Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) (22 page)

For dinner, we sat side by side at the dining table, looking out the plate-glass window at the sunset. Over a delicious meal of maple-glazed salmon served on a bed of grilled spinach and scallions, Rhett told me more about his family. His mother’s name was Melanie, which was another reason why she loved
Gone with the Wind
. His father’s name was Hugo. They met at cooking school at age eighteen, Rhett said at first, then revised that. They had actually met as line chefs at a well-known restaurant in New Orleans, which taught them everything they knew. They had never been with anyone else and, to this day, were still in love. That was one of the reasons why Rhett didn’t understand his father putting up a fuss when he had eloped with Alicia.

“But he objected, and I hate to say it, he was right. We weren’t meant to be together. We were too young, too raw.” Rhett wrapped an arm around the back of my shoulders. “Face it, if I had stayed with Alicia, I wouldn’t have met you. You look beautiful, by the way.”

I fingered the stem of my wineglass. “Uh-huh, right. In a T-shirt covered with dust from the trail mixed with the scent of warm perspiration.” So much for changing into the little sexy number I had brought with me. The garden tour had nixed that idea.

Rhett nuzzled my neck. “All I smell is the perfume of your skin.” He worked his way up my neck to my ear.

Passion coursed through me. Through us. I set aside the wineglass, turned my face to meet his, and our lips met. We kissed for a long time.

When we came up for air, my heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I whispered, “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“I want to but I can’t. Not yet.”

He ran a finger along my jawline. “I understand.”

“You do?”

“You’ve got a cat at home,” he teased. “Obligations.”

If only he knew how scared I was to give myself over to a man. I couldn’t yet. But soon, I vowed. Very soon.

Rhett twirled a lock of my hair and gently tugged my head backward. The move exposed my throat. He grazed my skin with his mouth, then released me. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”

“I can drive.”

“Not without a car.”

Right.
His caresses had thrown me for a loop. I wasn’t sure I knew which way was north. After collecting myself and my purse, I headed for the front door. “Thank you for a lovely day and evening.”

“No, you don’t.” He gripped me by the wrist. “You’re not leaving that way.”

“Which way? We ate. We kissed. I properly thanked you.”

“You only leave through the door you came in. Please.” He was talking about the door leading to the backyard. “It’s an old Irish tradition.”

A wave of laughter—and tension—pealed out of me. “You and superstitions. Don’t tell me one of your buddies down at The Pier gave you this one, too.”

“Nope. Blame my mother.”

W
HEN
R
HETT
DROPPED
me off at my cottage, we kissed again, better than before if that were possible, and then like a true gentleman, he opened my door, pushed me inside, and said good night.

The hour wasn’t late, but it was cool. I threw on a sweater to walk the few yards to my aunt’s house to fetch Tigger. As I exited the cottage, I turned to catch the door before it slammed shut. Too late. Swell. I had forgotten to take a key. I would get that from Aunt Vera, too. I hadn’t thought ahead and hidden one in a garden pot or under a mat.

A branch or something snapped. I spun around and froze. Did I hear footsteps? I peered into the dark.

All right,
yes
, I’d also forgotten to turn on the porch light. At least there was moonlight.

Another sound. Heavy breathing.

“Who’s there?” I asked. “Don’t come any closer,” I added, as if the meager threat would scare off someone. Maybe it was Old Jake, who liked to walk through the neighborhood at night. His mansion was located at the northernmost end of the beach homes. “Jake, is that you?”

When no one answered, fear knotted in the pit of my stomach.

Suddenly something yeti-sized ran at me. Was it Edward Wright? Had he come to set the record straight? I threw up my arms in defense. Every muscle started quivering. I was tall but no match for a yeti.

In the dim light, I made out Trisha Thornton—not a yeti. Shadows could play havoc with my imagination. Trisha’s fuzzy hair stuck out around her head like coiled snakes. “You!” She didn’t lash out. She didn’t stick a gun in my face. In fact, her hands were jammed into the pockets of her peacoat. “What did I ever do to you? Why did you call UCSC?” Trisha shifted from foot to foot as if hopped up on something. Drugs? Booze? “Why did you sic that administrator on me? She called the cops. She talked to Pritchett. She told her everything.”

“What’s everything?”

“Why did you do it?”

Because I think you’re guilty of murder
, I wanted to say.

“Now my boyfriend’s in a heap of trouble.”

“Your boyfriend?” Did he kill Pearl? I returned to Bailey’s assumption that Trisha, not Emma, had created some kind of potion using the Thorntonite to coerce someone to commit murder. Had Trisha lured her boyfriend into the plot?

“He’s getting kicked out of school, all because of me.” She huffed. “No, not because of
me
. Because of
you
. Sticking your big fat nose into my affairs.” For the record, my nose was of the small, ski-jump variety. “You! Always squirreling around looking for clues.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I sell cookbooks,” I countered, not to be sassy but because I was petrified and didn’t know what else to say. Or do. Normally, I would have taken my father’s advice and
run
. But Trisha had me hemmed in and my feet felt like lead. Where was the fight-or-flight adrenaline that I had read about in stories?

She wriggled one hand out of her pocket. I flinched. Did she have a weapon? She wagged a tissue at me. I breathed a tad easier, but only a tad.

“You’re not making friends at the police precinct, by the way.” She dabbed her nose with the tissue. “There are a couple of people down there who are not happy about your sleuthing.”

Like who?
I wanted to say, but I didn’t have to. I knew. Maybe I should write a book titled
How to Make Enemies and Not Influence People
. Dale Carnegie, watch out.

Trisha slurped back a tear. “I wasn’t supposed to be on campus that night. My boyfriend let me in.”

“You really were there?”

“Aren’t you listening?” she shrieked. “Yes, I was there. It was all caught on security footage. Time-stamped.”

“You said there were no witnesses.”

“I didn’t want to get Sean in trouble, but now he is. Big-time. Because of you.”

“I’m sorry. Truly.” I held out my hands, palms up. “Did you really go there to work on a cure for diabetes?”

“Yes,” she said with such vehemence.

I wasn’t sure I believed her, but the fact that she hadn’t punched me or mauled me yet was giving her some credence. “Your mother told my aunt you were taking a year off. Did she know you were on probation?”

“Yeah, she knew all right.”

“For cheating?”

“I didn’t cheat. I . . . I was caught with some illegal substances. I’m clean, now. I’m in a program.”

“Did your mother find out the night she died?”

“Oh no. Way before that night. That’s why she put me on an allowance. That’s why we fought. If I messed up, which I did a lot, she made it very clear that I had let her down. Straight As? Forget it. Graduating college with honors? Ha!”

“The drugs?”

“Look, no matter what I did, it was never good enough.”

“You don’t sound like you liked her very much.”

“I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean I killed her. Didn’t you hear me? I have an alibi. A solid alibi. On camera. With time-stamped footage. Just so you know,” Trisha went on, “if I’d wanted to kill my mother, I wouldn’t have used poison. I would have strangled her.” She shook clenched hands in front of my face. “I’d have twisted the life out of her just to shut her up. Her and all her advice. She couldn’t seem to help herself. She always told me what I
should
do. Like she knew. Like she had the perfect recipe for how to live life. Get off drugs. Clean up your act. Take responsibility.” Tears welled in Trisha’s eyes. Spent, she dropped her arms to her sides, and then as if she didn’t know what to do with her arms, she wrapped them around her body.

I let a long moment pass before I said, “I don’t think you hated your mother, Trisha.”

“I did.”

“Yet you wanted to find a cure for her.”

She gazed at me.

“Trisha, was your boyfriend with you the whole time?”

“What? No. He let me in and . . .” She made a fist with one hand and smacked it into the palm of the other. “Uh-uh. No way.” The fire returned to her eyes. “He did not kill my mother. You will not pin this on him.”

“The rock that is missing from your father’s collection. You’re the only person who could have taken it.”

“That’s not true. Mrs. Davies could have. That woman has sticky fingers. Did you know she swiped an expensive brooch of my mother’s? I’m sure of it. I scoped out her stuff, looking for it. I thought it might be buried beneath all those newspaper articles Davies keeps.
Dear Abby
–type crap. It seems Davies wrote the stuff in London. Her photo is on every one.”

I remembered thinking Mrs. Davies’s hands looked afflicted with writer’s cramp.

“She’s a hoarder,” Trisha continued. “I’ll bet she has the rock, too. Some place. She’s just waiting to pawn it so she can send more money back to her mother in England. I think the woman is hard up.” Trisha sniffed. “I remember how mad Mom was when I told her about the brooch.”

I didn’t know if Trisha was to be believed. She could have stolen the brooch herself and blamed the housekeeper. “Do you practice alchemy?”

“Are you nuts? I would never do experiments with rocks.”

“Someone saw you.”

“Someone’s lying.”

“You were pouring something over rocks, making them bubble.”

“Are you kidding me? Do you think I’m a witch like in
Macbeth
?” Give the girl two points; she was well read. “I’m nowhere near a witch. I wanted nothing to do with that whole phony-baloney stuff my mother did. I did not work with rocks. I only work with plants. I’m planning on being a plant physiologist. I’m studying the morphology of plants, their structure, and the phytochemistry as it pertains to ecology and medicine.”

Whoa. The multisyllabic words spilled out of her with such confidence. But I wasn’t going to let that stop my interrogation. “The woman who saw you said you were practicing alchemy at her house. With her daughter.”

Trisha swore under her breath. “That’s Mrs. Paxton for you. Who did she tell, Maya Adaire? They’re thick as thieves. Mrs. Paxton is always overreacting. Her daughter and I were not doing alchemy. We were doing a high school science project about the reaction between vinegar and baking soda. It creates chemical volcanoes.”

The door to my aunt’s house opened. Aunt Vera stepped onto the porch. “Jenna, is that you?” She held a hand over her eyes to block the glare of the porch light.

Trisha didn’t stick around. She bolted off. Seconds later, I heard a car sputter to life.

Breathing high in my chest, I raced to my aunt’s house. She ushered me inside. Tigger leaped into my arms. His chugging calmed me.

Aunt Vera closed the door and twisted the lock. “What happened out there? Who was yelling?” My aunt was once again dressed in a caftan, this one covered in blue sequins. She had clipped her hair in pin-curl fashion around her face. Though she looked agitated for me, she seemed more at peace than she had in days.

I told her about Trisha. “Despite her weird behavior and her hatred for her mother, I don’t think she killed Pearl.”

My aunt laid a hand over her heart. “Thank heavens. I didn’t want it to be her.”

“You didn’t?”

“Pearl adored Trisha.”

“Trisha doesn’t think so.”

“But she did. Pearl talked glowingly of her. If she was hard on Trisha, it was only because she saw such potential in the girl.”

“Enough about Trisha. How are you?” I grabbed her hand. Steady as a rock. “You look amazing. Was someone here?” I detected the faint hint of a man’s cologne. “Greg?”

“Greg?” She raised an eyebrow. “Why on earth would he have come here?”

“The two of you. You’re dating.”

My aunt shook her head. “We
were
dating for a nanosecond.”

“It’s over?”

“We didn’t have enough in common.”

“What about the Coastal Concern?”

“A shared interest, nothing more. He likes hiking and fishing and spending hours on the sand. He’s not into food. I don’t believe he’s ever looked inside a cookbook.” She tinged crimson. “The sex was good, don’t get me wrong, but I quickly realized I didn’t want to go into my golden years wishing I were younger so I could hold on to him.”

“Then who was here?”

“Deputy Appleby. He came to check on me.” She chuckled. “Actually, I think he was trying to see if you were home.”

“Me?”

“I think he’s interested in you.”

“No way.”

“Way.”
She buffed my shoulder. “He’s not half bad. In fact, he’s quite charming. He plays a mean game of mahjong. Did you know he’s a widower?”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but can we not discuss him?”

“Whatever you say, dear. Tea?”

“Sure.”

Aunt Vera moved into the kitchen. As she put up a pot of water to boil, she motioned at the deck of tarot cards on the table. Three were turned over. The Three of Swords, the Two of Cups—reversed or upside down—and the Hermit. What a trio. Now, as much as I didn’t believe in any of this stuff, I knew my aunt did, and from what I remembered, the Three of Swords—with swords piercing a giant heart, rain cascading from the clouds, and a hint of sunshine behind the clouds—represented the end of a relationship that might be pretty new. The Hermit card was self-explanatory; it represented a time of isolation and perhaps reflection. The reversed Two of Cups, which depicted two lovers flipped on their heads, signified a mutual parting of ways.

I placed Tigger on the floor, then gripped my aunt’s shoulders and gave a squeeze. “You can do readings again.”

“I suppose I can. That’s my life in a nutshell.” Aunt Vera gathered up the cards. She closed her eyes as she solemnly shuffled the cards, not in the typical bridge fashion, more shimmying them together so the cards never bent.

“Can you do another reading and get a feeling about who killed Pearl?”

“Sadly, I can’t. And my crystal ball is out of order.”

“You’re mocking me.”

She winked. “Who do you suspect?”

I told her about Bingo’s alibi, corroborated by Dad, and my concerns about Edward and Emma. “I can’t figure out for the life of me why Maya would want Pearl dead.” Though saying her name out loud made me wonder if her initials, not Marlon Appleby’s, were the
MA
in Pearl’s datebook. Had she been a patient? Did she, like so many others, have a secret to hide? “Also, Trisha tried to implicate Mrs. Davies.”

“The housekeeper? There might be something there. Pearl hinted at having helped the woman out of a scrape.”

“Trisha said the woman has sticky fingers. She stole a brooch from Pearl.”

“Maybe that was the final straw for Pearl, and they argued.”

“Would Davies know how to wield a hypodermic?”

“Darling, don’t you think anyone could do it? There are how-to instructional videos everywhere on the Internet nowadays.”