“Just because Desiree and Anton met that night before the murder doesn’t prove Anton killed her.” My father opened the register and counted the cash. “What about the J.P. guy? You said he was at the bar phoning her repeatedly.”
“But Anton blackmailed Gigi, and get this, he was a baker before he owned all his restaurants. A baker of massive cakes. That takes skill. He is talented enough to create the mermaid sculpture.”
Dad slammed the drawer. “Okay, now you’ve got me hooked.”
Hooked? A frisson of fear raced from my fingertips to my skull. I twisted on the stool and gawked at the family photos.
“What are you staring at?” my father asked.
I stabbed a finger at a photograph of him and me fishing offshore. We had caught a huge rock cod. The hook we used was at least five inches long. “What if . . . what if . . . someone saw that picture of us snaring the rock cod. Like Anton d’Stang. What if he came in here and spied that photo?”
“He’s never been in here.”
“He was in disguise the first day I set eyes on him. Maybe he came here dressed up, too. What if he saw the photograph and got an idea to frame me, so he stole the trowel from the shop, and he . . . he . . .” I flapped my arms. “What if Cinnamon Pritchett sees the photo? She’ll think I was inspired to sculpt Desiree into a fish—”
“A mermaid.”
“And I sank a hook into her mouth because . . . because . . .” I stopped myself. The words coming out of me were saturated with paranoia. I knew in the sane part of my brain that no one was going to think I murdered Desiree based on an ages-old photo and a fingerprint-less trowel, but if more evidence mounted up . . .
My father steadied me. “Breathe, Tootsie Pop. Stick to the facts.”
“Cinnamon Pritchett thinks I killed Desiree, Dad.”
“She does not.”
“It’s just like with David, all over again. Water cooler gossip. Town gossip. It’s the same thing. I don’t have an alibi for the night Desiree died.”
“You also don’t have a motive.”
“There’s the rumor about David and Desiree.”
“Which Sabrina rescinded.”
I snapped my fingers. “I know what I’ll do. I’ll take the photo to Cinnamon myself. That’ll prove it means nothing. You’re the one who says, ‘The best defense is a good offense.’” I rushed toward the photograph.
My father tore after me and gripped my shoulders. “Leave it.”
“Dad.”
“Get hold of yourself. Cinnamon will not leap to conclusions.”
There it was again. The tender tone in his voice when he said her name. Curiosity got the better of me. I wrested free of his hold. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you were her mentor?”
“It was on a need-to-know basis.”
“I need to know. Why did you do it? Why her? I get that she had a tough life. Fine. But why you?”
He rubbed his chin, deliberating. “Your mother asked me to.”
“Mom? Why?”
“Your mother was such a special woman.” He smiled. His eyes grew moist. “She couldn’t sit by and watch Cinnamon go down the tubes. She felt, in some screwy way, that Cinnamon’s existence was her fault. She said Cinnamon shouldn’t suffer because of the foibles of the parents. She said Cinnamon’s father, the cad, had done wrong, and I, Mr. Do It by the Book—that’s what your mother called me—should teach the girl otherwise.”
“Didn’t Pepper object?”
“At first. But once she realized there weren’t a lot of people willing to step in . . .” My father moved behind the sales counter and opened and closed a drawer. For no reason. “Pepper loved Cinnamon. She realized something had to be done. Cinnamon and I met once a week, on Saturdays. Over the course of time, I taught her that doing the right thing was what would make her different from her father.”
“Why didn’t you introduce us? Why didn’t you bring her over to our house?” I held up a hand. “Don’t answer. I know why. Pepper wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t want her precious daughter anywhere near Mom, the woman who stole you away.”
My father reached across the counter and grabbed my hand. “Cinnamon will do right by you. I promise.”
• • •
IN THE END, my father convinced me. I left the photograph on the wall of his hardware store. By the time I returned to The Cookbook Nook, I was calm but thirsty. Mackenzie had advised me to hydrate. Maybe that was my problem; I was parched. I hustled into the store and found Bailey perched on a chair beside the vintage kitchen table. She sat with her arm extended, palm up, to my aunt.
Aunt Vera traced a finger along Bailey’s hand and blinked repeatedly. “You will meet a man in the village,” she intoned as if in a trance—all part of her act. “He will be very tall.”
Bailey snickered. “To me that could be anyone over five feet.”
Aunt Vera gave Bailey a scathing look.
“Sorry, Vera, I know I’m supposed to be serious. Go on.” Bailey caught sight of me and said, “Hey, stranger, welcome back. How was the massage?”
“Shh,” Aunt Vera said. “I need to concentrate.”
Bailey mimed for me to talk anyway.
“Informative.” I kept my paranoid overreaction at the hardware shop to myself. I saw no reason to foster rumors about my mental status.
Bailey tried to withdraw her hand from my aunt’s, but Aunt Vera held on tightly.
Aunt Vera gasped. “This man will hurt you.”
“Hurt her?” I said.
Bailey frowned. “She means he’ll break my heart. Tell him to get in line.” She freed herself, hobbled to a stand, and brushed off her stylish capris and silky peasant blouse. “Every man I’ve ever known has broken my heart, including a brat in kindergarten that trapped me behind the tree in the schoolyard to give me a smooch. Did anybody ever break your heart, Vera?”
It was my turn to say, “Shh.”
Aunt Vera’s face paled. She stood up and tucked a stray hair behind an ear. “Yes, dear, a man broke my heart into a million pieces.” Without another word, she strode to the rear of the shop and disappeared into the office.
“Gee, I’m sorry,” Bailey said. “What happened?”
I explained.
Bailey shook her head. “He left her at the altar and married somebody else? Wow. And then he died. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nothing’s worse than not knowing why.”
Actually, nothing was worse than not knowing where the body of the man you loved ended up. Closure was highly underrated. But I wasn’t about to argue the point. The past was the past. Movin’ on. “Where are all the customers?” I said. “Did you scare them away?”
“Haven’t you noticed? Our customer traffic seems to ebb and flow with the café traffic. They come in midmorning and at lunch and dinnertime. Speaking of which, did you eat?”
“Not yet.”
As if on cue, Katie strolled into the shop carrying a tray filled with soup bowls and a basket of aromatic bread. “Hungry?” she asked.
“Famished.” I grasped a spoon and one of the bowls from the tray and nestled at the table. How I relished our midafternoon tastings. “Is this the soup I heard people stood in line for?” I took a bite.
“Nope. It’s a new one I concocted for dinner. Bacon leek with melted Brie.”
“Scrumptious. What’s the spice?”
“Who needs spice when there’s bacon?” Katie chortled. “Glad you like it. When you’re done with that, I set a few lemon cookies in the hallway.”
“Which reminds me,” Bailey said. “We got a stack of new cookie cookbooks today. One is titled Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-in-Your-Mouth Cookies. Doesn’t that sound sinful? I especially loved the pictures of the meringues. And Sticky, Chewy, Messy, Gooey: Desserts for the Serious Sweet Tooth has a recipe for chocolate chip cookie pizza.”
“Wow,” I said. “To die for.”
“And last but not least, Sweet Designs: Bake It, Craft
It, Style It, by Amy Atlas.”
“Craft it?”
“Atlas is a home baker and party planner. According to online reviews, she transforms a sugar cookie into something extraordinary.”
I slurped down more of the tasty soup and sighed. “Eating soup and hearing about sweets is way better than a massage.”
“Hoo-boy. I almost forgot. Tell us what you found out from the masseur.” Katie set the tray on the table and settled on a chair opposite me. Tigger bolted into the room and nudged Katie’s ankles. She ripped off a bite of bread and set it on the floor by his nose. He downed it in one bite and begged for more.
Playing bad guy, I said, “Uh-uh, kitty.” Tigger mewled and opened his eyes wide. I stifled a grin. “Nice try.”
“Oh, no!” Katie cried. “No, no, no.” She pointed toward the parking lot.
I swiveled in my seat. Oh, no! was an understatement. Pepper, dressed in yet another unflattering gray outfit that made her look like a prison warden ready to lock me up in solitary confinement, pushed her daughter toward the entrance of The Cookbook Nook. Cinnamon appeared resistant but not nearly enough for my liking. Hadn’t Gigi Goode contacted her? Ooh, why had I listened to my father? I should have been proactive. I should have gone to the precinct with the incriminating—albeit ancient—photograph. Dang.
“There you are.” Pepper prodded Cinnamon into the shop and blocked the doorway with her broad frame. Did she think I would try to bolt? How could I hide, in this day and age, without someone locating me by a superultra satellite gizmo?
I stood up and did my best to look innocent yet powerful. If only I didn’t detect the scent of massage oil at the roots of my hair and feel oil clinging to my arms and legs. “Hi, Pepper,” I said. “Don’t you look lovely today? I like the chic silver beading.”
“Don’t mollycoddle me,” Pepper said. “I have conducted a personal investigation into your past.” She plucked a ream of papers from her steel gray tote. “I have dirt.”
“What are you talking about?” I took a step forward. Katie and Bailey flanked me as if they were stalwart troops. Tigger crouched in front of me as if ready to attack Pepper at my command.
“You, missy, demonstrated in San Francisco.”
Again with the missy? What was up with that? My insides simmered.
Pepper brandished the papers. “You hit a cop. You’re violent.” She eyeballed her daughter. “I told you she’s capable of murder.”
Quickly I described the demonstration, one that concerned unfair pay for women. The cop—a female—grabbed my Equal Pay Every Day sign. I reached for the sign. My purse swung ahead of me and whacked the cop on the hip. I apologized, but she wrote up a report. I paid a modest fine. “I’m not capable of murder.”
“Yes, you are,” Pepper said.
“I am not, you wicked—” I stopped short and regarded Cinnamon. Was it really possible that she shared the same DNA with the despicable woman beside her? “Didn’t Gigi Goode come to the station and file a report, Chief?”
“No.”
Swell. As fast as I could, I explained how Anton d’Stang, a former king-sized cake maker, had blackmailed Gigi.
“Cinnamon, you can’t believe what she’s saying,” Pepper said. “This is biased information.”
“It is not,” I said. “Anton lied, don’t you see? He created an alibi for himself, and he—”
“That doesn’t make him guilty,” Pepper cut me off.
“But one minor infraction, years ago in my past, and I am guilty?”
“Not one,” Pepper countered. “Many.”
I opened my arms. “C’mon, Chief Pritchett. Find Gigi. She works at the Permanent Wave Salon and Spa. Call her.”
Cinnamon held up a finger as she pulled her cell phone off her utility belt. She dialed and told the person she reached to link her to the salon. Soon after, Cinnamon identified herself and asked for Gigi. She listened and offered cryptic responses: “She hasn’t? When was the last time? Yes, please, and her address.” Cinnamon disconnected and stood zombie-like for a moment.
“What?” My stomach knotted up.
“Gigi Goode has disappeared. Her coworker thinks she split town.”
Chapter 16
I LOOKED TO Katie and Bailey for support. They stood beside the vintage kitchen table, their mouths agape. I whipped my focus to Cinnamon and her miserable mother. “But Gigi can’t have split,” I said. “She’s . . . she’s . . .” The cogs in my brain kicked into high gear. “Wait. What if Gigi hasn’t left town? What if something horrible happened to her? What if the person who killed Desiree murdered Gigi?”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Pepper shook her fist. “You can’t wangle out of this with that.”
“Huh?” I said. Even an English teacher would have a tough time diagramming Pepper’s sentence.
“You have an overly active imagination,” Pepper said.
No, I had a deep-seated desire for everyone to believe I was innocent.
“Mother, please, be quiet.” Cinnamon zeroed in on me. “I will look into this, but for now . . .” She let the sentence hang. She didn’t have to say what I knew was on the tip of her tongue: Don’t leave town.
I didn’t tell Katie, Bailey, or my aunt about the massage or tracking down Gigi or anything else, for that matter. I could hardly form thoughts. An hour later, when I couldn’t concentrate on work any longer, I gathered Tigger and left for home. Katie, who was as worried as a mother hen, scuttled from the café and shoved a recipe and a grocery bag of ingredients for homemade chocolate chip cookies into my arms. “Baking will make you feel better,” she said. “Promise. Let it take your mind off things. Turn on the TV. Relax.”
Relax? I could barely breathe. What had happened to Gigi? Had the killer seen me questioning her? Had she run? Had she come to harm? Was I in danger, too?
• • •
I RUSHED INTO the cottage and locked the door. Fear morphing into anger, I dumped the grocery bag of goodies noisily on the counter and cursed. How dare Pepper Pritchett invade my shop. How dare she accuse me of murder . . . again. Why were bitter people allowed to exist in this world? I stormed around the place, kicking the feet of chairs and spanking the tops of tables. Tigger followed in my wake, meowing and chuffing. Poor little guy couldn’t ask what was wrong, and I wasn’t in the mood to provide an answer to a cat.
Five minutes into my rant, I found myself back in the kitchen facing the recipe and the bag of ingredients. Would baking truly help me calm down?
Following Katie’s suggestion, I switched on the television and located the Food Network. I couldn’t believe it. Though I rarely watched TV, I had landed on a repeat of the Radical Cake Battle show that Desiree had judged. Contestants and their assistants raced around their individual kitchens. Dora the Lady in Red, wielded a chainsaw; Leo the Latin Lover brandished a blowtorch; Macbeth the Gay Blade hacked with an axe. Like I told Katie, not quite my cup of tea, even with Desiree’s appearance. I clicked the dial until I found the Travel Channel and Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations. Bourdain was on a food tour of Greece. While he educated his audience about the wild foods found on the islands, I fetched a mixing bowl, measuring cup, and spoon. Next, I pulled a cube of butter from the refrigerator. Katie had reminded me not to cheat on the recipe; I had to use butter, not oil or lard. As the oven preheated, I measured oats and flour, sugar and butter. I cracked eggs. I added vanilla, chocolate chips, and nuts. By the time I had put all the ingredients into the bowl, I was salivating but my palms were clammy. Not from fear. I had put the killer from my mind. No, I was worried that my cookies would stink. I questioned whether I had added baking soda or baking powder. I tasted the raw batter. Not bad. Memories of myself, as a kid, sneaking tablespoons of batter and my mother rapping my knuckles playfully with a wooden spoon, rushed through me.
Fifteen minutes later, I pulled my first batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. Obeying the recipe’s directions to the letter, I let them rest on the cookie sheet for two minut
es. Next, I transferred them, using a spatula, to paper towels to cool. Unable to restrain myself, I snatched two. Hot, hot, hot. I juggled them between hands, fetched some kibble for Tigger, and retreated to the comfort of my sofa. The kitty sprang into my lap and snuggled into a ball. By this time, Bourdain—Tony to his friends—was sipping ouzo, a licorice-tasting liqueur David used to enjoy. As the show shifted to commercial, I heard a thud.
A shiver skittered along my skin. I seized the television remote, hit the mute button, and listened. The thud hadn’t come from shutters banging; it hadn’t been wood on wood. And it hadn’t sounded like clackety-clack. Old Jake hadn’t just passed by.
I plunked Tigger on the floor and darted to the window. I pushed back the drape. My breath caught in my throat. White powder dusted the pane. What the heck? Off in the distance, I spied movement. A tall figure stood on the beach. Man, woman, or dystopian teen, I couldn’t tell. I released the drape and stumbled back a step. Was the lurker a killer, prepared to dispatch me now that Gigi was gone? What had he or she thrown at the cottage? Should I call Aunt Vera and ask her to save me? Was she even home?
Taking charge, I galloped toward the landline telephone. At the same time, my cell phone jangled. I swept it up and stared at the readout: Whitney, my sister. Wonderful, winsome Whitney. I stabbed Enter and said, “Hi. I’m so glad you called. There’s a—”
I hurried back to the window and peeked out. Whoever had been standing on the beach was gone. Maybe the figure had been Old Jake, after all, except I couldn’t make out a sand raking machine anywhere. A vehicle that large would be hard to miss, wouldn’t it? And why would he have hurled white powder at my window? I weighed whether to tell Whitney; if I was wrong and the intruder was nothing more than a kid carrying out a prank, she would lord my fear over me for years. “What’s up?” I crooned like a phony.
“Have you heard from Mitchell?”
“Why would I have?” When our mother died, our brother turned to Whitney for solace. It didn’t matter that, growing up, he and I had spent hours going on hikes and exploring creeks or that I had helped him TP the house of the boy that had shoved his head into a toilet. Mitchell had beaten the kid, fair and square, at the science expo. I didn’t blame my brother for throwing me over for Whitney. I had been in a state of disconnect.
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