“I’m so sorry. I suspect every nest is special to you,” he said. “What do we do now?”
“We see why they haven’t hatched,” she said with a resigned sigh.
The morning sunrise had tinted the ocean a shimmering red by the time she pushed her shovel into the sand and started digging into the nest. With great care, she dug deeper and deeper.
With each shovelful of sand removed, her expression grew grimmer and grimmer. She finally looked up at the rest of us. “The eggs aren’t here.”
“Coyotes?” Harriett asked.
“Raccoons?” Lidia asked.
“Maybe.” Althea’s brows furrowed. “Must have lost the eggs to a predator during a windstorm, otherwise one of our early morning beach patrol volunteers would have noticed and reported a disturbed nest. Predators make terrible messes. They would leave evidence.”
I peered into the hole. The eggs simply weren’t there.
“Are you sure the eggs were there in the first place?” Bailey asked. “I’d been reading about sea turtles. Apparently they sometimes crawl up onto the beach and return to the ocean without laying any eggs.”
“Those are called false crawls,” Lidia said in her booming voice.
“As soon as we find a new nest, we check to make sure eggs are present,” Althea said. “And if a nest was laid where it’s in danger of being damaged by a high tide—like this nest was—we’ll move it to a more appropriate spot. I assure you, the turtle eggs were here, all one hundred and eight of them.”
“And now it’s empty,” I said as I continued to stare into the slightly damp sandy hole.
Bailey’s frown mirrored Althea’s. “Mother Nature can be so cruel.”
“Yes,” she agreed while chewing on her thumbnail, “Mother Nature is cruel.”
She sounded sincere, but I knew my friend well enough by now to recognize the slight increase in her tone and choppier cadence in her speech. Althea was lying. And I suspected I knew why. And I hated it.
Chapter Nine
“Mother Nature my foot,” I said as we sat down around the kitchen table. Bertie had cooked enough chocolate chip pancakes to feed half the island. I piled my plate with a stack so high my shorts were going to feel tight all day. I then slathered the tower with maple syrup. Althea, on the other hand, took only two and opted to eat them dry.
If she hadn’t been upset about the turtle nest, I would have called her a freak of nature. I didn’t know what the secret ingredient Bertie used for these pancakes, but the results were amazing. How anyone could take only two was beyond me. And syrup was an essential component to a proper pancake breakfast. Everyone knew that.
“How is your leg, Mama?” Althea asked her mother.
Back in June a car had hit Bertie, leaving her with a badly broken leg. She’d been laid up for several weeks, healing while I went through one disastrous temporary employee after another. The cast had only recently come off. And Bertie returned to work in the shop a week before the doctor told her she should.
“It’s fine.” Although Bertie never complained, I’d noticed how she’d rub her calf at the end of a long day while grimacing in pain. And she limped whenever she thought no one was watching.
I didn’t dare say any of that aloud. Althea had enough worries on her mind. The sea turtles needed all the help we could give them. She didn’t have the time or spare energy to worry about her mother too. Not when I could do that for her.
For one thing, Bertie needed to stop working so hard at the shop. She needed to take more time for herself, time to allow her leg to heal. As I thought about how I could make that happen without resorting to hopeless temporary workers again, I took a bite of the pancakes. The chocolate chips, warm and melty, exploded in my mouth with a symphony of flavors.
“You used the Amar chocolates in this batch,” I said, my brows shooting up into my hairline with surprise. The special Amar chocolates that we made in the shop had a flavor unmatched anywhere in the world: fruity and bitter with an undertone that tasted like the tropical rainforest where the beans were grown. It was a taste sensation that still took me aback.
“The occasion seemed to call for something special. Food, you know, can be a great comfort in distressing times.” Bertie looked at me as she said it as if she was talking only to me. But perhaps I’d only imagined that, since a moment later she quickly put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your turtles, Pumpkin. You think predators took them?”
“No, she doesn’t think that at all,” I answered for my friend. “I don’t know why you’re telling everyone that, Althea. Coyotes would have eaten the eggs and left the shells, right? Raccoons wouldn’t have taken all hundred of them.”
“One hundred and eight,” Althea corrected as she stuffed a dry piece of her pancake into her mouth and swallowed. Had she even tasted the fusion of rich chocolate flavors?
“Then why are you telling everyone that you think a predator took the eggs?” I demanded as Bertie watched her daughter with a growing look of concern.
“Because that’s exactly what I believe.” She took another bite of the pancake. Again, she chewed and swallowed without bothering to enjoy its amazing flavors. “A predator took the eggs.”
“We don’t usually call man a predator,” I said. “We call him a thief.”
She looked up at me, her dark eyes wide. After a moment, she shrugged. “Thief. Predator. It doesn’t matter what we call him … or her. The result is the same. An entire nest of eggs are gone. Gone under my watch.”
Bertie shook her head in disgust. “Who would do such an evil thing?”
“There’s a market for turtle eggs, Mama. It’s considered a delicacy in some parts of the world. And an aphrodisiac. Whoever did this needed money.”
“That’s disgusting,” Both Bertie and I said at the same time. No longer hungry, not even for pancakes with my precious Amar chocolate, I pushed my plate away.
“What are you going to do about it?” I asked.
Althea looked up at me with her tired eyes. Her expression hardened. “I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Not here. Not on my island.”
“We’ll help you,” Bertie said.
“Of course we will,” I agreed, suddenly wishing I could clone myself, because as much as I wanted to do it all—run a shop, find a killer, and help my best friend catch an egg thief—there simply weren’t enough hours in a day. But I needed to do it all. And I was clearly running out of time on all fronts.
* * *
“Sometimes there are things I really don’t want to know,” I said suddenly to Bertie.
Bertie and I had been working side-by-side in the Chocolate Box’s kitchen ever since we’d finished breakfast. I’d invited Althea to join us. Not that I wanted to put her to work. I simply thought she could use the company right now. I’d never seen her look so dejected. She’d begged off my invitation, saying she had something she needed to go do and she wanted to get some sleep first.
So Bertie and I worked, barely saying anything until about a half hour before the shop opened.
“I don’t want to hear the truth about that either, child. Makes my bones shudder to think one of our neighbors could steal those eggs. I don’t want to know whose heart could be black enough to do such a thing.”
“I agree,” I said, “but that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then it’s the murder that’s bothering you, dear? You’re afraid to learn the truth, because it might mean that Jody is guilty?”
“Yes, I’m worried I’m going to fail Gavin.” I sighed. Jody had been holding the guns. The only evidence I had of her innocence was her insistence that she didn’t kill anyone. And I suspected anyone in her position, guilty or not, would profess their innocence. “But that’s not what I’m talking about either.”
“Then spit it out already,” Bertie set down the spoon she was holding and looked at me.
“It’s the gun situation.”
Her brows furrow
ed. “The gun situation?”
I nodded.
“Jody’s gun situation?” Bertie asked.
“No. Not that.” I swallowed. This was something I needed to know. I mean, I lived in the house with her. But what if she said she had a gun? What would I do? Could I live in an apartment where a deadly weapon was tucked away somewhere? Ever since Althea had told me that everyone in the South owned a gun, the worry that Bertie had a gun kept eating at me. I should be thinking about ways to prove Jody’s innocence, but instead I was standing there obsessing over whether or not Bertie had a gun. “Oh heck, Bertie. Please tell me you don’t own a gun.”
She smiled and shook her head.
I felt such a flood of relief, I laughed. “Thank goodness.”
“Mabel was the one who’d bought the gun,” Bertie said. “It’s still in the pantry behind the flour tin.”
“In the kitchen?” It’d been behind the flour? Not locked up, but on a shelf where anyone could get it?
“It’s a real pretty thing with a pearl handgrip.” Bertie didn’t seem to notice that I was suddenly having trouble breathing. She picked up the spoon she’d been using and started to stir the pecans for the sea salted chocolate turtles. I’d gotten close to perfecting the recipe, but it had never tasted quite right.
Bertie had taken one look at the recipe I’d been developing and immediately knew what changes needed to be made, including increasing the amount of the special Amar chocolate used. The results were stunning. The salty essence of the ocean swirled with a nutty tropical flavor. Sweet and salt, crunchy and smooth played like a symphony in my mouth. But none of that mattered because all I could think about was that my talented roommate kept a gun in the kitchen pantry.
She looked up at me and frowned. “Are you okay?”
“No. I’m not okay.” I took several deep breaths before continuing. “There’s a gun upstairs? And it’s not locked in a safe or anything?”
“Yes, Mabel was real proud of it.” Bertie still didn’t seem able to grasp why I was upset, which was evident by what she said next. “Honey, I think I understand what’s gotten you so riled up about a little handgun. You’ve been spending all of your time thinking about Jody and whether or not she shot her lover. And if she didn’t own a gun, none of this would be an issue. I get that. I also get that you’re worried that maybe she did shoot that Cassidy Jones fellow. But you’ve got to put all of those nerves aside.” She wiped her hand on a towel before placing it on my shoulder. “I don’t think you’re crazy for trying to help Gavin. Whether you succeed or not, what you’re doing for that boy will help him in the long run. You’re showing him that people in the community care. You’re showing him that he’s not alone.”
“Thank you.” Hearing her say that meant the world to me. Even if she didn’t understand my distaste for guns in general, her belief that I was doing the right thing calmed me down as effectively as a prescription anti-anxiety drug. Ready to get back to work, I reached for the chocolate molds shaped like baby sea turtles. They were stacked on one of the top shelves. I set them on the counter beside Bertie.
“I appreciate your support. But I do want to know one thing. Do you think Jody is guilty?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’s not my place to judge. That task is reserved for someone who resides on a higher plane.”
“Oh, come on.” I shot her a look that said I knew her better than that. She had her opinions, strong opinions.
“’Tis easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle…” she sang before continuing. “I remember a time years ago when a rabid possum took up residence at the shop’s front door. It was hissing and snapping its jaws while foaming at the mouth, not letting anyone in or out. Hank had to come out and put the possum out of its misery. Jody often reminds me of that poor, angry creature.”
I had a feeling Bertie wasn’t done, so I didn’t say anything as I moved across the room to where a bank of ovens lined the wall. I’d already measured and poured cacao beans into a large metal bowl. In the ensuing silence, I fetched six baking sheets and started to spread the beans on the sheets until none of them were overlapping.
The Chocolate Box wasn’t just an ordinary chocolate shop. For nearly the past one hundred years, this tiny overlooked shop crafted its own chocolate directly from the bean.
“You have to agree that having Jody safely tucked away in jail makes life easier for the rest of us,” Bertie said.
“That’s true.” I set the temperature on three of the ovens. Creating a smooth, flavorful chocolate was a multistep process that spanned several days. The first step, roasting of the raw cacao beans, would soon cause the fragrant chocolate aromas to rise up. A scent very similar to brownies baking in the commercial ovens occasionally made the island air smell extra sweet.
On the other side of the kitchen Bertie moved with efficient grace, despite the limp she kept trying to hide from those who loved her. She reminded me of a master violinist as her weathered hands poured melted chocolate into the sea turtle molds. A few moments passed. Bertie huffed. She wiped her hands on a white dish cloth that had been tucked into the tie of her apron before saying, “She didn’t do it.”
“What?” I asked.
“You heard me. You wanted to know what I thought. Well, this is it. She didn’t do it.”
“Really?” I turned my back on the chocolate beans roasting in the ovens. “You really think she’s innocent? Why?” I thought I was the only one crazy enough to think it.
“Harley,” she said.
“Harley? Why? What did he tell you?” I inched my stool toward her.
“Don’t get all excited now. He didn’t tell me anything. It’s how Jody treats Harley that’s telling. Death is much too quick, too final, for someone like her. That Jody-girl likes to keep her enemies close at hand so she can torture them. Just look at how she keeps her claws on Harley. Their marriage dissolved over five years ago.”
“But with Harley, she was the one who’d cheated on him,” I pointed out. “She was the reason their marriage fell apart. She wasn’t the woman scorned.”
“You think that matters to her? In her warped mind, the divorce is Harley’s fault. I’ve heard her say as much to him more than once. If he’d been a better husband, if he’d been a better man, if he’d paid more attention to her she wouldn’t have strayed. Nothing is ever her fault. She’s a woman who in her own mind never makes mistakes. Why, she’s utter perfection. It’s the rest of the world that has failed her.”
Bertie had a point. Jody was the kind of person who would have shot Cassidy’s lover before shooting him. Which meant I really needed to find out who was with Cassidy in those moments leading up to his death.
The woman dressed in a turquoise muumuu on the beach. The one standing over his body. Screaming. Was she Cassidy’s lover? Was she the one being serenaded by his smooth Jazz music? Even after he’d died, the music had played on. It’d been at least an hour before one of the police officers had entered Cassidy’s home and turned off the stereo.
In all the excitement after finding Cassidy’s body and getting medical attention for my shoulder, I didn’t catch the screaming woman’s name. Actually, I didn’t remember seeing her at all after we’d called the police.
I reached into my back pocket and, after drawing a steadying breath, dialed a number I had hoped to never have to call again. Well, I didn’t mind calling him for a friendly reason, like to invite him to a community picnic or a fundraiser hosted by the shop. But because of murder? No. He didn’t approve of me poking my nose into police business, especially not into the business of a homicide detective.
“Gibbons,” he barked into his cell phone. Wherever he was, it was noisy. The roar of machinery made my ear ache.
“Detective,” I said, “there was a woman at the crime scene two nights ago. She was awfully upset. Perhaps she was one of Cassidy’s … um … special friends?”
“Yes?” He sounded suspicious. But then again, he often sounded suspicious wh
en he talked to me. “Why are you asking about her?”
“Why do you think?” I said because I hated to lie. I then added, “The woman was so upset by Cassidy’s death maybe I could send her some chocolates to help soothe her nerves. But I don’t know her name.”
He was quiet for a long while. The background machinery seemed to get louder. “What are you really up to?” he shouted into the phone.
He was a good detective, and I was a horrible liar. Which meant I had to tell him the truth, “I’ve been asking a few questions about the murder. It was all such a mishmash of happenings that night. I’m trying to put together in my mind what really happened.”
“There’s nothing to put together. There’s nothing to investigate. The evidence—”
“Jody swore to her lawyer that she’s innocent,” I interrupted before he could start telling me about the mountain of evidence I needed to dismantle in order to get Jody out of jail.
The deafening sound of machinery suddenly got quieter. A bird sang. A horn honked. He must have stepped outside. “They all say that, Penn. You and your friends saw her running toward Cassidy’s house after brandishing her weapon.”
“She was running toward his neighbor’s house,” I corrected.
He huffed. “Y’all heard the gunshots. Y’all saw her holding the murder weapon. She even shot you when you confronted her. What other evidence do you need?”
“But there’s a little boy, her son.” I lowered my voice. “I promised him I’d get his mother out of jail before his school starts up next week.”
“Aw, Penn, you shouldn’t have done that.” His voice gentled. “I’ve been doing this for more years than I care to admit. The children of the perpetrators suffer ever as much as the children of the victims. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
“But what if she’s telling the truth? What if she is innocent? For her son’s sake, I have to at least try to—”
“This case is as open-and-shut as they get. We’re ticking off all the right boxes when it comes to the investigation. But I can tell you right now, we’re not going to find anything that’ll change the outcome. As tragic as it is for her son, Jody Dalton killed a man.”
In Cold Chocolate Page 7