Stirring the Plot

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Her comment ricocheted me back to the morning we found Pearl dead. “Wow,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Of what?”

  “Pearl’s cocktail glass.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Pearl’s killer couldn’t have simply jammed her with a hypodermic needle. She would have needed to subdue Pearl first.”

  “Or he.”

  “How could she or he have injected Pearl without leaving a bruise? When I have to have blood drawn, I pray for a good technician who can find a vein and not leave my arm a mass of purple. Pearl didn’t have a bruise, only the rash in the crook of her arm. I heard one of your people mention you’d be doing a toxicology report.”

  She frowned. “You heard me mention it.”

  “Fine. But I wasn’t eavesdropping on purpose. You weren’t whispering. You’re a singer.” My aunt said Cinnamon had a voice like an angel. “You project.”

  “Swell.”

  I shifted feet. “Pearl wouldn’t have let someone inject her willingly. I suppose someone could have switched out the insulin in her hypodermic. Trisha suggested that. And, yes, Pearl could have dosed herself, but I didn’t see a hypodermic lying around. Did you? Think about it. Pearl drank a cocktail.” I ticked off points on my fingertips. “The glass was still on the table beside the chaise lounge when we found her. What if the killer put something in that drink?”

  “Have you been spending a lot of time theorizing about this?”

  “The notion just came to me. Do you know if Pearl was sedated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, as in yes, she was?”

  Cinnamon flicked a fly off her neck.

  “With . . . ?” I said, leading her.

  “An imidazopyridine class of drugs.”

  “An immy what? What the heck is that?”

  “The lab thinks it was zolpidem, the generic name for Ambien. Maybe three to five milligrams. When mixed with alcohol, it’s enough to make a person sleepy but cooperative.”

  “How hard is that to get?”

  “Not very. It’s about fifty cents a pill, street value.”

  I reflected on Emma’s husband, the dentist. I’d bet he could write a prescription for those pills. What if he knew about Emma’s feelings for Pearl? He didn’t attend the party. According to Emma, he wouldn’t come within a mile of witches. What if he waited until the party disbanded and Emma left, and then he stole into Pearl’s house? I paused. Why would Pearl have let Edward near enough to dose her drink?

  Then I thought of another angle. “Could Pearl’s murder have been a mercy killing? Is it possible she was sicker than she let on? Maybe she didn’t have type 2 diabetes, she had . . .” I couldn’t say the word. My mother died of lung cancer. Not due to any fault of her own. She hadn’t smoked a day in her life. “Maybe Pearl let, or even encouraged, someone to give her the shot.”

  “We checked her doctor’s records. She definitely had type 2 diabetes.” Cinnamon shifted feet. “Is this sudden passion for theorizing the reason why you left a message with my deputy for me to call you?”

  I had forgotten about that conversation. “No.” I told her about Mrs. Hammerstead’s visit to the store for the candy-making class. I described our conversation about the night her dog Ho-Ho went missing. “If I were you, I’d check with the vet. If Ho-Ho wasn’t missing, Emma Wright might have lied about her alibi.”

  Cinnamon sighed, clearly frustrated with me. “I’ll follow up.”

  “Also, you should know that Bailey overheard Trisha Thornton talking to her boyfriend at the coffee shop. They were worried about Aunt Vera nosing around UC Santa Cruz. I had no idea she went there. If only she’d told me. I’ve called a friend—”

  “You called what friend?” Cinnamon blurted out. “Where? At UCSC?”

  Open mouth; insert a fistful of uh-ohs. “A friend who works in the administration office.”

  “Jenna.”

  “I just wanted to find out about Trisha’s finances.” I didn’t add, And her alibi and her ability to use a hypodermic, yada yada. “I learned her mother was about to cut her off financially.”

  “Who told you that? This friend?”

  “No. Bingo Bedelia. What if, when Trisha realized she wouldn’t get her inheritance right away, she came up with the idea to steal the Thorntonite? It’s very rare. A single piece could rake in some big bucks.”

  Cinnamon raised a hand to silence me. “I can’t believe you. You have no right to ask around.”

  “Sure, I do. Everyone has a right to question what happened. I haven’t done anything in an official capacity. I have not misrepresented myself.”

  “Didn’t you just tell me you did not study the law?”

  “My father taught me to be curious. I want to solve Pearl Thornton’s murder. She was my advisor and one of my aunt’s best friends. Not to mention, I want my aunt to be off your suspect list. Is she?”

  Cinnamon remained mute. Not a yes, not a no. Dang.

  “What if Trisha drugged her mother?” I continued. “Trisha is a user. Did you know that? Cocaine and amphetamines.”

  “Did Ms. Bedelia tell you that, as well?”

  I nodded.

  Cinnamon pursed her mouth. “In a murder investigation, ninety-nine percent of the suspects lie or subvert the truth. If one points a finger at another, then usually that person is hiding something of her own.”

  “Do you think Bingo is lying?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Was everybody in the Winsome Witches coven good at misdirection, as my aunt termed it? “If Trisha has a drug source,” I continued, “she could get her hands on something like Ambien or zolpidem.”

  “Did you forget that she wasn’t at the house when her mother died?”

  “Doesn’t that kind of drug require time to take effect?” I waited while Cinnamon digested that tidbit. “Trisha could have gone to the lab—if she really went to the lab—and returned to do the deed once her mother fell asleep. By the way, Trisha is also into alchemy.”

  “According to Ms. Bedelia?”

  I shook my head. “Maya Adaire told me that.”

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Cinnamon shot her finger at me. “Right now I feel like we’re playing a bad game of telephone. Who said what to whom and when? I know gossip is the lifeblood of a small town, but I’ve listened to enough chatter. Go back to work and let me do what I do best. I promise I’ll take everything under consideration.”

  “And deem my aunt innocent?”

  A woman yelled, “Chief Pritchett.”

  Cinnamon’s eyes widened.

  I pivoted and gaped, surprised to see Trisha Thornton exiting Mum’s the Word Diner.

  “Chief Pritchett,” she said. “There you are.”

  Trisha hurried toward Cinnamon, her arm outstretched. She was carrying a blue leather-bound book. “I found something I think you’ll want to see.” She drew up short when she caught sight of me. She glanced at Cinnamon, who shrugged as if she were getting used to me being privy to information.

  “What do you have?” Cinnamon held out her hand.

  Trisha forked over the book, which was about five by seven inches. On the front cover, gold lettering spelled out Datebook. “I was sitting on the couch last night, watching television, and I spilled popcorn. I went fishing for the kernels between the cushions and . . . and this was there. It’s my mother’s.” She helped Cinnamon flip open the book, and she pointed to the entries. “See these?”

  Appointments were written in pairs of block letters, every day Monday through Friday, at each hour between the hours of nine and five. I could make out: RJ, EW, MA, BB, and so many more.

  “We’d been wondering where this might have gotten to,” Cinnamon said. “The calendar on her computer was blank.”

  I felt rel
ieved to know that Cinnamon and her people had searched Pearl’s office for clues.

  “I don’t know why my mother entered an appointment with Ma,” Trisha said, pointing to the MA entry. “That’s my grandmother. She lives in Santa Cruz in a nursing home.”

  I said, “Are you sure those letters signify your grandmother? The other appointments are all initials.” I recognized my own, JH, scrawled in at 3:00 P.M. a week ago Friday. It had been our final session. Pearl had declared me ready to move on. “MA could be someone else. Maya Adaire, perhaps.”

  “Or Marlon Appleby,” Cinnamon said, referring to her deputy. “Or a horde of other locals.”

  “Do you think one of them killed her?” Trisha said. “They must all have terrible problems. Why else would my mother be so secretive about their names?”

  “I don’t think she was being secretive, Miss Thornton, only discreet.”

  Trisha nodded, looking younger and more uncertain than on previous occasions. She clutched the strap of her crocheted tote with both hands. “Well, I thought you should have the book. In case.” She hurried away.

  Cinnamon held up the book. “What do you think, Jenna? She brought this to me of her own accord. Doesn’t that make her seem pretty darned innocent?”

  I huffed. “Didn’t you just tell me that whoever points the finger at someone else could be guilty herself?”

  Cinnamon frowned, apparently not appreciating my steel-trap memory. An awkward silence fell between us.

  I broke it. “How are things with you and Bucky?”

  She tilted her head. “That’s it? We’re resorting to chitchat?”

  “He’s quite charming,” I said. “And he’s friends with Rhett, which means he has good taste.”

  “Rhett,” Cinnamon muttered.

  Shoot. Why had I been naïve the other night to think she had moved on and forgotten the past? “Talk to Bucky. He’s obviously good friends with Rhett. Or don’t you trust his judgment?” I hitched my thumb at Rhett and Bucky, who were still sitting beside each other. Bucky was talking this time and Rhett was laughing. “Is that the laugh of a guilty man? No, it’s not. Here’s a suggestion. When you’re done solving Pearl Thornton’s murder, why don’t you revisit the arson at The Grotto and check out the former restaurant owner in New Orleans? Maybe Rhett’s right. Maybe she still has the art that supposedly burned in the fire.”

  Cinnamon ground her teeth together. Was she wondering whether her bias, based upon suspicion developed years ago, clashed with her current reality, or was she upset that Bucky and Rhett were friends? Either way, she didn’t want to say something to me that she might regret.

  As for me? I didn’t care. I had given her food for thought.

  Chapter 20

  I RETURNED TO The Cookbook Nook about the same time the candy-making class was wrapping up. A few hours had produced a wealth of chocolate brittle as well as a bevy of satisfied customers.

  Katie said, “Terrific, you’re back.” She handed me a wedge of candy. “Taste.”

  The morsel crunched and melted in my mouth. The combination of sugar and salt was heavenly. “Delicious.”

  “Hand these out.” Katie had fashioned adorable checkered boxes in which each of the attendees could pack their goodies. She also provided labels: Homemade by with a blank for the attendee’s name. “Wait, before you do, tell me who that is from.” She gestured to a tiny box on the counter. “The note says, ‘From your secret admirer.’ Care to share who that might be?”

  I opened the box. Out sprang a Slinky toy. So did another notecard. “What the—” I gasped. I picked up the notecard.

  “What’s it say?”

  “‘I know how much you like retro. Enjoy.’” I snorted. “I do not like retro. I mean, yes, I like a yo-yo and a hula hoop, but a coil of wire? Who is this guy?”

  “Are you sure Rhett isn’t joking around with you?” Katie asked.

  “These gifts are not from him.” I jammed the toy back in the box and shoved the gift under the counter. I had to figure out who this admirer was and put an end to it. If Deputy Appleby was the culprit, I would give him a piece of my mind in the bargain. “Moving on.” I passed out the candy boxes to the students.

  As they packed their sweets, the chatter among them was electric. The class had been fun, insightful, and most definitely tasty. All agreed that Katie was an excellent and enthusiastic teacher, and they looked forward to another class. I couldn’t have been more thrilled. Positive buzz always helped a business thrive.

  Meanwhile, Katie and I started folding chairs and resetting the movable bookshelves.

  Katie said, “How’s your aunt? You look relieved, so she must be okay.”

  I gave her a brief recap.

  “Do you really think she was drugged?” Katie asked.

  “Maya said Aunt Vera was acting edgy and different. That’s not a good sign.”

  When we were done rearranging, I sent Katie in search of a bowl of soup—she hadn’t made broccoli with cheddar, but she did have lobster bisque on hand, my second favorite—and I went to the counter to help Bailey, who was manning the register. Each attendee, thanks to the ten percent off coupon we had provided, had gone in search of something, whether a cookbook, a work of fiction, or giftware.

  As they approached the checkout counter, I set the purchases into our tangerine-striped gift bags, specially ordered for the fall season, and tied them with bows.

  When the last student left the shop, Bailey said, “I heard you telling Katie about your aunt. What did I miss?”

  I filled her in. I added that Trisha showed up at the end of my chat with Cinnamon.

  “Which reminds me.” Bailey twisted and untwisted her turquoise beads. “Did you ever hear back from your friend at UCSC?”

  “No.”

  “Meaning we still don’t know about Trisha’s school records or her school debt, and we don’t know whether she was really at the lab when she says she was.”

  “No, but she brought that book to Cinnamon.”

  “Which proves nothing.” Bailey whipped a ledger from the drawer beneath the cash register and shoved it at me. “Here. Take this to Cinnamon. It’s our cash receipts book. It shows we earned money today.”

  “Huh?” I said. “I’m not following.”

  “Does this book prove anything? No, it does not. A datebook with initials in it is worthless. It doesn’t verify that anybody killed anybody. All it proves is that people with initials were Pearl Thornton’s patients, but it doesn’t do more than that. My initials, Bailey Bird, are the same as Bingo’s. So, was I one of Pearl’s patients?”

  “I don’t know. Were you?”

  Bailey smirked. “Like I’d ever go to a shrink. I would never be able to leave the couch with all the junk going on in this noggin.” She tapped her temple, then laughed. “Only sane people should go to a shrink, in my humble opinion. The others should do their best to pretend they’re sane. In other words, fake it. Speaking of Bingo Bedelia . . . let’s face it, she is not all that sane. Did you see the display window at Aunt Teek’s? It’s out there.” Bailey twirled her finger next to her head. “What do you know about her?”

  “She grew up in Ohio, became a nurse, and moved here about twenty years ago. She was engaged at one time, but she never married.”

  “So why does she own an antique shop? Why isn’t she still a nurse?”

  “She would need to get a California license.”

  “Why not do that? Is there something in her past that might prevent her from continuing that career?”

  “Like?”

  “Like did she kill someone in Ohio and flee?”

  I shuddered; I had wondered the same thing. Where was that boyfriend who supposedly up and left her?

  “C’mon,” Bailey said. “Once a caretaker, always a caretaker. Being a nurse is a calling, isn’t it?” Bailey hurried t
o the computer and swung the screen to face me. “Let’s twink her.”

  “I don’t want to twink her.” Twinking was a new social networking program. You twinked someone; they twinked you back. You could see their pictures; they could see yours. The idea was to write little stories to accompany each photo, not just share photos. I had gotten into it because of all the pictures I had of Tigger. I also twinked photographs of the store. I found twinking was a great marketing tool. People loved twinking books and kitchenware. Katie twinked the photos of her food. We shared a few links to recipes on our website.

  “Bingo isn’t her real name,” Bailey said, her hands hovering over the keyboard. “What is it?”

  “Barbara.”

  Bailey typed Barbara > Bingo > Bedelia into the Twink search space. Up popped a ton of pictures for a site run by someone named Mr. Mysterious. All of the pictures were older ones, circa thirty years ago. Bingo looked to be about sixteen. I was sure they were photos of her; the lantern jaw and nose were unmistakable. All of the photographs of other teens had funny names attributed to them: Musketeer, Mouse, Babykins.

  As if she knew we were snooping into her life, Bingo hurried into the shop. Talk about bad timing.

  “Quick, Bailey,” I whispered. “Turn it off. Now.”

  “Jenna.” Over a Pilgrim-style black dress, Bingo wore a black cape that flapped like bat wings behind her. She rushed toward us.

  “Turn it off, Bailey,” I rasped. “Off. Off.”

  She obeyed with a grumble.

  “Is Vera here?” Bingo used her hands to talk, each movement jerky and tense.

  “Aunt Vera? No, she’s at the hospital.”

  “Still?” Bingo started for the door. “Why did Maya wait this long to tell me about the accident?”

  “Bingo, hold up.” I darted from behind the counter and blocked her short of the exit. I didn’t touch her. She looked positively spooked. “I’ve got to ask you something.”

  She tried to dodge me. “I must go. Your aunt needs me.”

  “She’s resting. She’ll be in the hospital overnight.”

  “Maya said Vera crashed into a tree.” Bingo sniffed. “When will she learn to focus as she drives?”