • •
I STOOD NEXT
to the railing at The Pelican Brief Diner, staring out at the view. The sun, which was sinking into the horizon, gleamed a brilliant orange. Wisps of white clouds hovered high in the dusky blue sky. On the water, paddle boarders poled in a straight line toward The Pier. The picturesque moment should have made me feel calm and peaceful, but it didn’t.
My father sat at the table. Lola nestled beside him. I could feel their gazes drilling holes into my back. After we’d ordered the evening’s special, my father, who was never one to dwell on the negative, asked me how I was doing. That was when I stood and moved to the railing. How much time had passed since he had asked me the question? Two minutes? Five?
“Jenna, please sit,” my father said. He didn’t add, “Eat some fresh-baked bread.” But I knew that was what he wanted. Two years ago, when I’d learned of David’s death, I hadn’t consumed much, and before I knew it, I’d lost fifteen pounds I could ill afford to have lost. Of course, all those pounds came back. My father needn’t worry.
I swiveled and leaned against the railing. “I was surprised by David’s duplicity,” I said as if continuing a conversation. “Not just surprised. Shocked. Horrified. I thought we had this fabulous relationship. We told each other everything. I mean, he knew me to the last detail. I even admitted my greatest fear to him.”
“Which is?” Lola said.
“A silly thing, but I feel so vulnerable whenever I share it. Getting swallowed into the wall like that child in ‘Little Girl Lost.’” I wasn’t much of a television viewer, but every New Year’s Day, my father talked me into watching the
Twilight Zone
marathon
.
That particular episode gave me the heebie-jeebies beyond belief. “Why do you think David did what he did?”
Lola said, “I had a client once who did much the same thing. He bilked his investors, which shocked the heck out of all of us because he was a church-going, God-fearing individual, but it turned out he’d been hooked on gambling from a young age. He had hidden the signs and worked his rear end off to make all his payments until he couldn’t keep up any longer. He was about David’s age.”
“I meant why did my husband commit suicide?”
“He went out in a boat,” Dad said. “Maybe he hoped, given time, he could talk himself out of killing himself.” He joined me at the railing and slung an arm around my shoulders.
Lola rose and stood on the other side of me. She tucked an arm around my waist. We made an odd Three Musketeers.
“It’s over now, Tootsie Pop.”
“Is it, Dad? I have the coins.”
“Which I’ll help you distribute. We’ll get right on it next week. It’ll take some time, but we’ll make restitution. Okay?”
Our waiter arrived with our specials, which were beautiful in presentation: salmon seared with crosshatched grill marks topped with a salsa made with large chunks of avocado and mango, all set on a pile of luscious mashed potatoes.
My father guided me back to the table. I ate half my meal and pushed the plate away.
“Is something wrong with your dinner, Jenna?” Lola said.
“No. “
“The recipe came from one of the cookbooks I bought at your store.”
“You stole the recipe?” my father said, playfulness in his tone.
“That’s the whole purpose of cookbooks, isn’t it? To share.”
“There’s a subtle difference.”
Their banter triggered something in my mind. A string of
S
words slewed together:
subtle
,
share
,
steal
,
scheming
,
sad
. Something jolted inside me. I couldn’t stay seated any longer. I bolted to my feet.
“What’s wrong?” Lola said.
“I need to walk. I need—” Emotions clogged my throat. I headed for the front door.
Lola rose. My father did, as well. They escorted me to the street. A cool breeze hit us as we exited the diner. I wrapped my arms around myself. Dad offered his jacket, but I declined. I walked north. They followed. I could feel their concern. I didn’t make eye contact.
After a long silence, I said, “I saw Rhett at the bank this morning, Dad. Did you know he’s taking on a partner?”
“No.” My father was a regular at Bait and Switch. He loved everything about the store, from the fishing lures to the exotic knives.
“Rhett said he had to separate his accounts for the sake of transparency. If only David had been as transparent.”
“He couldn’t be, sweetheart. He was sick. Luckily he kept your accounts separate to protect you from future litigation.”
“But don’t you see?” I swallowed hard. “That means he knew ahead of time what he was doing.” Additional
S
words joined the ones forming a kick line in my mind:
sly
,
slick
. “What if there’s more to discover?”
“You mean like an offshore account?” Lola said.
“Lola, please,” my father said.
“Eyes wide open, Cary. Lots of individuals create these accounts to protect themselves from malpractice suits. The bank routes funds through several corporate entities. An offshore account provides layers of protection. They’re not illegal. All you need in order to get one is your passport, a reference from the bank, samples of your signature, and proof of residence.” Lola nudged me. “Well, Jenna?”
“I honestly don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” One way or another. No more surprises. My cell phone buzzed; I fished it from my purse.
“I didn’t hear your phone ring,” my father said.
“It vibrated. Cinnamon sent me a text. Aunt Vera contacted her and told her about David. She’s sending her condolences.” I pondered what Cinnamon had to be going through, trying to solve two murders while keeping the rest of Crystal Cove safe. Tough job. “It was nice of her to take the time.”
Although I would bet the last thing she wanted to hear were theories from the grieving wife of a suicide victim, perhaps I owed her a visit. We hadn’t spoken since I’d left her a message the other day. Setting a goal made me feel instantly better and more in control of
me
.
• • •
THERE WERE A
few empty spaces in the precinct parking lot. I pulled next to an SUV, my VW bug looking like a pipsqueak beside it, and hurried into the building. The clerk informed me that Cinnamon wasn’t in. She was—
wink
,
wink
—on a date, as if that were a big deal. Maybe it was. I wished I knew more about her. I vowed, starting tomorrow, to make an extra effort to develop our friendship.
As I exited the building, the moose-looking deputy with the huge jaw followed me. “Hey, Jenna, what’s new?”
“Nothing.”
He kept pace while pulling a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He was about to light up when he must have seen my frown. He tucked his paraphernalia away and hitched his jaw at the precinct. “Got word that something was up. Want to share?”
Share
,
steal
,
sly
,
scheme
. I countered the onslaught of words with a childish invocation:
Rain, rain, go away. Don’t come back another day.
“No, thanks,” I said politely. I wasn’t about to theorize with a guy I didn’t know. Let me rephrase. I did
know
the Moose. I’d met him when I first met Cinnamon weeks ago, but we hadn’t really chatted. I didn’t know his full name. I didn’t know whether he had a family, a wife or kids. Was he from around here? Could he be trusted? In the long run, these questions mattered. If only I had been so wise years ago. Before David.
Doing my best to get a grip, I said, “Cinnamon and I had discussed grabbing a cup of coffee.”
“Uh-huh. At ten at night?” The Moose was no dummy.
“I had a craving for a white chocolate mocha or a vanilla spice latte.”
“I like them both.” He displayed his left hand. No ring. He was baiting me.
“Yeah, well.” I inched away. “Tell Cinnamon I dropped by.”
“Will do. And if you ever want to talk to me . . .” He let the sentence hang.
I blushed. What was it about bereaved widows that turned guys on? Easy pickings? Not this one. I hurried to my car and sped away.
Home alone in the cottage, with only Tigger for company, the events of the day hit me hard. I felt lost. My stomach was raw, my throat hot. I wanted to cry but tears wouldn’t come. I tried to force them out. Nothing. I growled, and Tigger echoed me.
“I’m not playing, kitty cat.”
He nudged my foot with his nose. I nudged him with my shoe. He rolled onto his back, eager to tussle.
“Sorry, fella. Not now.” I felt the urge to shout, but words escaped me.
David, David, David.
I slumped into the chair by the kitchen table and eyed the Lucky Cat and David’s gym bag. If only my husband had confided in me. If only he had trusted me. Maybe we could have gotten him help. Maybe we could have worked through the problem and faced the future together. I loved him; there was no doubt. Yes, he had disappointed me, and yes, his decision to end his life would forever haunt me, but I would never stop loving him. I thought of his final letter, and an idea came to me. I fetched a piece of stationery and wrote a note to the detective in charge of David’s case. He probably needed closure as much as I did. One cold case solved.
Unable to sleep, I decided to paint. Though I had made my career as an ad executive, I had always dreamed of being an artist. As was true for many artists, I was good but not great. Even so, painting relaxed me. I set up a blank canvas, chose a bristle brush, pulled my moisture-retaining palette from its drawer, and after removing the lid, dabbed a brush with black paint. Where to begin? I stared at the canvas. I had nothing. Nada. I paced the cottage waiting for inspiration to hit.
Two hours later, I still had nothing. Frustrated and in desperate need of an emotional release, I drew a game of tic-tac-toe. I played knowing I couldn’t win. When I stopped painting and stared at all those
X
s and
O
s, they reminded me of unrequited hugs and kisses, and I lost it. I daubed my brush into red paint and smeared the color over the game. The result was a mess of grungy brown. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was a start.
Angry Art
, I titled it.
Around 3:00
A.M.
, I put away my supplies and, crying, collapsed onto the couch.
At 7:00
A.M.
, I woke, puffy-eyed and ready to punch whoever was pounding on my door.
