Chapter 5
B
AILEY AND I
returned to The Cookbook Nook, both of us perplexed as to what we could do to help her mother. In the Fisherman’s Village parking lot, customers clustered in groups while Chief Pritchett’s dedicated staff questioned individuals. On the boardwalk, people gathered around a table adorned with plates of cookies and an urn of coffee. Katie must have set it up so the disenfranchised wouldn’t go hungry.
I paused in the shop’s doorway and said, “Oh my.”
Bailey said, “What the heck?”
Although the bookshelves had been returned to their rightful spaces, the shop looked as unkempt and as out of sorts as I felt. Customers had abandoned cascades of books on tables. Aprons were flung on chairs. When the firemen said,
Get out,
the masses had dropped everything. Shoot.
My aunt sat at the vintage kitchen table turning over tarot cards for no one but herself. She said, “You can feel the bad karma, can’t you?”
I nodded. This time I could.
“How’s your mother, Bailey?” Aunt Vera asked.
“Fine, sort of.” She sucked back a sob. “I’m going to the stockroom if you want me.”
“I’ve got coffee brewing,” my aunt said.
“No, thanks.”
“No?” Aunt Vera eyed me.
I whispered, “She’s off caffeine, remember?”
Bailey slogged through the shop, shoulders slumped, the spring gone from her step.
“Poor dear,” Aunt Vera said as she stroked the amulet around her neck.
“Say a special incantation for her.”
“I’m not a witch.”
“You know what I mean.” I surveyed the shop again. A little moan escaped my lips. It would take hours to clean up the mess.
“Don’t worry, dear,” my aunt said. “We’ll get to it in time. It’s not like we’re opening again today.”
“We’re not? Why not?”
“Ask Katie.”
“Where is she?”
“In the kitchen. Where else?” Aunt Vera held up a finger. “By the way, that woman who owns the knitting shop down the street said she saw a UPS delivery person in the vicinity right before the fire alarm went off, but that’s not unusual.”
I continued on toward the café and gasped when I reached the archway to the cooking area. Halfway across the room, someone had pinned up yellow crime-scene tape. My stomach wrenched at the sight.
Not again
, I thought. I’d had nightmares about yellow crime-scene tape—twisting, writhing, and suffocating nightmares—all because of the murder of my friend on opening day. And now Natalie Mumford had been killed at our first town-sponsored function. What was going on? Did some otherworldly spirit have it in for my aunt and me? I wasn’t sure either of our artistic souls could take the hit.
Buck up, Jenna. You can get through this.
“Katie, why is this tape here?” I said. “Natalie was killed outside.”
She rushed to me, trying to placate me with hand gestures. “Don’t panic. The police merely determined this was the route Natalie took before she met her doom.”
“Why do you think she came to the kitchen?”
“I don’t have the foggiest. Maybe she stole in to grab some special ingredient for her Monte Cristo grilled cheese. The tape won’t stay up forever. No longer than a day, so I’ve been told.”
I calculated the financial loss, not that it mattered. Aunt Vera wouldn’t mind. She hadn’t opened The Cookbook Nook and café to make a profit. Back in the seventies, she and the love of her life had planned to open the shop, but life had taken a sour turn. For no reason that she could fathom, he’d left her at the altar. Nearly thirty years passed before she was ready to try opening the shop again. With me.
“The weapon, Jenna.”
“What about it?”
“It was my panini grill. An old one I brought from home. I planned to take it and other kitchen items to the Goodwill store. The items were sitting on the ground outside.”
“Are you kidding?”
“I told the police. One of our staff corroborated my story. Are you okay?” Katie gripped my arm. “You look pale.”
“I feel pooky. I’ve got to get some fresh air.”
“Why don’t you go around town and pass out flyers telling everyone the café will be open again tomorrow?” Katie suggested. “Tell them I’m planning an extra special menu for the occasion. It’ll be right out of Julia Child’s
Mastering the Art of French Cooking.
Her famous Veal Prince Orloff will be one of the items.” She kissed the tips of her fingertips. “Ooh la la. Drop a few hints.”
“Will do.”
Katie screwed up her mouth as if she were afraid to ask me a question.
“Spit it out,” I said.
“What’s going to happen to the Grill Fest?”
“The mayor decreed that it would continue. She assured me that Natalie would have wanted it to go on.”
“Re-e-e-ally?”
“I know. Ick, right?” Natalie had reveled in slaying the competition for eight straight years. Now she was the one that had been slain.
When I returned to the shop, Bailey reappeared. She had touched up her makeup, so she looked better but not refreshed.
“What’s up?” She latched onto me. “You look like a woman on a mission.”
I told her my plan.
“Let me join you. Vera, you can hold down the fort, right?”
My aunt didn’t answer. She seemed to be transfixed by the site of a Tower tarot card, which many considered an ill omen. Lightning and chaos spewed from the top of the image.
I slipped beside her and whispered, “Are you okay if we leave?”
“Too-ra-loo.” Usually she said that phrase with a light heart. Not this time.
The late-afternoon sun beat down on Bailey and me. Thankfully I had remembered to apply sun block. I was blessed with the Hart family’s olive skin, but even olive skin can burn.
While dropping off flyers at the glitzy shops in the all-brick Artiste Arcade, Bailey said, “If you ask me, one of Natalie’s family killed her. She was making big bucks at that diner. Have you seen the traffic?”
“I’m sure Cinnamon is looking into who will inherit Natalie’s estate.”
“Not if her grump of a mother has any say. Pepper thinks my mom is guilty with a capital
G
. Dagnabbit, but that woman is as bitter as hemlock.”
I couldn’t remember ever hearing Bailey say anything stronger than
dagnabbit
. If she was furious, she would simply say the word louder. But saying it meant she was perking up. “Don’t worry about Pepper,” I said. “I’m pretty sure Cinnamon has her mother under control.” They’d had a mother-daughter argument a few weeks ago. If rumors were true, Cinnamon had told her mother to stop trying to run her life and go fly a kite. I think she also ordered Pepper to make peace with me. A week later, Pepper ventured into the shop and bought a discounted Martha Stewart cookbook. It was a start.
“What else could be a motive?” Bailey said. “Sex? Politics? Rock and roll?”
“Your mother insinuated that the chef who resigned made a pass at her.”
Bailey flicked her hand. “Nah, not him. He was as gentle as a lamb and about as gay as they come.”
“He’s gay? Then why would your mother say that?”
“That’s my mom. An instigator. She leaked the notion so others would latch onto it.”
“Any reason the chef might have wanted Natalie dead?”
“I doubt it. Natalie doubled his pay. And didn’t you hear? Mom said, according to Natalie, that the guy took a better gig in Las Vegas. The guy was all about
things
. He loved having money in the bank. Speaking of banks, any news on that safety deposit box key David left you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But—”
“Later.”
After we made the rounds at the eclectic shops at the Artiste Arcade, we headed for a string of stores that I liked to call our mini–San Francisco. The complex was composed of an octet of narrow, two-story bayside structures. Each had charming windows and portholes. All of the structures were painted aqua blue with white trim.
Negotiating my way past an exiting pair of Frisbee enthusiasts, I led the way into Home Sweet Home, a delicious store filled with homemade potpourri, scented candles, and collectibles. As always, customers gathered near the year-round Christmas tree to find Crystal Cove–themed ornaments. The neon-colored surfboard ornaments garnered the most attention.
Flora Simple, the owner, who was the Grill Fest contestant who beaded all of her clothing, happened to be a good friend of Pepper Pritchett’s. After Pepper’s conciliatory visit to our shop, Flora had become a regular. She was particularly fond of chocolate-themed cookbooks. She hurried to us, offering a wave. “Hi, Jenna. Hi, Bailey.” Her apple cheeks, which were usually gleaming with health, looked wan. She tucked a loose strand of limp blonde hair over one ear and toyed with the thick braid that she always wore pulled forward over one shoulder. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? Just horrible. Truly. Ugh.” Her words came out in a gush. “Natalie, dead. I still can’t believe it.”
I flashed on Natalie lying in the alley, but I pushed the memory aside. Dwelling on the scene wouldn’t solve anything.
“I hope it won’t hurt your business,” Flora went on. “I know we were all looking forward to participating in the Grill Fest. Natalie, especially. She would have won again, of course, and, well . . .” She sagged as if she had run out of air.
“We’ll be up and running tomorrow,” I assured her. “And the Grill Fest will continue.”
“Really? I mean, how can you?” She covered her mouth then between parted fingers said, “Not
you
you. It’s the mayor’s decision, I guess.”
I agreed that perhaps Mayor Zeller was moving forward like a steam engine on full throttle, but what could I do?
“I bet you’ll have all sorts of new clientele,” Flora confided. “There’s no bad publicity, or so I heard a few people saying at the bank. That reminds me.” She scanned the shop to see if anyone was listening to us. No one seemed to be. Sotto voce, she said, “I was just there, at the bank, making my usual late-afternoon deposit, and I caught sight of Mitzi. You’ll never guess what she was doing.” She didn’t wait for us to beg her to continue. “Mitzi was hiding behind her car.”
“Hiding?” I gulped. “Like someone was after her?”
Bailey said. “On the break, Mitzi said she was heading to the beach for her daily dose of vitamin D. Is it possible she saw the killer?”
At the end of the passageway between Beaders of Paradise and the Nook Café was a set of stairs that led to the public beach below. If Mitzi had gone that direction, she would have had a view inside the café. Maybe she’d seen Natalie’s killer. On the other hand, what if Mitzi was the killer? She could have easily run from the patio, through the café, to the alley. She’d fought with Natalie at last year’s fest. What if Mitzi confronted Natalie, and Natalie, true to form, said something that made Mitzi fly into a rage?
“I don’t think she was hiding out of fear,” Flora said. “I think she was spying.”
“Are you sure it was her?” I said.
“Blonde chignon, chic Chanel suit. She was crouched behind her Toyota and peering into the bank.”
“Who was she spying on?” Bailey asked.
“Sam was inside.”
I shook my head. “I thought her husband was at a conference in San Jose.”
“It must have ended early,” Flora said. “Anyway, he was chatting up this Asian teller. You know the one I mean, with the tattoos.” She fluttered her fingers along an arm and up her neck. “She looks like she’s straight out of an anime graphic novel.”
“You mean manga,” Bailey offered. “Manga are the comics. Anime is the Japanese style of animation.”
“That’s it. Manga. Oh, if I could draw like that,” Flora said. “I mean, I can draw, but not . . . you know, like that. The money I’d make. I have such a fertile imagination. I’d write books upon books. All about teens. I adored my teen years.”
I said, “Back to Mitzi.”
“If you don’t believe me—”
“I believe you.”
“I think she suspects Sam is cheating on her.”
Why would Mitzi suppose that? By all I had ever witnessed, Sam adored his wife. She was pretty and smart and had a thriving business. On the other hand, he had flirted with Natalie on the boardwalk, and I was pretty certain Natalie had been flirting with him . . . until she’d turned to ice. I said, “Go on.”
