Had someone injected Pearl with poison or something she had an allergic reaction to?
Cinnamon directed the Moose—Marlon—to bag the cocktail glass and take pictures of what was evidently shaping up to be a crime scene.
My aunt started to cry. “Pearl was the inspiration for the Winsome Witches. What will happen to the group and all the fund-raising we do?”
I encircled her with my arm. “The group will continue. You have each other to carry out Pearl’s wishes.” Better question: what would all of Pearl’s patients and her daughter do without her?
As if thinking of Trisha conjured her up, she barged into the living room. Her hair was frizzed out around her face like a fright wig. She inched her crocheted purse higher on her shoulder. “What’s going on here?”
“Your mother,” Aunt Vera said. “She’s . . . dead.”
“No way.”
Mrs. Davies pointed.
Trisha raced past us toward the patio. “Mother? Mom?”
Cinnamon sprinted to the French doors and blocked Trisha from progressing while introducing herself.
Trisha tried to dodge around her. “My mother. I have to go to her.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Cinnamon said.
“No-o-o!” Trisha keened.
Cinnamon’s voice turned supremely gentle. “I need you to stay in here. Can you do that?”
Trisha sniffed back tears but nodded. When Cinnamon released her, Trisha’s purse slid from her shoulder as she folded in on herself. “She’s really dead?” She looked up, her eyes pinpoints of worry. “How did she die?”
“We’re not sure. We’ll be running tests.”
“How can you not know?”
“It’s complicated. She was sick. There’s no obvious evidence of foul play.”
Trisha gasped. “Do you think she was murdered?”
I said, “Chief, is it possible someone injected her with something?”
Cinnamon scowled at me. “Trisha, when did you last see your mother?”
“At the party.” Trisha’s eyes widened as realization hit her: she was being interrogated. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you think. Yes, we fought. They all saw me. But I stormed out. I left the house.”
“Hold on,” Maya said. “You ran off with a backpack on your shoulder. Where is it now?”
“Why do you care?” Trisha hissed.
“A very expensive sapphire seems to be missing,” Cinnamon said.
“The sapphire is gone? We were burgled?” Trisha blew out an angry breath. “I warned Mother to install an alarm system, but do you think she listened to me?”
Mrs. Davies sidled up to Cinnamon. “The display case isn’t busted. Someone opened it with a key. Whoever did it must have known that if the glass broke, it would set off an alarm. Trisha knows where the key is kept.”
Trisha’s face grew hateful. “You think I took the stupid rock, you wicked shrew? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Cinnamon didn’t say a word. That kind of patience was a rare commodity.
“Fine,” Trisha said, the silence spurring her to talk. “Here’s the truth. I didn’t leave right away. I went up to my bedroom to drop off my backpack and change my clothes. My backpack is still there. Search it. You’ll see. The sapphire is not in it.”
Cinnamon set her subordinate on the task.
Minutes later, Deputy Appleby returned carrying the raggedy backpack. “Is the sapphire a big blue-gray rock?”
“About the size of a baseball,” I offered.
“It’s in here.” He handed the backpack to Cinnamon and then returned to the patio.
“Uh-uh, no way,” Trisha shouted. “I did not take that stone. Emma. She must have planted it in my bag. She’s trying to frame me.”
“Emma Wright, the Pet Taxi girl?” Cinnamon said. “Why would she do that?”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“Nobody does,” Mrs. Davies muttered under her breath but loud enough for all to hear.
Trisha shot her a cruel look. “Emma was here. Last night. It was her induction into the Winsome Witches coven.”
“Coven?” Cinnamon looked from one woman to the next. Maya, Bingo, and my aunt stood taller.
“It’s not a real coven,” I explained. “It’s a charity group that gets together every Halloween to raise money for literacy.” How could Cinnamon not have heard about them? She must be asking rote questions.
Trisha said, “After I changed clothes, I . . . I went for a walk. I was steaming mad. When I returned”—she jammed her foot against the carpet—“I saw Emma. She was with my mother. Emma was crying. Mother looked like she’d been crying, too. I didn’t want to intrude. That’s when I left. For real.”
“Why didn’t you interrupt?” Bingo said, acid in her tone. “You didn’t seem to have any compunctions earlier about barging in on the party and dressing down your mother in front of everyone.”
“Bingo, don’t.” My aunt petted her arm.
Bingo shook her off.
Trisha continued. “I . . . I went to my boyfriend’s place. Emma must have stuck around and killed my mother, and then she stole the gem and planted it in my stuff.”
“Why would Emma do that?” Bingo said. “She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.”
“How do you know?” Trisha responded. “Why do you think I did it? You don’t know me.”
“As a matter of fact, I do, young lady. I was one of your mother’s best friends. She confided in me.”
Cinnamon cleared her throat. “What time did you arrive at your boyfriend’s place, Miss Thornton?”
Trisha crossed her arms. “Ten.”
“Can he corroborate that?”
“No, he . . . he wasn’t there, but you can tell I was. I left dishes in the sink. Someone must have seen the lights go on and heard me pacing.”
“Because you were mad at your mother,” Maya pointed out.
“Stop it. All of you.” Trisha spun in an arc to address us. “I did not poison her.”
Cinnamon said, “I didn’t say she was poisoned.”
Trisha’s face turned dark. “Yes, you did. You said she was injected with something.”
“No, I didn’t.” Cinnamon cut a quick look at me, warning me to keep my mouth shut. Had I guessed correctly? Had Pearl been poisoned?
“You said you’d be running tests,” Trisha said. “That suggests poison. No, wait!” She held up a finger. “Mother was recently diagnosed as a diabetic. Did she mess up her insulin?”
Deputy Appleby reappeared at the French doors. “Boss, the EMTs have everything they need. We’re waiting for the coroner. I took copious pictures.”
Cinnamon said, “Rope off the area and track down Emma Wright.”
Bingo cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Chief Pritchett, I don’t mean to sound crude, but will we be allowed to hold the luncheon despite our friend’s death?” By default, Bingo was now the leader of the Winsome Witches. She looked to the others for support. Maya and my aunt grabbed her hands. “Big donors are coming. We can’t afford to cancel.”
“Yes, of course.” Cinnamon gave a quick nod. “I’m sorry for your loss. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She joined her colleagues on the patio.
My aunt hurried to me and gave me a huge hug. “Thank you for coming. The three of us were so distraught. Bingo was grinding her teeth to chalk. Maya was running in circles with that idiot tray of coffee. We needed someone reasonable. It’s so tragic.”
“Poor Pearl,” I said, feeling an acute loss. Pearl—Dr. Thornton—was the person who had helped me recover from the shock of finding my husband’s suicide note two years after his death. The revelation had rattled me to the core. Pearl had convinced me that I couldn’t have done anything to prevent his death. Suicide victims rarely revealed their plans ahead of time.
“I don’t know what to think. The police will find the truth. Look at Cinnamon, still gathering evidence.”
Cinnamon had donned gloves and was crouched down inspecting everything from leaves to dust. She signaled for Deputy Appleby to take another photograph.
“What about a memorial?” my aunt asked.
“I’m sure you’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report,” I said. “It’ll be a while until the department is willing to release the body.” I paused, nearly gagging at what I sounded like. I wasn’t a professional. I shouldn’t know—or think I know—as much as a policeman when it came to murder. Three murders in three months. My stomach turned sour.
“Trisha says she saw Emma with Pearl,” Aunt Vera whispered. “But what if somebody else showed up after Emma? In that case, I suppose anyone could have killed her, including all of us.”
Her comment caught me off guard. Was she right? I surveyed the others in the room. Trisha stood in the far corner, talking to someone via a cell phone. Hadn’t she said last night that she couldn’t get the darned thing to turn on? Had she stolen not only the sapphire but also some cash to reinstate her account? The housekeeper had moved into the foyer and was dusting. Her mouth was turned up in a pained smile. Maya, who was coughing through tears, stood near the large plate-glass window peering at the yard. Bingo lingered at the French doors. She seemed to be assessing everyone, too, one by one, and I swear, she looked victorious.
Chapter 6
WHEN I ARRIVED at the shop later, I found another gift on the doorstep—a miniature pumpkin with an intricate black cat drawing painted on it. The attached note read: You will soon know of my love for you. What the heck? This was a joke, right? I set the pumpkin on the counter and continued about my business.
For the remainder of the morning, all the gossip in The Cookbook Nook teemed around Pearl’s murder. Had her daughter killed her? Was one of her clients a murderer? Had a Winsome Witch done her in? I knew the often-asked questions when it came to murder investigations, but one unrelated question continued to plague me: had I, by my return to Crystal Cove, cursed the town? Guilt gnawed at me. I felt I needed to do something to fix the problem, but what could I do? Leave? Return to San Francisco? Move to Antarctica? I liked penguins.
Picking up on my anxiety, Tigger, my sweet kitty, sought me out. I cuddled him for a while, and then to keep my mind and hands occupied, I set about carving a pumpkin. Not the pumpkin left by the secret admirer. A big pumpkin about fifteen inches in diameter. Bailey joined me.
After a half hour of silent carving, Bailey held up a smaller pumpkin she had been working on. “What do you think?”
I choked back a snort. “Really? One tooth?”
She jutted her chin, obviously peeved. “I think he’s cute. What have you carved?”
I twisted my pumpkin—like hers, he was grinning, but mine had a little more bang for the buck. I’d given him bright eyes, bushy eyebrows, hair, ears, and a bow tie.
She gawked. “Guess I missed Pumpkin Carving 101 in college.”
“Blame my mother.” She had loved carving intricate designs in pumpkins like castles or leafless trees or the word boo in a jeering mouth. “You do know there’s a citywide pumpkin contest in addition to the Spookiest Window Display contest, don’t you?”
She moaned. “How can I compete with yours?”
“You don’t have to. We’re a team. Did you see the array of pumpkins in front of Aunt Teek’s? I think one is a cutout of the Bates Motel from Psycho. I’ll bet Bingo used a pattern.”
“Cheater.”
A while later, as I was arranging pumpkins outside the entry, Tito, the reporter for the Crystal Cove Crier, pulled to a stop on his mountain bicycle. He looked quite fit in snug biker pants and shirt. I knew he worked out. Had he doubled up on his regimen? A lock of dark hair spilled from beneath his helmet. He tucked it back in and grinned. Bailey believed he might have had some dental work done. She was probably right. His incisors didn’t look nearly as fanglike.
“Hola, chica,” he said, then quickly revised, “Hi, Jenna.” I’d made it very clear that I hated when he called me chica. “Beautiful day, no?”
“Yes.”
“It is a shame about Dr. Thornton.”
“Yes, it is.”
“She will be missed. Is there a story there?”
“What kind of story?” I asked, deliberately being evasive.
He offered a wry look. “Care to comment?”
“No.” I held up my hands. “Ask the police.”
As he rode off, a pack of ladies all dressed in gingham and looking like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, right down to their pigtails and freckles, hurried past me, each chattering with excitement. “Hello,” they trilled in unison.
I trailed them into the shop. No one in the store blinked an eye at the women’s outfits. It was almost Halloween, after all. Each lady carried a cloth tote emblazoned with a movie image of Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Lion, and the Scarecrow skipping along the yellow brick road.
“Ooh,” one of the women said as she browsed the display tables. “Look, girls. An Oz cookbook.” She plucked a book from a specialty shelf. I had ordered cookbooks that featured movies and television. “Cookin’ in Oz. How darling.” She turned to me. “Miss, are you the owner? We’re a Wizard of Oz book club. Can you help us?”
I had heard of dedicated groups like theirs. Most had read the entire set of Baum books. I remembered my grandmother reading original copies of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Marvelous Land of Oz, Dorothy and the Wizard, and more to me. I’d blissfully reread them in my teens during an especially rainy week. Sometimes there was nothing better than a dreary day when all I could do was read. With the trauma of Pearl’s death still cycling through my brain, I wished for one of those rainy days right now. I would close the shop and cuddle beneath a comforter and cry. But that, as my father would say, would not be productive, and I needed to feel productive.
To take my mind off the murder, I joined the women by the display. They clustered around me and gazed expectantly, as if I were the Wizard himself.
“We eat, drink, and sleep Dorothy if we can,” the woman who seemed to be the organizer continued. “Is that what this book is about?”
“Peek inside,” I said. “The authors have put together recipes and little anecdotes, not just about the movie but about the Broadway production and its collaborators, as well. Each shares his or her own story and possibly a recipe. It’s fun.”
She browsed the pages. “Hey, I didn’t know Art Carney was the scarecrow on Broadway. You know who Art Carney is, don’t you?”
I had a vague idea. Old actor on the Jackie Gleason television show.
“Ooh, I love learning something new.” She closed the book. “Do you have a dozen on hand?”
I gulped. “Only the one.”
“But you can order more and ship, yes?”
“Of course.”
As the ladies purchased other books and gift items, I learned they were from nearby San Jose. They had specifically come to town for the Winsome Witches luncheon. I also learned about a Wizard of Oz collector in the Stanford area. A retired orthodontist, he had immersed himself in all things Oz. He owned nearly two thousand Oz-related books; he had even built a yellow brick road in his collectibles room. Amazing.
When the ladies departed, Bailey joined me at the register. “Weren’t they enthusiastic?” she said. “Do you remember your favorite scary book?”
“Why scary?”
“Weren’t you totally freaked out reading The Wizard of Oz? The scene about the monkeys and the wicked witch. Ewww.” She shimmied with mock fright.
“Now that you mention it.” I vividly remembered shivering as my grandmother read the part about Dorothy being swept into the cyclone. �
�The second in the series wasn’t much tamer. If I recall, a little boy named Tip escapes from a witch with the help of Jack Pumpkinhead.”
“Perfect for Halloween.”
“However, nothing scared me more than Dracula.”
Bailey’s mouth dropped open. “You read Dracula?”
“And Frankenstein. Do you know the idea for Frankenstein came to Mary Shelley in a dream? She and some buddies were competing about who could come up with the best horror story.”
Bailey said, “Did you read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”
“Yes. I loved the way Stevenson laid out the secrets, morsel by morsel. Brilliant.”
On and on the two of us went, sharing book titles we had read over the years. By the time we reached the popular Goosebumps series by R. L. Stine, Katie appeared carrying a huge tray of popcorn balls.
“Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb,” Bailey cried.
“Monster Blood,” I responded. We had come up with about fifty titles so far. Stine was so prolific.
“Treats,” Katie said.
Bailey frowned. “That’s not a Goosebumps title.”
“No.” Katie wiggled the tray. “It’s snack time. I’m putting them in the hall. You two get first dibs.”
“They’re so teensy,” I said. Most popcorn balls I had sampled were the size of tennis balls. These were little golf ball–sized tidbits. I nibbled on one. “Yum. Butter and caramel and something else.”
“Marshmallows,” Katie said. “It makes them taste like corny Rice Krispies treats, don’t you think? Hoo-boy, that’s not what I meant. Not corny. Corn-filled . . . whatever.” She ambled into the breezeway between the shop and the café and set the tray on the table where we offered goodies for our customers. Half a minute later, she returned. “By the way, where is your aunt? I wanted to review the café menus for the week. I’ve conjured up all sorts of fun items using Halloween recipes.”
I glanced at the clock above the checkout counter. Two P.M. Where was my aunt? She had gone directly from Pearl’s house to the precinct. Surely the police were done questioning her by now. I was dying—bad choice of words—to find out whether Trisha or Emma had killed Pearl. I kept imagining the crime scene in my mind in little snippets, like a storyboard for one of my ad campaigns: the windblown patio, the scattered leaves, the empty martini glass, Pearl’s hat abandoned on the chaise lounge, Pearl’s body outstretched across the fire pit. Someone mentioned that she looked like she was reaching for something. What could it have been?
Stirring the Plot Page 6