Chapter 8
B
USINESS THAT MORNING
at the shop was busier than usual. By 10:00
A.M.
, I was exhausted. Downing two of Katie’s lemon meringue mini-cupcakes after eating the oversized portion of French toast at the Word had something to do with my lack of pep.
Sugar blahs
, my mother called them. When I told Bailey and my aunt that I was going to take a twenty-minute catnap in the office, neither argued. Bailey, who was still off caffeine, was zipping around the store at the speed of light, reorganizing everything, soup to nuts.
While dozing, I suffered a muddle of dreams: Natalie and the chef’s resignation letter; the Lucky Cat crashing to the floor; Willie locking his precious daughter in his car as something in the car went
ping
,
ping
,
ping
; David running away from me. Last but not least, I dreamed of the display in the bay window at The Cookbook Nook. Something about it was off. I woke up with a crick in my neck. Eager to dismiss every dream as anxious nonsense, I focused on the window display.
In the advertising business, we had to be prepared to revise and rewrite as well as recast a role if an actor wasn’t working out. I felt the same about the window display. Over the course of the next hour, I removed the oars, Frisbees, and sand toys, but I left the partial white picket fence. I set out beach towels and umbrellas. On the towels, I fanned a selection of the culinary mysteries we had in stock. All the books had cute titles like:
A Brew to a Kill
,
Death in Four Courses
, and
The Diva Frosts a Cupcake
. In addition, I placed decorative boxes nearby to indicate that the books included recipes. I added pretty floral aprons, mixing cups, and kitchen utensils, and I titled the area
Beach Reading with Flavor.
Near noon, Katie, bless her soul, brought in a batch of open-faced crab melt sandwiches, made just for the staff. She had decorated each with a teensy umbrella. To my surprise, my stomach growled. I craved protein.
By mid-afternoon, a new wave of customers flocked into the shop. They perused the culinary mysteries with an enthusiasm bordering on frenzy. Everybody needs a book to read while basking in the sun, right? One of the women in the gathering, a charming woman and the leader of an eight-member book club, suggested I invite her book club to tea on a monthly basis so we could discuss food fiction. Pumped from the gusto in the shop, I jumped at the opportunity and asked if I might be able to grow the club. The leader was all for the idea. The more the merrier, she said, and then hinted that her pals might like to meet one of the mystery authors along the way. I had no idea whether an author or group of authors might come to quaint Crystal Cove, but I promised to do my best to lure them.
Around 3:30 in the afternoon, as I stood at the top of a ladder restocking shelves—my calf muscles were getting a great workout from all the sales.
Yahoo!
—Mayor Zeller entered arm in arm with Lola. I was thrilled to see that the lines in Lola’s face weren’t nearly as deep as a few days ago; her eyes glistened with energy.
I descended the ladder and joined them by the sales counter, where my aunt and Bailey were ringing up a steady stream of orders.
“Good news,” the mayor warbled. “The Grill Fest will continue Friday, right after Ellen holds the memorial for her mother.”
“She’s having a memorial instead of a funeral?” I said.
Mayor Zeller shook her head with regret. “Poor thing. Our chief of police won’t release the body quite yet.”
What more could Cinnamon glean from the corpse? Maybe the pieced-together resignation letter wasn’t the only evidence she had found.
“When is the memorial?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” the mayor replied.
“Even better news”—Lola shot an exultant finger into the air—“Chief Pritchett is allowing me to participate in the fest.”
“Yippee!” Bailey hurried to her mother and gave her a hug so fierce I thought she might be trying to wring some caffeine from her. “Mom, I’m so happy for you. That means you’re innocent.”
“Not so fast,” Lola said, wriggling free. “I’m not out of the woods yet.”
Bailey eyed me. “Jenna, tell them what we learned about Mitzi.”
“What about her?” Lola asked.
“Two different people claim Mitzi was in the vicinity of the café around the time of the murder,” I said.
“That doesn’t put her at the crime scene,” Lola argued.
“Near enough,” Bailey countered.
“Why wasn’t she in the parking lot with everyone else?” the mayor asked.
I explained Mitzi’s supposed need for vitamin D and her claim that she was headed for the beach.
“That means she lied,” the mayor said.
Lola scoffed. “We don’t know that. Don’t presume.”
“Mom,” Bailey said. “Mitzi held a grudge against Natalie.”
Mayor Zeller nodded. “And rightly so. Mitzi was never going to win the contest as long as Natalie was alive.”
“That’s not true, ZZ,” Lola said. “Mitzi is a creative chef. Her private clients rave about the uniqueness of her gourmet meals.” Lola eyed me. “What about Natalie’s heirs, Jenna? I heard you mention that angle to Cinnamon.”
“No, I mentioned it, Mother,” Bailey said. “By the way, did you know Ellen has a sister? The two of them stand to inherit.”
Everyone looked as surprised as I had been. Talk about keeping family secrets in a closet.
I said, “However, just between us, I think Ellen’s husband may have had a hand in Natalie’s murder.” I told them about my breakfast at Mum’s the Word. “He seems overly concerned about Ellen talking to anyone.” I explained how Willie coerced Ellen to return the books to the shelves yesterday. “I think they might be having financial difficulty. Ellen mentioned something about obligations. On the other hand, Willie has a solid alibi. He was at the car repair shop.”
Mayor Zeller said, “I’ll keep an eye on him. We don’t want him giving Ellen and that daughter of hers any trouble. Now, Lola, let’s go. Ladies, if anyone needs us, Lola and I are going on a shopping expedition.” She ushered Lola out saying, “Hope you have your credit cards handy. We’re celebrating your freedom.”
“Temporary freedom.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
Around 5:00
P.M.
Katie tracked me down. Not with food, which disappointed me. I don’t know why I was starved yet again. I thought being around the aroma of delicious food was stirring my appetite. If I didn’t watch out, my waistline would double in no time. Perhaps an extra cup of coffee instead of sweets as a treat was a good alternative.
“Whew,” Katie said while she tied on a white apron. “It’s been crazy today. We’ve had so many customers I can barely breathe. Can you do me a favor? I need you to go to the store. We had a run on the lunch special.”
“The crab melt?”
“No, the Brazilian spiced fish salad. I need to make another batch of the tempero baiano, a Bahian seasoning. I’m completely out of turmeric, and I could also use some rosemary and thyme for the evening’s soup selection. Would you go, please? I can’t spare any staff.”
Bailey, edgy since her mother’s departure, begged to tag along. How could I refuse?
• • •
THE CRYSTAL COVE
Grocery Store was an intimate place, with wooden shelves, wooden bins, and a rustic wood floor. The owner, a baker by trade, made all the breads. A farmers’ market couldn’t have offered more fresh fruits and veggies. The herbs that Katie wanted, all locally grown, were offered in rattan-tied bunches. Hanging above the herbs were bags of spices.
I grabbed three bundles of each herb on Katie’s list and a bag of turmeric. “You are jumpier than a dolphin in an ocean full of sharks,” I said to Bailey, who hadn’t stopped pulling on her left earlobe since we’d entered the store, a clear indication that she was tense. “How about downing some cola?”
“No. I’m good. Sure, I miss my caffeine, but I want to conquer my craving. A healthy body means a healthy spirit.”
“Okay, Miss Zen, then what’s eating you?”
Her voice drifted to a hush. “Mom. Right before we left, I called her to check in. She was still shopping with the mayor. She has a tendency to binge shop.”
“Like you,” I teased.
Bailey screwed up her mouth.
“Are you worried that she’s running into money trouble?”
“No. Not at all. But binge shopping encourages her to buy things that don’t, um, look good on her. You know, things that don’t fit, though she convinces herself they do.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry about it. As long as she doesn’t remove the sales tags, you can talk her into taking anything back.”
“You’re right. I’m acting crazy.”
“Concerned.”
“Nuts. Speaking of which”—Bailey knuckled my arm—“what’s this I heard about you on The Pier this morning? You thought you saw David?”
My cheeks warmed. “Who told you? Dad?”
“Your aunt.”
Which meant my father told her. So much for him thinking it was perfectly fine seeing my dead husband occasionally.
“She’s worried.”
Aha. That explained why my aunt had hovered near me while rubbing her amulet a couple of times today. I’d have to inform her that insanity couldn’t be frightened off by a few positive prayers. On the other hand, going crazy was not on my agenda. I made a mental note to call the therapist and set an appointment. What could it hurt?
“Well?” Bailey said. “I’m waiting for a response.”
“I’ve got David on the brain. It’s this thing with the Lucky Cat and the key and the coins.” I inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I want to know the truth.”
I headed for the checkout line and saw Mitzi Sykes ahead of us placing item after item on the conveyor belt. She was wearing ginormous rings and multiple strands of necklaces. As she chatted up the clerk, using grand hand gestures, her metal bangles clanked. I flashed on the conversation with Flora, the Grill Fest contestant who was the owner of Home Sweet Home. She had spotted Mitzi spying on her husband. Mitzi wouldn’t have been able to do so in that getup, I thought. Way too noisy.
I moved toward her. “Hey, Mitzi, who’s having a party?”
Mitzi smiled. Her red lipstick made her luscious lips look even bigger. “Me. Well, not me. My client. You know the fellow who designed the Nature’s Retreat Hotel?”
I did. Local architect. Big ego.
“He’s such a gourmet. Snails. Lobster. Seven different kinds of cheeses. Bananas Foster for dessert.”
I felt a bump on my grocery cart from behind and pivoted. Mitzi’s husband, Sam, was trying to inch by me. Slung over his arm was a mini-basket filled with fixings for spaghetti.
“Sorry,” he said. “Do you mind?”
I didn’t.
He placed a dividing rod between his and Mitzi’s purchases, then rummaged through his pockets, mumbling as if he had misplaced something. Mitzi paid for her goods, and the clerk bagged them. Then Mitzi rolled her loaded cart toward the exit.
“Babe, wait,” Sam called.
A man who called his wife
babe
wasn’t a cheater, was he? Perhaps I was too naïve for words.
“I’m not going anywhere, my love. You’ve got the keys,” Mitzi teased. She pulled her cart to a stop short of the exit.
“No, I, um . . .” Sam scratched his neck. He caught sight of me watching him and instantly dropped his arm to his side. His cheeks burnished the same color as his chafed neck. “I seem to have misplaced my wallet.”
Mitzi’s face morphed from flirty to flinty. She strode to Sam and in a hushed voice said, “What?”
Sam sputtered. “I’m not sure what could have happened.”
“You can’t have spent the food allowance already.”
Food allowance? I mused. What was up with that?
“No, I . . .” He dug again into his pockets. “I think I was robbed.”
Mitzi huffed as if she had heard that excuse way too many times to count.
“Fine. Forget it. What do you care?” Sam left his items on the conveyor belt and bolted from the store.
Mitzi hurried after him but stopped at the door. As Sam tore from the lot in his Mercedes, Mitzi sagged against the jamb and dropped her forehead into her hands.
