Grilling the Subject

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “She is such a gossip,” Aunt Vera snipped.

  Bailey agreed. “She said your father—”

  “Pepper is telling the truth,” I cut in. “Dad is a suspect, but he has an alibi.”

  “Verifiable?” Bailey asked.

  I threw her an acid look. “He. Did. Not. Do. This.”

  “No, of course not, but, you know, Ronald Gump said he saw—”

  “Someone running, not doing the deed. Besides, he’s getting on in years.”

  “I resent that,” my aunt said. “We’re the same age.”

  “He’s a number of years older than you and looks it,” I countered. My shoulders slumped as the shock of the morning sapped me of energy. “He says he awoke from the smell of smoke, but for all we know, he could’ve been half asleep and dreaming about someone in a red plaid jacket.”

  “Red plaid jacket?” Aunt Vera said. “Your father has—”

  I held up a hand. “Yes, he used to own a red plaid jacket, but Lola donated it to Goodwill.” I added that Cinnamon had asked Dad to provide the receipt for the donation.

  “That won’t prove anything,” Bailey said. “I give to Goodwill all the time. I never write down exactly what I donate.”

  “Cinnamon seemed to think it would help his case.”

  “C-case!” my aunt sputtered. “Oh my.” She withdrew a tarot deck from the pocket of her caftan and returned to the vintage table. She flipped up three cards.

  “Not now, Aunt Vera,” I said, but she wouldn’t listen. Her gaze moved back and forth as she silently reviewed the reading. I didn’t want to know what the cards revealed and told her so. “Don’t go to the dark side,” I warned her. “Dad is innocent. I reminded Cinnamon that there are more people who might have wanted Sylvia dead.” Though I liked Ava Judge and others in the neighborhood, I wasn’t willing to write them off as suspects.

  “Don’t forget that Shane person,” my aunt said. “He bought a house on Sylvia’s street. He’s probably as upset about the noise and hoo-ha as your father. And then there’s—”

  “Enough speculating. We need to let in customers. Remember, we’re here to help folks have happy days. Sunny days. Turn that frown upside down,” I commanded like a camp counselor. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  “But—”

  “No!” I couldn’t help glancing at the cards my aunt had turned up, none of them good. Like Scarlett O’Hara, I would think about that tomorrow. Or certainly later in the day. Business as usual, for now. No hoodoo-voodoo, mind-blowing downer thoughts. I hurried to the front door and whipped it open. A cool breeze rushed in, as did a flurry of new customers. “Good morning,” I chimed.

  A few echoed my greeting.

  “Jenna!” Katie bustled down the breezeway that connected the shop to The Nook Café, her toque atilt, her chef’s coat unbuttoned. The yellow gingham dress she wore beneath the coat looked rumpled, as if she’d grabbed it from a laundry pile. “There you are.”

  I am fairly tall; Katie is taller and bigger all over. She swooped me into a hug. Her wild curls batted my face. Usually Katie is a laugher, but no whooping chortles were popping out of her right now. In fact, she sounded close to tears when she said, “I heard the news.”

  “We’re not discussing it.”

  “Okay. Got it. You bet.” She held me at arm’s length and forced a smile. “‘Bravery is the capacity to perform properly even when scared half to death.’ Who said it?”

  “Omar Bradley.” I cocked a hip. “Has my father been coaching you?”

  Katie offered a silly smirk. “Yep.”

  Throughout my life, my father had made me memorize famous quotations. Apparently, he was challenging my pal to do the same thing. Per Dad, you never knew when you needed a mental pick-me-up. Today, he was right.

  “Tell him he’s in my prayers,” Katie said.

  “I will.”

  “That Sylvia Gump.” She clucked. “I’m not surprised she’s dead. She fought with everyone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw her the other day at the café, arguing with that pretty actress.”

  “D’Ann Davis?”

  “That’s the one.”

  The telephone near the register jangled. Bailey answered, then waggled the receiver. “Jenna, for you. It’s Rhett.”

  I told Katie to hold that thought and took the telephone from Bailey. “Hi.”

  “I just heard,” he said. “How are you? How is your dad?”

  The concern in his voice made me well up. I dabbed the tears with my fingertips before they could fall. “I’m fine. He’s fine.” I recapped the situation. “I’m telling you what I told everyone else: sunny side up for now. Dad will tell me when he needs my help.”

  “Our help,” Rhett said.

  “Thanks. You have no idea how much that means to me. What’s the rest of your day like?”

  “Busy. We have a lot of Wild West events on The Pier today. Want to stop by later?”

  “I might.”

  “Great. I look forward to seeing you. Love you,” he added, as if he said it every day of the week. He never had. We never had. Did he realize? There was a slight hesitation before he hung up. I cradled the telephone and tried not to make too much of his parting words. People say things all the time they don’t mean. Did he love me? Did I love him?

  Katie inched closer and leaned her elbows on the sales counter. “You’ve got that”—she twirled a finger—“dreamy look in your eyes.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do.”

  We have been friends for so long, we can return shorthand taunts like badminton birdies.

  “About Sylvia—” I stopped as a blur of black whizzing by the front window caught my attention.

  Katie followed my gaze. “What are you gawking at?”

  I wasn’t sure. A person, definitely—I couldn’t make out whether it had been male or female—but a quiver of uneasiness swizzled up my spine.

  “Nothing,” I muttered, hating that I was so jumpy. I shook my shoulders and then shimmied my whole body in an effort to shed whatever was going on with me. My father was innocent. No one was spying on me. Whoever had slipped past the door must have been a beachgoer and disappeared down the steps leading to the ocean. Totally innocent.

  “Jenna? Are you okay?” Katie asked.

  “Yep. Back to Sylvia.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “Did you hear what she and D’Ann were arguing about?”

  “Not really, but D’Ann was looking plenty feisty if you ask me. She was bouncing around on the balls of her feet like a boxer and throwing air punches.”

  “Maybe they weren’t arguing at all. Maybe D’Ann was telling Sylvia about a new role she got in a movie.”

  “Gee, I hadn’t thought of that,” Katie said. “Bad me. Always thinking the worst.”

  “Stop it,” I chided. Katie rarely thought the worst of anyone. I, on occasion, did, and right now I couldn’t help wondering whether D’Ann, like the others in my father’s neighborhood, had some sort of beef with Sylvia that might have made her lash out.

  “Are you ready for me to bring in the goodies for the gingerbread town demonstration?” Katie asked. “I’ll need space.” She signaled that bookshelves would need to be moved. Luckily, all our bookshelves were on coasters and glided easily whenever we wanted to rearrange. “We’ll need to set up chairs, too. Our guests are due in an hour.” We offered reserved seats for these events.

  “Will do! In the meantime, bring out some of those cookies you baked.” The other day in the café’s kitchen, I had spied a few test cookies that Katie had fashioned to look like cowboy boots and horses; she had iced them in scrumptious sunset colors. “I’m starved and I need sugar!”

  “I’m on it.”

  While Bailey and I rearranged the store and set out folding chairs, a pair o
f female customers strolled in. Tourists, I figured. I didn’t recognize either of them.

  “Hello,” I chirped merrily, getting the all-knowing look from Bailey. Perhaps I was overplaying my happy-go-luckiness, if there was such a word. “Don’t mind us,” I added and told the women about the gingerbread demonstration in an hour. “It will be standing room only, if you don’t have tickets.”

  “Oh, but we do,” the shorter of the two said. “I picked them up the other day when I had my fortune told. Hello, Vera!” She wiggled her fingers at my aunt, who was still studying the tarot cards. “Your prediction came true.” Giggling, the two women sauntered to the dessert section.

  “So how are the wedding plans going?” I asked Bailey.

  She frowned. “Exactly what do you think I’ve accomplished since last night’s reception?”

  “Don’t get snippy with me. Do you have a date?”

  “A couple. It depends on the venue.”

  “What are your choices?”

  “We’re going back and forth between a church and a vineyard and Nature’s Retreat with its spectacular view.”

  “I pick the latter.” Nature’s Retreat is a lovely inn tucked into the hills. “You know what could be fun? Have a bunch of artists around that day painting portraits of the guests in the garden. Wouldn’t that be cool?” Crystal Cove draws artists to its shores all the time. There is an artist camp in the hills that offers four- and six-week sessions.

  “That sounds like something you’d like for your wedding.”

  “I’m not getting married.”

  “Right now. But you might in the future.”

  My cheeks flushed. Had she overheard Rhett say he loved me? I brushed the thought aside. Marriage. No. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I would ever be ready again.

  “Do you have a wedding dress and a florist?” I asked.

  “All in good time. Don’t rush me.”

  “Ahem.” I purposefully cleared my throat. “I know how much you like to be prepared. Speaking of which, have Tito and you decided where you’re going to reside?” Tito lives in a house that is too square, in the geometric sense: square bedroom, square living room, square kitchen, square patio. There isn’t a rectangle to be had. At first glance, it had driven Bailey crazy. On the other hand, her apartment is too small for the two of them, plus they want a place with a yard so their American shorthair cat, Hershey, who has finally warmed to Bailey after she stopped being nervous around him, can roam.

  “Not yet. I think Tito is finally on board to work with a Realtor.”

  “Ava Judge?”

  “Tito’s leaning toward the other one, the guy Realtor.” She rolled her eyes.

  “You have a say.”

  “And I’ve said that I want Ava.”

  “Aren’t relationships fun? There’s always something to negotiate.” I was speaking from experience. When my husband, David, and I first rented a place together, we went round and round about clutter. He hated it; I liked to have my things nearby. Never good at arguing, I caved and wound up storing my lifetime assortment of books. They were now resting comfortably on shelves in my cottage.

  “Oh, there’s no negotiation on this,” Bailey said. “I’ll get Ava.”

  Unless she’s guilty of murder sailed through my mind.

  Chapter 7

  An hour later as the crowd in the shop was settling into chairs, a vivacious, silver-haired elderly woman with expressive eyes, one of the biggest cookbook collectors I know, strolled in. Everyone in town called her Gran; her real name was Gracie, which she hated. She had relocated to Crystal Cove a year ago to help her daughter-in-law with the children. At least, that was her story. The daughter-in-law told it differently. She hadn’t wanted Gran to spend the rest of her years alone in the bitterly cold Northeast.

  “Hello, girls!” she crooned.

  “Hi, Gran,” I said.

  Bailey beckoned her to the sales counter. “I’ve got those books for you, Gran.” She pulled a stack of four books from beneath the counter. A rubber band secured the stack.

  Gran joined Bailey. “How are the wedding plans going, dear?”

  “They’re going.”

  Gran brushed Bailey’s hand. “Don’t rush anything. A wedding is a memory for a lifetime.” Her husband of fifty years passed away two years ago. On many a rainy day, Gran came into the shop, sat at the vintage table, and told us stories about him. He loved to fish. He loved to read. He knew everything there was to know about international politics. And what a handsome devil he was. “Did I tell you that my daughterin-law is going to get married again? I’m so thrilled. My son would want that for her and the girls.” Gran pressed a hand to her chest. “May he rest in peace.” Her son had died about two years ago, as well. Way too young.

  “Oh, by the way”—Gran pulled out a wad of cash to pay—“we’re starting a family cookbook club. The girls want to learn to cook. Each week, we’ll buy a new cookbook and plan three recipes, one recipe for each girl. It’s going to be so much fun. We’ll start with simple things.” Gran gestured toward me. “Like you started out, Jenna. And of course, we’ll make cookies. Lots of cookies. That’s how I won over my husband.” She winked. “He loved my snickerdoodles.”

  “I’ll bet he did,” Bailey cracked.

  Gran swatted her fondly. “Don’t be impertinent, Miss Sassy.”

  “You love when I am.”

  Gran stammered and then flushed pink. “My, my. Listen to us, joking as if everything in the world is hunky-dory.” She faced me. “Jenna, I’m so sorry to hear about your father.”

  “He didn’t kill Sylvia Gump.”

  “Of course he didn’t. Never in a million years.”

  Bailey slipped Gran’s books into a bag and tied the handles with rattan. “Here you go.”

  A gaggle of women strolled into the shop, each talking loudly enough for me to know they were discussing the murder. When they saw me, they stopped short. One gasped. My shoulders tightened; my jaw ticked with tension. Would I . . . dare I . . . tell them to stop gossiping? Breathe, Jenna.

  Luckily Katie breezed into the shop pushing a cart filled with gingerbread goodies including premade gingerbread ghost town cutouts as well as cutouts of gunslingers, horses, and train tracks. In addition, she had stocked the cart with a variety of colored icings and assorted candies plus tools and the cookies I’d requested, nicely displayed on a childproof tray.

  “Everyone, grab a seat!” Katie shouted. “Jenna, pass the treats. Let’s get started.”

  With her arrival, the discussion about my father was officially tabled.

  As I doled out cookies, taking one for myself, Katie introduced herself and waved a hand above her display. “Here are a few tips for making the best gingerbread town. First, don’t try to do it all in one day. I like to make my dough ahead, chill it, and then bake it. I bake in small batches, and as each comes out, I trim the edges so they’re even. As you know, cookies don’t always bake evenly, and a gingerbread house is essentially a set of big cookies.” Katie exhibited a one-inch thick piece of Styrofoam board. “Use something like this as your base so you can stick toothpicks into it to keep things propped up if necessary.”

  Gran raised her hand. “Katie, I like to put my houses together with real sugar instead of royal icing. Do you do that?”

  “I do, Gran. Good point.” Katie set the Styrofoam aside. “I keep a pot of liquefied sugar on the side and use it as the glue. It’s messy, but it sets so much faster. You can do all the little details with the royal icing. I like to put my icing in a disposable piping bag”—she held up a piping bag—“but I don’t use a tip. I simply cut a little bit off the end. That keeps the icing from drying out while I’m working.” Katie jutted a finger. “Important to remember: plan on the project taking much longer than you think, and be ready to clean up a huge mess.”

  The crowd lau
ghed.

  And so it went for a good hour. While Katie talked, she pieced together a town. When she finished, there were tons of oohs and aahs. She had used items like Shredded Wheat to create bales of hay, pretzel sticks to make fences, and black licorice for hitching posts. At the conclusion, Katie gave each participant a bag of goodies to use as decoration as well as a recipe for gingerbread and a detailed set of instructions.

  While many customers moved closer to admire Katie’s handiwork, others lined up to purchase any one of a number of gingerbread house cookbooks, including the darling A Year of Gingerbread Houses: Making & Decorating Gingerbread Houses for All Seasons. Granted, the book didn’t have a Wild West theme anywhere between its covers, but there were designs for Valentine’s, Halloween, Christmas, and more, a perfect all-occasion delight that thrilled our customers.

  As the shop cleared and Bailey started putting the place back in order, Gran sidled up to me and crooked a finger for me to follow her to a spot near the stockroom. I did.

  “Jenna, dear, I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but—”

  “Gran, please. Let’s not discuss the murder.”

  “Dear, I think you’ll want to know what I have to say.”

  I motioned for her to proceed.

  “I was in Sterling Sylvia the other day, buying a charm for my bracelet, a sweet threesome of my granddaughters. Sylvia made it especially for me. She was quite clever that way, rest her soul. Anyway, I’m not normally a gossip, but D’Ann Davis was there. Mind you, D’Ann and I aren’t close.”

  I wasn’t sure D’Ann was close with anyone. While browsing the store a month ago, she’d said that a celebrity had to keep her distance. People always wanted things from her, whether it was an introduction into the movie business for themselves, their children, or extended family, or a simple brush with fame. The reason she had purchased a second home in our sweet town was so she could enjoy some privacy.

  “D’Ann was arguing with Sylvia,” Gran went on.

  I flashed on the account Katie had told me about D’Ann arguing with Sylvia and bouncing around like a prizefighter.