Stirring the Plot

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Ow!”

  Tigger leaped onto the chair beside the kitchen table and ogled me.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble.”

  I twirled a finger so he would nestle down on the chair seat, a trick we had been working on for over a month. He followed my finger and turned in the circle, but he wouldn’t rest. I fetched a pea-sized kitty treat, patted his rump, and said, “Lie down.” I know. He wasn’t a dog, but he got the idea. When he settled, I handed him the treat. Afterward I washed my hands and started over.

  I fetched the wayward orange and rinsed it off. With my left hand, I steadied the fruit on the cutting board, then carefully slid the needle into the navel. Success. I pushed in the plunger. Juice squirted into the orange. I removed the flavor injector, set it on the counter, and shouted, “Ta-da!”

  Tigger meowed.

  I explained. “I did it. I infused an—”

  I stopped as two scenarios flashed in my mind: my ineptness with a flavor injector, and Pearl lying dead. She had been injected with poison. Who among her friends and enemies knew how to use a syringe? Emma claimed that she fainted from the sight of needles. Was she lying? She worked with a veterinarian; she had to know how to use a hypodermic. She had good reason to kill Pearl—to keep her husband from finding out about her love for Pearl. And I couldn’t rule out Emma’s husband, Edward, could I? He was not the warmest of souls. Would he have killed Pearl to save his marriage? He was a dentist; he used a syringe to inject lidocaine or whatever the current drug was for numbing the mouth. Emma claimed that Bingo, a former nurse, would be quite adept at using a syringe. Did Bingo want Pearl dead so she could become the High Priestess? What had Bingo and Pearl argued about on the night of the haunted tour? Had anybody heard the conversation?

  Next, I considered Trisha Thornton. She was a chemist. She might have used a syringe in her lab studies at some point in her education. Did she kill her mother for the basic reason that any child would kill a parent, to eliminate the one person who controlled her in order to get her hot little hands on her inheritance whether or not she had to wait a dozen years to access it?

  I peered out the window at my aunt’s house. She was determined to solve Pearl’s murder. Was she deliberating along the same lines as I was? Did she figure out who had murdered Pearl? Was she frazzled enough to have approached the killer by herself? Was that why I couldn’t reach her? Was she hurt . . . or worse . . . dead?

  The notion made me tense up so fiercely I thought I might be sick. I dialed my father again on the cell phone. My call went to voice mail. Dang. Trying to keep my composure, I asked him to telephone me as soon as he could to give me an update. Then I dialed my aunt’s cell phone.

  No answer. No rollover to voice mail.

  “Shoot!”

  Someone rapped on my door. “Aunt Vera?” I nearly skipped to the foyer. I peeked through the peephole and drew up short. It wasn’t Aunt Vera or my father. It was Rhett. He held a largish square brown box in his hand. I glanced at my watch. Eight P.M. On Saturday. Nowhere near our date night of Tuesday. Did he have ESP? Sensing how fraught I was, had he come over to comfort me?

  “Jenna,” he called.

  No way did I want him to think I was a helpless wreck. I checked myself in the tiny mirror to the right of the door. Not bad. My mascara and lipstick were intact. No orange pulp adorned my cheeks. I shook out the tension in my shoulders and opened the door as I forced a big, happy smile onto my face. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  He held up the box. “I bought you a present.”

  No bow. No wrapping. “Um, what is it?”

  “A hibachi. I want to teach you how to grill.”

  I tilted my head. “Did my father put you up to this?”

  “Your father?”

  “Lately, you two are as thick as thieves. Did he call you? Did he tell you I was fretting about my aunt? Truth.”

  Silence.

  I said, “I value the truth.”

  Rhett nodded. “Yes. He called me.”

  “Which means Cinnamon and her deputies haven’t tracked down my aunt. Ugh. I knew it. Something’s happened to her. She’s in trouble. I’m sensing it right here.” I tapped my solar plexus. “I’ve tried to push the feeling aside, but I can’t.”

  A new wave of bad vibes, or whatever you would call them, zinged through me. I wrapped my arms around myself.

  Rhett moved toward me and drew me into a one-armed hug. “Shh. Don’t go there. She’s fine. I’m sure of it.”

  Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes. When they retreated and I felt assured I wouldn’t cry, I inched out of Rhett’s embrace. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I appreciate the gift, but let there be no misunderstanding, I’m nowhere near ready to learn how to barbecue on a teensy grill that requires charcoal.” I hitched a thumb at the mess in the kitchen. “I’m barely learning how to inject a . . . no!”

  Tigger, the scamp, had figured out how to leap onto the counter. A kitchen chair seemed to be his launching point. He was licking the unwrapped chicken. “Off,” I squawked.

  He bounded to the floor and scurried to safety beneath the couch. He peeped from beneath, his eyes as wide as saucers.

  “You’d better hide, cat,” I warned. That would teach me to leave food unattended on the counter. I hoped Tigger wouldn’t get sick. He wouldn’t, would he? Cats were natural predators. They could eat mice and all sorts of delectable ick fare. I eyed Rhett, who was stifling a smile. “Come in,” I said. “A good rinsing will remove his germs, won’t it? Cooking will probably kill them, too.”

  “You bet.” Rhett set the box holding the hibachi on the table beside the couch. “I’m assuming, by the uncooked nature of that chicken, you haven’t eaten dinner. Do you want to go to The Pelican Brief and grab a bite?”

  “No.”

  He looked hurt. “No?”

  “I mean, yes, I’m hungry, but I’m truly concerned about Aunt Vera.” I fluttered my fingers. “I know I’m acting like a worrywart, but call it a sixth sense. Pearl’s murder has undone me, and my aunt’s disappearance is downright disconcerting.” I frowned. “Would you mind a to-go helping of cheese and crackers and a vodka-infused orange so we can search the town for her?”

  Chapter 14

  RHETT OPTED FOR no snack, but he was more than willing to help me locate my aunt. For some reason, as I closed the door of my cottage, I got another vibe. A positive vibe. I needed those by the dozens. What was so good about it? Yes, my aunt was sick, and yes, she was heartsick over the loss of a friend, but I got the distinct feeling that she wasn’t injured, and she sure as shooting wasn’t dead. Granted, acknowledging the vibe was crazy and worthy of a finger twirl beside my head, but I let myself hold on to the hope.

  We started at the south end of town and walked along the east side of Buena Vista Boulevard, checking out a few of my aunt’s favorite places to shop.

  At the beautiful old brick grouping of stores called Artiste Arcade, we stopped beside Adorn Yourself, a darling accessory shop. Aunt Vera enjoyed browsing jewelry and antique stores. The display window held a boxful of mannequin arms and hands, each hand featuring ghoulish jewelry or holding a glittery spider handbag. Peering beyond the display, I didn’t glimpse my aunt inside the store.

  At the shopping complex I liked to call our mini San Francisco, an octet of bayside structures, we entered Home Sweet Home, a potpourri, candle, and home accessory store. I asked the chatty owner if she had seen my aunt. She hadn’t. She said there was a Four C’s meeting going on at the Aquarium. Perhaps I should check in there.

  I nearly did a head smack. The Four Cs, otherwise known as the Crystal Cove Coastal Concern, was a pet project of my aunt’s. The group took it upon itself to keep our residents and interested tourists informed about how precious our environment was. The aquarium was a mile
up the road, at the Y where the main egress out of town met Buena Vista. Usually the group convened on Wednesdays. Why was there a special Saturday meeting? Did it matter? Sick or not, Aunt Vera would find a way to attend.

  As we were passing Nuts and Bolts, I gripped Rhett’s arm and pulled him to a stop.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “Nothing. Look.” I laughed and pointed.

  In the time since I had met my father at the hardware shop, he had put up a window display. It consisted of a piece of plaster and a dummy witch—you know the kind, only the rear half of the witch, her legs wrapped around a broom, her feet in the air. The witch had soared into the plaster, head first. Beneath, Dad had added a sign that read Don’t Text and Fly.

  “Who knew my father had such a good sense of humor?” I said.

  “I did. He’s a great guy, Jenna. You’re too close to the situation to see, but he’s extremely bright as well as introspective.”

  “Introspective. Big word.”

  “He sees the world in global terms. If he’d taken another career path, he probably could have become president.”

  “High praise.” I nudged him. “Let’s keep moving.”

  The lighting store’s windows were usually filled with sconces and elaborate chandeliers. For the Halloween display competition, however, the owner had set out a collection of pirate-style hands, each holding a lantern. Beneath was a sign: In the Days of Old. It was a perfect tribute to the beginning of Crystal Cove.

  “Whoa,” Rhett said as we neared Aunt Teek’s, which was Bingo’s antiques and collectibles store. “This display is above and beyond.”

  He was right. In addition to her intricate set of carved pumpkins, Bingo had created a display window that could have been featured in a home decorating magazine. The presentation focused on a Gothic haunted house, complete with tall columns on the front porch. The house was dark inside, although the attic was lit. Lightning bolts attacked the house from all angles. On the porch stood dollhouse-sized miniature patio furniture. The swings on a battery-operated miniature swing set swung to and fro in the yard in front of the porch. Tiny toys were scattered around the swing set. Shards of crystal carpeted the ground. A light above the display shone down and made the crystals gleam. As I looked closer, I noticed a graveyard beyond the hotel, almost tucked out of sight. Two women were approaching the graveyard, one dressed in black, the other in white. In the graveyard stood a tombstone. On top of it sat a small black cat figurine.

  “Jenna?” a woman called.

  I whipped around, hands raised defensively. I instantly dropped my arms to my sides when I spied my aunt walking toward us, her hand slung around the elbow of a man. Not just any man. Nature Guy, the ruggedly handsome one who was the leader of the Four C’s. I felt a cosmic jolt to my psyche. Was this her new beau? The one she didn’t want to talk about when I rode in her car and detected the scent of Clive Christian cologne? My aunt, clad in a white ankle-length cotton dress and strappy sandals—no caftan, no turban—looked slim and healthy. Her face was flushed, her smile broad.

  “I thought you were sick,” I said. Did I sound petulant? I hadn’t intended to. I hurried to add, “I mean, you were sneezing and coughing earlier. Are you better? Are your powers restored?”

  “My pow—” Aunt Vera hesitated. She flitted a hand. “Pfft.” She glanced at Nature Guy like she didn’t want him to know she was a fortune-teller. How could he not know? Everyone in town knew. Why would she keep that a secret from him? My aunt continued, “I was sick, but I took a good elixir, something Maya whipped up for me. She hated that I was downing that store-bought stuff. She’s a whiz with potions.”

  I felt confused, like I was suffering verbal whiplash. Talking about potions in front of her new beau was okay, but mentioning her powers wasn’t?

  “Maya says herbs are magical,” Aunt Vera went on. “We shouldn’t play around with them, of course. Whoever uses them needs to know what she’s doing, but Maya has the best remedy suggestions. Dill to cure hiccups. Eucalyptus under the pillow to guard against colds. I wish I’d known that a day or two ago. Here’s a silly one she told me, not that I’d ever do this.” She squeezed Nature Guy—Greg’s—arm. “If you suffer from dizziness . . . mind you, this is somewhat drastic . . . you’re supposed to run naked after dark through a field of flax. Can you believe it? Run naked and you’ll be cured.”

  Greg chuckled.

  Rhett said, “Although you’ll probably catch a cold.”

  “Too-ra-loo.” Aunt Vera giggled like a schoolgirl. “It’s not like we have any flax fields in Crystal Cove. Anyway, Maya made me something packed with vitamin C, geranium, ginseng, and henna, and within no time, I was feeling great.” She winked at Greg. “I’m being bad. Jenna, Rhett, this is Greg Giuliani.”

  I shook his hand and said, “We’ve met before.”

  He nodded. “At a Coastal Concern meeting, if I’m not mistaken, and at the memorial last month.” As minister for the Internet-based Collective Life Church, Greg had presided over the service of the diner owner who was murdered. His eulogy had been inspired, his concern for all humankind genuine. “Care to join us? Vee and I are going to dinner at Paolo’s.”

  I drew up short. Vee? Not Vera? Exactly how far along was this relationship? Greg was a good twenty years younger than she was, which was okay, of course. I wasn’t judging, or at least I was trying not to. My aunt deserved every happiness in the world. But Vee? Really?

  Rhett must have picked up on my distress. He said, “We’ll pass on dinner. We’re window browsing.”

  “See you in the morning, then.” Aunt Vera prodded Greg to move on. A few steps later, she stopped and turned back. “By the way, Jenna, you can tell your father to stop calling me. I’m a big girl. I’m fine.” She didn’t tell me to back off, too, but I knew her warning was implied.

  “Will do.”

  As she and Greg strolled away, I noticed her white dress again, and a feeling of dread swelled within me. I spun around and gazed at the display in the window at Aunt Teek’s. The woman in white was walking toward the graveyard. The woman in black was following her. Was the woman in white representative of my aunt? Was the one in black Bingo? Had Bingo fashioned the window to be a warning of some kind? Aunt Vera hadn’t spent two seconds looking at the display. Was she at all concerned?

  Stop it, Jenna. Bingo had no way of knowing Aunt Vera would wear white tonight. My aunt never wore white; she adored colorful attire. So why had she worn white, and why did she look ultra fit? Had she been working out to impress Nature Guy Greg while hiding her new figure under her daily choice of caftan? I wondered again how long she had been seeing—dating—him and whether I should be worried.

  Then a crazy notion ran through my mind. Had Greg Giuliani hired Maya to make a love potion so he could entrap my aunt? She was a wealthy woman. Was he after her money, whether for himself or to finance the Four C’s? Aunt Vera, as my father mentioned earlier, had found her calling in helping needy organizations.

  “Hello.” Rhett tapped my elbow. “Where did you go?”

  “My aunt was nervous that her powers to see the future were hampered by Pearl’s death. What if she’s right?”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff.”

  “I didn’t. I don’t. But what if she’s incapable of seeing her own future? What if she’s in danger?”

  “From Greg?”

  “From Dr. Thornton’s killer. We don’t know the motive for the killing yet. What if someone is out to get the Winsome Witches? Aunt Vera has been quite vocal about investigating.”

  “Breathe.” Rhett slung an arm around my shoulders. “Your aunt may have told you her plans, but I certainly had no clue. Breathe.”

  I sank into him, savoring his calm demeanor. David, my husband, would have fanned the emotional fire and stirred me to do something rash. Ah, David. His death had left me feeling
like a kite without a string. Now, with his final letter to me tucked away in the lockbox in my closet and the mystery of his death solved, I was becoming grounded again. Would I be able to find new love? Was Rhett the man for me?

  “Hey, Rhett,” a man called.

  Rhett released me and spun around. “Bucky,” he said warmly, then added, “Cinnamon.” He said it neutrally with no bite.

  Cinnamon was walking hand in hand with the hunkiest fireman this side of the Rockies. Bucky had a chiseled chin and warm brown eyes, a thick set of dark curls, and a quick smile. Cinnamon nodded to both of us. “Jenna. Rhett.” Also no bite.

  My tense shoulders eased up. Were Cinnamon and Rhett finally going to overcome their dislike of each other? At one time, they had dated, but the arson at The Grotto restaurant had put a glitch in their relationship. Cinnamon considered Rhett a suspect because he was found inside, pinned under a beam. Rhett told her his theory—that the former owner, now living in New Orleans, swapped out the artwork in the restaurant before torching the place—but Cinnamon didn’t buy it. Her doubt had ended their budding romance. Maybe her newly found ease around Rhett had something to do with her dating the poster boy for the fire department, who was also a good friend of Rhett’s. I thought of the morning of Pearl’s death when Cinnamon arrived in civilian clothing—soft sweater, tousled hair. Had she spent the night at Bucky’s? Was love in the air for everyone?