Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) (8 page)

“Mind you, I’m rational,” my father said.

“Understatement of the century,” I quipped.

“I always look for the reasonable explanation.”

“As do I,” Rhett said.

“Me, too,” I added. “I’m extremely levelheaded.” I might be an artist, but I also see things in black and white. It’s the curse of a Gemini. Right brain, left brain, yada yada. “But there are times—”

A hand gripped me from behind. I spun in my chair, expecting to see someone I knew. I shrieked when I found myself staring into the eyes of a giant Casper the Friendly Ghost. I recoiled and slid my chair backward. Into Rhett. He steadied me by placing his hands on my hips. I felt another flush of heat course through me, not due to contact with him, although that was a given, but because he was laughing louder than anybody else in the café.

Yes, they were all laughing. Let’s hear it for Jenna the Spectacle.

“Can it,” I muttered.

“So much for being levelheaded,” he gibed.

I wrenched from his grip and glowered at the ghost. “You have a lot of nerve scaring me like that. Who are you?”

“Mine to know,” the ghost said, but I recognized the voice. It was the toy shop owner, a semi-infantile thirty-something with cherub cheeks.

I shook a finger. “You could have given me a—” I sucked in air as I flashed on Pearl, fooling around at the faire the day before, pretending to have a heart attack. Had her performance given the murderer the idea to poison her?

M
Y
MIDMORNING
BREAK
with my father and Rhett did nothing to quell my worry. I returned to the shop, still wondering what to do about my aunt. As I arrived at Fisherman’s Village, I spotted Pepper Pritchett riding up on her bicycle. Wearing a long black sweater and black scarf that caught the wind, she looked for all intents and purposes like the nasty woman who hated Toto in
The Wizard of Oz
. She parked her bicycle, an old relic like the one I had inherited from my mother, complete with the basket and bell, in the stand outside Beaders of Paradise. Her shop would have been a darling place to browse, if not for its acerbic owner. Pepper was a wizard at beading and teaching beading; she lacked something in the personality department. She swooped off the bicycle, cinched the belt of her sweater, and gazed over her shoulder at me. If looks could kill. What had I done this time? Pepper didn’t like my family for a variety of age-old reasons. I was doing my best to win her over, but it was hard being nice to someone so downright nasty.

I waved and smiled while flashing on last night’s nightmare. In the dream, I was Glinda. Did I, as Rhett intimated at breakfast, have powers that I hadn’t yet realized? Could I utter a chant, albeit a fake chant, that would change Pepper’s demeanor? It was worth a shot.

Be nice, be nice, be nice
, I whispered while clicking my heels—okay, I was trying to double-channel Glinda and Dorothy, and okay, flip-flops were definitely not as effective as ruby slippers—but I swear Pepper smiled at me. Next on my to-do list was making that amulet that Bailey had suggested with the Be Nice potion. Maybe I could conjure up some homemade candy to sweeten the deal. What was Pepper’s favorite? Did she even eat candy, or did her diet consist solely of lemons and limes?

I snickered under my breath and headed toward The Cookbook Nook. Before entering the shop, I caught sight of another bicyclist. Cinnamon Pritchett, dressed in her brown uniform with her broad-brimmed hat hanging by a chin strap over her shoulders, hopped off her state-of-the-art mountain bike, removed her helmet, looped it over the handlebars, and slotted her bike next to her mother’s. However, instead of entering her mother’s shop, she marched toward the Nook Café.

Desperate for an update, I rushed toward her. “Cinnamon, wait up.” If she had solved the mystery of Pearl’s murder, my aunt could give up her quest and move forward with her life. I caught up to Cinnamon near the entrance to the café. The aroma of freshly baked biscuits wafted out the door. How I adored Katie’s biscuits. Lots of butter. Maybe a drizzle of honey. My stomach grumbled. Half of a banana muffin was not going to suffice until lunch.

Cinnamon and I exchanged pleasantries. Yes, the day was gorgeous and the weather crisp. But then I got right to the point. I knew how much Cinnamon appreciated directness.

“How’s the investigation going?” I asked.

“It’s moving along.”

“Did you arrest Trisha Thornton?”

“I’ve released her.”

“She’s not guilty? I could have sworn she was lying. Does she have an alibi?”

Cinnamon cocked her head.

“C’mon,” I said. “Dr. Thornton—Pearl—was my therapist.”

“Why do you go to a therapist?”

“I’ll give you a dozen reasons, starting with my husband’s suicide and financial duplicity.”

“I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

“Lots of people see therapists. It’s almost chic to go. Why, I’ll bet some cops, er, policemen, see shrinks.” I winked. “But back to Trisha. Her alibi seemed weak.”

“It turns out it was stronger than imagined. She went to her boyfriend’s place, and then she went to UC Santa Cruz. She was at school, from ten
P.M.
until one
A.M.
, conducting a laboratory experiment on rats looking for the effects of diabetes.”

“She can do that?”

“She’s a chemist.”

“Why wouldn’t she have told you where she was at the start?”

“She was alone at the lab. No witnesses.” Cinnamon drew in a breath and exhaled. “To make things worse, she’s on probation. Revealing her indiscretion—”

“You mean trespassing.”

“Revealing her
whereabouts
could get her expelled for good.”

I shifted feet. “I heard she was taking a year off between college and grad school.”

“Nope. She started graduate school, but she’s on probation for cheating on a test.”

“So she’s a cheater.”

Cinnamon gave me a wry look.

I ignored it. “Can you tell me what the time of death was?”

“The coroner figures between ten and midnight.”

At the exact time Trisha claimed to be at the lab. How convenient.

“Does Trisha inherit her mother’s estate?” I asked.

“She does.”

“Including her father’s rock collection?”

“Yes.”

“Wow! That has to be worth millions upon millions. Isn’t that a huge motive for murder?”

“It would be, except the lawyer for the estate assures me Trisha will have to rely on a modest allowance until she’s thirty-five. She won’t be able to touch the bulk of the estate because of a stipulation in the trust. That’s years away.”

“If you rule her out, who else is there?” I asked. “Emma Wright? According to Trisha, Emma was the last to see Pearl alive. Did you track her down?”

“That’s why I’m here. I went looking for her but couldn’t find her.”

“She’s missing?”

“Not exactly. I got in touch with her husband, Edward. He was frantic. He hadn’t seen or heard from her since Tuesday night.”

“Not since the murder?”

“Right. He called everyone he knew. No one had seen her. But then I got a tip. Emma is here dining in the café.”

“Here? Who told you?”

Cinnamon raised an eyebrow.
As if
, her gaze said. I wasn’t dense. I could figure it out. Her mother, Pepper, must have caught sight of Emma and contacted Cinnamon, hence the two riding into Fisherman’s Village on bicycles at the same time. Cinnamon pressed past me.

“Wait,” I said. “You don’t want to question her in public, do you? I mean, wouldn’t someplace like my office be a better choice?” Okay, it wasn’t much of an office. It shared space with the stockroom. A desk, chair, file cabinet, and computer. What more did we need? “It’s cramped, but it serves its purpose.”

“Good idea.”

I’m not typically an eavesdropper, but after showing Cinnamon and Emma to the stockroom—Emma came willingly, though she looked nervous—I hovered halfway between the sales counter and the archway leading to the stockroom.

Bailey sneaked up and said, “What’re you doing?”

I hushed her and motioned for her to tend to customers. Three were perusing the Halloween section.

“Bossy,” she muttered.

“Curious.” I waved her away and craned an ear toward the stockroom. Luckily, Cinnamon wasn’t whispering. Neither was Emma. She sobbed when she heard that Pearl was dead. She sobbed harder when she was informed that someone had seen her having a private conversation with the doctor.

After calming Emma down, Cinnamon said, “Where have you been since you left the doctor’s house?”

“At ten
P.M.
, I returned to work and discovered a pet missing from its confine. Mrs. Hammerstead’s Havanese. The dog’s a sneaky little thing. He can open any cage. I didn’t want to tell my boss. I might lose my job. I spent two hours looking for him. When I found him, around midnight, I took him back to the clinic.”

“And then you went home?”

“No. My husband hates when I disturb his sleep, so”—Emma hesitated—“I walked.”

“Why?”

“I needed time to—” She slurped back something that sounded like tears.

“Time to what?”

“Think.”

“About?”

“Something.” Emma’s voice dropped to a whisper.

I inched closer. Why was she being so evasive?

“Where did you walk?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere. The beach. The road. I browsed shop windows.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

We had a few homeless people in Crystal Cove. The weather was moderate, which made it an ideal place to tuck in for the night. But Emma had a house. And a husband. What had stirred her so much that she walked all night? Had she killed Pearl? Was she trying to fashion an alibi?

“You didn’t go home in the morning,” Cinnamon said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I . . .” Emma clicked her tongue. “I drove up to see my mother in Santa Cruz.”

“Your husband said he called her. She hadn’t seen you.”

“She was lying. She knew I . . . I needed time.” More slurping.

“Here’s a tissue.” I heard Cinnamon pull a Kleenex from a box. Emma blew her nose. “Let’s go back to your last minutes at Dr. Thornton’s home. Did you and the doctor argue?”

“What? No.” Emma sniffed. “Look, she was alive when I left.”

“I have something to show you. Do you recognize this?”

Emma gasped. I ached to peek through the break in the drapes and see what Cinnamon was holding, but I held back.

“Is this your wedding ring?” Cinnamon asked.

“I don’t know.”

“There’s an inscription and the date of your wedding inside. Care to revise your statement?”

Emma started crying again. “Yes, it’s mine. Where did you find it?”

“I think you know,” Cinnamon said, revealing nothing, leaving me hanging. “We wondered why Dr. Thornton was sprawled across the fire pit. That prompted me to do a search of the ashes. My people found your ring.”

Why would Emma’s ring have been in the ashes?

“I was”—Emma hiccupped—“asking Pearl for advice.”

“About your marriage.”

“I wanted to leave my husband.”

“Is that all?” Cinnamon said.

Emma didn’t respond.

I imagined the scenario on the patio. Pearl probably told Emma to keep a clear head and wait until morning to address her problem. But Emma wouldn’t listen. She was upset with her husband for whatever reason. She tossed her ring into the fire pit. Pearl tried to catch it. I paused. No, that wasn’t right. Pearl wasn’t burned on any part of her body. She had fallen or lain across the fire pit after the ashes cooled. I was missing something.

“Talk to me, Mrs. Wright,” Cinnamon said. “You’re not telling me everything. You wanted to leave your husband for what reason? Did he cheat on you?”

Emma remained silent.

“Did he abuse you?”

“No.”

“Did he threaten you in any way?”

“No. Edward is kind. He adores me. It’s . . . I . . . I was in love with Pearl. I needed to know if she felt the same.”

I gasped.
Knock me over with a feather.
Realizing Cinnamon could have heard my outburst, I quickly covered by saying, “Ow, Tigger, don’t scratch me.” Poor little guy was halfway across the shop dallying with an elderly customer who came in every day to give Tigger an ear scratch. My outburst must have put Cinnamon on alert. Her voice dropped to a whisper. So did Emma’s. I glanced around the shop. Bailey was tending to customers. No one was looking in my direction. Curiosity getting the better of me, I dared to creep closer to the curtain.

“I’ve loved Pearl since the day I met her,” Emma continued.

“Were you her patient?”

“No. She and I met while working on the Winsome Witches luncheon. I was so inspired by her. She was such a giving person. I’ve never had feelings like that before. Ever. My husband . . . He doesn’t understand me like Pearl did. I didn’t want to hurt him, but what could I do? Deny what was turning me inside out? I wanted to be with Pearl for the rest of my life.”

“What happened next?” Cinnamon said. “After you told her.”

“She said in very clear terms that she was not in love with me, nor would she ever be. I told her I could make her love me. She said I was transferring or something like that.”

Doctor-patient transference. A common incident.

“I said she was wrong, and I’d prove it to her. I took off my ring and hurled it into the fire. She tried to catch it but missed. We stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Then she said I shouldn’t have done that. She said she didn’t feel the same about me. She never would. She was in love with a man. She wouldn’t tell me who.”

“And that made you mad.”

“No, not mad. I was embarrassed. My heart was pounding so hard. I ran out.” Emma wept loudly. “After that, I couldn’t go home. You understand. I couldn’t face my husband. I still love him, too. I couldn’t hurt him like that. So I went to work. And then, in the light of day, I realized I had to talk to somebody—not my husband—so I went to see my mother.”

Had Edward found out about Emma’s yearning anyhow and gone to Pearl to confront her? Was he the one who killed her?

“Pearl said I had to come to grips with reality. Around nine
A.M.
this morning, I came back to Crystal Cove, but I had to eat before confronting my husband.”

“Why didn’t you call him?”

“I know it was bad of me. He must have been worried. But I didn’t want to say anything wrong on the telephone.”

Inexplicably, I felt as if someone were giving me the evil eye. I turned just in time to spy Pepper marching toward me. How did Bailey miss seeing her enter? How did I miss hearing her thundering footsteps?