Bailey and Katie nodded.
“She confided that Ronald would be lost without Sylvia. On the other hand, minutes later I saw him flirting with a woman—I think he was flirting; hard to tell behind sunglasses—and I thought about how horribly Sylvia had treated him, verbally abusing him and pretty much waving an affair with Shane in his face, and I wondered whether he might have offed Sylvia so he could start a new life as a single, eligible bachelor.”
“But he’s a little”—Bailey tapped her head—“off his game, don’t you think? At least, that’s what everyone says.”
Including my father.
“Rosie thinks he’s as sharp as ever.”
“Maybe Tina would know.” Bailey gestured upward, toward the art-house cinema upstairs where Ronald’s niece worked. “She’s been by his side through this whole ordeal, watching out for him. Why, she even came into the shop today. You missed seeing her. She was looking for a cookbook for him. She said he had never cooked for himself. I encouraged her to purchase that single men’s cookbook, Man Meets Stove: A Cookbook for Men Who’ve Never Cooked Anything without a Microwave.”
“That’s a perfect choice,” I said. “I love that cookbook. What a hoot! In one section, the author gives men clever translations for measurements.” I laughed remembering a few of them. A dash was a slight shake from a bottle; it was also slower than a run but faster than a walk. For a pinch, the author threatened to hurt the reader if he tried to measure out an eighth teaspoon. A number of customers had purchased the paperback as gag gifts.
“What about D’Ann’s assistant?” Katie asked. “We don’t know her. What if she—”
“Killed to please her boss?” I winced. “Ew.”
“Mob guys do it all the time,” Bailey joked.
I shook my head. “Get real. She’s not in the Mob. I would rule her out.”
That put an end to our discussion, and we ate dessert in silence. I devoured both tarts that Katie had put on the menu; I couldn’t resist. Afterward, I collected Tigger from the shop and drove home.
On the way, I dialed the clinic. The attending doctor hadn’t called me to give me an update on David. A different nurse—not Nurse Noreen, or I would have asked her a few pointed questions—informed me that the doctor was occupied, but David was awake, so she put me through.
“I have to stay one more night. For observation.” He let go with a dry raspy cough. “Hold on.” He drank some water, then added that he was sorry he wouldn’t be able to attend the stagecoach races with Bailey, Tito, and me.
I assured him there would be more times to play, but when I ended the call, an emotion I couldn’t put a name to caught in my throat. Would there be more times? I didn’t love David the way I used to, but I cared about him, and to know he was suffering broke my heart.
Chapter 25
When I arrived home, I grabbed a hoe that was leaning against the side of the house and, holding the hoe like a baseball bat, made a quick perimeter search. No trespassers, no one on the beach. I set aside the hoe, entered the cottage, and proceeded to check all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. A half hour later, I climbed into bed and did my best to put thoughts of David aside. If I dwelled on his fate, I wouldn’t sleep. I’d only had three hours last night. I needed more.
As it was, I didn’t nod off until after midnight because images of suspects and fires and weird, evil masks cycled through my mind.
Before my eyes closed, I wondered how Cinnamon was faring. Had she pinned down anyone’s alibi? Had she figured out who was the killer? Was she on her way to apprehend the killer now?
Or would the killer get off scot-free?
* * *
Six hours of sleep wasn’t enough to keep my energy at peak levels. I shunned exercise—it was, after all, Tuesday, my day off—and I whipped up a protein-rich breakfast of eggs scrambled with Parmesan cheese, spinach, and green onions. I added a dash of Penzey’s Barbecue 3001 spice, which was a mixture of white and red pepper, ginger, nutmeg, and so much more; it would add a lovely zing. Before I sat down to eat, I scooped a can of protein-rich food for Tigger. He, like all cats, was a carnivore and appreciated a moist meal instead of dry kibble.
After a second cup of coffee and doing the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, I checked in on David. He was sleeping. The nurse said to try back later. I showered, lathered up with sunblock, and threw on a pair of jeans shorts, a crisp white shirt, and sandals. I added a cute red scarf for color and for protection. Why protection? The stagecoach event was being held at Midway Motocross, the same place the pole-bending event had taken place, except the stagecoaches would travel the circumference of the property. Viewing was standing room only—fans could bring foldable chairs. Billowing dust was to be expected.
On my way out the door, I said, “Tigger, I’ll be back by the afternoon. Sleep well!” I blew him a kiss good-bye, and hurried off.
Everyone in town seemed to be at Midway Motocross. As I arrived, I slowed to watch a parade of antique stagecoaches, each drawn by a pair of horses, entering the area. Red coaches bearing a variety of logos for Wells Fargo; brown coaches with wooden wheels; fancy black coaches with elegant lettering. Signs hung on a few of the stagecoaches stating their type, like the Henderson Mudwagon or the Yellowstone Coach. The drivers, each decked out in western gear, seemed quite proud of their vehicles. The horses, too.
I caught up with Bailey, aglitter in a flashy T-shirt studded with silver sequins over equally snazzy jeans shorts. She was standing near the fried-chicken-on-a-stick truck, holding a succulent looking kebab.
“Delicious,” she said, waving it like a wand. “Want one?”
The aroma was tantalizing, but I was full from breakfast. “Maybe later. Where’s Tito?”
“Around. Probably getting a story and a few photographs. He’s always on. David couldn’t make it?”
“No. He’s still at Mercy, under doctor’s observation.”
I didn’t offer more; she didn’t press.
“Well, now that you’ve arrived . . .” She beckoned me to follow her. “C’mon. We’ve staked out a place over here. Tito brought some foldable chairs.” She moved a few paces and stopped dead. She threw a hand up, almost slapping me in the face, and swung around, a finger pressed to her lips. “Shh.”
“What?”
“Look.”
Shane and Emily stood about twenty feet away, both in silhouette. Shane was dressed in a black cowboy shirt, black jeans, black boots, and black hat. He had to be sweltering. No clouds blocked the morning sun. Emily was dressed in a frilly fuchsia-colored dress.
What must have caught Bailey’s attention was that Emily’s face was about the same shade of pink as the dress, and she was stabbing a finger into Shane’s chest. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I could read her lips. You did it, Emily said over and over, jabbing with each word. You did it. You did it. You did it.
Did what? I wondered. Killed Sylvia?
Shane shook his head while mouthing: No, no, no. Finally, he clasped Emily’s hand and pulled her roughly to his chest. He squinted hard at her. He said something, his lips moving although his teeth were locked together. I couldn’t read those words, but Emily’s eyes widened. Had he threatened her? She jerked free of him and stumbled backward. He reached for her. She found her balance and hurried away. Shane started after her but stopped. He took off his hat and smacked it against his thigh. Dust clouded around it.
“Nice public display of emotion,” a husky-voiced woman said from behind us.
I spun around. Shane’s redheaded assistant, clad in a chocolate-brown cowgirl dress, her multiple braids laced with shimmery gold ribbon, joined us, except she wasn’t looking at us. She was staring at Shane. Up close, I realized that she was even prettier than I’d thought. If not for the scrunched-up nose and lips curled with disdain, she would be gorgeous. Her name was on the tip of my tongue: U
de, Ulana . . . Ursula. That was it. U for Ursula.
“Are you wondering what that was about?” Ursula’s voice wasn’t husky from natural sultriness; it was raspy with anger. Her hands coiled into fists; her neck muscles drew tight. “What do you bet he admitted to his fiancée that he didn’t have an alibi for the morning Sylvia Gump was killed?”
I gawked at her. “But he does have an alibi, Ursula. He was at the office. Emily told me—”
“Uh-uh. No, he wasn’t. I happen to know because, when I arrived, the lights were out, and there was no aroma of him.”
“No aroma?”
“You know . . . his scent.” She tapped her nose with her fingertip. “And”—now she faced me—“the coffee wasn’t made, either. Shane always makes a pot of coffee. Always! Extra dark. He needs three cups to get going. Plus”—she did that Egyptian goddess–type move, sliding her head from side to side; I could never pull that off; I would look spastic if I tried—“the printer was switched off. He turns on all those things himself. He hates when the office isn’t up and running right away.”
“Have you told the police?” I asked.
“I don’t like to talk out of school.”
Bailey rolled her eyes at me and mouthed: Yes, she does.
“I’m a nice person,” Ursula added.
I wasn’t so sure. Negativity was spewing off her, and even I, untrained at reading auras, could tell hers was as black as the night. Was her reason for being at the shop the other day to ask my aunt to cleanse her spirit? If so, it hadn’t worked.
“But I don’t think Shane should get away with murder . . . if he did it, you know what I mean?” Ursula didn’t wait for our response. She pivoted, sending her braids out with a swoop, and strode away.
“We should tell the police,” I said.
“And say what? That Ursula, Shane’s paramour, because you know that’s what she is or was, wants to rat out Shane because he dumped her? Can she be believed?”
I moaned. “Is there any woman he hasn’t been with? Other than you and me, of course.”
Bailey said, “I think we should find out what Emily and Shane were arguing about.”
“She was saying, ‘You did it.’”
Bailey’s eyes widened. “How do you know that? Can you read lips?”
“Single-syllable words aren’t that hard.”
“What do you think he did?”
“I don’t know.” I glanced at Shane, who was frowning while viewing something on his cell phone. It was long, whatever it was. He kept scrolling down the screen. “Maybe I should talk to him.”
Bailey bobbed her head. “He looks pretty pitiful. He could use a friend like you.”
Over a loudspeaker, a man said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the race will begin in five minutes.” A whoop let out from the crowd.
“Come with me,” I said.
Bailey held back. “Uh-uh. You don’t want him to think we’re ganging up on him, do you?”
No, I didn’t, and I did want answers. We were in a public place; I was safe. I dashed toward him. “Shane!”
“Hey, Jenna.” He forced a smile, and his eyes lit up with charm. Talk about a polished salesman. He shoved his cell phone into his pocket. “Having a good time?”
“I am. How about you? Is Emily okay? She ran off.”
“Swell. You saw that?” Shane’s phony cheeriness dissolved. “Yeah, she’s fine, but ticked off because . . . aw, heck, I lied.”
“About?”
“About where I was the morning Sylvia was murdered.”
Holy smoke! I couldn’t believe it. He was going to confess. I needed Bailey to be a witness. I glanced quickly over my shoulder to catch her attention, but she had vanished. What the heck? A twinge of fear cut through me, but I pushed it aside. There were plenty of people milling around. Granted, none were looking in Shane’s and my direction—most were moseying toward the viewing area—but I was not alone.
I swung back to meet Shane’s gaze. “Where were you?”
“I told her I was at the office.”
“But that was a lie?”
“No. Yes. I . . . went to the office but I didn’t go in because Tina showed up.”
“Tina, Ronald’s niece?”
“Yep, and she wanted to watch the sunrise with me, and well . . .” He scratched the back of his neck.
Wow, did I feel slow on the uptake as memories of multiple sightings of them hovering near each other cycled through my mind: the two of them chatting near the food truck the other day; and again outside The Pelican Brief Diner; and a third time, following the parade right before Shane cornered me in the alley.
“But you’re—” I stammered.
“Engaged. Yup.”
“And she’s—”
“So young. Yeah, I know.”
“Not even legal drinking age,” I quipped.
He had the decency to blush. “I can’t help myself.”
“Can’t help—”
“It’s stupid, I know”—he scuffed the dirt with his heel—“but I can’t seem to get enough of Tina. That morning, she caught me as I was unlocking the door. How could I turn her down? We haven’t . . . you know . . . slept together or anything like that.” Emily had mouthed: You did it. Shane mouthed: No, no, no. “But I try to catch moments with her.”
“Was Tina the reason you tore out of the alley? Were you worried that she would think you were seeing me on the sly?”
“No. Tina’s cool. It was Ava. Even though she knows she and I are through—”
“She’s vindictive. You thought she might blab to Emily.”
He nodded.
“How did Emily find out about you and Tina?”
“One of Emily’s piano students must have seen us.” Under his breath, he muttered, “I’m in love with Tina.”
“What about Emily?”
“Emily is so nice, but . . .” He plopped his hat on his head and jutted a hip. “I’m a horrible person. I know.”
I was thinking cad. “You’ve got to tell the police where you were that morning.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a suspect in Sylvia’s murder.”
“Me? I don’t have a motive.”
Was he as dense as a cake donut? “Sure you do. You had an affair with Sylvia. Did she threaten to tell Emily about the two of you?”
“No.”
“Did she threaten to tell the Wild West Extravaganza organization about your many liaisons? You were fired from your last position at the gym. Did Taylor & Squibb fire you for having inappropriate relationships, too?”
He guffawed. “Are you nuts? Don’t you remember how huge I was back then? Women didn’t give me a second glance. And, for your information, my previous employer didn’t fire me. The partners decided they wanted to stay private. I wanted to expand. We parted ways amicably.”
I shifted feet. “Did Sylvia find out about you and Tina?”
“Yeah, but—” His shoulders sagged. “Look, Jenna, I can’t tell the police where I was. That’ll make them suspect Tina of killing Sylvia, and right now they don’t.”
“Why would they suspect her?”
“Sylvia threatened to cut off Tina’s allowance.”
“Tina received an allowance from Sylvia?”
“No, from her uncle, but Sylvia ruled the roost.”
Money. Always a good motive for murder. Especially for a young woman who dreamed of becoming a chef. Culinary school isn’t cheap.
“Shane, if Tina is your alibi and you’re hers, then you’re both in the clear.”
He brightened. “Do you think so?”
A shot rang out. People cheered. The race had begun.
Shane said, “I’ve got to go. Duty calls.” He pointed toward the start line. “I didn’t kill Sylvia, Jenna. Trust me.”<
br />
“Contact the police.”
He sprinted away.
As he disappeared from view, he glanced over his shoulder at me, and another notion struck me. What if he and Tina had plotted together to kill Sylvia? What if he, thinking I’d seen the two of them together, followed me into the alley to stop me, once and for all, from prying? Had Ava’s sudden appearance saved my life?
Chapter 26
I opted not to watch the stagecoach races and texted Bailey that I was going to the shop. She responded in seconds: Why? It’s your day off. What happened with Shane? I typed in: I can get a lot done when no one’s there. Tell you later.
Once I arrived at The Cookbook Nook, I called my father. I wanted his advice. Should I contact Cinnamon or trust Shane to do the right thing? Dad didn’t answer; Lola did.
“Is he there?” I asked.
“No. He’s doing a repair at Mrs. McCartney’s house.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not. Hell has, indeed, frozen over.” Lola laughed. “When a pipe bursts, and every plumber in town is busy, who you gonna call?” She sounded just like a character from the movie Ghostbusters. “Say, what’s this I hear about you wanting a divorce?”
“Bailey,” I grumbled.
“She loves you like a sister.”
“A sister with a blabbermouth.”
Lola laughed again, low and throaty, like Bailey. “As long as David doesn’t contest the divorce, we can get it done in a matter of days.”
“He won’t,” I said, though how could I know for sure? We hadn’t discussed it. And now he was under doctor’s care. I heaved a sigh. What a mess.
While Lola was explaining the step-by-step procedures, Bailey whooshed into the store and motioned for me to hang up.
I ended the call after promising I would sit down with Lola and fill out papers in the next day or so. Then I glowered at Bailey. “Why did you ditch me?”
“I saw Tito signaling me. He snaps; I jump. Gotta fix that, by the way. I hate that kind of woman . . . or man. You didn’t miss much, by the way. The stagecoaches tore off, kicking up so much dust that none of us could see a darned thing until the race ended. So . . . what did Shane say? I’m parched.” She fetched a bottle of water from the stockroom and returned to the counter. She popped the top. It went flying. She scooped it up and tucked it into her pocket. “Spill!”
Grilling the Subject Page 23