Without warning, I felt like I had sunk chin-deep into quicksand. I could barely breathe.
Chapter 17
AT 7:00 A.M. Monday morning, as I was heading out to the beach for a run/walk, I looked for Aunt Vera’s car. It wasn’t parked in the driveway. Had she contacted Cinnamon Pritchett and convinced her she was innocent, or was she playing footsie with her new boy toy?
Stop it, Jenna. That’s beneath you. But I was worried. About her health and her freedom, and, honestly, I didn’t want her heart to be broken again. I wanted her to find a man who treasured her, in all aspects. Was Nature Guy Greg the right guy? He was a man of great spiritual depth, and he’d dedicated his life to helping the environment. But what else did he have that he could offer my aunt? Was a good soul enough?
An hour later I arrived at work. To distract myself, I dove into the boxes of new cookbooks that had come in late Saturday. Not every one of them focused on Halloween. Already, we were stocking books for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Gift items were arriving, too. I had found the most charming three-by-three-inch rustic boxes with hand-painted sayings on them like The best things in life aren’t things and You are the shake to my bake. They made me smile. I was pretty certain my customers would love them, too. They would make great stocking stuffers. I was contemplating a holiday display of culinary mysteries, too, with a sign that said Stalking Stuffers. Would people get the play on words?
Around 10:00 A.M., Katie rolled a cooking cart into the shop. On it were bags of dark chocolate chips, sugar, butter, a salt shaker, and utensils. “Ready?” she said.
“For?”
“The candy-making class. Did you forget?”
“On Monday? With everything else we have to do?”
She nodded. “We have ten adults coming.”
“What are you conjuring up?”
“It was a tough decision. I had to choose between chocolate fudge, peanut butter pretzel bonbons, and chocolate brittle.”
“No candy corn?”
“Those are primarily kid treats.”
Huh, who knew? They were one of my favorite indulgences at this time of year. Did that mean I was a kid at heart?
Katie said, “I went with chocolate brittle. Sweets taste great with a dash of salt. Have you ever paired bacon and chocolate?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Delish.” Katie anchored the cart using a foot brake, then helped me set up the chairs in a semicircle.
“Do I get to be your assistant?” I asked.
“If you aren’t scared of spitting sugar.”
“Moi? I’ll have you know I made sunflower seed brittle the other night at home. It spit and I didn’t get burned.” I polished my fingernails on the front of my shirt. “To quote Mark Twain: ‘Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.’”
Katie applauded. “I’m proud of you.” She withdrew a marble cutting board from the cabinet beneath the cooktop.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“Spreading the candy out. We could do it on a metal baking sheet—”
“That’s what I used at home.”
“But marble cools candy much more quickly. It has thermodynamic properties that draw heat out of the sugar.”
“Ha. I learn something new every day.”
Minutes later, the class members started to arrive. One woman carried a glazed pot planted with herbs. She shoved it at me. “For you.”
“That was nice. You didn’t have to.”
“I didn’t. There’s a note attached.”
The message read: May a window close and a door open. Odd. Did whoever was sending the gifts hope that I would end my newfound relationship with Rhett and open my arms to him? Who was this anonymous wooer?
Tigger bumped my legs. Oof. I set the herbs on the sales counter and scooped up my kitten. “Fie, fie, knave. Do not frighten me so.” It was a feeble attempt at Shakespeare, but with all that was going on, including Aunt Vera’s whimsy, Pearl’s murder, and Katie’s possibly aggressive candy, how was I supposed to respond to some gift giver making secret advances on me? Needless to say, I was feeling emotional and vulnerable. I didn’t like secrets and rarely liked surprises.
I gave Tigger a quick kiss and nudged him back toward the stockroom. “That’s where you stay until after the class. Go on.” He obeyed. I squirted my hands with sanitizer lotion.
“Jenna, dear.” Helen Hammerstead, a pear-shaped woman with a doughy face, scuttled toward me. She held her pampered Havanese in her arms. “Do you mind if Ho-Ho attends the class?” She nodded to the dog. “I just couldn’t leave the house without my baby.” She rubbed noses with the dog. “No, I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t.” The dog licked her nose. She eyed me pleadingly.
I sighed. There was one drawback to offering cooking classes in the shop. Although we had gotten the okay from health regulators, we had to ensure that animals didn’t come anywhere near the food or preparations, ergo, the reason why I had banned Tigger from the proceedings.
“I’ll tuck Ho-Ho into my purse. He’s a nonallergenic, nonshedding breed,” Mrs. Hammerstead said. “Please, pretty please?”
I smiled. “I get it. You can’t bear to part with him now that’s he back.”
“Back from where?”
“The other night.”
Her face pinched into a frown. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“When he went missing from the veterinarian’s office.”
She gasped. “He went missing?”
“Yes, Emma tracked him down.” Was the woman daft?
Mrs. Hammerstead arched an eyebrow. “I never heard about this.” She lifted her dog, thumbs wedged beneath his forearms, and planted his face against hers. “Did you run off, you bad boy? Did you? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Yeah, like he can talk, I thought, but Mrs. H’s concern set my mind into gear. Had Emma kept the truth from her client to protect her reputation, or had she lied about looking for the Havanese to give herself an alibi? Pepper swore she saw Emma roaming Azure Park. She even knew Emma was wearing yellow. On the other hand, Pepper had been known to fabricate—all right, out-and-out lie—about events. The woman had a deep-seated need to be in the thick of things. But why lie this time? How would she have known what color sweater Emma had been wearing? Also, Emma claimed she saw Bingo practicing spells in her antique shop, which meant she had definitely been out and about, but was she roaming Crystal Cove at the precise time the murder occurred? I intended to find out.
I said, “Ho-Ho has to stay in your purse and no escaping, deal?”
Mrs. Hammerstead giggled in a hissy way, like hot foam oozing out of a coffee machine. “Of course, dear. Ho-Ho is a good doggie.” She lifted the pup again. “Yes, you are. Yes, you are.” She tucked the dog away, placed a tiny blanket over his back, and then cleaned her hands with a sanitizer wipe.
Before the class started, I slipped away to the stockroom and discreetly dialed the precinct.
“Crystal Cove Police Department, Deputy Appleby speaking.”
“Deputy, it’s Jenna Hart.”
He cleared his throat. “What’s up, Miss Hart?” I heard a chair squeak and a bit of a groan. Was Deputy Appleby sitting taller to talk to me? A curious notion swept through me. Weeks ago, he had suggested we go for coffee; at the time, I’d thought he was teasing me. Baiting me, even. Was it possible that the deputy was my secret admirer? I was pretty sure he would be better suited to someone a little more passive than I was.
I decided to skirt the prickly subject. “Is Chief Pritchett there?”
“She’s out.”
“May I leave a message? It might pertain to Pearl Thornton’s murder.”
“I can address your concerns.”
“I’m sure you could, but—”
“Jenna, speak.”
I recoiled. “No need to talk to me like a dog.”
“I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . . Sorry, Jenna . . . Miss Hart. What’s on your mind?” His bumbling reinforced my concern that he might be my mysterious gift giver. Uh-oh. Talk about awkward.
“I’m skeptical about Emma Wright’s alibi.” As much as I liked Emma, I wanted Cinnamon to have someone other than my aunt on her radar. I explained about Emma’s client not knowing her dog had been at large.
Deputy Appleby snickered. “Not every babysitter blabs about the antics of a bratty child for fear of not being hired again.”
“True. Just call it intuition.”
“You? Intuitive?” He chuckled. “If you were intuitive—” He paused. Was he debating whether to ask me if I’d guessed who was sending me the tokens of affection?
I refused to give him the satisfaction. “You’ll make sure the chief gets that message?”
“You betcha.”
Talk about not making friends and influencing people. I didn’t care. If he was my secret admirer, he would have to work harder than leaving a few gifts outside the shop door—not to suggest that I would ever consider him a prospect. I imagined my last kiss with Rhett and the memory warmed me through and through. I could barely wait until tomorrow’s date.
Bailey hurried in with a cup of coffee from Latte Luck Café. Her hair looked windblown. Her eyes, which were the same color as her turquoise outfit and beads, glistened with fiery energy. “Let’s hear it for caffeine.” She took a sip of her coffee as she sidled behind the sales counter and settled onto a stool. “Nice crowd. Do you think they noticed the candy cookbook displays I set on the front table? They’re not all for Halloween. For example, The Sweet Book of Candymaking from the Simple to the Spectacular has all these fabulous tips on how to get started. There’s a whole chapter dedicated to caramels.”
The full title was The Sweet Book of Candymaking from the Simple to the Spectacular—How to Make Caramels, Fudge, Hard Candy, Fondant, Toffee, and More. A mouthful in any language.
“The other one I adore,” Bailey continued, “is Handcrafted Candy Bars: From-Scratch, All-Natural, Gloriously Grown-Up Confections. Get this chapter title: ‘Dream Bars: Healthier, Spicier, Sexier.’ Yum-yum. The book has been highly recommended by the owner of a culinary bookshop on the East Coast. It’s filled with recipes for all-time favorite candies. The dark chocolate–dipped almond-coconut bars look downright sinful.” She cocked her head. “So did the crowd browse?”
“Most went straight to their chairs, but I’ll make sure they view your wizardry afterward.”
“Oh, I almost forgot”—Bailey set her coffee aside—“I saw Trisha Thornton at Latte Luck. She was with her boyfriend. Boy, did they canoodle. They have no compunctions about kissing in public. Me? I had a boyfriend in college who nipped that practice in the bud. ‘No public displays of affection,’ he warned me repeatedly, and it has stuck with me.”
“What did he look like?”
“Raggedy. Gaunt face, big teeth. He was a genius. Also not my type. I’m so glad we ended that doomed affair.”
“Not your college boyfriend, you goon. Trisha’s guy.”
“Holey jeans, faded T-shirt, shaggy tired hair. Like a bear that had been awakened from a long winter’s nap. Anyway, I overheard them talking.”
“About?”
“Your aunt.”
“Vera?”
“Do you have another?”
I sneered. She knew I didn’t. My father had one sister. My mother had been an only child.
“He said, ‘Vera Hart has to be stopped,’ and Trisha said, ‘What’s she doing now?’ and he said, ‘Poking around at school. If she finds out—’ That’s when Trisha cut him off. I think she spotted me listening in. She said, ‘Don’t worry, she won’t.’”
“Won’t find out what?” I asked.
“Do I look like I know?”
“What if Trisha lied about being in the lab on the night her mother was murdered? What if someone can corroborate that the lab was empty? I’ve got to find out.”
“How—”
“Jenna!” Pepper dashed into the store and screeched to a halt short of the semicircle of chairs. Her face was flushed. She held her cell phone overhead and pressed a hand to her chest to catch her breath. “Jenna, come quick. It’s”—she gulped in air—“your aunt. She’s been in a car accident. She was rushed to the hospital.”
Chapter 18
TO MY SURPRISE, Pepper couldn’t have been more supportive and concerned. She pushed me toward the exit. She offered her car, which I didn’t need, and her cell phone, which I also didn’t need; I’d had sense enough to grab my purse. As I dashed from the shop, Bailey promised that everything at The Cookbook Nook would go off without a hitch.
I scooted into my VW and jammed the car into gear. Pepper was still within range. I yelled out the window, asking who had alerted her.
“Maya.”
“Why didn’t she call me?” I shouted.
“She did. You didn’t answer.”
I glanced at my cell phone’s readout. Indeed, there was a missed call from a telephone number I didn’t recognize.
“Maya’s at the hospital with your aunt,” Pepper added. “She’ll explain . . . Just go. Mercy Urgent Care.”
There was a big hospital near Santa Cruz, but there were two decent-sized emergency clinics in Crystal Cove. Boating, surfing, and swimming accidents occurred often in a beach community. Mercy Urgent Care was on the road heading up into the hills.
I raced to Admitting. A kind nurse directed me to the second floor. When I arrived at Aunt Vera’s room, I paused in the doorway. My stomach clenched at the sight of my stalwart aunt looking so feeble. She lay in bed, the back of the bed raised to a forty-five-degree angle. Her skin was pale; her face was stained black and blue. Tubes weaved out of her like spiderwebs to machines that pulsed with light and vibrated with tones. A young female doctor, who appeared no older than I, was in attendance checking my aunt’s pulse.
Maya stood by the window with her arms wrapped around her body, hands shoved under her armpits. Her curly hair looked bedraggled. Her slender frame was overwhelmed by the loose-fitting, green hemp dress and knitted shawl she wore. When she saw me, she hurried to me and clutched my hands. “I watched the whole thing.” Her voice sounded hoarse. “She was driving erratically. I was in the car behind yelling for her to stop.”
“I’m sorry, you were where?”
“Here’s how it started—”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Aunt Vera said. Her voice was gravelly and tired.
The doctor wrote something on the chart and, without a word to Maya or me, left the room.
I broke free of Maya and rushed to my aunt’s side. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes were glassy. The blue-and-white gown the hospital had provided washed out her usually ruddy skin.
Why couldn’t hospitals come up with gowns in bright pink or red? Something cheery and hopeful. If I were to take on the campaign to promote this hospital, that would be one of the first things I would address. Mercy Urgent Care. Not wishy-washy. Not bland. Full of hope. Because we urgently care that you face life with energy and enthusiasm . . . or something like that. Years ago, I would have spent months perfecting the slogan for a campaign. Now, they flitted through my mind in an instant, quickly replaced by what I needed to do at The Cookbook Nook.
“One minute I was driving along the road,” Aunt Vera continued, “and the next, bam.”
“Bam?” I cried.
Maya nodded. “She plowed into a tree.”
“A tree?” I moaned. “Did Trisha Thornton or her boyfriend try to run you off the road?”
“What?” Aunt Vera looked perplexed. “Why would they do such a thing?”
“Bailey overheard them talking at Latte Luck Café. Bailey said they
were worried because you were snooping around UC Santa Cruz. By yourself.”
“I went to the school to talk to a counselor about Trisha. I thought I might intercede on her behalf with this probation thing. However, I couldn’t find anyone to help me. Not a soul.”
I sighed. “Really? You would do that for her? Even while everyone thinks she killed her mother? You are positively the kindest person in the world.” I lifted her hand and squeezed gently.
Aunt Vera said, “Let me backtrack. Nobody ran me off the road. It was my own doing. It all started at yesterday’s lunch when you got me thinking about Bingo.”
“This is my fault?”
“Of course it is, dear. Everything’s your fault.” She winked—an effort that made her wince—and then she waggled a teasing finger, her energy slightly more vibrant than her skin tone. “Jenna Starrett Hart, don’t even go there. I did not crash because of you or anything you did. You know how I drift off when I drive. If I were Chief Pritchett, I’d take away my driver’s license ASAP. Don’t tell her I said that.” She snickered. “Something like this . . . running into a tree? It’s never happened before.” She flinched again. The tubes weren’t making talking easy. The tape holding them in place was puckering. “Anyway, after our chat at the luncheon, I thought back to times when I’d asked Bingo about her former fiancé or her past. I remembered how she would snap off conversations with a wave of her hand—a misdirection, a magician might call it. All she had ever told me about her high school sweetheart was what I told you already: he left for college and dumped her. End of story. Well, I wanted to know the truth, so I telephoned her, but she didn’t answer. That’s why I went to Aunt Teek’s. To look for her. She wasn’t there. A sign read, Back in 10 minutes. But the door was unlocked. She often forgets to lock the door. She says it’s a Midwesterner’s habit. They’re so trusting, they never lock their houses. Can you imagine?”
I couldn’t. In California, that just wasn’t done. There were areas that were safer than others, but locked doors were a must. If only the world’s inhabitants could be more trusting . . . and trustworthy. Open doors. Open books. No violence. No death.
Stirring the Plot Page 17