Grilling the Subject

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Yes, that’s right, Detective.”

  “Good,” she said. “What is your personal contact number?”

  I gave it to her.

  She thanked me and wished me well.

  I ended the call and faced David. What a trusting soul the detective was to let him walk, but then how many of her suspects, or in this case dead bodies, waltzed back into her life and reopened a case with the promise to close the case for good in four weeks?

  Putting worry about my father on the back burner, I said, “You’re here. Talk.”

  Chapter 14

  I fixed tea and arranged crackers and cheese on a plate, and David and I settled onto the sofa. Tigger nestled into David’s lap, and David stroked him constantly while he told me about his downward spiral into debt; his fear about telling me what he had done; the weight of his decision to end his life, and then the duplicity—to figure out a way to escape. Though it was no excuse, he said as a kid his parents had bailed him out so many times, it had made him weak. I asked why he hadn’t consulted his mother and asked her for money to pay back his debt. He said he couldn’t. His father had died the year before. She was so fragile. Learning what he had done would have crushed her. Leaving her out of his problem was the one valiant thing he could do.

  Around 2:00 A.M. David said, “Remember those early times for us”—he yawned—“when we were scratching for success, dining solely on pretzels and beer?” He smiled wistfully. “I wish I could go back to that time.”

  I didn’t. I had worked hard to get ahead, to build a future, to be able to afford filet mignon if I so desired. “The renal failure,” I said, switching the subject. “When did you learn about it?”

  “A month after I disappeared.”

  “Are you on medication?”

  “No. I’m not a good candidate for a donor, either. No insurance. It’s my fault. I didn’t take care of myself. When I ran, I started drinking”—he yawned again—“too much.” He glanced at his watch. “Wow. It’s late.” He touched my hand. I flinched. “Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . You know I wouldn’t . . .” He ran his hand through his hair, pushing bangs off his face. “I screwed up, Jenna. I’m sorry.”

  We sat in horrible silence for a few minutes, and then he set Tigger on the ground and said, “You’d better get some sleep.”

  “And you.”

  He crackled out a sad, tormented laugh. “Yeah. I don’t sleep much nowadays.”

  I cleaned up our dishes, gave him a pillow and blanket, and laid out a towel and fresh toothbrush in the bathroom. I washed first and snuggled into bed. I listened for a long time as he cleaned up, and then I heard him settle onto the couch and try to stifle sobs. It took all my reserve not to console him.

  On Friday morning, clad in yellow pajamas decorated with multicolored kittens, I made David a quick breakfast. Afterward, I dressed in a summery, upbeat lemon-yellow dress and sandals, cloaked myself yet again in imaginary armor, and advised David to do what he had promised to do—get his affairs in order: call his mother, contact his sister, and meet with a pastor if he needed one. We had a few terrific pastors in Crystal Cove. Then I departed, leaving Tigger in David’s care. The little guy was a natural Florence Nightingale with his pawing, licking, and nurturing.

  By the time I arrived at The Cookbook Nook, Bailey was already there, rearranging cookbooks on a display table. Like me, she knew the value of getting covers of books in front of customers. Simply seeing spines and titles didn’t entice someone to purchase. At the front of the grouping, she set Chili Cookbook, a deliciously short-titled cookbook by Gooseberry Patch, written by a couple of stay-at-home moms who wanted to share easy and long-treasured family recipes. The book was good for children, beginning cooks, and chili lovers.

  I was glad to see that Bailey had revived from her overindulgence while buying her wedding dress.

  When I asked her the cure, she said, “Water—gobs of it. It’s a miracle drug.”

  “Did you bring a picture of the dress?”

  “Are you kidding? No! It’s a surprise.” Apparently she had forgotten how she said she couldn’t wait for me to see it. “Hey, you look bleary-eyed.” She stopped rearranging and followed me to the counter. “What’s going on?”

  I stowed my purse and popped open the register. Cash looked freshly restocked. I banged the drawer shut.

  “Where’s Tigger?” Bailey asked.

  “At the house.”

  “You never leave him home. Talk to me. Are you stressing out? Look”—she reached across the counter and clasped my wrist—“your father is going to be fine.”

  “Is he?”

  “My mother is scouring the town for a witness who can place him at the lake. She’s going door to door, shop to shop.”

  “Dad said he didn’t see anyone at the lake. He didn’t mention seeing anyone on the road driving back to town, either.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.” Bailey released me. “I’ve driven places and often never had a clue how I got there. I’m not saying those are good road skills, but sometimes I go on autopilot and, whoosh, with my mind awash in other thoughts, I move from point A to point B in a fog.”

  “My father isn’t like that. He’s—”

  “Why are you being so contrary?” she snapped. “What’s bugging you? I’m trying to stir up positive vibes, and you’re shooting me down. Did you forget to eat? Is that what this is about? Katie is making a batch of chili and some barbecue fudge. I think she’s—”

  “David is alive.”

  “What?” She slapped a hand over her mouth.

  “He’s at the cottage.” I filled her in on the events of the past few days, my feeling that I was being watched, and then David showing up after the sing-along.

  “Omigosh,” she yelped. “What are you thinking, allowing him into your home?”

  “He broke in, or rather, I left the door unlocked.”

  “You’ve got to kick him out. You’re in danger.”

  “No, I’m not. He’s dying, Bailey.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “He has kidney failure and only one kidney. He has a month, maybe less.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “He’s not. You should see him. He’s as pasty as dough. He surrendered to the San Francisco police and begged to have a week to set his life in order.”

  “And they agreed?” Bailey smacked the counter. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I talked to the detective in charge.”

  “Wow, wow, wow.” Bailey regarded me, her eyes filled with concern. “How do you feel?”

  “Shell-shocked. Confused. I’m still married, I think.”

  “No way.” She chopped one hand on the other. “No court in the land would hold you to that.”

  “I think some court would.” I settled onto the stool by the register and rested my elbow on the counter, my chin in my hand. “Dad—”

  “Is going to be fine.”

  “I was going to say my father is going to be furious when he finds out about David.”

  Bailey frowned. “Don’t tell him.”

  “Ha! He’s as psychic as my aunt, though he won’t admit it. He knows everything I’m going to say before I tell him.”

  The door to the shop pushed open, and my aunt entered, looking quite stylish. She wore a turquoise caftan with strands of colorful beads and bangles, and carried a matching turban under her arm. She had even done her hair and applied makeup. “Good morning, ladies,” she said.

  “Good morning,” I responded. “Why are you so dressed up?”

  “I have a date at lunch.”

  “With the detective?” I asked, excited for her.

  “Yes.” She blushed. “Will you cover for me?”

  “Of course.” Not until after I moved home to Crystal Cove did I learn about the man who left
my aunt at the altar over thirty years ago. He had been the love of her life. He never explained why he left her and married another woman, and he never would. He died less than a year later. She deserved every happiness, and she looked tickled pink about seeing Deputy Appleby. I added, “If you’ll cover for me at four.”

  “Done.” Aunt Vera stowed her tote in the stockroom and returned to the counter. She gazed at me and tilted her head. “Something’s different.” She twirled a finger in my direction.

  “New lipstick,” I quipped.

  Bailey thwacked my arm with a finger. “Tell her.”

  But I couldn’t because the door flew open again and D’Ann Davis rushed inside in a red sheath and high heels. Her red cape flew behind her, making her look like she was ready to take flight.

  “Vera!” she cried. “I need a tarot reading.”

  “Now?” Aunt Vera said. “The shop isn’t even open.” She whispered to me, “Don’t mention the face or dental work that I told you about.”

  “My lips are sealed.” If not for the pained expression in the famous actress’s eyes, I would swear she wasn’t a day over forty. Her café au lait skin was perfection, her kohl-rimmed eyes shimmering with energy.

  “Please. It’s a dire emergency.” D’Ann clasped my aunt’s hand and pulled her to the vintage table. She plopped into the chair opposite and fidgeted with the hair clasp holding her iron-straightened hair in place.

  “What do you want to know?” my aunt asked with a patient tone. “About a job? A man? Family?”

  “Turn the cards,” D’Ann ordered.

  Bailey moved behind the counter and whispered to me, “I had no idea she was so bossy.”

  I replied sotto voce, “I’m sure she gets her way all the time. She’s a star.”

  Aunt Vera pulled a pack from the pocket of her caftan and obliged. She would never refuse a customer in need. She flipped over the first tarot card: The Empress.

  D’Ann grunted. “That’s Sylvia Gump, I assume.”

  “Why Sylvia?” Aunt Vera asked.

  “She was deceitful.”

  The Empress card depicted nothing about someone being devious. It was a beautiful card featuring a queen wearing a starry crown and holding a brilliant scepter. She sits on a throne, showing she has dominion over all. I recalled the quickie conversation with Gran, who mentioned seeing D’Ann argue with Sylvia at Sterling Sylvia, claiming Sylvia had swindled her, and Sylvia had better fix it.

  I edged around the counter and drew near to my aunt. “D’Ann, did you have a gripe with Sylvia?”

  Aunt Vera threw me a look. She didn’t like it when someone, even I, interrupted a reading.

  “A friend saw you at the shop,” I went on, “exchanging words with Sylvia.”

  D’Ann sniffed. “Sylvia couldn’t be trusted. Oh sure, people came from all over the world to buy her stuff, but she was as sly as the devil.”

  “Why would you say that? Did she sell you something under par?”

  “How about a pair of earrings that weren’t sterling silver? She was nefarious.”

  One pair of earrings? That was why D’Ann was up in arms? She had to be worth millions. Don’t sweat the small stuff, as my mother used to say. I glanced at Bailey, who was talking on the telephone. She didn’t return eye contact.

  My aunt turned up the second tarot card: The Lovers.

  D’Ann tapped the card. “There! That represents Sylvia, too.”

  “Why?” my aunt asked, as calm as the azure sea.

  “Because she was a man-stealer. She had designs to take Shane Maverick away from sweet Emily.”

  “But Sylvia was married,” Aunt Vera chirped.

  “That wouldn’t have stopped her.”

  After talking with Shane, I feared that was true. “Did Ronald know about the affair?” I asked.

  “Ronald? Not a chance, the poor fool.” D’Ann tapped her temple. “I don’t think that man would know the meaning of the word jealous. He idolized Sylvia.”

  My aunt flipped over the third tarot card: Justice.

  D’Ann beamed. “Ha! I knew it.”

  What did she know? The card features a woman in a red robe. Typically, the card signifies that events have worked out as they were designed to and decisions made in the past were the right decisions, or something to that effect. Did the card signify that today? The judge was, after all, clad in D’Ann’s signature color. I didn’t believe in all this hoodoo stuff, but perhaps the card was pointing a finger at D’Ann as the murderer.

  Offering no clarification about why she had demanded a reading—was she feeling vindicated because she believed Sylvia’s death was preordained?—D’Ann bolted from her seat and sailed toward the door. My aunt called after her, but D’Ann didn’t break stride.

  My father, who was entering, held the door open for D’Ann as she exited, and then he charged in with the same intensity D’Ann had minutes before. “Jenna, is it true? He’s alive?”

  I cut a look at Bailey, standing behind the counter, straightening bookmarks. She eyed the telephone and peeked at me. Had she called her mother? Did Lola alert my father? Swell!

  “Dad.” I approached him, arms extended, palms to the floor. “Keep calm. It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m going to call Cinnamon. We’ll sic the police on him.”

  “Dad, don’t!”

  “Him, who?” my aunt asked.

  Quickly I explained the situation to my aunt and defended David’s choices.

  “Oh my.” She raised her arms overhead, her mouth moving silently. Another chant. Double swell.

  “Everyone, chill,” I ordered. “Try to understand. He needs me.”

  “He’s using you,” my father exclaimed.

  “I’m a big girl. I can handle it. Trust me. Please. Please. Please.” Tears threatened to fall. No, I warned them. Don’t you dare.

  My father held his breath, and finally his anger melted. He sighed and dragged me into a hug. “It’s tit for tat, sweetheart. You worry about me; I worry about you.”

  We remained in the hug for a long moment, and then I pressed apart and said, “About that . . . has Lola found any witnesses? Anyone at all who might have seen you?”

  “Not yet. But she’s as stubborn as you. What will you tell Rhett about David?”

  I gulped. From the moment I’d set eyes on David, I had been consumed with thoughts of him, us . . . me. I hadn’t thought a whit about Rhett.

  Chapter 15

  Seeing as I’d agreed to meet Rhett at the pole-bending competition in the late afternoon, I decided not to call him. Okay, maybe I was chicken, but honestly, anything I needed—wanted—to say had to be said in person. I texted him on my cell phone to confirm our date; he texted back: Can’t wait. Meet you by the stadium seat entrance.

  Feeling guilty for not spilling the beans, I suddenly had a craving for chocolate. I hurried to the Nook Café kitchen and begged Katie for a bite of the barbecue fudge Bailey had mentioned. She was more than happy to oblige. She wasn’t sure if her taste buds were failing her. She needed another lab rat. I loved it. It was zesty and extremely satisfying. She had used crisp, crumbled bacon in the recipe and had sprinkled the top with a mixture of peppery spices. The combination of sweet and salty was amazing.

  “Katie, you’ve done it again. This is downright sinful!”

  She beamed.

  “I think it’s about time you write a cookbook.” A few months ago she had mentioned wanting to do so. “No more stalling. No more delays.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Even if you self-publish it, think of all the customers who will want to purchase it at the shop. We can set some by the register in the café, too.”

  She bubbled with enthusiasm.

  “On the other hand,” I kidded, “don’t do it, because then I’ll have to worry abou
t whether some big muckety-muck will steal you away.”

  “I’ll never leave Crystal Cove.”

  “Never?”

  “Not if Keller has anything to say about it.” Her grin spread ear to ear. Keller was her boyfriend of a few months, a novel guy who rode around town on his bicycle churning homemade ice cream. He was Katie’s first serious relationship; she hadn’t dated in high school or college.

  “You’d kowtow to his wishes?”

  “Jenna, sometimes you only get one love of your life. He’s it.”

  Her words hit me hard. One love. Way back when, I had thought David was my one love. Losing him and then suffering the jolt of his betrayal and the double jolt of his surprising rebirth was sending me reeling.

  I nabbed another chunk of fudge—chocolate fixes lots of problems—and then offered to set out a plateful in the breezeway. Katie gushed with thanks and reminded me that tonight was the dance hall theme at the café. I should stop by with Rhett. I told her I would try.

  Throughout the morning, I anxiously reviewed what I would say to Rhett about David. In between, I paid strict attention to customers.

  At one point, a trio of Chocolate Cookbook Club members arrived. I steered them to the fudge in the breezeway, and you would have thought I had saved the world. Or rather, Katie had. Many were demanding that she sell the chocolate by the pound.

  Around 2:00 P.M., as I was explaining to a customer and her husband how to organize the cookbooks in their house—she owned over one hundred; her husband said they were scattered, slapdash on the shelves in the kitchen and in cubbies throughout her house—a thirty-something single mother glommed onto my arm.

  “Wait, Jenna!” She beckoned a girlfriend who had entered with her. “We’ll want to hear this.”

  They gathered and grew attentive.

  “My suggestion would be to figure out how you access your cookbooks,” I said. “Not everyone does the same thing. For example, when you want to find a cookbook, do you think of the cuisine, the technique, the author’s name, or the title?”