Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Katie agreed to close the café,” Bailey went on.

  “You already cleared it with her?”

  “Yep. She’ll make a tasting from Coco’s latest cookbook,” Bailey went on. “Not just the sweets, but the savory things, too, like the chicken with the luscious chocolate mole sauce.”

  “Yum.”

  “Or the mixed salad with orange slices dipped in chocolate. And, of course, an assortment of desserts. C’mon. This’ll be fun.” Bailey rapped me on the arm. “Girls’ night out. We’ll help Katie with the cooking.”

  “We?” I gulped. “For thirty?”

  “With Katie’s supervision.”

  Remember, earlier, when I mentioned that Michael Recchiuti’s Chocolate Obsession might be beyond my ability? That is because I’m not a cook. I’m trying to learn. I’ve graduated from making five-ingredient recipes to multiple-ingredient ones. I’ve even tried my hand at cooking entrées as well as desserts. The chocolate cherries on the sales counter? Mine. But creating an entire meal for what could be a possibly hypercritical crowd? My heart started to chug until I channeled Sophie Winston, the event planner from the Domestic Diva Mysteries. She made cooking sound so easy; she always had things prepared way in advance, much of it stored in the freezer. I could do this. I could. Yes, indeed, with a battalion of cooks and Katie’s supervision, a soiree was going to be a snap.

  Tigger butted my ankle with his head. He opened his eyes wide, as if offering reassurance.

  “Please, pretty please,” Bailey said.

  “Okay. We’ll do it.”

  “Yeah!”

  I fastened a pearl button on my cardigan sweater and moved past Bailey into the shop. More customers had arrived. Many were ogling the aprons. A few were admiring the selection of chocolate-themed fiction. One, a darling older woman, had nestled at the vintage kitchen table to tackle the latest food-themed jigsaw puzzle. We always had one going. Customers loved to piece them together. I think it made them feel like family. I tucked in behind the sales counter.

  Bailey joined me. “Do you have a favorite dessert recipe in Coco’s latest?”

  “The chocolate-cherry bonbons, which I’ve already made.” I gestured to the batch on the counter. “Try one.”

  “Before lunch?”

  “Chocolate is good at any time of the day.”

  Bailey bit into one. “You made these?”

  “Yep.” I polished my fingernails on my sweater.

  “Girlfriend, I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks.” I opened the cash register drawer and counted ones and fives. “Do me a favor and check again with Katie. Make sure she knew what you were asking.” Sometimes Katie, distracted by the many duties of running a restaurant, would bob her head in answer to any question.

  “Will do.” Bailey whooped as she hurried to the café.

  At the same time, a shaggy-haired pirate—kid you not, pirate—darted into the shop. He was wearing pantaloons and a red waistcoat. Sword drawn, he crept stealthily behind one of the bookcases at the center of the store.

  The customers, including my paleo cookbook hunters, gasped.

  Tigger poked his head through the split in the drapes from the stockroom. I waved at him to retreat. He didn’t. He stared bug-eyed at the man.

  Seconds after the red pirate hid, a pirate in a blue waistcoat and pantaloons entered, followed by a pair of robust women dressed in ecru blouses topped with lace-up vests and gathered skirts. All of the intruders wore boots; the men wore feathered tricorn hats.

  The blue pirate yanked his sword from its scabbard and yelled, “Where are ye, ye whining, yellow-bellied landlubber?”

  The red pirate bolted from his hiding spot, sword raised.

  The blue pirate lunged. Metal clanged. The red pirate hopped backward onto one of the chairs by the vintage kitchen table. The blue pirate ducked, pivoted, and came up on the other side of his enemy. He thrust the tip of his sword at the red pirate’s throat.

  The red pirate dropped his sword and raised his hands.

  Chapter 2

  “OFF WITH YER head!” the blue pirate said. A tense moment followed. Then the blue pirate laughed and lowered his sword. He offered a hand to the red pirate. “Grab hold, mate.” He helped the red pirate to the floor, and each clapped the other on the shoulder.

  “Well done,” the red pirate said.

  I stomped toward the pair. “What the heck, you two? What’s going on? You nearly gave me . . . us”—I indicated the crowd—“heart attacks.”

  The red pirate grinned. “Lass, have ye forgotten? It’s Pirate Week.”

  Forehead smack. I had forgotten what my aunt told me only yesterday—at times I have a short memory span. For the last five years, during the first week of February, the people of Crystal Cove celebrated our pirate heritage. Pirates hadn’t settled the town, but there were plenty of ships that had sailed along the coast of California, and tales were told of thievery and conquest. Heck, the California coast was rich with stories from Zorro to Russian fur-traders to Spanish missionaries. However, in honor of the pirate part of our sketchy heritage, our energetic mayor, always ready to capitalize on a tourism theme, had established Pirate Week, which ran from the first Wednesday in the month to the following Tuesday. Why Wednesday? Because during the winter months, Crystal Cove tourists primarily arrive on Wednesday or Thursday and stay for a week or long weekends.

  I recalled asking my aunt why Pirate Week was such a big lure, because pirates were notoriously not nice people. She said the intent of Pirate Week wasn’t for one minute to suggest that real, honest-to-goodness pirates were in any way, shape, or form worth emulating, but the image of swaggering pirateness was fun and exciting and, in her words, harmless. The Pirates of the Caribbean movies were a success because being a pirate looked like a blast.

  The blue pirate swaggered toward me. “Milady, truth? Did ye take us seriously?”

  “Aye,” I said, kicking in with pirate speak. “I did. The whole lot of us did.”

  Some argued that, seeing as International Talk Like a Pirate Day—yes, there is such a day—was celebrated in September, shouldn’t we have Pirate Week in that month? The mayor countered that September in Crystal Cove was already packed with activities. We needed a lure for tourists in February, when the temps were cooler. During Pirate Week, we were encouraged to converse in pirate speak whenever we encountered someone dressed as such. Aunt Vera had not told me that during Pirate Week, participants would show up in costumes and plunder the shop.

  The blue pirate grinned and addressed the crowd. “Don’t worry, folks. We were only joshing.”

  “However, if ye are interested in seeing more,” one of the robust women said, “come one, come all, to The Pirates of Penzance at The Theater on The Pier.”

  For Pirate Week, the mayor had also arranged to have specialty plays, dinner cruises, duels, and more. At the end of the week of events, the mayor would hold a town meeting. She would draw a ticket, and some lucky person would win a pot of gold doubloons. People could pick up their free drawing tickets at any of the shops on the main strip of town or on The Pier.

  “The musical,” the blue pirate continued, “is a rollicking comic opera by Gilbert and Sullivan.”

  “Good fun with a one-drink minimum,” the red pirate added. “A bargain at any price. And, remember, when we’re not playing, we’re singing.” When a show isn’t in progress, The Theater on The Pier serves as a piano bar.

  If you haven’t visited Crystal Cove, it’s a seaside community consisting of three crescent-shaped bays. A range of modest mountains defines the eastern border and traps ocean moisture, blessing our sweet community with a temperate Mediterranean climate. The boulevard that runs parallel to the ocean is rife with shops and restaurants. On the southernmost end of town stands The Pier, which features shops, restaurants, a carousel, some carny games, and a rousing dance hall–style theater. At The Pier, people may also hire boats for sunset or sightseeing cruises and fishing expeditions.

>   “Farewell, fine maidens.” The blue pirate doffed his hat and made a deep bow. The red pirate copied him. The ladies at the rear of the store giggled.

  “Farewell, sweet furry critter,” one of the wenches cried. She wiggled her bright red fingernails in Tigger’s direction. He crept from behind the curtain and ducked behind my ankles.

  “And we’re off!” said the red pirate. He and his friend hooked arms with their female companions and headed to the next stop on their get-the-word-out journey.

  As Bailey returned and offered a thumbs-up gesture—Katie was on board for tomorrow night—I realized we had to get cracking and put up our Pirate Week display. ASAP. So much to do. Always! Personally, I like being busy. Less time to let my mind dwell on sad memories.

  Using poster board—we kept plenty on hand in the stockroom—Bailey and I created a pair of pirate silhouettes. We added cutouts of tricorn hats and eye patches to the silhouettes and set them in the window. In front, we placed a toy galleon that my aunt had purchased expressly for the display—about four feet long and metal, fitted with three masts, a pointed bowsprit, and spanking white sails—and then added a low cutout of blue waves. We dangled a seagull overhead and set out a variety of Caribbean cookbooks, including the tasty Caribbean Potluck written by a pair of sister chefs. And we added the pirate-themed children’s books that my aunt had suggested. When we finished, I posted a banner: Children’s Pirate Day Saturday. For that event, I would have Katie make sugar cookies iced with pirates, skeletons, or skull and crossbones. Perhaps some kind of chocolate-making demonstration with free giveaways of almond- or pistachio-laced chocolate would be a nice treat for the adults.

  While Bailey toured the shop looking for a place to hide a rubber goldfish—the first lucky child who found the toy would win a free book—I put together a flyer to distribute to local shops encouraging children to come to the event dressed as pirates. Any child who wore a costume would receive a goodie bag filled with gold foil–wrapped candy. One family would win the grand prize: Dessert for four at the Nook Café.

  The rest of the day went off without a hitch. People poured in. Children scoured the shelves, but none found the rubber goldfish. Bailey had hidden it well. Adults were fascinated with the choices of pirate-themed cookbooks. One of the most popular was A Pirate Cookbook: Simple Recipes for Kids, which featured fun recipes like Gangplank Dippers, Chocolate Gunpowder, and Parrot Punch. The author offered darling tips like reminding her readers to wash their hands because pirates were dirty. What parent could resist that?

  • • •

  THURSDAY MORNING ARRIVED as fast as a speeding bullet. Thursday night, even faster.

  “It’s time,” Bailey yelled. “Get ready to be chocolatized!”

  She nabbed me and led me to the Nook Café kitchen. The aroma was heavenly. My stomach grumbled dramatically.

  Bailey slung on an apron and handed me one. “Arrr.” She faced our chef Katie and snarled like a pirate. “What now, oh mighty captain?”

  Katie Casey was a jolly soul with bright eyes and an easy laugh. She chortled so hard her toque nearly fell off her curly mop of hair. She righted it and glanced at the pocket watch she always wore pinned to her chef coat. “Jenna, fetch the oranges from the walk-in.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Not you, too.” Katie frowned, which made her hangdog-shaped eyes turn even more downward, an intentionally comical look. “There’ll be no pirate talk in my kitchen. I run a tight ship.”

  “Ho, ho,” Bailey said. “Very funny.”

  “Don’t ye mean yo ho?” Katie grinned then twirled a spatula in the air. Chocolate mole sauce ran down the length of the handle and splatted her apron. “Oops!” One of the two sous-chefs Katie had brought in for the event—she had also appointed two of the regular waitresses to help us out—rushed to her aid and offered a wet towel. Katie cleaned up and said, “Keller”—he was her boyfriend—“is totally into this week of pirate events. He’s spending all his time on The Pier vending his ice cream just so he can be close to the action, and he’s forever saying, ‘C’mere, me beauty.’”

  “Well, at least he thinks you’re beautiful,” I said.

  Katie reddened and tucked a loose hair behind her ear. “Yeah, right. Bailey, what do you think of Jenna’s idea to do chocolate-making demonstrations in the shop?”

  Bailey giggled. “You have to ask? You know me and chocolate.” She pressed two fingers together. “We’re tight.”

  “As tight as you and Tito?” Katie teased.

  Tito Martinez, a local newspaper reporter, was Bailey’s newest boyfriend.

  Bailey blushed. “We’re not that tight.”

  “Yes, you are.” I nodded. “I’ve seen you two gaze into each other’s eyes.” I hadn’t always been a fan of Tito’s. However, the more I’d gotten to know him over the past few months, the more he had grown on me. As for Bailey, he had won her heart with his sense of humor and his penchant for volunteering for good causes. The fact that he could also, magically, pull a quarter out of her ear at any given moment made her smile. She loved to be surprised.

  “We’re not as tight as you and Rhett,” Bailey countered.

  Rhett Jackson is my boyfriend, going on a couple of months. We haven’t said I love you or anything like that yet, but whenever I’m with him, the world goes still, in a good way.

  “Wipe that silly grin off your face,” Bailey said.

  “Why should I?” I would never forget my first glimpse of Rhett. Tousled dark hair, sparkling eyes, and jeans that fit just right. I would also never forget our first kiss. And our first dinner alone at his cabin. He’d farmed out his dog so there would be no intrusions. And our first—

  Bailey fanned me with a pot holder. “Wowie! What are you thinking about, girlfriend? Hearts afire! Katie, look at Jenna’s cheeks. They’re red-hot with lust. Get the extinguisher.”

  I smirked. “Ha-ha.”

  “By the way,” Bailey went on, “have you seen what Rhett has done outside Bait and Switch on The Pier?”

  “No, what?”

  Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store is one of the largest buildings on The Pier. Rhett owns it. Previously he was the chef at The Grotto, a four-star restaurant that used to be located on the second floor of Fisherman’s Village—just upstairs from where The Cookbook Nook and Nook Café are located. The restaurant burned down, but surprisingly no shops below or to the right or left of it were touched. Rumor was that Rhett had started the fire. Rhett swore he didn’t, which turned out to be true. Only recently, our clever chief of police, at my urging, pulled together all the clues and found the previous owner hiding out in New Orleans. As Rhett had asserted all along, the woman had absconded with a horde of priceless art. Not only was she sent to jail, but she had to relinquish the hefty insurance settlement. Mystery solved. Hooray!

  Bailey said, “Rhett constructed a rock climbing wall.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s gung ho about this pirate thing, too.”

  Katie grinned. “Keller’s already climbed the wall five times. It seems pirates were adept at climbing up things.”

  “Like enemy ships,” I quipped.

  Bailey aimed a finger. “We should do it.”

  “We?” I said. “As in the three of us?”

  Katie grinned. “I wish I could. Too much to do this week.”

  “I’ll have to put on tennis shoes,” I said. I preferred flip-flops to just about any other kind of shoe. Not stylish, I know, but comfy. “I’m pretty good at rock climbing.”

  “You are?” Katie looked astounded.

  “Don’t you remember how I used to go backpacking with my brother?” On a trip to Yosemite, he taught me how to rappel off the top of a mountain. I remember how cautious I was at first. Tiptoeing down the rock wall backward. Worrying that my brother was secretly trying to do me in. Was the belay device threaded right? Would the rope hold my weight? However, within minutes, I was pushing off and whooping with glee. It was a gre
at bonding moment for the two of us.

  “Hey, Jenna. Hey, Bailey.” Coco Chastain poked her head into the kitchen. “We’re here. Can I come in?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She hustled in and struck a pose. The magenta dress she wore looked painted on. Forties-style curls framed her face. Va-va-voom, as a couple of non-PC male coworkers at Taylor & Squibb Advertising, where I used to work, would have said. “I want you to come out to the dining room and meet the others before the book club members arrive.”

  “Don’t you mean other, singular?” Bailey asked.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Coco moved closer, her stylish, ankle-laced heels clacking the floor. “In addition to Alison, the copyeditor, Ingrid—she’s a newbie—wanted to come along for the experience, to see what it’s like for an author to schmooze, and the photographer, Dash—he’s such a talent.” Coco laid a hand above her voluptuous chest. “He loves everything pirate, so he begged to tag along, too.” She lowered her voice. “Wait until you see all his tattoos. Arrr, matey.” She gripped Bailey’s elbow. “C’mon. Katie, you, too.”

  Katie wagged her head. “Aye, there’s the rub,” she said. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Please?” Coco said in a girlish way. “Tito is already out there taking photographs. I want you in them.”

  “Uh-uh,” Katie said. “Way too many pots on the stove. You all go ahead. We”—she indicated the sous-chefs and waitresses—“need to keep this under control.”

  Two tables, set for sixteen diners each, stood by the windows with the ocean view. Alison Foodie, a largish woman with a strong jaw and thick black hair, sat at the head of one table. She paused what she was doing—tapping in a message on her cell phone—and glowered at the screen. She took a sip from a glass of water and started in again. Tap, tap, tap.

  “Alison, look over here,” Tito Martinez ordered. When I first met Tito, he reminded me of an insecure boxer, the four-legged kind: broad face, broad shoulders, short legs, and eager for a confrontation. Now, he was smoother, almost suave. “Look this way.” Bailey had asked him to do a front-page spread about Alison and Coco’s united rise to fame. The story had local roots. Tito was totally on board. “No more business, Alison. C’mon. Smile.”