Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) (19 page)

“Did you forget that she wasn’t at the house when her mother died?”

“Doesn’t that kind of drug require time to take effect?” I waited while Cinnamon digested that tidbit. “Trisha could have gone to the lab—if she really went to the lab—and returned to do the deed once her mother fell asleep. By the way, Trisha is also into alchemy.”

“According to Ms. Bedelia?”

I shook my head. “Maya Adaire told me that.”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Cinnamon shot her finger at me. “Right now I feel like we’re playing a bad game of telephone. Who said what to whom and when? I know gossip is the lifeblood of a small town, but I’ve listened to enough chatter. Go back to work and let me do what I do best. I promise I’ll take everything under consideration.”

“And deem my aunt innocent?”

A woman yelled, “Chief Pritchett.”

Cinnamon’s eyes widened.

I pivoted and gaped, surprised to see Trisha Thornton exiting Mum’s the Word Diner.

“Chief Pritchett,” she said. “There you are.”

Trisha hurried toward Cinnamon, her arm outstretched. She was carrying a blue leather-bound book. “I found something I think you’ll want to see.” She drew up short when she caught sight of me. She glanced at Cinnamon, who shrugged as if she were getting used to me being privy to information.

“What do you have?” Cinnamon held out her hand.

Trisha forked over the book, which was about five by seven inches. On the front cover, gold lettering spelled out
Datebook
. “I was sitting on the couch last night, watching television, and I spilled popcorn. I went fishing for the kernels between the cushions and . . . and this was there. It’s my mother’s.” She helped Cinnamon flip open the book, and she pointed to the entries. “See these?”

Appointments were written in pairs of block letters, every day Monday through Friday, at each hour between the hours of nine and five. I could make out:
RJ
,
EW
,
MA
,
BB
, and so many more.

“We’d been wondering where this might have gotten to,” Cinnamon said. “The calendar on her computer was blank.”

I felt relieved to know that Cinnamon and her people had searched Pearl’s office for clues.

“I don’t know why my mother entered an appointment with Ma,” Trisha said, pointing to the
MA
entry. “That’s my grandmother. She lives in Santa Cruz in a nursing home.”

I said, “Are you sure those letters signify your grandmother? The other appointments are all initials.” I recognized my own,
JH
, scrawled in at 3:00
P.M.
a week ago Friday. It had been our final session. Pearl had declared me ready to
move on
. “
MA
could be someone else. Maya Adaire, perhaps.”

“Or Marlon Appleby,” Cinnamon said, referring to her deputy. “Or a horde of other locals.”

“Do you think one of them killed her?” Trisha said. “They must all have terrible problems. Why else would my mother be so secretive about their names?”

“I don’t think she was being secretive, Miss Thornton, only discreet.”

Trisha nodded, looking younger and more uncertain than on previous occasions. She clutched the strap of her crocheted tote with both hands. “Well, I thought you should have the book. In case.” She hurried away.

Cinnamon held up the book. “What do you think, Jenna? She brought this to me of her own accord. Doesn’t that make her seem pretty darned innocent?”

I huffed. “Didn’t you just tell me that whoever points the finger at someone else could be guilty herself?”

Cinnamon frowned, apparently not appreciating my steel-trap memory. An awkward silence fell between us.

I broke it. “How are things with you and Bucky?”

She tilted her head. “That’s it? We’re resorting to chitchat?”

“He’s quite charming,” I said. “And he’s friends with Rhett, which means he has good taste.”

“Rhett,” Cinnamon muttered.

Shoot. Why had I been naïve the other night to think she had moved on and forgotten the past? “Talk to Bucky. He’s obviously good friends with Rhett. Or don’t you trust his judgment?” I hitched my thumb at Rhett and Bucky, who were still sitting beside each other. Bucky was talking this time and Rhett was laughing. “Is that the laugh of a guilty man? No, it’s not. Here’s a suggestion. When you’re done solving Pearl Thornton’s murder, why don’t you revisit the arson at The Grotto and check out the former restaurant owner in New Orleans? Maybe Rhett’s right. Maybe she still has the art that supposedly burned in the fire.”

Cinnamon ground her teeth together. Was she wondering whether her bias, based upon suspicion developed years ago, clashed with her current reality, or was she upset that Bucky and Rhett were friends? Either way, she didn’t want to say something to me that she might regret.

As for me? I didn’t care. I had given her food for thought.

I
RETURNED
TO
The Cookbook Nook about the same time the candy-making class was wrapping up. A few hours had produced a wealth of chocolate brittle as well as a bevy of satisfied customers.

Katie said, “Terrific, you’re back.” She handed me a wedge of candy. “Taste.”

The morsel crunched and melted in my mouth. The combination of sugar and salt was heavenly. “Delicious.”

“Hand these out.” Katie had fashioned adorable checkered boxes in which each of the attendees could pack their goodies. She also provided labels:
Homemade by
with a blank for the attendee’s name. “Wait, before you do, tell me who
that
is from.” She gestured to a tiny box on the counter. “The note says, ‘From your secret admirer.’ Care to share who that might be?”

I opened the box. Out sprang a Slinky toy. So did another notecard. “What the—” I gasped. I picked up the notecard.

“What’s it say?”

“‘I know how much you like retro. Enjoy.’” I snorted. “I do not like retro. I mean, yes, I like a yo-yo and a hula hoop, but a coil of wire? Who is this guy?”

“Are you sure Rhett isn’t joking around with you?” Katie asked.

“These gifts are not from him.” I jammed the toy back in the box and shoved the gift under the counter. I had to figure out who this admirer was and put an end to it. If Deputy Appleby was the culprit, I would give him a piece of my mind in the bargain. “Moving on.” I passed out the candy boxes to the students.

As they packed their sweets, the chatter among them was electric. The class had been fun, insightful, and most definitely tasty. All agreed that Katie was an excellent and enthusiastic teacher, and they looked forward to another class. I couldn’t have been more thrilled. Positive buzz always helped a business thrive.

Meanwhile, Katie and I started folding chairs and resetting the movable bookshelves.

Katie said, “How’s your aunt? You look relieved, so she must be okay.”

I gave her a brief recap.

“Do you really think she was drugged?” Katie asked.

“Maya said Aunt Vera was acting edgy and different. That’s not a good sign.”

When we were done rearranging, I sent Katie in search of a bowl of soup—she hadn’t made broccoli with cheddar, but she did have lobster bisque on hand, my second favorite—and I went to the counter to help Bailey, who was manning the register. Each attendee, thanks to the ten percent off coupon we had provided, had gone in search of something, whether a cookbook, a work of fiction, or giftware.

As they approached the checkout counter, I set the purchases into our tangerine-striped gift bags, specially ordered for the fall season, and tied them with bows.

When the last student left the shop, Bailey said, “I heard you telling Katie about your aunt. What did I miss?”

I filled her in. I added that Trisha showed up at the end of my chat with Cinnamon.

“Which reminds me.” Bailey twisted and untwisted her turquoise beads. “Did you ever hear back from your friend at UCSC?”

“No.”

“Meaning we still don’t know about Trisha’s school records or her school debt, and we don’t know whether she was really at the lab when she says she was.”

“No, but she brought that book to Cinnamon.”

“Which proves nothing.” Bailey whipped a ledger from the drawer beneath the cash register and shoved it at me. “Here. Take this to Cinnamon. It’s our cash receipts book. It shows we earned money today.”

“Huh?” I said. “I’m not following.”

“Does this book prove anything? No, it does not. A datebook with initials in it is worthless. It doesn’t verify that anybody killed anybody. All it proves is that people with initials were Pearl Thornton’s patients, but it doesn’t do more than that. My initials, Bailey Bird, are the same as Bingo’s. So, was I one of Pearl’s patients?”

“I don’t know. Were you?”

Bailey smirked. “Like I’d ever go to a shrink. I would never be able to leave the couch with all the junk going on in this noggin.” She tapped her temple, then laughed. “Only sane people should go to a shrink, in my humble opinion. The others should do their best to pretend they’re sane. In other words, fake it. Speaking of Bingo Bedelia . . . let’s face it, she is not all that sane. Did you see the display window at Aunt Teek’s? It’s out there.” Bailey twirled her finger next to her head. “What do you know about her?”

“She grew up in Ohio, became a nurse, and moved here about twenty years ago. She was engaged at one time, but she never married.”

“So why does she own an antique shop? Why isn’t she still a nurse?”

“She would need to get a California license.”

“Why not do that? Is there something in her past that might prevent her from continuing that career?”

“Like?”

“Like did she kill someone in Ohio and flee?”

I shuddered; I had wondered the same thing. Where was that boyfriend who supposedly up and left her?

“C’mon,” Bailey said. “Once a caretaker, always a caretaker. Being a nurse is a calling, isn’t it?” Bailey hurried to the computer and swung the screen to face me. “Let’s twink her.”

“I don’t want to twink her.” Twinking was a new social networking program. You twinked someone; they twinked you back. You could see their pictures; they could see yours. The idea was to write little stories to accompany each photo, not just share photos. I had gotten into it because of all the pictures I had of Tigger. I also twinked photographs of the store. I found twinking was a great marketing tool. People loved twinking books and kitchenware. Katie twinked the photos of her food. We shared a few links to recipes on our website.

“Bingo isn’t her real name,” Bailey said, her hands hovering over the keyboard. “What is it?”

“Barbara.”

Bailey typed Barbara > Bingo > Bedelia into the Twink search space. Up popped a ton of pictures for a site run by someone named Mr. Mysterious. All of the pictures were older ones, circa thirty years ago. Bingo looked to be about sixteen. I was sure they were photos of her; the lantern jaw and nose were unmistakable. All of the photographs of other teens had funny names attributed to them: Musketeer, Mouse, Babykins.

As if she knew we were snooping into her life, Bingo hurried into the shop. Talk about bad timing.

“Quick, Bailey,” I whispered. “Turn it off. Now.”

“Jenna.” Over a Pilgrim-style black dress, Bingo wore a black cape that flapped like bat wings behind her. She rushed toward us.

“Turn it off, Bailey,” I rasped. “Off. Off.”

She obeyed with a grumble.

“Is Vera here?” Bingo used her hands to talk, each movement jerky and tense.

“Aunt Vera? No, she’s at the hospital.”

“Still?” Bingo started for the door. “Why did Maya wait this long to tell me about the accident?”

“Bingo, hold up.” I darted from behind the counter and blocked her short of the exit. I didn’t touch her. She looked positively spooked. “I’ve got to ask you something.”

She tried to dodge me. “I must go. Your aunt needs me.”

“She’s resting. She’ll be in the hospital overnight.”

“Maya said Vera crashed into a tree.” Bingo sniffed. “When will she learn to focus as she drives?”

“Maya said my aunt seemed woozy after drinking tea at your shop.”

“Tea doesn’t make a person woozy. No, this is all about Vera and her driving skills. A car is a two-ton piece of machinery. She can’t be idle behind the wheel. Doesn’t she realize driving requires total concentration? She—”

“Bingo. Stop. Aunt Vera is going to be fine.” If Bingo was this worried, maybe she didn’t have anything to do with my aunt’s accident. If Aunt Vera wasn’t unsteady, maybe she had zoned out, yet again, while driving. I decided to speak to my father about the problem. He would insist my aunt get a full medical examination. She would argue but ultimately obey. “May I ask you a question?”

“About?”

“Pearl.”

“What about her?”

“Were you one of Pearl’s patients?”

Bingo stiffened. “That’s . . . privileged information.”

“I was a patient. I don’t mind saying so. I had to deal with the grief of losing my husband. Why did you see her?”

“Why is it important to you?”

“My aunt . . .” I paused. No, I wouldn’t involve Aunt Vera. This was my line of inquiry, not hers. But how could I find out the secret Bingo wanted Pearl to keep? She had a secret. Emma heard her say so, and Bingo’s gaze . . . well, if her eyes were laser beams, she could cut me in half. “Your Halloween display.”

“What about it?”

“There are two women running toward a cemetery. Is one of them you? Is there someone you’re frightened of? Perhaps a past that you’re running from?”

Bingo looked me straight in the eye. “Jenna, I believed you of all people would discern the significance.”

“I’m sorry? Why me?”

“You love books. Your aunt tells me you are an avid reader. The display is my depiction, my interpretation if you will, of
Rebecca
.”

“By Daphne du Maurier?” How had I not figured that out?
Rebecca
, a sinister psychological tale about jealousy, was one of my all-time favorite books.
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again . . .
“You’re telling me your display involves the
new
Mrs. de Winter being chased by—” I hesitated. “Who does the woman in black represent, Mrs. Danvers or the first Mrs. de Winter?”

“Both. Don’t you get it?” she huffed. “It doesn’t matter. I really must go to your aunt.”

“Wait.” This time I touched her. “One more question. You and Pearl were overheard arguing on the night of the haunted tour.”

“Who heard us?”

“That’s not important. You wanted Pearl to keep a secret. Whatever it was, she took to her grave.”

“You couldn’t think—” Bingo’s eyes misted over. “You do. You think I killed Pearl.” She pinched her lips together. “Mercy. I would never kill to keep the secret, and it’s bound to come out.”

“What is it? Please tell me.”

“He . . .” She chewed her lip.

“He, who?”

Bingo gripped my elbow and drew me outside. A cool breeze curled around my ankles and legs. I fought off a shiver.

“I was engaged as a girl,” Bingo said sotto voce. “In high school. My fiancé left for college, and in a blink of an eye, it was over. I was heartbroken, but after a long while, I moved on.”

“You settled in Crystal Cove. You started a new life.”

She nodded.

“You gave up nursing. Why?”

“I only became a nurse because my mother had been one. It was not my passion. I always loved antiques.”

“Go on.”

“A few months ago, out of the blue, my former fiancé began calling me.” Bingo worried her hands together. “Somehow the Reverend’s and my nuptial date made it onto social networking. I didn’t post it; neither did the Reverend. I only revealed the official date to Pearl. He . . . this man . . . learned I was getting married, and he . . .” More worrying. She looked like she would rather be anywhere else than outside our shop. “I was sure Pearl was the one who had posted something. I accused her. She swore she didn’t do it.”

“Maybe her daughter, Trisha, leaked it.”

Bingo sucked in air, then exhaled. “I hadn’t considered that. Trisha doesn’t like me. Not a whit.”

“Go on. So this guy is calling you. It’s throwing you into a tailspin. Why?”

“Because he’s . . . blackmailing me.”

“Why on earth?”

Bingo chewed on her lip. “Because I posed nude for him.”

Now I understood the tarot card she had drawn. I said, “He kept the negatives.”

Bingo’s eyes misted over. “I have done everything I could to lead a good life. A charitable life. I’ve been anxious all these years that the negatives would surface. Now that I’m marrying the Reverend, well, you can understand why. I offered to pay the jerk for the photos, but he wouldn’t go for it.”

I was confused. “Didn’t you just tell me he was blackmailing you?”

“Not for money. He wants to
see
me. He claims he still loves me.”

“If he did, he wouldn’t threaten you.”

“I asked Pearl’s advice. She said many youths make mistakes they regret in their later years and not to blame myself. She told me not to make contact. I was afraid he would post the photos on the Internet. The worry hung like the sword of Damocles over my head.” The sword of Damocles came from a Greek tale between Dionysus and Damocles, ending with the moral that with great power comes great peril. “Pearl advised me to confess fully to the Reverend, but I couldn’t. I didn’t dare. And lose him? No, no, no.” Bingo shook her head. “Then a few days ago, Pearl started acting strangely. She became critical of my work ethic for the Winsome Witches. She often grew snippy as we neared the big luncheon, but this time she was worse. That night, during the tour, she banned me from participating with the Winsome Witches ever again if I didn’t come clean to the Reverend. She valued honesty above all else. We exchanged words. In a fit of peeve, I called her selfish and domineering.” Bingo clasped my hands. “By the end of the haunted tour, Pearl apologized, as did I, and I was certain my secret was safe.”

“Bingo, I’m afraid to tell you that my aunt found a stained hatpin and a bottle of arsenic in the drawers at Aunt Teek’s.”