“Jenna,” a man said.
I spun around. “Shane.”
He approached quickly, the fancy buttons on his cowboy shirt reflecting the sunlight, his tennis shoes making no sound on the pavement. He looked off; his eyes were beady. A thin sheen of perspiration coated his upper lip and forehead. He rubbed it away with a fingertip.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I said, my voice light though my body was tense.
“You heard me calling you,” he said. “On the street. You waved.”
Yes, I’d heard him, but I believed he was calling as a greeting, nothing more.
Furtively, Shane glanced over his shoulder and back at me. Call me crazy, but a frisson of fear skittered down my back. Was he Sylvia’s killer, after all? Had he followed me because I was alone? Did he think I knew something that could point a finger at him? The alley was open at the far end. I could run, but in my sandals I would be no match for Shane with his long, muscular legs. He would catch me in an instant.
“Need something?” I said as calmly as I could muster. I gripped my purse handle while letting the strap fall off my shoulder. As heavy as the purse was, it might pack a wallop.
“Actually, I do.” Shane licked his lips. “It’s about Emily.”
Relief coursed through me. “Is she okay? Is she having the baby?”
“No!” he barked, as in heaven forbid! He worked his lip between his teeth. “Sorry, that came out wrong. No, she’s not having the baby. Not yet. She’s . . . it’s . . .” He shifted feet. “She’s been acting weird.”
“Weird, how?”
“Pacing at night and muttering to herself.”
“Can you make out what she’s saying?”
“I think she’s saying clinky jewelry. What could she mean?”
When I spoke to Emily by the choo-choo train, we discussed the set of cuff links Ava had given Shane. Cuff links and jewelry, when slurred together, might sound like clinky jewelry. Was Emily worried that the police wouldn’t come up with the same theory she had posed to me, that Ava had taken the cuff links to the crime scene to frame Shane? Perhaps Emily feared the police would conclude what I had, that she had taken the cuff links to the site herself. Or maybe, because of the cuff links, she knew that Shane, her beloved, had killed Sylvia, and she couldn’t figure out how to turn the father of her unborn child over to authorities.
“Have you asked her what she means?” I said.
“Asked her?”
“I’m not big on relationship advice right now,” I joked, “but most counselors will tell you that you have to talk. Communicate. Make sure—”
“What are you two doing?” Ava shrieked and ran toward us looking mighty ticked off. Her heels slapped the cement.
Uh-oh.
Shane surprised me by saying, “Later,” and he hightailed it to the far end of the alley, veered right, and disappeared.
“Well?” Ava demanded.
“Well, what?” Embarrassment warmed my cheeks. The way Shane ran off, he gave the impression that we had been having a tryst. Would Ava write about me in her diary?
“I . . . Shane . . . we . . . no . . .” I sputtered, and then I had nothing else. No answers. My mouth went dry.
“What do you want, Jenna? Why are you hounding me?”
“I’m . . . I’m not.”
“Were you and Shane collaborating?”
I shook my head. Words. I needed words! “I . . .” So often, I could be glib and quick-witted. Not now. What good was having a thriving career at an advertising agency where slogans popped out of me in the blink of an eye if I couldn’t dredge up that talent when I needed it?
“The diary!” I blurted. Truth is powerful, my father tells me.
“You asked about a diary last night.”
“Yes.” I pointed into her car. “Is that it?”
Ava screwed up her mouth. She glanced down the alley after the retreating Shane, and back at me. Her eyes skewered daggers into mine.
“The police asked you if you wrote one,” I said.
“Not true. They asked me if I had a diary in my house.”
Aha! I was right. She had evaded the truth by relying on the use of explicit language. How cagey of her.
“Did Shane tell you about it?” Ava asked.
“No.” I wasn’t going to bring up Emily’s name.
She huffed. “Yes, I wrote a diary, and yes, there’s some incriminating stuff in it.”
What kind of incriminating? I wondered. Like how she would stab Sylvia with a hair stick and light her up in a bonfire?
“I like you, Jenna.” Ava took a step toward me.
I retreated. The door handle scalded my skin through my blouse. “I like you, too, Ava,” I murmured. Until lately, I really did like her. I loved her energy. I enjoyed whenever she bought a cookbook and hugged it to her chest, so excited to try out a new recipe.
“Do you want to read my diary?” she asked.
Did I? Yes!
“Um, sure,” I mumbled. I didn’t want to appear too eager.
“Here you go.” Ava flung open the car door—it hadn’t been locked—and grasped the red-spined book. She thrust it at me. “Check out page ninety-two.” I must have blinked because she said, “Don’t look surprised. I can memorize entire legal agreements, and I’m very organized. I number my diary pages. I know which one you want to read.”
I opened the book and thumbed to the correct page. She had written:
I’m so angry with Shane, I could kill him. Sylvia? Really? He wants her instead of me? I get why he used to like Emily. She’s so sweet. So innocent. So syrupy. But Sylvia? That bloodsucking . . . She gets every man in town.
That drew me up short. Did Sylvia really attract other men? I had never seen her with anyone other than her husband, but I’d only been in town a short while. I continued reading.
Does Ronald know about his dear little wifey-poo and Shane? What would he do if I told him? Maybe I should get rid of her once and for all. Put all men out of their misery. I could start by pulling out every hair of her nasty little head. She wouldn’t win men’s hearts if she were bald. Or how about I poke out her eyes with a candlestick?
I paused. The crime Ava had concocted sounded nothing like the one that had occurred. I read on:
That’s what I’ll do. I’ll use a candlestick right out of one of her ornate, overdone displays! Take that, Sylvia. En garde!!!
A date was written at the end of the passage. Six months ago.
Ava thrust out her hand. “You see? Yes, it’s incriminating, but I didn’t kill her. Shane saw what I wrote. We argued. He forgave me. When he told me he wouldn’t continue with Sylvia, I believed him, but then Emily announced she was pregnant, and he did the honorable thing. He chose her and ended it with me. Yes, I still love him, but I would never break up a family.” Ava huffed.
I started to flip the page, but Ava snatched the diary out of my hands.
“There’s nothing else. That’s all I wrote.”
“Take it to the police.”
“Why?”
“So you can be cleared.”
“I don’t need to be cleared,” she snarled. It wasn’t an attractive look for her.
“The police think you have motive.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Do you have an alibi?”
Ava shook her head. “Dear, sweet Jenna. What am I going to do with you?” She nudged me out of the way, clambered into her car, and tore out of the alley.
Without giving me her alibi.
To make matters worse, as I passed through the alcove toward the street, I spotted Ronald standing in the doorway to Sterling Sylvia. Had he followed Ava to the alley? Did he spy the two of us arguing? He gave me the same disapproving look he had given me at the diner. I recalled what David had said to me, teasingly. Was I
ticking off people? Should I be watching my adorable backside?
Chapter 21
When I returned to the shop, I headed straight for the vintage table. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Do not join in the fun with the guitarist who is playing “Oh, My Darling, Clementine” for the passel of children. Do not engage with the parents—who all seemed euphoric, by the way. Ah, Sundays, a day of rest for most. Not I. I needed to sort out theories in my mind. Ava, Shane, D’Ann. Who killed Sylvia? Not your business, that small voice—still Cinnamon’s—crooned in my head. Was I trying to solve the mystery to avoid dealing with the problems in my own life?
Bailey was handling a group of customers by the foodie fiction display and didn’t pay attention to me. My aunt, who was dealing with a customer at the register, shot me a come-here-and-talk-to-me, you-look-upset look. Apparently her ESP was working overtime.
No, I mouthed. I slumped into a chair beside the table and let my tote fall to the floor. A new puzzle displaying a plate of sizzling barbecue ribs was in its box. I dumped the pieces and started with the edges. A few minutes in, my stomach grumbled. I peeked into the breezeway and saw a couple of people hovering around the snack table. Katie had set out an assortment of sliders similar to the ones she had served at the foodie truck. Heaven.
I wedged between customers and nabbed a sandwich: turkey with a savory barbecue sauce. Perfect.
As I was grabbing a napkin, my aunt sidled up to me. “Are you all right?”
I was frustrated, embarrassed, and flummoxed . . . but I was okay. I offered a curt nod.
“D’Ann is better,” she continued, sotto voce. “We called her assistant, who came and took her home. I think she gave D’Ann a sedative. I told her I would check in later.”
Flora Fairchild, a chatty woman who owned a handmade giftware store called Home Sweet Home, drew near, her apple cheeks flushed and her eyes riveted on us. “Hi, y’all.” Flora exuded charm, but she could be a bit of a nosy-nose, and I was certain she was trying to pick up some gossip. “By the way”—she pulled her long braid forward over her shoulder and fiddled with the tip—“it was sweet of you, Vera, to include my brother at your event.”
I gazed at the adults milling about, trying to determine which matched Flora. She had a twin sister who looked and acted nothing like her. “Which one is he?”
“The guitarist, silly.” Flora lifted a slider from the tray and bit into it. “Num num.” She swallowed and added, “He’s older than I am.”
Really? With his angular face and short choppy hair, he, too, looked nothing like Flora, and he appeared to be about twenty years younger. A puppy.
“He’s quite good,” I said. I wasn’t lying. I would hire him again. His voice was melodious, and he was as animated as a camp counselor. He was now singing a rousing “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.”
Flora polished off her juicy slider, blotted her fingers on a cocktail napkin, and said, “So what’s this about D’Ann?”
“Nothing,” Aunt Vera replied.
“I’ve been worried about her,” Flora said, intent on inserting herself deeper into our conversation. “She’s been on tenterhooks. Why, she was in the shop the other day, teary-eyed. Not good. Aging actresses can’t afford to have that puffy look.” Flora fluttered her fingers beside her eyes. “I sold her a lavender sachet.”
“That was nice, dear.” Aunt Vera took my elbow, steered me into the shop, and drew to a halt beside the puzzle table.
Flora, not getting the hint that our conversation was private, followed. “D’Ann is a regular Sister Teresa. Why, the other day, I saw her helping one of my neighbors, Nurse Noreen.”
I know Noreen, a buttoned-down, never-a-hair-out-of-place woman who works the night shift at Mercy Urgent Care. She prefers nutritional cookbooks and nonfiction books.
“D’Ann was carrying Noreen’s groceries into the house,” Flora went on. “I think it was that morning.”
“Which morning?” I asked.
Aunt Vera shot me a look, warning me belatedly not to engage.
“That morning. When Sylvia died.”
“And she was where?” I asked.
“Near my house. I live at the top of the mountain. Before passing on, Daddy bought a house for each of his kids—Faith, Frederick, and me—up there.”
“That’s far away from the crime scene,” I said to my aunt.
“I think D’Ann was out for one of her spiritual journeys,” Flora continued. “She makes those regularly. She had her walking stick, and she was wearing some contraption on her face.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Have you seen it? It’s horrid.”
I said, “It’s a hockey mask. She wears it because—”
Aunt Vera cleared her throat.
That message I interpreted in time. “Go on,” I said.
“Right.” Flora looked miffed that she wouldn’t learn the whole story. “D’Ann saw Noreen struggling with those horrid reusable bags. Whatever happened to all-natural paper?” Flora tsked. “Being eco-friendly is so important these days. Nonetheless, D’Ann went inside. I was in my robe fetching my newspaper, or I would’ve helped. I think they had tea. Maybe D’Ann didn’t. It would be hard to do with that mask on, I suppose. The two of them sat in the nook by the window and chatted for a few minutes.” Flora’s gaze swept from my aunt to me. “Not that I was counting, mind you.”
“Are you certain of the time?” I asked.
“Of course. Is there some problem?”
“No, dear, it’s wonderful news,” Aunt Vera exclaimed. “A witness thought D’Ann might have had something to do with Sylvia’s death.”
Flora’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding! D’Ann? No way. If only I’d heard she was a suspect, I would have come forward in an instant.” She pushed her braid over her shoulder. “I’m glad I overheard you talking.”
“D’Ann will be thrilled,” Aunt Vera said. “She said she was innocent.”
“Well, of course, she’s innocent.” Flora clucked her tongue. “I’ve never known a more delightful woman. And what an actress. I’ve seen everything she’s done. I’ll bet she was wearing the mask”—she twirled a finger in front of her face—“to prepare for a new role, maybe something dark and brooding.” She looked to me for corroboration. I gave her none. “Or she wanted to be incognito. People hound celebrities something awful.”
A notion caught me up short. What if D’Ann hadn’t been the person in the mask? What if it was her assistant, doubling for D’Ann? And if it was D’Ann, why hadn’t she mentioned helping out Nurse Noreen when Lola and Aunt Vera were questioning her?
Aunt Vera said, “Flora, dear, Jenna and I have some business to attend to. Enjoy the rest of the event.” She flipped her fingertips toward Flora, as if shooing away a fly, and turned her back on Flora. Quietly, she said, “Now back to our previous matter. Where have you been? You came in looking frazzled.”
“I went to visit Dad at Nuts and Bolts and, by chance, saw Ava at Sylvia’s jewelry store. She was talking with Ronald. I think he’s considering selling the place.”
“To Ava?”
“I’ll buy it,” Flora said, crowding in beside me. “I love that shop. What a coup that could be! I could steer customers from that shop to mine and vice versa: homey things and high-end items. Perfect.”
Aunt Vera glowered at Flora and gazed at me with resignation, knowing Flora was either unable or unwilling to take a hint. “How dreadful to think Ava might swoop in and take control of Sylvia’s place if she . . . you know . . .” She didn’t have to elaborate. I understood: if Ava killed Sylvia.
“I saw her”—I glimpsed Flora, whose eyes gleamed with intrigue—“doing . . . you know . . . that thing we were talking about earlier.” I mimed writing in a diary. “You . . .”
Aunt Vera blinked that she understood.
“The part she wrote a
bout Sylvia,” I went on, “doesn’t jibe with the you-know-what itself.” The murder.
Flora watched us like a tennis match, back and forth. My stomach started to churn. I was never good at charades or Twenty Questions. Playing fill-in-the-blanks wasn’t my forte, either.
“Did what Ava was”—Aunt Vera mimed writing—“show intent?”
Flora let out a little whoop. “I get it! Ava kept a diary. Do you think she killed Sylvia? Is everyone a suspect?”
“Flora,” Aunt Vera said, “if you listen in one second longer, I will never offer you a tarot reading again.”
Flora spluttered. “But . . .” She blinked at my aunt and me. She was a regular when it came to having her fortune told. Like I said, she wanted to know everyone’s business, even her own. “But Ava couldn’t have killed Sylvia. I saw her that morning, too.”
“On top of the mountain?” I asked.
“No. Below. I was driving around checking out who was watering their lawns. You know we’re having a water shortage crisis.”
All of California was.
“She was outside the house that’s for sale, the one the event coordinator is buying.”
“Shane Maverick,” I inserted.
Flora bobbed her head.
I flashed on my brief encounter with Shane in the alley but pushed the memory aside. Flora was corroborating Tito’s statement.
“When did you see Ava?” I asked.
“Around six A.M.” Flora smiled, enjoying being the center of attention. “I noticed her because Ava always dresses in a suit and heels, and yet there she was in jeans and an overcoat, her hair anchored with one of those Japanese hair sticks.”
Grilling the Subject Page 19