Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) (10 page)

Mrs. Davies led the way to the kitchen. As we passed the den, I peeked in. Nothing seemed out of place. All the cabinets were closed. The collection of Thorntonite looked like I remembered. Numerous gray rocks, all about the size of a child’s fist, sat stacked on a mirror plate within the clear glass case. I wondered how the housekeeper had noticed a portion was missing, until I realized that was what she did. She tended to the house. She probably knew the count of the silver, the stemware, and the china, too.

Or she was lying to throw suspicion on Trisha.

We strode through the kitchen and out to the backyard. The temperature had warmed since we left the shop. I shaded my eyes and surveyed the area. Aunt Vera drew near.

“Do you remember what you might have seen?” I whispered.

“No, but I feel something deep in my soul.”

“Didn’t you tell me you lost your powers?” I teased.

“Don’t, Jenna dear. Please.”

“Sorry.”

She paced the patio, scouring beneath and behind the chaise lounges. A tingling sensation slithered up my spine. I started searching as hard as she did. Was I sensing something on her behalf? No, I didn’t have her powers. I didn’t believe in her powers.

The French doors leading to the den burst open. Trisha Thornton shrieked, “You!”

Aha. I must have picked up on Trisha’s presence. So much for not intruding on the second crime scene, I thought, though her fingerprints had to be everywhere in that room. Or did they? Believing the rocks to be evil, perhaps she went out of her way to avoid touching the cases. A solitary fingerprint would implicate her, wouldn’t it?

“How dare you invade my home!” She charged toward my aunt.

“We’re not invading,” Aunt Vera said. “We came to look for a pair of glasses.”

“That’s a lie. You’re creeping around. I saw you.” Trisha shot her hands forward as if she intended to strangle my aunt.

Without hesitating, I inserted myself between her and Aunt Vera. I wasn’t tough, but I occasionally kickboxed along with an instructor on television, and I’d become quite good at Dr. Oz’s seven-minute workout. I could defend my aunt if necessary, especially from someone as lean as the storm cloud facing her. “Look, Trisha, we’re sorry for your loss,” I said, “but we cared for your mother, and we want to help.”

“Stop butting into our affairs. The police are doing their job. Do you hear me? Now, leave.” She pointed to the door.

What could we do? She was, after all, the new owner. I nabbed my aunt’s elbow and steered her toward the exit.

As we departed through the kitchen, I recalled the fight between Trisha and her mother on the night of the party. It involved money. What if Trisha had lied to Cinnamon about being in the lab at school? What if Trisha had stuck around after Emma ran off and argued with her mother again? What if Trisha had revealed to Pearl that she was not taking time off from school; she was on probation? How would Pearl have reacted? Would she have been mortified? Enraged? If she had threatened to cut Trisha off for good, Trisha might have lashed out and killed her mother to ensure that she didn’t change her will. Granted, Trisha wouldn’t inherit everything right away, but she was guaranteed an allowance—one she didn’t have to beg for—and she could look forward to receiving a substantial sum in less than twelve years.

A
S
A
UNT
V
ERA
and I drove back to the shop, we chatted about the crime scene and what she remembered after seeing it for a second time.

“The angle of the chaise lounges seemed off,” she said.

“The police could have moved them.”

“Pearl’s witch hat was no longer there. The martini glass was gone, as well.”

“The police could have taken any of those for evidence.” Though why they would’ve wanted the hat was beyond me. Maybe Mrs. Davies put it back in Pearl’s closet. The notion caught me off guard. Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes.

“The leaves on the ground looked messy.” Aunt Vera paused. “A breeze or the police trampling them could have caused that, I guess.” She pulled into a parking spot at Fisherman’s Village, but she didn’t turn off the engine. “Jenna dear, I’ve got a headache. I have to rest. Will you be okay without me for the afternoon?”

I nodded. “Take as long as you need.”

Around 3:00
P.M.
, I called her to check in, but she didn’t answer her telephone. I tried again at 4:00
P.M.
, with the same result. By close of business, I was wrung out with worry. She was my pillar. I couldn’t stand for her to be hurting.

Rather than call her again and possibly irritate her—she was, after all, a grown-up and able to deal with tragedy—I wrangled Bailey and Katie, and we went to Vines, the wine bar on the second floor of Fisherman’s Village. Tigger was a little miffed at not being included and turned up his tail at treats that I offered, but an enormous amount of cuddling—which I think I needed more than he did—settled him down. I nestled him into his kitty bed in the stockroom, along with the cookbook
Purr-fect Recipes for a Healthy Cat: 101 Natural Cat Food & Treat Recipes to Make Your Cat Happy
. The book was a great source for teaching me not only about what to feed my cat but about which nutrients he needed. Tigger couldn’t care less what was written on the pages or how dutiful a human I was becoming. He fell in love with the six beautiful cats that graced the cover and, now, liked to sleep with his head on the book. He dozed instantly. Lucky him.

Vines Wine Bistro was always an inviting place for anyone who wanted a quiet conversation. All the handcrafted tables were small, set to seat four patrons or less. The ten-foot-long curving bar allowed for limited chatter. Classical music played through a speaker system. Strings of lights in the shapes of vines added a twinkle to the room.

However, tonight, as Katie opened the heavy oak door, noise spilled out. She thrust out her hands to block us. “What’s going on here?”

I peeked around her. The bar was hopping with people, many in Halloween costumes. “Wow.”

“A little early for dress-up, isn’t it?” Bailey said.

I grinned. “Halloween is only a few days away. Some people live for it. Didn’t you see those women who came into the shop dressed in Dorothy costumes? Have you ever heard of Comic-Con? Talk about costume lovers.” Comic-Con is a convention for fans of comics, graphic novels, movies, and more.

“Will we be able to hear ourselves think?” Katie said.

“Yes. Move inside,” Bailey ordered.

A lithe waitress in an understated black sheath led us to one of the tables at the back. Just beyond our table was a glass-enclosed room. Within, a party of ten was having a private wine tasting.

“What’s going on over there?” I asked. A throng, three people thick, crowded a wall.

“That?” The waitress laughed. “It’s the boss’s way of pitching in to the Winsome Witches event. We’re having a Pin the Bat on the Pumpkin contest. Didn’t you get a flyer?”

“I did,” Bailey said. “I forgot to show you, Jenna.”

No wonder she had looked so sneaky walking up the stairs to the bar. Bailey loved a party.

“Can anyone play?” I asked.

“Sure. Donate a buck to the pumpkin.” The waitress hitched a thumb at one of the largest pumpkins I had ever seen. Not one that would win a biggest-in-the-world contest, but
big
. It perched on the end of the bar. “The money goes to the literacy fund.”

“Me first,” Bailey said after we ordered a bottle of an Oregon pinot noir and a cheese plate appetizer. In addition to partying, she was always eager to play a game. She hurried from the table, plopped a buck into the pumpkin, and then jostled her way to the front of the throng. A man in a cowboy costume handed her a rubbery bat, blindfolded her, and twirled her around three times.

While Bailey navigated her way to a grinning paper pumpkin that had been stuck to the wall, the crowd doing its best to distract and disorient her, Katie said, “By the way, I’m glad to help you make the bittersweet chocolate to sweeten up Pepper. They’ll be the best ever. We’ll add a little cayenne.”

“To chocolate?”

She nodded. Her curls bounced. “Delish, promise. By the way, did I tell you how happy I am with our new chef hire?” In addition to the assistant chef position, Katie had been looking for another chef. She couldn’t work twenty-four hours every day; she needed a respite. She had hired him yesterday. “He’s got the most fabulous stuffed chicken recipe. Basil, goat cheese, and peppers in a tomato–sour cream sauce.”

“Sounds yummy.”

“He’s fabulous with the rest of the staff. They’re respectful. And he’s on time.”

“So far.”

“Don’t jinx it,” she said. The chef she had hired a month ago didn’t work out. He was often late and tipsy. “I need to have a personal life again.”

“Speaking of which, how is your new boyfriend?”

“Super sweet, but”—she scrunched up her nose—“I’m so afraid I’ll blow it.”

“Why?”

“I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Ever. I mean, I went on a few dates, but while working for Old Man Powers”—Katie’s former boss, a widower who lived well into his nineties—“life sped by. I didn’t have time to get to know someone and have him get to know me.”

Her boyfriend was the amiable ice cream guy who bicycled around town serving up homemade ice cream, which he kept cold by using the power of his pedaling. He often stopped into the Nook Café to see if Katie needed a delivery of ice cream, which she rarely did since she made fabulous ice cream all by herself.

Our waitress delivered the wine and cheese platter—an American trio that included a round of Cowgirl Creamery’s triple cream called Mt. Tam, named for Mt. Tamalpais; a small sliver of Humboldt Fog; and a wedge of Wisconsin cheddar. After decanting the wine, she left.

I poured the wine into three glasses, then took a sip from mine and swooshed its velvety smoothness around my mouth. Divine. Oregon’s climate was favorable for lush red wine.

Katie swirled the wine in her glass. “Enough about me. Tell me what’s going on with your aunt.”

I summarized our trip to Pearl’s house, including learning about the missing minerals and our run-in with Trisha. “Aunt Vera is distraught. She feels she should be getting all sorts of extrasensory input about the murder since she was close to Pearl, but she’s mentally stymied. The fact that Trisha lit into us didn’t help.”

“Bad aura?”

“That girl—” I stopped myself. I sounded way older than my nearly thirty years; Trisha was only six or seven years younger than I was. “Trisha said we should trust the police to investigate. Does that make her innocent?”

“What’s her alibi?”

“She claims she was at school doing a research project about her mother’s illness. No witnesses.”

“Did Cinnamon buy that?”

“She seems to have.” I took another sip of wine. “I doubt Trisha will search for any witnesses because she’s on probation for cheating on a test. She doesn’t want anyone to know she sneaked onto the premises.”

“Hmm,” Katie said. “I could have sworn your aunt told me Trisha was taking a year off.” Katie was a gossip hound. She knew a bit about everyone in town.

“I heard the same thing. I guess Trisha lied from the get-go.”

“Or her mother fibbed to your aunt because she was embarrassed.”

When leaving Pearl’s house earlier, I had considered the same thing. If that was the case, Pearl had known about her daughter being on probation. The question was, when did Pearl learn the news? The night she died?

“C’mon, help me out, people,” Bailey cried.

I watched as she forged blindly through the crowd and approached the paper pumpkin with a wiggly rubber bat. She neared the left side, but the crowd moaned, which threw her off. She pivoted and headed toward the crowd again. More moans and a few gasps. Watching her grope made me think of something.

I said, “How do you think Trisha got into the lab?”

“A key.”

Bailey swung around again. She neared the nose of the pumpkin. The crowd cheered. She must have thought they were fooling her because she made a right turn.

“Not if she had been booted out of school,” I said.

“Someone must have let her into the lab.”

“Which means she wasn’t working alone; she had help. She’s lying about there being no witness in order to protect someone.”

“Or she’s lying about being there at all.”

“To give herself an alibi.” I drummed the bowl of my wineglass with my fingertips. “I’m sure, now that a piece of the Thorntonite has gone missing, Cinnamon will do a little more digging.”

“Ha-ha, that’s funny.” Katie chortled. “Digging. Rocks. Geology.”

“Unintended pun.”

Katie sipped her wine and hummed. “You sure pick a nice wine.”

I had to thank my long-lost husband for that. Before I met him, David had considered going into the wine business. He didn’t, but he had an educated palate and taught me to have one, as well.

“Back to Trisha,” Katie said, not losing track of our conversation. “Couldn’t you—”

“I hate games.” Bailey, wearing a witch hat decked out with funereal-looking black roses and ivy, plopped into a chair. “I never win.”

“Where’d you get the hat?” I asked.

“Some cute warlock wearing a Zorro-style mask gave it to me.” Bailey pointed. “See him? The next victim. When he gave it to me, he crossed his fingers and blew me a kiss. Like I would bring him luck. Sweet.”

The crowd roared. People parted. I could see someone slinging a blindfold over the masked warlock. He had rugged bone structure and tan skin.

“He’s here to attend the Winsome Witches luncheon.” Bailey picked up her wine and took a sip. “He had the most gorgeous, undistinguishable accent. Maybe European? Yum.” I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the wine or the guy.

“Would you throw over Jorge for a stranger?” I said.

“
Jorge.
Bah.” Bailey huffed. “We broke up. His mother hates me.”

I wondered if the guy in the Zorro-style mask was, indeed, Jorge, toying with her. “His mother has never met you,” I said. “She lives in Mexico.”

“I know. But she doesn’t want him dating an
Americano
. If a man listens to his mother, is he the man of my dreams?”

“Some men, yes.”

“What century are you living in?
Not.
All daughters-in-law should be menaces to their mothers-in-law.” She snickered, then took another sip of wine. “Okay, you’re right. I want my future mother-in-law to like me.”

I petted her hand. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “If it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be. Jorge is just one more name on the men-from-my-past list.” She sipped more wine. “So . . . what’re you guys gossiping about?”

“Trisha Thornton,” Katie said. “I was just about to tell Jenna that she knows lots of people, and she should call someone at UC Santa Cruz and ask about Trisha’s status at school.” She summed up Trisha’s claim to be on probation.

“I’m sure Cinnamon has called the school,” I argued. “Besides, the registrar won’t reveal anything to me.”

Katie said, “You donate to the alumni association, don’t you?”

“To Cal Poly”—where I attended college—“not UC Santa Cruz.”

“Forget the school status angle for a second.” Bailey righted her slightly tipsy witch hat. “Let’s focus on why Trisha was really there. Jenna, you said some of the Thorntonite was missing. What if the housekeeper is right and Trisha stole it? What if she took it that night to the lab?”

“To do what?” I asked.

“Your aunt mentioned she’s a chemist of some sort. Let’s say Trisha lied about looking for a cure for diabetes. Maybe she was experimenting with the rock. You know, doing an alchemy project.”

“Witches do alchemy,” Katie said.

“True. My warlock”—Bailey gestured toward the Pin the Bat on the Pumpkin area—“and I were talking about potions. He said he could make the perfect love potion.”

I’ll bet he could. “Did Warlock Zorro ask for your number?”

“No, the skunk.”

Katie rapped the table. “Stay on topic. Trisha. With the Thorntonite. In the laboratory. Why?”

Bailey nodded. “She was angry with her mother for being a witch—”

I held up a hand. “Pearl wasn’t a witch.”

“But she was the leader of the Winsome Witches,” Bailey argued. “Trisha, being conservative—”

“Conservative?” I wasn’t following her logic.

“She thought the rocks her father collected were evil.” Bailey raised a skeptical eyebrow. “C’mon. Really? Evil? They’re rocks, for Pete’s sake.”