Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I eyed the wealth of craft items we had amassed in the children’s section and decided instead to tackle the deconstruction of the display window.

  While I was boxing up the seagull that had dangled over the seascape, Coco sashayed into the shop in a snug pink dress. A pink Prada tote hung over her shoulder. Out of the top of the tote spilled pink-embossed envelopes.

  Coco plucked an envelope from the collection and handed it to me. “Here’s your invitation.”

  “To . . .”

  “Sweet Sensations’ Valentine’s Day Lollapalooza, of course.”

  I grinned. “What a mouthful, worthy of a cookbook title.” I removed the invitation from its gorgeous envelope and perused the text. “Why are you having another event? You just threw a delicious chocolate tasting on Sunday.”

  “A shop can never do enough to lure customers.”

  How true. “When is it?”

  “Tomorrow! Gotta nab that fresh batch of tourists.” Coco blew out a gust of air. “Boy, oh, boy, I can’t tell you how much I hate publicity! I am an artist. I bake. I glaze. I ice. I don’t want to go around town doing this.” She whacked her tote.

  “Especially in those heels,” I joked. She was wearing precipitously high, spiky heels.

  “But you and I”—she waggled a finger between us—“both know how important it is to make sure the locals know what’s going on, face-to-face. I couldn’t ask my Hello Kitty–loving assistant to do the dirty work, could I?” She barked out a laugh. “Honestly, I don’t think that girl ever learned the art of communication. She’s the one-word-answer queen.” Coco pulled a couple more invitations out of her bag. “And don’t get me started on how much I despise doing social media stuff.”

  “But you’re so good at it,” I said.

  “Only because I have to be. Friend me; like me; show me the love!” She snorted. “Ah, yes, the Internet. It’s the way of the world. At least I don’t have your worry.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No one will ever digitalize the taste of chocolate. People will always be coming to Sweet Sensations for a morsel. You can’t e-book that.”

  I winced. Yes, we had to worry about what the digital age might do to our cookbook sales, but customers—our customers—still loved the feel of paper. They enjoyed flipping through cookbooks. They treasured collecting them and filling their home shelves with them. I wasn’t too worried about a drop in sales. Yet.

  A police car pulled into the parking lot. At the same time, I caught sight of the vivacious waitress from Vines Wine Bistro hightailing it toward Buena Vista Boulevard. She was a blur of orange. Her hair, cinched in a ponytail, wafted behind her.

  I raced outside and yelled, “Is there a fire?”

  “No fire,” she responded, “but there are storm clouds on the horizon.”

  The sky was a gorgeous blue and cloud free. What the heck was she talking about?

  “Neil quit,” she went on. “He came into some money. A couple thou.” She pointed upward. “That upset Gloria, and then Simon said something to her—I’m not sure what—and she went ballistic! I’m out of here.”

  I looked in the direction of her aim. Gloria was charging down the stairs that led from the second floor to the ground level of Fisherman’s Village. Clad in a clingy black top and leggings, her burgundy hair hidden beneath a black knit hat, her typically colorful accessories exchanged for black ones, she looked like a ninja ready to attack. A pair of black binoculars on a black strap bounced on her chest. Had she gone bird-watching with Simon after all her complaints about it? What do you bet she suspected Simon was cheating on her, which would explain why she was spending so much time at Vines as well as with him. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight. Pity the poor fool who crossed her path right now.

  Gloria stole a look in my direction, and I blanched. Her face wasn’t filled with anger about Neil quitting. It was streaked with tears. What had her husband said to her? Did he admit he was in love with another woman?

  A door slammed. Across the parking lot, Deputy Appleby was exiting the police car that had pulled in moments ago. He headed toward the café and looked longingly toward The Cookbook Nook entrance. Was he still regretting that my aunt had broken off their relationship? Hadn’t she had a heart-to-heart with him yet? After acknowledging me, he charged inside the café.

  Coco peeped out the front door. “What’s going on?”

  I moved inside the shop and jabbed a finger toward Gloria, who was climbing into a Cadillac SUV. “Someone isn’t happy.”

  Coco breathed high in her chest. “Is she . . . did he . . . tell her he was leaving her?”

  “I think he might have.”

  Gloria yanked the door of her car closed.

  Coco nearly vibrated with anticipation. I didn’t think anyone could look so gleeful over the prospect of divorce. “I’ve got to go to him.” She nudged her tote higher on her shoulder.

  “Wait, Coco!” I held her back.

  Gloria was reopening the door of her SUV.

  Coco gasped. “Oh no. She’s coming back. She’s going to plead with him. She’s . . . oh, phew!”

  Gloria yanked on her purse strap, which had gotten caught on the door handle. She tugged and jerked again, and finally released it. Slam! She closed the door a second time.

  The moment Gloria peeled rubber out of the parking lot, Coco said, “I’ll be right back,” and she sprinted upstairs to the wine bistro.

  A few minutes later, Deputy Appleby exited the café with Dash Hamada. Dash wasn’t putting up a fuss.

  A quarter of an hour later, Coco hadn’t resurfaced. Who knew what Simon was telling her? I worried about her, but I couldn’t fix it, no matter what it was. Simon and Coco were adults. Gloria, too.

  I was busy fitting various items from the display window into a storage box, reserving the four-foot-long toy ship with the three masts for last, when Wanda Foodie shuffled into the shop. Wanda had donned exactly what Alison had worn to the book club meeting—a red shawl over red sweater and plaid slacks—and I was struck, yet again, by how much she looked like her daughter. If not for the typical signs of age, they could have been twins, except Wanda’s face looked drawn, her eyes puffy.

  I hurried to her and gave her a hug. “Mrs. Foodie.”

  “Call me Wanda. How many times do I have to tell you that, Jenna?” Although she had visited the shop a few times, I’d never noticed that she sounded as throaty as Alison.

  Bailey stopped primping the sales table and hastened to join us. She gave Wanda a hug. “You look good.”

  “Nonsense. I’m a disaster.” Wanda flicked the air with a finger. “I heard you two stopped by the house to check in on me. That was sweet of you.” She offered a thin, tired smile.

  Aunt Vera strolled to Wanda and took her by the hand. “Wanda, dear.” My aunt stroked gently, doing her best to infuse good energy into the beleaguered woman. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Wanda pulled her hand free and raised her chin in a stately manner. “We carry on. We must, mustn’t we, Vera?”

  “Why have you come in?” I asked.

  “I wanted to thank you for your consideration.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone out of your way—”

  “It wasn’t an inconvenience.” Wanda fussed with the shawl. Her fingers shook. “I’ve also come to pick up my son. His car broke down yesterday. What a heap he drives. He had to meet with his boss. Now, I have to take him home to change clothes before we visit Alison’s attorney. What a chatty man he is. We have quite a few matters to settle in regard to Alison’s estate, he tells me.”

  I was stunned. Alison hadn’t been dead a week. “So soon?”

  “Time marches on. The attorney would like to get this over with as quickly as possible. He informed me that Neil and I are the only two named in the will. Of course, funds won’t be released for quite some months.”

  I glanced out the front door, recalling what the ponytailed waitress had said about Neil coming into
some cash. Where did he get off quitting if he wasn’t getting inheritance money right away? He told me he had debts. “Wanda, I heard a rumor that Neil gave notice at Vines.”

  Wanda nodded. “Yes, he quit. That’s why he came in early today.”

  “Did he get a paying stand-up comedy gig?”

  “A what?” Wanda shot me a curious look.

  “He—” I hesitated. Perhaps he hadn’t shared that facet, or any facet, of his life with his mother. Deftly, I switched topics. “What will happen to Foodie Publishing? Will you hire someone to run it? Like Ingrid Lake?”

  “Ingrid? Why I . . .” Wanda covered her mouth to hide a yawn. “I don’t believe she could handle the pressure. Besides, the attorney said he has buyers lined up, if we are of the mind to sell.”

  Bailey said, “Um, Wanda, forgive for me saying this, but I’m surprised that Alison included Neil in her will.”

  “Why wouldn’t she? He’s family.”

  “Yes, but—” Bailey blanched. She eyed me. I kept mum. All I knew was hearsay. I had never seen Neil interact with his sister.

  Wanda drew taller. “Years ago, I convinced Alison to take pity on her brother. He is an innocent soul. He’s not as bright as she was, it’s sad to say, but he is kind beyond words.”

  Ingrid’s words Mama’s boy rang out in my head, except, from Wanda’s account, I deduced Neil was not her favorite child. Alison had been. Simon’s and Dash’s comments that Neil had resented Alison replayed in my mind. Had Wanda revealed to her son how weak she thought he was? Did bile boil inside him until he lashed out at his sister? Why not kill the mother instead? Because he loved her. Needed her. Wanted to be her one and only.

  Wanda added, “Sweet Neil will be lost without Alison. Like a ship without a mooring.”

  Did she really believe that? Was she deluding herself?

  Returning to the previous thread of conversation, I said, “What will Neil do now that he’s leaving Vines?”

  “He’s going to return to his old job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He used to be a computer technician. He’s very good at it.”

  Yipes! How had I not put two and two together? The waitress from Vines said Neil had come into a couple of thousand dollars. Did he receive the reward money for returning the pot of doubloons? I’d already theorized that the thief who absconded with the pot of doubloons was a tech-savvy person. I’d considered Dash the culprit because of the timing of his arrival to town and the fact that he had an in-depth website, but Neil, if he was a computer geek, could have orchestrated the whole thing. He claimed he hadn’t constructed a website, and yet I had seen one—whether or not it was up and running—on the computer on his mother’s dining table. Why would he steal the pot? He said he needed fresh material for his stand-up comedy routine. Was his plan to tell funny stories about the theft? None of his competition would be able to duplicate the tales of his caper. He even had photos he could share with his audience, photos that he had put up and taken down on illusive blogs. Fresh, indeed!

  Did his antics absolve him of killing his sister? Not necessarily. Though he was traveling from site to site to take photos for the blogs, he could have made his way to Coco’s house, in between location shoots, to kill Alison. His motive? Jealousy and money. Was Alison’s estate sizable? With no rent and a mother, whether doting or not, to shuttle him around town, Neil wouldn’t need more than the two thousand dollar reward and a modest-paying job to survive until Alison’s estate settled. I remembered how he had tried to convince me that he was at the comedy club the night his sister was killed. Perhaps he lied about that because he didn’t want to admit that he had been roaming Crystal Cove with the pot of doubloons, capturing it in its many resting places on film. One lie leads to another, my father always says. Would Neil lie again or finally confess to what he had done?

  No matter what, I had to alert the mayor to let her know the person Wanda called an innocent soul had duped her. I would also leave a message for Cinnamon. The other night, she said she knew about Neil Foodie, but did she know everything?

  Wanda gave each of us a hug and thanked Bailey and me again for dropping by her house to check on her. Her voice, thick with emotion, caught as she said, “Good-bye.” Then she exited.

  Seconds later, a pair of regulars entered the store. “Cheerio!” one called. She was very British, very proper.

  “Bailey,” I said. “Can you see to the ladies?” I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed.

  At the same time, Katie rushed down the breezeway. “I’m back,” she yodeled, the word back taking about three syllables to conclude.

  The mayor’s telephone rolled over into voice mail. I left a hurried message, texted Cinnamon, plunked my cell phone back into my pocket, and crossed to Katie. She looked cheery in a yellow-striped dress. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes, animated.

  “How’s your mother?” I asked.

  “Doing so much better. This morning she recognized me and her regular attending nurse.” Katie kissed the fingertips of her hand, a habit she’d picked up from my aunt, and blew a blessing into the air. “The meds are helping. She’s sleeping a tad more than usual, but the doctor said, ‘Sleep is the great healer.’ At least she’s comfortable.” Katie hugged me and pushed apart. “Now, what’s on the schedule? Bailey said the Chocolate Cookbook Club is going to have a gathering tonight.”

  “Tonight? Why?” I glanced at Bailey. “The first Thursday of the month is when we usually meet.”

  “It’s Pepper’s idea, and you know her. When she gets her mind set on something . . .” Bailey wagged a hand. “She wishes to grieve for Alison. She believes others might want the same opportunity.”

  “But it’s Wednesday.”

  “Don’t be a stickler,” Bailey said. “Besides, Pepper called my mother, who called me. The two of them cleared it with many of the club members, and now it’s all arranged. That’s why I contacted Katie.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go with the flow.”

  Katie tapped her cheek with a finger. “Now, what shall I cook? Jenna, come help me plan a menu.” She hooked her thumb and bustled down the breezeway toward the café.

  “Go,” Aunt Vera said. “Bailey and I have the rest of this handled.” She waved at the boxes of pirate-themed items. “I’ll finish packing up the window display. Bailey will tend to the children’s corner. It’ll do you good to see how Katie puts together her masterpieces, and”—she winked—“you can keep an eye on her. She’s quite fragile.”

  I scooted after my friend. The café was turning over for the lunch crowd. The kitchen staff rushed around doing prep work.

  For a half hour, Katie and I nibbled on grilled winter pear and blue cheese sandwiches and perused the various cookbooks she kept on metal shelves above the sinks. All of the chocolate-themed cookbooks were tucked in with the dessert cookbooks at the far right. In addition to the standards like Better Homes and Gardens: Chocolate and The Ghirardelli Chocolate Cookbook: Recipes and History from America’s Premier Chocolate Maker, she had Adventures with Chocolate: 80 Sensational Recipes and Couture Chocolate: A Masterclass in Chocolate.

  She grabbed the latter. “Every chef I know raves about this cookbook,” she exclaimed. “Have you flipped through it?”

  I had. The author had provided excellent instructions on how to deal with chocolate. The book included a fabulous section on the origins of chocolate, and there was a chapter devoted to how to taste chocolate. Until I scanned the book, I didn’t have a clue there could be up to four hundred aromas in one piece of chocolate. It was to be savored like wine or cheese. Bliss!

  Thumbing through the Better Homes and Gardens book, I said, “How does chocolate rum cheesecake sound? Or mocha mousse? Or a tri-level brownie?”

  Katie offered an impish grin. “We could serve a chocolate and whipped cream omelet as an entrée.”

  I smirked. “That sounds scrumptious but not very substantial. How about braised beer and pork with chocolate sa
uce?”

  “Whoa. Where did you see that? In that book?” She snatched the cookbook I was holding and fanned through the pages.

  “No. I remember eating something like it at a restaurant in San Francisco. It was tantalizingly good.”

  “Hmm.” Katie slapped the cookbook closed, replaced it on the shelf, and scanned the titles of her remaining books. “I think I’ve seen a recipe like that in a Michael Symon book.” She had a number of the famous Cleveland-based chef’s books in her collection, including Michael Symon’s Carnivore: 120 Recipes for Meat Lovers. “Aha, here it is.” She grabbed Symon’s book and opened to the index. Flip, flip. “Nope, not here.” She smacked that book closed, too. “But you’ve got me thinking.” She nabbed one of her many recipe boxes and pulled out a card. “Aha. This will do.” She knuckled me on the shoulder. “You’ve inspired me.” She flashed the three-by-five card at me, which read: Pork with Port Sauce. “A couple of tweaks, and we’ve got it.”

  My cell phone buzzed in my trousers pocket. I tugged it out and scanned the text from Bailey: Coco is here. She’s upset. Hurry back.

  I wished Katie luck putting together tonight’s book club meal and scuttled through the café. Outside, beyond the diners and plate-glass windows, the ocean and the sky were brilliant shades of blue. A family of seagulls whisked by the window and dove toward the ocean. A box kite rose into view, its tails fluttering. The entire scene looked so inviting and brought a smile to my face. But I couldn’t dally.

  I was rounding the corner to enter the breezeway when I heard, “Tootsie Pop. Over here!”

  My father and Old Jake—just Jake, I reminded myself; he hated being called old—sat at a table by a window. They seemed an unlikely pair, Jake so gnarled and weathered and my father supremely fit. Despite their age difference, they were fast friends. When my father was twelve, Jake, a rover with no roots, had saved my father from drowning. My grandfather had taken Jake under his wing and taught him how to invest; hence, why Jake was the wealthiest guy in town. Now that my father had retired from the FBI, he took Jake to brunch or lunch at least once a month to catch up. He wouldn’t let Jake pay. Ever.