Stirring the Plot

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Why would Emma’s ring have been in the ashes?

  “I was”—Emma hiccupped—“asking Pearl for advice.”

  “About your marriage.”

  “I wanted to leave my husband.”

  “Is that all?” Cinnamon said.

  Emma didn’t respond.

  I imagined the scenario on the patio. Pearl probably told Emma to keep a clear head and wait until morning to address her problem. But Emma wouldn’t listen. She was upset with her husband for whatever reason. She tossed her ring into the fire pit. Pearl tried to catch it. I paused. No, that wasn’t right. Pearl wasn’t burned on any part of her body. She had fallen or lain across the fire pit after the ashes cooled. I was missing something.

  “Talk to me, Mrs. Wright,” Cinnamon said. “You’re not telling me everything. You wanted to leave your husband for what reason? Did he cheat on you?”

  Emma remained silent.

  “Did he abuse you?”

  “No.”

  “Did he threaten you in any way?”

  “No. Edward is kind. He adores me. It’s . . . I . . . I was in love with Pearl. I needed to know if she felt the same.”

  I gasped. Knock me over with a feather. Realizing Cinnamon could have heard my outburst, I quickly covered by saying, “Ow, Tigger, don’t scratch me.” Poor little guy was halfway across the shop dallying with an elderly customer who came in every day to give Tigger an ear scratch. My outburst must have put Cinnamon on alert. Her voice dropped to a whisper. So did Emma’s. I glanced around the shop. Bailey was tending to customers. No one was looking in my direction. Curiosity getting the better of me, I dared to creep closer to the curtain.

  “I’ve loved Pearl since the day I met her,” Emma continued.

  “Were you her patient?”

  “No. She and I met while working on the Winsome Witches luncheon. I was so inspired by her. She was such a giving person. I’ve never had feelings like that before. Ever. My husband . . . He doesn’t understand me like Pearl did. I didn’t want to hurt him, but what could I do? Deny what was turning me inside out? I wanted to be with Pearl for the rest of my life.”

  “What happened next?” Cinnamon said. “After you told her.”

  “She said in very clear terms that she was not in love with me, nor would she ever be. I told her I could make her love me. She said I was transferring or something like that.”

  Doctor-patient transference. A common incident.

  “I said she was wrong, and I’d prove it to her. I took off my ring and hurled it into the fire. She tried to catch it but missed. We stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Then she said I shouldn’t have done that. She said she didn’t feel the same about me. She never would. She was in love with a man. She wouldn’t tell me who.”

  “And that made you mad.”

  “No, not mad. I was embarrassed. My heart was pounding so hard. I ran out.” Emma wept loudly. “After that, I couldn’t go home. You understand. I couldn’t face my husband. I still love him, too. I couldn’t hurt him like that. So I went to work. And then, in the light of day, I realized I had to talk to somebody—not my husband—so I went to see my mother.”

  Had Edward found out about Emma’s yearning anyhow and gone to Pearl to confront her? Was he the one who killed her?

  “Pearl said I had to come to grips with reality. Around nine A.M. this morning, I came back to Crystal Cove, but I had to eat before confronting my husband.”

  “Why didn’t you call him?”

  “I know it was bad of me. He must have been worried. But I didn’t want to say anything wrong on the telephone.”

  Inexplicably, I felt as if someone were giving me the evil eye. I turned just in time to spy Pepper marching toward me. How did Bailey miss seeing her enter? How did I miss hearing her thundering footsteps?

  Pepper gripped my arm. “What do you think you’re doing, Miss Snoop?” I tried to wrench free. Man, she was stronger than I assumed. She propelled me forward, through the stockroom curtain. “Cinn,” she said to her daughter. “Look who I found listening in on your conversation.”

  Cinnamon’s gaze blazed into me. My cheeks stung with guilt. “What did you hear, Jenna?”

  My mother often warned my siblings and me that spying on people would get us in trouble. I was never certain whether she was equating being a childhood sneak to whatever it was my father did for the FBI. My siblings and I were pretty sure uncovering secrets were part of his job description. Finally, I admitted, “Everything.”

  Emma moaned.

  “Do you have any questions of your own?” Cinnamon said with a bite.

  I knew she was being sarcastic, but come to think of it, yes, I did have some questions. “Emma, you said you went searching for Mrs. Hammerstead’s Havanese after you left Dr. Thornton’s house. Did anyone see you?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention,” Emma said. “Ho-Ho responds to a dog whistle. I was blowing it.”

  Pepper said, “Was that you near Azure Park around eleven P.M.?”

  All of us turned to face her.

  Pepper shrugged. “What are you staring at? You know I take late-night walks.”

  A few months ago, on one of her infamous walks, she claimed to have seen me herding my friend—the celebrity chef who was killed—to the beach. Her statement, until she rescinded it, nearly implicated me in that murder.

  “I heard someone yelling,” Pepper went on. “The person was all crouched over. I couldn’t make out the face. Was that you? You were wearing a yellow shirt.”

  “Sweater.” She gestured to her top. “Yes, that was me. Thank you for noticing.” Emma hurried to Pepper and clutched her hands. “Ho-Ho likes to crawl under bushes.” Tears flowed from Emma’s eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Pritchett. Thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.”

  “I like chocolate,” Pepper said. “The bitterer the better.”

  I stifled a snort. Why hadn’t I figured that out on my own? Pepper was as bitter as horehound.

  “If that’s everything.” Emma looked expectantly at Cinnamon.

  “Hold it,” I said, as a new angle that could make Emma very culpable flitted into my head. Cinnamon cut me a questioning look. “I’m sorry,” I hastened to add. “I know it’s not my place, but Cinna—” I reverted to her official title. “Chief Pritchett, are you convinced, because Emma’s alibi is confirmed based on your mother’s statement, that Emma couldn’t be the killer? Is the time of death that fixed?”

  “I didn’t do it,” Emma cried.

  Cinnamon, visibly unmoved, said to me, “Go on.”

  “You work with a veterinarian, Emma.”

  “So?”

  I liked Emma—everyone who used her services swore by her tenderness with animals; I even entrusted Tigger to her—but I wasn’t completely convinced she didn’t kill Pearl. Emma had fallen in love with Pearl. By her own admission, Pearl had rejected her. Emma could’ve lashed out. Having observed actors during my advertising career, I knew how easy tears were to manufacture. I said, “Chief, you believe the killer injected Pearl with something. I’m assuming a type of poison.”

  She nodded, confirming my suspicion.

  I addressed Emma. “You have access to hypodermic needles.”

  “I have a phobia of needles,” Emma said. “I faint at the sight of them. That’s why I’m not a veterinarian. That’s why I shuttle pets around. I”—she gazed at us, her eyes wide—“remember something. I heard movement in the house, like there was someone else at home. It must have been Trisha. She and her mother fought. Trisha must have come back and killed her mother after I left. It wasn’t me. I swear.”

  Chapter 9

  CINNAMON ASKED EMMA to come to the precinct to provide an official statement. Pepper left, too. She was less than cheery. In fact, she was mumbling under her breath about her disappointment. In me. “Why do you
always feel the need to offer your two cents?” was one of her complaints. Of course, I wondered why she wasn’t asking herself the same question.

  I joined Bailey at the sales register where she was ringing up the last of the customers. A stack of assorted cookbooks, for everything from candy to vegetables, stood on the counter. She whispered, “We have a novice cook in the mix. These are the first cookbooks she’s ever bought. She can’t wait for Katie’s next cooking class.”

  “Did you recommend the Fannie Farmer book?”

  “Of course, and The Joy of Cooking.” When Bailey finished setting the books into bags, she tied ribbon around each. As the customers headed out with their purchases, she said, “So, spill. What was Pepper spluttering about as she left? Sometimes I wonder if she might be cuckoo.”

  “She’s not.” I filled her in. “How can I win Pepper over and make her accept me? I don’t like having enemies.”

  “None of us do.”

  I peered through the bay window toward Beaders of Paradise and saw something glisten in the shop’s window—a green stained-glass frog—and an idea came to me. “Pepper likes frogs.” I hurried to the cookware section of the store.

  Bailey followed, no doubt wondering if I was the one who was cuckoo.

  “She has lots of frog-themed things in her store,” I said. “I’ve peeked in after hours.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “Heaven forbid I draw near during the day. She might think I was spying on her.” I scoured the hanging items on the wall and on the endcaps of the bookshelves.

  “What are you searching for?”

  “We have frog-shaped chocolate molds, don’t we?”

  Bailey went right to them. I swear the girl had the entire place memorized. She would have made a great librarian; I’m sure she could nail the Dewey decimal system. One drawback: she didn’t like quiet.

  “Go ask Katie if she can teach me how to make dark chocolate,” I said. “The bitterer the better.”

  “Bitter?”

  “I’m not making them bitter out of spite. Pepper likes bitter. Go.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.” Bailey saluted and trotted off.

  I would wrap the goodies in green plastic with a bow and write a lovely note to Pepper. Maybe then—

  The door opened and Aunt Vera entered in normal attire, no caftan, no turban. She was wearing a pair of slacks, a light sweater, and sandals. Her hair was swept off her face. She wore no makeup.

  My heart snagged in my chest. She never wore normal attire. Never. At least not out in public. I rushed to her. “Where have you been? You didn’t come home last night. I didn’t see your car in the driveway.”

  “I . . .” She flushed pink, then frittered her hand. “Have you been spying on me?”

  Gosh, I was going to get a horrible reputation if people always assumed I was snooping. It wasn’t in my nature. Not really. However, during these past three months . . .

  I said, “I was worried.”

  “I’m not a teenager.”

  “I didn’t say you were.” I released the breath I was holding. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

  “Did I see Pepper leaving the store as I was parking?”

  I nodded. I told her about Cinnamon’s findings and her chat with Emma Wright. Poor dear, my aunt repeated more than once. I added, “Emma claimed she heard someone in Pearl’s house at the time that she was revealing her true feelings. It was probably Trisha. She admitted she saw Emma there.”

  “But you said both of them left prior to ten P.M. What if there was a third person?”

  “The housekeeper?”

  “Somebody.”

  “Are you getting a feeling?” I wiggled my hands beside my head.

  Aunt Vera didn’t respond. She sidled past me and stowed her purse in the stockroom. When she reemerged, she finger-combed her hair, then moved to the vintage kitchen table and slumped into a chair.

  I joined her and grasped her hands. Her face looked damp, as though she had splashed it with water while in back. Her eyes looked glossy with moisture. I allowed the silence to enfold us.

  After a long moment, she shook her head. “I can’t get over that Pearl is dead. Gone. She was so good to me. To everyone.”

  “To her patients, too,” I said. “She had a way about her, in therapy, that put me at ease. I was growing more trusting. She was encouraging me to see more of Rhett.”

  “He was a client, too, wasn’t he?” my aunt said. “I wonder how many clients Pearl had.”

  “Good question. People confided in her. Do you think it’s possible that one of her clients, someone who wasn’t even at the party, killed her to protect a secret?”

  “That certainly widens the list of suspects.” Aunt Vera released my hands and picked up a piece of the wine cork jigsaw puzzle. She twisted it right, then left. After she found a spot for it and pushed it into place, she tapped it with her fingertip. “I keep trying to visualize the crime scene.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t.”

  “Then you’re not really visualiz—” I pressed my lips together. I wasn’t going to nitpick.

  “Something seemed out of place.”

  “Close your eyes,” I said. “Try to picture it.” I remembered Pearl asking me to do the same. I didn’t lie on a couch at her office; I sat in a chair. Shutting my eyes, she advised, would take me out of the present and put me at the scene. How did David’s note feel in my hand? How did I feel as people at my mother’s funeral stared at me? “Come on, Aunt Vera, humor me.”

  Her eyes fluttered, then closed.

  “See Pearl,” I ordered. “Lying across the fire pit. See the rest of us standing there. Maya held the coffee tray. Bingo was making a telephone call. See—”

  Aunt Vera’s eyes snapped open. “That’s not working.”

  “You’re not trying hard enough.”

  She rose from the chair. “I must go.”

  “Where?”

  “To Pearl’s house.” She fetched her purse and darted out of the shop.

  I nabbed Bailey, who was strolling down the hallway with a plate of cookies in her hand, and said, “Watch the shop,” and then I bolted after my aunt.

  * * *

  “LET ME DRIVE,” I shouted, but Aunt Vera wouldn’t listen. She whipped her car keys from her purse and dashed to her Mustang.

  Resigned, I climbed in on the passenger side. I noticed an overnight bag on the floor and detected a hint of what I considered a man’s cologne, Clive Christian in fact, heavy with lime and mandarin oranges, with a hint of cedarwood and spice. The essences of lily of the valley and rose were its base. I remembered the scent because it had been my husband’s favorite; David had expensive tastes.

  “Are you seeing someone?” I said as I latched my seat belt. “Do you have a new beau?”

  “Yes . . . No . . .”

  “Which is it, yes or no?”

  “It’s nothing,” Aunt Vera replied and ground the car into reverse.

  “C’mon. Tell me. Is it that sweet mustachioed manager of the bed-and-breakfast?”

  She didn’t answer. I didn’t press. I wanted her focused on the road. Aunt Vera wasn’t the best driver. She was easily distracted.

  As we arrived at Pearl’s house and were walking up the path, the front door opened.

  “Is that Bingo?” I said.

  Bingo nearly flew past us, head down, her wide jaw set. She was clutching her purse tightly to her chest.

  “Bingo, dear,” Aunt Vera said. “Slow down. What’s the hurry?”

  Bingo looked up. Wisps of hair hung loosely around her face. She batted them away and adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m late. Sorry. Forgive me.” She briskly hugged my aunt.

  “Why are you here?” Aunt Vera asked.

 
Bingo tapped the arm of her glasses. “I left these the night of the party. So silly. I meant to search for them the morning . . . the morning—” She jammed her lips together. The morning Pearl died. She inhaled and continued. “I can’t see anything up close without them. I don’t know how I managed. Mrs. Davies let me in.” She glanced at the house and back at us. “Must run. I’m meeting my fiancé and the wedding planner, and then the banquet manager for the luncheon, and afterward an antique collector. So much to do. If only Pearl—” She covered her mouth, shook her head woefully, and hurried to her car.

  Before we pressed the doorbell, the front door opened. Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper who reminded me of a female Alfred Hitchcock, greeted us and beckoned us inside with the tips of her feather duster. How had she known we were there? Maybe she had been peeking through the sidelight windows, watching Bingo depart.

  “Such a tragedy,” she said as we strolled into the tiled entryway. “Did Ms. Bedelia tell you?”

  “Did she tell us what?” I said.

  “It’s horrible. Ghastly. The missus would be so upset.”

  “About what?”

  “She was such a gracious lady and so in love with her husband.” Mrs. Davies worried the handle of the duster. “I came to work this morning. I don’t know what else I’m to do. No one’s given me direction.”

  I wondered whether the new buyers would still employ Mrs. Davies, once Pearl’s estate was settled and the house sold—I assumed Trisha would want to sell the house and the trustee would allow her to do so, returning the proceeds to the trust. In an apartment near the college, Trisha would have no need of a housekeeper, and from what I sensed the other morning, there was no love lost between the two of them.

  “Do you like it here?” I asked.

  “I’m glad I moved to the States, if that’s what you mean. I’ve been thankful for the work. I’m good at what I do.” Mrs. Davies shook her head. “Who else but I would have noticed another theft? It’s simply ghastly.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked. “Something else was stolen? When? The night Pearl died?”