Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) (18 page)

“Too-ra-loo,” my aunt warbled.

“Call me crazy, but you made me so anxious. I worried you’d gone back to taking that over-the-counter cough medicine junk. All those unhealthy red dyes. The stuff can make you not only itchy but sleepy, and worse. So I followed you. You missed your exit. I didn’t know where you were off to, but then you started to weave. You were getting too close to the cliff.”

“What cliff?” I nearly shrieked, trying to imagine the terrain.

“South of the pier,” Maya said.

There were lots of hills in and around Crystal Cove, but not many cliffs. However, along Highway 1, southward toward San Simeon, there were sheer walls of rock. I remembered when my father was teaching me to drive along the route. Every second, I worried that I would plunge into the ocean.

“Aunt Vera, why were you all the way down there?”

“I can’t remember.”

“I thought maybe you’d fallen asleep,” Maya said. “That’s why I was honking.”

“I remember wondering who was dogging me from behind. It was hazy. I couldn’t make out a car or face in the rearview mirror. At one point, I turned my head to see who was being so rude. I guess that’s when I lost control of the steering wheel. I swerved. I hit the tree and banged forward.”

My heart started to pound so hard I could feel it drumming my ribs. “Didn’t the airbag inflate?” I said.

“What airbag? In my ancient Mustang? I hit my forehead and my cheek.” She started to reach for her face.

I said, “Don’t.”

“Give me a mirror, now.”

“No.”

“Don’t baby me.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

She pulled up the covers of her bed and tucked them tightly under her arms. “Well, I’m alive and that’s all that matters. Now, I’m getting sleepy.”

“We’ll go,” I said, “but I want you to promise to do everything the doctor orders.” I took hold of my aunt’s hands. They were shaking. She was anxious. So was I. Replaying the events in my mind, I couldn’t help wondering if Bingo had slipped something into my aunt’s tea to make her so drowsy she would drive herself to an untimely death.

A
ROUND
11:00
A
.
M
.,
as Maya and I were leaving Mercy Urgent Care, my father rushed into the foyer. Pepper had tracked him down, too. Would wonders never cease? I quickly updated him. He promised he wouldn’t leave my aunt’s side, just in case someone wanted to do her in. He wouldn’t need a gun to protect her. At one point early in his FBI career, before he became a clandestine spy, he had served as a defensive tactics or, as the bureau called it, DT trainer. He knew everything from jujitsu to krav maga. Although he hadn’t taught me or my siblings hand-to-hand fighting, he did teach us how to run. Running, he often advised us, was the best response; standing one’s ground was asking for trouble.

Though the sun blazed overhead when Maya and I exited the facility, the air was chilly. A shiver ran down my spine and my stomach grumbled. I hadn’t eaten anything since dawn. I wondered what Katie had put on the lunch menu at the café. I was hoping for one of her rich soups, like creamed broccoli topped with grated cheddar cheese.

Maya threw herself at me and clutched me in a desperate embrace. “Jenna.”

My fingers felt her lean frame beneath the drapes of clothing. She could probably do with a little of Katie’s home cooking, too, I mused.

“I was so worried,” she said.

“I know,” I cooed. “I was worried, as well.”

“Your aunt is wrong. Bingo can’t be the killer. She just can’t be.”

“I hope she isn’t, but I intend to find out.”

“You know I’d help, but I have to get back to work. I’ve got two employees out sick. Forgive me?”

“You’ve done enough.”

Maya bussed my cheek and hurried to her Prius.

Before I satisfied my hunger, I needed to talk to Cinnamon Pritchett. I climbed into my VW bug and dialed the precinct. I quickly learned that Cinnamon was dealing with a fistfight at The Pier. Before heading there, I called Bailey, who assured me everything was hunky-dory at the shop.

The Pier, which was about two hundred yards of weathered wood located at the south end of town, was a destination spot. People from all over came to rent boats, fish, take a sunset cruise, ride the carousel, play a carny game, or shop and dine.

One of the restaurants, Mum’s the Word diner, had been the center of attention last month; its owner was murdered during the Grill Fest. However, once again, The Word, as the locals called it, was thriving. A line of customers snaked out the door. Just beyond The Word stood the Seaside Bakery. I am particularly fond of its spun sugar. I know; no advice warranted. Pure sugar is not good for the body, but I can’t help myself sometimes. I blame my mother. She used to treat me to a wand of Pink Froth after our art-on-the-beach outings. Ah, memories.

I saw a group of people convening beyond the bakery. I also spotted Rhett sitting with Bucky on the bench opposite the diner. Both held fishing poles. Bucky was laughing at some story Rhett was telling. I didn’t disturb them and wended my way through the crowd.

Cinnamon stood in front of a ring toss carny game. She faced off two men, one I dubbed Mutt, the other Jeff. Mutt was huge and furry; Jeff was skin and bones and much shorter than his adversary. His jeans hung down around his hips and only managed to stay up because of a belt. His nose was bleeding and his cheek was bruised. Cinnamon looked forceful, standing with her right hand gripping the butt of the pistol in her holster. She pointed the index finger of her left hand at Mutt. “Your turn to speak.”

From what I could glean from individuals in the crowd, Mutt and Jeff worked together at the ring toss carny game. Mutt claimed Jeff was having an affair with his wife. Jeff had retaliated, saying he would never set hand on Mutt’s wife because she was uglier than a monkey’s armpit. Mutt, fueled by a couple of early-morning beers, had slugged Jeff. Cinnamon happened to be at The Word having a bite to eat when the set-to started.

I waited while she defused the situation. The men ended up shaking hands and walking off together, Mutt’s arm slung over Jeff’s shoulders. I didn’t envy Mutt’s wife when he arrived home. According to the woman next to me, Mutt was certain she was having an affair with
someone
. I hoped Cinnamon would send one of her crew to monitor the reunion.

I caught up to Cinnamon as she headed back toward The Word. “Chief.”

“Jenna.” Her gaze was filled with concern. “I heard about your aunt. Mother texted me.”

“Your mother—”

Cinnamon held up a hand. “Don’t say a word. I know she can be confrontational.”

“No, she was great,” I said. “She was sincerely worried about my aunt. I’d like to thank her for coming straight to me.”

Cinnamon offered a wry smile. “Thank her? Really?”

“At some point, she and I have to make amends. Do you think I could win her over by giving her a batch of bittersweet chocolate?”

“Only if Katie makes it.” She laughed.

“Ha-ha.” Apparently my secret about not being an expert in the kitchen was out. “I’m a work in progress.”

“Me, too.”

“Listen, about my aunt’s accident—”

“She’s not a very good driver, is she?”

“Let’s just say her mind drifts on occasion, but this wasn’t because of her inability to focus. I think someone might have dosed her tea to make her woozy.” I gave Cinnamon an account of the morning’s events.

She blew out a long stream of frustrated air. “Vera was investigating?”

“She’s not guilty. She wants to know the truth as much as you and I do.”

“That’s not the point. I could haul her into jail for breaking and entering Aunt Teek’s.”

“The door was unlocked.”

“Really?” Cinnamon’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Do you think that defense would hold up in court?”

“I don’t know, would it? I didn’t go to law school.” I matched her tone.

She glowered at me. “What did Vera hope to find?”

“She thinks Bingo Bedelia might be hiding something from her past.”

“Your aunt and Bingo are good friends. Don’t they talk about these things?”

“Are you telling me you don’t have secrets that you keep from your best friend?”

Cinnamon hesitated. “I don’t have a best friend.”

That rocked me to the core. As a cop, had she cut herself off from the rest of the world?

“My aunt is trying to be unbiased,” I said, pressing onward. I didn’t add that I hoped Cinnamon would be impartial, as well. About my aunt. Had she discovered yet that Aunt Vera and Pearl had vied for the same guy? I sure wasn’t going to tell her.

“What does she need to be unbiased about?”

“A piece of gossip she gleaned. Emma claimed to have overheard Bingo arguing with Pearl a few nights ago, warning her to keep a secret.” I held up a hand. “No, I don’t know what secret.”

“Sounds cryptic.”

“My aunt wondered if the secret involved the man who broke Bingo’s heart. She went to see if she could find evidence, like a diary or something.”

“Do women still write in diaries?”

“Tons do. We have some beautiful spiral recipe diaries at the shop for people who like to keep track of menus and family recipes.”

Cinnamon wagged her head. “Not I.”

“Me, either. But I hear it’s an art, a way to pass along tradition. Anyway,” I continued, “my aunt was on the hunt, but then Bingo and the others showed up.”

“Which others?”

“Emma and Maya.” I explained about the morning tea to discuss a thank-you event for Winsome Witches volunteers. “Can you send someone to Aunt Teek’s to see if Bingo put something in my aunt’s tea that might have made her drowsy and unsteady behind the wheel?”

“I would imagine if Bingo did, the cup has been rinsed by now.”

Her comment ricocheted me back to the morning we found Pearl dead. “Wow,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Of what?”

“Pearl’s cocktail glass.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Pearl’s killer couldn’t have simply jammed her with a hypodermic needle. She would have needed to subdue Pearl first.”

“Or he.”

“How could she or
he
have injected Pearl without leaving a bruise? When I have to have blood drawn, I pray for a good technician who can find a vein and not leave my arm a mass of purple. Pearl didn’t have a bruise, only the rash in the crook of her arm. I heard one of your people mention you’d be doing a toxicology report.”

She frowned. “You heard
me
mention it.”

“Fine. But I wasn’t eavesdropping on purpose. You weren’t whispering. You’re a singer.” My aunt said Cinnamon had a voice like an angel. “You project.”

“Swell.”

I shifted feet. “Pearl wouldn’t have let someone inject her willingly. I suppose someone could have switched out the insulin in her hypodermic. Trisha suggested that. And, yes, Pearl could have dosed herself, but I didn’t see a hypodermic lying around. Did you? Think about it. Pearl drank a cocktail.” I ticked off points on my fingertips. “The glass was still on the table beside the chaise lounge when we found her. What if the killer put something in that drink?”

“Have you been spending a lot of time theorizing about this?”

“The notion just came to me. Do you know if Pearl was sedated?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, as in
yes
, she was?”

Cinnamon flicked a fly off her neck.

“With . . . ?” I said, leading her.

“An imidazopyridine class of drugs.”

“An
immy
what? What the heck is that?”

“The lab thinks it was zolpidem, the generic name for Ambien. Maybe three to five milligrams. When mixed with alcohol, it’s enough to make a person sleepy but cooperative.”

“How hard is that to get?”

“Not very. It’s about fifty cents a pill, street value.”

I reflected on Emma’s husband, the dentist. I’d bet he could write a prescription for those pills. What if he knew about Emma’s feelings for Pearl? He didn’t attend the party. According to Emma, he wouldn’t come within a mile of witches. What if he waited until the party disbanded and Emma left, and then he stole into Pearl’s house? I paused. Why would Pearl have let Edward near enough to dose her drink?

Then I thought of another angle. “Could Pearl’s murder have been a mercy killing? Is it possible she was sicker than she let on? Maybe she didn’t have type 2 diabetes, she had . . .” I couldn’t say the word. My mother died of lung cancer. Not due to any fault of her own. She hadn’t smoked a day in her life. “Maybe Pearl let, or even encouraged, someone to give her the shot.”

“We checked her doctor’s records. She definitely had type 2 diabetes.” Cinnamon shifted feet. “Is this sudden passion for theorizing the reason why you left a message with my deputy for me to call you?”

I had forgotten about that conversation. “No.” I told her about Mrs. Hammerstead’s visit to the store for the candy-making class. I described our conversation about the night her dog Ho-Ho went missing. “If I were you, I’d check with the vet. If Ho-Ho wasn’t missing, Emma Wright might have lied about her alibi.”

Cinnamon sighed, clearly frustrated with me. “I’ll follow up.”

“Also, you should know that Bailey overheard Trisha Thornton talking to her boyfriend at the coffee shop. They were worried about Aunt Vera nosing around UC Santa Cruz. I had no idea she went there. If only she’d told me. I’ve called a friend—”

“You called what friend?” Cinnamon blurted out. “Where? At UCSC?”

Open mouth; insert a fistful of
uh-oh
s. “A friend who works in the administration office.”

“Jenna.”

“I just wanted to find out about Trisha’s finances.” I didn’t add,
And her alibi and her ability to use a hypodermic, yada yada
. “I learned her mother was about to cut her off financially.”

“Who told you that? This
friend
?”

“No. Bingo Bedelia. What if, when Trisha realized she wouldn’t get her inheritance right away, she came up with the idea to steal the Thorntonite? It’s very rare. A single piece could rake in some big bucks.”

Cinnamon raised a hand to silence me. “I can’t believe you. You have no right to ask around.”

“Sure, I do. Everyone has a right to question what happened. I haven’t done anything in an official capacity. I have not misrepresented myself.”

“Didn’t you just tell me you did not study the law?”

“My father taught me to be curious. I want to solve Pearl Thornton’s murder. She was my advisor and one of my aunt’s best friends. Not to mention, I want my aunt to be off your suspect list. Is she?”

Cinnamon remained mute. Not a
yes
, not a
no
. Dang.

“What if Trisha drugged her mother?” I continued. “Trisha is a user. Did you know that? Cocaine and amphetamines.”

“Did Ms. Bedelia tell you that, as well?”

I nodded.

Cinnamon pursed her mouth. “In a murder investigation, ninety-nine percent of the suspects lie or subvert the truth. If one points a finger at another, then usually that person is hiding something of her own.”

“Do you think Bingo is lying?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Was everybody in the Winsome Witches coven good at
misdirection
, as my aunt termed it? “If Trisha has a drug source,” I continued, “she could get her hands on something like Ambien or zolpidem.”