Fudging the Books

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Bailey entered first and called out, “Coco?” She didn’t answer. Bailey strode to Coco’s bedroom and peeked inside. “Not here. Bed’s made.”

  A chill shot through me as I crossed the threshold. I recalled everything about the morning I arrived at Coco’s house, starting with Deputy Appleby acting like a sentry and Cinnamon with her no-nonsense glare. I remembered how pink everything was, from the kitchen to the utensils to the couch and lamps. And then there was Alison, in red, slumped forward on the table, the scissors sticking out of her back, the reflection of everyone in the darkened window beyond her.

  Bailey hurried back to me. “Hey.” She touched my arm. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s horrible. I don’t know how Coco can sleep here.”

  “Some people have more grit.”

  “Or nowhere else to go.”

  The memory of the night after I learned my husband drowned scudded through me. I went home to the apartment. Alone. The place didn’t smell the same. Food lacked appeal. The cottage was so cold that I had bundled up in two comforters for warmth.

  “Jenna.” Bailey had moved into the kitchen and was peering in cabinets and behind doors. “The computer’s not here.”

  “Of course it isn’t.” I moaned. What a dolt I was. “The police must have taken it as evidence. We should have realized that before coming here. Shoot.”

  Bailey folded her arms over her chest. “Now what?”

  “We leave.”

  “No, wait. Call her.”

  “Coco?”

  “Cinnamon. Ask her if she noticed what you noticed.”

  I gulped back a laugh. “Yeah, like she’ll tell me.”

  “She knows you’re checking things out. She told you to listen and report back.”

  “And subsequently rescinded that order.”

  “C’mon. Are you chicken?” Bailey clucked. “Cinnamon should be pleased to tell you what she’s doing on behalf of solving the case.”

  This plucky attitude . . . this spunk . . . is what I love about Bailey. She assumes she is always right, and most of the time, she is. When she’s not, she bluffs like a champ. Her mother trained her well.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed the precinct. The clerk put me through to Cinnamon, who answered after one ring. At least my call didn’t go to voice mail.

  “What’s up?” Cinnamon said.

  “I . . .” Why was I nervous? She had listened to my theories at the recent book club meeting. Be bold. Speak.

  “Jenna, are you there?”

  “Yes.” Surely, Cinnamon had found what I was trying to uncover. On the other hand—

  “Just spit it out. You called me, remember?”

  Man, she sounded like my father. Terse and to the point.

  Cinnamon sighed. “Let me help you. I’m assuming you’ve got something to convey about Alison Foodie’s murder, but you don’t know how to tell me. You’re afraid I’ll jump all over you.”

  I chuckled. “You’re on the right track.”

  “I won’t be mad. Do you want to know why? Because I’ve got nothing.”

  “You’ve got Ingrid Lake.” In my present scenario, was it possible that Ingrid was the killer? Why would she have messed with the recipes? “And Dash Hamada.”

  “Dash is innocent,” Cinnamon said. “His film is time-stamped an hour before she died, and his host—”

  “Sterling,” I cut in.

  “Yes. He came home while Dash was developing film. Dash didn’t see him. Given travel time to and from Coco’s house, Dash is off the hook. I’ve released him. I’ve set Ingrid Lake free, too.”

  I gaped. “But she lied about her alibi.”

  “She lied because she was scared. It happens. As it turns out, witnesses have come forward, corroborating her whereabouts between eleven P.M. and two A.M.”

  “Who?”

  Cinnamon clicked her tongue. “A couple that attended a wedding on the pirate ship. After the ceremony, they snuck off to Lovers’ Lane Overlook.”

  The overlook near the lighthouse wasn’t really called Lovers’ Lane. It was La Buena Vista, but the nickname took hold because the overlook was the place to neck in the dark. I remembered a time, years ago, when David and I sneaked out there.

  Cinnamon continued. “The couple remembered seeing a woman fitting Ingrid’s description when they arrived. She was huddled down in Wanda Foodie’s car, crying her eyes out.”

  “Because she’d been fired.”

  “She was still there when they left a few hours later.”

  “Why wouldn’t she say that?”

  “Who knows?” Cinnamon paused. “So now who’s on your list? And why?”

  Deep breath, Jenna. One fact at a time. “I’m at Coco Chastain’s house. I came to take a peek at Alison Foodie’s laptop.”

  “Which we took.”

  “I realize that now.” I laid out my theory.

  Cinnamon muttered, “I don’t understand why seeing the documents would help you.”

  “I thought I might pick up something from one of Alison’s comments.” Whenever I did an ad campaign, I made notes in the margin to remind me about what I needed to tweak or change. Sometimes I doodled grocery or to-do lists. Perhaps Alison had left some kind of note that would reveal why she was baking. Maybe she was doing a compare and contrast on a pair of documents. I told Cinnamon as much.

  “I’ll have our guys take another look-see. Satisfied?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Jenna,” Cinnamon added, “Ingrid said if I spoke to you—I guess she assumes we’re good friends—”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “We could be if you weren’t always trying to do my job.”

  “I’m not—”

  She chortled in a semi-sarcastic way.

  Lucky for me she couldn’t see me stick my tongue out on the other end of the receiver.

  “Anyway,” Cinnamon continued, “Ingrid said to tell you she was lying about Neil.”

  “Lying how?”

  “He liked his sister, and Alison liked him, too. Ingrid isn’t sure why she said those things to Wanda and you earlier. It was cruel.”

  “Simon and Dash said similar things about Neil not liking his sister. The vibe must have been there.”

  “Or they were making assumptions.” Cinnamon cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter. And now, Jenna, good-bye.”

  “Coffee soon?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Chapter 26

  BAILEY DROVE MORE sanely on the way back to the shop, taking turns at a decent speed and halting completely at stop signs instead of doing what people call California stops—sliding through at about five miles per hour, believing the word stop was only a suggestion. On Buena Vista Boulevard, many shop owners were changing out the Pirate Week displays. Halfway along the road, I caught sight of clusters of multi-shaded pink balloons, which were tied to an awning and bouncing in the breeze. Beneath the awning, a long line of people headed into Sweet Sensations.

  “Oh my gosh,” I cried. Coco’s Valentine Lollapalooza was already in action. Time was flying by. “Park!” I shouted at Bailey and aimed a finger at the last parking spot on the street.

  Bailey didn’t glower at me or question me. In one deft maneuver, she swerved her Toyota into the spot. “What about your aunt handling the shop on her own?”

  “It looks like the whole town might be here. The Cookbook Nook must be empty.” Coco’s warning that shop owners constantly needed to be on the front line of promotion hit me like a mallet. Perhaps I ought to consider some kind of big bash for the shop and café, bigger and more adult than Children’s Pirate Day. Because Katie had taken a couple of days off to tend to her mother, I had forgotten to put together a chocolate-making demonstration last Saturday; that would be a nice treat for the adults. The larger the crowds, the merrier the sales. We were doing fine business-wise, but I had a competitive streak in me. I liked to excel.

  Jazzy music greeted us as we entered Sweet S
ensations. A female fiddler playing with fervor stood just inside the door. I was surprised to see how many people the candy shop could hold. At least a hundred were milling about, most tasting the wares on the various trays of candies set on the counters, others eyeballing the goodies displayed in the glass-enclosed cases. Coco had replaced the pale-pink paper hearts that she’d intended to hang, the ones the perpetrator had shredded, with larger, hot pink versions. Each dangled on a ribbon tacked to the ceiling.

  Huddling near the sales register stood a few of the Chocolate Cookbook Club members, including Lola, the mayor, the owner of Home Sweet Home, and Gran, the enthusiastic cookbook purchaser.

  “Tito’s here.” Bailey gestured to her right.

  Tito, looking casual in jeans, white shirt, and photographer’s vest, was taking snapshots of the party. He fiddled with the zoom lens before each picture and shot at quirky angles: tilted and sideways and upward from the floor.

  “I’ll be right back.” Bailey moseyed to him and tapped his shoulder.

  He spun around, and his eyes lit up with good humor. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close for a kiss, which Bailey didn’t seem to mind. Big shock. Like me, she was not typically into public displays of affection.

  I glimpsed Dash among the crowd. I was surprised to see the raven-haired beauty beside him, her hand in his. She had seemed pretty disgusted with him yesterday. He must be a smooth talker.

  The book club ladies waved to me and beckoned me over. Lola drew me into the clique. “Darling, don’t you look wonderful.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. I had thrown on the first thing I’d touched in my wardrobe—a lacy red sweater over a red ruffled skirt. The reds didn’t entirely match.

  “Very Valentine-y,” Lola said. “Me?” She gestured to her eye-popping electric blue jumpsuit. “I look horrid in red.”

  Coco’s Hello Kitty–loving assistant waltzed up to us. Even the bows in her hair were Hello Kitty. “Try this.” She thrust a white chocolate–coated truffle at me. On top was a teensy embellishment of a raspberry.

  I bit into it. “Divine.” I adore anything raspberry. I’m not a huge fan of the seeds, but the flavor always makes me think of summer days when my mother and I would go berry picking.

  The assistant threaded through the crowd to other customers.

  “Don’t miss the cherry brownies,” the mayor said. “They’re to swoon for.” She looked quite mussed, as if she had bumped and battled her way into the shop. She adored food; she went crazy for free food.

  Lola could tell what I was thinking. She grinned and then snagged a shot glass filled with a pink quaff off a tray and handed it to me.

  I took a sip. “Yum.” The concoction tasted like iced strawberries.

  “Coco is quite the talent, isn’t she?” Lola said.

  I looked around for Coco and spied her lingering by the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Simon, looking dapper in a pale shirt, sport coat, and slacks, stood close to her. One arm was braced on the wall beside the door; his head and body were tilted forward; his mouth was moving. Coco nodded and plucked at her beaded pink necklace. Gloria was nowhere to be seen. Last night at Vines she had seemed under the weather. Was she still feeling ill? Did she know Simon was cuddling up to Coco? Simon nudged his glasses higher on his nose and leaned closer. I thought of a scene in one of my favorite movies, While You Were Sleeping, when Sandra Bullock’s smarmy landlord leaned in, not in a good way. Coco put a hand on Simon’s chest to keep him at bay. He backed up a smidge.

  The mayor said, “Jenna, we were just discussing whether these recipes will find their way into another of Coco’s cookbooks. With Foodie Publishing going under—”

  “It’s not going under, Z.Z.,” I said.

  “It’s not? But with Alison gone . . .” The mayor twirled her hand.

  “Her brother and mother are looking for a buyer,” I said. Now that Ingrid, per our chief of police, was cleared of murder, would she make another bid for the company? Would Neil Foodie respond favorably this time?

  “I hope so,” Lola said. “I would hate for my latest cookbook to be shelved. I don’t have it in me to look for another publisher. Not that it really matters. I have the diner to keep me busy. But Coco”—she gestured toward my friend—“must be distraught. All of her works have been released through Foodie Publishing, and with the other contract being cancelled—”

  “Cancelled?”

  “Didn’t you know? The New York publisher passed on Coco’s next manuscript.”

  I glanced back at Coco. She pulled a handkerchief from beneath the sleeve of her pink jacket and dabbed her eyes. Was she crying? She put a hand on the swinging door and looked like she was exiting to the rear of the shop. Simon clutched her shoulder and swiveled her to face him. She shimmied free of his grasp. Sensing she might need my support, I weaved through the crowd toward her.

  Drawing near, I heard Simon rasp, “I’m sorry. How many times can I say that? I truly didn’t mean for you to suffer.”

  “Whatever,” Coco muttered.

  “I’m a jerk. I admit it.”

  Coco grunted, obviously agreeing. Simon traced a finger down her arm. She shivered and recoiled.

  After a stilted silence, Simon continued. “What a shame that teens in this town would wreck your shop. I’m glad you were able to put the place back together.”

  Coco offered a half smile. “I was lucky that Jenna—” She caught sight of me and relief swept over her face. “Jenna, over here,” she beckoned.

  I joined them.

  Simon nodded to me, but he looked sheepish. Was he worried I would tell his wife that he was hanging around Coco? Didn’t he realize there were a whole lot of other witnesses at the party who might blab? He apologized one more time to Coco and hurried away.

  Coco pinched her lips together and trudged toward the kitchen. I trailed her and stood just inside the saloon-style doors to make sure no one could enter.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Fine.” She sniffed, using both pinkies to wipe away tears before they could fall. “Simon—” Another sniff. She pulled the hankie from beneath her sleeve. “I wish he hadn’t come here. Not during the—” She blew her nose into the hankie and stuffed it out of sight. “I must look a wreck.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I’m probably blotchy.”

  “People will think you’re flushed.”

  She tittered. “Yeah, right.”

  “Why was Simon here?”

  “He heard about the break-in last night. He felt sorry for me.” Coco hissed air through her teeth. “I’m such a cliché. I fell in love with a man who . . .” She clicked her tongue. “I thought I was smarter than that. Why didn’t I see it coming?”

  I wanted to say, Because you were single and lonely and impressionable. What I said was, “Maybe he really cared for you until he was faced with a decision.”

  “No. I could see it in his eyes just now. There wasn’t any warmth. Part of me thinks he asked me out because he had it in for Gloria, like he wanted to hurt her. I was the easiest sap he could seduce, and . . .” Coco sank back against the prep table. “So stupid.” She gazed up at the ceiling and heaved a sigh.

  “I heard about the New York publisher passing on your next project. I’m sorry.”

  Coco grimaced. “Yeah, when it rains it pours.”

  I peered over the swinging doors. The crowd seemed to have doubled. “Your guests are really enjoying themselves.”

  “They should be. It’s costing me a mini-fortune, but what can you do? Like I said before, publicity. You’ve got to do it to thrive.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  We shared a halfhearted laugh.

  I said, “Did Detective Appleby figure out who trashed the place?”

  “Not as far as I know. I didn’t see any of our law enforcement in the crowd, did you?”

  “No.”

  “They’re probably ashamed to show their faces.”

>   Or busy. Pirate Week may have drawn to a close, but Crystal Cove was still bustling. Petty crime was always an issue.

  Speaking of petty crime . . .

  “Coco, by the way, if one of your neighbors calls and says a couple of women stole into your house today, the culprits were Bailey and me. You’ve got to start locking your door.”

  Coco raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because it’s not safe.”

  She flapped a hand. “I know it’s not safe. It was an oversight. But that’s not what I meant. Why did you steal into my house?”

  “I wanted to know why Alison had four documents up on her computer.”

  “For review.”

  “But you said they were all older recipes. Chocolate Macadamia Bites. Chocolate Bombs. Mother’s Chocolate Bombs and—”

  “Hold it.” Coco pushed herself away from the prep table. “That last one isn’t the title for one of my recipes.”

  “You told Chief Pritchett it was.”

  “No. I distinctly remember her saying there was one called Chocolate Bombs and a second one called Chocolate Bombs. She never said the word Mother’s.”

  She was right. I had seen the word Mother’s and had inserted it instinctively.

  “My recipe in Chocolate To Die For was handed down from my grandmother. I never would have named it Mother’s.”

  The notion that Alison had been toying with Coco’s work flitted through my mind again. “Maybe Alison retitled it so she could reuse it in your new cookbook. Is that allowed in your contract?”

  “No. Uh-uh. It wasn’t, and she wouldn’t.” Coco chopped the edge of one hand against the other. “Alison demanded that everything be fresh. No duplicates. She was such a stickler that she would search the Internet to make sure none of her authors’ recipes matched anyone else’s. She asked me to sign legal documents saying I owned the rights to what I wrote. Maybe she was concerned because another author had a title similar to mine, and she was comparing the two.”

  I thought again about what Alison was doing that night—baking. Was she concerned that whoever had delivered the recipe called Mother’s Chocolate Bombs had ripped off Coco’s recipe? Was that a crime worth killing over? How appropriate would that be during Pirate Week, someone stealing Coco’s booty? I recalled the aroma I had detected when I’d entered Coco’s house that night. “Does your Chocolate Bombs recipe include nutmeg?”