Wining and Dying

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Do you think she’s”—Flora toyed with her thick braid—“you know, with child? Ooh, I’ll find out.”

  “If you do, share the news with me.”

  Chapter 15

  When I strolled into the shop midmorning, Bailey and the baby were nowhere to be seen and my aunt was sitting at the vintage table with, of all people, Bucky Winston. Two tarot cards were turned faceup. Gran was at the counter, finalizing a sale. A pair of women were scouting out the Fire & Wine cookbook on the display table.

  Tigger romped to me, mewed, and nuzzled my ankle.

  “Not for you,” I said, taking the gift bag and my purse to the storage room. I returned and approached Gran, who was depositing the sales receipt in the drawer beneath the register. “Where are Bailey and Brianna?” I asked.

  “Katie needed some help preparing the demonstration. Two of her staff are out sick today. So Bailey offered and Lola took the baby.” Gran retied the Gucci scarf she’d donned over her expensive-looking bouclé sweater. “Between you and me, I think Katie could use some girl time. To get some things off her chest.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “I’ll suggest it. By the way, guess who I saw browsing baby items at Home Sweet Home?”

  “I’m breathless with anticipation.”

  I flicked her arm, knowing she was teasing me. “Sienna.”

  “I was right?”

  “I’m not sure. Flora says she browses but doesn’t buy.”

  “Interesting.” Gran hummed.

  Deputy Marlon Appleby strode into the shop and stopped short. He wasn’t in uniform. He was carrying a single rose, as he often did, for my aunt. They had a date for lunch.

  I clasped his elbow, drawing him to the cookware wall filled with aprons and other kitchen gadgets. “For me?” I asked coquettishly.

  He grinned, his moose-shaped jaw stretching with good humor. “You know it’s not. What’s your aunt doing?”

  “What does it look like she’s doing?”

  “A reading for Bucky?” His eyes widened. “Cinnamon won’t like—”

  At that moment, Cinnamon breezed into the shop, uniform crisp, her broad hat firmly planted on her head. She drew to a halt. “What’s going on?”

  Bucky sat taller. “What are you doing here, honey?”

  “The better question is what are you doing here?”

  Appleby and I sidled over to them. A third tarot card was turned over. The Ace of Cups. It was a pretty card, with a giant hand holding a gold cup from which water overflowed into a sea below, signifying the stirring up of emotions and excitement, as in bringing a baby into the world. The other two were the Empress, the ultimate mothering card, and the Three of Cups, which signified creation. Cinnamon had never had her fortune told, so she didn’t know the significance of the cards, but my aunt had clearly told Bucky. His eyes were glistening with joyful tears.

  He leaped to his feet and embraced his wife.

  Cinnamon broke free. On duty, she remained professional. “Why did you feel you needed your fortune told?” she asked him, her tone tight with restraint.

  “I had the day free. I thought it would be fun.”

  Liar, liar. He’d come seeking answers. Seeking hope.

  “And did you have fun?” Cinnamon said, eyeing the cards, trying to make heads or tails of them.

  “I did. Can we—”

  “Not now. I’m here on business. Deputy,” Cinnamon said, addressing Appleby, “I know you’re off duty, but we need to talk.”

  “About the new guy?” Bucky asked.

  “What new guy?” I glanced between them.

  “Fuller.”

  “He’s not the new guy yet,” Cinnamon said.

  “He’s been helping you do research, you said.” Bucky elbowed his wife.

  Cinnamon backed away. “Not exactly true. I’ve given him a few tests and—”

  “I’m not sure I like him,” Bucky added.

  Cinnamon sniggered. “Because he’s handsome?”

  “Bah!” Bucky’s neck flushed.

  I felt like I was viewing a contentious tennis match. “Why do you need a new guy?” I cut in.

  “Because Deputy Appleby wants to retire.” Cinnamon gestured to Appleby.

  “You what?” my aunt cried, rising to her feet unsteadily.

  The deputy clasped her shoulders. “I was going to talk with you about it. At lunch.”

  “But why?” My aunt was nowhere near ready to retire herself. She enjoyed work and she loved to tell fortunes. She told me once that she’d probably work until the day she died.

  “I think I want to spend more time with my kids and grandkids.” Appleby’s daughter had a nine-month-old, and his son and daughter-in-law had recently had a boy.

  “They’re infants,” Aunt Vera said, as if that made all the sense in the world.

  Appleby’s mouth quirked up. “I haven’t completely made up my mind. Don’t worry. I will not be asking you to give up what you love.” He said to Cinnamon, “Give me a sec.” He drew my aunt to the breezeway for a chat.

  “I’ll catch you later.” Bucky pecked Cinnamon on the cheek and left.

  Cinnamon stood speechless then faced me. “You phoned me yesterday but you didn’t leave a message.”

  “I . . .” Tread lightly, Jenna. “Are you pregnant?”

  “What? No. What gave you that idea?” She skimmed a hand along her abdomen.

  “Your mother thinks you are, and Bucky’s tarot reading—”

  “Is that what those cards meant?” Cinnamon whipped off her hat and ran the fingers of one hand through her hair. “They’re wrong, and my mother is loony.”

  “Speaking of your mother,” I said, seizing the perfect segue, “I saw her at Home Sweet Home talking with Sienna Brown, who was shopping for baby clothes.”

  “So?”

  “Is Sienna on your radar for the murder of Quade?”

  “No. Why should she be?”

  I launched into my explanation. Gran seeing Sienna enter an ob-gyn’s office. Sienna wearing larger clothes. Sienna and Quade arguing sotto voce. Sienna acting cool at the crime scene, calmly offering how she went into the cabana, not realizing he was dead. “Honestly?” I added.

  “What’s your point?” Cinnamon asked.

  “What if she’s pregnant? What if Quade was the father of the child?”

  Cinnamon frowned. “I’m sorry, but I find it hard to believe she would kill the baby’s father.”

  Exactly what I’d thought, but I didn’t want to rule it out. “What if he forced himself on her? Retribution for being violated can be a strong motive for murder.”

  “That’s a lot of what-ifs, but”—she touched my arm—“I appreciate your theories and I will follow up.”

  I couldn’t believe how valued her words made me feel.

  “Now,” she continued, “I thought you might have been calling me about Christopher George.”

  “Did you touch base with him?”

  “No, but we will because we found correspondence between him and Quade on Quade’s computer, linking them prior to this week, meaning Christopher George lied about not knowing Quade.”

  I whistled.

  “In addition, Fuller—”

  “The new guy,” I inserted.

  She held up a hand to slow me down. “Fuller said any emails exchanged were erased from George’s cloud. We’re bringing him in for further questioning.”

  “Fuller isn’t an employee, yet he was looking at Quade’s computer?”

  “Like I said, I was giving him a few challenges to see what he could handle.”

  Deputy Appleby joined Cinnamon and me while my aunt, her face splotchy from crying, retreated into the storage room, probably to freshen up.

  “By the way, Marlon, while you were out, Fuller broke part of the code.” Cinnamon pulled a black journal from her pocket with Quade gold-stamped on the cover.

  “That’s it? The black book?” I asked eagerly. Studying the code must have been one of Fuller’s chall
enges.

  “Yes. It turns out it’s a ledger. Quade kept sales of his art. The customers’ names were cryptic, but Fuller was able to decipher many. The artworks were notable because of the titles. We’ve followed up with the buyers and they’ve confirmed the entries. All are legit. All paid cash, it turns out, given the comparative deposits into Quade’s bank account. But there are a few things Fuller couldn’t figure out.”

  “Like what?” Appleby asked.

  She handed him the book. He opened the pages, flipping through.

  “None were about the forgeries?” I asked.

  Cinnamon said, “No.”

  “What’s got you stumped?” I tried to peer past Appleby’s massive arm to peek into the ledger.

  “The letters STB followed by the letters HM,” Cinnamon replied.

  “Sienna Theresa Brown,” I murmured.

  Cinnamon eagle-eyed me. “Are you sure?”

  “Theresa was her grandmother’s name. Her grandmother is the reason she’s so wealthy. I won’t bore you with details, but that has to be her. Yardley Alks believed Quade had given Sienna a piece of art in exchange for room nights at the inn.”

  Cinnamon said, “The others pertained to artwork titles. I suppose HM could stand for a piece of art or the style of art.”

  “True.” Appleby’s gaze swung from Cinnamon to me. “But the titles are each followed by the type. AA is acrylic art. MA is metallic art. MM is mixed media. Is there a style that would correlate to HM?”

  Cinnamon shrugged, clueless. So did I.

  As they departed though, an idea formed in my mind. Could it be that simple? Had Quade recorded everything he’d earned? What if HM stood for hush money to keep a secret? Like the fact that Sienna Theresa Brown was pregnant?

  Chapter 16

  After Cinnamon left and Appleby escorted my aunt to lunch, Gran and I wheeled the bookcases to the sides of the shop and set out twenty chairs facing the register. Then we roamed the store making sure all the cookbooks we’d ordered for the afternoon event were neat and organized. Around half past one, I went to the café to check on Katie and Bailey, who had yet to return. The plating demonstration would start in thirty minutes. I needed them both.

  “Are you doing okay, ladies?” I asked as I entered the kitchen.

  “Yep!” Katie pushed her mobile cooking cart toward me. “Bailey was a big help.” She yelled over her shoulder, “Reynaldo, I’ll be next door if you need me. Bailey, grab my toque and apron.”

  Reynaldo, the head chef and quite a good-looking man, waved a hand fitted with a kitchen mitt. “Fear not. We will batten down the hatches and have smooth sailing.”

  As Katie flew through the breezeway with Bailey and me following, she said, “I adore that man. He has such a great attitude. Nothing ever ruffles him. Nothing. I could learn a thing or two from him.”

  “Good to hear,” I said. “Listen, I’ve put out a bunch of plating cookbooks. Grand Finales: The Art of the Plated Dessert.”

  “Isn’t that a bit old?” Katie asked.

  “I know it’s not current, but some cookbooks are timeless, and this one is a visually stunning book. Exquisite desserts prepared by fifty of the nation’s top pastry chefs.”

  To Bailey, Katie said, “The book was coauthored by Tish Boyle, who also coauthored Payard Desserts with the legendary pastry chef François Payard.”

  “I love that cookbook,” Bailey said.

  “I’ve placed that one out, too.” I strolled through the archway into the shop and pointed to the display table. “I’ve also put a stack of Plating for Gold on the sales counter.” The full name was Plating for Gold: A Decade of Dessert Recipes from the World and National Pastry Team Championships—a mouthful, but then many cookbook titles were long. The championships were considered the Olympics of the pastry arts. Katie had never entered, though I’d encouraged her to do so. She claimed she was a better savory chef than a dessert chef, but today, she was going to prove herself wrong. I’d seen her decorate desserts with flair.

  “Your guests should enjoy the selection.” I hurried ahead of her to the decorative cookware area. “In addition, I purchased a number of plating tool kits.” I lifted one and held the leather case open. “They aren’t too expensive. Good enough for a beginner. So throw these into your spiel.”

  “Will do.”

  “Also, I’ve been thinking I’d like you to put a cookbook together.”

  “Who has the time?”

  “We’ll all pitch in.” I swiped the air as I said the title, “The Nook Café’s Best Recipes: So Far.”

  “OMG,” she croaked. “I love that.”

  “We’ll split the proceeds fifty-fifty. I’ll make sure we find a good publisher.”

  “I’m in. But now, off to create art! C’est voilà!” She wheeled her cart into place and removed items from the cupboards beneath the cart’s counter.

  Bailey handed her the toque and apron.

  Katie centered the hat on her head, tucked her curls behind her ears, donned the apron, tying the strings at the front, and said, “Bailey, sit in the back row. Tell me if you can see the mirror.”

  Bailey obeyed and shouted, “Oui, chef!”

  “C’est bon!” Katie threw her arms wide. “That’s all the French I know other than cooking terms.”

  As I tweaked displays, making sure our recent customers hadn’t messed with my organization, I said, “Katie, Bailey, what do you think about a girls’ night out tomorrow at Palette?” Palette was a fun paint and sip studio, where they served wine and encouraged guests to awaken their inner artists by painting along with a teacher.

  “Won’t the place be booked during the festival?” Bailey asked.

  “I’m sure Orah can squeeze the three of us in.” The owner loved coming into the Cookbook Nook. “She owes me.” I’d found her a rare cookbook that a vendor on eBay had for sale. It had been the first cookbook she’d ever owned as a girl. She’d lost it when her family had moved houses. Memories anchored by a physical item, as I well knew, were invaluable.

  “You’re on,” Katie said.

  A half hour later, after the chatty Pacific Grove Foodies settled into their seats—they took so long mingling that they had to sit in the last two rows—I signaled Katie to start her presentation. I moved to the rear of the room and remained standing, arms folded.

  As she explained what the audience could expect, I picked up the scent of tar, which made my nose twitch. I swiveled my head and spotted a youngish woman in the last row, two seats from where I was standing, dusting off her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

  The elderly woman sitting next to her leaned in and whispered, “I can help with that, dear.”

  The youngish woman startled. “Are you talking to me?”

  “I have dandruff, too,” the elderly woman continued, missing the younger’s shocked expression. “But I’ve tamed it with Tara’s Tar shampoo.” She indicated the dandruff-free shoulders of her purple dress. “The stuff stinks, but it works.”

  No kidding. Hadn’t the woman thought about using a cream rinse to dampen the stench? I inched away.

  “Welcome, everyone!” Katie announced. After a brief introduction covering herself, the shop, and the café, she launched into detailing a few of the tools she would use, including an offset spatula, drawing decorating spoon, saucier spoon, and slotted spoon. “FYI, we happen to have a few of these plating kits for sale.”

  Bless her heart. She was a master saleswoman.

  “Now, today, I’m going to demonstrate how to decorate simple, ordinary flan.” She had made six flans for the occasion.

  “For the first, I’ll show you how a single line can make a statement.” Using a pastry brush, she dipped it into a strawberry sauce and then swiped the brush lengthwise on an empty plate. “This style takes full advantage of the white space.” She tilted the plate, just so. “Notice the sauce is not a solid line. Texture is important.” She slid a flan on top of the sauce. The audience could see ever
y move she made in the cart’s slanted overhead mirror. “Simple but elegant. Of course, you could use two lines, making them parallel or crisscrossing. It’s up to you. And now . . .” She held up a small pink vial. “For my secret potion.” She turned the vial upside down and shook it. Out came red crystals. “Sugar!” She chortled.

  The attendees applauded.

  “Moving on.” Katie’s voice lilted with enthusiasm. “Arcs, or swooshes, as some of us call them, create a nice movement to a plate. The half-moon push is one of my favorites. You start with this.” She held up a silver biscuit cutting ring. “Set it on the plate and with a squeeze bottle filled with your desired sauce”—she held up a bottle that reminded me of one you’d find in a diner for catsup, except this one was filled with blueberry sauce—“you add a thin stream on the inside of your cutter. Then, with a spoon, swipe around the inside. Remove the mold, and voilà, a lovely arc shape.”

  An audience member oohed.

  “Place the dessert of choice inside the arc.” She did so. “If you like, you could add a line to the plate. Arcs and lines do well together.” Using a drizzle spoon with a tapered tip, she trickled some of the red sauce alongside the flan. “Use your imagination.”

  Over the course of the next half hour, she showed how to turn simple dots into swishes and how to create elegant triangles and circles and more. I was impressed and couldn’t wait to try some of her techniques at home. Rhett, of course, knew how to do all of these things. I would love to surprise him.

  “I’ve one more technique to show you,” Katie said, nearing the end of her presentation. “Tweezer food. Heard of it?”

  Heads wagged.

  “Although the term tweezer food is sometimes used to describe fussy dishes with way too many bells and whistles, using tweezers can elevate your plating skill. This won’t be fussy.” She wrinkled her nose in mock horror. “Let me show you.” She pulled a plate of chocolate shavings from the refrigerator beneath the cart’s counter. “Chocolate and flan are a great match.” Carefully, using her oversized tweezers, which she informed the audience were also called tongs, she set shaving after shaving on top of the flan. Then, using a decorating spoon, she drizzled droplets of strawberry sauce around the flan.