Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) (7 page)

Maybe my aunt’s blockage was being caused by something else. Was Bingo guilty of murder? Was her aura so black that my aunt didn’t dare break through?

Stop it, Jenna, you don’t believe this stuff.
Yet . . .

I said, “What card did Bingo draw?”

“The Nine of Swords.”

I knew the card. A man sat in bed with nine swords lined up on the wall behind him. He was draped with a checkerboard quilt. In the course of my relationship with my aunt, I had learned the meaning of many of the cards. The Nine of Swords signified that the person had reached a realization of just how bad a situation was, essentially waking up from a nightmare. The quilt signified that he had been playing a game with himself. He had to take responsibility. “What did you say?”

“Not a word. I couldn’t interpret. But I felt fear. Right here.” She tapped her solar plexus with three fingertips.

“That means you’re getting something.”

“No, I’m not. I’m getting nothing. Nada. Zip.”

“C’mon, breathe.” I rested a hand on her shoulder. “At least it wasn’t the Ten of Swords.” A month ago, after I learned the real reason for my husband’s death, Aunt Vera insisted she tell my future. She knew how upset I was. I would have done anything to find my center. I’d pulled the Ten of Swords, a card with a man impaled by ten swords. Yipes. Even I knew that card was universally known as the get-out-of-Dodge card. But Aunt Vera had tweaked the reading. She had pointed out the light in the card to me. She told me that each beginning must come from an end. “In Bingo’s case, you’re picking up on her anxiety. One of her best friends has been murdered. She’s going to be the new High Priestess. That’s a lot of responsibility. In addition, she’s getting married.”

Aunt Vera sighed. I moved to a spot behind her and massaged her shoulders, trying to rub life and spunk into her.

When I released her, she said, “That’s it,” and leaped to her feet. Literally. She spun to face me and grabbed my face in both hands. “I may be a psychic mess, but I know my course. I have to solve the crime. Pearl was my dear friend. So is Bingo. To ease both of their souls, I must get involved. Maybe, if the fates are with me, Pearl will help.”

“Pearl? From the other side of who-knows-where?” Uh-oh. “Aunt Vera, slow down. The police—”

“Darling, the police can either abide my help or not. It won’t matter to me.” Without another word, she dashed from the store.

“Wait,” I called after her. “Katie wanted to discuss—”

But Aunt Vera didn’t stop. She popped into her classic Mustang, a car she’d had since she was a teenager—she always understood the value of a good investment—and sped off.

I raced to the sales counter and called my father for advice, but he wasn’t answering his phone. He hated the contraptions. If he could have life his way, people would still write letters and drop in for a cup of coffee. Even when he worked at the FBI, he was against anything being recorded. E-mails? Digital transmissions? Forget about it.

I dialed Bailey next, but her message went to voice mail, too. If she was hanging out with her paddleboarding pal, Jorge, she wouldn’t answer until morning. Shoot. I couldn’t talk to Katie; she was swamped with customers at the café. I considered calling Rhett but worried that if I did, he might think I was making a booty call. I wasn’t quite prepared to take the next step in our relationship.

“Tigger, it’s you and me, pal.” I scooped him into my arms. “Ready to listen?”

*   *   *

I BENT MY
kitten’s ear for the entire ride home. As I drove past my aunt’s house, I scanned the windows for activity. The place was dark. The moment I entered my cottage, I felt lonely and edgy. Quickly, I lit a dozen vanilla-scented candles and turned on a Judy Garland CD—listening to Judy was also a throwback to my mother; she adored the way Judy crooned—and then I pulled out the fixings for fudge. Katie repeatedly reminded me that cooking was all about the preparation. Having drilled that tidbit into my brain, I now, at all times, kept my cupboards and refrigerator filled with items I needed to make candy or cookies. I adored sweets. And salty things. And fruit. What didn’t I like to eat?

Using a recipe I found in a
Betty Crocker Cookbook
, I whipped up a batch of fudge. Luckily, my aunt had the foresight to add a candy thermometer to my set of kitchen tools. After the fudge cooled to 120 degrees, I stirred in the vanilla and spread the fudge in the pan to set. Then I ate a quick dinner of cheese, crackers, and avocado slices paired with a crisp sauvignon blanc. I know, the meal wasn’t great on the healthy list, but I was fidgety. Salt and crunch helped.

When I finished, I opened a potion cookbook I’d brought home. The book was filled with healing potions. Thanks to Maya, I knew there were herbs and spices that made me feel better, like the scent of lavender or rosemary and the taste of cinnamon and nutmeg.

After reviewing the steps in a calming potion recipe, I snipped off some pieces of the herb garden I had planted on the front porch, and I returned to the kitchen. I dumped the sprigs into a bowl. Using the back of an ice cream scoop—I didn’t have what cooks called a muddler—I pressed the oil out of the herbs. I wrapped the potpourri into the toe of an old stocking, old because I hadn’t worn stockings since I’d moved back to Crystal Cove. Lucky me. I pondered why I had kept them. On the chance that I might return to the world of advertising? Never.

I tucked the mock sachet beneath the pillow of my bed and instantly felt calmer.

While snacking on fudge, I took a long, luxurious bath doused with lavender-scented salt. A half hour later, I climbed on top of my bed and fell asleep wrapped in a towel. Tigger snuggled into my stomach.

During the night, I had one fitful dream after another. I was swept up in a cyclone. I wasn’t Dorothy. I was Glinda the Good Witch of the North. In my bubbly childhood costume. The cyclone suddenly vanished, and I was seized by killer monkeys. With their talons clenched, they flew me across fields of poppies, right to the Witch of the East’s castle. Where my aunt was being held captive. In a gigantic bucket of water. The tune “Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead” started blaring in my brain.

I bolted upright on my bed, drenched in perspiration. I smacked the coverlet. “That’s it, you dope. Fudge is out of your diet after nine
P.M.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and padded to the bathroom for a long drink of water.

As I stared at my raggedy image in the mirror, I wondered if the dream had significance. Was my aunt in danger? Did a fellow witch intend to melt her? Did I have to act as fairy godmother to save her?

O
N
T
HURSDAY
MORNING
,
my jog/walk along the beach was about as crazy as my nightmare. For the entire span of time, I dodged a seagull that thought I was its breakfast. Did the silly bird know about my chaotic Oz monkeys dream?

After a quick shower, I rang my father. This time I reached him. I told him I was worried about Aunt Vera. He tried to calm me and asked me if I had eaten. When I said I hadn’t, he suggested I meet him at Nuts and Bolts, the hardware store he had invested in after leaving the FBI—to keep busy, not to make money; we would go from there for a quick bite.

“Jenna,” he said with a hint of formality as I entered.

“Cary.”

“Don’t sass.”

“Morning, Dad.”

“You look good, sweetheart.” He looped his arm through mine and walked me out of his spic-and-span shop.

“Really?” I had dabbed on a touch of lipstick and put on a pink mini halter dress, hoping the sun’s reflection would bounce off the fabric and add color to my wan face. Apparently, my stabs at normalcy had worked. “I didn’t sleep all that well.”

“You can’t tell, and you know I never lie.” My father wasn’t one to pay compliments, but he had become extra sensitive toward my feelings ever since I found my husband’s suicide note.

We walked along Buena Vista Boulevard toward Latte Luck Café. Thanks to the temperate weather, folks were out in droves: moms, dads, nannies, grannies with strollers, people on bicycles, and Rollerbladers. Some heads turned, probably because my father and I were an eyeful. Kid you not, he looked like Cary Grant in his sixties—silver hair, strong jaw, tall and slim. I, dressed in my mini halter that was more suitable for summer, looked downright leggy.

We, along with the rest of the folks, ogled the Halloween window displays. The Pelican Brief Diner had added strings of glistening pumpkins to its windows, which were regularly adorned with nets and fish. The beauty salon had filled its round, portal-style window with a variety of decorative pumpkins and scarecrows.

“Wow.” I pointed at the Play Room Toy Store. “That’s a good display.”

A carousel filled with ghosts and goblins as cute as Casper the Friendly Ghost twirled with delight. A sound system piped out a children’s song telling monsters to
go away
. Kiddie-sized costumes and books like
Boo!
and
The Teeny Tiny Ghost
decorated the background.

“That’s my favorite, too,” my father said. He steered me into Latte Luck Café, which had hung sparkling vampire faces and bats in its windows.

Two feet inside the café, I spotted Rhett chatting up the person who stood in line in front of him. A shiver of lust ran through me. He was wearing the same thing he had worn the first day I met him: fisherman’s knit sweater and tight jeans that fit just right. A smile lit up his face. Sheesh, but I liked the guy. Were we meant to be a couple? Would we be able to think each other’s thoughts in forty or fifty years?

Rhett turned and winked at me. I felt myself blush and quickly convinced myself that he hadn’t turned because he’d sensed my presence. He simply must have caught sight of me in the mirror that ran the length of the wall behind the counter. He waved for my father and me to join him in line.

I shook my head. I hated when people cut in. We waited our turn, ordered two café lattes as well as a banana-walnut muffin and a Greek yogurt to split, and then joined Rhett at one of the modest tables.

“Rhett, my boy.” My father clapped him on the back. “How are you?”

“Good, Cary. You?”

“Excellent.” Now that my father was retired, he was a die-hard fisherman and often went to Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store for fishing supplies and a fish tale or two. Over the course of the last year, he had bonded with Rhett because he had done a few repairs at Rhett’s cabin. Although Rhett was fully capable of doing his own fix-it jobs, he didn’t want to waste the time. Besides, my father enjoyed his new role as handyman extraordinaire. “Except,” my father continued, giving Rhett a wry look, “we’re about to embark on a discussion concerning Jenna’s aunt.”

Rhett grinned. “I’ll leave.”

I clutched his arm. “No, stay.” I shot my father a peeved look. “Dad.”

“Sweetheart, you know how I hate to poke my nose into anyone’s affairs, unlike some people I know. Namely, y-o-u. But if we must, we must.” Up until a few months ago, my father and I had struggled with our relationship. I hadn’t been very sensitive to his needs at the time my mother died because, well, my husband and my mom died within weeks of each other. My return to Crystal Cove and my occasional request for my father’s advice had helped us mend fences. The fact that my sister and brother didn’t live near enough for Dad to pester daily also made a difference. My sister lived in Los Angeles. She was rearing three children and running a home business. My brother was a successful, in-demand architect in Napa. When he wasn’t working, he took vacations at monk-style retreats. No phone calls. No conversation. Adorable but boring.

My father continued, “Other than your nightmare, what’s on your mind? I assume you’re worried about your aunt’s relationship with that man.”

The way he said
that man
made my curiosity feelers prickle with alarm. “Who? Which man? She’s dating someone and hasn’t told me?”

“I’m not sure they’re dating. It doesn’t matter.” Dad waved a hand. “What did you want to discuss?”

Rhett snickered.

I said, “You, hush.”

He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.

I pushed concern about my aunt’s dating life aside and said, “Dad, you heard about Pearl Thornton, didn’t you?”

My father shook his head.

“Where have you been?” I covered my mouth. Did I shriek? I hadn’t meant to. Sotto voce, I added, “She’s dead. She died yesterday. Well, not yesterday. Tuesday night, but she was found yesterday morning.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve been working day and night on a mansion. New tile floors, at the cost of one-eighty a square foot, throughout. I—” He leaned forward and set his elbows on the table. “Never mind about me. Tell me about Pearl. Was she ill?”

“I think she was murdered.”

“Really?”

“And Aunt Vera thinks she should investigate.”

My father groaned. “That’s what this is about? No, sir. No way. My sister is not going to stick her nose into anything. You goaded her into this, didn’t you?”

“I did no such thing.” Anger rose up my throat. I tamped it down. I did not—
not
—want to argue. “Aunt Vera is a grown woman. She makes her own decisions. Right now, she intends to investigate. She says her channels are blocked—”

“Her what?”

“Her psychic channels. They’re blocked because of all the anger she’s feeling. She has to solve the crime if she wants to get her powers back.”

“Her
powers
.” My father huffed.

Rhett said, “Cary, why not let Jenna tell us everything.”

“Sure. Fine. Keep talking.”

I ignored his dismissive tone and quickly summarized yesterday’s events: Aunt Vera and her friends finding Pearl dead, Cinnamon’s investigation, and my aunt’s meltdown after closing the shop. “Between you and me, I get the feeling Aunt Vera thinks Pearl might contact her from the beyond.”

My father pushed his coffee and the muffin aside. I could see the muscle that held his jaw in place ticking. If only I could crawl inside his mind and see what he really wanted to say. What came out of his mouth was, “Jenna, I want you to put this worry from your mind. Your aunt will realize how inane this plan of attack is in a few hours, and she’ll cease and desist.”

“Dad, I’ve never seen her so flummoxed.” I described the state of my aunt’s hair and the strained timbre of her voice. “It doesn’t help that I had that nightmare.”

“About?” Rhett said.

I felt my cheeks warm a second time. Not from anger, from embarrassment. I didn’t want him to think I was nuts. Even so, I recapped the dream as speedily as I could. Glinda, the monkeys, the castle, the gigantic bucket of hot water. When I was done, I mentally vowed for a second time:
No more fudge at night. Ever.

“Hot water spells trouble,” Rhett said.

“Precisely.” I wanted to hug him for being so supportive. “Don’t you see, Dad? I have to help Aunt Vera get clear.”

“Jenna, no.” My father spanked the table.

Sound in the café stopped. Dead. People stared at us.

More heat shot up my neck and into my cheeks. For all I knew, I had red blotches all over me. That was what happened when I couldn’t contain my emotions. Not pretty. I diverted my gaze from the onlookers to my cuticles. If only I had eyes in the sides of my head so I could see if they had stopped staring.

My father, ignorant of the onlookers’ rapt attention, continued his tirade. “I tolerated when you got involved after Desiree died.” Desiree, my college roommate and popular celebrity chef, had been strangled and buried beneath the sand. “I kept quiet when you investigated after that Mumford woman died.” The owner of Mum’s the Word Diner, a competitor in the Grill Fest a month ago, was murdered in the alley right outside our café. “But this has got to end. You are not a crusader.”

“I’m not the one investigating. Aunt Vera is.”

“You just said you needed to help her get clear, did you not?”

I hated that he had such a keen memory.

“You’ll get involved,” he went on. “You can’t help yourself. You’re so . . . so—”

“I’m her niece,” I snapped, then bit my lip.
Don’t blow your top. Don’t, don’t, don’t
cycled like a mantra through my mind. After a long moment, I said, “Family means everything to me.”

“Your aunt should not get involved. I’ll tell her so.”

I guffawed. Truly. A big walloping laugh erupted from my belly. “Yeah, Dad, like you can tell her anything. She’s as bullheaded as you are.”

“I am not—” My father chuffed like a tiger. He glowered at Rhett. “Care to chime in?”

Rhett’s mouth quirked up on one side. “And miss the fun?” He wagged his head. “Not on a bet.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Don’t mind me. I’d pay handsomely for a ringside seat to this debate.”

Silence fell between my father and me. Well, actually, throughout the café. I could hear the old clock behind the counter ticking. Swell.

After a minute, my father mirrored Rhett’s folded-arm pose, and he smiled. I thought I’d melt in my chair. Was his beef with me defused? I glanced at Rhett and had to curb the urge to throw my arms around him and plant a full-blown kiss of thanks on his lips. Not here. Not now. Later, maybe.

Then, out of nowhere, the worry I had suffered earlier resurfaced. I put words to my concern. “About Pearl’s death . . . What if . . .” I placed both hands, palms down, on the table. “What if by moving back to Crystal Cove, I have opened the floodgates to bad karma?”

“Huh?” my father muttered.

“Dad, what if it’s my fault?”

His eyes widened. He knew I was serious. “Sweetheart, evil exists everywhere. Our small town is not exempt.” Working for the FBI, he knew better than most about evil. I didn’t know the entirety of what role he had played during his stint there, but I was sure he had seen horrible things.

“But murder with this kind of frequency?” I argued. “I came back, and wham, someone died followed by someone else and, now, Dr. Thornton.”

Rhett leaned forward and ran a finger along my forearm. “Jenna, maybe it’s your fate to have returned so you could help the families.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe, because of your own trauma, you have a gift to help them deal with theirs.”

“I’m not a counselor.”

“I’m not saying you are. But perhaps you know or suspect the truth before the police do.”

“Are you saying I have some kind of magical power?”

He nodded. “Crystal Cove, like much of the coast of California, bears mystical properties. Perhaps you pick up on the supernatural, like your aunt.”

“Don’t encourage her,” my father muttered and pulled the plate holding the muffin toward him. He peeled off the muffin’s wrapper, cut the muffin in half, and picked up one section. He pushed the remainder toward me. “Eat.”

I took a bite. The flavor was rich with bits of banana. I followed with a sip of coffee.

“But it’s true, Cary,” Rhett said. “Crystal Cove is special, and you know it.”

“So what if it is?” my father replied.

I nearly choked on the coffee. “Dad, did you just imply that it’s true?”

“No, I said—”

“You do not believe in ESP,” I cut in. “You think tarot cards are bunk. In fact, you think everything Aunt Vera says about the future is baloney.”

He shot a finger at me. “I would never admit this to my sister, and you’d better keep your pretty mouth shut”—a faint smile graced his lips; a twinkle sparkled in his eyes—“but there are times I’ve had a sense of something metaphysical going on here.”

“No way.”

“I have, too,” Rhett said.

I gazed between the two men in my life, not shocked that they were agreeing, but stunned that they would admit this . . .
belief
 . . . to me.