by Mary Kennedy
“Not everyone signed in,” I said thoughtfully. “I remember seeing a few stragglers who came in late.” I opened the book and glanced at the first page of names. Most of them were familiar to me, townspeople or friends of Ali’s. “And, of course, there was Sonia’s staff, or as she liked to call them ‘Team Sonia.’ I’m pretty sure none of them signed in.”
“That’s okay,” Sam said. “It will give us a starting point. I’d like to go over these names with you tomorrow. It shouldn’t take long.” She glanced at the sign-in book, running her finger down the names. “How did you invite people to the signing? It sounds like it was a last-minute event.”
“It was,” Ali told her. “I sent out an e-mail blast last night to some of our regular customers and, of course, we told all the members of the Dream Club. I suppose a few tourists might have stopped by as well. We didn’t really expect a big turnout because we didn’t have time to promote it.”
• • •
“Wow, what did you think of Etta Mae’s bombshell?” Ali asked me after the police had finally left. “I’m flabbergasted.” She blew out a breath. “There’s no way to tell if it’s true, of course, but she certainly seemed convinced. I suppose she’ll tell us more as time goes on.”
We were padding around the kitchen in shorts and flip-flops. We’d closed the shop for the rest of the day, so there were no customers downstairs and the apartment seemed as still as a tomb. I brushed off the morbid image and busied myself making coffee. I think both Ali and I felt at loose ends, mulling over the tragic event at the book signing.
“No one challenged her except for Lucinda, did you notice that?” Ali went on. “They didn’t even ask a single question.”
“I think it shocked all of us,” I said, rescuing the cream pitcher from Barney, who was determined to lap up the last few drops. “Nobody could pull it together to ask a question. Not even Dorien,” I noted. “Although knowing Dorien, she’s probably saving her questions for the next meeting.”
“I’d love to know what Etta Mae said to Sonia at the book signing,” Ali said softly. “I couldn’t hear a word of the conversation. It looked a little intense, but I don’t really think it was confrontational. I wonder if Sonia even knows who Etta Mae is.”
“No idea. Who knows, maybe Sonia has run into this sort of thing before. She’s a celebrity and I think she meets a lot of people who want something from her. I’m not sure we should have accepted Etta Mae into the club; there seems to be something a little off about her.”
I had my doubts about Edward Giles as well but didn’t voice them. There was something so reserved and self-contained about the university professor that I doubted he would be a good match for our group.
“I think Etta Mae will settle in,” Ali said amicably. “She did seem a bit edgy today, but maybe it was just a case of nerves. This has been an incredibly stressful experience for everyone. Poor Sonia. I still can’t believe this happened.”
She curled up on the sofa and pulled Scout onto her lap. She immediately started purring and walking in circles before she finally settled down and began gently kneading. “Ow,” Ali moaned as her sharp claws connected with her bare leg. She winced and lifted her off her lap and onto the sofa cushion farthest from her. “She never remembers to keep her claws in,” she said ruefully. The vet told us that Scout was probably taken away from her mother too early. The mother cat teaches the kittens to sheathe their claws when they knead, but poor Scout never got the message.
“I wish we’d had more time to hear about it. She certainly got everyone’s interest.” I paused. “I think it’s far-fetched, you know. Not really believable. At least that’s my first reaction.” Ali reached over to pet Scout, who cleverly was trying to weasel her way back onto her lap via the coffee table.
“You may be right,” Ali said thoughtfully. “On the face of it, it seems pretty improbable that Sonia actually stole Etta Mae’s recipes. Just from a practical perspective, how in the world would she hope to get away with it? Especially if there were loads of family members who’d had access to the book and would be outraged to think a celebrity had stolen them and passed them off as her own. After all, that’s part of their history.”
I nodded. “I think it’s unlikely. There have got to be thousands of recipes floating around the Internet; why would a famous chef like Sonia have to resort to stealing? She probably has loads of staff to find the best recipes and test them for her. Besides, is it even possible to copyright a recipe?”
Ali shrugged. “I’m not sure. Etta Mae acted like her recipes were special, something handed down from generation to generation.”
“If that’s true, they’d have to be adapted for modern tastes,” I insisted. “People are into healthy eating these days. Tastes have changed over the years. Not many people cook with lard anymore, and a hundred years ago, people liked to fry vegetables in leftover bacon grease.”
“Bacon grease?” Ali, a strict vegan, gave a delicate shudder. “I hadn’t thought of that angle.”
A while later, Ali went downstairs to begin working on a candy platter for a Fabulous Fifties party, and I decided to do a quick check of the inventory. Since I’d become co-owner of the shop, I’d persuaded Ali to branch out. Selling retro candy wasn’t enough to keep the business afloat, and after some initial resistance, she’d agreed to go after catering jobs and had approved my plan to start offering light lunches and desserts. Candy platters—perfect for ’50s theme parties—were filled with old favorites like Necco Wafers, Chunky bars, Red Hots, and Boston Baked Beans. I’d been urging Ali to consider doing ’50s hors d’ouevres like pigs in blankets, shrimp cocktail, mini meatballs, and fruit kabobs.
We were far from being a booming success, but profits were up for the first time in months and it looked like we had finally turned things around. Street traffic had improved thanks to some creative window displays, and a chalkboard posted on the sidewalk touted the daily specials.
We had a long way to go, but I was happy that we were moving forward and that my sometimes impulsive, flighty sister had settled down and was actually going to run a profitable business. Ali has had a checkered career and a series of failed ventures. The problem is she’s never had a specific career goal, and she’s always searching for something just out of reach. Since graduating from art school, she’d worked for a graphic designer, done stints as marketing coordinator for a textile museum and event planner for an art gallery, and even run a glass-blowing shop. It seemed as though all her talents had finally come together and merged into a successful business enterprise. I could only hope I was right.
5
When Noah called me at six, I was taken by surprise. My heart gave a little lurch when his warm, sexy voice raced over the line. I was in the shop, tidying up a gummy bear display, and I pulled over a counter stool, settling down to talk.
“Sara told me what happened,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”
“I think so. I was pretty shaken up at first, but the initial shock seems to have worn off. It was probably worse for Sara because she actually followed the ambulance to the hospital. She’s the one who called to tell me Sonia didn’t make it.”
We talked for a few minutes about Sonia’s sudden death and the possibility of foul play. As far as I knew, the jury was still out on whether or not it was a homicide, but Noah seemed to have his suspicions. Noah is a private detective and his mind is razor-sharp, instantly homing in on possible motive, means, and opportunity when he’s sizing up potential suspects. When he worked for the FBI, he was part of an elite division at Quantico, the Behavioral Science Unit, and he brings those same skills to his work as a PI.
“Who would have had it in for Sonia?”
“I don’t know, and that’s what’s bothering me. I guess anyone who’s reached that level of fame is bound to have made some enemies along the way, but would anyone hate her enough to kill her? Her fans seemed to love her.
She employed a whole entourage; the woman had an empire. She was an inspiration to a lot of people because she started out with nothing and worked night and day. One of those rags-to-riches tales that people love to hear about.”
Noah snorted. “Someone wasn’t too impressed by her. She probably clawed her way to the top. I’m guessing there are some wannabes who might have been jealous of her fame and wealth. I think we should start where we always start.”
“By following the money?” I was grateful that Noah seemed eager to help with the investigation, and I knew his protective instincts had kicked in. Until the mystery of Sonia’s death was solved, a cloud was going to hang over Oldies But Goodies.
“Exactly.” Ali walked out of the stockroom and shot me a puzzled look. I mouthed Noah and she nodded.
Following the money is one of Noah’s favorite strategies. I was silent for a moment, thinking of who might benefit financially from Sonia’s death. Her heirs? Very possibly. Maybe some business colleagues? Certainly not her stockholders; her sudden death would cause stock prices in Sonia Scott, Inc., to plummet.
And now that Sonia was gone, who was left to carry on the brand? The cookbooks, the television show, the video cooking lessons, the friendly, down-home blog? Women thought of Sonia Scott as being open and approachable, someone you could share a cup of coffee with at your kitchen table. She was friendly, folksy, and an awesome cook.
It seemed sad to think she’d spent decades building up her fan base, acquiring corporate sponsors, creating a whole line of cookware and table settings, and now it was all gone in a flash.
“I don’t know enough about her yet. Sara said she’s going to look into the financials—”
“I know, Sara is digging up information right now. I’ve already made reservations for the four of us to go over the case tonight.” Reservations? My pulse went up a notch. “Dinner at Marcelo’s at seven. Can you and Ali make it? Sara has already said yes.”
I didn’t hesitate. Marcelo’s is my favorite Italian restaurant in Savannah. “We’ll be there.” I flipped my phone shut and then glanced at my watch. I’d have to hustle. Just time enough to dash upstairs, take a quick shower, and pull on a sundress. I called to Ali over my shoulder, “Don’t defrost anything for dinner. Noah is taking us to Marcelo’s.”
“Won’t three be a crowd?” she teased. “I’m sure he’d rather dine solo with you.”
“Not tonight,” I shot back. “Sara’s coming, too. We’re going to be discussing what happened to Sonia. He’s just concerned because she was murdered here; it’s not a date.”
“If you say so,” she said, raising her eyebrows just a tad. “But from what I remember, Noah has trouble separating business from pleasure.”
I could understand her suspicions. Noah Chandler and I have had an on-again, off-again relationship since I moved to Savannah. We have a “history,” as folks are fond of saying. I first met Noah when we both worked in Atlanta, where we spent an intense two years together. I was working as a strategist for a consulting firm and Noah was an FBI agent with the Atlanta field office. It was love at first sight, but not the type of love that’s sustainable. The timing was off. I was traveling nonstop, we were both workaholics, and neither one of us had the time or energy to devote to a relationship.
Noah moved to Savannah shortly after I arrived to help Ali with the shop. He has family in town—a couple of elderly aunts, along with a cousin on the police force—and he’s always loved the South. He said he’d had enough of the Bureau, that’s why he decided to set up his own detective agency. He’s quickly built a reputation for being smart, tough, and honest. I ran into him at a dinner party when Ali and I were investigating Chico’s murder a few months ago, and now we’ve started seeing each other again.
This time, we’re taking it slow. It’s not a red-hot romance like in the old days, just a warm friendship that will stand the test of time.
We’re both different people than we were when we were younger. Now that Noah’s in Savannah, he seems happier and more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. He tells me I’m more laid-back since I gave up my corporate job in Chicago. It makes me wonder what would have happened if we’d both stepped away from our stressful lifestyles back in Atlanta. Would we have been kinder and gentler with each other? Less obsessed with our careers and more committed to our relationship?
Water under the bridge, as Noah would say. Noah always tells me I spend too much time on might-have-beens and insists I need to focus on the moment. I tell him I’m working on it but old habits die hard.
• • •
“What do we know so far?” Sara said, whipping out her notebook. Sara, a green-eyed blonde, is as a bright as she is beautiful. She went to journalism school at Emory and won every journalism award the school offered. We were friends back in Atlanta, and I knew how much she wanted to be an investigative reporter. I was delighted to find her in Savannah and hoped she would find her niche here.
Journalism is a tough field, and at the moment, she’s working as a stringer for the local paper. She covers whatever stories they assign her—everything from basketball games to city council meetings to the police desk—but I know she’d like to specialize in crime reporting. I think someday she’d even like to write true crime novels like her idol, Ann Rule. Sonia’s murder had all the hallmarks of a major celebrity case, and if the story turned out to be as big as I thought it would be, this could be a game changer for Sara.
“We know that Etta Mae thinks Sonia stole her treasured family recipes,” I said. “That much is definite.”
“Do we have any solid evidence that it really happened?” Noah cut in. “Could Etta Mae just be someone who’s disgruntled and maybe even a little jealous of Sonia’s success? It’s been known to happen, you know. Remember the guy who said Stephen King ripped off his unpublished novel? When the lawyer asked him how Stephen King could have had access to it, he insisted that Stephen King had read his mind. Now, that’s really far-fetched.”
I shook my head. “I remember that case.” I thought for a moment. “And the answer is, I guess I have no way of knowing the truth about Etta Mae’s accusations. Etta Mae doesn’t seem like a nut job, and she insists she has rock-solid proof. Apparently she sent the recipes to Sonia and was rebuffed. The company sent her a form-letter rejection and said they never use recipes from outside sources.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Ali added. “I read up on Sonia’s company. Supposedly they pride themselves on developing everything in their test kitchens. They guarantee that they use all original recipes. Why would they need Etta Mae’s recipes? She’s taking this way too personally, and I’m not sure why.”
“I don’t know why she’s so offended,” Sara said. “She sounds overly sensitive to me. I bet loads of people approach Sonia about using their recipes. She probably gets hundreds or even thousands of requests every year. You can’t really expect her to take the time to reply individually to every single person who writes to her.”
I paused to take a sip of sangria. “You’re right. But the story didn’t end there for Etta Mae. To her surprise, her recipes turned up in Sonia’s new cookbook. At least that’s what she claims.”
“Is she sure about that?” Noah asked. “Does she have any proof this is what really happened?”
I peered at Noah over the rim of my sangria glass. “Well, the names of the recipes were altered, but Etta Mae says she recognized them right away. All the ingredients were the same. They even used the same measurements. Etta Mae feels it’s a clear-cut case of theft.” Noah’s eyebrows inched up. I could tell his original skepticism was melting and he was starting to think that there might be more to Etta Mae’s story than meets the eye. I was still having trouble deciding if Etta Mae was credible. She seemed so outraged and emotional, I didn’t quite know what to believe.
“So Sonia used Etta Mae’s recipes and changed the names of the dishes? Why would she
do that?” Sara cocked her head to one side, reaching for a breadstick. Usually I ask the servers to remove the bread basket from the table so I won’t be tempted, but Sara is as thin as a swizzle stick, so she can afford the calories. I took a longing look at the crunchy breadsticks—a house specialty—and forced my attention back to the story of Etta Mae and her family cookbook.
“It could be the names were a little folksy, or they had too much of a down-home flavor,” I said, recalling some of the recipes included in the book.
“Folksy can be good,” Ali mused. “I like it when cookbook writers include a little bit of history about the recipe and where it came from. It makes it seem more personal, like sharing recipes with a friend.”
“I’m afraid these were a little too folksy,” I said ruefully. You know, ‘Aunt Sally’s Best-Ever Funeral Cake.’ And ‘Uncle Jed’s Delectable Pork Belly Casserole.’”
Sara chuckled. “I see what you mean. Pork bellies and funeral cakes don’t sound too appealing.”
“Maybe Etta Mae’s feelings were hurt by the company’s reaction,” Ali offered. “It still doesn’t mean she would do anything to harm anyone.”
“You’re probably right,” Sara said. “And killing Sonia wouldn’t solve anything. It would make more sense to seek legal redress if the company really did steal her recipes and try to pass them off as their own.”
“But if it isn’t Etta Mae, where does that leave us?” I asked. Deep down, I felt it was very unlikely that Etta Mae would murder anyone, especially over a bunch of family recipes. I made a mental note to see if I could find any of her “treasured family recipes” online, using a few of the names I remembered. Who knew, maybe one of Etta Mae’s relatives had a blog. I’d make it a point to ask her at the next Dream Club meeting.