Chapter 7
W
HEN THE POLICE
declared us open for business, although it was officially closing time, we allowed people inside and sold more than our daily average of cookbooks and doodads. An hour later, I headed home with Tigger. I made a sweet omelet using a simple recipe from Mark Bittman’s latest,
How to Cook Everything Vegetarian: Simple Meatless Recipes for Great Food
, a cookbook my aunt had suggested. Afterward, I cleared the kitchen table and eyed the Tupperware box that held the pieces of the broken porcelain cat. With the flurry of activity surrounding Natalie’s murder, I had neglected addressing my own drama.
I popped open the box and peeked inside. The broken cat looked like a muddled mess. I put on a mixed jazz CD and then I grabbed a cutting board and a tube of superglue and started to piece together the cat, its rear end first. Tigger circled my ankles as if asking:
What’s up
? I cooed that I was taking care of business. Fortunately, when the Lucky Cat shattered, some of the pieces remained large. I felt confident I could reassemble the entire thing. However, as the statue’s belly began to take shape, my hands started to shake and my insides quivered. Feeling vulnerable and lonely, I fetched the necklace with the key that David had given me and whispered, “Where is the secret box you belong to? What will I find inside?”
As I asked the questions, I flashed on an incident when I was a girl. I had sought out my father and found him in the master bedroom closet. He was stowing something in a safe hidden beneath the floor. I asked what he was doing. He said that he was hiding his passport. He said it was a secret, and I couldn’t tell a soul. He added, quoting Ben Franklin,
Three can keep a secret
,
if two of them are dead
. Then he chuckled. Little did I know that he was revealing a part of his life to me. As an FBI analyst, there were times he had donned a different persona. My mother had known. None of us kids had. Thinking about that incident, I wondered whether David, with what I now considered his secret life, had installed a keyed safe somewhere in our apartment? He had lived there by himself for two years before I moved in with him. I never noticed a safe. I’d never thought to ask.
I glanced at the clock on the kitchen stove—9:30
P.M.
I dialed the tenant who had sublet my apartment in the city. The woman, recently divorced, answered after the second ring.
“Hey, Jenna,” she said. “I was just thinking about you.”
“You were?” My aunt would advise me to never dismiss an ESP moment. “Why?”
“I was online hoping to buy my sister a cookbook. She likes spicy food.”
I sighed.
Online
. Everyone was buying online nowadays. I said, “Try
Susan Feniger’s Street Food: Irresistibly Crispy, Creamy, Crunchy, Spicy, Sticky, Sweet Recipes
.” I remembered the title—another long one—because it had made me laugh. Bailey had shown me the book a couple of weeks ago. I loved the cover picture of the author-chef. She was so open and playful that I’d wanted to meet her. “And don’t forget we sell cookbooks online through our store, too. No shipping charges if you purchase more than fifty dollars’ worth of items.”
She chuckled. “Silly me. I knew that. Will do. Why are you calling?”
I explained.
“Hold on,” she said and set the receiver down. I heard her plodding through the apartment. Cabinet doors opened and shut. Drawers, too.
Slide, click, slam.
After a few minutes, my tenant returned to the phone. “I can’t find a thing. Not under a mat. Not in a closet. Not behind a painting. I even checked under the sink in the bathroom. Sorry.”
I thanked her and hung up and rubbed the key like an amulet, urging it to give me answers. It didn’t, of course. So I called Bailey.
She answered in a hyper-chipper voice. “Hey, girlfriend.”
“Still off caffeine?”
“Yep, and I have more energy than that teensy train in
The Little Engine That Could
. Who knew?” She was talking faster than a car salesman. “What’s up?”
“Got a second?”
“For you, a whole minute.”
“Funny. Listen, are you sure the key hanging around my Lucky Cat’s neck was a safety deposit box key?”
“I’m never sure of anything. It was a first guess. Long, narrow, five notches. You’re still drawing a blank?”
I told her about my search. “I wish David had left me some clue.” My voice caught. “Something tangible.”
“You’ll figure it out. I promise. But you can’t drive yourself crazy about it.”
“I know.” I choked back tears.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure. I will be. I’m tired. With Natalie’s murder . . . and—” I stopped myself from saying more or tears definitely would gush out.
Life is not all about you, Jenna.
Lola was the person we ought to have been concerned about. “How’s your mom?”
“Hanging in. She’s a tough cookie.”
“Like the ones I bake,” I joked.
“That’s my pal. Find that sense of humor. Are you going to be all right?”
“Yep. Good night. See you tomorrow.” I hung up and scooped up Tigger. He licked my chin. I kissed his nose. I considered calling Rhett and asking his opinion about the key but knew that wouldn’t be a good move. He might get the wrong signals. And why shouldn’t he? He wasn’t a key expert. I would’ve been calling because, well, heck, I was attracted to him.
Instead, I dialed my father.
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING,
I met my dad at The Pier to pole fish. He had suggested it last night when I wakened him. We stood at the end of the long stretch of boardwalk, bracing ourselves with our elbows on the railing, each holding a pole, its line dangling in the ocean. We never caught much. An occasional rockfish. We always threw them back.
By 7:00
A.M.
, The Pier was already packed with people. Some waited in line to buy food. Others were fishing, like us, or power walking.
“Look at those paddle boarders.” My father pointed at the ocean.
A stream of adventurers, balancing on colorful surfboards and using long oars, glided across the cove. There wasn’t a finish line. They were merely practicing for the Paddle-a-thon coming up in a week. On the beach, multiple groups of adults and children tossed Frisbees. Dogs joined in the fun.
“Dad, how’s Lola doing?”
“She’s worried and giving ZZ guff.”
“I thought the mayor couldn’t be her lawyer.”
“She’s not, but ZZ’s got plenty of free advice.”
“Lola isn’t capable of murder.”
“Do we ever know if someone is capable? A crime of passion is simply that, someone acting before he or she can change course.” My father often made blanket assessments. “Cinnamon has asked Lola to come to the station again for more questions.”
“Why is she riding Lola so hard?” I asked. “Don’t you, as Cinnamon’s mentor, have any sway over her?”
“I
was
her mentor. No longer. Cinnamon is her own person. She makes decisions based on theories and fact.”
“Bailey is worried.”
“She needn’t be. Lola is one of the strongest women I know.” Dad nudged me with his shoulder. “How are you? Why did you call me so late? Not just to set a fishing date.”
I hoisted my pole, wound the line and hook around it, and propped it against the railing. “I’ve been thinking a lot about David.”
“Why?”
“A ton of reasons.”
My father peered into my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“If only—” I began.
“If only the police had found his body. If only there had been closure.”
“Yes.” I sighed.
“Something else is eating at you.”
I told him about the Lucky Cat statue and the coins that had spilled out. I was just about to tell him about the mysterious key when, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a man in the crowd who looked like David. Sandy hair. The right height. Broad shoulders. A confidence to his walk.
“Jenna.” Dad gripped my shoulders. “You’re hyperventilating. What’s wrong?”
I stared harder at the man. It wasn’t David, of course. Not even close. He was shorter, he wore glasses, and he had buckteeth. And he was very much alive.
Dad said, “Jenna, sweetheart. Talk to me.”
“I see David everywhere. On the beach. In crowds.”
“I see your mother, too, if that’s any consolation.”
“You mean I’m not crazy?”
“You’re a wishful thinker. But watch out, next thing you know, you’ll be seeing ghosts. O-o-ooh.” My father imitated a wiggly-fingered specter.
I punched him. “Don’t make fun.”
“There’s a local therapist you might want to talk to.”
“The one who organizes the October benefit luncheon? Maybe.” I indicated the flyers for the Grill Fest in my tote bag. After pole fishing, I had planned to roam The Pier and distribute them. “I’m going to get to work and put all this hoo-ha behind me. Promise. Got my pole?”
“I’ve got your back.”
I kissed him on the cheek, and then I raised my chin and strode confidently down the boardwalk. I didn’t feel self-assured, but thanks to working with actors for so many years, I could pretend like the best of them. Well, maybe not like Meryl Streep or Anne Hathaway, but you get the idea.
As I neared Mum’s the Word Diner, my stomach growled like a motorboat on steroids. I had ventured into the restaurant a few times in the past, the last occasion over three years ago. The line outside was long, which meant the food had to be good. When I made it inside, the only spot available was at the counter. The place had undergone a facelift since my last visit. Turquoise checkered tablecloths adorned the tables. Beside the arced counter, fifties diner-style stools with metal rims and bright yellow cushions were anchored to the floor. Cheery turquoise-and-yellow window treatments and silver-framed photographs of The Pier finished the look. Copies of Natalie Mumford’s self-published cookbook with her winning Grill Fest recipes sat stacked beside the register.
One look at the breakfast menu made me salivate: French toast with Grand Marnier sauce, a variety of omelets with homegrown herbs and vegetables, and a lobster-and-steak scramble. In honor of the Grill Fest, if a customer requested, the new chef would make a grilled cheese and serve it with homemade tomato soup.
Ellen, who looked healthier than she had when she’d stopped in The Cookbook Nook yesterday, swung by and greeted me. For a second, I thought she might want to chat, but a customer hailed her and she moved away. I didn’t see her husband, Willie, which sort of disappointed me. As much as I hated to admit it, I had been hoping to see them together to observe how he treated her.
A vibrant African-American waitress with an asymmetric, purple-tinged afro and enchanting purple eyes, sashayed to the counter. As she wiped it down, she said, “Long time no see. Jenna, right?” Her nameplate read:
Rosie.
“Good memory.”
Rosie tapped her head. “Got a thing for faces, sugar. I do that mnemonic thing. You know, memory. ‘Run over your granny because it’s violent.’ R-O-Y-G-B-I-V. Colors of the rainbow. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet.”
“Nice. Never heard that one. What did you use for my name?”
Rosie laughed. “Jenna jumps jumping jacks.” My sister never would have come up with something so nice for her string of
J
words. “You look real healthy.”
“Thanks. Speaking of jumping, it sure is hopping in here.”
“Business has increased big-time since yesterday when Natalie . . . died, rest her soul.” Rosie crossed herself. “Public interest is a double-edged sword. It’s sad but profitable. The economy . . . well, don’t get me started. Things have been taking a downturn all over Crystal Cove. Haven’t you noticed it at that shop of yours?”
“Business is pretty good, so far.”
Rosie rapped her knuckles on the bar. “From your lips”—she pointed upward—“to His ears. Natalie was trimming services to cut costs until . . .” She placed two fingers over her mouth. “Pardon me. No talking about the dead.”
“It’s all right. I understand.”
“She is missed. She was a good woman. Tough but fair.”
That was along the lines of what Ellen had said to me at the shop.
