“Oh no,” I cried and rushed to stabilize the porcelain statue. I had saved the Lucky Cat numerous times before, but this time I was too late. It tumbled off the cabinet, hit the wood floor, and shattered into dozens of pieces.
I stared at the wreckage and gasped. Not because of the mess, and not because of the loss of a prized gift from my husband. But because scattered among the ruins were gold pieces. Lots of them.
As I bent to retrieve one, someone knocked on the door. I lurched to a stand. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Had my aunt heard the crash? No way could she have made it to the cottage from her house in a few seconds; her place was a good thirty yards away.
“Who’s there?”
“Me.” Bailey. “I would’ve called, but I didn’t want you to tell me not to come over. I need to talk. Let me in. Please.”
I dashed to the door and opened it.
Bailey tramped inside hugging an oversized tote bag to her chest. “Thank you. I’m sorry to bother you this late, but I’m so exhausted. My mother has been bending my ear for hours. She’s distraught over the loss of her chef and the damage it’s going to do to her business. And—” She ogled the porcelain mess on the floor. “What happened?”
I rubbed my mother’s heart-shaped locket, which hung around my neck—David’s picture was inside—and I gawked at the shambles of the statue.
“Hey, are those gold pieces?” Bailey tossed her purse onto the loveseat and hurried to the heap. “Vintage American Eagles.” She picked up a coin and examined it.
“How do you know what they are?”
“My uncle is a numismatic.”
“A numis-what?”
“A coin collector. A geek, if you ask me. He focuses on the varieties within a series of coins, not simply the dates. Wow, there are some Philadelphia Type Ones and Twos here. Was this your piggy bank?”
“No.” I wrapped my arms around my ribcage. “David . . . It was a gift from him.” I remembered the day we bought it. David had been adamant about purchasing that specific Lucky Cat. I had preferred a white one. As we dined that night, he said, You deserve a gold cat. You are my golden treasure. Had he commissioned the cat? Had he planted the gold inside? A month before he died, David mentioned that he owed someone money. He never said how much, and no one ever dunned me for repayment. What if the debt was huge? What if David had decided not to pay? What if he had invested all his cash in gold coins and hidden them? For me or for himself. Did it matter? My thoughts flew back to the day he died. Did someone follow him onto the ocean that fateful day to rob him? Did someone attack him on the sailboat and throw him overboard? Not knowing what happened, having no closure, ate at me. I said, “I had no idea there were coins inside.”
“At upward of two thousand dollars a coin, you’re looking at maybe a hundred thousand dollars. Are there more?”
“More?”
“Did David keep other coins in the safety deposit box?”
“We don’t have a safety deposit box.”
“Then what’s that key for?” She pointed.
The key that used to hang around the Lucky Cat’s neck, the same key that David said was the key to his heart, lay on the floor near the fireplace. I picked it up and examined it. David often gave me trinkets that were sentimental but worthless—as a joke. I figured the key belonged to a defunct luggage lock or something insignificant like that. “This is a safety deposit box key?”
“I think so.”
Bailey helped me put the broken pieces of the porcelain cat into a Tupperware box, which I left on the kitchen table. I wanted to attempt to repair the statue. Then we gathered up the gold coins and stowed them in a second Tupperware container. I set that one beneath my bed for safekeeping.
“Thank you,” I said. For Bailey’s efforts, I poured her a glass of wine.
After taking a sip, she smiled. “Now, all you have to do is figure out where the safety deposit box is located.”
Chapter 3
FOR DAYS, RIGHT through Tuesday, which was the single day a week that we closed the shop, I called banks in San Francisco. My husband hadn’t owned a safety deposit box at any of them. I spoke to some of David’s friends, as well. A coworker of David’s said he didn’t know anything about David having acquired gold assets; he wouldn’t even speculate. When I hung up from that call, I was frustrated and dry-mouthed with fear. What if David had done something criminal? No, I wouldn’t even entertain the possibility. David had been an investor. He had capitalized on people’s money. He was stalwart and true. There was a reasonable explanation, only I couldn’t see it—yet. Yet was the operative word.
On Wednesday morning, though my heart was heavy with thoughts of David, I knew I had to focus on the Grill Fest, which began today.
After taking my VW to the repair shop—that sputtery sound I’d been fretting about for weeks turned out to be a bad carburetor—I headed to work.
“Jenna, dear.” Aunt Vera beckoned me to the sales counter.
I set down the half dozen copies of a new vegan cookbook that the local farmers’ market manager had raved about, Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant, and I joined her.
“I’m worried about you,” she said in a low murmur, unwilling to disturb the many customers browsing The Cookbook Nook.
“Why?” I heard the snag in my voice. Dang.
She must have heard it, too. She tilted her head. “The lights were on at the cottage late last night. Why are you worrying the hardwood floor to distraction?”
“I’m not pacing. I’m baking.”
“Minor detail.”
“I’m getting good at biscuits.” I’d made at least five batches. My waistline was suffering.
“Good for you, but you can’t sidetrack me, young lady. Talk to me.”
Other than Bailey, I hadn’t told anyone about the contents of the Lucky Cat, because I didn’t know where David had gotten the money to buy the coins. Before he died, he’d told me everything was in order. What had he meant? Why hadn’t I ever noticed how heavy the statue was? Tigger, the little imp, must have sensed something was amiss from the moment he set foot in the cottage.
“I’m fine,” I assured my aunt, unwilling to tell her more right now. I had a shop to run and an event to publicize. Buck up or wither, as my father would say. I planted a fresh smile on my face and, forcing lightness into my tone, said, “Let me show you the flyers I’ve created for the Grill Fest.” I brandished a ream of flyers announcing the fest and the competitors involved. The mayor had selected the entrants based on the recipes submitted. “I’m going to visit all the shop owners and bed-and-breakfasts. Everyone in town, including tourists, should know about our store and the competition. I made up bookmarks, too. Simple giveaways. Who doesn’t like something for free? Take a look at what I’ve added to the displays.”
To honor the Frisbee contest—I had to honor it; I’d played a lot of Frisbee with David, as well as in college—I had ordered a variety of pizza cookbooks: Pizza on the Grill: 100 Feisty Fire-Roasted Recipes for Pizza & More; Pizza: How to Make and Bake More Than 50 Delicious Homemade Pizzas; the list went on. “How is this for a recipe title: Thai One On Pizza?”
My aunt chuckled.
Inspired by the paddle boarding contest—paddle boarding, or surf riding while standing, was depicted in Polynesian art as far back as the 1700s—I’d ordered a few cookbooks by Sam Choy, the chef and television personality who was known as the founder of Pacific Rim cuisine. Granted, Choy hadn’t written any recent books, but some of our customers only care about the quality of the recipes within. Choy’s were fabulous. Our supplier gave us a great discount.
“And specifically for the Grill Fest,” I said, “I selected grilled cheese books. Grilled Cheese: 50 Recipes to Make You Melt and Great Grilled Cheese: 50 Innovative Recipes for Stovetop, Grill, and Sandwich Maker. My favorite is Grilled Cheese, Please! 50 Scrumptiously Cheesy Recipes.” The author, an expert when it came to grilled cheese, had instilled the book with photos that made my mouth water. She
had also included helpful tips about the variety of cheeses that melted well. The recipe I wanted to try, when I was braver as well as more knowledgeable about how to handle a fry pan sizzling with hot butter, was a crab Swiss melt with asparagus. I remembered my mother making tasty appetizers with the same ingredients.
“Hello, hello.” Katie Casey, our inspired chef, entered from the hallway connecting the shop to the café. She was carrying a tray of what looked like bite-sized sandwiches. Katie and I had known each other since kindergarten, and we had been best friends in high school, but we had grown apart during college. When she applied for the chef’s position and wowed us with her first-rate culinary skills, we’d snapped her up. She stopped beside the vintage kitchen table. “Treats for the sweets. Hot from the grill.” With a nod of her head, she gestured to the tray. I stifled a smile. No matter how hard Katie tried, she always appeared ready to lose her chef’s toque. Her mass of curly hair bobbed with the hat. “And, hoo-boy, might I say that these are perhaps the best grilled cheese goodies I’ve ever made. Pears and blue cheese on the left. Brie, turkey, and green apple on the right. Take one. Or two.”
I nabbed the Brie version. My aunt took the other. “Wow,” we said in unison as we gobbled our goodies.
“I know, I know.” Katie bubbled with enthusiasm. “I’m setting these lovelies on the tiered china plate.” We had positioned a long table in the hallway so our guests could sample the café’s wares. As Katie pivoted, she whispered, “By the way, when are they due?” They, meaning the eight competitors.
“At three P.M.,” I said, after the lunch customers had thinned.
“Will we need a referee?” she joked, referring to the fact that Lola Bird and Natalie Mumford were among the contestants. Would they reenact the spat that had entertained the crowd on The Pier? “I’ll volunteer,” Katie added. At six feet plus, I didn’t doubt Katie could out-bounce a professional bouncer.
“And how do you think Mitzi Sykes will act this year?” my aunt said. Mitzi was the eight-time runner-up. “Will she and Natalie have another spatula fight?”
I grinned. “Wait and see.”
• • •
AT NOON, I made a tour of the town and handed out flyers. At 2:30 P.M., we started preparations for the contest. Katie helped. Though the contest would be held in the shop, we had closed the café because Katie and her staff wanted to watch the proceedings. Katie thought she might swipe some of the recipes, her prerogative, seeing as The Cookbook Nook was the host for the event. With Aunt Vera and Bailey’s help, we rearranged furniture, put out folding chairs, and relocated the roller-footed bookstands from the center of the shop to the sides. Afterward, we wheeled in four portable cooking stations, each set with two burners.
At 3:00 P.M., I wedged open the front door of the shop and let in the eight contestants. A horde of customers, eager to get inside, already stood in line.
Natalie Mumford, drenched in a floral perfume, crossed to the left-center cooking station, set her cell phone on the console, stowed her tote on the shelf beneath, and tugged on the hem of her blue suit jacket. Then she squared her shoulders and waved like a beauty queen at people peering in through the shop’s windows. My aunt confided to me that Natalie was superstitious; she wore the same outfit at every competition. I understood. Back in college, I wouldn’t take a test if I hadn’t donned something white. Superstitions are silly, but I didn’t fault anyone for having them.
Bailey’s mom, Lola, clad in a hot pink sweater and snug jeans, wasn’t to be put off by Natalie’s choice of stations. She joined Natalie at the left-center console and gave her a broad-beamed I’m-gonna-win-this-time grin. Natalie responded with an equally sassy smile. A moment of panic flitted through me as I imagined the two of them going at it like Helena and Hermia to win the heart of the handsome Demetrius in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Or worse, going at it like female mud wrestlers.
Please, please, I prayed. Be civil, you two.
Mitzi Sykes, the eight-time runner-up and costar of last year’s YouTube spatula fiasco, strode to the end station closest to the sales counter. Though Mitzi was at least fifty years old, she didn’t look a day over forty, with her savvy hairstyle, svelte shape, and ultra-smooth skin. She pulled a water bottle and a recipe card from her oversized purse. As she scanned the recipe card, her lips moved. I wondered if the mayor of our fine town had warned Mitzi and Natalie to behave. Maybe the mayor was secretly hoping for a reprise? Some claim that even bad publicity is good publicity.
Four more contestants entered, including Flora Simple who was a local shop owner wearing a hand-beaded outfit, a hunky fireman who was the poster model for the fire department, a baby-faced teacher, and a lanky librarian.
Tito Martinez, our local reporter, an irksome, full-of-himself man, entered last and was forced to take the position at the cooking station closest to the exit. He didn’t seem to mind. While twirling a key ring around his index finger, he said, “It matters not where I stand. I will cook circles around all of you. I am the fittest and most prepared.” Like I said, irksome to the max. He sniggered like a middleweight fighter egging on his opponent. The muscles of his chest pressed against his black silk shirt; his cocoa, canine-alert eyes blazed with serious intention. He pocketed his keys with overly dramatic flair, then set a leather-bound book on the countertop beside his burner. “I will be making a muy especial grilled cheese.” Tito loved to throw occasional Spanish phrases into his speech. “From my personal recipe collection,” he added.
His personal collection? Like he’d created them? I nearly laughed. Last month, he claimed that every recipe he owned came from his dearly departed abuela—grandmother.
“You’ll go down first, Tito,” Natalie said.
“Over my dead body,” he replied, messing up the metaphor, which caused the corner of his mouth to turn up in a snarl and start to twitch. The poor guy would be lousy at poker.
“All right, all right.” Our mayor, in a burgundy suit that underscored her squat shape, clapped her hands. “Let’s stow it.”
Ignoring the mayor, Natalie leaned forward and peered around the beader at Mitzi. “Where’s my business manager aka your husband?”
“At a money management conference in San Jose,” Mitzi said.
“Wow. Talk about not showing spousal support. Tsk-tsk.” Natalie lasered her opponent with a smug look.
“Why, you . . .” Mitzi flushed pink. “I’ll have you know that I have plenty of clients here.” In addition to her home vegetable-and fruit-canning business, Mitzi was a personal chef who created in-home, gourmet meals for clients as far north as Los Gatos. I had never sampled her cooking, but I’d heard it was excellent, albeit a little froufrou. “Besides, my husband is dedicated to his work.”
“Speaking of loyalty, Natalie,” Lola said with a snarky bite, “where’s your daughter and your son-in-law?”
Natalie raised her chin. “At the diner. Someone’s got to run the place. It’s a thriving business, unlike your own.”
The mayor said, “Natalie, c’mon.”
“C’mon, yourself, ZZ. You may be a dear friend, but you cannot make me curb my tongue.”
Lola laughed. “I told you the other day on The Pier, Natalie, that you’re going to lose friends if you keep this up.”
Mayor Zoey Zeller, or ZZ to friends, said, “Yes, she did.”
Natalie shot the mayor a scathing look. “You weren’t there.”
“Sure, I was. Watching two of my best friends duking it out. My, my, how the two of you”—she eyed Natalie then Lola—“went at it. Remind me never to cross either of you.”
Lola smiled. “Natalie, in spite of you poaching my chef, The Pelican Brief is doing very well.”
“I didn’t poach,” Natalie said.
“Liar, liar.”
The fireman snorted. The baby-faced teacher and the librarian giggled between themselves.
Natalie said, “For your information, Lola, if it’ll make you feel any better, your former chef is already gone.�
�
“Gone?”
“Vamoose.” Natalie waved a hand. “He got a great gig in Las Vegas, and he eighty-sixed this town as of last night.”
“Good riddance.”
“Contestants, please,” Mayor Zeller tried again. “We’re about to get under way. No more chatter. Please stow all water bottles, gadgets, and recipe cards. You should have your recipes fixed in your brains. And everyone, turn off or silence your cell phones.”
As the contestants’ sarcastic banter abated and they settled in for the long haul, I opened the front door and allowed the general public to enter. I recognized many of our regular customers and lots of fresh new faces. Bailey caught my eye and made a ka-ching gesture. I grinned, remembering a time at Taylor & Squibb when a client, the very wealthy owner of the Jiggy Jogging stores, barged in on a private board meeting. My boss was upset until Jiggy declared he wanted to quadruple his account, thanks to my brilliant idea of holding a running race with kids. Hopefully, thanks to Bailey winning us the Grill Fest, we would see a bump in sales. Ka-ching, indeed.
The mayor moved in front of the cooking stations to address the assembly. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome.” She gave a brief history of the Grill Fest and how much it meant to Crystal Cove to see so many people flock from far away places like San Francisco, Sacramento, and Los Angeles. “I want you all to know that I officially declare September, not April, Grilled Cheese Month in Crystal Cove.”
Applause erupted from the onlookers. I joined in. I wasn’t quite sure who had established April as National Grilled Cheese Month—someone had set months for almost every food, including oatmeal and sweet potatoes—but celebrating one of the all-time best comfort foods in the world twice a year sounded like a good idea to me.
“And finally,” the mayor continued, “I’d like you to meet the judges. I think you all know Pepper Pritchett.”
The sixty-something, thickset woman who owned Beaders of Paradise, a beading shop on the first floor of Fisherman’s Village, stepped forward. Dressed in a black-and-white frock and strands of marbled beads, she looked sharp and almost jaunty. Pepper hadn’t been happy when I’d returned to Crystal Cove. In the past month, however, she and I had put our differences aside—all due to a misunderstanding with my father. His apology to her had helped us mend fences. On occasion, she even smiled a hello to me. She offered a thumbs-up sign to the beader contestant, who wiggled a pinky in response.
Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series) Page 3