Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) (2 page)

“Are all of you ready for the”—Pearl rested the tip of her finger to her mouth—“
haunted
walk on Tuesday?” She teetered a bit. “It’s going to be
spoo-oo-ooky
.” The event planners had scheduled an evening tour to visit Crystal Cove’s historic sites. “If you don’t watch out, someone might”—she wiggled her fingers in Bingo’s face—“scare you.”

“Stop it.” Bingo batted her friend’s hand away. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No.”

I wasn’t so sure. Pearl appeared a little off-balance.

Suddenly, she clutched her chest. Her eyes widened. She gasped for breath. Without warning, she crumpled to the ground. Bingo, who had been a nurse before she moved to Crystal Cove to open her dream shop, crouched beside Pearl. She grabbed her wrist. Just as she pressed two fingers against Pearl’s throat, Pearl bolted to a sitting position. Bingo fell backward on her rump.

Pearl roared with laughter. “I’m not dead, you goon.”

Bingo’s mouth fell open. “Why, you—”

My aunt leaped to a stand and said, “What on earth?”

Pearl continued to laugh. “I’m sorry. It’s almost Halloween.”

“Pranks are for April Fools’ Day,” Bingo chided.

“C’mon. Can’t anybody take a joke?”

“Dying is no joke!”

“Of course it’s not,” Pearl stammered. “But you mimed pulling a trigger a second ago, and I thought—”

“You could have given us all a heart attack.”

“But I didn’t, and it’s just . . .” Pearl’s mouth drew into a grim line. Her gaze turned serious. “I apologize. I’m a little punch-drunk, that’s all. I—” She hesitated.

“Out with it,” Bingo demanded.

“I just learned the results of some tests. I’ve been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. I know it’s not life-threatening. It’s all about having the right amount of insulin in my system, but the report sounded so stark. I’ve never watched my weight. I should have”—she patted her plump stomach—“but I haven’t. I simply needed to do something to lighten my day. I didn’t mean to frighten you so much. Forgive me?” She reached for Bingo’s hand and squeezed.

“Are you going to be okay?” Bingo said.

“Of course. I’ve started my medication, and I’m taking the advice I give to my patients. Positive thinking.” She eyed me. One of her favorite mantras was:
All things level out in time.
She lumbered to her feet and offered a hand to Bingo, who accepted.

Bingo brushed off her dress and said, “Come with me. Let’s get a cup of tea, and I’ll fill you in on some dietary tips. Number one, remember that stress can raise glucose levels.” The pair walked off, arm in arm.

My aunt turned to me and kissed me on both cheeks. “Well, that was fun.
Not.
”

I laughed. “I have to say I was shocked Pearl would do something like that, as rational as she always is.”

“Medical surprises can turn a person’s world upside down.” Aunt Vera glanced at her watch. “My, my. Time flies when you’re having a ball. Speaking of which, I’ve been cleaning up at my table. I’ve earned over three hundred dollars for the cause.” She was charging a dollar per palm or tarot card reading. “How about The Cookbook Nook booth?”

“We’re doing great. The Harry Potter cookbook, as expected, is a bestseller, and we’ve sold tons of herbal potion books. I think everyone attending the faire is drawn to the mystical.”

“Wonderful. Now . . . as long as nothing else goes wrong . . .” Her face, normally radiant with hope, turned grim.

A chill ran through me. “Why would you say that?”

“A moment ago, when Pearl arrived, I got the worst feeling.”

My breath caught in my chest. “What kind of feeling?”

“I was all itchy, and the light up here”—she tapped her temple—“went extremely dark.”

“Maybe you were sensing Pearl’s prank.”

Aunt Vera nodded in agreement. “You’re right. Silly me.” She kissed her fingers and tossed the imaginary kiss to the wind, something I’d seen her do all of my life. She said it was a good way to return bad energy to the universe.

In spite of her gesture, an uneasy feeling surged through me. Desperate to shake it off, I said, “It’s a good thing no more mirrors have broken.”

My aunt rapped the table. “Knock on wood.”

M
ONDAYS
AT
T
HE
Cookbook Nook could be taxing because we had so much to do before taking off Tuesday, like inventory, restocking, and dusting.

However, prior to attacking the mundane, I intended to focus on our Halloween décor. I hadn’t finished putting together our window display yet. Time was a-wasting. I was almost done. I had cut out a leafless tree, using brown paper with foam board as backing, and then I’d added a silhouette of a bat hanging upside down and an owl perched on a tree limb. Very spooky. Very cool. Beneath, I had laid a black polka-dot carpet and set out an assortment of pumpkins, each decorated with black felt for the eyes and mouths. In front of a short, white picket fence, I was arranging seasonal cookbooks with lengthy titles like
35 Halloween Recipes for the Faint of Heart: Recipe Ideas for Halloween Parties, Dinner, and Appetizers
and
Hungry Halloween: Featuring Movie Monster Munchies,
Bewitched Buffet, and Dead Man’s Diner
. I had stumbled upon the cookbooks when I was playfully searching for a make-a-person-nicer potion, the kind of elixir I could sneak into someone’s iced tea or lemonade. One of the shop owners at Fisherman’s Village, where The Cookbook Nook was located, had it in for my family, but I was determined to win her friendship. Even if I had to coerce her with, ahem, a
spirited
potion. So far, I hadn’t found a recipe, and honestly, I didn’t believe a potion would work, but I was having fun conjuring up ingredients to include: eye of newt, oil of snakeskin, or essence of Komodo dragon.

“Hey, Jenna, look at this.” My lifelong pal Bailey Bird, whom I had hired to be our sales associate, waved to me from the rear of the store. All I could see was her hand. In addition to the walls of bookshelves that were filled with books and culinary giftware, we had movable shelves in the center of the store. Bailey, who measured five feet tall only because of the high heels she always wore, was completely hidden from view.

I abandoned the window display and hurried to where she was setting out more Halloween-themed cookbooks on display tables, like
The Alchemist’s Kitchen: Extraordinary Potions & Curious Notions
, which was packed with assorted recipes from ancient glue to herbal tinctures.

“I think I found it.” Bailey waggled
The Herbal Alchemist’s Handbook: A Grimoire of Philtres, Elixirs, Oils, Incense, and Formulas for Ritual Use
. The dozen bangles on her arm slid to her elbow with a clank. The oversized earrings she wore jangled with enthusiasm. A flash of sunlight through the plate-glass window outlined her and made her spiky, copper-colored hair gleam like polished metal.

“Found what?”

“The potion that we need.”

“Potion?”

“Something we can use on Pepper to sweeten her up.”

Ah, yes. Pepper, the owner of Beaders of Paradise, was the persnickety woman who needed a dash of sugar added to her cynical spice.

Without opening the book, Bailey, who had an eidetic memory, recited, “‘Steeped in mysticism and magick, alchemy is also an ancient path of spiritual purification and the transformation of the spirit.’ You get it, don’t you?” Bailey looked at me expectantly. “We’ll make a potion and hide it in some kind of charm. It’ll be an amulet for Pepper to wear. Hardly anyone says
no
to a present. We’ll even use some of Pepper’s beads to adorn the necklace. That way we can combine both the plant and mineral sides of alchemy.”

I snickered. “I was just kidding when I said we needed to create a potion. Stop worrying. Pepper will come around.”

“There’s no harm in a little push. What was that campaign you did back at Taylor & Squibb?” Bailey snapped her fingers, trying to summon a memory. She and I had spent a few years at a large advertising agency in San Francisco—I on the creative side, she in the numbers arena. “Oh, I remember! The um . . . um . . . you know which one I mean. I had to hand it to the dancers. They really threw themselves into the routine.” She set the book aside and did a Hokey Pokey–style dance. “Give a little push, give a little shove.”

“Let them know they’re wonderful,” I chimed.

“Use a little love.” Bailey clapped her hands. “I adored that commercial. What was it for?”

I gawped. “Really, you don’t recall?” The whole point of making a catchy commercial was so folks would remember it and either purchase the product or enroll in a plan. If someone who worked at Taylor & Squibb couldn’t remember its purpose, I had truly failed at my job. “A Dieter’s Dream,” I said.

“That’s it. It would’ve come to me. I loved the junk food flying out of the cupboards and being replaced with wholesome foods.”

I was proud of the campaign. The outfit that had hired us consisted of a group of dedicated dieters. All had succeeded on the diet, which included a lot of spinach. No fad foods. All natural. Last I’d heard, the sixsome were writing a cookbook.

Bailey set aside the alchemy handbook and offered me a stack of cookbooks. “Help me arrange these.”

“Can’t. I’ve got to finish the window display.”

“Do that later.” Bailey planted her fists on her hips.

“Who could say no to such a lovely offer?” I teased. As I set out books, I said, “How’s the new apartment?” When Bailey moved back to Crystal Cove, she settled in above The Pelican Brief Diner, her mother’s restaurant that overlooked the bay. Free rent. Free food. What more could a girl want? But Bailey, like me, was nearing her thirtieth birthday and craved to be independent again. I totally understood.

“Superb. No aromas of fried fish making me want to binge-eat.” Bailey would never have a problem with weight. She might be short, but she darted around like the Energizer Bunny. “All the furniture I kept in storage in the City fits perfectly.”

The City. San Francisco. I missed living downtown. There were restaurants up the wazoo—a gourmet’s haven—museums, art galleries, and so much more, but I was happy with my choice to return to Crystal Cove. We had plenty of delicious restaurants from which to choose, lots of shops to browse, and my aunt had offered me the cute cottage beside her seaside home. I relished the sound of the surf.

“I’m going to paint my new place blue and pink,” Bailey said.

“Pink? You hate pink.”

“Okay, coral. Something very beachy. However, I don’t have a view, so I was thinking of commissioning you to do a picture of the ocean for me. I could hang it over the fireplace and imagine I lived in your cottage.”

“You know that if I had the room, I’d invite you to move in.”

“Are you kidding?” Bailey said. “The two of us living in the same apartment? Ugh. No, thanks. Girlfriends should never do that, if you ask me. It’s the little petty things that start building up, and wham, you’re no longer friends. All I want is a painting.”

I grinned. “I’ll paint it for free in my spare time.”

Bailey cleared her throat. “Um . . .”

“What?”

“No dancing ballerinas, please.”

I gave her a bemused look.

“I know how much you love your Degas period,” she added.

My mother used to take me to the beach to paint. I would watch other little girls, like me, dancing across the sand, and I dreamed of becoming the next famous ballerina painter. Didn’t happen. I was good, just not great.

“No ballerinas,” I agreed.

“Thank you.” Bailey clenched me in a hug that took my breath away.

I felt a wisp of warm fur bat my bare leg. Tigger, the ginger kitten I found the week I arrived in Crystal Cove, meowed. I broke free of my ecstatic pal and scooped him up. “Feeling neglected, Tig-Tig?” I’d dubbed him with the same name as the Disney character because the little guy could bounce and pounce with the best of them. I nuzzled his neck and set him back on the floor. “You have treats. Go find them. I’m busy.” He meowed again.

A group of mothers and children entered the store. One of the moms held up a cute black cat vase filled with orange gerbera daisies. “Yoo-hoo, Jenna, I found this on the doorstep.” She offered it to me. “I think it’s from a secret admirer.”

I checked the note looped to the cat’s tail.
From the one who adores you.
Sweet. Rhett, the guy I was occasionally dating, must have left it earlier in the day and I missed seeing it as I entered. Tigger butted my ankle. I crouched down to him. “Hey, pal, fresh humans,” I whispered. “Go get ’em.” He bounded toward the children. Squeals of delight followed.

“Nice flowers,” Bailey said. “Which reminds me, are you ready for the Black Cat Parade?”

“I am. I have Tigger’s costume set to go.” For the parade, cat owners were encouraged to dress up their furry friends. One would win an award. I had made Tigger a gold witch hat to match my own. I didn’t think I could get the squiggle worm into anything more elaborate. I set the flowers on the counter and glanced again at the romantic message. “By the way, how’s it going with your Latin lover?” Bailey’s boyfriend, a hunky South American aeronautical engineer, was working as a paddleboard instructor while updating his citizenship status.

Bailey screwed up her mouth. “Fine, I think. Do you ever know with men?” She wasn’t a commitment-phobe, but she hadn’t had a serious relationship for a long time. “We’ll talk one day and then three days will pass before we talk again. Weird.”

“Give him breathing room.”

“That’s what Tito said.”

“Where did you see him?” Tito Martinez was a reporter for the
Crystal Cove Crier
. He reminded me of a boxer, the middleweight-athlete-of-the-dog-world kind.

“At Latte Luck Café.” Bailey had tried to give up caffeine a month ago; she’d lasted only a few days. “You know, the guy isn’t half bad when you get to know him.” Most often, Tito loved to brag and seemed totally self-absorbed, but recently I’d been hearing other people say good things about him. For example, he volunteered at the high school to teach adults English as a second language. I guess you never know about people until you discover the layer beneath what they present on the surface. Bailey said, “I think he’s lost a little weight, and he might be getting smarter.”

“Smarter?”

“You know, savvier. Between you and me, I think he’s going to therapy.”

“Really?”

“He gave me basic psychobabble tips regarding Jorge. He said, get this, ‘Be sure to practice good self-care.’ That’s shrink talk, right?” Bailey eyed the black cat vase. “Enough about my sorry life. I’m assuming it’s going well with Rhett if he’s sending you flowers.”

I nodded. “We’re going on a date tomorrow night.”

“He’s taking you on the haunted historic walk? Ooh, snuggle close, girlfriend. Be daring.”

Daring. Right. Rhett and I had kissed. Briefly. I’d cut that short. Not because I wasn’t attracted to him. I was. Totally. The man created more heat in me than a steam engine. Whoo-whoo! But I wasn’t ready for a deeper relationship. Yet.

I started for the window display and paused. “I almost forgot. Speaking of daring, I’m going to throw a Halloween party.”

“Get real,” Bailey said.

“And I’m cooking. By myself.”

Bailey snorted.

“That’s enough out of you.” Okay, so I wasn’t the world’s best cook, but a few weeks ago, I’d added learning to be a good cook to my bucket list. Sure, I needed lessons, and I needed practice. But I adored Halloween. Why not start there? The shop had some wonderful Halloween cookbooks. One, for kids, was called
Our Favorite Halloween Recipes Cookbook: Jack-o’-Lanterns, Hayrides and a Big Harvest Moon . . . It Must Be Halloween! Find Tasty Treats That Aren’t Tricky
. It had simple, easy recipes, perfect for the novice like me. One of the recipes was for spider pizza. How hard could that be?

“Costumes required,” I said.

“I’ll be there with eerie bells on.”