Grilling the Subject

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Title,” the single mother answered.

  “Do you think of the course: soups and salads, appetizers, entrees, et cetera?” I asked. “Depending on your answer, I’d organize them along those lines.”

  “I use a card catalog,” her friend said.

  The woman laughed. “That’s because you’re a librarian.”

  “I organize them by size,” the customer I’d been addressing said.

  Her reed-thin husband laughed. “That’s because you bought them for their beauty. You don’t cook.”

  She batted his arm. “Do so.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  The discussion continued for almost an hour, and I made another mental note. Perhaps a page on the shop’s website showing how to organize cookbooks might be a good sales tool for the shop. Maybe we could share it visually on one of those picture-lover forums. I jotted the idea down on a list I kept running on the computer; I never left an idea to roam inside my head. Idle ideas had a tendency to go poof.

  At half past three, after wrapping a customer’s purchase that included a couple of specialty books I’d ordered to celebrate the Wild West Extravaganza—the first, Every Cowgirl Loves a Rodeo, a cute children’s book that featured fabulous drawings and a sweet story, and the second, Cowgirls: Commemorating the Women of the West, a beautiful coffee table–style book that had earned lovely reviews about how the author had captured the glamour as well as the grubbiness of being a strong, hardworking female—I set off to meet Rhett. My stomach churned with anxiety. What would I say? How would he react?

  * * *

  For the pole-bending event, the Wild West Extravaganza group had rented Midway Motocross, the dirt bike track located north of town, a half-mile beyond the junior college. The track was a large dusty oval set at the foot of a grassy knoll. The extravaganza committee had done a bang-up job of gussying up the area, setting up red-and-white-striped tents for food vendors as well as occasional shade, tying bundles of red balloons onto every available pole or staff, and stringing red triangular flags around the entire facility. Spectators were dressed similarly to what the attendees had worn at the foodie truck event. I was overdressed in my summery dress and sandals.

  Over a loudspeaker, an announcer introduced the participants in the first pole-bending contest. There would be eight in all. A teenage couple walked in stride with me. She was explaining the nuances of pole-bending to her boyfriend.

  “It involves one rider on a horse, running a weaving path around six poles arranged in a line. Sort of like skiing the slalom course. Each pole stands twenty-one feet from the other, and the first pole is twenty-one feet from the starting line.” Her companion nodded his understanding. “A horse can take its position either to the right or the left of the starting pole, but then they have to run the remainder of their pattern accordingly. If they knock over a pole, they get a five-second penalty. Got it?”

  “Jenna!” Rhett called to me from the entrance to the stadium seats. He looked as handsome as ever, clad in jeans and a simple white-and-blue plaid shirt and, unlike everyone else, tennis shoes.

  My stomach did a flip-flop at the sight of him. Unfortunately, not the good kind. Oh sure, I had the fleeting notion of sweeping him beneath the rustic bleachers and smothering him with kisses before I told him anything, but I squashed the idea. There was no privacy. Everyone would see us. I hurried to him, rehashing what I would say. When I drew near, my mind went blank.

  “Hey,” I said. Real smooth. I slipped into his outstretched arms and we kissed pristinely.

  He nudged me away. “What’s up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t kid a kidder. You look dazed, as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Nice thing to say to a girl.” I forced a smile. “How about, ‘You look radiant, glowing, ethereal’?”

  “Je-e-enna.” He dragged out my name.

  “Not here.”

  I slipped my hand into his and led him to a knoll, far from the swelling crowd. A cheer cut through the air. The first race had started. Dang. I had really wanted to catch a glimpse.

  A warm breeze brushed my cheeks, but a chill skittered through my core. Dive in anytime. I licked my lips and began. “I’ve had a bit of a shock.”

  “Is it your father?”

  “No, Dad’s rallying. He hasn’t been arrested. I honestly don’t know what’s going on with that. I’ve got suspects rotating in my mind—” I wiggled my free hand beside my head. “That’s not what’s bothering me.” I drew in a deep, calming breath and let it out. “Wow, how do I say this?”

  “Spit it out.”

  “My husband. David. It’s complicated.”

  Rhett gripped both my hands. “Does this have something to do with how I ended our telephone call the other day, saying, ‘I love you?’ Because if it does—”

  “No. I mean, yes. I love you, too.” There. I said it. I meant it.

  Rhett shook his head, not grasping the problem. “Then what about your husband?”

  “He’s alive.”

  Rhett released my hands and staggered backward. He spun on his heel while running a hand through his hair. When he made a full three-sixty and faced me again, he looked as if he were the one who had seen a ghost. “He’s alive?”

  I told him everything in one quick stream: David observing me; entering my cottage; spilling his life story; and the SFPD allowing him a week to finalize things. “He has one month to live.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because he told me so.”

  “He’s scammed you before.”

  “The detective confirmed it.”

  Rhett moaned. “And he’s staying with you? You’re letting him?”

  “What else could I do?”

  “Boot him home to his mother, and then”—Rhett clasped my arms—“divorce him.”

  “Divorce?”

  “You’re married, Jenna.”

  “No court—”

  “The law is the law. He didn’t die. You’re married. And . . .” He released me. “I don’t date married women.”

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “Am I?” Rhett’s nostrils flared. “I don’t think so. Your husband, a known criminal, is in your house. By his very presence, you could be implicated in any future misdeeds.”

  “He’s dying!”

  “When he does, give me a call.” Rhett heaved a sigh filled with a thousand unspoken words and stomped away.

  Tears flooded my eyes, and a string of angry terms cycled through my mind: jerk, idiot, miscreant. But when I regrouped, I knew Rhett wasn’t any of those. He was hurt. I hadn’t explained the situation well. It was my fault. I had let my dying husband back into my life and had allowed the new love of my life to walk out. Fantastic. Now what?

  “Jenna?” Bailey rushed to me, tissues extended. “I saw Rhett heading the opposite way. He looked peeved.”

  “I told him about David.” I took the tissues and dabbed my eyes. “We fought. He’s upset.” I gazed in the direction that Rhett had gone, and a horrible notion struck me. What if he finds someone else, and bam, just like that, he and I are history?

  Tito, dressed like many at the pole-bending event with a cowboy hat resting jauntily on his head, joined us. “Don’t worry, little lady.” He tipped his hat backward with one fingertip and jutted a hip, a pose he must have seen in an oater movie. “Men need time to cool down.”

  Bailey shot him a look. His face warmed red.

  “How much time?” I asked. “My husband”—the word stuck in my throat—“could be in town for a while.”

  Bailey said, “You said he’s sick. Dying.”

  “He is. He has a month or less. He—” I gulped. “What if Rhett’s right? What if David scammed the detective?”

  “Even I don’t believe that.” Bailey pulled a b
ottle of water from her tote and thrust it at me. “Drink. You look like you’re going to be sick. Speaking of sick, Tito”—she nudged her boyfriend—“tell her.”

  “Sí. Of course.” Tito settled into his regular personality, no gimmicks, no cowboy-isms. “I had to do a delivery the other day.”

  Bailey continued for him. “Pitching out The Crier because his cousin got sick.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured.

  “It’s nada,” Tito said. “Sinus infection. He’s on meds.”

  “Go on,” Bailey urged.

  “I was delivering the paper in the hills the morning Mrs. Gump was killed.”

  “In your father’s neighborhood,” Bailey added.

  My worries about Rhett and David vanished. “Tito, did you see my father?”

  Bailey said, “No, he saw Mrs. McCartney and her friend.”

  “Sí. They were yelling, ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’ It was around five A.M.”

  “Are you sure?” I shook my head.

  Tito tapped his watch. “I am certain. I know because I was busting my chops to finish up by six fifteen so I could get to work. I was only halfway done with the route, but I was making good time.”

  “I have to contact Cinnamon.”

  “I also saw that actress,” Tito said.

  “D’Ann Davis?”

  “Sí. She was doing something outside her house.”

  I shook my head, not understanding.

  “She was performing a ritual,” Bailey inserted. “That’s what you called it, mi amor.”

  “Sí, a ritual. She was scattering things.” He plucked imaginary items from his hands. “And she jumped on them.” Tito hopped in place.

  “What things?” I asked.

  “White things.”

  Bailey tapped Tito’s arm. “You thought they might be flower petals. They fluttered as they fell to the ground.”

  “White?” I shook my head. “D’Ann only grows red roses and red azaleas.”

  Tito winked. “Perhaps she had a special admirer who sent her white roses.”

  “Or you suggested that Sylvia might have sent the flowers to taunt her,” Bailey offered.

  I looked between them. “Why would Sylvia taunt D’Ann?”

  Bailey winked. “Remember how Gran said D’Ann and Sylvia argued?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, maybe Sylvia, knowing D’Ann only likes things that are red, thought that would be a funny gesture. She sent them, and D’Ann lost it. She scattered them on the ground and jumped up and down on them.”

  If Sylvia did send the flowers, or whatever the white things were, did D’Ann, in a snit, storm to Sylvia’s house and demand an explanation? Did things get out of hand? Why had D’Ann burst into the shop earlier and asked for a tarot card reading? I couldn’t believe one pair of fake silver earrings would push her over the edge.

  “Tell Jenna the other thing”—Bailey rubbed Tito’s forearm—“about seeing Ava Judge in the neighborhood, too. You said Ava seemed sneaky.”

  “Sí. She was walking the perimeter of the house that Shane Maverick bought.”

  I gaped. “At five in the morning?”

  “By then, it was closer to six,” Tito said. “I was doing the reverse route by then.”

  I assumed he meant he had delivered papers on one side of the street, hit the end of the cul-de-sac, and made a U-turn.

  “She was dressed in a black overcoat,” Tito said.

  “Are you sure? Could it have been a red plaid jacket?” Maybe Ronald saw Ava running from the scene of the crime and assumed she was a man, namely, my father. She is tall, and if she had been wearing heels, per usual, she would have appeared even taller. I said, “It was somewhat dark and hard to make out colors.”

  “It was a black coat. My eyesight is one hundred percent. Perfecto.”

  Bailey aimed a finger at me. “What if Ava wore a jacket underneath the overcoat?”

  I clapped my hands. “Yes!”

  Had Ava given her alibi to the police yet? She was the ringleader for the neighborhood coup. Did she think that after one or two neighbors backed out of supporting her, she might not be able to thwart Sylvia? Did she, as Shane suggested, think Sylvia’s constant disturbances might make a difference in sales prices in the neighborhood, affecting not only Ava’s livelihood but also her property value? Would Ava have risked everything to stop Sylvia?

  Chapter 16

  I thanked Bailey and Tito for the information and, eager to contact Cinnamon to tell her about Ava’s whereabouts and D’Ann’s odd behavior on the morning of the murder, I punched the precinct number into my cell phone. Busy. I ended the call and tried again. Still busy. I repeated the effort while heading toward my car. Fruitless. Sheesh. Okay, fine, if I couldn’t get through, I would drive there.

  Except as I was passing a tent where vendors were selling barbecue, I spotted a man ahead—as tall as Rhett, dark hair, white-and-blue plaid shirt tucked into jeans. I ended the call and raced to catch him. Luckily, right before I tapped the guy on the back, I realized it wasn’t Rhett. The guy was much taller, and he was wearing boots. Talk about eyes seeing what they wanted to see! Obviously I needed—wanted—to talk to Rhett and hash things out ASAP.

  Continuing to move in the direction of my car, I dialed Rhett. I reached his voice mail. Drat. Wasn’t anyone answering? I left a message and begged him—short of sobbing; I have a modicum of pride—to return to talk to me. When I accepted that he wouldn’t answer as long as I was chatting on his voice mail, I hung up.

  Rhythmic clapping caught my attention. I spun around and was surprised to see that a crowd had gathered, not to listen in on my conversation, but to watch the young woman who had given the rope-jumping demonstration on The Pier. She had cleared a spot in the parking lot and was teaching a new slew of people how to leap through the vertical loop.

  I watched for a minute, imagining myself mimicking the steps in perfect time, but then my attention was drawn to a couple of onlookers who were eating barbecued ribs, not the dainty baby back kind but huge beef ribs. As they tore into them, barbecue sauce dribbled down their chins and onto their shirts. One of the eaters tried to rub the sauce off his T-shirt with his forefinger. Bad idea. A stain resulted and grew even bigger, the more he tried to get rid of it.

  The action made me consider the steak sauce bottle cap found at the crime scene. Cinnamon and my father have often told me that it’s the small things that come back to bite a criminal. Did Shane, for whatever reason, take a bottle of steak sauce to the crime scene? Or did the murderer know that Shane made the sauce and bring the cap to the site, hoping to frame him? It was a small clue to pin to a big crime, but maybe the murderer figured that the top was metal, and it would stand the test of fire. So would a cuff link.

  “Jenna!” Our mayor, a squat woman named Zoey Zeller—or Z.Z., as she liked her friends to call her—scurried toward me. Garbed in a brown leather skirt and jacket, her hair frizzier than ever, she reminded me of an Ewok from Star Wars. She was carrying a foodie bag decorated with licks of flame and a fistful of napkins. “Super-duper-spicy ribs, hot off the grill!” She shook the bag. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I called to you because I’m so sorry, dear. I haven’t had a moment to breathe since the Wild West Extravaganza started, let alone stop into the shop and pay my condolences. Your father”—she gulped in air—“is innocent, of course, but I should have touched base with you and your aunt. How is she holding up?”

  “She’s doing her best to summon good vibes.”

  “And you?”

  “The same. How is Dean Gump faring?” The mayor and the dean went way back.

  “Not well. I’ve visited him a couple of times. He seems quite forgetful. He can’t remember where he put his glasses, though they’re on his head. He can’t recall the last time he a
te, either.” She tsked. “I’m afraid the poor man misses Sylvia terribly. His niece Tina is attempting to bolster him, but well . . .” Z.Z. twirled her hand in the air. “You of all people understand. It strikes a blow when you lose someone you love.”

  Her words jolted me. I thought of David—no longer lost—and Rhett, possibly lost forever. What was I going to do?

  “Do you know when Ronald plans to have a funeral?” I asked.

  “I don’t believe the coroner has released the body. Red tape.” The mayor clicked her tongue. “Now, as for Shane Maverick, what do you know about him? I heard you used to work with him at the advertising agency.”

  “I did. He was a great salesman.”

  “Yes.” She bobbed her head. “I can see that. He’s slick. Too pretty for his own good, if you ask me. I like my men with character, not looks.”

  I did, too, though looks were a bonus.

  “He reminds me of a snake oil salesman I once knew,” she went on.

  “You knew someone who sold snake oil?”

  Z.Z. sniggered. “Heavens to Betsy, no. It’s an expression, dear.” She tilted her head and peered at me with a cagey eye. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. Why do you want to know about Shane?”

  “Will he do right by Emily? That sweet girl deserves every happiness in the world.”

  “I believe he intends to follow through.” What more could I offer? Shane never made a promise at Taylor & Squibb that he didn’t keep. Did that alone exonerate him of murder? No. People changed; David had.

  “Do you think he had something to do with Sylvia’s death?” Z.Z. said.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I saw them together frequently a few months ago, and although I’m not your aunt, I do get otherworldly feelings.” She fluttered a hand. “And what’s going on with Ava Judge?”

  “How so?”

  “She was at Ronald’s house the other day when I arrived. Not at, exactly. Nearby. In her garden. She always seems to be assessing something, do you know what I mean?” To demonstrate, Z.Z. squinched her nose and squinted. “When Ronald opened the door to allow me in, I feared Ava might swoop in and ask him to sell his house. Can you imagine doing such a thing when he’s in such a fragile state? Has she lost her marbles?”