Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) (13 page)

“Get your treats!” A vendor carrying cotton candy and drinks passed by. “Treats for the sweets!”

The aroma of warm sugar made my mouth water. I was hungry. I had skipped lunch. But straight sugar wasn’t the answer. Not after the deliciously rich apple spice muffin I’d downed midmorning. I needed protein. A fish burger or something.

Tigger started to squirm. “Yes, yes,” I said to him. “We’re going to register.”

Bingo said, “I’d better hurry off. I promised to join my fiancé. He’s parading his little munchkin.” I had recently learned that a munchkin wasn’t just an endearing name for a small cat. It was a new breed of cat with supershort legs.

Before Bingo could leave, however, Emma and her husband, Edward, approached.

Emma said, “Hello, Bingo. Jenna.”

Edward was carrying a ginger cat larger than Tigger in his arms. He nuzzled the cat’s chin, then handed the cat to Emma and said, “I’m going to get a pumpkin cupcake. Want one?”

Emma shook her head and brushed her fingertips along his bicep. I wondered if she had told him her secret yet. He didn’t seem cool to her, but he didn’t seem warm, either. He strolled away, his gait long and catlike. While tucking his hair behind his ears, he gazed at the surrounding crowd, as if hunting. Did he know his wife had fallen in love with her doctor? Was he searching for a replacement spouse?

Bingo gave Emma a hug. “I see you’re black cat–less, which means you must have met up with Maya.”

“I did.” Emma looked so relieved. “She’s over the moon.”

“At least one good thing happened. We must start racking up the positive.” Bingo hurried off.

Emma watched her with fixed concentration. When Bingo disappeared into the crowd, Emma pivoted and held her cat beneath the armpits to let him sniff Tigger, nose to nose. “Make nice,” she cautioned. Emma’s cat pawed at Tigger, who, in turn, sniffed with curiosity. Neither hissed. “Good boy.” Emma tucked her cat into her arms. “Do you need to enter Tigger into the parade?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go with you.”

As we headed in the direction of the registration desk, we passed another vendor selling freshly made pretzels. Better than sugar, I mused. The vendor assured me he had made the pretzels with almond flour, so I would get some protein. I bought one and tore off a tiny nibble for Tigger. He lapped it up. I downed the rest, savoring the salty warmth while wondering how hard it was to make pretzels. They were one of my favorite snack foods. Back when David and I lived in San Francisco and were clawing our way to success, we had eaten lots of pretzels-and-soda dinners. Memories. I nudged them into the past and, instead, imagined the upcoming dinner at Rhett’s house. What would he prepare? Should I take clothes to change into after the hike, maybe that backless little number I had purchased at a local boutique? It was near perfect with a plunging neckline and a flirty skirt. A shiver of delightful anticipation ran through me.

Emma cut into my dreamy thoughts. “Jenna, ever since I learned Pearl was murdered, I’ve been thinking about who might have wanted her dead. I hate that anyone could imagine I did it. I really did love her.”

“Have you told your husband, you know . . .”

Emma shook her head vehemently. “No, and I never will. I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m dedicating myself to him. We have a good marriage. It was my mistake. I was weak. I’m not going to look at another man or woman that way ever again.” She fingered the hair at the nape of her neck. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve been thinking. When we talked to Chief Pritchett”—respectfully, she didn’t add that I had inserted myself into the conversation—“you mentioned that a hypodermic needle might have been used to kill Pearl. I’m not kidding; I faint at the sight of them, but Bingo wouldn’t. She was a nurse.”

I gaped at her. Why would she point a finger at the new leader of the Winsome Witches? “Don’t you like Bingo?”

“Of course I do, and I respect her, too. She’s the High Priestess, and I’m her handmaiden. But I was trying to think of other suspects. Bingo would know all about needles and what kinds of poisons to use, wouldn’t she? Nurses learn about that kind of stuff. Just between you and me, she’s always wanted to be High Priestess. Pearl told me so. Bingo could have had an agenda, and get this . . .” Emma looked right and left and back at me. She lowered her voice. “I saw Bingo in her antique shop the night Pearl died, when I was out looking for Mrs. H’s dog.”

“That gives her an alibi.”

“Does it?” She mulled that over. “Well, anyway, she was practicing spells.”

“Spells?”

“A book in one hand, a wand in the other.” Emma balanced her cat on one hip and used her other hand to demonstrate. “She had all sorts of bottles and mixing jars on a table in front of her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was working on a potion to snare that fiancé of hers.”

“She didn’t need to snare him.” In truth, I didn’t like the turn of this conversation. I didn’t think my aunt would appreciate it, either. Bingo was a friend. A good woman. Just because she looked like a caricature of a witch didn’t make her one. Yet I flashed on a moment at Pearl’s house right after we found her, while the police were investigating. Bingo was eyeing the others with a look bordering on triumph.

“I’m certain there’s something Bingo isn’t telling us.” Emma pressed through a knot of people blocking the end of the registration line. “Excuse us. Thanks.” She lined up behind three others. I stood beside her. “Bingo’s been acting cagey for the past few weeks.”

“Cagey, how?”

“Have you noticed that anytime her fiancé goes near one of her friends, Bingo spirits him away?”

I hadn’t, but then I barely knew the Reverend. I had only met him once, at a diner while he was picking up a to-go meal. He was the pastor of a small congregation, a studious type with longish hair and a beak nose.

“Did you notice that he didn’t go on the haunted tour? He didn’t come to the party at Pearl’s house, either.”

Neither did Emma’s husband, but I wasn’t going to quibble. I said, “Perhaps he was working on his sermon.”

“He rarely goes anywhere other than church. It’s like Bingo doesn’t want us to get to know him. What if she’s put a spell on him?”

I snorted. “C’mon, Emma, you don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Bingo acted like Pearl’s friend, but she wasn’t. I heard her on the haunted tour. She was arguing with Pearl. She said Pearl couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut.”

“About?”

“That’s just it. I asked Pearl. She wouldn’t tell me. Why not? Because she
could
keep her mouth shut.”

Sadly, I thought, that would be forever.

T
HE
PARADE
WENT
off without a hitch. Tigger didn’t win the competition. Neither did Maya’s cat, Boots, which Maya surprisingly took in stride. I think just having Boots back in her arms made her realize how silly competitions were. The Persian wearing the tiara won the parade. How could the judges resist all the glitz and glamour? Only another Persian beribboned like a Miss America beauty pageant entrant would’ve stood an equal chance.

After I arrived home that night and set Tigger in the cottage, I strolled to my aunt’s house. I saw a light on in her bedroom. I rang the doorbell. She didn’t respond. “Aunt Vera?” I yelled.

No answer.

I wasn’t usually one to out-and-out panic, but something didn’t feel right. I fumbled with my keys and inserted my copy of Aunt Vera’s key into the lock. I opened the door and hurried inside. “Aunt Vera?” I rushed to her bedroom. She wasn’t in her bed. A pile of clothing lay on the bedspread. The door to the bathroom was ajar. I checked inside. Maybe she had fallen on the tile. She wasn’t there, either.

I raced to the patio. The moon was still full. I didn’t see any walkers. There were no bonfires. Unease turned to dread. I hurried back inside and dialed my father. He answered after one ring.

“What’s up, Tootsie Pop?” he said, using the nickname he had given me way back when. No matter how old I got or what career path I chose, I would always be his
little
girl.

“Aunt Vera. Did you check in on her?”

“I couldn’t reach her.”

“Couldn’t—” I drew in a sharp breath. “Why didn’t you call me back?”

“Sweetheart, your aunt is very protective of her privacy.”

So much for
Tag, you’re it
. That just cemented the fact that if I wanted a job done well, I had to do it myself. Sheesh.

“Dad, she’s sick.”

“So she’ll sleep it off.”

“That’s just the thing. She’s not in her house.”

“She’s not?”

“No. She’s gone. Her car is here, but she’s nowhere to be found. I’m afraid she may have done something stupid.”

Dad scoffed. “Your aunt? She’s never done a stupid thing in her life. Well, except that time . . .” He chuckled.

“Dad. Focus! What if she went for a late-night swim, thinking the chill would kick out her cold?”

“Then she’ll be back. She’s a strong swimmer. She won all sorts of awards in her day.”

“She did?”

“She had her eye set on the Olympics, but Mother wasn’t supportive.”

For some reason, I had assumed my aunt’s career dreams had included dancing, perhaps becoming a prima ballerina. She would often swirl and swish around the shop. She had such grace. I said, “Grams dashed her dreams?”

“
Dashed
is a little strong. Mother said Vera wasn’t ready to commit to the work an Olympic hopeful had to do.”

“Grams called Aunt Vera lazy? She is anything but lazy.”

“Nowadays. But back then—” He hummed. “She had boys on her mind. All the time. And rock and roll. And roaming the world. She wasn’t much of a student, either.”

“But she’s so smart.”

“By Vera’s sophomore year in high school, Mother was able to coax her to focus. Mother also insisted that we choose service-oriented futures. I wound up in the FBI. Your aunt spent a year in the Peace Corps.”

“The Peace Corps?” What else didn’t I know about my aunt?

“She ultimately found her calling by working with charities. In the long run, it was a win-win.”

“I guess I was lucky Mom supported my dreams.”

“Your mother was a pushover for all you kids.” He chortled. “I’ll call Cinnamon and put her on the case.” My father and Cinnamon Pritchett had a relationship that was different than any I could have imagined. Cinnamon’s father had walked out on her and her mother. During high school, she hung out with a rough crowd. My father became her mentor. With his guidance, Cinnamon turned her life around and chose law enforcement. “She’ll send a deputy out looking for your aunt. Go home and wait for my call.”

My father was a big believer in
Let the police handle it
. Except the police didn’t always handle things, at least not in a timely manner. I needed things done
now
.
ASAP.

“Dad, I don’t like your tone.”

“You don’t?”

Up until I moved back to Crystal Cove, I had never been good at telling my father how I felt. “You sound like you’re FBI-ing me.”

“Ha! A new verb. I like it.” He laughed. “Yes, that’s what I’m doing. I’m FBI-ing you. Go. Get some rest. I’m on the case. Promise.”

I trudged to the cottage and slogged inside. Tigger, unhappy with being cooped up in my purse for the foray into my aunt’s house, tore across the cottage floor. He skittered beneath the kitchen table, lost traction, and wound up sliding into the wall. He yowled his discontent.

“Careful, buddy.
Look before you leap
is an age-old warning for a reason.”

He meowed, not understanding.

I scooped him off the floor. “Too much unbridled energy can send you into a tailspin.” I gave him a hug and set him down. “Eat and settle in for the night.”

But he wouldn’t quit. He darted after me as I strolled to the kitchen to make myself a cup of green tea and a chicken breast. I had heard the tea was a good remedy to stave off dementia. With all the stress cycling through my brain, dementia couldn’t be far away. The chicken was going to be nothing fancy, purely for fuel.

After putting the water on to boil, I removed the chicken from the refrigerator. While opening the package, I thought again of my friend who worked at UC Santa Cruz. Was she being a chicken about calling me? She was a strong, vibrant career woman. Surely, she had the courage to buck the system.

I fetched my cell phone and dialed. My message rolled into voice mail for a second time. Shoot. My friend and I had been pretty tight back in college. I had introduced her to her husband—cute guy, now a prestigious Central Coast winery owner. She owed me, didn’t she?

“Phooey.” I stabbed End on the phone and dropped it on the kitchen table with a
thunk
.

Cooking ought to calm my nerves. But not cooking chicken. For some reason a chicken breast even doused with my favorite spices and paired with a glass of wine didn’t tempt my taste buds. Truth? Nothing did. But I needed to get my hands busy and occupy my brain cells.

Yesterday, I had taken two minutes to drop into the grocery store and purchase oranges and inexpensive vodka to do a trial run for the Halloween party. I’d also bought a flavor injector, which was clear and not nearly as stylish as the green-handled ones I had ordered online.

Though my knees still knocked, figuratively, about throwing a party by myself, there was no time like the present to practice. I fetched a black Sharpie from a drawer and bumped the drawer closed with my hip. It didn’t go in all the way. I bumped it again. I had a bad habit of leaving drawers slightly ajar and dozens of bruises to show for it. Next, I drew huge pumpkin-style grins on both oranges. I set them on a cutting board, then filled the injector with vodka. If I recalled correctly, I needed to thrust the injector straight through the navel where the orange was pulpy. I tried once, but the needle didn’t push through. I jabbed again. The tip missed its target and skidded off the peel. The fruit went flying off the cutting board. I lurched to catch it and hit my forearm on the counter’s edge in the process.

“Ow!”

Tigger leaped onto the chair beside the kitchen table and ogled me.

“Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble.”

I twirled a finger so he would nestle down on the chair seat, a trick we had been working on for over a month. He followed my finger and turned in the circle, but he wouldn’t rest. I fetched a pea-sized kitty treat, patted his rump, and said, “Lie down.” I know. He wasn’t a dog, but he got the idea. When he settled, I handed him the treat. Afterward I washed my hands and started over.

I fetched the wayward orange and rinsed it off. With my left hand, I steadied the fruit on the cutting board, then carefully slid the needle into the navel. Success. I pushed in the plunger. Juice squirted into the orange. I removed the flavor injector, set it on the counter, and shouted, “Ta-da!”

Tigger meowed.

I explained. “I did it. I infused an—”

I stopped as two scenarios flashed in my mind: my ineptness with a flavor injector, and Pearl lying dead. She had been injected with poison. Who among her friends and enemies knew how to use a syringe? Emma claimed that she fainted from the sight of needles. Was she lying? She worked with a veterinarian; she had to know
how
to use a hypodermic. She had good reason to kill Pearl—to keep her husband from finding out about her love for Pearl. And I couldn’t rule out Emma’s husband, Edward, could I? He was not the warmest of souls. Would he have killed Pearl to save his marriage? He was a dentist; he used a syringe to inject lidocaine or whatever the current drug was for numbing the mouth. Emma claimed that Bingo, a former nurse, would be quite adept at using a syringe. Did Bingo want Pearl dead so she could become the High Priestess? What had Bingo and Pearl argued about on the night of the haunted tour? Had anybody heard the conversation?

Next, I considered Trisha Thornton. She was a chemist. She might have used a syringe in her lab studies at some point in her education. Did she kill her mother for the basic reason that any child would kill a parent, to eliminate the one person who controlled her in order to get her hot little hands on her inheritance whether or not she had to wait a dozen years to access it?

I peered out the window at my aunt’s house. She was determined to solve Pearl’s murder. Was she deliberating along the same lines as I was? Did she figure out who had murdered Pearl? Was she frazzled enough to have approached the killer by herself? Was that why I couldn’t reach her? Was she hurt . . . or worse . . . dead?

The notion made me tense up so fiercely I thought I might be sick. I dialed my father again on the cell phone. My call went to voice mail. Dang. Trying to keep my composure, I asked him to telephone me as soon as he could to give me an update. Then I dialed my aunt’s cell phone.

No answer. No rollover to voice mail.

“Shoot!”

Someone rapped on my door. “Aunt Vera?” I nearly skipped to the foyer. I peeked through the peephole and drew up short. It wasn’t Aunt Vera or my father. It was Rhett. He held a largish square brown box in his hand. I glanced at my watch. Eight
P.M.
On Saturday. Nowhere near our date night of Tuesday. Did he have ESP? Sensing how fraught I was, had he come over to comfort me?

“Jenna,” he called.

No way did I want him to think I was a helpless wreck. I checked myself in the tiny mirror to the right of the door. Not bad. My mascara and lipstick were intact. No orange pulp adorned my cheeks. I shook out the tension in my shoulders and opened the door as I forced a big, happy smile onto my face. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

He held up the box. “I bought you a present.”

No bow. No wrapping. “Um, what is it?”

“A hibachi. I want to teach you how to grill.”

I tilted my head. “Did my father put you up to this?”

“Your father?”

“Lately, you two are as thick as thieves. Did he call you? Did he tell you I was fretting about my aunt? Truth.”

Silence.

I said, “I value the truth.”

Rhett nodded. “Yes. He called me.”

“Which means Cinnamon and her deputies haven’t tracked down my aunt. Ugh. I knew it. Something’s happened to her. She’s in trouble. I’m sensing it right here.” I tapped my solar plexus. “I’ve tried to push the feeling aside, but I can’t.”

A new wave of bad vibes, or whatever you would call them, zinged through me. I wrapped my arms around myself.

Rhett moved toward me and drew me into a one-armed hug. “Shh. Don’t go there. She’s fine. I’m sure of it.”

Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes. When they retreated and I felt assured I wouldn’t cry, I inched out of Rhett’s embrace. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I appreciate the gift, but let there be no misunderstanding, I’m nowhere near ready to learn how to barbecue on a teensy grill that requires charcoal.” I hitched a thumb at the mess in the kitchen. “I’m barely learning how to inject a . . . no!”

Tigger, the scamp, had figured out how to leap onto the counter. A kitchen chair seemed to be his launching point. He was licking the unwrapped chicken. “Off,” I squawked.

He bounded to the floor and scurried to safety beneath the couch. He peeped from beneath, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“You’d better hide, cat,” I warned. That would teach me to leave food unattended on the counter. I hoped Tigger wouldn’t get sick. He wouldn’t, would he? Cats were natural predators. They could eat mice and all sorts of delectable
ick
fare. I eyed Rhett, who was stifling a smile. “Come in,” I said. “A good rinsing will remove his germs, won’t it? Cooking will probably kill them, too.”

“You bet.” Rhett set the box holding the hibachi on the table beside the couch. “I’m assuming, by the uncooked nature of that chicken, you haven’t eaten dinner. Do you want to go to The Pelican Brief and grab a bite?”