“And I’m sure many of you know Rhett Jackson.” The mayor nodded in his direction.
Rhett waved to the audience. I would never forget my first glimpse of the man. Tousled dark hair, a sly grin, and jeans that fit just right. Today he had dressed up a notch for the occasion. He wore a blue jacket over a white shirt tucked into chinos, as handsome as ever and hunkier than the fireman contestant.
“For those of you that might not know him, Rhett is the owner of Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store. He’s a fabulous chef, I might add.”
Previously Rhett was the chef at The Grotto restaurant, which had been located on the second floor of Fisherman’s Village until it burned down over a year ago. Rumor was that Rhett had started the fire, but Rhett swore he hadn’t. My father, my aunt, and pretty much everyone else in town believed him. Rhett was certain that the owner had set the fire, run off with millions in artwork, and reaped the insurance benefits; however, he could never prove it. Disheartened, he’d left the restaurant business behind. He was taking a week off from his latest business venture to judge the contest because the mayor, who adored him, had begged and pleaded. It was hard to say no to Mayor Zeller.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and pivoted. Cinnamon Pritchett, daughter of the beading shop owner and Crystal Cove’s chief of police, flashed a copy of Grilled Cheese, Please! “You should carry this in the shop,” she said.
“We do. It’s on the display table with the others.”
“Guess I should become more familiar with the product in your store.”
“Guess you should.”
Cinnamon, in her mid-thirties, reminded me of a perky camp counselor with her bobbed hair, fresh face, and brown-on-brown uniform, but she had a crisp, no-nonsense attitude that a mother superior could appreciate. Now that the brouhaha of her suspecting me of murder was over, I was eager to foster a friendship with her. We had gone out for coffee and sweet rolls a couple of weeks ago and had talked about our love of good food. We agreed to set another outing, but we hadn’t found the time. “Is there any place I can stand where I might be able to see better?” she asked.
“Kids’ section is over there,” I teased. Cinnamon was a few inches shorter than I.
“Very funny.” She maneuvered through the throng and found a spot by the wall.
The first round got under way. While Katie fetched the contestants’ preparations, which we had stored in the café’s refrigerators, the contestants, starting with Tito, would explain what they were making.
“I will attempt a grilled cheese al carbón,” Tito said, “which includes jack cheese, marinated steak, crisp bacon, slices of avocado, and a smoky salsa.”
For his first entry, the fireman was making a three-alarm chili grilled cheese. I told Katie that I wanted her to duplicate the guy’s recipe. I would dedicate it to my mother, who made a chili that was so hot it nearly seared my stomach. Delish.
Natalie intended to make a classic croque-monsieur. She didn’t elaborate for the sake of the audience, which annoyed me, but I kept my opinion to myself.
Lola, in contrast, was effusive. “I’m making a tilapia grilled cheese. I’ll be using Port Salut. Do you all know that cheese?” She eyed the audience. “It’s delectable. Made in the region of Brittany, France.”
“Cheese doesn’t go with fish,” Natalie cut in. “Anybody knows that.”
Lola ignored her. “I offer all sorts of fish-and-cheese dishes at The Pelican Brief.”
“Maybe that’s why your clientele is dwindling.”
Lola forced a smile. “I’m adding an avocado aioli.”
The audience oohed, which made Lola beam and hushed Natalie.
After each contestant described his or her concoction, Lola raised her hand and said, “Sorry, weak bladder. Can we take a break?”
The mayor declared a fifteen-minute recess. When everyone returned, she would tell the contestants, “Start your burners.” She directed people to use the upscale portable bathrooms in the parking lot, brought in especially for the occasion.
Lola hurried to me. “Jenna, is it okay to use the shop’s loo?”
I nodded. “For you, anything.”
As she raced to the restroom in the hall between the shop and the café, Aunt Vera and I moved behind the sales counter to prepare for what we hoped would be an onslaught of sales. The buzz in the shop was electric. A racing event couldn’t have been more exciting.
“I hope everyone in attendance will purchase at least one item from the shop,” Aunt Vera said.
Sure enough, as if she had cast a spell over the crowd, customers started filing toward us.
While I was ringing up an order of checkered oven mitts, a set of red-striped measuring cups, and The Absolute Beginner’s Cookbook, which was a book that taught novices like me how to boil an egg, a blare rang out.
“What the heck?” Bailey, who had been pitching grilled cheese cookbooks, darted toward me. “Fire? Where’s the fire? None of the burners are on. The café’s closed.”
“You,” Pepper said, and eyed Rhett, who was hovering by the vintage table chatting with Katie. He raised his hands—innocent. Pepper was one of the few who thought Rhett was guilty of arson.
“Out, everyone,” the fireman contestant shouted. “Let’s go.” A number of his ever-at-the-ready buddies were in attendance. They scattered, some down the hallway toward the café and others out the exit along the boardwalk of Fisherman’s Village.
Rhett, who was not a fan of fire—he had been trapped in The Grotto’s blaze—hurried out with the rest.
“Shoot!” I said. The customer tried to pay for the items. “I can’t, ma’am. Let’s do what the firemen say. I’ll leave your purchases right here. You’ll be first in line when we’re allowed back in. Promise.” I inhaled. I didn’t smell smoke.
Cinnamon rushed to the exit and motioned for people lingering inside to hustle. “C’mon, everyone,” she said with authority. “Go now. Hurry.”
I grabbed Tigger and followed the pack to the parking lot. Poor little guy chuffed his concern. I whispered into his ear that this was a false alarm. At least, I hoped it was.
In minutes, the fireman contestant and a few of his pals returned. Holding his hands over his head, he addressed the panicked people. “No fire, folks. Nothing’s going to go up in flames.”
But then he sidled up to Cinnamon and spoke softly. Her eyes went wide. She said something to him sotto voce, and suddenly his pals bolted to the perimeter of the throng and stood, military-style, at attention.
“Listen up, people,” Cinnamon said, addressing the crowd. “I want you to remain calm. We’ve had a casualty.”
A collective gasp rose from the throng. Questions ensued.
Cinnamon said, “I’m sorry. I have no answers yet. Please stay put.” Then she raced toward the café.
Chapter 4
STAY PUT? HOW could I stay put? This was my shop, my café. I sprinted after Cinnamon as she cut through the dining room and the kitchen. Cinnamon flung open the exit door to the alley and stopped. I came to a halt behind her. “What happened?”
Someone bumped into me. I turned. Pepper Pritchett, Cinnamon’s mother, stood right behind me.
“Mother. Jenna. What are you—” Cinnamon blew out a quick burst of frustrated air. “Go back to the shop, both of you.”
“This is my café,” I argued.
“And my shop is in Fisherman’s Village,” Pepper said. “I want to know what’s going on.”
Cinnamon said, “The alley is public property.”
“Okay, I’ll grant you that, but—” I peeked over Cinnamon’s shoulder and gulped.
Pepper gagged, made a U-turn, and raced away.
I said, “Is she—”
“Dead?” Cinnamon said. “Yes.”
Natalie Mumford lay slumped against the far wall, her hair mussed, her head bloody. I gulped, but I couldn’t pull my gaze away. Natalie’s blue dress hugged her thighs; her legs were splayed. Her clutch purse lay open, out
of reach. A grooved panini sandwich grill about the size of an extra-large waffle iron rested beside Natalie’s shoulder.
“Are you kidding me?” I said. “Someone hit her upside the—” I pressed my lips together. The other day at The Pier, when Lola and Natalie had verbally sparred, Lola warned that Natalie should be careful or someone would hit her upside the head with a frying pan. Everyone there had heard Lola say it.
Cinnamon cut me a look. “What?” I could tell the wheels of her super-sharp brain were trying to piece together a puzzle. “Jenna, answer me.”
“Nothing.”
Cinnamon waited for more. I didn’t oblige her. I couldn’t implicate Lola.
“You look pale,” Cinnamon said. “You’re in shock. Go back to the shop. Drink some water. And whatever you do, keep what you’ve seen under wraps. My team is on its way. When they’re on task, I’ll question the group.” Her command of a situation astounded me. Was she made of steel? She added, “I’m so sorry this had to happen today.”
“Or ever.”
“Right.”
Natalie Mumford may have been an overly confident, semi-nasty woman, but she hadn’t deserved to die.
Cinnamon ran a hand down the length of her neck. “Go on.” She returned to the scene and knelt beside Natalie. I’m pretty sure she thought I was gone when she grasped Natalie’s wrist and said, “You poor thing,” under her breath.
I returned to the shop and found Aunt Vera sitting on the stool behind the sales counter petting Tigger with long, rhythmic strokes. My aunt appeared in shock; Tigger looked like he was in heaven. Oh, to be as oblivious as he was.
Mayor Zeller joined us. She unbuttoned the single button on her blazer and leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Well?” she said. “What happened?”
Minding our police chief’s caution not to reveal details, I said, “Natalie’s dead. Someone hit her.”
“Heavens.” The mayor’s eyes filled with tears. “Hit her? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
After a lengthy silence, the mayor said, “Will you have to close the shop?”
“I’m not sure. Chief Pritchett said the alley was public property.”
“The horror,” Aunt Vera said. “What if this scares off customers? What if—”
“It won’t.” I rested my hand on my aunt’s shoulder. “No one will blame us.”
“She’s right, Vera,” the mayor said. “And I’m not ending the Grill Fest simply because of this. Natalie would be appalled if I did. She—” Her voice caught. “It’s a tragedy, but Natalie would be the first to say, ‘The show . . .’” She twirled a finger to gesture must go on.
“Two murders in such a short time span,” Aunt Vera said. She was referring to the shocking murder of my friend, a celebrity chef, last month. “What is this world coming to?”
“We’re no less vulnerable to crime than the rest of the world,” Mayor Zeller said. “That’s why I will continue to promote our fair town and keep our police force one of the most vital in the state.”
In the hallway that linked the café to the shop, two women started shouting at each other. I recognized both voices. Pepper and Lola.
“You did it,” Pepper yelled. “You killed Natalie Mumford.”
“I did no such thing,” Lola responded.
“During the break, right before the alarm sounded, I saw you heading into the café area.”
Though we could hear every word, I urged my aunt and the mayor to hurry to the hall.
Pepper jabbed a finger at Lola. “Tell the truth.”
Lola batted Pepper’s finger away. “I didn’t go anywhere near the café area. I went to the restroom.” She pointed to the ladies’ room. “I got trapped inside. The door wouldn’t open.”
“You appeared out of nowhere right after the fire alarm went off,” Pepper said.
A crowd formed behind my aunt, the mayor, and me. Everyone, heads craning right and left, watched the combative women as if they were participants in a tennis match.
“I’m telling you, I was in the restroom,” Lola said. “It’s the truth. The door stuck. I was so frustrated that I tried to call my daughter on her cell phone.”
I scanned the throng for Bailey but didn’t see her. Where was she?
“I couldn’t get a signal,” Lola went on.
“A likely story,” Pepper jeered.
“Look, if you don’t believe me.” Lola displayed her cell phone.
Honestly, signals were hard to drum up anywhere in Crystal Cove. We had a couple of nearby cell towers, but being on the coast, we often experienced dead zones, as telephone companies call them. At present, the phrase made my stomach turn.
Lola continued. “After a few minutes and a lot of tugging, the door opened.”
“Why were you running from the café to here, then?” Pepper asked.
“I got turned around. The alarm . . . ” Lola pointed to and fro.
Bailey wedged into place beside me while rasping, “Out of my way.”
“Where were you?” I said.
She blanched. “In the stockroom ogling the two-hour-old coffee. I was about to succumb when I heard my mother and Pepper screaming. Do something.” She nudged me. “My mother isn’t lying. You know that bathroom door sticks.”
I had asked my father, a master handyman, to fix it. He hadn’t gotten around to tweaking all the items on the shop’s to-do list.
“Look, Pepper.” Lola spread her hands. “I’m as sorry as the next guy that Natalie is dead, but I’m innocent.”
“You threatened her on The Pier. Everyone heard you.”
“Do something,” Bailey repeated.
Seeing as our chief of police was otherwise occupied, I presumed I was in charge. I hurried toward the women. “Pepper. Lola. Let’s calm down.”
Pepper said, “I will not. You heard her the other day. She was teed off that Natalie nabbed her chef. She’s got motive.”
“Not enough to end someone’s life,” Lola cried.
“Pepper,” I said. “Please. Don’t jump to conclusions. This isn’t ours to dispute. Your daughter, Chief Pritchett”—I thumbed toward the café—“is good at her job. She’ll figure this out.”
“But Lola did it,” Pepper said.
Why was she so sure? I had convinced myself that I could like this woman, but suddenly I felt hotter than a broiler oven. She had accused me of murder not too long ago. I wouldn’t let her continue to assail Lola, as well. “Pepper, please.”
“Somebody arrest Lola Bird,” Pepper said.
“That’s it.” Lola waved her arms overhead. “I’m out of here. I will not take this abuse. If you need me, I’ll be at my restaurant.” Like Moses parting the Red Sea, she forged through the crowd. Magically, the onlookers separated. When Lola reached the end of the pack, the group closed the gap.
Time seemed to stop. No one moved. Not even Pepper. For a few seconds, we existed in a vacuum. But then Pepper started her rant again, and chatter rose to a frenzied din.
Cinnamon appeared and clapped her hands. “Everyone, listen up.”
She couldn’t continue because her mother grabbed her by the elbow and said, “Go after Lola Bird, Cinn. She killed Natalie. She left.”
“She what?” Cinnamon glowered at me, like I had something to do with Lola’s departure.
I splayed my hands—not guilty.
With even greater emphasis, Cinnamon said, “People, stay put. Do. Not. Leave. My associate is going to question you.” She hitched a finger at a massive male subordinate with prominent ears and mooselike jaw. “Get statements.”
As the Moose ordered everyone to line up, Cinnamon marched out the door and headed north on Buena Vista Boulevard, the main drag.
Bailey gripped my upper arm. “We have to follow them. We have to save my mother.”
“You heard what Cinnamon said. Don’t worry. Your mother will do fine on her own.” She would. I was certain. Lola Bird was one of the spunkiest women I knew. She was well read. She used wor
ds on a regular basis that most people didn’t know existed. If she could defend the neediest of the needy without any assistance, she could defend herself. On the other hand, Lola was like a mother to me. Because Bailey and I had spent so much time together as girls, I had called Lola Mom as a teen. She had helped me define my career path.
“Please,” Bailey said. “I’m begging you. I would do the same for your mother.”
When my mother died, Lola had let me cry in her arms for a long time. I owed her. Big time.
• • •
BAILEY AND I rushed into The Pelican Brief Diner. The place was bustling with customers. The luscious scent of fried foods filled the air. Soothing guitar music filtered through speakers. We were anything but calm.
The hostess, a perky California-born Latina who was dressed like a sailor, picked up on Bailey’s concern. “Your mom’s in the kitchen.”
Without missing a beat, Bailey hurried across the sawdust-laden wood floor, past clusters of wooden tables. I followed. Bailey rounded a corner toward the kitchen and caught a wrist bangle in one of the nets filled with fake fish that adorned the walls. As I disentangled her, a foghorn bleated.
Bailey said, “Did you hear that?”
How could I not? A sense of foreboding shivered down my spine. No, no, no, I thought. This cannot happen. Lola is innocent.
I edged ahead of Bailey and entered the kitchen first. Lola stood at a stainless steel prep table dicing tomatoes with a vengeance. A plate filled with the makings of a seafood salad sat before her. Cinnamon Pritchett stood a few feet from Lola, one hand on her revolver. The toe of her hiking boot drilled the floor. Swell.
Despite the standoff, a female chef and numerous sous-chefs scurried around the kitchen while filling orders. The clatter of voices and dishes was deafening. Many of the staff glanced sideways at Lola.
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