Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) (20 page)

Bingo smirked. “Hmph. I knew she’d been poking around in my stuff. I wasn’t sure for what.”

“Is the hatpin stained with arsenic?”

“Heavens, no. That arsenic has never been opened and never will be. I should probably take it to a chemical disposal site.” She nodded as if making a mental note.

“The hatpin?” I prompted.

“The tip of my old fountain pen was bent out of shape, so I got creative and I dipped the hatpin in ink and used it as a quill. Didn’t you see the lettering on my display? It’s so fine, it’s eerie.”

It was such a reasonable explanation, I didn’t question it. “On the night Pearl died, Emma claims you were in your shop, but my aunt didn’t see you there.”

“Emma. She tries so hard.” Bingo sighed. “By giving us all an alibi, the girl was trying to do the right thing. But she lied. I wasn’t in my shop. I was at the cemetery.”

“Why?”

Bingo hesitated. She lowered her chin and looked at me from beneath her lashes. “I was practicing incantations.”

Emma claimed that Bingo was taking the witch thing way too seriously. She even said she had seen Bingo practicing magic at the store. Had she seen her do so on other occasions?

I said, “Are you a real, practicing witch?”

“No, and I’m not a Wiccan, either, although did you know Wicca is now a religion recognized by the United States military?”

“Really?” A client of Taylor & Squibb was a Wiccan. A few years ago, she had invited me to a coven circle in the city. Hoping I might come up with a great ad campaign, I attended. On the way to the event, my friend explained that Wicca was a pagan religion, which was typically duotheistic, worshipping both the netherworld and a horned god that associated with forest animals, and a mother goddess that associated with the moon, stars, and fate. The Wicca religion involved the ritual practice of witchcraft, but none of the members were considered witches. I had a good time at the circle. We sang and bonded. It had all been harmless yet satisfying in a mystical way.

Bingo said, “I was only practicing so I could be the best leader of the Winsome Witches.”

“Why would you feel the need to do that? Pearl was the leader.”

“Her health . . .” Bingo ran her thumb and finger along the seam of her cape, then stopped abruptly. “She asked me to be prepared in case she stepped down.”

I was right. Pearl was sicker than she had led us to believe. “Does your future husband mind that you are the High Priestess?”

“The Reverend is a wonderful man. He values me as a person. He knows that we aren’t real witches, and we do this all in fun. ‘Anything for a good cause,’ he would say. He’s a very open-minded minister and a voracious reader. He reads across genre. Not just biblical text. He devours mysteries and fiction. He wouldn’t go so far as to read something
racy
, but he likes a good whodunit. By the way, you must tell Katie, he loves to cook Italian food. His pasta pomodoro is to die for. How fabulously lucky am I?”

“Yet you still haven’t told him about the photos?”

“I’m warming to the idea.”

Her alibi didn’t ring true. Why spend two hours in a cemetery? How much practice did she need? “Bingo, did anyone see you that night in the cemetery?”

“I saw a man wearing a fedora. I don’t know if he saw me. I told the police.”

“You did?”

“I’m very forthright. I went straight to them after the luncheon realizing that everyone, as Maya said, should be aboveboard. It’s the only way the police can get to the truth. As I said, I’m not sure if the man in the fedora saw me. He was walking with a cane and carrying a bouquet of flowers. They were white and caught the moonlight. Daisies, I think. He went to a grave to the east of me, up the hill. When he arrived at a gravestone, he did the oddest thing. He twirled once before setting down the flowers.”

Tears sprang to my eyes as I realized she was describing my father. He and my mother used to twirl around the living room, laughing until their sides hurt. My mother had adored daisies. Dad must have been visiting her grave. I blinked to hold the tears at bay and whispered, “How long was he there?”

“As long as I. Two hours.”

I
DRANK
MY
lobster bisque from a to-go cup as I sped to Mercy Urgent Care. I was eager to talk to my father and get the scoop. To my surprise, he wasn’t there. Neither was my aunt. She had been released.

“Released?” I barked at a nurse who didn’t deserve my wrath. “She was on tubes and bruised and—”

The nurse ran away and fetched the doctor, who returned quickly. Probably to tame the crazy woman, namely
me
. “Your aunt was fully alert; she denied pain medication,” the doctor said. “Her vitals were strong, and she had no head injury. She asked to be released. We didn’t have the right to hold her.”

She’s in danger
, I wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, I called my father. “What happened?” I cried when he answered. “Where are you? Where’s Aunt Vera? You promised you wouldn’t let her out of your sight.”

“Calm down, Tootsie Pop. She’s fine. She wanted to go home. I had a client to see, but I found a trustworthy policeman to watch your aunt at her place.”

“Who?”

“Marlon Appleby.”

“What?” My voice crescendoed.

“You don’t like my choice? Why not? Don’t you trust him?”

“Sure, I trust him. Why wouldn’t I?” I growled. Deputy Appleby. Was the guy insinuating himself into my life?

“Marlon is off duty,” my father went on. “He’s thrilled to make the extra income. Turns out he has a couple of kids to support.”

“He’s not married.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have kids.” My dad chuckled. “He’s going to stay with your aunt for twenty-four hours.” He laughed again. “Needless to say, she’s not happy with the arrangement, but she has accepted her fate.”

I told him I needed to see him in person and hurried to Nuts and Bolts.

As I entered the narrow shop, a cuckoo popped from its hiding hole in a clock that my father had retooled. The wooden bird sang out a single “Cuckoo,” signifying half past noon.

Beside the checkout counter stood Old Jake, a wealthy widower with a gnarled body and face—he reminded me of one of those old trees that lived in the Forest of No Return in the Disney classic
Babes in Toyland
. Jake eyed the clock and scanned his wristwatch. “Got that thing down to a second, don’t you, Cary?”

My father, who was rummaging through an assortment of nails, nodded. He loved fixing things. As usual, the place was super tidy. With his heightened need for order, my father should have been a Navy man instead of FBI.

“Good day, Jenna,” Jake said. “I hope you have wonderful things planned for yourself.”

It was Jake’s standard line. “I do, sir, and you?”

“Haven’t gone but one day without doing something that pleased me.” That
one
day was the day he buried his wife. “Have at it, Cary,” he yelled to my father.

“Have at it,” my father echoed.

The old guy left with a Nuts and Bolt bag in hand.

“Make yourself comfortable, Jenna,” my father said, continuing to search through the nails.

I moved to the checkout counter and glanced at the Seneca plaque hanging on the wall. Its quote was seared in my memory:
The primary sign of a well-ordered mind is a man’s ability to remain in one place and linger in his own company.
The quote epitomized my father; he was his own best friend. I was on a path to becoming my own.

After a long moment—I never rushed my father—he said, “Found it.” He held up a single nail as if it were a prized trophy. “This is the reason I don’t let people handle the wares themselves. Things get out of place.” He set the nail on the counter and strolled to me. “Old Jake had an emergency. You know I never deny him.”

Only recently, I’d found out that Old Jake had saved my father’s life. When my father was twelve, he went surfing. Alone. A wave tumbled him and his board struck his head. Jake, not much older than my father, happened to be on the beach that day. He was a drifter. He saw the accident and rescued my dad. My grandfather saw promise in Jake. As payback for his Good Samaritan act, my grandfather tutored Jake and taught him how to invest. Ten years later, Jake, like my aunt, made a killing in the stock market. He and my father had remained fast friends. Day or night, whenever Jake felt a weird whimsy to repair his multimillion-dollar home, Dad accommodated him.

Dad said, “What’s up?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know where to begin. He had visited Mom’s grave. How often did he do that?

“Jenna?”

“You were seen . . .”

“Seen?”

“Doing . . .” The words wouldn’t form.

“Doing?” Dad’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Two can play this game.”

When had my father developed this wry sense of humor? After my mother died, he turned dour. So did I. But I was on the mend. Maybe falling in love with Bailey’s mother was transforming my father. Lola, who owned The Pelican Brief Diner, was a bundle of good energy and good vibes. On the other hand, if my father was in love with her, why did he go to the cemetery?

“Jenna,” my father prodded.

“You were seen. At the cemetery. At night.”

“Who saw me?”

“Bingo Bedelia.”

“Aha. I should have known it was her.” Dad gestured to his chin. “She has such a distinctive silhouette with that long nose and square jaw. What do they call that kind of jaw?”

“Lantern jaw.”

“That’s it. Like Popeye.”

“Dad, you were walking with your cane.”

“I often use a walking stick in unsteady territory. What’s your question?”

“You were putting flowers on Mom’s grave.”

“Yes.”

“Do you—” I sank against the counter, the hard edge pressing against the underside of my rib cage. “Do you miss her?”

“Of course I miss her. I lay flowers twice a year. On the day of her death, as an honor to the life she led, and on the day we met, as a reminder that we will see each other again.”

“See each other?” I shook my head, not understanding. “Are you saying you believe in the beyond?”

“I know everything in the physical world leads me to believe there is no beyond, but I continue to hope. I have faith, as the pundits call it. I will see your mother again.”

“But, Dad—”

“Don’t you hope you’ll see David again?”

I wasn’t sure. After all I had learned, what would I say when I saw my husband?
How could you leave me? How could you take your own life? Did it hurt to die? Wasn’t I worth changing your bad habits for?

“Of course you would,” my father answered for me. “If you’ve loved someone, you continue to love them even after they are gone.”

My chest grew tight with sorrow. “What about Lola?”

He smiled. “Lola was your mother’s best friend. She would like to see your mother, as well.” He grinned. “Don’t look at me like that. There won’t be room for jealousy in the future. Only healthy reunions.”

My dad had been volunteering with all sorts of do-gooder projects like Habitat for Humanity and more. Had his belief in peace and harmony come from those sessions?

Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes. Man, was I ever becoming a waterworks factory. “I want the faith you have.”

“Sweetheart.” My father hurried around the counter and put his arms around me. “We all come to our beliefs differently and at a different pace. Heartache like yours can rip someone’s faith to shreds. Faith has to be rebuilt. Your aunt . . . it’s one of the reasons she does all that card reading and such. She doesn’t want to be superstitious, but she does want to believe. She continues to try to contact Stuart.”

The man who left her at the altar and died less than a year later.

I said, “Hey, did you know she’s dating Greg Giuliani?”

My father’s eyes widened. “Dating? Don’t be silly.”

“I saw them together. She was all dolled up. Isn’t he the one you were referring to the other day? I think—” I bit my tongue. I did not need to tell my father about Aunt Vera staying the night at Greg’s. It was not my business; it was certainly not my father’s.

“Greg isn’t for her,” my father said.

“You tell her,” I joked.

“Not in her condition. She’s mad enough that she crashed her car.”

“Wait until she sees her face in the mirror.”

“I made Marlon swear she can’t go near one.”

“But you know Aunt Vera.”

In unison we said, “Stubborn,” then laughed.

My father brushed my shoulders, as if sweeping away specks of dust; it was his way of balancing me. “All this talk about faith and your aunt’s dating life aren’t why you showed up here. You came to ask me about my trek to the cemetery. Why?”

“I wanted to corroborate Bingo’s alibi.”

“Aha,” my father said again. “I won’t even ask why you are investigating. It seems I have no say in keeping you within twenty yards of the law.”

“I told you. I feel like my presence has drawn this bad karma to Crystal Cove. I’ve got to fix it. In addition, Cinnamon Pritchett has her eye on Aunt Vera as her main suspect.”

My father said, “Don’t worry. I’ll have a word with her.”

I huffed. Did everyone in town think they could change Cinnamon’s mind? I sure couldn’t.

“In the meantime,” my father went on, “tell me why Bingo Bedelia is a suspect in Dr. Thornton’s death.”

I explained.

“All solid reasoning. Protecting a secret from one’s past is definitely a good motive for murder, but I’m afraid Bingo should be eliminated from your list. She was indeed in the cemetery from approximately ten until well after midnight.”

“How do you know she was there that long?”

My father smiled, but there was a sadness in his eyes. “Sometimes I read to your mother. She loved poetry by Dickinson. What a lonely soul the poetess must have been, living almost entirely in seclusion as an adult. Your mother’s favorite was one of Dickinson’s poems about lovers being kept apart, with only the door ajar.”

I kid you not, nothing my father ever did in his life again would shock me as much as right now. He knew about Dickinson’s life? He could paraphrase her poetry?

“But back to Bingo,” my father continued. “She was doing what looked like calisthenics. Arms raised. Arms lowered. Up, down.” He demonstrated. “Quite comical.”

“She was practicing incantations.”

“As in witch chants?”

I gave Bingo’s reasoning.

“You don’t believe Bingo could have had anything to do with harming your aunt, do you?”

“I don’t know what to think. Someone did.”

“Your aunt—” He mimed steering a car.

“Is a bad driver, I know. But this was different. Maya said she couldn’t get Aunt Vera to pull over. She was honking and everything. I think Aunt Vera was drugged. Right before, she was drinking tea at Aunt Teek’s with Maya, Bingo, and Emma.” I halted.

“What?”

“Maya said she went to the restroom. What if Emma slipped something into Aunt Vera’s tea? She has access to drugs, both at the veterinarian’s office and possibly”—I paused for effect—“from her husband, the dentist.”

The cuckoo burst from its hiding hole in the clock and sang out, “Cuckoo.”

But I didn’t think my theory was so crazy. How could I prove it?