“I’ve got a special sauce you have to try out,” Shane went on. “It’s hot, hot, hot. Like you.”
“Ha-ha, Shane,” I said. “I’m taken.”
“Don’t see a ring.”
“Okay, then you’re taken.”
“Spoilsport.”
Ava glided toward us and stood right below the counter. She fluttered her eyelashes at Shane, confirming my suspicion. She was interested in him, engaged or not.
“Where’s Emily?” I asked Shane.
“Teaching a piano lesson. She’ll do so until she delivers. She’s that dedicated.” He scratched his chin. “At least I think that’s where she is. I don’t keep tabs on her; she doesn’t keep tabs on me. We have a trusting relationship.”
I wondered if Emily would say the same thing.
“So what’ll it be?” he asked. “One or two kebabs?”
“Fire!” a woman yelled. Then another person joined in the shout. All were pointing, at Shane’s food truck.
Suddenly I saw flames licking up behind him. “Shane!” I pointed.
He whirled around. “Holy heck!” He grabbed a towel to douse the fire; it lit like a torch.
“Shane, drop the towel and get out!” I searched the crowd for Cinnamon and Bucky. They hadn’t strolled far. “Bucky!” I screamed. “Fire! Help!”
With big long strides, Bucky hurtled toward the truck. “Out! Now!”
“There’s a fire extinguisher over there,” Shane said as he exited.
Bucky leaped inside and fetched the extinguisher. Lightning quick, he doused the flames. White foam went everywhere.
Shane looked pale. He bent forward and braced his hands on his knees. “How did that happen?”
Bucky bounded from the truck and brushed foam off his clothes. “I think your specialty sauce boiled over. When it connected with the gas flames, whoosh! Guess you didn’t have a fire-suspension system installed.”
“I wouldn’t have a clue what the truck has,” Shane said. “We rented it.”
“Yeah. That’s always the way.” Bucky laid a firm hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Are you okay, pal?”
“Yup, thanks to you.”
“Good thing Jenna has a set of lungs!” Bucky quipped.
“Good thing,” Shane echoed and winked.
I reddened.
Ava rushed to Shane and clutched his arms. She cooed her concern. Shane tried to wriggle free.
Bucky said to me, “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I wasn’t even close.”
“Shane’s steak sauce seems to be a hot ticket right about now. It’s everywhere.”
“People buy things to support a good cause.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. We found a metal bottle cap exactly like the ones on his bottles at the site where Sylvia Gump—”
“Bucky!” Cinnamon drew near and held up her hand. “Uh-uh. Do not leak that information.”
He cocked his head. “At least I didn’t mention about the hair thingie.”
“What hair thingie?” I asked, eager to learn something. Anything.
“That Sylvia was stabbed with. You know, like Japanese girls wear. Right through the heart. They’re real pointy.”
“Bucky. Stop. Talking. Now.” Cinnamon didn’t need a bullhorn. She could have been heard across a football field.
Bucky splayed his hands. “It’s not like it matters, babe. There weren’t any fingerprints on it. You don’t have a clue who it belongs to.”
“That’s it.” Cinnamon nabbed her boyfriend by the arm and lugged him beyond the growing crowd. He shimmied free of her and threw his arms wide, clearly wondering what he had done wrong. She said something that visibly ticked him off; he marched away.
Cinnamon glanced at me over her shoulder, like it was my fault.
What? I mouthed.
She shook her head like I was too trivial to deal with and hurried after Bucky.
I considered what Bucky had said . . . had leaked. Sylvia was stabbed with a hair stick. She sold those in her store. With her ultra short hair, I doubted she’d owned any herself, but she might have. On the other hand, D’Ann Davis owned one or two. The other night, when she had stalked down the hill to confront Sylvia at her soiree, she’d secured one in her hair. Did that make her guilty? Not necessarily.
Bucky’s other revelation tickled the edges of my mind, too. A metal bottle cap had been found at the scene, a bottle cap that he believed came from a bottle of Shane’s specialty steak sauce. What other clues might the crime scene reveal?
Chapter 11
Curious as all get-out and eager to visit the crime scene to see if I could find something that might exonerate my father, I raced back to the shop. After making sure my aunt could hold down the fort—she could, but she begged me to take Tigger; he was acting stir-crazy—I snatched my spare pair of Keds tennis shoes and drove to my father’s neighborhood.
A moving truck blocked the area in front of his house on Pine Lane. Movers were loading furniture from the house across the street. I didn’t know the couple that lived there at all, but I had always found their place interesting. The plants were uniformly green and planted in identical rows, as if the husband or the wife had obsessive-compulsive disorder. The only spot of color on their home was the red roof.
The wife peeked out the front door and shouted something to the driver of the moving truck. She spotted me and offered a big smile, as if everything in the world were normal. But it wasn’t. A fire had lit up the sky yesterday, a woman had died, and my father was suspected of murder.
I parked farther down the street, switched into my tennis shoes, and, with Tigger tucked in my arms, hurried back to my father’s house. There was no crime scene tape, nothing to impede my progress. I stole to the rear and paused beneath the overhanging patio. The view of the ocean was incredible from every position on the hill. The blue sky filled me with awe; the wafting breeze invigorated me. I set Tigger on the ground and whispered, “Keep up.”
The hillside beneath my father’s house was a tangle of plants with no strict plan. Dad had designed it himself, preferring a natural look to something constrained like the neighbors’ front yard. Some of the terrain was terraced to hold the hill. Other parts were steep and fitted with huge boulders, willy-nilly. Over the years, Dad had tested out a number of plant choices. The ones that had thrived were yellow-flowering gorse, sturdy azaleas, hearty lavender, and wild poppies.
Tigger sniffed as we weaved between plants. I did my best not to catch my capris on the gorse or scratch my bare calves.
Minutes later we arrived at the area where the fire had been set. It was no longer roped off by police tape. Footprints were everywhere: large and small. If the police had found a set for the murderer, I wouldn’t be able to tell. I eyed the charred bushes and the dreadful nymph-and-satyr fountain. I thought of Sylvia lying nearby, a hair stick lodged in her heart, and my stomach soured. She had been a mean, vindictive woman, but I didn’t wish a violent death—or any death—on anyone.
On any given day, Tigger, the daredevil, loves to climb to the top of everything and leap from high spot to high spot with abandon. Today was no exception. He romped ahead of me and charged to the loftiest point of the fountain, the raised fist of the satyr. The scamp steadied himself and peered down the other side. I could only imagine his viewpoint. It would be like me standing at the Top of the Mark in San Francisco and looking at California Street. Tigger meowed loudly—so much for our adventure remaining clandestine—and dove off. The instant he hit the ground he started scratching beneath the ash and wet leaves. I scuttled around the fountain to see what he had found. The water from the fire hoses used Wednesday had left a mushy mess. My shoes squished in the muck. Tigger meowed a second time and sneaked a peek at me.
“What are you after, cat?” I muttered. A dead bird? A dead mouse. Oh, joy! “Let me s
ee.” I crouched to examine his treasure. It was something shiny. Was it a second steak sauce bottle top?
Gingerly I plucked the object out of the mess; it turned out to be a square, somewhat scuffed cuff link. The initials SM were etched into it. My heart skipped a beat. Did it belong to Shane Maverick? How could it have gotten here? The same way a bottle cap would have gotten there, I determined. Shane must have been at the crime scene. Did he and Sylvia argue? Did they come to blows? Did she yank the cuff link off his shirt? Why would he have been wearing cuff links? Citizens of Crystal Cove were a pretty loose and casual group. Few people dressed to the nines. Even the shop’s attorney wore short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts.
Forget it, I told myself. A cuff link proved nothing. Neither did a bottle cap for steak sauce, which was why Bucky thought he could share that tidbit with me. Maybe Sylvia had the cuff link on her, I reasoned. She was a jeweler, after all. Perhaps Shane had given her a set to polish. As for the steak sauce bottle cap, Sylvia could have brought the bottle to the plateau to enjoy a picnic. She opened the bottle, and the cap popped off and flew into a pile of leaves. She abandoned it and took the capless bottle back to the house.
And, hey, Sylvia hadn’t been the only person in the area in recent days. Her partygoers had gathered here.
Also, during the powwow Ava threw Monday night, a group of neighbors went to the plateau to talk about putting up fencing.
I kicked leaves with the toe of my shoe in frustration. Tigger, thinking I was toying with him, jumped at my feet.
“No!”
He ignored me and leaped again.
“Tig-Tig, I mean it.” I nudged him.
He sprang to the right and started pawing more leaves.
“Hey,” I whispered. “What’ve you discovered?”
Something red. Fabric, tucked beneath the brick rubble. I recalled the morning of the murder when I had glimpsed Sylvia’s body at the crime scene, right before Cinnamon spun me away. Sylvia had been dressed in a red outfit. Was the fabric part of her dress?
I bent down to inspect it.
At the same time, something went crackle-snap. Behind me. To the east.
Tigger froze.
I jolted to a stand, my heart drumming my rib cage. “Who’s there?” I didn’t see anyone. “Dad?” I yelled, thinking—hoping—he had come home, seen me surveying the grounds, and decided to join me.
No response. Was someone hiding behind one of the oversized boulders?
A motorcycle roared to life on Azalea Place. Whoever was on the motorcycle kept revving the engine. The rumble freaked out Tigger. He bounced and pounced and ducked behind my legs. Trying to avoid squishing him, I tumbled to the ground. He squirted to the left.
“Of all the—” I tried to grab him while scrambling to a stand. He eluded me. I tripped and caught myself with my palms. “Tigger, shh. Settle down.” If someone was on the hill and intent on catching me, now was a good, vulnerable time.
I heard clickety-clack—footsteps on wood. Overhead. At D’Ann Davis’s house. “Hey!” I bellowed in the direction of her porch.
D’Ann’s gal Friday—was that an appropriate term nowadays?—her assistant, a bubbly, twenty-something woman with mocha-toned skin, came into view and tilted forward over the railing. She was carrying an armful of clothes. Red clothes.
I glanced from her to the fabric beneath the rubble and leaves. D’Ann’s signature color was red. What if D’Ann met Sylvia that morning? What if they struggled? What if Sylvia pushed D’Ann, and D’Ann reeled backward, snagging what she was wearing? No way. The police wouldn’t have missed the clue, unless they didn’t consider the area near the brick wall part of the crime scene, plus leaves had covered it. By the time the firemen’s hoses had doused the place—
“What are you doing down there?” the assistant called.
What answer should I give her? Certainly not the truth: snooping. Day hiking sounded absurd, seeing as I was in a pretty blouse and capris. “I came looking for my father,” I lied, “and my cat ran away from me.” I scooped Tigger into my arms to prove my point. “Do you see anyone around?” I asked while mentally berating myself. I should have said, Do you see my father around? but I really wanted the young woman to scan the area and tell me if she saw someone else—a lurker—who might wish to do me harm. Granted, any number of critters living in the hills could have made the crackle-snap noise, but Tigger’s heart was chugging as fast as mine. He wasn’t a scaredy-cat by nature. “How about a predator like a bobcat or coyote?”
“Nope.”
She sounded sort of edgy, like she was vamping. Did she spy D’Ann nearby? Was she covering for her boss? Had D’Ann ventured down the hill to remove the suspicious fabric only to find me nosing around?
“Care for iced tea?” the assistant asked.
“Sorry. I have to pass. I have a special event at the shop.” Benjamin Franklin said: Half a truth is often a great lie. I did have an event: tallying the last two week’s receipts. “See you!” I said breezily and, with Tigger in tow, hurried up the hill and past my father’s house to my car.
Moments later, as I was heading toward town and passing Azalea Place, I saw something that made me slam on the brakes. Shane Maverick was climbing into a black truck parked in front of his future house. Had he followed me from the food truck event? Had he stalked me on the hill? Did he skedaddle while the motorcyclist was revving the engine?
Shane spotted me and bellowed, “Hey, Jenna!” He gestured for me to turn onto the street.
Criminy, as my mother would say. Caught like a fly on flypaper. If I pretended not to notice him, it would seem suspicious. On the other hand, as paranoid as I’d been acting lately, I could have imagined the crackle-snap on the hill. Shane could be innocent. D’Ann and her assistant, too. Except Tigger had reacted.
I counted two women on Shane’s side of the street; one was hand-watering her garden and the other was watching her toddler play on the grass. I would not be at risk as long as I remained in plain view.
Cranking up my nerve, I veered onto the lane.
Shane shut the door of his truck and approached me as I parked and exited my VW. “You look nice.”
Yet again I questioned his eyesight. I was a perspiring mess. My capris were dusty and in dire need of dry cleaning. My Keds were yucky. Heaven knows what my hair looked like.
Even so, I said, “Thanks.”
“How do you like my place?” He gestured toward the English cottage next door to the Gumps’ house. I hadn’t noticed how adorable it was when I had gone hunting for my father Wednesday. Dormer windows were tucked into the undulating red roof, and at the entry to the pathway stood a quaint stone arch cloaked with ivy. The garden, which was overgrown and needed tending, was packed with lavender, wildflowers, and vines of roses.
“Nice,” I said.
He grinned. “Emily’s going to love it, don’t you think?”
“You bought it without asking her approval?”
“She said, ‘Surprise me!’”
“Wow. Do you even know if she likes this style house?”
“What does it matter? She’ll be so busy with the kid.” The kid, not the baby. “Were you visiting your dad?”
“What? No.” Another lie. Would my nose start growing like Pinocchio’s? “I’ve lived here for nearly a year, and I haven’t toured every street. I wanted to take a break from work and get an eyeful.”
My answer seemed to satisfy him. He said, “Beautiful day for a drive.”
“Why aren’t you serving up your barbecue at the food truck event? It seemed like you were the hottest ticket there.”
“Hot! Ha-ha. Funny. Three-alarm hot!”
“I didn’t mean—” I faltered. “I’m glad no one got hurt.”
“I’m thrilled you were there to warn me,” he said. “We wrapped up after that. Lunchtime was over, and the crowd th
inned. We sold nearly all the steak sauce, so we made a profit.”
“Speaking of which, since when have you been making steak sauce?”
“Since the dawn of time. It’s my dad’s recipe with a real Irish whiskey kick to it.”
“No, I mean, now . . . here . . . in town.”
“A couple of days or so. Save the Wild Ones asked, and they provided the supplies. I obeyed.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”
“How long have you been associated with that organization?”
“A month or so. I’ve always been into rescuing something. In San Francisco, I rallied to save the sea lions. In Santa Cruz, I preserved the Mount Hermon June beetle.”
“A beetle, really?”
“Yup. Polyphylla barbata. Shiny little guys.” He nabbed my elbow and pushed open the swinging gate. “Come inside. Let me show you around.”
Even though he seemed like good old likable Shane, I wasn’t ready to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I can’t.” I jerked a thumb at my car. “I’ve got to be getting back. We have an event at the shop.” Now it was we? Liar, liar.
“No worries.” He let the gate swing shut with a bang. “I probably couldn’t get in anyway. I asked Ava to meet me here, but she’s late.”
Ava. Was she the one I had heard on the hill? Was she even coming to meet Shane, or was he fibbing to cover why he was there?
“Did you ever check with Ava and learn what her alibi was the morning Sylvia was killed?” I asked.
“Nope. Not my business, though the more I think about it, the more I doubt she could have killed Sylvia.”
“Why not? Maybe she was jealous of your relationship with Sylvia.”
“My relationship with Sylvia?” he sputtered. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Am I off base?”
He screwed up his mouth and didn’t respond.
Grilling the Subject Page 10